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Author: Anne Cassidy

Schedule Adjustment

Schedule Adjustment

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Here are phrases that chill the hearts of Metro commuters — “car offloading,” “single tracking,” “track maintenance.” The one I heard yesterday — “schedule adjustment” — elicited no ire, only a wry grin.

Come on! Is Metro running so smartly and speedily and easily that it needs to pause to avoid arriving early? Couldn’t it just be ahead of time for once and put that anomaly in its karmic bank account against future late arrivals?

But no, we sat several minutes or more at some insanely early hour — doors wide open to the wind and to customers who dash into the car breathlessly thinking they’d just made it only to realize that they could have taken their time and sauntered in. It doesn’t take long before they realize that this train isn’t going anywhere for a few minutes — and that now they are part of a schedule adjustment, too.

All Lit Up

All Lit Up

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The Christmas tree moves slowly from hillside to hearth. It spent its first week in a bucket beside the garage, not the most glamorous entrance but a respectable path to greatness. It’s what happens to trees cut early. The old “hurry up and wait,” yes, but something more — a tree chosen by all of us had to be chosen early.

We wrestled the tree into the house on Sunday but until yesterday it sat darkly in the corner, displacing the console, lamp and rocking chair that are usually there. But yesterday Claire visited, worked her magic, and now the tree lacks only ornaments.

As the tree evolves, I have time to contemplate its significant moment of passage. Is it the choosing, the cutting, the standing, the watering? It is, I’m convinced, the illuminating. The red, blue, green, orange and white bulbs (not the fairy lights, but the real thing, the opaque C7s) have turned a field tree into an emblem.

The lights are on, the corner is bright again. Christmastime is here.

Hallelujah!

Hallelujah!

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We left warm dry homes to venture out on a cold, wet night. We left willingly, joyfully; we left to sing “The Messiah.”

There are hundreds, maybe thousands of “Messiah” Sing Alongs held through the country — from the grandiose ones with full symphony orchestras to the most humble held in church basements and community centers.

Last night’s concert featured four soloists, a conductor and a crack organist who didn’t miss a note. The chorus was, well, us — people who’ve hung onto their old scores from the first time they sang the oratorio in college or choir. People who probably worked a full day and did no vocal exercises before arriving. The most enthusiastic and wondrous of choirs. 

We may not have hit every note — in “His Yoke Is Easy” it is doubtful whether I hit any right notes — but as we belted out “King of kings/Forever and ever/And Lord of lords/Forever and ever/Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” it didn’t matter one little bit.

The Slow Season

The Slow Season

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The cars were glazed with ice this morning, and the pavement was suspiciously shiny. I crept up to the Metro Parking Garage leaving lots of follow room between my car and the cars in front of me.

A winter pace is upon us. I slow down on bridges and ramps, which — we’re always told — freeze first. (Because, of course, they do.) I walk self-consciously, noticing each footfall, the breaks in pavement, the gleaming patches where ice might lurk.

Winter does not promote speeding — or fast movement of any kind. Instead, it slows and mutes us, makes us notice what is right at hand. It is, in that way, a steadying, calming time.

What Is It About?

What Is It About?

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In his farewell to Washington Post readers yesterday, reviewer Jonathan Yardley said that throughout his 33 years at the Post (writing more than 3,000 book reviews), he came to the task as a “journalist not a literateur.”

I have high literary standards and delight in
the expression of strong opinion, literary and otherwise, but I also
read a book as if I were a reporter: looking for what it is “about” in
the deepest sense of the word, determining what matters about it and
what doesn’t, trying to give the reader a feel for what it is like as
well as passing judgment on it.

When I led workshops at the Writer’s Center, “what is it about?” was my standard question. It’s the one I ask myself as a writer, too. I suppose journalism has a lot to do with it, but it seems like common sense, too. If a writer has nothing to say or if the point is hopelessly muddled, there is no communication.

I like to think my journalist roots keep me honest, anchor me in sound thought and clear language. Often this is more aspiration than fact. But it’s a worthy goal — and one I was glad to see confirmed.

The Creches

The Creches

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They came from Peru and Uganda and Poland and Germany. They were made of wood and porcelain, silver and stone. They were small and large, sweet and serious.

The creches I saw this morning after Mass were assembled for blessing. They were family heirlooms, souvenirs of travel, some a little battered around the edges.

The nativity scene I grew up with is in no shape to photograph. It’s battered and chipped and its little cardboard stable would be in the trash if I didn’t own it.  But it figures into my earliest Christmas memories and is precious for that reason.

This is a new creche, a little ornament I bought today. I’m giving it to Claire for her first Christmas tree. I hope it will work its way into some memories, too.

The Dome in Darkness

The Dome in Darkness

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Driving in this morning, dark skies, rain on my windshield, I waited, as I always do, for that first glimpse of the city. It’s a low city, D.C., but there is a spot on the Roosevelt Bridge where you can see both the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome.

The Monument, earthquake repairs complete, stands in all its unsheathed glory. Now it’s the Capitol dome’s turn for repairs. It’s been more than 50 years since the last major work was done, and the dome needs cast iron filler, new windows and paint. Without them, the dome — and even artwork in the rotunda — will be in danger.

I’d dreaded the project, worried about how it would spoil the view of the Capitol. But what a picture it makes at night. The dome glows within its cage, giving the scaffolding an airy, ethereal feel and amplifying the impression the dome always gives, which is that it floats above the rest of the city.

The only difference is that now it looks a bit fuzzy around the edges. The scaffolding — and the darkness — make their own artistic statements.


(Photo: Courtesy Architect of the Capitol.)

That’s E-Life

That’s E-Life

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Speaking of the dark side, I’ve spent much of the last two days thinking, writing about and dealing with technology. The dealing-with part is funny, because while covering a competition in which students presented various expert legal systems (high-level stuff for my feeble brain), I was confronted with a tech emergency of my own.

My little digital tape recorder was suddenly beeping and declaring itself full. I made do the old-fashioned way — by taking notes. But the juxtaposition of the two events made me smile.

We are riding so high with our smart phones and tablets and computers — until we aren’t! That’s E-life, I guess.

(Old-school knowledge delivery vehicles.)

Cyber Shopping

Cyber Shopping

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I have not yet gone completely over to the dark side, but night before last I spent several hours succumbing to the unique pleasures of Cyber Monday. It’s a strange experience, shopping online. I’ve done it often before, of course, but never is such, uh, volume.

There are the obvious differences: One is not strolling through a store, searching for and finding and then touching the merchandise. One is sitting on the couch in fuzzy pink bedroom slippers while a cold rain falls. The coziness of the living room may inspire more of a spending frenzy. But I don’t think so. The bargains speak for themselves.

More to the point, there is an unreality to it. The slacks and sweaters and blouses look like paper doll clothes. I could almost cut them out and fold their little tabs over the shoulders of cardboard models.

But instead I whip out my tired old credit card, type in the numbers and click “Buy.” It’s all so easy and virtual — until the boxes and the bills start arriving. I’m expecting them tomorrow.


(Even cyber gifts must be wrapped in real paper.)

Back to Africa

Back to Africa

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I tracked Suzanne’s flight across the ocean — her plane was off the coast of northern Europe by the time I went to bed — and am now checking the status of her connecting flight to Africa. That plane is flying south over France, the Mediterranean, Algeria, Mali and Niger, and is scheduled to arrive in Cotonou at 9:30 tonight (3:30 my time) — 24 hours after we said goodbye at Dulles Airport.

Suzanne returns to a life I can barely imagine — a place where taxis are motorcycles, kings ride on horseback, and electricity and running water are sometime things. Her digs in the capital are relatively deluxe compared to her life in village, where she drew water from a pump, took bucket baths and shared a latrine.

What struck me most from the stories she told is the deep faith of the people. Some worship Jesus, others worship Allah, most all believe in magic of one sort or the other. Many educated people live their whole lives without riding on a plane or leaving their country. Their lives are hemmed in by the unknown far more than ours are.

I was thinking of this today while reading Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness: “‘The Unknown,’ said Faxes’s soft voice in the forest, ‘the unforetold, the unproven, that is what life is based on. Ignorance is the ground of thought. Unproof is the ground of action.”