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Author: Anne Cassidy

For Ratsy

For Ratsy

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Her name was Janice but we knew her as Ratsy, a childhood nickname that stuck. The childhood is not mine but Mom’s. She and Ratsy met as little girls at a convent boarding school in Kentucky and had the sort of adventures you read about in books. They made up games, imagined ghost nuns in the hallway, and almost hopped a freight to California until a law-abiding friend learned of the plot and tattled on them. 

It wasn’t all fun and games, though. Mom and Ratsy missed their parents and homes. But they found much comfort in each other, and they remained close friends — more like sisters, really — to the end of their lives. The end came only two weeks ago for Ratsy, just a month shy of age 96. 

How to describe Ratsy? Pure elegance, sophistication and cool. She and her husband, Monty, worked in Hollywood and knew movie stars like Bing Crosby. Ratsy sent us lovely gifts, a dress and pinafore set I still remember. She made Mom laugh. And she hosted seven of us (four kids, two parents and an aunt) when we drove across the country to California in an old “woodie” station wagon. 

The Ratsy I came to know as an adult was even more impressive. I realized then what she had overcome, living most of her life with the use of only one arm. It was a disability you never noticed — until she was driving you down an LA freeway, with a cigarette in one hand (a habit she later kicked) and wait, how was she steering? Never mind, we survived. 

Ratsy outlived her husband, sister, nephews and many others, but she leaves behind dear friends and family who grieve her passing. With her death, the world lost a true original … and my family lost a little more of the world that Mom knew and loved.

Quiet Victory

Quiet Victory

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I had a couple other potential posts lined up for today, but I will interrupt my “regularly scheduled” (as if there’s anything scheduled about this blog!) programming for just the tiniest of rants about the Oscars. 

As usual, I stayed up till the end, enjoying what I thought was an unusually touching crop of acceptance speeches. As expected, “Everything, Everywhere, All at Once” swept the awards.  

This is where the rant comes in. I actually watched this film, wanting to see what all the fuss was about, and I can appreciate its manic energy and the sweetness of its message. But this multiverse martial arts film left me completely cold — and bored. I figure it’s generational — my film-loving millennial enjoyed it very much — but I hope it’s not indicative of a new trend in film, ones that I can barely stand to watch.

Luckily, I had slipped off to an actual theater yesterday to see “The Quiet Girl,” an Irish movie up for Best Foreign film. It didn’t win — the magisterial German remake of “All Quiet on the Western Front” deservedly nabbed that one — but I walked out of the theater with my heart stirred and my soul enlarged. As long as a few movies still do what movies used to do, I’ll be content. 

(Above: the empty — I mean completely empty throughout the entire film — theater where I watched the old-school movie “The Fabelmans.”)

 

Beach Bling

Beach Bling

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Water, wind, sand and sky.  From these basic elements flow the beauty of a beach. It doesn’t need anything else. But like a little black dress set off to perfection with a single strand of pearls, even simplicity can be enhanced with a little bling.

I’ve seen beach art before, but never so much of it. On a hike this week we came across scores of tree trunks decorated with whelks, conches, cockle shells — and a few feathers for good measure.

The shell trees made us smile. They invited us to contribute, which we did. They sum up the beach attitude: relax, create, enjoy. 

One Beach, Indivisible

One Beach, Indivisible

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A hike yesterday through the refuge backcountry, so far in fact, that the Maryland state line was less than five miles away. 

I’ve always thought it would be fun to trek from one state to another, a feat fairly easily accomplished here, since the Assateague National Seashore includes parts of Virginia and Maryland. 

But yesterday’s walk stopped short of that, circled around and back to what I love most — the beach. 

For the Birds

For the Birds

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There are more birds than people on Assateague Island. Maybe always but especially on a blustery March afternoon. There were snowy egrets in the shallows and a great blue heron that flew up and away as I tried to snap a photo. Piping plovers ran in and out of the waves, in that adorable way they do. Beside them were scores of sanderlings, many hopping on one leg, and gulls, of course, which are always with us.

Most dramatic was the flock of snow geese that spiraled down from the heavens, a murmuration of waterfowl that landed on the spit of sand between Tom’s Cove and the Atlantic Ocean. A gift of bird life all the way from Arctic lands. 

Prescribed Burn

Prescribed Burn

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Like everywhere else these days, the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge has its share of invasive species. To manage unwanted plants, the refuge plans a series of prescribed burns. One of them was happening yesterday.

Smoke wafted over the estuary and closed the wildlife loop. It hovered above previously singed areas. In other words, it did its thing.

But it didn’t interfere with the wildlife. Ponies grazed, squirrels scampered and something large and quick plopped into the water as we passed.

By early evening, the western sky had cleared, making way …. for this.

Back to Virginia

Back to Virginia

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The commonwealth of Virginia stretches from the Blue Ridge Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. Today, we drive toward the latter. But to reach coastal Virginia we’ll drive through much of coastal Maryland. 

Chincoteague perches at the top of Virginia’s outer banks. We’ll spend most of the almost-four-hour drive in the Free State, won’t reenter the commonwealth until we’re almost there. 

In that sense, we’ll have done on the first day of this short getaway what all travels hope to do, which is to bring the traveler home again. 

An Endorsement

An Endorsement

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A few weeks ago, in a rush of gratitude, I emailed a stranger whose maps I had recently accessed online. It’s thanks to his map that I’ve been exploring the paths in a woods not far from here, the one where I finally found the Northwest Passage. 

I wasn’t expecting to hear anything back from the man, but I did want him to know how much I’ve been appreciating his maps and commentary, what a difference they’ve made for me.

Late yesterday, I heard from him. He’s 88 years old and doesn’t check his email as often as he used to, he said. But he credits all the walking he’s done with being alive now.

Quite an endorsement for walking in the suburbs. Or for walking anywhere. 

Welcome Wreath

Welcome Wreath

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I began to spot them in the forest a few days ago, although from the looks of it they’d been there for a while. The wreaths seem homemade, maybe fashioned from local boughs. 

This one is special though, decorated as it is with an eagle feather. 

Welcome back, the wreath says. Welcome back to the eagles, more common in these parts than they used to be.

Welcome back to the foxes, who prowl and hunt and make their home.

Welcome back to the walkers, including this one. 

A Mind of Its Own

A Mind of Its Own

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It’s been a while since I studied a topographical map. I’ve had to refamiliarize myself with those little squiggly lines. The closer they are together, I remember, the greater the elevation. 

Sometimes there’s a little number there to help. In the case of my terrain it’s a little number in more ways than one, something in the 300 range, as in 367 feet above sea level. 

But even 367 can be felt in the legs on the way up — and on the way down. It’s a good reminder that the land has a texture and a contour. That it has a mind of its own.