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Author: Anne Cassidy

Rain Inside and Out

Rain Inside and Out

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As I listen to the rain outside this morning I think about those white-noise machines of rain sounds, how soothing they are. Perhaps nothing is as relaxing as the sound of rain — unless it is rain you soon have to go out and brave.

It is the vicarious rain, then, the rain we listen to and watch, that makes us feel calm. It is the contrast between what we hear happening outside and what we know to be true inside — the comfortable, dry room; the tea just brewed, a good book at the ready. No need for boots, an umbrella or raincoat.

I’m almost convincing myself. Before it’s too late, I must finish this post, gulp down my tea, put down the book. It’s morning. It’s raining. It’s time to leave.


Not quite enough rain to need a canoe. But these days you never know.

Suspended

Suspended

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Autumn moves slowly, which is fine with me. In the woods, the poison ivy flames red against the tree trunks. In our yard, leaves flail and fall and lodge themselves against the fence posts. For some reason, long-dormant potted pepper seeds finally sprout and flower. I may bring the plant in, see if it will bear fruit in January.

As the light fades, we seek body heat, the closeness of each other. (As I write, Copper curls up beside me.) I think, as I walk, about those who once lived more openly on the land, how busy they would be this season, chopping wood, canning fruit, patching cracks.

Here in our suburban haven, I muse about the coming of the cold. So far, so good. Our windows are still open; they don’t yet rattle in the wind. We are suspended in a mellow transition.

A Palpable Past

A Palpable Past

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In thinking about place, and what binds people to it, I ponder the beauty of the landscape, the scale of roads and buildings, and the people, of course, always the people.

And then there is history. Not one’s own family history, but a learned body of knowledge, something you can pick up from books and conversations, from paying close attention to the woods you walk through.

On Saturday I met two men who have mapped the forgotten roads of our area. They started with two places, an old house in Vienna and the site of a mill a few miles away, and they charted the road that ran between the two. This is only one of their projects. They have also helped to move an old school, protect an old road and add historical markers to our neighborhood.

For them, the past is palpable. And because of them, it is more real for all of us.

Walk. Eat. Paint.

Walk. Eat. Paint.

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When I was a little kid I wanted to be an archaeologist. I read books on the discovery of Troy and other landmark finds. It was the first and last time I showed much aptitude in science.

Yesterday, I fell in love with archaeology all over again. An article published yesterday in Science (and reported also in the Washington Post) described a “tool kit” found deep in a South African cave. The kit contained everything our ancient ancestors needed to paint a face or a wall and shows evidence of planned behavior and an artistic drive that emerged much earlier than previously thought. Humans used the cave 130,000 years ago!

The Washington Post headline for the story was what caught my eye. “Dawn of humanity: Walk upright. Paint.”

I like this story because it reinforces something I hope is true: That we are, and have been from the beginning, not just eating, sleeping, thinking creatures. We are also creative creatures. The artistic impulse is part of our DNA.

Rhythm of Life

Rhythm of Life

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Sometimes when I’m feeling worn out, idea-less (is that a word?), in need of a long vacation on a broad beach, a song pops into my head. Often the song will be perfectly apt to the situation at hand. With the canny precision of a dream, the lyrics or melody will match the mood I’m feeling — even before I’m feeling it.

This morning I’ve been thinking how life requires us to keep going. Our steps don’t have to be elegant or persuasive. We just have to put one foot in front of the other. Over and over again.

And the song that popped into my head was this one, “The Rhythm of Life.” When I was a teacher and accompanied the school chorus, we performed this piece. It was in my head for years and the magic of the Internet and YouTube brought it alive again.

Originally from “Sweet Charity” (I think), it’s beloved of grade school choruses and is best sung by amateurs. We are the ones who capture the reaching, reaching, reaching for the high notes in the middle and rushing through the flustered accelerando near the end. It is a song about living, about keeping going. I’m going to be listening to it today.

Truth Telling

Truth Telling

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Last night in class we talked about truth in writing, how literal detail might give way to deeper observations. I made the point (and this is amazing in itself because I’m usually quiet in class discussions) that it wouldn’t matter whether E.B. White talked about three ruts or two in the path to his house in “Once More to the Lake,” what mattered were the larger points he was making about generations, the passage of time and mortality.

It would matter if White had no son, though, the professor said. And I agree. White’s essay is nonfiction. We expect most of it to be true. If there were no son, then we would doubt White’s veracity in other matters, too, and all of his observations — including his amazing, punch-in-the-gut last line — would be suspect.

Truth, then, can be a slippery thing. Until it’s not.

Smooth Stone

Smooth Stone

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I become attuned to the Proustian moments of life. Not only the ones I read about — how the sound of a shovel hitting rock changed a man’s life; how the steam from a hissing iron takes a friend back into her mother’s kitchen — but also the ones I experience firsthand.

I had one this morning. It wasn’t so much a link to the past as it was an instant when time stopped and the eternal rushed in. I was driving Celia and her friend to school. We were running late (as usual) and the traffic was bumper to bumper (as usual) and the obnoxious people who take a shortcut and expect to be let in (also as usual — grumble, grumble) were making it anything but a pleasant drive.

But all of a sudden it didn’t matter. The car was purring slowly toward school. I was the only one awake. The 15-minute drive had lulled both teenagers to sleep. Their heads were nodding. In 20 minutes they would be taking the PSAT. In 20 minutes I would be crammed onto the Orange Line. But right then, we were as one. A moment of enforced togetherness not unlike the entire experience of raising teenagers, trying to treasure the moments, even when the moments are tense, silent and filled with strife.

I know this experience won’t banish the discord. But it can become a talisman, a smooth stone to keep in my pocket and hold when the hard times come.

A Patch with a View

A Patch with a View

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Yesterday Suzanne and I drove to a pumpkin patch in Delaplane, Virginia. We drove past wineries and groomed estates with high stone walls, then turned left and climbed up a gravel road to a steep-pitched farm. There were pumpkins, gourds, apples, greens and flowers for sale. A moon bounce and corn maze for the kids.

The whole outfit was thrown together; there were no permanent structures on that hilltop. You could easily imagine the way it will look a few weeks from now, windswept and golden, picked out and past peak — but still lovely. It is the view that makes the place, and that’s not going away. Mountain after mountain as far as you can see. And, at least yesterday, still-flowering cosmos softening the foreground.

I wound up with more pictures than pumpkins.

Open Air

Open Air

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The cool nights and warm days of the equinox mean we need neither heating nor air-conditioning, and the air flows freely in and out of the house. The windows are open (or as open as the stink bugs will allow) and what is inside the house is also outside.

I sit now beside an open window, listening to the acorns fall, thinking about the walls that separate us from the outdoors.

This is the time of year I turn my attention to neglected household chores. (If my family reads they will think, really? hmmm…) But even if I don’t complete the task — even if the old curtains and the cluttered basement remain — that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about sweeping the house clean, freshening up the place, even painting.

At least the windows are open. If nothing else our house is being invisibly scoured by the low-humidity air of fall. It is a time of equilibrium; we are open to the air around us.

A Glint of Gold

A Glint of Gold

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It has been a busy weekend, and preparing for a lunch guest today shortened my morning walk. I made up for it with a stroll later on.

This evening’s amble was full of cricket chirps, the teasing outline of a faint, almost-full moon and the slight scent of wood smoke. It has been warm but the thin air and the turning leaves are clear signs of the season.

As I neared home I passed an abandoned horse pasture. Some fence panels are broken and the grass is high. My eye flickered over the scene, looking for something, I’m not sure what. It was as I looked again at the path that I caught from a corner of my eye a glint of gold. Was it a butterfly come to visit us once more? Nothing of the kind. It was a yellow leaf fluttering slowly to the ground.