Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Road to Big Sky

Road to Big Sky

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Yesterday I was in three time zones, two airplanes, two cars, one bus and the tail end of a tropical storm. I landed in God’s country.

Tall firs reaching to heaven. A mountain pass that made my ears pop. Blue, blue skies. Motorists that allow safe following distances. And, at the end of the road, the town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

The air was delicious, the scenery divine.  We thought we’d walk to town to stay awake. How long, I asked the desk clerk. Twenty minutes, she chirped.

You know how this story goes. It was double that. But with the good luck that can sometimes befall the hapless traveler, we found a free shuttle bus that brought us home.

We had ice cream for dinner. We haven’t eaten a real meal in 40 hours. But we are here, on the road to Montana. Next stop, Big Sky!

Montana Bound

Montana Bound

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Starting today I’ll be trading tree canopy for big sky, hot and humid for crisp and cool, Eastern Daylight for Mountain Time.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out west, and sitting in my living room now, with still some packing left to do, it hardly seems possible I’ll be there this time tomorrow.

But I’m already seeing the vast expanses, buttes in the distance, red rocks and sage. I’m already tasting the air out there, and feeling the altitude in my lungs and head.

The walking may be slower but the views go on forever.

High Bar

High Bar

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Some walks have a higher bar than others, more is asked of them. This is not because of anything they’ve done wrong. They just have the bad luck to come after a restless night or a crazy morning.

Such was yesterday’s stroll around the Capitol. I left the office a little shell shocked, wanting just to escape, that’s all, the pavement beneath my feet, locomotion.

And that, at first, is what revived me. The rhythm, the pace of the walk. Step begets step, movement triggers movement. Soon you are blocks away from where you started, which is the whole idea, of course. You are strolling by the hotel with its sweeping driveway and its busy taxis pulling in and out, and then by a green park with a bell tower.

The people I passed — and there were many, this is high tourist season in the District — had faces to read and scrutinize, had snippets of conversation to offer, words in the wind. The humidity bore down on us, slowed us and held us up.

I saw a bomb-sniffing dog and a troop of high school students on a field trip. I saw a bounty of day lilies in front of the grotto. A Chinese lady motioned for my help, pointed to the Capitol and asked if it was the Library of Congress. That was one question I could answer. “Look for the fountain,” I said, pointing behind the scaffolded dome.

Wending my way back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop, tried to remember what I’d brought for lunch. Nothing special. But it didn’t matter. I was already full.

Outside In

Outside In

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I missed National Trails Day (June 6) but am not too late for Great Outdoors Month (all of June). The idea behind  these celebrations is to get people outside. No problem for a walker in the suburbs. I’m outside as often as possible.

But Great Outdoors Month is a good time to ponder the great divide between outside and in, between natural light and its artificial cousin, between the elements and our shelter from them.

Thinking back to Benin,  open doors, the colorful cloths hung where screens would be. There the line between outside and in is far more blurred than it is here. There people sleep on their little verandas in the hot season. They cook outside, eat outside and often wash their clothes outside, too. They do not need a Great Outdoors Month. 

Not to romanticize this, though. The Beninese are in a constant battle to keep their houses clean and dust-free, not an easy proposition with unpaved roads and meager sidewalks. They live with a degree of discomfort most of us cannot imagine.

Still, in so many ways, including this one, they remind me of simple truths we seem to have forgotten. One of them is this: That before we became creatures of climate-controlled comfort, we lived in tune with the wind and the rain and the sun. We belonged to our world in a way we don’t anymore. And it’s good to remember that.

The Market Walk

The Market Walk

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It was my first market walk of the season, visiting Reston’s farmer’s market before 9 so I could be fast-walking before 10. The paths are pleasant around Lake Anne, and homes are easy to fantasize about. Lake views, kayaks at the ready, dining and shopping within strolling distance.

But the best part was first milling around the market before the walk, choosing strawberries, zucchini and tomatoes; eying cherries, cabbages and asparagus. Taking the fruit and vegetables to the car and then trotting off down the cool, shady sidewalk.

A quarter-mile down the road I dodged off into the woods, where the path skirts the lake and runs alongside tall marsh grasses. Up a hill, down a hill. Looping back to the plaza and the market, which was in much fuller swing an hour later. All the while thinking of the tomatoes for lunch, the zucchini for dinner and the strawberries for breakfast.

Attention Deficit

Attention Deficit

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We interrupt our normal blogging schedule to bring you … summer!

All other post ideas disappeared from my brain this morning as I stepped out into the humid morning, already beading up the outside of the glass before 8 a.m. Yes, it will be almost 100 today, and I finally turned on the air-conditioning. But it’s time.

So I left the house early, walked quickly and found myself striding on a paved path through a meadow, tall grasses waving, not a breeze to stir them except the one I made in passing.

Later, almost home, I pushed through more tall grasses, daisies, Virginia creeper, weeds with minds of their own. The low grass was wet from the morning dew. The climbing roses have climbed another half foot. The day lilies are ready to pop.

How hard it is to sit still on a day like this. One wants to always be moving, pulling weeds, airing linens, scrubbing the sink. But sit I must. So I compromise with a rocking chair. Today, I’ll rock and write.

The days are long, the attention span is short.

On Top of Tap

On Top of Tap

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For months I’ve felt lost at tap class. The steps have been complicated and I’ve been slow to learn them. “The thing is,” I’ve admitted to my teacher, Candy, “I tend to think of a foot as a foot — not a toe, ball and heel.”

“Oh, that’s not good for tap,” Candy said.

For some reason though, I was on last night. I did back-ups and push-backs and even mastered a bit of the not-so-aptly named Happy Warmup.

I can explain my sudden improvement. This was the last class for several weeks. Our annual break is coming up. My feet obviously knew this. They were putting on a show, the final volley of fireworks, throwing it all up in the air before taking a well-earned rest.

Solace

Solace

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Last evening Copper and I ran down Folkstone Drive, reversed course at Blue Robin Court and returned via the woods trail. The path was still damp from last week’s rains, and I was glad I wore my old tennis shoes.

It didn’t take long for the woods to work its magic, for my shoulders to drop and my breathing to slow, for my pace to adjust to a non-asphalt stride. I thought about the woods of my childhood, building forts, feeling vaguely disobedient, straying too far, staying too long.

I thought about how long the natural world has brought me comfort, a lifetime of solace in the out-of-doors.

It was as if I had always been walking, always been inhaling the fragrance of smooth, clay-packed soil and marshy creek water. The aromas had been closer to my nose then, since my nose had been closer to the ground. But if I inhaled deeply enough, I could smell them still.

Daisies!

Daisies!

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The daisy has all the simplicity of summer, and all the cheerfulness, too.

Daisies lined the roadsides of my drive to Kentucky last weekend. They clustered and nodded. They brightened and bobbed.

They softened the shaggy limestone cliffs of that part of the world, proof of the soil’s richness, a mantle for the ground, a bright penny for its thoughts.

“Long Live the King”

“Long Live the King”

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A quick trip to Kentucky last weekend plopped me down squarely in horse country on the big day. I watched American Pharoah clinch the Triple Crown only an hour away from the racetrack where he won the Derby.

There was a certain inevitability about the win, not just the odds and the sportscasters’ predictions but the three-year-old leading the entire race, his second-only-to-Secretariat pace, his supple gallop, his champion’s heart.

Only a few minutes before the race, the televised coverage took what I considered an unusual but  heartening turn. It showed a printing press whirring out a newspaper and speculated on what tomorrow’s headline would be.

Was I imagining this? A print newspaper? A headline? Not a click, a tweet or a post?

So yesterday, before I left Lexington, I picked up the newspaper. The Lexington Herald Leader‘s headline, which I regret I did not photograph, was “Long Live the King.” The Washington Post‘s, which I regret I could not photograph better, was “American History.”

American History in more ways than one.