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Author: Anne Cassidy

Taking the Long Way Home

Taking the Long Way Home

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If the car is in the shop, then the driver rides the bus and walks home from the corner … which is two miles away. This is fine, this is good, this is necessary, even. One should always walk the routes (or part of the routes) one drives. It’s a good way to stay humble behind the wheel.

But yesterday’s stroll wasn’t humility-provoking. It was liberating. It was divine. Late afternoon, perfect summer weather (hot but not unbearable), sweater over my shoulders, music in my ears. I crossed the busy road early in the stroll (whew! worst part behind me) and hit a good stride as I ambled beneath the hedges that lead to Fox Mill.

Here’s what I never would have seen from the car: A shy pudgy girl with some sort of instrument in a padded case on her back; we traded smiles. Was it a cello? I think so.

Two workmen mixing cement for the fence posts they were installing. Beside them, almost hidden in the grass, was a microwave plugged into a long extension cord and a couple of empty Tupperware containers. Lunch!

The last leg of my walk was along a little dirt path that I don’t usually walk in work clothes. There was a bracing incongruity to it all, and most of all to sauntering up to the house — arriving home on my own steam — that made the rest of the day a breeze.

There’s a lot to be said for taking the long way home.

Morning Salute

Morning Salute

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I write from the deck, early though it is. I want to be with the morning as it slowly unfolds. Want to be with those first birds — the bold? the restless? — as they greet the day.

It feels like rain. The air is full of moisture and a steady breeze flows in from the west. The early storm is an aberration and for that reason exciting. We are accustomed to the blistering heat that collapses of its own weight, that can only be released in a burst of sound and light and rain. But the morning storm is a riddle to me. Has it been brewing all night? Is it left over from the heat of yesterday?

Whatever the case, the dawn continues to unfold, shapes slowly emerging from the backyard, first the azalea bush and then its individual leaves. First the day lilies and then their buds. I can even see through the backyard and across the street now. Two red oaks, their tall trunks like masts, emerge from the darkness to salute the new day.

Did Someone Say Fudge?

Did Someone Say Fudge?

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It’s the last day of school in Fairfax County, which means little to me now except less traffic in the morning. It was our first year in 20 to be rid of elementary, middle or high school dates and deadlines.

But today is still special. It’s the day that for years we celebrated with matinees, lunches out, shaving cream fights at the bus stop — and a peculiar ritual: watching “The Music Man” and making fudge.

The tradition started more than a decade ago, when we popped in a video of this musical to watch in the evening after an afternoon at the pool. There’s a scene where Marian and her mother make fudge. And so we started making fudge, too. It’s a delicious summer pastime anyway, fudge being the most boardwalk of candies.  But even if it wasn’t, we’re conditioned now: Hum the first few bars of “76 Trombones” or “Till There Was You” and we’ll start to salivate.

So tonight, Celia and Claire will gather at the house and we will measure out the sugar and the cocoa powder and the milk. We’ll set the pan on the stove and tend it till it bubbles and boils. We’ll test it (often) and finally take it off the flame, beat it to glossiness and pour it onto a plate. If it all works according to plan we will be on a sugar high before it’s dark.

School’s out for summer! Who needs champagne?

Two Years and Counting

Two Years and Counting

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Claire and I escorted Suzanne to the train station when she left for the Peace Corps two years ago. It was Sunday, and not much traffic. Inside the train station, another story. The ancient rituals of leave-taking. Ours loomed large. As well it should. I haven’t laid eyes on my oldest daughter for two years to the day. When I tell people how long it’s been, they will often ask, “Skype?” “Once,” I tell them. Only once. It’s a lack of electricity compounded by a lack of bandwidth compounded by, well, Africa, I guess.

But I have seen Suzanne through the eyes of her father, sister and friend, all of whom have visited.  And I hear her every week or two on the phone.  And between these first-hand accounts and my mother’s ear listening for tone, inflection and the spaces between the words — I know what I need to know. She is, for the moment (God willing, “Inshallah,” as she has taken to saying), happy and healthy (minus — or plus! — an intestinal parasite or two).

Last year when I write “One Year and Counting” I thought Suzanne would be home by now. But she will stay another year in Benin, take on another Peace Corps job, another challenge. Still, my count-down to seeing her is only months, since she’ll be back this fall on home leave.

One observation I’ll repeat from last year’s post, because it only deepens with time: Suzanne is the happiest person I know.

(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

Swampy Places

Swampy Places

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In recent rambles I’ve come across my old friend the red-winged blackbird. Sometimes I catch him in the Franklin Farm meadow (what’s left of it after the mowers strafe through). And from April till October I never fail to spy him in the cattails of the West Ox containment pond. Like him, I prefer swampy places.

He is a supple fellow, able to perch on a thin, waving branch. For this reason I think he has excellent balance, a weighted way of looking at the world. He takes life as it comes, which most birds do, I suppose.

I admire his jaunty attitude, the dab of scarlet on his wing, his trilling call. He flashes through the world with more majesty than most.


(No pictures of him, only his habitat.)

The Berries

The Berries

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Summer begins today and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate it than with a picture of my go-to fruit this June, local strawberries. I’ve been hunting them down like a foodie (which I am not) and with mixed success.

According to a vendor at the Reston Farmer’s Market, where I missed the berries by four hours a few weeks ago — “You have to get here by 8 if you want them,” he said, and I sauntered in there at noon! — the crop was off by at least a third this year.

And the crop was late, too. A pick-your-own place I looked into pushed back its start time by two weeks. I’m blaming both the quantity and tardiness on our harsh winter.

But I found a farmer’s market downtown, and at the last stall, a small selection of overpriced berries. I’m not saying how much these beauties cost. Let’s just say they’ve been worth every penny.

Summer Reading (in Tandem)

Summer Reading (in Tandem)

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Yesterday on the way home from work, I picked up a quart of local strawberries, a loaf of French bread and two books. I like thinking of books that way, as staple and delight.

When at the library I saw the poster for the summer reading program, which starts today. “Paws to Read” is the logo.

It all rushed back to me then. The lists of titles each of my girls would keep — each in her own distinctive scrawl. Our trips to the library on sultry afternoons, laden with bags of picture books and chapter books. Searching the shelves for old favorites — and discovering new ones in the process. The coupons the girls received upon completion. Redeeming them for a cookie at the bakery or an eraser at the office supply store.

I live in a different universe now, but the girls and I still trade titles and lists and favorites. We may not read together anymore, but we do read in tandem.

(Illustration: Courtesy Fairfax County Public Library)

End of the Beginning

End of the Beginning

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We practiced brush back down, shuffle ball change, time steps and breaks (single, double and triple). I continue to marvel at the many ways a foot can touch the floor.

But last night’s dance class was different. It was my last basic beginning tap. After a two-week break I’ll move up to … drum roll, please … advanced beginning tap!

Which makes me think of Winston Churchill: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” 

I looked it up. This from the Churchill Society: “After a series of defeats from Dunkirk to Singapore, Churchill could finally tell the House of Commons that ‘we have a new experience. We have victory — a remarkable and definite victory.” It was the Battle of Egypt.

Less than two weeks since the D Day anniversary and I’m comparing my tap dance class to the Allied victory in Europe. What can I say? It’s early; that’s all.

Light After Dinner

Light After Dinner

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Last night I sat on the deck after dinner watching the daylight drain away. The air was
full of moisture and I followed the bats as they darted through the air. They were invisible until they crossed a patch of still-blue sky. 
The wind picked up, moving
the tallest oak branches. They might be palms waving in a tropical
breeze, the fringed opening to an underwater cave, guardians of heaven.
As I sat there, the sky darkened and a faint star blinked
beyond the blue. Frogs sang and lightning bugs danced ever higher in the sky.
It was after 9 but I didn’t want to go inside. 
On nights like these it’s easy to believe that summer will never end, that it will always be light after dinner, that there will always be more time. None of it true, of course. But lovely to believe just the same. 
Gratitude

Gratitude

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Parents need children, I once wrote, because they help them remember what it was like to be coming alive to the world. As a parent to young adults, I will amend that slightly. Parents need children because they remind them what it was like to be … a young adult. And no matter how wondrous and exciting that can be, it makes me appreciate every creak in my middle-aged body.

What prompts this revelation? Having one daughter return from a four-day music festival, for one thing. Apparently it was difficult to sleep more than a few hours at a time there because the music blared all night. No shade, no quiet, no privacy. No thanks!

And then, from another daughter, a description of her Monday. A double shift at the restaurant: working lunch followed by a two-hour break when she ran and worked out at the gym followed by working dinner. Waitresses are on their feet constantly. I remember because I once was one.

So I head into Tuesday glad that I’m not 19 or 22 anymore. Takes some of the sting out of the day, doesn’t it?

(Photo: Claire Capehart)