Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Barbarism Comes to the Midwest

Barbarism Comes to the Midwest

Comments 0 Comment

When I chose Hanover College as a shy, bookish 18-year-old, it was mostly because of its beautiful Georgian style buildings, its stunning views of the Ohio River, the long wooded drive to the bluff where the campus clusters. Only later would I come to appreciate the school’s fine teachers and midwestern modesty.

But one thing that was true all the time — and still is, I hope — is that like many small liberal arts colleges, Hanover was set apart from the world. I remember once as a prank someone set up a sign at the beginning of that long, winding drive. It said: “You are leaving reality.” And you were. Hanover was a bubble where your only job was to study, make friends and learn to live on your own.

Yesterday I received an email from Hanover College. I already knew what it would say:  Abdul-Raman Kassig, formerly known as Peter, and a former student at Hanover, was executed by ISIS two days ago. His father, Ed, was at Hanover the same time I was; he lived a few doors down the hall from Tom. Peter Kassig was working to help the people of Syria when he was captured last year. He converted to Islam only recently; his name means “servant of the most merciful.”

Sheltered by tall trees and cornfields, sitting serenely above the Ohio River, Hanover College seemed the last place terrorism would reach. If it’s here, then it must be everywhere.

Begonias: The Sequel

Begonias: The Sequel

Comments 0 Comment

Were the begonias reading my blog? If so, not anymore. On Sunday morning, less than 24 hours after I wrote about their bravery and their continued existence, they finally succumbed to the low night temperatures.

I knew their time was up when I wrote about them, am surprised they lasted this long. It’s the life of an annual, as brief as the autumn leaves that I notice are so much more a part of this photograph than they seemed to be when I snapped the shot.

We know what happens next. In a few days or weeks I’ll rip out the old plants and let the soil rest until spring.

A few late roses are clinging to life, but for the most part the growing season is over. The begonias lasted from late May through mid-November —not a bad run.

Brave Begonias

Brave Begonias

Comments 0 Comment

Annuals don’t expect immortality, so I don’t give it to them. When the temperatures dip into the 20s and teens, I let them go gracefully, don’t bring them inside for the winter. I’ve seen enough thin, leggy geraniums to realize when a flower is past its prime.

Which is not to say I don’t care. This time of year I often look outside first thing to see if the begonias have made it another night.

And last night, for one more night, they did.

Long Way Home

Long Way Home

Comments 0 Comment
The Building Museum on a warm, sunny day.

When the day is long, the air is cold, and the bag is heavy (last night’s contents: piles of work, a newspaper, magazine, shoes and gym clothes) the Judiciary Square Metro stop is the natural choice. It’s five minutes away from the office.

But last night I pushed on to Metro Center. It’s a mile or so down the road: Down E Street to Ninth Street to F Street to Thirteenth and almost to G. I walk past the Building Museum and the National Portrait Gallery, through Chinatown and Penn Quarter, get almost as far as the White House before I head down to the train.

I catch snatches of conversation (“Well, there’s that Italian place down the street…”),  spot the remnants of a farmer’s market, see scores of tourists milling around the Spy Museum.

My bag is heavy, I think of the errands I have to run before I get home. But I’m glad I chose this route. I was tired when I started. But I’m not anymore.

Catch a Falling Star

Catch a Falling Star

Comments 0 Comment

Who knew a comet could be lassoed and landed? Who knew a comet could be stalked and studied, pursued and parsed, its every movement charted and filed, honed to such precision that its whereabouts could be predicted with certainty 300 million miles from earth?

A comet has always seemed a quicksilver thing to me. More light than substance, even though I know it has rock at its core.

Now this rock hurtling through space — the ultimate moving target — has become a laboratory. It may yield the secrets of our solar system, the scientists tell us. It is a “cosmological dream,” the Washington Post says.

A dream not just for cosmologists, I’d say, but for us all.


(Photo: Curiousread.com)

Legacy Trail

Legacy Trail

Comments 0 Comment

In Lexington this weekend I was in mild trail withdrawal. For a couple of years I’d noticed what appeared to be a paved path running along Newtown Pike, my way out of town. And every time I’d notice it, too late to explore, I’d tell myself, next time.

This time was next time, so I did a little Googling, figured out approximately where it began, and stumbled upon the Northside YMCA trailhead by a happy accident. This is no cross-county trail. It’s 12 miles, not 40, and it has a self-consciousness that the Fairfax County trail lacks.

But it did what all good trails do: It took me out of the here and now, plunked me down into some other realm where roads are crossed at odd angles and places I normally zoom by are viewed slowly and in great detail.

It was sunny when I started, but I walked so far that it was almost dark by the time I got back to my car. The lights of Lexington blinked in the distance. I was in my hometown but I was not. I was in some other place, on a trail.

My Favorite Veteran

My Favorite Veteran

Comments 0 Comment

Until March 20, 2014, World War II was for me a living entity. A part of history, yes, of course. But because my father was a tail gunner in a B-17 bomber and flew 35 raids out of East Anglia, it was also a part of family lore. I grew up hearing tales of London during the war, meeting girls under the clock in Victoria station, coming back to base to find empty bunks and chairs after a raid.

Since Dad died, the personal part of the war is by and large over me for me. It’s there only in a sepia-tinged way. Not my memories but someone else’s.

On the other hand, Veteran’s Day has taken on new meaning. Mom and I went to the cemetery on Sunday, left flowers by Dad’s headstone. I looked for a small American flag to plant there, but small American flags are in short supply in November.

I stood for a minute in the wan autumn sun, looked out at the rolling hills, the grazing cattle in the distance. Dad would like this spot, would probably make a joke about it — hey, not bad for a grave.

The optimism and jauntiness that served him well in wartime kept him going throughout his long life. And it spilled over to others, too; it certainly did to me.

So Veteran’s Day is no longer a musty, creaky holiday. It’s about doing one’s duty with a wink and a quip. It’s about grace under pressure. It’s about Dad.

Cold Weather Gait

Cold Weather Gait

Comments 0 Comment

Twice in the last few days I’ve dashed out for a stroll wearing one layer less than I should. I forget that it’s not summer anymore. The wind whistles up my sleeves, makes my teeth chatter.

As the weather grows colder, my walks get faster. In fact, they turn into jogs. I run to warm up and  slow to a walk only when I stop shivering.

 I’ve never been much of a cold-weather person, will never be one.

But every fall I remember this: A bitter, blustery day is less formidable once it’s been endured. Going out in all seasons is good for the soul.

Still Life with Leaves

Still Life with Leaves

Comments 0 Comment
Late afternoon, lowered light — the leaves await me. I start energetically, as usual, and before long have more piles than I have bags to hold them.
These aren’t even my leaves — at home there are more than this — but I suddenly want to be out there in the yard, in the chill.
Soon there are four bags and still more leaves. Something for tomorrow.
Sunlight and Shadow

Sunlight and Shadow

Comments 0 Comment

Each drive to and from Kentucky takes on a character of its own. Yesterday’s began with wet roads and misty mountains — but it didn’t stay that way.

One minute I was in sunlight and the next in shadow. One moment wearing sunglasses and the next not. A brisk breeze blew in from the west, sent leaves flying across the interstate asphalt. Flocks of birds wheeled in the wind, swirling and dipping and looking not unlike those spinning leaves.

I drove in and out of rain, in and out of radio contact, in and out of cruise control. I looked for a lesson in the changeability, and it wasn’t hard to find.

This will pass, that will pass. Everything will pass. As I write these words, what started as a gray day has suddenly turned sunny.