The Small House

The Small House

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I read today that Builder magazine has come up with its concept home for 2010. It’s called a “Home for the New Economy,” and it’s 1,700 square feet. Previous concept homes have been as large as 6,000 square feet, so this is quite a departure. The article goes on to say that it will take time before homeowners embrace the smaller-is-better concept of this concept home. And certainly where we live, McMansions still rule (see above).

But the “Home for the New Economy” makes me feel vindicated. We live comfortably in a 2000-square foot house with a room for every child, a cozy former dining room that long ago became our ersatz family room and a kitchen where we —— and most people who visit us —— spend most of our time. There isn’t as much house to clean or pay for and, best of all, the small house keeps us together. Where we belong.

Living History

Living History

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Yesterday I met a 98-year-old man who is still practicing law, the fifth generation of his family to do so in his North Carolina hometown. He and his (slightly) younger wife had driven five hours to attend a reunion, and after a luncheon for 50-year (and 50-year-plus!) graduates, the man took the microphone and sang the Georgetown fight song in a strong, clear baritone.

As it turns out, the man is the great grandson of Stephen A. Douglas, of Lincoln-Douglas debate fame. My recall on this being a bit shaky, I just read the Wikipedia entry on these debates. There were seven of them, held in various towns in Illinois, as Lincoln challenged the incumbent Douglas for the U.S. senate seat. The debates covered big topics, especially slavery, of course, and they were so important that newspapers sent stenographers to take down every word the men said. But the newspapers that were for Douglas edited his words and left Lincoln’s in rough form — and vice versa for the newspapers that supported Lincoln. After he lost the election, Lincoln cleaned up all the text of the debates and published it in a book. The book’s popularity helped lead to Lincoln’s nomination as Republican candidate for president of the United States.

And just to think, I learned all this because of a little old man at a luncheon.

Unleafing

Unleafing

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The woods are balding and purpled. Trees are thinning. I can see farther now into the thickets, which are no longer as thick. I bounce on the trampoline (Bouncer in the Suburbs? nah!), and when I’m tired I lie down on it and watch the leaves fall. So slowly, spiraling down, taking their time, an eternity of empty air beneath them. They fall singly or in pairs. Sometimes they are caught on an updraft, and then they soar. At this point, a falling leaf is still a novelty. I can observe it and think poetic thoughts about it. Soon leaves will fall so fast and in such number that I won’t have that luxury. I will be too busy to notice their progress through the sky. I will be raking.

Burnished

Burnished

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We have no vivid reds and oranges here yet (maybe we won’t at all). What we do have is an autumn glow, a gradual shading of our leaves from green to lighter green to burnished copper. The trees are tired and thirsty. It’s been a rough summer for them; maybe they don’t have the energy for a full display.

We still have time for a fall worthy of New England. That’s what I always hope for. But if this is all we get, this polite curtsy of an autumn, this thinning and deepening of color, that will be fine, too.

The Cottage

The Cottage

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Last evening I walked by this house. It’s my favorite in our neighborhood and, as I just learned from a real estate circular, it “SOLD in 7 Days!” It’s one of the smaller models in our subdivision and has an ordinary lot. What makes this house special are the window boxes, the white picket fence, the wrap-around porch and the English cottage garden. In other words, details. Put enough of them together, though, and you have a place that is charming and comfortable and old-fashioned. Ah yes, I have a crush on this house.

The Dash

The Dash

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Six years ago today I went to work in an office again after a 17-year freelance career. It was 2004, the girls were all in school (grades, 4, 8 and 10) and I needed a change. Some people can spin stories out of their imaginations and never need the rough and tumble of the world to push them along. I do. Plus, the steady income was a definite lure with college tuition looming on the horizon. So when I heard about a writing job for a university alumni publication, I signed on.

Some days I know I did the right thing; other days I’m not so sure. It would take more than a single blog post to explain how much I’ve analyzed this decision and its impact on our family and my career. In moments when I’m ruminating about this a little too much, I call to mind the last lines of that famous poem by Robert Frost:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dr. James Ferguson of Hanover College, my favorite professor of all time, said it is the dash that makes the poem great. The dash, which stands for the hesitation, for all the decisions of life when we do not know, cannot know, if we did the right thing.

Today I celebrate the dash.

The Trouble with Bubbles

The Trouble with Bubbles

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Yesterday we went to an Oktoberfest celebration at Reston Town Center, where I tried (with very little success) to photograph the bubbles that were flowing out of a bubble machine at one of the booths. In the process a security guard stopped me. “You’re not allowed to photograph the buildings,” he said. I told him I wasn’t shooting the buildings but the bubbles. He didn’t care. The bubbles were in front of the buildings. That’s all that mattered to him.

Bubbles are difficult to capture for other reasons, too. They flow and float and, worst of all, they pop! They are winsome and ephemeral and fickle. Photographing them is perhaps best left to the experts. But I had fun trying.

10/10/10

10/10/10

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A brief post on numerology: There are scads more weddings today than there were on this equivalent Sunday last year. The reason, of course, is the date — 10/10/10. Not only a perfect 10, a series of them, but when the digits are added up (1+0+1+0+2+0+1+0), they equal 5, which stands for love.

But don’t believe me. Consult any numerologist. I heard a numerologist interviewed on the “Today Show,” which I watched this morning to see my friend Carla interviewed about hypochondria and her book Phantom Illness. (Go, Carla!)

The numerologist was on earlier in the show and she suggested that on this auspicious day, we should light a white candle and meditate on what we still hope to achieve this year.

I have a stub of a white candle on my kitchen table. I think I’ll give it a try.

Harvest Time

Harvest Time

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Last night we were visited by a woman named Maud. A couple weeks ago she had offered to take the large logs in the back of our yard, what’s left of the grand old oak that fell from the sky more than a year ago, and sell them to her customers as firewood. We hadn’t found anyone else who would haul them away without charging us a lot, so this seemed like a good arrangement. And then the rains (finally) came, and the ground was too soggy. She’s been busy delivering firewood and hasn’t had time to replenish her supply. Hence the nighttime visit.

So as we sat in our snug house and tried to calm the dog, Maud and two helpers worked by the light of a Coleman lantern. They cut the large logs, hauled them to the front of the house and threw them in a truck. It was a strange sound, chainsaws in the darkness, and made me feel part of an ancient drama. The frantic work of fall, of harvesting late crops and cutting the last field of hay.

Meadow Grass

Meadow Grass

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I took the path along the Fairfax County Parkway the other day, a road that didn’t exist when we moved here but is a major thoroughfare now. A road we first heard about from our sheepish real estate agent, who only acknowledged it when we asked her about those ominous-looking orange-flagged stakes at the corner.

It was a house off Thompson Road, a lane that retained a hint of its country charm then but one I’m glad we don’t live on now, so close is it to this busy highway. I like how our neighborhood is tucked away from the traffic and surrounded by woods. I appreciate the quiet of the place, the birdsong.

Walking along the parkway I studied the different varieties of meadow grass. One is cattail-like, another is taller and skinnier. I should know the names of these grasses, but whatever they’re called, they look good together, waving in the wind. Their movement was like so many flags flapping, a brave and jubilant salute.