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Author: Anne Cassidy

Bumper Crop

Bumper Crop

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I’ve never seen as many violets as I have this spring, and in this I can’t help but see Mom’s hand. Not that she is any position to command the growth cycles of plants. (If she is, I’ll ask her to help our lawn!) But we both loved violets, and I feel her spirit in every one of these pretty flowers.

And then there is our balky lilac bush. Lilacs were another flower Mom loved. In fact, she wanted to carry white lilacs on her wedding day but was told they were out of season so she settled for stephanotis.

Our lilac has suddenly got the hang of blooming after two decades in the ground. Last year it sprouted a tiny cluster of flowers, and this year has more than doubled its blooms. With sunlight streaming into the yard as it does now, it will be no time before the bush is hanging its head with the weight of its sweet, fragrant flowers.

Or at least that’s what I’m hoping. So it’s not exactly a bumper crop, not yet. But someday…

Spring Green

Spring Green

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While I was gone the azaleas popped and trees reached a critical leafing point. Now when I look out the back windows, I see green.

I didn’t see green at the beach. I saw light blue skies and delicate, cream-colored sea foam. I saw pale brown eel grass dried and husky. I saw the occasional flash of scarlet from cardinals and red-winged blackbirds. But in general the beach palette was decidedly pastel.

Today’s still rain-drenched backyard is anything but. In fact, it’s edging toward primary color intensity. What a nice view to come home to!

Marsh Sunrise

Marsh Sunrise

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I was out early this morning for a bike ride around the refuge and a walk on the beach. The sun was rising, and though I missed its first rays on the strand I caught them on the marsh. It was more stunning, if that is possible.

I came to the beach for a few days to clear my head and punctuate what came before from what comes next. In that I was moderately successful. A lot has come before, after all.

But I came, most of all, for the place, for its beauty and rhythms and peacefulness. I’ve tried to capture it in words and photographs and mindset. And now, I’ll do my best to take it back.

Pony Tales

Pony Tales

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My family has a long history of visiting Chincoteague. We brought Suzanne here before she was a year old, and the girls have visited at regular enough intervals that they have real memories of the place. One of them is a standing joke/question/riff: Are the famed ponies, popularized by Misty of Chincoteague, really wild? With today’s post I will answer this question once and for all.

They are wild, within boundaries.

OK, I know this is a cop-out — but it’s true. I walked five miles round trip yesterday to a section of the island where they roam free. “Once you cross that fence (there was a cattle guard), you’ll be in their territory,” the ranger told me.

Fenced wild ponies? An oxymoron, for sure. But I was close enough to feel their wildness, their utter disregard that I was there. I kept remembering the pamphlet warnings. “Wild ponies bite and kick.” So I didn’t approach or offer an outstretched hand for sniffing.

Instead, I observed. And soon after this mare walked past me she started to trot and then to canter. Her friends soon joined her, a posse of five. I held my breath as they galloped past, leaving a cloud of dust and flowing manes in their wake. They were alive and moving and free. They were as wild as any fenced creatures can be.

Knobbed Whelk

Knobbed Whelk

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I’ve been thinking about the impulse to label and categorize. Take this shell, for example. I picked it up today after promising myself I would collect no more. The big bag of shells yesterday should  have been enough. And since today’s walk was a much chillier one — stiff breeze blowing, long-sleeved shirt and sweatshirt — my hands would have been warmer stuffed in my pockets. Except they were too busy picking up whelk shells.

But the urge to acquire is often accompanied by the urge to name and arrange, so I stopped in at the Tom’s Cove Visitor’s Center and picked up a little handout on shells. There are two types of whelks, I learned: the knobbed whelk, which has little points on each whorl, and the channeled whelk, which has grooves instead of points.

Learning its name is a way to honor the shell and its former inhabitant. It helps me appreciate it, which isn’t hard given its beauty.

But there is much I still don’t know: how a snail created this shell, how its hue came to resemble a thousand sunsets; how the ocean buffeted and burnished it and the waves tossed it up on the shore for me to find — all of those things I’ll never understand.

Chincoteague!

Chincoteague!

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As soon as I carved out a week between jobs, I knew where I wanted to spend part of it.

I arrived at Chincoteague before noon and wasted no time pedaling to the beach.  The usual access trail was closed until three so I took the long way around.

No matter. It was a day for cycling — and shelling, sunning and walking on an almost-empty beach.

I strolled almost an hour north absorbing the sun, sand and sea, then turned south and made my back to the towel. The channeled whelks I collected filled a flimsy plastic bag and banged against my leg as I trudged along. I didn’t pick up this item, though I did take its picture.

It is, apparently, a channeled whelk egg case. Something I’ve never seen before.

The shells themselves are in the car, making it oh so aromatic for the drive home.

But that’s a couple days away. What I have now is a gift of time — and a place I love to spend it in.

Spring Break

Spring Break

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Into my life comes a welcome pause. A few days in between. And I’m starting them off on the deck.

It’s a perfect spring morning. Birds are flitting and nesting. Dogwood is blooming. The door is open to the living room. The air is a perfect 70 degrees.

This is not a time of year I usually take off, these precious days of spring. Why not? Oh, too busy, I guess.

Meanwhile, the miracle unfolds, unseen. And I’ve been all the poorer for it.

Last Day

Last Day

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The office is nearly cleared. Only a few more papers to sort, then a bit of electronic tidying. It’s time to end one chapter and begin another.

It’s a surreal feeling, one I’ve grown used to these last two years: the loss of something once integral. I’ve watched, fascinated and bemused, as the details of my work have evaporated and trailed off, so many ghost vapors.

I’m in a strange position — disconnecting from one place, not yet connected to another.

Isn’t that what we used to call freedom?

Wonder

Wonder

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The office is almost cleaned out. The farewells are almost said. My work at Georgetown Law is almost done. So I took the afternoon off to see the Wonder exhibit at the Renwick.

I saw shapes, materials and colors that delighted and amused. Insect art, for example:

Or a 150-year-old cedar, hollowed, re-imagined and reconstituted:

And light everywhere, light touching polyester thread to create an indoor rainbow:

For many years I was paid by the word, so “one picture is worth a thousand words” is not a phrase I like to use. But there are exceptions:

Leaving the Hood

Leaving the Hood

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I’m not just leaving a job on Friday; I’m leaving a neighborhood — a lively, jangling, grand and varied neighborhood. A neighborhood where the U. S. Capitol and the city’s  largest homeless shelter are both within strolling distance. A neighborhood of posh eateries and soup kitchens. It’s a place I’ve enjoyed getting to know, so walks to and from Metro are taking on a special poignancy these days.

I trudge up the escalator at Judiciary Square into a jostling, careening space. Crowds of workers move in and out of the courts building. A homeless woman smokes or naps on a stone bench. Express newspaper hawkers call out a cheery good morning.

Across the street is First Trinity Lutheran Church, with a sign advertising its Bible study. A few steps away are the trees and railings where scarves were draped last January 6. There is the light I always try to catch, the one crossing Third Street.

The bridge across the highway offers a sliver view of the Capitol Dome. And then there is the construction site, as workers continue to roof I-395 so they can build a neighborhood on top. I’ll miss seeing the completion of that project.

Soon I’m walking down the alley that leads to my office, a backdoor approach that’s always been my preference. I like slipping into places, like slipping out of them, too.