Shooting Rain

Shooting Rain

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I’m an amateur photographer, doing the best I can with my iPhone 7 and enjoying every minute of it. I like framing the shot, trying to capture a digital image of what I see and want to preserve.

But sometimes I try to get technical, to shoot the difficult and ephemeral — to photograph the rain, for instance.

I wasn’t sure I could do it, have tried before. But the rain in New York last month was falling so fast and furiously that I was able to snap this shot of it streaming through the skies, down the tenement fronts and into the rooftop pool of the newish hotel across the street.

This shot captures a moment and a downpour I won’t soon forget. Water was streaming into the New York City subway system that evening, flooding major highways and making national news. 

What I didn’t know then is that the rain would also delay the bass player from the band my cousin leads and in which my brother plays drums— the band we had come to New York to hear. And in fact, the drummer would end up missing all but three songs in the set. 

On the other hand, I did get an interesting rain photo out of it. 

The Canals

The Canals

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The west coast of Florida is not only sun-kissed and sugar-sanded but some of it (my part of it, at least) is laced with a series of narrow canals that make for crazy walking but lovely viewing.

I ran into these canals the other day on the way home from the beach. Thinking I could take a shortcut I found myself going in circles on what was, in effect, a peninsula, bounded on all sides by these watery avenues. 

No cut-throughs here. Instead, languorous streams tucked behind walls of palmetto, elephant ear, bougainvillea and birds of paradise. They move slowly; I’m trying to learn from them.

Red Tide

Red Tide

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Yesterday, the beach was emptier than I’ve ever seen it. Figuring it was due to the high wind — the retreating edges of Tropical Storm Fred, by then pushing north to the panhandle — I took off walking as I usually do, tennis shoes slung over my shoulder, sinking my toes in the sand, warm water flowing up to my ankles as I skirted the waves. 

It was a perfect beach walking day — except it was anything but. 

I had heard about Red Tide, an algae bloom that kills fish and other wildlife, but mistakenly thought that if you couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there.

But then the cough I had noticed earlier became more insistent and my eyes watered so much I could scarcely keep them open. Could Red Tide hurt humans, too? 

The lifeguard station was farther up the beach, and by the time I reached it there was another coughing, sneezing, watery-eyed person asking the same question.

“It’s really bad today,” said the guard, who was wearing one of those bandana masks that’s not allowed on airplanes but which seemed to be helping him cope with Karenia brevis, the organism that was causing the symptoms. 

When I looked closer, I noticed the little red flag flying from the lifeguard stand.  Red Tide: I have a healthy respect for it now.

(Photo: Courtesy ocean.si.edu)

 

 

The Difference

The Difference

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Here at the beach for a week, I’m soaking in the landscape, as I always do. It’s not just the sun and the sand (which I’ve seen little of yet due to my arriving at the same time as Tropical Storm Fred) — but also the air (humid, with a salt breeze), the twisted banyan trees, the rubbery leaves of the palmetto frond I found floating in the pool yesterday.

Sights and textures like these free up the mind, set the imagination spinning. I wonder about lives lived entirely amongst such things and how they would differ from mine, tucked into the rolling roads and greenery of the Virginia Piedmont. 

I have no answers to this question, and surely a life is much more than the sum of what the eye sees, what the skin feels. But in the grand scheme of things, these make a difference, I’m sure. 

The Big 1

The Big 1

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Today our grandson Isaiah celebrates his first birthday with a party, presents and a smash cake —  something we had back in the day but just called “cake.”

He’s a cheerful little fellow who’s on the cusp of walking, who likes to point and say “dutz?” or “dat?” and who’s totally at home with two huge German shepherds and a dog-sized cat. 

I love him to pieces, of course — how could I not? But I find it difficult to write about him and his younger cousin Bernadette. How many ways can you say adorable, huggable and snuggly? How can I retain even a smidgen of objectivity when writing about this pair?

For years I penned articles for parenting magazines. While I conducted research and interviewed experts, I also used my daughters’ bedtime routines, imaginary companions or other age-appropriate behavior as anecdotes. The girls were first and foremost my precious children, of course, but sometimes … they were material. 

This is not the case with the grandkids. They are pure pleasure, not only because we can send them home at the end of the day but also because there’s not one published anecdote about them. Unless you count the occasional blog post, of course!

A New Milestone

A New Milestone

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I typically note the passing of blog milestones when there are round numbers ending in zeroes, but today I’ll mix it up a little and note the passing of a milestone ending in 9s. 

This is the 3,499th post I’ve written since I began A Walker in the Suburbs in 2010,  the 87th since I left Winrock and the 499th since my last milestone post. 

Since then I’ve written about the pandemic’s beginning and why despite its gift of time I’m still not getting anything done. 

I’ve written about trips I’ve taken, books I’ve read and walks that have inspired me. 

Mostly I’ve just tried to capture life in my little corner of the world, the joys and trials, the profound beauty of each day passing. 

Streaming

Streaming

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Today I walked to Gabrieli, yesterday to Vivaldi, and the day before, Joni Mitchell. All of this from the music streaming service that began as a free six-month trial but I decided was worth paying for. 

Though old news for many, the idea that I can call up most any piece of music struck me like a thunderclap. It was out there waiting but I had to be ready for it, ready to see music as something to rent and not to own.

Which is not to say I have entirely given up that concept. I still have stacks of CDs and LPs, still have my trusty iPod, tiny and ancient, with playlists that have embedded themselves in my brain. 

But now I also have my phone, gateway to the streaming app — and a musical freedom I am only beginning to plumb. 

Narrow Shoulders

Narrow Shoulders

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While I miss Garrett County’s bucolic scenery on my suburban walks, I don’t miss the proximity to hair-raising traffic. Those mountain byways had lovely views but narrow shoulders, and trucks careened down them with the confidence born of familiarity — a familiarity I lacked, of course. 

So I treated the roads with caution — or maybe you could say cautious optimism. I alternated walking against the traffic with staying on the same side of it when there was a blind curve or a wider berm. 

And in this way I made my way down Bray School Road to its intersection with Oakland Sang Run Road, or Lakeshore halfway to 219, or Foster to the graveled Betts Lane and back. 

Each time I stood for a minute before turning around, taking in the human-scale hills, the sweet-scented meadow grass, the low hum of a radio coming from a house that’s for sale. I thought about what it would be like to live in that house, amidst such loveliness. Then I turned around and trotted back.

Two Photos

Two Photos

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I took a long walk this morning after an early airport run. It felt good to hit the pavement after sending off the Seattle contingent. They live so far away, and I miss them. But they are well on their way now, and the rest of us are back in our homes and routines, too. The week we spent together was full of hikes and paddles and loud, raucous family dinners, and I’m enormously grateful for it.

If today I’m a little sad knowing it’s over, that’s part of it, too, like the rise and fall of breath and tides. I tell myself that it could easily not have worked out at all. There were the schedules of eight adults to juggle, to say nothing of baby nap times, feedings and gear. 

I snapped the top photo after everyone else had left the house, amazed that it could end up looking like it had in the website pictures once we’d packed up and moved out. But I’d rather remember it like this:

On the Lake

On the Lake

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There’s at the lake and there’s on the lake. And what a difference between the two. Being at the lake can also mean being in the woods or on a walk or hanging with the family in an A-frame across the road. 

Being on the lake is being immersed in water and wake, paddle and foam.  It’s kayaking up and down Red Run Cove, saying hello to folks in other boats or on the shore, listening to snippets of conversation about the invasive grasses that are mucking up motor boat propellers. 

Once in the middle of the lake, I put my oar across my knees and feel the sun on my face. I think about the trip, which ends today. There was a lot of packing and organizing to get us here. There’ll be a lot of packing and organizing to get us home. It was worth every minute of it.