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Author: Anne Cassidy

Dew Point

Dew Point

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The technical definition of dew point is the temperature to which air must be cooled in order to reach saturation. My weather sources tell me that dew point is a more accurate measure of moisture in the air than relative humidity. A dew point of 60 is comfortable; a dew point of 70 is not.

But I like the sounds of the words, both alone and together. Dew. Point. Dew point.

And I like the images they connote: A summer lawn glistening with moisture. A summer evening filled with cricket and katydid song. A summer morning dash in my nightgown for the newspaper. It’s covered with moisture. I shake off the plastic bag before pulling out the paper to read.

Before I’m saturated with the day, I’m saturated with the dew. That’s my dew point.

Heavenly Surprises

Heavenly Surprises

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Twice within 12 hours I’ve been surprised by heavenly bodies. Well, not completely surprised. I knew each time that there was a sun or a moon in the sky. But surprised in that I wasn’t expecting to glimpse them when I did, and that perhaps because of this — or perhaps not — I was swept away.

Last night I walked in perfect air, perfect temperature, a glorious midsummer evening. I admired the light as I walked east, thought about how fetchingly it struck the great old oaks and maples, how beautifully it bathed our neighborhood.

But when I reached the other end of Folkstone, I caught my breath. There was the sun, the source of all this beauty. Even though I’d been walking in its light the whole way I’d somehow forgotten. And there it was, the setting sun.

This morning it was the moon that surprised me. I hadn’t realized it was almost full, and still up, when I took my early walk. Once again, a turn to the west took my breath away. The globe was suspended in a sky of pale blue, centered between banks of trees. A spectacular sight. A morning treat.

It is, perhaps, a sign of my discombobulation, these heavenly surprises. But maybe not. Maybe it’s just natural beauty at work.

Trousseau

Trousseau

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On Sunday I spirited Suzanne away for a few hours of shopping. She bought a handmade wedding gown in Africa, but since then she’s bought little else, so we looked for dresses, tops, slacks — not just attire for the rehearsal dinner and other parties but outfits she can wear to work, too.

It’s such a lovely, old-fashioned tradition, collecting pretty new things to take into your new life. I remember the dresses Mom bought me, her use of the word “trousseau,” which seemed old-fashioned even then.

When I stood in the dressing room with Suzanne I felt  Mom’s presence more than usual. I thought of all the times we were in dressing rooms together, laughing, sighing, asking each other, “How do I look?”

As Suzanne checked the mirror for length and fit, I kept thinking of her younger self running in the backyard, a trail of curls bobbing in the breeze, then years later sprinting up a hill during a cross-country meet.

But every memory, every glance, was doubled, because with each memory I could feel Mom’s gaze in mine. I reminded myself that I’m the old(er) woman now. That it’s Suzanne’s trousseau we were shopping for, that in what seems like no time a lifetime has passed.

A Summer in Moments

A Summer in Moments

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This morning I caught a glimpse of two birds in flight. It was impossible to know their type, only that they were silvered on the wing and had a radiance most possible when the sun is low in the sky.

Here we are in high summer, a summer of discontent and national tragedies, a summer when it’s easy to feel befuddled and confused. There’s hardly time to absorb one reality before another asserts itself.

For me, summer has always been a time of healing. It must go back to long-ago school vacations. Summer was a time when we could get back to ourselves. Long books, late nights, deep pools — of water and of thought.

Now summer is over in the blink of an eye. It must exist in moments. Biting into the season’s first peach. Feeling warm sand between the toes. Watching late light slant through the poplars. Or seeing two birds in flight, with silver on their wings.

Outside Office

Outside Office

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Working on the deck for a change, breeze blowing, crows cawing, Copper (newly shorn and feeling frisky) resting near my feet.

It’s clouded up here, and there’s enough moisture in the air to make me sleepy, even at 10 a.m.

After almost three months of working inside an overly air-conditioned building, it’s good to work with the sun over my shoulder and bird song in the air.

And good too, to lift my eyes from the screen and page to admire the day lilies and cone flowers, the begonias and the pot of campanula.

It’s summertime and the working (outside) is easy.

Morning Walk, Evening Prayer

Morning Walk, Evening Prayer

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From this …
To this … 

Metro closures have one silver lining. They push people out onto the streets where they might actually … walk!

That’s what I did this morning, hoofing it from Pentagon City to Crystal City — which is not the metropolis-to-metropolis trek that it sounds like but a mile-long stroll.

It was the best way to start a day, even in this heat and humidity. I plugged in my earbuds and took off. I passed the bustle of Metro, crowds surging on and off of shuttle buses, then turned left on 15th Street, seeking shade wherever I found it.

In my ears, “When at Night I Go to Sleep,” also known as “The Evening Prayer” or “Abendsegen” in German, a lovely melody from “Hansel and Gretel” by Engelbert Humperdinck. For some reason I played this melody when I got off Metro a stop earlier in the city and walked from Chinatown to the Law Center. So it has become my go-to walking-to-work piece.

And it is blissful, calming music. Full and rich, perfect for tuning out the world while at the same time plunging into it. I arrived physically wilted but mentally charged. Maybe I’ll get off a stop early more often.

Endangered Fireflies

Endangered Fireflies

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Preserve the magic — that’s what I took away from a recent Washington Post article on the declining population of fireflies in our heavily developed cities and suburbs.

Fireflies — or lightning bugs, as I grew up hearing them called — are harmed by pesticides and insecticides. If you’re spraying for mosquitoes, you’re getting rid of fireflies too. The greatest threat they face is the loss of their habitats, as fields and wetlands fall to the bulldozer and crane.

Seems like I see fewer and fewer flickers every summer. Though it’s tempting to say it’s part of growing up and growing older, losing the wonder and all of that, this article helped me realize that it’s not just in my head.

There really are fewer of these precious, ephemeral creatures in our lives. But we can bring them back — not by clapping hands but by living more lightly on the land.

(Photo: Audubon.com) 

Savoring the Summer

Savoring the Summer

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I join the morning as it moves slowly over the drowsy
suburbs of Washington. I see it clamber up a bank of clouds and shimmer as violet curtains part to make way for the sun. The sunrise is so vivid that it colors even the dark leaves of the shaded maples.

I walk without earphones, listening instead to the avian chorus. Those birds; they always know what to do, rising early to claim the day.
It was still dusk when I left the house. Bats darted through the air, foraging for last-minute snacks. A slow-moving skunk lumbered across the road. Squirrels scampered up trees, chattering to their own.

Last night’s walk took me from daylight to darkness; today’s
from darkness to daylight. I think about how lucky I am to see one day out and another day in,
to savor the summer in its passage.
New York Walk

New York Walk

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I started running when I lived in Chicago, but I started walking when I lived in New York.

I had walked before, obviously, but not “seriously.” In New York, everyone walks. Not for a stroll after dinner and not for their health.

Walking in New York is the purposeful stride from Point A to Point B. It’s hoofing it because the Uber or cab won’t come. This is Walking 101.

Of the 20 hours I was in New York over the weekend, I spent eight sleeping, five birthday-party-ing and four — four precious, wonderful hours — walking.

I hiked from 37th and Eighth Avenue to 115th and Broadway — and was making my way back downtown when I met Ellen and Phillip in the 80s on Broadway, then Eric on a cross street with the car.

It was the shortest trip I’ve ever made to the Big Apple. I wouldn’t want to take a shorter one.

But it was, I”m happy to say, long enough for a long walk.

Second City

Second City

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It’s not a compliment, and Chicago has seldom taken it as one. Sure, the name has come to mean the comedy troupe not a comedic trope, but still … the City of Big Shoulders doesn’t like to come in second in any way.

I learned on last Monday’s boat tour, though, that Chicago was first called the “Second City” in 1890, when it came in second to Philadelphia in U.S. population.

That the metropolis had grown so quickly after the devastating fire of 1871 — which killed 300 people, scorched 2,000 acres and left a third of the city’s population homeless — made it a good kind of “second city.” But subsequent references have left a lot to be desired.

Today I travel to New York for an overnight stay. It will be my second city of the week. So there you go, Chicago. For me, for this week (and this week only), you’re the First City. And New York, sorry, you’re the Second.