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Author: Anne Cassidy

Silent Forest

Silent Forest

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A walk so early that for first 15 minutes I saw no one. The trail seemed to hold its breath. Autumn color just nosing its way into the forest, greens still predominate, but not for long.

I could have done two loops but I’d had no tea, and my stomach was growling. Still, I took a brief detour just to glimpse a tree tunnel I know and admire. I let my breath settle into the rhythm of the trail.

It was in the 30s when I left the house today, which meant I kept my fists balled up inside my sleeves for most of the stroll. Back home, warmed by the exertion and the tea, I remember the silent Sunday forest.

Brahms’ First

Brahms’ First

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Remove the apostrophe and it would also be true. I often put Brahms first; he’s one of my favorite composers. When I heard about the program of last night’s concert I knew I’d want to be there.

In the program notes, I learned that Brahms began writing his first symphony when he was in 20s, but it was 20 years before he completed the work. One problem, apparently, was Beethoven, the long shadow he cast over the 19th-century symphonic repertoire.

In fact, the pulsing timpani that opens the first movement is sometimes thought to be an homage to Beethoven. But Brahms finds his footing. The sonorous chorales, the plucky pizzicatos, the French horn melody in the final movement: all of these shout “Brahms.”

I’ve been listening to this symphony for decades, mostly recorded versions, a few live ones. I even played the last movement — in youth orchestra, when I was last chair string bass. So believe me when I say I’ve never heard it as the National Symphony Orchestra, Gianandrea Noseda conducting, played it last night. The pace, the musicality, the finale that made the made my skin prickle. I felt like I was inside the music. And when the final notes sounded, the hall erupted, as it should have. It was Brahms first, after all.

A Family

A Family

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Mom has been gone nine years today. Almost a decade. Nine rich years for me — though not always easy ones. Years she missed.

What I would give for one more heart-to-heart, sitting at the kitchen table with everyone else asleep. What would I tell Mom?

I would fill her in on the new additions to the family, the grandchildren and the sons-in-law. I would tell her about my work and my travels. She would marvel at it all, I’m sure.

And of course, as was our habit, we would try to solve the world’s problems. We would find it more difficult than we used to because the world’s problems have grown considerably thornier since she’s been gone. But we would give it a go.

There would come a point, though, when we’d say enough. Let’s end on a high note. And that would be this: I’d be sure Mom knew that the four children she left behind are always there for each other. We live our own lives, of course. But we are, and we always will be, a family.

Mom, center, in black shirt, with her sister, brother, sister-in-law, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews (1997).

First Chill

First Chill

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I don’t feel it as much in the morning. Warmed from sleep and wearing a fuzzy robe, I make my way to this room, this keyboard. Momentum moves me into the day.

But an hour or so later, it hits me. The air in here feels mighty chilly. I check the indoor thermostat: 66. And that’s downstairs. Upstairs is usually (strangely) cooler.

What is it about these first cool days of fall? They come on the heels of warmth and humidity. They suffer in comparison.

I try to wait until November to turn on the furnace, but today’s high will only be 58 degrees. Time for this rite of passage, even if it’s a couple weeks early. Time to combat the first chill.

Dark Walk

Dark Walk

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Halloween is more than two weeks away, but it felt quite present when I took a walk after dark the other night.

I left in a brisk wind, wearing light clothes and a head lamp. I was pretty sure cars would see me and my Cyclops eye. What I wasn’t counting on were all the little eyes staring back at me. They were from a deer family, perhaps a half dozen blithely munching my neighbor’s trees.

The walk only got weirder. I heard shrieks and giggles from the other end of the block. Flashlight tag, perhaps? Or a preview of coming attractions?

Many houses have dressed up for the season, with skeleton-head images superimposed on their walls, orange blinking lights and blow-up monsters in their front yards.

Add to this a wild wind stirring the leaves and sending twigs and small branches earthward, and … let’s just say I was glad to get home.

A High Wind

A High Wind

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A high wind has sprung up on this day that used to be known as Columbus Day but is now also known as Indigenous People’s Day. It started yesterday, this wind, and though it’s stirring the leaves that have already fallen from the poplar and the witch hazel, it isn’t, as far as I know, leading to any rain.

When the big gusts come, they blow aside the bamboo that now nearly obscures my view of the black gum tree. Black gum leaves can put on quite a show in late October, so I’m happy for this glimpse of them, for their phosphorescence and their beauty.

Mostly I’m thinking about this country, on this day three weeks and a day away from a contentious election. I’m thinking about how divided we are, a division that is implied in the two names we have for this day.

Who owns this country? It’s a question I hope we never stop asking.

Twenty Years

Twenty Years

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It’s been two decades since I left the full-time-freelance life and took an editorial job on a magazine staff. I’ve been thinking this morning of how decisions ripple outward into time and space, how they define us in ways we might never fully understand.

The job I took in October, 2004, was a creative boost. Suddenly, I was writing articles about theology and science and history. I felt like I’d gone back to school, and in a way I had. I was working for a university publication. I continued in that vein (though at another university) for a dozen years before joining a nonprofit development firm that sent me around the world to report on its projects.

Each job built on the one that came before. Had I not taken the first, I wouldn’t have taken the second, or the third.

Now, I’m a freelancer again, and I’m a student for real, with more deadlines. I’ve come full circle, back to a place that feels comfortable and right. But these other lives are all around me, in the friends I’ve made, the skills I’ve learned, the “material” I’ve stored. It’s good to have a day when I can reflect on the decisions themselves, on how they worked their magic, even when I thought they might not.

(Always trying to see the forest through the trees.)

The Straightaway

The Straightaway

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Though I love a path that curves and winds its way through the woods, I’m also fond of a good straightaway.

Which is what I found myself on yesterday. A trail that branches off another, well-traveled one, a connector route, you might say. And I was struck with its clean lines and lack of mystery, with its uncomplicated beauty.

A straightaway is not a “straight and narrow,” with its whiff of boring respectability. A straightaway is redolent of race tracks and final surges to victory. It’s about power and clarity.

Sometimes that’s all you want in a trail, to see it clear from beginning to end, to know what you have in front of you.

Hitting Home

Hitting Home

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The monster storm known as Milton made landfall last night about 9:30 p.m. It came ashore on the very same Florida beach I’ve been escaping to for more than a decade, Siesta Key.

A barrier island known for its sugar-white sand and relaxed village vibe, Siesta Key is a place I’ve come to know and love. The thought of it pummeled by 120-mile-an-hour winds and submerged under 10 feet of storm surge is making my stomach turn.

It’s too early yet to tell the extent of the damage. I’m hoping it’s minimal, but I’m afraid it’s not. In other words, Florida is still on my mind.

(A Siesta Key evening, 2023)

Florida on My Mind

Florida on My Mind

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I’m thinking today not just of how beautiful it is — though it is certainly that — but of how low-lying, how houses and docks cluster along the shoreline and canals, how the place is threaded through with water.

Soon, the winds will blow, the seas will rise, the rain will fall. People are doing everything they can to prepare for the monster Milton, but how can any place cope well with storm surges of 10 feet or higher?

My trips to the west coast of Florida through the years have shown me how intimately people can live with water, how close to it they want to be, how calming they find its presence.

Now the presence has become a menace.