Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

In Search Of

In Search Of

Comments 0 Comment


The wallet was lost, so we went to find it. We started at Hunter Station, an old crossroads. Confederate troops passed through here on the way to Antietam; Union troops on the way to Gettysburg. As skinny-tire bikes blew past us (“passing on the left”), we walked briskly toward the Cross County Trail, turned left and entered an alternative universe of creek and fern.

That there is such a thing as a 40-mile ribbon of green in a place as crowded and over developed as ours is cause for jubilation. Sometimes paved, sometimes dirt or gravel or mulch, the trail meanders along stream valley parks and across hidden ridges, gladly using rejected land, the leftovers, the crumbs. Put enough crumbs together, though, and you have passage from the Occuquan in the south to the Potomac in the north.

We walked a small stretch of the trail, just enough to stretch our legs and convince us that the wallet probably was at home after all (and of course, it was). But the point wasn’t the wallet; it was the walk.

New Route

New Route

Comments 0 Comment

Driving along Hunter Mill and Vale, my new route home, I pass one of the older trees in Oakton. An oak, of course. Big and broad shouldered, more than 150 years old. It’s not the oldest tree, the one Oakton was named for; that one was a few hundred feet down the road and was felled some years ago. But this tree could be a distant relative.

Last night’s drive home was especially sweet. It was cool and the light was almost blinding in the western approaches but otherwise, under tree cover, it was mellow and warm. I tried to snap pictures from the car.

Why do I like the new route so much better? It may be a minute or two shorter, but there’s more to it than that. I like it because it feels like a town I’m driving through rather than a suburban development. There is a reasonable four-way stop followed by a road that curves beside a church. I pass two cemeteries, peaceful old churchyards. And the new Oakton Library is on the way, too. Sometimes I stop in and check out a book. And then there are the roads themselves; Hunter Mill and Vale are two of the area’s oldest. They wind and curve and are in many places covered by a canopy of trees. Driving home this way is balm for the Metro-jangled soul.

Children of the Past

Children of the Past

Comments 0 Comment


Yesterday I found myself in an old-fashioned neighborhood where half a dozen kids were playing outside. Middle school kids, I think, or older elementary-age. A fleet of bikes under a tired old pine. Some dubious swings hanging from spindly trees. A couple of half-hearted skateboard ramps. But the overall impression was of invention and ingenuity. Kid-engineered.

Looking at this scene made me remember the grand kid klatsches of my youth. The kickball games, SPUD, 10 Sticks, all ages invited, the big kids humoring the little ones (well, sometimes). There were children in every house, more than 25 in one block, scads of banana seat bikes, constant drama. I still remember the songs we sang, the dogs that terrified us, the hedge apples used as weapons.

I was so lost in the past that for a moment I almost forgot where I was. Then I noticed a table set up on the corner, a girl walking toward me. “Would you like to buy some lemonade?” she asked. Every kid-powered enterprise needs its funding source. I reached in my purse and pulled out a dollar.

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

Comments 0 Comment


This was a weekend for friendship. My friend Peggy, in from Seattle for a conference and here for three glorious days of talking and fun. Such a joyful reunion. Tom’s friend Reg, in from Belgium, long-lost for more than three decades, a connection regained.

Pack rats that we are, we could put our hands on several items Reg gave Tom when they were in grad school: a small desk lamp, a shaving mug, a plate, a crocheted seat cushion. I never knew the origin of these items, only knew that Tom brought them into our marriage. But what Tom learned this week has been far more amazing. Traveling with Reg was his oldest son, 28, and he is named Tom in my Tom’s honor. You could not make this stuff up. Life, as always, proves the best storyteller of all.

Half Mast

Half Mast

Comments 0 Comment


Today will be harder on many of us than the last few September 11ths, I think. Harder because of the controversies, harder because of the anger, and harder because today, at least where I live, is uncannily like that day: impossibly blue skies, a hint of fall, a day at first like many others.

In the last couple of years, three of our neighbors have erected flagpoles. There’s one next door, another across the street and still another at the corner.

I just walked past that one this morning. Will and Erica, our friends who live there, have each served more than one tour of duty in Iraq. Will received the Purple Heart. Their flag is the biggest of them all. It’s flying at half mast today.

Shoulders

Shoulders

Comments 0 Comment


Most of the time they are just there, the perfect place to hang a purse or scarf, and good for shrugging, too. But when I’m on deadline or feeling tense in other ways my shoulders move up, up, up until they are somewhere around my ears. They become a tension factory; the bad vibes they generate give me headaches, neck aches and numb, tingly hands.

Celia has magic fingers; she massages my aching muscles. The relief is instantaneous but short-lived. And since a teenager is unlikely to hang around the house to be her mother’s masseuse, onto the Internet I go. Try these exercises, says one site. I have and I do. Buy yourself a phone headset and a good pillow, says another. On my to-do list. I even find a community of people whose only bond is that they have tense shoulders. The site says “anonymously connect with people who share your experiences — like those who say ‘I Have Extremely Tense Shoulders All the Time.’ Read hundreds of true stories, share your own story anonymously, get feedback and comments, chat in the discussion forum, help others, meet new friends, and so much more.”

Now there’s a thought. A group of people whose only bond is their tense shoulders. It’s a “Saturday Night Live” skit or a “Seinfeld” episode. I start to chuckle. And then I start to breathe deeply. Ahhh. My shoulders feel better already.

Dappled

Dappled

Comments 0 Comment


I start today with a word I love. I think of it this morning because the sun, as it sinks lower in the sky, strikes trees and leaves slantwise and leaves behind pools of dappled light. How lovely is the air of almost-equinox, how balanced and beguiling. It transforms the hot and dusty world of summer into something airy and delicious. Something begging to be walked through.

Skimming

Skimming

Comments 0 Comment


For years I’ve had the luxury of reading any book I choose all the way to the end, every precious word. But now I’m involved in a project that requires reading a lot, reading fast. Which means that I must also read selectively. Must be able to skim text for the main idea, glance at headlines and subheads and topic sentences and go from there. (Even writing this makes me shiver, so close is it to SAT-speak.) But skim I must. Part of the problem is that I know how hard-won words can be. To rush past them seems disrespectful. But I’m learning to get over this. Otherwise the tower of books will topple over on me!

First Day of School

First Day of School

Comments 0 Comment


I haven’t been a high school student or teacher for many, many years. But the day after Labor Day I forget that fact. For me this day will always be the first day of school and the last day of summer, and therefore worthy of a quick sigh, a backward glance. Even though in steamy July I might long for the clean page, the crisp new start, even though this season will, eventually, energize me — for now it’s bittersweet. The crickets chirp more slowly, the morning air is brisk. Last night I wrote names and numbers on emergency contact and other school forms. Seems like everyone has homework before school begins — even parents. My lesson is brief but painful: Summer passes more quickly every year.

Ride On

Ride On

Comments 0 Comment


Yesterday we rode our bikes farther than we thought we would. It was cool and the air had a tang to it so we pedaled past Vienna, across the Capital Beltway (such a feeling to cross that monster road on a pedestrian bridge), almost to Falls Church.

For the first part of the route the wind was at our backs and the path was mostly downhill. We were flying. I found myself dreading the uphill climb back home. A moment of insight, then: To try and take the road as it came, not to worry in advance about the hard parts, but just to suck in my gut, push harder and tackle them as they came.

It worked, sort of. The ride was pleasant all the way. Only when it was over (and today) have my muscles talked back.