Leaves and Branches

I'm surrounded by brown. It seeps down from the mountains and creeps across lawns. It infuses the palm trees that provide scant shade but some shadows. We have two seasons here--hot and less hot. Neither encourages leaves in bountiful colors. Fall envy envelopes me each year and I yearn for the unique sound of crunchy variegated leaves beneath my feet. Not having to rake, pile or burn these fallen beauties, I'm prone to almost euphoric musings.



Perhaps it is silly, as my dear husband remarked, to be excited about leaves and to capture far too many of them in photos. I think not. I can't get enough of them. We've arrived in Virginia and are lodged near Dulles Airport for a few days of visiting family and exploring the region.

Near the airport, there's a gigantic auxiliary to the incredible Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Set in the countryside, the building contains historical aircraft from this country as well as others. Visitors can ascend to the museum's tower and view planes arriving and departing from busy Dulles. One floor below, there's a mock air traffic control facility which provides insight into these critical functions. We're awed by the enormity of the space shuttle Enterprise. Consumate technical genius was required to create something so large that could soar through the heavens safely and return its human cargo to this planet.




There are Russian MIG jets whose provence is clouded in cold war history. We ponder experimential planes, view uniforms from multiple conflicts, and notice the number of foreign visitors who are strolling around the building. They, too, are swayed by the significence of the achievements prominently displayed.



The air is cool, the wind mild and jackets are welcome. My leaves are changing rapidly. We're meeting Penny and Jeff for dinner at the Pines of Florence in Arlington. A white tablecloth restaurant with few pretensions portends delectable Italian food.

Penny is my cousin. We share a long ago multiple great-grandfather, Albert G. Penny, whose surname now serves appropriately as a given name for his female descendant. She and I 'met' through a genealogy message board when I answered her post inquiring about my great-grandfather who married one of Albert's daughters. Interestingly, Penny and I grew up only 90 miles apart but we knew nothing of each other or our connection until our love of family history brought us together.

She and Jeff are genuinely gracious people. Deeply devoted to each other, they share a love of travel, reading, politics, and family. Our conversations are replete with the names of ancestors, stories about our respective children (now adults), potential future visits. Though we see each other rarely, there is no awkward transition. We are family from the same branch.



After dinner, we adjourn to Penny and Jeff's condo. It is teeming with books. I'm especially intrigued by the exhaustive genealogy collection. Multiple volumes of Baton Rouge Catholic diocese historical documents yield marriage records for three different couples in my family tree. I am thrilled. There is so much more to explore but time is limited. Penny shows me a photo of Albert Penny's daughter, Eleanora, her great-grandmother. She is a nineteenth century beauty. I bring home a copy of that image for my files. There is talk of Penny and Jeff joining us next May when I address the family reunion. What fun it would be to introduce her to so many previously unmet relatives.

The next morning we drive to Richmond where first cousin Jeanelle lives with her husband, Gene. Their house is just around the corner from that of their daughter, Jeanine, and her family. The grandparents' house is rife with young voices and the children's activities crowd their schedules. Jeanelle is devoted to the local Ikebana Society, remains active in the Episcopal Church, and dotes on Gene, her spouse of 46 years. I was a bridesmaid at their wedding and I sometimes think it was only last year.



Henry and Will, the nearly thirteen-year-old, are exploring mathematics. Will's an outstanding student and he grasps complex concepts easily.



My admiration of Jeanelle is deep rooted. Though she didn't live in my hometown, she visited regularly. Once I was old enough, nearly every summer, my parents took me to a nearby town and put me on a train to her house. There, I settled into the Presbyterian manse where her family lived and reveled in day after day of bacon/lettuce/tomato sandwiches, washed down by frothy Coke floats. I'd sit on the swing situated on the screened in front porch and blissfully while away the afternoon. Sweet Jeanelle, four years my senior, never treated me like a kid. She included me in all her events, introduced me to her 'cool' friends, took me out for donuts doused in butter, a local delicacy. I was also the lucky recipient of all the clothes she outgrew. My closet blossomed with adorable dresses by Jonathan Logan. I attended her high school graduation and was a member of her wedding party. Our bond is potent, never strained by decades of living too far apart or having lives that demanded our attention and allowed for little interaction. Her strength at the funerals of my sweet Brother and Daddy continued our inseparable allegiance.



Intermixed with leaf viewing and family visiting, we've discovered several Chick-fil-A locations and dined with delight. The grilled chicken sandwiches are seriously scrumptious. Equally tasty is the carrot raisin salad. I planned to indulge in one of the chain's sinful shakes, but I miss that opportunity. Probably a good thing in retrospect.

Shopping isn't neglected and I'm able to compare west coast merchandising at Nordstrom's with their stores in suburban Virginia. And, I'll admit, those in Florida. Purchases proliferate and some are destined for Portland. No photos of these forays.

Sunday is the perfect day for ambling through the 95 acre Meadowlark Botanical Gardens in Vienna, VA. A part of the Northern Virginia Regional Park Authority, this protected space abounds with brightly dressed trees, lakes, fountains, paved and mulch trails, a butterfly garden, meadows, multitudes of flowers (mostly dormant in the fall), wildfowl galore, and a special turtle, maybe more.













Our last day in Virginia offers even more natural beauty. We discover Riverbend Park in Great Falls and are able to walk to the shore of the Potomac and gaze across to the forest which abuts the river. The weekday visit attracts few others and we can absorb the surroundings without sharing.





We're actually searching for Great Falls National Park and meander through neighborhoods where colossal houses seem simply too large for any single families. Trees intersect across winding roads to form canopies of color. They must be sheltering the enormous mansions and their inhabitants from the economic plight being experienced by the rest of the country.

Great Falls is glorious! Grey rock formations create showy waterfalls as the Potomac rushes forward. Signs mark high water crests and it is difficult to believe that the relatively low flow could increase so dramatically. Today there are kayakers intrepidly fording the falls. Their colorful blue and red kayaks are buffeted as the men paddle furiously. Eventually we see two of the brave, or foolish, souls climbing the rocks with the boats on their backs. Wetsuits are no protection from the perils of the Potomac.




We climb a few rocks ourselves to view the water and its temporary occupants. It's late afternoon and only a few people lean against the railing, reluctant to relinquish the view.





Near an overlook of remarkable beauty, we meet Norma and Ned. They live in McLean, VA and visit the park often. She's Bolivian but has lived in this country for many years. Married for over forty years, the couple is bright, informed, well-read, energetic, charming, engaged in conversation. Norma is a writer who worked for the Associated Press, United Press International and the Voice of America. She's an inveterate reader, a soulmate. We discuss books and yelp over discovered favorites. I suggest more titles to her. She does the same for me. Henry and Ned talk about politics, investments, Treasury purchases, rental properties. We take photos, exchange e-mail addresses. They may come to Palm Springs in the winter. We've so enjoyed meeting them and hope to continue the connection.



Somewhere in this visit, both of us are nearly felled by a respiratory infection. The usual complaints ensue and flying seems like an impossible task. But, we must go to Florida. JetBlue is spacious with its leather seats, individual monitors, and expanded legroom. There's the true luxury of no fees for the first piece of luggage as well as reasonable fares for its many destinations. We are miserable and happy too. Dulles is an impossible airport with very long lines through security and then a train to ride to the designated gate. We endure and mostly collapse into our seats for the trip south.

There's additional discomfort awaiting. The ladies (term loosely applied) in the adjoining room of our hotel are celebrating loudly in the middle of the night. Two phone calls from the front desk only heighten their voices. We sleep little and might just succumb to our respiratory condition. The next morning, Henry talks to the manager who 'comps' our room for the night, provides a complimentary breakfast and moves us to a quiet space. We are grateful and exhausted. Time to enjoy the peacefulness of Dania Beach.





The afternoon is spent with Bill and Sue. He's Henry's classmate from Yorktown. In August, the two men collaborated to honor a fallen colleague by placing a memorial plaque near the street sign that bears his name. Their branch links back to fourth grade and remains inviolate today. Bill was a sports hero in his hometown whose records were unrivaled. He won a scholarship to the University of Connecticut and further distinguished himself there. His career as a high school English teacher is all the more remarkable because of the profound influence he had on so many students. Many of his experiences working with broken youth have been captured in his novels. They deserve a wide audience and hopefully will reach that status someday. Bill's a kind and caring man whose devotion to peace permeates his being. He and Sue have been married for forty-four years. She's an exuberant lady who admits to loving the gaudy and glitzy. On her, it looks great and appropriate. Totally dedicated to saving cats and kittens, she works tirelessly in this effort to great effect. They are an amazing couple with two accomplished children and a bevy of five grandchildren.

I'm still suffering with my malady and a bit of an allergy to the two long-haired cats who share the home. Sue tucks me into the guest bed, shuts the door, and I slumber peacefully. It is only when I awake that I discover I'm not alone. Cat napping with me is a dark black beauty. So much for escaping from any dander.

In the evening, Bill joins us for dinner at a local Italian restaurant which is owned by yet another high school classmate, Lynne and her husband, Jerry. She is also a first cousin of the young man whose tragic loss we commemorated in August. There are no sad stories this time, just laughter and sharing of ancedotes from a New York life that I never lived. Lynne and Jerry are wonderful hosts. Each of us gorges on the delicious cheese bread. Maybe it can cure the respiratory problems. Pasta is light, Chicken Marsala is perfectly prepared. We are stuffed with food and friendship.

Our days are dwindling, the infections are receding. There are malls to measure against previous sites and casinos to survey. The Hard Rock Casino is owned by the Seminole Tribe. It is classy, filled with rock and roll memorabilia. I'm intrigued by the tan corduroy pants, now filled with large holes, worn by Elvis in 'Love Me Tender.' Shoes which adorned the feet of a Pointer Sister, Madonna, and Lady Gaga look very uncomfortable and garish. I try the triple slot machines and quit when I've lost about $5. Henry, naturally, does much better. There's a Blue Plate Diner where we find comfort food in the form of hot turkey sandwiches. Another potential cure?

Wherever we go, in hotels and restaurants, there are large glass cylinders filled with water or iced tea. Sprinkled in the liquid, without exception, is some variety of fruit. I see watermelon, canteloupe, oranges, lemons, limes. Each adds a unique flavor to the drink. A Florida tradition, I suppose.

As I troll for possible items to post to Portland, I spend a considerable amount of time in the Nordstrom BP (Brass Plum) departments. Encased in a dressing room, the occupants of adjacent compartments don't know I am nearby nor my age demographic. Maybe they wouldn't care anyway. Two high school seniors talk animatedly about their lives. They attend large schools and are somewhat anxious about college next year. One will major in Psychology, the other Chinese. The latter student is enrolled in her fourth year of Chinese and thinks she'll be able to get a good job with this special skill. Her friend isn't so sure. Their conversation is salted with swears. I'm not shocked, maybe just disappointed. If my daughter were with me, she might pop out of the dressing room and admonish them not to talk that way around her mom. I can handle it. Truly.





We're up before the sun and all packed for the trip to the airport. It's been a memorable journey. I'll recall Jeanelle's story about taking her grandchildren to the cemetery in my hometown and giving them a list of ancestors to locate. She carefully explained the relationship of each person to the young descendants. I'll cherish Bill's retelling of his experience when he visited the Navajo reservation and after sharing a his tribal affiliation with a resident, was thanked for bringing the rain. I'll smile when I think about the tall, thin young woman who sat in First Class with her clay colored pug snuggled quietly in a carrier beneath the seat. I'll remember the expansive music store in an otherwise totally closed mall in Florida where Henry bought a book of The Doors sheet music which he's played every day since we arrived at home. I'll muse about the historical marker and gravesite for Laura Ratcliff, a Confederate spy, who lies totally protected next to the parking lot of the Marriott Suites Hotel in Hearndon, VA. I'll chuckle when I use my booty from Sephora, carefully selected in concert with my own personal beauty advisor, dear Sue.




Leaves and branches connect us all.



Additional photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/51916128@N03/