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Author: Anne Cassidy

Two for the Road, One at Home

Two for the Road, One at Home

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Yesterday I haunted the Air France website, checking first to see that Celia’s flight to Paris had arrived, then to see if her flight to Africa had taken off and, finally, to be sure that it had landed.

It did! She arrived in Cotonou, Benin, on Beninese Independence Day. Her big sister was waiting for her. What seemed preposterous two years ago — that I would have even one daughter in Africa — is now even more so. I have two!

Two girls on an adventure, two girls buzzing around on the backs of motorcycles (trying not to think about that part), two (girls) for the road.

Luckily, I also have a daughter who travels more conservatively, who even as a toddler would ask, “How we get home, Mama?” when we were on vacation.

We need both types: the micro and the macro. The ones on the road and the ones waiting for them back at home.

Seasonal Confusion

Seasonal Confusion

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A walker knows what time of year it is, feels it in her bones, knows it because she’s out in the elements and notices the first brisk winds of fall, the tang in the air that means winter is near.

But lately this walker is confused.  On my morning walk from Metro to the office I thought it might be early fall. Gray skies, drizzle, an occasional leaf pasted to the sidewalk.

No, it’s still summer. A strange summer, to be sure. But only August 1.

I glance up at the sky, pull my sweater tighter around me, and make my way quickly inside.

Still Day

Still Day

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The clouds have pulled a big curtain between us and the sun. For once I don’t mind. It’s cool and still for this time of year. Insects muted.

A distant truck downshifts as it maneuvers over the speed hump. I hear the clatter of plastic wheels across pavement as the little boys across the street play a summer game.

In the backyard birds dart and warble. They like these kind of days, too, everyone taking it easy.

I stop for a moment, catch my breath, see the big picture in the page proofs I’m reading, glimpse the forest beyond the trees.

Sidewalks Gleaming

Sidewalks Gleaming

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Wet pavement, steam rising — an urban phenomenon I’d forgotten until I started disembarking two stops early and walking a mile through the city some mornings. It’s the ritual hosing of the sidewalk to start the day.

There is some pride of place here. The rest of the city can get by with grit and grime, but not our patch of pavement. It will be clean, rinsed by the waters of dawn, sun barely glinting above the horizon.

Some custodians, the polite ones, pause briefly to let pedestrians tiptoe through the puddles. Others dare you to cross.

Though a temporary annoyance, it’s all for the best. It’s a salutation, a baptism, a way to start the day.



(Pretend you can see the sidewalks in this picture.)

Place, Continued

Place, Continued

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I love it here. If this place was a boy or a girl, I would marry it. Maybe it’ll be legal to marry places one day. And if so, then I will marry this one.

— Meg Wolitzer, The Interestings

The Interestings begins at a summer camp, where a group of artistic kids meet, give themselves the (ironic) name “the interestings” and forge friendships that will last all their lives. It’s a book that explores what it means to be talented and what it takes to build a happy life.

The line that grabbed me was spoken by a 15-year-old dancer about to be sent home from camp because of an eating disorder. She’s a minor character, the second generation the reader gets to see at the camp, but her experience mirrors that of “the interestings.”

The feeling she describes, an ecstatic connection with place, is probably as much about people as anything else. But haven’t we all felt that way once or twice, coming upon a town or a vista or an old house in the country to which we feel an immediate attraction?

It’s not always rational or easy to maintain, but it is real.

Vacations Past

Vacations Past

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It’s summer vacation season, and I’m remembering trips from the past. This photo is from the last big trip we all took together, four years ago now.

The scenery was magnificent. We drove down long valleys and past snow-topped mountains. We sampled once again from the riches of this continent, reminded ourselves how big the world is, how impossibly grand.

One of the times a family is most intensely a family is when all its members are crammed into a single vehicle. Sometimes too intensely a family. Which is why we haven’t taken another family vacation since then.

But the scenery, and the memories, remain.

Air Test

Air Test

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Last night I slept with the windows open, so I woke up this morning thinking about the difference between air-conditioned coolness and bona fide coolness.

I prefer the bona fide, but why? Would I know the difference if I was blindfolded and led into two random, air-differentiated rooms.

I think yes! The former reminds me of walking into a deep freeze, artificial chill, wearing sweaters in the summer. The latter has more moisture in it and therefore more texture. Because it comes in from the outside, it is fragrant and humming with low-level insect buzz. I could tell the difference in a minute … I think.

But this morning I don’t have to. The windows are open, the air is cool and the blue skies shimmer with promise.

Blue Ridge

Blue Ridge

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We live an hour from the Blue Ridge, but there are places near here, places so near I can walk to them, that give me a tantalizing glimpse.

A smudged line in the distance. A bank of green in the foreground.

So pleasing to the eye, this mixture of green and blue, of meadow and mountain, of the up-close and the faraway.

Bouncing in the Dark

Bouncing in the Dark

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Given the amount of daylight hours we enjoy, it seems ridiculous that I would run out of time and have to bounce on the trampoline after dark. But that’s exactly what’s happening. Long days and late dinners mean I’m jumping at 9:30 p.m.

Truth be told, I’m growing to like this hour. The night is alive with katydids and crickets and frog sounds. Bats swoop from tree to tree. The to-do list that formulates itself automatically when I can see what needs to be done is mercifully out of mind in the darkness.

Instead, my eyes are drawn to the house, to the lamp light glowing gold, to the kitchen window that winks and blinks as the refrigerator door is open and closed, to the people moving in and out of view.

No longer in it, I now can see it whole and entire — my sanctuary and my nemesis.

I know it’s late. I know I should go in. But I thumb through my playlists, find one more song — and keep bouncing.

Hummingbirds!

Hummingbirds!

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Yesterday I worked outside, editing articles in the heat and humidity, sitting still enough that birds and butterflies flitted by me, raising small eddies of air as they passed.

This little guy has been visiting us often. Lured by three feeders that were started early enough to get us on his (her?) gravy train. Or maybe “he” is actually “they,” a pair.

In the last two weeks I’ve sat close enough to hummingbirds to hear their wings whir and their brave little cheeps, to see them dodge bees as they angle toward the feeder. I’ve watched them fly off, sated (at least for 10 minutes), to perch briefly on the dead limb of an otherwise living red oak.

They are so tiny I can barely see them there, a bump on a branch. But I squint my eyes to observe their rare pause. Otherwise, I’ve seen them only in motion, their improbably tiny bodies vibrating with the effort of staying aloft.  Like many members of the animal kingdom, they set a good example. They never stop.