Made with Love

Made with Love

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Though I’m not of the Facebook generation — and am barely of Facebook — I know enough about its etiquette to know not to publish a photo of my new grandson before his mother does. But there’s no law against grandmotherly gushing, so gush I will.

In short, the little guy is perfect. His dear little fingers and toes, his full head of dark hair, his skin that is so soft it’s like you were touching nothing at all. I could have held him for hours, just looking, marveling at his dear face, his sudden yawns and stretches. 

A week ago, Claire and I had sat knee-to-knee going through her old baby clothes that I had washed and brought over. There was the little bib that spelled “C-L-A-I-R-E” in counted cross-stitch, the pink shirt that said “Special Delivery: Reston Hospital Maternity Center” — two girly things this boy baby may never wear. But plenty of gender-neutral duds as well, and those he will don, along with all his new clothes that at this point still swallow him up. 

I was struck yesterday, as I will be over and over again, of life’s repeating itself in endless variation, of the love of his parents for him and for each other.  In another universe, with other rules, new life may spring fully formed from soil or wood or metal. I’m glad that in this universe it arrives in an impossibly tiny package, made with love. 

Brahms Second

Brahms Second

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A morning errand, almost there, the radio on a news station. It would be a long segment about something I didn’t want to hear, so I pushed button six on the dial. 

The car filled with Brahms, the Second Symphony, the finale. I hadn’t heard it in a while, had forgotten how sonorous Brahms can be, how you get swept up in the sound so that nothing else seems to matter.

I only heard the last 10 minutes of the work … but it was enough.

On This Day …

On This Day …

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Yesterday, still giddy with the news of our first grandchild, I had no time for the details. Today, I look up, note the day, August 14, which was Claire’s due date, and the famous people who were born on it: comedian Steve Martin; Russell Baker, author of the lovely memoir Growing Up; “The Far Side” cartoonist Gary Larson; and Doc Halliday, who survived the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. 

Those would have been interesting birthday mates, for sure. But it turns out there are some interesting characters born on August 13, too. There is sharpshooter Annie Oakley, who traveled with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and was the most famous woman in the world at one time; William Caxton, the first man to print a book in 1475, using the printing press that had just been invented 25 years earlier; and director Alfred Hitchcock, who made “Psycho, “Vertigo” and “Rear Window.”

So the little guy will have plenty of birthday company as he makes his way through life. For now, he is eating and sleeping and getting to know the world. For now, he is still pure potential. 

(Thanks to the Writer’s Almanac for these facts.)

Happiest Day

Happiest Day

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“The happiest days are the days when babies come,” said Melanie in “Gone with the Wind.” For my family, this is a happiest day, as we welcome our first grandchild and first boy baby in a generation.

It’s an awesome thought, to know there is this new life in the world: the little fingers and little toes, the face that seems old and wise, a visitor from beyond.

We are grateful and excited, though nowhere near as much as his proud and weary parents. And we look forward to tomorrow … when we hope we’ll be able to hold the little guy. 

(Using this photo again, though I used it less than a month ago, because it’s of my sweet Claire, already loving babies, though she was barely more than a baby herself. Now she has a baby of her own!)

Shooting Stars

Shooting Stars

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By 3:30 this morning the sky was filled with thunder and rain. But only a few hours earlier, it was illuminated not by lightning but by the intermittent flashes of the Perseid Meteor Shower.

Viewed from the trampoline, which allows for an upturned gaze without a crick in the neck, the stitches of light were surprising and ethereal, each one a gift I didn’t expect to receive. But the best one of all came when I’d only been at my post a few minutes. 

It looked more like a artist’s rendering of a comet, with an orange-yellow fireball and a streaking tail that flowed into the velvety darkness. It may have been an “earthgazer,” a type of meteor I only learned about today, known for its longer streak of brightness and most commonly appearing before midnight. 

Whatever it was … it — and all the shooting stars I saw last night — took my breath away. They reminded me of the great beyond. They reminded me to look up. 

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Humidity

Humidity

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Humidity and dew points are meteorological variables that I’ve yet to fully understand. But I feel them and I see them and this time of the year that’s all that matters.

On after-dark walks with Copper I see dew glistening in the grass like so many diamond chips. Moisture lingers in the morning, so much so that the doggie comes back from his early constitutionals with tummy hair drenched by it. 

As the day heats up all this moisture becomes a weight I try to move with fans and shifts of posture and anything else I can come up with. Sometimes I give in and move inside. But mostly, I just live with it in the outside office I persist in inhabiting. Because it’s summer, and it’s humid, and before long it won’t be either.  

Endless Summer?

Endless Summer?

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As we head toward the midpoint of August, the summer starts to feel a little frayed around the edges. The heat still shimmers on still afternoons, katydids still serenade us on sultry evenings. But the soul of summer, its freedom and looseness, is tightening up.

In a typical summer, you might see bright yellow school buses  lumbering down the lanes, going on dry runs, striking fear in the hearts of children — and gladness and relief in their parents. 

But this year, summer continues without this ominous marker. School will be virtual here so buses will remain parked in random lots around the region. It’s what we always dreamed of as kids, what we didn’t know enough to dread as parents. 

It won’t be an endless summer. But right about now, it’s starting to feel like it might …

Poems through the Pandemic

Poems through the Pandemic

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In this morning’s newspaper I read about a Covid-19 newsletter in Portsmouth, Maine, which carries, amidst the grim statistics and prognoses … a poem. Once a week every Sunday Portsmouth residents can find something else to focus on besides numbers and test results.

The poems are supplied by Portsmouth’s poet laureate, the 12th to serve in the role and one of several in the state of Maine. Here’s one she wrote after she learned of the passing of a fellow poet:

Today I find the mask useful

along with sunglasses

to hide my tear streaked face,

not wanting to scare the barista

who has enough to deal with

behind his own mask. 

In general, writers weigh in later, sometimes years after a historical event.  Poetry is different, I think, and in this case it’s helpful that poets are commenting in real time. 

Walkable Communities

Walkable Communities

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An article in today’s Washington Post describes what it says may be the community development of the future, as the pandemic has accelerated a trend toward telecommuting that was already in process. Called the Hub at La Plata, this mixed-use development makes it possible to walk to shops and live with one car — or even no car at all. 

An excellent idea … and one that Reston, Virginia, where I (almost) hang my hat (you can walk to Reston from here) has been practicing for more than half a century. Though the New Urbanism roots of Reston have taken a beating over the years, there is still enough of the original plan to make you see the point and offer up a silent cheer for it.

I had just such a moment yesterday, when I fast walked on one of its many paved paths. Signposts directed me to South Lakes Village Center one direction and Hunters Woods Village Center the other. I didn’t walk to either, but just knowing I could … made all the difference. 

(A photo of Lake Anne taken from the top floor of Heron House, in Reston’s oldest village center.)

Noting the Passing

Noting the Passing

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The pianist Leon Fleisher died August 2 at the age of 92. I’ve written about him before, both as a pianist and writer. I even vowed to learn a piece of music because of watching him play it, a promise I have not kept, by the way. So the least I can do is honor the man here.

Fleisher was a master of reinvention: winning competitions as a prodigy, losing the use of his right hand, despairing for a while, then eventually remaking himself as a conductor, teacher and performer. The difficulty he faced almost sunk him — he considered suicide — but he emerged stronger as a result. 

“Time and again, I would look at my life and marvel that so many wonderful things had happened that never would have happened if my hand had not been struck down,” Fleisher wrote in his memoir Nine Lives. “I couldn’t imagine my life without conducting. I couldn’t imagine life without teaching so intensely.” 

Curiously enough, Fleisher’s obituary shared the page with that of another artist and master of reinvention. The film director Alan Parker directed several movies I’ve loved, such as “Fame” and “The Commitments,” movies that, until reading his obituary, I wasn’t even aware were his. Like Fleisher, Parker took risks, made changes, didn’t find a safe path and follow it but continued to learn and grow.

Two men, two creative careers, but one lesson (at least for me): Whatever you do, they say, don’t get stuck.