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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Return: Some Perspective

The Return: Some Perspective

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A rainy-day return to the office. Low light, lowered expectations; today’s goal to survive. Grateful for a certain rainy-day coziness and the quiet required to work hard and long to meet deadlines.

Just coincidentally, I was reading a passage from  Shirley Hazzard’s Transit of Venus as I disembarked in D.C. “Girls were getting up all over London. In striped pyjamas, in flowered Viyella nightgowns, in cotton shifts they had made themselves and unevenly hemmed … They were putting the shilling in the meter and the kettle on the gas ring. … “

Ah, I’m feeling better already. I have a store-bought cotton nightgown. I have an electric tea kettle. I pay for gas by the month not the morning.

Hazzard continues: “It is hard to say what they had least of—past, present or future. It is hard to say how or why they stood it, the cold room, the wet walk to the bus, the office in which they had no prospects and no fun.”

Oh dear. Have I ever thought like this? Of course. Poor me, back from a lovely vacation to my comfortable office! Poor me, paid to write and edit!

Hazzard has put it in perspective: It could be worse, and it has been.

“Poor me” better get busy.

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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I was out early today, pounding the hard pavement instead of the hard sand. Hard sand softens footfall; hard pavement does not.

But here in the suburbs hard pavement is often the only choice.

I’m glad my thoughts are not yet hard. They are still vacation thoughts — dreamy, slow and in no hurry to return to reality.

So here, in their honor, a vacation photo.

Beach Traffic

Beach Traffic

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Foot traffic on a beach goes two directions— up and down along the strand and back and forth from towel to surf.

When I walk the beach I take the former. I’m a woman on a mission, moving quickly, arms swinging. I’m not alone in this purposeful movement. There are bikers and runners and beachcombers, all of us with goals in mind.

The bathers, on the other hand, amble easily toward the waves. They stop and start. They turn back. They pose for photographs. They brake for sand castles. 

Yesterday on the beach a man performed the slow, intricate steps of tai chi. He summoned up the calm of the ocean into his arms and legs. He was going neither up and down nor back and forth. He wasn’t going anywhere at all. He was simply being.

This is what I take with me from the beach.

Summer Radio

Summer Radio

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I had forgotten what it was like —the splash of pool or surf, laughter in the distance and always, always the radio. In many ways it was the sound of summer, the low simmer of pop tunes from the transistor.

With the advent of the Walkman decades ago and for many years now the iPod, music is only in our  ears and not our neighbor’s. But this week I’ve lounged beside a pool and listened to tunes from the 60s, 70s and 80s.

Can’t remember the songs themselves; they weren’t important. It was the whole experience: the scent of sunscreen, the movement of breeze, the heat of the sun. The radio sounds just completed the circle.

It’s the sort of summer I always remember, and this year it’s summer still.

Leaping Lizards

Leaping Lizards

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Alliteration aside, these critters really do leap. This little guy did. I was inching close to another reptile, a slender, smiling chameleon (they’re all slender and smiling to me), when I was startled almost to camera-dropping by this lizard.

One moment he was on the pavement and the next he was on the trunk of a palm tree, where I snapped this photo. And he stayed there long enough that I could snap several more.

There are no lizards where I live so I’ve been enjoying the fauna here. I probably look as strange to natives as the squirrel-gawking visitors to D.C. do to me.

Snowy Plover

Snowy Plover

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The beach steward approached me politely. “Do you see them?” he asked, pointing to what appeared to be a tiny clump of sand. “The snowy plover chicks, do you see them?”

And once my eyes figured out what to look for, I did. They were fluffy and small, puff balls on stick legs, running crazily around the sand. They were, I have to say, incredibly cute.

On earlier walks I’d noticed the roped-off sections of sand. Every beach has these areas now, for sea turtles or shore birds. But this was the first time I’d seen the animals a sanctuary aimed to protect.

“They’re an endangered bird,” the volunteer said, “And these chicks have just hatched.” Apparently, the tiny birds feed on insects only three to five hours after they hatch. They are independent little creatures, highly suited to survival, except that they camouflage themselves so successfully that beach walkers accidentally step on them. More beach walkers mean fewer adult snowy plovers.

“We’ve increased their  survival rate by 80 percent,” the volunteer said, explaining how he sits beside their nests for a few hours every week, keeping watch on the young birds.  “Sometimes the mama birds buzz me, or even peck at me.”

Not a problem
though, he shrugged, then gestured at the beach around us. “Not a
bad place to sit for a few hours. … And the babies only need about four weeks until they’re big enough to be safely on their own.”

“Here, read this,” he said, handing me a brochure. “You’ll become a snowy plover expert.”

I wouldn’t go that far. But I sure have become a snowy plover fan.


(BetterPhoto.com)

Scattered Clouds

Scattered Clouds

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The forecast when I landed Friday was for “scattered clouds.” A pleasant forecast, one I seldom think about — until I’m in the air.

Scattered clouds from above are steppingstones across a stream of blue.

They are tufts of cotton, shredded and fine.

They are companions, markers to the landscape below. They shadow and define it.

They are harmless, these scattered clouds, because they are not above me but below. They don’t block the sun.

Back to the Beach

Back to the Beach

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You know the ocean is there before you see it. And you would know it it even if you didn’t know it. The sky is lighter, and there is a vacancy to it. The surf is calling.

The roads that lead to the beach are in a hurry. The cars that ply them are laden with suitcases, floats, bicycles and kayaks. The cars are in a hurry, too.

But not the people. Those already here have traded hurry for calm. They saunter down the boulevard, amble idly down the strand.

But not this person. The beach rhythms are not yet mine.  I want to check in, lug my bags up the stairs, throw them in a corner, pull on my suit and run to the beach.

So that’s just what I did. And now I’m becoming one of those calm beach people, too.

The Wild West

The Wild West

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All this walking in the suburbs is fine — until the suburbanite can’t find her car. Yesterday I parked in  the new Reston-Wiehle Silver Line garage. I had errands to run after work and with easy access to the highway (which the station straddles) I was looking forward to an easy afternoon.

That was before I stepped out of the elevator on level A3 and realized I had no idea where I parked. The three-lane exit I spotted was nothing like the one-lane entrance I’d used at 6:12 a.m. But before I could panic, I spotted two yellow-vested Metro employees on golf carts.

“Can’t find your car?” the older one asked, in what sounded like a Greek accent.

“No,” I said.

“No one can,” he said. “Jump in. I’ll help you find it.”

 For the next ten minutes we trundled around the garage, and he regaled me with stories of car misplacements. “Many people think they parked here but actually parked in the other garage,” he said, shaking his head. Maybe he was making this up, but it made me feel better. At least I was in the right garage.

Aren’t these spots for hybrid cars?” I asked when we were on the highest level, A1. “No rules now,” he said. “This like Wild West.”

A few more loops of the garage and there was the car, right where I left it — on Level A3 of the Wild West. It was a wild ride.


(W.H.D. Koerner, Cattle Stampede)