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Author: Anne Cassidy

Little Cat Feet

Little Cat Feet

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The most poetic of weathers has visited us this morning, the kiss of cloud on earth, that which comes in on little cat feet (as in the short, oft-anthologized poem by Carl Sandburg) — I’m talking fog, of course.

No fun to drive in but so nice to wake up to, fog makes the real world go away. It softens the edges of landscapes, blurs them, smudges them deftly into each other. It’s funny how I can remember foggy weather that happened decades ago: an entire week of mild misty early winter days in Chicago. A hike in the Rockies when I thought we’d lost our way. The glorious summer on a mountaintop in Arkansas, when we were often unable to “come down the mountain” because we were totally socked in by the stuff.

A light fog is fine walking weather. Not so thick as to obscure the path ahead, but soft enough to embrace it.

Let Us Entertain You

Let Us Entertain You

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The dust is flying. The drinks are chilling. The food is “being prepared” (I say, to keep the parallel structure of the sentence). The food preparer, of course, is me — so this post will be brief.
We are, in short, entertaining, something we used to do more often but something that has taken a back seat to raising children the last decade or two. But it’s something I hope we do more of in the years ahead.
I think of the great parties of our past, the ones we attended as well as gave, and in them there’s a certain alchemy of people and place and libation that I hope we can achieve tonight. Our wine cellar is not quite as ample as the one above, but I hope it does the trick.

Our Films, Our Selves

Our Films, Our Selves

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Today “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” opens in theaters, the first half of the seventh and final Potter book to hit the silver screen. When the first Potter film came out the girls were in first, fifth and seventh grades. Now two are in college and the youngest is in high school. You need only look at Daniel Radcliffe’s jawline, no trace of boyishness left, to know 10 years have passed. But through the magic of cinema his 11-year-old face will always be with us and will remind me, at least, of those relatively (and in retrospect!) serene elementary school years.

Actors are pegged not only to the ages of their debut (think Shirley Temple) but also to their strongest performances. I learned the other day that Jill Clayburgh passed away in early November. For me she will always be the devastated wife and mother of “An Unmarried Woman.” I must have seen that film half a dozen times in its heyday and was always inspired by the New York setting and by Clayburgh’s journey to selfhood (which sounds very transactional and 1970s but, hey, that’s when the movie came out).

The last scene is a classic, as Clayburgh attempts to carry a huge painting that her lover (Alan Bates playing an artist) has given her. Bates is dreamy and Clayburgh loves him, but he’s leaving town and she has worked too hard at independence to follow him. So he hands her the large canvas as if to say, here, you want to be a self-sufficient woman, try this on for size. Or at least that’s the message I took from it at the time. I was much younger then.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

How Can I Keep From Singing?

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Last night I watched the film “Young at Heart.” It’s about a chorus of senior citizens who find in communal singing a joyous antidote to growing old. The singers started out crooning vaudeville tunes, but their director keeps pushing them artistically until they can belt out rock and punk and Motown – everything from “Schizophrenia” to “I Feel Good.”

As the movie progresses its tone becomes more serious; mortality bears down hard. Two of the singers die a week before a big concert. They leave a huge hole in the chorus. But the others decide to go on. Their absent friends would want it that way. The last scene is the group on stage, singing their hearts out. Because of the music, they are “forever young.”

Watching this movie brought to mind a hymn, one that Pete Seeger made famous:

My life flows on in endless song:
Above earth’s lamentation,
I catch the sweet, tho’ far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul–
How can I keep from singing?

Color’s Last Stand

Color’s Last Stand

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Rain wasn’t the only thing that was falling yesterday. Leaves were twirling and swirling and landing lightly on hedges, yards and streets. They were mixing with the raindrops, they were dancing to the ground.

The reds, yellows and oranges that had so impressed me last week — in fact, I was marveling at how many trees seemed struck in mid-October rather than mid-November — were fading to brown and gray. Soon we will have monochrome. But before the color is all gone, a picture in its honor (photo by Suzanne).

A Walkway in the Sky

A Walkway in the Sky

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One of the world’s greatest walks is the pedestrian path of the Brooklyn Bridge. Stroll across it at sunset on a balmy late fall afternoon and see the city at its finest.

If you’re walking toward Brooklyn, on your right is South Street Seaport, lower Manhattan and, once you’re out far enough, the Statue of Liberty. On your left is midtown, with the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. Ahead of you is this view, the towers and cables of the bridge itself, built six times stronger than it needed to be, built for the ages, and now 127 years old. A bridge that has inspired poets and madmen and ordinary citizens who need to believe in beauty.

New York, N.Y.

New York, N.Y.

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Sometimes a place you used to live reaches out to you from the distant past. It is an old lover from whom you once parted with great sadness (you adored each other but were incompatible). You had learned to live apart but then you ran into each other. There’s that old familiar catch in the throat. You had forgotten how you felt in that old life.

Here is a place that made you feel more alive than you’d ever felt before. You can’t go back to it — you are a different person now — but you are forever grateful — and yes, more alive again, too — just for having been reminded.

A Day in the City

A Day in the City

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My sister, Ellen, was the pioneer. She moved to New York City first. I was next. Then my brother Phillip. Within two years, three of the four kids in my family were living in the Big Apple. Now none of us do.

But we haven’t gotten it out of our systems (does anyone ever?), so today Ellen and I take our daughters to the big city to celebrate their birthdays. We’ll walk through Times Square, the Village, Chinatown. We’ll shop, snap photos and take in a show. We will have more money in our pockets than we did in the old days. (That isn’t hard to do.) And we won’t walk as fast. But we will be more or less the same. And that’s something to celebrate.

Mood Lighting

Mood Lighting

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One of the most important housekeeping tricks I’ve taught my daughters is to keep the lights low. Makes up for a multitude of sins. But I don’t do this just to hide the dirt. I feel more relaxed and comfortable when I’m not sitting in a pool of harsh light. At home I run around snapping off the overheads and turning on small lamps. At the office I shun institutional florescence for incandescent alternatives.

I was thinking of all this the other day while riding Metro. The platforms are so dim that it’s difficult to read small print when I’m waiting for the train. But I’m grateful for the perpetual twilight. How much worse it would be to stand shoulder to shoulder in a harsh glare. How much calmer and more inconspicuous I feel waiting in the darkness.

11/11

11/11

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You know you are removed from a war when literature is what it brings to mind. But such is the case with World War I, which ended 92 years ago today.

I think first of All Quiet on the Western Front, a book I read so long ago but which saddens me still: “He fell in October, 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.”

And I think of the poets, their modern disillusionment stuffed to overflowing into the restrained stanzas of formal rhymed verse:

“If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.”

This poem is by Wilfred Owen. He died in France — a week before the Armistice was signed.