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Author: Anne Cassidy

Summer Skin

Summer Skin

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It’s out there, exposed, demanding coverage. Once sleeves are short and legs are bare, invisible  protectors must come to the rescue: the creams and ointments and sprays. Sunscreen, 30, 50 or even 70. Mosquito repellent, too.

These are fine, indeed necessary, but you often don’t have them when you need them. Already I’ve had chiggers, mosquito bites, a touch of poison ivy and two spider bites.

So bring on the remedies: the calamine, hydrocortisone and witch hazel. I’d forgotten about that last one, but dabbing it on itchy skin is not only soothing but also an olfactory trip to the past, to childhood’s itches and scrapes and the more basic first-aid that fought them. (Is there anything else that smells like witch hazel?)

Now, let’s see if it makes me itch any less. It’s summer, and the living is easy. Until you roll up your sleeves.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Lucky Thirteen

Lucky Thirteen

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Just because we had a triple crown winner three years ago doesn’t make Justify’s victory in the Belmont on Saturday any less impressive. He was only the 13th horse to achieve such a feat in the last century. The first was  in 1919, there were three in the 1930s, four in the 1940s, three in the 1970s … then a 37 year drought till American Pharoah won in 2015.

Justify’s jockey, Mike Smith, says the colt has an “old soul.” Not sure about that, but the horse was subtle, sneaking up on us in the midst of other exciting spots news. The Stanley Cup finals, the NBA finals, the French Open, the World Cup. But he didn’t come from behind to win. He led all the way around the mile-and-a-half track, and he made it look easy, which is how all great champions do it.

Celia and I watched the race together in the basement, and we were both whooping and hollering. I like to think I schooled my girls in the important things of life: the thrill of horse racing, especially when a Triple Crown is at stake; the importance of hard work; and the need for enthusiasm.  Especially the latter.

(Photo: This low-res pic made possible by Wikipedia)

Caps Win the Cup!

Caps Win the Cup!

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It took me a split second this morning to remember, and then the joy washed over me again: The Washington Capitals have won the Stanley Cup! They have coolly and methodically mowed down their competition. They have run the distance, they have prevailed.

Does D.C. need this or what? It’s been decades since we’ve had a sports championship of any type. And just in general, things are tough in the “swamp.” We’re the seat of government in an era when government is contentious. Our traffic is horrendous, and we’ve had four weeks of rain.

But last night, all of that was forgotten. Ovi hoisted the Stanley Cup, smiled his gap-toothed grin, and made some sort of utterance that was part howl, part growl.

Last night wasn’t about words, though. It was about sounds and images. Firecrackers popping. A sea of red in Capital One Arena and throughout Chinatown (which I cruised beneath on Metro less than two hours before they won).

Today the whole region woke up a little happier than it did yesterday. Yes, it’s just a bunch of guys who skate around and chuck each other with sticks. But it’s our guys. And they won!

The Journey

The Journey

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Walking has its charms, many of which I’ve detailed here. It is good for the body and the soul, a moving meditation.  It is also, I thought on an early stroll this morning, a reflection of the inevitable changes we endure.

I use the word “endure” because so many of these changes are not ones we seek or desire. They are just life, with its comings and goings, its highs and lows. Colleagues leave, jobs change, bodies falter and fail.

Walking is all about moving through space, about not getting too attached to any viewpoint or position. It’s about the journey and taking what we can from it.

Simply Outdated

Simply Outdated

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Walker in the Suburbs sends out no newsletters and keeps no lists. It accepts no followers and receives no comments. This is because Walker in the Suburbs is published on a hopelessly outdated template that its author hasn’t the time to upgrade or change.

But there is a silver lining. Walker in the Suburbs will not be sending you an email asking you to update your privacy settings. It will not be worrying too much about the European Union’s GDRP, which I had to Google to spell out — that would be the General Data Protection Regulation plan.

Walker in the Suburbs is not quite as outdated as my old phone pictured here. But it’s definitely in a digital backwater. 

Simplicity has its rewards.

Awesome Air

Awesome Air

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A walk last night after work, late enough that the sun slanted low in the sky, blinding me as I walked west.

Weeks of rain were forgotten, blue sky ruled. But it was the air that caught my attention.

It was weightless and fine-tuned, a caress.

Life Preserver

Life Preserver

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If all birthdays should hold within them some memento mori, some reflections on our own mortality, then my recent one was complete even in that way, with the funeral of an acquaintance, a woman my age (too young to die!) held Saturday in a local cemetery.

Attending this funeral brought many thoughts to mind: Sadness for the family, especially the two twenty-something children who now must make their way without their mom; gratitude for my own health and family, for everything I have; and relief that I’ve escaped a trap that suburban living makes women especially prone to.

It isn’t always easy to schlep to the office, but the suburbs have a way of sucking women in and making everything about the kids. While I made sure I was home with the girls as much as possible when they were young, and I look back on those years as some of the most precious and happiest of my life, I tried always to have a separate self, a career (writing) self — an Anne that is not also Mom.

Now I tell my girls to do this, to keep themselves alive. The childrearing years only seem like they’ll last forever. In truth, they’re over in a flash.  When they are, you want a self to go back to.

Forever Young

Forever Young

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Spending one’s birthday evening at the symphony may not seem the hippest thing to do, but for feeling young, it can’t be beat. At the symphony the hair color is decidedly white and the movement style decidedly shuffle. Average age — average! — can’t be less than 75.

While this makes me fear for the state of classical music, it does just the opposite for the state of my health and energy level.

Ride the elevator? Of course not. Let’s take the stairs. Hum out loud during the Schumann? Maybe in the car but never in public.

But what the audience lacked in vigor, the orchestra more than made up for. During one challenging set of runs, the violin section stood up and finished the passage with a flourish. And for the encore — one of Brahms’ “Hungarian Dances” — the entire orchestra leapt to their feet. Except for the cellists, of course.

So thank you, Baltimore Symphony. Last night you made me feel forever young.

Stretching

Stretching

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In the last few weeks, I’ve been making more of an effort to stretch after running or walking or bouncing. This is something I always mean to do but never have time for.

Now it’s time. Past time, if you want to know the truth.

Stretching not just the body but the mind and heart.  It’s one of the best ways I can think of to stay  limber, to keep growing and changing, not to ossify with age.

It’s a personal goal for my own personal new year, which starts … today.

New Dawn

New Dawn

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If I had endless subject matter (which I do) I wouldn’t have to write twice in one week about roses. But roses are on my mind right now. On my mind — and in my sight.

As I write, the petals are oh so softly falling off the New Dawn Climbing rose. It budded slowly this year in the cold spring, then burst quickly into blossom. Night before last it shimmered in the little porch lights, a fairy garden.

I chose this plant from a garden catalog shortly after we moved to this house. I wanted an English cottage garden, and climbing roses would be part of it.

They are the only part of it that survived. Virginia does not have a cool, rainy climate. Astilbe and larkspur don’t flourish here.

But the New Dawn has thrived. It clambers over the pergola, hangs heavy over the glass-topped table.

It is a gracious nod toward projects past, a hopeful sign of projects future.