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 5th
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 5th 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,
His company, his smile, and
his reverence for the homestead are simple gifts.
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| George and the Daffodils |
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