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Author: Anne Cassidy

Appreciation

Appreciation

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Once again the days have passed, the splendid ones and the trying ones. Once again we’ve come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year’s Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, one I wrote in 2011. Merry Christmas!


12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.

Photo: Flow TV


Shopping Local

Shopping Local

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Let empty boxes collect at curbsides, let the men in brown dash from truck to stoop. But last-minute shoppers unwilling to pay for overnight shipping (or maybe just people like me, who enjoy a bit of the hustle bustle) were out full force yesterday at the mall.

It felt good to be jostling with other shoppers, to be part of the public square. I’ve been worrying about the public square lately, wondering if its day has passed. Many of the young folks I know shop solely online, and recent forays to the mall have only confirmed the threatened condition of old-time getting and spending.

But yesterday drew out the folks who only shop this time of year: dazed men wandering with shopping bags; the very young and the very old; working folk who seem more at home behind a desk than checking out spatulas in Williams and Sonoma; parents jostling toddlers in the line to see Santa.

All of this in a glorious cacophony of squeaking toys, shouting kids and the nth rendition of “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus.”

I didn’t have to go to the mall yesterday; I was buying a few extra gifts that everyone could live without. But I’m glad I came.

The News

The News

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For most of the year I grab the Washington Post from the driveway and read it on the way to work. Now I’m reading a different kind of news.

Friends from Groton, Massachusetts, have downsized to Bonita Beach, Florida. Family from South Carolina has met family from Sweden. There have been travels to Italy and Kenya and North Carolina. Children have grown, dogs have been photographed in Santa hats and people I love have lived another year.

Time is always passing, but this is when and how we mark it. Not with rue or agitation. But with joy and gratitude.

Season’s Savoring

Season’s Savoring

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Recent rushed mornings have meant no chance to do what I’m doing now — to sit in front of the Christmas tree, typing on this machine and taking in this colorful scene.

This year, a bonus: I’ve wrapped enough presents ahead of time to put them under the tree — rather than transporting them directly from the wrapping station to the car, on their way to Ellen’s house, where we’ve spent Christmas these last few years.

The goal now is to savor, not to rush or worry or strive for that one last gift. Gone are the days when someone begged for a retired beanie baby available only from eBay auction or a Playmobil dollhouse requiring hours of assembly.  People will be happy with what they receive.

I plan to do a lot more savoring in the next few days.

Crushed Shells

Crushed Shells

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Just out on the deck for a moment this unseasonably warm morning, I find that some of the shells I’d laid out on a glass-top table have been scattered and crushed. This is not the end of the world — I should have put them away months ago. But they looked so pretty on the table, a natural collage, that I left them there way too long.

As I gathered them again to slip into a cup, I marveled at their tiny whorls and notches, at the beauty of their architecture, which is born of practicality. And I couldn’t help but think of their collector, a young girl who was trying to earn a few coins from us on the beach in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. She had a shy pride about her, and an eagerness. Once she knew we were willing to pay for shells she took off for almost half an hour, combing through the tide pools looking for the loveliest specimens.

Now I’m thinking of her face when she opened her hands and showed us her collection. Some of the shells may be gone, but that memory has not faded at all.

Cathedral Chorale

Cathedral Chorale

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To hear ancient music in an ancient structure amplifies its power. I’m talking about Saturday’s concert of the Cathedral Choral Society, which was held in National Cathedral. Though the church itself isn’t ancient, it was built to feel that way.

National Cathedral was erected in the 20th century, not the 12th. But the building transports you, from the first step over the transom into the crowded vestibule. This impression continues when you look up at the arched ceiling and see the sun slanting in the rose window.

And then the music starts —  “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” “Lo, How a Rose E’re Blooming” and “In the Bleak Midwinter” — and the experience is complete.

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

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Beethoven is not part of my daily musical diet. His symphonies are rich fare, and my tastes tend toward lighter chamber works these days. Which means that yesterday’s radio bounty was music to my ears. (Because my radio station celebrated Beethoven’s birthday yesterday — no doubt due to the Saturday afternoon opera and other weekend programming restrictions — I can write about his sublime music today with the benefit of recent inundation!)

I didn’t listen to a whole symphony (I’ll do that today), but the snatch of his Ninth Symphony I heard was powerful enough to keep me sitting in the car until the last triumphant notes.

Many would consider the Fifth and the Ninth symphonies — heck, maybe all Beethoven symphonies — old warhorses. But when you listen with fresh ears you realize why they became warhorses in the first place.

Whitish

Whitish

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A later-than-I-intended walk puts me out the door right as the snow started to fall. A fine sleet at first, but now that it’s gotten started, a coating of white on deck and road.

I like walking in the beginnings of snowfalls, the world hushed and waiting. Today’s totals will be less than Saturday’s, but any snow this time of year is a bonus.

Will there be a white Christmas? I doubt it. But I’ll take a whitish Christmas, too.

Mind Walking

Mind Walking

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For the last two days, my walks have consisted only of trips from the house to the car, the car to the Metro platform, the Metro platform to the bus stop, the bus stop to the office, the office to the bus stop, the bus stop to the Metro platform, and, well … you get the picture.

It’s a picture of a walk-starved person, someone who draws strength from movement but who isn’t moving much these days. 
This will be remedied soon. In the meantime, I’m letting my mind do the walking. It’s taking me down a white sand beach in Florida, along a slick brick sidewalk in Bangladesh and through a canopy of trees in a woods near my house.
Ahhhh …. I’m feeling better already. 
Leftover Lasagna

Leftover Lasagna

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In the homespun calculus of cooking, lasagna does not present a terribly difficult equation. But recent attempts at concocting the dish have reminded me that shortcuts make a difference.

Take no-boil noodles, for example. They save time but require liquid. Which also means they require more thought, especially if one uses a recipe meant for boiled noodles, which I did.

In the end, anything made with six cups of cheese is bound to be good. But now that I’ve started this lasagna gig, I’d like to perfect it.

Next time, I’ll make a more liquid-y sauce. That is, after I eat up all the left-over lasagna from this round!

(Photo: Wikipedia)