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Sunday, June 28, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Spring
Spence
said, “You can always count on a gully washer in June.” I'd been
in Meadville chatting with my friend and testing quilt stitch
patterns. Rain had pattered on her metal roof but hadn't pounded
be-alert hard. I turned the Subaru onto West Creek Road and met a
“Road Closed” sign. A muddy pond covered the pavement. No
worries. I'd cross Carlton Road and drive home from the other end of
Creek Road. “Road Closed.” Muscles tensing, I drove up New
Lebanon Road to a dirt road that wound me back to Creek Road. Deer
Creek had become a swirling brown torrent that roiled a foot below
the honeycomb bridge. I scooted across. Then, with wipers and
defroster on high, I crept past branches, puddles, rocks, and mud
trails. A quarter mile from home, water hurled over the pavement. I
turned around, drove to a neighbor's house a half mile back, and
splashed across her yard. She opened the door. “I can't get
home,” I said holding back tears. She ushered me into the kitchen,
gave me a towel, listened to my saga, and handed me her land line.
“Call anyone you want.” I called Mom in Florida to say I was
okay and Spence in Ohio to warn him about the road. My neighbor made
tea. We sipped and talked till the rain stopped. I still couldn't
drive the car through, but I could walk home. An hour and a half
later on North Road, Spence put on flashers to follow an Amish buggy
packed with seven passengers. He paused on Creek Road to let baby
groundhogs escape from the flood plain. Water, that had stopped me,
was a trickle for him. But the culvert for the creek on our north
boundary had collapsed and left a ditch across the road. Pavement
crumbled around the culvert for the creek to the south. Contractors
replaced both drains during the week. Spence's gully washer had been
a culvert wrecker.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Reflections on the Twelfth
Week of Spring
Tuesday,
June 2, my body surprised me by screaming, “What the hell are you
doing?” I'd never heard it talk and definitely didn't expect it to
swear. I was slipping into the pool for the second day in a row.
Determined to increase my swimming to three times a week for the
aerobic exercise the rheumatologist prescribed, I ignored the body
complaining, “But you did this yesterday” and swam a half
mile. This past week I swam three days again. Monday's clouds and
rain kept my line-dry-only suit damp for Tuesday's swim. I slipped
into the cold wet garment and into the pool–no comments from my
body. Hands cupped, arms pulling, and legs kicking like a frog, I
swam the half mile in thirty-three minutes. Thursday, because I'd
spent the morning on the computer making airline, rental car, and B&B
reservations for Ellen and Chris' wedding celebration, I was too late
to warm up with the laps that keep me panting through my deep water
fitness class. I adapted. I moved arms and legs quickly and
forcefully. Conversation about President McKinley leading a cow up
the steps of Bentley Bell Tower, when he was an Allegheny College
student, distracted me till someone explained a rope and tackle
hoisted the cow to the ground. I resumed pushing for the aerobic
benefit of preventing flare-ups. Back at Wells Wood, Spence surprised
me with another benefit. “Cute legs,” he whispered.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Reflections on the Eleventh
Week of Spring
Spence
and I have celebrated many anniversaries walking through pounding
rain on Presque Isle. Monday, our forty-seventh anniversary, brought
clouds and low fifty degree weather. We celebrated on sunny, high
sixty degree Tuesday instead. At the lagoon, we rented a two seater
kayak. I stepped into water sloshing in the bottom–foreshadowing
the extra clothes we'd brought would be needed. We passed purple
iris, yellow waterlilies, swooping swifts, calling red-wing
blackbirds, a guarding Canadian goose, and splashing fish. Paddling
as if we were in our canoe wasn't a good idea. Water dripped down
the paddles and soaked us. We learned to use shallow strokes and
harmonize our rhythm. After changing clothes, we ate at the Colony
Bar and Grill. A tiffany lamp hung over the table, a gray-suited man
played show tunes on a piano, and our perky waitress questioned the
cook to serve me a safe pasta dinner. Back at Presque Isle, we
pulled on sweatshirts for a windy walk on North Pier. I took photos
of sea gull acrobatics. Spence talked to Amish fishermen about their
catches. We ended our day with families and dogs on Sunset Beach.
At 8:48 the sun dropped into Lake Erie, and Spence said, “You'd
think there'd be a big sizzle.” On the drive back to Wells Wood,
Spence listened to jazz on WQLN, I studied clouds blowing in front of
the full moon, and we planned our next anniversary trip to Presque
Isle.
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