Settling Down

Settling Down

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Yesterday morning at 5 a.m., a 3.6 magnitude earthquake shook the D.C region. I missed it, asleep for a change. But it made me think about other minor earthquakes I’ve experienced. One was in New York City. That tremblor woke me out of a deep sleep; I thought the boiler in our apartment building had exploded.

The mind seeks explanations — a passing jet, a roll of thunder — because if the earth is not solid and grounded, then what is? But such is the nature of life that even that which we think is certain sometimes turns out not to be.

Scientists interviewed about yesterday’s quake said it was nothing to worry about, that it’s just part of the “creaking and grinding” of our old planet, like the “settling of an old house,” the newspaper said. Even the ground beneath our feet needs to shift and stretch once in a while.

A Tunnel of Trees

A Tunnel of Trees

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In the archives of suburban history it may not amount to much, but I’ve been waiting for years for this to happen. For trees on the south side of our street to lean over and touch the trees on the north. For a meeting, a confab, a treaty of trees.

I’ve longed, of course, for the passage of green, the sympathy of branch upon branch, the slightly lost feeling I get when I’m passing through such a shaded spot. In my mind’s eye are the great tree tunnels of my past, most notably Pisgah Pike in Woodford County, Kentucky, where the great, gnarled osage orange trees bend their way across an ancient, stone-lined lane.

We’re not there yet in Folkstone. I doubt our oaks could contort themselves so; they are tall, skinny trees, more vertical than horizontal. What we have this summer is a start, a first glancing touch. A promise of green tunnels to come.

Midpoint

Midpoint

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Yesterday after a swim I looked at the sky, bright blue with dark clouds hovering, and I realized: Summer is half over. This is not a happy thought. So I pondered midpoints, the balance inherent in them, the way they help us see forward and back.

Because we vacationed in May this year, the summer seems lusciously long and uninterrupted. Seems precious, too. Use it all, I tell myself. From beginning to end. From early each morning till late each night.

Nightcap

Nightcap

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Sometimes after dinner I slip out the garage door and walk down the street for a few minutes. Unlike my daytime walks, which require tennis shoes, sunglasses and earphones, these impromptu strolls are completely come-as-you-are. I walk toward the sunset, which is better viewed from the open area at the end of our street. And I walk slowly, meditatively. The point is not to move quickly through the landscape but to let the landscape seep into me. I pass two split-levels, four colonials, three flagpoles, two front porches (one of them brand-new) and our community meadow. Sometimes the stars are peeping out of the darkening sky. Before I know it, I’ve come to a house where the light shines yellow through the front windows, a house with a small grove of oak and holly in the front yard. It’s for this that I’ve walked — for our house, in perspective.

The Books We Left Behind

The Books We Left Behind

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So into this age of iPhones and iPads and Kindles comes Nicholas Basbanes’ book A Splendor of Letters: The Permanence of Books in an Impermanent World. And we think we have problems. In ancient times, books were threatened by scarcity of materials, by fire-loving fanatics, by bookworms (the real thing) and by textual transmission. Instead of a book failing to jump from hardback to paperback or paperback to e-book, in the fourth century books might not make the cut from papyrus to parchment. My mind is filled this morning with phantom books of the past. What wisdom do we lack because some ancient author didn’t make the grade?

Open Window

Open Window

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Last night’s respite from midsummer heat gave us the excuse to turn off the air-conditioning and throw open the windows to the night air.

Fans whir, crickets sing, a faint smell of loamy earth wafts through the house. By the middle of the night the fan has sucked in enough cool air that I pull the comforter up around my chin.

It’s the best kind of chilly, air that is moist and moving and full of sounds and smells. I’ve missed it this summer.

A Change of Scene

A Change of Scene

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Darkness in the morning. Rain steadier than what I thought we’d get today. Everything left out on the deck: wooden rockers, chair cushions, one very soggy beach towel. For weeks the sun has ruled; there’s been no question about it. Every day a sunny day. And now today, something different. A new game in town. It’s refreshing. As long as it doesn’t last.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Yankee Doodle Dandy

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It’s July 9. The firecrackers aren’t snapping and the flags aren’t flapping. What remains for me is the memory of James Cagney as George M. Cohan in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I can’t stop humming “It’s a Grand Old Flag,” “Over There” or “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” And I can’t forget the sight of that powerful little man going into one of his tap-dancing riffs. He is the essence of jaunty, of sticking out one’s chin and plunging into life. Was our country ever that innocent and optimistic? I replay the final scene of that movie, Cagney dancing down the steps of the White House after telling his life story to President Roosevelt, and I think yes, maybe it was.

Swelter

Swelter

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The lights are blinking yellow as I drive through Fairfax on the way home from book group. It’s still warm and the wind blows hot against my face. The heat is a creature let loose upon the earth, a menace, a fire-breathing dragon singeing my toes, dragging me down. An easy excuse. And now at the end of this hot, hot, day, I’m finally outrunning it. As I drive west it cools a bit. The swagger is gone from the day. What’s left behind is swelter.

Alternate Route

Alternate Route

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For years I drove from Virginia to Kentucky on interstate highways. Then my brother figured out another pass through the hills. We call it the “Drew Way” in his honor. It’s part two-lane, part four-lane and it slices through some of the most spectacular mountain scenery this side of the Rocky Mountains. In one stretch of Route 33 that runs past Seneca Rocks, you feel like you’re in Colorado, skimming beside a mountain stream.

You can’t go as fast on the two-lane parts, but it doesn’t matter. The route grabs you, and you are part of the road and the hills and the motorcycle in front of you with the passenger on the back who keeps holding out her arms as if to embrace the view. There are wildflowers on the summits and cool air in the valleys. You are not ticking off the miles anymore; you are one with them.