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.

 

 

Reflections – Close Ups Through the Year

January

 

Narcissus

Against a dark sky all flowers look like fireworks.

G. K. Chesterton

February

 

Crocus

Earth laughs in flowers . . .

Ralph Waldo Emerson

March

 

Lenten Rose

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

Charles Dickens

April

 

Buffalo Botanical Garden Hibiscus

Friends are flowers that never fade.

Proverb

May

 

Forget-Me-Nots

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

James Wright

June

 

Bumblebee on Begonia

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you... I could walk through my garden forever.

Tennyson

July

Milkweed Blossom

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

William Shakespeare

August

 

Field Thistle

Where flowers bloom so does hope.

Lady Bird Johnson

September

 

Girasole

Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadows. It's what the sunflowers do.

Helen Keller

October

 

Ornamental Corn

I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.

Lucy Maud Montgomery

November

 

Burdock Burrs

No matter how chaotic it is, wildflowers will still spring up in the middle of nowhere.

Sheryl Crow

December

 

Spruce Needles

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Robert Frost

 

Reflections - JASNA 2024 AGM Postcards

JW in Regency Dress

Dear Darlene,

Thanks for accompanying me to Evensong at Trinity Cathedral and for eating dinner with Spence and me afterward. What a night to remember.

Another night to remember was the following Saturday. I assured Spence he didn’t have to come back to get me into my Regency dress because I could find a Janeite to assist. He insisted. I suspect he really wanted to get his hands on the push-up bra you kindly helped me find. Remember the Victoria’s Secret sales girl? She’d decided to give up before we convinced her to let me try on the blue-and-pink lacy thing. Then she gushed in relief that the last bra in my size the store had stocked actually worked.

The night of the ball, Spence fumbled with the hooks while I forced the cups into place in front. Then I slipped into my Regency dress. Spence easily buttoned the dress back and took photos before I left for the banquet and ball. Almost all the ladies wore Regency dresses. We had the same unnatural profile. Pushed up. I could manage for one night.

At the ball, I clapped, passed right shoulders, turned in a circle, and swung with my partner.

The bra didn’t cooperate. The push-up kept pushing up. My breasts slipped down. At the end of the first dance, I hustled to the ladies’ room to readjust the naughty undergarment. You and I hadn’t considered the effect a country dance would have on the bra when we shopped.

After sitting out the second dance, I joined the third and hoped I’d stuffed my breasts securely this time. Alas, the push-up pushed up again. Short of securing the undergarment with duct tape, I don’t trust that contraption to behave on the dance floor.

Love,

Janet

English Country Dancing 1

The Bare Necessities

Dear Sister Julie,

I imagine you enjoyed the fall leaves. Sister Loretta would have gasped at autumn’s hues. She would also have delighted in the English country dance music at the ball I attended in Cleveland.

Bare Necessities, the band that pianist Jacqueline Schwab founded, played Saturday night at the Jane Austen conference. Tom Tumbusch taught and called dances. A Jennifer I’d just met—not to be confused with my two Jennifer friends that helped run the conference—was my partner for the third dance. As part of the dance, I stepped diagonally to my corner, stepped backward, circled by myself, turned my partner, then circled with the set.

Jennifer scrunched her face at me. “Are you dizzy? You should sit down.”

The movements of changing sets, turning to face new friends, or staying with old friends were fast and did confuse me. But, horrors. Tom had threatened that if dancers left, the line would fall apart. A dancer couldn’t leave unless they took their whole set. Jennifer would have left, but not the others. “I’m fine,” I lied and figured I was tired, complicated by my normal wibble-wobbles.

Jennifer pursed her lips. Having taken the man’s place, she didn’t turn me again. She held her gloved hands palms facing down. “Just rest.” She convinced some sets not to circle. At the end of the dance she sat me at a table, got me water, and told me to relax. She realized what I hadn’t.

After four full days at the conference, vertigo was commencing. Before it hit full force, I gazed at the dancers and got a new perspective on the dance—the flow of costumed dancers walking, skipping, and leaping to the music’s beat. Their images blurred, as would my shaky photos, but the image of Jennifer’s kindness will shine in my heart forever.

Love,

Janet

English Country Dancing 2

 

If you want to see all twenty-one postcards in the JASNA 2024 AGM Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/jasna-2024-agm

 Reflections - An End to Grazing (Part 2)

 

Cats Gobble - Rills, Ande, and Gilbert

The tabbies whined and paced inside their carriers. I lugged one from the Maverick. Spence carted two. We set the rectangular, cloth totes on the great room floor and unzipped the flaps. The cat brothers scattered—claws scratching the wood floor. No doubt, they figured they’d escaped the terrors of their vet visit. But, the consequences had just begun.

Dr. Wheelock had ordered an end to grazing. Diet food alone wouldn’t solve the cats’ weight problem. Ande, our largest and grazer-in-chief, had to lose four pounds. Rills, the feistiest and once smallest, had to lose one. Gilbert, the timid and late bloomer, didn’t have to lose any. He would suffer because of his brothers.

I glanced at the two bowls on the tile floor by the sliding glass door. After the cats’ ordeal riding to and from the vet’s, they needed to calm down. Removing their kibble would increase the cats’ anxiety. I left the food. “Ready for our walk, Spence?”

Our shoes crunched gravel on the country road and our minds crunched meal schedules.

“You eat three times a day. The boys should eat when you do.” Spence believed in feeding his fellas.

“My lunch time varies too much. Twice a day will work better.” I paused to admire birdsfoot trefoil. “And I’m not always home for lunch.”

He scoffed. “You’re gone once a month.”

An exaggeration. Our argument continued. We settled on two cat meals. He would set the bowls out when he prepped breakfast and dinner. I would take them away when I washed dishes.

Simple. Maybe.

After dinner, I snatched the cats’ food. I didn’t want to pour the old crunchies back in the canister, but setting the bowls on the counter wouldn’t end Ande’s grazing. He could jump up for mouthfuls. A cupboard? Nope. The cupboards were full. I scanned the room and rejected the refrigerator—crowded inside plus the cats perched on top. I chose the oven. The bottom had a storage drawer containing an old griddle and a few casseroles. I yanked the drawer open and set the bowls inside an empty casserole.

The tabbies gawked in puzzlement and pity. I had the feeling if they could, they would have called 911 and reported my irrational behavior. Gilbert stroked my arm with his paw to sooth me.

And they followed me on tip-paws until I settled at my desk to write—a normal activity.

The next morning, Spence cooked breakfast and set the cat bowls out. The felines dashed to the food. Ande and Rills shared a bowl—a first. Gilbert, who had always waited for his brothers to leave before he ate, dug into the second bowl. All three gobbled.

Gilbert raised his head, licked his whiskers, and peeked at his gulping brothers. He dove back into his breakfast. I expected the cats to vomit from the gorging. They didn’t. Midway through their frenzy, Ande pawed kibble onto the floor and snarfed the food from there.

To eliminate the gobbling, we left the bowls out for over two hours at first. Each time I walked toward the bowls, Ande or Rills scurried to snatch another bite. I never took the food away while they ate. I didn’t want to increase their anxiety. Instead I checked for cat ablutions or napery then grabbed the bowls. As soon as I lifted the food, baths and naps halted. The cats trailed me to the oven and watched me tuck the bowls away.

Dr. Wheelock predicted the fellas would adapt to the routine in two weeks. I doubt she would have envisioned their adaptive behaviors.

Gilbert reverted to his Ferdinand the Bull inner self. He leapt into the sink, stood on hind legs, and knocked ornaments off the window sill to reach his goal—my gladiolas. His need exceeded my barriers. He pawed and munched petals, propelling the vase into the sink. The glass didn’t break, but the flowers bent at awkward angles.

 

Glads

Ande’s idea of diet supplements differed from Gilbert’s.

Ande often ate kibble off the floor, his preferred serving dish. And to end his paper ball chase game, he dropped the ball in the cat water fountain, fished the ball out, and swallowed the soggy treat. He combined these two activities for his diet supplement. Around the litter boxes, Ande scavenged stray paper pellets—unsoiled ones, thank goodness. The compacted paper pellets, meant to absorb cat urine, resembled kibble. Luckily, they didn’t have any calories.

His second tactic employed a red flannel elephant. Ande dragged the sixteen- by thirteen-inch toy over his food bowl. Camouflage? Perhaps he hid the kibble from his brothers or from humans.

Rills didn’t invent a new tactic. He escalated his begging while Spence or our son Charlie cooked. Charlie let Rills sniff ingredients. Usually that convinced Rills he didn’t want the ramen noodles, wonton soup, or kielbasa.

 

Spence told his buddy, “You're a pest. Get down.” The pesky cat didn’t. He loved the chicken which Spence frequently roasted for me. The increased begging netted chicken treats for Rills and Gilbert. Overweight Ande didn't like chicken—not an issue for his diet.

I’ll give Dr. Wheelock credit. With their new behaviors, the cats calmed—by the end of the third week. Then? Full panic. Saturday morning we fed them and packed to attend a friend’s funeral in Cleveland. We tucked the food bowls away, picked up tote bags, and headed for the door.

Ande galloped to the oven. He wailed. Experience had taught him tote bags indicated an extended absence. Charlie caught up on sleep over the weekend. Cats prancing atop of the sleeper wouldn’t wake the weary man. Although Ande had just eaten, his behavior suggested he feared no one would be home to serve him dinner.

Spence stooped and petted the cat. “Don’t worry big fella. We’ll be back.”

Ande whimpered.

When Spence and I returned mid afternoon, the cats met us at the door. None rushed to the oven. Their tummy alarms hadn’t rung yet.

Though the vet emphasized humans were the boss, the cats influenced the routine. The tabbies herded the first human out of bed toward the oven drawer. Hence, we fed the cats at 5:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m—not necessarily when meals were prepared.

Charlie got the brunt of the morning schedule. Hungry cats stalked him on work days. They perched at the top of the steps when he climbed up from his basement man cave. He no longer could enjoy a leisurely sip of tea in his china cup. Needy cats circled his kitchen chair, swished their tails, and mewed demands. Charlie didn’t always wait until 5:00 to set their bowls out.

By late afternoon, the tabbies hovered in the great room. If a human approached the kitchen, they hustled to the oven. Using their heads like workers directing traffic around country road construction, they nodded at the person then stared at the drawer with the food bowls.

Most of this pressure landed on Spence, who cooked dinners. He pointed at the clock. “It’s not time fellas. You’ve got forty minutes . . .” Or an hour and fifteen minutes. Times varied. His clock lessons never satisfied the cats. If Spence stood beside the oven and their tummy clocks registered hungry, Spence instructed in vain.

Because I never gave cats food while I prepared mine, they only pestered me on weekends when Spence and Charlie slept in. Three docile cats met me at the bedroom door and jockeyed for cuddles—my start-of-the-day routine with them. Ande pushed forward.

“Good morning, big boy.” I picked him up. “Are you losing weight?” He purred. I set him down because two others waited.

Gilbert rose onto his hind paws for easier lifting. We snuggled. He wiggled free.

And Rills, who usually played keep-away when I collected hugs, stepped up. He was definitely lighter. We touched noses and rubbed heads. Then all three cats sprinted down the hall to the kitchen and waited by the oven.

No more gorging occurred. If the human didn’t top up the bowl with fresh kibble, the cats led the server to the food canister and waited for the extra crunchies before eating.

Though the tabbies didn’t hover over the bowls, they did come back for seconds a little later. Sometimes we neglected to pick up the food. Our forgetfulness didn’t matter. When it dawned on us the cats’ mealtime had ended, the tabbies had gone—napping with the old teddy bear, excavating in litter boxes, or staring out windows.

Did the cats lose weight?

Lifting the cats before their morning meal, they felt lighter. After they ate—not so much. But Rills was no longer heavier than Gilbert, and Rills slimmed down to be the smallest again. One cat lost weight.

The July 2025 vet appointment will provide accurate updates. We’ll stuff the tabbies inside their carriers and lug them—pacing and whining—to the Maverick. The trip of howling protests might even help them shed a few ounces.

         

 

Ande with Elephant over Food Bowl