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Author: Anne Cassidy

Inner Cowboy

Inner Cowboy

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I waffled about the title. Should I say “Inner Cowgirl”? Or perhaps the gender-neutral “Inner Cowherd”? No, I’ll stick with the inaccurate and politically incorrect “Cowboy”— because it’s the word to use when describing the TV series “Lonesome Dove,” last weekend’s escape fare.

I can’t get the show or its theme song out of my head, even though I’ve watched it before and read the book it was based on. It’s same effect every time — one of enlargement, and even (despite the tragedies that beset the cattle drive from Texas to Montana) of joy.  It’s the characters and their quest.  It’s the frontier, the heartbeat of a nation. And it’s the sweeping views of rivers and plains and buttes and valleys.

As national myths go, it’s not a bad one, though it has certainly gotten us into trouble: the rugged individualist wedded to guns and glory. But if offers to the suburban commuter some sense of elemental wholeness, of a time when life was harder but perhaps truer. I could be all wrong on this, though. It could just be my inner cowboy talking.

Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, Decisions

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I keep meaning to put my wardrobe through the “does it spark joy?” test described in Marie Kondo’s book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Until I do, I’m bound to have mornings like today, when I tried on one top after another, finally settling on the one I chose first.

Clothes confusion, choice aversion — finding no combination that quite works. It may be brought on by the relaxed nature of weekend shorts and t-shirt — followed by the jarring need to look halfway presentable in the office on Monday.

I wish I’d taken a picture of the discarded choices: white shirt, black sweater, red shell, black shrug. They were a kaleidoscope of colors, a collage of might-have-beens.

Decisions, decisions.

(Photo: Wikipedia. No time to photograph my own discarded outfits.)

Walk through the Gloaming

Walk through the Gloaming

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These are long days that know how to finish. Light lingers till 9, and tempts the walker to stroll at a time she would normally be getting ready for bed!

Last night was like that. Dinner out with Ellen, then, on the way back to the parking garage, a thought: Why not a quick walk on the W&OD Trail, a 45-mile ribbon of asphalt from the D.C. suburbs to the foot of the Blue Ridge. It’s easy to reach from Reston Town Center, and, as it turned out, only a few steps from my car. 
It was 8:40 when I started, but the light that seemed abundant when I began drained quickly as I walked  first west then east. The W&OD closes at dusk, but that meant nothing to long-distance bikers with their powerful headlamps, or to the rest of us, either, who sauntered at a twilight pace.  It was good to walk through the gloaming.
Culinary Roots

Culinary Roots

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For this year’s birthday dinner I asked for — and received — an old favorite: fried chicken. It was yummy! The older (!) I get the more I return to my culinary roots: friend chicken (southern style), mashed potatoes, sandwiches on white bread.

These are not gourmet delicacies. They’re not something one even admits to eating these days. And to be fair, they are treats, not my steady diet (which runs more along vegetable lines).

But they are tasty and lacking in pretension. You know where you stand with them. The world is crazy these days. Bring on the comfort foods!

Slower Soundtrack

Slower Soundtrack

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Today’s late post is my little birthday protest: because it cannot possibly be May 31, 2017. It was just May 31, 2016.

But it is that day, I know, and has been 365 days since the last one. So nothing to do but accept it graciously and gratefully. Which I do. Really. Besides, it’s a most luscious May 31. No rain so far (fingers crossed) and full-on summer with air that knows its mind and the roar of motorized lawn implements in the background.

A couple hours ago I heard the Overture to William Tell on the radio. Is this my soundtrack, I wondered: a madcap frolic, a frenetic dash from point A to point B? It probably is. What I need this year is a slower soundtrack. Nothing too slow or mournful, but definitely something a little less rushed and crazy.

That’s my birthday resolution, my new year’s mantra. Find a slower soundtrack … and find it fast.

Mountain Light

Mountain Light

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Days of rain and clouds broke up yesterday just as we were leaving the West Virginia mountains, and I got to see light from all angles and perspectives: the way it pooled on roads and hillsides. How it filtered through leaves.

Here it is in the woods and on the trees.

And high up in the canopy.

Wild Blue Yonder

Wild Blue Yonder

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Turned on my iPod the day before yesterday and took pot luck. The song that was playing: “Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder,” the Air Force song. I downloaded it for Dad’s funeral and it lives on in my music files.

Hearing it by surprise didn’t make me sad. It made me smile. It was as if Dad had suddenly inserted himself into the day and was walking with me along the West Virginia lane.  I set the iPod on repeat and listened to it four or five times. It’s an upbeat song, and it quickened my step.

I’ve been hearing the melody in my head ever since. But the only words I can recall are the first and last lines. Here, in honor of Memorial Day, are the rest:

Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder, 
At ’em boys, Give ‘er the gun! (Give ‘er the gun now!) 
Down we dive, spouting our flame from under,
Off with one helluva roar! 
We live in fame or go down in flame. Hey! 
Nothing’ll stop the U.S. Air Force!

Mountain Walk

Mountain Walk

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Less than two hours west is a different world, one bound by green and dripping boughs. Chalets on the hillside, mountain paths, water trickling over rocks. I won’t glorify these trickles by calling them waterfalls. But the water sings as it flows over stones and through leaves, so these trickles have an aural presence.

Some of the lanes here are paved and some not. Foot paths cross them, heading up the mountain. I may tackle one of them today. But yesterday was a get-acquainted stroll. The end of a long week.

I marveled as I strolled at how much difference a walk can make. And a mountain walk makes even more.

Almost Done

Almost Done

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It’s the 11th hour, an unusual one for me to write. The day is almost done instead of just beginning. But the house is as quiet as morning; the same clocks are ticking.

Tomorrow will be a weekend family getaway. I’ve loaded the car with groceries and will pack the perishables in the morning. Monopoly and Scrabble are going, and a deck of cards.  The dog and the thousand-piece puzzle are staying home.

You can’t wait for the perfect time; you grab the time you have and make it work. That’s how I’m feeling now, knowing that gratitude will well up soon, it always does.

Waltzing Along

Waltzing Along

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A ho-hum evening after days of cloud and rain. A walk that’s uninspired, plodding. The houses hold no surprises, and the clouds are uniform, without color or texture.

The music in my ears is plodding, too. Tunes heard too often. A switch to news makes little difference.

And then my ears hit the jackpot, a change of tempo. It’s a waltz. Not an obvious one or a schmaltzy one,  but I’d recognize 3/4 time anywhere. I find myself counting 1,2, 3; 2,2,3; 3,2,3.  Almost hypnotic, that beat. And liberating, too.

It’s like a transfusion. I pick up the pace, I loosen the shoulders. My arms swing more freely by my side. And soon I’m on the downhill slope, toward home and dinner.