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Author: Anne Cassidy

Beating the Wrap

Beating the Wrap

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As I wrap presents for my grandson’s special day, I recall that a few weeks ago, at the birthday of another grandson, my daughter confided that my present was the only one not in a gift bag, the only one, that is wrapped in paper.

Am I the only one who still does this, who cuts, creases and tapes the paper, who unspools and measures the ribbon, then curls it with scissors? 

There are a few of us out there who honor the old ways, who wrap rather than insert, who tie rather than stuff. But not many. 

This Old Resume

This Old Resume

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The musical “Chorus Line” contains a song with the lines, “Who am I anyway? Am I my resume?”  I thought of those lines recently when I came across one of my first professional CVs, a document listing jobs I’ve long since forgotten — writing scripts for a public television station — and interests — music and reading — I’ve continued to enjoy but have long since ceased to record. 

And then there were the personal details. I listed my birthday, marital status, even my height and weight. Were these  required? I wasn’t seeking a position as an airline flight attendant but a high school English teacher!

A key phrase in these old resumes was “agreeable to relocation.” And looking at a list of the places I sent them — Wyoming, California, New Mexico — that could be assumed. What a quaint concept in these days of remote work. 

And what a quaint document in general, this old resume, with the blotchy printing and the inclusion of my middle name “Leet,” which I’m proud to bear but haven’t used in decades. 

Am I my resume? Not this one.

The Nature of Labor

The Nature of Labor

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On this first Monday in September I’m thinking of a day long ago when I had a deadline to meet at the same time as the neighbors next door were having a screened-in porch added to the back of their house. While I’m sure there was prep work, in memory it seems as if the thing went up in a day, a week at the very least. 

While the hammers pounded, the nail guns added their one-two punch. There was shouting, laughter, the dull thud of two-by-fours being laid in place. Every so often I would lift my head from the keyboard to monitor the progress.

By dinnertime the porch was framed: an outside room, a place that hadn’t existed that morning. I glanced at my screen, at the words I’d cobbled together during the same nine or ten hours. 

Surely we  had all been building something that day, the workmen and I. Surely we had all been laboring. But at the end of the day they had something tangible to show for it … and, unless I printed a draft, I did not. Writing is a strange occupation. But I can’t imagine another one. 

Lulled into Fall

Lulled into Fall

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Mornings are cool enough that I’ve worn a long-sleeve tee-shirt on my walks the last few days. Even if I roll up my sleeves halfway through, I start out warmed against the chill — chill being a relative term these days, anything below 65. 

Still, the handwriting is on the wall. The handwriting of seasonal change, that is. Oh, there will be more humidity. It will crank up today and last for a while. Birds will still perch on the rose bush and flutter in the azalea. 

But days are shorter (I came in before 8 last night) and leaves are turning yellow. It’s the mellow month of September, lulling us into fall. 

Novel Vistas

Novel Vistas

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It’s easy to vary my walks if I drive to trailheads scattered throughout the area like the loose-strung beads of a pearl necklace. But if I rely only on shank’s mare, I’m more limited. 

Still, there are several ways to leave this “landlocked” neighborhood (pinned in by a busy street on either side), especially if I hike through the woods. 

That’s just what I did the other day, following a trail I’ve known for years, one that leads to the mossy hill  and, if you angle it a differently, across a small valley to our sister neighborhood, Westwood Hills. That’s the path I took yesterday. 

I hadn’t walked there since winter, and I was glad to be back beneath its vaulting trees and novel vistas: a path of stones, a bridge that’s seen better days.  But finding it just as humid there as it is here, I quickly made my way back.

Still, for a little while, I had broken free.

Instead of a Card

Instead of a Card

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We met when we were just out of college working at our first “grownup” jobs in Chicago. We’d joined our church choir, which was planning a concert of Handel’s Messiah later that year, and Cathy and I bonded over long rehearsals in the ornate sanctuary of St. Clement’s. 

It was the springtime of our lives, and the possibilities seemed limitless. Would we stay in Chicago?  Would we marry and have children? Would we stay in touch?  No, yes and absolutely. We never missed Christmas or a birthday. Until this year. 

When May 31 arrived and there was no card from Cathy, I was worried. I learned a few weeks later that she passed away in April from the breast cancer she’d been fighting for several years. 

Cathy was loving and cheerful to the end: a devoted wife, mother, daughter, colleague and friend who is missed and mourned by all who knew her. Today, August 31, is Cathy’s birthday. I can’t send her a card — but I can write her this post. Happy Birthday, Cathy! I will never forget you!

Remembering an Adventure

Remembering an Adventure

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Five years ago today, I said farewell to a country I never thought I’d visit but hated to leave once I did. Bangladesh may not be on everyone’s bucket list, but traveling through it in 2017 left such an impression that I think of it every year this time. 

I remember long drives beneath trees planted by the British … and a boat trip through the Sunderbans, where we met villagers who plant mangroves to stem the rising tides. 

I smile when I think of our earnest police escort and our escape from the crazy cattle market where I thought we’d all be trampled.  

The last evening, I swam in the rooftop pool as the sky and deck turned the same, otherworldly shade of pink. I didn’t realize it then but the campylobacter food poisoning bacteria was most likely already in my system, an unwelcome souvenir I would bring home from this marvelous country. But still, even with the unpleasant afterword, I’d take the trip all over again. In a heartbeat. 

Random Paddle

Random Paddle

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Since we live less than a mile from the border of Camp Reston (my name for this suburb during the summer) and kayaks are available to rent on Lake Anne, a few miles beyond that, taking a random paddle some weekend has been on my list of summer things to do since May. 

Yesterday we were finally able to make good on it, with temps not yet 90 and rain not yet falling. 

What a revelation to kayak among vistas that I usually stroll through. There were the rose mallow, from the other side of the shoreline, the watery one. And there were the backyards and porches of houses I usually only see from the front. 

It was an exercise in perspective-shifting. And it was exercise, period. Both are necessary. Both are good.

Making Do

Making Do

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This morning while doing what passes for a quick clean of my kitchen with paper towels and disinfectant spray I was thinking about the house maids in “Downton Abbey,” which I’ve been rewatching recently.

When I view the excess that attends the lives of the Earl of Grantham and his family I feel disgust laced with envy. How dare they consume all those resources for just one family (a family of two parents and three daughters, exactly the size of my own)? 

But then, quick on its heels, this rueful observation: Wouldn’t it be nice if I had a cook, a gardener, a chauffeur and a scullery maid?

My house is seldom spic-and-span. It’s tidy, but not scrupulously clean. Long ago I realized that in order to raise children, write and bring in some income, standards would have to slip. And slip they did.

Now I have more time but I’ve learned to live with stains on the carpet and smudges on the walls. Truth to tell, if a crew from Downton Abbey were suddenly to offer its services, I might have to think a minute before I said yes. 

Extraordinary

Extraordinary

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In the continual quest to match music to landscape, today’s choice might seem a bit odd. Who tramps through the suburbs listening to Brahms’ German Requiem?

Someone who loves the piece and believes it ennobles whatever they see while listening to it, I suppose.

And so the stilt grass, that long-legged invasive, looked more like slender bamboo fronds waving. And the Joe Pye weed was more elegant, more proudly purple, than its usual shaggy self. 

The shaded trails embraced me, the meadow views broadened my vision, and the pond gleamed golden in the morning light. 

It was an ordinary walk made extraordinary by the music in my ears.