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Author: Anne Cassidy

Falling Stars

Falling Stars

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The Perseid meteor shower had good press this year. Some reports said the celestial event would produce up to 200 shooting stars an hour. This raised all kinds of hopes and set off visions of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.”

But this number didn’t take into account the ambient light of the megalopolis, the heavy tree cover and the lateness (earliness?) of the hour.

Still, I managed to see a few streaks of light flash across the late summer sky.The first couple seemed a trick of the eye — a blink, a quick gleaming stitch in the firmament. But the last couple were bonafide star blasts. They illuminated not just the night sky, but all the possibilities it offers.

Not “Starry Night” — but not bad.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Beach Grass

Beach Grass

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Still thinking about the beach — the fine white sand, the walks along the shore, the sunsets and early mornings, the downy plovers like so many bits of fluff.

And thinking about the entry to the beach, too, the green bulwark one passes through on the way to the strand.

For Atlantic beaches it’s a stroll past dunes and dune grass. But in Florida’s semi-tropical clime there are beach grasses and scrubby palms and maybe a spray or two of bright pink bougainvillea.

The path through the grass is not just a prelude and change of scene. It is, I like to think, a place for mental readjustment, too. It’s where I shed the landlocked me and prepare for the freedom to follow.

Olympic Teamwork

Olympic Teamwork

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Yesterday at work we had an Olympic trivia event. I guessed at every question — a testament to how little of the coverage I’ve watched so far. But last night I made an exception. I stayed up way past my bedtime to watch the women’s gymnastic team claim the gold.

It was worth the lost sleep. To see what body, mind and heart can do when working together was inspiring and humbling. 
Amplifying my Olympic frame of mind is the book I’m reading. Daniel James Brown’s The Boys in the Boat tells the story of the University of Washington men’s rowing team as they prepared for and competed at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. One passage stood out to me this morning: 

“The boys in the Clipper had been winnowed down by punishing competition, and in the winnowing a kind of common character had issued fourth: they were all skilled, they were all tough, they were all fiercely determined, but they were also all good-hearted. Every one of them had come from humble origins or been humbled by the ravages of the hard times in which they had grown up. … The challenges they had faced together had taught them humility — the need to subsume their individual egos for the sake of the boat as a whole — and humility was the common gateway through which they were able now to come together and begin to do what they had not been able to do before.”

The Beachcomber Amble

The Beachcomber Amble

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What is it about a beach that brings out the kid in us? Grownups build sand castles and play paddle ball, lie still for hours in the sun, live outside of time.

Purposeful striders lose their momentum. They don’t so much walk as amble. They take on the investigatory zeal of a two-year-old examining each stray stick and leaf.

As the tide recedes they stroll along the beach, picking up clam, coquina and cockle shells. They study them, pocket them or put them in a bag.

If a storm has just moved through, they might find intact sand dollars, lovely pieces of ephemera that somehow last through time and tides.

Then again, they may find nothing much at all, just a few shells that are precious because of the walks they took to find them.

The Vacation Effect

The Vacation Effect

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One of my favorite scenes in the movie “A Thousand Clowns” happens when Murray Burns is told he must get back to reality. “I’ll only go as a tourist,” he replies.

As I reenter my real life, I replay that scene, re-embrace that motto.

I look at the parking garage in Vienna, see not the cars but the stripes of light that make a pattern on the floor.

It’s not a bad way to live, as a real-life tourist, seeing the world with fresh eyes. It doesn’t last long, this “vacation effect.” But I’ll take it while I can get it.

Siesta Sunset

Siesta Sunset

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For Atlantic beaches I rise early to catch the sunrise. But for Gulf beaches, there’s no need to join the dawn patrol. The big show is in the evening.

About 7:45 or 8:00 p.m., there’s a little rush hour here of folks walking to the strand, some with drinks in hand, all ready to watch the big orb drop slowly into the surf.

Most carry their phones, others have cameras. My first night here I happened upon a sunset beach wedding. Though I usually like to people-watch, for Siesta Key sunsets I keep my eyes trained on the sky. Most people do.

What is it about elemental pleasures that so soothe and satisfy? I’m not sure. But I do know that vacations awaken our ability to seek them out and be part of them again.

The Sand

The Sand

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It’s the first beach day I’ve woken up to rain, so instead of rushing off on an early morning jaunt I’m taking a lazier approach to the day. I’m thinking about the walks I’ve taken here this year and the lusciousness of the sand on this beach.

And it is marvelous. More like flour or confectioners sugar, powdery and fine and so, so white. It never burns the feet. 
To run my toes through it, or my hands when I’m lying face down (well slathered with number 50 sunscreen, of course) is to know the soul of summer.

I found a little brochure written by the Chamber of Commerce extolling the local sand. It’s formed almost entirely of quartz, apparently, with very little shell matter, which accounts for its fine-sifted character. 
All I know is that it’s soft and warm and enticing. Kind of like a beach vacation.
Horizontal Tree

Horizontal Tree

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Trees are lovely and I enjoy writing about them. But they have a design deficit when it comes to blog post illustration. They are, for the most part, relentlessly vertical.

This is, of course, one of their chief attributes.  They stand up straight and tall. They aim themselves heavenward and take our thoughts with them.

But in a blog layout such as this, a horizontal picture suits better than a vertical one. Enter the banyan, a tree that is born of air, that grows not from the ground but from another banyan. A tree that grows not just up but out.

Banyans provide cool gathering places. Whole villages can assemble under their canopies. One of the largest spans eight acres!

And then, there is the banyan’s pictorial properties. When you need a horizontal tree, the banyan fits the bill. It is not just shade but shelter.

(Photo: Wikimedia)

Indolence

Indolence

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The afternoon was too warm for a walk, but I pressed on anyway. By the time I’d finished, thunder was rumbling in the distance.

The weather here follows its own tropical rhythm. Bright blue mornings and dark blue afternoons. It’s the perfect excuse for indolence.

There’s only so much you can do when it’s this hot. And there’s only so much you can do when rain is pounding the beach and wind is bending the palms.

And so, you do very little. Or try to.

It works pretty well most of the time.

(This lazy canal says it all.)

The Bismarckia

The Bismarckia

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I only learned its name today, this plant that I’ve seen for the last four years I’ve been coming to this Gulf Coast beach town.

It’s a palm that stood out for its blue-gray color, the hue of Nordic seas, a subtle note among the tropical oranges and yellows.

At first it was little more than a tall frond, a shrub. But as the years  have passed it has added to its heft and hue and now stands  quite proudly, as befits its rather hefty name.

I looked it up online. Named for the first chancellor of the German Empire Otto von Bismarck and native only to Madagascar (an odd combination!), this plant is grown throughout the tropics and subtropics.

Which is why I’ve found it here in subtropical Florida, where a brief rain shower drove me inside to finish the post.