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Author: Anne Cassidy

Fruit Bowl

Fruit Bowl

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I’m not sure why I did this, except that I felt energetic this morning, like I was coming out of a fog (post-Thanksgiving funk?). The fruit looked sleek and display-able, and the basket was on the kitchen table, holding napkins, and suddenly it seemed a crime to keep the fruit in its net bags and not in this pretty braided ceramic basket-bowl that Ellen gave me several Christmases ago.

So the napkins now sit in a pile on the table and the fruit poses on the counter. It’s become a still life, an object not just of utility but of beauty.

Isn’t the best kind of beauty the accidental kind? The graceful arching of tree limbs over a road. The glitter of icicles in the sun. And the gathering of fruit in a bowl.

Sleeping Dogs

Sleeping Dogs

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We all know what we’re supposed to do with them. But in my house they are — or I should say he is — often riled up.

This is not my approach, though. I let sleeping dogs lie. Especially Copper, who has always been and who continues to be a lively pup.

When Copper sleeps beside me I sit quietly, enjoying his company, the presence of another living being. I don’t usually cover him up (!), but I do take comfort in the gentle rhythm of his breathing and his little stretches — even when he kicks me in the ribs. I appreciate the fact that when he’s still I don’t have to let him in or out of the house.

On some days, the company of animals is the only company a writer needs.

Four Weeks

Four Weeks

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There will be this one, the last of November, and then three December ones. A countdown. Already I can see them fly, their days a blur of meetings and deadlines, of the buying and wrapping of gifts, the making and sending of cards. Envelopes, stamps, messages. Here we are at the beginning of it all and I can already see the end.

Back then the weeks were years, and to traverse them was pure joy. Santa came on TV at the end of the day, around the time mothers were cooking dinner. I found the container of nonpareils, the ones we sprinkled on sugar cookies, and poured them on a saucer, carefully, because they bounced. Round-and-round beads, I called them, and I lapped them up as I watched the show.

What would I ask for that year? A doll, a bicycle, an archaeology kit (which was an actual toy; I got one!). The gifts blur together. But not that saucer of round-and-round beads. It remains, along with all the giddy anticipation of the season, which I remember still and sometimes even feel.

Last Sunday

Last Sunday

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Tomorrow is the last Sunday of the liturgical year, the feast of Christ the King. Christ the King was the name of my church and school growing up. A little pre-fab building where I made my First Communion and was confirmed and, when I was in eighth grade, was required to go to daily mass and sing at funerals.

I regret to say that we often whispered and giggled and otherwise acted as 13-year-olds do at some of those solemn occasions. It’s something I’ve thought about through the years, the difference between then and now, when such a requirement might be considered too traumatizing. But mostly I’ve thought how traumatizing we might have been for the mourners. A flock of girls in green-and-gray plaid skirts with beanies on their heads and bow ties clipped onto their white blouses. Or maybe we were a hopeful sign, proof that life goes on.

In my last year of parochial school, the little church of Christ the King became the ornate Cathedral of Christ the King. It was a massive church with ornate lights and grillwork and the theme of kingship. One boring mass my friend Linda Welch counted every crown in the place. There were more than 100, if I recall.

Overstuffed

Overstuffed

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As in a cushy chair or ample love seat.

Or a wicked stepsister’s foot in a delicate glass slipper.

Or a bag of leaves crammed to bursting (as I look over a backyard full of leaves that need cramming).

Or a two bushel baskets of gourds in one bushel basket.

Overstuffed is how I felt last night after the turkey, dressing (two types), mashed potatoes (two types), green beans (two types), corn, cranberry sauce, roasted brussels sprouts and cauliflower, roasted root vegetables, autumn slaw and rolls.

And that was before the apple crumble, chocolate cookies and pumpkin praline pie.

Maybe no eating today?

Gratitude

Gratitude

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Gratitude is best when it’s specific. So herewith, a list:

The volunteer red maple tree is the far corner of the yard.

The view out the conference room window at dawn.

Copper with a day-glo orange ball in his mouth.

The sound of Drew’s voice on the phone.

Celia humming as she sautés onions.

The light on the carpet in the living room.

The Air Force band playing their song at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

The stuffing in the oven and the coleslaw in the fridge.

The pumpkin praline pies in the car.

Family gathering from far and wide.

Groaning Board

Groaning Board

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Little chance of this groaning board giving way, but it is quite full as I lay out the ingredients for my contribution to the Thanksgiving feast. Pumpkin, spices, brown sugar and condensed milk for the pie. Onions, celery, bread crumbs, wild rice, pecans and butter for the stuffing. And — new this year — red cabbage, dates, cilantro and more pecans for “autumn coleslaw.”

As I type the list, I take mental inventory. Do we have enough butter? Enough broth? I foresee another trip to the grocery store.

All to make this groaning board … groan a little more.

For Sale

For Sale

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In my block of Folkstone, houses seldom change owners. The neighbors across the street and on each side of us have been here for decades, and many others for years. It’s the exact opposite of the transient neighborhood I thought I’d find outside D.C.  The government may change every four or eight years, but the suburbs where I live are pretty darn stable.

In the beginning, we were even more close-knit, with a pool party on the last day of school, caroling at Christmas, and birthday dinners throughout the year. That dwindled as the children grew up, but there are still occasional get-togethers and plenty of impromptu conversations at the corner or wherever dogs (and their owners) congregate. 
All of which is to say that when neighbors move away — the owners of this house are embarking today on their long-planned escape to Hawaii — a little bit of Folkstone leaves with them. 
Bird Bath

Bird Bath

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It doesn’t take long for nature to make its presence felt. Even a 10-minute escape from the office, enough time for a walk around the building, finds sun and breeze and sparrows splashing in a fountain.

These little guys look for handouts from lunching office workers. They roost in the hedges that line the street. They are urban birds, tough critters who’ve learned to fend for themselves.

Maybe these birds had the same idea I did — to escape their daily routine for a few minutes; to take a break from pecking for food, preening their feathers and building their nests  (though I doubt they’re doing that this time of year).

I like that they took one thing (a public fountain) and made it their own. I hope their hearts, like mine, were gladdened to be awake and alive at that moment in time.

NoFiWriMo?

NoFiWriMo?

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November is National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo, 30 days in which
would-be novelists are encouraged to apply their bottoms to chairs and produce
50,000 words. A contrivance, true, and one I was originally tempted to
disparage. A novel in a month? Really?
But when I thought about it, I realized I was probably more
envious than anything else. Where is the NaNoWriMo for nonfiction writers?
NoFiWriMo? Don’t we also need to apply our
behinds to chairs? Don’t we also need writing places like Come Write
In (a feature of NaNoWriMo, which I realize has now become an industry)? Aren’t our tortured souls also
yearning to Finish Something?
Of course, nothing is stopping me from signing up for
National Novel Writing Month and writing, say, a memoir. Nothing except the sheer terror of having to produce it, of course. And since it’s already November 17, I would have to crank out thousands of words a day to make the 50,000 word deadline.

No, thanks …  I’ll  just keep writing the old-fashioned way, word by word, page by page … blog post by blog post.