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Author: Anne Cassidy

Metro from Below

Metro from Below

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Yesterday I found myself in a new-to-me part of town. It took a while to orient myself, but once I did I was striding toward the river and the Mount Vernon Trail, hard by National Airport.

My shoes were pinching and my bag was heavy, but I needed to be thinking — which meant I needed to be walking.

It was a cloudy, early-spring afternoon. Warm and almost humid. Bikers rule the trail in that part of town so I stayed diligently to the right.

But the foot fall worked its magic. I could think! I could start to see the world from a different perspective.

And, as if to underline that point, I looked up to see a Metro train glide by, so much more futuristic and Monorail-like when seen from afar. It caught the rays of the setting sun and glittered in the light.

I snapped a shot so I could remember: It’s all about perspective.

Timber!

Timber!

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Today the red oak that shaded the sandbox, up which a large tiger-striped cat was once stuck for hours — that tree is coming down. It joins more of its compatriots than I’d care to count. Victims of age and drought; well loved and much mourned.

The old oak won’t be the day’s only casualty. A split tree at the back of the lot is losing its lesser half. A huge branch we call the Sword of Damocles will finally meet its match. And the Venus de Milo of the backyard, our limbless wonder, will also be axed.

All of this is sad to me, of course. I love the deep and deeply shaded back yard. I think of all it’s seen, every baby and toddler it’s entertained. All the cook-outs and birthday parties it’s hosted. I think of the zip wire once strung across it, the swing set and trampoline. 

The backyard was one of the main things that sold us on the house. It’s one of the lot’s most attractive features. But the trees have died, as have many throughout the neighborhood. And though dead trees give owls a home and woodpeckers a job, they don’t exactly enhance the landscape.

And so, down the trees come, down to be cut up and carted away. There’s only one thing left to say: Timber!

Routine Morning

Routine Morning

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I’m thinking this morning of routines and the comfort they provide. Filling the pot with water, checking email while it boils, starting this blog as it steeps.

Reach up to open the cabinet above the stove, grab the two boxes (my tea is a blend of decaf choices), warm the pot, pour boiling water over the tea bags, cover the pot with a tea cozy, then wait for the first cup to be strong enough to drink.

Routine motions become muscle memory. They transcend fatigue and despair. They are not flights of fancy, not the spark to light the fire. They are the 99 percent perspiration to the 1 percent inspiration. They are the engines of progress.

Amnesia

Amnesia

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Today’s high temperature will hit 70, they say. Which made yesterday’s walk a warm up for the warm up. Coat on but open, then finally off and carried. Scarf loosened. Gloves? No way! Cold weather? Fuggedaboutit!

This is what happens when warmth returns.  The memory of cold vanishes. Though just days ago we had snow and ice, they seem part of another era, sepia-toned. Gone even is my memory of cold, its sharpness and shivering.

This being March, though, the sharpness and shivering will no doubt return. But for now, it’s gone. In its place are soft breezes and bird song.

It’s springtime amnesia. It’s what makes the world go round.

Empty Room

Empty Room

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Suzanne and Appolinaire moved out over the weekend. They left a stuffed-full center-hall colonial for a small blue house on a steep hill in Arlington. Walk up their sidewalk a few yards, crane your neck, whip out your binoculars — and you can see the Washington Monument. It’s that close to the city.

Meanwhile, in the outer ‘burbs, there’s an empty room. It’s been empty before, of course, while Suzanne lived in Africa for three-and-a-half years. But now she’s married, and — unless they’re between houses, as they were these last three months — they won’t be moving back.

It’s all as it’s supposed to be, and I’m delighted they’re settling into their new place.

It’s just that there’s this empty room — its exposed ticking mattress cover; the blank spots on the wall where the Les Mis poster used to be; the gaps in the book shelf. Even the cello is gone.

I’ll have to get used to it, that’s all.

Last Stand

Last Stand

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Woke up to a white world. Each twig and limb covered with heavy, clinging snow. Deceptive in the gloaming, when shapes are not what they appear.

As the morning grew lighter I could make out black roads and driveway, grass tops bursting through the blanket. But the holly is still dolloped, and the first faint blooms of witch hazel, that thin yellow furze, are coated in frosting. Every few minutes the wind loosens a clump of snow, which retains its twig shape for an instant, then vanishes in a pouf of powder.

I looked ahead at the forecast; in a few days we’ll have 60s and 70s. This morning’s weather is a last stand of sorts. It is beauty at its most basic, which is fleeting. By noon tree limbs will be barren bark.

Meanwhile, I fill my eyes with the scene out the window. Today it’s winter; next week it will be spring.

Wind Walk

Wind Walk

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A quick stroll at the end of day. Copper and I walk against the traffic, as we always do.

A cold wind blows, not as hard as it did a few hours earlier, when it almost knocked me over on a downtown street corner. But hard enough.

Now the wind is more of a companion, a negative force, something that keeps you company by keeping you on your toes. It blows my hair off my face, ruffles Copper’s fir ever so lightly. He’s unfazed by its presence.

Soon we reach the turn-around point. Now the wind is behind us, blowing my hair into my face. Now the wind is behind us, pushing us home.

Polling Place

Polling Place

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The polling place in morning light, shadowy figures with pamphlets and lost causes. The parking lot is almost empty.

I’ve made the pilgrimage to this place in all times and weathers, alone and with children in tow. Several times I’ve stood in line. Usually not. One off-year I voted in a trailer.

Yesterday I went with someone new to this country, someone who jokes that where he’s from, the politicians pay the voters — rather than the other way around.

He helps me see us as the beacon that we are — helps me hope that we remain that way as long as we can.

Crows and March

Crows and March

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There is no reason to associate crows with March, but for some reason I do. There is something in their caws that speaks of the mottled blue skies of this month, of the air that is still cold but smells of just turned earth.

Heard in a chorus, crows sound busily out of sorts, the avian equivalent of a coffee klatch. But heard in single caws, the bird sounds plaintive, his song a bleak and windswept tune.

Which is why, when I hear a crow on a cloudy March morning, I think of Thomas Hardy:

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
 

Reluctant Date

Reluctant Date

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February is one of those months that is not improved by augmentation. In fact, one of its best attributes is its brevity.

So the fact that we have an extra day this month is less than welcome. Leap years mean you lose that lovely divisible-by-seven nature of March dates. It means things are odd instead of even. And, since February means winter and March means spring, it feels like we’re stuck another day in an outgrown season.

I’ve been thinking this morning of all the other months I’d like to see more of: May, for instance. Or  April, June, July, August, September or October. Any warm month.

But February, being low on days, is the perfect candidate to absorb another. So here’s a reluctant nod to a reluctant date. Happy Leap Year!