Reflections on the Seventh Week of Summer – A Tale of Two (Part 2)

June 1, 1968 Janet and Spence

On a mid June evening, Spence walked back from the mailbox and dropped a handful of ads onto my lap. He settled on the sofa and opened a letter from our longtime friends Eric and Kay. Scanning the typed letter, Spence said, “Listen to this!”

. . . 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 . . .

Spence waved a card with blue and gold pictures of lighthouses. “They were generous. We can go to Bayfront Grille some weekend.”

Another anniversary dinner provided by Eric and Kay? My mouth watered at the memory of her spicy tomato sauce smothering the al dente zucchini spaghetti we’d eaten June first. Eric and Kay had cooked dinner for us because Spence was too ill for the planned walk on Presque Isle and dinner in Erie. Due to Eric and Kay’s gift, I’d have a chance to savor the restaurant’s blood orange sorbet that tasted like sugary sunshine. “I want to go on my birthday. We can have a double celebration―our fiftieth and my seventieth.”

Spence stuffed the letter and certificate into the envelope. “Fine. We’ll go the weekend before or after your birthday.”

“No.” I summoned my explaining-teacher voice and struck a theatrical fists-on-hips pose. “I want to go on Tuesday, July twenty-fourth, my actual birthday.” I didn’t say if neither of us gets sick.

He handed me the envelope. “Right. I’ll mark my calendar.”

A week before my birthday, I woke with sharp, pressing pains as if an elephant and stingray battled in my shoulder, upper right chest, and entire right arm. It felt like the pinched nerve that took months to subside. I called Sheakleyville Health Care Center and left a message listing symptoms for Cynthia, my physician assistant. Maybe she’d give me a cortisone shot to quicken the recovery so Spence and I could make the Presque Isle trip.

I hung up the phone, grabbed my purse, and found Spence watering plants. “I’ve got a meeting at Our Lady of Lourdes to audit the quilt guild’s accounts.” I pulled the keys out of my purse. “Please take a message from the health center for me.”

“Don’t you think you should cancel?” Spence set the watering can on the floor. “You’re not in any shape to drive.”

“Can’t. The guild treasurer is already at the church, and I don’t have the number. It’s too late to cancel.” Heading out the door, I called over my shoulder. “Besides, it’s only five miles, and I won’t stay long. I’ll be fine.”

Half right.

Because the treasurer forgot the books, I couldn’t do the audit, and I didn’t stay long. But, during the country drive, the pain increased to teeth-gritting agony. I hustled home, collapsed in the Adirondack chair, and interrupted Spence’s computer work. “What did the medics say?”

He kept typing. “They didn’t call back.”

Sheesh! I dialed the health care center and reached a nurse on the second transfer.

“There’s a note here for you.” She paused. Paper rustling sounds came over the line. “It says make an appointment with an orthopedist or go to EMS. How is the pain?”

I spit one word through my clenched jaw. “Worse!”

At twice the speed of her previous comments, she said, “Go to EMS now. A heart isn’t anything to mess with.”

Great. I could be having a heart attack. But, looking on the positive side, I might recover faster from that than from a pinched nerve.

So late Tuesday morning, Spence drove to Greenville hospital while I gripped the armrest and practiced yoga breathing.

Nurses, technicians, and doctors swarmed over me for an EKG, blood tests, x-rays, and explanations. “Your heart and blood work are fine.” The EMS doctor looked at his notes. “Arthritis degenerated your right shoulder socket. And you have a shoulder strain. Take acetaminophen and rub a topical liniment on the area. Come back if your symptoms don’t improve.”

Back at home, I nestled whichever part ached the worst against the heating pad, gulped acetaminophen, and rubbed on Capzasin at bedtime. After two days, I grumbled to Spence. “I can’t bear to sit still any longer.”

“Work on a task for fifteen minutes.” He handed me the kitchen timer. “Then rest fifteen minutes.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Every fifteen minutes, like a police car’s blaring siren coming up behind me, the timer warned me to stop.

Sew patchwork―rest.

Scoop cat litters―rest.

Pick blueberries―rest.

Though annoying, I followed the regiment and studied the calendar. Five more days until blood orange sorbet. I could do this. On the weekend, I increased the timer to thirty minutes. Progress.

Presque Isle Bay

My birthday dawned cloudy. Spence squinted at his computer. “All day rain forecast for Erie. And afternoon thunderstorms.”

Sheesh! I’d babied my shoulder and arm all week for a rainout? “We can take an umbrella and follow the Swan Cove-Waterworks Loop like we’d planned to do with Eric and Kay. If it rains, at least we won’t be on sand or a dirt path.”

If we encountered thunderstorms, my umbrella-sidewalk plan would wash out. I checked Erie book stores on the Internet, wrote the address for Werner Books, then packed―umbrella, lunch, dinner clothes, camera, Capzasin, and Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park.

Under gray clouds an hour later, Spence drove onto Presque Isle and parked at Swan Cove. With the camera around my neck, cell phone in a pocket, and Gene’s guide book in my hands, I walked with Spence and read, “. . . painted turtles . . . jockey for the best position on the log. They stack themselves atop one another . . .” No turtles jockeyed but fragrant white water lilies bloomed around the edge of the pond and a flock of red-winged blackbirds sang conk-la-ree.

We ambled along the path by the bay. A breeze blew off the water. Waves lapped. Ducks bobbed.

Crossing the tree lined sidewalk past the Cookhouse Pavilion, we followed Gene’s loop then took his suggestion to eat lunch at a picnic table by the bay.

Geese cocked their heads in our direction. They swam to shore and edged toward us. When I didn’t toss any of my pita bread or pumpkin muffin, they waddled back to the water.

Gazing across the bay, I studied the lumpy clouds hovering above the horizon. “The rain held off.” I shoved the empty containers into the lunch bag. “Do you want to take a short walk on a beach?”

Rain on Lake Erie

“I’m with you. Let’s go to Barracks Beach. It had sea glass the last time we walked there.”

At Barracks Beach, we waded through the loose sand to the water’s edge.

A woman and two preschool girls frolicked in the waves.

Sprinkles fell.

The youngest ran out of the lake and, with her bathing suit dripping onto the sand, yelled, “Rain alert! Watch out. We’re gonna get wet.”

Spence and I exchanged a wink and a smirk then left them gathering their sand buckets and towels.

Splashing through lapping waves, I walked on wet sand.

He stayed on dry sand, squinted at the sky, then looked at the ground. “Sprinkles make every rock shiny. That makes it hard to find sea glass.”

We didn’t find any glass, but I did find driftwood―fanny-perching size. I sat and patted the space beside me. “Sit here. I want to get a photo for our anniversary.”

Spence smiled for the photo then said, “Do you want to walk further or turn back?”

“Turn back. I’m pooped, and my shoulder’s had enough.”

We retraced our steps.

Clouds obscured the horizon. Pelting rain pitted sand and waves. Lightning streaked the sky.

Spence drove off the peninsula. Tires splashed through puddles. Too early for our dinner reservations, Spence navigated to Werner Books. We dashed inside the narrow storefront to a long room filled with shelves and shelves of mostly used books. After a leisurely browse, we bought nine books and dashed back to the car.

“The only problem with that book store was,” Spence said backing out of the parking place, “it was too well organized.” He turned onto Liberty Street. “And it didn’t have enough dust.”

So, after two months of anticipation, Spence drove me to Bayfront Grille. We sat by the window, watched the Scallywags pirate ships circle around the bay, and dined on grilled asparagus, rib eye, and chicken. Ducks bobbed in the choppy water.

I studied the dessert menu. No sorbet listed.

When our willowy waitress returned, I said, “Do you still have blood orange sorbet?”

She nodded. “It’s in the garage freezer, but I don’t mind going out to get it for you. Our main freezer broke.”

She walked away and came back with coffee for Spence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Everything in the garage freezer has a new name―el soup-o. Would you like something different?”

I settled for fruit salad.

While Spence drove home, I relaxed my elbow on the armrest and gazed out the window. A rainbow arced across towering gray clouds to end our day of thorough celebration―walking on the park, picnicking by the bay, wading in Lake Erie, browsing in a book store, and eating a special dinner. In addition, the manager of Bayfront Grille had written the change from our bill on Eric and Kay’s gift certificate―more than enough money left for a bowl of blood orange sorbet some future weekend.

7-24-18 Spence, Janet, and Lake Erie