Reflections - Internal Climate Change

Ande on Papers

I love wood stove fires. Dancing orange flames lick crackling logs, and radiating heat makes the great room toasty. But wood stoves have drawbacks. They create the tropics in the loft, the temperate zone on the first floor, and the arctic in the basement. They also need firewood. Cutting, splitting, and hauling firewood would sooner, rather than later, wear Spence out.

Spence didn’t care about the temperature zones or the work of harvesting wood. He’d asked our son what improvements he would like in the log house. Air conditioning.

And although our Quadra-Fire wood stove burns with 90% efficiency, other systems are more environmentally friendly.

Equalizing heat, reducing firewood harvests, installing air conditioning, and saving the environment equaled geothermal energy.

Of the dozen geothermal heating and cooling companies we contacted, only two still did that work and were willing to drive to Wells Wood. The first belonged to a volunteer fireman in Middlefield, Ohio. While driving to an appointment one evening, he called me on his cell phone and, without seeing the house, said he’d charge $40,000 for the job using horizontal wells, five feet deep. If he hit rock, however, that would damage his drill head so the cost would increase.

If he hit rock? Spence constantly tills up rocks in the garden. Of course the contractor would hit rock.

His cheery voice vibrated through the phone. “We’re a boutique company. Call when you’ve thought it over. I’ll come out with the contract and pick up your deposit. Don’t delay, though. A lot of customers are ahead of you.”

Spence didn’t have to think. “No. The price is outrageous. He’s pompous to make the plan without seeing the house. And calling himself a boutique is an excuse to charge more money.”

Jerry, from Kennihan Plumbing and Heating in Butler, Pennsylvania, put on a mask and slipped covers over his shoes before stepping inside. “You don’t have to wear a mask. I make my workers wear masks so I do too.” His eyes sparkled as if he was smiling behind the black fabric.

Ande, our feline ambassador, ran to greet Jerry.

He bent and scratched the cat’s ears. “Who are you, buddy?”

“He’s Ande,” I said then pointed. “That’s Rills and that’s Gilbert. They will be curious but stay out of your way. Ande will follow you around unless you make loud noises.”

As I gave Jerry the three-floor, Ande followed. Jerry’s metal tape measure crinkled in and out of its case. He jotted notes. Ande stayed four to five feet from the contractor until he sat at the kitchen table and pulled papers out of a folder.

Ande jumped onto the table and sat on the papers.

“I need that one, buddy.” Jerry eased the paper from under the cat. “You can sit on the other one.”

Rills hid under the sofa. Gilbert curled in my hewn log chair.

Jerry talked and sketched. “We’ll drill three vertical wells, each two hundred twenty-five feet deep where the temperature is about seventy degrees Fahrenheit.” (21° C). His pen traced water flowing up the wells and into the 7 Series WaterFurnace, a heat exchanger that transfers heat from the water to air. From there he drew squiggles indicating heated air blowing through ducts then swirls in a tank. “The water lets off extra heat in a water tank before flowing down the well.” Jerry said we’d get a 26% tax credit for the project and a one time credit from Penn Power bringing the price to 5% less than the boutique’s before the extra charges for hitting rock were added.

“Get in touch when you decide.” Jerry petted Ande and left.

As the front door closed, Spence looked up from reading emails on the sofa. “I like Jerry. He knew what he was talking about. He was kind to the cats. He listened and made the plan flexible for us.”

We decided.

Jerry's Scribbles

That was October 22. Jerry didn’t get back with the final plans and a contract until November 19, a Friday. Ande lay by Jerry’s feet while he sat at the kitchen table and explained the parts of the system. On a lined sheet of paper he scribbled probable placement of wells outside, ductwork connected to the WaterFurnace in the basement, and first floor vents. He also jotted random temperatures for the thermostat and wells.

While I signed the contract and wrote a deposit check, Jerry bent to scratch Ande’s ears. “How’s my buddy doing?”

After Jerry left, Spence fetched a permit application from the township building. We filled it out over the weekend, and he returned the application to the township secretary-treasurer Monday morning.

At 2:00 that afternoon, Jerry arrived to introduce Spence, Ande, and me to Todd, from Dillan Well Drilling, Inc. We left Ande inside and searched for well placements outside. Clutching the porch stair railing, I made a confession. “I’ve been enjoying thinking of Todd and Jerry.”

This time I saw Jerry’s wide grin. “Tom and Jerry,” he said. The contractors chuckled.

Todd studied the area between the driveway and north garden.

Spence pointed at the Penn Power meter and drew an imaginary line to the garage. “The electric line is buried there.” He ambled down the driveway and pointed again. “You can’t see the water pump from here. It’s behind the burn barrel.”

The contractors’ foreheads scrunched in puzzlement.

Hustling across the field, I stood with a foot on either side of the pump and waved both hands over my head.

The contractors squinted then walked toward the electric box.

I scampered back.

Todd shook his head. “I can’t get all three here.”

I shook too—from the cold. I’d dashed out without a coat. Spence brought me a jacket. But my ears, bare with my hair still in a yoga ponytail, chilled to achy pinches.

The contractors paced, stretched metal tape, and surveyed lawns on both sides of the house. Jerry likes to exceed the minimum distance standards for geothermal wells—at least fifteen to twenty feet from the house and from each other. If we didn’t mind moving the yew bush by the parking pad, they could put one well in the south yard and two on either side of the buried electric line in the north yard. That would mean a single straight trench on the side and a t-shaped trench in the front.

Todd planted mini red flags to mark the wells.

Jerry spray painted the grass white—an X by each flag and trench lines from the flags to the house.

Todd stuffed the tape measure into his jacket pocket. “We’ll start digging the week of December 13. Weather permitting.”

That gave us three weeks for Pat, the township inspector, to approve the permit. No worries.

Or so I thought.

Friday, December 3, Gretchen, the sweet, expecting-a child-in-January, part-time visiting nurse, township secretary-treasurer, emailed:

Do you guys have a Plan Document (drawling) and details of what geothermal system they will be installing? Also when do you plan on putting this system in?

I emailed back:

December 13. We don’t have a plan or drawings.

Spence corrected my email:

We have the contract with Jerry’s plans. I’ll bring you a copy.

Varying the intensity on the copier, he duplicated the yellow paper and chose the best, still fuzzy, version.

The next morning we took our exercise walk to Gretchen’s house in Milledgeville. Since the supervisors had personally instructed us not to bother Gretchen because they didn’t want yet another secretary-treasurer quitting, Spence stuffed the copied contract, which listed the six main features of the geothermal project, through the handle of her side door.

The following day, the inspector sent Gretchen a snarky reply:

They Need to Include a Building Plan (3-Copies)., To Review &         Approve. I'm Sure they know what they will be Installing,                however, I Do Not. Drawings Need to Be Furnished, by, Code, . .

And he ranted four lines longer in the same capital letter, extra punctuation fashion.

Spence forwarded the problem to Jerry.

Tuesday, December 7, Jerry emailed detailed plans to Gretchen. Three days later Jerry called. “Has the permit gone through?” 

“Not yet.” I sighed.

Spence emailed Gretchen.

She called him.

Spence gave me her report. “The inspector has all the information he needs. He’ll probably issue the permit over the weekend.”

That would mean we’d have the permit by December 13 when the work started. Phew. I told Jerry when he called again.

“The drillers can’t make it on Monday,” he said. “Weather delayed another job. They’ll start Wednesday.” But Jerry said he’d come up with Zach, the expert of ductwork, Monday and scout out placements for vents. Before Jerry hung up, he said, “Tell Ande I said hi.”

Ande on a Paper Bag

End of Part 1

 

 Reflections - Horror. Fascination. Bewilderment.

Lyra and Ellen (Photo by Chris)

I pondered my daughter Ellen’s text. Chris would like to know if we can bring the adorable puppy for Thanksgiving.

Would our tabby cat brothers—Ande, Rills, and Gilbert—be terrified of a four-month-old corgi invading their sanctuary?

Since mid-September, my daughter’s and son-in-law’s lives revolved around Lyra. Ellen had sent photo after photo. Under extra, extra-large ears, her brown puppy eyes could melt the north and south poles. I longed to see all three of them. Of course, Lyra could come. 

Ande, our ambassador, met all neighbors, contractors, and guests at the door. He expected everyone to be a friend.  He would meet Lyra and befriend her. 

Hopefully.

Thanksgiving afternoon, feet tromped up the ramp. Ande dashed to the door. Ellen, her husband Chris holding Lyra, and his mom Terri stepped inside.

Ande raced back to the sofa. 

Rills and Gilbert scampered upstairs and crouched beside bookcases. 

Chris set Lyra on the floor. She pulled the short leash taut and lunged for Ande. Her mini tail and cute corgi butt wiggled in delight. A friend. A playmate.

Ears straight up, Ande froze. His face broadcast mixed emotions. Horror. Fascination. Bewilderment.

Spence grabbed his winter jacket. “Would Lyra enjoy a walk?”

“Yes.” Ellen took the leash from Chris and led the puppy outside.

In the next few days, Lyra would get plenty of walks—actually runs. She dashed forward and back while people walked. She would wander leash-free in the loft. She would also join me in the bedroom for morning yoga—licking my toes during staff pose and my nose during downward-facing dog.

With Lyra outside Thanksgiving afternoon, Rills and Gilbert tiptoed downstairs and circled Chris, a cat-friendly human who obliged them with pets. Ande put his paws on Terri’s knees. I quizzed Terri and Chris about their October family wedding—lots of white, lots of rain, and lots of photographs.

The puppy came back. 

The cats scattered.

After wiping Lyra’s feet on a towel, Ellen set the puppy on the floor. She barked a greeting. In unison, Chris and Ellen said, “Hush, Lyra.”

She hushed.

Ande stepped toward the puppy.

Lyra jumped, lifting her front paws off the floor.

Ande halted.

Ande Checking out Lyra in the Amazon Box

The two gazed at each other. Ande inched closer and closer until his nose touched Lyra’s. He sprang back. 

Later, a text came from our son Charlie, Not feeling great. Going to rest tonight and head over tomorrow. So five, not six, humans gathered around a table piled with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, asparagus, green beans, peas, cheesy cauliflower, and cranberry sauce. Leashed, Lyra lay at Chris’s feet.

Three yards away in the great room, the cats took positions by the sofa—Rills on the floor beside the near end, Ande in the middle, and Gilbert at the far end. Their eyes focused on the puppy.

Her head rested on her front legs, her eyes drooped, and she whimpered disappointment in the standoffishness of the potential playmates. When she barked an invitation to chase, their stony faces gave no indication they’d heard.

After apple and pumpkin pies—no one had room for the homemade blackberry sorbet—Lyra and her accompanying adults left to prepare for Terri’s family Thanksgiving on Friday.

In the subsequent quiet, Ande jumped on Gilbert’s back and bit his neck. 

Gilbert wailed.

“That’s enough, fellas,” I called in my teacher’s voice.

Ande let go and tensions relaxed—until Ellen, Chris, and Lyra returned Friday night.

With Lyra on a tight leash, Ellen sat cross-legged on the sofa and held the puppy on her lap—puppy back against Ellen’s belly, short corgi legs resting on Ellen’s knees. Chris sat at the other end of the sofa.

Moving one paw, pausing, moving another paw, pausing, Ande crept across the coffee table.

Lyra stared.

Ellen grabbed Lyra’s sides.

Ande inched onto the sofa.

Chris petted Ande.

Ande lay with his back against Chris’s thigh and stretched his long cat legs toward Lyra. Less than two inches separated their paws. Chris kept petting. Ande inhaled the tantalizing smells on Lyra’s leash.

Getting to Know You - Rills and Sleeping Lyra
(Photo by Chris)

Rills preferred a sleeping Lyra. When she slept on the floor, he sniffed her butt. If she fell asleep on the sofa, he poked his head through the log armrest and sniffed her paws. At bedtime, he sneaked to the loft and sniffed the puppy sleeping in her crate. 

Following Rills’s example, Gilbert reached a paw toward the puppy’s velvety ear when she napped with Ellen on the loft bed. He pulled his paw back, though, without making contact and trotted over to eat puppy chow out of Lyra’s bowl.

The cats frustrated Lyra by not playing chase, but they did tolerate her. Harmony reigned in the log house.

No doubt figuring the trial period had finished, Chris set Lyra on the floor and removed her leash. 

Free, she zoomed around the first floor surprising Gilbert in the bedroom. 

Gilbert backed against the wall and hissed. The hairs on his tail fluffed making it three times its normal size. He jumped onto the bed then ran into the hall. 

I lifted him over the cardboard barrier we’d set up to block the spiral stairs. Letting Gilbert down on the landing, I expected him to dash up or down to safety. 

He didn’t. Scampering up four steps, he scooted through the balusters, perched on the wood railing around the stairwell, and flicked his fluffed tail.

Ande hid under the sofa. 

Lyra poked her head under but gave up the chase.

Chris sat on the floor and cuddled Lyra. She rested her head in her sad dog pose.

Ellen and I played Dutch Blitz at the kitchen table. In an exciting moment with both of us, slapping cards on the green pile, puppy paws scratched the wood floor. 

Lyra charged and cornered Ande.

He hissed.

“Hey,” My protest let Ellen slip her seven under mine. 

Chris threw his arms to the side. “She wants to be friends. She just wants to play.”

“When a cat hisses, that means stop. Lyra needs to stop. Now.” I didn’t want the cats to develop bad attitudes toward her. She’s cute, friendly, and part of the family.

Chris picked Lyra up and set her on the sofa, a corgi puppy playpen. She could walk back and forth but couldn’t jump off because of her short legs. 

The next morning, our son Charlie arrived for an early Christmas celebration. Gilbert curled up behind the woodstove. Rills watched from the plant table. Ande played with the curling ribbons Charlie dangled. Lyra, on the sofa playpen, contentedly chewed her new toys—especially the rope elephant Charlie gave her.

With presents opened and second cups of coffee or tea consumed, the humans scattered to work on electronic devices or play the new card game, Taco vs Burrito.

Animals moved too. Gilbert slinked under the coffee table. Rills and Ande curled on chairs warmed by human bottoms. Lyra stretched in the middle of the sofa. To my amazement, the cats felt comfortable enough to nap in the same room with the puppy, their idea of being friends.

Maybe, like me, Ande, Rills, and Gilbert are looking forward to Lyra’s next visit.

Getting to Know You - Gilbert Checking on

Sleeping Lyra and Ellen 2 (by Chris)

 Reflections - The Twelve Bungle Method

Impatiens Shadow

Bungle One

Spence flashed his are-you-crazy smile at me. For the last four years, he’d done that every time I mentioned using shadows for a calendar theme. “Shadows are black. No color.”

Disappointed but trusting his judgment, I had switched to a water theme for 2019, gardens for 2020, and holidays for 2021. But shadows still intrigued me. Pictures are light. Light makes shadows. Even if their photos only pleased me, I would make a 2022 Wells Wood Shadow Calendar.

Bungle Two

Starting in October 2020, I prayed for sunny days and toted my Nikon on walks. The camera flashed to compensate for dark areas. No problem outside. Photographing inside, however, the flash erased shadows. I turned it off. Photos came out gray and shadowless. I switched to the phone camera and positioned Spence’s work light to darken the natural shadows. Shaking hands blurred these photos. No worries. I click, click, clicked the shutter release and deleted the fuzzy photos.

Bungle Three

While searching for shadow pictures, I debated paper. We used 20 lb paper for everyday printing. Last year, I switched to bright 28 lb paper for brighter photos. But, by mid year, the photos bled through the paper spoiling the date pages. I sent Spence to Staples—the closest one is an hour away—for heavier paper. He came back with bright 32 lb paper. “This is the heaviest I could find.” Brilliant colors printed on the heavier paper. Time will tell if the photos still bleed through.

Bungle Four

Formatting came next. I opened the 2021 calendar file on our loft desktop and changed the pages to 2022 dates. Easy—until the computer died. I didn’t panic. That computer had died and resurrected itself several times during the fall. I waited a day, logged in, and, voila, the computer sprang to life. Not taking chances, I formatted the rest of the pages in one sitting, printed test copies, and saved everything to the portable hard drive.

The computer died. Again. 

This time it stayed dead.

My stomach dropped to my toes. The printers wouldn’t talk to my chrome book or the portable hard drive. “Spence, we need a new computer. Now.”

“I’m on it.” Within hours, he ordered a generic computer at a price that would have made his late mother proud. One hundred thirty-two dollars.

Bungle Five

A tiny box arrived two weeks later. Spence held it up and grinned. “Your new computer.”

The object he pulled out of the box was 5 by 5 by 1 ¾ inches. “You’re kidding. That’s not big enough to be a computer.”

“It’s a mini computer. Don’t worry. It’s more powerful than the old one.” For another week, he tinkered with the computer to partition the hard drive—part for the Windows operating system that came with the computer and part for the Ubuntu operating system that I’d been using for years. Logging into Windows took one password. Switching from the Windows to Ubuntu took eight steps. Spence made a list for me to follow. Number six read, “WAIT PATIENTLY.” He knows my tolerance for computers. 

Once in, I immediately transferred the calendar, farm journals, and recent photo files from the portable hard drive to the Ubuntu desktop. Safe. But the Ubuntu desktop would only talk to the black and white laser printer. I had to use the Windows desktop for the color Canon printer. I shut down, rebooted, plugged the portable hard drive in, and selected the file for the calendar.

Corrupted. Unreadable.

But I’d just used it on the other desktop! I ran downstairs, fetched a pen drive, and booted into Ubuntu. After copying the calendar file, I shut down the computer, booted into Windows, and opened the pen drive.

Corrupted. Do you want to fix it?

“Yes,” I screamed as if the computer could hear me. I clicked the fix button.

This could take some time.

“Okay!” I clicked the fix button again.

The computer responded immediately. No errors found.

 

Creek Road Shadows

Bungle Six

Before the new computer proclaimed more hassles, I printed the January photo. The printer spit out a dull, full page photo of snowy Creek Road striped with tree shadows. No margins. No caption. Biting my thumbnail, I printed February and March. “Spence! The computer is messing up the format.”

He clomped up the spiral stairs, peered over my shoulder, and watched me print April and May.

“Why is the computer printing dull photos without captions and borders?”

“The photo quality deteriorated with the enlargement.” He patted my shoulder. “I can’t explain the format.” He left.

Shutting the computer down, I stared at the blank screen. I couldn’t, wouldn’t give up.

Rebooting the umpteenth time, I chose the picture for January and tapped print. The printer spit out a bright photo with borders and captions. Before the computer changed its mind, I ordered it to print nineteen more. 

Later I would discover the calendar folder contained a photo folder and a picture folder. The first time, I’d selected photos, with raw photos, instead of pictures, with formatted borders and captions. The computer did what I asked rather than what I wanted—a frequent source of frustration for me with the non-mind reading machine.

Bungle Seven

Because photo ink—especially black—had smudged in the past, I spread the calendar papers on the loft floor to dry before scooting downstairs.

Overhead, paws pattered. Papers swished. I imagined Gilbert—the other cats slept in great room chairs—skating on my calendar sheets. When I climbed the stairs, Gilbert slid on the papers, bent edges, and arranged my neat rows into bunches.

I finger pressed the bent edges smooth, spread the pages into neat rows again, and grabbed Gilbert. “You’re quite the skater, Gil,” I crooned and carried him downstairs. Setting him on the knitted afghan, I pet him until kneading the squishy yarn with alternating paws mesmerized him. I could stack the dry pages after dinner.

The next morning, paws pattering and paper swishing interrupted my ablutions. I’d forgotten to stack the calendar sheets. Spitting frothy toothpaste into the sink, I dashed upstairs. Gilbert swished his tail, scattering more pages. I moved him to a bare patch of floor then stacked the papers. Rolling the folding table across the bridge—from the sewing loft to the computer loft—sent Gilbert pounding down the stairs. He didn’t trust a table that moved and made the sound of a bowling ball. I set the calendar papers on the table.

Bungle Eight

That afternoon, I printed multiple copies of the other nine calendar photos. I spread them on the table, over the floor, and atop book shelves. Each time Gilbert approached the papers, I grabbed him, said “NO” in my teacher's voice, and toted him downstairs.

He zoomed back.

I removed him again and again and again.

When I left the papers drying, I coaxed Gilbert to come with me. He did but raced upstairs when I cranked the spiralizer to turn zucchini into strands of spaghetti.

I fetched him.

He tilted his cute face at me when I set him in my hewn log chair. Then he disappeared.  

From overhead came patter-patter, swish-swish.

I growled.

“I’ll get him.” Spence carried Gilbert to the great room and set him by the food bowls. 

Gilbert nibbled a few crunchies then dashed upstairs.

“My turn.” I stomped up, grabbed the cat, tossed him into the bathroom, and slammed the door. “Time out!”

Twenty minutes later, Spence opened the bathroom door. “We still love you, Gilbert.”

Gilbert ran around Spence, pounded up the steps, and patter-swish skated.

Dry or not, I stacked the papers and left them on the table. 

To dry the date pages, I spread them on the table or atop shelves.

Gilbert didn’t skate again.

 

Gilbert and Calendar Sheets

Bungle Nine

With Gilbert and his brothers sleeping in the great room—each in his own rustic chair, I tiptoed upstairs to print the cover pages without feline help. I booted into Windows then reached for the folder containing the test calendar pages and the pen drive. Grabbing the bottom, I lifted the folder off the shelf next to the railing. 

The folder tilted.

The pen drive slipped out and flew over the railing. Tumbling, twirling, and flipping from black side to red, it plummeted. With a crack-boing-crack, it bounced across the great room floor.

Six cat ears swiveled. Three tails swatted chair cushions. Ande scampered into the bathroom. Rills ran to the guest room. Gilbert blinked and closed his eyes.

I needed that pen drive.

Clomping downstairs, I figured the pen drive would be easy to spot with the red side up or with it landing in the open space. Neither happened. The plastic missile had skittered, red side down, under something. “Ande, Rills, Gilbert! Help me find that red thingie.” 

Silence. 

Ande hid between the shower curtain and liner. Rills crouched under the guest room desk. Gilbert curled in a ball. His side gently rose and fell.

Despite objections from my bony knees, I crawled around the great room peering under the sofa, end tables, and chairs. Twice. No pen drive. Pulling the coat tree away from the wall, I spied a sliver of red on the floor behind the squirrel-observation table. I fetched a broom. With a swipe, swipe, swipe, the pen drive slid out.

Fearing Windows would declare the freefall-drive corrupted and unreadable, I plugged it into a USB slot. The computer made no comment. The cats hid or slept, Windows cooperated, and I held my breath until the last cover page shot out of the printer.

Bungle Ten

Because of Gilbert’s shenanigans, I sorted calendar pages on the rolling table rather than on the floor. Twenty piles grew steadily—December, November, October . . . Humming “I Am Woman,” I swayed my fanny coordinating the song’s rhythm with placing pages on piles until I picked up the August stack.

Gilbert’s dusty-brown paw prints marred the end of the first week.

I set the page aside. He probably only damaged one. Checking the remaining pages, I discovered more paw prints on another August page, an upside down June page, paw prints on a May page, and half a dozen bent edges that finger pressing wouldn’t smooth. At most two pages in the same month were unusable. I’d made two extra copies in case. In case had happened. I discarded the damaged pages and searched for Spence.

“Gilbert put paw prints on some calendar pages so I won’t have any extra copies this year.”

“Awe.” His face took on a reverent look. “He autographed the calendar. We could use his copy.”

Spence had a point. I hustled upstairs, fetched the discarded pages, and assembled a Gilbert autographed copy. One extra calendar.

 

Bungle Eleven

With Gilbert sleeping in the bedroom downstairs, I fetched a stapler upstairs. On the wobbly, rolling table, I slipped calendar sheets between covers and whacked the stapler. The staple bent. I eased it out with a tooth-trimmed fingernail then gently crunched the stapler. The staple bent. Experimenting with different forces didn’t help. At whatever pressure I used, some staples bent and others sank in smoothly.

After assembling the eleventh calendar, blood oozed out from under my fingernail. Folks might enjoy paw autographs. No one would appreciate bloody days. I sucked the offending finger, figured Dracula had strange tastes, and wiped the rest of the blood on my stay-at-home pants. Choosing different bit-off fingernails to dislodge bent staples when blood appeared, I managed to keep the calendars clean. My pants, however, looked like I’d taken a shortcut through a blackberry thicket.

Bungle Twelve

Last year, I mailed calendars in early December. One to New York City arrived in February and another to England arrived in April after its recipient had died. I blamed Louis DeJoy, the new postmaster general, for making the postal system “more efficient.” 

This year, I compensated for his efficiency and mailed those calendars two Mondays before Thanksgiving. An email from New York three days later surprised me. The shadow calendar had arrived. Dismissing the timing, because five weeks early beats two months late, I let the shadow theme fade from my mind and contemplated horizons.

Driving Spence home from the eye doctor’s because his eyes were still dilated from the exam, I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the berm on the bridge across Lake Wilhelm. “Sorry.” I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket. “The light behind the clouds and the reflections of the trees in the water make a great horizon photo. “Want to come?”

He shaded his eyes with his hand. “I’ll wait here.” He didn’t flash his are-you-crazy smile. 

 

Lake Wilhelm Horizon