Reflections on the First Week of Spring

Because I'd forgotten my beach shoes Monday, I descended the tile steps to the YMCA pool with toes curled to avoid picking up unwanted fungi. More than toes curled when I slipped into the shallow water. I yelped. The lifeguard said, “The heater part we bought Thursday didn't work. The maintenance man's searching for a new heater.” I remembered that Thursday. The heater had broken the night before, and water had chilled. I'd swum six laps to get comfortable. But four days without heat, the water was four times colder. No wonder only one other swimmer was in the pool. I took a deep breath, submerged, and came up doing a fast breast stroke. Goose bumps lined my arms. Frigid shivers wrapped my legs. I raced. After twelve laps, goose bumps disappeared. A hose spurted hot water into the shallow end where I'd yelped. After twenty laps, that yelping-water bathed me like a sauna. But a turn and a stroke had me back in arctic cold. I finished a half mile in a record thirty-two minutes. So, Wednesday, when an all day rain made my arthritis ache, I called the YMCA and asked if the heater had been replaced. “No, the water's still cold. The heater won't be replaced till Friday night.” I skipped Thursday's deep water fitness class.

 

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Winter

 

Sunlight cued birds that spring was arriving. Monday Spence spotted the first robin–actually first four robins. They searched for worms in snow-free garden patches. Later, bird calls alerted Spence to look overhead. A pair of bald eagles circled the field then settled in trees near the edge of the woods. He fetched me. With zoom lens on my Nikon, I stood by the garage, took some pictures, walked two steps, and took more. The eagle watched me approach. When I got to the bench between the field and garden, the eagle rocked back and forth on the branch. I quietly backed away. Saturday, the first full day of spring, birds started their morning chorus at 5:00. At 7:00, wearing fuzzy red slippers and a winter jacket over my nightgown, I stepped onto the porch. The cheerful spring celebration included robins, geese, crows, a phoebe, cardinals, chickadees, sparrows, two drumming woodpeckers, and Deer Creek gushing through the valley. A flock of robins sprinted across muddy grass, and mourning dove wings chittered as a dove flew. No eagles called. But I'd heard them mid week on the hill across the road. Hopefully, they'll nest nearby. [Listen to the eagle's peal call on Cornell Lab of Ornithology's website http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/bald_eagle/sounds] 

 

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Winter

The week started with blue skies, temperatures in the fifties, and a giggling sewing afternoon with my friend in Meadville. The weekend was even better. Despite mist and rain on Friday, Spence and I returned from errands to a surprise–our son's Ford Focus in the driveway. Charlie had woken at 1:30 AM, worked his UPS shift, packed, and driven four hours from Columbus just for the weekend. I pulled out his birthday presents I'd wrapped weeks ago. With a wry smile, he opened books and a sleeveless T-shirt before dangling ribbons to entertain the cats hovering beside him. Hands gesturing, he told the saga of the semi getting stuck in mud at the UPS warehouse. Saturday, Spence cooked a hearty breakfast, Charlie upgraded my computer, and I baked chicken pot pie. Charlie said, “Don't go overboard.” While he, Spence, and the cats napped, I baked pumpkin oatmeal cookies and an apple pie–it was Pi Day after all. We played Ticket to Ride and worked the Cochranton Newsletter crossword. After another gourmet breakfast and the Sunday NPR puzzle, Charlie slid on the ice to load his car for the trip back to Columbus through wind and the threat of snow. In my fluffy red slippers, I stood on the porch, held back tears, and waved good bye.

 

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Winter

Written in large letters across the top of my weekly project list was ENJOY SPENCER CHARLES. He'd planned to vacation at Wells Wood, but he caught the flu. While he rested in Columbus, we played Words with Friends on line. He emailed that he was reading Colin Dexter mysteries, listening to sports podcasts, and watching Netflix. At Wells Wood, instead of baking pie and playing backgammon, I sewed stain glass quilt blocks for Ellen and Chris. Being a slow quilter–one who sews, irons, measures, rips, and resews–I hoped to finish a block a day. My new quarter-inch foot had a little edge to keep seams straight. It didn't help when I sewed pieces backwards or upside down. I finished seven blocks in seven days and was ready for a get together with my quilting friend in Meadville. I touched her square on the phone menu, and a male voice answered. Figuring it was her son-in law, I asked for Cindy. The male voice said, “You've got the wrong number, Mom.” The phone had defaulted to my son? A happy mistake. We chatted about his computer tinkering and travel plans for Ellen and Chris' October wedding celebration. The phone visit let me enjoy Spencer Charles.

 

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter

I decided not to cry over spilled leaves. Saturday, I trimmed dead leaves off house plants. My cat George followed me and gobbled dry leaves off the floor before I could sweep. “Stop, George,” I said in my teacher voice. “Leaves make you vomit.” He ignored me. I nudged him with my shoe. He didn't move. I swept him with the broom. He kept eating. I picked him up, put him in the hall, and closed the door. That worked in the back rooms, but there was no door to shut him out of the great room. He gobbled, and I sighed. But George had given me an idea. Because of the snow cover, I'd been giving worms shredded paper rather than dried maple leaves for carbon. They'd eaten the cut leaves but not the paper. Maybe they'd like George's favorite–dried Boston fern leaflets. I spread newspaper on the kitchen table, dumped the plant clippings, and separated leaflets from stems and tropical house plant parts. Leaflet by leaflet, I saved half a cup. When I put the top on the storage container, however, it tipped and emptied onto the floor. I yelled, “George,” automatically, but he wasn't eating. He was toasting his arthritic bones in the sunshine streaming through the glass door. I swept the leaves and figured worms could ignore micro bits of breakfast, skin, cat hair, and ladybug feet.