Back in Town

Back in D.C., but the opening seminar continues. I'm heading to George Mason for lectures all day and won't be able to get caught up until the weekend rolls around. Here's a sampling of of the view from the bus heading out to western Maryland for the first part of the kickoff program at the WISP resort. More to come soon.

The Hazy Shade of Summer
- The view from the bus is impressive. We’ve long since left behind any trace of regular suburban life and are immersed in a countryside that remains comfortably planted in centuries past. Driving along a ridge, I caught sight of a red covered bridge leading to a lone farmer’s field. His quiet rows were a solitary settlement among the dense forest. The rolling hills have gotten somewhat rockier, but at every opportunity, trees crowd each other, their foliage spilling over in a desperate grab for sunlight. Red and orange poppies range the roadside, mixing with indigo stalks and pretty purple blooms.** Rivers and creeks regularly amble along the road or underneath it. Little creeks, clear to the bottom, sidle up to barns and homesteads, with footpaths bridging them at infrequent intervals. The forest occasionally approaches the road aggressively, looming almost menacingly over the two lanes. Little white flowers invitingly dot the thin scar of grass separating the trees from the cars. Beyond them, though, the trees vie expansively for the light, leaving the forest dark at eye level.
- We’ve fallen into a valley, mostly full of a little brick town, afraid to climb onto the surrounding hills. Several silver steeples, and a church tower covered in a weathered patina greet the visitor in a more welcoming way than the sudden confluence of train tracks and the garishly misplaced Holiday Inn, the only jarring reminder of the twentieth century besides the road.
- The title of this post is derived from the air all about. It’s approaching eleven o’clock and the sun still hasn’t managed to assert itself. Instead, the entire region seems to be steamed that the sun above is intruding, literally steaming in response. The sky above is a weak, watery blue, the vivid green of the forest around weakening as the eye traverses farther hills. The milky wetness that makes walking more like swimming obscures the clarity of the air, diffusing the sun’s rays and casting a soporific pall over the unresisting countryside.

- There are some roadside flowers I’ve never seen before. A bright, light purple and linen white, they tend to grow together in ready-made bouquets. A delightfully pleasant sorbet and cream of consistent colors and frosty petals.

- We’re passing by roads to towns like Frostburg, Grantsville, and Morgantown; Amish Road, Big Savage Mountain, and Meyersdale. Some of the names inject more painful history into the pastoral setting around us: we passed Negro Mountain a moment ago. Just now, the rise to my right has been cleared of trees and is a clear line of green grass set against the indistinct cluster of clouds. The sky blends seamless between the pale blue and buoyant cumulus clouds. It falls away and opens to a plain of mostly dead trees, covered in climbing vines and with scattered branches bursting back into life, just enough to augment the feeling of a skeleton forest.

- One of the guys behind me just asked the question, “Aren’t there cities in Maryland?” Spot on, spot on.

- Every glimpse through the trees is a picture of the past. Just now, two bridges spanned a small river that cut an opening in the dense woods. In the fore, the metal box of a rail bridge greened with age, while behind it, a shallow pointed arch of stone connected a rutted dirt road. The cylinder of a silo calls attention to a ruddy barn hiding in the trees. On the slope below the road, a doe bounds away into the shadows at the approach of our bus.

- The scenery is changing: more evergreens and confiers, rockier ground, a dimunition in the desnity of the forests and undergrowth. The trees now remain more to themselves, still clustered closely together, but a little more individual.

- We just entered the town of Accident. A tiny little hamlet of brick, white-washed wood, and goodly number of jokes on the town’s name. The homes here are delightful: colorful porches with rounded wood colonnades, wicker furniture and painted shutters, shingled roofs and grassy drives.