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Author: Anne Cassidy

Sideways

Sideways

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It’s part of the Charleston allure, the way so many single family homes in the historic district sit sideways on their lots, presenting to passerby not their ample fronts but their narrower sides.  

It wasn’t for tax purposes, but for privacy and tranquility that the airy old manses on Tradd or Legare turned their shoulders to the world.

I didn’t enter one of these homes, but I can imagine the cool breezes that would flow from the portico ceiling fans. There would be rocking chairs, of course, and tall glasses of iced tea, beaded with moisture. 

To enter you’d step through a portal that led from street to porch. A false door? Perhaps, but it provided an extra layer of protection between inside and out. 

The Power of Preservation

The Power of Preservation

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A walking tour of Charleston yesterday revealed many interesting facts, two of which are related, I think. This southern city had the nation’s earliest and most successful preservation laws — and it has now surpassed Las Vegas in the number of weddings per year.

That last one is a dubious distinction, but it indicates that people want to be here, that there’s a charm and scale about the place that boosts tourism and the bottom line. 

Old buildings, narrow alleyways, hidden courtyards — these create a sense of place that’s often lacking in this country. If only more of our cities had preserved their pasts, instead of bulldozing them. 

(The Powder Magazine is South Carolina’s oldest government building, completed in 1713. The Colonial Dames of America saved it from demolition in 1902.)

Bridge at Sunset

Bridge at Sunset

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The Port of Savannah is the third largest in the U.S., plied day and night by colossal container ships. But when I snapped this shot it seemed to be holding its breath, and the Talmadge Bridge seemed delicate as lace.

Today we leave this city for its cousin across the river — Charleston, South Carolina, with its French Quarter, waterfront and Rainbow Row.

We may take another span to get there, but a bridge will be involved, just the same. 

(As it turns out, we took this one.)

Savannahhh!

Savannahhh!

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In 2015 it was Big Sky, Montana. In 2016, Chicago, followed by Huston in 2017 and St. Louis the year after that. And then we ran out of young’uns getting married, or at least ones having big weddings. 

This weekend, we made up for lost time. Savannah obliged by rolling out a pair of warm days and sultry evenings, perfect for strolling the brick-paved walks of this gracious southern city. 

I’m here to see people not scenery, but the place has wowed me just the same. 

The Low Country

The Low Country

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There was one point in yesterday’s drive when the GPS inexplicably sent us off on a 17-mile detour, presumably because of a traffic jam ahead.

Whether or not this was necessary — or a wild goose chase — may never be known. But though it had already been a long trip and I was more than ready to be done with it, I tried to take in the surroundings, to feel the flatness of the land and the nearness of the water.

It was only then, during that brief sojourn away from the buzz and roar of I-95, that I felt I was truly in the low country.

A Novel Town

A Novel Town

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St. Bonaventure Cemetery. Forsyth Park. Jones Street. The Bird Girl statue. 

I’ve been on a crash course to learn about Savannah, Georgia, before we leave for that beguiling city for a family wedding. 

Already I’m encouraged, since many of the sights the city pitches are ones made famous from a novel that became a movie. 

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was an unlikely bestseller when it came out in 1994, but went on to become a feature film that has helped to define Savannah as a Southern Gothic playground, dripping with Spanish moss. 

My walking shoes are ready. 

(Photo: VisitSavannah.com)

Bowling in the Rain

Bowling in the Rain

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We’ve had some rain lately, which reminds me of one morning in Oban, Scotland, when I was awakened by the sound of shouts and laughter wafting up from the bowling green beneath the windows of the B&B. 

It was pouring — but that wasn’t stopping the lawn bowlers. They were swaddled in rain gear, playing their game with the cool concentration of professionals. Cool being the operative word because it was about 50 degrees in mid-August.

I admired the pluck of the players, and later in the day, when it was warmer and dryer, circled back to watch the game. I still can’t say I understand it. But I do get the spirit of it, which seems to be, forget about the weather — have fun! A good lesson to keep in mind. 

Cloudy Day

Cloudy Day

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A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath. 

The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself. 

This morning I wake to more rain. I’m hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I’m lucky it will be still and cloudy again.

Babies and Blankies

Babies and Blankies

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Parents in the know understand that blankets are no longer recommended for babies in the first year of life. Newborns are swaddled, infants wear wear sleep sacks, and only at one year of age are little ones thought ready for the real thing.

Who am I to argue against the wisdom of experts? That said, I do enjoy tucking a soft blanket around a sleeping baby. 

So yesterday I was thrilled to do just that with Aurora Anne, 12 months and two weeks of age. This morning I folded the blankie that covered her and put it away. If I held it close and inhaled it deeply I could pick up a trace of her sweet baby scent. 

The Red Load

The Red Load

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Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized that I had enough pink, purple, maroon, and crimson clothing to comprise a red load. 

As a kid, I learned to corral my reds into a separate washing machine load, and for many years — with three little people’s laundry to do as well as my own — I often did. 

But it’s been years since I washed that many clothes at one time, so I usually cheat. I tuck a red plaid shirt or cherry-colored tunic into a dark load, use cold water and hope for the best. 

I’m rejoicing now to see all these reds in one place because it means I’ve finally moved beyond my decidedly neutral (gray, navy, etc.) wardrobe into more colorful garb. My laundry style will just have to keep up with it.