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.

The Campsite

The Campsite

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In 1918 and again in 1921, Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and Harvey Firestone camped near this waterfall in what is now Swallow Falls State Park in Oakland, Maryland. They called themselves the Vagabonds and toured the Eastern United States, popularizing automobile travel. 

Isn’t it ironic that people now journey to places like Swallow Falls for respite from the automobile? They travel great distances to pitch their tents in woods and fields, or to rent houses, as we have, and immerse themselves in an alternative landscape. 

Though the Vagabonds traveled with their own naturalist (John Burroughs) and an entourage of chefs and butlers, they must have felt as I did yesterday glimpsing the simple beauty of water falling over rock. 

It makes you want to stop and ponder, to set up camp and stay a while. 

Still Life with Hay Bales

Still Life with Hay Bales

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Last evening in the golden hour of slanted light, I walked up the road a quarter mile to a field I’ve been seeing on our drives.  My goal: to capture “on film” a field of daisies. 

But the daisies were a little too far away and the traffic was whipping around me as I stood on the scant shoulder, so I made quick work of the shot. On the way back, though, I raised my phone to photograph another beautiful field, green grass studded with hay bales lit by the lowering sun. 

I’d actually crunched and marched my way across this field when I thought I could reach the daises on foot, before I discovered the rusty wire fence and the treed border. I’d taken some photos of the hay bales from that angle and found them lacking.

But up above, on the berm, I could capture the sunlight and the shadows— beauty on a larger scale. Proof, once again, of the power of perspective.