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Author: Anne Cassidy

Appreciation

Appreciation

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Sometimes when the wireless network is acting up and a website takes a long time to load, I remind myself how miraculous it all is. Here’s a technology that lets me read words someone is typing thousands of miles away. Here’s a technology that lets me do my work at home. Here’s a technology that lets me see pictures snapped minutes earlier on another continent.

Usually this little pep talk doesn’t work too well because I’m already miffed at the slow speed or the unreliability or whatever it is. I don’t understand the technology but have come to rely on it. And I realize, with dismay, that a moment of aggravation is not the best time to recapture the awe. Better to wait until things are smoother, till the website is up and running again.

But guess what? When the website is up and running I’m back to being oblivious, to taking at face value that which may as well be angels dancing on the head of a pin. It’s hard to appreciate things when they’re going well. Much better (but supremely difficult) to appreciate them when they don’t work at all.

Mosquito Bait

Mosquito Bait

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The mosquitoes are hungry. Like the lightening bugs and cicadas, thrown off their normal cycles by a rainy June, they are making up for lost time. In the case of the lightening bugs and cicadas, we have mid-July evenings full of light and sound. But in the case of the mosquitoes we could have (if we let them) — no evenings out at all.

Two nights ago I emerged from dinner on the deck with at least half a dozen bites. Last night half as many more. Most sane people would grab their plate and place mat and head into the house. But how many evenings allow for al fresco dining at 8 p.m.? How many sultry skies with darting bats and a half moon rising between the trees?

So I spray repellant, light candles and give myself — and the mosquitoes — a chance to stay up late.

Happy Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary!

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A year ago today I opened the Washington Post and saw in the pet adoption column not the usual picture of a cuddly kitten or perky puppy but the head shot of a parakeet. It was a close-up, since it fit  the same space that a larger critter would take.

What it revealed was a green parakeet (unlike our dear departed Hermes, who was eye-popping turquoise blue) with a noble profile and a look of intelligence about him. A parakeet who knew his good side. His name was Sid.

I called the Fairfax County Humane Society. “Is Sid still available?” I couldn’t believe the “yes.”  I thought people would be beating down the doors to adopt this little bird.

But they weren’t.  And we did. And just for good measure we got Sid a lady friend — Dominique (our name, not theirs).

When Hermes was here the house was bird-centric to a fault. Sid and Dominique must roll with the punches. We do not read them a bedtime story. We do not talk to them night and day. But we love them and care for them and hang their cage from a hook in the kitchen where their feathers fall perilously close to the kitchen table. They’re part of the family now.

I write these words to the sound of parakeets chirping. It’s good to have birds again!



Photo: Claire Capehart

Heat Wave

Heat Wave

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The monsoon season has led directly to the heat wave season. We did not pass “Go.” We did not collect $200. It was a harsh transition.

But I don’t mind. The heat warnings and Code Oranges roll right past me. It’s the middle of July. It’s supposed to be hot!

So I keep walking, keep eating dinner on the deck, keep bouncing on the trampoline (those last two in the evening, when it’s “only” 90). I’m lucky. I work in an air-conditioned office, sleep in an air-conditioned house. I’m dabbling in summer.

Still, it’s nice to have it here.  

Collegiality

Collegiality

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A hard day yesterday, one of several. There was too much work and not enough time. There were the typical absurdities. But there were also revelations, shared laughter, plans for drinks after work. There was gallows humor.  In short, there was collegiality.

Every group of people creates its own force field. As we interview candidates for openings in the department I think a lot about the ineffable qualities that make for a trusted colleague. It’s a similar approach, a complementary attitude, a sense of humor. Sometimes you get it right; sometimes you don’t.

People who write have a tendency to get caught in webs of their own thinking. It was in part to avoid this trap that I entered the office world again. I can’t say I haven’t second-guessed my decision hundreds of times. But I didn’t yesterday.

Collegiality is often a haphazard affair, a
byproduct, the luck of the draw. But once you’ve known the joy and purpose of working together toward a common goal it’s difficult to go back.

Scentscape

Scentscape

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Walking through a field of clover the other day, I caught a whiff of childhood. The sweetness of the  purple flower mixed with the aroma of cut grass, loamy earth and hot sun. The scents were radiating from below, up past my knees and into my nose.

But there was a time when those smells didn’t have as far to travel. A time when I was closer to the ground. We all were.

No wonder, then, that the world was full of fragrance. That we were storing up a lifetime of olfactory memories and triggers, a scentscape.

It was the world, and we were just coming alive to it. And it can be there for us again. Just take a deep breath.

Journey Without Maps

Journey Without Maps

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I just started reading a book by this title. It’s written by Graham Greene, whose work I usually enjoy, although not sure about this one. Still, you can’t beat the title.

In fact, the title itself has me thinking. “Journey without maps” sounds so exotic, so adventurous — traveling to a place beyond civilization, where rivers have not been charted, roads not cleared. How many places can we go now that are unexplored, mysterious, limitless in possibility? How many of those places would we want to visit?

Like many titles, this one doesn’t work anymore. Now we would call it “Journey Without A Phone.”

As the map — like the land line, the address book, (heck, the book itself) — joins the slide rule and the 8-track player on the road to oblivion, we who remember and cherish these items are embarking on our own journeys. And they, too, are journeys without maps.

Moon Garden

Moon Garden

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A colleague asked if I’d heard of moon gardens — and now I can’t stop thinking about them.

I imagine a balmy night, slight breeze, whiff of honeysuckle. A full moon rising. White plants overlooked in the daytime shine out in the darkness: dusty miller, sweet alyssum, night phlox.

And then there are flowers that only bloom at night: moon flower,  four o’clocks, evening primrose.

Some plants are more fragrant in the evening:  flowering tobacco, pinks, night gladiolus.

Or maybe it is that we, the tired gardeners, are more open to their scent.

A Walker in Galoshes

A Walker in Galoshes

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The rain gauge says we received more than two inches last night. And it’s still raining. There are more flash flood warnings, which we take seriously around here, honeycombed as we are with the rivulets and tributaries of Little Difficult Run.

I read today that unlike hurricanes and tornadoes, flash floods are as deadly now as they were years ago. The main reason: People drive into deep water.

What about walking into deep water? Less of a problem, obviously, since most of us aren’t strolling through a thunderstorm. But still, it’s time for caution. For changing the route. For umbrellas and ponchos and galoshes.

One of these days we’ll have summer. Until then, I’ll keep checking the rain gauge.

(Speaking of rain gauges, the bamboo makes a pretty good one.)

Small Favors

Small Favors

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I read in today’s Writer’s Almanac that July 11 is the birthday of E. B. White, essayist, journalist and the author of the beloved children’s books Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web. Here’s what White said about the genesis of Stuart Little:

“I took a train to Virginia, got out, walked up and down in the
Shenandoah Valley in the beautiful springtime, then returned to New York
by rail. While asleep in an upper berth, I dreamed of a small character
who had
the features of a mouse, was nicely dressed, courageous, and questing.
When I woke up, being a journalist and thankful for small favors, I made
a few notes about this mouse-child — the only fictional figure ever to
have honored and disturbed my sleep.”

 What caught my eye is the phrase “being a journalist and thankful for small favors.” As usual, White  nails it in a few words. When one makes a living asking other people questions, one is grateful for information. And inspiration.

It took 15 years after the mouse-child appeared in his dream for White to complete the manuscript for Stuart Little. Talk about inspiration. I’m grateful for small favors.


First Edition Cover from Wikipedia