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Author: Anne Cassidy

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.

Double Booked

Double Booked

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It was the standard answer every time one of the kids needed a book for class. “We have that book … somewhere.” At which point the search would begin.

Was it in the office, where there are two floor-to-ceiling book shelves? In the living room’s built-in bookcase (one of the two reasons we bought the house, the other being the big backyard)? Was it the alcove bookshelf at the top of the stairs? Or in the new bookshelves by the bathroom? In Suzanne’s room, or Claire’s or Celia’s? Or maybe in the basement. There are bookshelves under the window there (mostly children’s classics) or by the door to the laundry room (a hodgepodge).

Chances are, though, that the book was somewhere I hadn’t thought to look — behind another row of books.

While I remembered double-shelving some books that way, there were rows of others I just recently found.

It was like discovering a hidden kingdom, realizing there were 40, 50 or 60 books I’d completely forgotten we had. Or maybe not… Maybe those were the books I was looking for all along!

Green and Blue

Green and Blue

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On a walk last week I stopped to snap a picture of a blue spruce with its new green growth. This happens every year, of course, but for once I was in a position to notice it.

I love the dusty blue of the  mature tree, how it looks so wintry in winter with its cool tones, its chilly hue. But I think I love it even more now after seeing the green behind it.

Look beneath the hood, it tells me. See what there is to see,

Roses and Parakeets

Roses and Parakeets

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Today I have only four hours of Winrock work ahead of me then an afternoon and three whole days off. I’m wondering what it would be like to have unlimited time and space. Frightening at first, I imagine, but maybe not. It would be stepping off the carousel into some sort of other time-space continuum with only my own to-do list to guide me.

Here’s the thing, though. I have a hefty internal to-do list. It’s a vague one, needing time and energy to flesh out, and the thought of being face-to-face with it is mildly terrifying.

But still, there are mornings like this, full of blooming roses and chirping parakeets, when I’d like nothing better than to chuck it all and just … be …. free …

View from the Spot

View from the Spot

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Today was my parent’s wedding anniversary, so I’m thinking about them and about my visit to the cemetery last weekend when I was in Lexington.

I’m lucky that it’s only been recently that I factor in a trip to the cemetery when I visit home. But factor it in I do. On the last trip I thought about what a lovely view is available from their final resting place. It’s an open sunny expanse, with cows grazing in a grassy field a stone’s throw away.  One could argue that the view from a plot doesn’t matter to those who inhabit it, but it does to those who visit.

Because it’s a military cemetery, there are strict restrictions on what kinds of flowers and ornaments you can lay on the graves. I settled for a small American flag, in honor of Dad’s service and the upcoming Memorial Day. Next time, I’ll bring flowers for Mom.

Can’t Wait

Can’t Wait

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An early walk this morning through a damp May morning. Peonies hang their heads, roses, too. Iris stand upright, beards glistening, and grasses gleam with moisture. I tip the heavy planter where the new impatiens are struggling to root; they’re almost floating in water, we’ve had so much rain.

It’s the time of year when everything seems most alive. Cardinals sing and swoop. Copper comes inside drenched from rainwater he’s picked up from scooting underneath the azalea bushes.  Honeysuckle scent wafts from a tangle of greenery down at the corner. I inhale deep whiffs of it coming and going.

How nice it would be if I could follow this day through its moments. If I could walk, run, bounce and pedal through it. If I could be present for its drowsy afternoon.

Instead, I clean up and drive, walk, Metro and bus to the city. I write these words in a clean, calm office building made of steel and glass. The buzzing, blaring natural world seems far away.

I can’t wait to get back to it.

Ramping Down

Ramping Down

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National Airport is only a mile from my office, less as the crow flies (though Google Maps doesn’t chart crow-fly mileage).  But it took me half an hour to navigate yesterday because of the time I spent  backtracking.

The problem was that I had walked from the office to the airport but never the other way around. I  had the general idea but couldn’t figure out the specifics (like finding the bridge that crosses the parkway and the railroad tracks). Airport signage (in fact, most signage) does not favor walkers!

Eventually I found the road that led to the ramp that led to Crystal City. It all seemed so easy once it fell into place. I was on the downward slope, heading back to office and home.

(The first National Airport terminal in 1941, shortly after it opened. Courtesy Library of Congress.)

We Did It!

We Did It!

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I knew when I heard the trumpet solo in the Triumphal March from Aida that there was a different energy at the performance. Something inspired, something transcendent. Seasoned artists say that performances aren’t usually better than rehearsals, but this one was.

I’m not saying that this particular performer played better at the concert. I was nervous, almost dropped my bow switching from pizzicato to arco. But I held on, made most of the notes in the run, did not rush the entrance in the exposed string bass part half way through the Verdi, and was able to hit the harmonic in the tip-of-the-bow opening of the Firebird finale.

From there on, the hair stood up on the back of my neck as I played our B flats and E flats, putting everything I had into those notes, doing my awkward vibrato, hearing the timpani pounding behind me. I didn’t just play the music, I felt it. The trumpets and trombones blaring out their final chords, the whole marvelous ensemble, and at its helm, Dr. Joe Ceo, 85 years old.

“We’re doing this again in five years for the 75th anniversary,” he said after the concert, as a bunch of us stood around, still in a bit of a rush from it all. “You all will have to be here for it, because I don’t know if  I will be.” No way, we said. If you can do it at 85, you can do it at 90.

It was that kind of music, that kind of concert, that kind of day.

(The Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra with vocal soloists in its final performance of the 2017-2018 season. No pictures of the Reunion Orchestra yet!)