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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Walk Talk

The Walk Talk

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Yesterday, a walk through Arlington. A walk while talking, which is one of the best kind of walks, though you wouldn’t know it by the kind of solo walks I often describe here.

The walk talk is wonderful when it’s done with someone with whom one is simpatico — even if that someone is on the other end of a phone line, which was the case yesterday.

The walk talk makes the miles vanish and the heat dwindle. It’s not until you find yourself in a cool Metro station that you realize that yes, it was a warm afternoon for a charge up Clarendon Boulevard.

But by then it’s too late. The walk is over and the talk is too and though you are indeed rather wilted you are also super-charged by the movement and the conversation.

(Scenes from an Arlington walk, in another season.)

Kiss and Ride

Kiss and Ride

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There are quick pecks, long hugs and brief chats. There’s that final rummaging in bags for keys or other items that must be exchanged. I see all of this and more as I wait for the Arlington (ART) 43 bus each morning on Clarendon Boulevard.

Without an official “Kiss and Ride” lane, as there are at suburban Metro stations throughout the system, commuters must make do. So, there are last-minute maneuverings, swerves to the curb, double parking in the bus lanes.

But there is always that moment when passenger and driver turn to each other for a word or an embrace before heading off into their separate days. It’s a ritual I never tire of watching, the human element of the commuting drama: kiss … and ride.

Smile Lines

Smile Lines

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It’s the last day of a soggy July, and I’m reminding myself that if we have to have extreme weather, better excess moisture than excess heat. People in northern California wouldn’t mind some rain about now, as they struggle with temps of 110 and a fire so intense that it’s creating its own winds and tornadoes.

Compared with that, I can easily find something nice to say about the frequent showers and thundershowers, the coziness they impart on a rainy Saturday afternoon. How they nurture the young trees we planted this spring. How little watering there is to do.

Of course, if I really could choose, I’d prefer ample rains that fall at night and leave the days sunny and clear. But since I can’t, I’m remembering lines from a Robert Frost poem about reconciling the choices we can’t make. They always make me smile.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Seeing Clean

Seeing Clean

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I knew I’d gotten serious about cleaning when I found myself scrubbing the washing machine, wiping off the soap residue, concentrating on a few dark streets I found on the front of the machine that finally went away with enough time and elbow grease.

The immediate excuse was my brother Drew’s visit, but it was more than that. It was as if a switch were triggered and the smudges I usually don’t see were decked out in crazy neon colors, begging to be obliterated.

So on top of the usual routine — the dusting and vacuuming and scouring — there was using the vacuum attachment to siphon out crevices in the basement, squeegeeing the front and back doors, washing the parakeets’ cage cover … and much, much more.

It’s all a matter of seeing. Usually, I absolve the clutter, move past what I know I can’t remedy because there’s only enough time for the basics in my life and cleaning isn’t one of them.

But this weekend I allowed myself time to dust and vacuum and sweep and scour, granted myself permission to use more hours than usual for those purposes. It’s always comforting to accomplish much with little mental effort, to complete tasks always looming.

And now, I harvest the result: an almost spartanly clean house. Key word “almost” … of course.

Remembering Waves

Remembering Waves

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It’s been a tough work re-entry, so this morning I’m thinking about the beach. Most of the people I saw there are back home again, too. The vagaries of chance and locale that brought us together have split us apart again.

But we were renewed and refreshed by our contact with the elemental, with forces beyond our control. We encounter those all the time, of course, but seldom are they so powerful and so beautiful and so endlessly fascinating to observe.

I don’t swim in the ocean; I just look at it. But I never tire of its patterns and moods: of calm, warm, lapping waters or dark, fast, roiling ones. Of waves that roll and stipple and soothe. I’m seeing those waves now, and will see them later when I walk through the suburbs, when I make my way through the day.

Sea Legs

Sea Legs

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After days inside, a body longs to be outdoors. So this body made its way to the deck as dawn was breaking, lured the little doggie outside, too. I found a seat cushion that wasn’t totally saturated, and sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs.

Before I could type a word, a drop of water plopped on my screen. Another morning shower — or the bamboo shaking off its excess? I chose the latter. Not that it’s up to me, of course, but at that point in the day the morning still seemed up for grabs. I wouldn’t go inside, not yet.

I sit and watch Copper, who’s sticking his head between the deck railings and screwing up his courage. A few minutes later he’s trotted down the stairs into the sodden yard.

The two of us have sea legs. The dry world is new to us. But we’ll get the hang of it; I know we will.

Not Tragic, After All

Not Tragic, After All

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It was 15 minutes to starting time when I hauled my string bass through the doors of the Sunrise Valley Montessori School, the first of four summer reading sessions of the Reston Community Orchestra. The first piece of music on my stand was Brahms’ “Tragic Overture.” I hoped it wasn’t a sign.

I’d signed up for this local orchestra’s “summer camp” when I was still high on my youth orchestra’s reunion performance in May. It was another chance to be part of a big symphonic sound … even though I barely knew where the notes were, even though my biceps ached from hauling a bass around in Lexington, I thought it was time to try this again.

But standing there Monday night I wasn’t so sure. The Tragic Overture wasn’t the only omen. The room was filling up with musicians — violinists, flautists, brass players and half a dozen cellists (including one who doubled as a French horn player). But no one was walking over to my little corner of the orchestral universe.  And no one did. I was the lone bass player Monday night.

And … it wasn’t as tragic as I thought it would be. The notes came back into my fingers again, the lower C, the high D. The string bass part often doubled the cellos, so I mimicked my fellow lower strings as much as I could.

We played the first movement of Schubert’s Symphony Number 9 in C Major, the Brahms’ overture and a lovely waltz-like piece by a local composer who was there to hear us rehearse. The thrill was back. The tragedy … nowhere to be found.

The Deluge

The Deluge

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Woke up this morning to a deluge, to the tapping of drops on leaves, the plopping of water on roof, to the gurgle of rain through the downspouts. It will rain several inches today — this on top of yesterday’s sporadic downpours, the record-breaking six inches on Saturday and Sunday’s showers (most of which I blessedly missed).

This is one heck of a weather system. The ground is sodden, the impatiens are drowned (one of the flower pots holds water) and the yard is squishy soft. Copper refuses to go out of his own accord and must be lured with leash and walk.

Rain like this just doesn’t happen in July. It’s a confluence of many factors, said the weather guys. A winter-like storm, almost a nor’easter churning up the coast, then parking itself over the mid-Atlantic and not budging for hours. (That was Saturday.)

All I know is that the rain hasn’t ended yet. Downpours are expected through Wednesday.

I’m glad I stored up some Florida sunshine in my psychic account; I’ll be drawing on it this week!

(I like my clouds fluffy and white, thank you very much.)

The Tan

The Tan

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When I was young, a tan was something you sought, treasured and displayed. You laid out on lounge chairs or towels. You slathered on baby oil and basically fried out there. “Did you go to Florida?” high school classmates would ask after spring break.  “No, it was just my back yard,” I’d say, enjoying the surprise on their faces.

This is because I would lay out in all weathers, tilting my face to the sun, from which flowed all strength and goodness (or so it seemed). I liked the way I looked when I was tan; brown was beautiful.

When I was older I went to ocean beaches for my tan. When no shoreline was available (and it usually wasn’t), I settled for towels spread on the well-trod grass of Lincoln Park or the soft tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment building.

In time, grudgingly, I applied sunscreen. At first, only SPF 8. It was a pride thing. But later I tried the higher numbers. The tans, though reduced, still remained. I couldn’t imagine returning from a week at the beach without having skin that was a different color than the skin I left with.

Not anymore. This year I come back the same. I attribute this not to lack of time on the strand or at the pool — but to lavish use of SPF 50, a UV-protectant shirt I pulled on over my bathing suit and a towel draped over my legs.

I long ago realized that the “healthy glow” was not so healthy. There are wrinkles and age spots and worse.  So I was careful; I heeded the dermatologist’s warnings.

The beach vacation remains, but the tan is history.

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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I’m big on the backward glance, on analyzing what has happened, on figuring out from it what might be to come.

This does not go away when I’m at the beach. But it softens a little, like a once-crisp cracker at an al fresco lunch beside the waves.

At the beach it’s easier to see the back-and-forth of things, the ebbs and flows; easier to trust that all will be well.

I’m always looking for lessons, even from vacations. And that’s what this beach week is showing me: Clouds will pile up in the east, will show themselves as rain-makers by the dark slant beneath them. They will come this way, will empty and pass. And then … the sun will come out again.