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Author: Anne Cassidy

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. 

Empty Corner

Empty Corner

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The living room is larger today. Wing chairs are back in their usual places, flanking the grandfather clock. It’s easier to reach books on the far shelves, and plants can stretch and breathe. 

What’s missing is the Christmas tree, fragrant and bedazzled. The tree that blocked the bookshelves and required major furniture rearranging. The tree that bore the weight of glass globes, tin stars and ceramic angels with grace and dignity. 

This morning I moved toward the far corner of the living room to turn on the tree lights, as I have been every day for more than three weeks. I was ready once again to be bathed only in its reds, greens and blues. 

Then I remembered, the corner is empty, the tree is gone. This morning, I sit in its shadow.

Melded

Melded

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Yesterday I chopped onions and celery and carrots. I peeled potatoes and sliced them into quarters, then eighths. I unearthed a bay leaf from the spice cabinet and found some parsley from the fridge.

The potatoes were snowy white, and the large carrots made ducat-like rounds, fell from the knife with a crack and a burst of sweetness. The puny celery (is there a shortage this year?) needed little skinning. The onions were less pungent than some, so my eyes didn’t water.

The kitchen filled with the aromas of simmering beef and marrow bones, as I added canned tomatoes and the sliced vegetables to the broth. The mixture simmered, and with each stir, the vegetables softened, adding their juices to the broth. The individual ingredients began to give way, to meld, to become one.

It took most of the afternoon, but by dinner time there was a passable vegetable soup to sip. It was delicious, but it will be much better tomorrow. And even better the next day.

Being Inside

Being Inside

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It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.

December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms. 

Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.

January 6th

January 6th

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It was only after I had posted yesterday that I remembered the date: January 6, the Epiphany, Little Christmas, a day set aside (by me, at least) to celebrate insight, discovery, the sudden revelation.

But since last year, January 6th has taken on a different meaning, one of anger and fear and ignominy. The opposite of light and wonder. 

You could say that last year’s January 6th was a revelation. It revealed a dark truth about this nation. But I’d rather keep the day free of politics, let it stay in my mind the capstone of the season, a day to reflect with hope on the year just dawning. 

All the Light

All the Light

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Now that winter is settling in, it’s decided to give us another dollop of snow to freshen up the batch we received on Monday. Which means I’ve been scanning the clouds.

Yesterday we had a swirled and mottled firmament, a stingy winter sky. Though it was a montage of clearing and melting, the sky kept its distance. 

At about 3 in the afternoon, between errands, I looked up and thought: This is all the light we’re going to see. It’s a sober realization but also a practical one. In weather, as in life, it’s good to know what you have.