Sunday, April 5, 2026

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.”

Sunday, March 1, 2026

Reflections – Writer’s Retreat

My Place Setting at the Kitchen Table

Dear Laura and Beau,

Give yourselves and your little Anduin hugs for me. I hear stories of folks gathering in your farm house kitchen for meals and celebrations. I can imagine how welcome they feel.

When I attended a writer’s retreat at the Mount Saint Benedict Monastery, I didn’t eat in the dining room with the nuns like other writers. Because of my food sensitivities, I’d packed my own meals. I ate alone in the guest kitchen and read The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman.

But like you at your house, people found me.

A high voice interrupted my cracker and tuna fish munching at lunch Friday. “Would you help me?” Dressed for Erie’s bitter outside cold, a young woman held a bag in each hand. “I can’t open my door.” She led me to a door with a colorful sign reading “Yvonne.”

Saturday, I slid my homemade chicken pot pie into the oven to reheat for supper, and a lady attending another retreat stopped in the doorway. “Do you know where garbage bags are?” She raised a pair of boots she clutched in her hand. “I don’t want to put them down on the floor.” I opened every drawer and cupboard door until I found a garbage bag for her.

When I ate the heated pie, Chris, a writer of short stories with intriguing twists, carried a small pizza box into the kitchen. He’d ordered the pizza because the dining hall offered only “so many choices for vegetarians.” He stuffed his leftover pizza into the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Labatt Blue. He sipped. I ate. We chatted about writing, our families, and life.

Other writers stopped by too. With all the visitors, the guest kitchen felt welcoming.

Love,

Janet

View of Kitchen from Table

Workshop Seating in the Garden Room

Dear Marlene,

I hope you did something special to celebrate your birthday on January 20.

Ten days later I indulged myself by attending a writer’s retreat at Mt. Saint Benedict in Erie. The writer in residence, Timons Esaias, wrote the panda pillow story I’d suggested for Seth.

Timons is as kind and helpful as that panda pillow. He held workshops in the monastery’s garden room. With spider plants and a Norfolk Island pine soaking up sunshine by the windows at his back, Timons sat at the head of the table. He stroked his silver beard, told stories, and led exercises—all the while sprinkling nuggets of wisdom for writers.

Sheila, a nurse who writes mysteries, sat across from me at the first workshop. Halfway through she needed to borrow a pen. She’d been writing so much that her new pen had run out of ink. Though she was in charge of hospitality, I didn’t see much of her. I’m not a night owl so skipped the late night pizza party. Because of my food sensitivities, I brought my own food instead of eating with the others in the dining room. Nor did I, like Sheila, respond to the bells ringing in the tower and attend mass with the nuns.

I saw more of Timons during two individual conferences. He offered advice on developing characters, eliminating needless words and—best of all—approaching my second collection of short stories. He told me to write one scene or one story. Don’t think about the whole book. “Do one thing at a time. Don’t worry. Just have fun.”

Good advice for life.

Love,

Janet

Mount Saint Benedict's Bell Tower

If you want to see all six postcards in the Writer’s Retreat at Mount Saint Benedict Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/writers-retreat

Monday, February 2, 2026

Reflections – Winter Holidays – A Season of Prolonged Hope

Maverick in Shop Waiting for Spence

This year winter holidays brought a green Christmas, a white New Year’s, and the prolonged separation between Spence and his beloved Maverick pickup.

The separation began on what Spence dubbed his “First Thanksgiving,” Wednesday, November 26. While driving home from Malady’s Meat Market, with our fresh ten pound turkey, a tree crashed into the road and hit the pickup.

Why was Spence thankful? “The tree crushed the bumper. It didn’t kill me.”

Gratitude changed to hope. December 12, Spence brought me a cup of herbal tea while I wrote at my desk. His face glowed like a little boy reciting a list of Christmas wishes. “I dreamed the body shop called. My truck is ready.”

Should I play the Grinch, temper his enthusiasm, and cushion the disappointment he would certainly receive? “When they take off the bumper on December twenty-second, they’ll find broken parts they need to order. They won’t finish repairs in one day, Spence.”

He’d waited 390 days for his Maverick after he placed the order with the Titusville Ford dealer. At least this wait would be shorter.

Spence boogalooed in place. “Runyan’s could have a cancellation. And they already ordered parts.”

I let him have his wish. Reality would hit soon enough.

Later that day Spence drove my manual transmission Crosstrek to Giant Eagle. Because he hobbled without the brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon, and because he couldn’t feel the clutch engage if he wore the brace, Spence adapted. He wore the brace, pulled the driver’s seat all the way forward, and pressed the clutch to the floor. Though uncomfortably intimate with the steering wheel, he didn’t stall—much. Spence needed his Maverick.

Carrying two cartons of carbonated water, he burst into the kitchen where I was folding dishtowels. He set the cartons on the table. “I visited my Maverick in Matt’s parking lot. I didn’t want it to feel forgotten.”

Crushed Bumper

Hope swirled through him like bubbles in carbonated water. Spence looked forward to a call from Runyan’s on December 22. The phone didn’t ring that day. Not even a telemarketer called.

Spence spiraled into a bizarre sequence similar to repeating scenes from the Groundhog Day movie.

Spence called Runyan’s on Tuesday, December 23. “This is Spencer Wells. I’m calling about my Maverick.” His cheery voice changed to cautious. “Okay . . . I see . . . ” Sadness twinged his “Thanks.”

He pursed his lips. “They’re waiting for parts. They’re working fewer days because of holidays.” He let out a breath as mighty as a polar vortex. “The truck won’t be ready until January second.”

On New Year’s Day, company arrived. Our daughter Ellen and son-in-law Chris entertained us with stories about her clueless doctoral students. As Lyra and Phoenix rushed to the sliding glass door to bark at snowplows and squirrels, their corgi nails clicked on the wood floors. I’d hoped this four-day visit would distract Spence from his truck, but . . .

Spence called Runyan’s on Friday, January 2. While corgis circled his feet, he gripped his cell phone. “Okay . . . I see . . . When?”

Spence disconnected and answered my questioning look. “Some parts didn’t arrive. The Maverick will be ready the end of next week.”

Spence called Runyan’s on Thursday, January 8 and said, “Oh, geez.”

He told me, “A part came in yesterday—damaged. Matt said Monday.” Spence scowled. “Something will happen. I’m not getting my hopes up again.”

But he did.

Over the weekend, we pulled on boots, slipped into winter jackets, and grabbed umbrellas for a splashy health walk. I planted my feet between potholes filled with muddy water.

Spence paced quietly beside me.

Figuring I’d cheer him, I said, “You’ll get your truck tomorrow.”

An anguished moan—louder than gushing Deer Creek, the rain pounding our umbrellas, and the gurgling side streams altogether—escaped his throat. He turned his head toward me. Grief etched his face and pierced my soul. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he whispered.

Spence called Runyan’s on Monday, January 12 at 1:50 p.m. He focused on birds swooping to the feeder while he listened without asking questions. His, “Okay, thanks,” ended the call.

“Well?” I asked.

“Matt has to recharge the AC. If . . .” Spence gulped a reassuring breath. “If everything goes smoothly, he’ll put the bumper on. We’ll get the truck today. I’ll drive it to Cleveland tomorrow.”

Did everything go smoothly?

Nope.

Matt called Spence at 4:30 p.m.

Spence gave me the news in a monotone. “The new Freon took longer to load than the old kind. Matt’s staying late to finish.” Spence stifled a laugh. “Matt wants the truck out of his shop. He’ll call at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Matt didn’t call.

Spence called Runyans’ on January 13 at 9:20 a.m. “This is Spencer Wells. Matt said he would call. I have to go to Cleveland this morning.” Spence straightened in his kitchen chair. “Really? We’ll be right there.”

He punched the red “stop” button and reached for his jacket.

At Runyan’s, Matt and his young assistant, both with spiky hair, stood as still as parked vehicles behind a chest-high counter. Beside me, Spence looked on, speechless. Evidently all three expected me to pull out a checkbook and write numbers. No way. “I want to see the Maverick.”

“It’s in the third bay.” Matt accelerated out of the office and led me past two sedans with various body parts missing. The Maverick wore well-earned road dust in back but shone bright, hot chili red in front.

Ever curious, I asked, “What part came in damaged?”

The assistant fetched an aluminum frame that would span the front of the Maverick. “This goes behind the grill. These two fringe pieces were bent.” He fingered a pair of four- by-four-inch tabs at the bottom. “When Matt bent them back into shape, they cracked. So he took the frame from your truck, hammered those tabs into shape, and soldered a small crack.”

I asked Matt, "Where did you get the replacement parts?”

“Some were recovered parts. We ordered others from Titusville Ford. A hose took over a week to get here.” Matt opened the hood and beckoned to Spence. “While I was bolting the grill on last night, I discovered two broken brackets.” He touched two black bits. “On the top of the radiator here and above the left headlight. I’ll order them.” He gently closed the hood. “I’ll need the truck back to replace those.”

Spence clutched the door handle.

“That can be another day.” Matt waved a hand at the Maverick. “I drove the truck around last night. Nothing rattles. It’s safe.”

Whipping the checkbook out of my purse before Matt changed his mind, I headed for the counter and wrote numbers.

Spence and I walked to the parking lot while the assistant backed the Maverick out of the bay. He handed Spence the keys.

After forty-eight days, Spence’s season of hope became a season of joy. The prolonged separation ended on what he dubbed his “Second Thanksgiving.”

Spence has his Maverick—for now.
Spence Taking a Quiet Moment to Settle into His Maverick

Sunday, January 4, 2026

Reflections – Leaves Throughout the Year

January

Ivy Leaves

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

Maya Angelou

February

Beech Leaves

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

Kahlil Gibran

March

Skunk Cabbage Leaves

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

The Journal of Henry David Thoreau

April