Fall in Photos

I love everything about the fall – the colors, traditions and celebrations.   Here are some of my favorite fall photos taken over the last few years.

Apartment view - October 2015, Silver Spring, MD

Lunchtime walk - October 2015, Rockville, MD

London Eye -  November 2014, London, England

Whole Foods - October 2014, Silver Spring, MD

Double Rainbow - October 2014, Rockville, MD

Park across from my apartment - November 2013, Washington, DC

Runner up to a superhero (Halloween contest) -
October 2013, Washington, DC

Morning walk and a fright
October 2013, Washington, DC

Pumpkin carving contest at work -  October 2011, Atlanta, GA

My home and my reflection - September 2011, Tucker, GA 

Arabia Mountain Trail - Fall 2010, Lithonia, GA

Arabia Mountain Trail with Arlene, Fall 2010

Stone Mountain Park - November 2010, Stone Mtn, GA

Leaving Work - October 2009, Atlanta, GA

Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile.  William Cullen Bryant

Happy Hours

It’s not often that I go to happy hour.   People crowded into tight spaces, noise, chatter and boisterous glee – this is not what I need at the end of a long workday.   For me to unwind and recharge, I like to be alone.  Most days, I scurry home to my woman cave.  But every now and then, I crave something different.   So, here I am, off to happy hour.

Exiting at Gallery Place-Chinatown, I make my way up 7^th street.  Seventh Street is its usual carnival of activity. Cars and buses fill the street with their obligatory honking.   People on foot are rushing to get somewhere until slowed by dazed tourists.  And bicycles brazenly cut through it all.  But it’s Friday, and a little more mayhem, somewhere between kids on the last day of school and animals escaping the zoo.

  

I arrive at La Tasca and I’m pleasantly surprised.  There is a sea of dark wood throughout – the flooring, tables, chairs and the bar.   Large, wrought-iron chandeliers hang from the ceilings.   The restaurant is warmed by golden walls.   Red and yellow accented décor remind me that LaTasca has brought Spain to downtown Washington. 

After excusing my way up to the crowded bar, I find James and Hilda.  James greets me with his usual “Heyyyy…KayKay!”  James I’ve known for almost 20 years, and Hilda I only know through James.  A few times a year I go out with them and experience something new.  I once went with them on a bar crawl which was cool until we reached the third or fourth bar, a club with 3 floors.  Shortly after entering, I knew I had had enough.  When they went to another floor, I headed straight to the exit.  Via text, I bid James adieu.

After settling in beside Hilda I look over the menu.  I don’t usually fool around with sangria but La Tasca has seven sangrias on their happy hour menu.  Hilda, a connoisseur of happy hour, says the sangria they’re drinking won’t bother me.  Although my stomach wasn’t convinced, I follow Hilda’s suggestion.  There are only 2 bartenders behind this very long bar and they spastically move from one customer to the next.   Without much effort, Hilda gets the attention of one of the bartenders and orders another pitcher of sangria and my dinner of mini empanadas and calamari from the $4 happy hour tapas menu. 

The three of us chat about everything but nothing in particular.  Hilda and James have been here for 2 hours before my arrival enjoying their sangrias and appetizers.   They had caught up on their lives since last seeing one another.  Hilda’s ability to get the attention of the bartender was impressive and we tease her about it.   Most of our fun is in watching the bartenders and the happy hour patrons crammed around the bar.  These patrons were mostly young professionals and they dressed as if they took their young professional jobs seriously.  We, on the other hand, are not that; but can appreciate those not-so-good-ol-days. 

James went to check the meter and soon after, Hilda and I find ourselves discussing men and dating.  I smiled at the thought of two single gals at a bar talking about men and dating – a bit stereotypical but great fodder for happy hour.  We giggled, raised eyebrows, and pursed our lips as we talked.   We took a more whimsical approach to our single status instead of war stories and hopeless resignation. James has returned and we finish off the last pitcher of the evening.  James asks “Ya’ll ready to go?” which was a statement that it was time to leave.  We made our way out of the restaurant that was still packed with those that had come for happy hour. 

Hilda and I headed to the train station and the last thing I said to James was, “I hope I make it home ok.”   Pointing at me, he answered, “Look, all you have to do is get on the train.”   I nodded like a younger sibling receiving step-by-step instructions.   But first I had to keep up with the fast pace and chirpy conversation of Hilda.  All of this, I did; in spite of a queasy stomach and the dizzy detachment from the happy hour sangrias. 

On the train, I sat back and relaxed; smiling at these last few hours.  I was happy to make it to the metro and down the escalator, amidst moving people and morphed objects.  Happier still, that the contents of my stomach remained intact and in my stomach.  I really enjoyed myself as I was with friends - talking about nothing, eating, drinking, laughing, living.   It was our time to caste off or delay the worries of this life.  Once home, I texted James to let him know that I had made it home and that I was alive.   He said he was glad that I came out.  I texted, “Me too! I had fun!  Imagine that.” To this he replied, “Smh. Imagine.”

For non-texters...Smh = shaking my head

Listening, Reading & Writing

After meeting a friend for lunch last weekend, I visited Second Story Books.  It’s a used and rare bookstore in Dupont Circle that I like to check out when I’m in the area.  About two years ago, I decided to collect books written by or about James Baldwin.   I had a few already and thought I could build a collection.  While at Second Story Books, I was able to pick up my 11^th Baldwin book, Notes of a Native Son.

While perusing the aisles, I discovered a lovely little book by Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings.  Published in 1983, the memoir was developed from lectures Welty gave at Harvard University. Welty won the Pulitzer Prize for the Optimist’s Daughter.  After I purchased the $3 book, it occurred to me that I was also building a collection of books about writing and publishing.

I love the style of the book and decided to include an excerpt from the book from the chapter on Listening.  I read this passage over many times, as it resonated with my experience as a reader and as a writer.

Ever since I was first read to, then started reading to myself, there has never been a line read that I didn’t hear.   As my eyes followed the sentence, a voice was saying it silently to me.  It isn’t my mother’s voice, or the voice of any person I can identify, certainly not my own.  It is human, but inward, and it is inwardly that I listen to it.  It is to me the voice of the story or the poem itself.  The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice.  I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers – to read as listeners -  and with all writers, to write as listeners.  It may be part of the desire to write.  The sound of what falls on the page begins the process of testing it for truth, for me.  Whether I am right to trust so far I don’t know.  By now I don’t know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other.

My own words, when I am at work on a story, I hear too as they go, in the same voice that I hear when I read in books.  When I write and the sound of it comes back to my ears, then I act to make my changes.  I have always trusted this voice.

Eudora Welty

One Writer's Beginnings

Goodbye Summer
Miami 2009

Lost In a Book

I’ve rediscovered my love of reading.  Once again, I feel like that little kid sitting on the floor of her pink bedroom.   My long and sometimes ashy brown legs would be stretched way out against the light green carpet.   I was lost in a book.

I remember this intensely pleasurable reading taking place during the summer of my childhood.  My mother, a school teacher, would be home with us during the long summer months.  As soon as we mentioned that we were bored, Ma would say Bored?  Ok.  Go get your things.  We’re going to the library.  Her tone suggested that we were in some sort of trouble.  I loved to read so I was always a little confused by this parental display.  She piled her 3 kids into the back of the green Chevy Nova and off we went. 

The authors of my childhood were Beverly Cleary, Maya Angelou and Judy Blume.  Not too long after that I discovered James Baldwin.  I don’t remember my mother scrutinizing my stack of books which is why I could slip in James Baldwin at a fairly young age.  At that time children were really children.  This was before cable and the only source of corruption was the Brady Bunch, Threes Company and Fat Albert.  Even if my mother saw me reading James Baldwin she probably thought I was trying to learn about my black history.   

Somewhere along the way I lost my love of reading.  It probably started with all of the volumes of required reading for college and graduate school.  This was followed by jobs that required more reading.  When I got home in the evenings, the last thing I wanted to do was deal with more words.   But I kept reading anyway.  There were moments that I enjoyed but it felt a lot like laundry.  The main difference is that I could remember a time when I loved reading and that memory buoyed me along from book to book. 

It made no sense for me to approach a book like a kid trying to get through a plate full of peas. So I stopped trying.  I would read what I wanted and when I wanted.  I would read an article here and a blog there.  Sometimes I would read parts of books with no goal of completion.  This went on for a few years. 

Last May, I was with my walking buddy Arlene and we decided to visit a new library we noticed on our way to Arabia Mountain.  We casually walked around the library marveling at the architecture.  Eventually we got to the books to check out their selection.  Suddenly I had this urge to read which took me by surprise.   I ended up choosing Jonah’s Gourd Vine by Zorah Neale Hurston which was first published in 1934.  I loved the wonderfully flawed main character of preacher John Pearson.  The dialect was challenging and delightful.

I then turned to my own bookshelf for the next selection, Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.   I savored every word.  When I finished the last chapter, I declared once again that Baldwin is the best.  Now, I’m reading Anne Lamott’s book – Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.  She has some very practical suggestions that I find quite helpful.  I’m amused by her use of lavish sarcasm.

I continue to read as I can.  I take my time.   I lay across my bed with only a night lamp on and sometimes I burn a candle.  And the sensation is the same as it was a long, long time ago.



Note:  First posted on breakfastatkarens.blogspot.com on 9/18/12  

Summer Reading- How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

Summer is for reading and summer is a time to be carefree.  So, I tend to keep my reading light.  I stay away from most non-fiction; especially anything geared towards self-improvement or serious biographies.  Maybe that’s why I was drawn to “How I Became a Famous Novelist” by Steve Hely. While wandering the aisles of the Mount Pleasant Library, I noticed a bright yellow book on one of the shelves.  On the cover was a tornado and white pieces of paper strewn about.  Something about the cover design, including a title in red and blue font, seemed contradictory, humorous; even juvenile.   I wondered what the book was really about.  After reading the back cover, I discovered that the book is a parody of the literary industry.

Standing in the library aisle, I read the first two pages.  The first was an excerpt from the “Tornado Ashes Club”, the book that the main character (Pete Tarslaw) writes that will make him famous.  This gives you a taste of Pete’s writing.  It’s horrendous and terribly hokey.  The second page begins with a great line “You have to understand how bad things were for me back then.”   I was intrigued by this simple line, hoping that this would provide insight into how someone writing so poorly could become a famous novelist.  So, I checked the book out.

When we first meet Pete, he is post-college and employed by a shady employer writing college entrance essays for wealthy kids.  He doesn’t seem to be motivated by much in life until he receives an invitation from his ex- girlfriend (Polly) to attend her wedding.  It is then that he decides to become a famous novelist so that he can show up at the wedding to make Polly feel as if she married the wrong guy.

Once Pete comes up with this brazen idea, he sits down and writes 4 goals for himself (in Pete’s words): fame, financial comfort, stately home by the ocean or scenic lake and humiliate Polly at her wedding.  Pete also comes up with 16 rules for writing his novel.  Here are a few:

• Abandon truth

• Write a popular book.  Do not waste energy on writing a good book.

• Include nothing from my own life.

• Must include a murder

• Give readers versions of themselves, infused with extra awesomeness.

• At dull points, include descriptions of delicious meals.

• Include plant names

• Must include a club, secrets/mysterious missions, shy characters whose lives are changed suddenly, surprising love affairs, women who’ve given up on love but turn out to be beautiful

Pete’s motivation for writing and his rules are blasphemous for those that view books and writing sacredly.   Even if you do, Hely will cause you to laugh about it.

Hely also intertwines other characters and story lines that keep the book moving along while we watch Pete write his novel.  Some that stand out are his roommate Hobart, his aunt Evelyn and employer John Sturgis.  There are outrageous encounters with famous authors and a movie producer.

In the end, Pete finishes the book and becomes a famous novelist.   He describes his pinball route to fame into 4 distinct stages.  One includes a famous actress swinging his book at paparazzi and the photo ends up on the cover of a magazine.  Later, as I personally hoped, Pete will crash and burn.  He attends Polly’s wedding and humiliates himself while in a drunken stupor.  

The book is a worthy read and jam-packed funny.  Sometimes I would laugh out loud or get the giggles while reading the book in public.  It’s obvious that Hely is a comedy writer.

No book is perfect.  At the beginning of most chapters, there are one page excerpts from fictional books, manuscripts, newspaper columns and email communications. This slowed me down as I tried to figure out how each tied into the next chapter. Mostly it demonstrated Hely’s impressive writing skills as he had to create all of these with a unique voice and writing style.  One such example that I loved was Hely’s recreation of the New York Times best sellers list that includes book titles such as “Cracked Like Teeth,” “They Play Red Rover in Heaven,” “Jockstraps Ain’t for Eating,” and “The Jane Austin Women’s Investigators.”

Another challenge with the book was the ending.  It was adequate but seemed abrupt or incomplete.   Midway through, I wondered how Hely would end the book. I liken it to being in the last season of a really good TV series like Mad Men, BoardWalk Empire or Six Feet Under.  I know there’s a good chance that I’m going to be disappointed.   It’s always hard to wrap up a really good thing.

This is how we traveled (down south)

Mom got up early that morning.  She cleaned, cut up, seasoned, floured and fried a whole chicken.  The chicken was wrapped in foil and placed in a tote bag, one she acquired from a conference or from teaching.  To this bag she added a loaf of white bread and fruit.  There was another bag with 2 packs of Pringles potato chips and cookies; the thin butter cookies in clear cellophane trays that were under a dollar.  There was one roll of paper towels, styrofoam cups and a yellow jug of ice water.    Preparing the food was her final act.  The last few days she had spent washing clothes.  The clothes were folded, rolled and packed into a large, heavy suitcase that the family shared.  She placed our clothes in quadrants in the suitcase for each member of the family.  We were going down south.

  

We travelled in our 1976 Chevy Malibu.   Leaving Maryland, we would soon be on I-95 on our way to South Carolina; first to visit my mother’s hometown of Cheraw and then on to my father’s in North Augusta.   There was more than 500 miles ahead of us.  The first part of the drive was easy; the air was as cool as it was going to be.  I could keep myself entertained with mile markers and crossing the first state line.  I knew that once we got past Richmond, Virginia, I could begin to think about lunch and that fried chicken.   It was too early to begin to ask Are we there yet?  

Lunch was always at a rest stop.  In those days, rest stops offered bathrooms and picnic tables beneath the canopy of large trees.   We were glad to be free of the car and ran to an empty picnic table.  Mom would methodically remove our food from carefully packed bags.  She would then ask us which piece of chicken we wanted.  Greg, what you want?  Kenny, what you want?  Karen, what you want?  Thomp (my father), what you want?  Hollering out what we wanted, before we were asked, did not change her method, nor did she move any faster.   One by one, we would receive.  It was a most loving act; a piece of fried chicken wrapped in white bread from the hands of one’s mother.   

It was late summer and the sun was most formidable.  Wrangled together, we were rushed back to the car by my father.  He was motivated to reach Cheraw by a particular time.  This means nothing to children as we tried to avoid the burn of hot vinyl seats.  Mom found towels or something for us to sit on.  For the remainder of the trip, windows were rolled up and down to change the temperature in the car.  From the backseat, we would proclaim the obvious, “It’s hot!”  And from the front seat, “Roll down the windows!” Other times, the front seaters would ask “Is that too much air on you?” At some point, in response to our restless demands, my mother would yell “Take a nap!” 

For entertainment, there were comic books, coloring books and library books.  Just books.  And when that wasn’t enough, backseat brawls would break out with arguments and a few elbows.  This was the natural occurrence when siblings are sausaged together for hours in a hot car. Sometimes my mother would intervene with telling one of us to move over as if there was space to move over to.  Usually we were frozen in place by a single line from my father “Now stop all that fighting back there!”   We traveled on; eating snacks, reading, making up games.  We began to ask Are we there yet?  All questions about the distance between cities were answered by my father.  Somehow, we reached our destination by the early evening.  

The coming days were full and simple.  Relatives were visited, telling us how much we had grown.  We played with cousins in yards and ran in and out until we were told “Stop running in and out of this house!”   I ate peaches, larger than the size of my hand; warm and delicious.   We made homemade ice cream with my North Augusta grandma; taking turns churning the ice cream.  My father would tell stories of his childhood and Sunday dinners at big Ma’s (his grandmother) house.   At night, I would fall asleep by an open window, listening to strange night creatures and staring out into the blackness.  Each day had its own adventure. 

Soon, all too soon, my mother would be up again early, frying chicken.  Clothes had been washed and repacked.  We knew our visit down south had come to an end.  We headed back north, the same way we came; together.  

Flower, Fleur, Flor

A stem, a petal

Simple elements.

Purple, yellow, pink

Brilliant in display.

The master impressionist at work.

Designing, demonstrating

Broad strokes of genius.

Sweet, pungent, tropical, soothing.

A whiff and a reflection;

Sweet memories.

A hope, a promise.

In celebration, sadness, just because.

Gathered together or in solitude.

Always timely.

The Gentle Promise of Spring

The weather folks called for 1 to 3 inches of snow and they were right.  I put on my waterproof weather boots and winter white coat and headed out to work.   Outside, the wintery mix came down steadily; stinging my face and blurring my vision.  I opened my umbrella and angled it for protection. 

My car was only 3 blocks away but it seemed like a mile.  I wished to move along at my regular pace. Instead, I crept along slippery sidewalks, juggling an angled umbrella, coffee and a heavy bag.  I reached my destination, unburdened my load and started the engine.  The car warmed and I cleared it of the snow.  This was March 20th, the first day of spring; no flowers blooming, no birds chirping and no promise of a hot, carefree summer.  

Some made it into work while others knew that snow on a spring Friday was an omen telling them to stay home.  For those that made it in, snow was the topic of conversation;   Can you believe this weather?  It’s the first day of spring! When will this be over?   In the midst of their disbelief, they rubbed their shoulders as if to relive every cold moment of their lives.  

That evening, I joined a woman on the elevator.  Warily I greeted her and she replied, “I’m so sick and tired of this.”  She was older and slight in frame; wearing the dark, baggy clothing of a rebellious teen.  The rear wall of the elevator held her up as she slumped forward.  I had enough information to know that this was not the time for a silver lining, but still, “Aren’t you glad it’s the weekend?”  And “Isn’t it nice to come home to your own place at the end of the day?”   She snapped back, “No, I’m sick of this snow!”   

I liked that it snowed on the first day of spring.   After an unusually cold winter, it seems as if Mother Nature was taunting me in some way.    But maybe she is saying, you have your calendar and I have mine.  So much of my life is regimented by calendars, schedules and the timing of things.   There is value in organizing and planning life but this is not the whole of life.   There is excitement and wonder when unexpected things show up.  I need a little wonder to breakthrough in spite of all that I’ve contrived. 

By the time I reached work, the snow had ended.  What remained was a clear and bright day.  The sun sat majestic in the sky with her warm penetrating rays. The trees, lined along the streets, were crowned with snow.   Even the wet pavement gleamed.   Instinctively, I reached for my phone and then put it away. No picture could capture what was already etched into my soul.  So, I breathed in the crisp, easy air. I lived in the moment and accepted all that it had to offer, the divine; the final roar and the promise of a gentle spring.

All photos taken with my IPhone after spring had sprung in Maryland.  Enjoy!  Karen

Happy Valentine's Day!

I remember one Valentine’s Day that happened to coincide with me being in a relationship.  I finally had a man on the right day of the year and I was going to make the most of it.  But everything that day was chaotic and ridiculous: a lot of traffic and driving, the production of “getting ready”, selecting a restaurant with an hour wait, getting home very late and dreading work the next day.  At the end of the day, we were just two tired people, manipulated by aggressive marketing and bending to social norms; me with my high expectations and him ambivalently going along.

We made it to the restaurant and settled at the bar.   We began to chat like the good friends that we were instead of the possessed maniacs we had become.  It helped that the restaurant had a lovely piano bar.  The musician was warm and pleasant and smiled to himself and everyone passing by.  As we waited, my boyfriend talked about a number of things, but mostly about growing up in Chicago.   In a matter-of-fact way, he revealed something very personal and sad that happened in his family.  In that moment, I was not aware of the piano man and his songs, or the crowds of people, but only the words coming from his mouth, and oddly, the lack of expression on his face.  However, I was deeply affected by what he was saying.  He paused and said “I can see your eyes watering up and I really appreciate your care and concern.”   

What happened in that moment had nothing to do with cards, candy, balloons, flowers or jewelry.  It was simply a heartfelt exchange between two people.   It was a moment in which one soul connected with another without shame or pretense.  There was sharing and understanding.   And isn’t this what we all want, to be more fully known, understood and accepted? 

We live in a time in which so many are craving validation and the assurance that they really matter.  Why else would people go to such extreme attempts to be recognized?  We see this everywhere: at work and at home, among the rich and poor, in the media, in politics, at social events, at school and even in religious institutions.   

Fortunately, there is something that we can do.  We can initiate heartfelt exchanges with those around us.  We can take the time to look someone else in the eye and let them know that they matter by listening to their story without judgment.  We also have to be vulnerable and share our story with others.  It doesn’t have to be something sad and depressing.  I’ve revealed embarrassing missteps that resulted in raucous laughter.   

Whether you are alone, with friends, or partnered in some way, I wish you a Happy Heartfelt Exchange Day!  

Hydrangea

That Which Matters Most

Everyone has their own approach to the new year.   I usually take some time to consider where I’ve been, where I want to go and how to get there.   This year I want to be more intentional about my time and making sure that I spend it on things that matter most to me.   At this stage of my life, what matters most to me is to feel well and to be well in the world.

My wellness formula includes quality relationships, a spiritual practice, writing, good food and exercise.   I also need to discover new things, and to laugh and play.  I function best when these are mostly present in my life and am off-kilter when they are not.  On some level, I hoped that this awareness would automatically result in me doing more of these activities.  But no, I actually have to set aside time for these things and then make them happen. 

Setting aside time for the things that matter most will always mean that I must choose one thing over the other.  I may have to decline invitations to celebrations, noble causes or entertainment.   There’s nothing wrong with them other than their timing being out of sync with what I need to do.  I’ve learned how to kindly and artfully say no.   

To live this way is a daily practice.  Sometimes I just need to pause and question whether the action I’m about to take will serve any real purpose or contribute to the welfare of my soul.  I will miss the mark.  I try not to be too frustrated with myself.  All I have to do is push reset and try again.   Perhaps this is the hope that comes with the new year. 

One of my favorite new year's cards