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Author: Anne Cassidy

Staying Put

Staying Put

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I haven’t left the house by car in more than a week. My only forays have been on foot. This has not been a bad thing. I’ve made soup, baked rolls, shoveled snow, read books, talked on the phone, hauled wood, watched movies, fed the birds and consumed an entire bottle of champagne (which is a lot for me). Most importantly, I’ve started this blog, which I might never have done had I not been handed this windfall of time.

Staying put has made me think about restlessness, what drives us to be out and on the go. It’s often a sense that something more important is happening elsewhere. When I lived in New York, I felt like there was a little battery inside me that never wore down. I had to be out walking, meeting friends for dinner or drinks, running down the broad streets of Tribeca (sadly, one of my running destinations was the World Trade Center). God, I loved New York, but if I had stayed there I think I would have burnt out at an early age.

This is not a vote of confidence in the suburbs, by the way. But it is a paen to staying put. I wouldn’t want to live behind a wall of white, but a few days here has slowed us down, has showed us what’s essential.

Giving Way

Giving Way

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As the big snow of 2010 becomes a part of history we on the ground are left with its aftermath. We are still digging, still shivering, still feeding the birds. We are also learning the etiquette of the yield. Our roads are plowed now, and for that we are grateful. But there is not enough room on the road for two cars side by side, so one must give way. This is true for pedestrians (and dogs!), too, and was especially noticeable before our street was cleared. The one-lane footpath that was Fort Lee Street was only wide enough for one person at a time, so if neighbors were coming toward each other, the one closest to the smallest snowbank (or mailbox “dig-out”) stepped aside.

Seeing this ballet reminds me of a trip Tom and I took to Devon and Cornwall before we married. We stayed in a place called Old Walls and the roads we took to get there were the most impressively narrow ones I’ve ever seen. They were bordered by tall hedges and were barely one car’s-width wide. As we crept slowly down them in our borrowed Renault, an Austin Mini (or whatever it was) would zoom toward us like a bat out of hell. Every time, I braced myself for a head-on collision. But every time, at the last minute, those narrow-road veterans would dip into some nearly invisible turnout in the hedge, and we would be saved. The local drivers knew about these places all along, of course. Playing chicken with the tourists was their favorite sport.

This was a lesson in how not to give way. I’d like to think we’re adapting a more courteous approach here, that we’re learning to read the intentions of the car coming toward us, that we’re becoming flexible and patient. But then again, I’ve not left the house (except on foot) in a week. So it’s easier to believe in fairy tales.

Crystal Clear

Crystal Clear

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Four days off work can set the mind to spinning, and one of the best ways to let it wander is to watch icicles as they drip and grow. Like the waves of the ocean they offer constant movement, but it is a quiet motion.
Some of the icicles are smooth and others striated. The ribbed ones glitter more brightly in the sun. I soon develop favorites. My eyes are first drawn to the largest icicle, the showoff, but to its right is a more demure pair, whose beauty now is purely positional – they are the best poised to reflect the sun. I’m also partial to the newest ones, the babies, slender and new and full of possibility.
As I stare out the window and ponder the nature of the icicle, Tom worries about our roof. Why do we have more icicles than our neighbors have, he worries. I remind him that we’ve had them before. We talk about ice dams and structural integrity and all that sort of stuff. Then he walks out of the room, and I’m back to musing. The icicle is a vertical feature in a horizontal world. It’s a way to enjoy winter without leaving the house. As I’ve been writing, the sun has climbed higher in the sky. Now all the icicles are glittering.

White Out

White Out

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This snow comes in with a roar and a whoosh, as a fierce wind blows from the west and the flakes fly sideways. Last week’s deluge was relentless but silent. Today’s is loud and dramatic. It’s a storm with more sound than picture, the kind where pioneers perished a few yards from their cabins because they’d lost their way. I have a sudden hankering to read Willa Cather, to tie a rope from our house to our car. I think of the power of the white out, not the correction fluid (which covered mistakes and offered a fresh start back before computers made it almost obsolete), but the white out of nature, which obscures and overwhelms.

As I sit here writing and listening to the sound of the wind and the trees beating against our windows, I hear another sound, a sound we’ve been waiting for these last five days but haven’t heard. It’s a snow plow, or, more accurately, a front-end loader, clearing our street (finally) in the midst of a blizzard. It’s taking a while, since neighbors are offering coffee and breakfast and brownies. (We’re a congenial lot here in Folkstone.) And it seems a fruitless occupation since the snow is blowing back over the road as quickly as they can move it away. Then again, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. On some level I want to stay marooned. I was getting used to the isolation. The white out is fine by me.

On Foot

On Foot

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This morning a neighbor called us early. She lives on the corner and was going to the store to load up on groceries. Did we need anything? It’s been four days since we’ve been out in the world so I asked for milk and bread and tea. Our food supplies may be dwindling, but neighborliness is in abundant supply.
So, too, is foot travel. With more than two feet of snow clogging our unplowed street and another ten to twenty inches on the way, hoofing it is the only way to go. So into our supercharged suburban world comes a much needed pause. We stroll, we trudge, we slip and slide. We take in the white world at three miles an hour.

Snow Path

Snow Path

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Our wide suburban street has shrunk to a single footpath. Why do I find a curious freedom in this restriction? It is, of course, an adventure and won’t wear well with time, but right now I find it liberating. This little path reminds me of how many major highways began, first a beaten trail, then a dusty lane, next a paved road that’s widened to two lanes, then four, then eight. What began as a part of the landscape ends up destroying the landscape. I often try to imagine what our neighborhood was like a hundred years ago. The snow has made this easier to do.

A Walker Begins

A Walker Begins

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February 7, 2010
Blue skies today and people are stirring again. I went out early with the camera to capture the trees covered in white. Already the high branches are bare, blown clean of snow, springlike with swollen buds. The fir trees look like models from a miniature of the North Pole, their snowy covering like sugar icing. It’s colder today, about 15 when I woke up, and every so often a breeze blows the snow off the trees and creates a whirl of white, a brief flicker of snow fog. I think back two days ago to those first flakes in the Target parking lot. From those first flakes this white world was wrought. The snow has clung to every available surface. The most spindly branches of the forsythia have “V’s” of snow, and I can imagine the accumulation, patient and slow, crystal attracting crystal until little pockets formed.  I hope this blog will be the same, a slow, patient accumulation of words.