The promise of 3.5 days away from the pressing business of the day job filled your correspondent with all manner of hope to catch up on writing and posts, which we will confess, has been a bit thin of late (blame *that* on the SM-3…but I digress). So it was while wending my way through back-country roads Friday (the I-95 portion of my 70 mile, 1.5 hour commute being gridlocked by semis and tourists) that I began writing a number of posts in my memory — of the latest from the far corners of the earth covering a variety of technological and foreign policy issues. Once the initial chores of the holiday were completed (preparation and smoking of the obligatory Boston Butt, l’affaires d’lawn, etc.) I would settle before the keyboard and screen and commence to write.
Except it didn’t happen that way.
See, growing up I was exposed at an early age to the art of the Wyeths — Andrew and Jamie. The gritty realism of weather-worn faces and buildings in media that itself, echoed the bleached timbers of a New England seaside barn and in turn, eased the reality. Many times while growing up there came a moment when I felt that rather than being an observer, I was instead a part of one of those paintings — the light and mood combining in just the right way to yield a “Wyeth moment” as it were.
And so it was with this weekend – where the keyboard was forsaken for a long drive on a bright, late summer afternoon through the northern Virginia countryside; and the laptop ignored for long sessions on a front porch as dusk turned to eventide, nature’s symphony and the occasional train in the distance providing the accompaniment. Quiet evenings with a dog curled in the lap passing with easy conversation — with a daughter talking about her future plans or a wife sharing a knowing look. A series of moments to enjoy for what they were and weren’t. To capture and keep for times ahead.
So — blame it on Wyeth; Andrew or Jamie, your pick.