So goes hopes for a predictable season when heat has abated and what counts as normal could return...
how banal one's hopes can seem these days.
Many my thoughts still focus on the uneasy transition between so called rural and urban life - i.e. travel between small town Montana (largest city that is) and the paradoxical place that is Washington DC. How same and how different the two can be. A Native American (Crow) artist named Ben Pease, speaking recently at the Yellowstone Art Museum in Billings, described Billings as a 'border town, ' representing a clash of cultures between the two worlds. His talk was on how much art and culture are related but seldom considered in that light. The importance of images and their influence in our lives. The border, of course, between life then and now, when there is a revival of interest and consternation over the past existence of schools on or near reservations intended to try taking the 'native' out of young children and turning them into what passed as 'regular people, stripped of their cultural background.
Of course the title makes little sense but it does fill in some time until we can really come to grips with a new month, the harbinger of the future when schools are back in session and Congress wrestles with itself and duties to escape or ignore.
Meanwhile, vacation troops are moving around everywhere - full flights, errant weather, unreconciled needs. The grizzled man on my left aboard a short stretch ( $371 for 50 minutes of airtime on Southwest, between Buffalo and BWI) complained how he had had a bad accident recently and how it took several months to get recompense. He lived in Florida, was returning from what I took to be a family visit. He seemed to want me to know why he was bent over, awaiting the wheelchair to speed him onward. On my right was a woman from South Carolina returning from a visit with family up north where she previously lived and so had been immersed in doctor checkups, with former stalwart helpers. Lupus, she said - and there are two strains. She had great-granddaughters presumably scattered around. A five hour airport stay awaited her until her connection. "Last time I just ate crab cake." Now just why strangers felt the need to dwell on their miseries but I dared assume that each was fully engrossed in his/her physical health to the less interesting subject of the wellbeing of the country at large.
Of struggles elsewhere, a portion of my sympathy goes to the city of New York facing criticism from so many ends. The New York Times recently devoted an entire editorial asking for, it would seem in their word, a 'resurrection of the greatest city in the world.' It opts for 'grit and ingenuity,' two qualities I would guess are the ones most often in short supply. Especially in the summer's heat madness, where escape from the immediate environment is more pressing. So go back to the drawing board, you leaders and developers. We NYC lovers are helpless except to cheer you on.
And back at the ranch figuratively speaking: where I am part of the month is suburbia Montana, far from the fabled mountain surround, where some residential communities are landscaped with a mix of real grass and stones, pines and aspens, picture perfect. Where the houses all seem constructed of similar materials in a different design but somehow can all seem similar. What unites them is a stone pillar by the curb within which is the mailbox erected just-so to allow a postal truck driver (likely out of the familiar uniform) need not get outside to deliver the paper goods. And the giant trash pickup conveyance has similar restrictions: cans of uniform size and height that allow the single driver to control a huge mechanical arm to reach up, out, down, around and over dumping contents from the comfort of his seat.
Ah but rural suburbia can be different in so many ways. Conversation styles vary but the custom is to acknowledge strangers while walking or biking on paths built by the town for outdoor exercise. Drivers exercise restraint when backed up in what is considered heavy traffic: no or little horn beeping. Patience wins the day where, of course, the views are fine so why complain. A 'town ranch' is no surprise to see in those burbs, little or big. Horses grazing in a sublimely wide grassy field. And on some days of mottled weather a mountain can resemble a cloud and vice versa.
Why so much heat in so many places, why now? To be determined...as 90 degrees and higher takes over and humidity most days is way up beyond comfort. What is the 'good' about summer anyway, except for the longer light.
Apart from the discomfort, what use, too, is the well-meaning off-putting question a person sometimes says to another person he/she knows only slightly. "How Are You?" or "How Have You Been?"
Well, I could say, "I've an itch in one eye that is bothersome but not fatal. My microbiome seems to have taken over my life, becoming unruly in the most embarrassing ways. It seems to have its own mind about things. And I've arthritis in one index finger that shows slight swelling. My bunion isn't getting any better either. Skin dry and liable to bruise at the slightest bump. "
Better perhaps might be the answer "Well, I know how I've been but how about you?" Wait to see what unfolds. You might get a litany of woes that will take your mind off your own physical and mental condition. Surely, that someone has troubles far more difficult than your own. You just have to ask.
Or maybe switch the conversation to: What are you up to? Because that is a more positive approach - the assumption that a person before you has energy, is not ailing, conceivably would like to talk about his/her own interests and might lead to a discussion of the interests you two have in common.
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No photo needed - if you are alive and aware while walking the streets of the US capital city, called, dismissively, a 'District'. Much to see and appreciate if you are in good enough health to stomach the air, pollution, smoke, etc. Go out early or late. Another question often heard in social scenes: 'And what do you do all day?" That is directed at almost anyone without a Title, so beholden to denizens of the fabled bureaucracy. The implication is that, if a person is not noticeably employed, he or she must be 'subsidized,' whether privately or publicly, or in that indefinite phase called retirement. Hence, what comes often is a sense of freedom not to be pegged at all. Often a longtime resident finds he/she relates well to a neighborhood simply by being a longterm rental or owner. A more innocent inquiry such as 'where are you from? stems from a common assumption that no one likely has been born in the DC. It sparks a conversation along neutral lines and can lead to a rich conversation of one kind or another.
Or just look at the vitality of the sidewalks: the guardians of the pre-school age children going by in little wagons like trains or walking hand-in-hand in groups, all with their water bottles and (some) sunhat. Do they have sunscreen on them, I wonder? Are they even cognizant of their surroundings, with buses and cars whizzing by? Then the dog walkers doing choreography as they marshal their pets adroitly on pedestrian walkways. The Eastern Market plaza one morning was filled with young people dancing in some elaborate joyful formation in the tune of an inchoate boombox. The dancers singing in identical t-shirt each with a partner and some shorter ones matched with tall. Adolescents. "Singing for the Light," as the shirts read. What was this all about I wondered. "Singing for Jesus," I was told when I asked a woman standing by who looked like a chaperone. I didn't ask further, thinking maybe a Christian summer camp embracing public space with abandon. They looked thoroughly engaged, and happy. Likely they had practiced often together and took as their right the chance to show off on public property. Probably no permit was requested - likely not even required.
Having a sense of wonder: It's all about being in the moment. And understanding why that sense or abandonment to the scene is so difficult to acquire. How, perhaps, only with time and years a person can really learn to live in the moment, to appreciate diversity in the widest way. The shapes of people and buildings, the sounds of city or country life like a symphony (not always pleasant). To go with the flow. That terrible cliche that mindfulness 'experts' have exploited for gain. Whatever the conditions, a hot mid-summer time has some advantages. Fewer people in public, many on vacation. A better time to shop for the everyday necessities and repairs. Taking each day as it comes. Knowing you are at nature's whim in so many ways.
Take time to make time: engage others, try the small talk with strangers. Show a smile when the children go by. Say hello to dogs since their owners likely will respond. Make friends in superficial ways in order to improve your image of yourself. Surprise can be its own reward. It takes considerable self-effacement. .Create your own wellbeing by assuming strangers like to be surprised. It's primal.
So to the market on a Sunday afternoon for good cheese and sword bites but also to be a social animal. From the cheese man two slivers of the same kind of cheese (he drops it from a knife into my outstretched palm) and an exchange with a woman asking for something I don't quite get - it is her accent, rounded vowels. I look at her and smile as if to ask what she is ordering. 'It's my New Zealand accent," she confesses, and, yes, I say it is different from the Australian, at which point she smiles at my observation."Best place to get the best cheese," I remark and she nods in agreement. We could go on from there but by now her purchase is in her hand. Hooray for soccer I say - New Zealand now being host to women's soccer World Cup now getting frost page status.
I turn to leave so not to miss the chance to talk to the young man vendor at an outside stand the frozen meat (organic, etc.) and CBD bottles beside tables of wonderfully fresh greens and radishes. A vendor at the cheese stand inside suddenly appears - looking to buy. I pick up a $6 bag of basil - and I'm on my way home. At the traffic-free intersection, closed off on weekends, I stop to admire a small group of solidly mature men in red t-shirts singing accapella with a director offering introductory remarks before each tune. No pieces of music in sight. Simple old songs rendered full of heart. 'Take Me Back to West Virginia.." . So goes an amble through my 'hood. But I always look around carefully to see where the 'mystery man' - bearded and athletic - has claimed space for his shopping cart (and more) full of assorted (miscellaneous with a capital M) belongings. At one point, on a quiet sun-filled day, he sat fully clothes atop one of the splash pad's sprays looking fully content, almost like a portable statue.
So go the wonders of a city stroll.
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Not so wonderful the slow release of water from a ceiling pipe above the downstairs kitchen and front 'sitting room.' It made me scared, unhinged - emotional than I expected - as though my own body were being invaded, stripped down. A sanguine plumber appeared the next day to rip apart the offending spot that sent a load of dirty water onto a plastic tarp on the floor. It's surreal and revelatory to be confronted by the floor boards of a 150-year-old wooden house. As though one were somehow looking back on the history of the manse. An encounter with ghosts in physical form. Solid and strong boards, one hopes, from a time when old hard trees were used for construction in my Capitol Hill neighborhood. The offending pipe not so much so - blackened with age, emitting ugly marks on pristine walls of white and gold. The plumber measures and saws a small copper replacement to stop the leak. A gaping hole remains for days - oppressive in its way of showing the fragility of things native to the world. I'm still shocked at my own fragility in response, confused about the source of my reaction. That big ugly gash - like a wound on the house and on my spirit. I did not calm down until two days later.
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Closing out the longest month warmest (it seems to have been), I read a 'cool' story about the time recently a Los Angeles Tesla made waves (tracks?) in the small SE Montana town of Ekalaka, pop. 400, as reported in the state's very independent and substantial online publication called the Free Press. How a couple visiting a museum in that town were delighted to find unusually enough an electric charger attended to a public light post in what passes for a main street. Lo and behold the curiosity, fascination and disturbing revelation that perhaps this couple, innocently enough, were 'stealing' a considerable amount of the locale's electricity supply. Innocent because who would even be able to estimate the sum? Turns out that the conscientious couple appealed to authorities when asked if they knew what they were doing. (No,not really, just doing the usual necessary plug-in operation.) Somehow a calculation was made, so $60 was handed over to rectify their error....
Ah, the contrast between the large and small, the emotional and physical contrast for people like me who journey between such worlds.
What happened when a Tesla came to Ekalaka
A Los Angeles couple, an electric vehicle and an unattended utility outlet energized the gossip mill in the 400-person eastern Montana town last week.
The front page of the Ekalaka Eagle featuring an “unidentified electric vehicle” discovered charging on the population-400 town’s Main Street. Credit: Eric Dietrich / MTFP
An “unidentified electric vehicle” — actually a Tesla Model Y — accused of siphoning power from the local electric utility energized the gossip mill in the small eastern Montana town of Ekalaka last week, prompting front page newspaper coverage, a frantic apology and, in the end, much jawboning about the future of transportation in one of the most remote counties in the lower 48 states.
In a pre-Solstice wave of decent weather (ie no or low humidity), the wildfires in eastern Canada plaguing the East Coast the have sent a reminder that changing climate conditions are ever with us to 'temper' the most sanguine of minds. Smoky haze, high pollution counts. Bye bye to blue. And yet, pleasant surprises are ever with us, too. A person can always find reason to celebrate in new ways. Hence, on June 2, my seemingly inconsequential but remarkable trip home to DC from the MSP airport in an all-new A321N (NEO - yes, the proper title) Delta aircraft. Two weeks old and the first time transporting commercial passengers. An overhead interior filled with soothing soft checkerboard patterned ceiling; wider aisles; quieter sound. All together a novel experience. I felt compelled to celebrate - to ask for a bubbly drink. The attendant happily obliged with a small tall can of sparkling wine produced by an all-women California enterprise, appropriately titled 'Femme.' See photos...
How did April slip away? Thirty days, into a morass of decrepitude, overall laziness, insufficient energy - to do what? How does a person mark monthly achievements anyway? A short memorable excursion to the Big Apple in ideal spring weather, celebrating the long ago passing of a friend from Covid most likely pneumonia as a cover. Consult the wee datebook and find no discernible uptick in enlightenment or possibly even what might pass for joy among the living. But joy often is transitory and barely discernible. It can happen in the most unexpected ways.
Which brings me to what many some people might consider an entirely superficial pleasure that can take up time without any conscious notion of time passing - going shopping. What's more, shopping in a superbly equipped Goodwill emporium. The word emporium is used judiciously and correctly - for such outlets, many of them, sell used goods operating in a very formal fashion under their own terms. On a single ground level are arrayed clearly the items for men as separate from women, though often the two are mixed. (As in: extra large t-shirts perfect for women wanting a loose feeling over swim suits or even as substitute sleepwear.)
The back of the store is a well regulated jumble of miscellaneous home and hobby goods - the usual mix of frames, dishes, TVs, utensils, what-have-you. Everything you didn't think you needed until now. There is no need to rush through the place, barely even any need at all when you first enter with a friend, taking an hour out of the day to browse with nothing in mind but the filmiest goal of all: to buy something at a bargain price, to feel somehow free of the overpriced commercial marketplace. A treasure hunt - a game women play best.
We see few men the morning when a friend and I walk into an especially welcoming Goodwill store just off to Route 50 in Arlington, Va. Shoes to note are placed above the racks of, well just about every item of clothing a person could want. Signs point to the bargain color of the day - lavender strings are 50 % off, we see. My friend has an especially astute eye for worthy purchases; her sense of style is innate. It is admirable and not transferable.
We both have a casual incentive for prowling widely here: she is about to travel late spring to a cosmopolitan city where temps can be cooler than average. Probably she could find suitable duds in her own closet but the thrill is finding one 'extra' that will mark the trip as special. Besides there is satisfaction an ego jump, in choosing a treasure out of all the mayhem spread before us. The mingling of garments is such that seasons don't matter. She can pick out like a flying gull going for a fish in the sea the singular perfect enhancement to her wardrobe, which she always does. This time it is a light wool black and white top that registers 'designer' even though the label isn't well known name. Sometimes the thrill is pouncing on fabric that is above and beyond the polyester norm. Other times it is casing the aisles long enough to find two unrelated items - Merino wool sweater and heavy cotton Adidas trousers, for example. Casual wear elevated with that interior gleam of 'I've just invented something, just for me.'
It helps to have that motivation. In my case I was intent on sniffing out the right color top to match the multi=colored silk scarf that had inspired the previous purchase at a high-end well-branded women's clothing of a boldly colored linen trouser suit and jacket. No real style but what I challenged myself to create on my own. It was never a question of real need - maybe only the need to brag about buying a skirt for 6 dollars, a sweater for 3.
You cruise the aisles anonymously. There is no pressure to buy, to try. At the end of the hour you might well end up, as I did, with seven items costing a mere $40, including tax and a wee donation to round out the sum. The receipt tells me of the special savings - how I somehow managed to save $3.75 on each of two items mysteriously listed as 'women's sweater and women's pajamas. Never mind that original purpose is entirely irrelevant. The cashier stuffs my lot in a large plastic bag and tells me to 'have a good day,' or a familiar pleasantry that somehow cheers us on our way out the door with a sense of gratification and a sense of feeling time well spent.
Besides, it's all going to a good cause isn't it? The stacks of donor merchandise piled up outside the building under big tents, handled by employees in blue short with experienced efficiency: a reminder of how (but really?) the stuff can be recycled or somehow reinvented into funds for the less fortunate, as the saying goes. Money for training and rehab. Whatever. The name Goodwill says it all.
So onto April and its blithering weather. But also to the flowering forth of a Kwanzan cherry tree so dependable and bountiful that it spreads over four backyards on Capitol Hill. All hail the mighty beauty, for baring mighty winds, the stately plant shows its flame for three weeks running.
Then beware: Petals float down invariably, coating the ground in a pink carpet that inevitably crumbles into brown.
Another month soon gone, and mighty May is upon us. Surely a good month for travel in any hemisphere.
My hair guy maintains a chair in a salon in the Westchester complex in Northwest DC.
He needs to talk and I need to listen while he does his work. This most recent encounter took place in the first half of the month on a Friday as usual, five weeks or so since our last encounter. He bustles around, he challenges the norms of his profession. I help with the foil squares that contain a poison (dye) to give me the low lights disguising more or less the lethal white strands of hair. "You don't want to touch it. You can't deny its danger." Which is why his wife never tried and instead cuts her white hair short. Today's conversation went from the wife who took away his motorcycle long ago after she found their 14-year-old had made a key and went off on a wild ride. She did it when her husband was away. 'I was mad at her for about a day but what could I do." He never bought another one. He is a wonderful guitar player and a cancer survivor now down to138 pounds so he can at least can get back to running..if he dares.
Our conversation: He tells me about time he had his long dark shoulder length locks cut by hair product emissary Paul Mitchell; how today's parents are not doing their job; how he always stands up when an 'elder person' comes into the Metro (or a room I suppose); he banters with other clients coming and going and a colleague who has the chair next to his in this low ceilinged outpost. "You've got to drink water, drink eight glasses a day," he implores. He says this is necessary especially for older people, for health in general.
And he sweetly reassures me that I need not worry about my ever increasing age, which continues to baffle me - why so well so long. "Because you are getting god's reward for being such a good mother when you were younger."
