Reflections on the Ninth Week of Winter

Monday the low was -19.1° without wind chill. Spence kept the fire burning and said, “We're going through logs like crazy.” At the YMCA, mist hung over the pool. The life guard opened and shut windows quickly to replace deteriorating insulation. As I swam past an open window, cold air stung me and mist turned into an enveloping cloud. Spence had worse news. The Cleveland furnace had broken, the house was 31°, and water had frozen in the pipes. Furnace guys replaced an igniter switch, but Spence had to make another trip Tuesday to meet our handyman and arrange for pipe repairs. Wednesday, the quilt guild secretary emailed “...with great sorrow...” to cancel our meeting for the fifth time this season. “Someone needs to shoot that dammed groundhog,” she said. Thursday the high was 6° with a wicked wind chill. Air cut through my knit cap and chilled my skull. Schools cancelled, but I went to the deep water fitness class and, for the first time, blow dried my hair before going back outside. Cleveland news was worse. Our handyman arrived to find the house at 31° and the supplies he'd left Wednesday frozen. He chewed out the furnace guys and ordered them to fix the heater–the igniter they'd installed had broken. Friday morning the low was -22.5°. I ventured out to wash the window so I could get photos of the sun shining through icicles. In the process, I knocked down the bird feeder so I set it, topless, in the snow. Spence said, “Four more weeks till spring.” Then Saturday arrived with a high of 28° and wind driven snow.

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter

My Valentine to Spence read, “It's all the moments we spend together that matter,” so, on Valentine's Day, I ran errands with him. With flashers blinking, four wheel drive engaged, and bluegrass on the radio, we crept through a snow squall to CVS for meds and dental floss. Next we crossed Meadville to Dunham's for long underwear. Ready for Giant Eagle, Spence turned the key. No clicks. No grinding. Nothing. I called AAA and waited fifteen minutes for a counselor to say a technician with equipment to test and replace the battery would arrive within an hour. Spence offered to have a friend take me home, but I stuck with him. We went back into the store to stay warm. Forty minutes later, he tried the truck. It turned over. Then my phone rang–help was five minutes away. Since the help was a tow truck, not a battery diagnosing technician, I canceled the request. Spence maneuvered the truck to Giant Eagle. I stayed with the running engine while he got groceries and licorice, his second Valentine for me. Most Valentine treats had arrived earlier. He'd given me a red anthurium Monday. Thursday, the first mail delivery in our new box included cards from friends. But the best Valentine came Thursday night. Our nephew emailed, “Adelaide River Wells: Welcome to the world, little girl.” I'm looking forward to moments with my grand niece.

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Winter

 

Because my rheumatologist urged me to do aerobics three times a week and because Spence raved about his deep-snow adventure in the woods, I pulled Marge's red, green, maroon, and tan striped leg warmers over my slacks, grabbed my camera, and bundled in winter gear for a Saturday stroll. Spence came too–expecting, no doubt, that he'd have to rescue me. On the slog to Deer Creek, I kept borrowing his Sharpie to mark compacted snow measurements on a maple twig. Depths averaged eighteen and a half inches. Our boots sank sixteen inches through layers of dry powder and crunchy iced-snow. Pulling feet back out challenged balance, but wide arms saved me from landing on my butt. The only prints, besides Spence's, were of squirrels scampering across the top of snow or digging to caches. Though dozens of birds gathered at the deck feeder, none flew in the woods. Deer Creek gurgled under ice and rushed between snow walls. I'd forged a fresh trail going down but was content to step in Spence's prints climbing up. My heart pounded a jitterbug, I breathed as if I'd run a mile, and sweat coated my back. Aerobics indeed.

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter

When I drove home Tuesday night, the waxing moon shone above the garage, Orion glowed over the log house, and the mailbox was missing. I greeted Spence with “Hi, Sweetie. What happened?” He said, “I didn't think you'd notice.” Late afternoon, after I'd left for Meadville errands and a quilt lecture on color in Saegertown, Spence had plowed the driveway with the Mahindra. He was backing up to pull snow with the bucket when the front wheels slid. Spence tried to straighten the wheels. The tractor kept slipping and hit the mailbox. “I just tapped it.” The box fell. The post had rotted–only ice had held the box upright. Wednesday morning, when the temperature had risen from -2° to -1°, we drove to Carlton Post Office. The transgender postmistress helped with the hold form. She suggested putting a box on a sawhorse till the ground thaws for digging a post hole. Spence has ideas to build a wood stand for a temporary box. In the meantime, the frigid scenery on the 7.7 mile round trip to fetch our mail is a winter delight–sunshine, snow-lined twigs, icy French Creek, and frosted ornamental grasses.