A Walker in the Suburbs

Our bus trip took 12 hours, then we took a bush taxi. We saw elephants, hippos, baboons, a cheetah. The beach was deserted, and the hotel looked like an antebellum mansion, complete with Spanish moss.

After a while, a trip becomes the stories we tell about it. What we say, what we omit. What we remember, what we forget.

Here are the cotton fields, the market, the red striped cathedral, the old bridge and the pigs rooting beside it.

What was once a place alive and breathing, filled with wood smoke and goat bleats, is now a sheaf of digital images — and the stories I tell about them.

 

Twice in the last few days I’ve dashed out for a stroll wearing one layer less than I should. I forget that it’s not summer anymore. The wind whistles up my sleeves, makes my teeth chatter.

As the weather grows colder, my walks get faster. In fact, they turn into jogs. I run to warm up and  slow to a walk only when I stop shivering.

 I’ve never been much of a cold-weather person, will never be one.

But every fall I remember this: A bitter, blustery day is less formidable once it’s been endured. Going out in all seasons is good for the soul.

I spotted these trees on a walk two years ago and have never forgotten them. The way the living tree flames out behind the dead ones. The promise of new life hidden in each glowing leaf.

As leaves fall it is easy to be melancholy, but I remind myself that until they do, the new ones cannot grow.

What this tells me is that each end is also a beginning. That there is no season without hope.

For those of us who were engrossed in Ken Burns’ latest film, this is the “week without Roosevelts.” Last week I could come home from the workaday world of the 21st century and enter, for two hours, the 19th and 20th. The latter half of the show was recent history for me, times that my parents and grandparents lived through, and times, therefore, that I don’t always consider history.

But it is history, and well worth learning. The film left me with curiosity — wanting to read books about TR, FDR and ER — and with hard-to-forget images: a diagram of where the bullet struck Teddy Roosevelt as he was giving a campaign speech. (He spoke for another hour before going to the hospital.) Photographs of ordinary Americans, their heads inclined toward big boxy radios, listening to FDR’s fireside chats.

On those nights, apparently, you could leave your house, walk down the street and never stop listening to the president’s voice. FDR’s words, calm and comforting, were pouring out of every window, were soothing the jangled nerves of a troubled nation.

Would we ever again be so unified? Maybe on September 12, 2001. But then again, maybe not.

The beach steward approached me politely. “Do you see them?” he asked, pointing to what appeared to be a tiny clump of sand. “The snowy plover chicks, do you see them?”

And once my eyes figured out what to look for, I did. They were fluffy and small, puff balls on stick legs, running crazily around the sand. They were, I have to say, incredibly cute.

On earlier walks I’d noticed the roped-off sections of sand. Every beach has these areas now, for sea turtles or shore birds. But this was the first time I’d seen the animals a sanctuary aimed to protect.

“They’re an endangered bird,” the volunteer said, “And these chicks have just hatched.” Apparently, the tiny birds feed on insects only three to five hours after they hatch. They are independent little creatures, highly suited to survival, except that they camouflage themselves so successfully that beach walkers accidentally step on them. More beach walkers mean fewer adult snowy plovers.

“We’ve increased their  survival rate by 80 percent,” the volunteer said, explaining how he sits beside their nests for a few hours every week, keeping watch on the young birds.  “Sometimes the mama birds buzz me, or even peck at me.”

Not a problem
though, he shrugged, then gestured at the beach around us. “Not a
bad place to sit for a few hours. … And the babies only need about four weeks until they’re big enough to be safely on their own.”

“Here, read this,” he said, handing me a brochure. “You’ll become a snowy plover expert.”

I wouldn’t go that far. But I sure have become a snowy plover fan.


(BetterPhoto.com)

The forecast when I landed Friday was for “scattered clouds.” A pleasant forecast, one I seldom think about — until I’m in the air.

Scattered clouds from above are steppingstones across a stream of blue.

They are tufts of cotton, shredded and fine.

They are companions, markers to the landscape below. They shadow and define it.

They are harmless, these scattered clouds, because they are not above me but below. They don’t block the sun.

Sometimes I snap a shot because I can see it here in the blog one day. It is usually horizontal, for starters. And it is generic. And, in my own eyes at least, it is beautiful.

This is one of those pictures. I was walking through Annapolis with Ellen, talking about our work, our kids, what we’re reading now (we had just browsed in a bookstore) and there was the wall, the greenery and the stone.

Annapolis is a place I could photograph forever. The water and the land. The old and new. Church spires and weathered shutters. Flashy yachts and quiet gardens. Landscapes and close-ups. And horizontals, those especially, as many as possible.

For some reason blue spruce trees have been calling to me lately. I can’t quite understand what they’re saying — other than look at me.

Maybe it’s their bracing attitude, as if they have imbibed the winter air. They make me feel cooler just looking at them. Or their color, which stands out amidst the oranges and yellows and pinks of summer bloom.

They bring to mind trudging through a frost-hardened field to chop down the Christmas tree, even though when it’s time to choose, we always go for a fir.

For whatever reason, they are catching my eye these days. They’re not letting me forget them.

Photo: Fairylandscape.net