Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Power of the Press

Power of the Press

Comments 0 Comment

I saw the movie “Spotlight” with one of my favorite millennials. “It was a little slow,” she said as we walked out, providing the perfect opening for a (groan) story.

Not that things were wonderful back in the days when you looked at old newspaper articles on microfiche (mine inevitably got jammed) and did research by looking at actual physical books (sometimes they actually physically were not there).

But watching the movie reminded me of the excitement of reporting a long, complicated story, something you’d immerse yourself in for weeks or months, something you’d begin to dream about or wake up thinking about.

It reminded me of the power of the press and the great profession of journalism, from which not only I (doing media relations at a law school) — but the whole country — has drifted. Few news organizations have the time and resources to devote to long-form investigative pieces. It’s a sound-bite world, and we’re all the poorer for it.

(Web offset printer, courtesy Wikipedia)

A Door Ajar

A Door Ajar

Comments 0 Comment

It’s a mild day so I write with the French doors slightly ajar. A small breeze wafts in across the deck. The deck where we hung out yesterday eating crab dip before the big feast.

Afterward there was a game of bocce ball — and some energetic raking preceded it. (Hard to play bocce ball with leaf piles everywhere.)

It was a different kind of Thanksgiving. New people to share it with. A tinge of sadness, too. A dish or two we’ve never tried before. All befitting a change, a shift.

I liken the shift to the door ajar. A door through which one sort of life has ended and another sort of life has begun.

Smile, It’s Thanksgiving!

Smile, It’s Thanksgiving!

Comments 0 Comment

Thankful for the warm air that’s moved in today. Thankful for the walk I took before everyone was stirring. Thankful that the turkey is already in the oven. Thankful that the pies didn’t totally burn up last night (they’re only slightly singed). Thankful that someone else is bringing the rolls, sweet potatoes and whipped cream.

Thankful that when I picked up the dish detergent under the sink and found it sitting atop a crushed eggshell that it made me think of an eggshell mosaic I made when I was a kid. Thankful that the eggshell mosaic recollection triggered a happy, peaceful memory of Mom, who I miss so much.

Thankful that the stuffing is made and the green bean casserole soon will be. Thankful that the clan is gathering or has gathered. Thankful for a day that’s about thankfulness.

Practicing Gratitude

Practicing Gratitude

Comments 0 Comment

The winds have stilled. The temperature has risen. Crows call from tree to tree. Thanksgiving has come a day early as I spend this half workday at home.

I’m glad not only because I save the three hours I would have spent commuting — which means a head start on the pumpkin pie and stuffing for the crowd of 14 that will be dining here tomorrow — but also because I have an extra day to practice gratitude.

It is, if not a muscle, at least a skill to be honed and fine tuned. One I should practice much more than I do.

They’re Home!

They’re Home!

Comments 0 Comment

A little over a year ago we were making the sad trek to Dulles Airport for Suzanne’s return flight. She would be in Africa another year before returning yesterday “for good” — or at least for a few years, which means “for good” when you’re in your 20s.

Yesterday we watched many travelers emerge from Customs into the International Arrivals Terminal — a grandma who was instantly swarmed by two young grandsons, a man whose three beaded-hair daughters yelled “Daddy” and enveloped him in hugs.

And then, finally, emerging from the door, the two we were looking for. Appolinaire in a green sweatshirt over his West African print shirt, Suzanne in a thin flowered  blouse and a colorful lanyard for her passport pouch.

It was — they were — one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. But I saw them from a distance just for an instant, because soon they were smothered in hugs, too.

Out of Africa

Out of Africa

Comments 0 Comment

The second leg of their trip has begun, the one that will bring Suzanne and Appolinaire from a  village in the north of Benin, West Africa, to Washington, D.C. The trip began last night in the little Cotonou Airport and continued with a brief stop in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, before landing in Istanbul, Turkey. There they boarded their U.S.-bound flight, and now they’re heading home.

But preparations began over a year ago, pulling together the paperwork for the K-1 (fiance) visa, filling out forms, collecting photographs, sending the packet off and then waiting, waiting, waiting.

Luckily, the waiting was done in West Africa, a place where patience seems bred into the bone, where people think nothing of standing for hours on a hot roadside in hopes that the 200,000-plus-mile Peugeot that’s been carrying them to the next village can once more be coaxed to life so they can  cram into it and get going.

This patience, and the shrugged shoulders and hopefulness that go with it, is an excellent trait to carry along to the new world. It will help them navigate a complex culture and the inevitable waiting times and snafus built into becoming first a resident and then a citizen of the United States.

We’ve been needing a lot of patience ourselves lately as we counted down to the day — November 23 — that we thought would never come. And we’ll need an extra dose of it this evening as we crane our necks in Dulles’ bustling International Arrivals Terminal, looking, looking, looking for a dazed young couple to walk through the doors and into our arms.

State of the Leaves

State of the Leaves

Comments 0 Comment

More leaves have fallen than are falling. They drift up against the fence and under the azaleas. They crinkle under foot. They cluster in the garden, cushioning each chrysanthemum petal that drops quietly to the ground.

In the woods some leaves hang on, stands of red and yellow, brave flags flying. And even in the backyard a yellow poplar shimmers in the breeze.

But by this point in the season, leaves have become the enemy. They must be raked or mowed, bagged or strewn. They are duty, not poetry.

Tale of Two Temperatures

Tale of Two Temperatures

Comments 0 Comment

It’s 90 degrees today in Cotonou, Benin. It was 40 degrees when I woke up in Oak Hill, Virginia. Fifty degrees of separation — that’s a lot for a person who’s never experienced winter.This is just one of the many adjustments we’ll be witnessing in a few days.

I’ve been pulling for one of those warm winters that can sometimes grace these parts, especially when there’s an El Nino pattern. But the next few days promise brisk winds and seasonable temps, and my purple (excuse me, aubergine) wool coat has already been pressed into service.

Nothing to do but go with the flow, whether it’s warm or cold. Nothing to do now but hold on for the ride!


(Rush hour in Cotonou from the back of a zemidjan.)

Neigh!

Neigh!

Comments 0 Comment

Though I live in the suburbs, there are rural aspects to my neighborhood. Septic systems rather than sewers. A stubborn attachment to winding two-lane roads. And then there are the farms behind the houses across the street.

These are not big operations with silos and combines. These are not even the “gentleman farms” I got to know in New England. (Now those are my kind of spreads — picturesque orchards run by retired heads of English Departments.)

These are four-acre parcels with houses of varying value. Some still have the original ranches and split-foyers, but most have large multi-gabled mansions that were built after the originals were torn down.

Sometimes I walk on the trails that wind through this neighborhood. I imagine the kind of place I’d like to have — herbs, flowers, chickens, a writing cabin in the back — nothing profitable, of course. I while away time moseying and fantasizing.

But usually, before I get home, something has brought me up short. Maybe it’s a prickle-bush barring entry to a favorite cut-through. Or a pile of manure I notice too late. Some bit of rural reality that intrudes on my fantasies. “Neigh,” say the horses in the pasture.

Nay, indeed.

Springtime Color

Springtime Color

Comments 0 Comment

I see it from the back of the yard, a bright spot of color in the autumn garden. In a land of browns and russets this pinkish rosey purple stands out.

It’s just a mum that I transplanted in the summer, a potted plant left to root in the hodgepodge end of the flower bed. Truth be told I had forgotten about it. But now it’s reminding me of all the springtime colors that await us.

Only four more months till Easter.