appalachia and babies

I spent 36 hours with A. this weekend. That’s the most time I’ve spent with anyone in a very long time, and it was easy and relaxed. On Sunday, we drove out to the Appalachian trail near Front Royal, Va. As we walked along, in search of a stream, A. stopped fast and grabbed my arm. Up ahead, a good 100 yards, was a black bear with three cubs. The bear looked to be foraging for food, and it didn’t hear us or see us. As we whispered, I pulled out my camera, but my zoom isn’t strong enough, so I only got black dots between fuzzy trees. We stood and watched, frozen and fascinated.

Of course, we turned around and took a different path, up and away from the bears, chatting and walking through cobwebs. It was clear no one had been on this path in a long time. We crossed over Skyline Drive and went down a different trail, swatting away bugs in the humidity. That’s when we came across the frame of an old car — it looked to be from the 1930s. It didn’t have wheels or an engine or a roof. But it was deep under the dirt and foliage, as if no one had seen it for years, completely suspended in time.

A while later, around 6 p.m., after eating bananas and trail mix and chugging down water, we got back into the car. As we slowly drove along, we saw a deer run to the road, with two fumbling fawns along its legs. They had big floppy ears and were so cute, it made my heart leap. I love being out in nature, exploring and discovering and appreciating the moment. It’s quiet and still and I can hear myself think. I can’t wait to go back.

connecting with strangers

On the first leg of my ride home from a (wild) wedding in Santa Rosa, Calif. last weekend, I sat next to an elderly couple from East Knoxville, Tenn. They were short, gray haired and nearing 80 years old. The wife pulled pills from a baggie early on and gave them to her husband, who dutifully took them as he coughed. “He has chronic bronchitis,” she said as she leaned to me. “He’s not contagious. We had to take him to the hospital earlier this week.”

And so began a 2-hour conversation with two of the nicest people I have met.

I never did learn their names. I learned that they have three grown children, including a professor at UCSF and an artist who lives on a ranch without water in the woods in Montana. The husband is a retired Presbyterian minister who ran camps all over the country. They live on a 5-acre farm with her sister, who is a widow, and the three of them have dinner together every night. The couple met at Maryville College in Tennessee and have been married 57 years.

“My parents have been married 36 years,” I say, “and every year, I say, ‘Yay, keep going!’”

“Oh, that’s nothing! They’re still young in their marriage” the woman said with a glint in her eye. “After 50 years, you don’t know any other way of living.”

The couple laughed together and fed off each other. At one point she said, “That tickles my funny bone.”

I told them what I do, and they said, “We’re grateful for you and your work.” The husband was reading a book on how to be more considerate. He chuckled that he was reading it, then said seriously as he peered through his glasses: “You never do stop working at it. People often don’t listen to each other because they can’t wait for what they’re going to say next.”

As the plane got ready to land, the husband said something, but I couldn’t hear him. The wife said, “We’ve really enjoyed visiting with you. We’ll think of you every time we listen to NPR.”

I said, “It’s nice connecting with nice people.” I had the urge to give her my card. I had to urge to ask them if I could visit them on their farm and talk about what it was like living in the 30s and 40s. But the moment passed, and I took the experience for what it was: connecting with nice, wise people on a trip across the country.

more voiceovers. yeah yeah yeah

Last week, my coworker asked me to be a 75-year-old Palestinian woman. Anyone who knows my voice might think this is hilarious. I sound like I’m 12. But I loved sitting in the booth where Jack Speer and Lakshmi Singh report the news live each day at the top of the hour in Studio 2A. With the eyes of two engineers on me and the producer, I was so nervous I was shaking. I cleared my throat and coughed to rough up my voice, but it didn’t work.

They must have thought I did OK, though, cause on Friday, I was asked to be a South Korean woman. But some coworkers teased me for sounding like a late night smooth operator.

this city is small

On Wednesday, I went to Poste for drinks with coworkers. We stood outside in the courtyard behind the restaurant that’s part of Hotel Monaco and drank $4 glasses of wine. Then I noticed a woman I recognized but I couldn’t remember how — until about 15 min. later I realized I met her Tahoe in March. Later, after the sun set, about six of us sat around a small circular table lit by a fake candle with a battery. Mid conversation, I looked to my left, and there was a former volleyball teammate on a date. And to my right, was a guy who works with C. in Sen. Stabenow’s office, whom I’d seen a few weekends prior. I was surrounded by people I knew in what is considered a big city. But it often feels amazingly small. Or am I just getting older?

stand by me

And speaking of joy, it’s worth sharing this video of street performers around the world singing “Stand By Me.”

clothes-swapping and karaoke

Last night, I went to a clothes-swap party at L.’s. That means you clean out your closet and bring clothes that you never wear anymore (in my case, the clothes I consistently shrink). And you try on threads that others don’t want (I walked away with two skirts and two shirts. And that sounds like it should be the name of a movie).

L. lives in Petworth, a neighborhood I don’t know, even after living in D.C. for five years. At about 11 p.m., we wandered to Domku, a small funky Polish restaurant/bar with cool art on brick walls, white lights strung up, and several couches. There were about seven people in there, and two were doing karaoke.

C., L. and I drank Slavic beers and nearly immediately started to dance. We sang “Girl You Know It’s True” by the famed and wonderful Milli Vanilli. We laughed uproariously at L., who can do the Milli Vanilli dance. And we ended on “Joy To The World,” by Three Dog Night, which reminds me of my childhood. I’m sure I was off key, but I felt like we were traveling overseas and wandered into a random bar where the people were open and welcoming. I felt uninhibited. And joyful.

music to my ears

In December, my coworker on NPR’s music team told me to listen to the new band Blind Pilot. Knowing that I have the same music taste (from listening to the songs he picks for Song of the Day), I listened to the album. And I liked it. But I didn’t think much more about it.

Fast forward to last weekend — I went to Texas for a wedding on a ranch. It also happened to coincide with the SXSW music festival in Austin. And, Bob Boilen picked Blind Pilot to be one of the bands to watch among the thousands there. So I brought the album for the drive from Austin to Comfort, Texas. It was one of the only albums we had in the car, and we listened to it over and over again as we drove on the open highway.

Then, yesterday, my coworker told me last minute about a performance chat at Studio 4A. Ari Shapiro was interviewing Blind Pilot for Morning Edition. And I stood in the control room with literally a handful of people and listened to the independent band from Portland, Ore., tell their story about how they carried their instruments on their bikes for their first tour from Vancouver to San Francisco (if that’s not cool, I don’t know what is). They were down to earth. They told jokes and laughed. And they played their acoustic tunes, and I was so moved, I nearly forgot about my 1:30 meeting.

Last night, I rallied a few friends to see them play at a small venue in Virginia called Iota. It was $12. I rarely have the energy to cross the border into Virginia, much less when it’s raining. But we got there at 9 p.m. just before it sold out. And they were incredible. And afterward, the band stood near the bar chatting with my NPR coworkers — accessible and open. The lead singer Israel Nebeker was obviously shy, but smiley and grateful we were impressed by them. I came home and fell asleep to their melodic voices. And today, as it drizzles outside, I can’t stop listening to the album, especially the song “3 Rounds and a Sound.”

My love for this album has been a slow progression. It wasn’t overnight. I needed exposure to it. And as I listen to it, I discover the layers to the harmony. The depth of the instruments. The complexity of the lyrics. The beauty of their voices. I can’t wait till they play in D.C. again.

a new way of drinking

A wonderful, wonderful thing arrived in the mail today. Thanks, D. I will henceforth use this every time I drink. I can’t wait for my morning coffee.

the wacky neighbor

I would like the world to know that I still have a Christmas tree on my porch. It is tiny — mid-thigh — and it’s stuck in its holder, which I’m not willing to throw out. I mean that sucker is jammed in there. I tried to take it out in early January, I really tried. Now, the mourning doves are hanging out near it, which is really odd. I know it is.

But every day when I come home from work, I see that Christmas tree and shake my head and think, “I really need to throw that out.” It’s almost March Madness, for goodness sake.

But it’s been low on my totem pole of things to do, those things in that fester in the back of my mind. (Sow a button my favorite shirt, check. Make a doctor appointment, check. Cancel my New York Times daily subscription, check. Cancel a hotel room for one night in Texas, check). Throwing the Christmas tree is next. It has to be. Cause I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m that wacky neighbor that still has a Christmas tree on the porch in June.

I’ll even scare myself if that happens.

**Update: I finally threw it out in April. With the holder still attached to it.

the case of the mysterious monkey noises

Last Saturday morning, as I made coffee in a small log cabin near Lake Tahoe while on a ski trip, my friend R. looked at me and said, “Do you have a monkey ring tone on your phone?” I looked at her, confused, and said, “Um, no.” R. said she heard monkey sounds in the middle of the night, twice. “What did they sound like?” I asked. “Hoohooheeeheee,” R. said scrunching up her shoulders and making a hilarious face.

P., R. and I were sharing a room (yes, a bunkbed) so P. and I should have heard them too. We made R. make the sounds several times that day, even on the ski lifts at North Star, and laughed every time she did it.

L&B had arrived at 1 a.m., and had used the bathroom. We thought maybe it was the pipes making the noise. So later that evening we actually flushed the toilet while Robin lied on the bed to test whether the pipes squealed like a monkey. They didn’t.

As we crawled into the bunk beds on Saturday night, R., P. and I continued to demystify the mysterious monkey noises like little girls at slumber party. In whispers, we guessed all possible scenarios. Maybe it was a mouse? Or what about an owl? How about a bear outside the window? A laughing hyena? No, those in Africa (we all erupted with laughter). What about a ghost? “Maybe you just imagined them, R.” “I know I heard something!” she insisted.

At 7:30 Sunday morning, all three of us heard it: “Hoohooheehee.” “You guys! Did you hear that?” R. said in a loud whisper. “Yes,” P said from the top bunk. “Yes,” I said. It happened again, and it came from the closet. R. got up and investigated, and found a bright blue plastic toy monkey on top of a box of toys. When she picked it up, it vibrated and said: “Hoohooheehee.” R. fell over on the bed laughing with tears running down her face. I took the monkey and stood in front of L&B’s bedroom door like a mischievous little kid to see if the monkey could wake them up. It did. “Is that a monkey I hear?” said L. from behind the closed door.

We made that plastic monkey talk over and over until we got sick of it. But we were glad to have solved the great case of the mysterious monkey noises. And to know that R. isn’t losing it.