Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall – Tied by Written Words

Grandma Lohse's Diary

Grandma Lohse kept a journal?

I reread my cousin Julie’s September 16^th email.

I recently found a journal of Grandma's . . . It was 1957 . . . she had an entry on the day I was born . . . It was a great find. It is pretty basic. One sentence entries . . .

What would those sentences reveal about our dads’ mom in her sixty-sixth year? I emailed back. I'd love to take a peek at her journal – if you could bring it when you visit in October.

Last Sunday Julie, as bright as a tulip and wrapped in a gray winter coat, stepped inside the log house. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a paperback size, green leather book that had lost its spine. Gold letters labeled the front―Five Year Diary.

My pulse scissor-kicked into lap swimming speed.

Julie and I sat side by side at the kitchen table. Like a youngster about to divulge a secret, she held the book between us and opened to the middle then flipped pages. “It’s a five year diary. Grandma mostly wrote in fifty-seven and fifty-eight.”

I poured tea. Whiffs of licorice fragrance rose from our china cups. Fifty-seven and fifty-eight were years Grandpa and Grandma rented a room from Betsy in Louisville, Kentucky. But Betsy, I’d learned on a family visit, was more of a friend than a landlord.

Julie stopped flipping at November 7, smoothed the page, and read.

Went to Covington Dayton & Carrolton.

Jim called Baby Julie

born at 11.15 7 lbs

We giggled.

Julie turned back to mid April and I read.

Betsy went to Indianapolis

Worked

“Grandpa worked at GE in Louisville,” Julie said and turned the page.

Each of us held one side of the book and took turns reading Grandma’s words out loud.

Bot blue dress $10 black and white dress $17

I put my finger under Bot. “She simplified words!”

“Seventeen dollars was a lot for a dress back then.” Julie sipped her tea.

We kept reading. Throughout the next two months Grandma listed symptoms.

Dizzy . . . vomited . . . headache . . . Dr said niacin

“Niacin?” I put the book down, bit into a blueberry drop cookie, and savored the cookie’s light almond flavor mixed in with Wells Wood blueberries.

Julie said, “Vitamin B.”

I took Vitamin B supplements for vertigo. Putting together the symptoms Grandma had listed on various pages, I wondered if I’d gotten my vertigo from her.

Several pages later, Grandma’s 1958 entry of new Mercury dampened my enthusiasm. Voice quavering, I said to Julie, “Dad drove that Mercury after Grandpa died.” I flipped pages back and forth. “Grandma doesn’t mention Grandpa dying. When did he die?”

Our eyes met and the dread I felt about not finding the answer reflected in Julie’s eyes. We couldn’t ask our dads―they had died along with all the others in their generation. Would our older sisters know? Our older cousin Joe?

I racked my memory. “Grandpa died in the summer. We’d driven from Pittsburgh to Erie for the funeral, but I played with my little brother in Grandma’s front yard while the family attended the funeral. I wore a new summer dress. But what year?”

A spark erased the dread in Julie’s eyes. “There’s a copy of Grandpa’s obituary in Dad’s old desk. I’ll email the date to you.” And she did―June 28, 1960.

Grandma Lohse's Diary - November 7

But, reassured at the time, we continued and discovered patterns.

Tornado . . . rain . . . HOT HOT HOT . . . snow

Permanent LaRue . . . nails LaRue . . . hair cut LaRue

Ate at Glass House . . . ate at race track . . . ate at Leonharts . . . ate at Bolands . . . coffee and pie at Mason Dixon after church

“Who’d have thought they’d eat out so often?” Julie said.

What impressed me were Grandma’s repeated entries about letters.

Letter from Marge . . . Letter from Jane . . . Letter from Dorothy . . .

My husband, who’d been typing away at his computer in his indefatigable pursuit to save children from lead poisoning, called to Julie from his great-room-sofa office. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’m making pizza with homegrown tomato sauce.”

Julie set her side of the diary on the table and turned to face Spence. “That sounds delicious, but I don’t have time. I’m working two jobs now so weekend time is precious.”

While they discussed her new job with Aetna and her old job counseling private clients, my mind ruminated on letters. Grandma had valued letters.

On my computer, a Keepers folder stored special emails. And in the loft letters from friends and family crammed a file cabinet drawer. The latest came from Lori, a cousin on my mom’s side of the family.

I’d sent her a postcard, Adventure of Tea Cup Rock – Part 1 [See “Adventure at Tea Cup Rock” September 30, 2018], ending with Spence and I locked out of our rental car without cell phone service and needing help. I’d sent her daughter Ellie part two of the saga so that Lori wouldn’t be left in suspense.

After Lori had read the postcard, she wrote me a five page letter.

What a great story! It so sounds like something I would do. Ellie is out for the evening so I can’t get episode II until she gets back.

Snuggled in my Adirondack chair, I’d read Lori’s news with relish.

Ellie is still at home. She is trying to find full time work that she will enjoy. But isn’t being 22 and undecided what being 22 is for?

Twenty-two? It seemed like just a few years ago that Spence and I had visited the cousins in Toledo, and I’d played swimming Barbie dolls with first grade Ellie in Lori’s kitchen sink. I read on.

As I write this her mini pig, Pigby Proctor, is walking around the family room grunting hello to you. He is a 50 lb, pot belly mix . . . very handsome . . . all black . . . kind, loving, sweet and sometimes very pig headed. He was of course a rescue animal . . . I’m still retired. I’ll help out at fund raisers for animal rescue groups doing psychic mediumship readings and animal communication. Work is much more fun when you’re doing it to help someone else . . .

Lori’s five pages, like Grandma’s diary, Keeper emails, and filed letters, were written words that tied others’ lives to mine―like threads securing the layers of a quilt.

The movement of Julie turning in her chair and picking up her half of the diary pulled me back from my letter reverie.

Julie and I finished reading through New Year’s Eve then started back on January first. When we’d nearly finished, we found a reference to me―not flattering―on April 4, 1958.

Bob & kids came

4:30

Janet got sick

Maybe, if my nine-year-old self had treasured letters as much as my adult self, I could have made an entry in Grandma’s diary for writing her a letter instead of for getting sick.

Grandma Lohse's Diary - April 4

 

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Fall – Raising Spiders

Dewy Spiderweb between Dried Purple Coneflowers

Two weeks ago, I reached for a tissue on the kitchen counter, and a grass spider brushed against my arm. Taking refuge from fall weather, the spider rappelled on a line of silk from the bottom of a kitchen cabinet. Not where spiders belong.

Repurposing the tissue from nose blowing to spider cocooning, I―Violence Alert―squeezed. Without looking at the remains, I tossed the tissue into the burnables container. “Another spider,” I said to my husband cooking breakfast at the stove.

Spence held the cast iron skillet in one hand and stirred his concoction of bulgur, peppers, broccoli, and pork with the other. “We’re raising spiders.”

Looking beyond him to the window above the kitchen sink, I spied the black and yellow garden spider. Its web of concentric circles occupied most of the space between the window glass and screen. Spence had named the spider Charlotte for E. B. White’s famous character. I’d enjoyed watching Charlotte embalm bugs, repair the web, and hang in the sunset-lit silk waiting for prey. We weren’t really raising Charlotte, but Spence had a point about raising spiders.

Three summers ago, he’d called from the basement. “Come down. You won’t believe this.”

I tromped down the spiral stairs.

Spence pointed. “I opened the basement door. That snake slithered in between my feet.”

A coiled garter snake. Beneath the seedling shelves. Not where garter snakes belong. I took a giant step toward the stairs. “Are you going to catch it and take it outside?”

Spence stooped to evaluate. “I can’t drag it out.” He stood. “I’ll just leave it. It’ll die without food.”

As if on cue, a longbodied cellar spider crawled from under empty seedling trays stacked on the floor. “It does have food.” I took another step toward the stairs. “Spiders and bugs.” And what if the young snake climbed the stairs? Or worse, what if it were a she? She could birth several dozen babies that I’d have to dodge every time I scooped litter boxes in the basement. “We―” I meant he, “―have to get it out of here.”

Spence handled the invader―Violence Alert―with a garden folk.

I didn’t watch.

Without the garter snake, longbodied cellar spiders flourished in dark basement crannies. Better than baby snakes. But we weren’t raising the spiders yet.

 

Longbodied Cellar Spider

First we raised red wrigglers inside the worm compost factory in the shower stall of the basement bathroom.

Keeping the bathroom light on discouraged red wrigglers from escaping. I wanted the wrigglers inside the factory―turning vegetable peels and spoiled fruit into compost―not drying out on the cement floor. But raising wrigglers meant raising something else.

A year after the invading-garter-snake summer, I entered the bathroom to feed the worms and walked through a cloud of buzzing fruit flies. They crawled on white bathroom fixtures and the light gray wallboard. Worse, when I lifted the food tray lid, they darted into my eyes and up my nose. Enough. I needed to stop the population explosion of fruit flies that had sneaked in on food scraps---especially pieces of Wells Wood strawberries.

I climbed atop my step stool, balanced, and pulled a fly strip from its carton. The sticky yellow paper stuck to my sleeve, caught strands of my hair, and glued my fingertips together. Undaunted, I hung four fly strips in the bathroom―two over the worm factory, one over the sink, and one behind the door. Fruit flies landed on the strips often enough for me to change them―balancing and sticking―every other month.

Fruit flies multiplied.

So I stuck strawberry scraps in the freezer to discourage hidden fruit flies then thawed the scraps to feed the worms. And I sprinkled BTI pellets in the worm food tray, in the sink, and in a container of water.

Fruit flies multiplied again.

I―Violence Alert―smeared fruit flies against the wallboard. When Spence has time to finish the basement bathroom, he can paint it smooshed-fruit-fly brown.

Fruit flies multiplied yet again. I checked the Internet. One fruit fly can lay up to five hundred eggs, and development from egg to adult fly takes about a week. Sheesh. I needed help, and here’s where we raised spiders.

A herd of longbodied cellar spiders braved the bathroom light for the ample supply of fruit flies. They crisscrossed the bathroom with webs. Webs in rafters, around pipes, and triangulating corners? Great. I moved around those webs and let the spiders feast.

Webs in the sink, across the walk space, and under the toilet seat? Not where spiderwebs belong. So I trained the spiders like people train other domesticated animals. When a spider laid silk in an inappropriate place, I tapped the edge of the web to send a relocation notice. The spider vibrated in a circle then hustled on all eight legs over my hand. With the spider safe to dine on more fruit flies, I wiped the web away. In time, only newbies suffered the tap-vibrate-hustle evictions.

This week, my partners and I, with the help of high temperatures ranging from 59ºF (15ºC) to 45ºF (7ºC), got the fruit flies under control. The longbodied cellar spiders will dine on embalmed flies soon. And the web between the kitchen window pane and screen disappeared. Charlotte disappeared too. Our spider raising days dwindled.

Or not.

Tuesday morning, the sound of Spence tapping computer keys in the great room floated down the hall. I rolled over in bed and flung my arm onto the empty pillow. A false black widow spider shuffled from under the blanket to my arm. 

Not where spiders belong. Violence Alert.

Black and Yellow Garden Spider

Guest Blog by Spencer Charles – A Journal by Emma Wells (Technically, a Cat)

Tall Emma - photo by Spencer Charles

       It is very difficult for a person in my position to gain the attention and respect of which any sentient being should expect as their due. I attribute this to my height. Were I taller, I feel, that the slights and injuries to which I am subjected every day, would be far more reasonable. To rectify this, I have been practicing. So far the results have been mixed, but one must endure and persist.

      My people mean well. They are nice. But being tall themselves, it is quite easy for them to overlook me, and in doing so, frequently to turn what I am sure they look upon as an act of kindness into that which borders upon wanton cruelty.

 

My brother, on the other hand, is an idiot. People seem to think he is eccentric and big hearted. They are incorrect. He is an idiot. To say that he means well, would be to imply that he thinks. To date I have seen no evidence of any such activity. It came therefore as a very cruel shock, when I discovered that my person, Janet, has had my brother, this semi-animated hairball, writing guest posts for her blog. [See”George’s Big Morning” September 23, 2018 and “Bonus Guest Blog” September 6, 2015]

 Not once, but twice! Twice! Once, one might grant as a momentary desperation so great to be willing to sacrifice one’s own self worth for whatever stick-figure, comic-strip, drawn-in-kitty-litter drivel that that semi-animated hairball was able to come up with. Possibly, although less likely, there was a case of mistaken identity. But, twice! One shudders to think what Jovian patience Janet must have had to conjure up in order to cope with reading through the scornful, vitriolic hate mail she must have received for subjecting the internet to such posts.

      Caring for my people, and the world at large, as I do, I can not but feel at least somewhat responsible. I have been asked, numerous times in the past, to help with providing a well penned word or two, invitations which I had always felt obliged to turn down. Had I known what the results of those refusals would be, I should not have been so quick. As tried and oppressed as I am by my boorish brother, clearly it is the rest of the world that needs protecting from him. My duty then is clear. Seeing that Janet is at the end of another short week and in need of a guest blog once again, I have offered myself up to provide a web-post-thingie in her (and definitely in my idiot brother’s) absence. It is the least that I can do.

      I must confess that I am not an avid consumer of “the internets.” Tweets are for birds, webs are for spiders; late romantic literature is more to my taste. However, the concept does not seem too hard. Having looked over Janet’s previous posts, her blog would seem to be a timely recounting of various daily events. That seems easy enough. Just last week, I lived through a Wednesday that, if not worthy of an Homerian Epic, should still prove quite grand in the telling. So, it is my great pleasure to provide you with an outline of it for your entertainment. Please enjoy.

Emma's Head in Toy Basket

4:00 am Ready for the start of a fast paced, hectic day. A large nourishing breakfast is required.

4:01 am Strange. All of my people seem to be asleep.

4:02 am My attempts to wake Janet and the Old Man Person have failed. This is quite intolerable.

5:37 am After a quick nap, I am awake again. Another quick circuit of the house reveals that all my people are still asleep.

5:38 am My idiot brother approaches. I quickly deter his advance with a savage beating about his vacuous head. He runs, chastised.

5:39 am Success! In search of comfort, my idiot brother has awoken the Old Man Person.

5:41 am Morning sustenance has been obtained. Now, there is just enough time for a quick nap in the hallway.

6:47 am Emergency! Panic! All of my people have awoken and are trying to WALK THROUGH THE HALLWAY! WITH SHOES ON!!!

6:48 am I have finished administering reprimands. All seem appropriately chastened.

6:50 am I have arrived at the living room couch.

6:51 am After a great expenditure of effort, I have enlisted the assistance of the Young Person. He has cleaned the sofa of unwanted pillows and lifted me up onto it. Working from experience, I have deftly cut off his attempts to escape and convinced him to sit down and commence with the petting. Perfect.

7:05 am The petting has stopped for some reason. Did the Young Person hurt his arm? No matter. It was about time for a quick nap anyway.

9:57 am I awake to find that the Young Person is gone and that my idiot brother has taken his place. I administer a head beating as a corrective.

Two Cats on the Sofa

10:10 am Time to curl up on the rug on the floor of the guest room, just so. It has to be just so, so that one eye can be kept on the door to the hallway, and the other closed while taking a quick nap.

10:30 am Success! The Young Person tried to sneak past me! He has however been stopped. Time to be picked up, placed on the guest room bed and petted.

10:49 am The petting has stopped. There must be something wrong with the Young Person’s arm. Perhaps the Old Man Person should take him to the vet.

1:09 pm After another quick nap, time for LUNCH.

1:10 pm My idiot brother is at the food bowl. He isn't eating. He is staring at me.

1:11 pm He is still staring at me.

1:12 pm Outrageous. Just as I start to eat, the IMBECILE STARTS LICKING MY HEAD. This is intolerable.

1:13 pm I give up and let him have the food bowl. The idiot starts to eat. Apparently he is hungry now. Fine. I will get some refreshing water instead.

1:14 pm NOO!!! MORE LICKING! That’s it! I can't take anymore.

1:15 pm I have retreated to the bed in the loft where no one will think to look for me. I clean my head thoroughly. Maybe I will just lie down for a quick little nap.

3:30 pm Still thirsty. Time to sneak downstairs, just so. It is a manner that will guarantee that no one will hear the gong like, resonating tones as I drop from stair to metal stair.

3:31 pm Arrival. All my people and the idiot seem oblivious. Success!

3:35 pm Refreshment acquired, it seems like time for a quick nap in Janet’s room.

5:35 pm The Old Man Person is yelling? What is going on?

5:37 pm They forgot to call me for dinner! Imbeciles.

5:45 pm Janet is ignoring me. I need petted. I know she can see me. I am right here on my blanket beside her chair. Hello? This is intolerable.

5:46 pm Janet is not responding to my good natured attempts to maul her arm. Fine. I will take a nap instead.

6:38 pm Refreshed. Now, it’s time to get up into Janet's lap!

6:49 pm Still on the floor. This is intolerable.

9:07 pm Awoken by the Old Man Person calling me. What? No! It is not time to go to bed with Janet! She was ignoring me! She can sleep by herself!

9:08 pm WHY AM I BEING PICKED UP?!? THIS IS INTOLERABLE.

9:10 pm In bed with Janet, receiving pets. What a day!

FIN.

Emma Napping in Yoga Twist Pose

Reflections on the Second Week of Fall – Warnings vs. Signs

Deer Creek

My husband’s cell phone vibrated and shimmed across the coffee table.

Ignoring the phone, I tied my outdoor shoes. I had a mission―find signs of fall for my brother in Florida.

On the first full day of fall, he’d sent a text. Is it fall yet?

Yes. I’d tapped tiny phone screen letters. We took a woods walk to celebrate. Only a few colored leaves so far.

Still summer here. Hot with afternoon and evening thunderstorms.

Since I’d sent my brother one sign of fall on the first day of fall, I wanted to find ten signs for him on Tuesday, October 2, the tenth day of fall.

Spence picked up his vibrating phone. “Hmm. It says tornado warning until four o’clock.” He set the phone down and squinted at the computer on the coffee table. “Weather Channel has warnings for Mercer, Crawford, Venango, Erie . . .” Spence stood, walked to the collection of outdoor footwear on the boot tray by the door, and slipped into his hiking boots. “Looks like all counties in Western Pennsylvania have tornado warnings. Must be pop-up tornadoes.”

I looked out the sliding glass door. Puffy white clouds eased across a blue sky. Willow branches swayed in a gentle breeze. No tornado imminent here. Besides, tornadoes announced spring. I needed signs of fall. I grabbed my camera and stuffed my phone into a pocket. Ready.

Spence and I strolled up the driveway. Yellow-orange leaves covered half the trees along the perimeter of the woods. The burning bush in our front yard and a maple across West Creek Road had red leaves. I focused the camera lens on the maple leaves overhead. With multiple bug bites, they looked like red lace.

When I pressed the shutter button, my phone blasted a warning like a toned-down version of the air-raid siren from the sixties. I opened the phone to an exclamation mark in the middle of a triangle with a flashing red outline. I read the message.

Emergency Alert Extreme

Severe Storm Warning     

til 4:00 PM EDT               

Take shelter now              

Check local media            

NWS                                 

Leaves rustled on trees overhead. Spence took giant steps toward the garage. “I’m gonna put the tractor away.”

I followed him at a slower pace. In the garage driveway, I stepped on a ripe black walnut. The green husk squished. Black goo squirted, and my foot rolled on the hard nut inside. I threw my arms wide for balance, grinned at the familiar fall mini-slide, and caught a whiff of the ginger-lemon fragrance of a black walnut husk. Yummy.

Rounding the garage, I saw Spence back the tractor into its garage basement slot. Asters bloomed beside the door. I pointed the camera at the fall flowers and found a bumblebee drinking aster nectar in the view frame.

Spence closed the garage door, and I admired Queen Anne’s Lace―dried and brown, the flower head had curled inward for fall. We moseyed across the field, around the hemlock, and onto the tractor path through the woods. Fresh fallen leaves crackled under our feet.

My phone blasted its sixties air-raid siren.

Emergency Alert Extreme      

Tornado Warning in this area 

til 4:00 PM EDT                     

Take shelter now                     

Check local media                   

NWS                                        

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and wind blew hair into my face. I checked Spence’s face. With his tractor out of harms way, he didn’t look worried. I swished through the leaves on the tractor path all the way to the creek. A few colored leaves drifted down stream while clusters of others formed leaf mats caught on rocks. We followed the creek through the woods.

My phone blasted its siren a third time.

Emergency Alert Extreme  

Flood Warning in this area 

Take shelter now                

Check local media              

NWS                                   

 I switched my gaze from the phone screen to the creek two feet away. Water gurgled and splashed over rocks. “Maybe we should head back,” I said turning to Spence, “since we’re on the flood plane.”

Spence nodded. “On the lower part of the flood plane at that.”

Asters with Bumblebee

We climbed the hill, left the woods, and walked through the field.

My phone blasted its siren for the fourth time.

 

Emergency Alert Extreme        

Tornado Warning in this area   

til 4:15 PM EDT                        

Take shelter now                       

Check local media                     

NWS                                          

Gray clouds raced across the sky.

Thunder rumbled closer.

Wind tossed willow branches as if the trees were ballerinas twirling across a fall decorated stage.

Spence pointed to the road. “You want to see the acorns? They’re a sign of fall.”

I looked from the spot on the road where he pointed to our sturdy log house―a brief jog away. Doable. I followed Spence around the south garden and caught a whiff of freshly turned earth. Near the end of the dug-up, bottom row, the garden fork stood like a sentinel marking where he’d stopped harvesting Red Pontiac potatoes.

Spence reached the road first. “See. They’re everywhere.”

Smashed, hatless, and bitten acorns mixed with empty caps on the berms. While I searched for nuts with caps for a photo, acorns tapped branches then slapped hard onto the dirt road. I stepped away from the oak tree, and my phone blasted its siren yet again.

Emergency Alert Extreme       

Tornado Warning in this area  

til 4:30 PM EDT                      

Take shelter now                     

Check local media                   

NWS                                        

"The clouds have ragged bottoms now," Spence said.

Wind whistled through the trees and cooled my arms with its moist feel that precedes rain. I clutched my camera and jogged toward the house. Rain fell when I sprinted up the deck ramp.

I settled into my Adirondack chair, downloaded photos, and watched the rain pelt the garden.

Spence, who’d walked to the mailbox before coming inside, tossed the mail onto the coffee table. “I can’t hear the wind in here,” he said picking up our cat George. “We’ll sit on the porch and listen to the storm.”

While Spence and George sat on the porch love seat, wind chimes clanged and thunder boomed.

 

Inside, I listed the signs of fall. Had I found ten?

1. Leaf color.

2. Ripe black walnuts.

3. Blooming asters.

4. Dried Queen Anne’s Lace.

5. Leaves crackling, swishing underfoot and floating on Deer Creek.

6. Potato harvest.

7. Acorn showers.

Only seven. I scrunched my nose at the list then glanced through the sliding glass door. Lightning flashed over the south garden. Not the best time to search for more signs. But, I had driven to the YMCA that morning and passed . . .

8. Golden soybean fields.

9. Pumpkins, mums, and corn stalks decorating homes.

And the most obvious sign of fall in rural Western Pennsylvania? A sign we’d detected from inside the log house. I woke and practiced yoga before sunrise. Spence napped or took walks after dinner because he didn’t have enough light for outdoor chores.

10. Fewer hours of daylight.

Mission accomplished. I congratulated myself and felt pleased about finding ten signs for my brother until two days later when Spence made a casual comment during dinner. “The folks at the meeting in Cleveland laughed at my story―me following when you took a walk during a tornado warning.”

Had I been foolish? I hadn’t taken shelter immediately, but I’d noted conditions and took shelter when the rain started. “We didn’t have a tornado.”

“Actually, there was a tornado. It hit a nursing home in Conneautville.”

Thirty-four miles to the northwest? No imminent danger for my walk. I swallowed a bite of Wells Wood pole beans and wondered if the Cleveland meeting folks had laughed at Spence sitting on the porch during the thunderstorm too. Maybe he didn’t mention that part.

Dried Queen Anne's Lace