Category Archives: Community

Community, Nature

Local Blossoms, Too

We don’t have to drive to DC to see cherry blossoms.  We simply look out our windows.  Or go out on the screened porch.  Or walk down the street.   

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The views are not quite as grand and sweeping as in DC.   We have no national monuments in our neighborhood.  Only ordinary houses and cars.  We don’t have thousands of cherry trees.  But we do have quite a few, and they are, thankfully, easily accessible and simply waiting to be appreciated. 

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The short-lived blooming season is nearly over for trees of the pale pink Yoshino variety.  Clouds of delicate petals swirl in the air with every breeze and float down to dot the greening grass like snow.  As my neighbor drives past my window, her car appears to be covered in confetti. 

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But cherry blossom time continues, as the darker pink Kwanzan variety trees are now beginning to bloom.  To follow in the lineup are the other faithful superstars of spring:  the dogwoods, lilacs, azaleas, peonies and roses.  They’re patiently waiting in the wings, rehearsing their parts, listening for cues.  They’ll play their roles with charisma, dignity and flair.  And when their brief sensational season ends, they’ll be quietly, diligently preparing for next year’s show.  How reassuring. 

Community, Family, Parenthood

Days of Dr. Seuss

I know I’m a day late with a Dr. Seuss post.  But with our snow day yesterday, I assume that local schools will be honoring the author’s birthday today.  During my daughter’s elementary school years, it was a big deal, indeed.  Everyone brought in their favorite Dr. Seuss books.  Children, teachers and staff dressed up.  There would be an army of Things 1 and 2, and Cats-in-Hats by the dozens roaming the halls.  My daughter and I tried to find a character for her that wouldn’t be over-represented. 

For the 100th Birthday celebration in 2004, we succeeded. 

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 Can you guess? 

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Does this help? 

Probably not.  My daughter returned home somewhat downcast because no one recognized her character.  When she was in Kindergarten, she was neither skilled at winking nor bold enough to tell people who she meant to be. 

We thought it was so clear.  Obviously, she’s a Yink.  The Yink from One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.  Maybe you don’t have a lot of ink.  Because if you do, you should get a Yink.  Dr. Seuss, of course, says it best: 

This one, I think, is called a Yink.

He likes to wink. 

He likes to drink. 

He likes to drink, and drink, and drink.

The thing he likes to drink is ink.

The ink he likes to drink is pink.

He likes to wink and drink pink ink.

SO. . .

If you have a lot of ink,

then you should get

a Yink, I think. 

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The Yink pages from One Fish Two Fish, as colored by my daughter at age five. 

A couple of years later, we opted for a more mainstream character.

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This time, we took no chances.  In case the reindeer horn, the floppy dog ears and the furry shirt rang no bells, my daughter wrote “Max” in big letters on the red collar.

Today, with a vague pang of regret, I notice that my daughter left for school dressed in the typical clothes of a sixteen-year old urban American girl.  My Yink has grown up (thanks to all that healthy pink ink).  My little dog Max is no longer so little. 

Maybe you look back with fondness on a time when you outfitted a small Fox-in-Sox, a Horton, a Lorax, or a Sam-I-Am.  Perhaps you kissed your Sneetch or Little Cindy Lou Who goodbye this very morning.  Maybe you worked for weeks crafting an amazing Green Eggs and Ham Costume.  Whatever the case, may your day be enlivened by the light-hearted, fresh-faced wisdom of Dr. Seuss. 

So. . .

be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray

or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,

you’re off to Great Places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So. . .get on your way!

–Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

Sick of February Yet?

This month is notorious. Fortunately it’s the shortest. Here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country, February is all about the snow, or all about the cold, or the wind. Or some uncomfortable combination of the three.  I’m trying not to complain. I know it could be worse. I could live in Boston, Buffalo or Sioux Falls. But the frigid whiteness of this mid-Atlantic winter has lost its luster. It has become tiresome. 

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Here in our area, the last half of the month is the worst. The week before and after Presidents’ Day tends to usher in our deepest snows and fiercest cold snaps.   The best-laid plans crumble. Why do we continue to make plans in February?

This year a mini-blizzard roared in on the evening of Saturday the 14th at 6:30, a dirty little trick on diligent Valentine date-nighters. Within minutes, all was white, the air and ground alike. Snow piled up and swirled wildly as the wind howled and the temperature dropped to zero.  Typically, in the face of such weather, I would happily retreat to the warmth of the sofa with a movie. But my husband was out of town (that’s another story), my daughter had two parties to attend, and I had said yes to a neighborhood gathering. All activities, unfortunately, required driving.  My focus for the evening shifted from enjoyment to getting out and back without injury or incident. When I picked up my daughter and a friend from their final party, the snow-coated roads glittered with chunks of ice resembling broken glass. When the tires lost traction at an especially slick intersection and the anti-lock brakes kicked in to no avail, luckily we were the only car around.  

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The following icy, windy Sunday morning, Kiko and I suffered through possibly the most miserable dog walk ever. (No matter how inhospitable the weather, my fastidious little dog requires three walks a day for his mental and physical health. See here.) I wondered if we should brave the roads for church.  A blinking light on the answer machine put that worry to rest: church was canceled, despite special preparations for a one-of-a-kind community children’s service.

Monday, Presidents’ Day, was a holiday and day off school. We managed to get in a dentist appointment for my daughter before more snow began falling steadily that afternoon. Storm Watch Accu-Weather-on-Your Side teams were breathless: this storm would be the Big One. No doubt there was not a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread to be had on any grocery shelf in the DC metro area.

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We got snow, perhaps six inches or so. It was too bad that H wouldn’t be around to clear our long driveway with the powerful snow blower he bought after the blizzards of 2009 and ’10. As a boy growing up in Rochester, New York, he made money shoveling driveways and the occasional roof. He dreamed of one day owning a truly prodigious snow blower. That dream had come true, but once the big red contraption took its place in our garage (alongside a variety of mowers and other items for suburban lawn and garden maintenance), the snows stopped. Last year they resumed, in a big way.  On most powdery white mornings H is out with his monster of a machine. He clears our driveway; he clears neighbors’ driveways. He’s a local Snow Day hero.

But this time he wasn’t here. I have to say it: he was in Aruba, perfecting a windsurfing move, the elusive jibe, a complicated change of direction done while continuing to skim the water. It was something he’d been wanting to do for years.  It required perfect conditions, namely strong, steady wind, which can’t be found just anywhere. We’d agreed that he should take the long Presidents’ Day weekend and just do it. But I hadn’t considered that he was leaving D and me here to face the dastardly February weather on our own.

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H suggested we FaceTime him so he could coach D on using the snow blower.  He’d shown her how to work it last winter, but the details were hazy. Numerous attempts to start it up failed.  We were about to give up when H realized that one little knob wasn’t turned in the right direction.  That done, the machine roared to life and D set off down the driveway. Thank goodness she’s her father’s daughter.

And while the accumulation wasn’t as dramatic as expected, it was more than enough to shut us down. Further cancellations rolled in. No school on Tuesday. No Fat Tuesday Pancake Supper at our church. No school Wednesday, and no Ash Wednesday service at our church and many others.

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That was just the first series of February snow cancellations. Since then, they’ve continued, requiring the ongoing reshuffling of plans. Today, for example, with snow beginning early this morning, school was first delayed, then canceled an hour later. With so many days off school, extra-curricular activities are postponed repeatedly.  Rescheduling is tricky, as events pile atop one another. During my daughter’s elementary school years, snow days for her were exactly that: unstructured free days to play in the snow. Now they involve the stress of wondering if and when the student-directed One-Acts will take place.  How will they impact previously scheduled activities? And then there’s the thorny problem of when to do AP World reading and pre-calculus problems when there’s a beautiful snow on the ground and friends who want to take the day off to meet for lunch in town.

Oh, February, aren’t you over yet?

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Community, Family, Nature, Walking the Dog

A Little Late, but We’ll Take it: the Snow Day Arrives

 

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We knew it was cold this morning when we could barely see out the frost-covered upstairs windows.

We didn’t even have to wait for more white stuff to fall for a snow day to be declared.  My daughter learned, upon waking at 7:01, that today’s two-hour school delay (due to single-digit temperatures and below zero wind chills) had been changed at the last minute to a cancellation.  She was briefly euphoric.  Then she fell back into a deep sleep for several hours.  I guess that’s part of her job as a teenager.  I would have done the same thing, had I ever had the gift of a snow day.  They were pretty rare in Atlanta when I was growing up. 

My daughter’s celebratory cheers roused Kiko, who refused to return to his bed.  We were out walking earlier than I would have preferred.  Our porch thermometer read 8 degrees.  Now that’s chilly.  Even my little snow dog got more than he bargained for.  His choice is to walk in the road if possible, but once weather-treated, the mix of salt and ice stings his paw pads.  Every few steps, he picks up a foot pitifully and attempts to limp along.  The going is particularly tough when he’s favoring two paws on the same side.  I brush the yucky stuff off with my mitten and try to steer him onto the fresh, untreated snow.  Sometimes he gives up completely and sits down, looking forlorn.  Then he stubbornly struggles his way back onto the messy road, where the process begins again.  With all these delays, my toes (and wet fingers) don’t feel so good either.  Snowy day dog walking at its least enjoyable, I must say. 

Hurry, spring! 

Community, Family, Holiday, Nature, Walking the Dog

A White (last day of) Christmas

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The first snow of 2015 arrived here in Northern Virginia in the early hours of January 6.  This final, twelfth day of Christmas marks the visit of the Magi, who followed a star to worship and present their rare gifts to the baby King.  

You could say, then, that we had a somewhat delayed white Christmas.  

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Much to the disappointment and astonishment of my daughter and other local kids, school went on as usual, without even a delay.  After our ten snow days last year, we’ve come to associate even the slightest rumor of a snowflake with a school cancellation.  The snowfall was heavier than predicted, so our winding old roads saw many accidents and delays.  The elementary school bus in our neighborhood was so long in coming, and reports of road conditions so bad, that parents were discussing simply letting the children stay home. 

The dog walking, however, was fine.  Kiko and his friend Ziggy the ridgeback were playfully exuberant.  Kiko had to show Ziggy how fast he can run, stop and turn, repeatedly.  The temperature was in the low 20s, and the snow was the light, powdery kind that doesn’t clump and irritate furry paws.  Both dogs looked festive in their wispy Santa snow beards. 

Because of this morning’s extensive traffic problems, the kids can probably rest assured that the next time snow is forecasted in our area, it will come with a school closing.  My daughter, no doubt, is betting on it. 

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

On Christmas Eve Especially, That Light in the Darkness

This Christmas Eve here in Virginia dawned gray and rainy, as it did along most of the east coast.  According to the weather forecast, the day will remain gray and rainy.  The heaviest rain is likely to coincide with our church’s live outdoor nativity.  There may be thunderstorms. 

At last year’s nativity, for the first time, our human participants, that motley, multi-aged crew of holy family, shepherds and kings, were joined by several four-legged friends.  These included a burro, a sheep and a goat.  Kiko found the burro quite fascinating. The burro ignored Kiko.   

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But best of all, there was Samson the camel.  Samson surveyed the scene with a majestic air of intelligence and calm.  He seemed to enjoy nuzzling his many appreciative fans.  He and his mate Delilah, who had another engagement, live on a farm in rural Virginia.  Samson’s handler appears with him in appropriately Biblical costume and beard. 

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We all hope bad weather won’t keep Samson away.  I doubt it will; he’s a sturdy sort.  Last year, he was unperturbed in the face of a frigid, persistent wind. 

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We know with absolute certainly that nothing can extinguish the true light of Christ that dawns in our dark world.  It’s the flame that glows within us, if we let it, all our lives, illuminating our paths and those of others with whom we share the road. 

I wrote about that light in the darkness several years ago in a Christmas Eve post.  It continues to express my thoughts for the day, and it can be found here.

This Christmas Eve, may we feel the warmth of the miraculous light, and may we keep it burning.   

Community, Family, Holiday

Veterans’ Day 2014

Thank you to those who are fighting, or have fought, our country’s battles for freedom and righteousness.  Words are inadequate, your sacrifices immeasurable.  On this Veterans’ Day and every day, you have our deep gratitude. 

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My father outside the Casserne in Regensburg, ca. 1947.  Daddy served in the U.S. occupational forces following World War II.  

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My Uncle Bill, on the right, ca. 1945.  My mother’s brother served as a frogman in the Philippines during World War II. 

Community, Family, Friendship

Year Three for WTV

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It’s been three years since I began my little blog.  Like the tenacious wild trumpet vine for which it’s named, it keeps on creeping on.

Wild Trumpet Vine is, for me, a convenient, inexpensive form of therapy.  It’s my way of taking stock of life.  It helps me keep my perspective, helps me see beyond the tedious, insistent busy-ness of daily living.  It reminds me of what’s real, important, worth contemplating, worth sharing with family and friends, worth remembering, worth passing on to my daughter.  Sometimes, as I sit and think and write, I discover something I should have known all along.

Occasionally, I write something that strikes a chord with another person, and I hear about it.  I love it when that happens.  Sometimes it’s from someone unexpected–perhaps a childhood friend I haven’t seen in thirty years or so.  This is a real gift.  It’s proof of the resiliency and elasticity of the ties that bind us in a  web of community.

Many thanks to all my WTV readers!  And many thanks for reaching out!

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For more about why I write, see here.

Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

London, Revisited

Arriving in London’s  St. Pancras station after a twenty-five year absence, the first of many changes that had overtaken the city since then began to wash over me like a wave.  In 1989, work on the Channel Tunnel, following decades of planning, discussion, and ongoing set-backs, was in its very early stages.  Back then it was still called the “Chunnel,” and its progress, or lack thereof, was daily tabloid fodder.  The media eagerly fanned the flames of unease about the possibility of a land link to the Continent opening up a deadly rabies pipeline.  Enormous, rambling St. Pancras had sat largely derelict.  With its brooding red-brick towers and aura of neglect, it could have been mistaken for a Victorian mental asylum.  It was gratifying to see how beautifully the station had been restored and updated to accommodate the Eurostar line.  Had it been in a U.S. city, it more likely would have met  the wrecking ball than renovation.

Emerging onto the streets of London, a less welcome transformation confronted me.  The classic, classy black cabs–those timeless Hackney carriages–where were they?  I knew they still existed, in a somewhat updated form, and in colors other than black.  But the streets outside the station swarmed with garish  purple and orange minivans.  We could have been in Cleveland.  We settled for one such vehicle to take us to our hotel on Grosvenor Square.  Oh well.

One thing that had not changed, however, was the near-anarchic state of London’s traffic, which tends to be particularly alarming upon first arriving.  Cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians are constantly darting aggressively from unexpected directions, especially at round-abouts.  About half the vehicles appear to be confused by the concept of left-side driving.  Our driver was frequently outraged at the ignorance and rudeness of others on the road.  Some things, then, never change.  In comparison, Paris’s streets were those of a sleepy backwater.

As we made our way  through the chaotic congestion, in sudden fits and stops, I caught a glimpse of the new British Library next door to St. Pancras.  When I left the U.K, it had been no more than a hazy, perhaps-some-day project.  Most of my daily dissertation research had taken place in the manuscript room of the old library, then part of the British Museum on Great Russell Street.  Less often, I worked under the vast grand dome of the historic main reading room.  The new facility, perhaps a model of sleek twenty-first century efficiency, struck me as lacking in charm.

But it didn’t matter. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever turn the brightly painted and gilded pages of a fourteenth-century Apocalypse again, in the new library or elsewhere.  I had abandoned my academic ties, let all those bridges quietly smolder away to ashes.  I’d come to the conclusion, as I was finishing my dissertation, that a career in college teaching wasn’t for me.  That was fortunate, since jobs in my field were extremely rare.  I have no regrets about the course my life has taken.  Do I?  No, I don’t.

But I do miss the chance to page through those amazing medieval books, written and illustrated by hand.  Their quirky images, typically more humorous than frightening, despite the accompanying text of Revelations: the dragons that resemble perky, pointy-eared dogs sitting for treats (in my mind, now, I see Kiko in every one), and the New Jerusalem descending from heaven, looking like a Gothic princess’s dream doll house.  I can point out some of the books to my daughter, although they’ll have to remain safely inside their hermetically sealed glass display cases.  See this one?  I studied it.  I had it in front of me for an entire week.  It was removed from display so I could examine it!  I think she’d be impressed.   Someday, I’ll show her.  But probably not on this trip.

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