Traffic was slowed by last night’s storm.  I was at a crawl in my car at 8th and Sherman on my way to the highway when I noticed a man and woman at the bus stop two-stepping in the bright white snow.  In hats and gloves and scarves and coats, they made their way around the sidewalk floor.  The woman threw her head back with a wide-open laugh as the man held her close with a pleased smile on his face.

Strangers?  Lovers?

I met for wine with my writer friend Tuesday night.  She was asking me what motherhood was like.  ”I mean, how much time do you get to write?”  I had to think about it for a second.  When was the last time I even had time to read?  Now that I am more comfortable with my role, being mommy, I feel like I have time to SLEEP again.  Order of priority: sleep, eat, read, write.  One or two or all have suffered greatly this year.

I have missed finding characters at bus stops.

Lots has been happening around here!  We have a baby who crawls and we moved into a house!

The house is a sweet brick bungalow whose walls hold lots of quirks and stories.  Luckily, the most difficult things we’re dealing with now are the lack of electrical outlets and mirrors.  Coming from a 1950s condo where every room, save the kitchen, had floor to ceiling mirrors, I now find myself depending on Chris to give me proper feedback about what I’m wearing.  It seems that in 1926, there was much less vanity.

This morning is the perfect example of what we go through each day before I rush off to work.

“Chris.  How do I look?”
“Go into the light.  Hmmm, no, that’s not light enough.  No, this light, here in the kitchen.”
“Here?”
“Yes.  Okay.  Well, I think I read somewhere that navy doesn’t go with brown.”
“No, they go together.  It’s a color wheel thing I think.”
“Okay, then you look great!”

We just love our new digs.  The yard has room for sitting with baby and the block seems to be filled to the brim with lovely, friendly neighbors.  Our house is in between houses owned by couples who have been living in their homes ten plus years and are the heartbeat of the hood.

It’s wonderful to me that this house has a long history.  It’s been sitting on its plot since 1926.  I want to know all its stories.  So I started looking in the easiest places.

I pulled the 1940 U.S. Census and it was quite revealing.  In that year there were four kids living in our two-bed one bath home.  The oldest child was 15.  The youngest, 7 months.  Talk about a full house.

Well, what we found out from our neighbors was that Silvio – “Junior” – the oldest of those kids, was still living here until he died in 2007.  That’s right.  He spent almost his whole life in this house — from 1930 on.

Our neighbor told us she used to pick his brain all the time about what it was like in Capitol Heights in the old days, before it was known as Congress Park.  The first time she asked him, he said, “Well, you know, Ann, there were a lot more children in those days.  They’d run around from house to house causing all sorts of trouble.”

Ann reflected on this and thought it couldn’t be too much different than it was today.  She was erecting a fence in her backyard because of the three boys who lived down the street and the constant whooping and hollering that seemed to always happen just as the sun peeked though her windows on Saturday mornings.

“You know, now everyone has fences in their backyards,” Junior continued. “It wasn’t like that back then.  The goats all used to have free rein, nibbling down all the grass.”

Ann said, “Junior.  There were goats?!”

“Oh sure.”

More kids, more goats.  Ah, the old days.

Certainly more stories to come as we continue to meet the other characters on our block.

We tend to rotate between masses at the church we’re attending.  Depending on what time Benjamin wakes up on Sundays, and now, in our new trend, depending on how often he’s up during the night in the hours before mass, will decide what time we attend mass – 7:30 or 9.

We generally prefer 9 because the message is so clear and well-spouted.  The priest at the 7:30 mass is lovely, but we’re never really quite sure what he’s getting at.

Anyhow, since Benjamin has started becoming wholly animated all day, every day, we’ve begun sitting in the “Bawl Room” at the back of the church near the nursery, the “Bride’s Room” (yes, the church is so big it has a room just for brides) and the rest rooms.

Two weeks ago we attended 7:30 mass and were sitting in the Bawl Room.  During the first reading an older woman walked into the room behind us toting a large rolling suitcase and another bag over her shoulder.  She did not look haggard or tired or homeless, but she was traveling with an awful lot of luggage and seemed a bit out of place.

She went directly into the bathroom and didn’t come out for a while.  I take notice of things like this when I’m supposed to be listening to the word of God.

Since childhood, before ever doing something daring or nerve-wracking or whenever I’m in a situation where something unexpected could happen, I imagine what the newspaper headline would read if an unforeseen tragedy occurred and I was involved.  ”American tourists in South Africa killed in rhino attack.” “Amusement ride at county fair crushes local woman.” “Girl sent by parents to get a gallon of milk: never returned.”

For some reason, I had a little pit in my stomach as I tried to imagine just what was taking her so long in the bathroom.  What on earth was she doing in there?  Should I alert someone that there is a woman with a lot of luggage in the bathroom and she’s been in there for too long?  If you see something, say something?  But what did I really see?

And then, just after the homily, the door to the bathroom opened and she came out, with her bags.  Her clothes were changed and her hair was pulled back.  She stood behind us.  Chris was wrangling our busy baby and offered to get her a chair.  She politely declined, coo-cooed at Benjamin and flashed him a huge smile which he reciprocated.  And then she walked out of the room with her things.  Benjamin followed her with his eyes.

As we prepared to receive communion, she walked up to the baptismal font, which is in the middle of the church, and dipped her hand in the water.  She blessed herself.

Then, she dipped her fingers in again and used the water to smooth her hair back.  She looked into the water, presumably at her own reflection.

I immediately felt peace.  It became clear to me she was just an angel, stopping by to remind me not to get so worked up about things I can’t control, and to calm my imagination and lasso it before it runs completely wild.  To be present, to be thoughtful, but also to pay attention to those around me without judging too harshly.

When I came back from communion she was gone, as I knew she would be.