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Author: Anne Cassidy

Counterclockwise

Counterclockwise

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When I reached the loop trail yesterday, I went right instead of left. I thought I would walk farther, cross the road, stride all the way to the end. But that proved impractical. No matter, though. I had set the course. I would be walking counterclockwise. Everyone I passed was going the other way.

It felt fresher than I thought it would, fleshing out the flip side of a familiar trail. The low light touched the treetops in new ways. The path curved in all the wrong places. The woods spread out on either side, limitless in their lack of familiarity.

Why don’t I do this more often, choose the road less traveled? Is it habit, or a need to keep one way fresh? The second one, I think. So next time, it will be clockwise again.

Beside the Point

Beside the Point

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I remember an acquaintance years ago, a fellow journalist, who laughed about how he was working his way down the masthead. He had been the editor of a magazine I once wrote for, but that magazine folded, as beautiful magazines inevitably do. He did well for himself later, but there was some irony in his career progression.

I don’t have quite the same story, but I find it amusing that I once wrote for pay, and now I pay to write. Not always, only when I write academic papers. And I don’t pay much. The classes are made possible by a tuition benefit that’s made possible by an editorial job I held for ten years.

Less irony, then, but the point is similar. For many who do what I do, the money and the position don’t matter. It’s the writing itself. Look at it on paper, examine the bottom line, and it makes no sense. But that’s beside the point.

Long Shadows

Long Shadows

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Yesterday’s walk was exquisite: bright sun, temperature in the 70s, leaves a perfect mix of green and gold with an occasional orange or russet in the mix. I found myself looking up most of the time.

I also noticed more shade than usual. At first I thought it was further proof of tree maturity, how the oaks and poplars bend toward each other, making a tunnel above the road. But a closer look showed me that tree tunnels weren’t creating this extra shade, it was individual trees casting long shadows.

This might seem a “duh” observation. It’s that time of year, after all. The light is lowering; shadows are lengthening. What struck me yesterday, though, is how nature makes dying beautiful. Because these mellow October afternoons don’t fool me for a minute. I know where they’re taking us. But maybe, just maybe, that isn’t such a bad place after all.

Breakfast of Champions

Breakfast of Champions

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Already afternoon and no post! It’s as good a time as any, then, to write about granola.

I do as little cooking as possible these days, preferring to make large quantities of something and consume it for days. Granola fits that bill. A sweet-and-savory delight — made from a recipe supplied by my sister-in-law — this concoction has become my breakfast yogurt complement of choice.

It includes generous quantities of oats, coconut, seeds, nuts and dried fruit bound together by equal measures of olive oil and maple syrup. It seems to hit all the right taste bud notes.

Even though I skipped it today — I have to ration myself — it’s good to know it will be waiting tomorrow. After all, it’s the breakfast of champions … or something like that.

Creeper

Creeper

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The backyard is taking on an autumnal tone. Yesterday while bouncing on the trampoline, I spied traces of unexpected color in the shiny green hollies. At first I thought the lowering sun was playing tricks on my eyes, lighting up the trees from within.

Then I clambered down and inspected more closely. It was the Virginia creeper, lowly vine, thought a weed by some but looking its spiffiest this time of year.

How the yellows and oranges teased out the grandeur of those prickly bushes, made them shine. One of autumn’s many surprises, and a welcome one.

Early Snow

Early Snow

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In the mountains where we hiked two months ago, snow has been falling. The San Juan peaks are now white-capped. Ski season opens tomorrow in some locales.

Here, leaves are just starting to turn, but in Colorado, winter has arrived. Wolf Creek Pass, pictured above in mid-August, may receive 40 inches of snow from the storm that’s still pummeling the southwest part of the state.

It’s the flip-side of all that mountain beauty. The high altitudes are the first to catch the white stuff. If I lived there, I’d have to adjust. Take up skiing, at least the cross-county kind.

Instead, I’m here in this green-and-orange cocoon, trying to imagine these peaks in winter white.

Silent Forest

Silent Forest

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A walk so early that for first 15 minutes I saw no one. The trail seemed to hold its breath. Autumn color just nosing its way into the forest, greens still predominate, but not for long.

I could have done two loops but I’d had no tea, and my stomach was growling. Still, I took a brief detour just to glimpse a tree tunnel I know and admire. I let my breath settle into the rhythm of the trail.

It was in the 30s when I left the house today, which meant I kept my fists balled up inside my sleeves for most of the stroll. Back home, warmed by the exertion and the tea, I remember the silent Sunday forest.

Brahms’ First

Brahms’ First

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Remove the apostrophe and it would also be true. I often put Brahms first; he’s one of my favorite composers. When I heard about the program of last night’s concert I knew I’d want to be there.

In the program notes, I learned that Brahms began writing his first symphony when he was in 20s, but it was 20 years before he completed the work. One problem, apparently, was Beethoven, the long shadow he cast over the 19th-century symphonic repertoire.

In fact, the pulsing timpani that opens the first movement is sometimes thought to be an homage to Beethoven. But Brahms finds his footing. The sonorous chorales, the plucky pizzicatos, the French horn melody in the final movement: all of these shout “Brahms.”

I’ve been listening to this symphony for decades, mostly recorded versions, a few live ones. I even played the last movement — in youth orchestra, when I was last chair string bass. So believe me when I say I’ve never heard it as the National Symphony Orchestra, Gianandrea Noseda conducting, played it last night. The pace, the musicality, the finale that made the made my skin prickle. I felt like I was inside the music. And when the final notes sounded, the hall erupted, as it should have. It was Brahms first, after all.

A Family

A Family

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Mom has been gone nine years today. Almost a decade. Nine rich years for me — though not always easy ones. Years she missed.

What I would give for one more heart-to-heart, sitting at the kitchen table with everyone else asleep. What would I tell Mom?

I would fill her in on the new additions to the family, the grandchildren and the sons-in-law. I would tell her about my work and my travels. She would marvel at it all, I’m sure.

And of course, as was our habit, we would try to solve the world’s problems. We would find it more difficult than we used to because the world’s problems have grown considerably thornier since she’s been gone. But we would give it a go.

There would come a point, though, when we’d say enough. Let’s end on a high note. And that would be this: I’d be sure Mom knew that the four children she left behind are always there for each other. We live our own lives, of course. But we are, and we always will be, a family.

Mom, center, in black shirt, with her sister, brother, sister-in-law, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews (1997).

First Chill

First Chill

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I don’t feel it as much in the morning. Warmed from sleep and wearing a fuzzy robe, I make my way to this room, this keyboard. Momentum moves me into the day.

But an hour or so later, it hits me. The air in here feels mighty chilly. I check the indoor thermostat: 66. And that’s downstairs. Upstairs is usually (strangely) cooler.

What is it about these first cool days of fall? They come on the heels of warmth and humidity. They suffer in comparison.

I try to wait until November to turn on the furnace, but today’s high will only be 58 degrees. Time for this rite of passage, even if it’s a couple weeks early. Time to combat the first chill.