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Author: Anne Cassidy

“Green Book” and More

“Green Book” and More

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Over the weekend, as Virginia’s governor struggled for his political survival, I went to see a movie about race relations in 1962. It was difficult to watch “Green Book” and not understand the intense reactions to Gov. Northam’s yearbook page, which contains a photograph he’s now denying depicted him, with one person in a KKK hood and another in black face.

Northam has been a good governor so far, a rare Democratic moderate willing to work across the aisle. He’s gotten excellent reviews from people of all races. Which is why we should not drive the man from office for this affront. We should judge him by the totality of his actions and not by one unfortunate offense, something which, if it occurred at all, would not have carried the same weight then that it does today.

What I took from “Green Book” was not just the necessity for change but also the need for forgiveness, for learning to see the world from another’s perspective. Both men — the African-American pianist and the Italian-American driver — came to see the hollowness and futility of their positions. Both men changed.

What’s happened now is that we have hardened into such rigid postures that we can’t change; we can’t see the world from other perspectives. There are certain boxes that, once ticked, result in total elimination.

If we keep this up, it will drive even the last good people from the pursuit of public office. We are reaping what we have sown.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Guest Post

Guest Post

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Mom would have been 93 today. In honor of her birthday, I’m letting her write the blog. This is A Walker in the Suburb’s first guest post, and it’s a posthumous one. Read it and know why I wanted to be a writer when I grew up — and why I miss her so. 

I was the third daughter born to parents who seemed desperately to want a son. All three of us girls were supposed to be Edward, named for each of my parent’s oldest brothers. The son arrived three years after me, but wasn’t named Edward after all. It seemed that my dad decided there might never be another boy and he thought tradition should be upheld. So my little brother was named Martin Joseph III.

Dad was right, of course. Our family of four was complete. Tradition had been upheld. Tradition had been upheld, too, when my older sisters were named. The first was named for my mother’s mother, Margaret Donnelly, and the second for my father’s mother, Mary Scott. When I arrived, another girl, there seemed to be quite a dilemma about what to call me. They had run out of grandmothers.

Dad suggested they call me Anne after my mother. But that didn’t suit her. I have wondered why they didn’t use Edwina, the feminine version of Edward. I’m certainly glad they didn’t!

In the end, and in spite of Daddy’s objections, Mother named me Suzanne for a nice lady who lived down the street, Suzanne Burk. I have often wished they had given me her full name, but they didn’t. So I had no middle name until I could choose one when I was confirmed. I chose Rose and used it proudly whenever I could. I guess I thought it made me more complete.

Stop Time

Stop Time

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Though it’s tempting to write about the weather today, the polar vortex with its subzero windchills, I will avoid that temptation and write about … the end of January.

January, the endless month. Season of long nights, dark mornings and tedious commutes (well, that’s all year, but in winter they’re cold, too).

In January, life slows to a crawl. Days last weeks, and weeks last fortnights. Snow falls and melts. Ice takes its place. The woods trails are too snowy or soaked to amble, so I stay on the streets, follow the safe path.

But today proves that the endless month does in fact have a conclusion. And freed as we almost are of it, I suddenly see its silver lining. It brings hope to those of us who feel life is flying by all too quickly.

The Whoosh

The Whoosh

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For almost a year I’ve heard a whooshing sound in my right ear.  It didn’t bother me at first, but then I made the mistake of googling it. After that, I tried to ignore it. This worked for a while, especially when I was occupied by other worries. But as I approached the one-year mark I decided it might be wise to have it checked out.

“Ah,” said the doctor, “this kind of tinnitus can be caused by brain tumors and aneurysms and carotid artery blockages. You’ll need a CT scan … but no rush.”

I’d like to say he was kidding, but I don’t think he was. I made an appointment the next day, had a scan within the week — and heard yesterday that my tinnitus has a benign cause, thank God.

So now I can write about the whoosh and how it has become a companion of sorts. It’s the sound of my heartbeat, amplified. It’s the rhythm of life. The whoosh is a constant biofeedback session. When I’m aware of it most, in quiet moments, I try to still myself to make my heart beat more slowly. It’s a constant reminder to take life easy — even though I seldom heed it.

I wouldn’t wish a whoosh on everyone. But in a strange way, I’ve come to count on mine.

Design Revolutionary

Design Revolutionary

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Today I read an obituary of the woman who, among other things, revolutionized the display of fabric swatches by stapling them on cardboard so they could be fanned out for clients to touch and compare. Such a small innovation, but one that touches any of us who’ve dealt with paint chips or carpet samples.

Florence Knoll Bassett, who died a few days ago at the age of 101, did far more than this. She opened up offices and honed their interiors down into a simple, spare style. An architecture critic said she “did more than another other single figure to create the modern, sleek, postwar American office.” That would be any office from Mad Men till now.

I’m fascinated to learn about people who’ve had an outsize impact on how we live and work, and Florence Knoll Bassett fills that bill. But Knoll Bassett’s work was hardly unknown to others. When her parents died, she was taken in by the architect Eliel Saarinen (father of Eero, chief designer of the Dulles Airport and the St. Louis Gateway Arch) and she trained under Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.

Knoll Bassett once called her furniture designs “meat and potatoes.” But it was plainly much more. It was the vast array of a modern palate.

(Photo: Knoll) 

Ordinary Time

Ordinary Time

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In the liturgical calendar, Ordinary Time is when it isn’t Christmas and isn’t Easter. The priest wears simple green vestments. There are no wreaths and no ashes.

It’s also a time of miracles: of water turned to wine; of the blind who see and the lame who walk. Anything but ordinary.

Here at the house, ordinary time began Saturday, when I removed the Christmas wreath and hung up the little basket that serves as a door ornament at less festive times of year.

Ordinary time. Nothing special. But everything wondrous.

Running Stitch

Running Stitch

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In his book The Old Ways, Robert McFarlane talks of ancient chalk roads and of sea lanes. Any path or trail is worthy of his inspection, and what he sees when he looks is informed not just by poetry but by history.

I’ll be writing quite a lot about this book, I know. For now, here’s McFarlane riffing on the etymology of writing and walking:

Our verb ‘to write’ at one point in its history referred specifically to track-making: the Old English writan meant ‘to incise runic letters in stone’; thus one would ‘write’ a line by drawing a sharp point over and into a surface — by harrowing a track.

 As the pen rises from the page between words, so the walker’s feet rise and fall between paces, and as the deer continues to run as it bounds from the earth, and the dolphin continues to swim even as it leaps again and again from the sea, so writing and wayfaring are continuous activities, a running stitch, a persistence of the same seam or stream.

Running stitch: that’s one I won’t forget.

Shut-Down Blackout

Shut-Down Blackout

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I noticed the difference the minute I stepped into the office. People were chatting with neighbors, hanging out. No one seemed in a hurry to get to work. I waved and smiled but moved right to my computer. I have a lot to do today, so I was going to get right to it.

Except … I couldn’t — and can’t.

There’s no power in the office, no internet service. I’m writing this courtesy of my cell phone’s hot spot.

With the partial government shut-down in its second month, with the State of the Union address postponed and a husband and daughter both furloughed, this has a bit of a “are you kidding me?” quality about it.

Maybe the power will be back on again soon. Maybe today’s votes in Congress will shame lawmakers and leaders into working together. Maybe we will all learn to live together in peace and harmony.

I would settle for just one of those, the first one. And that’s good … because I imagine that’s all I’ll get!

To Go Through

To Go Through

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A standing joke in my parents’ house was the phrase “To Go Through” scribbled in marker across the top of a cardboard box. It meant a reprieve for my mother, a postponement of the not-always inevitable; for my dad it meant more clutter.

Mom wasn’t a hoarder, but she never saw a box she couldn’t fill. And she didn’t fill them in an organized way. They were stuffed hurriedly, before a party or the arrival of visitors, and pell-mell, with a jumble of newspapers, junk mail and the occasional treasure — an envelope of photos or handwritten note.

Though Mom did have time in later years to go through some of these boxes, to sort and toss (though never as much of the latter as Dad would have liked), there were still plenty of these “to go through” boxes when she and Dad were both gone.

I went through a few of them last weekend. There were birthday cards, a spool of gold thread, the front page of the Lexington Herald-Leader with the banner headline “Clinton Impeached.” There were notebooks and ledgers and an ancient bill from my college infirmary when I had strep throat my senior year.

Did these discoveries “spark joy”? Sometimes. More often, they sparked tears. But after a couple of hours I had winnowed the contents of two boxes into one. I had “gone through.” And that was good enough for me.

Brrrrr!

Brrrrr!

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It was 10 when I woke up this morning, 11 yesterday. A strong west wind has blown in these frigid temperatures and they have settled over the land. They bring with them a brittleness and breathiness that is most unwelcome.

It isn’t difficult to admire winter when a soft snow is falling. But when Arctic air is blowing in your face or down your neck, it’s significantly harder to see the positives.

The birds have tucked themselves away into bushes and brambles. They streak out to the feeder or the suet block then dodge right back in. They need warmth and, even more to the point, they need water.

But water is coming, I read in the forecast. Rising temperatures will take us out of the deep freeze, and rain (what else?!) will greet us on the other side.

It’s the kind of morning that sets my teeth chattering, but what can I do about it? It’s January. The bulbs and buds are sleeping. To everything, a season.