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Author: Anne Cassidy

Harvest Time

Harvest Time

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Last night we were visited by a woman named Maud. A couple weeks ago she had offered to take the large logs in the back of our yard, what’s left of the grand old oak that fell from the sky more than a year ago, and sell them to her customers as firewood. We hadn’t found anyone else who would haul them away without charging us a lot, so this seemed like a good arrangement. And then the rains (finally) came, and the ground was too soggy. She’s been busy delivering firewood and hasn’t had time to replenish her supply. Hence the nighttime visit.

So as we sat in our snug house and tried to calm the dog, Maud and two helpers worked by the light of a Coleman lantern. They cut the large logs, hauled them to the front of the house and threw them in a truck. It was a strange sound, chainsaws in the darkness, and made me feel part of an ancient drama. The frantic work of fall, of harvesting late crops and cutting the last field of hay.

Meadow Grass

Meadow Grass

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I took the path along the Fairfax County Parkway the other day, a road that didn’t exist when we moved here but is a major thoroughfare now. A road we first heard about from our sheepish real estate agent, who only acknowledged it when we asked her about those ominous-looking orange-flagged stakes at the corner.

It was a house off Thompson Road, a lane that retained a hint of its country charm then but one I’m glad we don’t live on now, so close is it to this busy highway. I like how our neighborhood is tucked away from the traffic and surrounded by woods. I appreciate the quiet of the place, the birdsong.

Walking along the parkway I studied the different varieties of meadow grass. One is cattail-like, another is taller and skinnier. I should know the names of these grasses, but whatever they’re called, they look good together, waving in the wind. Their movement was like so many flags flapping, a brave and jubilant salute.

Views

Views

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Yesterday’s landscape reminded me of Scotland: bleak and bare and beautiful. There’s a stretch of road between Petersburg and Moorefield, West Virginia, that runs along the edge of a broad valley. A light rain was falling (unlike the photo above, taken on the trip out). Dark clouds filled the sky but a thin band of clear sky beckoned at the horizon. It was a battle between dark and light. There was plenty of autumn color in the highlands, and thin curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of houses perched on the ridgetops.

What must it be like to live in such beauty? To open a door, to step out on a porch and see a broad valley spread out below. Does it make for an open mind? an open heart?

Gravity

Gravity

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I’ve been thinking lately about falls. Not falls as in autumn or as in water (despite the photo). But falls as in tumbles, collapses, sudden drops from vertical to horizontal. A sign at the hospital yesterday: “Let’s be fall free on 3B.” Something I seldom think about at all, strolling down a corridor or stepping off a curb, is quite an achievement for others.

It is a gift, this upright posture, these legs that can stride and arms that can swing. The simplest motions of the day are the product of countless neural firings, of muscles expanding and contracting — a complicated calculus of movement and balance. Of defying gravity.

Home Place

Home Place

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I grew up hearing the term — they live at the old “homeplace,” meaning a country home that had housed several generations of the same family. It might have been ramshackle and heavily mortgaged, but it had a history.

Split up that compound, though, into home and place. That’s what I’ve been wondering lately. Are certain places more likely to be “home” than others. Such a complicated question. It requires definitions and qualifications of all terms. All I know is that in some deep and improbable way, Kentucky is a place that still feels like home to me.

A Day’s Drive

A Day’s Drive

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When our girls began looking at colleges, one of our rules was that the school be no more than a day’s drive away. Of course there were questions: Why just a day? And what do you mean by day? We explained that we didn’t have a 24-hour marathon in mind. Just a normal seven- or eight-hour drive. When you live where we do, this covers a lot of ground. From Boston to Charleston to Ohio — and plenty of places in between.

I was thinking of this yesterday as I drove to Kentucky to help out my dad, who had fallen the night before and broken his shoulder. I could leave Virginia at noon and be in Lexington by dinner time.

Air travel has changed our view of space and distance, has made it possible to stay close to friends and family in a way that would have been impossible a generation or two ago. I know that jobs, education and other circumstances of life may not always allow for such proximity. But I do know that yesterday, I was glad to be only a day’s drive away from these people I love.

Sunshine

Sunshine

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Sure, we’ve had it all summer, but today’s sunlight is different. It’s slanting in from a different angle and hasn’t yet reached the deck. There’s a chill to it. It is both bright and thin. It is the beginning of autumn, of a new relationship to our closest star. No longer our enemy, now our friend.

Starting Over

Starting Over

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Maybe it’s just the optimist in me, but I relish every fresh start I’m given. The first entry in a new journal or the first day of a new month. Finding an excuse is easy; cultivating enthusiasm is hard.

September has seemed longer than usual this year. I’ve been waiting for days to flip the calendar. Now that a new month is here, I feel the faintly anxious drumbeat of opportunity. There’s a magazine to finalize, essays to write, books to read and closets to clean. But right now, there is just the first day of a new month and a blank page before me.

The Sounds of Rain

The Sounds of Rain

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This morning I woke up to a sound I haven’t heard in a while. It will rain two to five inches today, the forecasters say. I’ll wear tennis shoes to work. Meanwhile, inside the house, the downpour is not yet a nuisance. It is a sound, white noise. When I listen hard, though, the rain isn’t just one sound but many. There is a low roar and a rush to it, those would be the bass notes, layered with a steady drip, drip, which are the treble. And these sounds are punctuated by the ticking of our clock and the chirping of a lone cricket. When the wind comes up it makes its own sound. There is such a coziness to a rainy day. Until you have to walk through it.

Artist’s Date

Artist’s Date

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In her book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron says that one way to stimulate creativity is the “artist’s date” — taking yourself out to a place you don’t usually go. While I haven’t read this book in many years, there are two ideas from it I try to practice whenever I’m feeling stale. One is writing three “morning pages” in my journal; the other is the artist’s date.

The point of the latter is not some long and elaborate excursion, Cameron says. Simply trying a new route home from work will do the trick. Last Friday I drove to the oldest part of Reston to take a walk. And once there I went straight instead of turning right where I usually do. And the world opened up to me. I thought about what a different, tidy life we would have if we lived in one of those townhouse clusters. A life built around walking and the water. It’s not a life I would want right now, but it’s fun to contemplate.

Once back at our untidy house, one built around driving the car, I felt immediately at home. But a curtain was raised. I was shaken from my normal routine. And that’s what the artist’s date is all about.