After the Deluge

After the Deluge

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The pipe burst on Friday, the day after I sent the magazine to the printer. I was working at home, but colleagues noticed water seeping under my door and puddling on the carpet. They called facilities, which sent personnel, shop vacs, large fans, drying machines. My desk and file cabinet were put on blocks.

The hard work paid off.  Other than a few water-damaged boxes (which I’ve tossed) the place looks better than it did last week.

The waters came, raged and departed.

They left behind a stiller, calmer world.



(This may not look still and calm, but compared with last week…)

Spring Coat

Spring Coat

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The one I remember was teal and beige, nubby and flecked. It was lightweight and lined. It was essential in the way that white gloves were once essential.

It was my spring coat.

I thought of it this morning as I trudged to work in my winter coat. It’s what I turn to when the temperature is in the 30s, which it was when I left the house.

But it’s ten degrees warmer here in the city, and the coat suddenly seems a relic, an anomaly, something that should be buried in the back of the closet.

What I need today is a spring coat, a bridge from season to the other.

Big Blue

Big Blue

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This is not a sports blog, of course, but I must say a few words about the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team. They lost last night 54-60 to the University of Connecticut Huskies in the NCAA final.

The team’s energy felt different right from the opening buzzer. Key players seemed off, were in and out of the game. Free throws missed as often as they hit. The Cats had finally met a team that closed as strong as they do. Stronger, in fact.

If this was a decade ago, we’d be shaking our heads at what they could do next year, this young, freshmen team. But this group is a one-year wonder. Most of them will be gone next year, in the NBA, most probably.

It’s hard to say that “one and done” is a failure when this team made it to the finals. But it’s not the kind of basketball I grew up with.

Still, I have to say it one more time: Go, Big Blue!


(A UK dormitory building snapped from the UK Library.)

Small Pleasures

Small Pleasures

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The rain has been heavier than forecast and the temperature colder.

Birds like it, though. They’re glad to have moisture and birdseed in the feeder and, best of all, a nip of suet.

But for the rest of us it’s a day to stay inside, count our blessings and be grateful for small pleasures.

That’s what I’m doing.

Going Solo

Going Solo

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An early walk this morning, and along the path I kept bumping into groups of runners. Each cluster of three or four would ask me if others were up ahead. I smiled and pointed behind me. Yes, they were all there, the pack.

I was glad to be of help — but even happier that I was running alone and not with others.

I belong to a family, a workplace, a church, a book group, a writer’s group and a tap dance class. But organized running is not for me.

Trail time is for thinking, listening to music, putting the day into perspective

And these are tasks best performed alone.

Peepers

Peepers

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I heard them last night, the tiny, vocal frogs we know as spring peepers. Their chorus is a sure sign of spring.

They’re late this year, the little guys. Waiting for warmth, I imagine. We all are.

But who among us makes such music of our contentment?

If I read about peepers (and I think I did long ago) I would learn that their sounds are mating calls — not some existential expression of delight.

Still, after a long winter, in the just-dark of a warm spring evening, existential delight is what I hear.

Yes, They Can!

Yes, They Can!

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I think the daffodils heard me. I wasn’t at home in the light to photograph
them. But here’s what their brethren downtown are doing.

And elsewhere in the District, things are popping out all over:

Let’s just see winter try to make a comeback now!

Come On! You Can Do It!

Come On! You Can Do It!

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Is it any wonder that shy spring flowers are timid after this winter? Even as late as Sunday they were being pelted with snow, sleet and freezing rain.

Somehow — the angle of the light, the lengthening days — the world is still preparing itself for the new season. There’s that promising pink haze at the top of the tall trees, the way buds look 80 feet away. And there are green shoots and flowers pushing up all over town. Rumor even has it that the cherry blossoms are primping for their big show.

But here on the shady side of morning, the daffodils are looking less than sure of themselves. Yesterday I bent low, snapped a few shots, and gave them a pep talk. “Come on, guys. You can do it!”

They had nothing to say for themselves; only hung their heads a little lower. But I have confidence in them. Sixty-degree temperatures are forecast again for today. It’s only a matter of time …

The Grieving Season

The Grieving Season

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It’s a day of pranks and foolery, only I don’t feel like laughing. Used to be people wore black armbands, heavy crepe. There was a period of mourning, a time set aside for grief.

But we live in a 24-hour news cycle. The days pass in a flurry, blur one into another. Emotions are fluid. We go back to work, we soldier on.

Grief lingers, though. It is with me in the morning, when the house is quiet. It is with me at night, when I wake up hours before the alarm. It shows up in the work day, too, sometimes when I least expect it.

It’s not an efficient emotion, not something that can be rushed through or even measured. And it has no short-cuts. Perhaps because it concerns itself with eternity.

So I guess it’s up to each of us now, to give ourselves the time we need. To give grief its due.

When Walking Was King

When Walking Was King

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I had another blog topic rattling around in my head this morning, something about March coming in and going out like a lion, when I read an op-ed in today’s Washington Post. It’s the opening of baseball season, America’s national pastime, wrote Matthew Algeo, but long ago, fans gathered to watch another sport, competitive walking.

It was called pedestrianism, and it involved people walking around a dirt track for six days at a time. The races lasted for 144 hours (with participants napping on cots), included heavy wagering and winners (the celebrity athletes of their day) could take home as much as $425, 000 (in today’s currency).

At first, I checked my calendar. Could this be an April
Fools joke? But no, it’s still March. And yes, pedestrianism was a genuine phenomenon.

The author’s point was cautionary: Pedestrianism was in part done in by doping scandals. At one time in our nation’s history no one could have predicted that it wouldn’t have remained the nation’s pastime forever.

But I take something different from the piece. For a walker in the suburbs, it’s funny proof of how once walking was king.


(Wikipedia: An 1836 illustration of a “Walking Wager”, from Peter Piper’s Practical Principles of Plain and Perfect Pronunciation, by Anonymous, Philadelphia.)