Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

The Deer Did It

The Deer Did It

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Sometimes the deer do us a favor, although not often and not directly. Because the rapacious critters ate my impatiens while I was away, I wanted to put something in the large flower pots that flank the front door. Begonias have a reputation as deer-resistant, so I found a good deal on four plants.

The favor part of this is that the errand landed me in a part of town I don’t usually visit. And that meant a walk on a sunny and unfamiliar path. I cruised along a road for part of the route, then circled a pond that was luminous with bird and insect life.

Dragonflies buzzed, frogs croaked, birds chirped as they landed on lily pads. A gazebo let me view the scene from a shady perch. Afterwards I took a series of tree trunk steppingstones through the wetland bordering the pond, then strolled through a cool glade. 

It was lovely midsummer moment, brought to me (sort of) by the deer. 

Thoughts on the Fourth

Thoughts on the Fourth

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On one of my first trips abroad, the passengers in the airplane burst into applause when we landed back in the U.S. It wasn’t a difficult landing or an especially long flight. But it was a less jaded age, and I, novice flyer, started clapping, too.

I had more mixed feelings re-entering the U.S. a week ago. While we were away there were more mass shootings, several disturbing Supreme Court rulings (one of which produced equally disturbing vandalism at my Catholic church last week), and explosive testimony about the actions of our former president. 

I love my country, but three weeks away from it was refreshing. I read no newspapers, watched no televised news. I took a break from our Weltschmerz, an Old World term that has become a surprisingly apt way to describe our not-so-new problems. 

Tyranny, inequality and intolerance have always been with us. Many came here in hopes of escaping them. But they are part of the human conditions, and they have followed us here. 

In my optimistic moments I still think the grand experiment that is the United States of America can weather these difficult, polarizing times. But it will take our efforts and our prayers and our sacrifice to do so. I hope we are up to the task. 

Happy Flower

Happy Flower

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Zinnias have long been on my list of must-grow flowers, but previous attempts to coax them from seed have come to naught. 

But this year, thanks to careful planting (not by me!) and well-timed rain, we are enjoying these bright, cheerful blossoms.

I’m not sure what they say in the official language of flowers, but to me, zinnias are the frank and friendly kid sister. They lack the creamy beauty of the rose, the showy splendor of the iris and the delicacy of the forget-me-nots. 

But they more than make up for those in their color, durability and their winning personality. Zinnias are the happy flower.

Walking the Line

Walking the Line

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The temptation, for me at any rate, is to say, this time last week, I was … exploring a palace, clambering up the ramparts in a castle, nibbling a delectable almond pastry in a tiny cafe.

Not the healthiest approach to re-entry. So I tell myself that vacations can’t go on forever, that I don’t live in a quaint European village, and that, in short, I should get on with it.

On the other hand, I see no harm in letting my mind drift to the narrow lanes of Barrio Santa Cruz in Seville and the lull that comes over them before the restaurants open for dinner at 7:00 or 7:30.  Or the view I would wake up to in Sintra, turrets and towers tucked in among the green. 

There’s a fine line between dissatisfaction and enlargement. And I’m trying to walk it right now.

Camp Reston

Camp Reston

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On a walk my first day back I marveled at the transformation. When I left for vacation, school was still in session and early heat was still battling spring chill. But now it is full-on summer. 

On the lake, fishermen wait patiently for a nibble. Children cavort on canoes and paddle boards. Sunbathers turn their towels toward the sun. Shade is deep and wide; the walker seeks it when she can. 

The place I live no longer feels like a suburb. It feels like a camp. 

The Concert

The Concert

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The crowd began to gather 30 minutes before the performance, a ragtag group of concert-goers, including students, friends of the musicians, and a few tourists thrown into the mix.  It was our last night in Portugal and we had been wondering how to spend it when I happened upon an announcement of a concert on the grounds of the Quinta da Regaleira, of spiral staircase fame. What fun it would be to return in the evening, just as the last light was slanting onto the twisted spires and tree trunks! 

That was before we arrived to find a black-clad musician (perhaps the cellist?) exclaiming to the guard on duty that, at least from what I could make out, something was missing at the venue. Forty-five minutes later, we were escorted through the grounds of the Quinta right up to the stage where the Damas de Sao Carlos, a 10-member all-female ensemble (plus a male harpsichordist) had taken the stage. The musicians came from Hungary, Poland, Bulgaria and Portugal. They had decked out their concert black with scarves of scarlet, blue and green. 

We had barely taken our seats when they launched into “Spring” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” How the music filled and animated that special space! How good it was to hear those familiar notes in that unfamiliar setting. And how strangely comforting: it reminded me that just as music transcends all languages, travel transcends all cultures. It draws us together. It makes us, however briefly, one. 

Old World

Old World

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On the way to the airport Sunday, the chatty cabdriver, Isabel, pointed out sights along the way. “Here is where the king would stop on his way to Sintra,” she said, pronouncing it “Seen trah.” It was a two-day trip so he needed an intermediary palace, she explained. And sure enough, there was a telltale spire amidst the trees and apartment blocks. 

“The past is so alive here,” I said, exclaiming over the beauty and the bounty of the place I was sad to be leaving. 

“But you are a young country,” she said, pronouncing it “young uh.” “We are old.”

I thought of her words as the plane touched the tarmac at Dulles Airport in the waning light of a midsummer evening. Everything was so green, and there was so much space. It was easy for a moment to see the potential of this continent, the feelings that must have greeted its discovery by Europeans. 

It’s easy to rhapsodize over the quaint lanes and cobblestones of Europe, to decry the fast food joints and 10-lane highways of the U.S. But it’s important to keep Isabel’s observation in mind. Portugal is the Old World. We are the New. 

Suitcase at Rest

Suitcase at Rest

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I’m a bit compulsive about unpacking. Usually within hours of arriving home I’ve emptied my suitcase and filled the laundry hamper. This trip was no exception. It’s not that I want to move on; it’s the opposite. I want to see what I’ve collected. 

On this trip there were ceramic tiles and carved olive wood. There were books and teas and a box of six pasteis de nata, the national pastry of Portugal, bought from a chaotic coffee counter in the Lisbon airport. 

But mostly, I return with memories, impressions, ideas. It was my first trip to the continent since 2010, and I’d forgotten how much I love the way Europeans live, the scale of their houses and streets, the pace of life that includes time for a coffee break, which, given the size of Portuguese coffee cups, doesn’t take long.  The way they live with less in one way (smaller cars, tighter spaces) but more in others (an appreciation for beauty and the
past).  

My suitcase is empty. My mind is full. 

Até Breve!

Até Breve!

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If I didn’t know better I’d say that Portugal is deliberately making it hard on us. For our last day here she dished out some of the most splendid weather we’ve had on this already blue-sky trip. Then she landed us here in Sintra, city of kings, although I’ll take some responsibility for that since I planned the itinerary. 

Finally, there were today’s attractions. Whereas yesterday’s visit to the Pena Palace was a bit like being herded into a cattle car, this afternoon’s tour of the National Palace was deliciously free of crowds. 

And in the morning—ah!—there was Quinta da Regaleira, a villa on grounds that include a mossy green spiral staircase that I’d seen in photos and which lived up to its photogenic reputation—though after walking down it with two millennials we met on the way there, I’d say it requires the bold approach of holding one’s cameras over the void to snag the perfect shot (see above for a less-than-perfect one).  

All that remains is a final evening, then packing up and leaving early tomorrow. Given that I’ve yet to master Portuguese I had to look up the best phrase to use when you don’t really want to say goodbye. I think “até breve” will do the trick. It means “see you soon.” 

Hiking It

Hiking It

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Castles are not built on plains or in valleys. They are situated on mountaintops and hillsides. But what happens when the castle becomes a major tourist destination? In short, gridlock.

To avoid the crush we skipped the bus to Pena Palace and the Moorish Castle today and hiked up instead. The guidebook said it was a trail only to be undertaken by “serious hikers,” but that didn’t deter us. 

Hike it we did, both up and down, and though the knees are sore, the mind is full of the sights we saw along the way.