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Author: Anne Cassidy

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.)

Seismic Joy

Seismic Joy

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I like the thought of jumping for joy, of arms raised, fists pumped; of running in circles because you don’t know what else to do with yourself; because there’s just so much good feeling it won’t stay put, must bubble out — all the physical expressions of positive emotion.

I didn’t know until yesterday, though, that when enough people jump for joy at the same time, it can actually cause an earthquake. Not a monstrous one, but one that can be detected on seismic read-outs like the one above. Apparently this happened on Sunday in Mexico, when cheering fans erupted with jumping and dancing when Mexico upset Germany in World Cup soccer play.

And it’s not the first time. A seismograph a block away from where the Seattle Seahawks scored the winning touchdown in the 2011 Super Bowl registered what it called the “12 Man Earthquake” or “the Beast Quake.” (This from my favorite weather site, The Capital Weather Gang.)

I bet there were some mini-tremblors in D.C. week before last when the Caps won the Stanley Cup. And I’m not ruling out seismic activity in Lexington, Kentucky, in late March or early April of  1978, 1996, 1998 or 2012, all recent wins of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tourney.

Human-made quakes? Why not? They underline our connection with the earth, our influence over it, that it shakes and shimmies and trembles with our joy.

(Seismograph read-out courtesy Washington Post Capital Weather Gang)

Loss and Fullness

Loss and Fullness

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The deck, the morning after our Father’s Day celebration. Here’s the fish griller that Claire used to cook the salmon.The new hanging plant I bought over the weekend, its purple blossoms cascading over the rim. There’s a half moon of package sealing that came off when I opened the tub of deer repellent to sprinkle on the flower bed.

The white bucket in the back yard holds the pétanque balls we used to play a few rounds of that game before dinner. Appolinaire was the champ, despite the fact that he’d only heard of pétanque minutes before we played. Maybe French-speaking folks just naturally excel.

Scattered around are the big sticks Claire’s dog Reese picked up and dropped. Copper sniffs them, wary still. This time last year we had just met Reese, a small ball of fluff. Now he’s a 100-pound “baby.”

Further back into the yard, the new picket fence panels gleam. One day they’ll be as weathered as the ones they replace.

Thinking about loss, about fullness.  That from this home, this yard, three little souls were launched into the world.

Last Day, Redux

Last Day, Redux

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To be the parent of young adults means getting used to the filling and emptying of the house that gave them birth. The house didn’t really give them birth, of course — I did. But sometimes it feels like it did, the rooms have so absorbed the people who grew up in them.

This old house has gotten pretty good at it by now. People move out, then in … then out again. The house accommodates it all — I just hang on for the ride.

Today is the last day of school in Fairfax County, a day my kids once celebrated with shaving cream fights at the bus stop, a celebratory fast-food lunch and the ceremonial viewing of one of our fave family movies, “The Music Man.” I hear the buses already, revving up for early dismissal. Soon they’ll be disgorging young’uns into an endless summer.

It doesn’t seem so long ago that I was meeting my own girls down at the corner. Now Celia (front row, left) is about to move in with her friend Jessy (standing right next to her), who lives … on the other side of the country.

It’s a grand adventure for all of us, the ones just starting out and the ones who’ve lived long enough to marvel at it all.

Whistle Them Home

Whistle Them Home

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It was after 6:00 p.m. yesterday and the children — two boys, one  girl — were angling for some park time.  “You can play outside for a while, but you have to come in when I whistle for you,” said the mother. Maybe she was in the middle of cooking dinner, or had just changed from her work clothes. Or maybe she works at home, as I did when the girls were young.

But the whistling, that was unique. No texting, no agreed-upon time to be home. Just wait for the whistle. A bit canine,  to be sure. But deliciously old-fashioned.

Where I grew up in Lexington, only one family had a dinner bell. Other parents just cupped their hands around their mouths and yelled for their kids to come home in the evening. “Johnnnnny! Sallllly!” (Children had primary reader names back in those days.) These ersatz bullhorns are the original communication device, are they not?

And they did the job.  The kids came running home.

(These tunnels — I call them “snake eyes” — are near the park where the kids were playing.) 

What Lies Beneath

What Lies Beneath

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Every so often comes a cleaning chore that makes us bare our souls, that drives us into the hidden places where we’ve stuffed photographs and papers and maps, and makes us pull them out. Every so often a cleaning chore comes that makes us ashamed of ourselves.

For me, that one comes today, when the Stainless technicians come to shampoo the carpet.

I am, first of all, ashamed that the carpet is in such bad shape. Copper has grown more anxious as he’s gotten older and has developed the habit of scratching rugs when he’s upset. His bladder control ain’t what it used to be either.

And then there’s all the stuff I’ve been storing on the floor in the bedrooms. This is how I’ve absorbed the papers and photographs from Mom and Dad’s house —by transferring them directly from underneath their beds to underneath mine.

I marvel at how much I can cram into corners and closets — and how easily it slips out of awareness when not in my direct line of vision. But today it’s right there, difficult to ignore.

So Stainless Carpet Cleaners will come, and Stainless will clean and Stainless will leave. But the stuff will remain. And dealing with the stuff…  is up to me.