Reflections on the Tenth Week of Fall – Thanksgiving Calm

    Friday, our daughter Ellen walked in the door, accepted my hug, and dropped her suitcase by the kitchen table. She scrunched her eyebrows and, with her right index finger extended, pivoted left then right. “Are we having Thanksgiving dinner tonight?”

    “Yes,” I said feeling guilty.

    “But there's no chaos in the kitchen.” Ellen looked from her husband Chris lugging in another suitcase to her dad, her brother Spencer Charles, and back at me. “Everyone's calm.”

    Spencer Charles chuckled. “The chaos happened yesterday.”

    Her dad nodded.

    Actually the injure-myself hustle had started Wednesday. Between games of Ticket to Ride with Spencer Charles, I roasted a homegrown pumpkin and mashed it through the food mill. Not till evening, when I cut celery, onions, and bread cubes to assemble into stuffing Thursday morning, did I slice a quarter inch chunk of skin off my thumb. A bandage kept blood out of the pumpkin pie I baked before bed.

    Thursday, I jumped up from the breakfast table and fetched apples from the fridge. With an apple pie and stuffing baking in the oven, I set the timer and played backgammon with Spencer Charles at the kitchen table. Periodically I pulled the stuffing out of the oven and called both Spencers over to look. “Is it done yet?”

    Spencer Charles shrugged.

    Spence said, “It's done when you think its done.”

    Sigh.

    I stuck the stuffing back into the oven and waited for the bing of the pie timer to pull out both pie and stuffing. Next I roasted the turkey along with an experiment–two Jack-Be-Little pumpkins filled with applesauce made from Wells Wood apples.

    Avoiding my hustle, Spence waited till I flopped in the Adirondack chair to catch my breath before making his mashed potatoes and gravy.

    At a cozy three person dinner, I pronounced the experiment a successful failure. The Jack Be Littles' rich, nutty-squash flavor blended perfectly with the applesauce, but scraping the squash from the inside of the shell was too much mess and work for guests.

    Thursday's food tasted great but didn't invoke a celebrating Thanksgiving feeling. 

   Friday I'd only baked a double batch of pumpkin cookies to keep calm for Ellen and Chris' arrival.

    Giving Chris a welcoming hug when he set his suitcase beside Ellen's, I said, “I cooked ahead so I could enjoy your company. I hope you don't mind warmed up leftovers.”

    “Fine with me,” said Chris.

    Ellen pursed her lips.

    I gave Ellen another hug before pulling two containers and a covered platter from the refrigerator. With a minimum of hustle, I heated leftovers one by one in the microwave then put it in the oven to stay warm.

    While Spence cooked fresh gravy and heated frozen Wells Wood asparagus and purple green beans on the stove top, aromas of poultry seasoning, mashed potatoes then turkey floated from the closed oven. I set the table with the new log cabin place mats I'd sewed with a yellow center symbolizing welcome.

    All five of us sitting together and sharing stories over the meal filled my stomach and nourished my soul.

    It doesn't have to be chaotic to be Thanksgiving.

 

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Fall – Chasing the Supermoon

    News that this week's supermoon would be the closest, brightest, and largest since 1948, the year I was born, wowed me. Could I get a decent photo? Astronomers said the moon would look full a day before and after the perigee (Monday, November 14 at 8:52 a.m.) and meteorologists forecast clear skies. With a forty-eight hour window, I had a chance.

For Cochranton, PA	Moon Set	Twilight Starts	Sunrise	Moon Rise	Sunset	Twilight Ends
Sunday Nov. 13				4:52 p.m.	5:01 p.m.	5:30 p.m.
Monday Nov. 14	6:53 a.m.	6:39 a.m.	7:09 a.m.	5:37 p.m.	5:00 p.m.	5:30 p.m.
Tuesday Nov. 15	8:00 a.m.	6:40 a.m.	7:10 a.m.

    After twilight Sunday evening, I stepped onto the deck and looked east. White lights twinkled through the trees on the hillside. I asked Spence to come look. “Is that the moon, or did Porter's decorate a Christmas tree at their hunting lodge?”

    “It's the moon. Trees moving slightly make the light flicker.”

    “Will you walk in the dark with me when the moon rises higher?

    “Sure,” he said then went inside, lay on the sofa, and fell asleep.

    An hour later with jacket and camera, I tiptoed outside. Since bears hadn't gone into hibernation and the east side of the road for a half mile in either direction was hill and trees, I limited my solo walk to the road in front of our log house.

    The moon glowed behind the tops of the highest trees.

    I aimed my zoom lens and pressed the shutter button. No click. The camera flashed “subject too dark.” I pointed the camera at lit windows then swung back to the moon. Stepping this way and that, I framed the moon with different branch arrangements before tiptoeing inside to download the photos.

    I hadn't expected a terrific photo with the moon so high above the horizon, nor had I expected the miserable mess I got. On the computer screen a bright white dot hung behind fuzzy dark lines in a sea of black. When I sighed and dumped the pictures in the computer trash, Spence woke with a yawn and a question. “Are you ready for your walk?”

    I vetoed a second walk and rejected an attempt the hour before sunrise Monday morning. Monday evening, with twilight end and moon rise only seven minutes apart, would be better. I also wanted to be nearer the horizon. “What about driving to Presque Isle?” I studied an Internet map of the park. “Perry Monument and North Pier have eastern views.”

    Spence frowned. “The park closes at sunset. Let's try County Line Road.”

    At 5:00 Monday evening, we drove in tandem to Matt's auto shop on County Line Road. Spence handed the truck keys to Matt for service Tuesday, and the two talked about a broken tail gate and leaking fluid.

    Trying to be patient but having something more important in mind, I leaned out the Subaru window and interrupted their auto part discussion. “Where does the moon rise here?”

    Matt, always polite and respectful, paused only a moment before pointing southeast. “Over there behind the house.”

    “She wants photos of the supermoon,” Spence said. “But the house and trees are in the way.”

    If only the moon rose in the west. The setting sun splashed pinks and golds across the sky at the end of Matt's parking lot. “Let's try Franklin Pike,” I said, pulled my head back inside, and waited for Spence to get in the passenger seat.

    I zipped downhill into Cochranton, slowed to cross the bridge and drive through town, then zipped up the hill to the Bryers Farm Market parking lot. Stepping out of the car with my camera, I surveyed the sky. The pink sunset spattered over the western horizon, but trees, cornstalks and a house on a hillside blocked the view to the east. I walked to the corner. The view didn't improve.

    Spence caught up to me. “Try driving east on Franklin Pike.”

    Back in the car, I drove up a rise then descended into a darkening valley. Too far. I turned around in a farm driveway, headed back up hill, and turned onto a lane which angled up and around. At the crest of the hill, the eastern horizon opened into a panorama Donald Trump would label “yuge.” With twenty minutes till moon rise, I parked on the berm, turned off the engine, and, grabbing my camera, jumped out of the car.

    Spence stayed in the passenger seat and played blocks on his cell phone.

    The pink sunset vanished, clouds gathered in the east, and burning wood scented the air. I held my camera to my chest and periodically checked my phone for the time. Headlights passed below on Route 322. By 5:40, three minutes past moon rise, the moon hadn't appeared. The tip of my nose and my bottom chilled beyond comfort. I got in the car to get warm. “Do you think the clouds are covering the moon, or that it's still below the horizon?”

    Spence stared at his phone screen. “I don't know.”

    We sat and waited.

    At 6:00 a lone star shone overhead. The moon hadn't appeared. Disappointed, I started the car and headed home. Driving up a grade half a mile from our observation spot, a red-orange moon winked into and out of sight on my left. I turned north, instead of south on Route 173, and chased the moon.

    Up, down, around in the country-night dark. Up, down, around. Watching for deer and navigating a less familiar road, I pursued the flickering moon and hunted for a place to park.

    At a construction company lot, I pulled off and got out of the car. The supermoon complete with shadows glowed bigger than last night but still hid behind trees. I clicked several pictures then got back in the car. “We need a clearer view,” I said.

    Spence chuckled. “That car stopped to watch you.”

    Great. Would the driver call 911 to report a crazy person taking photos in the dark?

    I continued north to McDaniel's Corners Bible Church and turned east on a side road. No luck. Trees lined the horizon, and the road angled down. Another U-turn in inky dark, and I headed back to Route 173 to park in the church lot. Too late I discovered the lot driveway came off the side of the church not the front. Should I head south till I found a place to U-turn on Route 173, or should I back up a car length?

    I backed up.

    “This is making me nervous,” I mumbled.

    “It's not the only scary moment of the drive,” Spence said.

    Determined, I accelerated uphill.

    “If you drive slower, we could find a pull off easier,” Spence said clutching the handle above the passenger seat.

    “I need to get higher before the clouds get thicker.”

    Spence called out several driveways, but I didn't want to stop at a farm only to have folks question my night photography. Instead I parked on the wide berm at the Lippert and Vincent intersection. The straightaway panoramic view worked–except gathering gray clouds encircled the orange supermoon. They'd add texture. I took pictures till the clouds enveloped all the light. Maybe one would work.

   Back at home, the first set of photos looked like a white ball with irregular black lines. Where were the supermoon shadows? The second set looked like an orange smear in swirls of variegated gray.

   Drat.

   “Perhaps you could adjust the exposure next time,” Spence said. “You got a good moon shot last spring, How did you do that?”

   “The sky was still light.” I pulled up the April moon photo on my computer and turned the screen toward Spence.

    He nodded.

    “I'll wait till twilight tomorrow morning and try again.”

     At 7:00 a.m., I grabbed my camera and dashed for the door.

    “Let me drive this time. You can moon watch better if I'm driving.”

    “Sure,” I said. He just didn't want another thrilling ride like Monday night.

    While he moseyed to Matt's auto shop,I gazed at the moon flicker in and out of the clutter on the western horizon. Spence stopped the Subaru in front of Matt's.

    I jumped out, hustled to the end of the parking lot, and pointed the camera at the supermoon poised above a wispy pink cloud and between two trees. Perfect shot–I hoped.

    When I'd covered all the angles for that location, Spence said, “Look behind you. The morning sky's impressive.”

    I turned and gasped. Wisps of white clouds and fans of dark charcoal clouds mixed with the rays of golden sunlight flung across a royal blue sky. I pointed the camera east.

    An hour later, after Spence had driven at a sedate rate over a maze of dirt roads south of Cochranton and I'd stepped out of the car to take pictures, I downloaded sixty-five more photos to my computer. The first was a keeper, a decent photo of the closest supermoon in sixty-eight years. Photos of the dramatic morning sunrise were even better.

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Fall – Whack-Crack 

    With morning temperatures in the twenties twice this week, garden work slowed giving Spence time to cut firewood for the winter of 2017-2018. “I need to keep my baby Janet warm,” he said. Saturday afternoon, in yellow waders, a tattered red sweatshirt, and a red baseball cap, he loaded his tools in the tractor bucket and rode to the maple with three trunks that had fallen across Deer Creek.

    The rumble of the tractor motor diminished, and I bit my fingernails. Would he blow up his shoulder again?

    Last November, pains had shot through his left shoulder, arm, and wrist. He applied Ben Gay, slept with a blanket bunched under the shoulder, and swallowed my arthritis-acetaminophen pills. Like a knucklehead, he endured the pain for two months before checking with Dr. Moore, his general practitioner.

    She diagnosed a muscle strain or bruise and prescribed a muscle relaxer. That didn't help. The pain was worst at night making it hard for Spence to sleep. On a second visit, Dr. Moore said the symptoms sounded like a torn rotator cup and ordered an MRI.

    In March Spence checked with Dr. Anderson, an orthopedist. After studying the MRI results, he said Spence definitely had a torn rotator cup. Surgery was possible but not recommended.

    Recalling the pain and agony stories of a friend who'd undergone that surgery, Spence agreed.

The orthopedist gave Spence a cortisone shot and told him to come back any time he needed another shot.

    Spence had one question. “Can I still split wood?”

    “If you don't want to be in pain,” Dr. Anderson said, “buy a wood splitter.”

    He probably wasn't recommending a hand tool.

    This September, Spence ordered a light weight Fiskars X27 Super SplittingAxe. When the Amazon shipping carton arrived, he pulled the axe out, reverently unsnapped the blade cover, and held the axe toward me. “Look, it has wings.”

    I didn't see any wings. “Where?”

    He fingered the axe head where it flared into a slight wedge. “Wings turn an axe into a splitting axe. Wood splits with one stroke.”

    Saturday morning, he invited me to the end of the south field. Beside the wood pallet, maple logs lay scattered across the grass. He balanced a log on end, raised his axe, swung, and whack-crack, the log split in two. Amazing. He repeated the balance, whack-crack miracle again and again until his Tom-Sawyer act got me.

    “Let me try,” I said reaching for the axe.

    He stacked the cut logs on the pallet.

    I set a six inch diameter log on end, swung, and whack-crack–the log split. No jarring or shoulder pain. A miracle. I swung three times and split three logs. I should have stopped then.

    On successive tries, logs wobbled. I missed my target, and the blade dug into sod releasing a moist-soil fragrance. I also bounced the axe off some dense maple logs and jarred my shoulders. After no success with particularity hard maple log, I handed the axe to Spence.

    He swung at the stubborn log.

    The splitting axe stuck in the dense wood.

    He hammered in a wedge to free the axe. The wedge stuck too.

    I lost count somewhere around fifty of how many hammer strokes it took to free the axe then the wedge, and finally split the log. I wasn't disappointed I hadn't split that gnarled log with one stroke but wondered about the shoulder Spence had blown up.

    Later, after a lunch break, Spence drove the tractor with his tools in the bucket to the maple with three trunks that had fallen across Deer Creek.

    Fingernails bitten short, I scuffed dry leaves and followed with my camera.

    He splashed across the creek, revved his chain saw, and cut through maple branches. Saw dust flew, and aroma of maple reached me on the other bank.

    He tossed thin branches into a brush pile and threw cut logs to the island. When he had enough cut off, he climbed down the bank into the creek and pulled the ten foot maple branch onto the island. He cut more logs. Panting, he stacked the logs on a fallen maple trunk, ducked under, transferred the logs to the next trunk, stepped over, and carried the logs to the tractor bucket.

    “Why don't you stop for a water break?” I didn't want him to aggravate his rotator cup. “You could use a rest.”

    “I am resting,” he said. “Carrying logs is resting from the heavy work.”

    Had he blown up his shoulder again?

    “It aches,” he said Sunday morning. “But it always aches.”

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Fall – Uncle Jim

    Uncle Jim, the last of my dad's generation, died at age ninety-three on Monday. An empty sadness distracted me Tuesday morning while adding toppings to my breakfast oatmeal. Thoughts of how he valued people, loved his family, and smiled when he listened to whatever I had to say, swirled in my foggy mind, and I searched in vain for the walnuts in the cupboard. Thursday, recalling snippets of Uncle Jim fixing motors, riding tractors, and admiring nature, I reached for the almond milk in the fridge and picked up the misplaced, chilled walnuts.

    During the unfocused week, my mind kept settling on two Uncle Jim boat stories and a question. Was Uncle Jim really buck naked in Presque Isle Bay?

    Jim never told stories about fixing motors on navy ships in WWII, but Dad, the older brother, told the story of them rowing across Presque Isle Bay. Their boat swamped. Dad wore swim trunks, but Uncle Jim wore clothes. With much chuckling, Dad said Jim stripped and jumped into the water buck naked. They treaded water till a neighbor came along and pulled them into his boat.

    “But Dad,” I'd said. “Did Uncle Jim have to walk home naked?”

    Smiling indulgently, Dad shook his head. “The neighbor had extra clothes.”

    After Dad died, I wanted to hear Jim's version of the story to decide if Dad had just been teasing me or if Jim had really treaded water buck naked. I got my chance one Sunday afternoon when Jim sat on my front porch. I asked, “When the rowboat swamped and dumped you and Dad into the bay, were you really buck naked?”

    Uncle Jim's lips twitched. He chuckled softly, gazed into the woods, but didn't answer my question. Instead he said, “That isn't the best boat story.”

    Jim told the story of taking his grandsons Russell and Nate, aged nine and seven at the time, fishing on Canadohta Lake in a motor boat. The outboard motor stalled. When it restarted, the boat jerked, and Jim flew overboard. He surfaced. The boat whipped around in tight circles. Jim waited for the boat to come around, grabbed the side, and wondered if he'd have the strength to hang on until the gas tank emptied.

    At the funeral this week, I asked Russell and Nate, now forty and thirty-eight, about their wild boat ride with Uncle Jim.

    Nate beamed and smiled from ear to ear. “While he stood and started the motor,” Nate bent, pulled an imaginary cord, and continued, “he told me, 'Never stand and start the boat, Nate.'”

    Russell whirled his finger in tight circles. “We were terrified whirling in circles.”

    Because Jim hadn't told me the end of the story, I asked, “Did another boat come to your rescue?

    “No.” Russell grinned and shrugged. “Somehow he shut the motor off from under the boat.”

    Nate chuckled and sniffed back tears. “He was my superhero. I thought he could fix anything.” Nate paused to stifle a sob. “I've never been tempted to stand and start a motor. I learned that lesson from him.”

    Wiping my eyes while an American Legion soldier played “Taps” on his bugle, I wondered if my nieces and nephews will have learned lessons of humility, persistence, and dedication to family from me.

    I'll miss Uncle Jim.

    And I'll always wear presentable underwear when I'm in a boat.