Reflections on the Sixth Week of Summer – A Tale of Two

Spence, Janet, and Lake Erie

On May 26, Spence flipped a cheesy omelet―his specialty in preparing company breakfasts. I sat at the kitchen table between friends who’d flown in from Oregon to celebrate Spence’s seventy-first birthday and, six days later on Presque Isle, our fiftieth wedding anniversary. I scanned Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park. “Of the fourteen walks we haven’t done, four don’t include rutted trails or sand.”

Eric, Spence’s lanky friend from elementary school, chuckled. “Okay.”

Since his wife Kay likes to cook, I’d spent days deep-cleaning the kitchen before they’d arrived. She sipped coffee. “What are the choices?”

“Walk Number Two [ starts at Swan Cove―really the lily pond my dad photographed the year I was born.”

Kay, an avid researcher of her own and others’ family histories, looked up with a curious smile.

“Dad printed a black and white photo then painted it with water colors while he sat beside the bed where Mom had to stay because she’d bled when pregnant with me.” I pointed at the kitchen wall. “The picture hangs in the next room.”

“Everyone’s life has a story,” Kay said taking another sip of coffee.

Reading Gene’s description, I summarized the walk. “It’s two and two tenths miles. It follows a sidewalk along the bay to the water taxi landing, crosses Waterworks Park, then loops back on a multipurpose trail behind two beaches.”

“We went to the Waterworks all the time when I was a kid,” Spence said and set a plate with an omelet and bacon in front of Kay.

I squinted at Gene’s side trips list. “There’s a handicapped beach ramp nearby. We could walk along it and get a view of Lake Erie.”

“Sounds interesting.” Kay munched a bite of bacon. “Let’s do that one.”

Spence pulled out his chair and sat by the stack of presents and cards. “The weather forecasts rain. That could change.” He ripped the envelope on the first card. “Did you make a reservation for dinner?”

“For six-thirty at Bayfront Grille in Erie.” I grinned. “The food is great and the blood orange sorbet I had last time,” I rested my elbows on the table and my chin on my hands, “tasted like sugary sunshine―so divine even a President Trump superlative would fail to do the flavor justice.”

All three laughed.

I frowned and used my explaining-teacher voice. “A fiftieth wedding anniversary only comes once a lifetime so it should be special―like a fun day with longtime friends topped by a special dessert.”

“You’re right, dear.” Spence set a black and pink Friends Forever card upright on the table. “You can order two bowls of sorbet.”

So, after celebrating Spence’s birthday with a walk along Deer Creek, flower planting for the guys, flower pounding for the girls, and a cookout dinner with Kay’s homemade potato salad, Eric and Kay took a side trip to visit her friend in Ohio. They returned the night before our anniversary.

Eric and Spence

The morning of June 1, Spence lay on the sofa―his head on a pillow and his knees on three. “I feel awful.” Wheeze. Wheeze. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Hack. Hack. “I kept coughing.”

Across our open space room, I opened a kitchen cupboard. “Stay where you are. Kay’s still sleeping. Eric and I can make our own breakfasts.”

Eric fried an egg, I poured a bowl of Cheerios, and Spence closed his eyes.

Late morning, Spence ate breakfast, set fire to papers in the burn barrel, filled groundhog holes with kitty litter deposits which encourages the garden-consuming critters to move, then crashed on the sofa.

Early afternoon, I called Bayfront Grille to cancel our dinner reservation, checked on sleeping Spence, and tiptoed to the porch.

Eric and Kay sat on the love seat. He stared at his cell phone. She glanced from a Douglas fir in the tree nursery to me. “I saw a bird earlier that has red on its head and stomach but a dark back. Do you know what it is?”

I sat in the wicker chair across from the love seat. “A downy woodpecker  has a red head and black back, but its stomach is white.”

Eric tapped his phone with a finger and showed Kay a picture.

She shook her head. “The stomach has red and the bird is smaller.”

A robin flew toward its nest by the porch steps, veered away, and squawked a protest from the grass. The robin would have to brave people on the porch to reach its nest or wait.

I walked inside to get one of our bird field guides and binoculars.

The robin squawked on the grass when I returned―it decided to wait.

Through the binoculars, I spied a goldfinch, several sparrows, and a pair of cedar waxwings. None was Kay’s small red bird, but I passed her the binoculars to enjoy the waxwings.

She stood, lifted the binoculars to her eyes, and oohed. Then she swung to the right and scanned the field. “There they are! Perched on the wood shed.” She gave me the binoculars.

Before the birds flew away, I focused the lenses. “Purple finch.” I passed the binoculars to Eric and leafed through the bird guide. “Yep. Purple finch.” I showed Kay the picture. “Why they’re called purple finch beats me. Probably the same reason a red-bellied woodpecker got its name even though the red is on its head not its belly.”

Eric waved his phone “We found a Giant Eagle in Meadville with our GPS.”

Kay rested her hand on Eric’s shoulder. “We want to make you and Spence dinner for your anniversary. We’ll drive to the store for ingredients then make zucchini spaghetti with the spiralizer we sent you after our last visit.”

Since Spence planted zucchini, I never bought it. We either had a surplus or none. “It’s not zucchini season. Will the store have zucchini now?”

Eric chuckled. “They have zucchini year round.”

Last summer was a year zucchini didn’t thrive at Wells Wood so I’d stored the spiralizer in the cold cellar. Could I find it? I clomped downstairs, unearthed its box under a bag of sunflower seeds, and brushed dust off the box before carrying it upstairs. Then I checked the kitchen cupboards for canned tomatoes and tomato sauce. Plenty.

Kay wrote other ingredients on a list and asked, “Is there anything else you want at the store?”

“Sorbet?”

She wrote sorbet then they left. When they returned with four small zucchinis and other treats, Kay cooked sauce.

Eric taught me how to use the sprializer. “Push that lever to anchor it to the counter.”

I pushed.

“Cut the ends off the zucchini. Place it in the center of the dial. Turn.”

I cut, centered, and turned the crank. Spaghetti-width strings of zucchini piled on the plate Eric hastily placed at the end of the machine. “Ooh. Magic!”

When we finished transforming the zucchinis, Eric took the plate to Kay.

She dumped the raw zucchini into the pot of tomato sauce and stirred.

After wine and water toasts, the four of us dug into the special anniversary dinner. “This is the best spaghetti I’ve ever had,” Spence said around a mouthful. “We’ve got to make it when the zucchinis come in.”

Glad he’d recovered enough to enjoy dinner, I agreed. “We have to pick the zucchini young though―before they grow seeds. You can’t spiralize the seedy ones.”

Since Giant Eagle didn’t have sorbet, Eric and Kay bought two kinds of non-dairy ice cream―frozen banana raspberry and coconut milk. The raspberry tasted like concentrated fresh-off-the-vine red raspberries that Spence’s Mom had planted at Wells Wood, and the coconut milk resembled sweet, vanilla flavored cream. I savored a scoop of each then spooned out seconds.

At dusk, the four of us traipsed to the gravel driveway. I pulled sparklers out of plastic bags.

Spence struck a match. It snuffed out. He lit another and another and another until finally one flamed and ignited Kay’s sparkler. We lit our sparklers from hers and held them aloft.

Golden sparks sputtered.

Red flames flared.

Gray smoke rose.

I giggled, waved my sparkler, and watched glowing streaks undulate against the dark. “The sparklers seem smaller than the ones we had when we were young. Are they really?”

Eric chuckled. “They could be the same size. We just remember them bigger.”

A gray cloud lifted off the field and floated over the treetops.

Fireflies lit the field with their yellow flashes.

What a delightful day―not a walk on the park, but the company of good friends, bird observations from the porch, a dinner both Spence and I could eat (a rare occurrence due to aging-health diet restrictions), an evening light show, and healthy ice cream nearly as tasty as Bayfront Grille’s blood orange sorbet. Feeling thoroughly celebrated, I grabbed Spence’s hand and squeezed it while we walked back inside.

But, Eric and Kay viewed the day differently. In a letter that arrived a week later, they wrote,

. . . We enjoyed our stay at Wells Wood very much. It was good to talk about old times and it was nice to see you . . . Our one regret was not being able to take you out for your 50^th wedding anniversary. We got you a gift certificate so you can go when you are able . . .

End of Part 1

Sparklers

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Summer - I Have a Question

Riley and Deva in Creek

My husband shouted, “Deva!”

Dropping a hand towel onto the pile of dirty laundry by the bathroom sink, I walked to the great room and gazed at Spence.

He cradled the phone against his ear. ”It’s great to hear from you.” His face shone as bright as Mars in the July 2018 sky, and he grinned from sideburn to sideburn. He must have heard good news from our daughter’s long-time friend.

I had sewed a poodle skirt for Deva to wear in her middle school jazz band concert. Then I watched her grow into a children’s librarian and a responsible mother of four.

“Yeah . . . yeah . . . Great! We’ll see you then.” Spence hung up and turned to me. “Deva says Riley wants to work in the garden. She’ll drive him to Wells Wood July twelfth. The rest of the family can’t come. They’ll be working at summer jobs.”

Deva’s youngest wanted to work in the garden? Wouldn’t a ten-year-old get bored after half an hour? How would we keep him entertained?

Spence stepped into his garden boots. “Riley can help hill potatoes and water plants.”

I remembered Riley from his visit two years ago―a slender youngster with inquisitive eyes who had picked purple beans with me, listened to my explanation that the beans change to green when cooked, then ran to tell his sister and two brothers about purple bean magic. Maybe that sparked his garden interest. “Purple beans and blueberries will be ready to pick.”

Spence put on his outdoor goggles. “Riley can spray for Japanese beetles and spread rock dust around the blueberry bushes.”

“He might like spreading worm compost.” I visualized the quarter filled bushel basket of fresh compost I’d harvested.

Spence gave me his that’s-a-weird-idea look.

I pushed my fists against my hips. “Boys like poop. Think how popular the Captain Underpants books are.”

“Don’t count on it.” Setting his straw hat on his head, he reached for the door knob. “We can have a cookout and walk in the creek.”

Ooh. Walk in the creek! I hadn’t walked in the creek since―sheesh, too long to remember. And the last time Riley came, he tossed stone after stone into the creek. Walking in the creek could keep him entertained.

So July 11, I baked blueberry drop cookies because children like sweets. And July 12, I packed an empty plastic food container in my swim bag. While Spence, Deva, and Riley worked in the garden, I would drive to Meadville, attend the YMCA July seniors’ birthday party so I could bring the advertised cupcake back to Riley after I swam laps.

But two boxes of cut-in-half donuts, not cupcakes, took center place on the YMCA table. I put two chocolate frosted halves into the container, screwed on the lid, and didn’t open it again until I found Spence, Riley, and Deva in the kitchen at Wells Wood.

Standing at the counter, Spence mixed a chicken pasta salad for my lunch. At the table, Deva held a half eaten sandwich. And Riley, standing with his hands on the back of his chair, paced in place. Bored already? He looked up with sparkling hazel eyes. Okay. Just finished eating―not bored.

I set my swim bag on the floor and pulled out the plastic container. “What did you do in the garden this morning?”

“We didn’t work in the garden yet.” Spence spooned the salad onto a plate. “ We took a tour of the garden and walked along the creek.”

Later Spence would tell me that Riley had tried some garden work. Their tour included a visit to the tractor in the garage basement. Riley climbed onto the tractor seat, but his legs were too short to reach the gas pedal and brake. Accepting the problem preventing him driving the tractor, Riley scanned Spence’s collection of wood, PVC pipes, and garden supplies. “I have a question. Do you have a grim reaper?”

Like many of my questions, this question puzzled Spence. “A what?”

“You know.” Riley grasped his hands around imaginary handles and swung his arms in a semicircle. “A grim reaper.”

Spence did know. “You mean a scythe. I have one in the house basement.”

“May I try it?”

Spence fetched the scythe and led Riley to a patch of tall weeds.

Grabbing the handles on the wooden pole, Riley swung the scythe.

The momentum of the scythe swung him.

He tipped backwards.

The scythe rose.

And the sharp blade whizzed past Spence’s groin.

Riley’s eyes widened.

“It’s okay.” Spence said. “I stepped back. You missed me.”

But while we’d gathered in the kitchen, Spence didn’t mention the scythe. He set the plate at my place. “After our walk I asked Riley if he wanted to eat then or when you came home later.”

Riley flashed an impish grin. “I said both. But I finished before you got here.”

Twisting the lid off the top of the container, I held it out to him. “I brought you and your mom donuts. I hope you like chocolate frosting.”

Riley grabbed both halves. “Mom will let me eat hers.”

Deva chuckled.

He downed the donut halves and licked his fingers. “I have a question. Can we walk in the creek after lunch? I wore my shoes instead of boots this morning. I couldn’t go in the water.”

Crayfish

Deva swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. “After we help Mrs. Wells pick blueberries.”

Riley ambled down the hall to the bedroom. The mattress squeaked.

Deva chuckled. “He’s petting your cats again.”

No cat paws thudded to the floor. No protesting howls floated down the hall. Calm Riley had charmed George and Emma.

After I finished lunch, Deva, Riley, and I sprayed ourselves with tick deterrent then carried picking buckets to the blueberry tent. Deva and I pulled binder clips off the cover cloth then I unlatched the top half of the chicken wire gate. One by one, we stepped over the bottom of the gate and into the tent.

Bugs buzzed at the top of the cloth, and a robin sang cheer-up cheerily in the fir tree outside the tent.

Riley stared at the blueberry bush nearest the gate. “I have a question.” He pointed at the bush. “Which berries do I pick?”

I picked a plump berry and held it for Riley to inspect. “Pick ones that are blue-purple. A little red’s okay. If they have white or green, leave them on the bush.”

He reached his hand halfway to a berry.

“Don’t worry about making a mistake. If the berry is too green to ripen off the bush, I’ll give it to the worms.”

He picked the berry and dropped it, plink, into the bucket.

“And it’s okay to eat some while you pick.”

“I won’t.” He bent to reach a berry on a low branch. “I don’t like blueberries.”

My hand stopped mid-reach for a blueberry. “You’re picking even though you don’t like blueberries?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Deva moved to the second bush. “He can help.”

A vision of the cookie jar flashed through my mind. “Would you eat blueberries in cookies? I baked blueberry drop cookies for you.”

His mouth twisted askew.

“He can try one,” Deva said dropping three berries into the bucket.

After we picked berries from the four bushes in the north garden and the six in the south garden, Riley said, “I have a question. Can we go to the creek now?”

“Not yet.” I clipped the cover cloth onto the chicken wire of the last blueberry cage. “I need to get out of the heat for awhile.”

He squinted at the blue sky. “The creek is shady.”

Hoping Riley wouldn’t be disappointed, I shook my head. “I’m old and I’m hot. I need to rest before we go to the creek.”

Deva pointed to the garden. “We can help Mr. Wells.”

Without a mumble or frown, Riley marched to Spence, grabbed a watering can, and tipped it toward strawberry plants. Deva helped the fellas.

I rinsed the blueberries, changed into shorts and creek walking shoes, grabbed my camera, and had time to relax on the porch before they’d finished.

We moseyed across the field and downhill to Deer Creek. Holding onto a sapling trunk and using an old tree root as a ladder rung, we climbed down into ankle-chilling water.

Sunshine glittered off ripples. Minnows darted against the current. A wood thrush sang in whistles and trills. While we waded to the dam that the beavers had rebuilt this spring, water gurgled and swished. Riley stooped, selected a stone, and tossed it, plunk, into the beaver pool.

“Ooh. Do that again, Riley,” I took the cap off my camera lens. “It makes a great picture.”

Deva found crayfish scampering along the silty rock bottom. Riley bent to gaze at the critters then climbed out of the creek and waded through waste high grass on beaver island with Spence.

At our cookout dinner, the grownups caught up on missing family and friends so Riley finished eating first. He wandered off to pet the cats and didn’t return until I opened the cookie jar. He inspected the blue-botched, tan cookies then watched his mom eat one.

“These are delicious,” she said and reached for another.

I nibbled a cookie too but reached for a hot dog. “I have a question, Riley.” I cut a tiny slice of meat. “Would you help me get George to take his medicine? First, see if he’ll eat the hot dog.”

Carrying the sliver on the palm of his hand, Riley walked to George resting in my Adirondack chair. “He ate it,” Riley said walking back.

I stuffed a half Pepcid pill in the second slice.

Riley took the loaded slice to George. “He’s sniffing it. He won’t eat it.”

Next, Riley tried a chicken-burger disguise and a buttered pill. Like Riley and the blueberry cookies, George chose not to eat the offered treats.

The whole day had been a treat for Spence and me. We waved goodbye to Deva and Riley and to our unneeded list of activities to keep a ten-year-old entertained. He’d found interest in his surroundings and took pleasure in the moment―life lessons many need decades to learn.

Beaver Dam and Ripples from Riley's Pebble Toss