Cloudy Day

Cloudy Day

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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.

Babies and Blankies

Babies and Blankies

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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. 

The Red Load

The Red Load

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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.

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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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.

Low Water

Low Water

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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.

The Wild Side

The Wild Side

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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. 

From Hillock to Hammock

From Hillock to Hammock

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Yesterday I hiked off in search of a trail I’d heard about over the weekend. It was a path I thought I knew, but after reaching it, I quickly discovered it was just a short cut-through route. 

A waste of time? Not really. One good thing about living somewhere a while is knowing approximately where you are, even when you’re turned around. 

I knew that if I backtracked up a little hillock I would find a street that connected me with an entire trail system, one that would take me home.

Ninety minutes later, I was relaxing in the hammock. 

A World Without …

A World Without …

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I was driving down the road, a crowded highway that required my (almost) undivided attention, when Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony came on the radio.

This is the warhorse of all warhorses, the world’s most famous symphony, whose opening notes — dot, dot, dot, daaaaasssshhhh — became associated with victory in World War II, the short, short, short, long of the letter V in Morse code corresponding with Churchill’s two-finger V for victory sign.

It’s not my favorite Beethoven piece. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would be: The second movement of the Seventh Symphony, which first came to life for me in the basement of the University of Kentucky’s performing arts building?  One of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, which I have tortured for decades with my amateur playing? Or maybe the magisterial Ninth Symphony?  That’s a logical candidate.

But no. It was his work in toto I considered as I drove, pondering what the world would be like without Beethoven, which is unimaginable. How many other artists have similarly enriched our lives? We all have our lists, whether they contain de Kooning or Flaubert, Springsteen or Brahms. There is an endless supply of artist names to list, of course. I just randomly chose these, except for Brahms, of course. 

(Brahms portrait by Hadi Karimi)

Saving Posts

Saving Posts

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For the most part, I write a post, read it over once or twice to check for typos, then pretty much let it go. But today I’ve been making sure I have all the posts I’ve ever written, grouped in months, in PDF files on my computer. 

I couldn’t help but read a few as I went along: There was the round-the-world trip of 2016. 

And something much smaller: riffing on journalism after seeing the movie “Spotlight,” and remembering how my daughter said the film was “a little slow.” That made me smile.

And then there was the couch sitting in a field in the Rocky Mountains. There’s a story behind that one, as you might imagine. 

Testing Negative

Testing Negative

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So often just the single line. Even when I had fever and chills, congestion and headache. But then, two weeks ago, two lines appeared, clear and undeniable. Positive. 

I quarantined, masked, rested … and eventually re-emerged. 

But the final step remained. Yesterday I swabbed, stirred, waited. 

And lo and behold, a single line. 

Testing negative never felt so good.