Fallingwater

Fallingwater

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It’s one of the most famous houses in the country, and I saw it yesterday, visiting on a day befitting a home perched on top of a waterfall. It poured as we drove to the house, sprinkled while we were inside, and rained again on the way back.

Apparently, Fallingwater has also been called Leakingwater, so often does the bedrock sweat and the moisture pool. Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed Fallingwater, told its owners that drips and drops are what you get with organic architecture. “Use buckets,” he told the Kaufmann family.

I suppose when you consort with a genius, you learn to be tolerant. The Kaufmann family donated the house to a conservancy in 1963, making it possible for millions of people to experience this national treasure.

What I noticed most was the sound of the place, the peaceful patter of water slipping over stone. Or maybe it was just the rain.

Earthquake Lessons

Earthquake Lessons

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I’m interrupting my regularly scheduled vacation programming with a thought spurred by the earthquake in Russia. As I write, it’s being measured as 8.8 on the Richter scale, but from what I’ve read it could be upgraded in the days to come.

The tsunami it triggered sent 10-foot waves rolling across the Pacific, and warnings for as far away as California.

No need to comment on nature’s magnitude; it’s apparent. But what the earthquake and tsunami make me think about is how connected we are — whether we want to be or not.

We’re connected by our shores and coastlines, our storms and heat waves. When volcanoes erupt, the ash clouds they spew scuttle across the skies, heeding no boundaries.

It’s so easy to forget that we’re all in this together … but we are.

Blanket Forts

Blanket Forts

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On a multigenerational family vacation, it’s not just about seeing the sights, but keeping the kids occupied. Enter beach trips, pool time, coloring sessions and, of course, blanket forts (or this case, sheet forts).

I’m harkening back to my own past a bit here, to what I remember as the banner blanket forts of my early childhood. My brother and I slept in attic bedrooms with sloped ceilings not hospitable to folks over four-foot-eight. This created a kiddie kingdom that spawned elaborate blanket forts.

I remember one in particular, built over a series of dreary winter days. By the time it collapsed it had grown to encompass multiple “rooms,” some of which required commando crawling to navigate.

It was a warren, a series of hidey-holes that gave us kids a place of our own. It cost nothing to create, but the memory of it is with me still.

Bodies Of/In Water

Bodies Of/In Water

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In years past, Garrett County has been an oasis of mountain coolness, even when the weather is hot back home. This year, the humidity is here, too. No problem, though, because there are all sorts of water bodies to help you deal with it.

In addition to Deep Creek Lake, the big kahuna, there are smaller ponds, including the one at Herrington Manor State Park, the most kid-friendly we’ve found. We headed there yesterday.

While it wasn’t the spun-sugar sand of Siesta Key, there was still a beach for digging and making sand castles, and the kiddos spent hours in the lake. Meanwhile, the adults (or at least this adult) tucked herself away in the shade and watched the scene unfold.

There was plenty of people-watching, mostly keeping my eyes on the grandchildren, who paddled and dove and got rides on a float from their oldest cousin. Their glee was more than worth the price of admission.

(These weren’t my grandkids — I’m relieved to say — but they express the possibilities of this place)

Garrett County

Garrett County

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I understand why the landscapes of our birth and upbringing feel comfortable and right. What I don’t understand is how places we find much later in life feel just the same way. Garrett County, Maryland is one of those places for me.

I felt it yesterday when I drove here from Virginia, in and out of torrential rain. I felt it when I finally got close and saw the mountains rising from the mist.

I feel it now, when I’m itching to take my usual walk that skirts a cove of Deep Creek Lake. It’s more than affinity. It’s as if I’ve known this place from another lifetime. Maybe this week I’ll understand it better. I’ll certainly try.

Any Other Name

Any Other Name

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The Rose of Sharon is not a hybrid tea, a climber, shrub or floribunda. In fact, it’s not a rose at all — it’s a hibiscus. I write about it today because for weeks it’s bloomed its heart out, producing dozens of delicate pink flowers that gladden my heart and soothe these warm midsummer days.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Shakespeare wrote in “Romeo and Juliet.” The Rose of Sharon has no aroma I can detect, but it’s a graceful presence in the summer garden. Its ubiquity and steadfastness have earned it the name “rose,” at least in my book.

Rose of Sharon is a plant I remember from my youth, a garden given. Like many of the trees and shrubs in my yard, however, its placement is not ideal. This year’s profuse bloom has meant my car is often strewn with roses. An embarrassment of riches — though a mess to clean.

Trail Walking

Trail Walking

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I’ve missed trail walking this summer. It keeps me grounded; it keeps me sane. But heat and humidity have scrambled my schedule. Many days I hoof it right after waking up, when there’s still a trace of nighttime coolness in the air.

Walking at this hour means I stroll the streets of my neighborhood. Driving to walk seems strange enough midday or later; at 7 a.m. it’s too ridiculous to contemplate.

Or is it?

Yesterday’s immersion was so pleasant that it made me want to trail walk every day. I’m not alone. There’s parking along the road, and my car usually has company.

It was late afternoon by the time I escaped yesterday, and the air was full of moisture and cicada song. Which is how it is right now. And so … I’m off to trail walk.

Hummingbirds’ Return

Hummingbirds’ Return

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Hummingbirds were scarce early this summer. They showed up in late April, as usual — a scouting mission? — then vanished for weeks, lured by more tempting feeding troughs or blocked by the rain. But lately they’ve returned, sipping homemade nectar and supping on potted petunias.

Hummingbirds are my summertime companions — not exactly my spirit animal, but close. Their speed and hustle are the soul of the season. They live with abandon. They zoom, they dive. They perch ever so lightly on the thinnest of climbing rose twigs.

Sitting here, mired in words, I long to break free as they do. Romanticizing them? Of course. Their life is no picnic; it’s an ongoing quest for food and safety. But their presence is a balm to me. They remind me to live in the moment, to live free.

The Wrack

The Wrack

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Though my body is back in Virginia my mind is still at the beach with the sea and the shorebirds … and even with the wrack. Described as the ocean’s bathtub ring, wrack is the flotsam the waves drag in, the seaweed, driftwood, even the marine animals.

I took this picture the year my Florida visit coincided with the Red Tide, when fish were routinely washing up on shore, victims of an algae bloom that was no picnic for humans either. But the wrack is always present, usually without dead fish. In fact, the wrack nourishes marine creatures. It lingers at the high tide line, where I sidestep it when walking.

A sign about wrack at the beach entrance told me of its importance, that it not only feeds shorebirds but collects sand and births dunes. It’s where the ocean meets the land. I approach it with new respect. It’s not the wrack of wrack and ruin, of decay and destruction. It’s a sign of life.

Gulf

Gulf

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Gulf: part of an ocean that extends into land. A deep chasm, an abyss. A wide gap.

For a week I walked the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. I moved to its tides, trod sand beaten by its motion, found shells tossed by its waves.

Now I’m facing another gulf, the kind that yawns between vacations and regular life. No more palm trees and ocean breezes. No more living outside of time.

The jet’s descent left my ears so clogged that the world has been muffled and distorted since I arrived home last night. Until I walked outside and heard the cicadas this morning. Their clatter and racket pierced even my blunted hearing. They bridged the gap between vacation and real life. Listening to them, I knew I was home.