Bend in West Creek Road

Reflections on the Third Week of Winter – Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Tuesday, I walked to the car with a springy step that matched our spring-like day―blue skies, puffy white clouds, and balmy 50º F (10º C) air temperature. Driving to Meadville, I visualized an afternoon walk with my husband and listened to the “On Point” discussion of Representative Ocasio-Cortez’s tax proposal to support a Green New Deal. Figuring Congress would never go for a tax hike, let alone a Green New Deal, my spirits drooped. Gray-black clouds meandered across the sky.

A muffled air-raid siren interrupted my reverie and competed with Meghan Chakrabarti’s next question.

Was the radio testing their alert system?

Not in the middle of a program.

Maybe I’m getting interference from another radio station.

Not likely. The blast stays at a consistent volume.

But―

The noise is coming from the phone buried in your purse, silly.

Keeping my eyes on the road and one hand on the steering wheel, I fumbled in my purse to pull out the cell phone. In four consecutive mini-glances, I read the message.

Emergency Alert Extreme

Tornado Warning              

Funnel Cloud Sited           

Take Shelter Immediately 

To stop the noise, I hit the “okay” button.

Great. My Subaru provided no shelter against a tornado. I speed-dialed home to warn my husband. When Spence answered “Wells―” I cut him off. “A tornado’s been sited. We’re supposed to take shelter immediately, but I’m halfway between home and the YMCA.”

“We still have blue skies here. Let me check the radar map.” Footsteps then the clicking of computer keys came through the phone. “The tornado’s in Mercer County and heading for Jamestown, Greenville, and Sheakleyville.” The thud of his laptop being set on the table came through the phone. “You’re in Crawford county. You’ll be fine.”

By the time I reached Meadville, cloud cover changed daylight to nighttime dark. Rain pounded the windshield. I parked, grabbed my swim gear, and opened an umbrella for the dash to the YMCA.

Dressed in outdoor gear, a cluster of three-year-old youngsters sat cross-legged on the lobby floor and waited for their bus. “See,” said the teacher holding a picture book in her lap. “She’s all wet, and she even had an umbrella.”

I waved to the children and made my way to the pool. Halfway through my laps, sunshine streamed through the glass block windows and across my lane. I frog-kicked through the light and figured I wouldn’t need the umbrella anymore.

Wrong.

By the time I’d showered and dressed, rain pelted Meadville again. I drove home with windshield wipers on high. Lightning flashed under the clouds. And pea-size hail pelted the car during the last four miles. I parked in the garage. Hoisting the umbrella, I hurried to the house and climbed the hail-polka-dotted porch steps. As soon as I took off my outdoor gear, the rain stopped and the sun came out.

How many weather changes would we have today? In case the rain and hail came back, I didn’t ask Spence to go for a walk.

Later that night at the auditor’s meeting, I sat beside a huge dump truck in the township building. As required by law, I read the minutes of the organizing meeting the supervisors had held the previous night. The supervisors nominated Brian for road master again. And somebody named Zina was nominated for secretary-treasurer. I looked up from the paper to the other auditors. They―waiting for my reaction―stared at me. “Sherian’s had the secretary-treasurer job for years. Who’s Zina? What’s going on?”

The two auditors glanced at each other before answering my questions.

“You missed all the fireworks last night,” Stephanie, the new auditor, said. “Tim and Jeff fired Sherian.”

“They didn’t even have the guts to tell her before hand.” Head auditor Nancy shrugged. “And I have no idea who Zina is.”

Did I want to work for a township run by those kind of supervisors? No! But, I continued reading the minutes then coordinated evening work hours for January or February―whenever Zina got herself oriented and gave us the books.

Brian walked into the building and pulled off his gloves. “Leave the lights on when you’re done.” He leaned against a dump truck tire. “I have to come back. A tornado touched down this morning.” He pointed to the south wall of the building. “Right behind the red barn at Smith and one-seventy-three. It tore a path all the way to North Road. I just came back for signs to close the road.” He waved his hand toward the ceiling. “The electric company is clearing the debris and downed lines. It’ll take at least a week to get power restored.”

Tornado? Sherian fired? I drove home through a smattering of flurries to tell Spence.

The flurries intensified into laying snow by Wednesday morning―my cleaning and quilt guild meeting day. Usually our snow-wuss members cancel at the first flake. I dusted, swept, and checked email for news from the guild. The secretary sent the minutes from the last meeting. Nothing about canceling. I scrubbed bathrooms, washed the spiral stairs, and watched fat flakes fall. One quilter emailed that she wouldn’t attend because of the weather. No cancellation from the president or secretary.

At 6:00, I bundled, turned on my flashlight, and walked in three inches of snow to the car. Because West Creek Road was snow covered and slippery, I took the long way through Cochranton. Wind blew swirls of snow and pushed the Subaru to the edge of the slippery highway. Squinting to see through the white out, I gripped the steering wheel tight enough to open the stubbornest jar of pickles.

When I arrived at 6:30, six quilters sat in the back of the Homespun Treasurers quilt shop.

“We called to tell you the meeting was canceled,” the secretary said. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

I scrunched my forehead. Did they dial the wrong number, and why were they here if they canceled the meeting? “I was home all day.”

“We called at six-fifteen,” the president said.

Taking off my coat, I put it on the back of a chair and sat. “I left at six. The weather’s so bad the drive took three times as long tonight.”

“You didn’t have to come if the weather was bad.” The secretary scribbled something into her notebook. “I’m just writing we didn’t have a meeting because we didn’t have a quorum.”

After we’d chatted for an hour, the snow lessened making visibility better on the drive home.

By Thursday morning, snow stopped which gave me a slushy-wet ride to the YMCA. But snow squalls returned in time for a white-knuckle drive to the Primary Health Clinic in Sheakleyville.

Primary Health does a great job of building clinics in rural areas. They don’t do as well staffing them. When we moved to Wells Wood, I had Dr. Shawish. He listened to me―a change form Cleveland Heights doctors. After two and a half years, the network moved him to Erie and assigned a physician assistant to take his place. In her lobby picture, Cynthia had a chubby face and long blond hair. When she walked into the exam room the first time, she had a thin face, long black hair, and black fingernail polish. I gasped because she reminded me of a witch. But she listened even better than Dr. Shawish, prescribed cinnamon and red rice yeast before resorting to statins, and chatted about the antics of her barn kittens. After three years, the network moved her to Andover and assigned a nurse practitioner to our clinic.

I eyed Ryan when he walked in the door, nodded to me, and sat at the computer. Could I get comfortable with him? After opening preliminaries, I tested him. “My friend in Cleveland is a doctor. She taught me how to use a heart risk calculator.” 

Ryan looked up from the computer.

“My risk is eight percent. Since my mother and sister both had trouble with statins, I’m going with the Canadian and European suggestion[10% or higher risk] not the U.S. standards [7.5% risk or higher]. 

His lips twitched in and out of a grin. “There’s an over the counter supplement you can take now to control the side effects of statins. But we’ll talk about that when we get there.”

Okay. He listened. Maybe he would do until the network replaces him with a Girl Scout who earned a first aide badge.

During the drive home, I reflected on the past three days.

  

Sunshine to tornado to snow

to slush to snow again.

Old secretary out,

new medic in,

and driving

through a

whiteout

to a

canceled

meeting.

Sheesh!

As loud as a snowplow hurtling down a country road, I sang David Bowie’s chorus.

  

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-changes

Deer Creek