Lips

One down side arising from a decision to decline a job offer is less reason to visit this sculpture near the office space. Luscious lips, spirals, and fountains are elements of "Promenade Classique," an installation that features faux ruins and appealing, watery symmetry. 

Artists: Sculptors: Anne and Patrick Poirier; Landscape Architect: Paul Friedberg
Location: Canal Center Plaza and Waterfront, Alexandria

Melted Cheese, Pumpkins and Sugarloaf in the Rain

My friends and I, standing in relentless rain and increasing cold at our agreed-upon meeting place at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain, decided a hike uphill didn't hold the same appeal as, say, a Gruyère grilled cheese sandwich and ginger squash cream soup at the Comus Inn. With thoughts of waiting out the rain, we relocated to a warmer clime, ate well, and lingered laughing over coffee. 

After lunch, we crossed the street to visit the pumpkin patch. Pumpkin colors included a vibrant reddish-orange and pale blue. Wild. What would Linus and the Great Pumpkin say?  

With rain showing no sign of letting up, we parted ways. Typically, I merrily raced off in the wrong direction despite my GPS; its directions only work if you actually look at the screen.

I found myself back at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. After some curiosity driving and a promising pause in the weather, I ended up parking my car -- just as the rain started up again.  I sloshed my way up the rest of the mountain, up stone stairs and through reflecting pool puddles, proving once again that I don't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. 

I returned home cold and soaked, but well-fed by good food, great friends, and foggy vistas.

Three Signs and a Woodchuck

Biting commentary on the side of a Ditch Witch in Silver Spring.
It's not often enough that signs talk about lethal digging teeth. I'm not
going to explain what a Ditch Witch is. Just think big, scary teeth,
like the monsters that live under your bed

.  

Taken at the Rock Creek Planetarium for my friend Neil
because he likes to talk about Jupiter.

I'm glad they warned me before I climbed
up to walk across the flower bed. 

Taken because he reminds me of my fat, orange cat
even though his teeth aren't as prominent.

Bear!

Bear!

This weekend, while on a peaceful hike in Shenandoah, I saw another hiker scrambling back up the path, eyes wide. He slowed down when he saw me, and explained in a breathless North Carolina accent, "Bear! There's a bear just around the bend. I'm not kidding!"

Given that I didn't see a large animal streaking after him, it did cross my mind that this was a practical joke, of a how-to-freak-out-hikers variety. But fear poured off him in large waves, a fear I doubted anyone could mimic so well. 

Long ago, an old boyfriend, while we were hiking out west, spent an enormous amount of time pondering where bears might be lurking. He researched the finest bear sprays, worried and wondered and worried some more, and then purchased the top of the line version for no small fee.

On our way to Banff on the Canadian border, his bear spray was confiscated. Apparently the high-powered American version isn't legal in Canada.

From then on, something shifted. Our hiking became less fraught with possible horrors. If we ran into a bear, there was no secret weapon talisman to pull out to ward off angry nature. Having been disarmed, he was able to let go of his defense against the unknown and instead focus on the startling color of glacial lakes. 

When the sweaty North Carolina man stood in front of me, breathing heavy and pushing his glasses back up his face and babbling about bears, one part of me thought: finally. Wouldn't my ex be thrilled and vindicated that my hiking habit had at last up and got me mauled?

But no mauling transpired. And while listening to the hiker continue to ramble, curiosity got the better of me, and I started creeping forward, just to lay eyes on that bear. 

Other hikers arrived on the path behind us, and heard the tale from North Carolina: "I heard this noise, and I was thinking it was a noise too big for a squirrel, and I looked over to the tree, and the bear was there, climbing!" 

I noted he left out the part about hightailing it back up the path at a dead run. He gave me a sidelong glance of, hey, don't mention that unmanly moment, and certainly, I don't disagree with his fear. I'm not sure I would have run quite so quickly, but that's only because it seems like a recipe for becoming Yogi's snack food, running like prey. A real, live, unexpected bear (not just the ominous floating worry of possible bears) would set off an adrenaline cascade for me too.

Emboldened by larger numbers, the crowd of us turned the bend in the path and, lo and behold: a black bear.  Peacefully rooting around in the trees, pulling down a little bark here and there, she seemed not all that concerned by us.  It's a big forest, after all, and we were puny looking, why would she worry? 

One hiker got much, much closer to take a photo, and while he moved slowly all along, he came back with that same wide-eyed look. "I thought she was going to charge me for a minute," he said.

The things we do for a good photo.

We stood there on the path, waiting for the bear to leave, wondering why the normally shy creature didn't move along. Black bears, unlike brown bears (such as grizzlies), are seldom aggressive to humans. 

Barely visible bear cub in tree.

Finally, we looked up. Up in the trees, snoozing in comfort and out of harm's way, were two cubs. 

Mama bear would not be moving along. And we all stepped back a pace or two, all knowing the adage about not coming between a bear and her cubs. 

Still, we stayed. Other hikers came by, and our bear stayed calm even though they got closer than I would have been comfortable with. In bear world, we were gnats, a nuisance, and our job was to stay out of swatting distance.

We didn't want to leave. To be in the presence of a large animal simply going about her day, this is a moment to take a breath and marvel.  

The only other encounter I'd had with a bear was on a camping trip with that same old bear-phobic beau. We were standing by the car, and suddenly, we were both inside the car, piecing together that there had been a loud, loud noise, and so we'd moved fast to seek shelter. I never saw the bear then, and for all I know, it was just a large, clumsy raccoon who smelled the strawberries we had in the tent (large camping faux pas there), and then thought better of it when we turned on the headlights.

My friend may have developed his bear fear then, or maybe he'd had it all along, the fear of Something being out there, the big Badness in the woods. 

I've had my moments too, hiking alone in remote areas.  Once, I worked myself up enough several miles into a long hike that I decided to sing loudly (and off-key) to warn any creatures of my arrival. This made for a blushing moment when other hikers rounded the corner -- it turned out the area was not so remote. The wonderful thing about singing, however, is that it's substantially more difficult to feel fear while singing at the same time, a little lesson I keep in my back pocket when I need to keep imaginary bears at bay.

There in front of me in the woods, a big fear in furry form shuffled about. And it turned out, mostly my thoughts were on awe and gratitude.

Dark Hollow Waterfall

I'm not much of one for signs, usually, but I'd had an interesting morning that day of decisions, so risk and direction were on my mind long before the bear crossed my path.

The bear reminded me that there is no way to know what lies ahead. I can hope I am reading the maps correctly, but who knows when I will encounter the unexpected.  And when the unexpected arrives, maybe it will be far more inspiring than I had imagined. 

Sure, the bear that day could have turned and bitten me, could have chased after North Carolina or another hiker that stepped too close. She is wild and unpredictable. But that isn't what happened, and being up against a real occasion of an imagined fear was, in the end, not really scary. As with most fears, upon close examination, they melt away so as long as I view them clearly and calmly and treat them with respect.

Mostly, Mama Bear didn't much care what we did, so long as we didn't mess with her or her cubs. 

We all walk a line between risk and stagnation. In some ways, it is safest to stay home and hide behind drawn shades.  But then you never see the bear or experience anything else except the four walls of your cage. There is a much bigger risk in failing to risk, the risk of a life squandered to fear.

I don't suggest foolhardy behavior -- don't try giving  a bear a bear hug -- but do go for a walk in the woods. Sing if you need to. 

For me, seeing the bear will always be worth it, even if the next one does maul me. 

Plus, just think how amused my ex would be at the memorial service.

Sunset, Jeremys Run Overlook

 

Weather Summary

If anyone has forgotten what last week's weather sounded like, here's a quick summary:

Yes, I found another video editing program preloaded on my computer. No, I don't know anything about video, but by experimenting, I'm starting to generate some ideas. Implementing them may take some time. In any case, it's not a bad excuse to walk around in the rain. 

Night Views

U St. NW construction site

People did look at me funny when I took shots of a construction site in the dark and drizzle. I found something weirdly soothing in the reflections of puddles and the hush of after hours, a pause in the relentless motion of progress. 

Irene Pushes Rhino Around

Storm damage, Takoma Park style: Rhino rests on side.

Hurricane Irene, aside from knocking over quite a few trees in the Takoma Park area, also tipped over my favorite rhino sculpture.  My hope is that his wounds are mild and his pink rhino self will be up and about in short order.

In good news, other yard art appeared unaffected.

Yard art still secured amid mulch.

 

Feline Fashion Dos and Don'ts

For the last several days, my sister Susan Daffron, The Book Consultant, and I have been attending BlogPaws, a conference dedicated to pet bloggers. Susie was a speaker at the conference as well.

We met many smart and kind people and heard them talk on topics ranging from making effective movies to social media to book publishing. I learned a great deal, none of which I'm going to share today, as a much more important issue is on my mind. 

I'm talking, of course, about Cat Fashion. 

As the Sheraton had relaxed its pet policy, we got to meet all kinds of furry critters out with their humans. Many happy dogs, a couple of ferrets, and at least one guinea pig attended the event, as did several cats. One of them impressed me with his easy charm amidst all the hubbub. 

Meet Marcel, the Fashion DO:

Stripes add a bit of fun.

Marcel is, bar none, the most fashionable cat I've met.  Although the photo makes him look ceramic, he is a real live kitty, and he pulled off a beret without so much as an irritable flick of the ear. Paired with the traditional striped top, he was a joy to behold.  As a representative of a hairless breed (great for people with allergies) he advocated well for his feline brethren. 

Inspired by Marcel's fabulousness, when we got home, we discovered that PetSmart had given us samples from their Martha Stewart collection. Long suffering Leo (who you may remember from the Cats in Antlers post) was nominated as model.

Leo, Feline Fashion DON'T:

Leo: "I'm too sexy for my shirt."

A few notes for the older feline fashionista:
-- You're no longer a kitten; the size you wore in high school will no longer cover your gut.  If you try to wear that size, you will look like a sausage exploding from its casing.
-- Sequins are a difficult look for most men over the age of one to carry off.
-- If you are not, perhaps, blessed with perfect proportions, do not emphasize your imbalances by visually chopping them up.
-- Minnie Pearl is gone; remember to remove your tags
-- Much as we love the Jolly Roger, the pirate look has come and gone.  Stay abreast of change. 

Martha has a paw in everything

Kalmar Nyckel

Kalmar Nyckel, Lewes, DE

In Lewes, DE, a lunch with pirate friends near the ferry included a great view of this lovely ship. The Kalmar Nyckel is a recreation of a ship that sailed from Sweden to the "New World" in 1638, depositing the European settlers to establish the Colony of New Sweden. 

I keep thinking about the day a group of people were sitting around, maybe having a beer in the sun, toes wiggling in the sand, and decided, yes, let's rebuild an enormous ship, found a maritime-based educational organization nonprofit, and sail said ship around with volunteers. That's a bold decision.  Well done!

Also, I want a parrot and an eye patch. 

Culinary Arts #1: How Not to Bake a Cake

1. Turn on oven to preheat.
2. Open cake mix portion of Boston Creme Pie Mom sent you for your birthday and toss it in bowl.
3. Add butter that you actually remembered to take out of the fridge yesterday to soften. 
4. Carefully measure amount of milk into 2/3 cup scoop. Review instructions, realize it should be 3/4 cup. Guestimate and throw in more milk.
5. Crack eggs and add to mix. Extract shell pieces from bowl. 
6. Get mixer, attach beaters, and place them in bowl. Watch one beater immediately fall off into bowl. Swear. Extract beater, rinse it off, and thoroughly affix it to mixer. 
7. Test mixer for beater security while by turning it on over the sink. Forget that other beater still has cake mix on it, so cake mix goes all over shirt and window over sink. Shriek. Turn off mixer. Swear. Giggle. Mix ingredients. 
8. Grease 8 inch pan with butter. Realize you don't have flour to cover butter. Decide this doesn't matter.
9.  Add batter. Throw cake in oven and set timer.
10. Custard filling: Over a new bowl, crack an egg and toss yolk back and forth between shell halves letting white fall into bowl. Feel like real cook separating eggs until you realize recipe calls for yolks, not whites. Throw whites from bowl into sink and put yolk into bowl. Successfully manage to put right part of 2nd egg into the bowl. Add milk.
11. Add whisk attachment to mixer being sure to affix beater securely. Mix contents.
12. In small saucepan, add custard filling mix and egg/milk mix. Stir over medium heat. Mop up liquid that sloshes out. Stir more slowly. 
13. When custard starts to gel, stir for one minute, remove from heat and let cool. Do happy dance that it tastes and looks right.
14. Wander around and wait for cake to cook.
15. Smell burning cake.
16. Check timer (ten minutes early!). Peek in oven, watch smoke pour out and and see that cake is now overflowing out of 8 inch pan. Refer to directions and note that it calls for a 9-inch pan.
17. Close oven door. Swear.
18. Open oven door, fan smoke away and delicately scrape overflowing edges of cake so they fall on the oven floor. Note increase in smoke. Get spatula and scrape cake scraps off oven floor onto kitchen floor. Sweep kitchen floor.
18. Pray smoke alarm does not go off.  Rejoice that windows are already open.  Open them wider.
19. Catch one piece of oozing cake before it falls off pan and taste. Tastes like cake! Frivolously choose to believe cake is still salvageable. Close oven door and let it keep cooking.
20. Be pleased that smoke seems to have dissipated.
21. When timer goes off, check cake. Note that it is still gelatinous in the center. Reset timer for another 5 minutes.
22. Check cake after 5 minutes and see it is still not done. Consider that oven was probably not preheated when cake was put in.
23. After another ten minutes, cake bounces back from light finger touch. It's done! Remove from oven and let cool for 10 minutes as instructed.

Scary cake fail.

24. Attempt to remove cake from pan. Realize flour probably was important, as much of cake is still stuck in pan. 
24. Scrape out cake crumbs. Consider making them a layer. Decide that, no, anemic, squishy little cake still needs to be sliced in two for two layers. Slice cake so bottom crumbles but top stays somewhat intact. Add crumbled layer to crumbs scraped from pan.
25. Add custard layer on top of crumble layer.
26. Try to add cake top without breaking it. Fail. Try to arrange crumbles artfully. Fail. 
27. Open chocolate icing package and note the contents is totally insufficient to cover a pristine cake top, much less serious cake sins with which you are currently faced. Hope anyway.

Yummy tart

28. Use knife to spread icing. Tear up cake even more. 
29. Stare at cake and think, well? Maybe? Put it under Saran wrap and put it in the fridge and hope it looks better. 
30. Take it out of fridge and note it does not look better. Consider that it may still be undercooked. Think about salmonella poisoning.  Put it back in fridge. Refuse to throw it out because the filling tastes good. 
30. Go to store. 
31. Buy gorgeous summery fruit tart. 
32. Take pretty, store-bought food to bbq.  Eat well sans salmonella. 

Dirt!

If you need to get your hands dirty in DC, stop by this dirtbox in front of the USDA right off the National Mall. 
Inside you'll find luscious topsoil, shovels and buckets. 

Wish Tree, Hirshhorn Sculpture Gallery

Yoko Ono's Wish Tree at the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden was out of new tags in the supply bin.

Tree full of wishes

I second that.

Dreams of an ever
perky future

Other folks had already covered much necessary ground however.

Recycled Art: Fan Necklace

Fan Necklace

I made this choker necklace a month or two ago, when I became obsessed with jewelry design.

Aside from the beads (recycled from other necklaces and picked up cheap at Goodwill), the long black parts are created from parts of an old fan.

My grandmother collected fans for many, many years.  She wasn't terribly gentle with them, sticking them up on the wall with thumbtacks and between that, and the simple passage of time, many of them have crumbled apart.  The fans were divided among her kids and grandkids after her death.  I do have a couple that are lovely.  But most are pretty ramshackle.

Remains of a fan

Many of the fans have spines with interesting patterns though (plastic in the case of the pictured white fan; wood in the black fan I used for the necklace). That's what got me thinking. 

Old, thin wood splits frequently when drilled, so about half of the short spines fell apart before I ever got them in any useful shape.  Reinforcing them with a coat of black nail polish definitely helped, and so the necklace is relatively stable now.

The center pendant of the choker is part of the outside cover, with the original hand-painted gold design left intact. 

Somehow, I think my grandmother would be pleased with the re-use of her fan. 

"Children's Book Illustrators," University of New England

A few favorites from the "Children's Book Illustrators" exhibit at the University of New England.

From Aesop's Fables,
illustration by Jerry Pinkney

"Dinosaur Stomp" by Scott Nash

Dr. Seuss!

Sadly, the photo of the Eric Carle illustration came out entirely as glare. I have a fondness for his work. The first book I ever took out of the library was The Hungry Caterpillar.

I strongly recommend the exhibit.  It's a great place to introduce your children to art in a gallery setting in a way that is fun, informative and accessible.  Kids books are all about wonder.  It's hard not to like that, and some pretty magical art. 

Moose Mania in Maine

Moose sculpture in front of the
University of New England, Portland campus

Down the Rabbit Hole for Cave Week

"Cave of Forgotten Dreams" poster

I started last week seeing a movie with a friend about caves, and ended the week scrambling around inside caves with a totally different crowd of people.  Sometimes, life just works that way, creating its own themes. Welcome to Cave Week.  Watch your step!

Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" is a documentary about the Chauvet caves in southern France that have drawings made 30,000 years ago.  Because a cave-in sealed the entrance to the caves, the drawings look as if they were made last week, but they are, in fact, the oldest known drawings by humans. 30,000 years ago, paleolithic ancestors painted the walls with horses, lions, rhinos, bison and bears, and pressed handprints against the wall. 

The cave is closed to the public to protect the drawings, so Herzog's film is one of the only ways to see the ancient drawings. 

In keeping with Werner Herzog's weirdness factor, an intriguing part of the movie, beyond the wonder of cave paintings, was the odd characters drawn to Chauvet.  One researcher's former profession? Circus performer.  Another specialist dressed up in fur and played the "Star Spangled Banner" on a replica of a paleolithic flute. A perfumer sniffed near the caves and pondered what smells might have been present.  The caves inspire people, but the way that inspiration manifests is decidedly individual. 

For me, the movie felt thin in terms of detailed information. I would have liked to hear what life might have been like for people living in the general area during the time the drawings were created.  The drawings on the cave where made over a long span of time, thousands of years, so presumably there were advances in culture that may have been reflected in the layers of art in the cave. The cave was never inhabited by man however, only visited. Only the drawings lived inside full-time, a detail with seems crucial somehow, and suggests that perhaps there was a spiritual component to the area. There was mention of the deliberate placement of an animal skull, which could suggest religious significance, but of course, there is no way to know. Largely, I'm wondering about information that can't be reasonably verified. 

The images do stick with me, the horses' necks, the suggestion of movement, the way time slows inside that dark space, and the way scientists are trying to stop it, which seems both admirable and sad and controlling all at once.  Life and art fade away no matter how much we try to keep them in place forever, no matter how much we protect and conserve. And yet there is repetition...the Chauvet horses bring to mind Picasso's horses, sketches with liveliness and movement, full of the humanness of creation. 

Clouds over Seneca Rocks, WV

Five days later, I was suited up in an old fleece, old nylon warm-up pants from Goodwill over hiking pants, my beloved Vibram Five Fingers shoes and a miner's helmet with a groovy light and slipping into the entrance to Stillhouse Cave near Seneca Rocks, West Virginia.  My old boss and friend Phil has been caving with crowd of folks for years, and invited me along for their latest trip.  I couldn't be more grateful for such a fun introduction to friendly people and the subterranean world. 

Wiggling through the entrance led to a large room where we gathered to let our eyes adjust to the dark and settle into the cool. Newbies like me were directed toward the squeeze area to get a feel for sliding through tight areas and stretching for footing, climbing and clamoring through the dark. Mist hung in the air, giving the dimly lighted area the soft focus of half-remembered dreams. (Werner would relate to that sentence, I feel sure).

Muddy cavers!

For several hours, I scrambled in all kinds of directions, up and down, in tiny spaces and larger chambers and through one heckuva a lot of mud.  I almost slid into a hole, and can thank a fellow caver and my shin for stopping my descent. The bruise is now six inches long and green.  Twice, I fell hard on my rear and for once, was glad for the padding. Down mudslide creeks, I could skate on my slick shoes and on sandier shores tried to scrape some of the mud back to little success. The two Beagle-sized dogs of a fellow caver circled all around us on the trip, one eventually disappearing above ground again, but both surprisingly agile in leaping from rock to rock. Standing up at my full height became a luxury I'd never fully appreciated until spending some time wiggling along on my belly pulling myself forward with my elbows and thighs, a frog kick in the dirt. 

The exit of the cave, once we finally found it, was climbing up a chimney, scooting around the back of a rock and creeping up back and legs against the sides.  Just as I was leaving that cave, I realized how tired my arms were from hauling myself, the shaking of fatigue not noticeable until that moment.

Refreshed with a Luna bar and some chocolate and lolling in the sun, our merry band rambled down to the Sinks of Gandy cave.  A much more relaxed event, the Sinks is mostly a river the runs through a hill.  We sloshed through water variously ankle to thigh deep, mostly around my knees.  In the dark, I saw a white crayfish, some kind of cave dwelling critter that lives its day in the dark (excepting when cavers clomp through with our headlamps).  After the mud-fest of Stillhouse, we had opportunity to rinse off the heaviest layers of grime.

The exit out was a good stroll up and down through boulders. We emerged to gentle, drizzly rain.  I got to sit on the side of a hill above the creek a bit with cows in the pasture in the distance, and watch as folks emerged from their swims and rinse mud and splash in the water and laugh.

I had a great day remembering many of the things I liked when I was a kid. Exploring, mud, water, playfulness, physical stretches just at the limit of my tippytoes, silly jokes, well-time chocolate, a helpful hand up a hill -- these are all still things that make me smile.

Of course, as an adult, I ended up aching for days.  I'm happy that I can once again lift my arms over my head again without whimpering.

In the Sinks of Gandy cave, I left a handprint in the mud on some higher ground.  I doubt Werner Herzog's descendants will be filming that handprint 30,000 years from now. 

But you never know. 

Alien Egg Hatching in Takoma Park

Another great reason to live in Takoma Park: the alien egg hatching.

Right near the Takoma Park Silver Spring Coop, you can find Alison Baker's phenakistascope (early animation device) "The Amazing Alien Egg."  The sculpture is one of seven, all made from old bicycles, now on display in Takoma Park.

Phenakistascope "The Amazing Alien Egg" created by Alison Baker

When you put your eye up against the Big Eye on the bike's back wheel and turn the pedal, you get to see this:

Yes, there is some gratuitous use of film effects in there.  Who knew what fun the freebie software contained? 

For more information on reCYCLE The Art of Bike Project and locations of other sculptures, check out this link: http://www.mainstreettakoma.org/files/ReCycleMap.pdf.

GPS Museum Roulette Hits at Hillwood

My new hobby is GPS roulette -- choose a place, spin the wheel, see if you win!

An option in my Garmin GPS will generate a list of attractions (parks, museums, etc) based on how far away they are from my current position. It's handy when traveling, and so through this method, I found a lovely park by a river in Westbrook, Maine, with a railroad bridge and kids swinging on ropes into the river on a hot day.  

River swimming

Railroad repetition

I like the random yet planned aspect of discovery, driving with a destination, but one unexplored and unresearched and open to change at any moment, planned serendipity. 

Back home in DC, on a day where freelance ran thin and I couldn't face crafting one more heartfelt cover letter, I decided to spin the GPS and driving wheel and see what I could find in my hometown.

First stop: National Museum of Health and Medicine in Walter Reed. Surely some creepy skeletons or jars of formaldehyde would perk up a dull day. 

No luck. It was closed.

I actually didn't find that out until I checked the website. The museum is in transition, moving to Silver Spring. I was simply scared off by the many gates with somber looking young men, and thought better of my first choice. I do plan to visit in the fall when it's in a less high security environment.

After another perusal of the GPS list, I decided to place my bet on a new stop: the Squished Penny Museum! It was hard not to be intrigued by the name, and so worth a few miles journey. 

No luck. It too was closed.

There was a tidy row house at that address, but no sign of any museum. I opted not to take a photograph, as that seemed creepy if it was now simply a private home.

True, it's not completely surprising that a museum dedicated to flattened souvenir pennies didn't last forever.  But the good news is, its stories and wares are still documented on the Internet if you click on through the sad news of their closing to the archived site.

On my next spin, I decided to improve the odds a bit, and select not just something from the list that seemed interesting, but would have likely survived the several years since I got my Garmin maps (and have been too cheap to update). 

The Historical Society of Washington, DC, with a location right across the street from the Convention Center, was sure to have traffic, I thought, and given the subject, likely to have government funding. 

I was greeted with the following sign:

Times are tough all around.

Yes, once again: No luck. It was closed.  So much for the third time being a charm.

The website notes financial difficulties. They hope to open again. 

Note: do not go down to the lower level to try to peek through the windows.  It's smells overpoweringly of urine.  Repeat: avoid at all costs the lower level entrance. 

Given that I was hot and tired and slightly overcome by bad smells, I tried to go into the Convention Center to cool off and see what it looks like inside, but after a nice chat with a security guard (who was surprised to hear that the Historical Society had shut down), I learned that the Convention Center wasn't open to the public during events. 

Well, fine. Some days all doors are closed.   

I did see this written in the sidewalk on a corner near there, which made me laugh:

Obsessive Compulsive Summer 2010
(perhaps the modern version of the Summer of Love)

I did not stop scanning the GPS list. Yes, I am just that stubborn.   

And finally, a win!

Closer to my own home, I finally found a museum open and ready for business: Hillwood Estate, Museum and Gardens.  According to its signs, it is Where Fabulous Lives.

Chandelier originally owned
by Catherine the Great

The large estate is tucked away off Beech Drive near Rock Creek Park.  While I grew up in DC, and know of Merriweather Post from the name of the Pavilion, I didn't know that Marjorie Merriweather Post entertained in the fancy mansion during the spring and fall months from the 1955 purchase of the house (after her third divorce, from United States Ambassador to Russia Joseph E. Davies) until her death in 1973. 

As a result of her will, the house was transformed into a museum.  An army of friendly and knowledgeable volunteers work as dedicated docents serving, if the afternoon I was there was an indication, a clientele heavy on middle to upper class aging white women. By comparison, I was a whippersnapper and, despite my (in my opinion) fabulous thrift store skirt and with noisy flip-flops, underdressed. 


The house has a heavy focus on French furniture and Russian art. Two Faberge eggs and a chandelier owned by Catherine the Great were lovely, but I confess, the unruly serf in me became slightly soured by the level of opulence in the big manor house.

This is not to say that Merriweather Post didn't engage in philanthropic work and give back to the community. She is routinely described as extravagant, but generous.

Dining Room

Beyond turning her fancy house into a museum, wikipedia notes that "Her donation of funds to construct field hospitals in France during World War I was recognized by the French government awarding her the Legion of Honor."

During her life, she also contributed heavily to arts organizations, including the National Symphony Orchestra and the Kennedy Center. 

Further wikipedia reading, however, suggests that some of her Russian art, in particular, was acquired under questionable circumstances: "It was later alleged that many works of art from the State Tretyakov and other collections were either donated or offered at nominal prices to Post and her then-husband Joseph E Davies, who were both art collectors. Davies is also alleged to have purchased art expropriated from Soviet citizens well after the Russian Revolution, including victims of Stalin's Terror at discount prices from Soviet authorities." 

Portraits of Russian Royals

Most of her life reads like a soap opera, once you give even a cursory glance beyond the brochure information. Largely, Marjorie Merriweather Post was famous for being very, very rich and for marrying, and divorcing four men in a time when that just wasn't done. While she was also a shrewd businesswoman, and one of the first women to sit on the board of a corporation, the salacious details tend to attract more attention. 

Multiple marriages abounded.  Her father divorced her mother and then married his 27 year old secretary. After continuing health problems, he died of a self-inflicted gunshot. Marjorie Merriweather Post divorced one of her four spouses for infidelities so indiscreet they apparently couldn't be monied over and another for rumors of homosexuality. Her three daughters each went on to marry at least three men apiece. Swimming in money did not make for peaceful personal relationships.   

Now a large endowment funds the private museum, and some truly lovely treasures are available, for a small fee, for folks like me to ogle and admire and, in my case, silently give thanks that I won't ever feel the need to own that much china, no matter how lovely Sèvres is, no matter how rich I ever become.

I bet time, not money, on my GPS roulette day, and won in ways of exploration and experience that make me feel rich. 

That said, I'm fairly certain no one will be turning my apartment into a museum in the event of my untimely death.  Unless I start collecting a LOT of squished pennies.

My Brief Career as a Bathing Suit Model

Photo credit: my grandfather, Thomas A. Daffron, Jr.

While rustling through junk, I found some of my grandfather's photographs in the basement of my mother's house. 

While grandfather was a newspaperman in his professional life, with decades as an editor at The New York Times, he was a shutterbug in his off hours. The kitchen walls of my grandparents' home in Florida were covered with crowds of 8 x 10s of family, a public photo album.

Cathedral Choral

On impulse, I stopped by National Cathedral to visit the Rose Window.  My timing was perfect as the Choral Evensong was beginning, so voices echoed off the stone.

Outside, the flying buttresses and gargoyles watched over the fountain into which I threw three pennies, making wishes for me, a family member, and a friend.