Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Stoking Up

Stoking Up

The hummingbirds are stoking up, preparing for a heroic flight to southern climes. Which means I’ll make another batch of nectar and enjoy the show. 

Although the tiny birds have been scarcer around the feeder this year, preferring to take their sustenance from the nearby zinnia garden, they’ve been topping up with the nectar,. And now that the days are waning they’ve been sparring with each other to imbibe the sugary syrup.

They zoom one way and then another, bobbing and feinting to reach their goal and sip their fill.

It’s one more sign that summer is winding down. But at least it’s an entertaining one. 

Sacred Journey

Sacred Journey

When I read the obituaries of Frederick Buechner last week — he died August 15 at the age of 96 — I wondered how I had missed him all these years. He is the author of 39 books — novels, memoirs, sermons and other nonfiction — and is known for encouraging people to listen to their lives. 

“Listen to what happens to you everyday,” he said, because it is “a kind of praying.” The “hurly-burly of life” often drowns out that sound, he continues. But for that reason, we must pay even closer attention.We find our purpose, he wrote, in the place where “deep gladness meets the world’s need.”

Some spend most of their lives looking for this place, this intersection. Others find it early on. And some, of course, never find it at all. 

But it’s good to learn about one who not only found it for himself, but who took the time to share it with others. I’ve already ordered one of Buechner’s books, the library being short on his work. The Sacred Journey arrives next week. 

Stereophonic Summer

Stereophonic Summer

The cicadas are back today, or maybe it’s just that I’m outside, in a better position to hear them.  Their shimmering sound is stereophonic, flowing from one side of the yard to the other. 

How evocative it is! How it distills the summer. It is chorus and verse, call and response. It is fecundity and humidity and all the other parts of the season that make us (or at least me) feel so alive. 

Today, however, it’s competing with the sound of chain saws, which it often does these days. But I’m tuning out that white noise and focusing on the cicadas instead.

(Photo of cicadas from last year’s Brood X.)

Late August

Late August

It’s warm and slightly muggy today but the cicadas are quiet, the children are, too. It’s the first day of school in Fairfax County.

It’s early this year. When our children were young, they never went back until the day after Labor Day, which meant that this last week of August was the one when we’d  buy school supplies, learn about teachers and schedules, take one last trip to the pool.

It’s a desultory time, summer’s last gasp. The zinnias are leggy, the mint has bolted, and brown leaves are sifting down from the dying oak. 

How can summer be ending? There must be some mistake!

Black and White

Black and White

When she was young, my daughter Celia once asked me if the past was lived only in black-and-white. It was a good question, I thought, since that’s the way she’d seen it depicted in old photographs. 

But as those of us who’ve lived in the past (at least her past) can attest, it happens in color. 

I spent a few hours in the black-and-white past last night, perusing a book of photographs of Lexington, Kentucky. Many of the snapshots were taken in the 1930s, when my parents were children. There were the storefronts (including Leet’s, owned by my great uncle), the interurbans (street cars that went into surrounding small towns) and the intersections (Main and Lime) of their youth.

While the photos were sepia-toned, I reminded myself that Mom and Dad saw these sights … in color.

The City Beautiful

The City Beautiful

In one of the last chapters of Devil in the White City, the engrossing nonfiction narrative of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, author Erik Larson writes, “The fair taught men and women steeped only in the necessary to see that their cities did not have to be dark, soiled, and unsafe bastions of the strictly pragmatic. They could also be beautiful.”

The fair gave common folks a glimpse of what cities could be and inspired artists to create beautiful fantasy cities of their own. Walt Disney’s father, Elias, worked on the fair and its beauty rippled down to his son, Walt, who created his own “White City” in the Magic Kingdom. Author L. Frank Baum visited the fair and it informed his vision of Oz. 

Though some critics complained that the World’s Fair, with its emphasis on the neoclassical, actually delayed a more uniquely American architectural style, the pendulum seems to have swung around on that point. “The fair awakened America to beauty and as such was a necessary passage that laid the foundation for men like Frank Lloyd Wright and Mies van der Rohe,” Larson notes. 

Daniel Burnham, the architect who created the fair, later devoted his expertise to helping real cities attain the sweep and majesty of the White City. He drew up plans for parts of Chicago, as well as for Cleveland and San Francisco, and he helped fully realize Pierre L’Enfant ‘s vision of Washington, D.C. 

It was beauty that drove this quest, the desire to replicate the grand cities of Europe. A noble occupation, I think, and one to admire.

The Old World

The Old World

I want to stay with the filing topic today, because when I file, I read, and when I read, I remember. 

The folders I’m going through are full of the notes and research I collected for the articles I wrote when I was a full-time freelancer. I toss most of the research and notes, but I keep the assignment letters, list of sources, and the piece itself. The “wheat” is small and the chaff is plentiful. 

What emerges from this winnowing is not only a set of skinny file folders, but also the portrait of an age. It was a golden era for magazine writers: publications were plump, editors were many, business was brisk.

It’s a different world now, a leaner, meaner one. And while I try not to let it bother me, I miss that old world. 

Filing Al Fresco

Filing Al Fresco

Yesterday was picture-perfect: clear skies, low humidity, a freshness in the air after Monday’s rain. It was one of those days I didn’t want to be inside. 

And yet I’d come back from the lake determined to make decluttering a larger priority and tackle those file boxes in the basement. What to do? Haul them up to the deck, of course.

My back isn’t happy about it today, but that’s what I did. They shared the glass-topped table with the parakeets, who also didn’t want to be inside on such a glorious afternoon. 

Papers were tossed, order was imposed and Vitamin D was absorbed. Who could ask for more?

Long-Day Season

Long-Day Season

The headline caught my eye just in time to save the page of newsprint from becoming part of the fire-starting equipment last week at the late.  “Darkness creeping in as long-day season ends,” it said. 

Apparently Saturday, August 6 was the last day we’ll have 14 hours of sunlight until May 2023. It was the end of what the article called the “brightness quarter,” the 90 or so days of “solar beneficence and dazzle” we receive every May, June and July. 

It’s also the end of long twilights and drawn-out dawns, of slower living made possible by humid air and looser schedules. You might even say it’s the end of that feeling of limitlessness and possibility that summer brings. 

But that would be a gloomy thing to write on a spectacular late-summer morning, not in keeping with the bountiful daylight we still enjoy. 

Topology

Topology

Last week’s get-together meant I focused more on family than landscape, but on walks and short drives to beaches and beauty spots I laid eyes once again on a landscape I love.

What is it that inclines us to a certain place? I think it has to do with what Annie Dillard calls “topology … the dreaming memory of land as it lies this way and that” — a quotation that serves as the frontispiece to this blog.

Dillard was describing her hometown of Pittsburgh in this passage from An American Childhood. But topology — the study of a region as defined by its topography — can apply to any place that strikes our fancy, that holds within it the balance of sky and meadow, shade and sun that makes our heart sing.

These are our places of memory, whether we’ve been to them hundreds of times … or only once.