Reflections – Autumn’s Changes

Pawpaw Tree

While I washed dishes at the sink, outside the kitchen window a breeze snatched amber leaves from trees along the edge of the woods and tossed them into a forget-me-not blue sky.

Across our open space room, Spence’s feet thudded onto the floor. He carried his laptop to me and tilted the screen so I could view a weather map of Northwestern Pennsylvania. That morning of October 17, gray colored every county. A red blob in the middle marked our location.

He checked weather more regularly than he remembered to take medications. But why would he share a blank map? The gleam in his eyes meant I missed something. I asked, “Why is everything gray?”

“It’s a freeze warning.” Spence pulled the computer to his chest. His face glowed under his beard. As if super charged liked the Energizer Bunny, he walked back to the coffee table, set his computer between stacks of papers and books, and bustled out to the porch.

Three pairs of tabby cat ears twitched. The feline brothers continued their naps nestled on various pillows about the open space room.

Spence walked back with two spider plants, and three feline heads swiveled.

Ande, white with black splotches and the largest cat, leapt out of his chair by the door. He followed Spence down the spiral stairs to the basement.

Spence’s scolding voice floated up. “I see what you’re planning. Don’t jump on the table. It’s for plants not cats.”

Ande raced upstairs and joined the other two tabbies—Rills, the smallest and scrappiest, and Gilbert the middle-sized guzinta. The three brothers sat haunch by haunch by haunch at the front door.

Spence went outside and came back carrying a Boston fern.

Cat eyes widened. Ande trotted behind Spence into the bathroom. The plant hook over the window next to the shower guaranteed the fern frequent mists throughout the winter.

Spence hurried back outside.

The cats kept vigil at the door. Spence had never gone in and out so frequently. And he provided snacks. House plants made tasty treats.

Rattle. Scrape.

All three cats darted across the room to the sliding glass door by the deck. I joined them. We peered out at Spence opening a ladder. He climbed.

Cats craned their necks skyward.

Spence wrestled with the pot’s hook. The magenta mini petunias jiggled. He eased down the ladder with the two-foot wide hanging plant, traipsed back through the front door, and held the pot aloft.

Pointing to the hook above the sliding glass door, I said, “Hang it there.” I wanted to enjoy the petite flowers a little longer even without their hummingbird and bumblebee visitors.

The cats circled Spence’s feet and gazed at the potted plant. Rills crouched and wiggled his fanny in pounce mode.

Spence glanced from the plant to the glass doors and back. “It won’t get enough light there. It needs the plant light in the basement.” And he clomped downstairs yet again.

Ande galloped behind Spence.

Leaving Spence with his plants, I walked to the sink, grabbed the dish cloth, and dipped my hands into the soapy water. No cats followed me and not many dishes got washed. I monitored the Spence’s freeze-prep frenzy by his tapping footsteps and glances over my shoulder.

The cats maintained their guard by the front door.

Red Golden Flame Canna Lily

 

Three more times Spence walked past them toting Boston ferns—their leaflets quivered and fronds bounced. Then Spence staggered inside holding the Red Golden Flame Canna Lily he’d bought for my summer birthday. He kicked the door shut with his foot and said, “Ande will be a problem with the lily.” Spence set the three-foot tall tropical plant by the sliding glass door and went back outside.

Approaching the lily reverently, Ande stopped two feet away and gaped.

Long green and brown leaves hung forming a layered umbrella. A few red flowers edged with yellow topped the lily.

The other tabbies circled and squatted a paw’s-width from the pot. Their noses quivered. Rills leaned forward—nose against a green leaf. Beside him, Gilbert licked a withered brown leaf.

Ande walked away.

While the cats focused on the lily, Spence carried in a jasmine, installed it downstairs, and climbed back.

I gestured to the lily-fascinated duo. “Ande isn’t going to be the problem with the lily.”

Spence chuckled and hustled to bring in more frost-sensitive perennials.

The next morning I gazed out the sliding glass door. Frost covered the grass below the south garden like a mohair blanket. Ice crystals edged goldenrod flowers. Shriveled tomato and pepper leaves drooped as if flash frozen.

Leaving the frosty scene, I descended the spiral stairs to scoop kitty litters—my daily Easter Egg hunt, only the brown ovoids weren’t chocolate. I glimpsed over the railing and gasped at what my growing cataract detected as snow dusting bushes.

Get a grip, Janet. The basement isn’t cold enough for snow.

That white mass hadn’t been there the last time I scooped poop. Ignoring the litter boxes, I beelined to plant table.

No snow. No bushes. No mystery under the six-foot long plant light.

White cover cloth—that kept rabbits and groundhogs away from outdoor gardens in summer—snuggled around bunches of perennials that Spence carried in yesterday. The nibbling varmint the draped cloth deterred was a chubby tabby named Ande.

And the canna lily? Rills and Gilbert nibbled the brown leaves the morning of the frost. Once Spence removed the dead leaves, the cats left the plant alone for a couple of days. But Gilbert tested the green leaves and found them snack worthy. He fringed all leaf tips within teeth reach.

Autumn’s first freeze brought changes for my fellas and me. With the temperature drop, Spence changed into a human yo-yo to save his perennials. And Spence’s freeze behavior mesmerized the cats more than leaves cartwheeling across the deck or squirrels scampering past the glass door with acorns in their mouths. For me, the freeze colored trees’ last leaves in my dish washing view—auburn, scarlet, and gold against a periwinkle blue sky.

Frost Blanketing the Ground

 

  Getting There: The Kindness of Others      

JW Scowling at Phone - Photo by Charlie

I dithered for days.

Since Pennwriters helped me over the years, especially with my short story collection, I wanted to support the organization. Of course I could drive to Frontier Park in Erie for the Lit Fest on Saturday, September 12. No problem.

But the small parking lot would be full by the time I arrived. I could leave my car on the street and tote my gear several blocks. Not my first choice. Besides, I hated the stinky porta potties festival goers used during the six-hour event.

For the millionth time in our kitchen, Spence mussed my hair. “You’ll have fun. Go. Stop at McDonald’s and use their bathroom.” Spence was so rational.

He convinced me. I would manage the minor inconveniences. And while I chatted with folks about writing, why not connect with my cousin Julie​?

I emailed her Thursday.

JW: I’ll be in Frontier Park at the Lit Fest Saturday. If you could stop by the Pennwriters’ tent, I’d love to see you.

Julie: I'll be babysitting unfortunately . . . The damage from the storm last week was unbelievable! The Frontier area was one of the places that took a hit . . . They canceled events last week . . . I was at yoga class at Scott Park on Wednesday. In the middle of the class a tree service started cutting down trees very near us. Lol.

JW: Yikes. yoga with tree cutting? No fun. I sure hope they have Frontier Park cleaned up by now.

Like a saw cutting through the trees, Julie's words cut through my brain. How could a park full of damaged trees have already been cleared?

I emailed Todd, Pennwriters Area 1 Representative, and he replied within seconds.

Todd: So SORRY Janet! I keep forgetting you're not on FB. The event has been moved to McClelland Park (see below).

He included a bright-colored flyer of the park which indicated tent locations and ample parking.

JW: OMG, Julie. I emailed my Pennwriter contact. Yesterday, event organizers changed the location to McClelland Park. Thanks for the heads up.

Julie: Wow! I’m glad you checked. I hadn't heard anything about the move. Let me know when you come to Erie again. 

JW: Okay. Though I've never been to McClelland Park, I'm sure Mr. Goggle will get me there.

Ms. Google, rather. A female voice warned me of debris on the road, speed traps, and the next turn—at least three times.

I searched my computer for directions. One hour and three minutes if I took I-79 and I-90. Not bad, but Google listed ten turns after I-90. I couldn’t memorize that many. I printed the directions and, in large letters, wrote Exit 29 Parade Street in case the phone blipped out.

Next, I grappled with the directions on my cell phone. I could preview the directions. I couldn’t locate a start button.

Turn the phone off and on to make the program work? Nope. I might lose the directions. I walked into the office where my son Charlie lounged on the guest bed, held out my phone, and explained the “no start button” dilemma.

Charlie, a history post cast fan, removed his earpiece and cradled my phone in his hands. He scrunched his eyebrows and swiped, tapped, swiped. He handed the phone back. “You needed to allow your phone to access your location. It will work now.”

Duh. “But if I start the directions when I leave the house, I’ll lose connection.”

“GPS will find you again,” he said.

Alas, GPS had blinked out on me and never found me again. Maybe, if I started the phone directions at I-79, I would have better luck.

The day of the trip I packed a folded six-foot table, Pennwriters flyers, lunch, and a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul What I Learned from My Cat—my donation to our authors giveaway. I placed the four pages of printed directions—two for the drive and two for the park—on the passenger seat and stuck my cell phone in the cup holder. I left a half hour earlier than needed in case I got lost.

Directions

As planned, I pulled onto the berm at the I-79 entrance ramp eight miles west of Cochranton. A pickup truck swooped past. I activated the GPS directions and pushed start. The cheery female voice didn’t greet me. Instead a printed No Internet Connection flashed across the screen. Bother. Wouldn’t an on ramp have service? Maybe I needed to turn off my WiFi and turn on cell service.

I located WiFi and turned it off. The app for cell reception eluded my searches. Since I didn’t disable WiFi any other time and GPS worked while I drove, I turned WiFi back on. Perhaps I stopped in a dead area. A line of three vehicles passed me, I joined the end and merged onto the highway.

Two exits north, I stopped at Saegertown and pulled into the parking lot provided for ride shares.

Traffic buzzed past.

Nestled among the silent vehicles, I focused on my phone. No Internet Connection flashed across the screen again. I gritted my teeth and searched for the menu connecting to cell service.

None. Nada. Zip.

“Why don’t machines work like they used to work?” I shouted at the silent vehicles.

They didn’t answer.

My phone didn’t either.

I’d used up all my extra time. I needed to head out now. Resigning myself to reading the printed directions once off the highway, I rejoined motorists zooming north.

Well, mostly zooming. We maneuvered through several construction areas. When I left I-90 at exit 29, the dashboard clock read 11:30. Yikes. That’s when I’d planned to be at the park helping set up the tent. I bit my lip and turned toward Erie.

At the traffic light I read the printed directions. I needed to make a left onto Wattsburg and a right onto Schrimper. I squinted through the windshield. The light flashed green. A line of cars hovered behind mine. With the gray-sky lighting and traffic flow, the road sign might as well have been written in Greek. I couldn’t distinguish the letters from the background. I drove straight, pulled into the Citgo station, and parked at a gas pump. With no time to lose, I grabbed my phone and paper maps—all four pages—and rushed inside the store.

Near the front door, a young woman, with round lens glasses which magnified caring eyes, was transferring individually wrapped sweet rolls from a tray to a shelf.

“Could you help me?” I waved my phone at her. “I can’t get my GPS to work. I want to go to McClelland Park.”

“Sure. Give me a minute.” She set a roll in place, put her tray down, and took my phone. Her fingers glided over the screen and she handed the phone back. “The park’s on the peninsula.”

My don’t-want-to-be-late unease roared into a raging panic. Peninsula! That’s what Dad’s family call Presque Isle on the west side of Erie. “We’re on the east side of Erie, right?” My voice wobbled and my essential tremors shook up a notch.

Her lips shifted side to side. “But the GPS is connected to the store’s internet. You’ll lose it when you walk out. Let me find Eric. He’ll be able to help you.”

She led me to the cash register and spoke to the middle aged man with straight black hair and tanned skin—probably the store manager. “Do you know where Eric is? This customer is having problems with her GPS.”

The man extended his hand, took my phone, and studied its screen. His forehead wrinkled. He handed the phone back and told the woman, “Go find Eric. He’s in the back. He’ll be able to help.”

A line of customers formed behind me. The kind man waved his arm in an arc over his head. “I’ll help you over here.” And he stepped to the next register.

People filed around me.

As if making myself less of an obstruction, I hunched my shoulders to my ears. Would I ever get to the park?

A plump, six-foot, twenty-something man dressed in what resembled blue hospital scrubs walked up. He ignored my phone. Pointing he said, “Go straight when you turn out of the lot. Then at the first stop sign turn left.”

Horrors. The store parking lot had entrances on two roads at the corner of a four-way intersection. Which way was straight? My face must have broadcast confusion because the young man stopped giving directions.

He said, “Lets step outside.”

Outside he pointed at an exit—not where I’d entered.

I asked, “Straight through the light?”

“Yes. At the stop sign turn left. Go till the road dead ends at an intersection and turn right. That’s Norcross. Keep going until—”

“Wait. I can’t possibly remember all this. I need to write it down.”

The young man held my papers while I dug in my purse for a pen. “I threw three pens in here for the event. Why can’t I find any?”

“Take your time,” he said in a calm voice as if he could spend all day holding the papers.

Did this young man have a granny at home?

Finally, pen in hand, I took the papers and scribbled on the back of one sheet while he repeated the directions—only four turns.

“And if you get lost again, there’s another Citgo at thirty-eighth and McClelland. They will help you.”

I couldn’t help myself. I hugged him. “Thank you!”

I did get lost again.

Eric hadn’t mentioned how long to drive on any of the roads. The first was only two blocks. Once on McClelland, I drove forever. I didn’t catch any address numbers. The event directions listed extra parking at a church. I spied a church and swerved down that street. Factories, railroad tracks, and vacant lots. Not the right church. I made a U-turn and kept driving.

Finally, I saw a small sign near some bushes. McClelland Park.

Four college-age women in orange vests blocked the driveway.

I stopped, powered down the passenger window, and called to the nearest young woman. “I’m late but I have a table in the car for our tent.”

“You’re not late,” she said. “Drive right in.” And like a ballet, the women parted, two to each side of the entrance. I drove past the loading zone, past the fence edging the hill of the festival area, and past the dog park to the circle where I parked.

Leaving the small gear for a second trip, I grabbed the table’s handle and was closing the hatch when a woman called from a couple of cars away. “I’m leaving. I’ll drive you down the hill so you don’t have to carry that.”

She maneuvered the table onto the floor by her back seat, held the door for me to slip onto her passenger seat, then whisked me down the hill.

I thanked her—multiple times.

“I’ll find someone to carry the table for you.”

Was she an event organizer or an angel?

“Here’s someone.” And she gestured to a thin middle school youngster. “Carry the table for this lady.”

The boy grabbed the folded table’s handle with both hands. Trudging uphill across the lawn of the fenced in park area, he lugged his load around other vendors’ tents. The table bumped against his thighs all the way. At noon, he set the table down by the Pennwriters’ tent and scampered away.

I’d arrived—through the kindness of others.

Spence generated this AI photo after listening to my saga.

 

   

Reflections – Gilbert, the Guzinta

Gilbert Cameo

A couple weeks ago, between preparing his breakfast and mine, Spence fit in what he calls a “cook ahead” project. He grilled hot Italian sausage. After it cooled, he cracked the lazy Susan cupboard open to grab a storage bag.

Two cat eyes blinked at Spence.

Spence opened the cupboard door wider. “Gilbert! What are you doing in there?”

The black, white, and brown tabby didn’t answer. He hadn’t bumped against the door. He hadn’t scratched the door. He hadn’t raised his opera-worthy voice. Perhaps he wanted a quiet place to nap and, while the door opened momentarily, sneaked inside.

Gilbert jumped off the top shelf, stretched, and walked away with tail held high.

He’d explored the lazy Susan on many occasions. The first time he entangled himself in plastic grocery bags. He swished and rustled around our open space room then down the spiral stairs.

Gilbert also slunk into paper bags from Whole Foods. Handle around his neck, the cat tore about our log house with the boogie-bag chasing him.

Boogie-me chased Gilbert when he jumped onto the kitchen table, pranced across, and knocked over vases of girasoles or bottles of beverages with his swishing tail.

My late mother would have called Gilbert a guzinta.

Some folks use guzinta for long division. Nine guzinta (goes into) thirty-six four times. But Mom called me a guzinta. I went into things she preferred I didn’t explore—her purse, her dresser drawers, her closet. Hand slaps cured me.

If there were a cure for Gilbert, it would have been Spence’s table saw.

Mid September two years ago, I yawned and folded back my log cabin quilt in preparation for bed.

A BUZZZZ rattled my skull. The high pitch whir erupted in the basement.

Wide-awake, I ran to Spence in the open space room, where he relaxed on the sofa and bobbed his head in time with Todd Rundgren’s “The Road to Utopia.” The ear-torturing whine from the basement didn’t harmonize with Spence’s music. I yelled, “The table saw’s running.”

And I ran down the spiral stairs, past the room divider behind which our son Charlie slept in his man cave before his early morning shift at UPS—well, had slept—and through the basement to the table saw in the cold cellar.

Table Saw Spinning

The saw blade whirled away.

No one and no cat hovered nearby. But some critter, no doubt Gilbert, the guzinta, had started the machine. Leaning over the buzzing monster, I searched for a switch or plug to stop the noise before the ache growing inside my head cracked my skull like an egg shell.

Alas, more noise erupted. Behind me, Spence yelled, “Don’t get near that.”

I stepped back.

He pulled the plug.

Though ringing lingered inside my ear, the saw’s buzz stopped and the headache vanished. My head didn’t crack.

Spence fiddled with a two-by-four-inch button mounted on a panel between the legs of the table. The button was paw accessible for a cat reared on his hind legs. “Gilbert must have pushed the switch,” Spence said. He didn’t suggest our other cats—Ande, the ambassador, or Rills, the scrapper.

In silence, Spence and I climbed the stairs. Ande and Rills peered down from the top step. Gilbert hid.

Five minutes later, though, he crept step-by-step to the basement.

No worries. Spence wouldn’t forget to unplug the table saw again. Not with Gilbert in the house. Gilbert repeats his mishaps.

He still snags himself in plastic and paper grocery bags.

He still knocks objects over on the kitchen table.

He still explores the basement in search of adventure.

But not all of his guzinta adventures are troublesome.

From late spring through early fall, morning dew or puddles from overnight rain on the deck dampens my yoga mat when I stretch with YouTube Adriene. I carry the wet mat inside and lay it over the Adirondack chair in the open space room to dry.

Gilbert creeps into the created space underneath the yoga-mat tent and snuggles on an afghan our daughter crocheted.

No trapping doors. No dragging bags. No blaring buzzes.

He found a quiet place to nap. A cat cave.

Gilbert Under Yoga-Mat Tent

Reflections - A Dog, A Mouse, and A Cat

Cooper at One Year - Photo by Kathy

The third Monday of July, I clicked my mouse and my picture popped into a small rectangle at the top of my computer screen.

DJ’s voice greeted me. “Hi, Janet.” Her black rectangle with Pennwriters Online Class written in white letters briefly occupied center screen. She’d volunteered to coordinate the online courses program for Pennwriters. She provided instructors with video programs, registered students, recorded classes, emailed links, and troubleshot—a tech job I’m thankful she handled, not me.

I’d opened over half a dozen ZOOM screens in the process of signing into the “Make Your Characters Memorable” class each of the first two weeks. At least this week I managed to enter on my first click.

Despite only two students enrolling, Kathy, the course instructor, had consented to teach the class because, she said, “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.” She occupied a pair of video boxes—the large center one for her slide show and a smaller rectangle at the top of the screen between DJ’s and mine.

Due to a camping trip, the other student didn’t attend.

Kathy whispered to herself, “How did I load the slides last time?”

Crash. Furry tan flashes swept across the large box center screen. Cooper, Kathy’s one-year-old German Shepherd, had joined the class.

Grabbing Cooper’s collar, Kathy led him out of the room. She returned, let out a long breath, and peered at her screen. “I had the slide show right here.” She gestured to the left side of her screen. “Cooper hit the mouse and made my slideshow disappear. Where did it go?”

Barks echoed down her hall. Perhaps he answered her question.

DJ’s video box briefly occupied center screen. “Hit refresh,” she said and named a series of buttons at the top of the screen to select. They meant nothing to me.

Kathy waved her hands. “When I hit refresh, I get the old presentation for the Road Trip in twenty seventeen. That was only forty minutes long. I expanded this course.” Her eyebrows rose. “Did Cooper move the file to trash?”

“I find missing work in the recent file or in another folder.” Those low-tech ideas worked for me, but I only had my tabby cat Ande walking across my keyboard—not a German Shepherd.

Cooper barked another suggestion.

“Refresh and recent are the same,” DJ said. “But Cooper could have moved the slideshow to another folder. Why don’t you check them?”

“I have over a hundred eighty folders. I’ll search later and use my notes.” Kathy held up a three-ring binder.

DJ’s black box took center screen. “I’m starting the video recorder.” At this point she usually muted her mic. The mute symbol didn’t light up. Did she stay with us in case we had more problems?

At my desk, I wrote the date and title of the course on the top of a clean notebook page.

Eyes focused on her binder, Kathy flipped a few pages then gazed through her video box into mine. “Imagine my opening slide. An equilateral triangle with balls at the points. The word ‘action’ is in the top ball. ‘Reaction’ and ‘decision’ are in the others. Arrows connect the balls so the movement flows in a continuous cycle.” She swirled her hand around.

I scribbled notes.

“As your character moves toward the goal, the cycle flows from action to reaction to decision and back to action. We’ll focus on reaction. Other characters are moving through the same cycle. Each reacts differently to the same actions.”

In her video box, Kathy flipped pages back and forth, back and forth. “Cooper knocked the notebook on the floor this afternoon and all the pages fell out. The sheets aren’t numbered. I didn’t take time to reorder them because I thought I’d use the slide presentation.”

“No worries.” I rubbed my arthritic fingers. “I’ll have more time to write.”

Cooper didn’t bark. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep.

“Here it is.” Kathy grinned and described the action-reaction cycle with several examples. Then she said, “Check, to be sure your scenes work.”

Mew.

“Does the scene help or hinder the character reach the goal?”

Mew . . . Meow.

Kathy looked up from her notes. “Is that your cat?”

The mew didn’t resemble any of my three tabbies’. But to satisfy Kathy, I got out of my chair and opened the door. No cat in the hall. No cat in the room. “Not my cat, Kathy. Is it yours?”

She leaned in her chair and peered out the window beside her desk. “I don’t see him.” Kathy continued with the lesson.

ME-OW.

I dissolved into giggles.

Kathy called, “DJ, is that your cat?”

Silence. Not even a mew. DJ must have left the room with her computer like she usually did.

Kathy checked her notes.“It’s not just obstacles which cause reactions.”

Meow.

“Turning points or pivot points in the plot cause reactions.” Kathy’s voice vibrated, stifling her laughter. “Like when a detective gets new information or a new character joins the story.”

Mew.

Kathy slapped both hands on her desk. “I hear a cat. The sound’s coming through my speaker.”

I held up open palms. “My cats aren’t by the door and they’re not in my room.”

Meow.

“Maybe Cooper brought us one,” I said.

“Gosh, I hope not.” Kathy marked her place with a finger. “Soap operas create tension. Viewers must tune in to see how characters will react. What choices will they make when they’re pitted against obstacles? Will they fight for their goal, or will they avoid the situation?”

Meow.

At the same time as Kathy said, “That’s DJ’s cat,” I connected the meows to the black Pennwriters’ box taking center screen.

The cat meowed louder and louder before scratching noises came through the mic. Perhaps the cat rubbed its whiskers against the edge of DJ’s computer.

I jotted notes and giggled with each of the cat’s contributions. More than once I asked Kathy to pause because the cat’s entertainment distracted me—great for resting my fingers and absorbing the important points of Kathy’s presentation.

After Kathy ended the video recording, we chatted for a few minutes. DJ’s voice joined us.

“I’m so sorry. I could hear your voices from the other room. I didn’t know Kris was in here bothering you.”

“Kris wasn’t a problem,” Kathy said.

I agreed. The cat helped.

Kris and Cooper provided unexpected actions. Kathy’s reactions and decisions demonstrated a memorable character, who chose fight not flight when problems arose. She presented a delightful lesson I’ll never forget.

Kris - Photo by DJ