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Author: Anne Cassidy

Witch Hazel

Witch Hazel

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Halfway through October, our witch hazel is the most colorful tree in the garden.  I never think of it as an autumn showpiece — it’s best in late winter, blooming in the snow. Yet this year I notice that it’s mellowing to a muted, green-veined yellow that is the soul of the season — when the season is seen as a gentle winding down rather than a last, flaming hurrah.

Though witch hazel leaves begin as squiggly yellow flowers, they end as bigger, plate-like foliage and then, sometimes, there is a second flowering, an autumn bloom. After reading about this today I tiptoed out into our dark backyard to see if I could find evidence of it.

There is some debate about whether the witch hazel is a shrub or a tree, but our specimen is most definitely the latter. Tall, straight-limbed, arching, generous. Even in the dark I felt its presence. And reaching up to touch the limbs I felt along the stem and found the beginnings of those same squiggly flowers that are the harbingers of spring. Perhaps to bloom soon, perhaps in a few months. Or perhaps, it doesn’t matter.

The point is: the flowers will come again.

Up and Out

Up and Out

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The colors drew me outside earlier than I’d planned to go. Oranges and reds on the horizon, or what I could see of the horizon through our trees. The sky was firing up, and it was time to walk.

I moved eastward as if by instinct, following the sun. By the time I’d made it to the corner, though, the sky was already draining into blue, so brief was this morning’s brilliance.

But still, it was enough to drag me from the house into a stiff and uncertain wind, to begin the outside part of the day before I was entirely ready for it. Not altogether a bad idea.

There is something to be said for spontaneity, for lack of hesitation, for being moved by beauty. Not moved as in touched, but literally moved. Propelled to lace up the shoes, open the door, step outside.

Not every time, but often enough, the day is changed just by entering it.

The Sentinel

The Sentinel

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As Copper has (ahem) matured, his inner shepherd, the genetic tendencies of his border collie genes, have emerged. When he was a puppy, he couldn’t do anything for more than a few minutes. Now, he spends hours on the slight rise in our backyard, using the humble altitude to better survey his domain.

He sits still, but he isn’t idle. His eyes dart to the left and to the right. He scans the fence for sudden movements in the brush. His ears prick at any tiny rustle in the leaves. I have to imagine he is doing all this to protect his pack.

Watching him watch for us, I see a model of vigilance, of doggie loyalty — of what it means to protect and defend.

Anniversary

Anniversary

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On October 12, 2004, I went to work as a writer/editor for a university alumni magazine, ending a 17-year freelance-only career. I can still recall the strangeness of that day, the sound of high heels on the hard floor as a designer dropped off page proofs for me to read, the lunch I shared with two new colleagues. I even remember the outfit I wore, which included sandals because I hadn’t yet gotten around to buying “work shoes.”

Though I’ve long since grown used to the routine, some days it still seems slightly surreal to trade sweatpants and slipper socks for a skirt and flats, to travel elsewhere to do what I do at home all the time anyway.  But the routine has enlarged me, has given me plenty to think and write about, has helped me feel closer to the place I live.

Writing will never be just a job to me. But for many of my waking hours these days, that’s exactly what it is.

Giving Up on Gloria

Giving Up on Gloria

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For the last few weeks I’ve been hiding, taking the long way to the office, pretending I needed a change of scene — when really I was just avoiding Gloria.

Have I written about her before? She’s the homeless woman who first annoyed me (never asking for change — only for dollars), then won me over one day in the rain. I had given her a few bucks by then, and she was writing the names of her benefactors on a piece of paper that she kept in a waterproof container she wore around her neck.  She was, I suppose, creating a family of donors, people she could count on, a flock of supporters.

For more than a year I’ve been a faithful contributor to the Gloria cause. “You look beautiful today,” she’d say as I slipped a dollar into her hand. “Stay warm,” I’d reply. “Take care of yourself.”

But one morning when I didn’t have a dollar to give, she was angry, menacing. I learned of other colleagues who were harassed when they held on to their money. One even asked me to walk with her past Gloria’s corner.

It all came back to me then, the way I originally felt about Gloria, the persistence in her panhandling, the requests that were almost demands. I’d been giving out of fear and not out of a genuine desire to help. There’s a fine line between charity and extortion, and Gloria had crossed it.

I’m not proud of myself for giving up on Gloria. I know I’m not the first to have done so. But now I walk free.

Autumn Consolations

Autumn Consolations

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The rains have come and the clouds too, and together they have taken us to a new season. We wake to chill and enter the day in darkness.

In the evening, errands once run in warm dusks are now undertaken in cold nights.

The signs have all been there, I tell myself, but I’ve ignored them. I have chosen to believe (as hot seasons always make me do) that summer is eternal.

And nothing, not the bluest autumn sky or the crispest scarlet leaf, can make it right again.

What consoles me: lamplit evenings, bowls of chili, no yard work, fires on the hearth, low sunlight slanting through tall windows, the knowledge that months pass quickly and soon it will be spring again.

College Tour

College Tour

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It’s been four years since we did this the last time.

Four years since we sat in a darkened auditorium and listened to an admissions director discuss interdisciplinary learning.

Four years since we were last told how to submit a FAFSA.

Four years (or almost that; we did one brief tour this spring and another this summer) since we sauntered through a college campus following a student ambassador who has mastered the art of  walking backward.

Four years, which seems like no time at all — except that a wispy 13-year-old has become a willowy 17-year-old. And we are embarking on our last few college tours.

Now we’re the ones who understand the difference between early decision and early action. We’re the application veterans, with the battle scars to prove it.

But there’s one thing we haven’t mastered yet — and that is saying goodbye. 

Half Marathon

Half Marathon

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The rain started early this morning, right when Claire was beginning her first half marathon. The sprinkles turned to drops and the temperature hovered in the upper 40s. Runners passed us wearing only shorts and singlets, their flesh reddened by cold. Some ran in jackets, others in spandex tights.

We found a viewing spot at Mile 11, right before a hill, and listened as one enthusiastic spectator cheered the racers with “You’re waaaay past half way.” 

“I heard you before,” some of them said, smiling and laughing and ever so slightly picking up their pace.

Finally, we saw Claire, Number 658. Though she’s only been running for a few months, she was in fine form, bouncing along as if the rain and the run weren’t fazing her. We cheered, she gave us a quick hug and ran off to tackle the last two miles.

Funny thing, she said later — the spot we picked to stand was right where she needed us most. 

One State

One State

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As I drive east today I’ll be thinking how if I were making this trek 221 years ago I would not be traveling through three states, but through one. Kentucky was part of Virginia until 1792.

Now these states are separate. But once they were part of the same large region that stretched from the ocean to the “first west.” One were their hills and valleys, one their rivers and streams. The mountain range that divides them was shared.

Yesterday I drove the back roads of the Bluegrass, hopping out of the car often to stick my camera between gate bars, snap photographs and, sometimes, just to sigh.

Once these two places, these two important places, these two poles of my heart — once they were one.

Old School

Old School

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I live nowhere near the scenes of my childhood, haven’t grown into middle age in the land of my youth and young adulthood, so returning there can make me dizzy.

Yesterday we stopped at Magee’s Bakery for cheese danish and sat across from my old high school, now defanged, serving as a county education building. I found the windows of my algebra 2 classroom, remembered Baldy Gelb, football coach and math teacher, could almost see the chalk dust motes floating in the air.

It was a long time ago, of course, but looking at that brick building (how can it sit there so placidly? what happened to all the adolescent angst?),  I felt that I could have reached out and opened the door to that classroom, found my seat and struggled with a quadratic equation.