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Author: Anne Cassidy

Candles in the Darkness

Candles in the Darkness

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Some houses have candles in their windows. Others, tasteful white twinkle lights around trees limbs and branches. There are spotlit doors with wreaths. And there are icicle lights, easiest to install if you have a slight overhang, which we do not.

A few years ago people started putting not just one large wreath on the front door, but smaller wreaths on every front-facing window, a holiday-decorating escalation that seems like it would be overkill but can look surprisingly nice when glimpsed from afar.

The house behind us drips in icicle lights and spotlit trees, and the house behind that features a snowman and reindeer and strings of lights shining from tree to tree, giving the place a fiesta feel.

Our own house has colored lights along the roof line, around the door, across the shrubbery and up the lamp post. The window candles are missing in action but should be up soon.

We are, in short, decked out for the season. At least we are until I plug in my hair dryer and blow the fuses (which has been happening far too often lately). But except for these black-outs, our house and the others in Folkstone have become what we need most right now: candles in the darkness.  

Photo of Bull Run Lights Festival: Virginia.org

Eggnog and Other Matters

Eggnog and Other Matters

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Discussing seasonality with a Millennial:

“Why can’t you buy eggnog year round?”

“Because it’s a holiday thing.”

“But if you like it so much, why not drink it all year?”

Because life is not about the words but the space around them. Because music is not about the sound but the silence, too. Because eggnog tastes better when you sip it only a few weeks a year.

The lesson is lost, though. This is a generation raised on winter strawberries and music you download instantly and sometimes for free from the Internet. They do not save dimes and quarters and trudge up to Wheeler’s Drugstore to buy a single.

For them, there is no time between action and reaction. They don’t yet realize that can be the sweetest time of all.

Night Sky

Night Sky

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I try to keep luddite posts to a minimum, but the new phone is making this difficult. To begin with, I’m intimidated by the thing. When I do slide it out of its special pocket in my purse, I hold it like a Ming dynasty vase. This is making it difficult to familiarize myself with its amazing features.

My children are horrified that I continue to use it like a 2005 flip phone: “Have you tried the GPS yet?” … “Have you bought any apps?” … “You don’t have any contacts, Mom.”

Well, that’s not entirely true. For some reason I have the email address of a high school counselor from 2009 but no numbers for people I actually need to reach.

And then there’s the way that the phone completes my words and sentences. I’m a writer; I’d rather do this myself.

But there is hope. Last night a satisfied user I met at a party told me what made him buy his iPhone — an app called Night Sky. “The phone knows where you are and it shows you all the constellations and their names,” he said.

Then he whipped out his iPhone — and the roof flew away and the people, too. And it reminded me of once when Tom and I were driving in Wyoming late at night and stopped to put oil in the car and looked up, almost accidentally, and could not believe our eyes.

A phone that brings the heavens into view. I’ll buy that.

Blue Marble

Blue Marble

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It’s the fortieth anniversary of the Apollo 17 astronauts’ famous photo of earth from space, the  Writer’s Almanac tells me. It was the first time our planet was photographed whole and entire, its mountains and deserts and oceans in clear relief. Clouds like tufts of baby’s hair after a bath, when you comb it, still wet, into ridges and whorls.

It is a snapshot in time — a cyclone forms over the Indian Ocean — but so much more. It is our own precious, fragile earth. And it was the last time humans would be in a position to photograph it. (Robots were in charge of subsequent lunar missions.)

Just coincidentally, the Writer’s Almanac informs me that today is also the birthday of writer Willa Cather, who said, “We come and go but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while.”

When we see our planet from space, how can we not love it more?  Not just our own corner of it, but all of it. How can we not want to do everything we can to protect it?

Photo: NASA

People and Places and Things

People and Places and Things

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In his book The Hare with Amber Eyes: A Family’s Century of Art and Loss, Edmund de Waal tells the story of 264 small Japanese figurines called netsuke that generations of his family collected, displayed, lost and found. Made of ivory or wood, these tiny carvings of people or animals are delicate but strong. A cooper making his wheel. A rat with a curved tail. A hare with amber eyes. If you carry one around in your pocket, it “migrates and almost disappears amongst your keys and change. You simply forget it is there.”

The netsuke are by no means the most valuable artifacts the Ephrussi family possesses, and when the Nazis storm their Vienna home in April of 1938, a loyal maid with an ample apron manages to smuggle the statues out of the house. Everything else — the paintings, silver, porcelain, jewelry, an entire library of cherished incunabula — “the accumulation of all the diligence of the family, a hundred years of possessions” — was taken.

I’ve read other accounts of the Holocaust. This one moved me more than almost any other. The objects people touch and cherish are the keenest and saddest reminders of their absence.

After the war, the maid, Anna, gives the netsuke back to the family, and de Waal eventually inherits them. He treasures the figurines, but he also finds them an affront. “Why should they have got through this war in a hiding place, when so many hidden people did not? I can’t make people and places and things fit together any more.”

This book is not only about people and places and things; it’s also about love and loss and endurance.

(I cherish our old cuckoo clock, and — even though my family disparages me for it —the worn wallpaper, too.)

Roses in December

Roses in December

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It was almost 70 degrees yesterday as I made my way along New Jersey Avenue to the Capitol. A small wind was whiffling the pansies, stirring the purples and yellows and the dark green leaves.  I moseyed down a section of tree-lined street that reminds me of Paris, with the U.S. Capitol winking through what’s left of the leaves.

The broad plaza of the East Front entrance was filled with shirt-sleeved tourists snapping photos, but noon light drained color from the scene. I turned left down East Capitol, passing the Library and the Folger and a bookstore I always intend to visit but never do. Roses were still blooming, tumbling along fence posts and garden gates. In the air, the smell of new-mown grass.

Everyone was out in the warm weather — dog-walkers and nannies pushing prams and office workers on a lunchtime jog.  There’s a park where I usually turn around, and today I strode right through the middle of it. I never knew what it was called until I checked a map after my stroll. It’s Lincoln Park — and not at all like its Chicago counterpart — but now I’ll never forget the name.

Up Close

Up Close

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There were fewer people then, but they huddled together. Eleven souls once lived in this tiny house, which consisted of one room downstairs (a bed, a hearth, a table) and a cramped stairway to the second floor. There, scads of islanders were born — including the mother of an old woman I met the day I visited this place, the oldest house in Chincoteague, Virginia (circa 1795).

Meanwhile, there are only three of us now in a once cramped center-hall colonial that is ever more roomy as the children move out. And we are one of the smallest houses around. Nearby neighborhoods are filled with McMansions, their two-story foyers and three-car garages of a different heft and scale than the houses here.

What sort of people does crowding create? And what sort of people emptiness? I re-charge in solitude and would probably have been driven crazy by the cheek-to-jowl existence of my ancestors. But still, there are times when I feel a deep-boned loneliness that’s not so much personal as evolutionary. Maybe it’s the crowded rooms of the past that I miss, the intensely shared life that never let us forget that we’re in this together.

Something to Say

Something to Say

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“People like to ask me if writing can be taught, and I say yes. I can
teach you how to write a
better sentence, how to write dialogue, maybe even how to construct a
plot. But I can’t teach you how to have something to say,” says writer Ann Patchett, quoted in yesterday’s “Writer’s Almanac.”

Ahh, the ever elusive something to say. Seems self-evident, but of course is not.

Maybe the something to say is buried and must be excavated, shovel by shovel, until you hit pay dirt. Or hiding and must be tamed like a shy bird. Or blocked by a gate to which there is no key.

How many times have I sat with  fingers poised above a keyboard — or even with fingers flying only to realize 500 words later that these words are going nowhere.

“What do you want to say?” is the question.

Too often, I don’t have an answer.

The Measurement of Awe

The Measurement of Awe

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Finally! An article from the Washington Post that is not about the fiscal cliff but about a real geological marvel.

A story headlined “Huge Gap for Geologists: How Old is Grand Canyon?”  explains that until recently, most scientists believed the canyon to be six million years old. But new techniques (and new scientists, one of whom is 36 years old) say the canyon could be 70 million years old. This would put its formation back to a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

The article (true to fiscal cliff style journalism) discusses how the new canyon theorists and the old canyon theorists are sparring.”It is simply ludicrous,” sniffs one professor of geology. Adds another: “We can’t put a canyon where they want to put it at the time they want to put it.”

All of this hardly matters when you stand on the lip of the south rim and look into what seems like time itself. Is it six million or 70 million years old?  This question may some day be answered. Will I ever see a scenic vista that moves me more? I was 13 when I first saw the canyon —and I haven’t yet.



(Photo: Grand Canyon National Park Service Flickr site.)

Eighteen!

Eighteen!

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Today is Celia’s 18th birthday. Today she reaches
the age of majority … as we creak along toward the age of seniority.
Not really, though. A youngest daughter is a marvelous gift,
keeping her parents in fighting trim, bringing them face to face with the
future (whether they want to see it or not).
I went out before daybreak this morning to pick Celia a
rose. I had no trouble finding one; the whole yard was lit up by a full moon
ringed in a pinkish halo of mist. Above the moon was a contrail, a single arched eyebrow — a shooting star pointing up
instead of down.
It’s a lovely day for a birthday.

Celia at two-and-a-half.