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Author: Anne Cassidy

Reading for Pleasure

Reading for Pleasure

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For some reason that I can’t quite fathom, my parents gave me The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy when I was about 14 years old. It was a  strange choice for a kid, but it turned out to be a good one for me. I soon discovered a taste for Wessex folk, and for the moors and dales Hardy described so beautifully in his tales. 

Of course, Thomas Hardy novels aren’t always a barrel of laughs, and they probably made a quietly dramatic teenager even more so. But the affinity remained, and now the idea of settling down with The Mayor of Casterbridge or Tess of the D’Urbervilles is almost akin to picking up a book of fairy tales, so closely do I associate them with my youth, when reading was pure pleasure.

I’m recapturing a bit of that pure-pleasure reading this week, dipping into my new holiday books. It’s a feeling Hardy would agree with. “No one can read with profit,” he said, “that which he cannot read with pleasure.”

Walk Not Taken

Walk Not Taken

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A mild winter afternoon, a little more time than usual, a desire to walk somewhere new. Enter Oxon Road. I took it almost by accident, though, in an attempt to avoid the utility workers who were trimming trees on the other side of West Ox Road. So thorough are the strings that bind us to our routine that I would probably have just continued down to Bennett Road, as I usually do, had my usual way not been blocked, in which case Oxon Road would have continued to be a walk not taken. 

But I did cross the road and trot down Oxon — and my world was enlarged by it. First, West Ox is at its pinnacle there, so you can spot the faint gray line of the Blue Ridge from that vantage point. I wasn’t expecting that — and seeing the mountains was a thrill.

Then there is a most fetching ivy-covered fence on the north side of the road. To walk beside it is to feel you are on the wrong side of a secret garden, that if you but knew which panel to push you could part that curtain of green and enter an enchanted place where flowers bloom yearlong.

I did not enter that garden, but I did imagine it. The wall of ivy gave it to me. That, and the walk not taken.

Cake for Breakfast

Cake for Breakfast

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This is a rare week off for me, an experiment in laziness. Should I write this post first thing in the morning?  No, I should read more about Eleanor Roosevelt from the new biography Eleanor, a Christmas gift, one of several fabulous books I received that I can’t wait to peruse.

Then I should have a piece of cake for breakfast, the amount of sweets in the house being so prodigious that I’m reduced to eating them throughout the day. It’s Red Velvet Cake, though more like Purple Velvet due to the fact that I didn’t have two ounces of red food coloring when I made it, and it’s tad dry since I once again forgot to use the timer.

Then I should take a walk, a longer one than usual (see above, re. cake) — but, of course, I must wait for the cake to settle, which means … this is the perfect time to write a post.

Wrapping Station

Wrapping Station

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Christmas Day came and went in a blur of gifts, wrapping paper and much-loved faces, some of them on a screen this year.  But the blurring is what we can expect of the day. It is, after all, only 24 hours long, and you must sleep for at least a few of them. 

One of my pet peeves this time of year, though, is the precipitous end to the huge holiday build-up, which often comes to a screeching halt on December 26. 

In my own small way, I try to fight this tendency by stretching Christmas out at least until New Year’s Day (and this year, due to cleverly spaced weekends, through January 3) or even to the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6. 

And to that end, herewith another holiday post. This one is just to note that this year, rather than wrapping gifts upstairs, leaning over a bed (which was how Mom did it, and usually between the hours of 5 p.m. and midnight on Christmas Eve), I used the dining room table, which since the arrival of the ‘new” couch in May 2019 has been pushed in front of the fireplace. 

I wrapped gifts to the tune of the classical carols played on the radio and in full view of the tree. I hope I can use this new wrapping station next year, too. But next year, I hope the Zoom faces are once again home for the holidays.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

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It’s been a year like no other, a year of unique trials, and yet somehow, miraculously, we’ve come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year’s Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, one I wrote nine years ago. Merry Christmas!

12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.

Naked Driveway

Naked Driveway

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It seldom happens around here — in fact, I can’t quite remember another time when it has — so I had to snap a photo. The event: an empty driveway without an empty house. 

With one car in the shop, another on indefinite loan and the third (wonder of wonders!) actually parked n the garage … it stands to reason that the driveway would be empty. 

And yet, an empty driveway is terra incognita. What is this vast expanse, warped and worn? What is this house devoid of parked vehicles? 

Most of all, what is this emptiness as I back out of the garage on my way to an appointment? I paused, as I always do, calibrating how much I’d have to swerve to avoid the car that’s always parked west of the dogwood. But that car wasn’t there. My way was clear. It was a naked driveway. 

Zoom Memorial

Zoom Memorial

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Over the weekend a friend and neighbor was memorialized over Zoom. My initial skepticism at this 2020 version of a final send-off melted away in the first few moments when a devoted son — one of five — opened the call, his voice slightly husky from the task at hand. 

There were photo montages of his father as a young man, a proud dad, a world traveler, a loving husband. Each son spoke in his own way, one from his father’s garage. And though each had a different mode of expression, in the end, the portrait became clear. 

Here was a family grieving but also celebrating a life well-lived. Here was as much life and music as could be crammed into 60 minutes of screen time. And in a strange way, the screen amplified the presence, made it at once more intimate and expansive. 

I imagine Zoom memorial services are as many and varied as the people they honor. The fact that this one was so touching may have nothing to do with Zoom and everything to do with the man himself. But I’m not ruling out the nature of the event, the fact it came into our living rooms and kitchens, where, without diluting the enormity of the loss, it softened and transformed the sadness. 

Solstice Miracle!

Solstice Miracle!

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This morning while meditating we were urged to think of our body as a receptacle for a warm, golden, spacious light. Let this light flow from above the head down into each toe, intoned the narrator, let it flow up the legs to the knees, filling the stomach, the chest, the throat, the head and, from there, each finger and through the arms up to the shoulders. 

I’m still a beginner at all of this. I try to visualize this light, which looks a little like melted butterscotch. I try to think of my body as a receptacle, which means thinking of it as empty. 

A funny notion, this, to think of oneself as empty rather than full. It dawned on me today that the very notion of emptiness is in itself liberating. That means that all of the worries and to-do lists clogging up my brain are actually not there after all. 

It’s a Solstice miracle!  

Writing Cards: 2020

Writing Cards: 2020

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It’s been a busy weekend so far, full of baking, shopping, wrapping … and writing cards. I started penning these on Friday night, which spilled over to yesterday and today, too. The reason: I’m writing more on each card. 

I was pondering this yesterday, as I scribbled messages on the back of each photo greeting (which is a vertical card this year), telling myself that if I kept up this pace I would never finish. 

But it makes sense: It’s been a long hard year, a year of isolation from friends and family. So of course, writing notes to friends and family should take precedence over any notion of timeliness! 

Luckily, this philosophy suits the general pace of mail delivery, which is just north of glacial. And who cares about that, either? 

The cards will all arrive, eventually. The last-minute packages will, too. 

White Stuff

White Stuff

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I just peeked at the weather forecast to see what Christmas might have in store and learned that snow showers are predicted for the morning of the 25th. While I doubt this will hold up, we’ve had more snow on the ground this week than in the last two years, 

This morning I awoke to a coating of fresh flakes on yesterday’s hardened ice crust. There’s just enough of the white stuff to flock the holly and dust the deck. And since it’s only 28 degrees outside right now, it might last.

It will be a strange Christmas; that much we know. But wouldn’t it be nice if it was a white one, too?

(I took this photo during Snowmaggedon … not today!)