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