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Author: Anne Cassidy

Forty-Five

Forty-Five

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The outdoor thermometer needs a new battery. For the last four days it has recorded the temperature as 45. That’s 45 night or day, sunny or cloudy, morning or afternoon. 

It has me thinking about 45 — the middle-ness of it, its commodiousness. Want winter? Forty-five will do. Scarves and gloves aren’t out of place in the mid-40s. If you live in warm climes and are looking for an excuse to take your wool sweater out of mothballs, 45 provides it.

And yet, 45 can go warmer, too. You don’t need a hat in 45, for instance.  And if you’re moving briskly through space, which I often am, 45 can feel like 55 in a jiffy. 

If your thermometer must be stuck, then, it could do worse than to be stuck at 45. 

Short Order

Short Order

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I’m thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

“Cooked in Sight. Must be Right” read the sign on the wall. I’d have to agree. 

Before the Rain

Before the Rain

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On a woods walk yesterday there was not exactly a traffic jam, but there were more people than usual. 

“It’s not raining … yet,” said a tall man in a lightweight jacket. (You could get away with one of those, though I was donned in parka and gloves.) 

It must have been the threat of showers that drove us out and into the forest, one last dash before the deluge.

This morning the drops move out and the wind moves in. I foresee a basement walk for me this morning. 

(A photo from the Blue Ridge, not my neighborhood stream valley park.)

Too Soon!

Too Soon!

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Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall’s raking. 

Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th? 

Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you. 

A Sunset, An Intersection

A Sunset, An Intersection

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Asheville is a small city with big scenery,  including a road called Town Mountain Drive. I drove it by accident the other day on the way to see the sunset, which was stunning. 

The road was a different matter, winding up and up and up, mildly terrifying in spots, especially for the cars on the outside, but an adventure just the same.

I read later that Town Mountain Drive connects directly with the Blue Ridge Parkway, so this morning (back in Virginia) I looked up the two roads on a map. And sure enough, they intersect, at the exact same spot where we parked for our hike, Craven Gap.

Craven Gap

Craven Gap

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“There are four reasons people come to Asheville,” the ranger said. “Beer, bears, that big house down the road (the Biltmore) and the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

The ranger didn’t have much to say about the first three, but oh, could he talk about the last one. He seemed to know most everything about the Blue Ridge Parkway, which sections were closed (many of them), the detours and work-arounds, which trails to hike and the views you’ll see from  them. 

This is the vista that greets you on the hike up from Craven Gap: mountains beyond mountains, purplish green in the foreground, smudges of blue in the distance. 

10,000 Books

10,000 Books

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A quick trip before school starts later this week lands us in Asheville, North Carolina, a place I’ve always wanted to visit. And when you visit Asheville, you visit the Biltmore, the Vanderbilt retreat and largest private home in America. 

There are four acres of floor space in the mansion including 250 rooms (43 of them bathrooms), 65 fireplaces, a bowling alley, swimming pool, pipe organ and a banqueting hall with a 70-foot tall barrel-vaulted ceiling. The mansion is crammed with priceless art, portraits by Whistler and Sargent and landscapes by Monet, and during World War II it housed treasures from the National Gallery of Art. The garden and grounds were landscaped by Frederick Law Olmsted. 

Opulence is not my style but there is one room in the house I seriously covet — the library with its collection of 10,000 books. I stood a long time in that room, imagining the guests who visited, including writers Henry James and Edith Wharton, the conversation that flowed, led no doubt by Biltmore’s original owner George Vanderbilt, fluent in eight languages. Ah yes, I could spend some serious time in the Biltmore library.

Celebrating Epiphany

Celebrating Epiphany

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It’s a day in need of rescue, so that it isn’t buried at the bottom of an ornament box as we strip the tree and take it down. Or, since 2021, to separate it from the taint of the Capitol insurrection. 

In western Christianity, the Epiphany celebrates the visit of the magi to the infant Jesus. It marks the presentation of Jesus to the Gentiles, the revelation of his divine identity. It has also come to mean a sudden intuition, an aha moment. 

I’ve always appreciated this day, because it ends Christmas with a bang not a whimper, with a quest, a star and a sense of wonder. Despite the rich robes of the three kings, it has always reminded me that inspiration doesn’t lie in the grand occasions of life but can be folded into the lowliest of enterprises: sweeping the floor, raking the leaves, feeding the birds. 

We don’t know when the aha moment will strike, only that it will — if we pay attention. 

(The Adoration of the Magi, Edward Burne-Jones, courtesy Wikipedia)

 

Once More to the Breach

Once More to the Breach

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There is something both unsettling and gratifying about charging into a project that you’ve left idle for a month. Never mind the explanations for your idleness — a research paper due, the holidays to prepare for — the work itself has been left behind, and it lets you in on its annoyance. 

Surely nothing else can account for the way a once-admirable essay shrinks in power and perceptiveness. Nothing else explains the inelegant phrasing, the lack of insight.

And yet … with the power of time and distance, suddenly there is potential again, too. A new overview, perhaps even a revised table of contents. It’s a good way to enter the new year, with rolled-up sleeves. 

Strange But True

Strange But True

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It’s been in the 60s these past few days, a welcome blast of warmth that almost makes up for late December’s frigid temperatures. But it’s also a little strange, as unseasonable weather tends to be. 

The holly berries look out of place in this balmy air, as do the Christmas lights still decorating houses up and down the street. 

This time last year an unexpectedly heavy snow blanketed the region, shut down Interstate 95 and left motorists stranded overnight in their cars. Today, it’s hard to imagine that. 

But this is weather in the age of climate change. 

(A photo from last year’s snow storm.)