Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

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From where I sit I hear three clocks ticking. There is the familiar cuckoo from the kitchen, the breath-in-breath-out grandfather between the windows, and the “bim bam” on the mantel, the fastest of the trio.

Listening to them all at once isn’t confusing; it’s multi-modal. It’s the solidity of braided ropes, a hammock of sorts, holding me in place.

It’s the calm center in the midst of the action: like listening to a Bach prelude or fugue, where you search for each voice amidst the harmony. Or like jumping rope, double dutch.

It’s all about the rhythm, about three adding up to one. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The Trees

The Trees

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I read over the weekend of a dispute among neighbors over a stream restoration project in Hollin Hills. One side believes it’s imperative that Fairfax County fix the damaged stream and the polluted runoff that infests it. The other says that it’s doesn’t need to go about it in such a scorched-earth way.

One big difference between the two sides: preserving trees. As a walker in the suburbs, I know what it feels like to have a beloved woods opened up and hollowed out. Nature alone is doing such a grand job of this that it seems a shame for humans to be helping.

In our woods it sometimes seems as if there are as many downed trees as there are upright ones. Drought has weakened many of the old oaks and high winds have brought them down. The woods are open and airier than they used to be.

While this is just part of the cycle, I miss the denser, more all-encompassing woods that were here when we arrived. I miss the sense of enclosure, the way the light looks filtering through a dense canopy. All of which is to say that if I lived in Hollin Hills … I’d be fighting for the trees.

Each Day

Each Day

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Walking an older doggie first thing in the morning has its minuses. I’d much rather let the day unravel slowly, in fuzzy robe and slippers, staying inside and writing or reading until I’ve been awake for an hour or two.

But walking an older doggie first thing has its pluses, too, and that’s what I’m thinking about today.  Being out early, when the day is just beginning, means I can take a measure of it, can sniff out its aromas, attend to its sounds. A little less bird song, a little less humidity, a lot more sunshine.

Being out early helps me understand that each day is a gift — one that we can relish or ignore.

Bye, Bye Bathroom

Bye, Bye Bathroom

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The bathroom remodeling job that’s been planned for a couple of months has now begun. Last night I had a final ceremonial soak in the tub — ceremonial and quick, since there was almost no way to keep the water warm enough or high enough in that bathtub to really soak at all. (One of the many reasons it’s being replaced.)

Even though I know it’s for the better, I couldn’t help but have a backward glance for this small room that holds many memories. I thought about the many baths I gave my children in that tub, the girls when they were young, including some precious times when all three of them were in there — and there was more water splashed on the floor than anywhere else.

But those days are gone, I told myself. So I took some photos, removed the old makeup, body wash, bobby pins, hair clips and other paraphernalia that had accumulated — and said goodbye.

Which is good, because now … it’s gone.

Snowdrops

Snowdrops

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From the looks of it they’ve been blooming over a week now, these shy white flowers, though I just noticed them today. They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of the common land at the end of the street.

The snowdrop is such a gracious flower, with its slender stem and paper white blossoms. When in full bloom the little flowers hang their heads ever so slightly — perhaps a wise move. To call too much attention to themselves this early in the season would be to risk retribution: snow that would bury them. But from the look of the forecast all they’ll have to endure is a little bit of rain.

Not that I keep a close count, but I believe this is the earliest I’ve ever seen snowdrops. They’re in good company, though. Yesterday, I saw the first robins of the season, too.

It’s Capital!

It’s Capital!

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The other day, while doing some routine editing, I thought about my attitude toward capital letters. I follow the Associated Press Stylebook, which means that titles, position names and the like are lowercase unless used as an official title before the name.

I duly strike down all the errant capital letters I find, but sometimes, I’m afraid, a bit too gleefully. And then I realized: Yes, I’m doing my editorial duty, but in my own mild-mannered way, I’m also sticking it to the man.

Take that, you inflated title! Take that, you uppercase “T” for “The” in front of a showy corporate logo! Take that, you self-important word that’s never supposed to be capitalized ever, ever, ever!

ah, yes, i feel better now.

Right Arm Disease

Right Arm Disease

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French horn player Barry Tuckwell, who passed away last week at the age of 88,  had a term for the allure of the conductor’s podium. He called it “right arm disease.”

From all reports, Tuckwell was an excellent conductor.  But it was as a horn player that he made his mark. Playing the instrument is “like driving a very fast car on an oily road. You have to anticipate the things that may go wrong,” Tuckwell said. But not many things did go wrong when he was playing the instrument.

My reference point for the difficulty of horn playing comes from my long-ago youth orchestra days, when we based our yearly program on the availability of passable horn players. If we had them, and only if we had them, would we play Beethoven’s “Eroica” Symphony.

Still, many have fallen prey to “right arm disease.” And I can understand. I engage in a little right-arm waving in the car, air-conducting, of course. But don’t worry. My left hand is firmly on the wheel.

(Photo: Imgartists.com)

The Theater Downstairs

The Theater Downstairs

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One of my hobbies is watching movies, especially ones that are nominated for Oscars. This year, that task has been made infinitely easier because many of the films are available streaming or on DVD. Some, like “The Irishman” or “Marriage Story,” both vying for best picture, were released only on Netflix. Others, like “Joker” or “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, ” are already available on DVDs.

As a result, I’ve been doing more “Oscar prep” in my basement than ever before. This creates some interesting situations. For instance, I fall asleep more easily on the couch in the basement, so that means I’m having to watch a few films twice in order to get their full effect. I watch some of them while exercising, too, which also strains my attention span (and lengthens my workout time).

However, the last movie I watched in a theater, “Little Women,” put me in a seat that reclined so far back that I might as well have been lying on the worn blue couch in the basement.

So there you have it, as basements become more theater-like … theaters are becoming more basement-like.  Sometimes I just love the modern world.

(Photo: Wikipedia — my basement looks nothing like this!)

Modern Day MLK?

Modern Day MLK?

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We need another Dr. Martin Luther King, a modern-day voice crying in the wilderness. We need someone who has a positive vision and can motivate others to follow it; someone grounded in faith who has moral clarity. Someone who understands sacrifice and can inspire others to make one.

I think about how the world sometimes gives us the people we need when we need them. Abraham Lincoln to keep our nation together. King to lead the Civil Rights movement.

We don’t always treat our heroes well, of course. King and Lincoln were both assassinated. In their case history righted the wrong, and they ultimately received the honors they were due. But honor is not what they were seeking. It was a cause beyond themselves, a greater good.

It’s hard to imagine such a person appearing now, someone who could heal the partisanship, who could bind us together again as one nation. But I’m an optimist. I have to believe there might be.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Home Alone

Home Alone

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The house is seldom empty these days, but it will be for more than a week, so I’ve been sitting in silence for the most of the day. It’s not that I don’t love my life and the people in it. It’s only that I need to recharge in quiet.

What I’m listening to now is the sighing of the wind and the chirping of the parakeets. A few minutes ago I had the Sunday talk shows on the radio, but that was producing indigestion, so I’m back to the natural sounds of birds and air.

I may take a cue from Copper and move with the sun. He starts out in the front of the house for the morning rays, then moves around to the back for the afternoon light. He usually finds a square of pure sunshine and lies down in it.

In about an hour the lowering rays will strike the living room couch in an oh-so-inviting way. It may prove too enticing to ignore.