My piano and I are simpatico. When I don’t play, it glowers; when I do, it shines.
Proof of our being in sync: I had no sooner stocked up on distilled water than I noticed the flashing light that tells me when the piano’s humidifier needs filling.
The piano has made me more aware of indoor humidity or lack thereof. Of outdoor humidity I need no reminders. I live in a region of high stickiness and temper my warm-weather activities accordingly.
But the dry air that keeps my tresses from frizzing is not good for my favorite instrument. The piano thrives in a moist environment. Which means I probably do, too.
Schools dismissed early. County courts closed. Yet the feared tornados did not arrive. A little after 7 p.m. I slipped outside for a post-dinner walk, making my way through the humid dusk.
The storm warning had ended and a high-wind warning had yet to begin. The jets were not yet flying low over the neighborhood. I could hear the owls hooting in the woods, could see the yellow glow of lamplight from houses across the street.
It felt like an achievement, getting outside on this wild weather day. It felt like I had accomplished something. The most elemental of all accomplishments — moving through space — but sometimes, that’s enough.
(No rainbow last night, but the day before St. Patty’s Day, you’d better believe I was looking for one.)
I title my post in homage to this year’s winner, even though I was hoping this year’s winner wouldn’t win.
I preferred “Hamnet” of the films I’d seen … but knew it wouldn’t prevail. I’m glad its leading lady took home an Oscar, though. To watch Jesse Buckley’s performance as Shakespeare’s wife, to see the emotions of love and grief and wonder pass across her face, was a master class in acting.
Which is not to say that “One Battle After Another” didn’t include some fine performances, too. It was the overall feel of the movie that left me cold.
But you do not come here for movie critiques, dear reader, so I will close by saying that the 98th Academy Awards presentation was brisker than many; it ended by 10:30 p.m. And since I have sat through the reception of countless Oscars after another (seldom skipping the program), I’m celebrating the pre-midnight close of the show as much as anything else.
The hellebore or lenten rose wasn’t on my gardening radar until a decade or so ago, but since then I’ve grown to admire this stalwart early bloomer. It’s so stalwart that it can get caught in a spring snow shower, which is exactly what happened to it — and me — yesterday.
I had run out to an early exercise class and morning full of errands, not paying much attention to the thickening rain as I jumped in the car. It had been 85 degrees the day before. Accumulating snow was not on my mind.
But accumulating snow is exactly what we received. Winter’s parting gift, I hope.
When I returned home, soaked and cold, I snapped this shot of the lenten rose, its creamy white blossoms nearly smothered by clumps of snow and ice.
The slushy precipitation had turned it into a completely different kind of plant. A snow flower: the epitome of March.
There was a family gathering recently, and as usual at family gatherings, barely controlled chaos. As we finished up the meal, a transgression came to light. A pair of five-year-olds had absconded with a pair of earrings. This meant they had gone upstairs and rummaged through a bedroom, another no-no.
There were the usual denials and deflections. He did it. No, she did it. Then a firm parental voice: “That is unacceptable behavior. Those earrings did not belong to you. This is not your house. Repeat that so I know you understand.”
A wee voice responded with scant contrition: “Those earrings aren’t mine.” Barely controlled smirks from the crowd.
“This isn’t my house,” said with more petulance than penitence. The crowd is now holding its collective breath, trying hard not to laugh.
Then the coup de grace. “Close enough,” said the five-year-old with a flounce of her pretty skirt.
That was it. The howls of glee could not be stilled. We began with stern and ended with silly. Were we close enough to hold the line on acceptable behavior? I hope so.
Yesterday brought freakish warmth. Welcome warmth, given the cold winter, but freakish just the same. Last week I was still debating if I could walk without gloves, and I began the stroll with hands balled up into my sleeves.
I trod counter-clockwise around the lake, spotting a fellow walker halfway around. She was craning her neck between houses to get a better view. She was quick to share her discovery.
“I’ve never seen swans on the lake before,” she said. “But I just did.” She showed me where to look, and there they were, vague dots of white on a smooth, glassy surface.
I snapped a shot, not just of the swans but of the place that held them: the green foliage thick with rain, a house in the distance, dark trunks fading to gray.
It was not just the swans but swans on the lake. It was that moment of that walk, captured in time.
I just finished reading The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon, historical fiction chronicling a winter in the life of Martha Ballard, the midwife of A Midwife’s Tale by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich.
I’ve had the latter on my shelf for years, though I haven’t read it. But The Frozen River pulled me in from the beginning. What struck me most about the novel was not how quickly I turned the pages, but how vividly the character of Martha was portrayed.
I didn’t realize until the author’s note at the end that Martha Ballard was the same 18th-century midwife that appeared in A Midwife’s Tale, and that all the diary entries in the novel are the ones penned by the real, historical Ballard. A woman we only know because she kept a diary.
As Ulrich writes, “Outside her own diary Martha has no history. No independent record of her work survives. It is her husband’s name, not hers, that appears in censuses, tax lists, and merchant accounts for her town…. Martha did not leave a farm, but a life, recorded patiently and consistently for 27 years.”
Here’s how the fictional Martha put it: “I cannot say why it is so important I make this daily record. Perhaps because I have been doing so for years on end? Or maybe—if I am being honest—it is because these markings of ink and paper will one day be the only proof that I have existed in this world. That I lived and breathed. That I loved a man and the many children he gave me. It is not that I want to be remembered, per se. I have done nothing remarkable. Not by the standards of history, at least. But I am here. And these words are the mark I will leave behind.”
As a diarist/journal-keeper for decades, I know just what she means. She kept a diary. And that made all the difference.
(A ledger from Williamsburg, Virginia, the same era as Ballard, but with numbers not words on the page.)
I seldom think of my body as a well-oiled machine, but the sleep disruption brought about by one hour of “springing head” makes me wonder. We were dodging bullets in a war, jumping in cars to avoid being hit. According to the dreamscape, I was in Afghanistan, but the Iran war must have been the trigger. That and the strange new evening light.
Hopeful that it’s just a one-night readjustment I turn to the more important matter at hand. Our time change Sunday ushers in the season of light. How often at the end of summer do I kick myself for not enjoying it more, not being out in it every minute I can.
Outside-after-dinner, I call it. I saw folks enjoying it last evening, neighbors on bikes or on foot, working in a walk after supper but surprised by the sudden darkness. Though it was light till 7:30, spring twilights aren’t as long as summer ones.
Every year this time I’m reluctant to leave my winter cocoon. Aside from shoveling snow, there are few outdoor tasks in January and February. But March brings back the gardening to-dos. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.
Still, we’re on the move. We’ve rounded the corner. The sun is on our side. We are once again in the season of light.
(Miniature daffodils are already blooming in the front garden.)
The last two mornings I’ve awakened to a dense fog, a softened world. No hard edges, no horizon, like the fuzzy innards of a favorite sweatshirt.
When I look out the window I see the back fence but nothing beyond it. My boundaries are narrowed, and for once I’m not complaining. A foggy morning comforts just-opened eyes, soothes winter-worn skin. It asks no favors.
Yesterday I was out and about early in the fog. I walked around Lake Anne, marveling at how little I could see, marveling too at how the lake became an Impressionist painting.
Today, with the faraway blocked, the close-at-hand takes center stage. I watch a pair of cardinals frolic in the witch hazel tree.
I titled last year’s post Hike and Sip and illustrated it with a view of the Atlantic Ocean framed by an orange tree (the view you see above, as a matter of fact).
I wrote the post on the Portuguese island of Madeira, where I was this time last year. Hard not to think of that sunny spot as I look out my office window at a foggy, wintry world. Hard not to think of the little teahouse on a hill, of the hiking trail that took us there.
Not that I’m complaining. I was lucky to be where I was last year and am lucky this year. too. Lucky to have warmth on the way (it’s supposed to be 70 on the weekend), lucky to have breath in my lungs and a skip in my step. Lucky most of all to have so many dear ones in my life.
Still, I’m going to indulge myself for just a moment. As I sip my tea this morning I’ll pretend that I’m staring not at a snippet of Virginia piedmont but at the vast shining ocean, at bougainvillea and rhododendron and calla lilies, at red tile roofs that stretch to the sea.
