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Author: Anne Cassidy

Happy Independence Day!

Happy Independence Day!

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On this Independence Day I imagine the sweep of this wide nation: its mountains and prairies, its red rock canyons and natural bridges, its cities and towns, filled this day with crisp flags flying.

I think of the cool stone walls along Pisgah Pike outside Lexington and the lilacs that hung heavy along Martins Pond Road in Groton. There were orchards there, too, and I would wander through them with Suzanne in a baby carrier on my back. She was just coming alive to the world.

I think of stepping out of Pennsylvania Station onto Seventh Avenue in Manhattan or standing on the brow of Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas or snacking on wild blueberries outside Bar Harbor, Maine. And as I imagine all of this, I hear the cicadas singing and the crows cawing in my own backyard.

What holds these images in my mind, what makes them dear, are the people I love who have been with me on this journey. But beyond them is the beauty of a land loved and cared for — and the more than 327 million people who live in it.

It is a nation founded on liberty, a nation we celebrate today.

Happy Fourth!

Ah, Nuts!

Ah, Nuts!

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Today I finished off the last few pistachios from a giant bag that’s been hanging around for weeks. I enjoyed every last morsel, and found myself thinking about the first time I ate one — and crunched into the whole thing, shell and all.

Pistachios were the expensive nut I could never afford with my allowance, you see. When someone bought them for me as a treat, I couldn’t believe my good luck. But having only admired them and never tried them … I didn’t know the shells weren’t edible.

The early confusion hasn’t stopped me from loving them, though. And they are instructive, an early lesson in how things aren’t always what they appear to be.

Embracing the Puritans?

Embracing the Puritans?

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I’m finishing up Marilynne Robinson’s book What Are We Doing Here? Throughout her career, Robinson has been fascinated by erasures and omissions, and in an essay titled “Our Public Conversation: How America Talks About Itself,” she asks us to rethink our Puritan heritage, its spirit of reformation, its genius for education and institution building.

Puritans get a bad rap, Robinson says, in so many words. Some of their greatest achievements have been forgotten, including a code called the Massachusetts Body of Liberties (1641) that anticipates the Bill of Rights. The abolition movement flowered in colleges founded by Puritans. There is much to appreciate about them. But they are not hip.

This latter point is my own opinion, and an extrapolation, but I make it because Robinson opens her essay by mentioning an article about herself in which she is described as “bioengineered to personify unhipness.”

She laughs off the characterization — figuring that it’s because she’s in her 70s, a Calvinist and lives in Iowa — but she takes seriously the fact that Americans are inclined to “find their way to some sheltering consensus that will tell them what to wear, what to eat, what to read, how to vote, what to think.”

Anyone watching the Democratic debates last week would be hard pressed to disagree with her.

(Picture of the Westminster Assembly by John Rogers Herbert, courtesy Wikipedia)

Butterfly Garden

Butterfly Garden

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Morning in the backyard, monarchs light on the coneflowers. I only capture one each in these photos but there have been pairs and trios and even more.

Meanwhile, in another section of the garden, a female cardinal splashes in the bird bath, wiggles her little body around, then jumps out.

A small plane and a loud lawnmower provide the background noise to this seasonal tableau. It’s July, summer’s in full swing.

Voiceless

Voiceless

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The hoarseness I had last week finally caught up with me this weekend when I lost my voice entirely. It was not altogether unwelcome. It gave me an opportunity to drop out, sleep in, and read — to float along in another world for a few hours.

As I enter Day 2 with minimal voice power, I find myself noticing all the things I can’t do: sing hymns at church, order sliced turkey at the deli counter, instruct a rowdy doggie to behave.

If my voice is still rocky tomorrow I will have to navigate the workplace in silence, too.

All of which makes me think about our voice — our aural calling card, that which announces us to the world. As unique as we are, and sometimes as vulnerable, too.

Alfie, Solo

Alfie, Solo

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Since Dominique the parakeet died last Saturday I’ve been spending some quality time with Alfie, the remaining budgie. He’s sitting on the outdoor table where I’m working this morning, chirping away at the wild birds, calling out to the day in a way that could be seen as pitiful (poor caged creature who needs companionship) or triumphant (being outside on this glorious summer morning).

I’m interpreting it as the latter … and I’m marveling at this tiny guy, the beauty of his plumage and the variety of sounds he can produce.  I’m especially admiring his throat spots, the little black dots that encircle his neck like a string of black pearls.

What extravagance, what artistry! The way the black complements the blue of his breast and cere (nose). That nature could contrive such a thing, such an unnecessary but perfect thing, buoys me up this summer day and fills me with wonder.

Chaotic Sidewalks

Chaotic Sidewalks

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It’s not just road construction, which this morning changed the bus route at both ends of my commute. It’s not just the demolition of buildings in Crystal City, which makes the walk to my office a jingling, jangling, high-decibel adventure every day.

It’s the darned motorized scooters, too, which seem to be standing or lying everywhere I try to walk. On a quick lunch-break stroll, the scooters are there. On my way in every morning and home every night, they’re cluttering up the bus stop and turning the sidewalks into an obstacle course.

I know I sound like a curmudgeon, and I can appreciate the freedom they promise. But the dangers of these devices are being realized as their riders land in doctor’s offices and emergency rooms. And that’s for the people who sign up for them.

What about those of us who don’t?

My First Owl

My First Owl

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The call came a little after 7 p.m. The owls are here, my friend said. Come and see them.

I’d heard about the owls last summer, how they would swoop and hoot in the woods and common lands of our neighborhood. I can hear them too, sometimes, always from across the street or down a house or two. Never close enough to see.

But last night I went right over, binoculars in hand. And there they were, two owlets and their mother. The babies sounded like catbirds, with a mewling hiss of a cry. They were hunkered down in one tree while their mother flew about searching for food.

Though they were almost as big as their parents (because a fourth owl showed up eventually, and we assumed it was the father), the babies relied on their mother for food. And she was working hard to supply it. Another neighbor wandered by and said he’d seen the mother bring the babies a bird to eat. Owls eat other birds? Yes, says the World of Owls site I consulted, birds as well as insects, rodents, amphibians and fish.

I’d never seen an owl until last night  — and then I saw four at once (though only one is pictured above, and from far away). But they looked so familiar, just like the pictures, like caricatures of themselves, which is to say feathered and big-eyed and, of course, wise.

Reclining

Reclining

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I’ve heard that Winston Churchill did much of his work in bed or in the bathtub — reclining, in both instances. Not that I intend to emulate that great man in all his habits (as if I could), but I have grown fond of working in a reclining position.

There is much to be said for it. Comfort, first of all. And with laptops as small and slender as they are now, it’s easy to do.

I even think thoughts may flow differently when one is lying down rather than sitting up. They’re more fanciful, less rule-bound.

Of course, the modern workplace is not set up for this, but if I was in charge, offices and cubicles would be outfitted with chaise longues as well as desks.

The only occupational hazard would be falling asleep. But it’s a small price to pay.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Gains and Losses

Gains and Losses

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Over the weekend I started reading about the 50th anniversary of the moon landing, which we will celebrate next month. One of the tributes was in Parade, which bills itself “the most widely read magazine in America.”

I couldn’t help but notice how thin this most widely read magazine is. And this got me thinking about what we have lost in the 50 years since humans first stepped foot on the moon — in particular the rich print culture that has been slowly dying during the last two (three?) of those decades.

I’m a print girl from way back, and though I quite happily ply my trade in a mostly-web way these days, I miss the heft and gravitas of ink on paper. I miss the smell of it and the feel of it, the weight of it in my hands.

I suppose you could draw a line from rocket technology to the waning of print. After all, the information age was in part launched by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). But that’s not where I’m going with this.

I’m merely musing that our technological gains come with quality-of-life losses. And I don’t want us to forget about them.

(A small printing press, from an exhibit at the Museum of the Written Word in May 2013.)