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Arlington

I drove down to Northern Virginia earlier this month to see old friends Richard and Tim. There was a time when we saw each other much more frequently, but distance and family and the circumstances of life separated us. Once we were collaborators in that grand dot-com enterprise called Recipe du Jour that reached many thousands of readers six days a week, but that was then. We are not those people anymore.

We could see the changes in each other – older, not so quick on our feet, though not necessarily any slower of mind. We were there to inter Tim’s mother, Jane, at Arlington National Cemetery, in a piece of ground next to her late husband, Colonel Lee. Tim had brought a vase of her ashes from the lake in North Carolina where he lives. It was a sunny day, on the edge of chill.

A large extended family and we friends walked through the white stones that stretched far off into the distance. A military chaplain of the appropriate faith interwove the facts of Mrs. Lee’s life that must have been provided to him, with thoughts on the military calling and the rewards of heaven. I have been to far colder funerals than this.

It was all handled with military precision as seems appropriate being repeated many times a day amid so many men and women in uniform. The capitol dome was visible in the distance. Tim wore a T-shirt under a new sports coat. I’m not sure he has owned a shirt with a collar since 1995.

Until this visit I had nurtured the unspoken hope that we might renew our collaboration in some new form. But I think that spark has died. We may continue on our individual projects, but we are in another stage of life, one where we look back more than we look ahead. If that sounds too depressing or despondent, it’s only the way all stories end. Hopefully, there were a few good stories –like Richard’s Vietnam vignettes or Tim’s humorous recollections of the many times he maimed himself.

I will remember the way our readers seemed like a large extended family, keeping in touch with cards and emails, birthday wishes, generous comments and contributions. That was why we continued for so many years, and we thanked Richard for the many hours he put in making a place for us to share our stories with the 20,000 strong Recipe du Jour family.

We have been best friends since high school. That’s a long time. Longer than we’ve known our wives, or in Tim’s case, ex-wives. On my drive down from central Pennsylvania to Leesburg, Va., I conjured up memories of some of the best times, moments that I would like to relive for a little while. Like the trip with Tim to New Orleans when we popped the new Stevie Nicks CD in the stereo and watched the gas flares burn off on the oil rigs in the dark. Or driving in Richard’s family station wagon out to Virginia Beach and turning on the radio to hear Richard Harris singing his monumental version of MacArthur Park, everything still unknown and possible.

Did we live up to the promise we saw in each other as teenagers, proud of our brains and creativity and difference from the crowd of high school yahoos? Maybe not. But there are a hundred days and hours I would happily relive again with these guys. Proud to be one of their kind.

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We stopped in D.C. on the way down South. Even with a GPS, I still made a couple of wrong turns in the city, but we found the parking garage near the National Gallery where we had reserved a prepaid space earlier in the week.
My daughter’s college friend, Lauren, met us near the museum entrance, and we ate a packed lunch on the grass, the four of us, my daughter, her friend, my wife and I, watching the visitors from all over enjoying a summer Saturday in the monumental city.
We were there for the Gustave Caillebotte exhibit that I had heard described on National Public Radio a few weeks earlier. The side trip added a day to our journey, but in every way the exhibit was worth the trouble.
There are some famous artists that everybody seems to like almost to the point of becoming too familiar, too much with us, as Wordsworth put it. I guess Van Gogh is like that, and most of the Impressionist painters. We’ve seen the water lilies and the dancers so much that they have lost their power. I can still be moved by Van Gogh’s Night Café, in the right mood, but not when I see it on a beach towel.
Caillebotte has been spared that treatment, mostly by the accidents of economics. He could afford not to sell his paintings, and they were rarely exhibited by his family. This was a chance to see the tremendous collection of his work in a public place.
There was a good crowd in the galleries on the second floor of the museum, but nothing like the shuffling, pushing throngs at some popular exhibits. We could stand in front of a painting of boaters on a river for minutes, if we wanted. But there were so many of them, rooms full of light and beauty, any one of which you could live with for a year and not be tired of, unless you are tired of life itself.
There were some portraits, some still lifes, but most of the paintings are of people doing things, walking in the rain, painting a shop front, rowing a boat, and, of course, the workers scrapping the old varnish off of a plank floor. There is a bottle of wine open on a table in the foreground, and the workers have just finished their lunch and are back to working, stripped to the waist in the golden late afternoon sun that streams in through the studio windows.
I casually toss off the image of people walking in the rain, but the painting called Paris Street; Rainy Day is nothing if not stunning. It takes up most of a wall in one of the galleries and looms over the heads of the visitors like a movie screen in a packed theater. You might almost expect the man and woman walking under their umbrella to step down from the wall in their 1870s’ style dress with their shining, confident faces and shake the water from their umbrellas in our own upturned faces.
Paris Streets; Rainy Day will return to its regular home at the Chicago Museum of Art sometime next February. The National Gallery exhibit is up for another month or so. If you happen to be in the area, the Caillebotte exhibit will travel to the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, starting in November. Go and see Caillebotte before the Floor Scrappers shows up on a coffee mug.

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Earlier this week, National Public Radio ran a show on the new exhibit of paintings at the National Gallery in Washington, DC. The artist whose works they are exhibiting is one of the French Impressionists, but not a household name like Renoir and Monet, with their reproductions hanging in dentist’s offices and motel rooms around the country. Gustave Caillibotte hardly ranks with their fame, but he is, in my estimation and apparently the curators of this show, their equal in talent. I saw Caillibotte’s paintings at a heady time for me. It was San Francisco in the late 1980s, and I had recently finished a novel, now tucked away in a drawer, that an agent was shopping around to the publishing houses whose names were on the spines of my favorite books. I felt ready to leap into a new world in a city that seemed forever fascinating. Because my novel was about an unknown impressionist painter in the late 19th century, I felt a compulsion to visit the big Impressionist show that had come to the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. The other paintings at the show melt away in memory, but the painting called The Floor Scrappers and the one of the rooftops of snow covered houses viewed from the artist’s Paris studio are still vivid. The Floor Scrapers is roughly 6 ft. by 5 ft., filled with a golden light. It does not have the kind of hazy brush strokes of typical Impressionist art, but it does have the light. The story goes that this was a new studio his wealthy father was remodeling for his young artist son. The three men refinishing the floor have removed their shirts in the heat and they are immersed in their work. The artist appears to admire their skill as they strain against the plank floors. I was so moved by the paintings that I went home that day and wrote a poem about View of Rooftops. I tried to put myself into his thoughts as he painted, staring out the window at the white roofs in the gray winter light. It reminded me of the scene in Hemingway’s memoir of Paris called A Moveable Feast where he describes the cold room that he rented in order to write and how he carefully shaved the tips of his writing pencils and put a few pieces of coal on the stove to cut the chill. Caillebotte’s most famous, almost iconic, painting is called Paris Street, Rainy Day. The beautiful wide street of the new Paris, the triangular building in the distance, and everyone strolling along in the misty rain under their identical gray umbrellas – you are there in the moment, although the year is 1877. That is what I hoped to convey in my own writing – that sense of being there in a particular moment in time and the way it felt. I don’t know if I ever found that, but it always seemed the most important thing in writing or in painting. I think we will be able to go to this exhibit next month when we head south to visit my family in South Carolina. I think it will bring back memories of that summer in 1988, when my wife and I, newly married, saw the Impressionists in Golden Gate Park.

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We visited Boston this past week to see my older daughter who is working over the summer between her first and second year of graduate school there. Our younger daughter stayed with her sister, and my wife and I got a hotel room in Brookline, a nice neighborhood within walking distance of the universities and nearby to shops and cafes.

The hotel was in a 19th century brownstone with fewer than a dozen rooms, all high ceilings and big windows looking out onto the street. Below I could see joggers in the rain and young people waiting for the train that stopped up the block.

Everywhere, everyone was young, like in that movie Logan’s Run where everyone dies when they turn 30. I thought constantly of that poem by Yeats, Sailing to Byzantium:

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

On Saturday morning we walked through some of the neighborhoods near Brookline, taking stairstep walks down to the streets below. Everywhere the young women carried their yoga mats rolled up and hanging by their hips, coming or going from a class. The young men, sleek and tattooed, filled with attitude and energy, stroked their smart phones on the trains, chatted in line with their dates waiting for a café table.

There are more than 50 colleges and universities in metropolitan Boston. It seemed like we walked past at least a dozen – Boston College and Boston University, Northeastern, Berklee School of Music, schools of technology, the arts, medical schools, small liberal arts schools and campuses that spread for dozens of blocks – my daughter’s college, Simmons, known for its library science and archiving master of science degree, and next door to a beautiful small museum built in the early 1900s for a woman, Isabelle Gardner, who collected art from around the world and brought elegance and culture to Boston’s North End. As we wandered through the rooms of art, looking down on the interior garden, the rains came heavy beyond the windows and we watched pedestrians struggle with their umbrellas in the wind.

We walked for miles through the city, through the public gardens and the Boston Commons, along the Freedom Trail, past Paul Revere’s statue and the Old North Church where the lanterns were hung at the Revolution’s dawn. We took trains everywhere we didn’t walk, clanking and grinding on the turns, old but efficient, like me, maybe.

When I last spent any time in Boston, I was 22 years old, on a road trip for a long weekend, and I knew nothing, not like these sophisticated youth with their bright minds and cosmopolitan sheen. I had never set foot in a fitness club or ordered a meal in an Indian restaurant. I thought of tattoos as something sailors got on a drunk on shore leave. You got a hair cut from some barber who could do a crewcut or a trim, and sneered if your hair was longer than his. But even then I liked the city, the first all-science fiction bookstore I had ever seen, the first Irish pub, the same trains, and the feeling that something life-changing could happen around any corner.

I had my youth in another city, San Francisco, though it was long ago. And my life was changed around some corners, on the N-Judah streetcar, out on the foggy streets near the Pacific Ocean, and on Russian Hill on golden afternoons, following the stairsteps down San Francisco hillsides to North Beach, looking out toward the bay. Oh, was I caught in that sensual music…

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Today, June 16, is Bloomsday, the day James Joyce had his first date with the incredible Nora Barnacle, who became his long suffering wife and the inspiration for Molly Bloom in his novel Ulysses. According to the Writer’s Almanac, Joyce choose this day for the action in his novel to take place based upon that first date, an afternoon walk along the River Liffey in Dublin.

Nora was also the inspiration for Joyce’s exquisite short story, “The Dead,” in his collection Dubliners. Read some Joyce today and be thankful for the muse Nora Barnacle.

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We drove through a storm that was like a precursor of our future under climate change on our way to deliver our older daughter to her new apartment in Boston. Somewhere on a highway in Connecticut, the skies opened up and lightning split the clouds. Torrents of rain followed us into Massachusetts.

The next morning we discovered that a tornado had touched down a few miles from where we had spent the night. Strange weather, but we can expect more of it in years to come the climate experts tell us. The weathercaster called for intermittent showers and temperatures in the high 80s on Labor Day, when we, along with a hundred thousand students and their parents, would converge on Boston for the city-wide move-in day.

The streets of the city were clogged with double-parked moving vans as we circled the neighborhood near Boston College looking for a place to park our overloaded rental pickup truck. Lucking into a spot less than a block from the apartment building on busy Commonwealth Avenue, we waited while the real estate agent showed up with the keys to the apartment, which our daughter would be sharing with two other Simmons College graduate students on the second floor of an attractive prewar brownstone.

We unloaded the truck for the next ninety minutes, making a few dozen trips down the street and up the stairs, jostled by movers and joggers, past Boston cops standing around welcoming new students and warning them about the perils of underage drinking while generally standing in everyone’s way. I was on the verge of heatstroke, my t-shirt as soaked as if it had been pouring rain, when the second roommate arrived with her mother, and we did it again.

When it was finished, I lay on the floor of my daughter’s large, high-ceilinged bedroom with a fan blowing across my limp body while the women unpacked and chatted in the other rooms. I thought about college and what it was like to be young and doing everything for the first time, the excitement of it and the anxiety. I remembered how it felt in the long ago days when I was I was a young student in Norfolk, Va., going to classes and hanging out at Ward’s coffee shop across the street from Old Dominion University with my friend Tim or drinking the thin brew you could legally drink if you were 18 in Virginia in the dark era of the Vietnam War.

Those days I heard from my parents in Florida once a month or so in a letter or an expensive long distance call. The technology boom that would put computers and instant messages in everyone’s pocket was still decades away. But I heard its first ticking on a new machine perched on the counter in Ward’s coffee shop in the form of a video game called Pong – a black screen, a white ball bouncing between two thin white lines that moved with a knob on each side of the machine. Students -like Tim – lined up to play it. I scoffed and read the English poets.

And then the war was always with us, a storm on the far side of the world that pulled us toward it while we held on by our fingertips and a thin piece of cardboard in our wallet called the 2-S student deferment. The excitement and the anxiety of it is read on my daughters’ faces and in their texts, heard in their phone calls, and in the other rooms, where the women come and go. I lie among unpacked boxes while the fan blows me away.

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Haworth, home of the Brontes

Haworth, home of the Brontes

If there was an unintentional theme to our stay in England, then it must have been those ancient churches. We think of our own little church at home being old because it was built in the late 19th century, but these churches keep the record of their succession of pastors and their years of service that date back to the Middle Ages.

One morning, we walked to the tiny village of Morland, a mile or two away from the cottage where we were staying, and visited the chapel with its Saxon tower and walked among the cemetery stones for an hour. Then we took the long, long way home through the beautiful Eden Valley, lost for a few hours between Great and Little Strickland west of the River Leith and looked down upon by the Cumbrian mountains.

Morland chapel

Morland chapel

Then there was Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth lived with his wife Mary and their children and sister Dorothy, all of whom are buried in the graveyard of St. Alban’s Church in Grasmere. We visited the cottage and the graveyard, and walked the shoreline of the lake that Wordsworth could view as he sat by his window composing the poems I once knew by heart.

Graveyard at Grasmere

Graveyard at Grasmere

Then on our way to London, we stopped at Haworth, a small town on the Yorkshire moors, where the Bronte sisters, Charlotte and Emily, are buried in the church next to the family pew. This burying of people below the church floor was common across England, though it seems strange to us here. In the great church of Westminster Abbey in London, I got a shiver as I looked at the floor where I was standing and saw that the bones of Isaac Newton were buried beneath me.

We toured St Paul’s Cathedral on Ludgate Hill with its splendid views of the City of London, if you are willing to climb hundreds of narrow steps to its dome. We stood at the windswept railing and looked at a thousand years of history spread out like a postcard and never wanted to leave.

St Paul's

St Paul’s

My favorite place, Charing Cross in the rain.

My favorite place, Charing Cross in the rain.

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We went to England in late June expecting fogs and rain, but it was cool and clear most days, seldom getting above 70 degrees. We had not considered how deep into the evening the light would persist. Northern England, where we stayed in the tiny village of Newby in the beautiful Lake District, is farther north than all of the U.S. except Alaska, and the light comes early and stays late.

On a walk in the Lake District

On a walk in the Lake District

We wore long pants and layers and carried umbrellas that were seldom used. The narrow country lanes were largely empty of traffic and we walked between hedgerows and used public footpaths across neat fields of sheep and cows. Sometimes we would see a farmer far away on a red tractor or mowing his field of hay. There were wooden steps to climb over gates and we walked between villages, each one with its ancient church and historic pub. Albion, the original name for the British Isles, was all around us in the lingering daylight.

The sun rose early, well before 5 a.m., but we dithered around the cottage, making tea and English breakfast, fried eggs and sausages, thick bacon, toast, often with beans. Dairy Cottage was neat and highly efficient. Every outlet had its own breaker and the washer and dryer were in one small package. The girls slept in twin beds under a skylight and we had a larger room with a double bed. Our window looked out on the neighboring dairy farm, though we were on one of the short main streets of Newby.

Window seat at Dairy Cottage looks out on a working farm

Window seat at Dairy Cottage looks out on a working farm

One morning we took a short drive and visited the cottage where William Wordsworth lived with his wife and sister Dorothy. Dove Cottage was small and dark, though comfortable enough. He discovered the cottage, a former inn, on a walking tour with his pal and Lyrical Ballads collaborator Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It looked down on Grasmere Lake and off to the hills. He and Dorothy moved in to the cottage and planted a garden, and a few years later, Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson and filled the cottage “edgewise” with children and notable guests, like Ivanhoe author Sir Walter Scott and the Opium Eater Thomas De Quincey. We sat on the bench on the hillside behind the cottage where Wordsworth composed some of the most beautiful poems in the English language and his sister worked at her journal that details the life of a place and the poets who lived and visited there.

Grasmere Lake

Grasmere Lake

We walked down the road to the lake and circled it on a quiet path near the shore. Grasmere is touristy, but in an old fashioned, pleasant enough way. We bought sandwiches made of local cheeses and chutney from a small shop, and ate in a park across the road. All during our trip we bought interesting sandwiches or packed them ourselves and often ate our lunch outdoors. Many afternoons we stopped in tea shops for a light meal and pots of tea, and for the first time I understood why the British are so fanatical about tea. Later, in London, we visited the original Twinings tea company store, a long, narrow shop in the old City with shelf upon shelf of boxed teas, with a sign out front that gave its founding as 1706. Maybe Samuel Johnson, whose house was a few blocks away, strolled in to buy his tea while Boswell hung at his elbow, jotting down his witticisms.

Tea shop outside the gates of Warwick Castle

Tea shop outside the gates of Warwick Castle

Afternoon tea

Afternoon tea

We spent a week at Dairy Cottage, exploring the Lake District, with a daytrip north by rail to Edinburgh, Scotland, where we wandered through the old alleys near the Castle and visited the National Gallery and the Library of Scotland. Then we headed for London, with an interesting stop along the way.

The author waits for a train in Edinburgh station

The author waits for a train in Edinburgh station

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I just posted the Literary Guide to England column, which actually was written in late June and published in the newspaper the first Sunday in July. We were without Internet access for much of our time abroad, so no posting was practical. Not that there was much time or desire to do anything but look at ancient castles and hedge-rowed fields, and listen to the myriads of voices in multiple languages and accents from the countryside and the city. London must be the most polyglot city in the world.

As I write this, it is Saturday morning, about six hours since we arrived home from picking up our car at JFK in New York and the flight from London’s Heathrow airport with a layover for a few hours in Dublin. The four-hour drive from JFK was fueled by coffee and my family talking about our adventures in order to keep me awake as I negotiated heavy traffic through New Jersey and the long I-80 emptiness at the end of a 20-hour day without sleep. It was past 5 a.m. in London when we pulled into our driveway, and I had seen ghosts for quite awhile on the road. But my family, as tired as I was, made the miles fly by with their conversation.

Then, I woke up with the first light and the pile of newspapers from 18 days away on the table. So much to catch up on and so much to remember and write about in the days ahead. So many photos to review, so may expectations revised or enlarged. Above all, gratefulness for surviving a few close calls on the strange roads and roundabouts of England with nothing but permanent high blood pressure to show for it. That, and a bank account that looks like tuppence. All of it worth it.

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