The Price of Progress

For years, I-85 was a mess in South Carolina every summer. We told ourselves that the time spent crawling along was an investment as they widened the way. Think how great it will be when they're done! we thought, imagining ourselves sailing through the Palmetto State on the penultimate leg of our journey from DC to Atlanta. 

And then? It was finished, and the six lanes were mostly enough to accommodate all of us vacationers, as well as the commercial traffic to the inland port of Greer. For a couple of years, we flew through South Carolina, stopping only for a half-bushel of local peaches in Gaffney, if we chose, and making it from Kings Mountain to the Tugaloo River in under two hours. 

But today, just a few miles south of the border, the route on the GPS turned an angry red,  and as we idled at the top of a low knoll, the road ahead was clogged with shoulder-to-shoulder tractor-trailers for as far as we could see. Signs warned us of lane closures ahead due to a repaving project. 

It seemed too soon for the new road to need attention, but there we were, stuck again, and to add insult to injury? All the peach stands were closed.

The Americans

Living here in the DC area makes it hard to miss that our nation's 250th birthday is coming up next year. National parks, monuments, and memorials all around us are getting all spruced up for the big anniversary, which, to be honest, wouldn't be on my radar screen at all if it weren't on theirs. But here we are, nearly fifty years after the Bicentennial, a celebration which, by contrast, was on everybody's radar screen in the early 70s.  For three solid years, we were celebrating the 200th anniversary of something in seventy-six different ways.

For example, in December 1973, my sixth-grade class did a play about the Boston Tea Party 200 years after the fact. I played Sam Adams, and my mom made my costume out of a red tweed vest pantsuit, which I had fallen and ripped the knee out of. She turned the pants into breeches and let me wear one of her frilly blouses beneath the vest. With my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I really felt like I was channeling Sam himself. (Maybe that's where I got my fondness for New England-style ales.)

Around that time, the author John Jakes also began publishing his pulpy eight-part series The Americans about both several generations of the fictional Kent family and, by extension, the nation itself, as I was reminded when I read a piece by Carlos Lozado in the NY Times this morning. Like Lozado, the books we had in our house belonged to our parents, but as early teens, we read them anyway, despite a lot of mature content. In his essay, Lozado tells how he recently revisited the series, and his analysis of the saga and its message to and about Americans then and now resonated and made me curious to look up the books I read nearly 50 years ago, which made a lasting impression on me.

Just reading the names of the characters, Philip, Amanda, and Gideon, gave me a little shiver, so I went ahead and purchased the audiobook of volume one, The Bastard. It's thirteen hours long, but I figure I still have a year and three days on the calendar until the quarter millennial. And, as I wrote yesterday, birthdays are a time for reflection.

Focus and Refocus

On Saturdays, I always look forward to the Morning Newsletter sent out by The New York Times, because the essay at the top is usually by Melissa Kirsch. Her writing style is warm and friendly, and her observations resonate with me. 

For example, last Saturday, she wrote that July 2 is the day at the exact middle of the year and wondered if perhaps it would be a better time, given the light and pace of summer, to make the resolutions traditional to January 1. At any rate, she suggested that it would be a good time to review and revise any goals set for the year, which makes sense. 

My birthday happens to fall around this time, too, and on that day, I often find myself reflecting on the year past and pending, both calendar and personal. Listing the joys in my life is an excellent lens for that exercise.

To You and You and You and You

A friend and former colleague has told people for decades that when we first started working together, she used to say hello to me and I ignored her. “I just thought she was stuck up!” she always ends. I dispute that memory: I’m shy, not stuck up, and so I probably never greeted her first, but I know if she had said something to me I would have responded. 

Even so, I realized years ago that the way to avoid any such perception of aloofness was to proactively greet folks, which I do regularly, especially early in the day. I love to say “Good morning” to anyone I see before noon. It was my habit to stand outside my classroom door and greet as many kids by name as I could, but also to smile and say good morning to all who passed.

But the satisfying specificity of that particular greeting doesn’t carry over to the afternoon or evening. Hey there and hello are fine when you know someone, but a little weird if you’re greeting strangers. Ciao works if you’re in Europe, but not so much walking the streets of Arlington, Va, and good afternoon and good evening are not very colloquial, either. 

In those situations I usually resort to a nod and a smile, and that seems to work. I wish I had a little more, though, because I really am friendly, despite what anyone says.

Ask the Dogs

“How did it go?” I asked Heidi this afternoon after the wedding rehearsal. 

“Shit show,” she scoffed. “They changed what I was supposed to do about 5 times.”

“I guess that’s why they have rehearsals,” I said.

“For sure,” she agreed. “But it’s pretty organized now, and the groom kept thanking me for being there. He said they felt much better about things.” 

Heidi loves dogs and all the dogs seem to know it right away and return the affection. This weekend, for the second time in a couple of years, she has been asked to be the dog wrangler at a friend’s wedding. Adrian and Andy wanted Leo to be part of the ceremony, but they were worried he wouldn’t listen to the wedding planner and on one of their recent walks, Adrian asked Heidi if she would be willing to help. “You know him,” she pointed out, “and you have such calm energy.”

Heidi laughed when she recounted the story to me later. “I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of having calm energy before,” she said.

“That’s just because dogs can’t talk,” I answered. “I’m pretty sure all the canines would agree with Adrian.”

A Solid C

I love movies and I love a countdown, so when I saw the NY Times feature naming the 100 best films of the century so far, I was all in.

According to the Times, the list was compiled by "polling more than 500 filmmakers, stars and influential film fans to vote for the 10 best movies (however they chose to define that) released since Jan. 1, 2000."

The pictures were revealed 20 a day starting Monday, and readers could view a synopsis and a rationale for recognizing each one. We could also check a box if we had seen the movie or another box if we wanted to see it. At the end of each day, two poster graphics were created, one for the films we'd seen and another for those on our wishlist. 

It was a fun way to wile away ten minutes or so each morning, and today I got to see my final tally. Of the hundred? I've seen 60, and I have some solid suggestions for another 15 evenings when it seems like there's not much to watch. 

Be Our Guest

I had just finished cleaning off the deck when a shadow crossed the sun. It was a curious crow, and it cocked its head when it landed on a branch of the birch tree that shades the balcony. 

Lucy was inside, and she saw it, too, so I slid the door open and let her out. She trotted to the corner and stood with front paws on the deck box, watching the big bird. The crow was not intimidated, though, and the two stood eye to eye for a few minutes. 

"Let's feed it!" Heidi suggested, and I reminded her where the birdseed was. "It looks thirsty," she added, and I fetched some water and a couple of shallow containers from the house. She filled them and placed them on the railing.

We brought Lucy inside, and the three of us watched as the crow ate and drank. Despite my worry that it might make a mess of the recently cleaned deck, it was a perfect guest, enjoying the refreshments neatly, with one eye on us as we observed. A little while later, it bowed politely and flew away.