Reflections on the Sixth Week of Fall – I’ll Be There

 

Spence's Glasses

    “Check in at six-fifteen tomorrow morning,” Shelley, a nurse from Edgewood Surgical Center, said over the phone.

    I nearly dropped my phone. Six-fifteen?

    She continued with what Spence couldn’t ingest after midnight before cataract surgery on his right eye. Having read his pre-op instructions five times, I ignored her list and calculated. An hour drive to Transfer, Pennsylvania plus fifteen minutes for detours and getting lost meant leaving at 5:00. Sheesh.

    But Spence had seen me through one cataract and two retina surgeries. I would take care of him. I set the phone alarm for 4:30 a.m., packed our gear, and went to bed an hour early.

    All too soon the phone blared. A half hour later, Spence and I trudged to the garage, and I slid behind the steering wheel. Windshield wipers swished, and the Subaru’s bright beams pierced a tunnel through the country dark. One detour and no wrong turns later, we arrived before six.

    After Spence checked in, nurse Shelley led us down the hall, around a corner, and into the chilly pre-op room with two dozen empty gurneys. Spence took off his vest and boots. He gave them and his tote bag to me. “Take care of these while I’m in surgery.” He climbed onto a gurney, took off his glasses, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

   I stowed his phone and glasses too.

   Shelley hooked Spence to monitors, inserted an IV port in the back of his hand, and gave him a series of stinging eye drops. Then she dimmed the lights, pulled the privacy curtain around us, and dashed off.

    Spence stared at the ceiling. Deprived of his phone, he couldn’t play blocks, a game like Tetris. Would he manage without his favorite pastime for waiting?

    I rubbed his arm. “Tell me about the book you’re reading at home.”

    “The Pathfinder?”

    “Yes. Why do you like it?”

    “The scenery. Cooper describes the woods and the lake in detail. They’re characters in the novel.”

    Fifteen minutes later, we both shivered, and I was curious who Mabel would marry–Pathfinder like her father wanted or Jasper, a handsome hero closer to her age. Spence stopped mid sentence and stared at his right sock. A hole the size of a dime gaped between his second and third toe. He wiggled his toes, sat up, and reached down to push the edges of the hole between his toes. “Mimi [his grandmother] told me to put on clean underwear when I went downtown in case I got in an accident and ended up in the hospital. Here I am in the hospital with a hole in my sock.”

    I patted his arm and summarized Terry Pratchett’s story about a talking cat who organizes intelligent rats for a Pied Piper scam.

    Shelley returned with the anesthesiologist. Neither stared at Spence’s pinched sock. “Go back to the waiting room,” she said to me while covering Spence with two heated blankets. “I’ll get you when he’s done.”

    I had time to text our children and snarl my thread three times sewing a hexi flower before Shelley called me back.

    Bags hanging from my shoulder, I patted Spence’s hand, the one not holding the cup of coffee. “How are you?”

    His left eye twinkled. The right hid behind a clear plastic guard. “Fine, but my vision’s blurry. I don’t remember having the surgery.”

    No need for summarizing novels this time. Shelley removed the IV port, disconnected monitors, and said, “Meet us at the patient pick up with your car.”

    I steered the Subaru to the double doors, and Spence, with Shelley at his side, walked to the passenger door. He opened it, angled his butt toward the seat, and stumbled.

    Shelley grabbed his arm. “Easy does it.”

    He held the top of the car and slid onto the seat. “My depth perception is off.”

    “It’ll come back.” Shelley closed the door and waved.

    I handed Spence a container of stir-fried breakfast and a jar of cold brew coffee. He munched and sipped on the drive to his post-op doctor appointment in Greenville. Then I drove him home.

    Spence took his medicines, picked up his laptop, and put on his glasses. He frowned. “That won’t work.” He exchanged the laptop for a small phillips screwdriver, took off his glasses, and held them close to his nose. “Is this a phillips screw?” He poked the screwdriver at the screw by the right lens. “I can’t see well enough to tell.”

    I took the glasses to the light over the stove. “No. It’s a regular screw.”

    “I don’t think I can find the other screwdriver with these fuzzy eyes.”

    “No need.” I opened a drawer, pulled out a steak knife, and fit its tip into the mini screw head. After several twists, the screw loosened, and I popped the lens out of the frame. “Got it.” I gave Spence his glasses.

    He settled them on his nose. “That works better, but I’m tired.” He set the glasses on the laptop and lay on the sofa. “Would you put the blanket over me?”

    I stepped over a circling cat and spread the afghan from his socks to his whiskers.

    “Thanks,” he murmured a nanosecond before he snored.

    Two hours later, he sat up, pulled his chrome book to his lap, and squinted through the glasses at email. “I’m seeing enough to read most words.” Pecking keys at the speed of pouring honey, he worked on the computer for ten minutes. “I need another nap to rest my eyes.”

    During his third nap, an ambulance with flashing lights, but no siren, passed the house. Who was in trouble? Mary Ann, our elderly neighbor with failing eyesight? Her autistic son Dan? Every time Mary Ann stopped at our log house with life-is-miserable and life-is-lonely stories, she’d say, “Come see me any time.”

    I grabbed Spence’s toe and wiggled it.

    His eyes popped open revealing one large pupil and one small.

    I let go. “An ambulance drove by. I’m going to check on Mary Ann and Dan.”

    He closed his eyes and nodded.

Woods Walk 1

    I pulled a fleece jacket over my sweatshirt for the quarter mile walk. Gray clouds swirled overhead, and yellow leaves shimmered on understory trees. 

    Dan pushed an empty wheelbarrow through his yard. No ambulance parked in their driveway.

    I called, “Hi, Dan,” three times before he looked my way. “An ambulance passed our house. I came to see if you and Mary Ann were okay.”

    “We’re fine. I’ll tell her you’re here.” He opened the front door. “Ma, Janet Wells is here to see you.”

    Scuffling sounds preceded Mary Ann’s, “Tell her to come in.” She met me at the door. “Come in. I’m so lonely.”

    I stepped into the dark living room, lit by a TV and a roaring wood stove fire.

    She pulled a chair by the fire. “Sit here.” She plopped onto the sofa.

    I sat by the fire, explained the ambulance, and said, “I saw you talking to Hutch the other day. Is he your friend again?”

    “Oh. I thought I dreamed that. No, he isn’t my friend. He hasn’t talked to me since. He’s so mean.” She brushed tears away with her fingers. ”Why does he hate me? What did I ever do to him?”

    Oops. Wrong subject. “I have no idea what Hutch is thinking.” I glanced about the room for something to change the topic. “Who painted the picture of the winter trees?”

    She sniffed and wiped her shirt sleeve across her face. “I did.”

    “It’s lovely, Mary Ann.”

    “I painted lots.” She got off the sofa and pulled painting after painting from behind a table. “Why did God give me this talent then take it away by making me go blind?” She sobbed. “Can you tell me why?”

    “Life isn’t fair, Mary Ann.” While she blew her nose, I changed the subject again. “Are you doing anything special tonight?”

    “I’m going to choir practice. The fella from down the way,” she shook her finger at the south wall, “picks me up and takes me.”

    “Wonderful. You don’t need great eyesight to sing.”

    “Yeah. He’s a nice man. But I don’t think I should go. When I’m gone, Dan’s friend takes Dan to the ice cream store and makes Dan pay for everything. I don’t want that bad man being Dan’s friend.” She sobbed again. “Maybe I should stay home, but the choir needs me. What should I do?”

    I got up and hugged her. “Pray, Mary Ann.”

    Mary Ann chuckled. “That’s wise. Your visit has been so good for me.”

    “But I made you cry.”

    “It was a good cry.”

    After inching to the door and giving Mary Ann several more hugs, I stepped outside. Tree branches whipped as if performing a frenzied modern ballet. Clouds darkened and released a downpour. I unzipped my jacket, pulled it over my head, and hustled home.

    Spence opened the door and sang, “That's when the old gray . . . cloud burst!”

    “What?”

    “Lambert, Hendrick & Ross’s bebop love song, Cloudburst.” He knelt by the wood stove and lit crumpled paper. “I made a fire for you.”

    “I could have made the fire for you. You shouldn’t carry logs yet.”

    “They weren’t heavy, and I need to move around to get my eyes working together.”

    Flames flickered, the stove clinked, and warmth spread through the great room.

    Spence stood and put his arm around my shoulders. “Thanks for the help today.”

    “Some help. I covered you with a blanket and popped the lens out of your glasses.”

    He squeezed my shoulders. “You were a great helper. You were with me.”

    I snuggled against him. With me looped through my head. Mary Ann enjoyed my visit despite the crying. Spence appreciated my company on his surgery day. All I had to do was be there? Sheesh.

    This time I sang to him. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.” 

Woods Walk 2

 

 

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall – The Heating Challenge

Packed Firebox

    Dazzling blue skies and a ten degrees above average temperature marked the first Tuesday in October. I opened the deck door to let our cat George inside. He stopped in front of my feet to lick his fur. Stepping around him, I brushed against the cool wood stove. “Hey. It’s October, and we haven’t built a fire yet!”

    Spence selected one of the handwritten notes strewn on the sofa beside him. “That’s nice, dear.”

    “Susannah, the teacher who replaced me at Ruffing, challenged herself not to turn the furnace on in September.”

    Spence stared at his computer screen.

    Had he heard me? Maybe he didn’t share my enthusiasm about Susannah’s heating challenge. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t interrupt his work with Had we ever waited until October for the first fire in the wood stove? Plunking onto the Adirondack chair, I balanced my laptop on my crossed legs and searched old farm journals to construct a First Fire table.

Year	First Fire
2013	October 21
2014	October 6
2015	October 2
2016	October 14
2017

   Sheesh.

   Since retirement, we’d always waited until October for the first fire. Maybe we could wait until November this year.

   The first week of October, our high temperatures averaged 73º F ( 23º C) instead of AccuWeather’s 65º F (18º C) average. No fire needed.

   The second week, highs averaged 69º F ( 21º C) in contrast to AccuWeather’s 62º F (17º C) average. I made minor adjustments.

• Open windows when outside temperatures surpass those inside.
• Take a long, leaf-gazing walk when opening windows doesn’t work.
• Rub my hands against against the laptop’s heat releasing vents.
• Sew in the warmer loft.
• Hold my hands over my mouth and nose then puff hot air to warm my face and fingers.

    Though still surpassing AccuWeather’s average 60º F (16º C) temperatures on six of seven days, this third week of October proved more challenging. And I made it harder by practicing yoga on the deck Monday morning.

    Figuring 49º F (9º C) was close enough to 50º F (10º C), I bundled then unrolled my yoga mat on the deck for core strengthening yoga. On my back, I curled and touched my nose to my right knee. Stars glittered overhead, and a sliver of a waning moon rose behind the trees across the road. When I squatted for chair pose, my fingers, toes, and abs ached. Instead of heating like the contracting abs, my digits chilled as if encased in ice.

    The sky lightened, the temperature fell to 47º F ( 8º C), and a screech owl whinnied. Though the predawn nature rejuvenated my spirit, I pulled the yoga blanket over me and stuck my hands in my hoodie pockets to shiver through relaxation pose. Stiff, with aching shoulders and neck, I lugged my yoga gear inside.

    Normally, I’d sit by a wood stove fire to ease the arthritis flareup, but I had to dash off to my twice yearly medical checkup then to the YMCA for lap swim. Besides, I could ignore a little stiffness to meet the November first-fire challenge. I gobbled a steaming breakfast and drove off with the car heater dial pointed at red hot.

    Rain and wind limited the day’s high to 52º F (11º C).

    When I returned home, however, the house was toasty warm because Spence had processed and canned seven quarts of hot pickled peppers while I was gone. No need for a wood stove fire . . . Monday.

    Tuesday morning, Spence drove to Columbus, Ohio to attend the Public Utilities Committee Hearing at the State House. With an ache running down the back of my neck and across my shoulders, I strode to the weather monitor on the kitchen wall. Digital numbers recorded 65º F (18º C). My turn to cook and warm the house.

    But touching hot peppers or coming into contact with their cooked vapors itches my eyes, burns my lips, and makes me sneeze or cough. I left the bushel of peppers on the porch and pulled a package of four chicken breasts out of the refrigerator.

    While the breasts simmered in the dutch oven over a low burner, I chopped carrots, cooked peas, and rolled two pie crusts. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, aroma of chicken floated through the kitchen. I pulled the dutch oven off the burner and lifted the lid. Steam warmed my nose, meat flaked off the chicken breasts, but all the broth I needed for baking a chicken pot pie had evaporated.

    Oops.

    I forked, and spooned, the breasts onto a cutting board then poured water into the Dutch oven. With the zeal of a repentant sinner, I scraped the fork against the cooked-on drippings. The water turned into rich broth.

By dinnertime, the inside temperature had risen to 66º F (19º C), and savory pie warmed my tummy. Washing dishes in hot soapy water warmed me even more.

    Wednesday I overslept, a joy of retirement, so Spence woke me at 7:30. “Are you alive? I couldn’t hear you breathe or see your chest move?”

    I rolled over and yawned. “Still breathing.”

    He dropped our cat Emma onto the bed. “I’m not cold, but it’s sixty-four in here. Do you want me to build a fire?”

    Petting Emma and struggling to think through my internal morning fog, I took a deep yoga breath. In the winter, my cut off for a fire in the wood stove is 65º F (18º C). Did I want one of Spence’s huge roaring fires? With sunshine and a high-sixties temperature in the forecast plus a schedule eliminating long stretches of sitting with a laptop, I could delay that first fire longer. “No. thanks. I’ll be cleaning so plenty warm.” I picked up Emma and gave her a hug.

    She merrowed and wiggled out of my arms.

    Cleaning kept me warm and kept Emma merrowing when the dust mop and dust rag provoked several moves to new napping spots.

    In the evening, I pulled on a fleece jacket for the ride to the quilt guild meeting.

    Spence slipped into his shoes and followed me out the door. Walking toward the garage, he said, “I can make a fire to have the house warm when you get back.”

    With crossed arms, I rubbed my hands against my biceps. “I’ll put the heater on in the car. I won’t need a fire.”

    “The temperature is going down to the low forties tonight.”

    “I’ll be under a blanket. Maybe two.”

    He balled his hands into fists. “Don’t be obstinate. Get that dumb notion about waiting until November out of your head.”

    “It’s not dumb, just a challenge. If it snows, we can build a fire.”

    He growled, but waved while I drove away with the heater turned on high.

    When I returned, logs, kindling, and crinkled paper filled the wood stove firebox. Spence looked up from his computer. “I wasn’t cold so I didn’t start the fire.”

    Forcing myself not to shiver, I said. “Fine with me.”

    Thursday, Spence drove to Cleveland for a morning meeting then drove me to Greenville for my late afternoon eye appointment. We returned to a chilly house. Tired he stretched on the sofa, pulled an afghan up to his chin, and fell asleep.

    I popped a slice of chicken pot pie into the microwave.

    Spence didn’t wake until I slurped watermelon for dessert.

    Watermelon always cools me. I shivered.

    He tossed the afghan aside, strode to the wood stove, and picked up the box of matches. “Do you want a fire?”

    “It’s just the watermelon. I’m fine.”

    “That’s not a straight answer. Yes or no. Do you want a fire?”

    I didn’t want a fire, but he’d pulled a match from the box, and his creased forehead communicated his unvoiced waiting until November is dumb.

    I shivered again. “Okay. Light the fire.”

    He opened the squeaky firebox door, touched a lighted match to the paper, and slammed the door shut. The stove clanked and aroma of toasted dust spread through the great room.

First Fire

    George and Emma sprawled on the floor by the wood stove.

    Waves of heat washed over me sitting in the Adirondack chair. While the knots in my neck and shoulders eased, I raised my hands to warm my fingers against baked-hot cheeks.

    “Amazing how a fire takes the chill out of the air,” Spence said gazing at the orange and yellow flames encircling logs.

    My disappointment in not meeting the November first-fire challenge evaporated with the fire’s radiating comfort. Waiting until November would mean increasing the rate of global warming–a dumb idea indeed.

Year	First Fire
2013	October 21
2014	October 6
2015	October 2
2016	October 14
2017	October 19