A Walker in the Suburbs

The mosquitoes are hungry. Like the lightening bugs and cicadas, thrown off their normal cycles by a rainy June, they are making up for lost time. In the case of the lightening bugs and cicadas, we have mid-July evenings full of light and sound. But in the case of the mosquitoes we could have (if we let them) — no evenings out at all.

Two nights ago I emerged from dinner on the deck with at least half a dozen bites. Last night half as many more. Most sane people would grab their plate and place mat and head into the house. But how many evenings allow for al fresco dining at 8 p.m.? How many sultry skies with darting bats and a half moon rising between the trees?

So I spray repellant, light candles and give myself — and the mosquitoes — a chance to stay up late.

A year ago today I opened the Washington Post and saw in the pet adoption column not the usual picture of a cuddly kitten or perky puppy but the head shot of a parakeet. It was a close-up, since it fit  the same space that a larger critter would take.

What it revealed was a green parakeet (unlike our dear departed Hermes, who was eye-popping turquoise blue) with a noble profile and a look of intelligence about him. A parakeet who knew his good side. His name was Sid.

I called the Fairfax County Humane Society. “Is Sid still available?” I couldn’t believe the “yes.”  I thought people would be beating down the doors to adopt this little bird.

But they weren’t.  And we did. And just for good measure we got Sid a lady friend — Dominique (our name, not theirs).

When Hermes was here the house was bird-centric to a fault. Sid and Dominique must roll with the punches. We do not read them a bedtime story. We do not talk to them night and day. But we love them and care for them and hang their cage from a hook in the kitchen where their feathers fall perilously close to the kitchen table. They’re part of the family now.

I write these words to the sound of parakeets chirping. It’s good to have birds again!

Photo: Claire Capehart

New bird feeders have turned our back yard into an avian paradise. Goldfinches flit from branch to seeds, sometimes posing on top of the tomato cage, a perfect perch.

This morning I watched a female hummingbird for what seemed like hours but was only minutes, long enough for her to dart in and out, sipping nectar with each rush to the feeder.

And as I write these words a pileated woodpecker nibbles at a peanut butter block.

Birds catch on quickly. They have passed on word about the chow here. It’s good, you ought to try it. And with the living room couch still turned south I have a, well, bird’s eye view of all the goings on.

Parakeets in the house, and sparrows, robins, cardinals, jays, finches, woodpeckers, chickadees and hummingbirds outside.

It’s Bird Land, for sure.

A pause is in order, longer than a post or even a day. But for now this will have to do. Feeling the breath rush out of my lungs and the sharp intake of new air. Remembering the tang of salt spray, the sound of surf and sea birds.

For now the pause comes from the picture and remembering how I felt when I took it. A beach day ahead of me, a sunrise, a walk, a bike ride and a quiet afternoon with a good book.

There, that’s better.

I’m blessed with congenial and talented colleagues, people who are fun to be with and who take their work seriously. One of these colleagues is leaving today. This post is for her.

In the great divide between people who are real and people who are fake, Kara falls squarely into the “real” category. When confronted with the sort of antics that bedevil most large organizations, Kara puts them all into perspective with a single arched eyebrow.

Kara is a gifted listener. She remembers the names of everyone’s kids and favorite teams. “You should have a sign on your desk that says ‘The Doctor is In,'” I tell her, forgetting she’s probably not old enough to remember the “Peanuts” cartoon. But Kara gets it anyway. She’s one of those people who’s as beloved by the 15-year-old intern as she is the 65-year-old messenger.

Because my parents lived in Pittsburgh for a year early in their marriage, I grew up hearing that the friendliest people in the world live there. Once I knew Kara’s hometown, she became Exhibit A.

Next week Kara returns to Pittsburgh, depriving the Nation’s Capital (never known for its friendliness) of one of its most gracious citizens. It’s a good move for Kara, a big loss for us. But I promised myself I wouldn’t be sad. So this is a happy post (trying hard to smile)!

Good Luck, Kara. Come back and see us soon!

(Photo: Peanuts Wiki)

I often think (and have probably written) about the first bird of the morning. I heard it just seconds ago, a truncated chirp, perhaps a clearing of the throat more than anything else. A bird who, like me, woke up before his alarm.

A question: Do birds toss and turn? I doubt it. There are a couple of parakeets in the house and though they might flap and flutter during the day, their rest always seems restful. Heads tucked in wings, a picture of repose.

After a few quiet minutes, the first bird is at it again. It’s still dark outside, as dark as 2 a.m., maybe darker. But the wild birds know that morning is here. 

I’ll take any excuse to make them. New Year’s, first day of school, birthday.

Sometimes they are formal, list-like affairs. Other times just fleeting inclinations: “Don’t worry so much.” “Take life as it comes.”

Today’s is like that. “Be grateful for what you have.”

If a “foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” (Emerson), then what are resolutions? A refuge for the list-maker? A canard for the overly optimistic?

Or a way to stay fluid as the years conspire to harden us?

I’ll go with that last one!

A walk I remember, a man in front of me with his arms clasped in back, an image I recall now, weeks later.

Seeing him stroll like that brought to mind characters in Russian novels wearing great long coats; they held their arms like that, too. Is it the posture of thought?

The arms not moving in tandem with the legs in motion, but anchored, as if to keep the emphasis on the cerebral.

I think more freely when striding naturally, legs and arms in opposition. It’s the rhythm of footfall. The arms are along for the ride.

My walks around the city are a study in black in white. The white is from the buildings, their facades of marble, limestone and granite.

The black is from the coats. Long, short, open, closed. But black, almost always black. The puffy parkas of the seriously cold. The long topcoats of the multitasking and self-important (a lot of those around here). The dark suit jackets of those impervious to the chill.

Put them all together — the Hill types striding across the Capitol plaza; the office-worker at lunch — and you have a ballet, a choreography, a study in contrasts.

D.C. gets color from its tourists. But it gets its subtlety and its heft and its monochromatic harmony from its denizens.

I saw them yesterday as I left work, a flock of sparrows taking in the air, sunning themselves in the hedge at the end of the alley.

They looked so much like a painting that I had to stop, snap a picture — and appreciate the respectful distances they kept from each other, the way they blended in with their surroundings, a study in brown.

It was the sort of day when everyone was outside who could be.

And that included sparrows, of course.