Filing Al Fresco

Filing Al Fresco

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Yesterday was picture-perfect: clear skies, low humidity, a freshness in the air after Monday’s rain. It was one of those days I didn’t want to be inside. 

And yet I’d come back from the lake determined to make decluttering a larger priority and tackle those file boxes in the basement. What to do? Haul them up to the deck, of course.

My back isn’t happy about it today, but that’s what I did. They shared the glass-topped table with the parakeets, who also didn’t want to be inside on such a glorious afternoon. 

Papers were tossed, order was imposed and Vitamin D was absorbed. Who could ask for more?

Long-Day Season

Long-Day Season

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The headline caught my eye just in time to save the page of newsprint from becoming part of the fire-starting equipment last week at the late.  “Darkness creeping in as long-day season ends,” it said. 

Apparently Saturday, August 6 was the last day we’ll have 14 hours of sunlight until May 2023. It was the end of what the article called the “brightness quarter,” the 90 or so days of “solar beneficence and dazzle” we receive every May, June and July. 

It’s also the end of long twilights and drawn-out dawns, of slower living made possible by humid air and looser schedules. You might even say it’s the end of that feeling of limitlessness and possibility that summer brings. 

But that would be a gloomy thing to write on a spectacular late-summer morning, not in keeping with the bountiful daylight we still enjoy. 

Topology

Topology

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Last week’s get-together meant I focused more on family than landscape, but on walks and short drives to beaches and beauty spots I laid eyes once again on a landscape I love.

What is it that inclines us to a certain place? I think it has to do with what Annie Dillard calls “topology … the dreaming memory of land as it lies this way and that” — a quotation that serves as the frontispiece to this blog.

Dillard was describing her hometown of Pittsburgh in this passage from An American Childhood. But topology — the study of a region as defined by its topography — can apply to any place that strikes our fancy, that holds within it the balance of sky and meadow, shade and sun that makes our heart sing.

These are our places of memory, whether we’ve been to them hundreds of times … or only once.

Campfire After Dinner

Campfire After Dinner

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A requirement of any lake trip is a campfire after dinner and the promise of some sticky, sweet s’mores. The children had a chance to eat these treats, the rest of us, too — although I cheated this time and just nibbled on a few squares of chocolate, forgoing the graham crackers and marshmallows. 

But I found the greatest pleasure in staring at the fire. Watching the flames flicker and dance, marveling at the colors, savoring the warmth, too. (It’s chillier here than back home.) 

We sat by the fire until it burned to embers, an owl sounded behind us, and daylight faded to black. 

The Paddle

The Paddle

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The wind finally eased enough to make it possible to kayak around the lake, or at least our small portion of it. A brief rain squall engulfed us as we made our way to the dock, but it passed just as quickly. 

And then … I was on the water again, moving in that way that only water provides: bobbing and slicing. There are more motor boats in this location, and their wakes kept me on my toes. They also reminded me of how much I need to work on my upper body strength. 

All in a day’s work … or at least a vacation day’s work. 

(The lake in the distance, with a bucolic foreground.)

The Shortcut

The Shortcut

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When I reached the top of the hill, a rise barely perceptible when driving but all-too-noticeable on foot, I could go straight or go back. Turning left or right wasn’t possible, due to the high volume of traffic and distinct lack of shoulder. 

I wasn’t ready to go back, so I forged ahead, onto Toothpick Road. There were trees and homes tucked away in them. There was a steady descent. Most of all, there was the promise of the park at the end of it all. A small brown sign I hadn’t noticed before pointed me in that direction. 

And sure enough, two brief turns later, I was crossing the bridge that leads to the park. Water to the left of me, water to the right of me, all shining in the late-day sun. 

I thought about the route I had been taking, which was several miles longer. I couldn’t wait to get back to the house and tell everyone about the shortcut I’d found. 

But my news was greeted with confusion. Everyone else had already discovered Toothpick Road. Their GPS programs had routed them that way from the beginning, whereas I, well, I hadn’t been using an app to get to the lake, thinking I knew the way from last year. 

Still, a shortcut can be a glorious discovery, even when it’s old news.  

Lake’s End

Lake’s End

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An early-morning walk on an unfamiliar road, each turn a revelation, each house a mystery.

The tentative goal: to find the dock where we can park kayaks. But that’s just an excuse to explore. 

People wave and smile as they take out their trash or water their plants. I wonder if they’re native to this place or tourists here like us. 

Fifteen minutes down the way, I come to the lake’s end. Or at least the terminus of this inlet. It comes to a gentle stop, this water; it empties into a field of green.

Their Summer Vacation

Their Summer Vacation

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Alfie and Toby were not invited to Portugal or Florida or Virginia Beach. They are also not invited to Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, where the family is now gathered for a week of intergenerational fun. 

But they did have a couple of hours al fresco over the weekend, when brownies baking in a nonstick pan required their temporary removal from the hook in the kitchen they call home. (Nonstick coatings can be lethal to birds.)

The daring duo seemed to like it outside. They surveyed the backyard, reveled in the oppressive humidity, and sought each other’s company when the bluejays squawked. 

It was a brief change of scene, but sometimes that’s all you need!

(Alfie in blue on the left and Toby on the right, his green plumage almost camouflaging him.)

No Shades

No Shades

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So far, today is looking cloudier than most in these parts, so I may be able to make it through without wearing my sunglasses. If so, it will be a rarity — and a welcome one. 

The world is greener and more luxurious when I don’t view it through tinted plastic. But my eyes appreciate the barrier when faced with a searing sun. 

Best of all is glimpsing pools of light from inside the green cocoon of the rose arbor.  It’s filtered light that spares the naked eye. And it’s beautiful, to boot.  

A Scorcher Begins

A Scorcher Begins

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I’m just back from a walk through the rapidly warming morning. It isn’t a scorcher yet, but it has every intention of becoming one. Checking the forecast now: ah yes, a high of 96. That’s why I met so many dog-walkers and early runners. 

There’s a feel to the air in a morning that’s moving toward high temps but has not achieved them. It’s the last vestiges of cool lingering in the shadows and the dips in the road. It’s the cicadas gearing up for a raucous recital. 

It’s the summer, full bore, and those of us who don’t mind the heat, who thrive on the long light, are reveling in it.