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Author: Anne Cassidy

Alone and Together

Alone and Together

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Yesterday’s walk took us to Long Bridge park, where we could see the Washington Monument, planes taking off and landing, a red helicopter whirring toward the river, and a freight train lumbering along the tracks. We paused for a group shot, our fine and motley crew, then strolled back chattering about our work, our lives, our plans for the future.

A far different stroll happened last night. I left the H Street Country Club a few minutes before 8 and walked the 10 blocks to Union Station by myself. The H Street corridor has the grittiness of the newly gentrified neighborhood. Start-up boutiques, dark side streets, coffee shops with attitude, and panhandlers aplenty. It also has … a streetcar, though I didn’t see one heading west until I was almost at Union Station.

It was past 8:30 when I caught the first of two Metros, close to 10 when I got home. The walk made the day a little longer, but I’m so glad I took it. I needed to process Day One and prepare for Day Two. Walking: it’s good together … but it’s better alone.

Retreat

Retreat

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As I prepare for a retreat at work, I think of yesterday morning’s drive. I was out early and every branch was coated with snow. The clouds were piled in pinks and purples on the horizon and a big old red sun was peeping up above the trees.

We seldom get so much snow so early, and the timing was perfect. The houses and lawns were decked out with red ribbon and green wreaths, with lights and colors. Never was their purpose clearer: to light our way through these dark days.

But the beauty, that was something else. Roads were icy and gravel crunched beneath my tires. I drove slowly —  but still, I couldn’t keep my eyes straight ahead. I kept looking up, down and around, mesmerized by the scene around me.

The day warmed quickly. An hour later that drive wouldn’t have been the same. But for those few minutes … I was in a retreat of my own.

First Snow

First Snow

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This snow meant business right from the start, clinging to grass and trees and leaf piles. I thought, as I walked, how snow cover brings out the essential nature of a thing. A fence looks more fence-like, a flower pot more flower-pot-like.

It this because it’s accented in white? Or because the eye is trained in new directions?  Juncos have swooped in for seed and suet, and even, perhaps for the snow itself, flicking little bits of it as they peck. Are they drinking the snow or just moving it out of the way?

Questions without answers. On snow days, it’s enough just to wonder.

Dark and Low

Dark and Low

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Winter has come to northern Virginia. We’ve fought it for weeks, one unseasonably warm day after another. But today the clouds are dark and low, and the trees are almost bare. When I look out the window I hear the words and the melody in my head: “All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray. California Dreamin’ on such a winter’s day.”

Why does it come as something of a relief, these clouds, this low sky? As if warmth has outworn its welcome. I love warm days. But there comes a point when they seem outdated. It’s time for days like this, days that invite staying home and being still.

Not an option for me today or for the next few weeks, but the great pause will soon be here, the holidays and year’s end. I don’t want to speed up my life too much — there are exciting moments in between — but I’m looking forward to a little rest.

Extra Large

Extra Large

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A brief shopping trip last night found me wandering an almost-empty mall. Clerks chatted at vacant makeup counters or fussed with jewelry displays. There was no line to see Santa. Mall walkers had the run of the place.

As I pawed through sweaters I noticed something else. Almost all of them were extra large, some even extra-extra large. And at the bookstore, a similar lack of choice: Half of the well-reviewed, recently published books I was looking for were not on the shelves.

Yes, the stores will be busier this weekend — but not that much busier, from what I’ve heard.  People shop with their fingers now. I know this. I do it, too. There’s infinite choice, less hassle. But I miss the market square and the hustle bustle. I wonder if it will ever come back.

In Harmony

In Harmony

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Last night was my fourth Singalong Messiah, and I marveled as always at how a random crew of sopranos, altos, basses and tenors can come together in minutes to make an ensemble. 

What struck me this year was the harmony, that in this most discordant of times, we came together to make music. And that the beauty of the music came not just from melody but from polyphony, from pitches that are pleasing when heard together. 
Alone, we were warbling sopranos, plodding basses, energetic tenors and earnest altos. Together we were a choir. Obviously not the smoothest and most rehearsed but a choir just the same.
It was a good way to usher in the Christmas season. 
Letting it Soak

Letting it Soak

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Yesterday I returned home from work to find the crockpot I’d left full of sudsy water the night before. It wasn’t warm, sudsy water anymore, though. Now it was cold and gray and uninviting.

As I refilled the ceramic with warm water and soap and scrubbed it clean, I thought about how the great procrastination device of children (and adults!) everywhere — letting it soak — is often just what’s needed.

Cleaning this the night before would have been a much harder task. Now I could whisk the stew remnants down the disposal, easily peel away the potato bits that had stuck to the sides. Water and time had worked their way.

Not a life-altering realization — but further proof that rushing through life is not always the best way to go.

Bone Deep

Bone Deep

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I read in the newspaper this morning a report about the strength of prehistoric women’s arms.  Although at first glance this falls into the “yeah, right, what else is new?” category, it was fascinating to view the list of chores that researchers think account for the difference:

Tilling the soil with digging sticks (the plow had yet to be invented)
Grinding the grain with stones
Milking goats or cows and processing the milk
Making pottery
Turning wool and skins into textiles

“We’ve largely been underestimating the scale of this work,” said Alison McIntosh of Cambridge, an author of the report. All this physical activity produced bones that were larger and stronger — but also showed signs of strain. These long-ago women routinely did more than they should.

While the shin bones of modern female athletes compare to those of prehistoric women, the arm bones are another matter. The ancient women’s bones appeared even stronger (and more strained) that those of current female crew team members.

I think of these prehistoric women digging and grinding, I think of my own puny arms, of my life of ease, sitting at a desk, typing words on a small keyboard.  It’s good to be reminded of the difference.

R.I.P., Writer’s Almanac

R.I.P., Writer’s Almanac

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It always seemed too good to be true, a radio show just for writers. And now it’s gone dark. Every link I click leads to a Minnesota Public Radio statement about Garrison Keillor’s alleged sexual misconduct and the organization’s decision to terminate its relationship with him, Prairie Home Companion and the Writer’s Almanac.

The show had a 24-year run, debuting in 1993. I don’t remember when I first started listening to it on the radio, but I do know I’d turn up the dial whenever it came on, would glean some historical fact or the other, that it was birthday of George Eliot or the anniversary of the publication of Walden. When my own muse was on holiday, the Writer’s Almanac muse would step in. In one month, November 2011, it came to the rescue several times.

That was the fall I took the wonderful class A Sense of Place, whose professor, Charlie Yonkers (who became a friend), urged us all to have the Almanac delivered to our in-boxes. I did, and have never stopped.

My radio show station, WAMU, stopped airing the program a  few months ago, so I’d been paying even closer attention to the emails. The last one arrived November 29, which was, it informed me, the birthday of Bronson Alcott, Louisa May Alcott and C.S. Lewis. How will I learn this stuff now? Even the archives are gone.

So I re-read this last entry, pondered its power to inspire, my eyes lingering on the last line. It was the way all the Almanacs signed off, and I can hear Keillor reading these words in his distinctive deep baritone: “Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.”

Birthday Surprises

Birthday Surprises

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An email this morning told me a package had been delivered.  I got a kick out of this — the fact that I had come in through the garage last night and overlooked this large item on the front stoop, being informed of it through a bunch of 1s and 0s on my computer. It was a funny way to begin this last day of November, the birthday of two people I love — my daughter and my brother.

But that was just the first surprise.  The second happened when I was lugging in the first — and Copper trotted around the front of the house (where he is never, ever allowed to be because he will run away) and right through the front door. The backyard gate must have been left open.
Whatever the case, it was all meant to be — the package left out overnight so that I could be there when Copper escaped, could usher him back where he belongs. The rescue of a dog that means so much to the birthday girl.
Yes, it’s often a random world — but sometimes it’s not. Today is one of those times.