Call Them By Their Name

Call Them By Their Name

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Names carry power; they encourage reverence. In some branches of Judaism, one writes G-d to show respect for the Creator. 

I found it ironic, then, as I walked through the yard with an arborist yesterday, to learn the names of the trees on our property. Ironic because several of them are ailing — and two of them have died. 

Oh, I knew there were oak trees in the front, had even learned last year that one of the sick trees is a pin oak. But did I understand that pin oaks are a member of the red oak family? No, I did not. Nor did I know that a chestnut oak is sitting right next to a tall holly in the side yard. Or that, wonder of wonders, a sassafras tree is thriving alongside the fence by the trampoline. 

From now on, the trees that remain will be cared for more diligently. And no wonder: Now, they have names.

(No problem naming this beauty. Crepe myrtles well in these parts. We may be planting more of them.)

Toddler Time

Toddler Time

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Over the weekend, I had a toddler’s eye view of life as we watched our two-year-old grandson. He was delightful, as he usually is, and of course completely unaware of the life change that awaited him — a baby sister.

With him, I ran up and down the street holding onto his shirt as he careened on a balance bike, a contraption that wasn’t around when my own children were young. 

With him, I ate pretend hamburgers on plastic buns with plastic tomatoes. Unfortunately, he did eat some very real play dough while I wasn’t looking.

He “checked my ears” with the jack end of a baby monitor, “talked on the phone” with our portable, and covered me with his baby blanket. With his giggles and grins he reminded me of what I’ve been missing since my own kids grew up. 

Doing Nothing?

Doing Nothing?

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As I’ve probably made more than clear through the years, I seek variety, changes in routine. They keep us out of ruts; they keep us young. Changes of scene, of workout and workload. Even changes in cuisine (though I’m not as good about that one). 

Lately I’ve been juggling short-term to-dos (writing here, completing schoolwork) with longer-term writing projects. 

I enjoy having both until deadlines loom. And then … the only change in routine I crave is to do nothing all day. 

It’s a Girl!

It’s a Girl!

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A lot can happen in a weekend! We have a new grandchild, our fourth in two years, a little girl born on September 10, under the full Harvest Moon. Her middle name is my own, an honor I wasn’t expecting and which means the world to me. 

As my sweet daughters build their own lives and families, I watch in joy and amazement. I marvel at the energy required, which I had too in that phase of life and can still summon. And I marvel at the love and dedication with which they tackle each new challenge and phase of life.

I tell them often how quickly it goes, knowing they won’t believe me. But it will. And it has. 

Moon Over Wolf Trap

Moon Over Wolf Trap

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A last gasp of summer, an outdoor concert at Wolf Trap, where cellist Yo-Yo Ma and clarinetist Paquito D’Rivera played together like … beans and rice, which they explained briefly before they played are their nicknames for each other. These names also showed up as titles for movements in the piece they performed, which D’Rivera composed. 

At Wolf Trap it’s never just about the music but the experience: picnicking on the lawn, waiting for the performance and the darkness. 

Last night a pale waxing moon appeared just as the hall was filling up, and as the players tuned (so different to see the National Symphony in its shirtsleeves), the moon rose and brightened. By the time we left, sated with the music and the evening, it was high in the sky, lighting us home.

R.I.P., Queen Elizabeth

R.I.P., Queen Elizabeth

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I’m late posting today, which means I can use this space to express my condolences to the British people upon the loss their monarch. Queen Elizabeth reigned for 70 years. As recently as Tuesday she was photographed at Balmoral Castle in a sweater and kilt, smiling as she greeted Liz Truss, the 15th prime minister of her tenure as queen. 

I’ve spent some time looking at that photograph today, wondering what sort of pain and discomfort she may have been hiding, may often have been hiding, as she went about her duties. There are the sensible shoes, there the ever-present handbag, a detail I always found noteworthy and today find especially touching. 

My impression of Queen Elizabeth has been formed not only by history books and newspapers, but also by the Netflix series “The Crown,” which has emphasized the Queen’s dedication to duty. And surely she maintained that dedication to the end. 

Newscasters have been exclaiming that immediately after the flag was lowered at Buckingham Palace a rainbow appeared in the sky. I checked for images, thinking it seemed too hokey to be true, but yes, it really happened. 

(Photo: Leon Neal, Getty Images, New York Times)

Beating the Wrap

Beating the Wrap

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As I wrap presents for my grandson’s special day, I recall that a few weeks ago, at the birthday of another grandson, my daughter confided that my present was the only one not in a gift bag, the only one, that is wrapped in paper.

Am I the only one who still does this, who cuts, creases and tapes the paper, who unspools and measures the ribbon, then curls it with scissors? 

There are a few of us out there who honor the old ways, who wrap rather than insert, who tie rather than stuff. But not many. 

This Old Resume

This Old Resume

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The musical “Chorus Line” contains a song with the lines, “Who am I anyway? Am I my resume?”  I thought of those lines recently when I came across one of my first professional CVs, a document listing jobs I’ve long since forgotten — writing scripts for a public television station — and interests — music and reading — I’ve continued to enjoy but have long since ceased to record. 

And then there were the personal details. I listed my birthday, marital status, even my height and weight. Were these  required? I wasn’t seeking a position as an airline flight attendant but a high school English teacher!

A key phrase in these old resumes was “agreeable to relocation.” And looking at a list of the places I sent them — Wyoming, California, New Mexico — that could be assumed. What a quaint concept in these days of remote work. 

And what a quaint document in general, this old resume, with the blotchy printing and the inclusion of my middle name “Leet,” which I’m proud to bear but haven’t used in decades. 

Am I my resume? Not this one.

The Nature of Labor

The Nature of Labor

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On this first Monday in September I’m thinking of a day long ago when I had a deadline to meet at the same time as the neighbors next door were having a screened-in porch added to the back of their house. While I’m sure there was prep work, in memory it seems as if the thing went up in a day, a week at the very least. 

While the hammers pounded, the nail guns added their one-two punch. There was shouting, laughter, the dull thud of two-by-fours being laid in place. Every so often I would lift my head from the keyboard to monitor the progress.

By dinnertime the porch was framed: an outside room, a place that hadn’t existed that morning. I glanced at my screen, at the words I’d cobbled together during the same nine or ten hours. 

Surely we  had all been building something that day, the workmen and I. Surely we had all been laboring. But at the end of the day they had something tangible to show for it … and, unless I printed a draft, I did not. Writing is a strange occupation. But I can’t imagine another one. 

Lulled into Fall

Lulled into Fall

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Mornings are cool enough that I’ve worn a long-sleeve tee-shirt on my walks the last few days. Even if I roll up my sleeves halfway through, I start out warmed against the chill — chill being a relative term these days, anything below 65. 

Still, the handwriting is on the wall. The handwriting of seasonal change, that is. Oh, there will be more humidity. It will crank up today and last for a while. Birds will still perch on the rose bush and flutter in the azalea. 

But days are shorter (I came in before 8 last night) and leaves are turning yellow. It’s the mellow month of September, lulling us into fall.