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Author: Anne Cassidy

On Foot to the Sound

On Foot to the Sound

Yesterday, the reprise of a walk I remember taking years ago: through Seattle’s Carkeek Park to Puget Sound. We started on a trail that my friend Peggy designed and helped bring about. From there we entered a woods so deep, light-filtered and northwestern that I wanted to bottle it and bring it home.

There were meadows and wildflowers and an old orchard. Pipers Creek was our constant companion. 

Shortly before we reached the water, we walked across a high bridge that straddled a railroad track. A freight train was moving through, car after car.  The view took on motion then, and the water glittered in the sun. 

Coast to Coast

Coast to Coast

As just mentioned, I grew up on car trips. For me, the idea of transcontinental travel is all mixed up with long, dusty drives. 

I may sound like Rip van Winkle, but it will never cease to amaze me that I can wake up on one side of the continent (albeit quite early) and be on the other side before lunch.

I pondered this last night, as I watched the last light of a long day fade to orange, then black.

Endangered Radio

Endangered Radio

“How long till Tucumcari?” 

“Why is it so hot back here?”

And … “Can you turn up the radio?”

These aren’t my children’s comments about long-distance travel; they’re my own. Or at least what can I remember of the cross-country travel my brothers and sister and I took as kids. 

We were stuffed into the backseat and nether regions of the old “woody” station wagon and driven more than two thousand miles, from Lexington, Kentucky to Hollywood, California, and other western destinations. The view out our windows was priceless: forests and grasslands, mountain and prairie, red rocks and cactus; the whole continent unfolding before us. And the soundtrack of our travels? AM Radio.

That’s going to change soon, according to a report in the Washington Post. Some automakers are already omitting AM Radio from their electric vehicles’ dashboards. And Ford is eliminating AM radio entirely.

There have been protests from station owners, first responders, listeners and politicians of all stripes (it’s a rare bipartisan issue), saying that the move may spell the end of AM radio entirely. 

I don’t listen to much AM radio — until I’m on a long-distance car trip. And then I tune into these staticky stations to catch the weather, oldies and talk. AM stations give you a taste of the places you’re driving through.  I’m sorry to hear that, like so much that is local and authentic, they’re endangered, too.

Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, Decisions

We leave tomorrow for more than a week in Seattle and environs, so the dust is flying. Among the items on my packing list is one that recurs on every packing list: book. The singular is deceptive. Often this means books.

Sometimes I’m dragging school work along.  And I used to pack work reading, which falls into the general category of books. Neither one of those this time.

Today’s task is simpler, though not without challenges. Today I need to find a good book to read, as in just read, as in for pleasure. Ideally, it would be a medium-sized paperback. Long enough to last me but light enough to keep my baggage allowance where it needs to be. 

I’ve dipped into the home library and found House Made of Dawn, by M. Scott Momaday, which I haven’t read but have always wanted to. It may come along. Also Crossroads, by Jonathan Franzen, a hefty library book, which I’ve listened to but not read in hard copy. 

There are still a few hours to think about this. Decisions, decisions. 

(Book packing with help from a young assistant.)

Potential

Potential

It’s a day for flowers, for corsages and nosegays. And at my house, it’s a day to admire the climbing rose, poised to begin its spring show. 

The buds are primed, some have popped, others are ready to.

It’s also, then, a day to celebrate potential. For Mom, who always believed in our potential. And for my daughters, whose potential I was privileged to see, treasure and help shape, for all that lies ahead for them. 

Happy 100th!

Happy 100th!

Today would have been Dad’s 100th birthday. He missed it by a little over nine years. I like to think he would have reveled in the day.

A milestone that once seemed impossible to reach is no longer such a feat. I’ve known a couple of centenarians and a slew of nonagenarians. Dad was briefly one of them, almost 91 when he passed away. 

The last time Dad was at our house, he loosened his tie, grabbed his cane and took to the dance floor. It’s a good way to remember him on his birthday … or any day.

A Benediction

A Benediction

The first thing I notice is the scent. The air is perfumed, mid-May incarnate. Early honeysuckle? I don’t think so. Viburnum perhaps?  I inhale as I walk, which supercharges each step. 

The next thing I notice is the mud. It’s been only a few days since I last walked in the woods, but it’s rained hard since then, and paths that were packed are now spongy, pliable.  My boots leave an impression. 

The stream is gurgling. The forest has greened and expanded with the much-needed moisture. It has moved up and out. It holds me as I walk, sifts its stillness down, a gift, a benediction.  

I Brake For Goslings

I Brake For Goslings

It’s not just drivers who have to swerve, hit the brakes and, of course, stay on their side of the road. Walkers have similar obligations. 

When I’m hoofing it on the W&OD — a bike/hike trail frequented by walkers and cyclists and yesterday, strangely, by a motorcycle going 60 miles an hour — the key is to avoid sudden changes of “lane.” There are signs that remind us of that fact: “Be alert and predictable,” they say.

Last week, on a Franklin Farm stroll, my goal was to stay clear of mother goose and her adorable goslings. Luckily, she let me get close enough for a photograph.

The Renegade

The Renegade

As the semester ends, the deconstruction begins. Random print-outs are tossed or tidied. Papers are filed. Library books are gathered and returned to Georgetown.

Since I live nowhere near Georgetown and haven’t had class on campus all year (all via Zoom), this is a big deal. I was so proud of myself that I had dropped them off a few days before they were due, combining their return with a trip into D.C. on Saturday.

But yesterday, my bubble was burst. A stray had hidden itself underneath another book on my desk. Luckily, it can be returned … by mail!

(This wasn’t the renegade volume. I remembered to return this one — but only after I removed every sticky from every page.)
Of Roses and Crowns

Of Roses and Crowns

Over the weekend, a day bracketed by rituals. One ancient, the other “only” 149 years old. 

I woke up at 6 a.m., early enough to catch much of the coronation of King Charles III.  The choirs, the sixth-century prayer book, the procession, the golden carriage. A glimpse into the Middle Ages.

And then, at 6 p.m., the Kentucky Derby, with its come-from-behind, 15-1 shot Mage. More rituals: the call to post, the starting bell, the breathless commentary of the Run for the Roses. 

We measure our lives by rituals and routines, but I’ve seldom experienced such an oddly juxtaposed and striking pair of them.

(Photo of King Edward’s crown courtesy Wikipedia)