A Walker in the Suburbs

Mom would have been 93 today. In honor of her birthday, I’m letting her write the blog. This is A Walker in the Suburb’s first guest post, and it’s a posthumous one. Read it and know why I wanted to be a writer when I grew up — and why I miss her so. 

I was the third daughter born to parents who seemed desperately to want a son. All three of us girls were supposed to be Edward, named for each of my parent’s oldest brothers. The son arrived three years after me, but wasn’t named Edward after all. It seemed that my dad decided there might never be another boy and he thought tradition should be upheld. So my little brother was named Martin Joseph III.

Dad was right, of course. Our family of four was complete. Tradition had been upheld. Tradition had been upheld, too, when my older sisters were named. The first was named for my mother’s mother, Margaret Donnelly, and the second for my father’s mother, Mary Scott. When I arrived, another girl, there seemed to be quite a dilemma about what to call me. They had run out of grandmothers.

Dad suggested they call me Anne after my mother. But that didn’t suit her. I have wondered why they didn’t use Edwina, the feminine version of Edward. I’m certainly glad they didn’t!

In the end, and in spite of Daddy’s objections, Mother named me Suzanne for a nice lady who lived down the street, Suzanne Burk. I have often wished they had given me her full name, but they didn’t. So I had no middle name until I could choose one when I was confirmed. I chose Rose and used it proudly whenever I could. I guess I thought it made me more complete.

Walking yesterday into the wind, fists stuffed into my sleeves, Emily Dickinson came to mind: “The sky is low, the clouds are mean.” They popped into my head as snowflakes and sleet pellets flew through the air.

The precipitation was the perfect accompaniment to the howling wind and the rumbling jet engines (which is what happens on windy days in my neighborhood).

I felt like I was walking into a wall of winter, into a maelstrom of it. Nothing to do but push through—and remind myself that a warm house was waiting on the other side.

Putting up a suet block makes me feel a little like the teenager with a private-entrance basement and hands-off parents. Yeah, everyone parties at your house … but it isn’t because of your sparkling personality.

So yes, the birds are flocking to my deck, but it seems like cheating how we lured them here. On the other hand, bird-beggars can’t be choosers, so I’ve devoted a few minutes of my morning to observing the drama unfolding outside my window.

I first spotted the downy woodpeckers, who cling to railings and politely wait their turn at the suet block. I love their jaunty red heads and their ability to queue.

The bluebirds aren’t so patient. A flock of them must have moved into the area this morning, and they’re hungry. They’ve been flashing their brilliant tail feathers and just generally entrancing me since I saw them.

Unfortunately, they have rivals at the feeder. A band of bluejays are guarding the block, wielding their considerable bulk in a futile effort to keep their fellow blue birds away.

Though the jays are larger, the bluebirds are more nimble. They can contort their little bodies (showing off their lovely orange breasts) any which way to get at the suet. The bluejays, on the other hand, are hampered by size. Yes, they’re big and loud, but the bluebirds are making out like bandits. I’m pulling for them.

The other day I was on the phone with the pharmacy, talking with a real human being instead of tapping in numbers.

“Do you have birds?” the real human being asked me, not surprisingly, since Alfie and Dominique were chirping up a storm.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Parakeets?” she ventured.

“Right again!” I replied. And from there we were off, discussing the cheerfulness of birds and the pleasures of a home filled with their song.

Apart from 18 months in 2011-2012, we’ve had a parakeet or two in a cage hanging from a hook in the kitchen ceiling for the last 14 years. The birds are not directly over the table, but they are in the center of the house, where they can hear the humans whose flock they have adopted.

I’m midway through Jim Robbins’ book The Wonder of Birds and learning many things I didn’t know. For example, scientists’ study of murmuration  — birds’ ability to fly in unison in great flocks that twist and turn like a cloud dancing — is enhancing what we know of human cognition and metacognition.

It doesn’t surprise me that these intelligent and loving animals would have secrets to share. “I hope you love birds too,” wrote Emily Dickinson. “It is economical. It saves going to heaven.”

(Can’t find a good picture of the parakeets this morning, so this photo of a wild baby bird in our garage will have to do.) 

I’m thinking back to Sunday’s afternoon walk. The day later than the clock said it was, Copper tugging on the leash. I dropped my shoulders, told myself there was nothing to do but enjoy the briskness, the trees at peak color.

We’re not known for autumn splendor in northern Virginia. Spring is our time to shine. But still, there are moments when the sun slants in fetchingly from the west and the leaves catch it and reflect it back.

I tried to capture that by snapping some photos. But as usual, it’s not just the shot I want, it’s the way the air feels and the sound of tiny birds peeping, the creek gurgling and (of course) the drone of a leaf blower. You’re never deep enough in the Folkstone woods that you can’t hear that.

But when the leaves are swirling around and collecting in golden circles at your feet, it doesn’t much matter.

A few hours before Tuesday’s monuments tour, my colleagues and I gathered on a rooftop to share drinks and dinner. This is the view that greeted us.

I’ve lived here for decades and never before seen a rainbow over the Washington Monument. It looks like there should be a pot of gold buried somewhere at its base — but I didn’t find it when we visited later that night.

It was the view that was golden: The city spread out at our feet, the low buildings, the honeycomb of highways, the late-day light.

I finished reading Sapiens early this morning, just in time to return it to the library tomorrow. This will be the third time I’ve written about the book, but why not?

As I wrote last week, ignorance helped propel Sapiens to science, but it was science, capitalism and empire together that gave us the modern world. Science lent empires an ideological justification for exploration and discovery. The capital used to finance these explorations was made possible by credit, which is made possible by a belief that the future will be better than the present. “The idea of progress is built on the notion that if we admit our ignorance and invest resources in research, things can improve. This idea was soon translated into economic terms.”

But science, capitalism and empire can only take us so far. Already, Harari argues, they have brought us unprecedented prosperity and peace (though not necessarily contentment). “Today humankind has broken the law of the jungle. There is at last real peace, and not just absence of war.”  Harari admits that his views are skewed by the year in which he was writing them. “If this chapter had been written in 1945 or 1962, it would probably have been much more glum.”

I know Harari has a new book out, Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow, in which he describes what happens when “old myths are coupled with new godlike technologies such as artificial intelligence and genetic engineering.”

He gives us a sneak preview at the end of Sapiens: “Despite the astonishing things that humans are capable of doing, we remain unsure of our goals and we seem as discontented as ever. … Self-made gods with only the laws of physics to keep us company, we are accountable to no one. … Is there anything more dangerous than dissatisfied and irresponsible gods who don’t know what they want?”

They dart, they pounce, they charge each other with a bravura that far exceeds their body weight — given that their body weight is barely 11 ounces.

Today I spent more time than was practical trying to photograph a hummingbird in flight. A fluttering tail behind the feeder is the only still I could snap. 
This time next week these little guys will likely be gone, winging their way south as they always do this time of year. So today I refilled their feeder and tried to chase away the ants that were swarming it in their orderly, ant-like way. The hummingbirds need to stoke up, and I needed to help them.

I’ll miss their antics and their beauty. But I know they’ll be warm and comfortable. And before I can turn around twice it will be late April again — and they’ll be back.

Five months of hummingbirds a year. Not bad.

I never like to leave a place, especially one as lovely as Ireland. But if you’re going to travel, eventually you have to move on. So what are we taking away from this trip?

We’ve talked about this a lot, recalling long-ago jaunts when we returned all fired up about something: living a simpler life or drinking tea from china cups.

This time it’s hard to define “the lesson.” I’d like to travel more and work less, but that’s not possible now. Finding myself taking notes during the walking tours reminds me how much I love to learn and would like to go back to school someday. Again, not possible … yet.

What will remain with me from this trip to Ireland, which was very much what remained with me from the last one, is the beauty of the Irish landscape and the warmth of the Irish people. Much has changed in the decades since I was here last. The nation is far more prosperous and modern, and there seem to be 10 times more cars on the road — all of them barreling at us down a narrow, hedge-lined lane.

But the people are as kind and funny as ever. They made us laugh. They won our hearts.

It’s not even 100 miles from Dingle (which I loved) to Kinsale, but what a difference. There’s the weather, for starters, which is just the luck of the Irish. Though we arrived in mist, rain and fog, we’ve had a glorious day here, all sunshine and 70s. The water has been dancing in Kinsale Harbor and we’ve been peeling off layers as we walk.