Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Pipe and Drape

Pipe and Drape

Comments 0 Comment

We are all aflutter because Vice President Joe Biden is speaking here in a few hours. Preparations have been underway since late last week, and after a sneak peak at the venue upstairs I can say … what a transformation.

The primary agent of change is what is described in events planning lingo as “pipe and drape.” Tall velvet panels — in a lovely, rich, presidential blue — hang all along the room and route. They both soften and ennoble the place.

Instead of being crammed with students sharing outlines, discussing torts, sipping coffee, the room is now filled with black chairs in neat rows. In the back, camera crews are setting up shop. Every department — events, facilities, audio visual, communications, public safety — is doing its part to make sure the speech goes off without a hitch.

We have become a stage set, an empty theater waiting for its star.

What to Wear

What to Wear

Comments 0 Comment

These are the crazy first days of spring, capricious and erratic. The thermometer appears to be broken, so profoundly do its readings vary from morning till night. All we can do is hang on.

That — and figure out what to wear. Should we dress for morning or for afternoon? Or more precisely, should we be comfortable at 6 a.m. and sticky at 4? Or the other way around?

For me, it’s the former every time.  I’ll wear a turtleneck even though it’s going up to 70. But when I walk out the door and feel the first cold blast of 30-something-degree air, I’ll pull the sweater up to my chin and luxuriate in its warmth.

Building Stuff

Building Stuff

Comments 0 Comment

I work in a law school. Every day I use words to build articles, web stories, press releases and emails. The work I do is achieved with a click, a flick of the wrist.

Meanwhile, a block away, guys are roofing a major highway. For more than a year they’ve been moving utility lines and driving pillars into the ground. Now they’re using a giant crane to hoist huge  steel beams. Eventually, they will entunnel this stretch of I-395 and build a small neighborhood on top of it.

And I — I will continue building towers of words, the sometime dwelling place of ideas but often just ephemeral constructs that vanish the moment they’re sent.

Reading the World

Reading the World

Comments 0 Comment

For the last decade or so I’ve been writing down in the back pages of my journal the author and title of each book I read. This makes, if not for a perfect list (scattered as it is among a bunch of well-worn black books), at least a start at a disjointed one. A year or so ago I began to annotate the list, jot down a detail or two that would help me identify the book without googling the darn thing.

Which is all to say that reading is one of my pillars, one of the things I need to do in order to feel, well, right about the world. And the book I’m reading now offers an explanation for why reading is so important.

In The World Between Two Covers, author Ann Morgan writes of books’ “transformative” effect, in particular the chemistry between reader and writer, how the reader completes and embellishes the words on the page.

“As co-architects of a book’s imaginary universe,” she writes, “we do not merely register the events of a story: we create and feel them too. They are ours even as they are the author’s, and without us they would not exist exactly as they are.”

What else could explain the thoughts exploding in my head when I read Middlemarch or  The Great Gatsby or another favorite? What else could explain the wonder and the addiction?

The World Between Two Covers describes Morgan’s year of reading books from all 195 U.N. recognized countries. But the title also gets at the miracle of reading itself. From one minds, many; and from many minds, one.

Empty Trail

Empty Trail

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday I walked on the Washington and Old Dominion trail, a long ribbon of asphalt that runs from the inner suburbs to the foothills of the Blue Ridge. It was a fine spring afternoon, trees bursting pink and white, birds flitting from branch to post.

Bikers zoomed by. “Passing on the left.” So many of them that I moved to the narrow gravel shoulder. “Share the trail,” the signs said. This felt less like sharing and more like abandoning. I walked quickly — and not just for exercise. It was scary out there.

Two weeks ago I moseyed along the same stretch of path. It was still winter and I had the trail to myself. Yesterday I longed to be back in that gray afternoon, warming myself up on an empty trail.

Way Back When

Way Back When

Comments 0 Comment

The message went out last night after 9, and by early this morning the replies were pouring in. Would we, the members of Henry Clay High School, class of 19__ (that’s the only part of my graduating class year I’m revealing), like to meet at a classmate’s farm some late September Saturday?

It’s a five-year rather than a 10-year mark for us. But we’ve lost a couple of people since last time and, as the organizer said, “We’re not getting any younger, folks. And there’s something important about being with people we knew way back when.”

There is. Surprisingly so.

What I mostly felt in high school was how much I wanted to get out of it. But the memories now are clearer than most: The way the light came in through the tall windows of Baldy Gelb’s math classroom. (He was Coach Gelb — which may have accounted for the prime real estate.) Or the day Mrs. Ahrens’ student teacher suggested we start keeping a journal. (I’ve never stopped.)

In other words, these were years that mattered. And people who matter still.

Erin Go Bragh!

Erin Go Bragh!

Comments 0 Comment

Our Irish name came from Dad, but our Irish identity came from Mom. She was proud to say she had as much Irish blood in her veins as someone from the old sod. And as a matter of fact, she did — she hailed from three generations of inbred Irish stock.

Long before everyone wore green to celebrate the day, Mom would pin a ittle velour shamrock on my school uniform (which was, conveniently, a green plaid). I was the only one of my friends who wore such a thing. (And this in a school of Bryants and Welches.)

But it got the point across: We were Irish — we were passionate people, impractical people, people with heart. We loved a good tune, though not so much a good pint. We loved the green hills and  fields of Ireland; we liked to think we embodied its soul.

Later on, I would learn that had we some of the less attractive traits of the island nation: a certain clannishness and suspicion. We would live through a punishing family feud.

But still, on St. Patrick’s Day, and especially on this one — the first without Mom — I raise my glass to the spirit of the place we came from. Erin go Bragh!

Capitol View

Capitol View

Comments 0 Comment

Union Station is one of those grand front doors, a place that’s meant to be exited. Walk beneath the arched portico and glimpse the Capitol before you.

While your peripheral vision takes in the comings and goings of a bustling depot — the cab queue, the travelers with wheeled bags, the buses and cars heading around the drive — what you see first is the Capitol dome.

I was remembering yesterday the first time I walked out the doors of Union Station. I’d arrived from Kentucky with a bunch of other eighth-graders. Some of us were staying in D.C. and others were taking a bus to New York City.

I was in the latter group — by choice, I might add. Even then, the Big Apple beckoned. But when I walked out of Union Station and saw the Capitol, I had to catch my breath. There was the city’s icon visible within minutes of arrival. There was a place I’d seen pictures of in textbooks but never imagined seeing in real life.

Yesterday I walked by this spot again. I stopped and thought about the twists and turns and decisions that brought me here. What circuitous paths our lives take. Would we have it any other way?

Daylight Savings

Daylight Savings

Comments 0 Comment

I woke up an hour late this morning. No fault but my own. I turned off the alarm. But there is an explanation…

As I’m rushing around to make tea and write this post, I’m thinking about Daylight Savings Time. It is undoubtedly wonderful to have long evenings: to take a walk or putter around in the yard or even just to sit on the deck and read the paper with a glass of iced tea.

But the hour that was stolen had to be repaid. I couldn’t have it Saturday night … so I took it last night instead!

Time for Crocus

Time for Crocus

Comments 0 Comment

Some years the crocus barely stir. Spring comes too slowly for them — or too fast.

They are not the only flowers that have their moments, their seasons. The forsythia might flourish one spring, the azalea another. Doubtless it’s a combination of air temperature, rainfall, soil warmth and wind that makes their colors just a little more vivid, their flowers more plentiful.

Or maybe it’s simply a matter of taking turns. Each year is one plant’s chance to shine. Who knows? If all of them shone at once the splendor might be too much for us, might blind us with spring beauty!

So this spring it is the crocus’s turn. They are popping up out of cool soil in places I don’t remember planting them. Slender stems, unassuming flowers, herald of all the blooming that lies ahead.