This Old Door

This Old Door

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It’s installation time: the long-awaited day when the new back door becomes a reality — and the old wooden one becomes history. That one is in such bad shape that I won’t even include a photo of it in its entirety. But it’s served us well and is worth a backward glance.

The old door wasn’t professionally installed, but for decades it has shielded us from snow, cold, wind, rain and heat. It has kept pets and small children inside, or swung open to let them run across the desk and down the stairs. 

The door has been slammed by teenagers — and snuck through by teenagers too, although they preferred the basement window for their late-night escapes. 

It has been gouged and scuffed by pets, starting with our old cat, Basil, whose claws were much sharper than his sweet temper, followed by our dear departed doggie, Copper, who might scratch the door a dozen times a day to keep us apprised of his needs. 

In other words, the years have not been kind to the back door. The glass is mottled and wind whistles through a gap at the bottom. But it’s our door, and in some strange way, I’ll miss it when it’s gone. 

The Work of Childhood

The Work of Childhood

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For many years I wrote articles about children and families. That these were the same years our own children were growing up wasn’t entirely an accident. I had, believe it or not, planned it the way. But the result was an intense combination of lived experience and professional pursuit. I wasn’t always in agreement with the experts I interviewed, but on one point I concurred. Over and over again I heard that play is the work of childhood. And is it ever!

I thought of this yesterday when the kiddos were over for a visit. First they biked and ran down the street, the youngest chuckling in delight as she raced to keep up with the three-year-olds. Next they swarmed inside where they pulled out the toy bins and dug in. 

There were doll houses to decorate and jack-in-the-boxes to crank. There were toy trains to zoom across the floor. There were adults nearby, but we tried to fade into the background. Because the kids were losing themselves in the “work” of play — and our job was to leave them alone. 

Bookmark Revolt

Bookmark Revolt

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I noticed the telltale threads last night. There was one on the nightstand and another among the bedcovers. No doubt about it, my bookmark was shedding, losing its jaunty tassel. The store-bought item made of laminated pressed violets and violas — such a lovely way to mark my place in the latest journal I’m keeping — is going rogue. 

I’m not surprised at these shenanigans. The bookmark is plainly not pleased with an essay I just wrote, the essay in which I disparage store-bought bookmarks and mention how seldom I use them. In fact, I’m only using this one because my current journal does not have its own built-in bookmark. 

I could repair this marker. I could collect the slender threads and attempt to reattach them. But since I spent much of yesterday tied in knots (see below), I’m unlikely to do that today.

Does a bookmark know when it’s been thrown under the bus? Apparently, it does.

Tied in Knots

Tied in Knots

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I’ve just spend a considerable chunk of time watching crochet tutorials on Youtube. These are usually hosted by cheery British ladies with plump fingers and colorful yarns. They pronounce crochet with the accent on the first syllable. I bet they would make a good cup of tea.

But they did not ease the frustration that was building as I once again had trouble starting my project. I’m a quick crocheter once I get past the first few rows. But those first few rows give me fits every time. This go-around I decided to understand what I was doing rather than just bumble along. 

I stopped and started half a dozen times. I worked on my slip knot. But I was determined to keep doing it until I mastered this. I have no idea whether this back-to-basics approach will benefit the finished product. All I know is that I was tied in knots for a while… but I’m untangled now. 

Friends on the Trail

Friends on the Trail

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Yesterday a long walk took me through Reston’s Vernon Walker Nature Center, over a small bridge and up a trail to South Lakes Drive, then along to the cut-through where I caught the Lake Audubon Trail. 

The wind picked up a bit as I strolled around the lake, not enough to stir whitecaps but enough to make me stuff my hands up my sleeves. 

The last leg of yesterday’s amble was on the Glade Trail. I was picking up speed, thinking of things yet to do at home, when I ran into a new acquaintance, someone from yoga class. She introduced me to her friends and we all chatted for a few minutes. 

It was small talk, really, but fun to find friends on the trail. It warmed the walk and changed my day.

(Reston’s first naturalist, Vernon Walker. More on him and the Nature Center in future posts. Photo: Reston Museum)

Paean to Portability

Paean to Portability

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Let us pause for a moment to praise portability. Here I sit in my kitchen rocking chair, laptop on lap (actually, laptop on lap desk on lap), able to sway back and forth to Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, now blaring from the radio, monitor soup simmering on the stove … and also write this post.

This is nothing new. I’ve drug this trusty machine all over the world. But given that I came of age first on typewriters and later on desktop computers, the fact that I’m able to hop around the globe or the house, creating a workspace wherever I sit, is nothing short of amazing. 

What does portability provide? Ease and freedom. Today I’m appreciating them both.

(Sometimes the laptop is almost lost amidst the clutter that surrounds it.)

Happy VaLENTine’s Day

Happy VaLENTine’s Day

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When Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day collide, you have an interesting day indeed. Ashes or chocolates? Fasting or feasting? Eternal rest or eternal love?

As a three-year-old I know would say, “What the heck?” 

But there are answers to these questions, a solution to this dilemma. 

Lent is part of Valentine’s. Not the other way around. 

Happy Birthday, Rhapsody

Happy Birthday, Rhapsody

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Yesterday, after the errands were run and the groceries put away, I sat down at the piano, pulled out the ancient sheet music and played the opening run. For the next 30 minutes, I bungled my way through one of the most important and beautiful pieces of American music ever written, George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

A hundred years ago to the day, on a snowy February 12, 1924, Gershwin played the piece at Aeolian Hall in New York City in a concert billed as “An Experiment in Modern Music.” Paul Whiteman had commissioned Gershwin to write the piece, and Gershwin had done it in just a few weeks, roughing out the original idea on a train trip from New York to Boston. “I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America, of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our metropolitan madness,” Gershwin said.

He had created a masterpiece. Though no one knows exactly how the piece sounded that day (it wasn’t recorded and Gershwin improvised parts of it), a recording made a few months later is thought to be a close replica. The piece was an immediate success, with multiple recordings, and Paul Whiteman made the Rhapsody the theme song for his radio show. Gershwin had created an anthem for the Jazz Age. 

Later versions of the Rhapsody give it a more lush orchestral sound, but the original performance brought out the jazzy brightness of the piece in all its syncopated glory. Even hopscotching through the music as I was last night, cherry-picking the easier sections, I felt its magic in my bones. 

(Thanks to Wikipedia and The Syncopated Times for info and art, and to Hot Jazz Saturday Night for the inspiration.) 

Welcome Clouds

Welcome Clouds

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I never thought I’d say this but around here the occasional cloudy day comes as a gift: dark, sodden and lacking in expectations. 

I’ve never faulted the climate of northern Virginia. It’s hot in the summer and mild in the winter. Almost too mild these days, turning what was once distinctly four seasons into three-and-a-half. Springs and falls are long and lovely. 

But the steady drumbeat of sunshine can be too much. And this from a sun worshipper. A sunny day comes with its own set of expectations: errands to run, writing to complete before afternoon rays stream through the office windows right into my eyes. 

When do we stay inside and clean the closet? When do we wander lonely as a cloud? Those are questions I ask myself often … but not today. 

Desk Envy

Desk Envy

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I really can’t complain. I may not have the desk of my dreams, but it’s not bad. An apple-green table of a desk, only slightly dented and worn (a lopsided heart carved into the middle, a few splotches of salmon-pink paint in one corner, souvenirs of the girls who once used it).

True, it does not overlook the Atlantic Ocean, or the Front Range of the Rockies, or the harbor in Oban, Scotland. But it does have a lovely view of the backyard, the main street of the neighborhood and a corner of the woods beyond. 

My perfectly-fine desk doesn’t keep me from having desk envy, though. And last night I experienced a full dose of it while watching the movie “Something’s Gotta Give.” It wasn’t my first viewing of this film, but it was the first time I had desk envy watching it. 

Instead of focusing on the budding romance of Erica the playwright, I zeroed in on her writing space. The broad expanse of the (mahogany?) desk, the perfectly placed lamp. The windows! Oh, my gosh, the windows! And the door, open to sea breezes.

I keep telling myself it’s just a movie set. But still…