Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

7,800 Miles

7,800 Miles

Comments 0 Comment

It is 7, 214 miles from Washington, D.C., to Kigali, Rwanda, where Tom has gone on a business trip. In less than an hour it will be 7,800 miles — just a few hundred more — from Nasa’s New Horizons probe to Pluto.

Earth meets space, the Kuiper Belt, that which lies beyond our solar system in what surely deserves to be called terra incognita (except that it isn’t terra!).

Early pictures show an orange globe with a crown of methane and nitrogen ice and craters the size of the Grand Canyon. By tonight we will have more photographs of this celestial body, photographs that may help scientists decide whether to call it a planet or a dwarf planet.

What we have right now is a tantalizing glimpse, a collectively held breath — and of course, the wonder. 

Water, Water Everywhere

Water, Water Everywhere

Comments 0 Comment

A rainy Monday, so maybe not the best day for a post about thirst and the lack of public water fountains. But an article in yesterday’s Washington Post made me think about this endangered feature of communal life.

According to the International Plumbing Code, the number of public drinking fountains required in new buildings is down by half, the article says. There are a few causes. One is the consumption of bottled water, which has quadrupled in recent years. Another is fear of contamination, which ironically has grown since the Safe Drinking Water Act in 1974 began requiring municipalities to notify their residents immediately of any problems with their water.

But the lack of clean, safe public drinking water has actually hurt American’s health by driving young people to consume more sugary drinks, the article argues. And a preponderance of plastic water bottles is hurting the environment.

This article explains why I have to hunt longer to find a public water fountain. And it also makes me remember the water fountains of my youth. The one at Idle Hour Park, which made a deep whirring sound and produced a trickle of water that seemed to have been drawn up from the depths of a nearby swamp. And the one in the hall of my grammar school, which we would be allowed to stand in line and use on warm spring afternoons. Imagine 400 to 500 kids drinking out of the same fountain! Still, nothing has never tasted as good as the water that flowed from that cool — and I’m sure unsanitary — tap.

Summer Day

Summer Day

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday was the perfect summer day. I thought this even on the way to the dentist, and if you notice it then, the impression must be valid.

The air was weighty and warm and filled with the sound of cicadas. There was no rain (this was key). And the morning held the promise of just enough heat.

In late afternoon, when I was walking Copper in the woods, a couple of big frogs were bellowing from the creek. They plopped in the water as we walked by. The katydids were chirping slowly, as if they could barely be roused from their dreamy, midsummer naps.

Spiders had been busy and webs were strung between the trees like tiny Buddhist prayer flag ropes. When they caught a leaf it waved cheerily in the breeze.

Trudging

Trudging

Comments 0 Comment

To commute is to trudge. Yes, one must be nimble, must dash quickly into the car as the doors are closing. But there is a good amount of trudging involved, too.

The other day, as I was hiking up a broken escalator, concentrating on the thin-strapped gold sandals of the woman ahead of me, I thought that if we can’t walk a mile in someone’s shoes, we can always walk a few paces behind them.

Doing so may not give us complete access to the stranger’s hopes and dreams and worries, but it does accustom us to her pace, to the effort she puts forth to climb a flight of stairs, which in some cases is herculean.

At the very least it requires a pause and a shifting of priorities, a switch from me to thee. I don’t like it, of course. I’d rather rush up the stairs at my own pace. But trudging keeps me mindful of the lives of others.

Dancing for Joy

Dancing for Joy

Comments 0 Comment

The rain was coming but hadn’t yet arrived. The clouds were low and there was a bustle in the air. I walked quickly to beat the weather.

Down at the Mall, it was time for packing up. A cleanup crew was taking down the tents and partitions, the props of celebration, and loading them into idling trucks. Tourists in t-shirts were snapping shots of the scaffolded Capitol. All around me was movement and energy.

But the best tableau came later, as I was leaving the office. I glanced down at the expressway, and there, amidst the dust and turmoil, a hard-hatted worker pivoted and jumped on the folded arm of a construction crane.

I stopped and stared, thinking at first that I was seeing things. But no, it was real — and, at 15 or 20 feet above the ground, seemed quite dangerous, too. But danger seemed the last thing on this guy’s mind. To him, the crane was a balance beam, a stage. I felt his joy travel up my spine.

Nearly Dark

Nearly Dark

Comments 0 Comment

A walk after dinner last night, nearly dark.  Bats dart between shadowy trees. A deer munches leaves at the house on the corner. When he sees me he stands still as as a statue. Next door is a little fountain, which makes a pleasant, splashing sound as I get close to home.

I try to figure out which neighbors are on vacation by the placement and pattern of their indoor lights. Then I start to think about the neighbors themselves, their triumphs and their tragedies.

There are a couple of ministers in the neighborhood, one of whom is a friend. He walks his dog late at night, and I’ve often wondered if he blesses the houses as walks by. Or at least offers up a silent prayer.

And that’s what I found myself doing. Not blessing or praying so much as holding these people in my mind as I walked by. Thinking about the woman who lost her husband more than 20 years ago, when her boys were still in elementary and middle school; about the man who had knee replacement last year; about the woman I never see anymore and how ill she looked the last time we said hello.

And these, of course, are just a small sampling of the humanity here. Who knows what stories these houses hold, these peaceful suburban houses.

America the Beautiful

America the Beautiful

Comments 1 comment

The fireworks are over, the flags are packed away, but the patriotic melodies remain. One in particular. Every other band seemed to play it as they marched past us, and I heard it Sunday in church as well. So today I did a little research.

English Professor Katherine Bates wrote the words to “America the Beautiful” during a trip to Colorado the summer of 1893. She was inspired by the “spacious skies” of the west and the “amber waves” of grain she saw out her train window. But the words came to her in a flash of inspiration atop Pikes Peak, where there’s a plaque to commemorate the poem. Bates rushed back to the Antlers Hotel in Colorado Springs to write the words down.

Church organist Samuel Ward was moved to write the hymn that would later be paired with Bates’ poem when he was riding the ferry from Coney Island to New York City. He asked a fellow passenger if he could jot down the notes on the man’s shirt cuff, so full of the music was he, so eager to capture the melody before it left his head.

Two artists, two inspired moments — and two frantic and ultimately successful efforts to capture the muse before it flew away. The words and music were published together in 1910 as “America the
Beautiful.” Since then there have been many attempts to gain national
hymn or even national anthem status for this song, none successful. All I
can say is, it has my vote.

A Fruitful Walk

A Fruitful Walk

Comments 0 Comment

Over the weekend — dodging raindrops — I strolled over to Franklin Farm, through the meadow, past the pond and along West Ox Road, where I re-entered my neighborhood for the final run home.

There’s a shortcut I take sometimes and as I was angling off the main road I noticed blackberries growing wild beside the path. The community meadow used to be full of berries, and I would brave the prickles and poison ivy every year to glean enough fruit to bake a pie.

This year I had no bag or bucket, only my hand, but I gathered enough berries to dress up the fruit bowl and add a tart flavor to the mix. 

I walk for exercise and reflection; I do not walk to eat. But picking these berries reminded me that there was once a greater purpose to movement, that to stay alive meant being able to pack up and walk to the nearest watering hole or hunting ground.

It was a fruitful walk.

Fourth of July Parade

Fourth of July Parade

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday I went to the National Independence Day Parade with my dear friend Kay, who is visiting from France. It was mostly a chance to hang out with her, but it was also an opportunity to soak up the holiday spirit and marvel at the expansiveness of the American dream.

There were high school marching bands from Ohio, Nebraska and Alabama. There were cloggers and Irish steppers and Chinese-American dancers. There were the Sikhs of America holding down a Smokey the Bear balloon.

There was, in short, all manner of celebration and diversity.  Not exactly a small hometown ensemble — but not sophisticated and glitzy, either. More of a medley than I thought possible in these days of politicized newscasts and gerrymandered districts. And that in itself, I think, is worth a parade.

Walking to the Airport

Walking to the Airport

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday I walked from my office to National Airport. This is not something I thought I would do when I woke up and dressed for work. I wore jeans and sandals for “casual Thursday.” I left my running shoes at home. But I have an old pair of shoes (only one small hole, in the right toe) at the office, so about 3 p.m. I slipped into those, turned off my computer and headed out for the five-mile stroll.

The route to DCA took me down the National Mall, across the 14th Street Bridge and along the Mount Vernon Trail. I was on paths or sidewalks the whole time. I saw tourists, patriots, vendors and cyclists. I heard sirens, jackhammers, street musicians and bike bells.

When I got to Gravelly Point, planes were taking off and landing right overhead, and I could hear a Metro car rattle and a freight train whistle. My walk was part of all the activity around me, was heightened and made whole by it.