The Red Oak

The Red Oak

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Who knows when the great red oak was born, when the acorn that gave it life fell to the ground, found pliable soil, sent down roots? Decades, maybe 100 years or more, when second-growth forest filled in this land that once was farmed. 

I stepped into its history 33 years ago and found in its lofty shelter a stateliness and calm. It became, in fact, our signature tree, the one I think of first when I think of our house. 

It had been ailing for years, a fact I noticed with the same pit in the stomach I’ve had when running my tongue over an aching molar. But the measures we took — pruning, watering, fertilizing — did not save it. The ambrosia beetle, an opportunistic insect that moves in after years of drought and other stresses, killed it in a single season.

All summer I’ve been lamenting the tree’s brittle boughs, its withered foliage. I’ve been dreading the moment that finally came. 

Now the red oak is felled, its great trunk piled around the yard, so much lumber. Soon the logs will be carted away, too. 

It’s not the greatest loss I’ve ever sustained … but it’s a loss, just the same. 

Perfect Peaches

Perfect Peaches

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It’s as if the peaches had been practicing all season to look this rosy and smooth-skinned, this thoroughly delicious.  “Last big picking,” they were billed, giving those of us who’d come to haunt this particular booth at the Wednesday farmers market ample warning: don’t expect this fruit again until next July. 

I felt the same tug in my heart I’m getting when I notice turning leaves or lowered light. 

But who can complain when the tilt of the sun produces peaches like these? 

(The astute observer will spot an interloper in this photo. I threw in a lemon to keep the peaches company.)

Last Walk of Summer

Last Walk of Summer

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It felt much the same as other summer walks, this last one before tomorrow’s equinox. I left too late, not unusual for me, and got caught in what passes for rush hour traffic in my neighborhood, parents and buses rushing to school. 

I wore a sweatshirt that I tied around my waist at the halfway point. The birds were a little less chirpy, the cicadas nonexistent, so it lacked midsummer’s buzz and shimmer. 

But as I write this post on the deck a desultory cricket chirps and pools of light and shade dapple the backyard. 

It will be close to 90 today, and the grass needs mowing. It’s still summer. 

People of the Path

People of the Path

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In my neighborhood, I might know their names. There’s Peter, whose long arms swing like windmills, and his wife, Nancy, who has been walking regularly for decades now. I’ve seen  Arturo not only in this area but also on the Reston trails. I could name Eileen, Wendy, Maureen, Dave, Doug and many others.

But for every person I know there are hundreds more anonymous fellow travelers. Dog walkers and young mothers with jogging strollers. Long-distance striders who carry water bottles on their belt, like gunslingers. They are short or tall, plump or lean, fast or slow. 

Some folks don’t look up or acknowledge contact; they’re lost in thought. Others catch my eye from far away, wave and smile. 

But in one way we are all the same. We are people of the path. 

Passing into History

Passing into History

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I didn’t set an alarm to watch Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral at 6 a.m. Eastern time. But when I woke up anyway, I quickly tuned in. 

What pomp and grandeur, what an outpouring of love and respect! “It’s been a solemn day, but not a gloomy one,” said the BBC commentator.  

As I write, the queen has left London for the last time and is on her way by hearse to Windsor Castle, where she will be laid to rest in the family crypt. Thousands of citizens have lined the way, throwing roses in her path.

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Today, the queen passes into history. 

Not So Fast

Not So Fast

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I took Thursday’s late-day stroll at a faster pace than usual, so yesterday I paid the price. Nothing serious, just some soreness and tightness, a reminder that I let the cooler air and that fall feeling push me into moving more quickly than I should have.

In my defense, it was glorious weather. I wasn’t slogging through humid air for a change, and there was an autumnal industriousness afoot, the kind of energy that sends squirrels scampering for acorns to store.

Like the squirrel, I was driven — only it was an experience that I was after, one more walk in a summer made rich by them. 

Almost Equinoctical Evening

Almost Equinoctical Evening

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A late walk yesterday, after I finished a class assignment. I drove to a favorite Reston trail itching to move through space after a computer-centric day. 

The path did not disappoint. There were the familiar markers of fern and stream and swamp. There were the dog walkers and stroller pushers and trail talkers, those who first appear at to be muttering to themselves but are revealed upon passing to be wearing those distinctive white ear pods.

The second leg of this walk is a segment of  the Cross County Trail, with its dips and valleys, already crunchy with brown leaves and blowsy with stilt grass gone to seed — but beautiful in its roughness. Laser-pointers of light struck the thin trunks of the understory.

Scampering through the lambent air in the almost-equinoctial evening was an excellent way to end the day. 

Call Them By Their Name

Call Them By Their Name

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Names carry power; they encourage reverence. In some branches of Judaism, one writes G-d to show respect for the Creator. 

I found it ironic, then, as I walked through the yard with an arborist yesterday, to learn the names of the trees on our property. Ironic because several of them are ailing — and two of them have died. 

Oh, I knew there were oak trees in the front, had even learned last year that one of the sick trees is a pin oak. But did I understand that pin oaks are a member of the red oak family? No, I did not. Nor did I know that a chestnut oak is sitting right next to a tall holly in the side yard. Or that, wonder of wonders, a sassafras tree is thriving alongside the fence by the trampoline. 

From now on, the trees that remain will be cared for more diligently. And no wonder: Now, they have names.

(No problem naming this beauty. Crepe myrtles well in these parts. We may be planting more of them.)

Toddler Time

Toddler Time

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Over the weekend, I had a toddler’s eye view of life as we watched our two-year-old grandson. He was delightful, as he usually is, and of course completely unaware of the life change that awaited him — a baby sister.

With him, I ran up and down the street holding onto his shirt as he careened on a balance bike, a contraption that wasn’t around when my own children were young. 

With him, I ate pretend hamburgers on plastic buns with plastic tomatoes. Unfortunately, he did eat some very real play dough while I wasn’t looking.

He “checked my ears” with the jack end of a baby monitor, “talked on the phone” with our portable, and covered me with his baby blanket. With his giggles and grins he reminded me of what I’ve been missing since my own kids grew up. 

Doing Nothing?

Doing Nothing?

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As I’ve probably made more than clear through the years, I seek variety, changes in routine. They keep us out of ruts; they keep us young. Changes of scene, of workout and workload. Even changes in cuisine (though I’m not as good about that one). 

Lately I’ve been juggling short-term to-dos (writing here, completing schoolwork) with longer-term writing projects. 

I enjoy having both until deadlines loom. And then … the only change in routine I crave is to do nothing all day.