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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Bells

The Bells

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I found a new online Mass this morning, the first one to pop up when I did a search. One of the ways it  recommended itself was by the playing of church bells at the opening.

In earlier times, the sound of bells was far more a part of life. Bells marked times to rise and work and pray. They commemorated the passing of lives and eras.

Of course, now we are in unusual times, but even in pre-pandemic days I seldom heard church bells. In fact, my church was taken to task for their modest bell-ringing. As a result bells are rung shortly before services for a couple minutes at a time.

Thus are we deprived of one of humankind’s more sonorous sounds — and of the reminders they provide us.

(The bells of Notre Dame during an exhibition in 2013.)

Quickly

Quickly

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As I watch two of my daughters go through pregnancy and motherhood together, I try to explain what it feels like. “You were once that size,” I say, pointing at my grandson. “And now you’re having babies of your own.”

They smile and laugh. They get it. Sort of. 

But not really, not yet. They think it’s passing quickly. They don’t know what quickly is yet. But some day,  I imagine — I hope — they will. 

(Photo of moonrise in North Arlington, taken as I was leaving the girls after a virtual baby shower.)

Magic Beans

Magic Beans

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Yesterday, at the end of a busy workday, there was a wee little knock at the door. I didn’t hear it at first due to Copper’s loud response. And since he barks often when given the front yard to survey, I assumed it was more of the same. Turns out it was one of our new neighbors, age 8, doing some door-to-door sales. 

“Would you like to buy some magic beans?” she said, holding out a handful of small acorns for me to see. “Only a dollar for four.”

“Ah, only a dollar for four,” I said, stalling for time. 

With the poise of a true saleswoman, she rushed in when I hesitated. “Or, I can make it five for a dollar,” she quickly added.

“Hmmmm,” I said. “Well, I think I will buy only four this time. Let me go get you the dollar.”

She was ecstatic when I returned, as was her sidekick, one of the three precious boys who lives across the street and who was apparently going to share in the proceeds of this incredibly savvy scheme of selling something that is piling up all around us. 

With everyone working at home these days, this budding entrepreneur will have plenty of customers. I can’t wait to see what she’ll offer next: maybe a special on autumn leaves. 

Saying Goodbye

Saying Goodbye

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A few minutes ago, while working on the deck, I heard the distinctive low buzz of a hummingbird. It was not, as usual, sipping the nectar from the feeder or plumbing the petals of the New Guinea impatiens. It was, as far as I can tell, taking a closer look at me.

These tiny birds are entering their final days in this part of the world. Every glimpse I have may be my last of the season. 

So when this tiny creature entered my air space, did a few star turns and hovered in front of me, I held my breath. It was a moment of transcendence, a moment of quiet communion. The bird, I’m convinced, was saying goodbye.

(An update on this post: I saw a hummingbird a full week later, so not quite goodbye then after all!)

Recess at Home

Recess at Home

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Fairfax County may be holding virtual classes, but there is no such thing as virtual recess. That is being held in backyards, on street corners and in cul-de-sacs across the area. 

For those of us lucky enough to work out of our homes, lunchtime and recess happen outside our windows, where a fleet of bicycles and a chorus of young voices serenade us during our humdrum workdays. There are scooters and chalk art, shovels and buckets, games with their own sets of rules that we adults can never fathom. There is childhood on full display.

I’m not so far removed from child rearing that I don’t appreciate what’s going on here. All romanticizing of recess aside, parents of young children must be pulling their hair out. 

All the more reason to smile when youthful exuberance spills out onto the streets. Or at least that’s how I’m feeling now. It’s not quite time for recess yet. 

Forty-Nine!

Forty-Nine!

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It was 49 degrees when I woke up this morning. While we have moved up into the low 60s, I’m still wrapped in a blanket wearing a wool sweater (the first time to don my toasty new Inishmore-knit cardigan) and sipping hot chai.

My plan, you see, is to work outside as long as I can this season. But based on my wimpy response today I barely give myself to the end of the month. 

Given where I live, however, I realize I could be sweating in record-breaking humidity in just a few days. So for now, I plan to sit tight, wrap up when necessary, shed layers when not, and write al fresco until the cold chases me indoors.

Quiet Sigh

Quiet Sigh

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This morning’s walk gave me a taste of fall: brown leaves on the roadside, thick clouds in the sky. There were fewer people about, and I picked up my pace just to get warm.

Autumn arrives next week, but tell that to the crickets, which are chirping more slowly these days, and to the cicadas, which aren’t chirping at all.

Working outside now, I glance up at the roses that twine on top of the pergola, a few of them in second bloom.  I notice how thinned out they have become, how fragile.

It’s still a humid, green world, but the edges are peeling away to reveal what’s been hidden beneath all the time: the bare trunks of winter, the quiet sigh of fall. 

Grandparents’ Day

Grandparents’ Day

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It’s the first Sunday after Labor Day, which means …  it’s Grandparents’ Day! This is the first time I’ve ever paid much attention to this day, though I think I occasionally sent my parents my kids’ hand-scrawled notes around this time of year. Now, I’m the grandparent. I’m still wondering how that happened! 

But, since it did, I decided to look into the derivation of the holiday. Turns out, Grandparents’ Day is not a Hallmark creation. It was started in 1956 by a woman in West Virginia who volunteered with older folks and wanted to create a way to honor them. Grandparents’ Day became a national holiday in 1978. 

What I also learned from googling, though, is that today is Father’s Day in Latvia and Macedonia, Day of the Homeland in Germany, and Knabenschiessen (a holiday based around a target-shooting competition) in Switzerland. It’s also National Peanut Day. 

So we grandparents don’t have a lock on this day. Like every other holiday, we have to share it. 

Goin’ to the Chapel

Goin’ to the Chapel

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My niece is getting married today, so the family is gathering at an inn on the Chesapeake Bay for the ceremony and reception. I had a sneak preview of the spot at the rehearsal dinner last night. It’s right on the water, with gulls and boats and waves. Though less than two hours from home, it’s another world.

For the most part, my tenure as an aunt has coincided with my tenure as a mother. I had little time to relish the role in and of itself. But I felt a trace of pure “aunt-ness” yesterday … with the promise of more to come today.

It’s the same kind of love and pride you feel with your own children, just one layer removed. And, because there is more distance, there is also more perspective. At a wedding, especially, where I’ll have to do no more than a reading during the ceremony and the rest of the time enjoy myself. 

It brings back memories of almost exactly four years ago, when we turned our back yard into a wedding venue for Suzanne and Appolinaire. Weddings are like that, I think. They carry within them memories of nuptials past. 

Better Late …

Better Late …

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Most of the crepe myrtles in the neighborhood have long since bloomed and faded. The rose and magenta shades have faded to a translucent brown, the petals have dried and fallen.

But for some reason, the lavender-hued crepe myrtle in the front yard always begins and ends its blooming late in the season. Which means that instead of late-summer color, there’s early-fall color. 

I’ve meant to snap a photo against blue skies and puffy clouds. But those days came and went. Instead, yesterday’s rains have weighted the stems and leaves enough that they’re hanging their heads for a closeup.  I snapped a shot of their muted blossoms in between the showers.