Half a Meadow

Half a Meadow

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To reach Franklin Farm I clamber over a fence and into a greensward bisected by a paved path. Most summers the flanking land is left to its own devices. Queen Anne’s Lace, oatgrass, milk weed and timothy spring out of the clay-packed soil, and by midsummer these grasses sway waist-high in the breeze. I look forward to the meadow as I would an old friend.

But this year the mower is much in evidence. Though patches of land are still wild and free, most of it is tidy stubble. At first I thought it was just the first strafing of the season or that it was growing more slowly than before. But now, well into June, the truth is evident. What we have in Franklin Farm is half a meadow — and that’s generous.

Is the neighborhood safer without swaths of tall grass through its heart. Maybe, though I doubt it. It is quieter without the buzz of insects and chirp of the red-winged blackbird. It is less arresting to the eye. And it is, sadly, less a place.

Still, half a meadow is better than none at all.

Last Day of School

Last Day of School

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Graduation is behind us, so why do I care?

Because it’s a ritual, I guess. Because this is the last day the big yellow bus will come to our corner for two and a half months.

Because Fairfax County Public Schools close for the summer today and when they reopen in September it will be the first time since 1994 that one of my children isn’t enrolled.

This is a good thing, of course, what is supposed to be. But today, just a brief backward look, not of longing or of regret, but of fullness, significance. A nod to time passing. A nod to change.

In the Soup

In the Soup

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A cool morning has given way to a hot, sticky afternoon. But until a few minutes ago I didn’t notice. I’ve been doing what I do, sitting with a laptop, sending emails, editing an article, drafting a letter.

When I felt warm enough to check the temperature a few minutes ago, I read that we’re “in the soup” —that would be the high-humidity soup.

But I took that a different way. I thought about frogs that don’t notice they’re being boiled alive because the water is comfortable in the beginning.

Maybe those frogs are an urban legend. But I feel like one of them today. I didn’t know I was in the soup until I’d been in it for hours.

A Dad, Dancing

A Dad, Dancing

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I’ve learned through the years that dancing is one of the most embarrassing things you can do in front of your adolescent children.

But like so many delightful reversals of age, that all changes. At this point in my life, to see a parent dancing is encouraging and endearing.

Though my father would rather be jitterbugging to Glenn Miller, he recently took his cane out for a spin and bounced along to the Beatles.

So here’s to fathers everywhere, especially fathers dancing.

Graduation Day

Graduation Day

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All you really need is a camera and some tissues. At this point the graduate will take care of everything else. Processing in, taking a seat and, when her name is called, shaking hands and receiving her high school diploma. But to get to this point has been a group effort. It always is.

When I graduated from high school I didn’t understand what the fuss was about. Celia is probably feeling the same way. Milestones don’t mean as much when the years they mark are so few that they  get along fine without them.

But parents of graduates know better. They know that rituals take us from one place to another. They know there are few moments when you can say that one thing has clearly ended and another has clearly begun.

High school graduation is such a moment.

So, hats off to the graduates … and (if I may say so) to their parents, too!

Jackets Off!

Jackets Off!

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A sure sign of summer in D.C., more even than long lines at the Capitol Visitors’ Center or Code Orange air alerts, is the suit jacket carried over a shoulder.

I noticed at least half a dozen examples of this on yesterday’s walk around the Mall, but didn’t snap any photos.

So for this one you’ll have to imagine it 20 degrees warmer, air steamy rather than brisk. Feel the heat radiating up from the pavement, see the leaves not moving on the trees.

It’s summer in the city. Jackets off!

The Places In Between

The Places In Between

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In the winter of 2002, Rory Stewart walked across Afghanistan. He arrived six weeks after the Taliban fell, and he dodged landmines, snow storms and rogue tribal chiefs along the way.

Stewart’s walk through Afghanistan was part of a larger trek that included 16 months of walking 20 to 25 miles a day across Iran, Pakistan, India and Nepal.

All of which makes him an expert on walking. But don’t take my word for it. Here’s a passage from The Places In Between:

I thought about evolutionary historians who argued that walking was a central part of what it meant to be human. Our two-legged motion was what first differentiated us from the apes. It freed our hands for tools and carried us on the long marches out of Africa. As a species, we colonized the world on foot. Most of human history was created through contacts conducted a walking pace….

And Stewart thought these thoughts — of course — while walking!

First Bird

First Bird

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I often think (and have probably written) about the first bird of the morning. I heard it just seconds ago, a truncated chirp, perhaps a clearing of the throat more than anything else. A bird who, like me, woke up before his alarm.

A question: Do birds toss and turn? I doubt it. There are a couple of parakeets in the house and though they might flap and flutter during the day, their rest always seems restful. Heads tucked in wings, a picture of repose.

After a few quiet minutes, the first bird is at it again. It’s still dark outside, as dark as 2 a.m., maybe darker. But the wild birds know that morning is here. 

Flash Flood

Flash Flood

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Flash flood warnings are up in the area. Little Difficult Run, which winds its way through the region, has been known to spill over its banks, sending streams of water across low-lying roads and driving us into convoluted detours to avoid its overspill.

Today I’m working at home, so the only puddles I’ll dodge will be the ones in the driveway on the way to get the newspaper.

But if so inclined I could slip on a jacket, grab an umbrella and tramp through the woods to see if the creek is behaving itself this morning. Maybe I’ll do that. Just to stay in fighting trim.


(A tributary of Little Difficult Run in an earlier, quieter mood.)

Fort Lee Ballroom

Fort Lee Ballroom

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The dance is over but the dance floor remains. Carpet rolled up in the garage, floor clean and swept, new stereo receiver waiting for a willing iPod and the playlists I fiddled with for weeks.

Now when it rains and the trampoline is water-logged, this is where I’m hanging out. I have to be alone, of course, or at least with others involved enough in other projects that they won’t critique my style, which is eclectic to say the least. And at some point we may have to put at least one of the cars in the garage and move the table out.

But for now … we have a ballroom!