Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter – Never Too Late to Mulch Blueberries

 

Blueberry Bush

    As if we were newlyweds, Spence slung my swim bag over his shoulder and walked me to the Subaru Tuesday morning. Our shoes sank in the soggy mud coating our dirt road―too late to change into old shoes.

    Spence said, “Be careful,” and the sun peaked through the clouds.

    I ignored his admonition, flung my arms wide, and twirled to celebrate a day warm enough to drive into town without wearing a winter jacket. “I wish I could work in the garden this afternoon.” I lifted the swim bag from Spence’s shoulder. “But the soil’s too wet.”

    He tapped numbers on the key pad to open the garage door. “You could mulch the blueberries.”

    “Oh . . . ” I’d planned to mulch the blueberry bushes with spruce boughs last December. After cutting and bundling boughs for the Winter Solstice program at Ruffing Montessori, where I’d taught for more than three decades, and for Tarot Bean Roasting Company, where the Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters meet, Christmas preparations distracted me. “Isn’t it too late for protecting the roots against winter?” I slipped behind the steering wheel, inserted the key, and powered down the window.

    “It’s not too late to enrich the soil. Blueberries need acid and organic material.” He stepped behind his truck.

    I inched the car out of the garage.

    “Rake pine straw for mulch. That’d be easier than cutting spruce boughs.” He moseyed after the car to the middle of the road.

    In the rear view mirror, I glimpsed Spence waving wide arcs above his head. I stuck my arm out window and waved it up and down as if performing a quarter of a jumping jack.

    Pulling my arm back inside, I chuckled. Spence is a sweetie, and raking orange pine straw outside would be sweet too.

    Later, slurping homemade chicken noodle soup for lunch, I stared through the sliding glass door at rain pattering on the south garden blueberry patch. “Looks like my mulching adventure got rained out.”

    Spence squinted at his computer screen. “According to the radar, rain will stop soon.” He put the computer on the coffee table and headed for the basement stairs. “I’ll unload garden wagon.”

    I scraped the spoon across the bottom of the soup bowl, sipped the last of the chicken broth, and set the bowl on the floor.

    Our cat George hustled over and stuck his head into the bowl.

    I fetched an old sweatshirt. No sense getting my pansy turtleneck muddy in the blueberry patch. After pulling the sweatshirt over my head, I glanced outside. The rain had stopped. I reached for my boots, and the kitchen clock rang Big Ben’s chime for two. Time to give Emma, our other cat, her antibiotic eye cream.

    When I grabbed the plastic bag holding the medicine tube and organic cat treats, it crinkled.

    George’s ears flicked. He followed me down the hall but not into the guest room.

    I sat on the bed and cradled Emma in my arms.

    She mer-rowed a protest.

    I pulled back her eyelid, squirted yellow goop, and eased her eyelid shut.

    She purred.

    I screwed the top on the medicine tube and opened the treat bag.

    George burst into the room.

    I laughed and sprinkled treats on the bedspread for Emma.

    George’s wide green eyes stared at me.

    “Were you hiding in the hall, big boy?” I sprinkled treats on the floor.

    Both cats gobbled.

    Okay. No more distractions. I slipped into my boots and clomped down stairs. In the cold cellar, I grabbed the leaf rake, garden gloves, and weeder then stepped outside. Spence had left the garden wagon under the stand of old white pines. The rake rasped along the ground. I inhaled fragrances of pine, mud, and dam. The rake uncovered patches of grass in brown-black soil.

    Spence came to my side. “The grass thanks you.” He stuffed his garden gloves into his back pocket. “I’m going to check the creek from the top of the woods path. Do you want to come?”

    I set the rake on the wagon load of straw. “Sure.”

    Side by side, we walked to the woods and ten feet down the creek path.

    He stopped. “Yesterday I saw the creek from here. It must have receded.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to go back?”

    Crows cawed. A cardinal sang birdie-birdie-birdie. The creek burbled in the distance.

    A woods walk with Spence or mulching blueberries?

    “I’m curious about the creek. We can take a short walk.”

    In the valley, Deer Creek roared, rushed, and filled the creek bed from the top of one bank to the top of the other.

    Spence pointed to a dip in the flood plain. “Yesterday, there were three streams. One running here―” He moved his finger toward another dip. “―here, and on my tractor path.”

    I circled a maple to check the beaver bank den. “This bank den survived the floods. Are the dams okay?”

    He shook his head.

    Instead of heading uphill to the blueberry patch, I strode beside the creek. Dodging puddles and pausing to inspect raccoon prints, fresh gnawed saplings, and sprouting skunk cabbage, we walked to the old beaver dam across the secondary creek branch.

    Spence ducked under the hawthorn, crossed the shallow creek on stones, and stepped onto a mud wall―a three foot remnant of the old beaver dam. He stretched his hand toward me.

    I ducked under the thorny tree, grabbed Spence’s hand, and splashed across stones to him.

He squeezed my hand, let it go, and led the way up the bank of the island. Mud squished under our boots. Blackberry thorns grabbed our clothes. And the beaver’s bank den on our grouchy neighbor’s property remained as stick-messy in tact as it had been before the floods.

    Spence scanned the water. “No beavers.”

    We turned and followed the beaver path across the island to the wider creek branch. Scattered rubble piles marked the site of the new dam. Fresh beaver tracks lined the shores. Rebuilding their dam will keep the beavers busy.

    Work awaited me too.

    Stopping to admire two more natural wonders―two-inch iris leaves and a six-inch diameter tree dotted with woodpecker holes from bottom to its forty foot top―we made it back to the blueberry patch.

    “I’m going to check the tarps on my wood piles,” Spence said and walked away.

    I grabbed the wagon handle and pulled the load of pine straw to the top of the blueberry patch.

    Weeds.

    Bending over the four foot wire forming the bottom of the blueberry cage, I twisted to avoid knocking off a swollen bud or breaking a fresh red stem off the old gray wood. Gloved hands dampening from the soggy soil, I ripped out weeds and tossed them into the marsh where road runoff drained through the field.

    A mourning dove cooed, a chickadee sang hey-sweetie, and Lorelei’s school bus rumbled past. Lorelei’s four o’clock bus.

    Yikes!

    I spread the pine straw around the blueberry bush pulled the wagon to the next cage. A spring-like breeze cooled my sweaty back. What sounded like a spring peeper joined the bird chorus. A spring peeper in February?

    The sun set behind the woods, the air chilled, and five weeded blueberry bushes wore skirts of orange pine straw. I bent to spread straw around the sixth, and Spence’s words, “Looks good,” startled me.

    Turning, I saw him, hands on hips, studying the blueberry patch. I reached for another handful of pine straw. “I thought I heard a spring peeper in the woods awhile ago. Could peepers be out in February?”

    Spence chuckled. “When I was in the north garden, I thought I heard a peeper too.”

    North garden? Double yikes! Four more blueberry bushes reddened in the north garden without any mulch. I loaded the basket, rake, and weeder in the garden wagon and pulled it out of the south garden. On another tantalizing spring-like day, I’ll head outside with Spence and mulch the north garden bushes. It’s never too late to mulch blueberries.

Blueberry Cages

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Winter – Washing the Car in Mud Season 

Clean Subaru

    Monday, I trudged out of the Meadville YMCA with a winter cap pulled over my wet hair, a damp swim bag hanging on one shoulder, and a heavy purse on the other. Shivering, I scanned the vehicles along South Main for my white Subaru. Two white cars. Neither mine.

    I often forget things―how many laps I’ve swum, if I locked the doors, whether I packed goggles―but not where I parked the Subaru. Did someone steal it?

    Don’t jump to conclusions. Look again.

    Scanning the vehicles parked with fronts toward the sidewalk a second time, my eyes halted on a dingy hatchback wearing mud from West Creek Road and slush from country highways. Like a goldfinch browning for winter, my Subaru had changed color.

    I pulled the keys from my purse, tossed my bags onto the floor by the passenger seat, and slipped behind the steering wheel. Inserting the key, I caught a glimpse of my right leg. A three inch wide strip of dirt streaked my black jeans from knee to boot.

    Sheesh.

    Time to wash the car.

    With mud season beginning, did I really want to wash the Subaru? If only I could roll it in a snowy field―slide the car several yards on each side to scrape off the dirt―like when I brush mud off my boots by scuffing them through snow.

    Unrealistic, silly.

    Maybe pelting the car with snowballs? 
    Get serious.

    Tuesday after lunch by the wood stove fire, I consulted my husband. “Do you think I could rub the Subaru with snow to get the dirt off?”

    Spence tipped the watering can to water the Boston fern hanging by the sliding glass door. “OhGodNo. Rubbing snow over the grime will scratch the paint.” He watered the plants on the table under the grow light. “Go to a car wash.”

    Why pay for a professional when the car would get muddy driving home? Besides― “The Subaru dealer said car washes scratch the finish.”

    Spence shrugged. “Wednesday and Thursday will be warm and rainy.” He set the watering can under the plant table. “Put on your raincoat. Soap the Subaru, and let the rain rinse the soap off.” He lifted his computer off the coffee table and sat on the sofa.

    “Oooooh.” Washing a car in the rain should have been on my bucket list! “But . . .”

    “But what?”

    “The Subaru will be in the shop Wednesday for a safety inspection. And Thursday I swim then help sew the raffle quilt for the Country Charms guild.”

    “You have time now.”

    I walked to the weather station on the kitchen wall. “It’s thirty-seven outside.” I didn’t add―and a layer of soggy mud tops our dirt road.

    “The sun makes the air feel warmer.” Spence set his computer on the coffee table. “I’ll carry the water buckets for you.” He slipped into his boots and walked out the door.

    The last time I’d washed a car in February, temperatures had risen to a record 71º. (See “Country Car Washing” February 26, 2017 blog.) I’d worn a turtleneck and pushed up the sleeves. Not today. Over my long underwear and turtleneck, I pulled a sweatshirt, winter jacket, and my late father-in-law’s windbreaker.

    Spence opened the front door. “I left two buckets on the porch. You need to clean them.” He eyed my outfit and flashed his curious smile. “Yell when you want me to carry the buckets. I’ll move the Subaru into the sunshine.”

    I carried the five gallon buckets―smelling of white pine and mud―to the wash tub in the bathroom. After removing dried needles, I scrubbed dirt from the bottoms. Not relishing the idea of dunking my hands into snow-melt cistern water, I filled one bucket a third full with hot water from the wash tub tap. Then I pulled on boots then tossed rags and the plastic bottle of cleaner into the empty bucket. Lugging a bucket in each hand, I walked down the driveway. Ice crunched under my boots.

    Spence met me at our parking pad beside the dirt road and pointed to the buckets. “I could have carried them.”

    I removed the rags and cleaner, set them on gravel, and handed the empty bucket to Spence. “Please fill this with cistern water.”

    He saluted and left with the bucket.

    I pushed the five layers of sleeves away from my wrist and poured cleaner, smelling like cherry pop, into the bucket. After swishing a rag in the soapy water, I rubbed the hood and giggled at the mist rising from the rag.

    Sunshine warmed my face.

    Hot water warmed my hands.

    But the sight of the damaged fog light on the passenger side didn’t warm my heart. The plastic bumper near the fog light had a jagged, one inch crack. Yikes! I’d expected dirt―not a trip to the body shop.

    Spence returned and set the bucket of cistern water in front of the fog light.

    “I don’t remember hitting anything,” I pointed to the light, “but the fog light broke, and the bumper cracked.”

    He crouched and ran his finger over the bulb. “The light isn’t broken. The casing is gone.”

    “Sometimes I tap your rototiller when I pull in the garage. I’ll check to see if I knocked the casing off there.”

    “I already checked.” He stood. “I saw the damaged light when I brought the car over. The casing isn’t in the garage.”

    “Maybe someone hit the Subaru while it was parked?” Not during lap swim. Vehicles face the parking meter and sidewalk on South Main. But I’d parked in a huge lot twice within a week. “Maybe on one of the days I shopped at Joann’s?”

    Spence shrugged. “Bad things happen.”

    Replacing a bumper costs a bundle. “Will the car pass inspection with a cracked bumper?”

    “After Matt inspects the Subaru, we’ll ask what he suggests.” Spence walked toward the garage.

    I dunked a rag in the cistern bucket and slopped rinse water over the hood. The water chilled my hand, but not to arthritis-aching cold. I took a deep breath and scrubbed. The ends of my five sleeves got soaked―insignificant compared to a frolic in the sunshine.

    Slosh-splash-slosh.

    A chickadee sang chick-a-dee-dee-dee and pecked at my peanut butter bacon suet (See “For the Birds” January 28, 2018 blog) in the feeder across the road.

    The tractor motor rumbled.

    At the bottom of the deck ramp, Spence parked his tractor with a full bucket of logs. He jumped off the tractor and pointed to the car. “Wow. What a difference.” Carrying an armful of logs, he walked up the ramp to the porch.

    An hour later, I ran into the house to grab the camera for a picture of my white Subaru before a passing pickup splashed mud.

    The next afternoon, Spence and I stood in the doorway of Matt’s office at Cummings Auto. Matt, looking like a wrestler with his muscles bulging under his t-shirt, smiled from his desk. “The Subaru passed inspection. The small crack in the bumper isn’t a problem.” He ran my VISA card through his credit machine. “If you want, I can order a new casing for the fog light.”

    “Yes. Order the casing.” I took a step to Matt’s desk and bent to sign his receipt. “If only we could put duck tape on the back of the crack.”

    Behind me, Spence chuckled.

    Matt, who never laughs at my suggestions or questions, said. “Actually they make a kind of duck tape that’s strong enough.” He leaned back, and his chair rolled two inches. “In the summer you can wash behind the bumper with alcohol then put on that tape. It’ll never come off.”

    Spence cleared his throat. “I thought super glue might work.”

    Matt didn’t roll his eyes. “That could work too.” He walked us out of the shop, knelt by the front of the Subaru, and traced his finger in the shape of a rectangle around the crack. “If neither of those work, I could bolt a piece of metal behind the bumper here.” He stood and dusted the knees of his slacks. “I’d just have to paint the heads of the bolts.”

    Okay. I’ll have a new casing within a week and a fixed crack in a few months. Now to keep the car clean.

    I drove the Subaru home at half my normal speed.

    Spence, who’d followed in his truck, jumped out of the cab. “Is something wrong? You were only going twenty miles per hour on West Creek Road.”

    “Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t want to splash mud on my clean car.”

    He laughed. “No matter how slowly you drive, the car will get dirty.”

    Of course he was right.

    Less than forty-eight hours after I took the photo of the white Subaru, I drove a mud splattered Subaru. With luck, hard rains will wash dirt off until the mud season ends.

Subaru with Fresh Mud and Missing Fog Light Casing

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter – Nonviolent Toilet Cleaning

Legacy of Love on the Opened Bed

     Monday night, I snuggled under three layers of covers and read Arun Gandhi’s Legacy of Love in a circle of light from my reading lamp. I expected an inspiring story, like the incident of Arun throwing his pencil stub into the bushes and asking his grandfather for a new pencil. Arun got a flashlight for a two-hour search in the dark to retrieve the stub because Mahatma Gandhi considered waste a form of passive violence.

    Like Arun, I didn’t get what I expected. Instead, Arun offered the reason why bile rose in my throat on a sunny summer day in 1957.

    I’d finished third grade and, like the good girl Mom expected, kept my mouth shut while waiting for her to talk with a Realtor on a sidewalk in suburban Pittsburgh.

    The Realtor, wife of one of Dad’s co-workers at Cyclops Steel, waved purple fingernails past her creamy white face toward the house she’d showed Mom for our move from Titusville.

    Mom, who baked three pies and one cake a week in addition to sewing clothes for three children, squinted at the house then turned to the Realtor. “Why are you working, Phyllis? Chuck makes a good salary.”

   Mom’s homemade cotton shirtwaist swayed in the breeze.

   The Realtor’s straight skirt didn’t. Her chest pushed against a fitted suit coat. “Any [n-word] can clean a house.”

    Mom covered her mouth and chuckled.

    Bile rose in my throat. I turned away, watched a squirrel flick its tail, and swallowed hard.

    Why did the Realtor consider herself better than cleaners? All people were created equal–-the Presbyterian Church and the Declaration of Independence said so. I shivered, ignored the rest of the adult conversation, and silently resolved never to hire anyone to clean my house.

    More that sixty years passed.

    Each time I cleaned house, I recalled the Realtor’s six caustic words.

    I never hired a cleaner.

    And snuggled under the covers this past Monday night, I read page ninety in Arun’s memoir— “The untouchables . . . employed to empty buckets of ‘night soil’ . . . forced into life of poverty . . . and social oppression.”

    Aha!

    The passive violence of the 1957 words had caused bile to rise in my throat. The Realtor conveyed lack of respect, lack of humility, and support for institutions that oppress people rather than offer a pathway out of poverty.

    So Wednesday, like I’d done innumerable times in forty-nine and a half years of marriage, I dressed in too-stained-for-meeting-people clothes, reached under the kitchen sink for rags, and pulled the hand broom, dust pan, and dust mop from beside the linen closet. In a celebratory mood, I attacked dirt and detritus because cleaning practiced humility, respect, and nonviolence.

    Well, mostly nonviolence.

    Cleaning the great room while Spence works on his sofa-desk, rather than rides his tractor or saves children from lead poisoning in Cleveland, requires a little finesse.

    “Will you move to the chair by the door?” I waved a rag in that direction.

    He moved.

    I shook the sofa cover, dusted the coffee table, and crawled to reach under the furniture with the hand broom. Achoo.

    After mopping the back half of the room, I knelt beside a pile of cat hair and bits of firewood bark. “I need you to walk around the back of my chair,” I paused to point with my finger and draw an arc with my arm, “and to the sofa. DON’T go by the fireplace.”

    Okay. That don’t violated nonviolence practice, but he moved again.

    Sneezes and the dust mop handle banging to the floor broke Spence’s attention several times. “Are you being careful?”

    A half hour later, I’d dusted, swept, and mopped all the great room dirt and detritus to one spot–between the end of the sofa and the kitchen counter.

    Spence pulled his feet off the coffee table. “I need to be in the kitchen, but . . .”

    I leaned forward to guard the last dust pile. “You can go if you walk past the sliding glass door and wood stove then behind my side of the kitchen table.”

    Spence lifted his feet to the coffee table. “I can wait.”

    “It’s okay.” I swept dirt and detritus into the dust pan. “I only have this last spot to finish.”

    He didn’t move. “While you have that broom in your hand, I’m on my best behavior.”

    I did move. I traipsed to the first floor bathroom–no conflict since we have another facility in the basement. When I squirted Soft Scrub over the toilet tank, fragrance of lemon tickled my nose.

    Stench of feces had filled noses of untouchables who carried leaky buckets of human waste on their heads.

    My toilet brush scritch-scratched stains off the bowl.

    Untouchables emptied buckets of waste onto fields.

    I hugged the cool porcelain to reach the back of the toilet bottom.

    Untouchables scrubbed fowl buckets.

    My nonviolent toilet cleaning didn’t seem courageous compared to the untouchables’ job, but I wasn’t oppressing, humiliating, or disrespecting anyone.

    Keeping my resolution to clean my own house won’t last forever. A time will come when I can’t crawl on my knees for toilet scrubbing or sweeping under the sofa. I’ll need help from a person physically more adept. With gratitude and respect, I’ll ask a cleaner to do a job I’m not capable of doing.

   Until then, it’s nonviolent toilet cleaning for me.

Clean Toilet