The End of Cursive?

The End of Cursive?

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An article in the new Atlantic charts the disturbing loss of cursive skills among the young in this country. Kids aren’t learning to write longhand in school; they’re tapping keys instead. A college professor notes that cursive is becoming like ancient Latin or Greek, a tongue that needs to be translated.

This is horrifying and disappointing and yet more evidence that the world as we know it is falling apart … but it may solve a problem I’ve been mulling over for some time. 

As noted in the “About Me” section of this blog, I’ve been keeping a journal for most of my life, a practice that has generated a goodly number of notebooks through the years. While most of the material in these notebooks is absolutely positively squeaky clean, there may be a few passages that I’d, well, rather not leave behind. 

True, I could burn the lot, but I’d rather not. After reading the Atlantic article, though, I’m thinking my scribbles may be safe. Given the decline of penmanship instruction, it seems fairly certain that my grandchildren won’t be able to read my journals, and probably one or two of my children won’t either. 

The decline of cursive may not be good for civilization, but for those of us who keep journals, it’s a blessing in disguise. 

Artist at Work

Artist at Work

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Today the tree guys arrive to remove yet another giant oak. This one is in the back of the yard, alongside the fence. It’s not as dead as the two specimens felled last week, but is the most precarious of the bunch because it hangs over the neighbor’s property and threatens his shed.

Carman heads this crew. To watch him climb and cut is to observe an artist at work. His art is destruction, true, but it’s done with a flourish and a derring-do that puts even circus aerialists to shame. 

High in the treetops Carman manages rope and chain saw, deftly lassoing a 10-foot section of trunk, then sawing it off and (with assistance from the ground) lowering it down. To be hanging from the tree you’re cutting down seems an impossibility, but I watched him do it last week, watched him calmly and methodically take down the oak section by section by section … until it was gone. 

The Sandwich Trail

The Sandwich Trail

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You might call it the Sandwich Trail: a route that begins in forest, exits on the other side of the neighborhood for a mile of striding down a prettier-than-average suburban lane, then dips back into parkland again before returning. 

In the language of sandwiches, the woods is the “bread” and the long stretch of pavement in the middle is its filling. 

In the woods section I notice dry stream beds, new plank bridges, a path I thought I’d lost. In the pavement part I see houses with new siding, a massive and magical rubber tree, boulders in a garden.

Two parts trees and beaten-dirt trail, one part easy striding along a less-traveled road. A sumptuous repast. 

The Red Oak

The Red Oak

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Who knows when the great red oak was born, when the acorn that gave it life fell to the ground, found pliable soil, sent down roots? Decades, maybe 100 years or more, when second-growth forest filled in this land that once was farmed. 

I stepped into its history 33 years ago and found in its lofty shelter a stateliness and calm. It became, in fact, our signature tree, the one I think of first when I think of our house. 

It had been ailing for years, a fact I noticed with the same pit in the stomach I’ve had when running my tongue over an aching molar. But the measures we took — pruning, watering, fertilizing — did not save it. The ambrosia beetle, an opportunistic insect that moves in after years of drought and other stresses, killed it in a single season.

All summer I’ve been lamenting the tree’s brittle boughs, its withered foliage. I’ve been dreading the moment that finally came. 

Now the red oak is felled, its great trunk piled around the yard, so much lumber. Soon the logs will be carted away, too. 

It’s not the greatest loss I’ve ever sustained … but it’s a loss, just the same. 

 

Perfect Peaches

Perfect Peaches

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It’s as if the peaches had been practicing all season to look this rosy and smooth-skinned, this thoroughly delicious.  “Last big picking,” they were billed, giving those of us who’d come to haunt this particular booth at the Wednesday farmers market ample warning: don’t expect this fruit again until next July. 

I felt the same tug in my heart I’m getting when I notice turning leaves or lowered light. 

But who can complain when the tilt of the sun produces peaches like these? 

(The astute observer will spot an interloper in this photo. I threw in a lemon to keep the peaches company.)

Last Walk of Summer

Last Walk of Summer

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It felt much the same as other summer walks, this last one before tomorrow’s equinox. I left too late, not unusual for me, and got caught in what passes for rush hour traffic in my neighborhood, parents and buses rushing to school. 

I wore a sweatshirt that I tied around my waist at the halfway point. The birds were a little less chirpy, the cicadas nonexistent, so it lacked midsummer’s buzz and shimmer. 

But as I write this post on the deck a desultory cricket chirps and pools of light and shade dapple the backyard. 

It will be close to 90 today, and the grass needs mowing. It’s still summer. 

People of the Path

People of the Path

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In my neighborhood, I might know their names. There’s Peter, whose long arms swing like windmills, and his wife, Nancy, who has been walking regularly for decades now. I’ve seen  Arturo not only in this area but also on the Reston trails. I could name Eileen, Wendy, Maureen, Dave, Doug and many others.

But for every person I know there are hundreds more anonymous fellow travelers. Dog walkers and young mothers with jogging strollers. Long-distance striders who carry water bottles on their belt, like gunslingers. They are short or tall, plump or lean, fast or slow. 

Some folks don’t look up or acknowledge contact; they’re lost in thought. Others catch my eye from far away, wave and smile. 

But in one way we are all the same. We are people of the path. 

Passing into History

Passing into History

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I didn’t set an alarm to watch Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral at 6 a.m. Eastern time. But when I woke up anyway, I quickly tuned in. 

What pomp and grandeur, what an outpouring of love and respect! “It’s been a solemn day, but not a gloomy one,” said the BBC commentator.  

As I write, the queen has left London for the last time and is on her way by hearse to Windsor Castle, where she will be laid to rest in the family crypt. Thousands of citizens have lined the way, throwing roses in her path.

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Today, the queen passes into history. 

Not So Fast

Not So Fast

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I took Thursday’s late-day stroll at a faster pace than usual, so yesterday I paid the price. Nothing serious, just some soreness and tightness, a reminder that I let the cooler air and that fall feeling push me into moving more quickly than I should have.

In my defense, it was glorious weather. I wasn’t slogging through humid air for a change, and there was an autumnal industriousness afoot, the kind of energy that sends squirrels scampering for acorns to store.

Like the squirrel, I was driven — only it was an experience that I was after, one more walk in a summer made rich by them. 

Almost Equinoctical Evening

Almost Equinoctical Evening

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A late walk yesterday, after I finished a class assignment. I drove to a favorite Reston trail itching to move through space after a computer-centric day. 

The path did not disappoint. There were the familiar markers of fern and stream and swamp. There were the dog walkers and stroller pushers and trail talkers, those who first appear at to be muttering to themselves but are revealed upon passing to be wearing those distinctive white ear pods.

The second leg of this walk is a segment of  the Cross County Trail, with its dips and valleys, already crunchy with brown leaves and blowsy with stilt grass gone to seed — but beautiful in its roughness. Laser-pointers of light struck the thin trunks of the understory.

Scampering through the lambent air in the almost-equinoctial evening was an excellent way to end the day.