Reflections on the First Week of Winter – Not My Mother-in-Law’s Fruit Salad

Wells Wood Fruit Salad

Perched on the middle rung of my husband’s five-foot stepladder, I reached over my head into Douglas fir branches. Above me sunshine peaked through the clouds on the mild August 30^th afternoon. Below me, Spence steadied the ladder with both hands so it wouldn’t tip on the uneven ground of the evergreen nursery. I grabbed a wild grape, and a fir branch grabbed my floppy garden hat.

“When you write the garden summary for this year,” Spence said squinting at the wild grape vines growing twenty feet high into the fir, “it’s fruit year.”

I rescued my hat and dropped the grape into a picking bucket on the top step. “Ooh! I can make Christmas fruit salad with just Wells Wood fruit.”

Spence chortled. “That’s planning far ahead.”

Not far enough. If I’d thought of using Wells Wood fruit last June, I could have frozen the five cherries that ripened after I baked the cherry pie. [See “What’s a country girl do on the seventh day of summer?” June 27, 2018]

Five cherries wouldn’t make much difference. You’re fretting about Priscilla.

My mother-in-law made fruit salad for Christmas Day every year.

And it took twenty years to convince her to let you make the fruit salad.

I almost failed.

You passed her test. Forget it.

Forget it? Hardly.

Twenty-five years ago on Christmas Eve afternoon, I reached into our cramped Cleveland Heights refrigerator to pull out apples, oranges, and tangerines. Then I lifted bananas and a pineapple off the top of the refrigerator. Setting everything on the counter, I shrieked. “I forgot the frozen strawberries!”

My husband rushed upstairs from the basement, put a hand on my shoulder, and surveyed the counter. “You’ve got plenty of fruit. You don’t need strawberries.”

“Yes. I do.” I slammed the cutting board on the counter next to the fruit. “When your mother agreed to let me make the fruit salad this year, she stipulated, ‘Don’t forget the frozen strawberries. It’s not fruit salad without frozen strawberries.’”

Spence rubbed my shoulder. “She can do without strawberries for one year.”

“But she’ll never trust me again.” I pressed my face against Spence’s chest.

Our son Charlie and daughter Ellen, both in their late teens, hurried into the standing-room-only kitchen. “What’s wrong with Mom?” they said in unison.

Spence hugged me with one arm and rubbed my back with his other hand. “She forgot the strawberries.”

Everbearing Strawberry

“So? Drive to the store and get some,” Charlie said in his practical voice.

“It’s Christmas Eve.” I let go of Spence, grabbed a tissue, and blew my nose. “Stores won’t be open.”

“Of course they will. It’s nineteen ninety-three.” Charlie held out his hand. “Give me the keys. Ellen and I will go.”

“Make sure they’re frozen strawberries,” I called when they stepped outside.

The next morning in Priscilla’s Pittsburgh kitchen, I handed her a large mixing bowl covered with aluminum foil.

She harrumphed, lifted the foil, and peeked inside. “At least you remembered the strawberries.” Handing the bowl back to me, she pointed to the kitchen doorway. “Put the bowl on the dining room table and get a serving spoon from the china cabinet drawer.”

Every subsequent Christmas Eve, the Priscilla fruit-salad-strawberry episode has reverberated through my mind while I cut fruit.

But this Christmas Eve I didn’t cut a single fruit. I opened freezer bags, dumped the spring and summer Wells Wood fruit harvest into bowls, and defrosted the pre-cut pieces in the micro wave.

Strawberries from the patch I’d weeded when a high-stepping black Morgan pulled an empty sulky down West Creek Road. [See “Strawberry Surprise” April 1, 2018]

 

Wild red raspberries and blackberries that I rescued before ladders crushed the bushes while handymen power washed and stained the front of the log house. [See “Ladder Work” July 15, 2018]

Blueberries I’d picked in abundance under their ghost tents. [See “Garden Ghosts” June 26, 2016]

Rhubarb which my friend Jennifer taste-tested and pronounced ready-to-pick. [See “Rhubarb Rhapsody” September 2, 2018]

Apples from the Wolf River tree that the Pittsburgh Wells family helped harvest. [See “Addy’s Big Adventure (Part 1)” September 7, 2018]

Wild grapes because our domestic grape plants still hadn’t produced in the six-year-old arbor.

By Christmas morning, strawberries and raspberries had tinted apple slices red. Blueberries, blackberries, and wild grapes added contrasting color. Chunks of green rhubarb made the whole salad look festive. I filled a glass compote with the mixture and took my first bite of Wells Wood fruit salad.

With traditional fruit salad, I get the flavor of apple followed by the flavor of orange followed by the flavor of blueberry. Wouldn’t eating each fruit separately taste better?

Not a problem with my nontraditional fruit salad. The smooshed fruit blended so that every bite tasted the same. Only the texture differed―tough wild grape skins and stringy fresh-frozen rhubarb. Instead of chew, swallow, insert-another-spoonful when eating the traditional version, I chewed and spit.

Next Christmas morning I’ll eat fruit salad again―my nontraditional fruit salad. I’ll savor the mixed fruit flavor of an all Wells Wood fruit harvest. And even with frozen strawberries, I’ll contemplate Priscilla harrumphing at the smooshed fruit and the spit-inducing. chewy texture.

Bushel of Wolf River Apples

Reflections on the Last Week of Fall – Holding Him Close

George Knightley Wells     January 16, 2003 - December 20,2018

Wednesday afternoon, George, one of our long-haired cats, lay on his black fleece blanket in front of the wood stove fire. Once so heavy that vets put him on diets for years, he’d lost so many pounds in the last three months that he weighed about as much as he had on his first birthday. Kidney failure wore him down to black and white fur covering bones.

Writing Christmas cards in the Adirondack chair, I kept an eye on him. He rotated on the blanket getting warm on each side. Then he crept toward the fire box.

Dropping my pen, cards, and lap desk to the floor, I leapt over the clutter and grabbed him. “You’re too close, big boy. You’ll set your fur on fire.”

When I laid George on his blanket, he rose to sphinx pose. I wrote two more Christmas cards before he broke the pose. He looked at the firebox, at me, then the firebox. Was George wondering how to get closer to the warmth while I watched from the chair?

He didn’t resolve the problem before my husband returned from stacking firewood on the porch. “Come on, Georgie. We’re gonna to take a nap.” Spence took off his outdoor gear, scooped George off the floor, and carried him to the sofa. Balancing George in one arm, Spence arranged pillows and lay down with his buddy.

George wiggled off Spence’s outdoor-chilled tummy.

Spence reached his arm around George. Holding him close, Spence closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Dashing for my camera, I wished for the thousandth time that I had the talent of falling asleep as soon as I got horizontal.

Spence Napping with George

Thursday morning around 5:00, the house had cooled. George jumped off the corner of the bed with a thud, thumped two steps, and whimpered.

Sitting bolt upright, I shouted, “Spence! Something’s wrong with George.”

But Spence already straddled the cat. “He’s frustrated because his legs gave out.” Spence reached down and scooped up George.

“Maybe he wanted to warm up by the fire.” Yawning I wondered if I could go back to sleep. “Or maybe he wanted to find Emma.”

Emma merrowed from the hall.

“I’ll make him a fire.” Spence scratched George under his chin then carried him away.

Laying down, I pulled the covers up to my ears. I closed my eyes and listened to the firebox door squeak open, logs thud into the box, and the wood stove clank with changing temperatures. Then the house quieted, but I didn’t sleep. My mind reviewed George’s week―greeting me at the door when I’d returned from an afternoon in Meadville, following his sister around the great room, darting outside when the door opened, and turning his head to watch what we did.

At breakfast our son Charlie put his fork down, shaped an imaginary box with one hand, and pinched the fingers of his other hand as if dangling an imaginary paper. “A young woman handed me a label and a box that wasn’t closed. Looking sheepish, she asked if the box was okay. I told her it was fine. I’d take care of it.”

Spence sipped his coffee. “Funny Christmas package story.”

“Wait.” Charlie shifted in his chair. “That’s not the point. A driver was standing nearby. After the woman left he said, ‘You thought you could do a better job fixing the package than she could.’” Charlie flicked his fingers as if shooing the young woman away. “He was right. I didn’t want to wait for her to fuss over the box then have to redo it anyway.”

While the fellas laughed, I glanced at George. His ears twitched, but he didn’t turn his head.

After breakfast, I led my personal UPS packing expert to the loft. I wanted his help packing presents for my daughter who’d canceled her visit because of kitty troubles―Trixie needed twice a day penicillin for a urinary infection followed by surgery to remove an infected eye. Over the phone I’d told her, “I understand kitty troubles. Take care of Trixie and yourself.”

Leaning over the cedar chest topped by Christmas packages, I grabbed a mailing carton, carried it to the sewing table, and fitted the packages inside. I turned to get filler material.

Charlie pulled the box to him, rearranged the packages, and tested that they were compact. He picked up scissors, cut the corners of the box down to package level, and folded in the sides.

No filler needed. I put it away.

Downstairs, Spence said, “Time to clean you up, George.”

George whimpered.

In his don’t-worry voice, Spence said, “This won’t hurt. I’m just washing your chin.”

Upstairs, Charlie creased the sides until they laid flat. He taped the box.

Now I’m going to comb you floated up the stairs.

I pulled the box back and attached the label.

Two plaintive cat wails came from the great room.

Leaving the box, I hustled downstairs. “Stop combing! You’re hurting him.”

Spence sat on his heels. “I’m not combing him. He tried to walk. His legs didn’t work.”

Laying between his blanket and the food bowl, George wailed, gagged and drooled clear stomach acid.

Spence lifted George and lay him on the blanket.

George wailed, gagged, and drooled again.

While I wiped up the sticky drool, the vet’s words circled through my head. “He’s not in pain. He’ll feel nauseous, like he has the flu.” No fun.

Spence stroked George’s back.

I held his front paws.

George wailed, gagged, and drooled a final time.

Tears clogged my throat and drenched my face.

Charlie, who’d come down so quietly I hadn’t heard him, stood vigil near Emma resting on the sofa.

Spence petted George’s head. “We’re losing him.”

With my sobs piercing the silence, George closed his eyes. His bony body relaxed, and his breathing shallowed. Within ten minutes from his first wail, George took his last breath.

Mid afternoon I wrapped him―legs stiff―in the black fleece blanket. Then I fetched my purse.

Spence zipped up his thermal vest. “Who’s driving?”

“You are.” I put on my coat.

Spence pulled on his stocking knit cap. “Which vehicle?”

Picking up the blanket-wrapped cat and holding him close, I said, “Yours.”

Spence stared at the bundle. “How are we going to―”

“I’m going to hold him.”

So in the pickup truck, Spence drove us to Greenville Veterinary Clinic―a thirty-minute funeral drive.

I held George every inch of the way. Though his legs remained stiff, his back softened as if melting into my arms.

At the vet’s we stood by the counter while a tech checked files, filled out forms for a private cremation, and ran Spence’s credit card. Finally, she said, “I’ll come around the counter and take him now.”

Turning to face the tech, I gently transferred George to her arms. My arms felt empty―a pain worse than nausea, worse than an arthritis flare up. I sobbed and dashed out the door.

Spence followed and put his hand on my shoulder. “George wasn’t there any more. He’s in your heart now.”

Spence is right. George is on our minds and in our hearts.

We’re holding him close.

George on the Gate