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Author: Anne Cassidy

Rose Before Rain

Rose Before Rain

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The rain moves in soon, up to an inch an hour according to some forecasts. I’m glad I snapped shots of the roses earlier today..

These are delicate flowers, especially when fully open. I shudder to think what they’ll look like this time tomorrow.

For now, though, all is still and calm. The sky has eked out a few drops, but the big deluge is still west of here. Time now to take what we have — late rose and rose hips, yard full of weeds, garden past its prime — and savor it. Before the rain falls.

Cereal Thoughts

Cereal Thoughts

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Celia subscribes to a cereal blog, in which she gets the latest word on campaigns and brands. I haven’t gone that far, but I am a big fan of a certain cereal, and I want to take a moment to sing its praises.

I speak of Special K. 
There is no other cereal one can munch that is quite so close to consuming nothing at all than this longtime favorite of mine. 
I just finished nibbling a handful of the stuff and I’m here to tell you the flakes have almost no taste. Which makes it perfect to snarf while writing stories, building Power Points and answering emails. It was also my favorite power food for the long drives to Kentucky I used to make.
Say what you will about flax seed and steel-cut oats. I’ll take my rice, wheat gluten, sugar and defatted wheat germ with its six grams of protein, .5 grams of fat, its Vitamins A, D, B12 and folic acid. That’s without milk, of course, which is the way I like it.
Skips in our Step

Skips in our Step

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There are so many ways to walk in this world. There’s trudging and strolling, ambling and sauntering, sliding and gliding, tromping and tramping, wandering and rambling, marching and striding, creeping and traipsing, hiking and slogging.

And then … there’s skipping.

When was the last time I skipped? Actually, it was today. But only for a second when no one was looking — and only because I already had the idea of writing this post.

The skip is the canter of human gaits, the waltz step for walkers. It’s a catch in the breath and in the stride. It’s a joyful, uninhibited motion, akin to running — but less work.

Unfortunately, however, it’s seldom practiced after the age of 10.

The taste of it I had this morning reminded me of its power and its fun. It is the most gladsome of movements. And in fact, if we practiced it more often it would be difficult to take ourselves seriously. For that reason alone, maybe it’s time we all put more skips in our step.

Freshened and Fragrant

Freshened and Fragrant

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Woke up to cooler air this morning, and the return of … aromas. I could smell the grass lush and green as I stepped off the bus and waited to cross 18th Street. I could smell the damp in the puddles that lingered from yesterday’s rain and the perfume of flowers freshened by the dousing.

Great heat drains energy — and, as I’ve been realizing lately, it also drains scent. It leaves a dusty and less olfactorily rich world.

But now, after our recent rain showers, we have fresh air and fragrance — a bountiful combination, a feast for all the senses.

Country Walk

Country Walk

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Yesterday began in a meadow filled with chicory and mullein and Queen Anne’s lace. I brushed spider webs off my face and trudged through rain-dampened grass. The sun lit up each drop of moisture on the juniper berries — but it had hidden by the time we took a longer stroll.

Still, the rain held off for a four-mile walk up and down Swover Creek Road. We saw 18-century houses, vegetable gardens bursting with produce, a herd of cattle and an ancient cemetery that’s lovingly cared for by the current homeowner.

It was one glimpse of beauty after another. It was a reminder of a slower pace and a more intimate scale, the scale of the village, of homes spaced a few-minutes walk apart.

The walk tired, calmed and comforted me all at once.

Musical Time

Musical Time

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Last night Suzanne and I saw a Broadway touring company production of “The King and I” at the Kennedy Center. I had forgotten how many wonderful songs come from that musical. “Whistle a Happy Tune,” “Getting to Know You,” “March of the Siamese Children,” “I Have Dreamed,” “Hello, Young Lovers” and “Something Wonderful.”

The experience left me humming and tapping my feet, and now, the next day, has me on a Rogers and Hammerstein kick. “June is Busting Out All Over” and “If I Loved You” are playing as I write this post.

What can I say? These musicals capture the innocence and optimism of an age. They’re what I grew up, and I made sure my kids grew up with them too, along with the requisite Disney fare. It’s not a bad way to start. There will be time for angst and cynicism later on!

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Bird World

Bird World

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It’s my new mission: On days I work at home, I try to spend as much time as possible outside. If I sit still long enough at the glass-topped deck table, I become part of the furniture. Birds ignore me. I’m part of their world.

Yesterday I worked inside for less than two hours — driven indoors by a suspicious whirring sound from my laptop. The poor baby was overheated, I think. But once it (and I!) cooled down, we were back on the deck, now shaded by the tall oaks.

By then, it was dinner time. Goldfinches landed on the climbing rose boughs, in between turns at the feeder, each branch bending and straightening every so slightly with the feather weight of the birds. A cardinal hopped along the pergola beam, peering down at the hummingbird taking his evening feed. Meanwhile, farther out in the yard, a pair of robins fluffed their feathers in the bath.

Here is a world that coexists with our own, full of drama and fun. I could have watched for hours — entertained, heartened, made whole.

True Freshness

True Freshness

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Can freshness be measured? I’m talking about the cooler air eked from darkness and dawn. It can be, meteorologically speaking. It’s a matter of dew point and temperature and wind speed. But what can’t be measured is the way it feels on the skin first thing in the morning. The way it revives.

How different it is from the chilled air of refrigerated buildings. Not that I’m complaining. It would be difficult to work with 95+-degree heat and high humidity. I mention it only to point out the difference.

True freshness is an acoustic guitar, a handwritten letter. It holds within itself the aroma of cut grass and moist creek banks and the swirling crescendo of countless cicadas singing. It is full spectrum. And on this mid-July morning, I’m reveling in it.

High Midsummer

High Midsummer

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On a sultry evening I take in the world from my perch on the trampoline. Butterflies flit through the coneflowers and hummingbirds dive-bomb the nectar feeder. A long goldfinch perches near the birdbath. It is high midsummer. 

I think about how pleasant the world is when I’m in motion. Not unlike the kaleidoscope of the carousel, those old memories of going round and round and up and down. Circular and spherical. Altitude and plentitude.
A fullness, in other words. Not easily defined, but felt in the blood and the bones. 
Ripening

Ripening

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Vines have twined, leaves have greened, flowers have bloomed — but they are only the prelude, the tuning orchestra, the tapped microphone. They are the dress rehearsal for the big show.

It’s a play being enacted in countless gardens and across endless sunny meadows. It’s the ripening of berries, the slow evolution of flower to fruit.
Ripening tests our patience, but nature will not be hurried. I’ve had my eye on these blackberries for weeks — from their waxy white infancy to their lush red adolescence — waiting for them to plump up and ripen into the shiny purplish black that means they’re ready to eat. 
I see this berry patch often on my walks; it’s hiding in plain sight, tucked between two evergreens up against a guardrail. I’ve tried to take each stage as it comes, to enjoy the ripening process. But I’m bedeviled by two questions: When can I eat the little guys? And will the birds get them first?