Reflections on the Sixth Week of Spring – Simple Gifts

Charlie and George

I’d postponed many a to-do on my clipboard list for after the May 5^th quilt show―

Plan 50th anniversary trip to Prince Edward Island.

Research candidates for May 15 primary election.

Wash windows.

But I never postponed―

Enjoy Charlie.

    Snuggled under the covers at 10:30 p.m. Monday, I listened to the wumph of the front door opening, swish-clink of taco chips falling into a bowl, and thud of footsteps walking down the hall.

    Our son Charlie had arrived.

    Yawning, I forced my groggy mind to push

Hand sew border to back of quilt.

lower on the clipboard list and visualized writing

Enjoy Charlie!!!

at the top.

    Tuesday morning, I woke to husband Spence’s hand on my shoulder. “I’m leaving for Cleveland. Play a game with Charlie.”

    At breakfast, Charlie’s head bent horizontal to the table.

    Could I ignite his charming conversation? “Do you think the Cavs can beat the Pacers?”

    “Don’t know.” He pushed his chair back and shuffled to the sliding glass door.

    So much for charming conversation. And he didn’t look like a fella ready for cribbage. “How are you feeling?”

    He turned his gray, drooping face toward me and frowned. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

   No game. No conversation. Maybe he’d enjoy something cheery for his apartment. Maybe not, but . . .

    “Would you like to take some daffodils home?”

    His head jerked up, his eyes widened, and his answer surprised me as much as my question had surprised him. “Sure.”

    I pulled on a jacket and grabbed scissors. “Do you want to come for a daffodil walk?”

    Charlie didn’t answer. He scooped our cat George off the floor. In both arms, Charlie cradled George as if he were the newborn royal prince.

    With tummy and paws pointed toward the ceiling, George glared at Charlie’s face.

    Charlie smirked.

    Figuring I’d go alone, I slipped into boots, opened the front door, and stepped onto the porch.

   Carrying George, Charlie followed.

    I wasn’t going alone. Laughing, I fondled George’s ears.

    Wind chimes clanged.

    George swiveled his head.

    Charlie and I walked past the pansy planters, down the ramp, and out the gate.

    While I pushed the gate shut, George stared at it.

    Charlie jostled George. “Yeah. That’s the gate, and you’re on the wrong side.”

    Bending from the waist, I cut four of the double daffodils that Priscilla, Charlie’s grandma, had brought to Wells Wood years ago. I turned and waved the daffodils under George’s nose.

    His nostrils quivered at the sweet-tangy smell.

    Charlie chuckled.

    We moseyed through the front yard to the driveway. Gravel crunched under our feet.

    George squirmed in Charlie’s arms.

    “Do you want to carry him into the woods?”

    George lurched.

    Charlie tightened his hold. “No. He’s had enough.” Charlie climbed the porch steps, reached over the gate, and set George on the cement floor.

    Silently, Charlie and I followed the tractor path across the field. He paused to study the pump and the site of the old cabin where he’d eaten many a dinner with his grandparents. After his reverie, he flashed a sheepish grin.

    We headed into the woods. Bare tree branches towered overhead. Wet leaves cushioned our steps to where Priscilla had planted traditional trumpet daffodils. I crouched and cut half a dozen daffodils before we walked deeper into the woods.

    A rabbit rushed under the hemlock.

    A cardinal and phoebe sang a duet.

    Woodpeckers drummed.

    A robin chirped.

    Waving daffodils welcomed us when we climbed to the grassy knoll above Deer Creek. I inhaled the rain washed air, listened to water burble, and watched Charlie swivel his head to take in the scene. When he turned and smiled broadly at me, we walked back to the log house.

    Charlie opened the door.

    George dashed past us to get inside first.

    Charlie chuckled and swept George’s sister Emma off the great room floor.

    Cradled in Charlie’s arms, she purred.

    After filling a jar with water, I arranged the daffodils then hoisted the jar as if toasting our shared adventure. “Your grandma planted all of these. Well, Spence and I transplanted the double daffodils out front, but the flowers from the woods were where she put them.”

    Dimples tinged with pink, Charlie nodded and hugged Emma against his chest.

    “If you want to play a game―”

    He shook his head and lowered Emma to the floor. “I think I’ll lie down.”

    “A better idea.” I set the jar of daffodils on the table and hugged my man-child.

    Charlie walked down the hall and closed the guest room door.

    I climbed to the loft. With each stitch I took in the quilt for the May 5^th show, my mind returned to the daffodil walk with Charlie.

    When Spence takes a daffodil walk with me, he recites “I wandered lonely as a cloud” in honor of Wordsworth’s 1802 daffodil walk with his sister Dorothy.

    But my daffodil walk with Charlie brought to mind,

       “And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

       'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.”

    His company, his smile, and his reverence for the homestead are simple gifts.

George and the Daffodils

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Spring – Three Men and a Quilter

 

Quilting Cross in a Cross Pattern

    Thursday afternoon, when Spence and I walked on grass finally bare after constant April snow showers, he popped a question. “I’m thinking of inviting Tim and his fishing buddy to dinner tomorrow.” He pointed to the bottom of Porter’s driveway where lanky Tim and his jockey-sized friend emerged from the trees. “Is that okay with you? I’ll make meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

    Sheesh. The Country Charms Quilt Show is in two weeks. I still had to machine quilt and attach the border, hand sew the border to the back, and bind the edges on the Mansfield Park quilt. Could I afford the time? And I didn’t clean house Wednesday so I could quilt all day.

    Mary Ann’s house was a dark, dusty jumble. She invited Tim every time he came from Michigan.

    Mary Ann, without a driver’s license and so blind she couldn’t tell who you were from two feet away, lost her reasoning last month, drove her car into a ditch along Route 173, and landed in a Pittsburgh nursing home. She couldn’t invite Tim for dinner this time.

    Are you going to deny Spence a little male company?

    Last week at Allegheny College in Lisa D’Amour’s play Detroit, a couple invited their neighbors to dinner, and the neighbor’s burned down the couple’s house.

    Don’t be silly. Be kind.

    “Fine, Spence.” I held out my hand. “Give me your pocket knife so I can harvest daffodils while you invite the fellas.”

    Friday dawned busy. After a six month check up with my physician assistant Cynthia at the health care center and washing three loads of laundry, I peeled, sliced, and measured organic Gala Apples for a pie. Sticking a crisp quarter apple into my mouth, I fetched whole wheat flour and olive oil for the crust. Images of the flaming couple’s house on the Allegheny theater stage swirled through my mind while I sifted and measured.

    With a fork I whisked the flour and oil. Visions of the fire quenched in the bowl’s soupy mixture. I picked up the measuring cup and squinted at the label stamped into the handle. One half. Sheesh. I’d added two half cups rather than two thirds. Waste the ingredients and start again? I sifted more flour. The dough got too dry. I added oil and cold water then rolled the bottom crust. It looked right. Was it? I nibbled a crumb. Bitter. Maybe it would cook right.

    I stuck the pie in the oven. By the time juice bubbled through the slits in the crust, I’d washed dishes, picked up the great room, and swept the floor. I set the pie in the center of the table between two bouquets of daffodils and tore off my apron. I had a half hour to quilt before the men arrived.

    In the loft, I guided the quilting paper’s cross in a cross design under the sewing machine needle.

    A phoebe sang on the telephone wire outside my window.

    Mourning doves cooed under the eaves.

    When I quilted the fourth cross, a huge white pickup drove past the window and turned into our driveway. Company. I shut the machine off and hustled downstairs.

    Tim walked in carrying a half case of Yuengling Light.

    The jockey-sized fisherman followed, doffed his camouflage baseball cap, and smiled broadly. “Hi. I’m Bill. Thanks for inviting us.”

    Spence took the beer, and the fellas moved toward chairs in the great room.

    “Oh, gosh.” Tim hit his forehead with his fist. “I started a pot of coffee and forgot it. It’s still on the fire.”

    Visions of flames jumping from tree to tree between Tim’s hunting cabin and our log house ignited in my head.

    Bill put on his cap. “I’ll drive up and turn it off.” He left.

    To calm myself, I grabbed silverware and napkins.

    Spence played host. “Did you catch any fish in our creek?”

    “No. Deer Creek’s running too fast.” Tim sat rested his hands on his knees. “But there’s a calm spot up behind the Milledgeville Cemetery. We caught three there yesterday.”

    I set the table.

    The fellas chatted about the children’s fishing hole down the road. “They had a great turn out.” Spence chuckled. “Kathy said she served a hundred hot dogs to the baby fishermen.”

    They both chuckled.

    Spence said, “Why don’t you show Tim your quilt, Janet.”

    Show a fella my quilt? When men attend the quilt show, they glance at the displays on their way to the homemade pies. “Do you want to see the quilt?”

    “Sure.” Tim patted his knee, and Bill walked inside.

    He hung his jacket and cap on the coat tree. “The coffee was done. I turned it off.”

    Taking a calming breath, I walked to the stairs.

    Tim called after me. “Should we follow you upstairs to see the quilt?”

    With my sports bra and pantyhose hanging on the drying rack in the loft? “No. I’ll bring it down.”

    I fetched the quilt, hustled back, and handed a corner to Spence. “Hold this.”

    We stretched the quilt between us. I grabbed the middle of my side and lifted so the quilt didn’t drag on the floor. “Keep it off the floor.”

    “This is as high as I go.” Spence stretched his arm full length above his head.

    The browns, reds, and leaf prints of the quilt blended between the gold diamond the cross in a cross and four square by two blocks made.

    “Oh. It’s beautiful.” Tim stood to get a better view.

    Bill stroked his goatee. “Lovely. At my church, they sew prayer quilts.” His eyes drifted toward the rafters. “They made one for a hunter. It didn’t have a moose on it . . . but it was amazing.”

    After I folded my quilt and took it back to the loft, we settled at the table.

    The meatloaf and Wells Wood vegetables―green beans and mashed potatoes―disappeared while we chatted about the Vietnam War draft, families, and our latest old age ailments.

    I cleared the plates. “Do you want a sixth or an eighth of the pie?”

    Bill stared at the golden crust. “That pie’s been sitting there since we came.” He pursed his lips. “A sixth.” He turned to Tim. “You were hoping there’d be pie.”

    I hoped the crust baked right. I served slices, handed the fellas dessert forks, and took a bite. The crust tasted normal, and the apples crunched. Phew.

    The pie baked company-tasty, the house didn’t burn, and the guests, “clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation,” were Jane Austen delightful.

    And I have almost two weeks to finish my quilt.

Apple Pie

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Spring – Pansy Planting Time

Saffron Orange Pansy

    The flat of pansies Spence bought, at Gale’s Garden Center in Cleveland on snowy April 5, took up the middle of our kitchen table for a week. Snow flurries drifted from gray clouds while snug inside pansy faces glowed sunny yellow, fresh-air blue, saffron orange, and midnight purple. The earthy pansy fragrance tickled my nose as if pansies were prompting me to move them outside. But four inches of snow topped the planters on the deck.

    At the end of the pansies’ kitchen table week, the outside temperature rose to 43ºF (6ºC). Spence picked up the plastic tray. “I’m moving the pansies to the porch.” Stepping outside, he called over his shoulder. “They need to harden off.”

    Rain fell for two days and nights before Friday morning dawned sunny and 51ºF (11ºC).

    In my red robe and purple slippers, I carried my toothbrush to the deck.

    Our cat George followed.

    While I brushed my teeth and surveyed the rain washed landscape, he lapped water in the curved edge of an overturned flower pot. The air smelled like worms and damp soil.

    George dashed toward the gate-less bottom of the ramp.

    I traipsed after and caught him by wood posts Spence had stacked for repairing damage which the four hundred pound bear caused when he forced the gate open. [See “Sign of―Bump, Thump, Clunk―Winter’s End” March 12, 2018] Herding George back up the ramp, I nudged him inside. “No snow in sight―pansy planting time,” I announced through a mouthful of frothy toothpaste.

    Later that morning, I returned to the deck with a trowel, knee pads, garden gloves, and Spence. I didn’t need the gloves. I sank my bare hands into the soil.

    Spence dragged heavy, plastic bags from the porch. “Use this one to fill the pots,” he said ripping the top of the taller bag with his pocket knife. Next Spence cut the top of a mushroom compost bag. “Use this for topping the soil.” He walked down the ramp. “I’ll be working at the gate if you have questions.”

    If? Before he grabbed his power drill, a question popped into my head. “How high should I fill the pot with soil? I want to be able to see the pansies when I sit inside.”

    “Doesn’t matter.” He picked up his drill. “As high as you want.”

    Brrrrrrrzzzzzaat. A screw sunk into a post.

    I tossed weeds over the deck railing, filled six 20 gallon pots to within three inches of the top, then coaxed pansies out of their plastic three cell seedling starter packs. Pulling a reluctant George out of his cat carrier at the vet’s would describe the plant extraction better. Roots of the pot-bound pansies had grown through the drainage holes and entangled themselves in a thick braid.

Lavender and Midnight Purple Faced Pansy

    I cradled a rectangular cube in the palm of my hand. White roots coated the cube that supported a velvety saffron pansy. “Hey, Spence. When I plant the pansies, do they go at surface level?”

    He swung the gate back and forth on its hinges. “What?”

    “Does the three-pack soil go level with the pot’s soil?”

    He clomped up the ramp. “Show me what you’re asking.”

    After digging a hole, I set the pansy in and moved my finger from the top of the extracted cube’s soil across a level line to the pot’s soil.

    “Yep.” He walked down the ramp.

    Wind whistled through the trees. A phoebe sang. Six or seven rain drops pinged my face.

    I finger-tamped the thirty-sixth pansy into place then hustled inside for the broom.

    Spence fetched a brush and a can of stain.

    While he brushed stain onto wood posts, I swept mounds of sunflower seed shells that chickadees, nuthatches, and cardinals left over the long winter. Sheesh. Birds are messy eaters.

    When I stepped inside to put away the broom and planting gear, George barreled past me. He sniffed and rubbed against the log wall midway down the ramp.

    Had the bear rubbed there?

    George checked in vain for flower pot water then settled in the shade under the deck table and napped.

    The clean deck and George looking comfortable with his head resting on crossed front legs enticed me to imagine stretching for morning yoga beside the bright faced pansies―soon.

Spence Staining the Gate 2

Reflections on the Third Week of Spring – Finding Spring

White Tail Doe

      Daffodil buds await a warm, sunny day to burst into bloom, but I’m not as patient. Daylight lengthening and the bird chorus intensifying couldn’t be the only harbingers. This week, I took on a mission from the calendar to find spring. Thursday evening brought some success.

    Gazing at the azalea-pink stripe created by the sun setting behind the woods, I rinsed a cast iron skillet at the kitchen sink and splashed water onto the bib of my apron. Sheesh. I shut off the water and grabbed a towel from the refrigerator handle. Turning my back to the sink, I mopped my soggy front, dried the pan, and glanced through the sliding glass doors. Four white tail deer grazed in the south garden.

    Oooh. Could I get a photo to show Spence when he returned from Cleveland?

    Placing the towel and pan on the table, I tiptoed to the bedroom and grabbed my camera. I attached the zoom lens and tested the focus by aiming through the window. The shutter release clicked ready, and the largest doe jerked her head toward the bedroom.

    Holding the camera away from my damp apron, I backed out of the room and tiptoed down the hall to the great room. Four feet from the sliding glass door, I took aim again.

    The three does munched, but the yearling stared directly at me.

    I pressed the shutter release. Click.

    The yearling raised its front leg as if to march, but stood as still as the angel statue in the north garden. It stared.

    The does stepped and munched.

    Through the glass, I clicked ten photos. Would they be distorted? I slid the door for a clearer shot.

    All three does swiveled their heads toward the deck and glared. The yearling pranced to the woods. Two does followed it, but the largest doe stared right at my face and camera lens.

    Click. Click.

    She ran around the PVC pipes supporting chicken wire that protected last year’s cabbages then dashed into the woods.

    Were the wild deer getting accustomed to people like their suburbanite cousins?

    Not with all the hunters last fall.

    But staring at me rather than fleeing?

    She had fresh greens. Much better than winter bark.

    Fresh indeed. The morning’s dusting of snow had melted keeping the new growth crisp in chilly, moist soil.

    Sitting in my Adirondack chair, I transferred the photos to my laptop. A misty coating dimmed the photos I’d taken through the glass. The others, through the open doorway, looked sharp. I cropped, tweaked contrast, and adjusted eye color.

    Before I could email the photos to Spence, he stepped through the front door.

    I turned the computer screen toward him. “Look who came to visit while you were gone.”

    He squinted. “Deer. Huh. Were they eating my garden or weeds?”

    They hadn’t been near the strawberry bed. “Is anything growing in your garden?”

    “Not yet.”

    “Then they ate weeds.”

    The doe was a kindred spirit―finding spring no matter who watched her search. And we weren’t the only creatures hustling after spring.

    The next morning, Spence had a story. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa with our cat George curled on his chest when―

    Bang!

    “I opened my eyes,” Spence said, “and saw a bat bounce off the window.”

    He’d caught my full attention. “The porch window by the wood stove?”

    Spence nodded.

    “What time?”

    “The middle of the night. It was dark. I didn’t look at the clock.”

    “What did the bat do?”

    “It darted around a porch light.” He zig-zagged his hand back and forth. “Bats don’t fly straight.”

    “A bat out of hibernation and catching bugs!”

    “Yep.” Spence cocked his head and grinned. “Bugs came to the porch lights.”

    Bugs, bats, deer, the calendar, and I proclaim it’s spring. If only we could cue the sun to warm the air, melt the snow that keeps falling, and make daffodils burst into their golden bloom.

White Tail Yearling