Reflections - I Can See Clearly Now

Bedroom Window

“Your windows frame the outside making nature look more beautiful.”

My daughter’s 2006 comment, when she’d first looked out our log house windows, still motivates me to wash them—especially before her visits. Since she planned to come the last week of May, I washed windows the first two warm, dry days in the third week.

Bad choice.

On Monday May 17, when the temperature rose to hair-sweating warmth, I mixed window washing solution in a spray bottle and gathered rags.

Three cats followed me to the bedroom.

Taking down the curtains I’d sewed to coordinate with my log cabin quilt, I carefully laid them on the bed.

The cats pranced over them exploring their unusual placement.

I pulled the top window down a crack, pushed the bottom up a foot, and unlatched the screen. Ready to yell for Spence if one of the furry fellas jumped outside, I stuck my elbows out as wide as airplane wings and angled the screen inside.

Its metal edges scraped against the window frame.

The cats tore off the bed and scratched the wood floor in their escape to the great room. I marched out behind them with the offending three by five-foot monster, and they exploded into a frantic chase.

Glad to leave them, I stepped onto the porch. Cicadas droned in the woods. A cat bird warbled a concerto of its neighbors songs. The wet rag swished against the soft plastic screen. Leaving the screen on the porch to dry, I headed back to the bedroom.

The cats scurried behind me.

I sprayed washing solution onto the window.

Six cat ears twitched.

The rag squeaked across the glass.

Six cat ears flattened.

Clusters of carpenter bees hovered outside the window. Buzzing and maneuvering in a weird ballet, they zoomed toward the window. Boink. One bounced off the glass.

Six cat ears straightened.

The carpenter bees must have picked that warm, sunny day as perfect weather for boring nesting chambers in the log house. Spence would have lots of round, quarter to half-inch diameter holes to caulk.

Boink. Boink.

The repeated bee bashing against the window made me nervous. Not nervous that they’d sting—males can’t and females don’t unless they’re handled. Nervous that when I yanked the window off its tracks and tilted it inward to clean the outside, bees would fly in and cats would jump out.

“Spence!” Toting the rags and the spray bottle, I found my husband working on the bid package for the township’s French mattress project. “Will you set the step ladder up by the front bedroom window?”

Having fallen off ladders, he takes them seriously. 

So I could set up the ladder myself for the other first floor windows, I studied his techniques—press levers and shift the ladder around until it doesn’t rock.

“That’s steady enough.” He hustled back to his paperwork.

I climbed to the second step from the top, squirted, and inhaled the aroma of vinegar mixed with fragrance of white narcissus. Robins hopped in the grass. They alternated cocking their heads to listen for worms and to monitor the human trying in vain to fly. Three cat noses pressed against the inside of the clean window. 

Cats and robins would have accompanied the window washing any day, but the carpenter bees hadn’t been this numerous before. Buzzing bees whirled around me. Their sound escalated to incoming-missile decibel when one dove for the window.

Carpenter Bee

As if peak bee hovering weren’t enough, roadmaster Dan picked that day to deal with the pot holes in our dirt road. His grader scraped past Wells Wood four times turning the road surface into an inch of powdery dirt. His assistant Dave followed in a dump truck pulling a spring-tooth harrow which drew parallel lines through the dust. He stopped and shouted, “It’s like making a Zen garden.”

Passing vehicles created dust clouds. They rose and floated toward the house. A tow truck driver hauling a car on its flat bed spotted me, braked, and crept past. Dust still rose behind him.

Spence ambled back to see if I’d fallen off the ladder. “The window looks better.” He gave me a thumbs up.

A red sedan stopped. The electrical inspector leaned out of the passenger window and said, “There’s a hell of a lot of dust.”

While he and Spence chatted, I replaced the screen.

Maybe I should have waited for a day without dust.

Wash on a rainy day when the road’s muddy.

I want a dry day without dust.

Wait until winter.

But Ellen’s coming next week.

She won’t care about a week’s worth of dust.

Except for me moving and positioning the step ladder, cleaning the next windows went the same with investigating cats, hovering bees, and rising dust. Hopefully the screens would catch most of the dust.

Having exhausted themselves, the cats curled for naps. Relief. Loft windows came next. Because I would NEVER climb twenty-five feet up the heavy extension ladder, I had to tilt loft windows inward. I could press the plastic track and pull the bottom one in, but I needed Spence to press while I balanced the bottom window and yanked the top. With the cats sound asleep and being high off the ground, I figured the cats, dust, and bees wouldn’t interfere.

I got a third of that right.

A pickup dashed by raising a cloud of dust as wide as the road and higher than the telephone wires. At least the cloud thinned out at the top.

Carpenter bees favored the logs near the peak of the roof as much as the first floor ones. Instead of banging against the glass, they flew right in. I flicked the rag to shoo them out and squirted vinegar water at one heading in. It jerked back and hovered. I squirted again. It flinched but didn’t retreat. Lest I annoy a female bee by accident, I reverted to the flicking-rag method.

By the end of the afternoon, I had half the log house windows washed. Dave spayed brine to lessen the dust. He only treated the middle of the road because that’s where country folks drive.

Tuesday brought less drama.

Though dust clouds floated toward the house, the brine kept the dust at tailgate height. I only needed my rag-flicking technique for the crank-out windows above the kitchen sink. I could stand on the porch and deck to wash the outside of others. That eliminated ladder balancing. And the cats only glanced at my now familiar cleaning tasks—until I went out to the porch and slid Spence’s summer desk away from the great room window.

A mouse, with three or four babies clinging to her back, scampered from the folded floating row cover and ducked under the paper cutter.

Long after I’d cleaned that window, replaced its screen, and muscled the desk back in place, the cats occupied the log hewn table on the inside. Staring out, their heads moved in unison as if watching a tennis match. Rills swiped his paw at the mice on the other side of the glass. At least I’d provided the cats with a clear view.

Last, I cleaned the sliding glass door. Ande leaped between the door to peek at me and the window to monitor the mice. A few carpenter bees slammed into the glass. Sunshine warmed my back.

I rubbed the last smear away and stepped back.

Wow!

Ande and the great room disappeared. In their place reflections—of pansies, the dirt road, and trees stretching into a cornflower blue sky—wavered.

I would tell Ellen. Even looking in, windows frame the outside making nature look more beautiful.

Reflections in Sliding Glass Door

 Reflections - A Country Gathering

Something Black in the Road

I squinted. 

Whatever lay on the road hadn’t been there when Spence and I left for our health walk to the bridge on Route 173. After windstorms, our walks can be half forward bends and side kicks  to move debris off the road. However, that early spring day, we hadn’t tossed or kicked a single branch.

We’d had a peaceful, no-incident walk. Spring leaves washed the hillside in pastel yellows and greens. The faint fragrance of phlox and seed puffs from cottonwood trees floated in the air. But something long and black lay on the road at the edge of the woods between Hutch’s house and Wells Wood.

“That black thing wasn’t there when we left.” I figured it could be a dark cherry branch except that it lay so straight, exactly in the middle, and perpendicular to the berm. “We would have moved it.” 

“Right.” Spence moved closer and nudged me toward the left. “It wasn’t there earlier.”

The thing had pointy ends. One end lifted a couple inches off the road and looked frayed. “Wait! That isn’t a branch.”

Spence stepped in front of me and walked on the edge of the drainage ditch.

“It’s a black snake.” Following my husband, I kept my eyes glued to the snake with a four and a half feet long, two-inch thick body. “Where’s its head?”

“Over there.” Spence pointed to the far end and kept walking. “That’s why I brought you here.”

At this close view, what had seemed frayed came into focus as a tiny, triangular head. The snake didn’t flex a single scale.

My mind replayed an old memory of a dump truck screeching to a halt in a cloud of dust. Jumping out, neighbor Tom used his bare hands to grab a black snake behind its head and near its tail. Tom swung the snake like a horseshoe and tossed the snake into the woods across the road. “Yinz don’t want a car running over it. Black snakes are good for the garden.”

Technically, the snake is called Eastern Ratsnake or Black Rat Snake. Folks around here call them black snakes.

I stopped a dozen feet from the snake. If it didn’t skedaddle, it might get smooshed. Black snakes move slowly, and this one, basking in the warmth from the sun and the road, showed no intention of leaving. Scanning the berm, I searched for a ten foot or longer branch—none. “Shouldn’t we move it?”

“NO.” Spence motioned for me to follow. “Come on. You’re in the way.”

A cobalt blue pickup approached from the west. We hadn’t met the driver, but his full size pickup had passed us on many walks.

Phlox

Though I didn’t want to touch the black snake, I didn’t want it squashed either. Black snakes aren’t poisonous. They eat rats, mice, and other garden pests.

The pickup drove closer.

I raised my arm and moved my index finger up and down in the direction of the snake.

Spence came back to my side.

The pickup stopped.

The snake didn’t budge.

The pickup inched closer.

The snake didn’t budge.

The pickup crept toward the berm—not enough room to drive around the black snake.

 

The snake didn’t budge.

The truck engine silenced. The cab door opened. Below it one leg appeared followed by a second leg and a wooden cane. Slowly, with head and shoulders bent, a man hobbled past the door. Leaving it wide open, he shuffled around the cab to the black snake.

Its head tilted a fraction of an inch.

Sliding the end of the cane under the snake, the man flicked the snake a few inches toward the berm. He shuffled, lifted, and tossed the snake again. 

On the fourth lift-toss, the black snake curled and snapped at the cane.

As if four and a half foot black snakes attacked his cane daily, the man shuffled, lifted, and tossed again.

A Schwan’s frozen food truck rounded the curve and approached the pickup from behind.

I’d often wondered if the driver lived in our neighborhood or just had a customer somewhere close. As the bright yellow truck came closer, I also wondered if it would—trying to pass on the seventeen foot wide road—hit the open door or slide into the drainage ditch.

The truck did neither. 

Sitting higher than the pickup, the driver observed the drama. He turned off his engine.

A third stranger-neighbor, on a familiar motorized bike, zoomed in from the other direction. The helmet-less rider stopped next to Spence and me. Taking his feet off the pedals and setting them on the dirt road, the skinny, young man asked, “Is it a rattlesnake?”

“No,” Spence said. “A black snake.”

The young man turned a key silencing his bike.

The bent man lifted and tossed the snake.

It curled and snapped.

Spence pointed at the large bike engine between the handlebars and the seat. “Is that new?”

“Yeah. I just put it on.” The young man patted the clean black metal case. “I can go fifty miles an hour with it.” He grimaced. “It’s scary, though. I'm an old man now. I have a kid. I need to get home safely.”

The feeling-old, young man rocked from the toes to the heels of his boots. The bike swayed forward and back.

The only other movements on the dirt road centered around the wood cane. The bent man had neared the berm. He tossed the snake onto the yellow violets and moved weeds. 

It coiled, shook its tail, and slammed the cane harder than before. The snake slithered back onto the road.

The bent man tossed the snake two more times before it coiled and stayed. 

The man hobbled to his truck, climbed inside, and closed the door.

Three engines ground into action and rumbled. 

The young man held a hand up in a wave, lifted his feet, and zoomed away with an ear-splitting roar. Drivers waving, the blue pickup and yellow truck moseyed past. 

Spence and I hadn’t learned the men’s names or even talked with two of the drivers, but the snake changed our stranger-neighbor status. When these vehicles pass us in the future, waves will trigger memories of the day we bonded while saving a black snake.

If only, the snake could learn that sunbathing on the road has drawbacks.

Pastel Hillside at Flickenger's

 Reflections - Gauntlet of Geezers

On April 22, a snowy Thursday morning, I drove around the bend on West Creek Road and gasped. I’d planned to accelerate to a dust-raising, zipping-along speed for the scenic, four-mile drive to Carlton post office. Instead, I slammed my foot on the brake pedal.

I don’t always sail through the intersection of West Creek and Creek. Sometimes I slow to wave at Dan driving the township grader or Kathy heading out to the store. I also pause for the occasional dashing deer, ambling black bear, or trotting turkey. I’d never stopped for a traffic snarl of SUVs and pickups.

Though I had the right-of-way, vehicles maneuvered as if my little white Crosstrek were invisible. Pulling out of the line that parked half on the berm and half on the road, a black SUV turned downhill toward the bridge over Deer Creek. A red pickup squeezed past and headed east on Creek Road. The four other vehicles followed.

Puzzled, I joined the end of the line. Since none of the vehicles had parked by the bridge, I ruled out fish fanatics. Fishing season had started April 3 and the stocked trout were hooked—or hook-wary—by April 4. Perhaps the drivers had watched a state trooper clear an accident. Maybe they belonged to a hunting group and scouted for turkey prints in the snow. Turkey hunting season would begin in eight days.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten-thirty. Our local post office is only open from nine to eleven weekdays. It’s rude to pop in on Stacy when she’s closing up, but I had time even with the vehicles moving at my husband’s cautious, don’t-stir-up-dust pace.

The line stopped at the intersection of Creek and North. Again, the vehicles parked half on the berm and half on the road. This time they’d joined others lining North Road down to the bridge over Deer Creek. When I pulled out to pass the metal pack, a gray-haired man opened his pickup door and hopped down in front of my car.

Gritting my teeth, I crept forward and caught a glimpse of a boxy white truck. If it was a Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission stocking truck, that would explain the traffic. Gray-haired groupies always gathered to watch the commission officer release trout into Deer Creek.

For the remaining mile and a half of dirt road, I wound around mimicking the curves in Deer Creek. I didn’t encounter any more vehicles until my tires had whined over the iron mesh bridge, and I rounded the bend leading to the Kid’s Fishing Area. A lone SUV parked by the entrance. No children and no accompanying adults were in sight.

Congratulating myself for escaping the crowd, I turned on the hard road to Carlton, zoomed up the hill past fields, then glided down through the woods toward French Creek. An approaching gray pickup with zigzagging red-orange flames on the side made my stomach contract. Hutch. My neighbor. He drives in the middle of the road and steers toward anything, or anybody, he wants a closer look at. I eased onto the narrow berm.

He jerked back into his lane. Since he didn’t wave, he must not have recognized my car.

Gripping the steering wheel, I made it to the light blue cottage—half post office, half private residence—without encountering any more vehicles. I parked beside Stacy’s gray sedan with her kayaking sticker, I could use a good paddle. After the crazy men drivers, I could use some female conversation. I checked the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. Plenty of time. I tied on my mask and walked inside.

“Good morning, Janet.” Stacy usually pulled her long hair up in a bun to reveal dangling earrings. Today she let it fall past her shoulders and cover the top of suspenders.

“Morning.” I handed her an overweight birthday card. “Is the fish and boat commission stocking Deer Creek today?”

Deer Creek

“Possibly. You could check their schedule online.” She placed the envelope on the scale and printed the postage. “Has Spence been working in your garden? I planted my onions and garlic two days ago, but with this snow . . .”

Mesmerized by the scarlet griffins woven into her suspenders, I wondered if she’d lost weight so her belt didn’t fit. “He has plants growing in the hoop house. His garlic’s ready to transplant.”

“Not in today’s snow. Maybe tomorrow.” She pressed the postage onto the envelope. “My best to Spence.”

Untying the mask, I hoped the gathering of pickups and SUVs had dispersed.

It hadn’t.

It had increased.

At the Kid’s Fishing Area vehicles parked on both sides of the road leaving a single lane open. Old men wandered around the boxy white truck and stood beside a long tube extending from the bottom of the truck to the creek. A young commission officer stood on top of the truck. He dipped a net into one corner, brought it up full of squirming trout, and emptied the flip-flopping fish into a transparent, fabric funnel. The packed trout thrashed making the funnel bulge and wiggle.

For a moment, I considered parking for a better look. However, all the gawkers were guys, and they’d probably snicker at me if I joined the crowd wearing a mask. Besides, Spence would think I’d had an accident if I didn’t get home soon.

Taking a deep yoga breath, I crept through the gauntlet of geezers without meeting oncoming traffic. I relaxed and exhaled.

Unfortunately, two pickups had parked on the iron mesh bridge. A man, ignoring my approaching car, crisscrossed the bridge carrying fishing gear. He hustled to catch the trout that had been in the stream less than fifteen minutes.

Lifting my foot off the gas pedal, I let the car slow to a crawl.

To my horror, Hutch’s gray pickup rolled down Jacobs Road, through the stop sign, and onto Creek Road inches in front of my bumper. Sheesh. Following him would be more frustrating than driving past him. He crossed the bridge at 10 mph then sped up to 20 for the mile and a half drive home. That gave me plenty of time to think. I didn’t need to check online. The men had gathered for fish stocking. But, I did need to check the stocking schedule before venturing out to the post office next April.

Pansy in Snow