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Author: Anne Cassidy

My People

My People

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Yesterday,  I had a 4:00 Microsoft Teams meeting followed by a 5:30 Zoom meeting. Nothing strange about back-to-back virtual meetings, the now-familiar squares on the screen. Except that the first was for my paying job and the second for a journalist group I’ve belonged to for years.

In the first there were blurred backgrounds, and some relatively tidy houses. In the second there were papers and books and sloping roofs. The kinds of rooms I live in, the kinds of rooms I love.

I also noticed the difference in discourse. There were funny, smart people in both meetings, but in the first there was policy discussion (both corporate and political) — and in the second there was observation. Everything from school openings to vaccine development to interview transcription.

It should come as no surprise that a bunch of writers would live amidst books and papers, or that they would offer up a wide-ranging conversation — but it was especially heart-warming yesterday, and it made me feel something both simple and profound. It made me feel that … these are my people.

Blackberry Winter

Blackberry Winter

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Though the heat and humidity are building here, for the last few days it’s felt like Blackberry Winter, which is what I grew up hearing an early summer cold snap called. Curious about this expression, I just learned from the Farmer’s Almanac that it’s primarily a southern term used to describe a bout of chilly weather that happens when the blackberries bloom.

There are lots of words like this in my lexicon, though I’m not pulling others up right this minute, language that harkens back to the deep roots of my Kentucky childhood. These turns of phrase created a world view that was part lore, part poetry and only a small part reality. For instance, I recall few blackberry blooms in my neck of the woods. It’s only since I’ve lived in Virginia that I’ve been aware of when the blackberries bloom, which is, interestingly enough, right about now!

As for the weather, it won’t be cool much longer. Already the heat and humidity are building, the rain that fell yesterday becoming steam that rises from the lawn, aromatic and ever-so-slightly suffocating, too.

Reading in Circles

Reading in Circles

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I still remember what I said when I opened the Kindle I received for Christmas some years ago. It was “get back from me, Satan,” or some such line, punctuated with a laugh and accompanied by lots of thank-you’s. Because it was a lovely gift and I appreciated it, even though I’d always said I’d never use one of the things.

The Kindle has been used often since then, and it has especially been pressed into service the last few months. I’ve found free classics to consume on it, purchased a novel my book group was reading, and it’s now on top of my bedside table book pile.
A digital e-reader is perfect for these digital times, but, more to the point, the Kindle is just one of several book delivery platforms. I can listen to a book, courtesy of another generous gift (this one for Audible), I can read one on my computer through the library’s lending service, I can use my Kindle or … I can read a good, old-fashioned book.  I was saving the best for last.  
Walking the Fence

Walking the Fence

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These days when I need a quick break from the computer, instead of making my way to the office kitchen to make a cup of tea or get a glass of water, I leave the house, descend the deck stairs and stroll around the back yard.

It’s not a bad idea to inspect the boundaries occasionally, to find missing pickets or other spots where Copper might sneak out. And to monitor the undergrowth, this year’s poison ivy crop and the Arbor Foundation saplings, which are still scrawny but now as tall as I am.

I started walking the fence back in early spring when the ground was still hard and plants were asleep. Since then I’ve watched the season unfold from these leisurely strolls around the property.

Mostly, it’s such a lovely way to take a break — being outside amidst green and growing things. Taking leave, if only for a few moments, of the keystrokes that define my life.

Left with a Melody

Left with a Melody

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Like so much else these days, deciding whether to go to church is fraught with questions. Since last week, we have been allowed to attend in person, but seating is limited and the experience is so different that I think I would miss Mass more sitting there than I would watching it on my laptop.

Which is why I keep tuning in … as evidenced by yesterday’s post.  It’s imperfect, but the experience still leaves me with something to think about, and, maybe just as important, something to listen to.

Yesterday, it was “Let All Who Are Thirsty Come,” a haunting melody that stayed with me as I swept the deck and mowed the yard and walked through the June afternoon.

Left with a melody … there is a power and a purpose in that.

Reinvention

Reinvention

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Reinvention is in the air, new ways of being and doing things. Many of them seem flat to me, necessary evils, the now-familiar checkerboard of faces in Zoom squares.

But there are benefits, too. Free classes, curbside services, a keener appreciation of the here-and-now, of how important it is to be strong of body and healthy of mind. I’ve just attended yet another remote Mass, one enlivened by the priest, who began intoning the Sign of Peace (where we shake each other’s hands), only to say, “Oh, that’s right, you can’t do that anymore.”

Experimentation can bring smiles or exasperated sighs. I’m hoping I can go with the former most of the time.

Through trial and error and reinvention we come to know each other better — and perhaps this, too, can be an avenue of love.

Empty Nest

Empty Nest

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Yesterday there was much fluttering and chirping in the garage as a bevy of Carolina wrens flew in and out the window. For the second or third year in a row Mama Wren had nested on an upper shelf full of old vases, tucking her abode in between a green vase and a clear one, using the shelf in between as a patio of sorts.

The fledglings must have been practicing their first moves over the last few days, when there seemed a confusing preponderance of bird life in and around the garage. There were suddenly wrens everywhere: in the holly trees, at the bird bath, at the feeder and the suet block.

Now that the nest is empty, I climbed up to take a look. How still and silent and abandoned it looked. One fact struck me: Unlike human nests, which empty and refill many times over a lifetime, when bird’s nests empty … they stay that way — at least for the season.

Bustin’ Out

Bustin’ Out

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I’m not sure how much of my world view has been shaped by Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals — probably more than I would care to admit. Given that, perhaps I can be forgiven for hearing a certain refrain from “Carousel” pinging through my head these days.

“June is bustin’ out all over
All over the meadow and the hill
Buds are bustin’ outta bushes
And the romping river pushes
Every little wheel that wheels beside the mill

Because it’s June — June, June, June
Just because it’s June, June, June.

And my favorite verse:

June is bustin’ out all over
The sheep aren’t sheepish anymore
And the rams that chase the ewe sheep
Are determined there’ll be new sheep
And the ewe sheep aren’t even keeping score

Because it’s June — June, June, June
Just because it’s June, June, June!

All of which is to say … it’s a June-is-Bustin’-Out kind of day!

Newborn Fawn

Newborn Fawn

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On my walk this morning I spotted what I first thought was a pile of speckled leaves but which on closer examination turned out to be a newborn fawn.

The little thing was curled up in a ball and trembling, his big eyes staring up at me as I walked toward him. I kept my distance, not knowing if mama was nearby, talked to him gently, visions of The Yearling and feeding him from a bottle in mind.

This was midway through my walk, but I thought about the little guy all the way to the end of the street and back, wondering if he would still be there on my return. He was — so I called Animal Control, which informed me that mother deer often leave their babies in a “safe spot” and return from them in a few hours.

Since this “safe spot” was in clear view of passerby, I made a sign asking neighbors not to disturb him. But when I went to check on him a few minutes later, the little guy had scampered into the woods to get out of the rain.

In my rush to protect him, I forgot to snap a photo, so I found this picture online (it’s exactly what he looked like). In a few weeks, this little tyke will be ravaging my garden, but for now, all I wanted to do was take care of him.

Puddles of Petals

Puddles of Petals

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To love a climbing rose means to accept it in all seasons. Last week it was at its peak, green and pink and aromatic, bursting with life.

This week, there are as many petals on the deck as on the flowers. Today, when the wind blows, it’s raining roses. There are puddles of petals at my feet.

It’s easy to mourn the end of the plant’s most bountiful blooming season.  But there is such beauty in the spent blossoms.