Proud to be … Bipedal

Proud to be … Bipedal

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In class last night we talked about our earliest ancestors, about Australopithecus, Homo Erectus and the whole gang, the distant relatives on our ever-so-shaggy family tree.

A key trait, of course, is bipedalism, walking on two legs. In Maps of Time, David Christian talks about the hazards of this posture, especially for women, who had to bear children with large heads that required turning as they passed through the birth canal. 

For this, they needed help. Thus did a physical trait engender cooperation, social behavior, the collective efforts of women helping women during childbirth. And later on, the collective efforts of raising young humans, who are far more helpless at birth than most mammals. 

We don’t walk on two legs because we’re human. We’re human, in part, because we walk on two legs.

(One of my favorite toddlers shows off her stride.)

Black and White and Blue

Black and White and Blue

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A winter walk is monochromatic, color drained by sun and shadow, leaving only form and contrast behind. 

This was evident on my stroll yesterday through D.C., from Metro Center to Chinatown, then down Seventh to the Sculpture Garden, where I watched ice skaters fly by. They were a study in black and white, too.

From there I made my way to the Mall and the Monument, where I finally found color … in the sky. It seemed like an afterthought, though, as if it were crayoned onto an already printed page. 

Writing in Bed

Writing in Bed

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With Copper gone,  I’ve no need to rush downstairs in the morning. Which means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes, writing in bed. 

Churchill did it. Marcel Proust did it. Mark Twain, Edith Wharton and Truman Capote did it, though the latter said a bed was not required. A couch would work just fine, as long as coffee and cigarettes were available.

I can’t relate on that score. More my speed was Wordsworth, who wrote poems in bed but made up for it by walking 10 miles a day, striding all over the Lake District, often with his sister Dorothy. 

It makes perfect sense to me, a great expenditure of energy, followed by an equally great period of rest. 

(Marcel Proust writing in bed.)

Mourning Copper

Mourning Copper

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When a human being dies there are rituals and ceremonies, ways to process the passing. When a pet dies, not so much. But I’ve been touched beyond measure by the calls and messages from family and friends that have comforted us these last several days. 

The outpouring heartens me — and tells me how important animals are to us. It reminds me that we homo sapiens are not alone in this world, that we share it with many creatures, and that we could do worse than  look to them for a model of how to live. 

Copper did not complain in his final days. He suffered silently and took life as it came. Yes, he could be silly and rambunctious. Yes, he tested our patience at times. But you always knew where you stood with him. He was always completely and utterly himself. 

So just as we grieve people by recalling their uniqueness, what they brought to the world and how we might emulate it, so do I mourn Copper. 

Copper Capehart: 2005-2023

Copper Capehart: 2005-2023

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He was a ball of fur on legs, a streak of black and white, contrast in motion. Copper was our daughter’s Christmas present, the dog she had dreamed of for years, and he was running away from us as fast as his little legs could carry him. He had slipped out of his collar and was making a break for the territory. He would do this often in the coming years.

That first escape was a shock because we had just picked him up from the shelter. Later escapades were less surprising but more terrifying. We knew by then that he had no fear of cars and we imagined the worst every time he got away.

But ever so gradually he settled down. He used his powerful shoulders to dash down the deck stairs instead of catapulting himself over the couch. He bared his teeth to smile instead of bite. He decided he would stay here a while.

Seventeen years later, time finally caught up with our dear pup. Today was his final escape, and darned if we didn’t engineer it ourselves. But only because we loved him so much.

Rest in peace, Copper. We will never forget you.

Walking’s Worth

Walking’s Worth

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If I ever needed proof of walking’s worth I got it yesterday. A sad day, as the last have been, but out on the trail, the rhythm and the movement brought me around.

It was good to be outside, to make my way past the tennis courts, around several small ponds and then down the long straightaway through the Franklin Farm meadow. 

It was only 45 minutes on my way to the grocery store, but sometimes, that’s enough.

Familiarity

Familiarity

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Some light rain, the sky a washed-out gray, tree limbs a study in contrast. I look outside as if at another world. The days have turned inward for me, as our dear dog Copper is ailing. 

It’s a comfort to glimpse the sparse azaleas, the ragged hollies. Even the open space where the tall oak stood is familiar now.

I know these places, these absences. My eyes rest easily on them, until I look inside again. 

Sharing the Trail

Sharing the Trail

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The Capital Crescent Trail. A Monday afternoon that felt like a Sunday afternoon. A jumble of humanity — and mammal-anity, too, since there were plenty of dogs on hand. 

Without realizing it, I went into auto mode. That’s “auto” as in automobile, glancing over my left shoulder before “changing lanes”  Cyclists use the trail, too, and they don’t always sound their bells in warning.

Sharing the trail sometimes means walking defensively. 

Forty-Five

Forty-Five

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The outdoor thermometer needs a new battery. For the last four days it has recorded the temperature as 45. That’s 45 night or day, sunny or cloudy, morning or afternoon. 

It has me thinking about 45 — the middle-ness of it, its commodiousness. Want winter? Forty-five will do. Scarves and gloves aren’t out of place in the mid-40s. If you live in warm climes and are looking for an excuse to take your wool sweater out of mothballs, 45 provides it.

And yet, 45 can go warmer, too. You don’t need a hat in 45, for instance.  And if you’re moving briskly through space, which I often am, 45 can feel like 55 in a jiffy. 

If your thermometer must be stuck, then, it could do worse than to be stuck at 45. 

Short Order

Short Order

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I’m thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

“Cooked in Sight. Must be Right” read the sign on the wall. I’d have to agree.