Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Accessory to the Crime

Accessory to the Crime

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Walking before dawn. The road is empty and cool, and the birds are chirping like mad. All the familiar ones — robins, cardinals and jays — plus one or two I don’t recognize. And then the crows, of course.

Crows have been on my mind since I read an article about one over the weekend. Canuck the crow was caught stealing a knife from a crime scene. Chased by a police officer for about 20 feet, the bird finally dropped the weapon. Turns out, he’s a known thief, though this is the first time he’s meddled in a crime scene.

Canuck fell out of his nest as a hatchling and bonded to the human who nursed him back to health. Although he’s wild, he stays as close to his rescuer as possible, doesn’t fly far from the man’s neighborhood and goes for rides perched on the wiper blade of his car. There are videos, magazine articles, even a Facebook page for Canuck.

“You’re always talking about crows, Mom,” said my resident millennial when I shared this story with her. I reminded her that crows use sticks as tools and mourn their dead. She was not impressed.

But I know in time I can bring her around. This is the cat-loving daughter now completely gaga over Copper the dog. She understands the joy of animal companions, what they bring to our lives.

(Photo: CBCNews.com)

Another Year

Another Year

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My dear friend Kay celebrates her birthday on January 2. I always feel for her, since her special day comes when everyone goes back to work after the holidays.

Today I’m in a similar boat. May 31, always the afterthought day when I was a kid, the day after Memorial Day, is in exactly the same spot this year — with the added ballast of being a back-to-work-after-a-long-weekend day, too.

But this is fine. A stealth birthday is what I’m after (though mentioning it in a  blog post can hardly be called “stealth”).  Maybe Father Time will be too busy driving home from Ocean City to slap another year on me.

Even if he does, though, I won’t complain. It is, after all, another year to embrace.

Double Memorial

Double Memorial

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Some of us remember that this year the national holiday falls on the real Memorial Day, May 30.

But the double I’m thinking of is at Camp Nelson, the veteran’s cemetery nestled in the rolling hills half an hour south of Lexington. There Mom and Dad lie together. A hero’s grave.

I commute now through Arlington Cemetery, and I look up from my newspaper when we briefly come above ground there. I see the orderly stones, the tidiness of death at a military burial ground.

Life is so messy — but life is what we remember. And the least tidy lives we remember most. The passions and the excesses and the outbursts and the love. These can never be contained in measured plots and structured rows. 

And on this double Memorial Day I’m feeling doubly this way.

New Dawn

New Dawn

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When it comes to life lessons, climbing roses have a few. Their growth pattern is out and up. They thrive on training. They are tender and delicate, but can take care of themselves. (Don’t believe me? Just try getting a few of their thorns embedded in your thumb!)

They wait until spring is well underway before venturing out. And when they arrive, it’s in splendid style.

I’m admiring them today, in full flower. I worry, of course, that the weekend heat and Monday’s rain will do them in, shorten their already short lifespan. But even in that, they are illustrative.

Enjoy us now, they tell me. Don’t worry about tomorrow.

See what I mean?



(The New Dawn climbing rose in all its glory.)

Three-Day Stay

Three-Day Stay

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The airport will be busy. I could spend the whole morning on the back side of the office, watching the planes take off and land. Or I could look right behind my building at the train tracks. They’re mostly for freight lines but carry the odd passenger car or two. The rails will be humming today, too.

And don’t even get me started on the roads. The big story on the all-news radio this week was that the worst day to drive out of the second worst traffic city in the United States before a long weekend isn’t Friday but Thursday. I was driving west on a major highway last evening — and I would agree.

So as tempting as it might be to flee, I’m looking forward to staying in my own backyard — which I’m overlooking right now, sipping tea and listening to the crows call.

Finally May!

Finally May!

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An early walk through a perfect morning: just enough chill to make my skin prickle. Birds calling from the deep woods. Almost no cars.

With the rain gone the air is perfumed with honeysuckle and spirea. Fences groan with flowered bushes. Banisters and deck rails double as plant props.

The hanging plant I bought is still alive! The red roses are blooming!

It’s finally May!

Around the Block

Around the Block

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Inside it was about 65; outside a good 20 degrees warmer. The air was filled with a collective exhale as office-workers enjoyed their lunch hours on the first warm day of the season. People wore shorts and running shoes. They were biking and strolling and just hanging around.

The outdoor seats at Cosi — the cafe where I sat and had a raspberry iced tea before my first interview here — were filled with al fresco patrons.

I walked past them though. No more sitting for me. I was in search of a block to walk around, but there aren’t too many of those here.

The one I found consists mostly of a service road behind my multi-block office complex. It’s not the grit and glamor of my old walks on Capitol Hill, but it was quiet and warm. I could stretch my legs and let my mind wander.

It was interesting, too, exploring the unseen underbelly of this glitzy space. The bleeping of backing trucks. The aroma of smokers on the periphery. It was around the block, Crystal City style.

Lost and Founds

Lost and Founds

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I looked out the window at the garden today and spied a pink balloon where the peonies are supposed to be (the peonies that have taken a hit with the cold and rain). The balloon is an interloper. A visitor. A stowaway on the west wind.

From what little girl’s birthday party did it arrive? From what sticky little hand did it detach and float away?  Did it break free from a backyard boquet to fly over tree tops and land gently among the day lilies?

Wherever it came from it arrived intact, ribbon attached and almost fully inflated.

If the garden is to become a destination for wayward balloons might it also attract other lost items? Socks and keys and earrings?

A garden of lost and founds — now there’s a thought.

Aerie

Aerie

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I work on the fifth floor of a large building that overlooks a train track, a highway, a street and National Airport. Windows on the other side of the building have a perfect view of the control tower and take-off and landing. Given that I used to work on the ground floor, this is a welcome change.

There is a light, airy and aerie-like feel to being up this high, a sense of being the first to spot the weather when it changes. And…  about an hour ago I saw a bit of sun peak through the clouds.

I was intending to report this news immediately, of course, but work intervened. And now, alas, the sun has gone away. But it was there, I’m sure of it. And the weather forecasters assure us that that sun returns in earnest in a couple of days.

Meanwhile, I’m glancing out the window whenever I have a second. Right now the only light is see is what’s reflected back at me. But I’m hanging on and hoping for more!

(OK, not up quite this high — and with a decidedly less pastoral view …) 

Rain Song

Rain Song

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The rain began before I woke up. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t think it would sing to me. A pitter-patter, yes. But not this other sound, this low ping. It’s as if someone is tuning a cello or plucking a piano string.

And it has a steady and distinct pitch, too. I hum it, walk over to the piano. Could it be an A? Always a good first try; a million tuning orchestras can’t be wrong.

But no, it’s not an A, or a C or an F. Better try some black keys. And there it is — a B flat — or at least my out-of-tune piano’s version of that pitch.

Were I of a more mechanical bent I would worry about what’s making this sound. I would check for leaks or breaks. But instead, I listen. I let the rain sing its song.

(Waiting for Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden to arrive and tune in the large golden concert hall of Vienna’s Musikverein)