Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Winter – Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper (Part 2)

 

Mr. Hooper Up Again - Spence Checking Perimeter

Peering through the sliding glass doors into the sunny February third afternoon, I spotted my husband striding to the south garden with an armful of plastic. “Yikes!” I jumped out of my chair. Slipping into boots, I grabbed my winter jacket and dashed outside. My boots squished through the melting snow while I pushed my arms into jacket sleeves.

Spence hung plastic on one corner of the PVC pipe structure he fabricated to replace the hollow steel tubes that broke in the wind storm on New Year’s Eve. He unfolded the rest of the plastic covering for the portable hoop house he calls Mr. Hooper. Looking up, he frowned. “You were writing. I could do this myself.”

“The last time we pulled the cover on, you said we needed four people this time.” That last time took twenty minutes and proved more of a struggle than tugging new pantyhose up damp, after-swim legs. [See “Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper” January 7, 2019.] “Besides, the groundhog blog can wait.” I grabbed the plastic beside a door zipper and walked to the other end of the four-arch, hoop house frame. It looked like a backbone with long ribs. Finding the bottom corner of the plastic, I set it on the ground and slid the cover up the pipe.

Spence pulled his end to the top, and the cover fell to the ground on the other side. Two seconds.

“Why was it so much easier?” I didn’t admit he could have pulled the cover on himself.

“The new joints must be shorter.”

Leaving him to secure the cover with Velcro ties, I fetched the camera.

When I returned, he set one last cement block on the bottom of the plastic cover. “There’s a rip by one of the ties.” He picked up the plant shelves. “I can fix it with duct tape. And Mr. Hooper needs guy wires.” He lugged the shelves into the hoop house and returned with a cheek-busting grin. “Wow. I can feel it heating up.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

His grin faded Wednesday when he stared out the sliding glass door. Mr. Hooper leaned toward the woods. “Snow is melting underneath. That’s changing things.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a pad of paper and a pen then scribbled some notes. “I’ll get more guy wires for that side.”

The grin vanished Friday morning. In his garden clothes, early-rising Spence stood beside the bed when I woke. “We had a wind storm last night. There’s a pile of plastic in the garden.”

I sat up and peeked out the window. Mr. Hooper had rolled over, and its supports stuck out at goofy angles.

“It was getting buffeted.” Spence clenched his fists and moved them back and forth. “The ad was right about one thing. Mr. Hooper is portable.” He pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of his back pocket. “I need stakes and landscape timber.”

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

On Valentine’s Day, from my cozy perch by the wood stove fire, I watched Spence lug landscape timber to the south garden. When he knelt in the melting snow, I shivered. One by one, he examined PVC pipes and organized them on the slushy ground. Jeans soaked from the knees to ankles, he trudged back to the house. “Here’s the autopsy report. No broken pieces. I’ll put Mr. Hooper up tomorrow.”

The next day, while I folded laundry, I watched Spence through the sliding glass door. He connected PVC pipes into an arching frame with sliding joints to keep the structure portable. He knelt on the black plastic covering the frozen garden soil and attached the bottom of the frame to the landscape timber with plastic loops. While he screwed a support into the timber, the wind slanted the frame toward the woods and whipped the downed plastic cover into a flapping frenzy. He stood, pulled the frame into shape, and knelt to secure the next support. In a man versus nature ballet, the wind blew, Spence reshaped the frame, then he attached another support―again and again―until he secured the frame to the timber. Finally, he attached bungee cords for guy wires inside and out.

Leaving the laundry, I hustled outside and grabbed an end of the flapping plastic cover. “The frame looks sturdier with all your supports.”

The other end of the cover lifted into the air. Spence grabbed the sailing plastic. “I’m not worried. It’s an experiment.”

We slid the cover over the frame. While the wind flapped the plastic, Spence fastened a Velcro tie. The wind blew the plastic toward the road. He pulled the cover back and fastened another tie―the second movement in the ballet.

An hour later in the great room, Spence gazed out at the glass door. Wind chimes clanged on the porch. “It’s pretty windy. But Mr. Hooper’s holding up.”

Mr. Hooper held up through the weekend. 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

Early Monday morning, wind howled around the log house. Spence snored. I worried about Mr. Hooper enough for both of us. Would it collapse? I lay in yoga relaxation pose and willed myself back to sleep. But the wind and Mr. Hooper kept me awake. At 6:00, I pulled on my robe, winter jacket, and boots. Grabbing the pocket flashlight out of Spence’s vest by the door, I tramped across the porch to the deck and aimed the flashlight at Mr. Hooper. It was on its supports in the garden, but it squatted. Wonky. I hurried inside to Spence, who, yawning, measured tablespoons of ground coffee in the kitchen. “Mr. Hooper shrunk. It’s shorter.”

Wonky Mr. Hooper

He put down the measuring spoon and spread his arms to the side. “Shrunk?” He pulled his hands inward. “Got shorter?”

“No.” I bent my knees. “Got shorter.”

When the sun came up, Spence studied Mr. Hooper through the glass door. “Looks like a rib is sagging. I’ll fix it later.”

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Later came while I swam laps in Meadville. When I returned, Spence took my hand and led me to Mr Hooper.

“Wow!” I walked around the no-longer-wonky hoop house. “How’d you get it up so fast?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I strained and cursed.”

Unzipping the door, he pointed his arm to usher me inside. “I built a contraption with a turnbuckle  and a couple of wire ropes.” He pointed to green wires and smirked. “Green for a greenhouse.” He ran his finger along the center top pipe where he’d drilled holes on either side of the joints in the backbone and screwed in his contraption. “Now I can tighten the joints connecting the ribs.”

I fingered a taught wire. “Impressive.”

“This collapse was different from the others.” He scanned the ribs with his eyes. “I solved the other problems. Today I may have solved a new set.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Spence checked Mr. Hooper’s temperature and poked the top to remove ice and snow. Friday, Spence checked the weather forecast on his computer.

Thinking of the leggy seedlings under grow lights in the basement and the blog request from three of my loyal readers, I said, “Is Mr. Hooper ready for plants? I want to write part two of the Mr. Hooper saga.”

“No.” He jotted temperatures on his clipboard. “We’re getting strong winds this weekend. This is Mr. Hooper’s Big Test. No sense in it falling on my plants.” He tapped his pen against the clipboard notes. “Besides, Mr. Hooper won’t make a story. It’s a straight learning line. No climax.”

“After all Mr. Hooper’s ups and downs, setting plants in the hoop house will be climax enough for me.”

He laughed. “You’d do anything for a story.”

On the last Saturday in February, Spence disappeared inside Mr. Hooper to prepare for the Big Test. Returning with jeans caked in mud from knees to ankles, he said, “I’ve done everything I can do.” He counted on his fingers.

“Finished screwing braces on each rib joint.

Braced with emergency cross ties.

Tightened all the turnbuckles.

Put ends on the landscape timber. That creates a ledge. When the wind blows, the timbers will move the same direction.”`

Spence slipped out of his work boots. “I don’t think it’s going to hold.” He shimmied out of his muddy jeans. “When Mr. Hooper comes down,” he hung the jeans on a hook and reached for his sweat pants, “I’ll learn what else it needs.”

Dark fell. Wind chimes clanged. I fell asleep to the howl of wind through the woods. Early Sunday morning, I said, “Are you going to look at Mr. Hooper?”

“It’s dark.”

“You can use a flashlight.”

“It was real windy last night. Mr. Hooper probably came down. There’s nothing I can do until later.”

The sky lightened. Spence tiptoed onto the deck and came back singing Mr. Hooper’s still there to the tune of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Around noon, rain pounded the log house roof, and wind gusts bent the willows halfway to the soggy ground. Mr. Hooper swayed back and forth. It’s cover loosened on the woods side and flapped to the road side. 

 

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence hustled outside and re-positioned the cover. He ambled back with a report. “The southwest corner came apart. The same as last time. Apparently the fix didn’t work. I put it back but didn’t do anything different.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

I checked wind speed―22 mph with gusts up to 54 mph. Sheesh. Could Mr. Hooper survive? Through the glass door, Spence and I watched the wind push the hoop house back and forth then toss the corner cover off again.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence trudged out. Inside the swaying hoop house, he reached to the top and sides―adjusting turnbuckles and refastening Velcro ties. 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

When he walked back to the log house, the wind pushed the hoop house wonky and tossed the corner cover off yet again. Spence stepped into the house and leaned against the closed front door. “It almost came down on me.”

“It’s down now.” I pointed to the glass door.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence giant-stepped across the room, gazed at the hoop house, and, with a moan, left to fix Mr. Hooper a third time.

⬆ ⬆ ⬆⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Wind speed had increased by the time Spence made his fourth trip. Like a tight rope walker, he raised his arms to the side to keep his balance and prevent the wind from knocking him to the ground. Inside the swaying hoop house, three ribs had come apart. He slid the connectors into place and tightened the turnbuckles. After a tight-rope walk back to the house, he flopped onto the sofa. “This is the acid test. IF we make it through the night, I’ll make some modifications. Then we can move plants out.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆⬇ ⬇ ⬇

As the sky darkened, Spence trudged to Mr. Hooper for the fifth time. “It’s all luck now.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

The wind roared around the log house all night. Despite my longing to end the two month saga of waiting for Spence to set seedling trays on the shelves in Mr. Hooper, I lost hope.

In the morning, Spence, in a cheerier voice than I expected, said, “What’s the good news?”

Because I figured Mr. Hooper had collapsed onto its foundation, I didn’t look outside. “Mr. Hooper didn’t blow to North Carolina?”

He laughed. “Right.”

Mr. Hooper Down

I flicked the curtains. Fat snow flakes blew around the plastic cover heaped on the road side of the hoop house, and the exposed ribs slanted in different directions. By some miracle or engineering marvel of Spence’s invention, the ribs remained attached to the foundation. Progress, but not enough for ending my saga or for the seedlings in the basement. The plants grew taller than the grow lights. Some burnt against the lights. Others went to seed.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

The dark moment had come, and mother nature won. No happy ending for my readers. Maybe they forgot about Mr. Hooper. I could take my stack of notes outside and watch the wind blow the ideas away.

No.

I would have a mess of soggy paper wads to clean up. I stuck the notes in a file folder and put it on the bottom of my writing pile.

Snow covered Mr. Hooper, and Spence busied himself with fighting lead poisoning in Cleveland.

Friday, March first, while I hung laundry in the loft, Spence marched outside and set Mr. Hooper upright. He returned and rubbed his hands by the wood stove fire. “My fingers are cold from screwing turnbuckles.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

After checking temperatures Tuesday afternoon―outside 14ºF (-10ºC), inside Mr. Hooper 50ºF (10ºC)―he carried a flat of tatsoi and mizuna to the hoop house.

I gulped so hard I almost swallowed my tongue. Running to grab my camera and winter jacket, I dashed to Mr. Hooper. “YOU BROUGHT PLANTS OUT!”

“Just one tray. It’s an experiment.”

First Tray of Greens

I took twenty photos of the tray. Not much of a climax after all the ups and downs, but I’d done many a wackier thing in search of a story. Back inside, I dug out the notes on the Mr. Hooper saga.

Cloudy skies and snow didn’t favor Spence’s experiment. Like the snow covered solar panels in cloudy weather, the snow covered hoop house didn’t produce any energy. Mr. Hooper lost heat. After Spence went out to poke the snow off its roof Wednesday morning, he carried the tray of curled, crunchy plants back to the basement. “Their roots froze. That was the K.O.D. [kiss of death]”

Thursday dawned sunny. Keeping to his straight line of learning, Spence dumped five large bags of potting soil into Mr. Hooper’s 2 ½ by 11 foot raised bed frame. He set out two trays of seedlings on the shelves.

Later, when I stepped inside the hoop house to admire his progress, I felt warmth as if I’d stepped close to the wood stove fire.

Spence pointed to his thermometers―a balmy 60ºF (15ºC) inside, a warm 40ºF (4ºC) in the raised bed soil, and a chilly 26ºF (-3ºC) outside.

“Woohoo!” I pumped my fist for the power of the sun.

“But I’m bringing the plants in this evening. It’s going down to ten tonight.”

Yesterday afternoon after I quilted a tree pattern on pane in an attic window wall hanging, I spotted Spence’s red shirt through the hoop house cover. With camera, jacket, and boots, I squished through the soggy soil and unzipped the hoop house door. The spring fragrance of mud mixed with new green leaves wafted out. Inside Spence knelt beside the raised bed and planted bok choy, mizuna, and Siberian kale. When he looked up, sunshine glinted off his safety glasses almost as dazzling as the glow in his cheeks. He stretched his arm to point to the flats of plants on the shelves and the row of plants in the raised bed. “I’ll put row cover over them before dark.”

So, after dark, when the wind clanged the porch chimes and howled around the house, I crossed my fingers, crossed my toes, and silently chanted Please let Mr. Hooper stay upright until I finish my blog tomorrow.

This morning I pulled back the bedroom curtain, looked into the south garden, and yelled, “Mr. Hooper’s still there!”

Finally, a solid, standing end to the saga. Mr. Hooper had its ups and downs in February. Would it have ins and outs during March? Whatever. Spence is happy learning and getting his green thumbs brown with potting soil. And I can twist my stack of Mr. Hooper note papers into fire starters for the wood stove.

Spence Planting Greens in Mr. Hooper's Raised Bed