It’s not the oldest library in America, but it is the oldest library in Arizona, and a few years ago it was named the best small library in the nation. Bisbee’s Copper Queen Library offers literacy services, chess boards, even a seed library. (This innovative program allows borrowers to take up to ten packets of open-pollinated or heirloom seeds a month.)
In this gracious two-story building, you can find newspapers on sticks, chess boards on tables and an elegant stairway to a bustling second floor.
Visitors are encouraged to sign a guestbook and mark their hometown locations with a pin on the map. We did the former, but there was no room for a pin on the eastern coast of the U.S. It was the most high-density region of all. At least from what I’ve seen, though, it has no libraries like the Copper Queen.
I’m writing from a bungalow on a hilltop in Bisbee, Arizona. The town is spread out below us and fir trees frame the view.
To reach this special place we flew from Dulles to Denver to Tucson, picked up a rental car and drove 100 miles southeast through the old west town of Tombstone. The road curved around mountains that caught the lowering light in their folds.
After we arrived late yesterday afternoon, I sat on the porch and watched the sky redden above the dark, wrinkled hills. I had seen the sun rise in Virginia from the airport tarmac, elevation 313 feet. Now I was seeing it set in an old Arizona mining town, elevation 5,533.
Sunrise, sunset. With a lot of traveling in between.
If the airlines cooperate today, we will be winging our way west and south, out to the desert southwest. Bisbee, Arizona, is our destination. A family celebration is the excuse. Not that I need an excuse to travel. I was packed three days ago.
We’ve been to Bisbee before and found it highly likable. We’ve walked its streets and climbed its stairs, toured its museum and its mine. That was in April, this is November. I’ve never visited the desert at this time of year. I’m wondering how it will look and feel.
I expect no blooms. But I do look forward to the big sky, the limitlessness, the pure majesty of the Basin and Ridge.
It may not look like it, but I was 30 minutes from Washington, D.C., when I snapped this shot. And even closer to the shopping behemoth that is Tysons Corner. But on this hike I could hear every nattering crow, every gurgle of water (at least in the streams that still had some).
Speaking of streams, hiking this section of the trail involves a stone crossing that has bedeviled me before. This time, enough of each stepping stone peeked above the water’s surface to allow for cautious navigation — plus I was wearing hiking boots.
But the crossing, scary as it was, brought me to this place, to this rural idyll. I say this with tongue only slightly in cheek. The Cross-County Trail, which I’ve often praised in this blog, is the magic carpet that takes hikers to scenes like these. No simple feat in a county as developed as Fairfax. That the trail is here at all is nothing short of a miracle.
Though I used to pass Arlington National Cemetery on my way to work, the national cemetery I’m thinking of this Veterans Day is Camp Nelson, tucked away in the rolling hills of central Kentucky. My parents are buried there.
Visiting their graves has opened my eyes to the beauty and value of our veterans cemeteries. There are 170 of them in the U.S., most managed by the Department of Veterans Affairs. Though I’m not sure of their current upkeep (have they been affected by the shutdown?), every time I’ve visited Camp Nelson I’ve been impressed by its beauty and precision.
This is not your romantic, moldering cemetery. There are no tall oaks or mossy stones here. Strict rules govern the placement of flowers or flags. National cemeteries are regulated, spit-polished. They are about community and esprit de corps.
Through the years, I’ve found this more comforting than I thought I would. After all, death is our common fate, the great democratizer. National cemeteries don’t hide that fact. In fact, they celebrate it.
Acorns are falling. They hit the roof and the siding. They pile up in the yard and on the driveway. When a stiff wind blows, they sound like a burst of hail. On the ground, they slide under the feet, making for a crunchy or even a treacherous passage. When I’m walking under an oak tree, I consider myself lucky if I’m not beaned in the head.
My yard is not alone. All up and down the street and throughout the area, I’m seeing a bumper crop of acorns. Which leads me to believe it’s a mast year in Fairfax County.
Masting is when a plant produces an abundance of fruits, seeds or nuts. Theories abound for why this happens, but animals are the beneficiary. Squirrels, deer, and even blue jays, which I just learned eat them, too.
The marvel of the mast year is how it affects all the trees in an area. “Not one tree in a grove, but the whole grove; not one grove in the forest, but every grove; all across the country and all across the state,” writes Robin Wall Kimmerer in Braiding Sweetgrass. “The trees act not as individuals, but somehow as a collective. … All flourishing is mutual.”
You’re born to walk. I’m born to walk. All humans are born to walk. Not a revolutionary statement, right? But it is. Because too many of us sit for most of the day. We sit at work. We sit in our cars as we drive to the office and run errands. We sit during our leisure time, consuming entertainment.
I walk in the suburbs — but I sit in the suburbs too. In fact, I’m sitting right now, writing this post. But at least I’ve already walked this morning. How could I not after reading Mark Sisson and Brad Kearns’ book Born to Walk: The Broken Promises of the Running Boom, and How to Slow Down and Get Healthy–One Step at a Time?
Sisson and Kearns primarily address runners in this pithy and persuasive tome. Walking can give us the cardio hit, can help us burn fat, can do most everything a hard run can do, but it’s much easier on the old bod.
“Walking makes you supple, mobile and flexible—unlike chronic cardio, which makes you creaky, achy, stiff,” Sisson and Kearns write. They urge us to “regard walking as much more than a fitness to-do list item: rather, it is a big part of what makes you a healthy human.”
Walk first thing, the authors say. That used to be my routine. When I lived in Manhattan I’d roll out of bed and walk to work, three blissful miles through Central Park and into midtown. I’ve gotten out of that habit through the years. Not out of the walking habit, but out of the walking-first-thing-in-the-morning habit. I remedied that today, left the house before my first cup of tea, before writing a word. It felt good to be out and about early. And why not? After all, we’re born to walk.
(Central Park was part of my route when I walked to work in Manhattan.)
During the period of my life when I commuted downtown, I remember enjoying these early hours. Waking before 6, leaving for Metro in the darkness, the winding two-lane roads quiet and still. I’d relish the gloaming, easy on the eyes. Often, the sun would rise as I was driving, a faint light in the east.
Now I watch day break from my upstairs office. Orange-leaved trees emerge from darkness, first the witch hazel, then the crepe myrtle. The time change has given me back this pleasure. My eyes pop open at 5:30 instead of 6:30.
I like getting a jump on the day. I like being a lark. I’m just more of one now.
One thing Virginia voters were sure of was that, once the votes were tallied, they would have a female governor. Both the Republicans and the Democrats nominated women candidates for the top spot. I’m glad we got the woman we did, Abigail Spanberger. But more than that, I’m glad that for the first time ever, the Commonwealth will soon have a woman in charge.
I interviewed the first female governor of Kentucky years ago. (When I looked her up just now, I discovered that she died four days ago. Rest in peace, Martha Layne Collins.)
The Commonwealth of Kentucky was one of the first states to elect a female governor. At this point, only 17 states have never elected a woman to their top spot.
I’m proud to say that my state is no longer one of them. Yes, Virginia, we have a woman! We will see how life is on the other side. I’m looking forward to it.
It’s election day in Virginia, but I voted weeks ago. The generous stretch of time now set aside for Virginians to cast their ballots makes autumn not just a season of raking but also of voting. Which means no excuses. You’d have to be stuck in the international space station to miss voting in my state.
In the year since our last election I’ve been trying to understand our deep partisan divide. I’ve read books, newspapers and articles, listened to podcasts, talked with friends and family. I can’t say I have it figured out but it’s worth noting that though our voting hours have expanded, our choices have not.
I don’t mean our choice of candidates, but our choices, period. As Ezra Klein points out in his book Why We’re Polarized, the parties used to be scrambled. There were as many Republicans against the Vietnam War as there were Democrats. This curbed parties’ power as identities “and lowered the partisan stakes of politics,” Klein notes.
But in the last few decades politics and identities have been merging. House Democrats represent 78 percent of Whole Foods locations but only 27 percent of Cracker Barrels. We’ve sorted ourselves into blue states and red states. We shop at blue stores or red stores, socialize with mostly Democrats or mostly Republicans.
“As our many identities merge into single political mega-identities, those visceral, emotional stakes are rising — and with them, our willingness to do anything to make sure our side wins,” Klein writes.
How to recoup from such entrenchment? I haven’t finished the book yet. I’ll get back to you later.
