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Author: Anne Cassidy

Look to the Rainbow

Look to the Rainbow

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I knew what it was before I saw it. I knew it from the jaded commuters standing slack-jawed outside the Metro station, then grabbing their phones and snapping away. I knew that on this October Tuesday, our gray day of rain was being rewarded with a rainbow. And not just any rainbow — but a complete arch that spanned all of Route 66.

The rainbow was spotted in other parts of the region, too. I have a reliable rainbow-sighting report from Reagan National Airport, though no pots of gold were found.

The longer I looked at the rainbow the more the colors revealed themselves. At one point there was even a double bow.

What heartened me most were the rainbow-spotters themselves. Not much will slow commuters from reaching home in the evening, but the rainbow was doing just that. I snapped half a dozen shots of the heavens on my way to the car … and I wasn’t the only one.

Exploring the Underground

Exploring the Underground

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The other day, on the way back from an office at the other end of my work neighborhood, I found myself once again wandering the warren of paths, shops and eateries known as the Crystal City Underground.

There are subterranean walkways in many cities — Montreal, Toronto and Chicago, to name a few — usually built for safety or warmth. In our case, mostly safety, since Crystal City has military origins.


It was about noon when I was passing through, marching directly behind a soldier in camouflage. I followed him for several minutes, thinking from his purposeful stride that he knew where he was going. By the time he peeled off into a restaurant, there were signs I could follow to find my way. 

The bustling new section I discovered has a pharmacy, a chocolate shop and a Halloween store, of all things, something I doubt it will have much longer. There were plenty of restaurants with delicious aromas. Most of all, there were people milling about, checking phones, meeting friends. It was a lively little break in the middle of a busy day — and a heartening adventure, to discover a new place so close at hand. 
Terra Firma

Terra Firma

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Ever since I moved into my new office I’ve had an aerial display to observe out my window.  The first week it was directly across from me on the building across the way. Now, entering my third week, it has moved slightly to the west.

At first, I thought these intrepid souls were window-washers. But I quickly realized what they were doing was infinitely more complicated and nuanced, something that involves power-washing as well as chiseling, scraping and applying what appears to be a seal at the base of each stone panel.

Of course, what they mostly do, what absorbs my attention when I’m in between tasks and “resting my eyes,” is hang off the side of an 11-story building.  Right now, for instance, they are almost at the top, swaying in the breeze on a little platform with only a few ropes to hold them up.

I know they are belted and secured and wearing helmets. They appear to be safe. But I still get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach watching them work.

I may have hard days filled with crazy deadlines and tight turnaround times. But every writing and editing assignment, no matter how difficult, is conducted with my feet firmly planted on terra firma. Watching these guys has made me very grateful for that.

A Hole in the Bucket

A Hole in the Bucket

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We’ve needed a long rainy day for months, and today we finally have one.

Rain is pouring off the roof and into the gutters. It’s flattening what’s left of the ferns and beating the petals off the second-bloom roses.

It’s also seeping into the basement. But at least we know now why the flooding occurred in August. It wasn’t just the volume of water, though that was certainly a factor. It was also because the bucket placed to catch the seepage sprang a leak.  Luckily, this was discovered before a plumber was called.

I think there’s a life lesson here, something akin to “check the life raft.”

True Foods?

True Foods?

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It happens reliably, when the first nip of fall is in the air. And it’s been happening reliably for decades, back to when I lived in Chicago and even in New York City. When the temperature drops, out come the recipe books, the cutting boards, and the pots and pans.

Salads, my go-to meal of choice, don’t appeal when the temperature plummets. This year, thanks to a recent meal at True Foods Kitchen, I’m looking for ways to recreate some of those scrumptious dishes: ancient grain bowls and roasted cauliflower with dates and pistachios.

Lately I feel like I’ve been suspended between the food of my youth, baked chicken and spaghetti and other plain fare, and some new cuisine in the making, some other way to eat, which is more plant- and grain-based, though not without the occasional bit of chicken or beef or fish.

I don’t have a lot of time for cooking, so that makes it difficult to prepare the sort of recipes I’ve just been reading. But maybe I’ll tackle a couple anyway. After all, the light is low and nights are dipping into the 30s.

It’s time.

Eek!

Eek!

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Nothing unites an office like a rodent on the loose, and this week, my office has had one. I first heard about it from my former cubicle mate, who spotted a telltale tail sticking out of a crack in a partition. The mouse looked like it was trying to fit into a hole it was too big for, she said, and laughed.

But laughing wasn’t all that was going on. A few minutes later, there was a scream from another part of the office. The mouse had struck again.

Soon, mouse spottings became the topic of conversation in the kitchen and the hallways. I heard from someone on the other side of the building who said a mouse had been living in his potted plant.

Either this is a very well-traveled varmint or … it’s a whole family of ’em.

I put my money on the latter.

(Above: Mrs. Tittlemouse, a most tidy, particular, sweet little mouse. Let’s hope the Winrock “mouse” is cast in her image.)

Remembering Mom

Remembering Mom

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I’m remembering Mom today on the fourth anniversary of her passing. So much has happened since she died, so many changes in my own life and the life of our country.  I often wonder what she would make of them.

She would be surprised by my “new” job, not so new anymore. It’s strange to think she knew nothing of this chapter of my life, a chapter I didn’t anticipate, with its travel to faraway places and writing about some of the world’s neediest people. She would approve … to a point. But she would also be encouraging me to write another book.

As for the life of the country, Mom (a lifelong Democrat who grew more conservative with age) saw enough of the 2016 campaign-to-come to offer this pithy observation of the Trump phenomenon: “It’s the right message but the wrong messenger.”

I’m thankful that both she and Dad were spared having to live through the rancor and divisiveness of these times. In that sense, their exits were perfectly timed.

But of course, I wish they were both still here. And today I especially miss my strong, beautiful, intelligent, inspirational, one-of-a-kind mother.

(Mom at the Franciscan Monastery in Washington, D.C. )

Joy in Mudville

Joy in Mudville

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I have to laugh at myself every time I write a sports post, which has been more recently than usual lately. But it’s certainly worth a shout-out that the Nationals have won the National League Championship and are going to the World Series!

It was only two weeks ago that I was gushing about the wildcard berth D.C. had won in the National League playoffs. Now they are the National League champs!

Of course, their next assignment is a difficult one. Even I’ve heard of the Astro’s prowess. But for this town, with its losing football team, impeachment proceedings and month-and-a-half-long rain drought, this is very good news indeed.

It looks like rain today … and there’s joy in Mudville, too.

(Nats Park photo: courtesy Wikipedia)

Flow Commute

Flow Commute

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Yesterday I left the office at the usual time, but instead of walking to the bus stop, riding to Rosslyn, metro-ing to Vienna then poking home on often-clogged local thoroughfares, I simply strolled to the garage, paid the fee and zipped home, mostly on highways.

The total elapsed time in my typical evening commute is 80 to 90 minutes. Last night it was about half of that!

You might wonder why I don’t drive to the office every day. That would be because the main road I take requires that there be two people in the car or that I pay a toll that can run as high as $40 or $50 for the privilege of bumping along nine miles of poorly maintained pavement.

Yesterday I had a reprieve for the federal holiday, so I enjoyed a flow commute and almost an hour more leisure time when I arrived home.

The whole situation is absurd, I know … which is why I like to write it down every so often, just to remind myself.

Indigenous

Indigenous

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As various news stories are reporting, there is no Columbus Day in the District of Columbia this year. Instead, there is Indigenous People’s Day.  Rather than weighing in on either side of the matter, I thought I would riff on the word indigenous itself.

It comes from the Latin “indigena,” meaning native, and I like thinking of it that way. That which is original, that which is true. Which can mean the plants that grow or the people who plant and tend them. Indigenous speaks of a connection to the land.

If we think of indigenous as native, though, then are we not all indigenous peoples? Every single one of us?  We may hail from the mountains or the prairies, the cities or the small towns. We may have grown up in a house or an apartment or a far-off yurt.

But each of us belongs somewhere. And belonging can unite rather than divide us.