Marine Layer

Marine Layer

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I awoke yesterday to dense fog and quarter-mile visibility. No problem for a walker in the suburbs (or the city), but not the best for motorists and pilots and others who must see far to be safe.

I bundled up and took a walk, wanting to explore an area I’d seen from the window of my Airbnb but couldn’t pinpoint its locale. Was it across Rainier? Yes it was. But mostly it was up, as so much of this neighborhood seems to be.

Seattle is a city of vistas, and when the fog swirls around them, the views are even more magical. Yesterday’s marine layer had burnt away before I took off for home. But on Sunday I captured a sliver of fog posed fetchingly at the foot of Mount Rainier — a marine layer disappearing even as I snapped this shot.

Her Place

Her Place

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When I was Celia’s age, I lived in a city, too. I woke every morning groggy but happy. Never enough time, never enough sleep. New York was an engine that revved me and fed me. I had found my rhythm, my métier. I was in love with a place.

When I see Celia here, 3,000 miles west of where I made my home, I understand the contours of her affinity but not its particulars. That’s why I visit, to pick up the vibe, if only for a few days.

But inevitably what I feel is not just the pull of a place; it’s the pull of possibility. It’s the memory of being that age, with so much of life ahead of me. And I think, wherever she roams in the future, she will always have this place, this feeling of freedom, this city she’s made her own.

(Seattle’s Kubota Gardens)

Seattle Sunrise

Seattle Sunrise

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Sun is not something one associates with Seattle, but today it’s pouring in the window of this place I’ve rented for a few days. It’s Celia’s birthday and I surprised her yesterday, appearing at her doorstep when she had just talked with me hours earlier to say happy Thanksgiving.

The surprise has been on me, though, as it always is when I travel from one coast to another. First, that the trip happens so quickly, five and a half hours! Second, that I feel so at home here.

And third … as always … that I don’t want to leave.

This Old Purse

This Old Purse

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I can’t remember when I bought it, but for at least five years this steadfast bag has held my stuff, held my life, if you want to know the truth. It’s kept me organized, kept me sane. When I needed a card or a tissue or a pen, I knew just where to look for one, courtesy of its organized interior.

It’s not fancy. It’s not leather. But I could wash it and it weighed nothing (until I filled it up with too much stuff).

Inside was a wallet, slots for cards, an inner pocket and not one but two pen-holders. I noticed in the newer model of this bag, the one I bought just a few days ago, that the pen-holders have vanished. A sign of the times, I suppose.

But most of the other organizing tools are there, and, best of all, it’s brand new. Still, I’ll miss the old purse, its subtle shade of blue, its faux quilting. I’m thinking of all the places it’s been, all it’s seen me through. So here’s a toast to this old bag. May it rest in peace.

A Cornucopia

A Cornucopia

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The flowers arrived yesterday morning, a gift from my brother Drew. I wasn’t expecting them so they were doubly precious. They will be center stage at today’s feast.

It wasn’t until I brought them inside and set them on the table that I realized they were arranged in a cornucopia — a horn of plenty.

I grew up with one of these. It sat on our dining room table, the same one we’ll sit at today (newly relocated to my house).

The cornucopia is a symbol of abundance, and for me, of gratitude. It is as chock full of blossoms as this house will soon be of people.

I’m grateful for the flowers, the food, the people — for the abundance of it all.

Let the Cooking Begin

Let the Cooking Begin

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We’ve measured the tables, all three of them. When joined, there will be 18 feet of dining space with almost as many chairs as we need.

The groceries are (mostly) in the house, and only minor cleaning remains to be done.

Which can only mean one thing: Let the cooking begin! Let the apples be diced and the vinaigrette stirred. Let the celery be chopped, the chestnuts, too, ready to assemble for tomorrow’s stuffing.

Let the turkey breast roast (the extra turkey I’ll have on hand to feed the large crew expected tomorrow). Let the pie crust be rolled and the casseroles baked.

In other words, let as much of tomorrow as possible begin today.

More November

More November

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Novemberness is not a word, but I’m making it one with this post. Why shouldn’t we turn a month into a state of being? Melville did it: “Whenever it is a damp, dreary November in my soul…”

My experience with November is not as gloomy. I’ve always liked the month, the coziness of its early darkness, its lamplit afternoons. Thanksgiving brightening it, distracting us, and at its very end, the birthdays of two people I love.

The syllable “ness” turns adjectives into nouns: goodness, sweetness, faithfulness. The “ness” of “Novemberness” turns a proper noun into a quality or condition. Novemberness is the quality of being November, and this year we have more November to enjoy it.

I speak, of course, of the feast day happening in just two days and its placement this year, which is the latest it can possibly happen, given that it happens on the fourth Thursday of the month. Merchants are decrying it — seven fewer days to shop! — and devotees of Hallmark Christmas films are ignoring it and beginning their seasonal rituals anyway.

But I’m savoring it. I’m reveling in the stillness, in the few bright leaves that still cling to branches. I’m enjoying having more of a month that is too often rushed and folded into holiday folderol. I’m celebrating Novemberness.

A Sabbath

A Sabbath

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Yesterday unwound slowly, with a small baptism and lunch afterward. As the afternoon continued, I thought about the tasks that waited for me back home: schoolwork and prep for Thursday. I have lists, and lists of lists.

But it was so nice to sit and visit, to let the kiddos run in and out of the house, their cheeks rosy with the cold. To listen, to chat, to laugh.

Back home, I realized there was daylight enough still to walk. Then, after dinner, I realized that I still had time to do the reading and viewing required for Tuesday’s class. In other words, I’d completed as much in that compressed schedule as I would have over hours.

I often wish I could do less on Sundays, not just for religious reasons, but because it’s good to pause and take stock, to have one day a week that’s different from the others. Yesterday, without planning to, I almost did.

Europe For All

Europe For All

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This week saw the passing of Arthur Frommer, whose books changed my life. When I traveled to Europe as a student, it was with a wave of other budget-minded travelers whose bibles (and mine) were Frommer’s famous series that began as Europe on $5 a Day. Although that became Europe on $10 (and on up to $95) as the years passed, the philosophy remained the same.

You don’t have to stay in fancy hotels to see the Continent, Frommer told Americans. Stay in guesthouses. Grab a baguette for lunch. Forget about the private bathroom. Live like the locals, in other words. “I wanted to scream at people to tell them they could afford to see the world,” Frommer told the Houston Chronicle, as quoted in his Washington Post obituary.

Frommer was a U.S. Army lawyer stationed in Berlin when he wrote and self published The G.I.’s Guide to Traveling in Europe, which was the genesis of Europe on $5 a Day. By the mid ’60s he quit his successful law practice to concentrate on his guidebook empire.

Frommer, along with low-cost carriers like Icelandic and Laker Airways, made it possible for people like me to wander around Europe soaking up art, music and history. He democratized the “Grand Tour.” He convinced the American public that travel wasn’t just for the well-heeled. It was for all of us. You may want to curse him the next time you’re crammed into the middle seat of a fully booked 737. But as I read about his life this week, all I wanted to say was “thank you.”

Farewell, Toby

Farewell, Toby

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The parakeet Toby died unexpectedly last night. He hadn’t seemed quite himself lately but he had also been moulting, so I attributed his lethargy to this cyclical loss of feathers.

I’ve tried to “loss-proof” pet ownership by having two parakeets. This hasn’t worked, because each of these tiny creatures has a personality. Each is a unique being that has never been before and will never be again. If that’s true of the domestic birds in my care, then it’s also true of the wild birds, the sparrows and cardinals and wrens and woodpeckers. It’s true of the deer, fox and squirrels. It’s probably even true of the crickets and spiders — but I don’t want to carry this too far.

Toby was a sweetheart. He was patient and kind. He sang his heart out. He withstood an undue amount of abuse from his cage mate, Cleo. His one fault, which may have been a fatal one, was his fondness for seed. He was a portly fellow.

I never planned to write much about animals in this blog. I would describe the walks I took, the thoughts I had while taking them. No silly pet posts. Lofty notions only. But the animals we take into our homes become a part of us. I could do worse, much worse, than to write about them.