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Author: Anne Cassidy

Caged Bird

Caged Bird

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For the last two days we’ve been in a battle of sorts with our remaining parakeet, Cleo. Having just lost her companion, Toby, we’re in no mood to lose her, too. But she seems determined to escape, even if it means killing herself in the process.

On Tuesday we found her flying around the living room and kitchen, banging into the glass patio doors, bouncing off the ceiling and finally, after 10 harrowing minutes, coming to rest on the outside of her cage. From there, she was quickly dispatched to the inside with the use of a towel.

Yesterday’s near escape was almost more terrifying. I found her halfway through the bars of a cage which I now realize is a little too open for her (.6 rather than .5 inches between bars). Who knew? None of our other parakeets have been such escape artists. But Cleo is female — and feisty.

She’s about to move into tighter quarters, slightly more snug inside with less space between the cage bars. We’re hoping these new digs will discourage escape attempts.

Ultimately, of course, she needs more freedom and a new friend, both of which take time to make happen. So for now, and until her new accommodations are readied, I’m working beside her, keeping an eye on this beautiful blue parakeet, making sure this caged bird sings … but does not stray.

(Cleo behind bars, where we hope she stays.)

Sleep Aid

Sleep Aid

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I may have discovered a no-fail sleep aid. It’s not melatonin, Lunesta or Benadryl. Not a hot bath or a cup of warm milk, though these homespun remedies have their place.

My secret, if you’d like to call it that, is taking a red-eye flight the night before. Yes, good old-fashioned sleep deprivation can work wonders for insomnia. It may require a day of disorientation before it clicks in, but perhaps such deep, sumptuous sleep is worth it.

The thing is, a red eye from the West Coast makes sense. In addition to being affordable it provides more visiting time on departure day. And leaving at 11 in the evening (2 a.m. back home) means you’re landing by dawn’s early light. The only problem is how to grab 40 or even 20 winks in the air. But if this doesn’t happen, you have the promise of a nap followed by sublime catch-up sleep to come.

A bit unorthodox? Yes, but not without merit.

Marine Layer

Marine Layer

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I awoke yesterday to dense fog and quarter-mile visibility. No problem for a walker in the suburbs (or the city), but not the best for motorists and pilots and others who must see far to be safe.

I bundled up and took a walk, wanting to explore an area I’d seen from the window of my Airbnb but couldn’t pinpoint its locale. Was it across Rainier? Yes it was. But mostly it was up, as so much of this neighborhood seems to be.

Seattle is a city of vistas, and when the fog swirls around them, the views are even more magical. Yesterday’s marine layer had burnt away before I took off for home. But on Sunday I captured a sliver of fog posed fetchingly at the foot of Mount Rainier — a marine layer disappearing even as I snapped this shot.

Her Place

Her Place

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When I was Celia’s age, I lived in a city, too. I woke every morning groggy but happy. Never enough time, never enough sleep. New York was an engine that revved me and fed me. I had found my rhythm, my métier. I was in love with a place.

When I see Celia here, 3,000 miles west of where I made my home, I understand the contours of her affinity but not its particulars. That’s why I visit, to pick up the vibe, if only for a few days.

But inevitably what I feel is not just the pull of a place; it’s the pull of possibility. It’s the memory of being that age, with so much of life ahead of me. And I think, wherever she roams in the future, she will always have this place, this feeling of freedom, this city she’s made her own.

(Seattle’s Kubota Gardens)

Seattle Sunrise

Seattle Sunrise

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Sun is not something one associates with Seattle, but today it’s pouring in the window of this place I’ve rented for a few days. It’s Celia’s birthday and I surprised her yesterday, appearing at her doorstep when she had just talked with me hours earlier to say happy Thanksgiving.

The surprise has been on me, though, as it always is when I travel from one coast to another. First, that the trip happens so quickly, five and a half hours! Second, that I feel so at home here.

And third … as always … that I don’t want to leave.

This Old Purse

This Old Purse

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I can’t remember when I bought it, but for at least five years this steadfast bag has held my stuff, held my life, if you want to know the truth. It’s kept me organized, kept me sane. When I needed a card or a tissue or a pen, I knew just where to look for one, courtesy of its organized interior.

It’s not fancy. It’s not leather. But I could wash it and it weighed nothing (until I filled it up with too much stuff).

Inside was a wallet, slots for cards, an inner pocket and not one but two pen-holders. I noticed in the newer model of this bag, the one I bought just a few days ago, that the pen-holders have vanished. A sign of the times, I suppose.

But most of the other organizing tools are there, and, best of all, it’s brand new. Still, I’ll miss the old purse, its subtle shade of blue, its faux quilting. I’m thinking of all the places it’s been, all it’s seen me through. So here’s a toast to this old bag. May it rest in peace.

A Cornucopia

A Cornucopia

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The flowers arrived yesterday morning, a gift from my brother Drew. I wasn’t expecting them so they were doubly precious. They will be center stage at today’s feast.

It wasn’t until I brought them inside and set them on the table that I realized they were arranged in a cornucopia — a horn of plenty.

I grew up with one of these. It sat on our dining room table, the same one we’ll sit at today (newly relocated to my house).

The cornucopia is a symbol of abundance, and for me, of gratitude. It is as chock full of blossoms as this house will soon be of people.

I’m grateful for the flowers, the food, the people — for the abundance of it all.

Let the Cooking Begin

Let the Cooking Begin

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We’ve measured the tables, all three of them. When joined, there will be 18 feet of dining space with almost as many chairs as we need.

The groceries are (mostly) in the house, and only minor cleaning remains to be done.

Which can only mean one thing: Let the cooking begin! Let the apples be diced and the vinaigrette stirred. Let the celery be chopped, the chestnuts, too, ready to assemble for tomorrow’s stuffing.

Let the turkey breast roast (the extra turkey I’ll have on hand to feed the large crew expected tomorrow). Let the pie crust be rolled and the casseroles baked.

In other words, let as much of tomorrow as possible begin today.

More November

More November

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Novemberness is not a word, but I’m making it one with this post. Why shouldn’t we turn a month into a state of being? Melville did it: “Whenever it is a damp, dreary November in my soul…”

My experience with November is not as gloomy. I’ve always liked the month, the coziness of its early darkness, its lamplit afternoons. Thanksgiving brightening it, distracting us, and at its very end, the birthdays of two people I love.

The syllable “ness” turns adjectives into nouns: goodness, sweetness, faithfulness. The “ness” of “Novemberness” turns a proper noun into a quality or condition. Novemberness is the quality of being November, and this year we have more November to enjoy it.

I speak, of course, of the feast day happening in just two days and its placement this year, which is the latest it can possibly happen, given that it happens on the fourth Thursday of the month. Merchants are decrying it — seven fewer days to shop! — and devotees of Hallmark Christmas films are ignoring it and beginning their seasonal rituals anyway.

But I’m savoring it. I’m reveling in the stillness, in the few bright leaves that still cling to branches. I’m enjoying having more of a month that is too often rushed and folded into holiday folderol. I’m celebrating Novemberness.

A Sabbath

A Sabbath

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Yesterday unwound slowly, with a small baptism and lunch afterward. As the afternoon continued, I thought about the tasks that waited for me back home: schoolwork and prep for Thursday. I have lists, and lists of lists.

But it was so nice to sit and visit, to let the kiddos run in and out of the house, their cheeks rosy with the cold. To listen, to chat, to laugh.

Back home, I realized there was daylight enough still to walk. Then, after dinner, I realized that I still had time to do the reading and viewing required for Tuesday’s class. In other words, I’d completed as much in that compressed schedule as I would have over hours.

I often wish I could do less on Sundays, not just for religious reasons, but because it’s good to pause and take stock, to have one day a week that’s different from the others. Yesterday, without planning to, I almost did.