Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Winter – Skunk Cabbage Birthday

Frog Pond

    Pencil poised, I squinted at the black patches on George's long-haired back. He moseyed from food bowl to water bowl while I sketched―patches over each ear, one on the back of his head, two on the left side, one on the right. Exchanging the pencil for a black magic marker, I colored.

    Rats.

    The head patch morphed into a neck scarf. Erasing not possible, I sighed and switched to elementary school print and wrote a label. Clip the Tail on George’s Birthday Planner.

    Spence walked behind my Adirondack chair to the wood stove. “Are you making that for Addy?”

    Our three-year-old great niece Addy? “No. It’s for Charlie.” Our son scheduled Monday, February 26 off work to spend the day at Wells Wood.

    Spence poked burning logs. Flames leapt from golden orange coals, and he closed the wood stove door. “It looks like a pin the tail on the cat.”

    “Exactly. I want Charlie to plan his own birthday celebration.”

    Spence turned to me and raised his eyebrows.

    “I don’t want to nag him with choices.” I pulled tails from a paper pocket I’d taped beside the sketch of George’s back and spread them so Spence could read. “See?”

• The Last Jedi
• Boot Box for Boots
• Amazon for Hot Air Fryer
• Netflix for Captain Underpants
• Games, Games, Games.

    Spence coughed to stifle a laugh. “Not nagging is good.”

    When Charlie arrived Sunday afternoon, he glanced at the cat planner and didn’t stifle his chuckle. He grabbed long-haired George and scratched under the squirming cat’s chin.

    “I wanted to celebrate your birthday.”

    Charlie nodded and walked around the great room with George cradled in his arms.

    “A forty-fourth birthday is special because it’s divisible by eleven.”

    Charlie chuckled again. “Okay.” He sat with George in his lap, pulled the tails from the planner’s pocket, and read.

    I pressed my lips closed and waited for his choice.

   George jumped to the floor.

   Charlie set the tails on the table and pulled his tablet from a tote bag. His forehead wrinkled and shoulders slumped.

    Was his neck aching from the childhood cancer surgeries and radiation treatments? After a week supervising loaders and helping load at UPS together with this rainy day―probably.

    He’s tired. Let him alone.

    But I didn’t. “Are you too tired to play a game?”

    “Yeah.” He stared at his tablet screen.

    “I made lemon souffle tea and pumpkin cupcakes to celebrate. Do you want some now?”

    “Sure.” He got out of the chair, set his tablet on the table, and fetched a can of Guinness Draft.

    We munched, sipped, and chatted―a birthday-eve celebration.

Skunk Cabbage

    Monday dawned bright with blue skies, but Charlie still frowned. Even more lines creased his forehead, and he slumped in his chair.

    “I don’t want you to be sad on your birthday,” I blurted after breakfast.

    He looked up. “I’m not sad.” He flashed a weak smile. “Just tired.”

    He’s in pain. Don’t pester him.

    Listening to that inner voice, I sat―three feet from Charlie on the right and three feet from Spence on the left. Rather than ask if Charlie had decided on a birthday activity yet, I emailed the Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters about our upcoming meeting.

    Charlie’s frown deepened.

    I checked Sunny Portal for our solar production Sunday―13.541 kWh, good for a rainy day―and copied comments on the mulching blueberries blog (See “Never Too Late to Mulch Blueberries” February 25, 2018 blog.) into my farm journal. The one from Diana read, “What a beautiful picture of blueberries! I checked out the "skunk cabbage" link too. Fascinating.”

Picture. Skunk cabbage. Hmmmmm.

     I glanced at Charlie.

   He rolled his shoulder backwards and grimaced.

   Definitely in pain―a selection from George’s birthday planner wasn’t imminent.

   I set the computer down, fetched my camera, and looked from the sunshine pouring through the sliding glass door to my fellas staring at screens. “Does anyone want to go for a walk?”

   Spence set his computer on the coffee table and jumped off the sofa. “I’ll go.”

   Charlie looked up. “Sure.” He set his tablet on the end table and pushed himself out of the chair. Fitting his Cavaliers baseball cap on his head, he followed me out the door.

   Why hadn’t I written “walk” on one of the cat tails?

   Ambling, our feet squished across the soggy field and down the muddy path to rushing Deer Creek.

   Spence checked the flood plain for potential firewood, I focused the wide angle lens on the creek, and Charlie, with hands in his pockets, scanned the water as if recording the sparkle, burble, and fragrance of damp creek mud.

   Only one skunk cabbage bloomed by the creek so I turned and headed along the tractor path.

   Spence raised his hand as if practicing to be a traffic cop. “Stop. Charlie’s wearing his good shoes.” Spence pointed to the puddle nestling in the tractor ruts and spilling onto the flood plain. “We’ll have to go up and around.”

   Stepping around puddles and deer droppings, we trudged up hill, across the field, and down the wood’s path to the frog pond, enlarged by recent field runoff.

   A chickadee called hey-sweetie, and a cardinal sang birdie-birdie-birdie―close enough to a happy birthday chorus for me. And skunk cabbage, blooming in the shallow water, could serve as a birthday bouquet.

    The fellas chatted.

    I squatted and leaned for just the right angle to capture Charlie’s birthday flowers.

    “Don’t fall in,” Spence called.

    Charlie chuckled.

    I grabbed a hawthorn trunk and pulled myself away from the squishy mud at the water’s edge.

   Back at the log house, though eager to download photos and record our skunk cabbage walk in my journal, I paused to gather more data from Spence settling onto his spot on the sofa. “What will you remember from our walk?”

    “Mud!” He tapped computer keys.

    I walked down the hall to the guest room.

    Sitting on the bed, Charlie stared at the pattern in the log cabin quilt.

    “What will you remember from our walk?”

    Silence.

    He’s tired and sore. Don’t bug him, Janet.

    Shifting his weight, Charlie leaned back against two pillows and covered his eyes with his forearm. “It was fine.”

    I backed out of the room, said, “Happy Birthday, Sweetie,” and closed the door.

    Next year, I’ll write “walk” on a list of birthday choices.

 

End of Walk