Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall

  A few years ago, I was curious so tasted a cranberry right off the highbush. I spit the sour taste continuously on the dash to the kitchen sink to rinse my mouth. I left the berries for birds and insects. But, they didn't eat the cranberries either. When multiple berries hung on the highbush this year, enough time had elapsed for me to try again. I researched on line for when to pick and how to cook. The “never eat a cranberry before cooking it with sugar” reassured me. I followed that web site's advice to pick the berries right before or right after the first frost. Unfortunately, our first frost was a hard freeze. I hustled outside to pick the berries before the sun rose and defrosted them. To keep the berries mostly frozen, I processed the little ice balls on the porch: rolling them on a terry cloth towel to clean; removing stems; and keeping the firm, smooth berries. Frozen berries, however, were hard, and thawed ones were soft. Unless a cranberry mushed between my fingers, I ignored the firm/soft guideline and judged by smooth or wrinkled skins. Falling leaves and melting ice drops pattered in the woods. Hawks called from the sky. Turkeys clucked in the valley. I took warming breaks when my fingers ached with cold. As I put a tray full of cranberries into the freezer, I imagined the flavor of a sauce made of cranberries, sugar, water, vinegar, cinnamon, gloves, and allspice–“The Taste of Christmas in a Jar.”

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Fall

     When guests arrived for Ellen and Chris' celebration at The Sanctuary on Penn, a whole pig was roasting in a smoker in the back yard. The pig was the inspiration of Chef Rosie, who had jumped up and down upon learning that Ellen and Chris were planning a medieval wedding. The pig sweltered through welcoming conversations, salad consumption, and the handfasting ceremony. Then four cooks rolled him around the sanctuary to the front door. The disc jockey announced “King Swine Vale” and played a trumpet voluntary. Revelers, dressed as pirate, peasant, woodsman, and monk, carried the pig into the great hall. They set the pig on the table to the applause of hungry guests. Rosie waved her knife, poured flaming spirits on the pig's back, and arranged fronds at his side. To keep his top in tact throughout the feast, Rosie dug meat from the underside. I asked for a bite of the apple. She cut one from the platter rather than the one in the pig's mouth. It was crisp. None of the apples had roasted in the smoker.

Reflections on the Third Week of Fall

      Over the last ten months, friends and relatives have asked, “Will you finish the quilt in time for your daughter's wedding?” Planning, buying, cutting, and sorting pieces for the quilt flowed smoothly. In January I said, “Of course, I'll finish in time.”

      Sewing sixteen different squares, rectangles, and strips into a stain glass block exactly 16 ½ inches wide was my first hurdle. Meticulous measuring, ripping, re-sewing and cheering-on from my friend Cindy brought success for creating forty-two such blocks. In April I said, “I can finish in time.”

      After sewing the blocks into seven rows, I placed one on the cutting board at a Mother's Day quilt retreat. With rotary cutter in hand, I stared at the blue, green, and purple row–too terrified to trim the edges. I felt like a protagonist who surmounted one complication only to meet another. Marcia, an experienced quilter, sensed my hesitation and said, “I can help.” I let her trim all seven rows. With the trimmed rows ready I said, “I might finish in time.”

      Most quilters in my guild would have sewed the rows together and paid someone to do the quilting on a professional machine–definitely finishing in time. But I was determined to sew every stitch. The question was would even one row would fit in my small portable sewing machine? I stitched pillow covers between muslin to make a test row.       That fit so Spence helped me layer backing, batting, and a row of stain glass blocks to make a quilt sandwich. I quilted–stitch in the ditch around sashes, Irish knots in squares, and Irish chains in rectangles. On September 27, two weeks before the celebration, I'd finished quilting all seven rows and said, “I probably won't finish in time, but I'm going to hustle anyway.”

      As I puzzled out how to attach one row securely to another while keeping the vertical lines straight, I abandoned the beans in the garden and settled for enjoying golden leaves against the bright blue sky through the window. After 328 hours of sewing, I left the quilt (with four of seven rows attached) on the sewing table, packed my bags for the trip, and said, “I didn't finish in time for the ceremony, but I will finish in the time it takes to meet my daughter's only requirement– 'Make a quilt you'll be proud of.'”

 

Reflections on the Second Week of Fall

 

   George's adventure started on the evening of the supermoon lunar eclipse. Spence and I packed our bags, jumped in the truck, and dashed to Cleveland. What we didn't know was that George was exploring the deck.

    When we arrived in Cleveland we got the first clues we'd left in too much of a hurry. Spence's bag–with medicine, computer, and phone–was still at Wells Wood. He borrowed my Nexus to work on a Nonprofit Quarterly article, but the Internet was down. With my phone, he asked an AT&T representative to restart the Internet connection–no luck–so scheduled a repair appointment. Was George scratching on the log cabin door for us to let him inside?

    We walked up Rinard past quiet houses to view the supermoon half way through the eclipse. The shaded side of the moon looked gray, but a few photos had a red tinge. At the time of the total eclipse, Spence was snoring. I tiptoed to the kitchen window and peeked at the moon through the trees. The moon was totally covered with a gray shadow so I didn't bother to walk up the street in my bare feet and nightgown to get another photo. Could George see a red supermoon through Wells Wood rain clouds? Where was he sleeping?

    Monday morning, we met with our handyman to review the contract for repairs which included leveling the sidewalk, pointing, and tearing down the game room paneling so that Spence could seal cement block cracks. The AT&T man reset the Internet and installed a new control box. Spence patched cement between the house and driveway then made a trip to Home Depot for supplies. I cut shrubs away from bricks that needing pointing, painted the trim around the garage door, and painted the inside of the French doors to the porch. Was George talking to Emma through the sliding glass door on the deck?

    In the truck on our way back to Wells Woods, we headed toward a dark cloud bank in the east and ate bag dinners. What was George eating?

    As we drove under the Pennsylvania cloud bank, the skies grew dark and mist hovered over the road. Spence parked in the driveway, climbed the porch steps, and said, “What are you doing here?”

    I imagined a raccoon or squirrel on the porch, but a long merrrrrrow answered. George had been on the porch over twenty-six hours. Holes in long green leaves answered the question of what he'd eaten.

    A quiet Emma met the three of us at the door. Usually tetchy after George's short absences for vet appointments, she calmly sniffed George and let him lick her head. She accepted our hugs and purred.

George nibbled food, sniffed toys, drank water, and settled on a piece of cardboard.

    Spence told the cats, “You were brave.” He told me, “ We aren't going to leave in such a hurry next time.”