Recent heavy rains here in Northern Virginia have created a network of temporary ponds along low-lying roadside areas. This is good news to a pair of mallard ducks in the neighborhood. Last spring and summer, they took up residence in one such puddle-pond on our street whenever weather permitted. Just a few days ago, they appeared again, as though opening their vacation home for the season.
Nearly always, the pair sticks together; it’s rare to see one without the other. While I have no credentials in duck psychology, I see them as a couple seeking respite from the chatter of the loving yet overbearing familial horde. When they get the chance to steal away to this cozy pond, pleasantly shaded by cedar and pine trees, they take it, and they savor it. The puddle is just big enough for two, but no more. It’s their peaceful hideaway, a summer getaway, with no guest room or pull-out sofa. Please, this puddle is private.
One afternoon, I was a bit alarmed to see the male duck alone in his micro-pond.
When I checked back shortly, I was relieved to see that Mrs. Mallard had returned. Her presence apparently relaxed her mate enough so that he could catch some z’s.
This photo shows the puddle after a fresh rain.
Yesterday, after a couple of days without rain, the ducks were gone. Their private puddle, like so many treasures, is ephemeral. Its water level had dropped considerably, and the area, shown above, more closely resembled a reedy marsh than a pond.
But barring unforeseen incident, the ducks will be back. Once again, the skies this morning are ominously heavy and gray. Storms are coming. I wonder how ducks feel when battered by vicious weather. I assume they are well-suited, like the best-constructed boats, to ride it out. I doubt they are gripped by overwhelming fear, as Kiko is now, huddled at my feet in the kneehole of my desk, shaking, his generic xanax having little effect. And unlike most human vacationers, the ducks have discovered a retreat that is improved by bad weather. When the skies clear, I expect to see the devoted mallard couple enjoying their time alone, floating serenely in a more luxurious puddle.
Every May, our backyard undergoes a spectacular costume change. Our family considers it all the more glorious because we remember when it retained the drab, unadorned look of a concrete wasteland all year long. See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2012. As the month begins, our twin red maples start the cycle and burst into brilliant foliage. When the sun shines, they absolutely glow.
By mid-May, the Double Knock-Out Roses by the fence are overloaded with flowers.
The pale pink climbing roses on the garage trellis join the party next. A gray catbird, visible on the fence at far left, has been busy making a nest in one of our red maples. A pair of cardinals claimed a spot among the trellis roses.
Kiko gazes at the world beyond our fence, which also gets a May makeover.
At the very beginning of the month, the scruffy, thorny, typically disheveled locust trees by our driveway dress up and perfume the air with their delicate white blossoms.
The many pockets of heavily wooded public land in our neighborhood are lush and fragrant every May with an abundance of honeysuckle and wild white roses.
This most beautiful and sweet-smelling month is drawing to a close, once again, all too soon.
Savor these last May days.
Count today, and be glad that there are two still to be enjoyed!
As I’ve mentioned before, there may be nothing Kiko likes more than a ride in the car, followed by a walk. In cool weather he accompanies me on daily outings. Before I do my grocery shopping, get my allergy shot, or whatever, we walk. Afterwards, he waits contentedly in the car until I return, either keeping a look-out from the driver’s seat, or snoozing in the back. One day last week, we were cutting through the yard of the Sunrise, an assisted living facility, on our way to a nearby park. As we rounded a curve on the path, we met a couple pushing a sleepy looking elderly woman in a wheelchair. Upon spotting Kiko, she woke up. Oh, look!, she exclaimed. What a beautiful dog! I love dogs! Her companions were visibly cheered, as well; suddenly an unpromising walk had taken a decidedly more satisfying turn.
As I see it, Kiko regally assumes that everyone he encounters is there for the express purpose of an audience with him. He is a beneficent monarch, one who graciously and generously bestows the gift of his royal presence. Because he lacks any pressing matters of state, should no loyal subjects appear, he has the humility to lie down and await their certain arrival. That day at the Sunrise, no wait was required; homage was instant. After an initial greeting, Kiko sat calmly at the base of the wheelchair while the smiling Sunrise resident, her face twenty years younger now, petted and adored him.
You must bring him by again!, she urged. We used to have a dog named Shadow who lived here, and I miss him so much. Her son told me that Shadow was a big dog, a lab-pit bull mix. He had the run of the Sunrise until he began jumping on the residents, prompting an employee to adopt him. There was no longer a house dog, and Shadow had left an empty space.
That got me thinking. Could Kiko help fill that space? During high school and college, I had enjoyed visiting with nursing home residents on a weekly basis, but I hadn’t been able to bring my dog. On a cool sunny day the next week, when Kiko and I were going to the grocery, I decided to drop by the Sunrise with him. His welcome was warm and immediate, from staff and residents alike. An appreciative crowd gathered, with my little dog at its center.
I asked a staff member if dogs needed special training to visit; I had always assumed they did. My friend Celeste completed several obedience classes with her dog Beau to certify him as a nursing home therapy dog. Kiko passed his puppy class, but just barely, due to his headstrong on-leash behavior. We did not continue his formal education. Surprisingly, no special training for visiting dogs was required at this facility. To return on a regular basis, a dog needed only proof of vaccinations.
Several residents and staff mentioned that Miss Anne sure would like to see the dog. Did we have time for a room visit?
Of course! A caregiver escorted us upstairs, via the elevator, a first for Kiko, one that he took in easy-going stride.
When we arrived at the room, its occupant yelled loudly and gruffly for us to enter. The big voice belonged to a fragile little lady. Miss Anne was lying perfectly, alarmingly inert on her bed, and she appeared to be in no mood for guests. Until she saw Kiko, that is. Suddenly she was up and attempting to pop out of bed with such alacrity that I was afraid she would topple to the floor. The caregiver jumped in, luckily, to help her safely maneuver to the side of the bed. Kiko sat at her feet. He even gazed up at her with an expression that could be described as loving. Such a show of emotion is unusual for him.
After a while, Miss Anne asked me, Didn’t I see you out back before? It wasn’t until then that I realized this was the same woman Kiko and I had met earlier outside with her son and daughter-in-law. I’m sure she recognized Kiko, not me. How fitting it was that, by chance, we found our way back to her, just as she had hoped we would.
Our family sometimes jokes that Kiko would be the world’s worst guide dog. There is no amount of obedience training, no army of diligent, expert dog whisperers, that could ready him for the job that many labs, golden retrievers and German shepherds seem born to do. It’s not in him, and it’s not in his breed. But, like all dogs given the opportunity, all those we welcome into our lives with love, Kiko has a gift for brightening his little corner of the world. And now, with the relative maturity of his nearly six years, he has the unflappable, mellow temperament to bring special cheer to the Sunrise. How lucky it is that we met Miss Anne and her family that day! Kiko will be back next week to check in with his new friends.
They’re coming. Cicadas, in extraordinary numbers, will soon be waking from their seventeen-year naps. Really? It hasn’t been seventeen years since they last overwhelmed our area. I know this for certain. An intense cicada season is not forgotten. Our daughter was five, nearly a preschool graduate. Time does fly, but she’s only fourteen now, not twenty-two.
We hear it’s likely that the DC area will see more cicadas than usual this year. Various broods hatch every seventeen years, and this year’s Brood II is not the one that deluged us here in Northern Virginia in 2004. Fairfax County lies on the outer limit of this coming brood, so we may not feel the impact as strongly as places farther south. We’ve heard from my husband’s brother that the big, lumbering insects have indeed been spotted in their neighborhood in Richmond. Our daughter’s young cousins have never been party to a cicada invasion. I hope they enjoy it as much as she did.
D has always had a soft spot for oddball creatures. I admire her ability to find beauty where many cannot see it. She took an immediate liking to H’s pet box turtle, with us since we married, and before that, with H since he was a boy. Speedy (H was twelve when he named it) lives in a spacious glass box in our basement. He dines on raw ground beef, blueberries, and now, thanks to Kiko, canned dog food. Occasionally he gets the run of the basement or one of our larger bathrooms. D maintains that Speedy is terribly cute, although few would agree. As a toddler, she befriended the numerous toads that make their home each spring in our yard. She named them and discussed their differentiating traits of appearance and personality–how she could distinguish Squeaky, say, from Emily. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, she loves all the bizarre aquatic life of Cape Cod bay, including the spider crabs and the slimy moon snails. See Our Summer Village on the Cape, September 2013.
D’s five-year old self welcomed the cicadas enthusiastically. She picked them up, but gently, carefully. She enjoyed letting them amble along her arms, even on her face; she often had one perched on her nose. She loved their segmented, transparent wings, red bulbous eyes, stick-like legs, and coal-black armored bodies. I agree that each full-fledged cicada is a majestic specimen, and I find their uncertain, drunken flight very endearing. But I don’t care much for the nymph stage, in which they first appear after their long gestation period. They tend to tunnel out of the ground in unsettling droves around dusk, each cicada leaving a perfectly round, approximately half-inch hole in the earth. D didn’t even mind the look of these initial wingless, moist, pale beige creatures. Unattractive, I would call them. Or better yet, just plain icky. D wasn’t put off by the discarded exoskeletons that clung to tree branches, reminding me of some dreaded dermatological condition, or the pile-up that accumulated around the bases of our old maples. She wasn’t bothered by the noise, a sound like the roar of a hundred generators and power mowers. And she wasn’t even offended by the smell of pervasive decay, rather like the scent of rotting shrimp, that marks the winding down of cicada season.
It will be interesting to see the scope of this coming invasion and how it affects us this time. Will it be really be an onslaught? Will D, at fourteen, be as eager to mix it up with the cicadas as she was nine years ago? And what about Kiko? While he thrills at the hunt for the single buzzing cicada in the grass, this will be his first major brood year. Will he try to gorge himself on the insects, as some dogs do? Considering his finicky nature and dainty habits, this seems unlikely.
The Cicada Clock is ticking. Recent mornings here have been unusually chilly, but surely spring-like weather will arrive before long. Will the warming earth send these Rip Van Winkles of the insect world out just in time for H’s family’s Memorial Day visit? We were together, memorably, nine years ago for the holiday. As we watched D enjoy the kiddie rides at our local carnival, cicadas hitched rides on our clothing and in our hair. Occasionally a particularly clumsy new flyer would careen into one of our faces. Will this year’s start to summer bring with it another such noteworthy interspecies reunion?
Happy Mother’s Day to all the dear mothers out there. No matter what the attached modifier may be–whether young, old, grand, great-grand, or in-law–may you all be appreciated and honored by those you have nurtured, by those whose hearts you have touched, by those whose lives you have helped mold into meaningful shape. May women who mothered the children of others be included today as well, because their love and support may be equally powerful and equally cherished.
My mother, as a young woman. Because she’s smart, funny, warm and loving, she tends to be surrounded by young friends who wish she were their mother. I am glad to share her, but even more glad to be able to call her my own Mama.
Mama, in 2005, with my daughter, who made me a proud Mama, too.
We arrived at our London destination around midnight. For the next few nights we would be bunking in a dormitory of King’s College Hall. Instead of five or six of us in a communal chamber, as before in France, each of us had our own tiny cell. The barren, ascetic rooms offered limited distraction, and you’d think this would have been our chance to get some rest. But no. Katie, Jackie and I stayed up that first night until around 3 AM, indulging in giddy doses of adolescent humor.
The next morning we were in a fog of drowsiness on a bus rolling through London. Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben, still black with the coal dust of a century and a half, were blurry, dream-like images dancing improbably before my eyes. Once we began our walking tour, I was sufficiently awake to be irked at not having more time to spend in the Abbey, and at seeing the Tower of London only from the outside.
That afternoon we went shopping at Selfridge’s and Marks & Spencer. According to my journal entry, I wasn’t especially impressed; I described them simply as large department stores similar to Atlanta’s now long-defunct Rich’s. I’ve never been an enthusiastic shopper. Postcards and guidebooks were my primary European purchases, but in Marks & Spencer, Rebecca and I bought identical fuzzy white wool sweaters. London meals and evenings are among the vaguest of my memories. I’m certain, though, that we prolonged our nightly festivities at the dorm until well into the morning hours.
On our second day in England, we were back on the bus, heading to Stratford-on-Avon. During the drive, we were all elated when snow began to fall. Snow! In April! This offered further, indisputable proof that we were very far from home. Has a snowflake ever fallen in Atlanta in April? Possibly, but if so, it was terribly lonely, and it melted immediately. The English countryside was as beautiful as that of France. Scenes worthy of Christmas cards were plentiful: medieval-style barns, peacefully grazing horses and sheep, neat, increasingly white fields criss-crossed with ancient rock walls. We stopped briefly in Oxford, where we got off the bus for a glance at Christ Church College. The visit was long enough for me to fall in love with this town of unbelievably gorgeous student housing, and to determine to get back there one day, when I could linger, and wander.
In Stratford, we hit the usual tourist attractions, including Shakespeare’s birthplace and the cottage of his wife, Anne Hathaway. That evening, many of us at last managed some sleep. Unfortunately it was during a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry V. We were not at all prepared for the play; we had no idea of the plot, the actors’ Elizabethan English was indecipherably foreign, and we weren’t anywhere near the action.
Outside Anne Hathaway’s cottage in Stratford.
After our extended nap in Shakespeare’s theatre, we headed back to London. The last thing I remember about the trip was our group assembling the next morning on the sidewalk in front of King’s College, awaiting the bus that would take us to Gatwick Airport.
The long trip home has completely dropped from my memory, and in a way, I’m glad. In the years since, I’ve learned that going home requires far more time than getting wherever it is we’re going. It also demands vaster sums of patience and fortitude. But in my mind, I can skip right over all those tiresome hours of waiting and traveling. Suddenly, I’m my fourteen year old self, hugging my young parents in Atlanta’s as yet unremodeled Hartsfield Airport. Soon we’d be turning into our driveway, and I’d see that the azaleas were in full bloom. Daddy would be unlocking the door to the back hall, and my dog Popi would be waiting at the top of the stairs. I’d look into his eyes and know that he missed me. I’d drop my bag in my room and look around at the familiar surroundings of home. I would be completely happy. Happy to be home. And happy to know that one day, somehow or other, I’d get back to those far-away places that now seemed a little closer.
Most of us were not ready for this photo, taken outside King’s College, but we were ready to go home. Our remarkable teacher, Mrs. Correll, smiling at back left, is her usual cheerful self.
After our night at the lycée in Saint-Malo (See European Vacation ’75, Part III), our group was back on the bus early the next morning, heading to Le Havre and the Channel for our crossing to England. I was surprised at the size and relative luxury of the ferry; I guess I had been expecting something bare-bones and rudimentary. I hadn’t imagined that it might house several restaurants, shops and comfortable lounge areas. It was fortunate that it was roomy and fairly pleasant, as the crossing took over six hours. My friends and I wandered freely all over the boat, exploring every level.
When someone discovered a door that led outside, we stumbled upon a real thrill: the open decks. We had never felt such a fierce, strong wind. We were amazed that we could lean into the wind at a sharp angle and remain there, without falling. With the wind behind us, we could jump and be carried as though in flight. Luckily, no one sailed over the railings into the icy waters of the Channel.
After a while, when we began to feel the chill, we noticed two teenage boys hanging around farther down the deck. They were older than we were, probably around sixteen, and they weren’t involved in wind experiments. We could hear their English accents. Evidently this Channel crossing was old hat to them. They soon walked by, ostentatiously ignoring us, trying to appear caught up in their own conversation. When we returned inside, we saw that they remained near the door, still deeply immersed in their dialogue. We began once again to ramble throughout the ship, to see if the boys would follow us. They did. We conspicuously refused to acknowledge their presence, and they did the same to us, despite trailing us at a distance.
After a meandering circuit of the ship, the boys climbed the stairs to the observatory lounge. We remained on the level below. Not long afterwards, several younger English boys appeared. They looked to be about twelve or so. After much heated whispering among themselves, with frequent glances in our direction, they shyly approached. It didn’t take long for them to start firing off questions: How old were we? Where did we live? After each couple of inquiries they would dash upstairs to the observatory, only to return quickly with more questions.
The older boys, apparently, had opted to send in scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Once the younger boys had run through all the questions they could think of, they revealed their purpose. They had been sent to report that there were two “lads” on the upper level who would like to meet us. Due to their accents, we couldn’t at first decipher the word “lads.” Two whats? Lads? Oh, lads! How unbelievably quaint! None of us had ever before been pursued by a “lad!”
Nevertheless, we weren’t interested in the elder lads. They appeared overly serious and lacking in humor. Tall and gangly, they verged on being men. Although we were flattered by the attention, we knew we had no business flirting with men, or almost-men. Looking back, I wonder at their interest in us, several goofy, wind-blown fourteen year olds. Maybe our American-ness gave us some cachet.
Jackie, Rebecca, me and the mighty wind.
The younger lads, though, were an altogether different type: funny, cute, spunky, sweet, smaller than we were, and non-threatening. Their Englishness was simultaneously exotic and reassuring. They reminded me of members of Fagin’s gang of urchins in the Disney movie, Oliver! We never went upstairs to meet the older boys, but spent considerable time chatting with the twelve-year olds. They told us they lived in Staffordshire and were returning from a school “holiday” in Normandy.
I talked primarily with a golden-haired, blue-eyed boy named Graeme Bailey. He gave me his address, which he wrote on a page torn from a small notebook. On the other side was his drawing of a soldier. The address was other-worldly and old-fashioned. It included only one number, and that was a single digit. In looks, in name (and its spelling), and in accent, Graeme was perfectly, enchantingly English. But because he was so open and approachable, before we said goodbye I felt as though I had known him for a long while.
That night, I wrote in my journal that this had been one of the best days of the trip, even though all we did was travel. As I remember, I was feeling rather elated, wide open to life’s possibilities. Before setting foot in Britain, I had met a quintessential English lad, one who took a friendly, cheerful interest in me.
I think I was beginning to grasp the transcendent power of travel. It’s a truly wonderful thing to experience first-hand the vastness and variety of our world’s natural and cultural beauty. This is certainly an adequate reason to roam the globe. But to me, the real power of travel is this: it reveals the depth and strength of the bonds that unite us as a human family. Custom, language, differences in physical appearance–these are simply thin layers of veneer, the candy coating on an M&M. No matter where we were born or where we live, we are more alike than different. This awareness equips us with a powerful force for living with compassion and understanding.
One of the most appealing features of our little corner of Northern Virginia is the beauty of its landscape. It’s pleasantly hilly, interestingly rolling, never aggressively steep. Woodlands are interspersed with open fields, vestigial traces of the many farms that dotted the area in the last century. We consider ourselves fortunate to live in one of the last few surviving farmhouses. On their 200 acres, the original owners planted wheat and raised chickens. They had a small apple orchard and a sizable flower garden.
On the other side of the winding county road, where big fields sweep down to small lakes, some families still keep horses. There are charming little stables, grassy paddocks and old vine-covered wooden fences. When Kiko and I walk there, it’s hard to believe we’re in suburbia, a place I never expected to live. We cross the road, follow a short path through the woods, and we’re suddenly somewhere more remote. It’s almost like a quick trip through time and space to the countryside of my childhood at my grandparents’ farm in Kentucky. Early on a spring morning, it’s an especially satisfying escape.
One morning last week, when the sky was still dark, we were awakened by a sound we hadn’t heard in several months: loud, rumbling thunder. Kiko had been asleep on the floor between my bed and his. As I expected, he was sitting up, looking around uneasily. I could read his little doggie mind: Oh nooooo!Is that what I think it is? The terrible monster is back! It didn’t die! Where is it? Will I see it this time?
Kiko has only one real fear. In the presence of snarling, threatening, enormous dogs, he holds his head up, cool and composed. He has never met a person who frightened him, although he barks with some alarm at those who insist on wearing large, unflattering shoes with shorts. As a puppy, he was afraid of garbage trucks and wheeled trash bins, but now they do not phase him. Thunder, however, is another story.
That morning, he quickly vanished from my room. When he returned a while later and jumped up in bed with me, his fur was wet in spots. Strange, I thought.
At the slightest suggestion of thunder, Kiko begins a frantic, unsatisfying routine. First he searches for visible signs of the approaching menace. He stares intently at the windows and darts from door to door. He recognizes flashes of light as extremely bad omens, likewise the appearance and sound of rain. Once his worst fears are confirmed, he seeks a better place. Unfortunately, there is no better place. He attempts to maneuver himself into confined spaces: closets, under desks, behind arm chairs, even behind the toilet or in the angle of the open refrigerator door. Once, when we had removed the kitchen trash bin from its cabinet, he sought refuge there. But no place is ever safe enough. He is soon on to the next spot.
If all this fails to console, and it always fails, his last resort is physical closeness with one of the pack. As I’ve mentioned before, if all is well, Kiko doesn’t need to be in your lap, or in your face (he’s not a kisser, unless you’ve just eaten cheese). While very social when we’re out walking, at home he prefers solitude and the freedom to enjoy a variety of spots for unencumbered relaxation and sleep. He’d rather you not disturb his rest by joining him on the sofa. He may begin the night downstairs in the playroom. Toward morning, I may find him sleeping in his bed in the corner of my room. Occasionally he stretches out on the foot of my bed, but he never remains there long.
Only thunder prompts him to get close, and then he can’t get close enough. Usually he is too nervous to sit or lie down. If he catches you off guard, he may try to stand on you, perhaps on your chest or neck. This is extremely unpleasant for everyone involved. Or he tries to sit on your pillow, which I will not allow. Wrapping him in a towel or the bedspread offers some solace. I considered buying a Thundershirt, but those I’ve seen appear to be hot and heavy. He’s already panting excessively; I could imagine a thick, binding coat leading to spontaneous combustion.
As I readied breakfast for our daughter that day, Kiko stuck by me like glue, huddling in the space between my legs and the kitchen cabinets. When I opened the dishwasher, he considered getting in it. The thunder continued, so I turned to the only remedy that verges on effective: Xanax. Prescribed by the vet, it takes the edge off, so he is less distraught. It allows him to cease roaming, lie down and minimize the panting and shaking.
When H appeared for breakfast, I asked if he knew why Kiko’s fur had been wet. He did. When Kiko had left me, H had been in the shower. Frenzied desperation seems to endow our dog with a near-magical power to open any door. Suddenly, there he was, in the shower with H, trying to dodge the drops. This was a first, even for our weird little dog. He hates getting wet nearly as much as he hates thunder. When he realized there was no escaping the water, he began pawing at the shower door. Once released, he dashed upstairs to find me.
Nothing else had worked. He had abandoned all dignity and was prepared to snuggle. I had been expecting him, so he he missed the chance to stand on my throat.
Did I just see a flash? Did I hear thunder? Here it goes again!
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
This photo shows the puddle after a fresh rain.
