Pink hotel

My usual morning walk circuit takes me up the W&OD trail, where just before I hang a right, I see what the People’s Republic of Boston Properties is pleased to call Reston Town Center. It’s an appalling sight—an ugly, badly-designed conflation of concrete high-rises pretending to be meaningful. 

That ugliness is not helped by the knowledge that every retailer and restaurant in the place is part of a chain; like the “center”, they’re nothing you can’t find in scores of other places. Really, it's a gigantic middle finger thrusting up out of the quasi-wild greenery that used to be this whole area. And it's so full of itself. There's a pink-ish hotel, the afore-mentioned chain-store boutiques, but no swinging hot spot. The People's Republic does not do swinging hot spots.

So of course today’s earworm is Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi”.

Man, Joni called it right way back in 1969.

 

 

Unexpected

A couple of weeks ago I was taking an afternoon walk around the corporate campus behind me. There’s one pond where a heron hangs out—almost always at the far side from the path. So I very nearly missed this guy, because he was about five yards away from me and doing his “you cannot see me because I am a reed” imitation.

I love close encounters.

 

Signs of change

Nature’s starting to hunker down for the winter; I’m seeing the signs on my morning walks.

These fur-covered seeds, which looked to me like a hedgehog:

These leaves, fading from the outside in:

This zinnia tinged at the edges:

This flamed-out maple leaf:

I do love seeing the changes around me.

 

Vegetable matter

Remember last week when I shared pix of the neighbor’s squash vine? Turns out I lied when I said that there was no squash, because looky what I saw yesterday afternoon:

That’s enough squash for an extended family. I was tempted to harvest it, but didn’t, even though I love squash.

You're right: it was broad daylight and I couldn't disguise what I was doing. 

 

 

Gratitude Monday: finally

Last week’s weather was not bad—low- to mid-60s for my morning walks, and 70s to the cusp of 80 during the day. Not exactly Autumn in the District They Call Columbia, but not bad.

Saturday morning was a good walker. I overheard a couple of cyclists meeting up for a spin down the W&OD Trail commenting that they should get going “before the impending rain”. So, I checked WaPo, and sure enough, the forecast was for blustery showers in the afternoon, followed by a drop in temperatures.

This is precisely what happened: some wind, then gentle rain most of the afternoon, then a 20 degree drop. I closed the patio door and considered turning on the heat.

Yesterday, it was 50 degrees when I walked over to Whole Foods; it felt well and truly like Autumn. And I am so grateful to welcome it.

 

I long to hear you

We lost a giant of music this week; Paddy Moloney, founder and guiding pipe of The Chieftains, died Wednesday at age 83.

Moloney has been rightly credited with the revival of traditional Irish music, but he took his group down so many paths, creating albums with country, rock, classical and other musicians. He was curious and courageous in this respect, and all the genres have benefited from these collaborations.

President Joe Biden invited The Chieftains to perform at his inauguration, but COVID travel restrictions prevented them showing up. Biden’s said that one of his greatest wishes was to join with them in singing “Shenandoah”. That will not happen, but I’ll give you Paddy, The Chieftains and Van Morrison performing it on the soundtrack of a PBS show, The Irish in America.

Wherever you are, raise a glass for Paddy Moloney.

 

 

 

Clearing out

Late last week there were “estate sale” signs around the hood, so on one of my walks I swung by and had a look. Not so much, originally, because of whatever items might be on sale, but for the layout of the house—one of the four-bedroom ones.

I have no insight into the circumstances of the event, although there has been a folded-up walker parked out front in the past. And I used to occasionally see an older fella sitting on the bench out front under the tree. So, I’m assuming that there’s either a death involved, or the occupant(s) moved into different accommodation.

However, from the moment I walked inside, I made a note to self: when the time comes for me to take either of those paths, get rid of everything beforehand. I mean, the term “estate” could be applied only in the loosest sense; well, maybe in the British meaning of “housing estate”, or ghetto. From furniture to clothes to dishware to electronics, there was not one single thing I would have if it were given to me. De gustibus non est dispuntandum and all, but I absolutely do not want anyone, friend or stranger, walking through my house and wondering, “Who would have this crap?”

(TBF, there were already pieces of painters tape with “sold” on some of the items, so I guess we’ve got the trash-treasure conundrum going.)

Beyond that, however, I thought it interesting that the four-bedroom unit looked so much smaller and crowded than my three-bedroom one. I felt like you don’t have room to stretch your arms out, so, ew.

But yesterday, outside the house, there were these items that clearly didn’t sell. We’ll see how long they last now that they’re free. 

Update: as of 1956 last night, only the last bicycle was left. I guess the pricing strategy worked.