Reflections on the First Week of Fall – Quality of Life

9-22-17George Welcomes Fall

    Four months ago, in the powder blue euthanasia room at Greenville Veterinary Clinic, I held our cat George to my chest and buried my face in his fur. Dr. Heather sat beside me on the love seat and interpreted the results of his blood test. “Kidney failure . . . no cure . . . owner decides quality of life.”

    One hundred and seventeen subcutaneous fluid treatments later, George’s quality of life is now kitten-charged.

    Monday morning when I spread the yoga mat outside on the deck, he pawed the inside of the sliding glass door. Even though he’d already been outside twice, I slid the door open for him.

    Nose twitching, he dashed to the pansy planters. He rustled through dried wisteria leaves while Rodney Yee’s DVD voice directed me into chair pose.

    I held the pose.

    George lurched and froze, lurched and froze his way around the three planters. Was he after a chipmunk or the sparrow that hops across the deck every morning? Maybe he found a cricket or thought a phantom-animal made the crunch-rustle sound.

    He scampered down the ramp, loped back, and circled the yoga mat. Then he hunkered under the plant table and stared toward the end of the deck. His tail switched until his sister Emma stepped to the bowl of crunchies on the other side of the sliding glass door.

    She munched.

    He straightened, walked to the door, and stared inside.

    After bow pose, I slid the door open. George turtle-stepped so I nudged him with my foot and said, “Hurry, George. Rodney wants me in camel pose.”

    Cooking breakfast in the kitchen, my husband Spence called a reminder of our goal for George. “Quality of life, dear.”

    Later in the week, while Spence napped on the sofa, George leapt onto Spence’s tummy.

    Spence snorted but kept his eyes closed.

    George stretched his paw with claws extended and raked Spence’s beard.

    Spence swiped his hand to move George’s paw and resettled on the pillows.

    George licked Spence’s arm from elbow to wrist then curled up and fell asleep.

    Wide awake, Spence said, “GEOOORGE.”

    “Quality of life, dear,” I called from the loft.

    George’s kitten-charging extended to little sister aggravation. One morning, George and Emma gravitated to the same food bowl with only a dozen or so remaining crunchies. George shouldered her to the side.

    She hissed and stood on her hind legs.

    He gobbled.

    She growled, head butted him away, and munched.

    George swung his paw in an arc, like LeBron James going for a dunk, to wallop his sister’s head.

    But her head didn’t catch the blow.

    His claw stuck in the crotch of my bathing suit drying on a hanger hooked to the metal frame of the Boston fern hanging basket. Puzzled, George tiptoed on his back paws and dangled from his fully extended front leg. When he grasped the situation, he yanked pulling the bathing suit and rocking the hanging planter.

    Spence rushed to grab George’s leg and free his claw.

    “Did he damage my suit?” I took it off the hanger.

    “I don’t think so.” Spence dropped George on the sofa. “I think I got there in time.”

    I inspected the fabric for rips. None.

    We looked into each other’s eyes, laughed, and said, “Quality of life, dear.”

9-22-17 Emma Napping in Yoga Twist Pose

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Summer – Yellow Jacket Nuisance

    At Wells Wood, the end of summer brings goldenrod, a smattering of orange-red maple leaves, and our neighbor Laurelie’s school bus rumbling past at 7:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. The end of summer also brings cooling temperatures and diminishing food which makes yellow jackets more of a nuisance.

    Two weeks ago our son Charlie said he lay on the guest bed holding his WiFi phone and listening to The Inquiry podcast when he felt an odd tingling on his left arm.

I’d probably have suspected yet another earwig and swatted the insect.

    Luckily Charlie didn’t.

    He rolled his arm to look. A yellow jacket walked up his forearm and onto his elbow. He set the phone down, eased off the bed, and calmly walked down the hall.

    “You’ve got a yellow jacket on your arm,” I shouted standing between him and the door.

    Charlie motioned me aside with his right hand and opened the door. He walked to the porch railing, touched his left upper arm against a post, and waited for the yellow jacket to step onto the wood.

    Okay, not such a nuisance since the yellow jacket didn’t sting him, but I didn’t like the idea that a yellow jacket had sneaked into the house.

    Then last week, I bundled from top (fuzzy headband) to toes (purple Bair Paw socks) for the 55º F (13º C) porch. I dragged furniture to make stretching space and emptied the canvas tote bag of yoga gear–blocks, strap, blanket, and mat. The DVD whirled in my laptop emitting Rodney Yee’s calm voice. I lay on back with arms stretched to the side and pulled my knees to my chest. Cicadas droned and crickets chirped. I lowered my knees to the left and twisted to the right.

    A bald-faced hornet twitched on the cement six inches from my right hand.

    I stared at the white rectangles on its face and watched it lift then settle one pair of legs after another.

    Rodney’s voice soothed. “Breathe. Relax.”

    I breathed but didn’t relax. Those white vertical stripes reminded me of the gang of bald-faced hornets, really wasps of the yellow jacket family, that sat on my left hand and stung repeatedly eleven years ago. Back then I’d held an open can of stain in my left hand and brushed the deck railing with my right. Dripping stain and oily fumes must have penetrated their hidden nest below the deck. Aggressive, angry wasps stung their protest. I’ve use that painful experience for an excuse to make re-staining the deck my husband Spence’s job.

    So stretching for downward facing dog, sage twist III, and cobra, I kept an eye on the bald-faced hornet lifting its legs into yoga poses.

    Afterwards, I packed my yoga gear and carefully moved the love seat around the wasp. I hung the yoga bag over my shoulder, picked up my laptop, and peaked under the love seat. The wasp twitched its feelers.

    No sting. Phew.

    I stepped inside the house and a searing jab, like the stab of a sewing machine needle laced with concentrated jalapeño peppers, pierced the top of my right foot.

    Ouch.

    The leg lifter had a companion that hitchhiked on my Bair Paw sock.

    I set down the bag and computer to bend and lift the sock away from my skin.

    The stinging wasp flew away rather than sting again. Great. We had another wasp in the house.

    This past Monday, Spence put his computer on the coffee table, stretched his his arms over his head, and said, “I’m going outside to ride my tractor.”

    His tractor rattled to the south garden past raccoon prints on weed-controlling black plastic. Spence steered between four to six foot high asparagus plants and mowed “monster weeds.” On the third cut between plants, he lowered the brush hog too far. The blades hit dirt. Cruuuunch.

    Spence glanced over his shoulder.

    Yellow jackets poured out of a hole in the scraped ground and swarmed the top of the brush hog.

    He pulled the lever to lift the brush hog, pushed the gas lever to full speed, and hightail it away from the yellow jacket colony.

    By then the yellow jackets, a favorite raccoon treat, had figured they couldn’t sting the brush hog. They didn’t follow the tractor.

    Three yellow jacket encounters with three Wellses–perfect for the rule of three writing technique. I had a blog topic for the week.

    Then Saturday morning arrived. I bundled for 56º F (13º C), moved porch furniture, and set out yoga gear. I reached for the door knob to go back for my computer and Rodney’s DVD. A bald-faced hornet slept on the mullion between the glass panes.

    I dropped my hand. No way would I open the door and let that serial stinger inside.

    I knocked on the door.

    Spence stood at the stove and kept his back to me.

    The sleeping wasp didn’t move either.

    I walked around to the deck and called through the sliding screen door. “Please unlock this door for me.”

    Spence left his spatula beside the cast iron skillet and opened the side door. “I thought you knocked on the front door.”

    “I did. But there’s a bald-faced hornet on that door. I don’t want it inside.”

    I fetched the computer and left through the side door. Stretching with Rodney’s calm voice, I glanced at the porch door. The million hid the snoozing wasp. I looked before placing any body part on the cement, shook every piece of yoga equipment before stuffing it into the bag, and stepped back through the side door without getting stung.

    After breakfast, I settled in the Adirondack chair and wrapped myself in a red fleece blanket. Focusing on the computer screen, I tapped computer keys to record my yellow jacket saga.

    Spence jumped up from the sofa and hustled around the coffee table.

    “Hold still.” He grabbed a piece of paper and tugged the folds of the blanket. “You’ve got a wasp on the blanket.’”

    I didn’t need a fifth yellow jacket for my story!

    “Oh.” Spence slid the paper against the blanket. “It’s a cricket.”

    A large black, silent cricket sat on Spence’s paper. He carried across the room and fling it out the door. “It’s better outside rather than having babies in here.”

    So, before another insect reacts to the cooling temperature and sneaks into the log house, I’m typing THE END.

 

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Summer – Catching the Last Rays of Summer 

Laura and Addy

    The morning of the Wells family Labor Day gathering dawned cloudy and wet. Then the power went off.

    An hour later the rain cleared, but the power didn’t return. I headed out the door to throw the solar disconnect switch, and Spence, my mind reading husband, said, “I think it’s time to disconnect from the grid so we can use our solar power.”

    I pulled the red lever then descended to the darker-than-night basement. Spence followed with a flashlight and peered over my shoulder. “Do you know how to turn the outlets on?”

    “Nope.” But the box holding the switch for the Solar Power Supply (SPS) had a red sticker with white printing. “Switch the PV (solar) breaker to off position before turning the SPS switch to ON.”

    Easy. I turned off the two breakers, one for each inverter, and turned on the switches for the outlets.

    Spence plugged a work light into one outlet.

    Voilà. Light.

    I left him entangled in an orange extension cord and climbed the stairs to sweep the great room.

    Lugging two more coils of orange, fifty-foot extension cords through the house, Spence got the modem connected, clicked his email icon, but didn’t get Internet service.

    No phone and no Internet for contacting the Pittsburgh Wells family. Would they mind the power outage?

    Spence asked a question I hadn’t considered. “Do the babies need their food heated?”

    “Probably not but . . . we should call your brother.”

    Spence grabbed his keys.

    I scribbled a note for our son Charlie. He, a mid afternoon to mid night sleeper because of his UPS Preload job, napped in the guest room so he could visit with the family.

    Spence and I hopped in the truck for a seven mile bounce past unlighted houses to I 79 and cell phone range. He parked above the interstate.

    I watched cars zoom north and south.

    Spence taped his cell phone screen.

    Bruce’s muffled voice came through the ear piece.

    After ten minutes, Spence set the phone down and summarized the conversation. “They’re on the way. They can flush toilets with buckets of water, and the babies don’t need anything heated.” He started the engine, turned the truck around, and slapped his forehead with his left hand. “I could run extension cords to the loft and plug in the router to get WiFi for the Internet.”

    Back home, Charlie and Spence connected the router. Internet popped onto battery powered computer screens.

    We still didn’t have electricity for appliances including the pump to refill the water tank. To conserve water for hand washing and cooking, Spence turned off the supply line to the toilet and lugged buckets of cistern water for flushing. I stacked dirty breakfast dishes in neat piles to wash “later.”

    At 2:30 the power still hadn’t returned. I walked out to Spence’s porch desk and said, “I think we need to plug the freezer and refrigerator into the solar outlets to keep the food cold before dusk falls and solar power stops.”

    Spence stopped cutting cucumbers and tomatoes for our dinner salad. “The refrigerator food will be fine. Just move the food from the freezer compartment to the basement freezer. We’ll plug that in.”

    I opened the freezer compartment, stared at the contents, and mentally calculated the trips to carry armloads of food downstairs–way too many. I grabbed the laundry basket from atop the dryer and dumped in bags of Wells Wood strawberries and beans.

    Gravel crunched in the driveway.

    I ran outside, said, “Welcome. It’s good to see you,” then dashed back inside to continue filling the laundry basket.

    Cindy, my sister-in-law, followed. “Can I help?”

    “Pick the basket up to see if it’s too heavy to carry.”

    Cindy lifted the half filled laundry basket. “It’s surprisingly light.” She put the basket down.

    My niece Laura walked into the kitchen with a huge smile and her niece, seven-month-old Amelia. Laura stretched out her arms holding the wide-eyed baby looking adorable in a dark blue hoodie, blue and white striped pants, and polka-a-dot booties. “Here, you can hold Amelia.”

    I wanted to hold Amelia, Michelle and Patrick’s new baby. Since they had to work at different Giant Eagle grocery stores that day, they sent their daughters north with the girls’ grandparents and aunts.

    But I was holding packages of chicken, pork, and ground turkey.

    Laura looked from her mom and the laundry basket to me and the open freezer compartment. “Oh, you’re busy. I’ll hold her until you’re done.” She snuggled Amelia to her chest and sat in an Adirondack chair.

    When Cindy and I filled the laundry basket to the brim, Spence came in from the porch. “That looks too heavy,” he said and reached for the basket. “Oh, its light.”

    He carried the basket downstairs, unplugged the modem and router, then plugged in the freezer.

    I crammed food into the freezer chest and hustled upstairs to Amelia.

    Soft, warm, and precious, Amelia focused her blue eyes on my sweatshirt. I kissed her forehead and inhaled the fragrance of her thin blond hair. Around us Addy, Amelia’s two-and-a-half-year-old sister, circled the room saying “’xcuse me” when she squeezed between crossed legs and the coffee table. My niece Sarah carried a bucket of water to the bathroom. Cindy organized baby supplies. Folks chatted.

Sweatshirt Design

    Amelia reached her fingers toward the subtle blue and purple flowers embroidered on my maroon sweatshirt.

    Holding her sides, I moved her so her fingers could touch the sweatshirt. “Amelia’s going to be a quilter. She’s studying the minute design details.”

    “She watches everything,” her proud grandpa said.

    In a whirlwind, Addy led Spence and the grown nieces outside for a woods walk. Cindy and I headed to the grassy knoll to dig up some daffodil bulbs planted in memory of her mother. Bruce and Charlie stayed in the dark house with Amelia.

    An hour later, smoke plumes billowed from the backyard grill, and the nine of us regathered in the great room. Addy set three Tux the Penguins on the coffee table. Spence collected Linux mascots and had shared them with Addy on previous visits. She knelt, picked up a stuffed penguin, and banged its bottom on the table. “Quack. Quack. Quack.”

    “Penguins squawk, Addy,” a chorus of grown-ups said.

    Addy picked up the plastic penguin and banged it. “Quack. Quack.”

    Spence disappeared into the bedroom and came back with his key chain penguin. “Look, Addy.” He pressed a black button on the penguin’s shoulders. The penguin squeaked, and it’s LED eyes flashed.

    Addy clasped her hands. “Ooooooo.”

    Spence handed her the penguin.

    Squealing and pushing the button repeatedly, Addy ran around the room.

    “Show your sister,” Spence said.

    Addy ran to Amelia and held the penguin close to her face. “Look, Sissy.” Addy pressed the button.

    The penguin squeaked and flashed.

    Amelia opened her mouth, threw her arms to her sides, and knocked her head against Sarah’s chest.

    The power came back on by the time Spence and I served dinner. Both babies napped while grown-ups munched and caught up with Sarah’s teaching schedule, Laura’s apartment hunt, Charlie’s Preload job, Bruce’s trolley museum activities, and Cindy’s babysitting adventures.

    At dusk, after Addy led folks on a run down West Creek Road while Cindy held Amelia and I washed dishes, we re-assembled on the porch. A cricket chorus and cool breeze accompanied even more shared stories. Despite the power grid disruption, this farewell-to-summer gathering generated as many smiles and as much loving camaraderie as all the other Wells family gatherings.

Amelia and Sarah

 

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Tea Party for Two

Glass Kettle - photo by Charlie

    Three weeks ago, while we sat to let our breakfast digest, Spence squinted at his computer and said. “Our son is up to something. Now he wants to know where your quilt guild dinner is being held on Wednesday.”

    “At Dawndi’s in Franklin.” Since I couldn’t ask Charlie, I peppered Spence with questions. “Why does he want to know? Why didn’t he ask me? Why did you say ‘now’?”

    Spence grinned the grin which I translated to because he didn’t want to deal with your questioning assault. “The other day he asked if you could eat eggs.”

    I pressed my lips together so the next questions, why is he checking on my darn food sensitivities and how do eggs go together with a restaurant outing, didn’t escape.

    Charlie had always been a thoughtful, creative youngster, like turning an eighth grade English assignment into a gift collection of butterfly poems and pictures for me. In the dedication, he said it was to remind me of my childhood–no doubt because I’d told him so many stories of playing butterfly games with my Uncle Bill.

    The egg and restaurant questions puzzled me for the next two days.

    The afternoon before the quilt dinner while I trimmed half square triangles for friendship stars, the phone rang and I got the answers.

    “I wanted to invite you to a tea party this week,” Charlie said. “Your only free time was today, but I didn’t think you’d want to drive to Seneca for the afternoon, drive home, then drive back to Franklin for the quilt dinner. So I guess the tea party will have to be next week. You’re pretty open then.”

    He must have checked my Google Calendar.

    “Which day do you prefer?”

    I picked Wednesday, August 23.

    After his call, I walked on tiptoes and giggled because excitement bubbles circulated through me. I checked my closet for an appropriate tea party outfit.

    Charlie emailed around noon the Saturday before the party.

Charlie: Email me your frosting recipe. Decided to put off the next cooking experiment until later.

    I sent my Betty Crocker Double Boiler (7-Minute) Frosting recipe.

Charlie: Don't have a double boiler or a hand mixer–just two stand mixers and a whisk attachment. Okay. Will continue to think on it…

Me: We have two double boilers and a hand mixer that I only use to make that frosting. You're welcome to borrow them.

Charlie: Or I could buy them. Or you could make the frosting.

Me: DON'T buy them. I'd be glad to make the frosting.

    Wednesday, I dressed with care–olive green slacks, black with pinkish-red roses blouse, and a pink butterfly the guild president made for quilters attending the dinner. Carrying a box with double boilers and the hand mixer, I climbed the stairs to Charlie’s Seneca Woods apartment, admired the string of Chinese cat faces decorating his door, and knocked.

    Charlie answered with a broad smile and glowing cheeks. “Good to see you.” He took the box. “I thought you’d make the frosting at home.”

    “It’s better fresh.” Actually, I didn’t want to transport sticky frosting.

    He led me to his kitchen and grabbed a bowl.

    I hoisted my keister onto his tan velor bar stool.

    He scooped flour, measured sugar, and added a splash of almond milk. “I checked English tea recipes online, but all the sandwiches had ingredients you couldn’t eat.”

    My dairy-free, soy-free diet does complicate food choices. At least I could eat gluten.

    He cracked an egg against the sink and deftly dripped the insides into the bowl. “So when I found a pancake recipe you could eat, I experimented with adding sugar to make it taste like cake.” He mixed the batter and set silver cupcake liners into his cupcake pan. “I think I got the proportions right.” He poured batter into seven liners and shoved the pan into the oven.

    All that research for me. And he’d gotten the cupcakes into the oven within five minutes of grabbing the bowl. I’d done okay raising this boy-man.

    When the cupcakes cooled, he set his phone for seven minutes to time me beating the sugar, egg white, and cornstarch we substituted because he was out of cream of tartar. We frosted the cupcakes, then he ushered me into his living-dining room.

    “This card table is new,” I said and sat in a captain’s chair.

    He called over his shoulder on his way back to the kitchen. “I got it at Goodwill.”

    Water gushed. A moment later he returned carrying an electric glass kettle. He set the kettle in its stand on a corner of the table, plugged it in, and headed back to the kitchen.

    Splashing sounds from washing dishes drifted into the room.

    The kettle filled with mist, the mist cleared when water bubbled, then blue light glowed–as entertaining as watching a fire burn in the wood stove.

    When he returned, I said, “Your kettle is awesome.”

    Charlie grinned. “I thought you’d enjoy that.” Opening an infuser, he spooned in Bliss, a tea made from organic wild rooibos, strawberry, and lavender. He dropped the infuser into a tea pot and poured in the hot water.

    He made two more trips to the kitchen. First he brought back thick glass tumblers. “I like drinking tea from these, but I can get you a mug if you prefer.”

    I didn’t.

    Then he brought the cupcakes, and the tea party began.

    I sipped fragrant tea, nibbled the moist, just-sweet-enough cupcake, and delighted in the company of my grown son. We leisurely discussed his work, my swimming, books we’d read, and the new furniture he’d acquired before a pause fell in the conversation. Determined not to fill it with questions, I said, “You’ll never guess my new job.”

    “New job?”

    “I’m going to be a township auditor. Yesterday, when I was sewing with Peggie, a friend from the quilt guild, she talked me into taking over for her because she’s so busy. There are three auditors. We meet several times in January and February at the head auditor’s house across from Bruce Swogger’s Auto Service.

    Charlie’s eyes sparkled. “You’ll have to turn the job into a Midsomer Murders  mystery.

    I jerked into straight, yoga-seated posture. I didn’t write mysteries, but the Erie Pennwriters group suggested I try one for my next story. “One of the writers in the Erie group did have a minister kill an auditor who discovered the minister had been smuggling funds from the church to support her drug habit. She shoved the body into a car trunk and abandoned the car in an auto dealer’s lot.”

   Charlie beamed and bounced in his chair. “Perfect. You can hide the body in one of the cars on Bruce Swogger’s lot. It’s right across from where you’ll be working. Drive the car away to dispose of the corpse, which is the messy part of the story, then return the car to the lot.”

    We laughed.

    Driving home in my Subaru, I relived the tea party from cat hanging greeting to belly laughs over a story plot. When he was a youngster, I cut and frosted cakes into the shapes of R2-D2, a race track topped with miniature cars, and a castle with turrets for his themed birthday parties.

    Now he’s creating parties for me.

Cats - photo by Charlie