Children of the Past

Children of the Past

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Yesterday I found myself in an old-fashioned neighborhood where half a dozen kids were playing outside. Middle school kids, I think, or older elementary-age. A fleet of bikes under a tired old pine. Some dubious swings hanging from spindly trees. A couple of half-hearted skateboard ramps. But the overall impression was of invention and ingenuity. Kid-engineered.

Looking at this scene made me remember the grand kid klatsches of my youth. The kickball games, SPUD, 10 Sticks, all ages invited, the big kids humoring the little ones (well, sometimes). There were children in every house, more than 25 in one block, scads of banana seat bikes, constant drama. I still remember the songs we sang, the dogs that terrified us, the hedge apples used as weapons.

I was so lost in the past that for a moment I almost forgot where I was. Then I noticed a table set up on the corner, a girl walking toward me. “Would you like to buy some lemonade?” she asked. Every kid-powered enterprise needs its funding source. I reached in my purse and pulled out a dollar.

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

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This was a weekend for friendship. My friend Peggy, in from Seattle for a conference and here for three glorious days of talking and fun. Such a joyful reunion. Tom’s friend Reg, in from Belgium, long-lost for more than three decades, a connection regained.

Pack rats that we are, we could put our hands on several items Reg gave Tom when they were in grad school: a small desk lamp, a shaving mug, a plate, a crocheted seat cushion. I never knew the origin of these items, only knew that Tom brought them into our marriage. But what Tom learned this week has been far more amazing. Traveling with Reg was his oldest son, 28, and he is named Tom in my Tom’s honor. You could not make this stuff up. Life, as always, proves the best storyteller of all.

Half Mast

Half Mast

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Today will be harder on many of us than the last few September 11ths, I think. Harder because of the controversies, harder because of the anger, and harder because today, at least where I live, is uncannily like that day: impossibly blue skies, a hint of fall, a day at first like many others.

In the last couple of years, three of our neighbors have erected flagpoles. There’s one next door, another across the street and still another at the corner.

I just walked past that one this morning. Will and Erica, our friends who live there, have each served more than one tour of duty in Iraq. Will received the Purple Heart. Their flag is the biggest of them all. It’s flying at half mast today.

Shoulders

Shoulders

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Most of the time they are just there, the perfect place to hang a purse or scarf, and good for shrugging, too. But when I’m on deadline or feeling tense in other ways my shoulders move up, up, up until they are somewhere around my ears. They become a tension factory; the bad vibes they generate give me headaches, neck aches and numb, tingly hands.

Celia has magic fingers; she massages my aching muscles. The relief is instantaneous but short-lived. And since a teenager is unlikely to hang around the house to be her mother’s masseuse, onto the Internet I go. Try these exercises, says one site. I have and I do. Buy yourself a phone headset and a good pillow, says another. On my to-do list. I even find a community of people whose only bond is that they have tense shoulders. The site says “anonymously connect with people who share your experiences — like those who say ‘I Have Extremely Tense Shoulders All the Time.’ Read hundreds of true stories, share your own story anonymously, get feedback and comments, chat in the discussion forum, help others, meet new friends, and so much more.”

Now there’s a thought. A group of people whose only bond is their tense shoulders. It’s a “Saturday Night Live” skit or a “Seinfeld” episode. I start to chuckle. And then I start to breathe deeply. Ahhh. My shoulders feel better already.

Dappled

Dappled

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I start today with a word I love. I think of it this morning because the sun, as it sinks lower in the sky, strikes trees and leaves slantwise and leaves behind pools of dappled light. How lovely is the air of almost-equinox, how balanced and beguiling. It transforms the hot and dusty world of summer into something airy and delicious. Something begging to be walked through.

Skimming

Skimming

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For years I’ve had the luxury of reading any book I choose all the way to the end, every precious word. But now I’m involved in a project that requires reading a lot, reading fast. Which means that I must also read selectively. Must be able to skim text for the main idea, glance at headlines and subheads and topic sentences and go from there. (Even writing this makes me shiver, so close is it to SAT-speak.) But skim I must. Part of the problem is that I know how hard-won words can be. To rush past them seems disrespectful. But I’m learning to get over this. Otherwise the tower of books will topple over on me!

First Day of School

First Day of School

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I haven’t been a high school student or teacher for many, many years. But the day after Labor Day I forget that fact. For me this day will always be the first day of school and the last day of summer, and therefore worthy of a quick sigh, a backward glance. Even though in steamy July I might long for the clean page, the crisp new start, even though this season will, eventually, energize me — for now it’s bittersweet. The crickets chirp more slowly, the morning air is brisk. Last night I wrote names and numbers on emergency contact and other school forms. Seems like everyone has homework before school begins — even parents. My lesson is brief but painful: Summer passes more quickly every year.

Ride On

Ride On

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Yesterday we rode our bikes farther than we thought we would. It was cool and the air had a tang to it so we pedaled past Vienna, across the Capital Beltway (such a feeling to cross that monster road on a pedestrian bridge), almost to Falls Church.

For the first part of the route the wind was at our backs and the path was mostly downhill. We were flying. I found myself dreading the uphill climb back home. A moment of insight, then: To try and take the road as it came, not to worry in advance about the hard parts, but just to suck in my gut, push harder and tackle them as they came.

It worked, sort of. The ride was pleasant all the way. Only when it was over (and today) have my muscles talked back.

Night Swim at Still Pond

Night Swim at Still Pond

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It became a habit this summer, a welcome one. I’d leave home a little after 8, do some laps or aqua jog in the deep end if no one was diving. At 8:45 the guard blows the whistle; the last 15 minutes are adult swim. I sidestroke in the gloaming. While treading water, I look at the Franklin Farm windmill. I listen to the conversations around me, the mothers with babies on their hips, the fathers bonding, tossing balls with their kids. One guy with a bald spot on the back of his head does what seem like labored laps while his kid sprays him with a soaker gun every time he reaches one side or the other. I think the guy is slow, but when we swim next to each other I notice he’s just as fast as me — in other words, I’m just as slow as he.

Last night I went for what I thought might be the last swim of the season. Turns out the pool will be open the next two weekends, but I doubt I’ll make it. It will be a cooler, and one of the best parts about swimming this summer — the reason I’ve done so much of it, I think — is how hot it’s been. I don’t mind bathtub-warm water.

For these reasons and more, last night’s dip felt like a valedictory. It was much earlier in the evening, of course, since it’s dark by 8, and I left quickly so I could drive kids to the first high school football game of fall. The pool was almost empty at the end — except for a surprise birthday party about to happen. As I was pulling out of the parking lot in the twilight I heard behind me a burst of sound. “Surprise!” and then a bunch of whooping and clapping. It was for the birthday girl, I know, but I couldn’t help but think it was a round of applause for summer itself.

The Visitor

The Visitor

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I’ve seen this little guy (or someone like him, I should say, because this is not my photograph!) here before, drawn by the coleus flowers on our deck. An iridescent-necked hummingbird so improbably tiny that each time I see him I think at first that I’m looking at an insect.

The hummingbird makes me think of one of my favorite essays, “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle, which begins: “Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe…”

And because this tiny bird brings an essay to mind I think of him as a muse, flying inspiration, bound to lead to a productive writing day. I hope.