Hall’s Hill Wall

Hall’s Hill Wall

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It was a late-summer walk with my daughter and granddaughter, but it became a history lesson. Yesterday I learned about Hall’s Hill wall, a stark reminder of segregation in Arlington, Virginia. Bazil Hall was a 19th-century plantation owner whose first wife was so abusive to their slaves that one of them killed her. 

Although he was a slaveowner, Hall was also a unionist. He voted against Virginia’s succession, and in 1861, Confederate troops set fire to his home during an attack from an adjacent site. Union troops later occupied the area. 

After the war, Hall sold off his property, some of it to formerly enslaved people. According to the Arlington Historical Society, he didn’t do this because he was nice, but because he wanted to irritate his white neighbors. The Black community that resulted was known as Hall’s Hill.

In the 1930s a wall was erected along the perimeter of the neighborhood to block Black citizens from entering the new subdivision of Woodlawn. It remained mostly intact until 1966, when the county tore most of it down. The vestiges still standing are a sad reminder of life in earlier times. 

Making it Fun

Making it Fun

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For the last week or so I’ve been becoming more familiar with PowerPoint than I ever wanted to be. After much angst and effort, I managed to pull together a handful of slides and share them with class last night, no small feat for this technophobe.

I will have to do it again several times this semester, but not for as long and I hope with a slightly higher confidence level. And then there’s something else I’d like to add: a sense of fun. 

The classes I’m taking this fall are not required. No one is forcing me back to school. I’m not working toward a career goal. This is to keep the old gray matter churning. Instead, it’s the stomach that’s been doing loop-the-loops. 

Maybe next time it will be easier. I’m counting on it.  

(Photo of an old bomb I used to illustrate one of my slides last night. … It’s a long story.)

Fluid Again

Fluid Again

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The long-sought precipitation arrived during the night, and I awoke to the pleasant sound of a steady rain. This morning, after an early appointment, I ventured out into the storm, which had dwindled to drips and mist by the time I started walking.

What struck me most was how the dust was tamped down. The woods were refreshed after weeks of parching, and I was energized by the damp greenery and water gurgling over rocks. 

Weeks of drought slowed movement. Now, with the moisture, the landscape was fluid again. 

 

Still Dry

Still Dry

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Here, trails are caked dirt, easily scuffed, and streams are dry, rocky ditches. Leaves are dropping early, tired and brown.

The drought is even more pronounced in West Virginia, which we drove through a few weeks ago. It looked like autumn at the beginning of September.

In my part of Virginia, weather gurus call it “abnormally dry,” but that’s just one step away from full-fledged drought.

Help is on the way, they say, but not as much rain as was originally forecast. Looks the ferns will continue to wilt.

No Way to Say No

No Way to Say No

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When I began walking this morning, pink clouds were piling up on the horizon. The day was just getting to know itself. I needed a quiet tune, so I chose Dan Fogelberg’s “To the Morning.” 

There’s a line in the song I’ve always liked: “There’s really no way to say no to the morning.” It’s an obvious statement but one I need to hear sometimes.

To listen to it as I walked this Monday morning was to hear how beautifully reality can be crafted. Yes, there’s no way to say no. But there are so many ways to say yes.

Testing, Testing…

Testing, Testing…

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This is a test post. It’s a way for me to wade slowly into the waters of this new site.

I don’t imagine I’ll keep this post up for long. But it will let me understand if what I type in this block will appear on the page.

Change isn’t easy. Seems like I’m reminded of this every day. One of these days I’ll have to make the switch in earnest. I’m thinking it will be soon.

Nothing

Nothing

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I woke up this morning, glanced at my calendar, and found … nothing. Oh, there are a couple of errands to run, but there are no trips, excursions, parties or concerts. Nothing I absolutely have to do. 

How lovely nothing can be. Because nothing is potential: a lazy afternoon in the hammock, an hour of weeding, or, what’s more likely, a few hours of reading and study. (Taking two classes this semester has me hopping!)

But right now, for this moment, nothing is exactly that. And I’m going to revel in it.   

Walking Distance

Walking Distance

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Yesterday, a walk with a friend. Not just any friend, but one who lives a walking distance away from my house. 

Granted, it’s a walk through the woods, and this time of year the woods are full of burrs that attach to your socks and spider webs that cling to your hair and clothes. 

But still, to be able to walk anywhere around here is a triumph. And to walk to a friend’s house … even better. It humanizes the neighborhood. It allows me to think (even fleetingly) that I live in a village instead of a ‘burb.

(A downed tree I clambered through on my walk.)

Politics of Fear

Politics of Fear

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Yesterday was as picture-perfect a day as that September 11th, but 23 years later, nearly a generation ago. As it happens, I spent part of it on class readings about 9/11 and the politics of fear. 

One of the points I took home from these articles was terrorism’s legacy of anxiety and containment, of divisiveness — there are those who are terrorists (or look like them) and those who are not. 

In class last night, a colleague mentioned something I hadn’t thought of in a long time: threat levels. Remember those colors — red, orange, yellow? They were part of the Homeland Security Advisory System, I learned from Wikipedia today. In place from 2002 till 2011, they affected the level of security at airports and public buildings. 

Some class members were babies then; they had no memory of those. The threat index they’re most familiar with are air-quality levels. 

The Rack

The Rack

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When we first acquired it, I thought we were crazy. A drying rack as big as a room. I mostly use an electric dryer, which, along with the washing machine, saves me hours of labor every month. 

But this hot summer, I have a new appreciation for the contraption, especially when placed outside, where it provides for optimal air-drying. 

There’s an elemental pleasure in hanging wet shorts and shirts on the rods, a pleasure almost as great as attaching sheets to a clothesline when I was a kid, the fabric flapping in my face.

Often, clothes dry almost as quickly on the deck as they do in the dryer, and when I bring them in, they smell of air and sun and heat.