Christmas Letter 2021

 Merry Christmas!

JC told me, when I broached the subject of a Christmas letter, that all I needed to write this year was, “We moved again. See previous years’ letters.” While he may be onto a good idea there, I have forsaken the easy way out—and here I am.

True to JC’s shortened version, we HAVE moved again. You may remember that, in our last move, we claimed to be looking for a down-sized, single-level house…? And ended up with a four-story townhouse. This time, we have indeed downsized, and are in a 3-bedroom condo—still in Alexandria, still stuffed to the exploding point with books and maps and my own collections. Fortunately, the townhouse sold quickly (3 days on the market!) and the purchase here went smoothly. Only after we moved in did we recognize the issues that our so-called ‘home inspection’ failed to identify. BUT those are stories for another day. We are (after a couple months) well on our way to a functional household—though we still have a lot of de-junking and furniture disposal ahead of us. It keeps us busy.

The family continues well. Sarah is still with the City Attorney’s office here in Alexandria, and appears to be enjoying the work. Kay and Paul and the lovely granddaughters are still in Tucson—tho they have added a dog to the household. Morty, a black and white pit bull mix, has entered the weekly FaceTime call to demonstrate his newest tricks, and to be admired for them and his general cuteness. Claire is headed for middle school next fall, and Audrey to high school—except that we are not old enough for those events to happen quite yet. They WERE just babies last year, weren’t they?

And speaking of babies, we have a new great-niece: Camilla was born to my nephew Eric and his lovely wife, Tiffany, last spring. COVID has delayed our initial meeting, but I am assured that she is as cute and as smart and accomplished as all her cousins. I do not doubt it.

As for this past year… We WERE vaccinated early enough that we made a trip west in March and stayed till May, when we returned to embark on our summer plans: Chautauqua (which we canceled) and our yearly pilgrimage to the Contemporary American Theater Festival in WVa—also canceled. COVID had us backing out of October plans for a tour of the National Parks of the Southwest, and so we embarked on our previously-noted real estate adventure, which was as physically and mentally taxing as any trip. If not more so. We are getting too old for this.

Some of the good things that came out of this abysmal year were the Grolier Club’s ‘show and tell’ Zoom offerings which took us into members’ homes to see and hear about favorite bookish items; other opportunities to participate in distant learning events; renewed (virtual and in-person) contacts with family and friends—we saw my sister and BIL more in this past year than we have in a long time! If nothing else, COVID opened up a wealth of possibilities that we might never have seen otherwise.

And so, we stand on the verge of 2022: older (of course) and hopefully, wiser in some ways. We are starting anew—yet again—in a new location, with new challenges and new adventures ahead. We hope to find ourselves equal to them—and look forward to sharing them with all of you, whether in-person or online.

Have a fun-filled holiday season and the most rewarding of new years! (And come see us at our new address: 2050 Jamieson Avenue, #1216, Alexandria, VA 22314. Phones and emails remain the same…)

Mary and JC 

December 11, 2021

City Sunset

My living room window

frames a panorama of the city:

blue background, a stream of

impossibly pink clouds—

a sunset

that varies in intensity,

day by day.

Buildings stand,

stolid, immutable

brick and mortar,

anchored to earth…

but oh, the clouds,

the clouds! 

Clickers and Fobs

I am breathing slowly and consciously. In and out. Trying to replicate the slow and steady rhythm of normalcy. It's not easy. I have been dealing with the concierge desk at our new condo.

We have been beset by an amazing plethora of mistakes, misinformation, deflections, inaccuracies, conflicting statements, and probably, some outright lies. When we signed our settlement papers, we should have received keys to the condo, 2 additional fobs that gave us entrance to the lobby and elevator, and 2 clickers that provided access to the garage in the building. Let me provide emphasis on the "should have". 

Instead, we received NO condo key, with the information that all the keys were in a kitchen drawer. We were given a code to enter into the unit's push-button door lock. The ONE fob we had in our possession was the one that had been in the lockbox prior to the sale. There were no garage clickers.

And here we are today with limited access to our new property, and inability to access our purchased parking spaces (in a neighborhood where street parking is pay parking). Further, virtually no-one can answer any of the myriad questions one has about moving in and how access to the freight elevator is managed for movers and/or workmen who are essential to the process.

I do not often lose my temper, and yet have been seen this week shouting at the woman behind the concierge desk, when she asked for my email for the third time (after I had emailed it to her last evening) and then got it wrong anyway. After she had told me (in a triumph of circular argument) that I had not been added to the HOA portal --as her colleague from the day before had told me she would do on receipt of my name, unit #, and email information. There were no door fobs or garage clickers available at the property management office, and they would have to be ordered. How should I order them? Through the HOA portal, TO WHICH I WAS DENIED ACCESS. Probably because I needed a serial number from one of our non-existent key fobs. (I made that last bit up.) Could she order them? No, she would have to contact the property management company. (Have I mentioned that I had asked all these questions and made these requests in an email to the management company--and to the same person she 'had to contact'--over a week ago and had received no answer? No. Probably not.)

There may be activities more frustrating than this week's exercises in patience and calm and fortitude. I don't know what they might be, but from all those things, dear Lord, deliver us.

Turning Over Rocks: RBG

 

If you’ve ever been a gardener—

one of those precious people 

who dig in the dirt, and plant

and nourish seeds and make them

(sometimes by force of will)

grow—

you know what it’s like.

A lot of work, a lot of rocks

to be removed, weeds

to pull, water

to be carried. And sometimes,

it seems like no-one knows

all that you do

for the sake of making

something green, something alive,

something good, something to remember..

She was a gardener.

She dug deep and

shone her light, her wisdom,

in the dark places— 

She turned over rocks

She rooted out weeds,

and willed us, willed the system

to grow and protect,

and nourish and cultivate

the neglected, the ignored,

and give them opportunity.

Good people do that,

often quietly, often by dissenting,

for the sake of making

a world that’s greener, more alive,

a better place, a nobler place.

Remember her.

Book Collector

 Book Collector

​

He is a collector,

and he said some people

hold their books too closely,

protecting them from the 

world at large

and the damage it inflicts.

He said

he wanted us to take them

from their shelf-homes,

to touch and turn their pages,

to read, admire,

and be inspired.

​

I think, contrarily,

that it is the books themselves 

who, after long and lonely seclusion,

standing rigidly

back to back 

appreciate

a walk in the world,

filling their lungs with

fresh air,

filling minds with 

fresh thoughts, warming 

their pages in the sunshine,

opening their windows

and flinging wide doors

to greet the reverential reader,

to clap him enthusiastically

on his back

and welcome him, at long last,

home.

Valentine 2021

 Valentine 2021

 

Twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.

All-day, all-night, three-meals-a-day.

Morning traffic, nightly news, 

foggy mornings, afternoon clouds,

rising moons, occasional stars.

Quarantine.

 

You are my sunrise,

my sunset,

the color to my world. 

You are my light

when the world is dark:

you make me shine.

Memory and Vision

 Memory and Vision: What is Art?

 

No matter what it is, there is something only you can see; it may be a lonely birch pointing to the sky. It may be a twist of wood that catches your eye and is beautiful to you. You may see a stack of canned goods and see the trace of a remembered curve—or hear the music in a particular string of words. Vision commits a thought to material representation, and that frozen, yet fluid thought remains: a memory to be seen and considered and experienced by others and their children , inspired and inspiring, as long as it exists. 

 

A vision is ephemeral; 

art is the attempt to capture it.  

Memory puts things in boxes; 

Vision strews them about 

and picks and chooses to tell its story.

Order travels in straight lines; 

art takes circuitous paths.

Order is black and white; 

art is living color.

Order is a ticking time bomb; 

art stops the clock.

Order is featureless desert; 

art is our oasis.

Order is a clacking computer; 

art is the reset button.

In a frantic landscape of orderly living, 

art is the white space that refreshes the eye.

 

Vision depends on memory, 

and that memory depends on art--

Feeding one another, 

nourished by the interaction, 

Twined and twisted

Till there is no division, 

no beginning, no end, 

merged in a circle of renewal.

 

 

Life is laid down in black and white, 

straight lines and logic, 

squared up and saluting, 

humming with action.

Art brings us together.

Rooted here, we all can grow.

Teachers

There are two statements that I am proud to make: 

first, I am a mom, and secondly (and no less proud), 

 I was a teacher.

Before I taught, like the rest of the uninformed,

I thought it’d be easy; it was talking

in 40 minute bouts, with summers off

and all school holidays. All the kids would be

Like me: motivated, well-behaved, and ready.

No.

There were some, of course, but

Far outnumbered by the ones who

Didn’t care, didn’t want, didn’t have time

For education in any form.

Who were simply serving their sentence:

No structure, no modifiers, no grammar, no rules.

No.

We didn’t teach English, or math, or history, or chemistry.

We taught kids. We taught communities.

We taught living and getting along

And how to slog through the unknown swamps, 

impenetrable forests of expectations, and endless

pursuits of someone else’s standards.

No.

This is our legacy: not certificates

Or degrees, or awards, 

But people—getting through, getting by,

Living their best lives, continuing

To live, and to learn, 

Morning Walk

 I have a plan. 

We're going on a tour this fall, and there will be walking. 

A LOT of walking, by my usual couch-potato-rooted-to-the-sofa standards. 

And so, to prepare, I'm going to walk all summer, each day. 

Inside, outside, rain or shine, 

up stairs, down stairs, maybe even (horrors!) at a gym. 

I refuse to be one of those laggard geezers, 

hobbling along behind the group, 

breathing hard, and dropping, exhausted, 

at every pause in the tour. 

I am better than that. Or so I say.

And so, this morning, with a hint of cloud in the sky, 

I got up before sunrise and walked to the river. 

A single bright line on the horizon promised morning, 

and, for a few minutes, 

the bicyclist paused, 

the runners stopped, 

the ducks on the water turned eastward, 

and even the trees rustled their appreciation.

Creation paused momentarily to watch the daily miracle: 

sunrise.

DIY

Stop. Dangerous. DIY.

The Harry Homeowner

who preceded us at this address

had limited skills

that he insisted on using

to render this house

a stationary time-bomb

waiting for ignition.

The dangling wire under the eaves,

connected to nothing but a power source,

sparking away, unobserved--

the faucet in the backyard

(spouting water at 140 degrees)

lying in wait for the unwary gardener--

the multiple threats to life and limb

(so many more)

that he deemed good enough,

and cheerfully crossed off his list.

 

Waiting at the Medical Building

 Canes and walkers and wheelchairs, oh my!

Slow steps, helping hands,

folks holding doors. Cars

stopping at the curb near the entrance. Ramps

that are raised and lowered. Slowly.

Carefully. Bent heads, looking down,

making sure, being cautious

because we are one fall

away from dependence

away from life in recovery,

condemned

to doctors and physical therapy,

to worlds with no stairs,

to sensible shoes,

elastic stockings,

and the old folks' shuffle.

Epitaph for a Dying Car

I hope you don't take this wrong,

but you were ugly:

A  squat and cantankerous troll 

thwarting me at every turn,

demanding attentions of which

I was incapable.

You filled a need;

that was all.

Yet amid the stops and starts,

the breakdowns and the curses,

we were irrevocably tied,

manacled by mutual dependence.

It's over now, and

it is somehow sad to see you

broken and mechanically betrayed.

Others are sleeker, more responsive,

but we had stories, we had adventures.

I'll miss you. But not too much.

Heaven

No one tells you how hard dying can be:

weeks and months and years sometimes

of silence, of separation, of being close,

but still so far away. 

Grasping the inevitable, yet,

maintaining positivity in

that long goodbye.

And no one tells you how quickly death can come,

One moment here, another gone

so fast, no warning, just missing

that laugh, that response,

that casual hug,

the inconceivable goodbye

that is forever.

Remember, however, that

on the other side, there is a heaven:

a place of joyous discovery.

Remember the quarter you found

in the parking lot when you were 6?

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unexpected surprises.

Your grandma, again bearing cookies,

the teachers you loved once, the aunts and uncles,

gone for years, but loving you still.

Think of your dog, buried long ago,

leaping again into your arms: 

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unqualified love.

The joy of seizing opportunities you'd missed along the way—

all the happy endings you’d imagined

for yourself, come to heavenly fruition,

a veritable Hallmark movie version

of a less-than-Hallmark life.

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unimaginable rewards.

No one told you how hard it would be;

today and all the grinding yesterdays

of pain, frustration, and tears.

But there is a heaven ahead:

a joyous place, where all the lost

are magically found again:

Happy reunions.

Heaven's a lot like that.

 

Shoot

Another shooting, another gun,

legal or not, ghost or real--a gun

that shoots indiscriminately

another innocent (or maybe not)

but someone who did not deserve to die

this way, before their time..

A gun creates a fatherless child,

a frightened mother,

an angry neighborhood,

a tragedy.

A gun kills.

Not just people, but trust.

Not just a man, but hope.

A gun is a weapon of war,

made for battlefields, now employed

in city streets or living rooms

in informal wars declared by

the fearful, the angry, the deluded:

wars no-one can win,

imprisoning us all.

Why So Many Pictures?

I paper my digital world with pictures:

scenery, people, food, and flowers—

color and shape and symmetry,

composition and order that

I often cannot find

in the daily news.

These are the fragments that make sense

amidst the discord that runs rampant—

these are the lovely things that war with

the shootings, the cruelties, the hate:

these pieces are what is true

and lasting and beautiful.

Hold them fast.

Fountains

The fountain in my garden died.

The pump gave up its ghost

and I am faced with disassembly

of a 6-foot cement behemoth:

basin upon basin upon basin

containing nothing but last week's rain

which morphed into something 

ghastly green and swamp-like.

This is the metaphor for my pandemic life: stalled,

silent, inoperable; ponderous

and immovable. I am dull and dry,

devoid of sparkle-- and, often

repetitive, repetitive, repetitive:

as stagnant and swampy as that looming garden colossus.

Imagine, however, a new medium: imagine, 

if you can, from the depths of our dark pandemic well,

a reinvention, a purpose, a re-creation.

Plant one foot in pandemic, the other in the possible.

Imagine flowing flowers, streaming from that basin tower... 

Plant them.

Imagine the eruption of art and poetry from this arid, too-quiet time...

Create them.

Imagine that time stood still for these several months

while we caught our breath,

while we found our footing,

while we found ourselves.

Imagine our lives... reimagined..

Blank Pages

 

i have on my desk a year of blank pages:

so little worth recording.

A year of breakfast, lunch, and dinner

that marked the day in unremarkable segments.

A year of prowling through attic and basement,

sifting, discarding, noticing what had gone unnoticed.

A year of realization of what we had,

missing the everyday, missing people, missing faces.

We’ve lived that year in the uncertain gap  

between reality and imagination, 

between the evening news and

the awful possibilities that plagued our sleep.

Blank pages,

for who could write the story

of the missing, of the lonely, of the fearful times

we’ve had? Who could write

of what we learned about ourselves

and others while we were apart?

This Morning

 The sky is brush-stroked blue,

with streaks of golden morning.

India-inked trees stand

strategically placed to balance

the composition.

I am here again;

at the inception of a new year,

a chilly morning with a warming sky and

a hopeful new day

skimming across the river.

Inauguration

I am already making lists of words
I never want to hear again. 
Hoax. Witch hunt. Tremendous. 
In fact, any superlative.
And let’s not forget tweet, 
or fake news. Alternative facts.
and the roll call of names: 
Ivanka. Jared. Eric, Don Junior.
Rudy. And the list of departed minions
too numerous to count.

I am looking forward to four years 

when I won’t need a scorecard to keep track 

of the members of the cabinet, 

when that particular revolving door stops 

long enough for the occupants to do their jobs. 

I’m waiting to wake up in the morning 

without hearing that a new outrage 

is dominating the headlines, 

without a new constitutional crisis arising, 

without an unspecified idiocy on the horizon. 

I find that I am tired

of spineless politicians 

who hold their political careers to be 

more important than their constitutional obligations. 

I am tired of lies. I am weary 

of empty promises designed to provoke 

cheers at super-spreader rallies; I am weary 

of the stress and the fury and 

the knot in my stomach

when the president appears on the news. 

I can no longer bear the elevation of ignorance,

the disbelief in science; the promotion of hatred and violence,  

the attacks on innocent people who are,

for the most part, just trying 

to make it through as best they can.

What has happened to respect, to honor, to integrity? 

Is compassion out of style?   

Who are these pious zealots 

who have forgotten the Golden Rule?

or just abbreviated it to “Do unto others.” 

Welcome back, America.

It is the end of Trump. 

It is the beginning of so much more.

Sunrises

 

 

There is something about a sunrise

that draws me to the river. I never tire 

of the re-creation of the world that happens every day.

Dark clouds may hover, but gray becomes gilded

when the rose-gold sun envelops earth and sky 

in morning light.

 

I take pictures,

the same scene, time and time and time again:

stark trees etched on a multi-colored sky,

stretching skyward near this golden river, 

a trove of photos documenting the new day:

each daily renewal a reassuring album of hope.

Morning, January 2021

 

It is a new day: a rainy one, and cold, 

but the sun that hides beneath its cloud-blanket 

(much as I do on days like this) 

will show itself eventually-- 

when our tilted axis 

twirls the earth to a warmer, brighter position, 

  

Yet, while the sun moves on without me,  

I too shall hide 

until my own excuses are exhausted, 

until the overwhelming tide recedes,

until I can negotiate the shifting sand 

beneath my feet. 

 

It has been too long a winter 

with my axis angled away  

from life and warmth and hope. 

The time has come to turn 

toward the light. 

It is a new day.