lighthouse, leader...sheep wearing a bell

Lighthouse: an aid for navigation and pilotage at sea, a lighthouse is a tower building or framework sending out light from a system of lamps and lenses or, in older times, from a fire.

The nor’easter arrived two nights ago on N. Park Dr. It rained hard all Saturday night and slopped all the freshly laid mulch from the top of the courtyard to the bottom of the courtyard. The sidewalk full of mulch that ran to the parking lot displayed a quality of wave and water flow that could have been used by undergraduate engineering students; the mulch a perfectly aligned conduit for water. I spent a few minutes gawking at it, mouth agape, until I realized the rest of the tenants probably thought I’d gone mad. I subtly moved on attempting to act as if I’d merely lost my way. Who knows what they believe.

I was on my way to the DuPont Circle Farmer’s Market when the watery waveforms distracted me. The market was ongoing when I arrive, though smaller and quainter under the constant rain. I had my wide-brimmed rain hat and was full of dap. The sellers sort out the weather forecast the night before, being farmers and all, and bring only what they know they’ll sell during rainy market days. The dedicated buyers, primarily the well-heeled and young that populate that part of the city, get to enjoy a slower, less crowded market. Fewer people mean there’s a little time to talk with the sellers and less time spent working your way around the lost and confused ‘visitors’. My take for the day included lilies, two boxes of mushrooms, a smooth cow’s feta, big ol’ basket of greens, leeks, massive spring onions, a variety of chard, a package of basil egg pasta, and the Sunday NYTimes. The Times was not homegrown and organic – just the normal newsprint Times. (By the way, last week’s Sunday puzzle was finally broken last night at 9pm! After eight days. It was a son of a bitch. I’ll remember that puzzlemaker’s name…Barton something – bastard.)

In the midst of my Saturday night cook-fest of smoked tomato soup, battered-fried mozzarella sandwiches on skewers with an anchovy and caper sauce, and a big salad, X comes into the kitchen and puts in a request for homemade ravioli. I ask if she really has a preference for ravioli, or if tortellini is what she craves. She quickly answers with “anything stuffed” [pats me on the head and walks away]. She is smooth. The mushrooms and feta ended up in handmade ravioli covered with smoked red peppers, garlic, pine nuts, and basil for last night’s dinner. Somehow she managed to work her way through a bowl – dedicated girl. Heading into the weekend I was feeling like I hadn’t done enough real cooking, now I feel sated.

Back to the nor’easter. The walk to work this morning reminded me of the day after Thanksgiving when The Eleven drove out of Portland, Maine and walked along the beach for thirty minutes. If you’re not on the ocean you rarely get that powerful wind that feels and smells of big bodies of water. Maybe the rain that seems to be hanging in the air mingles with the gusts and it comes off as wet, heavy, and bone-chilling; I find it refreshing. Maybe I’ll head out this afternoon and cast my lobster traps in the parking lot (do you cast lobster traps?).

Tales of the 401 bus…again. Being of tall stature, and dedicated to the cause of what I’ll call ‘watching’, means that I’m the reliable indicator for the arrival of the northbound 401 bus at the Dunn-Loring Metro station. The carnies are either sitting in the bus shelter, milling about aimlessly, or leaning on posts waiting every morning for the bus. I’m a leaner (in the first shelter against the west wall, eyes against the distance), and a leaner is merely a single letter from leader; think about that. What this all means is that I’ve taken the time to figure out the direction of arrival, the color of the top of the bus (don’t confuse it with a Metro bus), and the timing of the lights out on Gallows Road. At the confluence of all three details I step out to the post marking the bus stop…and everyone immediately follows me into a neat, orderly queue. They don’t fall for some unknown rambler moving towards the post; they want a known entity, someone who doesn’t fail and never flinches when the southbound 401 pulls into the transit center. As if I’d trip up on the southbound 401 that clearly came from the wrong direction down Gallows Road. I’ve seen people queue when they see the (wrong) bus coming through the parking lot and it’s horribly embarrassing (just like me staring at the water) since it goes right by our stop to the southbound shelter. See? Now they’re standing in line and the bus flies right on by. Put away your transfers and pittance of coins and walk back to the shelter, heads hanging in shame. Me? I’m still leaning on the shelter looking cool. Bellwether.

Peace.

T.