Yesterday a four-year-old birthday party here that must have strained the deck to maximum capacity.
What is maximum capacity anyway? Hard to know when the deck is as old as this one.
All’s well that ends well, I guess. I write this post from the deck, which is still standing — in fact thriving — on this lovely, low-humidity morning.
(The trampoline was full, too.)
The Olympics end today. What a run it’s been! From the rainy opening with the torch carried across the rooftops of Paris to the final games and heats, there have been thrills for sports fan — and for couch potatoes, too.
It’s enough to make me tackle my chores with Olympic ardor. I already do my own form of race-walking, though with significantly less hip swivel. But yesterday I found myself vacuuming, cleaning and doing yard work with medals in mind.
A bronze in dusting, a silver in weeding, and a gold in baking. It’s not a 3:51-minute 1,500 … but it’s something.
There are flood warnings and tornado warnings here today, as what’s left of Hurricane Debby pummels us from offshore. I slipped out during a lull, which I thought at first might be the eye of the storm, but which was more likely a gap between bands of rain and wind.
I left sunglasses at home but almost wished I’d worn them as the clouds parted from time to time. For the most part, though, it was a cloudy walk and a wild one. Winds whipping. Sticks crunching beneath my feet. A sense of urgency: get home before the skies open.
I made it, and now I wait for the predicted deluge. We certainly need it. I can almost hear the trees and plants lapping it up.
It took a poison ivy search to bring them to light, a careful combing of the backyard in preparation for a children’s party here this weekend. At first I didn’t know what they were, saw only the fallen petals, tiny blossoms in the grass.
Then I looked up, saw the bent boughs of the crepe myrtle shining in the sun. It’s my $2 tree, one of the stock I purchased from the Arbor Day Foundation years ago and planted without much hope. It’s 20 feet tall … and it’s blooming.
Vibrant pink flowers are weighing down the spindly top of the unpruned tree, blooming earlier than the other crepe myrtles in the yard, which are, unfortunately, planted in the shade.
But this little guy inherited the sun, grabbed the rays when the big oaks came down. He is reaping the harvest. We all are.
As I re-acclimate to a quieter life from the whirl that was last week, I keep seeing our cabin in the woods. It’s a tucked-away place but close to hiking trails and sand beaches.
Seeing it empty, as I do every year in the final minutes of our stay, making the rounds to check that windows are locked and trash is emptied, I’m struck by how much people animate place.
The couch and tables, beds and chairs, even the perfect porch that spans the back, are nothing without the daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren who animate them. So even though I’m missing the cabin, I’m missing the people more.
The rocks appeared when we were told they would, a half mile into a fern forest. They seemed to emerge from the center of the earth, massive shelves of rock, dim and cavelike, green with moss.
Rhododendron trees twined their roots around and through the rocks, and fissures erupted where you least expected them. It was an accidental discovery, a place found while looking for somewhere else. It was eerie and awe-inspiring, a glimpse of another world. I’m so glad we explored Maryland’s Rock Maze.
Our lake week is over, and what a wonderful week it was. So many laughs and memories. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
But the drive home meant the usual traffic, and by the time we reached the house it was hot and sticky, a typical 2024 summer day, heat index well into the 90s.
And then we stepped inside.The house was spic-and-span, a cool 77 degrees, classical music on the radio, courtesy of our friend and house-sitter. The parakeets were chirping. There was even some food in the fridge. It was the smoothest re-entry I’ve had in years.
(Unpacking is always easier than packing. Above: a fraction of the stuff I took along.)
A favorite children’s book on our shelves is Paddle-to-the-Sea, a delightful tale of an Indian boy who carves a wooden canoe and paddler and sets them free in the headwaters of the Great Lakes. The little boat has many adventures, even crosses the Atlantic Ocean. The grown-up boy discovers it years later.
One of my favorite experiences on this trip was also a paddle. Not a paddle to the sea, but a paddle to see. It was just a kayak trip across a small lake, but the leisurely pace allowed for an exploration of lily pads and a tall-pine forest where low boughs kissed the water.
I felt like I was seeing the lake for the first time. Dragonflies sipped water from my toes. The blue lake reflected white clouds. I thought about the restorative value of time on the water, of being adrift on a distant pond.
Mountain Maryland, it’s called, and yesterday I had a good taste of it, having turned left instead of right at a crucial juncture. No matter: all the better to explore this slice of heaven, this melding of lake and hill and sky.
This is the fourth year for an expedition to western Maryland, which is as different from D.C. Metro Maryland as one can imagine.
Here there are fields of daisies and roads along ridge tops with views of barns and corn and cows. There are shady glens, broad vistas, and lakes with lily pads. It was love at first sight, and later visits have only confirmed the initial attraction.
Mountain Maryland is a place for me.
Into this week of lake and family come scenes from across the seas: Strong-shouldered swimmers who wiggle like dolphins. Graceful gymnasts who defeat gravity with nerve and style.
The children imitate them, do somersaults and dance on coffee tables. It all starts here, the advertisements say.
I think, yes, maybe it does … with renewed appreciation for the families of those who twirl and swim and dive.
