Malls of America

Malls of America

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Darkened storefronts, sparse merchandise, even the busy Apple store was quiet yesterday at the mall. True, it was a rainy Tuesday more than two weeks away from the big day, but even a few years ago it would have been bustling. Not for the first time I ask myself … where have all the people gone? 

They’re in their homes, collecting Amazon deliveries. While in the sad cavernous halls poor souls wander, looking for candles or purses or calendars, strolling through clouds of perfume and the scent of cinnamon rolls, listening to yet another rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”.

I’ve never been a mall lover, always held them responsible for the death of downtowns, but yesterday’s trip made me feel sorry for them — and for us.

The Scent of Cold

The Scent of Cold

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The winter world is scrubbed clean, scoured by wind and weather to reveal pockmarked roads and blown-grass fields. It is silent, but for the drone of a distant leaf blower.

It carries with it a whiff of cold, not the metallic taste of snow but something earthier and more elemental. Perhaps it is the absence of scent — but I think not. It’s more like the presence of an aroma I’ve known since I was a child. 

Inhaling it prompts a near-involuntary physical reactions, a tensing of the muscles. Yesterday as I walked, I worked to keep my shoulders from bunching up against the chill, concentrating instead on the beauty of the afternoon. 

It worked … most of the time.

Swish Swash

Swish Swash

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The newest addition to my wardrobe is a pair of corduroy pants. I’ve been looking for some for years, and now that I have them, I’m remembering how warm they are … and how they talk back to you.

Swish, swish, swash, they say, as I cruise down the hall to retrieve a book from my bedside table. Swash, swash, swish, they say, as I amble down the street. 

Unlike some of their confreres, these trousers work as well on long walks as they do in interminable writing sessions.  And unlike the tights and leggings I wear, these are presentable for running errands. 

There’s gonna be a whole lotta swish-swashing going on. 

(This is large wale, mine is small.)

Farewell, Leftovers

Farewell, Leftovers

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For some, today might be TGIF. For others, only 22 more shopping days till Christmas. For me, it’s the last day to eat Thanksgiving leftovers. Yesterday I eked one final turkey sandwich out of the bird, the day before that I ate the last cup of stuffing and final piece of pumpkin pie. 

Today it’s down to the molded cranberry salad, which has been whittled from a large serving bowl to one a fraction of its size.

Before I’m drummed out of town on reckless eating charges, let me say that I’ve written a few food safety articles and know the drill. I keep hot foods hot and cold foods cold. I avoid cross-contamination at all costs, treating raw chicken prep areas as if they were hazmat zones. 

But I also like to get as much mileage as I can from any big meal I cook — and last Thursday’s was a doozy.  

(Apparently, I don’t take many food pictures, either.)

Last-Minute Light

Last-Minute Light

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Yesterday was rainy and gray from start to almost finish. At 3 p.m. it was dark enough that I had to check the clock to be sure it wasn’t 5. 

But only minutes from sunset, the clouds blew away and left a window for the light. It slanted in clear and bright and contained, more like the illumination from a half-shaded window than one thrown off by our nearest star. 

I’ve seen this phenomenon before, this last-minute light. Some days it feels like a reprieve, other days a cheat. But it’s hard to complain when it leaves an afterglow like this.

My Town?

My Town?

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Yesterday, I took an impromptu walk down the Mount Vernon Trail, starting at Gravelly Point. Planes were swooping in low to land, so low that the wind from their passing ruffled the leaves of trees in their path. An enthusiastic group of plane-spotters lined up at the end of the park, practically on the runway, to wave and cheer as the 737s soared above them.

The magic of the walk was in the mingling of the low-tech — the quiet lap of river water against the shore — with the high — the roar of jet engines making their final approach to National.

And then there was the beauty of the path and the District viewed at three miles per hour. The red maples still flaming, a graceful weeping willow, geese sluicing into river water before landing in a puddle under the I-395 overpass.

I hated to leave the scene: the Washington Monument rising ethereal on the other bank, the graceful arch of the Memorial Bridge, and, in the distance, the spires of Georgetown’s Healy Hall. It’s my town, if I want — and walk — it to be.

Suspect

Suspect

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Most of my walks are in the suburbs these days, which makes sense given the title of this blog, but when I commuted downtown, a fair number of my forays were in the city. This allowed for more constant comparisons between the urban and suburban stroll.

One of the major differences is that in the city we walk to get somewhere, but in the suburbs we walk to walk — because there are few errands we can run on shank’s mare. For that reason, the long-distance suburban walker, the one who dares hoof it along a major road, can be suspect. This is true for people of all races. 

In his book The Lost Art of Walking, Geoff Nicholson tells the story of a well-dressed man stopped by a sheriff’s patrol car on the one-mile walk to his office in Los Angeles County.  It was on “a completely empty stretch of suburban sidewalk, at midday,” the man explained, and he was dressed in a coat and tie when he was ordered to identify himself and explain where he was going. “As a pedestrian,” the man said, “I was suspect.”

According to his definition (minus the coat and tie), I’m suspect, too.  

Another Way

Another Way

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Walking and talking — such an ancient practice. Almost as ancient as walking, bipedalism, itself, and oh so delightful. 

Over the weekend, with family visiting, I’ve been reminded of this all over again, how naturally one falls into the rhythm of common footfall and how naturally this footfall lends itself to the exchange of words, thoughts, confidences. 

Although I’m usually a solo walker, and happily so, I don’t mind being reminded there’s another way.

Waiting

Waiting

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A friend of mine wrote a one-act play about Advent called “Wait — It’s a Musical.” I always liked the title, the play on the word “wait.” I’m thinking of that play and that title today, on the first Sunday of the liturgical year. 

Every year the readings and sermons remind us that this is the season of watchful waiting, of calm preparation. Every year, this message must compete with tinsel and glitter and Mariah Carey belting out “All I Want for Christmas is You.” 

So I try, and somewhat succeed … for a week or two. But inevitably I’m pulled into the Christmas orbit. The shopping, the baking, the watching of holiday movies, one of which features, yes, “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

On an overcast November morning, it’s easy to feel the ancient longing, to hear the plainsong chant. But in a week or two, all bets will be off. 

Hardly Nothing

Hardly Nothing

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When a day is filled with as much cooking as yesterday was, the next day must be filled with, uh, pretty much nothing.

So how does one go about nothing, anyway? I’ve never been good at it. 

Walking, reading, more eating — hardly nothing, but sometimes they can feel like it when they’re going well.