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Author: Anne Cassidy

Naming Names

Naming Names

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One of the more light-hearted aspects of my work is the opportunity I occasionally have to make up names for people. The reason I do this is anything but lighthearted, though. It’s because I interview and write about people who have been trafficked and can’t reveal their true identities.

Still, this gives me a creative license typically lacking in most of my daily to-dos. This morning I’ve been reading about Cambodian names, about how family names appear first and given names second (which I knew) and how name meanings are especially prized.

So I’ve been having some fun with it. Should the lovely young woman who met her husband at a survivor’s forum be called Bopha (flowers) or Arunny (morning sun)? Should her young husband be called Narith (masculine) or Leap (luck)?

The mother’s name was easy. The smiling woman who greeted us as we pulled into the brickyard, who wiped her hand on her skirt and reached out to shake ours, she will be called Sophea (wise).

(School children in Cambodia, who shall remain nameless.)

Our Towns

Our Towns

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I’ve just finished reading Our Towns: A 100,000 Mile Journey into the Heart of America by James Fallows and Deborah Fallows. The authors, who write for the Atlantic and charted their multi-year progress on that publication’s Our Towns notebook, have a few things to say about what makes places prosperous and what makes them whole.

Their observations were based on their visits (often multiple visits, some years apart) to towns and cities all across America, from Eastport, Maine, to Redlands, California; from Holland, Michigan, to Greenville, South Carolina.

Here’s some of what they learned about what makes towns tick: Thriving places consider themselves separate entities, not suburban satellites, and people work together on practical local possibilities rather than letting national politics keep them apart. Many of these towns have flourished because of public-private partnerships, research universities and community colleges. Elementary and secondary education also makes a difference. Downtowns are one of the most important features. They enliven towns, they give them heart.

The part of the book that spoke to me most involved the intersection of people and place. When asked why they live where they do, citizens of these towns say it’s about belonging. “This is my place,” they exclaim. To which the Fallows add: “From Sioux Falls to Eastport to Columbus to San Bernardino. Hometown [is] home.”


(The photo is from my hometown, Lexington, Kentucky, which was not featured in the book but which holds a special place in my heart.)

Five Years

Five Years

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A few weeks before Dad died, his friend Jerry bought him a new watch battery. Five years later, the watch is still ticking.

Apart from wondering where Jerry purchased the battery, I have often reflected on Dad’s watch and its longevity, how it has kept going so long after his passing. It’s a vivid reminder of his enthusiasm for life. Even when Dad was dying, he wanted to know what time it was.

A watch is an intimate thing. It’s worn on the pulse, a shortcut to the heart. It becomes a part of its owner in a way few other items do. I’ve come to count on Dad’s watch being close to mine every evening, as if through our timepieces Dad and I are somehow still communicating.

The battery won’t last forever, I know, nor will the watch. But sometimes I like to pretend that they will.

Saint Joseph’s Day

Saint Joseph’s Day

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When I was just out of college and teaching high school English for a few years, I was lucky enough to work with a man named George Herman. He seemed old to me at the time, though was probably just in his 50s. Puckish and fastidious, Herman led the 20-plus-person New Trier English department, New Trier being a suburban Chicago high school with a campus as big as some colleges.

Herman comes to mind regularly this time of year because when I wore green on St. Patty’s Day, he told me he was holding out for March 19, when he would wear red for St. Joseph’s Day. And he did. I can still remember his red vest.

Today is St. Joseph’s Day, and I’ve been thinking about this saint, what was asked of him. Yes, your betrothed is with child, said the angel, but don’t be afraid. The child was conceived through the Holy Spirit. You will name him Jesus and he will save his people, your people, from their sins.

Who knows how this all came down. Who knows if it really did come down. (My faith is a rather elastic one.) But even in metaphor, St. Joseph’s example speaks volumes. To follow your beliefs no matter where they lead you, to endure ridicule and scandal for them. Not a bad example to follow — depending on your beliefs, of course.

(A photograph that has nothing to do with St. Jospeh. I just happened to take it while walking to work this morning.)  

St. Patty’s Redux

St. Patty’s Redux

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One advantage of having a tame St. Patty’s Day celebration is waking up and wanting to do the day all over again. It’s something that younger people (and my younger self) would have problems with.

But because my office is having a little happy hour this afternoon, and because I never get my fill of Irish music, I’m treating today as St. Patty’s #2.

I’m wearing green and humming tunes and yes, I’ll try to do a little work today, too.  But the spirit will be with me. The Irish spirit, that is.

Green Weekend

Green Weekend

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The Irish music has been blaring yesterday and today, pipes and jigs and ballads, from my laptop, iPod and CD player. I listen and am back in the little pub in Inishmore in the Aran Islands, or in Dingle Town, where the great Steve Cooney showed up to play at the Courthouse Pub.

I’m remembering the stones, the cliffs, the bare hills all green with lambs grazing, the ancient, ruined forts with rainbows all around them.

I’m tasting the brown bread at breakfast, the scones and the fish and chips and the Cadbury’s chocolate, which somehow tastes better over there.

I’m remembering how I felt in Ireland, which was … like I’d come home.

Jeepers, Peepers!

Jeepers, Peepers!

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In the woods and wetlands of Fairfax County, the spring peepers are singing. I hadn’t expected them yet, but the minute I heard their music I felt like I’d been listening for them all along.

“It’s spring, it’s spring,” I imagine they’re saying, though it’s probably more like, “I’m hungry, I’m hungry. What do you have to do around here to get some flies!”

One year I first heard them on St. Patty’s Day, so they are at least a few days earlier than that year. But what matters most is that they’re here, and being hearty fellows they will weather the cooler weather that’s blowing in here tomorrow.

If the color of spring is yellow and the scent of spring is hyacinth, the soundtrack of spring is what I heard last night: the music of tiny frogs welcoming the season.

(Look closely; there must be some peepers in there somewhere!) 

Walking Outside

Walking Outside

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An elliptical machine is a wondrous thing. It allows me to walk in all weathers and at a time that suits my schedule, from 5 a.m. till 8 p.m. What it can’t do, nor would I want it to, is mimic the sights and sounds of the walking world.

I often write of the psychic benefits of walking, which to my mind rival the health effects. I can get a buzz from the elliptical, but it’s not the same as the lift I get from walking outside. Take the random interactions, for example.

First, there was a short walk with Copper, where we ran into neighbor Nancy, who I’d just seen last week at a neighborhood gathering. We exchanged pleasantries as the little guy pulled at his leash.

Later, on my own solo stroll, I saw Nancy again, as well as the couple who are adding a gigantic garage onto their house, and another woman with curly gray hair who’ve I’ve seen walking but had never before linked with her house. This time I saw her checking her mailbox.

I don’t know all these people well; some I just nod to. But they’re the human heart of the walk. Some of them have lived here as long as we have; they give the place character and depth.

So I’m thankful for the elliptical because it’s kept me sane this winter. But I’m thankful for the outside walk, too. It’s what life’s all about.

Restorative

Restorative

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I had One of Those Days. Suspicious activity detected on a work computer so I spent hours reconfiguring passwords. A long, frustrating task with nothing to show for it at the end but (I hope) greater security, which I too often assume is mine anyway (though not as much as I used to).

Once home, though, there was a restorative: seeing the world from a dog’s perspective. Time to smell the roses, or rather, sniff them. And not roses, not yet, but buttercups and snowdrops, which I spied on our brief stroll.

I took some deep breaths, looked up at the sky, caught the flash of a sun-lit contrail.

It was 7 p.m. and still light enough to take a walk outside. All’s right with the world.

Standing Water

Standing Water

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After the record-breaking rain totals of 2018, the D.C. area seems poised to break more records for 2019. Lately there’s been some form of precipitation every weekend and most weekdays. It rains and mists, snows and sleets.

And so, there’s a lot of water in the yard. It pools in the hollows, saturates the grass, clings to the leaves and sticks and other flotsam jiggled from the aging oaks by storms and downpours.

It makes the yard most unsightly. But if you look hard enough and long enough, you can see a blue sky reflected in the standing water.

I hope it is the harbinger of good things to come.