Reflections - The Hole Story

White Spruce

For want of a bolt, our plans went askew.

Spence tramped down the spiral stairs, rummaged around his workbenches, and hustled back carrying a shovel blade, a handle, and a drill.

Curious, I followed him out to the porch.

He set his assorted gear on the battered table he props his feet onto in summer—sipping his morning joe and catching up on lead safe volunteer work. But this was Sunday, December 15, a rainy late afternoon with dark falling. He reached for a rusted coffee can at the corner of the table and stirred his index finger through the contents—assorted bolts, screws, and nails. “Huh. Nothing here will fit.” 

Questions percolated through my mind. I only blurted one. “What are you looking for?”

“A bolt for the shovel.” He slid the handle in and out of the blade. “To dig a hole for the spruce.”

We’d driven to Kraynak’s earlier that day and bought our Christmas tree, a three-foot white spruce with a root ball wrapped in burlap. The sooner after the festive season we planted the evergreen, the better chance the spruce had of surviving its transplant. Digging the hole and filling it with mulch before the ground froze was wise. But in the rain and the dark? “Maybe wait until tomorrow? We can pick a spot on our walk.”

Spence glanced to the south field. “Makes sense.”

Monday, December 16, dawned dry. I celebrated Jane Austen’s 249th birthday by wearing a regency dress.

Spence wore his regular clothes. He slid the white spruce off of the truck bed and into the tractor bucket. Spruce branches jiggled out the garage driveway, down West Creek Road, and along the walk to the deck ramp. Spence placed a wash tub on a creeper beside the tractor bucket and pushed the tree out. Thud. The root ball landed askew in the washtub and wouldn’t wiggle straight. No matter. Spence could straighten the tree by shoving logs under the tub. He rolled the tree up the deck to the sliding glass door. The creeper’s wheels thump-bump-thump-ed in the cracks between the deck planks. 

While he shoved logs under the tub to straighten the tree, I directed him by waving my hands on the other side of the glass door. Two thumbs up stopped his maneuverings.

With the regency skirt swishing, I hung white lights, a gold garland, sand dollar ornaments, and Santa Clauses on the tree.

We still needed to dig the hole. First we would walk and find the right spot.

Jane walked in regency dresses so, despite the drizzle and gray afternoon skies, I walked too. I wore modern boots and hiked the skirt up to keep it out of the mud. Spence and I ventured half a mile down the road and turned at the end of Flickingers’ horse pasture.

On the way home, sprinkles vanished. Rain pelted. “Yikes, my dress will get soaked!” I only had one other regency dress, the fancy ball gown—not something to wear around the house all day. And I never put the regency dresses in the dryer. I needed to keep my dress dry so I could wear it the rest of the day. I grabbed handfuls of skirt and shoved them inside the jeans I wore under the dress to keep my legs warm.

“Just relax.” As rain soaked Spence’s padded winter vest, he helped me tuck the skirt into the back of my jeans.

Squishing home, I prioritized the dress over the spruce. “We’ll pick a spot for the tree tomorrow.”

Tuesday dawned sunny. At the end of our midafternoon walk, we ambled through the end of the south field. I chose a spot visible from our deck and away from other trees we’d planted. Flinging my arms wide, I twirled. “Put a marker here, Spence.”

“I’ll remember.” Getting his bearings, he glanced from the disused woodpile to his mowed path then an old hawthorn tree.

Maybe he would remember. I’d rather be sure. I stamped my feet on dried goldenrod stalks. “Don’t you have a cement block or some sticks to mark the spot?”

He peered over his glare glasses.

Okay, those weren’t available out here. “How about a log from that old pile?”

He obliged and toted a log. 

I stepped back. 

He dropped the log on the trampled plants. They would have lasted a day. The log could mark the place in case Spence didn’t get around to fixing the shovel before dark fell.

He didn’t.

 

Blade and Handle Ready for Bolt

And Wednesday? A rain-snow mix drenched Wells Wood. Snow and ice continued daily. Temperatures never climbed above the low thirties. The shovel—in pieces or not—was no longer an issue. The ground froze. Snow fell and compacted keeping a constant twelve to eighteen-inch ground cover. 

Even if Spence had dug a hole, he didn’t trust the tractor to navigate through the deep snow. The first week of January, our usual planting time for Christmas evergreens, came and went.

The next week, on a day Spence drove to Cleveland for his lead safe volunteer work, I layered in winter gear. Resembling a youngster dressed by her mom for sledding, I trudged outside and removed my gloves. I needed bare fingers to unwind wires securing sand dollar ornaments from no longer supple needles in frigid 15 ℉ air temperature—not counting windchill. And the wind chilled. My digits numbed and turned as red as cardinal flower petals.

Chickadees scolded dee-dee-dee. I focused on my task and let them swoop past to snatch their seeds from the feeders on the glass door. With the sand dollars safely detached, I hustled inside for a warm-up break—tidying the kitchen and washing dishes in hot sudsy water—before braving the weather to remove the rest of the decorations. This time a lake effect storm whipped flurries around the spruce and me. Because the Santas, garlands, and lights slipped off easier than the sand dollars, I could wear thin gloves. Cold still pinched my fingers. For warmth, I left the tree skirt tucked around the root ball.

By February, more snow had melted. Spence could drive his tractor out the garage basement back door, up the slope, around to the road in front. He plowed our driveways. Soon he would move the white spruce for transplanting. 

With a bounce in his step, he headed toward the garage and his red Mahindra tractor. He returned shortly without the bounce. “The battery’s dead. I’m charging it.”

During the next two weeks, he charged the battery several times. None took. Battery replacement involved removing the push bar and grill while the bucket was elevated and the engine was running—too complicated for Spence. He needed the help of our tractor repairman Daryl, two miles away. “I’m going to jump the battery.” He slipped into his jacket and boots. “If it takes, I’ll drive to Daryl’s.”

“Do you want me to follow and bring you home?” I didn’t relish the idea of him trundling up Route 173 alone. I should follow with the car’s flashers blinking.

 

Spence Driving His Tractor

“No. Daryl will want to talk. I’ll call if I need a ride.”

An hour later, he called. “Daryl can’t leave for another hour.”

“I’m on my way.”

By February’s end, Daryl had installed a new tractor battery. Snow had cleared off the field. Ground had thawed enough to dig. 

But Spence didn’t dig the hole. He’d twisted his ankle.

We were returning from a visit with my brother Bob in Florida. Because I wibble-wobbled off the plane, Spence grabbed my suitcase from me. He pulled it while toting his suitcase and carry-on. His luggage flip-flopped through the concourse and out the extensive walkway to long term parking. On the uneven Pittsburgh Airport lot surfaces, he took a misstep.

The ankle swelled and throbbed. He elevated his foot, wrapped the ankle, and hobbled. He reinjured the ankle several times by stepping backward or sideward. Though he continued to drive his pickup truck, he couldn’t lift a three-foot-tree into the tractor bucket nor dig a hole. 

The undecorated white spruce still adorned our deck. Queuing for turns at the bird feeders, chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches perched on its branches. The birds were happy. Our three tabby brothers watching their feathered friends were happy. Spence monitored the root ball and watered it as needed. I felt the white spruce needles. They were supple and green so I was happy. Never had we kept our evergreen tree on the deck so long.

At the kitchen table on March 12, I bent over my cell phone’s calculator and tapped in numbers for the township’s confusing legacy liabilities, aka withholding amounts messed up by a former secretary-treasurer. Kelli, the township’s helpful, new secretary-treasurer, stared at the computer screen full of expenses beside me. 

A bump-thump-bump floated inside. Spence had rolled the white spruce down the ramp to his tractor. Then he tramped in and interrupted our calculations. “Do you want a picture?”

Kelli’s friendly smile broke her concentrated expression. “Go ahead.”

 

Leaning Tree

I rushed out with my phone and tapped the camera icon. Because the white spruce’s heavy root ball had settled slantwise in the washtub, the treetop leaned over the side of the bucket. I pressed the shutter release button for quick photos and wished our “leaning” liabilities would come to a comfortable balance like the tree. I only had to wait one day for the township’s balance. The white spruce waited in the washtub four more days.

March 16, I knelt on the deck—more spacious without the spruce providing perches for birds winging to the feeders. The tractor rumbled carrying Spence to the spruce. My trowel scrunched into worm-compost rich soil, and I imagined Spence pressing his healthy foot on the reassembled shovel.

March wind howled. Pansies bobbed. 

When Spence returned, I peppered him with questions. “ How did the root ball look? Was the tree okay? Will it survive?”

“Wet. Fine. Yes.” He gazed out at the white spruce. “Weather staying cold helped. Don’t worry.”

“So you found the bolt and fixed your shovel. Right?”

He blushed behind his beard. “No-o-o. I was collecting cans for Stewie.” He rubbed his nose.

What did gathering aluminum cans in the garage for his buddy Stewie’s recycling business have to do with shovels? I didn’t ask. I let him finish. 

“You gave me an Ames shovel years ago. I found it hidden behind stuff.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “It’s a great shovel. I used it to dig the hole.”

The blade and handle Spence fetched in December rested beside the drill on his porch table a couple weeks longer. Without inserting a bolt, Spence stuck the shovel into the front garden and stomped on the blade—with his healthy foot. “The blade wobbled,” he admitted, but he kept digging a hole large enough for one of the two white Lenten roses he’d bought on sale last fall before the snow fell. “And the rose had a pink bud.”

No doubt aware my story was ready to edit, he searched the basement and garage for a quarter inch carriage bolt. He found a sheet metal screw. Screw in place, Spence ambled—his doctor wrote orders for a foot and ankle brace—out front, dug the hole, and transplanted the second Lenten rose. Hopefully, this one is white.

I waited with a question. “Did the shovel wobble?” 

“No. It’s solid.” He held his index finger and thumb two inches apart. “Archaeologists will dig up that tool. It’s not coming apart. Ever.”

When Spence digs a hole for our 2025 Christmas tree, he’ll have a choice—the Ames shovel or the shovel with the screw and nut to delight future archaeologists.

 

Spence Attaching the Nut

 

Reflections - From Snow to Sand

Mount St. Benedict

Erie, PA

January 24-26, 2025

Silence Sign in Guest Kitchen

Dear Sister Julie,

I hope you ventured out as much as you pleased despite relentless winter storms in Chardon.

When I drove to Mount St. Benedict for a writers’ retreat at the end of January, I asked why the sisters lived in a monastery, not a convent like you. They explained they weren’t under a bishop's rule. And they suggested we follow a rule of silence. “We gift each other with QUIET in the halls and bedrooms,” room signs announced—perfect conditions for a writer's retreat.

But silence rarely happened. Friday the 24^th, eight of us greeted each other with exuberance. Conferences with Timons, our writer in residence, were boisterous. Laughter filled the halls. Several of us met Sister Karen, who was making a quilt for her great nephew in the sewing room. I apologized for our noise. She said, “Don’t worry. Sisters get rowdy too.” We grew rowdier.

The gift of silence did visit. Around 4:30 a.m. Saturday, I pulled a sweatshirt over my nightgown and wrote while others slept. Sunday morning people wanted “to get words on the page” before they left. Latches clicked as doors shut. Halls quieted. Computer keys tapped. My neighbor’s computer murmured, reading her book back for editing. I welcomed the melodic bells calling sisters to chapel and the wind whirring around the courtyard outside my window.

Around 3:00 p.m. Sunday, after a succession of hearty goodbyes in the hall outside my room, I was the only writer left. Silence shouted at me. A shock. The sign in the guest kitchen read, “Listen for the SILENCE. LISTEN carefully . . . with the ear of your heart.” Welcoming the silence with my ear and heart, I wrote.

Love,

Janet

Stained Glass Wi9ndow in Chapel

If you want to see all five postcards in the Mount St. Benedict Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/mount-st-benedict

Shorts in February

Florida

February 4-9, 2025

Sunset at Holmes Beach

Dear Pat,

I appreciated your lovely letter updating me about you and your cats—Ivy smiling for treats and Dave rocketing around the apartment because he’s Dave. I wish he was calmer for you.

You’d asked if Spence and I got off on our own while we were in Florida with Bob. The evening before his surgery, we left Bob watching FBI TV shows so we could watch the sunset at Holmes Beach. Bob had warned, “It’s February, tourist season. You might not get a parking place.” But cars were leaving the beach. Spence pulled into a spot in the first row at 5:50.

A band of retired musicians played vintage jazz behind the cafe. The yellow-white sun hung close to the horizon. Sand castles and open spaces spread across the beach. No children raced about. Adults lounged in chairs. Half of the adults wrapped themselves in beach towels rather than sat on them. Spence and I walked straight to the water. I stuck both feet in and jumped out. Though the day had been 81℉ earlier, the Gulf water was frigid. We walked on wet sand. The sun lowered and glowed red. People walked or sat and watched the sun too. A fisherman had caught a speckled trout and a shark. “I throw them back. Don’t count on me for dinner.”

Scurrying in and out of the wintry surf, a lone sandpiper snapped up morsels for its dinner. Seagulls dined in groups. The sun slid behind the horizon at 6:15, and we turned around to walk back up the beach. Spence said, “Did you notice? The air cooled when the sun set.” Indeed. The Gulf reflected light for a while. Once we got to the car and headed towards Bradenton, dark engulfed us. Sunsets don’t linger in Florida like they do in the north.

Take care,

Janet

Sandpiper in Surf

If you want to see all fourteen postcards in the Shorts in February Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/shorts-in-february

Reflections - A Swish-Rustle Mystery

Ande on the Yoga Mat with JW

Ready to chill one frigid January morning, I settled into a cross-legged position on my yoga mat. 

Ande, the biggest of our tabby cats and the one who chose me as his person, plopped down beside me. We listened to Adriene’s soothing voice. I flexed my back in a seated cat-cow pose. 

 

Ande stretched his neck. His head nudged my fingers—resting on  my knees—and coaxed me to scratch him. He angled his head so I could reach the spots he preferred.

Since son Charlie was answering customer complaints at Meadville UPS and hubby Spence was driving his Maverick toward Cleveland, I figured Ande wouldn’t be distracted by their noises and scurry away. We could share twenty minutes of calm.

Sunshine streamed through the loft window. I reached my arm skyward for side body stretches. Ande rolled onto his back and lounged in a cat yoga twist—front legs to the right, back legs to the left. We grooved. We flowed. 

Swish. Rustle.

Ande’s ears twitched. His body tensed.

 

Flat Toys - Whale, Elephant, and Frog

In the great room below us, one of Ande’s brothers had probably slid a large, flat toy across the wood floor. I visualized Rills swatting the pink elephant or the green frog with bugs attached by Velcro—both toys covered with ample cat hairs. Perhaps Gilbert batted the sequined blue whale and even pushed his head into the toy’s open mouth. Let the cats play.

I moved with Adriene into tabletop position.

Ande didn’t. He scooted onto the loft bed, scampered across the bedspread to the railing overlooking the kitchen area, and stuck his head between the styles.

Swish. Rustle. Swish.

Ande wouldn’t be so intrigued by a toy. Maybe the cats found a mouse. With the temperatures rising to a mere 10℉ today, a field mouse might have crept inside when either of the fellas had stepped onto the porch this morning. Fine. The cats could handle the uninvited guest. I would finish the routine with Adriene in the loft. 

Several downward dogs, forward bends, and mountain poses later, the swish-rustle-swish, swish-rustle-swish-ing intensified.

Ande scampered downstairs.

Curious, I jogged onto the loft bridge and leaned over the railing to peek into the living room side of the area. No cats. I leaned over the kitchen side of the bridge.

Rills Watching

Sitting on their haunches, Rills and Ande stared at Gilbert.

He dragged a blue plastic grocery bag—handle around his neck—past the sink. 

I hustled through star and mountain poses faster than Adriene then wished her a hasty namaste. Leaving her mid-flow, I raced down to rescue Gilbert.

Ande and Rills occupied the first floor landing. They stared at Gilbert four steps below. He’d wiggled the bag lower. It draped over his back like a cape. The bag also wrapped around his front leg.

I eased around the cat guards and toward Gilbert 

He shuffled lower.

In a yoga-soothing voice, I cooed. “Let me help, Gil.”

He didn’t. He tripped down several steps. 

I plunged after, grabbed the terrified cat, and extricated the bag—not easy. He wriggled and I only had one hand for the job. I hugged Gilbert close to calm him. When he relaxed, which seemed to take an hour but was probably only five minutes, I released the noise maker and looked about.

Plastic bags littered the basement floor. They littered the spiral steps. They spread across the kitchen floor. Some were folded or rolled up tight. Others were open and gaped. I collected the souvenirs from Gilbert’s and returned the plastic plunder to its proper place—the lazy Susan cupboard. The two section door hung half open. Even more bags spilled out.

Open Lazy Susan Cupboard

I didn't chill with yoga as expected, but I solved the swish-rustle mystery.

Ande and Rills retreated to Spence’s office. On the guest bed beside Charlie’s old teddy, they curled together for a snooze.

And Gilbert? In the basement, he sang a tragic aria.

 

Gilbert

 

 Reflections - Endings and Beginnings

Art and 1711 - Photo by Bruce

“I have bad news.” My brother-in-law’s serious telephone voice conveyed more than his words Wednesday, November 27. 

Throat contracting, I feared Spence’s brother Bruce must have called about the death of his wife’s father. Though Art had been reasonably healthy, at age 105 . . .

Without the normal chuckle tingeing his voice, Bruce said, “Cindy’s father died Sunday. I’ve been calling Spence. The connection’s bad. I can’t reach him.” 

“He’s at Titusville Ford. Spence wanted winter tires put on the Maverick before he drives to Cleveland through the snowbelt tomorrow. I’ll text and ask him to call you when he gets a stronger signal.”

Bruce didn’t offer a humorous anecdote nor use his joyous voice that rang as loud as a trolley bell. He muttered, “Thanks” and “I’ll email details.”

The next Wednesday, Spence and I drove to a reception for Art at Beinhauer Funeral Home south of Pittsburgh. With Art’s advanced age, I’d expected to find the family but not many others. 

I was wrong.

Because Art had a passion for trolley, he was a founding member of the Arden Trolley Museum in Washington, Pennsylvania—later renamed the Pennsylvania Trolley Museum. He volunteered at the museum for seventy years and made numerous friends. 

A steady stream of these folks paid their respects that bleak, breezy December afternoon. They grasped the hands of Art’s granddaughters and murmured “I’m so sorry, Laura,” or “My sympathy for your loss, Sarah.” Memories of Art’s enthusiasm for volunteering at the museum accompanied their sad smiles.

Santa Trolley Group - 1999 Photo by Bruce

“Remember he used to take Polaroid photos of kids and Santa? Digital cameras and cell phones eliminated that job.”

 

Art and 225 - 2003 Photo by Bruce

Wasn’t the number two-two-five he built special? Kids will clamber in his play trolley for years to come—even after they’re older than his designated age two to five.

 

Art at the Controls on his 100th Celebration - Photo by Bruce

“Art never lost his touch. He operated the trolley on his hundredth birthday. He even operated car number seventy-eight for the Trolley Parade last summer. Imagine!”

What was absent from the funeral home were masses of flowers. Only two bouquets set near the coffin—a cheerful, colorful arrangement from the museum and a basket of red poinsettias from Art’s neighbors. People followed the family’s request and donated to the museum in lieu of flowers.

Art’s days at the museum ended. But Art’s enthusiasm had inspired his family and the members paying their respects. Because of Art, the donations and the people he influenced will support museum projects for years to come.

I’d attended the reception puzzled by a mystery.

A few hours after Bruce called about Art’s death, I sorted the mail and gasped. Art's meticulous printing—a small arc above the circle formed his lowercase “a”—wrote the Wells Wood address. His printed lines waved gently as if blown by a whispered breeze. With reverence, I eased open the flap to a Santa card. Art always sent Spence and me a Santa. I held the card in wonder. A treasured memory and a bit of a mystery. If Art sent it, how could the card be postmarked after he died?

I found Cindy, standing by her dad’s open coffin. We clutched in a long-lasting bear hug. “At least you had time to talk with him and share memories.” So lame. Though Art lived to 105, Cindy was still losing her father. 

But she agreed. “Yeah. I’m glad I had the time with him.” So that Art could stay in his home, Artie, Cindy’s younger brother, had moved into Art’s house eight years earlier. Cindy spent a couple days a week with her dad—giving Artie and his wife Joanne time for other activities.

Before more mourners stepped in to express their condolences, I brought up the Santa card mystery.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I knew he was in his room working away on something.”

Her brother Artie joined us.

I looked up at Cindy’s towering little brother. “I appreciated Art’s card. He always sent us a jovial Santa.”  

Artie glanced toward the casket then back at us. “After he died, I found a stack of cards on his desk. They were stamped and ready for the mail. So I took them to the post office.”

Mystery solved.

At 4:00, the afternoon reception ended and the family needed a break. Spence and I followed their vehicles, like trolley cars in a train, to Arby's, a favorite of Art’s. He loved their gyros. Later our nephew Patrick and his daughters, Addy and Amelia, arrived. The girls had attended school that day. 

Addy, almost ten, bustled in, black dress swaying below her winter coat. Her cheeks dimpled and she held her hands in yoga prayer position. “Aunt Janet, I loved the pictures you sent me. I’m going to try to send you some.” 

Wow. My heart fluttered in delight. Which pictures? While she dashed off with her dad and sister to order food, I searched my memory. The last pictures I sent accompanied a postcard story of losing a journal at the Jane Austen conference. A humorous vignette, but the flowered journal and purple tote photos? Not exciting.

Independent-minded, science-oriented Addy probably referred to photos from the Buffalo Botanical Garden—tropical pitcher plants and a statue of a girl in a fountain. The girl’s arms flung wide and water sprayed her bare shins. The statue reminded me of Addy.

Tropical Pitcher Plant

Girl in the Fountain

Art wouldn't send me any more cards, but Addy might.      

I hugged that hope as Spence drove home.

Halfway there on I 79, wind buffeted the Maverick. Wet snow made the dark road slippery.

Spence gripped the steering wheel.

I clutched the sides of the seat and pondered a Wells Wood memorial for Art. In the pitch dark, incoming snowflakes pinpointed the obvious choice. “Spence, let's plant our Christmas tree in memory of Art. I’ll decorate it with Santas.” 

Spence steered the Maverick around a pokey pickup. “Sounds good. I’m going to Cleveland Thursday. I’ll buy a tree at Gale’s.”

We’d bought live Christmas trees from Gales for decades. Despite the mega snow, Spence crept to Willoughby Hills Thursday. But Gales hadn't ordered any b&b evergreens, trees with root balls wrapped in burlap, this year. Bummer.

The internet and I devised a new plan.

The following Sunday, the Maverick’s windshield wipers swiped rain. Spence drove me along thirty-five miles of winding country roads and into Hermitage’s six lane, stoplight controlled traffic to Kraynack’s. A football field size area of b&b evergreen trees spread before us. We separated and ambled through the trees. Drizzle dampened my stocking knit cap. Inhaling earthy and evergreen scents, I gawked at all the choices—various kinds of arborvitae, cedars, cypress, firs, hemlock, juniper, pines, spruces, and yews. 

We met beside a white fir. Spence’s smile wrinkled his mustache. “What a beautiful tree.  It’s taller than our usual trees.” He circled the evergreen. “I could manage with the tractor.”

At a four-foot blue spruce, a foot shorter than the white fir, Spence stroked his beard. “What a gorgeous color. And healthy. This would do.”

I fingered the needles—sharp as cat claws. The tree would scratch me when I decorated. Not my first choice. 

Two aisles over, we viewed a white spruce, the shortest of the three. It sported the softest needles. “Look, Spence. Clusters of cones circle the top like a crown.”

He patted my shoulder. “Cute. None of our Christmas trees had cones before.”

The nurseryman tucked the white spruce diagonally in the Maverick’s short bed, and we drove home pleased with the start of a new tradition for buying Christmas trees.

Monday morning the familiar rumble of the tractor alerted me that Spence had loaded the white spruce. Thud. He slid the tree off the tractor bucket and into a wash tub. Thump-bump-thump. He rolled a dolly carrying the wash tub up the ramp.

Curious, our tabbies crept to the glass door and swiveled their heads following Spence’s movements. 

On the other side of the glass door, he shoved wood under the tub to straighten the tree. Behind the cats, I waved my hands directing Spence. I stopped him with two thumbs up.

 

Chickadee Atop White Spruce

 

Incoming chickadees and tufted titmice approved too. They landed on the spruce to queue for the bird feeder. Cats pounced against the glass by the birds. Our leaping tabbies didn’t scare the savvy birds. 

I clomped upstairs and rummaged through the ornament box. A Santa-hatted snowman would look dandy on the tree’s leader. But Art’s tree needed more than one Santa. Why not make ornaments out of cards for the card sender? No worries—well Gilbert exhibited a few. He rubbed his whiskers against my arm and gazed at me with his should-I-call-911 look. I petted him and crafted—gluing Santas back to back, wrapping them in clear tape, and attaching white ribbons for hangers. 

Bundled, I lugged the decorations box to the deck.

 

Chickadee Approaching Feeder

Chickadees zoomed toward the bird feeder, about faced, and zoomed back. They called angry dee-dee-dees while I strung white lights and gold garlands around the spruce—three feet from the foot-high plastic chalet containing sunflower seeds. Nuthatches fluttered in, spotted me, and sped away. 

I hung the eleven Santa card ornaments, and chickadees buzzed past my head. This leave message failed. I filled empty spaces with traditional sand dollar ornaments. So the chickadees zipped behind me, snatched seeds, and zipped out. 

Art’s Santa tree fluttered with bird wings all day and cast light into long dark nights.

Over the coming weeks, the ornaments and snow didn’t halt perchers. Chickadees nestled in branches. A tufted titmice and chickadees even lit atop the leader’s Santa ornament. Birds sprang off. The hat’s pointed top and pom-pom swung as if waving goodbye.

The birds foretold the future. When planted, the white spruce will shelter birds and their young ones. The cute cones, that swayed our choice at Kraynak’s, will produce seeds for new trees.

Nature teaches—endings are beginnings.

 

White Spruce Decorated

Acknowledgments 

Rosamunde Pilcher, a modern Jane Austen, named one of her short stories “Endings and Beginnings.” Her title has intrigued me for decades. This year, I’d contemplated writing a story about the transition from the end of the old year to the beginning of the new year. When Art died, this story emerged.

Thanks to Bruce for providing Art’s photos and to Sarah for answering questions.

Thanks to Spence for accompanying me through the whole adventure, listening to various versions of the story, and encouraging me when I lost the story’s flow.

A very special thanks to Cindy. Over emails and during an extended phone call, she helped me with trolley terms and family facts. More than that, she cheered me on.

As for mistakes, they all belong to me.