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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Power of the Porch

The Power of the Porch

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Tonight I was on one of my brief after-dinner strolls when our neighbors called from across the street. They’ve just finished a front porch across the width of their house and they wanted me to see it. So I sat on their porch swing and we talked for 45 minutes. This is remarkable because in 21 years it’s the longest conversation I’ve had with Bob and Donna. In our suburb, as in many, backyard decks and patios are where you sit outside on a pleasant evening. Imagine all those people suddenly flipped, sitting in front of their houses where they can see their neighbors, rather than behind. Then multiply this by millions of people across the land — and you have one way to build community, to bring us face to face with the people we live closest to.

Only Child

Only Child

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Pots of soil went into its being, hundreds of gallons of water and hours of summer light. Once there were several blossoms on this plant; now there aren’t any.

Instead, there is one red orb, ripening slowly in the sun.

It’s that time of the summer when you realize that what you have, produce-wise, is what you’ll get. So let me introduce you to my only child. Next stop: the farmer’s market.

The City at Night

The City at Night

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Two nights ago, when the moon was full, we drove downtown in a red convertible to see the sights. The wind whipped our hair, and even with jackets on we were chilly. As we crossed the 14th Street Bridge, the city swung into sight. The Washington Monument, the Lincoln, the White House, the Capitol. Every building white against the inky night sky. Our niece, Liz, snapped photo after photo from the back seat; it was her first visit.
Suddenly the city that is our steady spouse, our workaday companion, became our lover — dark and sparkly and full of life.

Happy Birthday, Claire

Happy Birthday, Claire

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Before the sweltering summer of 2010 was the sweltering summer of 1991. But early one morning, the last Sunday in the month, the heat broke. The morning sky was swirls of color and the air was clean and clear. The weathercasters said: “This is the most beautiful day of the year.” It was July 28, 1991, the day our daughter Claire was born.

So today’s post is for Claire — daughter, sister, friend; college student, daycare assistant, giver of big hugs. When I started this blog in February, Claire cheered me on more than anyone else. Happy Birthday, Claire!

Little Voices

Little Voices

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Just as there are seasons of the suburban street — the rumble of school buses in the fall; the melody of ice cream trucks in the summer — so too is there a life cycle over time — the years of baby cries, followed by those of bicycle tires slapping the pavement, of squeals and yells and parents calling and yesterday (I don’t know from where but I heard it) a dinner bell. 

 For years our street has been quiet. Our children were some of the youngest on the block and when the older kids of neighboring families moved out our kids were left behind to make their own fun. 
 Now a new generation is on the rise. Boys on bikes, girls on scooters, babies in prams. It makes me feel old — and young — at the same time.
Mad Woman

Mad Woman

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Tonight is the premiere of “Mad Men.” It’s the fourth season of a show I’ve usually watched on DVD; this will be the first episode I’ve seen in real time. So we have the excitement of a premiere (even though a television premiere), the glamor of New York City in the 1960s, and for me, wondering about the popularity of this show and what it means about us. The characters are compelling, the time period just out of reach enough to be strange and wondrous, and the style is divine. We like “Mad Men” because it’s a good show. But we also like it because it reminds us of the way we used to be. We smoked, we drank, we were not kind to women and minorities. But we were not as plugged in, we were not as politically correct; we were, I think, more human.

Bicsuitville

Bicsuitville

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We’re in Greensboro, North Carolina, this weekend, and are about to explore it. One thing I’ve noticed so far is the preponderance of friend chicken and biscuit chains. I’ll admit: My salad-weary mouth is watering. My southern roots are calling. There are times when only fried chicken will do.

Facing the Enemy

Facing the Enemy

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We are not air-conditioning people. If we could do summer the way we wanted, our windows would always be open to the breeze. But we have teenagers, and we choose our battles, so the last few summers we keep our windows up and our AC on. Still, we never lose an opportunity to throw open the sash and let the sunshine in.

Until this summer.

This summer almost every day is over 90 degrees. This summer, heat is the enemy. So we sit outside in the evening, when the sun is down and the air is a balmy 85. Or early in the morning when there’s still a hint (and I mean a hint) of coolness in the air.
I used to think there was no such thing as too hot.
I’m not so sure anymore.

Breathing Space

Breathing Space

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Oprah Magazine used to contain a double-page spread photograph of a windswept beach or mountain peak or other natural scene. It was called “Breathing Space.” I loved the photos and I loved the concept. The generous bestowal of two pages with no advertising, no text, just a picture. It really was a breathing space.
Maye I’m just missing it, but I don’t see “Breathing Space” in Oprah anymore. So today I offer my own breathing space. Pause here a minute to catch your breath.

By Heart

By Heart

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Apparently Socrates thought the written word was a step down from the oral tradition, which requires memorization, thought, the careful consideration of ideas. People who read, he says, “will seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant.” The written word offers “the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom.”

I can’t say that I completely agree with the philosopher on this one. But I do know how easy it is to read a book and a few weeks later have absolutely no idea what it said. And I do appreciate the power of the remembered phrase, of learning a poem or a verse “by heart.” Because the more you savor a particular combination of words, the more you love it. And because memorization liberates. Once we know the words, we carry their wisdom around with us; we are freed from the printed page. Being able to recite a few lines of poetry or prose, if only silently, lets us savor the rich thoughts of great writers and thinkers any time, any place. I wrote an essay about this a long time ago. To read it, follow this link: http://www.csmonitor.com/1990/1009/umem.html