In 2015 it was Big Sky, Montana. In 2016, Chicago, followed by Huston in 2017 and St. Louis the year after that. And then we ran out of young’uns getting married, or at least ones having big weddings.
This weekend, we made up for lost time. Savannah obliged by rolling out a pair of warm days and sultry evenings, perfect for strolling the brick-paved walks of this gracious southern city.
I’m here to see people not scenery, but the place has wowed me just the same.
There was one point in yesterday’s drive when the GPS inexplicably sent us off on a 17-mile detour, presumably because of a traffic jam ahead.
Whether or not this was necessary — or a wild goose chase — may never be known. But though it had already been a long trip and I was more than ready to be done with it, I tried to take in the surroundings, to feel the flatness of the land and the nearness of the water.
It was only then, during that brief sojourn away from the buzz and roar of I-95, that I felt I was truly in the low country.
St. Bonaventure Cemetery. Forsyth Park. Jones Street. The Bird Girl statue.
I’ve been on a crash course to learn about Savannah, Georgia, before we leave for that beguiling city for a family wedding.
Already I’m encouraged, since many of the sights the city pitches are ones made famous from a novel that became a movie.
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was an unlikely bestseller when it came out in 1994, but went on to become a feature film that has helped to define Savannah as a Southern Gothic playground, dripping with Spanish moss.
My walking shoes are ready.
(Photo: VisitSavannah.com)
We’ve had some rain lately, which reminds me of one morning in Oban, Scotland, when I was awakened by the sound of shouts and laughter wafting up from the bowling green beneath the windows of the B&B.
It was pouring — but that wasn’t stopping the lawn bowlers. They were swaddled in rain gear, playing their game with the cool concentration of professionals. Cool being the operative word because it was about 50 degrees in mid-August.
I admired the pluck of the players, and later in the day, when it was warmer and dryer, circled back to watch the game. I still can’t say I understand it. But I do get the spirit of it, which seems to be, forget about the weather — have fun! A good lesson to keep in mind.
A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.
The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself.
This morning I wake to more rain. I’m hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I’m lucky it will be still and cloudy again.
Parents in the know understand that blankets are no longer recommended for babies in the first year of life. Newborns are swaddled, infants wear wear sleep sacks, and only at one year of age are little ones thought ready for the real thing.
Who am I to argue against the wisdom of experts? That said, I do enjoy tucking a soft blanket around a sleeping baby.
So yesterday I was thrilled to do just that with Aurora Anne, 12 months and two weeks of age. This morning I folded the blankie that covered her and put it away. If I held it close and inhaled it deeply I could pick up a trace of her sweet baby scent.
Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized that I had enough pink, purple, maroon, and crimson clothing to comprise a red load.
As a kid, I learned to corral my reds into a separate washing machine load, and for many years — with three little people’s laundry to do as well as my own — I often did.
But it’s been years since I washed that many clothes at one time, so I usually cheat. I tuck a red plaid shirt or cherry-colored tunic into a dark load, use cold water and hope for the best.
I’m rejoicing now to see all these reds in one place because it means I’ve finally moved beyond my decidedly neutral (gray, navy, etc.) wardrobe into more colorful garb. My laundry style will just have to keep up with it.
I know people who extol the beauties of fall — the color, the crispness, the end of humidity — but I’m not one of them. To me there’s always a backward glance at this time of year.
I don’t mind the heat, I relish cicada song, and I love the long days that summer brings.
So on the last day of this summer, I’m reveling in the sun that’s trying to peak through the ever-thickening cloud cover, and I’m savoring the adventures — from Seattle to Scotland and all the places in between.
Plants are parched. Streams are struggling. Some might say it’s time to water. I say … it’s time to cross a creek on stepping stones.
I was thinking of a stretch of the Cross County Trail close to my house (though not close enough to walk to, of course), which has thwarted me before because of an almost submerged stone crossing.
Yesterday the water level was low enough to make the crossing easy. And that single detail opened up a world of forest and creek and pasture. Plus one of my favorite sections of the trail, which skirts a bamboo-fringed pond.
Just as low tide reveals a wealth of sea life, shells and sand dollars, low water offers up paths for trekking, vistas for gazing. In other words, possibilities.
Yesterday I found the trail I was looking for. It was tucked away in a corner of the county that adjoins the Fairfax County Parkway and its monolithic soundproof walls.
The path featured several fair-weather stream crossings, but nothing that could scoot below or hang above all that parkway asphalt, as impassable as a raging river.
There was a tunnel under a lesser road, though, a dark enclosure that paralleled a stream. I took that — despite the warning.
Sometimes you have to walk on the wild side. Even in the suburbs.