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Author: Anne Cassidy

Frozen Walk

Frozen Walk

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It was a frozen world I walked through yesterday. Bundled up in my warmest coat, hooded and thick-socked, I made my way along the Franklin Farm trails, which were understandably empty. You know it’s cold when even the dog-walkers stay inside. 

The paths were mostly clear, but any pooled water was frozen solid. I stopped and examined the ice, snapped photos, wondered why some ice is milky white and other is clear, thought perhaps I should have learned that in high school but did not. Mostly, I moved quickly. A winter walk is bracing, as long as it’s short. 

The Very Thirsty Piano*

The Very Thirsty Piano*

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My new piano is a joy. Most every day I sit on its comfy bench and touch its lustrous keys and think to myself … what did I do to deserve this instrument? Not only have I continued to play old pieces, but I’m even attempting to learn new ones — a sure sign of devotion.

But the piano has developed one interesting habit. It’s thirsty — very, very thirsty. It has a humidifier, you see, with a light that comes on when the water drops below a certain level. When that happens, you fill it through a tube to avoid removing the front of the instrument. Doing this keeps the piano in tune, and is good for it in general. 

When the tuner showed me how this works, I imagined we’d be filling it up once or twice a winter. But it’s been a cold January, and the piano lights up about once a week. So now I water the ferns, I water the spider plants … and I water the piano. 

(*Apologies to the late Eric Carle for riffing on his title)

Winnowing

Winnowing

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I’m in a transitional generation, one that has both real and virtual clean-up duties. Not only do I need to tidy up my computer desktop, to create file folders and organize documents and photos within them, I must also deal with the hundreds of real file folders in cabinets in my basement. And those are much heavier. 

They are also filled with gems: Long-ago memos, tattered and worn. Assignment letters from editors who were my mentors and also my friends. Reams of research. Pink “While You Were Away” phone message slips. Studies gathered the old-fashioned way, by going into a brick-and-mortar library, finding the journal and photocopying the pages. 

And then there are the interview notes, all in my near-impossible-to-read scribble. I’ve tossed pounds and pounds of them, saving only the ones where I’ve spoken with dear friends or eminent experts. 

As I winnow my way through each folder, I remember how hard I worked to assemble that information, conduct those interviews, take and process those notes. Which baby was I holding at the time? Which child was hanging on my leg?  A part of me thinks I should leave these folders alone; they are too precious to process. But another part of me is greedy for space, for empty file drawers. And these days, that part is winning out.

Viva Italia!

Viva Italia!

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Like many people these days I find myself relying on streaming entertainment more heavily than I would like. This has become a winter-time occupation, slowly supplanting my race to watch Oscar-bound films in theaters since so many of them are available online.

As we enter our third year of pandemic-enforced staying-put, I’m gravitating toward films that feature faraway climes. Films like “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I read this book years ago, even own a copy of it. I happened upon the movie a couple days ago, looking for something to watch while exercising in the basement. 

What a vision! I don’t mean the sexy Italian guys … I mean the gorgeous Tuscan countryside. There is the walled city of Cortona, the Amalfi Coast marvel of Positano. There are the tall, skinny Italian Cyprus trees, the olive groves, fountains and love of life that flourish in this sunny land.

Oh, I know there are gray days in Italy, too. It’s not the garden of eden. But right now it looks like it to me. 

Photos: courtesy Wikipedia, alas I have no recent Italy photos of my own

Wind-Whipped Walk

Wind-Whipped Walk

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On Friday, ahead of what I’d heard would be a snow-stormy weekend, I took a brisk walk around Lake Audubon. Well, not exactly around, but as far as I could go. 

The wind had already picked up, and it was moving across the lake, creating patches of sunlight on the water that glimmered and moved with the wind.

I was wearing my warm black parka with the faux-fur-lined hood, which kept me warm but hampered movement, so I wasn’t skittering ahead as quickly as I usually do. But I was comfortable and meditative and feeling energized by the wind in my face. 

These are the moments that gladden the lives of walkers everywhere — or at least this one. 

Wild Kingdom

Wild Kingdom

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The hawk is back, and so is the fox. I’ve seen both within the last few days, the fox as recently as this morning, trotting along the back fence line, looking for breakfast, I suppose.

This is of some concern to us now, since “breakfast” is right here in the house. I’m speaking of Motet, our canine visitor for the winter, an Arizona dog come to stay during the coldest, snowiest season we’ve had in years. 

Either one of the wild critters wouldn’t mind munching on Motet, so she will be restricted to supervised play for the time being.

The wild kingdom … who knew it was as close as the backyard? 

(This relatively close-up view made possible by my new camera!)

Picketing

Picketing

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When you’ve seen a movie as often as I’ve seen “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the lines you may not have noticed on first or second viewings pop out at you later.

One of the exchanges I noticed this past December, during my umpteenth watching of this holiday classic, happens when Mary sees George Bailey walking back and forth in front of her house, presumably getting up the nerve to knock on her door. “Are you picketing?” she asks, in a lovingly jocular way that would come to characterize their relationship.

I think of that line often as I walk Copper, an old doggie whose idea of a long stroll is making it one driveway down and back. First we turn right out of the driveway. After a brief mosey on that side of the yard and a careful sniffing of the planter at the foot of the mailbox, we turn the other way and stroll over to the forsythia and its band of encircling liriope, where there are more sniffs to be had, long lovely inhalations, as if Copper was about to swill a fine wine.

Sometimes we repeat this backing and forthing several times before we go inside. Does it feel like picketing? Absolutely! All we need is a sign: “More meat, less kibble!”

By Armchair to Benin

By Armchair to Benin

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Good friends flew out last night for a month in South Africa. It isn’t solely a pleasure trip — though there will be plenty of pleasure associated with it. They’ve gone to meet and hold their twin granddaughters, born late last year. 

Thinking of them winging their way to another continent has revved up the armchair traveler in me. Seven years ago, I was in Africa, too, though a completely different part of it, west rather than north, near the equator rather than the Tropic of Capricorn. 

I was zipping around on the back of a zemidjan, learning about Voodoo, spotting baboons, hippos and elephants from the top of a minivan,  I was touring Benin from south to north, meeting my son-in-law-to-be and so many other good people, all of whom who welcomed me like I was their own. 

I was living fully in the way that travel allows, in the way I’ve been privileged to these last many years, in a way I hope to again. 

Brave Buds

Brave Buds

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When life is limited, as it continues to be these days, I look for small changes. Walking routes are one of them. So I left the neighborhood, turned right instead of heading straight, and trudged along a busy four-lane road.

This took me past a nursery with plants I always admire, plants that look as pretty in winter as they do in summer, one with berries and one a yellowed evergreen.

How lovely the winter garden can be: how various the textures, how lively the stems. It’s as if we see the plants for what they truly are, the skeletons and the souls of them. 

In January, spent grasses nod their heads, brave buds raise their chins. All are waiting, waiting. If you listen carefully, you can hear them exhale.

Farewell to Eternity

Farewell to Eternity

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The reasons we read a particular book are as various as the books themselves, but there are some general trends: a friend recommends it, the book group schedules it, we’ve read a good review of it and — my new excuse — the professor puts it on the syllabus. 

The reasons we give up on books are also legion: it doesn’t live up to the recommendation, it’s wicked long, the topic is arcane, the reviewers were wrong. Sometimes a book simply doesn’t fit into the time I have to read it, though truth to tell that seldom happens. In fact, I don’t give up on a book lightly. 

But when I find myself on page 80 of an 800-page novel, when I recall the rather flimsy reasons for picking it up — a friend told me decades ago that she enjoyed it and memoirist Willie Morris speaks fondly of the author, James Jones — and when I realize that I’m already on the line for reading I might not enjoy for the class that’s starting next week … well, then I give myself permission to put it aside. And so, farewell to From Here to Eternity.