Reflections on the Tenth Week of Summer

      Thursday Spence said, “Your worms are dying to see you.”

      Though the light was on to keep the red wrigglers inside the worm factory in the basement shower stall, fifteen got out overnight. Two acted out their name as I lifted them back into the bedding. The others had dried stiff and black on the bathroom floor. Why hadn't the light kept them inside?

      All through winter, a space heater blew air toward the factory to keep the temperature in the fifties. A cup of food a day gradually raised the bedding. Summer temperatures between sixty and seventy, however, were optimal for reproduction. The original thousand worms multiplied. I added two cups of food a day. Bedding decreased. I increased to three cups a day. But fifteen escapees convinced me that wasn't enough. I combined wilted pansies, stale bread, soft strawberries, potato peels, tea leaves and coffee grounds with shredded paper for twelve cups of food to spread over the wriggling mass.

Only four escaped Friday. I added eight cups of food.

      Saturday, I gave the worms eight more cups and directed Spence to rearrange the heavy worm trays putting the bottom one on top. That contained dark, wet worm casting compost–almost ready to use as fertilizer. I just had to get the worms to evacuate first. With a plastic rectangle, I raked and mounded the compost into a pyramid. The manual said leaving the lid off would dry the compost and encourage the worms to descend into the food tray below. I should scrape off compost till I came to a worm, let the compost dry, and scrape again.

     Sunday morning, no worms had escaped, but I'd only scraped off five percent of the pyramid. Worms were in no hurry to leave the moist mound. Would the twenty-eight cups of food I'd recently added last in the lower layer till I could clear the compost and start a new food tray?

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Summer

 

Late Thursday afternoon, with the phone cradled to his ear, Spence said, “Oh, you saw it already.” I guessed he'd placed an ad in Area Shopper for our five year old canoe. His purchase of the canoe had also been a surprise. I drove home one evening to find the red, Pelican Potomac, 14.6 foot, three seater canoe sticking over the end of his Chevy Colorado.

      We'd enjoyed many paddles on Lake Wilhelm–basking in sunshine, photographing birds, and rescuing a rowboat stuck on a snag. More challenging was our only trip on French Creek–portaging a sandbar, zipping through mini rapids, and disembarking on a high, slippery mud bank. But, as Spence explained to the caller, “We're getting older. The canoe is too heavy for us.”

      We had three more inquiries by the time Joe and his fiancée Mandy arrived Friday evening. They picked up the canoe, flipped it over, and slid it on top of his closed bed truck as if the canoe were a sheet of Styrofoam. We wished the young couple many happy adventures and waved goodbye as the canoe disappeared around a bend in the country road.

      Spence's second media success was passing his writing audition. Nonprofit Quarterly accepted him as a volunteer national housing writer. In morning sunlight on the deck, I took his headshot photo for the magazine's website. http://nonprofitquarterly.org/

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Summer

 

  Wednesday after dark, Spence and I turned off the garage lights so we'd have a better view of the Perseid Meteor Shower. We walked back to the log house through a canyon of dark while stars glittered overhead. A pair of screech owls chatted. The Big Dipper spread over the north garden, tiny meteors zipped by in thin light lines, and a shooting star streaked over the tree nursery.

  We slept till 3:00 a.m. Thursday. In night clothes, we felt our way outside and across the porch to gaze at the north sky. Cassiopeia had replaced the dipper, the Milky Way ran like a river above the driveway, and Perseus, the constellation from which the Perseid meteors radiate, glowed center sky. Greeks had imagined Perseus in battle dress with a sword in one hand and the head of Medusa in the other. To me, the nineteen stars looked like a stick figure of a walking ostrich. Cicadas droned. We stared up and waited. A meteor would streak, I'd ooh, then we'd wait for another. Spence said, “It's like watching slow motion sparklers.” By the time we'd seen nine shooting stars and lots of spritzing lines, my legs had chilled and neck ached.

  But, I wanted to check the south sky. From the deck we gazed over the south garden. Condensed water trickled down the gutter. With wait time in between, three large meteors soared past. Through the screen door, the cats mer-owed their discontent at our unusual night time behavior.

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Summer

 

The seventh week of summer brought the eighty-seventh Cochranton Community Fair. Monday I entered a bear photo, a milkweed photo, and the hoodie I'd appliquéd with flowers. Wednesday afternoon Spence and I toured exhibits. In the Home Show building we found fresh flowers, baked goods with missing bites, and multiple blue ribbons for writing friend Catherine. I'd won three ribbons–two blues and honorable mention for my bear. Animal tents drew more people. Youngsters gawked, and moms explained. Neighbor Tammy's chocolate tort lionhead rabbit winked through his bars. Horses snorted, and a donkey danced as a young woman shaved his face. Seeing my camera, a monitor took her goat out of a stall for a better photo. In the corner between the goat and cow tents, girls hosed Holsteins sparkling clean. A Jacob's ram knocked it's horns, chewed, and stepped on slats in vain. He couldn't get out of his pen. Only poultry were missing–because of bird flu. When we returned Saturday night to pick up my exhibits, Spence and I wound through the fair grounds humming with music, carnival rides, families, dates, and middle school friends. We sat on the grass to watch garden tractors pull a weighted metal sled along a dirt strip. After the sky darkened to the point that red and green signal flags were hard to see, we walked back to our truck and settled in its bed for the firework display. I oohed and aahed. Spence chuckled. “You're nine years old when it comes to fireworks.”

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Summer

Wednesday, kayak dealer Todd called from Kirtland, Ohio to say the Malibu Two had arrived. I gave him our address and directions. On a second call, he admitted he hadn't used them and was lost. Spence and I found Todd at the intersection of Pine and County Line–in a car with a kayak, enclosed in cardboard and plastic, on the roof. We led him to Wells Wood, gave him a cold lemonade, and helped unwrap the sit-on-top, green kayak. He showed us how to adjust the canvas seats and swayed as he paddled the air. Friday, Spence and I launched the kayak on Lake Wilhelm. I tried to mimic Todd's movements–hold arms straight, dip blades without splashing, and twist the torso to pull with the abdomen. In a lagoon carpeted with inch thick algae, we checked for turtles. One sunned and stretched its legs. Green muck clung to the paddles and piled mattress-thick around the kayak. I disregarded Todd's instructions, shook the paddle free, and speared the clumped barrier to cut a path out of the mire. As we zigzagged between snags in the upper lake, birds monitored our progress–osprey scolded, a great blue heron flapped off, cormorants scuttered across the surface, and geese swiveled their heads to follow our movements. After a six mile paddle, Spence said, “Do you want to go out again Sunday?” But Sunday brought a better treat. Our son arrived at 6:00 a.m. for a surprise visit.