A Walker in the Suburbs

Until a few days ago, I hadn’t seen a movie in a theater for months, but it’s time now for my yearly binge. Monday was “Descendants” and last night “War Horse.” If I’m lucky I’ll work “The Artist” and “Hugo” into the next few days.

Thanks to Netflix, I watched “Midnight in Paris” and “Moneyball” at home. I caught “The Help” when it was out earlier this year. And the rest of the nominated films (I’ll never get used to having more than five in the top category) I can live without seeing. Unlike last year with “The King’s Speech,” this year I have no clear favorite. Which makes it more fun.

A film binge is a nice way to see out what is usually (though not this year) the winter doldrums: sitting in a darkened theater, losing myself in the sounds and lights. It’s too early for March Madness. I’ll call it February Madness instead.

Photo: Wikipedia

When we first moved to the Washington, D.C. area from New England, I was surprised at the fall planting of pansies. Won’t they just be clobbered by snow and ice? Isn’t it tempting fate to assume the winter will be warm?

One year I planted ornamental cabbage, the white kind with a sweet lavender center. That was as close as I’ve come to winter plantings.

But this year pansies have flourished. In fact, they’re in danger of being overrun by the early blooming of daffodils and witch hazel. Winter is taking a nap this year.

Our neighbors found a property marker the other day. At first, they didn’t know what it was. Surely it couldn’t have remained hidden almost 23 years. But that is exactly what it was — and exactly what it had done. We looked at our original plats and deeds — and we are now the proud owners of a few feet more prime Virginia clay soil, another 70-foot oak tree. And every fall (the best part), we now must rake and bag hundreds more bushels of leaves.

In other words, we didn’t welcome our new acquisition. And we’ve joked about how long it will take us to turn the lush, well groomed strip of land into a bumpy, grass-bare parcel.

I’m reading a history of Fairfax County and learning how often the same land was deeded twice. Deciding boundaries kept surveyors and courts busy for decades. Sometimes property lines were intentionally ignored, but other times the confusion came from surveyor error. Trees or rocks were used for landmarks — and then the trees or rocks would disappear.

Makes me feel better about our little suburban boundary confusion. And just to think, we settled it without a surveyor or court.

Today is the birthday of the writers Muriel Spark, Langston Hughes and Galway Kinnell. It is also the birthday of my mom, a writer who is less well known, whose pad and paper were often put aside to tend to a child or pay a bill or wait until the world was calmer before picking them up again.

But she read Shakespeare to us and talked to us of worlds beyond the one we knew. And now we are out in those worlds and she is encouraging us still.

We encourage her, too. It’s calm enough to write now, Mom. You can pick up that pad and pen. The coast is clear.

Today, before I signed in to write this entry, I was taken to a page where the new Google privacy policy was on display. I was assured that life would be easier with the new ease of transference between YouTube, Google searches and Gmail. These changes will take place March 1, Google explained, and there will be no way to opt out of them.

I had already noticed the ads Google tailored to my blog posts. They’re often funny. I might be reminiscing about our trip to Vienna two years ago and up will pop a Danube River Cruise. Doesn’t Google know that we’re still paying off our 2010 trip? (That it doesn’t is good news, actually; apparently Google does not yet have access to our bank records.)

Surely, though, it’s only a matter of time. Google has already been collecting information from my searches and YouTube viewing and from the blog posts I write here. And in little more than a month — in the name of creating a “seamless” environment — Google will be able to share all the bits of information it has collected to serve (and plumb) our deepest selves.

It’s enough to drag me back to the 20th century — or maybe the 19th.

In a survey by Travel and Leisure magazine that ranks cities in terms of rudeness, Washington, D.C. came in number 3. That’s two spots ruder than it was last year. Boston and Los Angeles were slightly less rude — and New York (in the number one spot) and Miami slightly more so.

I don’t know much about the methodology of the survey, whether it includes the suburbs of these metropolitan areas or just the cities themselves. But whatever the case, this got me thinking about the rudeness of cities versus suburbs. One seldom hears a suburb described as “rude,” perhaps because there’s not enough interaction to provoke contentious encounters. But there is one way we Northern Virginians excel in obnoxious behavior — and that’s in our cars.

We cut, we swerve, we tailgate. We run yellow lights and red ones, too. We are so rushed to get where we’re going that we act as if there are no human beings behind the wheels. My driving etiquette has deteriorated significantly since I’ve lived here. I don’t need a magazine article to tell me that.

Photo: SoMd Expert

The forecast wasn’t good. It would snow, sleet and then, later in the day, turn to freezing rain. When the going gets tough, the tough go to the library. I picked up an armful of local history books — This Was Vienna; Fairfax County Virginia: A History; Falls Church: A Virginia Village Revisited; Historic Northern Virginia; Reston: New Town in the Old Dominion and a book called Talking Tidewater: Writers on the Chesapeake.

I perused a couple of these tomes last night but was most drawn to an essay from Talking Tidewater, an excerpt from a memoir by Anne Jander called Crab’s Hole: A Family Story of Tangier Island. In the late 1940s a family moved from Connecticut to Tangier Island in the Chesapeake Bay. Their house had no electricity or running water when they moved in but the family made do without it for years. I read just enough to make me want to read the whole book — and just enough to make me want to have an adventure, too. Though preferably one with electricity and plumbing.

An old house in Chincoteague, which as close as I’ve come to Tangier Island.

It’s been a little over a year since we lost our parakeet, Hermes. We raised a glass to him on Sunday, and then, on Monday, we found ourselves web-surfing parrot videos. There are some very cute bird-dancing videos out there, with the little guys bobbing and weaving and strutting their stuff.

Of course, we are biased, but we think, ounce for ounce, Hermes’ brainpower could not be beat. He could say “Hermes,” “I love you” and “Good night, moon” — among other things. He knew every sound of human approach (the garage door opening, the toilet flushing) and would chirp hello accordingly. And his sneezes were a dead ringer for the human variety.

Hermes left a hole in our hearts, one we haven’t rushed to fill. But now that it’s been a year, we are thinking about birds again.

When I was at a wake last fall I noticed a cage of finches in the lobby of the funeral home. Is there a better reminder of the sweetness of life than a bunch of small birds chirping?

It rises beside the escalator, a concrete skeleton, incomplete but unmistakable. This will not be another complicated contraption, something that can break because an errant candy wrapper gums up its works. This will be a simple pedestrian-movement enabler, stationary, providing additional caloric expenditure. This will be, in short, a stairway.

It has been in progress for months now but I’ve only just noticed it recently. And yesterday, as I rode up the escalator, I saw the risers in place, saw the sawtooth concrete waiting for its tread.

So I googled the project, learned that it is called the Vienna Station Mezzanine Stairs, that it was approved more than two years ago and that $2 million has been allotted to complete it. Two million? For a flight of stairs?

Then I think about it for a minute. As the quick, electronic and virtual become more prominent, the slow, the low-tech and the real will become more valuable. Way more valuable, if the Vienna stairs are any indication.

These stairs are from the Prague Castle. They have lasted centuries. They did not cost $2 million.

Yesterday I passed three bikers on a four-lane road. Walkers clogged our neighborhood streets. There was a lightness in the air, a feeling of lift and brightness. This is the fun side of global warming, a walk in short sleeves, the smell of mud in the air, bushwhacking through the woods and leaping over the creek.

Will we pay for this soon? Probably. But it’s nice while it lasts.

It’s not warm enough for this. But close….