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Author: Anne Cassidy

Traffic Calming

Traffic Calming

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At first I didn’t know what was happening to one of my main commuting routes to Metro. There were big trucks and construction crews and the beeping and honking and disruption that comes with them.

There were detours, too, new ones each week, it seemed like. One day we would all be driving on the left side of the road; the next week we’d all be driving on the right.

At some point, though, the point of this became clear. There was no repaving in the works, no new road or ramp. Instead, there was a traffic calming island — a roundabout to nowhere — being installed. This was all about slowing us down, “calming” us.

I noticed today that the little roundabout is even being landscaped. There’s a baby tree and some plantings to make us even calmer as we add a few more minutes to our lengthy commutes, as we slow down enough to navigate the thing, then immediately speed up as we pass it.

The traffic may be calmer (though I doubt it), but the drivers (at least this one) are not!

Natural Cool

Natural Cool

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We leapt from a rainy June to a sizzling July, and are now measuring the heat index instead of the precipitation.  On my slow walks this weekend I sought the relative cool of the shady stretches that line Folkstone Drive.

Is there any cool better than natural cool? I know what the air conditioning devotees will say. Of course there is. It’s the cranked-down chill of a 72-degree office or living room. And don’t get me wrong. On days when the mercury climbs toward 100, it’s mighty nice to step inside a well-chilled house.

But there is also something to be said for the deep woods, for ferns waving in a slight breeze, for soil that is still a bit moist from last month’s downpours, for a creek gurgling in the distance.

For sections of road where tree branches lace overhead and spread their shade to the pavement below. For old houses with thick walls flanked by tall oaks.

There is something to be said for natural cool.

Slow Gait

Slow Gait

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This morning’s walk was more an amble than a trot. I was afraid it would be boring; it wasn’t. Thoughts flowed much as they do when I walk fast. But they were deeper, had pooled longer in the mind before bubbling to the surface.

When I was a little girl, I remember Mom explaining the five gaits of saddlebred horses. There’s the walk, trot and canter, the natural gaits, she said. But saddlebreds have two additional, special gaits — slow gait and rack.

At the Junior League Horse Show, which was held every summer at the Red Mile Trotting Track in Lexington, prim matrons with smooth blond chignons sat ramrod-straight in the saddle as their mounts pranced their way around the track. When it was time for the fifth and final gait, the announcer said, “Rack on.”

I’ll “rack on” another day. For me, today, it was slow gait.

From a Distance

From a Distance

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As the country grows ever more politicized, reading the newspaper becomes an ever more fraught occupation.

I could dive right into op-eds supporting my views, and I often do, but today I didn’t want the echo chamber. I wanted what we don’t have, proof of wise heads.

So instead, I looked deep inside the front section. There was an article on how Congo has controlled Ebola: a sorely needed good-news story. Of all the nations in the world, Congo is the best at tracking the disease. One seldom hears that any African nation is “best at” at anything, so this was doubly good.

Then there was a bizarre piece on strife and lawsuits in the Buzz Aldrin family. His children think he’s losing it, so they have seized assets. He’s suing to have them back.

Buzz Aldrin, the article reminds us, is the second man to walk on the moon. He once described it as having a “magnificent desolation.”

Thanks to this phrase, I’m lifted beyond the Supreme Court decisions and retirements and the upcoming meeting with Putin. I’m looking at the blue marble. In my head, words to the song “From a Distance”:

From a distance the world looks blue and green
And the snow capped mountains white
From a distance the ocean meets the stream
And the eagle takes to flight
From a distance there is harmony
And it echoes through the land
It’s the voice of hope
It’s the voice of peace
It’s the voice of every man…

Tea Timed

Tea Timed

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The roil and hiss of the electric tea kettle is the sound of morning. Even the parakeets know it. Their first precious chirps of the day are when they hear this sound.

But the old electric tea kettle has seen better days. Used to be, you’d fill up the sleek polished steel container, flip the switch, and before you had time to do a few stretches or run upstairs and splash some water on your face, it would be ready.

But tea kettles wear out, like everything else. It will still do the job; you just have to baby it a little. Turn it in its casing until you hear it engage, like a safecracker jiggling a lock.

In the end, the water is just as hot, the tea just as bracing. Maybe even more so.

Getting Here

Getting Here

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The commute as blank canvas, painting as I go. That’s what I’m after. Some days, it works. Today was one of them.

Leaving on time, not having to run. Sunlight streaming into the car, shading my eyes if we linger long above ground. Waiting for doors to close. 
Writing first, while thoughts from the drive are still in mind. Next, the newspaper. Not much time for it today since a book beckons.
And then, the novel. It keeps me riveted till Courthouse, where I leave Metro, walk up the escalator and board a bus. Reading as I wait, as I ride. Stopping only when we reach the bay, when I leave and walk. 
There’s a hydrant spewing water at the corner. Cars plough through. A rainy-day sound on a cloudless June morning.
I gather these impressions, take them with me into the day.
Singing with Dad

Singing with Dad

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Sunday was the nativity of John the Baptist, a feast I don’t ever recall celebrating before. Something new in the liturgy? One of those days you notice every few years, when it falls on a Sunday?

We sang “Shall We Gather at the River,” a hymn I always associate with summer tent revivals — and not one of my favorites. To me, it sounds “Protestant”— a non-ecumenical term to be sure but the only one I can come up with. It’s not the kind of hymn I sang as a kid, one with verses in Latin. Singing it has always made me feel a bit strange and out of place.

But now I have an antidote for hymns like “Shall We Gather” or “How Great Thou Art.” Whenever we sing them now, I imagine Dad standing next to me, belting out the melody in his rich baritone. Dad was the Protestant in my life. He went to tent revivals and Wednesday night services as a kid. He knew the score.

So I follow his lead, sing out loud and strong. I can almost feel him nudge my elbow. “See, Annie,” he winks. “That’s not too bad, is it?”

Drizzly Day

Drizzly Day

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Copper and I are having a hard time getting out this morning. Neither one of us wants to brave the rain. And since I was counting on a walk to provide the inspiration for this morning’s post … I’m late here, too. The doors are open, but the bodies aren’t moving.

What I’ve done instead: write, edit, prepare a story to publish Monday, try to finish one I started earlier this week. And in between: tidying up, doing laundry and making beds.

It’s the kind of day I’d like to spend reading a book straight through from start to finish. Or organizing a closet. Or maybe even napping.

But there are errands to run, an article to finish and, if it ever clears up, a walk to take.

Longest, Greenest

Longest, Greenest

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There’s the dark, shiny green of the holly, and the springy green of the grass, still relatively weedless this time of year. The ferns add texture. Running my hands over their fronds is the way green feels.

But mostly this longest day is about how green looks: light through oak leaves, the ancient rusted tint of begonia foliage, tall green stems in the garden bearing day lily buds and brand-new coneflowers.

Out front by the mailbox a new garden bed sprouts tender morning glory stems and leaves twisting around twine, salvia, verbena and baby zinnias, too.

It’s a riot of green out there, a show of life force. I want to revel in it.

Up, Up and Away!

Up, Up and Away!

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We took Celia to the airport this morning. She wanted to be early, and she was. I watched her move through security, chatting with a fellow passenger as she put her laptop, shoes and carryon into the bins. And then … she vanished.

Home now, I think at first that I can’t go in her room, but I’m pulled there despite myself. There are the cast-offs — the shoes, clothes and books that didn’t make the final cut.  There’s the cover to Jane Eyre, one of her faves — she has the book itself. And there’s the box I brought home from work on Monday. Something tells me I’ll be filling it soon and mailing it to Seattle.

For the first time in a long time, 2938 is an empty nest.  The youngest has flown the coop. My heart flies with her.

(The girls out on the town this weekend.)