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Author: Anne Cassidy

Guido’s Venice

Guido’s Venice

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I’m not much of a mystery reader, but a few years ago I heard about Donna Leon’s Commissario Guido Brunetti series and decided to give it a try.

The books are set in Venice, a city I loved from the first moment I saw it (in my “Europe on $10 a Day” backpacking years).  Police detective Brunetti travels the city on foot or by vaporetti, savoring the sights of his native place and taking the reader with him each step of the way. Each story features a new bridge, square or quiet corner of “La Serenissima,” the “Most Serene Republic of Venice.”

Brunetti quotes the classics, adores his wife (the brainy and beautiful Paolo) and three-quarters of the way through every story, becomes discouraged and confused. He works his way out of every jam by using his smarts, often colluding with his boss’s assistant, Signorina Elettra, a clever young woman who finds a way (sometimes not quite legal) through every dilemma.

I often pick up a Leon mystery when I need distraction. But the books have a funny way of returning me right back to Real Life. This isn’t a bad thing, though, because I’m always a little lightened and calmed when I get back.

Old Dog, New Tricks

Old Dog, New Tricks

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They said it couldn’t be done. They said an old dog can’t learn new tricks.

But I know an old dog who’s learned one, learned more than one if you want to know the truth.

For the last couple of months, Copper has been visited by his doggie cousins, Reese and Bella, a pair of German shepherds being raised by Copper’s original “mama,” Claire. Claire loves doggies, and now she has about 160 pounds of doggies living in her house. But she still has room in her heart for her original “son.”

Copper, who can be a bit curmudgeonly and crotchety, originally reacted much as we thought he would when first Reese and then Reese and Bella came to visit.  He was standoffish and snarly.

But something happened to him when he finally got to know Bella. A younger female seemed like a dog he could handle. At first they just sniffed each other, but eventually they began to play. And now Reese, much larger, a male, is also included in the games.

Last night Copper (10 or more years their senior) led his doggie cousins on a merry chase, taking the corners of the yard like the mostly border collie that he is.

And … there was only one almost-fight … over an ice cube.

As far as I can tell we’ve had a canine miracle in these parts: An old dog learning a new trick!

Sweet Tea

Sweet Tea

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I’m not talking about the syrupy sweet iced tea found in southern climes, but about what I drink every morning, the piping hot brew of Barry’s Decaffeinated. Still, though it may not be quite as cloying as teeth-aching sweet tea, it is loaded with milk and sugar, especially sugar.

I’ve long since accepted my sweet tooth — would never try to drink my tea bitter and black. But what I would like to do is slowly reduce the amount of sugar I use. I’ve fantasized that I could figure out a way to do this crystal by crystal, a slow and steady de-sweetening that would lead me to healthier habits.

If not crystal by crystal, then maybe one-eighth (one-sixteenth?!) teaspoon by one-eighth teaspoon.

I may get stuck just one-eighth teaspoon into this scheme … but at least I would be trying.

Morning Post

Morning Post

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Lately, because of a new glitch in the blogging platform, I’ve been writing many of my posts the night before. This is not the way I like to blog. There is something about the morning that suits me.

Maybe it’s because the muse is more active at this time of day. Or maybe it’s because I’m closer to dreamscapes.

For instance, today I awoke near a border. It had to be with Mexico though in sleep I was convinced it was with Spain. It was sunny and hot. There was surveillance.

This was the not the meat of the dream, only a small side course. But it’s what stuck with me — and that it stuck with me at all is because I’m writing this in the wee hours.

The morning post. It’s not the only way to go, but I’m convinced it’s the best.

Moon Walk

Moon Walk

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The story last night was the moon, large and sultry and almost full. I had already walked in the morning, but when I got home last night I had to walk a little bit more, just to keep it company.

I watched it through the trees, waited for it to rise high enough to snap a shot of it free and clear.

But the chili was simmering on the stove back home, darkness was falling, and I realized I was strolling along neighborhood streets (no sidewalks, of course) wearing all black.

It was time to go home. The moon would have to wait. So I snapped a few more photos …

Then called it a night …

A Birthday, an Anniversary

A Birthday, an Anniversary

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The birthday of an oldest child is also an anniversary of parenthood. I celebrate a big one today.

I’ve been reliving the days and weeks leading up to Suzanne’s birth — how I’d wanted her to see the autumn leaves, but how the trees were almost bare by the time she was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on October 23. It didn’t dawn on me at the time that (in addition to the fact that she would be a newborn and focusing no further than the faces in front of her!) we wouldn’t always live there. I had no idea that by her first birthday we’d be living in Virginia, where the leaves have barely started changing in late October.

But here we are — and more to the point, here she is. After years in Africa, Suzanne now lives with her husband only 20 miles away. It’s only one of many amazing zigs (zags?) of the marvelously zigzagging road of parenthood. Which began for me (gulp!) 30 years ago today.

Happy Birthday, Suzanne!

Window Seat

Window Seat

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Usually I sit on the aisle. But not when the American West is involved. Yesterday I grabbed a window seat so I could snap the vistas when I saw them … the jagged peaks and dark valleys.

… a river snaking through brown hills,

… a blue lake shaped like a jigsaw puzzle piece,

… and the snowy, showy Grand Tetons.

I was never quite sure where I was — but my phone camera’s location finder knew. We flew over the Cascades, down to Pomeroy in southeastern Washington State. From there over Sugar City and Dubois, Idaho, to Bridger-Teton and Medicine Bow National Forests in Wyoming. And from there, we flew into Denver.

Those were the geographic realities. But from my window seat I saw only shapes and shadows, geometric purity. It seemed like I was seeing the essence of things.

Seattle Fog

Seattle Fog

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Yesterday morning the fog in the air matched the fog in my brain. It flitted between my ears like so much cotton batting. I walked to the light rail line hoping both fogs would clear, the internal and the external.

I was optimistic, because it was already brightening, and though my breath came out in clouds, the humidity added warmth.

By 2 p.m., the sky was blue, and we’d found a place to grab some lunch. The mind was thinking clearer.  And the Seattle fog … was gone.

The Hills

The Hills

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To live in a city of hills is to know long views and low valleys. It’s to feel that pain in the back of the legs that comes from uphill climbs. It’s to know the slow trudge and the quick downhill.

It’s not always easy, but ease is not always the point.

As I prepare to leave Seattle tomorrow, I will keep many images in my heart, snapshots of a city that Celia has grown to love.

I will remember the city blocks and the flaming maples and Mount Rainier looking down on it all.

It has brought a psalm to mind — timeless, eternal source of strength: “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

Kubota Garden

Kubota Garden

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It’s where Seattle goes on a sunny day … or at least it felt that way last Sunday. There were lovers and families and dog walkers. The elderly in wheel chairs and walkers. Cameras with tripods, their earnest photographers snapping shots of engaged couples and even a bride.

Kubota Gardens is an oasis of green in the midst of the city. Even a city as green as Seattle, one nestled between water and mountains, needs the relaxation potential of an urban park. Kubota satisfies all the senses: the splash of water, the aroma of autumn leaves — and everywhere, flaming foliage, artful arrangements of flower and leaf and grass.

This time of year, Kubota is a riot of reds, oranges and yellows, as the Japanese maple, euonymus and  gingko flare up in their rich tones.

I did a lot of people watching on Sunday, a lot of strolling and stopping, a lot of deep breathing. It was just the respite I needed before a hectic week.