Reflections – Leaves Throughout the Year

January

Ivy Leaves

Every January, the year begins again with whispers of possibilities that didn’t exist before.

Maya Angelou

February

Beech Leaves

 

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

Kahlil Gibran

March

Skunk Cabbage Leaves

 

See those green cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in that watery and muddy place. There is no can’t nor cant to them. They see over the brow of winter’s hill. They see another summer ahead.

The Journal of Henry David Thoreau

April

River Willow Leaves

Planting a tree is a gesture of faith in the future.”

The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl

May

Trillium Leaves on the Woods Floor

That is one good thing about this world - there are always sure to be more springs.

Anne of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery

June

Black Walnut Leaves

Life on earth is inconceivable without trees.

Anton Chekhov

July

Scarlet Oak Leaves

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn

Ralph Waldo Emerson

August

Sassafras Leaf

Learn character from trees, values from roots, and change from leaves.

Tasneern Harneed

September

Floating Leaves

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

Albert Camus

October

 

Leaves Down a Country Road

Walker, there is no road,

the road is made by walking

Proverbs and Songs by Antonio Machado

November

Wood Ferns

Like ferns we unfold with time, we root deep and we rise gracefully.

Instagram Post by wolff_caro

December

 

Poinsettia Leaves

December is a time to reflect on the blessings of the past year and to embrace the opportunities of the coming one.

Oprah Winfrey

 Reflections - Foiled by a Polar Vortex

Half Birthday Card

On November 26, Spence’s half birthday, wind howled. I figured Spence would have forgotten his 78½ and I could surprise him with a card. I’d used a blanket stitch to attach a patch of fabric decorated by a green pepper, red tomato, and shaker of spices. Inside I wished him savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. My wishes were bound to come true. We would celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, he loved driving his Maverick pickup, and he often said, “I’m not worried.”

I didn’t surprise him.

Spence picked the envelope up off the breakfast table. “A half birthday card.” He opened the envelope and read the card. “Thank you.”

Perhaps if he foresaw what the day held, he wouldn’t have thanked me.

At 11:00 a.m., he drove to Meadville to fetch our fresh, ten pound turkey at Malady's Meat Market plus brave Giant Eagle for a few last minute items. The day before Thanksgiving grocery store crush? I didn’t envy him.

Instead, over the phone, I answered my friend Darlene’s questions about her memoir/self help book for widows. Then I chopped the stuffing ingredients. The ciabatta smooshed under the bread knife if I didn’t cut at a precise angle. Celery behaved better but left dangly strings. And the pungent onions made my eyes water like the cat fountain. I sniffed and blinked so I didn’t contaminate the chopped bits. My stomach growled—way past lunch time. I warmed homemade chicken barley soup, sipped two spoonfuls, and wondered, Shouldn’t Spence be back by now?

The phone rang.

“A tree hit me.” Spence’s voice quavered through the line. “Pick me up at Matt’s.”

I dropped the spoon. “I’ll be right there.” 

Hustling to fetch keys and a coat, I replayed his words in my mind. A tree hit me.

Had he swerved to miss a vehicle and ran off the road?

Had his Maverick malfunctioned and ran off the road?

Had he been injured when he ran off the road?

More questions bubbled through my mind but I ignored them. Focus. Race to the Crosstrek. Drive to Matt’s auto shop. Find Spence.

In Matt’s parking lot, I found Spence—leaning against his beloved Maverick with the passenger side bumper crushed and pushed upward. I parked beside the bashed pickup and stepped out.

Spence was talking to Cody, Matt’s mechanic. Buffeted by the high wind, Cody’s hair pointed skyward. The fellas stared at the pickup’s smashed front. One murmured, “leaking coolant and oil.” Then they swerved their funeral faces toward me.

Cody said to Spence, “The Maverick’s not safe to drive. Order a tow.” He waved at me and walked into the warm shop.

Spence said, “We need to take the groceries out.” He gathered plastic bags from the truck's back seat. “My clipboard’s on the front seat. Will you get it?”

I found the turkey beside the clipboard and carried them both to the car. I stashed them behind the driver’s seat. Spence put his load behind the passenger seat. With both of us settled inside the Crosstrek, I steered out of the parking lot.

Since Spence appeared unharmed, I didn’t hold my questions any longer. “What happened? How did the tree hit you? Did you run off the road?” 

 

“A tree blew down . . . Wait.” He turned in the passenger seat and pointed at Matt’s. “The turkey’s on the front seat.”

 “I picked the turkey up when I got your clipboard.” I continued driving down the country road. “Where were you when the tree fell?”

Spence stared at the road. Was he watching for falling trees? “I was driving on Mercer Pike. I heard the tree break.  I didn’t even see it. It hit the bumper.” He shuddered. “The truck kept going, crunching over the tree. The engine light flashed immediately.” He wiped his forehead. “I’ve cleared many trees off that road. I didn’t want to be stuck. I wanted to get to Matt’s. I put my flashers on and kept moving.” 

Damaged Maverick

Back home, I pulled the car onto the parking pad out front. We each lugged bundles of groceries up the ramp and into the house. The three tabbies met us at the door. Only Rills, the smallest and the one with a ferocious appetite, swarmed around our legs. We unpacked the groceries.

Spence grabbed the spare keys for the Crosstrek. “I’m driving to Cochranton. I’ll report the accident to Pendersen’s. Then I’ll get an appointment with Runyan’s. And I’ll order a tow.”

Reporting the accident to our insurance company and securing a spot on the waiting list at the body shop made sense. But he shouldn’t be driving the Crosstrek with a clutch. He’d been wearing a brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon for months. The brace made it difficult to push the clutch to the floor and prevented him from feeling the clutch engage. I stuck my arm back into my coat. “I’ll drive you.”

“I can manage the clutch. It’s just difficult.” He walked out before I got my other arm into the coat.

Gilbert jumped onto the table and swished his fluffy tail over the soup bowl. Right. I hadn’t finished lunch. I lifted the tabby off the table, slipped out of the coat, and warmed the soup again.

Lights blinked off for a second. Gilbert blinked at the silence in the house. While I finished eating and washed the lunch and stuffing prep dishes, the lights browned out twice. The wind howled outside. I hoped Spence didn’t encounter any more downed trees.  

He didn’t. 

But when he returned, looking sheepish, he walked inside, settled on the sofa with his buddy Rills, and said, “I stalled out four times in three miles. I’ll have to drive without my brace.”

“When is your appointment?” We live in deer country. I figured he would have to wait two-and-a-half-months for body work. Deer darted across our rural roads with the reckless abandon of children escaping school for the holidays. Dented vehicles were more common than red trucks.

“Not until December twenty-second.” He pouted under his mustache. “Someone canceled just before I arrived. I got their spot.” 

“Terrific. You were lucky to score an appointment so soon.” Perhaps they let Spence take the cancellation because he couldn’t drive his truck. Others could drive their dented vehicles safely.

Spence didn’t agree. “That’s a long time to wait.”

I didn’t remind him the body shop would only start repairs that day. He couldn’t drive his beloved truck home then.

Rills snuggled against Spence while he read his email.

The lights cut off again at 4:17 p.m. Silence inside. Wind howled outside. At the kitchen table, I waited for Aimee Eddy’s blog, “First Thanksgiving Week Off in Thirty Years,” to unfreeze on the computer screen, the kitchen lights to flick on, and the refrigerator with our fresh turkey inside to hum.

None happened.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked. Outside wind howled. Twilight faded.

I pushed back my chair and climbed the spiral stairs in the fleeting afternoon light to fetch the battery powered lamp from the loft sewing table. The light blazed inside our dim log house. Back downstairs, I dragged a chair to the counter, clambered onto the seat, and pulled out herbal tea cartons in front of the hexagon corner cupboard. I reached into the back and, fumbling, grabbed the tucked away gifted candles I’d received over the years.

Across the open space room, Spence nudged his buddy away and set his laptop on the coffee table. “Sorry, Rillzie.” He grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and headed downstairs to our son’s mancave. Murmurs of men’s voices reached me. Spence tramped back upstairs. “I’ll fetch water. Then I’ll make a fire.” He bundled and went outside.

Charlie trudged upstairs and handed me the flashlight. He yawned and pointed at a light clamped on his shirt. The poor fella must have been ready to sleep, a routine because of his early shift at UPS. He clomped back downstairs.

Sometimes our rural blackouts last nearly a week. Since our water is pumped from the well by electricity, filling five gallon buckets with the cistern water for toilet flushing, allows us to conserve the well water already in our intake tank, filtered tank, and hot water tank for dish washing and sanitary needs.

I powered down my cell phone, computer, and iPad to save their batteries. 

Carrying armfuls of logs from the woodshed, Spence hobbled up the porch steps.

I twisted junk mail for burning. At least this time the advertisements served a purpose.

Spence loaded the fire box of the wood stove and lit the paper. Flames leapt. Kindling snapped. The scent of burning logs floated in the air.

Essential tasks accomplished, Spence asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Enchiladas.” We’d decided that earlier. I still wanted them.

“Enchiladas?” His face blanched. He bit his lip. “I guess that’s possible.”

He bustled from the kitchen area to the wood stove.

Holding a candle high, I walked toward the bedroom. Thump. My foot hit a furry lump in the hall. I wobbled. Cat claws scratched the wood floor. I didn’t know which of the three tabbies I’d bumped. Alas, I couldn’t find the poor cat in the dark to snuggle him and say sorry. At least I hadn’t fallen.

Spence yelled. “What are you doing?”

“Getting my Jane Austen puzzle book. I ran into a cat.”

“Be careful.”

I shuffled the rest of the way.

Flickering candlelight added romance to Spence’s concoctions. He topped my not-too-spicy enchiladas with just the right amount of sauce. His coleslaw and grilled steak fit my savory wish for him. In our comfortable conversation pauses, I pondered roasting the turkey on top of the wood stove for Charlie and us tomorrow. I could forget oven times and rely on a meat thermometer. I would roast the rest of the meal while the turkey cooled. No worries.

“Don’t wash dishes until tomorrow,” Spence said, breaking my reverie.

“Right.” I hadn’t planned on washing dishes by candlelight. I would miss too much. Besides, I could conserve water better in daylight.

Spence retreated to the sofa, snuggled all three cats, and read with a book light.

I picked up in the kitchen and lined eight candles on the table to solve word searches from Northanger Abbey.

Logs crackled in the firebox. Human and cat snores drifted from the sofa.

I blew out the candles, held the battery powered lamp aloft, and tiptoed past the sleepers on my way to bed. Around midnight, I woke. Lights leaked into the bedroom from the open space room. Grateful, I fell into a deeper, restful sleep. 

The next day, while Spence poured olive oil onto my hands so I could rub the turkey, he said, “I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking if I’d been five seconds later. The tree would’ve hit the windshield. And me.”

Off and on since Thanksgiving, Spence has repeated, “If I’d been seconds later.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. He frequently mourns his Maverick. “I miss my truck . . . It’s a long time to wait.” Without his brace, he’ll manage the clutch in the Crosstrek.

I still wish Spence savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. Because of the polar vortex, he’ll have to wait until January for the second two wishes.

He’s adaptable.

He’s resilient.

He’s worth celebrating.

Close Up of Bumper

Reflections - Waiting for Pawpaws

Pawpaw Trees

Hands on hips in early spring about a decade ago, I stared at my husband. “Are you crazy?” Spence had paid for a twig with a few scraggly roots.

He raised the twig in the air. “It’s a pawpaw.”

As if that explained the wacky purchase.

Reading my mind he said, “They’re native fruit trees. You like fruit. You’ll see.”

I did like fruit. The scrawny twig grew taller, branched out, but didn’t fruit.

Three years later, he bought two more twigs. “Pawpaws need to cross pollinate,” he said. At least the few dangling leaves indicated life. Spence planted his two twigs behind our garage. The three trees formed a triangle.

 

A month later at the township garage, Spence and I sat on metal folding chairs beside our neighbor Stephanie and breathed in the diesel fumes from the graders, tractors, and dump trucks at the supervisors’ monthly meeting. Spence told her about his new pawpaw trees.

Stephanie squeezed the minute sheets she’d rolled into a tube. “We had pawpaw trees growing up. They take ten years to bear fruit, but they’re so good.” A dreamy look came over her face.

I didn’t doubt his new twigs would grow. Maybe I should have.

Once, after Spence brushhogged, he trudged inside. His shoulders drooped and his face clouded under his beard. “I cut one of the pawpaws.” He held up a twig—a rootless twig.

I rubbed his back. Since I’d never seen or eaten a pawpaw, I didn’t care that this sapling failed to mature. Hundreds of saplings sprouted in the woods every year. Not all of them survived. But the poor guy was mourning his tree.

“We still have two. They can cross pollinate, Spence.”

He forgot the names of the varieties. I figured the name pawpaw was strange enough to remember.

These trees of the understory grew into pyramidal shapes with the first tree growing twice the size of the second. Their oblong leaves dangled like fringe—grass green in summer and dandelion yellow in fall. Because they were different varieties, the taller tree’s leaves always displayed a darker shade.

We waited for the fall fruit.

On a garden walk five years after he’d planted the first twig, I searched the trees for fruit. None.

“Takes ten years.” Spence rubbed my shoulders.

Though I’d never had the urge to taste a pawpaw, the trees at Wells Wood made me curious. I didn’t want to wait ten years. Considering the first twig he’d held, however, waiting until the tree matured made sense.

Each succeeding summer we checked. No fruit. Not a single one.

This year I concentrated on my Down a Country Road short story collection rather than the garden.

Spence walked into the house one July evening while I washed dishes and said, “We have pawpaws.”

I turned, dripping water onto the floor.

Rills, the cat who chose Spence for favorite person status, clawed Spence’s jeans to be picked up.

I must have looked my question, Of course we have pawpaw trees. What do you mean?

Spence scooped up his cat buddy and said, “The trees have fruit. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, sunglasses in hand because I didn’t want to distort my vision, I followed Spence to the pawpaw trees.

He pointed.

I peered.

Pawpaws

Two fruits dangled from branches above our heads in the tall tree. A dozen or more hung on the shorter tree. The lime green potato-shaped fruits grew in clusters like bananas only each fruit separated like fingers spread wide.

I touched one of the pawpaws. Rock hard. No bird bites. No insect bores. How long would the fruit take to ripen?

Spence attended the August 11 township meeting. He also asked Stephanie when the pawpaws would ripen. I stayed home to wash dishes and order expandable folders for my beta readers’ copies of Down a Country Road. His report back discouraged me. “She said, ‘end of September or early October.’”

Okay. Fall fruit should ripen the end of September or early October. And I checked online for how to tell. Touch proved a better test than color. My new quest—discover a pawpaw that felt like a ripe peach.

At least once a week throughout the rest of August and September, finger tests for the pawpaws—which grew fatter and longer—failed. Rock hard.

Our tests increased to every other day in October. On the twelfth, we made yet another trek to the pawpaw trees with their yellow leaves and fruits—some turning yellow-green with black splotches. All rock hard. No animals had taken any. No birds had pecked any. No insects had bored into any. None had fallen off the tree.

Pennsylvania already celebrated its pawpaw festival in York. Actually, all U.S. festivals finished. Only Quebec held a festival that day. And our area of Pennsylvania had been under a drought watch since April. Pawpaws are drought sensitive.

Would the pawpaws fail because of the drought? Would frosts stunt their development? Would our fruit ever ripen?

As if Spence could read my thoughts, he peered at the pawpaws and said, “The trees took ten years to bear fruit. They’ll take ten years to ripen.”

Not funny.

Three days later, we headed out for a health walk. Instead of turning toward the ramp which led to the road, I turned toward the porch steps which led to Spence’s tractor path, the back of the garage, and the pawpaw trees.

Behind me Spence snorted. “I checked yesterday. Rock hard.”

I walked the path anyway. Spence was probably right, but I might as well walk by the pawpaw trees as along the road. Buttercup yellow pawpaw leaves lifted slightly with the breeze. Tawny leaves lay under the trees.

Two pawpaws had fallen off the short tree and landed in the leaf pile. A bite opened one fruit’s side. Cracks marred the brown skin and flesh of both fruits. Yellow jackets and flies swooped in and feasted. Way past ripe.

I felt every fruit on the trees. Rock hard until the eleventh. The top depressed under my fingers. Though he stood beside me, I hollered, “Spence! The top mushed. It’s ripe.”

He put his arm around my shoulder and led me toward the road. “We’ll pick it on our way back.”

After our walk, I checked the sides and tops of the pawpaws. I picked two. They popped off like bananas snapping away from a cluster. While I slurped homemade chicken barley soup, I studied the fruit. Lime-green colored the larger one and the bottom of the smaller one—four-and-a-half-inches long and two-and-a-half-inches wide. Lemon-lime with small black splotches colored its top. Because the small pawpaw’s top smooshed under the finger test, I chose it to eat first.

                                                                            Pawpaws

I washed the pawpaw, centered it on a plate, and played a drum roll inside my head. With a sharp knife, I sliced the fruit lengthwise. A faint banana-like fragrance floated in the air. The split fruit revealed creamy flesh containing black bean shaped seeds—five-eighths to one-and-one-eighth-inch in length. I dipped my spoon around the seeds and, finally, tasted our pawpaw.

Spence leaned with his hands clutching the edge of the table. “Well?” As a diabetic, he didn’t eat fruit.

I swirled the smooth, sweet fruit around on my tongue. “It’s creamy like custard.”

He frowned. He could see that.

“And it tastes like banana with a hint of mango.”

He took one step away.

 

I stopped him. “You should try it.”

His face debated the pros and cons of tasting fruit. No, he regulated his diabetes with medicine and a strict diet. Yes, he’d planted the trees and waited ten years.

Spence opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a teaspoon.

I shoved the plate toward him.

Spence scooped a quarter teaspoon of the creamy pulp and opened his mouth. Spoon inserted, he stood still as if contemplating his dainty bite. Then he dropped the spoon into the sink and walked across the open space room to the sofa.

Curious, I pursued him. “Well?”

He shrugged. “It tastes like fruit. It tastes like a pawpaw.

 

Pawpaw Partially Scooped