Reflections - Being Myself       

JW's Author Page for the Literary Coffeehouse

Had I misunderstood my friend? I reread her February email a third time.

Alas. I hadn’t misunderstood.

Ellen Byham, founder of Beautiful Balance Inspirations, asked if I . . . would be interested in presenting a short 15 minute class at the Literary Coffeehouse on Saturday, April 18^th on "Tips for Blogging." Would you also present one of your short stories?

I wanted to support Ellen. I could read one of my stories. But pose as a blogging expert? Though I’d blogged since September 2014, I only loaded content. Would the folks attending know more than me? Would I sound foolish? Would I disappoint Ellen? 

Hedging, I typed, I could probably do that. Let's talk details on Saturday if we have time.

After the Saturday Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters (MVP) meeting in the Saegertown Library, I said, “I’m not sure what I have to offer.”

Ellen waved her hand and her voice bubbled with excitement. “Oh, just give the basics. You’ll be great.”

Half convinced by Ellen’s optimism, I shelved her idea in the back of my mind. I had time.

 

But near the end of March, I dithered over which project to submit for the April 4^th MVP meeting. My subconscious dished up the blogging tips topic. Gulp. I only had the title. Settling at my desk, I typed facts and links into the computer. Since including photos was one tip, in the top left corner of the handout I pasted the photo from my first blog—our cat Emma lounging by a pot of mums.

The list overflowed the page, my limit for basic tips. Maybe I did learn something in twelve years. I cut and condensed.

Fact sheet assembled, I switched to paper and pen for brainstorming a talk. Fat tabby Ande snored on the bed. He had a point. Facts aren’t riveting. I didn’t want to read the handout for the talk. So I sprinkled facts into personal blogging stories.

 

I tuned into the MVP Zoom meeting April 4^th. Though the participants could only see my turtleneck and stringy hair around my face, I squirmed inside as if the video tile exposed me in my birthday suit. Would the personal approach, the way I blogged, come across flat instead of funny.

 

 Last year, I was preparing a blog about my adventures auditing our township’s finances. I asked one of the auditors if she would let me borrow her hat to take a picture for the blog. She said, “Sure. But . . . what is a blog?”

Her answer surprised me. It shouldn’t have.

When I moved to French Creek township, I joined MVP to receive help with my writing. One Saturday in 2014, Babs Mountjoy, who has published so many novels she’s lost count, said to the group, “What Janet needs is a blog.”

I had no idea what she meant. I went home and asked my husband.

Blogs are . . .

Across the Zoom screen heads straightened and faces brightened.

The six writers agreed. “The handout’s informative. Personal stories are great.”

And they offered pages of suggestions to improve both the handout and the talk.

*Expand why people blog—test ideas, market products, share hobbies, poems, stories, and photos.

*Add post on a regular schedule.

*Clarify the warning that a blog is published material and traditional publishers may not accept content posted on blogs.

I uploaded my 418^th blog post, “Reflections - Celebrating Harold,” the next day and took a screenshot for the back of the handout. Studying the Pennwriters’ comments, I tweaked my handout and workshop talk. Ready.

Literary Coffeehouse Flyer

Or so I hoped.

April 9^th, while standing in a calm yoga pose, a fiery stab pierced my lower back. I gasped and eased onto the mat to lessen the pain. Sharp throbs attacked. I rolled on my side, gritted my teeth, and grabbed a table to pull myself upright.

Spence was in Cleveland and our son Charlie was at work. Our biggest tabby, my yoga buddy Ande, stared at me with worried eyes. Had I shrieked? Maybe he didn’t expect this behavior for the yoga routine. “We’ll go downstairs now.”

Clinging to furniture, railings, and walls, I inched downstairs to the linen cabinet. I grabbed the heating pad, shuffled to the desk chair in the bedroom, and plugged in the medical device. Relief.

Ande paced by my feet and demanded pets.

After three days, I no longer held onto furniture and my gait improved to shuffling like a rusty robot. But I still switched on the heating pad whenever possible. I wrote my rheumatologist over the patient portal for advice. Am I suffering a pinched nerve? Am I experiencing a flare-up? Am I just deteriorating?

Her physician assistant answered. It should continue to improve. If it doesn’t in the next few days, try a steroid pack. Heat and gentle stretching would be good. Avoid bending over for a prolonged period.

Okay. Another arthritis flare-up. The assistant could have added don’t pick up anything heavy, like my yoga buddy Ande.

Every day the week before the Literary Coffeehouse, I settled at the desk with the heating pad toasting my back and read my story. Even though the writers had tweaked individual words, I jotted ten main points on a note card and rehearsed a casual talk for the workshop. Ande lounged on the desk and purred.

Around noon Saturday, April 18^th, Spence drove me to the Literary Coffeehouse, Ellen’s event to raise money for her youth writing contest at, where else, the Active Aging Meadville Center. Carrying my car seat cushion in one hand, he held my hand with his other to steady me for the walk inside. I shuffled like a stiff robot rather than with my previous rusty robot gait and glanced over my shoulder. I feared some staff person would approach me to sign up for services because I looked like a likely candidate.

Instead my friend Christa greeted me with a hug. Her face wrinkled in concern when Spence explained the arthritis flare-up. “I can be her runner.” Her rosy cheeks glowed.

Next, Spence explained my back issue to Ellen. Ever flexible she said, “We can pull out one of those easy chairs from the corner for you. Whatever is comfortable.”

Comfortable for me would be not to stick out. “I’d like the Pennwriters display pushed into the circle of writer’s tables. I’ll sit behind it and talk with people who have questions.”

Spence and Ellen pushed the smaller Pennwriters’ display table into the circle of writer’s. I set the car seat cushion on a straight back chair and observed the group.

Spence put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back by two.”

“I won’t be done then.” I straightened in the chair to ease my lower back pain. “I read at two twenty-five and will present the workshop at three.”

“I know. I’ll be here if you need me.” Pulling keys out of his pocket, he headed off to recycle his motor oil.

Guests trickled into the event. Several gathered at tables in the middle of the room and sipped coffee or nibbled yummy desserts. Most people flowed around the room and talked with writers.

JW at Pennwriters' Table - Photo by Spence

A few stopped to talk about Pennwriters, including a grandmother and her eight-year-old granddaughter. “Oh, the group is for adults.” The grandma frowned. “Not for you.”

“What kind of stories do you write,” I asked the little girl.

She blushed and twisted away.

“She draws more than writes.” The grandma opened a cloth bound journal revealing sketches and captions.

“Ooh, you write graphic novels. Do you read Dav Pilkey?”

The girl beamed at me. “I read Dog Man.”

“She thought she might see Dav here today. She thought he was from around here.” The grandma closed the journal.

“No, he’s from Cleveland. I met him there once and he’s really nice.” I don’t like to disappoint children, but the girl raised her head and looked me straight in the eyes. Maybe hearing about her favorite author consoled her. “Keep writing. Graphic novels are popular.”

The young writer exchanged smiles with her grandma.

By the time I needed to hobble down the hall for my reading, Spence had returned and was tapping computer keys at one of the guest tables. I shuffled off to the blue room. He could catch up.

Spreading a copy of my story, “Red-Tail Mystery,” across the lectern, I peered at the audience of between ten and twenty. Too nervous to count, I read. “The red-tailed hawk provided clues, but I didn’t connect them.”

Spence grinned at me from the back row. People remained quiet.

“Red’s hooked beak and curved talons—all ending in sharp points—reminded me that Red was a bird of prey. I halted. He may not have minded if I got closer, but my churning stomach did.”

The audience didn’t laugh at jokes the way Pennwriters do.

The loud voice of the reader in the green room—a thin sliding-wall away—distracted me. Figuring it might distract my audience too, I raised my voice to an I-mean-it teacher level.

In front of me, a woman sagged with head bent and eyes closed. Had my story put her to sleep? When I read the climax, "Red's dead," however, her eyes opened wide and she jerked upright. I stifled a laugh and continued reading to the last sentence.

“In nature, death renews life.”

The group clapped politely. Spence gave a thumbs up. As I left the room, a man leaning against the wall reached out and touched my arm. “I thought your story was great.”

Fifteen minutes later, wobbling and aching, I carried my car seat cushion and folder with workshop materials down the hall to the kitchen classroom. Setting the cushion onto a metal chair, I plopped and gritted my teeth. Aching back or not, I would do this.

Three ambled in and chose seats across the table from me—a ten-year-old girl with long blond hair, the twenty-something illustrator of books named Abigail, and her fiance. He only attended to keep Abigail company. The other two wanted to create their own blogs. The girls observed me as if they were lip reading. After two stories—and this trio chuckled at my jokes—I spied the clock. Five minutes left. Yikes. I set the note card on the table. They could read the handout. “What do you want to blog about?”

The ten-year-old hunched forward and hid her face behind her long hair. “I’ll post bible verses and write about them.”

“Do you have an adult to help you? A teacher or someone?” I didn’t want this sweet youngster on the world wide web without supervision.

After a long pause, the girl pulled her hair away from her face. “My mother can help. She’s on the internet all the time.”

“Terrific.” Her mom would keep her safe. “Have fun with your project.”

Abigail said, “I’ll probably post the recipes I’ve adapted and my wedding plans. I’m getting married in September.” She gazed into her fiance’s eyes.

My romantic heart melted with the warmth radiating from the young couple.

“But I want to keep my blog private.” The skin on her forehead scrunched. “Just for a few friends and relatives.”

Dread of a technical question disappeared. “Post on Facebook or chose a free Google website. People need a link to view free Google sites.”

I didn’t need to pose as a blogging expert. I didn’t sound foolish. I didn’t disappoint Ellen.

I was enough. I could be myself.

JW Reading "Red-Tail Mystery" - Photo by Ellen

Reflections – Celebrating Harold

Spencer Harold Wells  April 15, 1916- August 23, 1991 (Photo by Spence)

My father-in-law Spencer Harold Wells is the reason Wells Wood exists

For years Harold and his wife Priscilla drove along tedious Route 19 from Mount Lebanon south of Pittsburgh to Presque Isle in Erie. Their three sons quarreled, punched, and yelled in the back seat of the station wagon. Harold calmed the crew with cues like, “Here we go through Sheakleyville.”

The boys silenced, extended their limbs like zombies, and shook themselves until they reached the outskirts of the borough.

As Harold approached retirement from teaching middle school shop students—the job, he claimed, is why he acquired eyes in his rear end—he and Priscilla searched for land part way to Erie.

In the spring of 1971, a real estate agent drove them down a dirt road in the northwest corner of Mercer County. The agent pulled into a field that sloped gently toward a maple and cherry woods. Then he lead them over matted leaves on a deer path down to a floodplain. Talking and following Deer Creek, he picked a bouquet of phlox for Priscilla. The flowers cinched the deal. Harold and Priscilla purchased the land, the original six acres of Wells Wood.

Camping in a tent by the edge of the woods no matter the weather, Harold joked.

* * *

If this rain keeps up, it won’t come down.

* * *

Priscilla, Harold, Spence, and Larry with 61 Plymouth Wagon (Photo courtesy of Bruce)

A couple of months later, Harold discovered Mount Lebanon Township owned a condemned garage. He made a deal. He would tear down the garage in exchange for the materials. Making multiple trips, Harold hauled pieces of the condemned garage into the back of the pickup and to what he called, “My Back Achers.”

Priscilla read novels and mysteries from the library in a lounge chair.

Crickets chirped.

He hammered, building a one room board and batten cabin at the edge of the field.

They painted the cabin barn red and added white trim.

Spence and I visited the day Harold laid out corner posts for the screened in porch. I perched on the stoop and sipped mint ice tea.

The fellas stretched the metal measuring tape from the cabin to stakes, which Harold pounded into the ground. “Measure that width again.”

Spence did.

Harold sat on his heels, pushed back his baseball cap, and shook his head. “The lengths and widths match. But the angles aren’t ninety degrees.”

Waving my beaded glass I said, “You’ve got a parallelogram. Move the far sticks to the left.”

Harold scrounged his porch material from the old porch Gracie demolished on her general store. He paid the wrecker $25 for screening, plastic roof, and poles. Harold included Grace and me in the story he told of his porch construction—at least if I happened to be part of his audience.

And Harold told stories.

* * *

When I was a boy, I walked to school uphill in both directions.

* * *

Harold Cutting Grass with the Gravely at the Trolley Museum (Photo courtesy of Bruce)

Harold walked the sloping field behind his Gravely and carved out a fifty- by thirty-foot organic garden. He discovered Native American arrow heads and six inches of top soil. “You put something in that ground, and you have to jump back.” Nevertheless, he spread bales of hay throughout his garden to feed the soil. He also added clippings he collected from mowing meadow grasses with his Gravely.

On a fall day, Spence forked the rich soil in the potato patch. Harold and I knelt to dig with our hands. If we unearthed a rock the size of a potato—a stream must have run through the field once—Harold said, “That one will take a long time to boil.”

And once he told a reporter, “Everything is allowed to live—even the raccoons that eat our corn.” He tolerated raccoons, birds, and bunnies, but fetched his shotgun if chubby groundhogs waddled toward his asparagus patch in the field. “Come on kids. Let’s go for a walk.”

Charlie and Ellen skipped after their grandpa.

Bang.

“Missed again,” he shouted.

Priscilla shook her head.

At the gathering after Harold’s funeral, Priscilla said. “Harold was losing it at the end. He kept missing the groundhogs.”

“He didn’t miss, Grandma.” Charlie rubbed her upper arm. “He didn’t want you to think he killed the groundhogs. He hid them in the woods.

* * *

Where are you going?

Down back to see how far it is.

* * *

Priscilla, Baby Sarah, Ellen, and Harold at Wells Wood (Photo courtesy of Bruce)

The woods held more mysteries than Harold’s groundhog carcasses. Harold and Priscilla lead me along deer paths. Once weeds wavered. A foot-and a half long garter snake approached at a pace as if the snake were fleeing a predator.

I gasped.

Harold used his calming teacher voice. “The snake’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”

Wanting to believe Harold, I stopped walking—and breathing—to let the snake pass.

It slithered over my shoes and under the bushes on the other side of the path.

If Harold was right, I hoped the snake’s heart beat slowed before its heart burst through the snake’s skin.

At least Harold’s and Priscilla’s wildflower education lacked immediate drama. “That’s toothwort.” Harold pointed at a violet-like flower with leaves notched in tooth shapes.

“This is bloodroot.” Priscilla touched a multi-petaled white flower with a yellow fringed middle. “People pick it to see its red sap. Don’t. It’s rare.”

Names flowed from their lips so fast I couldn’t remember them all. Two of Harold’s names, which alliterated and echoed like a near palindrome, stuck. “That’s Solomon’s seal and there’s Sealomon’s sol.” Both grew wide leaves on a long stem. But Solomon’s seal bell shaped flowers hung along the stem and Sealomon’s sol flowered in a terminal cluster at the end of the stem. After both Harold and Priscilla died, I opened their wildflower guide and discovered the true name of his Sealomon’s sol—False Solomon’s Seal. I belly laughed loud enough to startle all the groundhogs on Harold’s back acres.

* * *

Parents pay their children for each A on their report card.

When I was a kid, I was good for nothing.

* * *

Spencer Harold Wells - School Photo (Photo courtesy of Bruce)

As a young teacher, I assumed Harold would grant my request. “May I take some frog eggs to school so the children can observe tadpoles hatching?”

Harold grumbled, “Frogs belong in the woods.”

Had his respect for nature countered his veteran teaching instincts? “I’ll bring the frogs back.” I would have promised anything. I wanted the inner city Cleveland children to experience the wonder of nature.

“Well, okay.” Though Harold kept his stern teacher face, he probably meant to give in the whole time.

“Will you help me collect the eggs?”

“What! You want me to help?” He grabbed an empty coffee can.

We walked to a woods pond with clusters of frog eggs. 

Kneeling beside the pond, I scooped pond water into the can.

He added a cluster of eggs.

I wrote a children’s story, Dad and the Frog Eggs, using first grade reading vocabulary. Spence’s photos of Harold and me kneeling by the woods pond accompanied my hand printed text—including Harold’s words about the frogs belonging in the woods, not in the school.

The children read about Harold and squinted their eyes at the egg mass.

Three tadpoles wiggled out.

I added more pond water each week for seven weeks.

The tadpoles zipped around the aquarium and nibbled the egg mass. Their heads grew fatter and their tails grew longer. I never saw legs develop. One of the youngsters did.

“I see legs, Mrs. Wells.” Excitement squeaked in his voice. “They’re teeny.”

At the end of the school year, I brought the plump tadpoles back to the woods pond. They must have been bullfrogs which can take a year or more to mature. I imagine the twangy bellows on spring evenings come from the tadpoles’ descendants.

Managing the anticipation of tadpole legs at the inner city school all those years ago, however, I needed the advice in Harold’s joke.

* * *

Don’t bite your fingers. There are nails in them.

* * *

April 5^th is Harold’s fifth Easter Birthday—three during his life (1931, 1942, 1953) and two after his death (2015, 2026). On his 110 birthday, and everyday at Wells Wood, we celebrate this crafty jokester.

Dad and the Frog Eggs

Author’s Note: Our family has three men named Spencer. Spencer Harold was my father-in-law. Spencer Thomas is my husband. Spencer Charles is my son. Priscilla, who I called “Mom” while she lived, declared three Spencers too confusing. She called the Spencer she named “Spence,” her husband “Harold,” and her grandson “Charlie.” I use her names in writing. In life I use/used “Dad,” “Spence,” and “Spencer” or “Spencer Charles.”