D.C. scrambles

You hate it when your daughter says “oh-oh.” And you kick yourself for being relieved that it’s only a matter of a lost phone. Especially when it sinks in that a lost phone is a huge headache and a not insignificant expense. So you volunteer to retrace your steps for the evening – so that you can be the gallant one who, at the end of the day, reemerges with the lost phone and makes things right again.

How many times in their lives have you wanted to make things right again for them?! And how many times – as in this case – did you know that you probably would fail?


I reenter the bar where we had spent time earlier that day. The Passenger.









We had sat at the counter at a time that is apparently early in the life of a bar – between 6 and 8. And so we could sit and talk, and, as it is a place where you tell the bartender your dream tastes and she concocts a drink to suit your fancies, I could pour out my wishes and she poured them into a glass that had elements of fruit, but not sweetness, alcohol, but not gin, and a splash of color with homemade Grenadine. Or, was it home made pomegranate juice? No matter. Drinks should not be that tasty. Because it leads you to order a second.





Now , closer to midnight, the Passenger is so crowded that it’s not clear how anyone can spell out their dream beverage and be heard over the raucously told stories of fellow bar hoppers. The gentle voices may as well stay in the off mode.

Oh, and by the way, have you found an iPhone? No?

I move on to the restaurant – Central – a wonderful place with everything from gougeres to fried chicken. I had eaten a most wonderfully modern shrimp remoulade earlier...





Now, there is a late night hush. A few strands of conversation, the clatter of collected plates... No, no phone left by the table. None in the bathroom, none under the feet of the couple who had replaced us at our spot in the corner.

Outside, I realize that I had flown out of the house without my coat. One of those gestures born of haste and greatly regretted. I hail a taxi and give myself a good moment of tears. Failure is never pleasant and not especially at the end of a day, where you wanted to lull your child, even though she is not really a child, but you can pretend, to sleep with sweet thoughts of beautiful scenes from a day well spent.  

Mom, it’s only a phone, for God’s sake.



It had been a day well spent. And for once, the often fickle weather of a DC March played along.

Waking up, I looked out on clear skies. Warm enough to allow these two to take their break on the rooftop.




We walk up to St Ex on 14th, past this guy, setting up pansies for you to take home. So tempting, Only my home is not here and in any case, it’s probably too early for pansies in Wisconsin.





We sit at the counter by the window and eat eggs over cheddar grits. Why are grits so perfect here?





Fortified now. Off we go. And it is a long long walk, one that makes the leg muscles pleasantly ache at the end of it all. But we have so many places to recall and remember!

...from the Washington Monument, piercing and wonderful against the blue skies...





...up the Mall, past museums, were families pause for the warm sun. Or snacks. Or maybe both.





...to the Capitol, yes that one, that place of gridlock and scandal and occasionally something more palatable, but now blissfully quiet on this week-end day where surely everyone must be enjoying the peace and quiet of a perfect spring day.





...round to the back, past the Supreme Court. My daughter says - did I tell you? I went to hear an oral argument last week. Yes, she wore her gold bracelets and hoop earnings, and asked lots of questions. But today, only a sole fellow goes up the steps, up to the top and back again, as if this climb put him closer to the truth, or maybe just closer to a good view of the Capitol across the street.





... and onto the Capitol Hill blocks of older homes, made beautiful now, especially now when the first spring branches are getting ready to explode and the crocuses win the race for the speediest and the freshest flowers of the season.









We finish at her newest favorite – a place where she comes on trivia night, right here on H Street, in the Atlas district. In ten years, when I come back to D.C. to visit, this will be completely different, she muses.





Abandoned houses and storefronts even now are being gutted and taken over by enterprising types. A sandwich shop there, a coffee house across the street...

We pause over an espresso and hot cocoa. We call her sister up in Boston. Same time zone. It makes her seem that much closer.





Leaving this new for me neighborhood...





...we return to the familiar. Union Station, the edge of Chinatown, and home again. Home for a little while. Just a few more weeks of D.C. life for her. And one more day for me. One last scramble to create a final D.C. moment.

DC pause

Lost phone, search is on, distractions abound. More tomorrow. Because this is what it’s like when your mind spins away from your own worries, only to fix itself upon the worries of another.

I’ll be back in a few hours.

sentimental journeys

If you look at the Ocean destinations of the past five years, you’ll notice that right up there in numbers, after excursions within Wisconsin, there is Washington D.C. And what’s remarkable is that had I blogged the five years prior, there would have been a zero next to the city.

But in these last years, I’ve had one daughter, sometimes two, spending time there. And so I went.

This week, my oldest, the one who has been in DC continuously for the past three years, accepted a job offer in Madison and so she’ll be moving back to her home town this summer.

And so I am on my last D.C. trip. Last one. Last chance to spend time in the place that I’ve grown to love, if only because my girls turned older here.

Oh, it’s been a good set of travels! In D.C., the metro is easy, the winters are (typically) gentle, the food is fantastic, the museums are free.

And so I fly the well traveled connection through Detroit, I run to catch the known metro line, I walk the familiar walk to P street. And now I have  before me DC. For two days.

For two days, I’m turning my back on this:





...and having my fill of this:













Ah, oldest girl of mine, I can't wait to have you back in the Midwest! Now, what foods should we eat tonight?

goosey times

School work is done for the day. I get on the bus and let myself go limp. The older person’s prerogative. Tune out, dream away.

Except that it doesn’t feel right this time. Something is bugging me. Maybe it’s that during my run down the hill for an espresso at midday, I couldn’t help but see people -- not crowds, but still, one or two, here and there --  enjoying the almost-warm brilliance of this day. Why am I not among them?
















I ride for a few more stops. I’m on the local. There are many stops.

But the sun comes in to my left and I’m thinking – what a shame. A moment of glorious pre-spring weather has passed me by.

The bus turns toward the lake (let me say it again: it’s the slow bus). This is where I ride my bike when I do ride. No, no regrets. Too windy now.

Still, I’m on the bus and restless. That’s not good.

The bus stops just at the back of the hospital. I jump up and push open the door.

Outside, I see geese. They hiss, they leave waste – really, can anyone say one good thing about a goose?

Today, I can. Hi guys. Hope you’re enjoying the late afternoon sun.






I pick up the bike path and almost skip all the way home. Almost.

rowing

I cut through the mall to get to the shop where I moonlight. Typically the mall is a quiet place in the early evening. Since I regard malls as barren, soulless places, I am okay with it being quiet. Good! I hope you’re all enjoying your dinner at home. Shop on Saturday, or in the afternoon if you can. Evenings belong to the loves in your life.

But tonight, rowers set up a rowing hotspot at the mall’s central hall. Up front, parents are watching their teens row.




I, too, spent hours watching my kids do events at malls. It was never fun.

Still, it is odd that I should have such strong negative feelings about malls. What’s wrong with shopping indoors??

I’m thinking that it all dates back to the early spring day a dozen years back, when I took my family to the Mall of America (in Minneapolis). It was a long drive for a mall outing (5 hours each way) and I gulped down maybe three double espressos to keep myself awake on the drive back. My gut never forgave me. (It was, indeed, rivaled only by the countless cups I downed during weeks of law school finals – to keep awake while my babies slept.)


In the shop, it’s quiet. Not a forest quiet, but a good quiet nonetheless. The mall will be closed by the time I leave, so I can’t cut though it then. What a relief. I wont have to look at drawn faces of shoppers and sellers at a late hour.

However will I deal with the Target store moving in across the street from my condo! They close at 11. And no, it’s not the same as going down for a dozen eggs at midnight at the 24-hour Sentry. Food buying is different. It just is.

orchids

I wiped the long leaves of the two orchid plants I have at home. For the first time, they chose to take a year off and not bloom. Of course, I thought I must have done something wrong. Not enough time outdoors, too much sun, too little food. Or something.

If you’re semi-good at doing things (and I have been thus far semi-good at raising orchids), you don’t – or I don’t – especially treat yourself sternly when the inevitable failure strikes. So they’ll bloom next year. Or they wont and I’ll have to find substitute color for the winter.

Color is not hard to find, even on a March day that was, if you ask me, a little too cool today.





I read an interview with Lorrie Moore in the On Wisconsin magazine. Because she is an established local author, I follow her career more closely than I would, say, that of another random famous 50-plus year old female author, who may write a disturbing book about a young woman who was a nanny at the age of twenty. I can make a list of at least ten things there alone that make this an especially interesting novel (and therefore novel writer) for me.

It was a good, well-crafted interview. I liked her answers.

I’ve met Ms. Moore once, at Border’s and it was one of those meetings I would like to forget, because in my brief exchange with her I got the exact impression of her that I wanted so badly to avoid – of a famous person who was slightly detached from this particular audience. (This was some ten years ago.) I know that she was probably tired of book readings, and I do not know if she is, in general, confident or tentative, but still, I left feeling depleted by the encounter.

Could it be that an author has to practice detachment to write effectively about the place and people she encounters daily?

If I ever write my small book, it wont be written nearly as well as my orchids were well tended. (And they were obviously not that well tended. After all, they did not bloom.) If asked, I’ll likely say the wrong things about the writing experience, offending everyone under the sun, and most of all those back home in Warsaw (it will be set against the backdrop of Warsaw).

I can only hope that, like in the case of the nonflowering orchids, I will move on to the next project without too stern a look back at my less than successful effort.

Let me repeat: there’s always color out there. Even in March.

March came in like... a rosebud

Oh, no complaints today! Walking home from Whole Foods after work, I take off the gloves and throw back the scarf. The most enchanting sound is the steady drip of melting snow.

Don’t think heat wave. We were only in the mid thirties. But that’s superb! We’re climbing now. Next thing you know I’ll be eating breakfast on the balcony again.

For now, I climb up to the roof terrace of the building, just to look at the pinkish sunset skies, to the west, to the east...

over at the rainbow

One last day to do right by winter. One final time. (Other March week-ends I am either away or working.)

But the day starts off poorly. I take an hour to fiddle with the new blog format and that hour turns into a two hour tagging project, which then, in turn, puts me in a sickeningly nostalgic mood (have you ever tried to run through your life backwards, day by day for five years? With photos that appear to demonstrate how much better, richer, fuller your time was then? Before work wiped out all free time?)

I say to my occasional traveling companion this – Ed, my days were better, richer, fuller back in 2006 (the year I happen to be tagging for the blog). I traveled extensively, we hiked every week-end, I poured my soul into food preparation...

In other words, you lived beyond your means –  Ed responds. The man does not mince words.

Still, after a tumultuous back and forth about the virtues of frugality and the folly of buying condos as opposed to staying put or scaling down, or living in a sheepshed, or whatever! – we agree to set out and explore.

Ed tells me there's a "Yarn on the Farm" wool spinning and knitting and so on open house at the Rainbow Fleece Farm. I don’t spin. I don’t knit. I don’t do anything with wool. Indeed wool makes me itch. But the ad in the weekly paper makes it seem so colorful! And I’m thinking we need to get ourselves out of the gray mood of the morning.





Rainbow Fleece Farm is in rural New Glarus (some 30 miles south of Madison). Patty Reedy and Andy Wersal are a husband and wife team and they have thrown themselves body and soul into wool making (carding, spinning, dyeing, knitting – you name it, they do it).

Is there a big market for this? – Ed's curious.
It’s a niche thing. We fulfill it.

I look at a printed flyer for one of their items:  Warm and Wooly Sheepskins: a natural product from laughing lambs raised in the limestone hills of Rainbow Fleece Farm.

Andy invites us to look in the barns. Sheep and the lambs – sweet, cuddly little things. As usual, banded and bonded and distrustful of strangers.





...and then there are the peacocks (they’re fun – Andy tells us)...





...and the geese (owning geese convinces you that the natural world was not programmed for peace). In the five minutes that we were there, the geese fight four major battles and in between, hiss and squawk and chase each other the length of the barn and back again.



 

But harmony reigns in the hen house. I think. Or, is it that she perched precariously on the sill to get away from the mother hen? Please, come down! You're making a fool of yourself up there!





Oh, what is she doing up there?





In one of the back buildings, Andy and Patty show us the carding shed, as well as their “studio.” Sheepskins and bales of wool that would make your eyes water with envy if you were the talented type that could put it all to good use.









And you don’t have to drive out all the way to New Glarus to get some. They sell at various places in town, and especially at two weekly farmers markets (Willie Street and Fitchburg). And they also have free range eggs and... well, other lamb products. Brats, leg of lamb, chops. Right there for your freezer, next to the roast chicken. What can I say, it's important to know your food (and wool) source. And these farmers raise their animals well. You can tell.





We tell them we'll see them at the markets (for the eggs!) and make our way down the muddy hill back to Ed's Geo. The cats watch us leave.






I’m thinking how splendid it is for us that Madison is surrounded by farms such as this. Places that may as well bind themselves into picture books for children -- about wool here, or yogurt, or goat cheese, or spinach, or apple cider. To market, to market... along with pots of blooming plants and jars of the jam your grandma never taught you to make way back when.




We have a few hours left before dusk. We drive toward the nearby New Glarus Woods – a state park with a half dozen miles of hiking trails. A last winter walk. Surely that. Because the snow already feels mushy and wet.






We are the only ones at the park (the lot is empty, as are the trails). At one end of the trail, we hear the occasional car on the nearby road, but mostly, we immerse ourselves in the profound quiet. A woodpecker is working away at a trunk, but he may be many, many feet away. The noise carries far in a still forest and across snow covered fields.









There are more deer tracks here than I have ever seen in any one place, but we see none of the deer now. It’s as if they all left for a big wedding or convention, leaving no one behind. Only the woodpecker.





Driving back to Madison, I try to catch up on the reading I should have been doing all day long, but I can’t. Maybe I’m still stuck in a snow drift in the forest, pulling my feet out along the path. Maybe I just miss too much days when I didn't worry excessively about work.





Soon. I work hard at times, so that at other times I don’t have to work hard at all. A pattern that is the exact opposite of a farmer’s life. Or Ed’s life. Or perhaps the life of most anyone I know.

risk

Here's a test for whether you're a risk taker. Say you blog. Say you have faithfully posted daily for more than five years. Pretend, too, that your wild dreams are about you being a writer. So that maybe you're this closet writer for now, and maybe someday the closet will spring open and you, well practiced, what with your blog and all, will fly.

Oh, and say you've been a serious amateur photographer all your life. At times more amateurish than at other times, but still, you've always had a camera with you.

But now your story-blog is showing its age. The template, selected from the far reaches of medieval era Internet, no longer likes being told to do modern tricks. It's sort of like using a Betamax when the world has moved on to VHS. Or even DVDs.

And so your blog is now stumbling. Posts are disappearing, photos duck in, duck out, HTML errors are compounding as you struggle to put in code you don't fully understand.

So now what?

If you're a risk taker, you ignore warnings (do NOT switch to another template! you'll risk losing EVERYTHING!) and you move the whole blog to a new residence. Something more modern. With light fixtures and hot running water, as opposed to an HTML outhouse and no heat to speak of.

So here I am in my brand new surroundings. And things are working just fine! Sure, you, the reader may not care that before, clicking on the label "Poland: Warsaw" only pulled out a handful of posts, and now you'll get the full spectrum (that is, once I finish tagging everything), but I care.

Someday when I'm old and infirm and I forget that I ever traveled to Poland, I'll be able to click on Poland: Warsaw, and travel along (with what I'll think is someone else's trip).

Unless I do a major switch in the future and that one will make Ocean disappear.

Gulp.

maintenance

I'm making blog improvements. Forgive the posts for the next hours -- they are merely trial runs.

store hours

It’s quiet in the shop on cold evenings. Occasionally someone will stop by, purchase our most soothing item, chat a little, and reluctantly push the door to the bitter cold again.

For the second night in a row, I’ve had friends stop by. That’s always exceptionally pleasant. A chance to exchange a few words before they, too, push the door and head out.

Late, just before closing, an unlikely customer stops by. In retail, you have to expect this – the person who looks like no customer you’ve ever helped. This guy is young, bearded, with dreadlocks reaching way past the shoulder blades. A winter cap is pulled low over his head. I would have readily bet my paycheck that he was here to get warm and not to buy. And so, after brief introductions, I let him browse.

He asks questions – pointed questions about product X or Y. And eventually, after I open jar of this and point to a jar of that , we settle in on one item, I mumble the price, thinking for sure that would be the end of it.

The visitor tells me -- I'll take it. And I wrap it for him to take home.

spinach

Absolutely the best spinach on the planet is grown right here, in Wisconsin, in the dead of winter. In fact, the colder it is, the more magnificent the flavor of the spinach. (Go figure.)

This year we signed up to be regulars: all winter, every two weeks, the farmer hands us a pound of crisp, washed, best on the planet spinach. (He actually leaves it at a store. Paid by us in advance.)

Someone has to pick up the spinach within a day or else it gets passed on to someone else. I like the idea of helping others, but I’ve always been rather anemic and so I move mountains to get there in time. I need my spinach!

Ed is with his cats today. I dare not tear him away. It’s up to me.

But how? It’s not on my bus route. And it’s cold outside. Well below freezing. DOn't even mention the bicycle.

Within moments I have a plan:

I’ll ride the bus, then walk partway, then, spinach in hand, I’ll ride the remainder to campus.

Fine plan. The sun’s out. The late February birds make their pre-spring appearance on my condo balcony.





Twenty minutes into the walk I think maybe it’s time to switch to the bus. It’s nippy. The wind’s gusting a punch. I dig into my pack for my bus pass.

Oops.

Left the bugger at home. Now what? Some would pay the bus fares. But what a waste!

Resolve: walk. Walk to spinach store. Walk to office. Walk home. Walk, damn it, Put in some steps already. Zip up the jacket, give a firm twist to the scarf (it really is cold!) and walk. It can’t be more than 8 miles total. Walk already!





And so I do.

fresh perspective

Sometimes, little do you know when you wake up that it’s going to be that kind of day. Charged. Raw. Emotional.

Not that you could have done things differently. It’s almost as if some force put you on a track with emotional charges along the way and all you can do is sit back and watch the hits happen. Bang! And again! And again!

By early afternoon much of the ride was over and done. I had just one more class and then I could exhale.



In my office, I turn off the lights (or, the switch that allows the lights to come on as I move around) and look out.





There is a sudden squall of snow. Big, wet snow – the kind that’s very very pretty to watch and less fun if you’re outside in it, unprotected. Call it emotional snow.

Maybe it can wash off the debris from the day...



I continue to work. I have a dinner meeting later on State Street and there is no reason to rush in the hours before it. Dusk morphs into evening time. I am indifferent to it. I'm spent by the earlier hours.


Outside, the air is colder than I would have wanted for an evening walk.





So what. It’s the tail end of the day. The tail end of winter. The tail end of an uncomfortable season.

I walk up the stairs to Fresco, the place of the dinner meeting and I look out on one of the most interesting views in Madison: the intersection of streets makes it appear as if you are on the crossroads of some great event about to happen.




Maybe you could say that the great event was the delicious, fresh and honest food at Fresco. On the other hand, maybe you could say that the great event was that there would be no more great events, no great swishes of emotion for the remainder of the day.

rough rides

I’m chasing my shadow this week. Running in circles, attempting to do a great push forward, trying to keep spirits up as so many around me are having rough rides.

Not the roughest, but rough enough has been the ride of my occasional travel buddy, who has come down with something so benign and yet so perversely irritating as a sore tooth. To look at his face when his soul is crushed under the weight of pain is not easy. What can I say, pain is pain and I watch with pity, alternating with a tiny bit of a smile, as he works his way through an entire prescription of pain medication from early evening until the wee hours of the morning. Luckily, he is seen and treated by the time the little container is shaken dry and tossed aside.

Afterwards, he is without memory about what transpired. Pain? Eh, not a big deal. (Meaning: all gone!)

As between Ed and me, I would say I spend perhaps thirty times as much time in doctors’ offices and twenty times as many hours in dentists’ chairs as he does, but this only makes me understand how terrible it is to go through the ordeal of waiting rooms and scheduled meetings with people in white cloaks who are there to make you feel better. In the long run. So I sympathize.

But only so much. I am in the mad rush of another busy week with not one, not two, not three, but four nights of work ahead and that’s in addition to the work that envelopes the daytime hours.

What can I say. These are challenging times. At least I don’t force myself to sport it out on my commute to and from campus. Others do.



bare shin?


Come to think of it, maybe I should...