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Author: Anne Cassidy

Long Drive

Long Drive

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The long drive begins like any other: settling into the seat, snapping on the belt, adjusting the mirror. And for the first few hours, it feels like any other, too: staring at the road, flipping through a newspaper (only if you’re not driving!), munching on cereal or pretzels.

But the long drive quickly asserts itself in the mind and body. An exit that would normally herald a resting place is just a milepost, barely a quarter of the way into the trip. The hopeful slant of morning sun quickly fades into the desolate phantom-puddled pavement of mid-afternoon. And as darkness falls you are still far from home.

The long drive is made bearable by good company, by podcasts — and, of course, by snacks. Cereal in the morning, pretzels in the afternoon, an apple, a Snapple and Fresh Mint Tic Tacs, which prop open even the heaviest of eyelids.

The best part of the long drive is the final few feet, pulling into the driveway, hearing Copper bark, knowing a bed — a familiar bed — is waiting upstairs.

Far-Flung

Far-Flung

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In St. Louis for a family wedding, I find myself thinking about place, about generations placed and unplaced, about the difference it makes.

Families that began in Indiana and Kentucky spread to Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Illinois, Maryland, Missouri, Montana, New York, Oregon, Texas, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin — and I’m probably forgetting a few.

It was bound to happen when transportation became supersonic and communication became instantaneous, but do texts, calls and jet planes fill in for the shout down the street, for Sunday visits?

People leave for college, for jobs, for opportunities, for fresh starts. It’s how we’ve live now.

It’s just changed us, that’s all.

Grading Copper

Grading Copper

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Such is the nature of our times that not only do we receive “Service Feedback” emails from the dog sitting outfit caring for Copper and the parakeets, but the emails also contain photos.

These give me a taste of the current childcare scene, of nanny cams and hidden cameras. The general atmosphere of surveillance that overlays this line of work. It’s a little bit about checking up on and a lot about missing.

Yesterday’s email was a surprise, as was Copper’s “grade” of “B,” which though “Very Good” was not, obviously, good enough. I’m assuming he missed an “A” because he was “a bit testy” during breakfast.

Did the sitter hover too close to his food bowl? Was blood drawn?

I’m hoping the answers to these questions are “no” and “no.” And I was relived that this morning’s email contained an “A+” rating. Copper “was more interested in snuggles than food.” He’s lonely, poor guy. But at least he’s behaving himself.

(Photo: Becky’s Pet Care)

A Day, a Diary

A Day, a Diary

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I found an old journal in the back room of my parents’ old house, my grandfather Cassidy’s diary from 1940. This is my father’s father, who I never knew; he died before I was born. He was a Nazarene preacher, and much of this diary records his prayer habits and the texts he preached from.

On this day, 78 years ago, the tent was in or near Clinton, Illinois, and his sermon came from 2 Samuel 25-28:

“I pray you, forgive the trespass of your handmaid: for the Lord will certainly make my lord an enduring house; because my lord fights the battles of the Lord, and evil has not been found in you all your days.”

Many days began with reading and praying. There were walks, helping friends cut wood, marveling at the beauty of the day.

My grandfather followed his calling even though his family, my father then a young man, were far away. I’m not sure what they lived on, how they made it. But somehow, they did.

The world is a different place now, but the pages in this diary are as crisp and clear as the day he wrote them. At the bottom of each page, a quotation. This one is from Emerson: “Give me insight into today, and you may have the antique and future worlds.”

Yankee Doodle Dandy Day

Yankee Doodle Dandy Day

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In honor of Independence Day,  I’m running a post from July 7, 2010. I wrote it shortly after Mom and I watched the movie “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That was Mom’s way to celebrate the 4th. And today I’m thinking about her … and even further back, to the time of George M. Cohan, a time of innocence and optimism.

A return to innocence may be a stretch … but on this July 4, 2018, I’m pulling for a return to optimism:

Here’s the post, slightly edited:

The firecrackers aren’t yet snapping and the flags aren’t yet flapping. What I’m thinking of is James Cagney as George M. Cohan in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I can’t stop humming “It’s a Grand Old Flag,” “Over There” or “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” And I can’t forget the sight of that powerful little man going into one of his tap-dancing riffs. He is the essence of jaunty, of sticking out one’s chin and plunging into life. Was our country ever that innocent and optimistic? I replay the final scene of that movie, Cagney dancing down the steps of the White House after telling his life story to President Roosevelt, and I think yes, maybe it was.

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.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

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.