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Author: Anne Cassidy

Ghost Flowers

Ghost Flowers

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I can’t walk far these days without seeing one of late summer’s most luscious treats. It is Clematis paniculata, sweet autumn clematis.

Paniculata — what a wonderful word! I say it silently to myself when I’m walking and I swear it speeds me up. It has multisyllabic bounciness. It reminds me, in fact, of another multisyllabic word, Lolita, and of the opening lines of Nabokov’s novel by that name: “Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

Only with “paniculata” that would be five steps down the palate — Pa. Nic. U. La. Ta.”

Paniculata is a spray of white in a world of tired green. It is a bridal veil, a fountain, a bounty; climbing over fence rows and crowning mailboxes. We had one for many years and then it mysteriously disappeared. A victim of disease or an errant mower? We’ll never know.

Every year I vow to plant another. But every year I forget. Clematis paniculata. Ghost flowers.


Photo: White Flower Farm

Back to Barriers

Back to Barriers

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I write today, as I often do, with Copper curled beside me. Like many dogs, he likes to lie with his back against a barrier. The barrier might be a couch cushion, a bookcase, a cool metal filing cabinet or, in this case, my lap.

There is probably an entire literature on canine sleeping habits, the desire for warmth and closeness bred in pack animals. But from where I sit, it’s simple: I have his back. There is something solid behind him. He will not drop off into the void.

In this context, then, having one’s back against the wall does not mean a lack of choices, a last stand. It means backing, support and protection.

I think about my family, house and neighborhood — the bulwarks I’ve built, the people and places that stand behind me; the people and places I stand behind, too. They are my guard rails, my talisman, my way to fill the void.

500, and Once Again, Topography

500, and Once Again, Topography

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I’ve written 500 posts since I began A Walker in the Suburbs in February 2010. And many of them have been about the land.

I’m thinking again about last week’s flood, because I’ve had a chance to walk the streets that were rivers on Thursday. Though the waters have receded, they have left behind a moraine of gravel, sticks, acorns, matted grass. This effluvia lines our streets, roads and sidewalks. In the woods, a pedestrian bridge heaved up by the fast-moving water fell back down again in a slightly different place. Subtle signs — but signs just the same.

More than other natural occurrences, a flood makes you aware of topography: whether you live on a ridge or in a hollow; whether you live on high ground or low.

In Memoriam

In Memoriam

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I didn’t lose anyone I loved that day — though Tom walked home past a smoldering Pentagon and my brother Phillip glimpsed the first plane flying preternaturally low, saw it moments before it struck the tower.

But I did lose a place that day. We all did. We lost the country that existed up until 8:45 a.m. September 11, 2011. Into its place came another country, less innocent, more anxious, initially united but now fragmented.

To the extent that I can recall any one emotion from that horrible day, that day of clear air and silent skies, it was a sadness and tenderness for my country. It was a feeling I had experienced before only attached to people — a pathos for our achievements, our goodness and even for our mistakes.

On September 12 I went to church. Suzanne, 12 at the time, came with me. The minute we took our seats I was sorry that I had brought her. Everyone was sobbing. None of the lectors could make it through a reading. I vaguely remember hearing the passage about beating swords into ploughshares, but other than that all I recall were the tears.

Suzanne, now 22, said just the other day she was glad she was there. It made her realize the depth of what happened to us. And as I watch the commemorations of this day on television, I see young men and women Suzanne’s age who lost fathers and mothers and brothers. They were children then; they are adults now. They grew up in a different world.

Sodden

Sodden

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Yesterday was an odd day to write about rills. I suppose this week’s steady rainfall was the background music to my choice, the steady patter of drops on grass, a calming, soothing noise.

Until you witness what all those steady drops can bring.

Our part of the world was a swollen, soggy mess yesterday — and dangerous, too. I had to turn around when rushing creek water turned parts of my usual route into a river. An hour or so later, on his way home, Tom saw a fire engine towing a boat. And in fact, a commuter parking lot near us was closed, the cars submerged, after six inches of rain fell in a few hours. Children were stranded at their schools. Things were so bad that people made jokes about seeing animals lined up two by two.

And still today it rains. In the last three weeks we’ve had an earthquake, a hurricane and now torrential rain and flooding. A line from Emily Dickinson comes to mind:

“Nature, like us, is sometimes caught without her diadem.”

Willow Rill

Willow Rill

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The word “rill” has been on my mind. I thought of it one day when I was walking, savored the quaintness of it, the smallness of it; how it sounds like what it is: a small brook or stream, water running quickly across a bed of rocks, mud or beaten grass. The word is linguistically kin to “rivulet” and is also close to “run,” another word for creek in southern places.

We drove past Willow Run in Emmitsburg, Maryland, over the weekend, and I was delighted to see the word in print. Not knowing why I thought about “rill” in the first place, here was a rill in real life. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

But all I could glimpse of Willow Rill was the bridge that led across it. So now I see the creek in my mind’s eye, a stream of clear water flowing beneath a curtain of green, not as raucous as a brook, slower and more meandering, slight-banked. There is a lilt to its passage through the landscape (the word “rill” is mighty close to “trill”). It sings as it courses down the mountain.

Chauffeur No More

Chauffeur No More

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One more post on driving and rites of passage. What ended the other day when Celia got her license was — symbolically at least — my almost 23-year-old job as chauffeur. There is a time in a family’s life when it seems like driving is all you do. Our county is large and congested, and our children have been involved in band, orchestra, cross-country, track, cello lessons, clarinet lessons, voice lessons, ballet, tap and hip-hop, video camp, modeling camp, Girl Scouts, swimming, horseback riding, basketball, volleyball, soccer, rugby, religious education, diocesan work camp, tutoring, academic enrichment programs, volunteering at food banks, jobs in places far away from home and much, much more that I have (blissfully) forgotten.

For a time we did all this driving in our small Saab sedan (which I eulogized in a post in August 2010). It was almost like one of those circus cars where an impossibly large number of clowns clamber out. Somehow we could fit three children, a cello and a string bass in this one vehicle.

Then we switched (reluctantly) to the van, and our official carpooling life began. Because I haven’t even discussed all the other children we’ve driven, all the funny conversations I’ve overheard, the times my heart has been lightened (and yes, the times it has sunk) because of something revealed to me in the car.

The automobile has been an extension of our family kitchen, a part of the house we take with us wherever we go. The girls and I have had serious talks on these drives, have gotten to know each other better during them, and have had a lot of laughs together during them, too.

So even though I won’t miss the rush hour traffic, the last minute dashes to school (and I’ll probably still make some of those), I will miss all the chaos and the fun and the complete indispensability of my role as chauffeur. It is one time you know — beyond all doubts and second-guesses — that you are needed.

The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop

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You can hear them before you see them. The low rumble, the distinctive brakes. A fleet of yellow school buses, coming soon (in less than an hour, in fact) to a corner near us.

This is the first year in 17 that we’ve not had a child climbing on a big yellow school bus. Celia will drive to high school today.

For many years the bus stop was a carnival on the first day of school. Parents with cameras, kids with new shoes and backpacks bigger than they were. We would take a couple of hours off work, chat with our neighbors, snap pictures, then walk slowly back to a newly empty house.

I worked solely at home in those days and would relish the quiet house after a summer full of kids. Now I ride downtown to an office three days a week, and my primary emotion at the end of summer isn’t relief but melancholy. Summers pass too quickly — as do winters, springs and falls.

Photo: Freefoto.com

There She Goes

There She Goes

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Our youngest daughter got her driver’s license a couple of days ago. It was the goal of her summer and she reached it right before school starts tomorrow. I snapped some pictures of her first solo drive, as I did (I think) of her sisters when they took the wheel by themselves.

Though it’s not easy to instruct, to ride shotgun, clamping down on that imaginary brake, grabbing the seat cushions on the sly, so your child doesn’t know how terrified you actually are — how much harder it is to let her drive off on her own, into noise and weather and traffic and tricky left turns that she, and only she, will have to navigate.

It is a measure of trust, one of many we give our children as they grow. We believe in them, of course we do. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Back to School

Back to School

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The class begins Wednesday. I will write about it often, I’m sure. But it’s worth recounting how I came to take it. As readers of this blog are aware, I write often about place and how it shapes and soothes us. In fact, it was in large part to write about place that I started A Walker in the Suburbs.

A few weeks ago I was reading about an author I’ve come to admire. His name is Forrest Church, and sadly he is no longer with us. I have a blog post in mind about him and his books, too, but more about that later. What happened that morning is that I was reading reviews of his book Love and Death (yes, I go for the cheery titles!) and a line jumped out at me: “This book is about living, or as Rev. Church says, ‘To live in such a way that our lives will prove worth dying for.'”

This comment stopped me in my tracks. It made me think. More than that (because I am always thinking) it spurred me to action, to boldness. Am I living my life so it will prove “worth dying for?”

In many ways, yes. But in one important way, no. My writing life, which matters greatly to me, has been flat-lining for years. This blog has helped a bit, but not enough. I am anxious to write more deeply and extensively on this subject of place.

And so, I looked into taking a class. And dear reader, you will have to believe me here, the very first class I saw was A Sense of Place: Values and Identity. I think it was meant to be.