Restless Home

Restless Home

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For the last few days, flight has been on my mind. Because it is September, because I saw in an almost-dark sky an unmistakable “V” of geese, because soon animals in our part of the northern hemisphere will search for a place to stay warm for the winter. Perhaps for all these reasons and more, I’ve been thinking lately about where to live when the children are on their own, when our nest is empty. Realizing, of course, that this is not a single decision but a joint one, that I love our house because we’ve raised (are raising) three daughters in it, still, still I’m restless on this subject.

What is it that binds you to a place? Family, friends, work, of course. But to what degree is it the land itself, the way it feels under your feet and as you drive through it on a late summer evening, aware suddenly that this once alien place, like it or not, is home.

When Music Moves You

When Music Moves You

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Last night I heard on the radio the story of Michael White, a jazz clarinetist who lives in New Orleans. Katrina destroyed his home, forced him to move out of the city for a while, but he — and his music — are back. Threaded throughout this story were tunes from his clarinet, such rich, reedy sounds — we used to hear such sounds when our clarinetist was still in high school. And they made me want to play the piano — our poor spinet has languished this summer — and to teach Celia, who said the other day that she’d like to learn.

It was always my goal to fill our house and our lives with music. Too often that means turning on the radio. But I tell myself what I tell our girls: Once the music is in your fingers, it is yours forever.

It was music, in fact, that brought Michael White and his New Orleans back to life. Here’s what he said: “And then I came to realize the most valuable thing that I have, I never lost. It’s inside. It’s that music tradition. It’s the memory of all of those parades, of all of those older musicians who — who brought the spirit of New Orleans’ music and passed it on to me, so that I could help to pass it on to others. And the spirit of that music is with me every day. Every time I play my instrument, everything I ever knew and felt about New Orleans is still alive.”

Remembering

Remembering

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As summer winds down, I think of vacations past, of long drives along unfamiliar roads, of pulling into a place we’ve never been before. The western United States and Canada are good for this. Endless highways, scenery that never stops. A few days in this landscape and the shoulders drop, the headache goes away. Something relaxes in me that I hadn’t known was tight.

Funny thing: After I write this post I read (on Metro) from a chapter in Marianne Wiggins’ book The Shadow Catcher called “Lights Out for the Territory,” these words: “The drive had all these syncopations, then — the percussion of the asphalt road, the alternating rhythms of the landscape braiding, like convergent channels of a river, through divergent threads of time.”

Yeah, something like that!

The Company of Animals

The Company of Animals

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On days I work at home I spend quiet time with Copper and Hermes. They’re with me now on the (rapidly warming) deck. If I need to stretch, I’ll throw the ball with Copper or take him on a walk (a word which cannot be said unless immediate action is intended). I turn to Hermes for mental stimulation. He talks, after all, though his vocabulary is limited. He is also good for comic relief, especially when he sneezes at the wild birds to get their attention. They must wonder what kind of creature lives in a cage and says “I love you.”

The company of animals on a busy Monday morning. They keep me humble; they keep me sane.

Morning Glory

Morning Glory

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When summer began I had high hopes for a flowery bower, a vine-entwined pergola under which we would sip tea in the morning and eat our raucous dinners at night. The deck was empty without the climbing rose, and we would make up for it with some cheap lattice panels and the promise of a vine. It’s taken the whole summer but finally we have tendrils, slight, clingy things that wrap themselves around whatever they can find. And today, we have a purple morning glory, a sweet gift at summer’s end.

The View from a Hammock

The View from a Hammock

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Finally home after a 12-hour workday, I flop on the hammock. It’s almost dark, and Tom is grilling. He uses a clip-on light to see what he’s flipping. Two lamb chops (for him), portobello mushrooms and zucchini for Celia and me. From time to time there’s a flare of orange light — our grill is a feisty thing — which brightens the deck. I feel lazy lying in the hammock. But not lazy enough to get up and move. Instead, I watch the color disappear from the leaves. As I swing, they fade to black.

Dialogue

Dialogue

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At work I interview the new dean, then transcribe the tape and edit the conversation for a magazine Q&A. At home I interview people for a freelance article, transcribe their tapes, then tell their stories. I’ve listened to a lot of tape lately, my fingers flying on the keyboard, sometimes getting all tangled up with each other trying to keep up with the voices. I marvel at all the pitches, the inflections, the pacing. Most of all, I marvel at the stories: a man grows up in Africa, learning how to bake at his mother’s side; a young woman receives a kidney from a high school classmate, which makes it possible for her to become an medal-winning cyclist and a mother.

A lot has changed about this business I’m in. But one thing that hasn’t are the stories. And whenever I’m feeling flat, stunned, gasping for air, I try to remember them.

A Test Spin

A Test Spin

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Today I take my travel mug out for a test spin. A gift from Claire before she left for college, a thoughtful gift because she’s been hearing me rant these summer mornings about drips and leaks and all around failure, this travel mug holds just enough tea to get me to Vienna, warm and wide awake, ready for the day.
Say what you will about the engines of cars, their marvelous innards. What I look for in a vehicle is the cup holder. It must be sturdy, it must be ergonomic, it must not take the whole coin tray with it when I pick it up. Life has its trials and it has its consolations. Leaving for work at six a.m. (already late today!) is a trial; drinking tea along the way is my pleasant consolation.

Fellow Traveler

Fellow Traveler

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I took early to Thomas Hardy novels. I’ve never understood why, have always hoped it wasn’t some incipient fatalism at work. Because I never much cared for the tragic endings. It was the landscape and the pacing; it was rural England, rustic characters, the weaving of maypoles, the quaffing of mead. I could imagine I was far, far away from Lexington, in another place and time.

Walking to Metro this morning, staying close on the heels of the man in front of me, made me think of fellow travelers. Hardy novels seem to open with two lonely souls falling into step together and making their way across the moors. With their chance meeting the novel begins and all the wondrous words that follow come from those first shared steps.

Empty House

Empty House

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The nest may not be empty but the house certainly is. Claire moved into George Mason housing yesterday, Suzanne is well settled at Wooster and Celia spent the night at a friend’s. Am I only imagining it or does the place just feel emptier, the air thinner?

Being a parent means letting go — that’s something you learn from the very beginning. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Twice this weekend while walking I stopped to talk with friends about their children going off to college or grad school. Raising kids is what the suburbs are about. Which raises the question: What happens when the children grow up and move away?