My Favorite Veteran

My Favorite Veteran

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Until March 20, 2014, World War II was for me a living entity. A part of history, yes, of course. But because my father was a tail gunner in a B-17 bomber and flew 35 raids out of East Anglia, it was also a part of family lore. I grew up hearing tales of London during the war, meeting girls under the clock in Victoria station, coming back to base to find empty bunks and chairs after a raid.

Since Dad died, the personal part of the war is by and large over me for me. It’s there only in a sepia-tinged way. Not my memories but someone else’s.

On the other hand, Veteran’s Day has taken on new meaning. Mom and I went to the cemetery on Sunday, left flowers by Dad’s headstone. I looked for a small American flag to plant there, but small American flags are in short supply in November.

I stood for a minute in the wan autumn sun, looked out at the rolling hills, the grazing cattle in the distance. Dad would like this spot, would probably make a joke about it — hey, not bad for a grave.

The optimism and jauntiness that served him well in wartime kept him going throughout his long life. And it spilled over to others, too; it certainly did to me.

So Veteran’s Day is no longer a musty, creaky holiday. It’s about doing one’s duty with a wink and a quip. It’s about grace under pressure. It’s about Dad.

Cold Weather Gait

Cold Weather Gait

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Twice in the last few days I’ve dashed out for a stroll wearing one layer less than I should. I forget that it’s not summer anymore. The wind whistles up my sleeves, makes my teeth chatter.

As the weather grows colder, my walks get faster. In fact, they turn into jogs. I run to warm up and  slow to a walk only when I stop shivering.

 I’ve never been much of a cold-weather person, will never be one.

But every fall I remember this: A bitter, blustery day is less formidable once it’s been endured. Going out in all seasons is good for the soul.

Still Life with Leaves

Still Life with Leaves

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Late afternoon, lowered light — the leaves await me. I start energetically, as usual, and before long have more piles than I have bags to hold them.
These aren’t even my leaves — at home there are more than this — but I suddenly want to be out there in the yard, in the chill.
Soon there are four bags and still more leaves. Something for tomorrow.
Sunlight and Shadow

Sunlight and Shadow

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Each drive to and from Kentucky takes on a character of its own. Yesterday’s began with wet roads and misty mountains — but it didn’t stay that way.

One minute I was in sunlight and the next in shadow. One moment wearing sunglasses and the next not. A brisk breeze blew in from the west, sent leaves flying across the interstate asphalt. Flocks of birds wheeled in the wind, swirling and dipping and looking not unlike those spinning leaves.

I drove in and out of rain, in and out of radio contact, in and out of cruise control. I looked for a lesson in the changeability, and it wasn’t hard to find.

This will pass, that will pass. Everything will pass. As I write these words, what started as a gray day has suddenly turned sunny.

Rituals of Democracy

Rituals of Democracy

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I made it to the polls last night with 30 minutes to spare. It was dark and you could barely see the volunteers handing out sample ballots.

Three members of my family* had already voted. It gave me a warm feeling to know that others had been there before me. Also a warm feeling to know that this was my last errand of the day, that after this I could go home and collapse.

And this morning, poring over the paper for results and analysis, checking online for the races the Washington Post didn’t cover. (Jim Gray, my father’s good friend, handily re-elected mayor of Lexington, Kentucky!)

The rituals of democracy, which seems flawed these days, but which, after all, is the best hope we have.

(This does not include Copper, though he purloined my “I Voted” sticker.)

Lost and Found

Lost and Found

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The Cross-County Trail is marked clearly in some stretches — but in others it takes detective skills and young, sharp eyes to see the distinctive CCT logo. Suzanne went hiking with me over the weekend and spotted such a small sign. The path was slender and led through an opening in some hedges. If she hadn’t seen it I’d still be walking up and down Rolling Road.

But late yesterday afternoon, when I was hiking alone, I missed a marker and jogged far along the Fairfax County Parkway path before realizing that I’d zoomed right past the trail. It was leading me not down the Parkway but right across it. I’ve forded a lot of creeks on the trail but I refused to cross one of the busiest roads in the area at rush hour.

So I ran back to my car, got lost figuring out which way to drive on the Parkway (that would be north, not south) and finally, finally found the trail. It was worth the wait.

Suburban Density

Suburban Density

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Each time I’ve visited Lake Accotink Dam (which is only twice but feels like more), I’ve spotted people exercising here, running up the stairs
beside the spillway, and, most recently, a man rolling back and forth on the
asphalt stretching his quads and hamstrings, totally oblivious to the others
walking here. I practically had to step over him on the trail. 
I think about
how, even though I’m not in a city but in the suburbs, there
is still the trademark of city life: an obliviousness to the lives of those
around us. A resolute self-centeredness (or is it self-preservation?) that is perhaps bred in the general irritation engendered by close proximity
to neighbors. 
Which is why I’m not sure this urban density thing will work in the
suburbs. Clump people together, save space for hiking and boating and picnicking.  A lovely concept,
until you have to step over a grown man stretching.
To what extent do we need our suburban space? Haven’t many of us moved here to have it?
November Reds

November Reds

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I could tell with eyes half open that it was November. It was morning but not bright. Changing leaves are the brightest thing in the landscape. We must enjoy them and shuffle through them now.

Already some trees are skeletons, pale gray and shimmery.

The reds, when you see them, stand out like beacons.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

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The candy is hidden so there will be some left for tonight. There’s a plump pumpkin for carving. And the yard is covered in crisp brown leaves.

I took this photograph at a pumpkin patch Suzanne and I visited three years ago. I remember even then the preciousness of time with her. (Peace Corps was already in her plans.) The preciousness of that time, telescoped as it was then, and especially as it is now during her leave, is just a compressed version of all the precious times we spend with those we love.

The ripe fruits of autumn remind me how important it is to store up those times. Store them up as a plant does, capturing sunlight, soil and rain.

 

Dancing Bones

Dancing Bones

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Advanced beginners’ tap is, at least for me, more about the advanced than the beginners. There’s a lot of fancy footwork, quickly executed. Balance is required. The kind of balance you have in your 20s or 30s but not — ahem — later in life.

Relax your toes, teacher Candy said last night. You need to relax your toes inside your shoes and then you’ll be able to move more smoothly. She broke one complicated step down into its components, told us the movement was like a ribbon unfurling.

There were other suggestions —jump down not up, take smaller steps. But the one said most often was “keep smiling.” That wasn’t hard. The woman next to me was wearing dance tights with skeleton bones. Suddenly I saw a parade of dancing, prancing skeletons, out for a night on the town.