Dead Crickets Society

Dead Crickets Society

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I’m alone for a few days, which means the house is far too tidy and I’m the only one on bug patrol. Given that these are the first crisp days of autumn, wild creatures are seeking a comfy place to spend the winter, and there is brisk cricket traffic in here.

I have nothing against crickets, as long as they know their place, which is outside. But when they — especially the branch of the family known as cave crickets or sprikets, with their hefty bodies and long, spidery legs — hop into the house, they need to be dispatched quickly.

I know women whose husbands have a soft spot for bugs and will not kill them. This is not my situation. If I run into a spriket on the kitchen floor, I have eradication backup.

But for the next few days, I’m on my own. I have pressed heavy books into service — yearbooks, cookbooks, whatever is hefty and on hand. Since the critters hop toward whatever is frightening them, I generally just throw the book at them. So far, it’s Anne 2, Sprikets 0. I hope my winning streak continues.

(No spriket photos here!)

‘Telling it Slant’

‘Telling it Slant’

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For my birthday, my daughter Claire gave me a subscription to Storyworth. This is a program that encourages you to tell your life story by sending you an email prompt every week. Mine arrives on Monday mornings.

Sometimes I set the prompt aside to answer later, but usually I respond right away. This may not be the most orthodox way to tell one’s life story, but maybe it’s the best way. Rather than sitting down to a blank page and an awesome responsibility, this is “telling it slant,” in the words of Emily Dickinson and one of my favorite books about writing. “To tell the truth, yes, but to become more than a mere transcriber of life’s factual experiences,” say authors Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola.

My interpretation of “telling it slant” here also implies a slight off-handedness. I’ve long since learned the persuasiveness of the little editor on my shoulder; to subvert it is one of the reasons I started this blog. Sometimes the best way to avoid it is to dash something off, to meet a deadline. You can refine the piece later, but first just put some words on the page.

So, at least for now, that’s how I’m telling my life story.

Old-Fashioned

Old-Fashioned

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On Friday, I ended up in an old-fashioned hardware store in a tony neighborhood closer to the city. I was there only as a browser, but even I, who can barely tell a Phillip’s head from a hex head, was asked if I could be helped a half-dozen times.

Moseying my way through the narrow aisles I found some fun non-hardware-store kinds of items, and even bought a couple of them, a heavy aluminum jellyroll pan and a roll of cellophane tape.

It was only after I saw the price tags on these items that it hit me. Old-fashioned customer service is comforting. You feel important. You feel seen. And more to the point, you might actually find what you’re looking for.

But it doesn’t come cheap. These days, old-fashioned service is mostly for the well-heeled. Once upon a time, though, it was for all of us.

A Prayer for Asheville

A Prayer for Asheville

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As the death toll mounts in North Carolina, I think about the beauty of the place and the terror of the storm. Most of all, I think about the lives lost. More than 100 already confirmed dead; 200 still missing.

We visited Asheville almost two years ago. It was a quick trip sandwiched in between obligations. It was January, and a cold rain fell one of the three days we were there. But despite the weather and the haste, I loved the place: its mountain beauty, its funky vibe.

Now, residents are searching for survivors, digging out homes, queueing for water. At this moment, Asheville is not a resort town; it’s a crisis zone. My heart goes out to all those in Western North Carolina. May you find relief soon.

Sunset in Asheville, January 9, 2023

A Richer Sensory Stew

A Richer Sensory Stew

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Last night in class we talked about the senses and how sight has stolen the show in our modern, western world. The move from an oral culture to a print one is partially responsible. But there are many other explanations — our art, our sanitation, our world views. The philosopher Descartes not only said “I think therefore I am” but also “I shall now close my eyes, I shall stop my ears, I shall call away all my senses.”

In other times and cultures, people swam in a richer sensory stew. There were drums and bells, cooking fires and open sewers. Would we want to go back? I doubt it. And yet I found myself lingering over a passage in a book about village bells, learning how they were cast by itinerant bell-makers in a community and each had its own unique sound, how they bound people to their places.

The more specialized the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of a place, the more likely they are to embed themselves in us. When I think about growing up in Lexington, Kentucky, one of the richest memories is the aroma of curing tobacco wafting from the auction barns near the university. It’s an odor that has been banished, along with much of the burley tobacco market. Good for our health? Absolutely. But the eradication of sensory richness may not be so good for our souls.

(A garden gate in Lexington. Step inside and smell the cut grass. )

Travel and Destination

Travel and Destination

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As I have so many days recently, I headed out this morning in a hooded jacket. The rain was so fine you could barely see it. There were no beads of moisture on my sleeves, but I could feel the dampness all around me.

I’d just been reading an academic article, and it felt good to stretch my legs. I wasn’t looking for much, just a break. But the ideas bubbled up anyway, as they often do when I’m moving. First the topic for this post, then an essay idea.

The mist may have made it harder to see what was in front of me, but it didn’t obscure my thinking. How to account for this phenomenon?

“Walking itself is the intentional act closest to the unwilled rhythms of the body, to breathing and the beating of the heart,” writes Rebecca Solnit in Wanderlust: A History of Walking. And a few sentences later, she says this: “It is the movement as well as the sights going by that seems to make things happen in the mind, and this is what makes walking ambiguous and endlessly fertile: it is both means and end, travel and destination.”

And that’s what this morning’s walk was for me — travel and destination.

New Month, New Site

New Month, New Site

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At this point, it seems easy. I’m typing the words as I always do. But I’ve spent more than a few moments thinking about this transition, and will spend many more getting to know this new format.

What matters most is that the old posts are here, all 4,440 of them. You can find them through the archives drop-down menu or by category when you click a post title.

When I started this blog in 2010, I hoped that it would be a “slow, patient accumulation of words.” And it has been. But it’s become something more, at least for me. It’s a record of moments — funny, sad, poignant — shards of colored glass in a kaleidoscope I hold up to the world.

Farewell to Blogspot

Farewell to Blogspot

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On February 7, 2010, when I wrote the first Walker in the Suburbs post, I knew only that I wanted to share a few thoughts with the world. I had no idea if I could keep blogging until the end of the month. Now, almost 15 years later, it’s time to move A Walker in the Suburbs to a new home. Truth to tell, it outgrew Blogspot long ago, but until now I’ve lacked the time and will to switch sites. 

Starting tomorrow, October 1, 2024, you can find A Walker in the Suburbs here. The content won’t change, but the design is updated, and you’ll be able to subscribe and comment.

Meanwhile, as I say goodbye to this platform, I think of all that’s happened since it began, the writing I’ve done; the people who are gone and the ones who’ve just arrived; how our world has changed. 

How grateful I am to have this opportunity to connect with all of you, to share my love of walking and place. Thank you, as always, for reading. I hope you enjoy the new Walker in the Suburbs. 

A Day Without Rain

A Day Without Rain

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Yesterday, for the first time in days, we woke up to clear skies. I took a long walk then squeegeed off the glass-topped table on the deck, making a dry spot for alfresco research and writing. By late afternoon I was restless again, ready for another stroll. 

Such are the choices that await us on a day without rain, choices we haven’t had for the last week or so. Not that I’m complaining, given what residents of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas have been enduring. But a day without rain made me appreciate the sunny weather that is so often our lot. Plus, I can tolerate today’s dampness all the more after yesterday’s solar recharging. 

Today’s drippy cloudiness puts me in a reflective mood. This is the penultimate post I’ll write on this platform. On Tuesday, October 1, A Walker in the Suburbs moves to its new home. Stay tuned for more on this, including a link.

(Rainclouds in Canyonlands National Park)

A Sense of Ease

A Sense of Ease

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The student discussion leaders of my Emotions and Senses class on Wednesday began by asking us to assess our emotional states. Were we happy, sad, surprised, angry, disgusted or fearful/anxious? Four of us volunteered, and every one said fearful/anxious.

Although two people blamed the weather (after a long dry summer we’ve had rain every day for a week) and others cited work or traffic as primary stressors, these answers made me think (not for the first time) that we live in an age of anxiety.

This is nothing new. W. H. Auden published a poem by that name in 1947. But we still have the hallmarks: a sense of unease, a low-level discomfort, a feeling that another shoe may drop at any time.

I’d like to say these anxious feelings will go away after the election, but I suppose they will only go away for half of us. So how do we keep the anxiety at bay? One idea is to devote ourselves to the people, places and activities we love, that we find meaningful. That’s how I try to restore a sense of ease.