Reflection on the First Week of Winter

      Winter arrived on the calendar, but winter weather didn't. The average temperature for the first week of winter at Wells Wood is 35°. This year we averaged 55°. In the past sixty-seven years, I remember an occasional warm day in December–like the Christmas evening in Pittsburgh when I walked out onto the grass with only a sweater over my indoor clothes. But a whole week of warm days? Is climate change making a wacky swing from last year's bitter cold?

      The first day of winter was 63°. Spence, in a short sleeved T-shirt, and I, in a light jacket, walked through the woods. Our feet smooshed wet leaves and cracked twigs. Dark green ferns, bright red partridge berries, and light green skunk cabbages decorated the leaf covered ground. Blue jays squawked. Deer Creek rushed mud brown just below the top of its banks. Wet weather ponds and streams dotted the flood plain. When we got back to the log house, Spence reached for a cold can of carbonated water rather than a hot cup of coffee to warm his hands.

      Christmas Eve Day was clear and balmy. At the YMCA, the water glowed with sunshine. Life guard Bailey opened the windows and pulled a chair to the edge of the pool. In short shorts and sunglasses, she plopped into the chair then threw her arms and legs wide as if she were sun bathing.

      Back at Wells Wood Spence harvested bok choy. Though earlier frosts had softened the stems,fresh leaves grew and flowers bloomed. Honeybees gathered pollen from the bok choy and bolting chickweed.

     This morning rain pelted Wells Wood. After thunder and lightning stopped, Spence and I sloshed under umbrellas to explore the submerged flood plain. What if all that rain had been snow?

    Though the weather has been entertaining, it's also been unsettling. When will the temperatures turn cold enough to hang bird feeders without luring bears onto the deck? Will birds wait for us or find another food source? I'm not alone in wondering. Spencer's friend Roldo Bartimole sent this holiday greeting: “Hope you enjoy the holidays and the weather even though it means disaster in the long run.”

 

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Fall

Guest Blog by Emma and Her Human Ghost Writer

      Managing Janet is a chore. She's been in a tizzy over writing a story about “her other cat,” meaning me, and she whines to Spence, “Emma behaves like a cat. She isn't quirky like George. George thinks he's a dog.”

      What's she expect? At least she got “quirky” right.

      Whatever. I try to sooth her. When she bangs up the spiral stairs, I follow. She crinkles paper and dangles ribbons. I give an assuring merrow, let her pet me, and knead the afghan on the loft bed.

      George whacks the dangling ribbon, and Janet sets a white box on its side. “Doesn't that look like fun, Emma?”

      As if.

      George dives in head first and twitches his butt. No way that fat ass will fit. Maybe he does want to be a dog. I take a nap.

      Janet calms down a little, but I stay alert. I cue her to fill the food bowl and squeal when I'm resting on the floor cause she forgets to watch where she's walking. I give her extra attention like singing a chorus of merrows to help her talk on the phone. I even rush to the bathroom so she can pet me every time she sits on the toilet. That should be enough.

      It isn't.

      As I amble toward the food bowl, she grabs me, wraps me in a red blanket, and whisks me outside. “Look at the pretty Christmas tree, Emma.”

      Berrrrrrow. I could have seen the white lights from beside the warm wood stove. Where's her imagination? But I look. Best to satisfy her craziness and get back inside.

      She carries me to the deck. “Look at the snow, Emma.”

      She looks. I check what's happening inside the glass doors. Spence is hitting his computer without me curled next to him. George eats out of my side of the bowl. “Merrow. Merrow.” Doesn't she understand I want to go in?

      Apparently not. She hugs me tight, hauls me across the porch, and heads down the steps.

      “Merrow. Merrow.” I squirm and try to jump out of her arms.

      She squeezes me and keeps moving away from the house.

      I glance around to get my bearings. Snow flakes melt on my head.

      “Look at the snow on the tree, Emma.”

      Doesn't she feel the snow? But I look. I even sniff a branch.

      Still not satisfied, she sticks my paw in the snow.

      Sheesh. I withdraw into the blanket and wait for her episode to pass. She stops at tree after tree. No birds. No squirrels. No food. What's so fascinating? Finally, she heads for the porch. I let her carry me to the top step then make my move. I wiggle my front paws out of the blanket.

      She squeezes harder and opens the gate.

      I wiggle my back legs out of the blanket and twist so I'm paw-down.

      She squashes my middle and opens the door. Finally, she sets me down.  

      As I race for the blue bedroom, I hear Spence ask, “How did Emma do outside?”

     Yawn. I need a nap.

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall

         Camera dangling from my neck, I followed Spence outside to take photos of him harvesting wood. He had another idea. When we reached the garage to fetch his tools, he said, “You drive the tractor.” He handed me the ear protectors and wandered down into his garden.

      Having driven the Mahindra just last week, I figured I could remember how to start the tractor. I fit the protectors over my ears, turned the key one notch, and waited for the light to indicate the cylinders were warm. It glowed. I turned the key one more notch.

      Spence rushed back to the driveway. “You have to count to ten and wait for the engine to warm up.”

      “I did. It's warm.” I put my heel on the reverse pedal.

      “You have to give it gas.”

      Oops. I pushed the lever from the turtle symbol halfway up to the rabbit. The engine roared. I hit the reverse pedal again. Screech. Crunch. Double oops.

      Hands waving over his head, Spence yelled “Stop! You have to lift the bucket.” He walked around the tractor, pulled the hydraulic lever, and, when the bucket lifted, gave me the thumbs up to drive.

      Frequently checking over his shoulder, he led me back to the house, down that driveway, through the tree nursery, and down the path to Deer Creek. Like an airport ground handler, Spence guided me around curves and stumps. The tractor rocked back and forth, but I stayed in the seat. Following his hand motions I backed the tractor up to the bank of the creek.

      Wearing his knee high yellow boots, Spence grabbed the chain saw from the bucket and waded across shallow ripples.

      Since I wasn't wearing boots, I stayed on the tractor side.

      He stepped over downed trees on his circuitous route to the ready-to-cut cherry. Sawdust flew as the chainsaw ripped through the trunk. Spence held a log under each arm, stepped over tree debris, and waded through the creek to load the wood in the bucket.

      Because the logs came from a freshly fallen tree which had roots in the water, the firewood was wet and heavy. Spence needed to split the other sections before carrying them across the creek. He drove the tractor back up with the chain saw and four logs to exchange them for his maul, wedge, and sledge hammer. Ready, he stepped to the side of the tractor and said, “You drive.”

      This time I started the tractor, gave it gas, and lifted the bucket with no prompts. On the way down the hill, I watched the tires to manage the curves.

      Spence waded back across the creek.

      I clicked the camera trying to time his swings and the wood splitting.

      After cutting and hauling three loads, he said, “It's going to be a Ben Gay night." 

 

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Fall

     The rumble of pickup trucks on West Creek Road woke me Monday–the first day of deer season. Mid morning, Spence walked me to the garage for my drive to the Meadville YMCA. A hunter's truck was parked in the old driveway. I looked down at my black coat, decided Spence's red baseball cap would protect us, and planned to start wearing red or orange outside.

     Spence waved me down the road. Later, while I ate lunch, he related his morning adventures. He had briefly chatted with the two men from the parked truck. They stood in orange vests, wore rifles in slings on their shoulders, and rubbed their cold hands. Spence pointed to where he'd be doing his version of hunting–gathering firewood with his bright red tractor and noisy blue chain saw. Spence chuckled as he finished the report. “A half hour after they gave up and left, two deer galloped down the hill.”

     I also chuckled-imagining the pair splashing across Deer Creek.

     But earlier at the YMCA, I had my own first day of deer season adventures. School age children, who weren't out hunting, wandered the halls while their parents exercised. Jim, the hefty guy from my Deep Water Fitness class, was the only man in the pool. “Are you going hunting?” I asked.

      “No, no. I only went twice to appease my father.” He grimaced then added, “But my mother hunted. At ninety-two she bagged a deer.” Though I was wet from a pre-swim shower and wanted to slip into the water quickly, I shivered on the deck and listened to Jim's story. His mother had hunted from what their family called “the winter palace,” a tree stand in the woods with windows in all four walls and a kerosene heater to keep her warm. She'd drive her mini jeep under the palace, climb the ladder to the enclosed platform, and snack on sandwiches.

     On my way home from lap swim, I passed six pickup trucks and a dozen orange clad men regrouping in Charlie Flickenger's yard. They wouldn't have time to start hunting before I walked back to the house. I pulled into the garage and guessed Spence had already considered that walk. On a board sticking out of the back of his truck, he had hung my red vest.

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Fall

 

 

   I was horrified by a story on the radio Tuesday. Millennials gleefully described Friendsgiving, a Thanksgiving shared with good friends rather than relatives. ( https://hereandnow.wbur.org/2015/11/24/friendsgiving-sam-whitehead ) This year my celebration brought relatives in a slow crescendo.

   We started with three on Thanksgiving morning. Spencer Charles cut onions and celery for the stuffing. I rubbed olive oil on the skin of the fresh, fourteen pound turkey. Spencer Thomas split firewood. In the evening we relaxed with a quiet meal incorporating homegrown Wells Wood ingredients–highbush cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, onions for the stuffing, and strawberries and an apple in the pie.

   Friday Spence and I scouted where to dig the hole for planting the tiny, blue spruce with its burlap wrapped root ball–after it has served as our Christmas tree. Then Ellen and her husband Chris arrived increasing us to five. Because UPS and New Jersey in-laws will claim our offspring for Christmas, we opened Christmas presents, chuckled on the number of Sherlock Holmes related gifts, and reminisced about the Handfasting Celebration last October.

   The Pittsburgh Wellses drove through rain to make Saturday a celebration of twelve. Addy, ten months old, captured everyone's attention by squealing as she crawled after cats, running after step-step-stepping as she held Ellen's hands, and reaching open arms to each relative in turn. Laughter bounced through the house. The twelve of us ate a Wells-brother chili/tortilla meal. Patrick organized Mad Libs while I washed dishes and contributed the words “water,” “soapy,” and “wet.” The gang moved on to Karma, a crazy card game, then charades. Addy shrieked trying to stay awake. 

    I wrapped her in a blanket and carried her outside to the porch where the live Christmas tree stood in a wash tub on a table and glowed through the window. Addy reverently inspected the white lights and sand dollar ornaments. I rubbed her back and was thankful that as I age, the family grows giving me more relatives to enjoy. To me, Thanksgiving will always mean family.

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Fall

 

      There she was again. The woman I silently call “Chair Lady” fastened the strap on her black bathing cap as I arrived to change for lap swim on Monday. Standing, her long thin legs brushed against a white plastic chair with arms. In the shower room a similar chair stood sentry by the third shower stall–the stall she always uses.

      I could call her “T-shirt Lady” because she wears a white short-sleeved T-shirt under her black bathing suit, “Break Lady” because she makes frequent bathroom trips, or “Waltz Lady” because she wraps herself in a bath towel and practices waltz steps in the shower room. But I couldn't call her by name.

      That was silly. It was the middle of November, and I'd been seeing her at lap swim since March. I suppressed my shy side and turned to ask her.

She was chatting with two other women.

      I didn't interrupt. Instead I took a pre-swim shower and followed her down the wet tile steps to the pool.

      In the first lane, Jim, a hefty guy from the Deep Water Fitness class, swished Styrofoam barbells and pedaled his legs as if he were riding a bicycle. He turned toward us. “It's the Lisa and Janet show staring Lisa and Janet.”

      Lisa laughed.

      I smirked. Thanks to Jim, I didn't have to ask.

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Fall

   Over the years, I daydreamed of meeting Dav Pilkey to thank him for his books that delighted struggling readers: Captain Underpants; Ricky Ricotta; Dragon; The Hallo-Wiener; Dogzilla; and Dog Breath!: The Horrible Trouble with Hally Tosis. Saturday gave me that chance.

  At Loganberry Books in Cleveland, Ohio, a person inside a Captain Underpants balloon welcomed children and adults to a Dav Pilkey event. Dav held a microphone, showed photos, and said he'd had a happy childhood. Children giggled at the pictures of the preschool Dav. Adults groaned at the picture of the glum school-aged Dav. He said dyslexia and ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Delightfulness) made learning to read difficult. He went home sad at the end of each day, but his mother encouraged him. “Something good may come from all the challenges.” She'd come to the event. Dav asked her to stand. Pride glowed through her loving smile. Everyone clapped.

  Continuing his story, Dav gave credit to his second grade teacher for the Captain Underpants idea. He'd drawn comics to manage his feelings in her class. His classmates liked them, but the teacher ripped them up and throw them away. One day she mentioned “underwear” which made Dav's classmates, and the children at the event, laugh. In a squeaky, complaining voice, Dav channelled the teacher's response, “Underwear is not funny.” His classmates laughed even harder, as did the children rolling on the floor at the event. The teacher banished Dav to the hall where he created a Captain Underpants comic strip. She ripped that too and said, “You'll never make a living writing silly books.” The second graders hadn't thought that was funny, but the event crowd roared.

  Dav now lives in Japan where he draws and writes on a beach. Sometimes monkeys come to watch, pick up his pens, and put them in their mouths. Children in the crowd mimicked the monkeys, but Dav isn't happy about the monkeys putting monkey juice on his pens. To get away, he paddles his kayak to a cave where he builds a fire and works without the monkeys. Adults aahed at the image of working in a cave away from distractions.

  In addition to his photo presentation, Dav gave everyone stickers and “Reading Gives You Super Powers” capes. He drew cartoons and asked children questions. “What are George and Harold's last names?” Children waved hands and Dav's Japanese friend selected a boy, who said, “George Beard and Harold Hutchins.” Dav gave the boy the cartoon sketch, a present, and a $100 gift certificate for Loganberry books. “Wow!” the youngster said. “I can buy ten books!” Dav kept drawing. Questions got harder. Children spouted answers and thanked Dav for the increasingly generous prizes. After he awarded the last one, he signed books.

  I waited in line between two moms, each with the first Captain Underpants book. The woman in front of me held her twenty-four year old son's original copy. The one in back had bought a new copy because her twenty year olds' copy was lost. My first copy had fallen apart years ago and ended in the trash. I held Dav's most recent book, One Today. Dav had drawn illustrations for the poem Richard Blanco wrote for President Barack Obama's 2013 Inauguration.

  A half hour later, I finally reached Dav's table and said, “I'm a retired teacher of children with learning challenges. Thank you for all your books that let them enjoy reading.”

  We chatted a bit. He signed my book and asked how I liked retirement.

  “I love it,” I said. “This book is a gift to the school where I volunteer.”

    Dav flashed a satisfied grin, handed me the book, and said, “Thank you.” 

 

 

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Fall

      During a week dominated by bright blue skies and sunshine, the phrase, this isn't November weather, looped through my mind. We had three seventy degree days in a row. In Meadville, coeds wore short shorts, and red roses bloomed in a friend's yard. At Wells Wood, a bare chested farmer drove his pickup past the log house, maturing pea pods hung on straggler plants, and pansies flowered on the deck. Spence trundled around the garden on his Mahindra–making new compost piles with shredded leaves, mulching the onion patch, planting kale and bok choy. 

      He also paddled the kayak with me on Lake Wilhelm. Warm water splashed my bare shins. Blue jays, quails, and hawks called, but migrating cormorants, osprey, and great blue herring were absent. A flotilla of oak leaves floated on glistening ripples. Low water exposed tops of snags. We returned to the launch site as a kayak approached from the other end of the lake. Spence secured the kayak to the truck. I loaded paddles and life jackets. Dressed in camouflage shorts, the chestnut haired paddler, landed, raised his arms to the sun, and said, “Can you believe this is November?” 

     I did the math to check if the weather was measurably warmer.

First Week of November	Range	Average
2014	Low 40s – High 60s	Low 50s
2015	Low 50s – High 70s	High 60s

Was this change just a fluke or a sign of climate to come?