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Author: Anne Cassidy

Telling Numbers

Telling Numbers

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In Vietnam we learned the battlefield could be anywhere: in a rice paddy or a house full of children. So we should not be surprised when the bullets ring out at elementary schools, college campuses, nightclubs, restaurants, amphitheaters and now in the most unreal of all unreal places, the Las Vegas Strip.

Violence is always unreal, until it is not.

So the children and grandchildren of a generation defined by “four dead in Ohio” have …

59 dead at Mandalay Bay
49 dead at Orland’s Pulse
32 dead at Virginia Tech
26 dead at Sandy Hook.

When will it stop? I think we’re all afraid that it won’t. So we say prayers, light candles, hope the next time never happens — even though in our heart of hearts we know it will.

Under Contract

Under Contract

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For months I’ve kept my eyes on a house at the other end of the neighborhood. While other Folkstone homes sold quickly, this one languished. There was nothing wrong with it. I know this because I toured it, went down the weekend of the first open house and walked through the rooms (of which there were many).

It had four levels, four bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, family room, walk-out basement,  conservatory. It had a long driveway and a fancy patio. It even had a view: You could look east down Fox Mill Road and see green yards, the land rising and falling.

But for far too many weeks, it did not have a buyer.

The realtor was diligent. He held an open house every Sunday, tacking up red balloons to pique interest.  They made me sad.

But yesterday when I drove past, the for-sale sign said “Under Contract.” It wasn’t any of my business, of course, but for some reason this made me very happy.

Personal Correspondence

Personal Correspondence

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I’m thinking about today’s to-do list and realizing that personal correspondence ranks high on it. By this I do not mean sending emails.

I mean penning a note to tuck into a birthday card to a friend I made in a church choir when I lived in Chicago. And dashing off a quick thank-you to the hostess for last Friday’s dinner. And this is after yesterday, when I wrote a sympathy card.

This is not exactly 18th century in scope. But it’s three times more cards or letters than I send in a week.  It’s real mail, that which I love receiving and still send … though not nearly often enough.

Make Bearable

Make Bearable

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Last night was the final episode of Burns and Novick’s Vietnam War. It began and ended with Tim O’Brien reading from his book The Things They Carried. 

“They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy, and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human sensibility.”

While he read, the people who had been our companions through this series — the Americans, the South Vietnamese, the North Vietnamese, the Viet Cong, the soldiers, the antiwar activists, the vets, the military brass — we got to see what they are doing now. They are teachers and counselors, a judge. But more of them than not, it seems, are writers.

This brought some comfort. The film stirred up feelings in all of us who lived through the war, raised questions that will never be answered, dredged up divisions that still rankle. But it showed that sometimes art can distill and, if not heal, at least lance, drain and make bearable.

Missing Poetry

Missing Poetry

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Some people have their morning coffee; I have my morning poetry. Or at least I used to. Today I learned that my radio station is developing some “exciting new programs,” and to make way for them will stop airing The Writer’s Almanac at 6:45 a.m. Listeners can still hear the program online, the announcer said.

But they won’t, I’m afraid.  Or at least this one will not. I’ve had the program delivered to my inbox for years and I never listen to Garrison Keillor read the poem of the day. Sometimes I read it, but I  never listen to it.

No, what I had for years was serendipity. The program aired when I was often driving to Metro, and I could sip tea and drive and start the day with a gasp or a sigh; with a roll of the eyes or a sudden watering of them.

Poetry moves me. Even in the morning. I’ll miss it.

Behind the Wheel

Behind the Wheel

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Women in Saudi Arabia have just been given the right to drive. It’s a much-needed step toward equality in that nation, and I’d glad that it’s finally happening.

Makes me think about a time in my life when driving meant liberation, which was decades ago, when I first got my license. Now driving is an irksome duty, a way to move from A to B. Now I feel more liberated walking or riding a bike than I do driving a car. It’s hard to feel free when you’re sitting in traffic or jostling with trucks on the Beltway.

Good to be reminded, though, of the pleasures of locomotion, of not being dependent on others for transport. I could be sitting on one of those buses in Bangladesh, the battered ones that seem to have been in countless crashes. Or I could be on the back of a zemidjan in Benin, hanging on for dear life as motorscooters careen around me.

But instead I have a car of my own and can propel myself wherever I need to go. It’s nice to be reminded that it’s nice to have wheels.

All Together Now

All Together Now

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I’m still being riveted nightly by the 18-hour documentary film “The Vietnam War.” And I mean that literally — as in riveted each night.

It’s interesting to talk with people about the show and the different ways they are watching it. Some started it a week ago Sunday, kept up with last week’s nine hours as best they could but will admit to being a little behind.

Others are recording it and planning to binge-watch it later, seeing it as all (or most) of a piece. This is the television style of day, of course. To take control of one’s viewing, watch as little or as much as one wants at a time, place (and with a delivery method) of one’s choosing.

As for me, I’m watching the film in real-time.  Even night before last, when Claire and Tomas were over for dinner, I watched what I could and then caught up with the rerun, also known as an “encore presentation,” which my PBS station runs directly after the first show of the evening.

While my viewing habits are in part dictated by lack of technical knowledge (including DVR technique), they are also generational. I like keeping up with the show on its own time. I feel a kinship with all the people watching at the same time. There’s a communal aspect to this that soothes and heals.

And where did I develop this habit of communal viewing? From annual TV events like “The Wizard of Oz” and “Peter Pan,”  From watching “My Three Sons” with Mom and Dad (provided I brush my teeth beforehand so I could jump in bed the minute the show ended at 9 p.m.). And … from watching some of the same evening newscasts that have been replayed on “The Vietnam War.”

(Photo: CNN.com.)

Equinox

Equinox

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On Friday, the Equinox, I was so busy writing about the hummingbirds’ departure that I didn’t write about the day itself, its significance as a turning point. From now till March we will have less light than darkness. The only good thing I can say is that the years pass quickly enough now that spring will be here in no time.

After a string of cool mornings and sultry afternoons, it’s easy to believe that life will always be like this: no cold, no clouds. But the balance has tilted, the leaves are turning. Soon we will have chill rain and bare trees.

There are consolations, of course, time to turn inward, clean closets, make soup. The great feasts come soon after, and maybe a bright white snowfall. I look forward to those things. But oh, I hate to see the world tilt, the light go.

Gone for the Season

Gone for the Season

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The hummingbirds are gone for the season. I had an inkling of this last weekend with their even more voracious feeding. It looked as if they were stoking up for the long journey south — and apparently they were. Something in the light has triggered their departure. They won’t return until late April.

In the last few years I’ve seen a lot of hummingbirds. The two feeders off the deck rail reel them in, and in April there were five breeds to ogle at Arizona’s Ramsay Canyon.

Watching them closely dispels some notions. Hummingbirds are pugnacious creatures, always fighting among themselves. In this way, they remind me of humans. Also in their greediness. But unlike humans they are capable of breathtaking flight, of suspension in air.

Hummingbirds make a high-pitched squeak that I thought I heard several times yesterday. But every time I looked up the feeders were empty. It must be the small peep of the robin or chickadee that I’m hearing — not the hummingbird. I’m surprised by how much I miss them.

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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A couple days ago on a walk around the block, I came across the end of a beach volleyball game in Crystal City. Couldn’t resist snapping a photo of the sand. To heck with the game, it’s the sand I love, the sand I crave. So, on this last day of summer … a backward glance at this summer’s beaches.

I had my Florida beach fix in August, days of sun and surf with tropical breezes and breathtaking sunsets.

And then, I took in a bonus beach in Bangladesh. Cox’s Bazar is the longest natural beach in the world., and we managed to find a spare hour to visit it despite our crammed-full schedule.

I’m thinking of it now, the width and the breadth of it, the people and animals we met: a young girl selling shells, a labor trafficking victim who’d gotten a new start in life as a photographer, a merchant hawking pearls, a yellow dog.

It was a different kind of beach experience, no towels or chairs, no umbrellas, no skimpy suits. It was a rock-strewn beach with dark, hard-packed sand. But it was glorious just the same.