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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Next Day

The Next Day

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Common wisdom says the mileposts of grieving are the big days, the first Thanksgiving, Christmas or birthday without your loved one. My sister and brothers and I have passed all of these in the first three and a half months.

What I’ve learned, though, is that grief is a wayward thing. It sneaks up on me when I’m waiting for a Metro train or rummaging through a drawer to find an emery board.

It’s there in the earrings Mom brought me back from Ireland in 1998 or any of her sweaters I couldn’t bear to give away. I bury my nose in them sometime, inhale the faint odor that was her closet.

Mom was a dignified person, alone in her being. She was not big on hugging. My deep connection to her was expressed in words and deeds. But I miss her now in a physical way. 

It’s the riddle of the ages, the riddle of corporeality. What we love of a person is so often the mind, the spirit. But it’s a spirit that must exist in the flesh, in a body that moves in this world. Which is why, in the end, it’s the worn wallet or tattered address book that brings us to tears.


(Mom with her sisters and brother; she’s second from the right.)

February 1

February 1

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No one inhabited a birthday as Mom did February 1. “It’s the worst day in the world for a birthday,” she would moan. Cold and snowy or gray and bleak. She hated winter, especially toward the end of her life, and it seemed a personal insult that was born smack dab in the middle of it.

But perhaps because she was so vocal about the day, I’ve associated it more closely with her than I would otherwise. And in a way it suits her. There’s a no nonsense quality about it, a black-and-whiteness. It is strong, a proper reflection of her character, and like her has had to endure a fair amount of adversity.

So now we come to February 1, 2016, the first February 1 without her on this earth since 1926.  It is a mild, sunny day, one Mom might approve of.

Happy 90th birthday, Mom! It’s hard to express how much I miss you.

(Mom with her namesake, my daughter Suzanne, 1989)

Places to Go

Places to Go

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On Wednesday, a stretch of clean, dry pavement appeared — and I took it. The block of E Street between Third and Fourth, where scarves once garlanded the gingko trees, was the first clue that the walk to Metro Center would be manageable.

And it was. Only a few iffy crosswalks and curbs but otherwise blissfully snow-free stretches of sidewalk with the typically eclectric street life. Barristers with briefcases trudging meditatively through Judiciary Square giving way to raucous, red-shirted Capitals hockey fans pouring into Verizon Center.

Not as many tourists as usual, which meant a higher incidence of purposeful striding. Much like my own, I’m embarrassed to say. We walk quickly because we have Places to Go.

I wonder how many of us are going to the same place — a warm two-story colonial in need of repair; a kitchen that’s seen better days, a fleet of cars that must be jockeyed in and out of the snow-walled driveway depending upon who’s leaving first the next day. A room full of steam and cooking smells and “how are you’s.” A place that makes the walk —and  the whole day — worthwhile.

Bird Cloud

Bird Cloud

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It was not the best idea to pick up Annie Proulx’s Bird Cloud last night when I couldn’t sleep. I thought it would lull me back to dreams, much as it had the evening before.

But not this time. Last night I was farther along in Proulx’s Wyoming house-building saga. I wanted to know what would happen to the concrete floor that was poorly poured — and the color of liver. I wanted to understand how she could have spent most of her (considerable) income on a place that turned out to be uninhabitable from October till May due to wind and snow-packed roads.

I still haven’t gotten a satisfying answer to the last question (though it made me feel good that someone so accomplished could also be so gulled.) As to the first — well, I know she found a floor fixer who gave up his Thanksgiving (for a mere $40,000!) to sand, polish and stain her floor to a dull, serviceable brown.

Along the way, I read lines like this:  “Bird Cloud was to be a type of poem if a house can be that. After Bird Cloud was finished I knew it was a poem of landscape, architecture and fine craftsmanship…”

Making it Official

Making it Official

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Yesterday morning the plows made it through, so four days of newspapers landed in the driveway with a thud.

We weren’t exactly information starved over the long weekend. I always enjoy the hyped-up local TV and radio news before, during and after a snowstorm. And there’s the Capital Weather Gang, my go-to website with more analytics and blizzard models than you’d ever want to know.

Still, it was a relief to get the print product, to see this recent meteorological event dubbed one “for the ages”. It was almost (not quite) as if seeing it in print meant it really, truly happened. At the very least it was verification and retrospection.

But, this being a lively and full house, the papers were soon scattered across the counter and coffee table. Drinks were set down on them, breadcrumbs shaken on them.  And more than anything else, they — their late arrival, the news they bore — became part of the memory of this moment.

In Praise of Friction

In Praise of Friction

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Yesterday I trudged over snow banks to reach the main street in the neighborhood, which was plowed and salted down to pure pavement.

It was just above freezing and last night’s black ice had melted, so I had the confidence to run/walk my usual loop. Along the way I strode through sprinkles of salt crystals and the occasional glob of sand. My feet thrilled at their rough grip, at the surety of resistance, knowing that they were not going to slide out from under me.

Ah, friction! How overlooked you are, how simple but how necessary. How seldom we celebrate your presence, the way you connect us (people and animals) with the tangible world.

Given a chance, our eyes may stray to the slick, shiny surface.  It glitters, it attracts. But what thrills us most is the dull, the solid, that which keeps us in place in a tilting world.

Nowhere to Go

Nowhere to Go

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Here in our little corner of the world neighbors plow your driveway because they have a snow blower and you don’t.  It’s that kind of place. There’s a lot of kindness here — and a lot of plowed-out driveways.

But it’s a classic case of all dressed up and nowhere to go.

Because every one of these neatly dug out, snow-walled stretches of pavement ends in — a snowbank.

The little plows have arrived but the big one has not.  So I remain blissfully snowed in with the driveway clearing, the pantry emptying and my hopes high. Not for a rescue. Oh, no. But for another day of being snowed in.

Transformed

Transformed

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I’ve lost track of the tally, but somewhere between two and three feet of snow fell between Friday afternoon and early this morning. The storm has moved on now, leaving a world transformed.

The cars are mountains in the driveway. The inverted birdbath a pyramid of white. Tree limbs are sugar frosted.

Inside, we are transformed, too. Or at least I am. Every time we’re pelted like this I’m a little more humbled, a little more gladdened.

Blizzards are good for the soul — as long as the soul is housed in a body that’s housed in a heated home well stocked with food!

… The Storm

… The Storm

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I was working outside yesterday morning, trying to bundle the last of the leaves into bags, when I saw the first flake fall. It could have been a cinder from an errant chimney, or a bit of fluff from a milkweed pod.

But it was, of course, a snowflake. As benign and unimposing a beginning as you could imagine. I thought at first I might have imagined it. But then there was another, and another.

Even so, it was a gentle prelude, giving no hint of the long, strong storm that would follow. It’s been 22 hours and it hasn’t stopped. From such a simple beginning this whole white world was wrought.

January 22, 2016 1 p.m.

January 23, 2016 11 a.m.

The Calm Before …

The Calm Before …

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A gray sky, a Christmas morning anticipation. The snow is coming, the snow is coming.

It’s coming to cover the leaf piles and the brush piles, the trails and the sidewalks. It’s coming to bury the daffodil shoots that began emerging from the ground in December. It’s coming to cover the yet-to-be-picked-up leaf bags and the two cars that aren’t in the garage. It’s coming to transform the peeled brown landscape into one of perfect white.

I have books to read, chocolate to eat and movies to watch. The house is packed with people and with food. I’ll bundle up and take a walk soon, because there won’t be a chance to take another for quite some time.

Meanwhile, in the heavens, a great storm gathers. The systems have converged, as have the models. What started as a rumor, an office “have-you-heard” on Tuesday, is now (almost) a reality. 

It’s the calm before …