Reflections - A July Thing

Ande

It’s a July thing.

July 14 the cats cued me. Ande, who demands his morning cuddle while I’m in the midst of ablutions, jumped out of my arms and strolled to the bathroom door. He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting me to follow him into the great room. Rills, who either sleeps on the sofa or plays keep-away when I exit the bathroom and reach for him, waited for me behind the hewn log chair. And Gilbert slept with one eye open in the chair by the coat stand. Limp, soft, yet observant, he complied with his morning cuddle before wiggling free. He crossed the great room to sit, back against the coffee table and glanced up at me. Then he stared at the floor.

On the floor curled a skinny, one-foot long, striped snake.

Rills circled to the sliding glass door for a clear view of the baby garter.

Ande brushed past me and stationed himself beside the reptile.

Keeping my eyes on the snake and the cats, I called, “There’s a snake in the great room.”

Spence set his coffee mug on the kitchen table. “Where?”

“Next to Ande.”

Before I could fetch a container to plop over the snake—my way of getting rid of invading wasps—Spence grabbed a handful of paper towels. He scooped the baby garter, opened the sliding glass door, and tossed the snake.

It sailed over the deck railing and landed in the yard.

“Was it dead?” I hadn’t seen it moving.

Spence nodded and closed the door. “I wonder how it got in.”

Wondering how a young snake had slithered into our house of cats triggered deja vu. Only this wasn’t just a feeling.

July 25, 2022, I was washing dishes when the cats fussed around my yoga bag on the great room floor. Curious, I wiped my soapy hands and investigated.

A foot-and-a-half long garter snake coiled by the bag, which I’d left beside the wood stove

because I’d done yoga on a wet deck earlier in the morning. Ande, Rills, and Gilbert formed a tight semi-circle beside the snake. Rills stretched his paw and tapped the snake’s scaly skin.

 

Rills

Fast-stepping for a snake-size container, I called to Spence, working on his sofa-office. “The cats discovered a snake.”

Spence jerked. He set his computer on top of files littering cushions and crossed to the winter accessory box by the coat stand. “I need gloves.” Instead, he grabbed a knit cap and scooped the snake. With the reptile dangling from his hatted-hand, he opened the front door, and tossed the snake over the porch railing.

The cats sniffed and pawed the yoga bag.

Perhaps the snake’s brother or sister lurked inside. “Spence, would you please empty the bag on the porch?”

Grumbling, he complied. Blocks, yoga gloves, gripper socks, a strap, and a blanket tumbled out. No snakes.

After I’d gathered the gear and the cats had settled for naps, I asked, “How did the snake get into the great room?”

“It probably curled in your mat.” Nudging Ande to the side, Spence resumed his cat-warmed office seat. “The snake came in with the mat.”

Horrors. I couldn’t have carried the snake inside. Could I? Maybe it slithered in the open door while I retrieved my laptop, which I use to stream yoga videos.

Stretching for yoga with spiders and carpenter bees is tolerable. I would rather not stretch with snakes. “We need snake repellent for the deck.”

The rest of the 2022 summer I took deep yoga breaths of fresh air mixed with an odor reminiscent of moth balls—sweet perfume to me since it kept snakes away from the deck and the great room.

July 2023, the beginning of a new garter snake live birthing season, arrived without the protective perfume hanging over the deck. Distracted by ticks and trips then buck and berries, I’d forgotten the need to spread snake repellent. That may explain why we had another snake in the house. But the morning of July 14, I hadn’t opened the side door for yoga yet. How did the latest snake get in?

We’d had snakes in the basement twice before these two uninvited great room visitors. The basement screen door didn’t close tightly so snakes could, unfortunately, enter there.

Putting on an imaginary detective hat, I questioned Spence. “I assume the snake wasn’t in the great room earlier this morning?”

“No. Charlie stood right there.” Spence pointed at the vacated-snake spot and headed for his coffee mug. “We talked. He left for work. There was no snake.”

Okay, our son would have noticed a snake on the floor at his feet. “So neither of you opened the sliding glass door.”

Spence nodded as slowly as if moving his head through molasses.

I glanced around. “Perhaps the snake slithered in the front door when Charlie went to work.”

“The woodpile’s by the door.” Spence sipped coffee that had cooled while he dispatched the snake. “Snakes can hide there.”

Rills clawed Spence’s jeans.

“Or the cats found the snake.” Spence picked his buddy up and scratched his chin. “They left us an offering.”

Our three furry friends had seemed to be waiting for us to acknowledge the snake’s presence. And if the cats found it, the snake could have sneaked in any door—basement, front, or sliding glass. The baby garter could have been in the house hiding for who knows how long. A creepy thought.

Giving up on detecting, I made a plan. To discourage snakes from crawling into the great room in July, I marked my google calendar for an annual June 30 task: SPREAD SNAKE REPELLENT.

It’s a June thing.

Gilbert

 

 Reflections - Buck, Boom, and Berries

Wild Black Raspberries Ripening

I didn’t want Spence’s offering. When we’d passed the wild black raspberries on one of our health walks, I told him, “Don’t pick them. Let the birds eat them.” But July 4, he interrupted the Flash Point board game I was playing with our son Charlie. Spence held out a plastic pint container with half a cup of berries he had picked, one by one, for me.

“The birds ate some. Lots more are ripening.” He applied his mind reading talents and answered my unspoken question. “You can make pie or sorbet.”

Summoning my manners, I reached for the container with the rolling black raspberries. “Thanks.” I appreciated his kindness and the time he took picking the berries. Though I loved both black raspberry pie and sorbet, I wouldn’t make any.

In a discussion about avoiding statins—because all the types my mom’s doctor prescribed made her want to die, and because my sister could only tolerate a very expensive type—I had asked my nurse practitioner Deb, “Is it okay to eat dessert? I like cookies and pie. I don’t have any other vices.”

Deb studied her fingers for a while before answering. “You could have one small cookie or small piece of pie,” she held her fingers to indicate a sliver, “once or twice a week.”

Bad news. That would tempt me to eat far more sugary sweets. Since January, I’ve gone without dessert—gobbling dry fruit after dinner instead. My cholesterol numbers improved by April, pleasing Deb. But she said, “Your numbers go up and down. I want to check you in October.”

Sorbet and pie weren’t options. Spence hadn’t picked enough berries anyway.

After finishing the game with Charlie—rescuing six people and a cat while keeping the game’s faux fire under control—I rinsed the berries. They tempted me. I plucked a berry and popped it into my mouth. Warm, semi-sweet juice trickled over my tongue. Eating another five, I confessed to Spence. “I probably shouldn’t eat any more. Seeds don’t agree with my digestion.”

His mustache scrunched. “You could make juice.”

Homemade juice would be healthier than sugar-sweetened juice from a store. And Wells Wood berry juice would make a special dessert for the holiday . . . if I could convince myself into believing that con by the time I’d prepared the drink.

After dinner, when Spence and his cat-buddy Rills napped on the sofa, I eyed the berries. Too few for the blender, and I didn't want to squish them through the sieve we use to drain coffee grounds in case the coffee left its flavor on the metal. Instead, I mashed the berries in a bowl with a fork.

Juice didn't separate from the seeds. Mushy pulp formed and stained the bowl purple. No worries. I would strain the juice. Not waking Spence to ask where he stored the cheese cloth, I grabbed a clean, but old, white sock and spooned a bit of pulp inside. I squeezed. My fingertips turned red. Juice dribbled out. I spooned the rest of the mush in, squeezed, and a tablespoon of precious liquid dripped into a porcelain tea bag saucer.

 

Black Raspberry Juice in Tea Bag Saucer

Tossing the sock into the garbage, I washed my hands, raised the saucer, and—

BOOM!

Rills dove off the sofa and scampered around the great room with his bristling tail straight up. He stopped to stare at the door.

Spence sat. “It’s okay, Rillzie.”

I lowered the saucer. “That cannon sounded closer than before, Spence.”

He shrugged, pounded his pillow, and lay down again.

Two neighbors have calcium carbide cannons—Matt, our auto mechanic, lives atop the hill to the north, and Daryl, our tractor mechanic, lives atop the hill to the south. One must have tested their cannon in preparation for a family-and-friend firework show later that evening.

Rills gave up on the boom, left the door, and descended the stairs to the basement.

Lifting the saucer, I sipped the juice. Semi-sweet, intense, berry syrup electrified my tongue. A second batch could be thinned.

The next evening after dinner, Spence and Rills lounged on the sofa again. 

With no wild raspberries to squeeze, I splashed dishwater and gazed through the kitchen window at the north garden.

A buck sauntered to the blueberry cage—still uncovered because I’d procrastinated. After all my weeding, mulching, and covering last year, climate change ruined the crop anyway. I didn't want to work in vain this year. The buck stopped at the cage as if by a lunch counter, stretched his head through the gap between the chicken wire and the overhead PVC frame to munch on the blueberry bush laden with green berries.

Remembering the taste of fresh picked blueberries—seedless berries I could eat and berries that took hours and hours of labor to cultivate in the garden, not just pick from the wild—my anger let loose. I grumbled, “You cheeky devil,” but felt more anger at myself for not putting up the row cover cloth. Stomping outside to the top of the porch steps, I yelled in my stern teacher voice, “Get out of my blueberries.”

The buck stared at me then calmly bit off another mouthful of bush.

“Didn’t you hear me?” I stamped my feet and waved my arms. “Leave my blueberries alone!”

The buck didn’t even look. He continued munching tasty shoots as he probably had on many evenings when I hadn’t been looking out the window.

If only Daryl or Matt would shoot off the cannon again, but women don’t have to rely on a man rescuing a damsel in distress. I reached to my toes for increased volume and bellowed, “SCRAM, YOU IDIOT!”

The buck jerked his head out of the cage. Spinning around, he dashed for the woods—his white tail up.

I’d learned my lesson. Nature cooperated with wild raspberries this season. If we got more rain to nourish the blueberry bushes that grew taller than me, those berries might ripen rather than wither. I needed to get off my duff and cover the cages. That buck, not to mention his relatives and birds nesting nearby, would be back. Blueberries called to their bellies as much as they called to mine. 

Blueberries Ripening

 Reflections - Independence Day Has a New Meaning

CLASH (Spence, Darrick, Erika,Yvonka) and Monica

Shoulders tense, hands gripping the wheel, Spence steered his beloved Maverick along empty country roads early Monday morning, June 26. He’d invited me as his plus-one to an event that had caused him organizing nightmares. And I was making him late.

Cleveland Lead Advocates for Safe Housing (CLASH), an all volunteer organization, is conducting a study of barriers to child lead testing with Monica, their volunteer scientist from Thriving Earth Exchange and the University of Arizona. The event was her onsite visit. Spence grumbled that planning the event was like “herding cats.”

A week before the event, Spence and I walked along West Creek Road grinding gravel under our feet while he ground his teeth. “No one will be happier to see July than me.” He clenched his fists. “Independence Day has a new meaning.”

Because we attended a memorial for our son-in-law’s sister in North East, Pennsylvania, Spence and I missed the welcome for Monica at the hotel Sunday evening. Spence planned a one-on-one with her Monday before the events started at noon.

After all the support he’d given me in June—from his hand up climbing under Cook Forest’s ancient hemlocks to his hand steadying me on the path beside Presque Isle Bay—I wanted to support him.

“I need to leave at eight,” he’d said. “I have a meeting at ten.” A tight schedule for dropping me at Jennifer’s and getting into town, but I trusted him. He’d made the trip from Wells Wood to Cleveland more than a thousand times.

Setting my alarm for 5:40 a.m., I piled clothes, snacks, and electronic essentials for shoving into my bags when I woke. Skipping morning writing and yoga, I gulped breakfast, raced through dish washing, and jogged between litter boxes. Unfortunately, the cats deposited extra poop. I didn’t buckle my seat belt until 8:11.

Without a single recriminating word, Spence drove. We had little traffic, but hammering rain slowed us in Orwell. Fifteen minutes later than planned, he dropped me at Jennifer’s in Novelty.

Jennifer and I hugged. We totted my bags to her kitchen counter. I counted. “Oh, no. I’m missing my food.”

“Call Spence.” She grabbed her keys. “I drive you to meet him.”

We hustled to her van, and I pressed Spence’s icon. “I forgot my food bag. Jennifer’s driving. We’ll meet you at the corner of Heath and Sperry.”

A long sigh came over the phone. He must have been chanting Independence Day has a new meaning. His plus-one had become minus-plenty.

With raindrops bouncing off the pavement, Spence and Jennifer passed the grocery bag of food in the intersection. He drove off a second time, arriving forty-five minutes late for his appointment—luckily Monica ran late too. Despite repeated email reminders that morning, the noon appointment didn’t show. Succeeding interviews proved productive. The evening focus group for child care workers in Brooklyn, Ohio, had four, of the twelve child care workers that signed up, attend.

Meanwhile, Jennifer and I sipped tea in a refreshing breeze on her back porch while rain drummed the metal roof. In her store, Jane Austen Books, we unpacked and shelved items she’d taken to PRIDE in Geauga. Though I squinted to read authors' names, being surrounded by Jane Austen books, puzzles, and stationery enchanted me. Then, to my surprise, Jennifer said her daughter and grandson wanted to see me. We dashed through the rain and sat under a huge red porch umbrella that swayed in the wind and dumped bucketfuls of water when least expected. Their adorable mixed collie-size puppy bumped knees, gathering pets. Back at the store, I packed, labeled, and gawked at books before Jennifer fed me and drove, dodging several racing rabbits, to MidTown.

From Jane Austen Books

We hugged goodbye in the lobby of Tru by Hilton, and I walked to the elevator. Pushing the call button, my cell phone rang.

Spence's voice came over the microwaves. “Checking on you.”

“I had a fantastic day.” Not wanting to lose connection in the elevator, I returned to the lobby. “And yours?”

“Not a disaster.” His voice softened. “That’s the football stadium.” He resumed his regular volume. “I’m giving Monica a tour.” 

“Hi, Janet,” she called.

I imagined Spence and Monica with the phone between them in the Maverick’s console. “Hi, Monica. I hope you’re enjoying Cleveland.”

“Yes. Spence took me to see the lake.”

“Monica wanted to get a selfie with Lake Erie.” Back to the tour voice. “That’s City Hall.”

At 9:50, after fifteen more minutes of three-way chatting, Spence and Monica walked into the lobby. Despite her long day, Monica—petite with a full head of gorgeous, long, curly hair—strode erect, backpack slung over her shoulder, and a warm welcoming smile on her face. I would learn that smile was her signature.

Returning the smile, I welcomed her with a hug as if she was the friend she would shortly become.

My plus-one status fared better Tuesday even though I didn’t get up at 5:00 to join Spence in the lobby where he sipped coffee, munched almonds, and tapped computer keys. I slept another hour before slipping on hotel bath towels over the fake wood floor for yoga. Then I sat across from him at an elevated computer table keeping him silent company while he filled in computer spreadsheets.

My friend Darlene, a retired nurse, arrived the same time as Spence’s CLASH day started. He sent his research people off to talk with the Director of Public Health downtown then gave Darlene and I a quick tour of Tech Hive across the street from the hotel.

Since I wibble-wobbled getting to the door, Darlene grabbed my arm—something she did the rest of the day when we walked. “Do you want to see Deva? I checked. She’s working today.” Deva, Darlene’s youngest daughter and my daughter’s best friend, is branch manager of Maple Heights Library.

Driving from MidTown to Maple Heights, Darlene switched lanes and dodged orange barrels among more cars than I’d seen in Western Pennsylvania during all ten years of my retirement.

We surprised Deva. I gave her a bear hug. She gave us a tour of the children’s room upstairs with areas for babies through teens. The impressive supply of emergent readers, creative toys, and a calming center with bubbling fountain tempted my inner child to flop on the rug and play.

Darlene took a different route north encountering even more construction and a five car pileup complete with an ambulance, siren blaring toward the scene. Being inside her second floor condo with a view of trees outside felt safe—especially with birds flocking birds to feeders her neighbors had hung in their yard below. Rain pelted trees and filled the creek to roaring.

 

Janet and Darlene at Tech Hive

I introduced Darlene to Cornell Lab’s Merlin bird app for her phone. She downloaded the app. Not wanting to scare the birds, Darlene stood by the screen door to her deck, recorded bird songs, and used the bird identifying section. Mesmerized, she discovered names for visitors to the feeders she’d been seeing for a while—grackles, juvenile gray catbirds, red-bellied woodpeckers, and white-breasted nuthatches. We spent a quiet afternoon chatting and bird watching until Spence called.

“Where are you?”

“Still at Darlene’s.”

“Stop at the chicken rotisserie. It’s across from Whole Foods.” He sounded busy. “You couldn’t eat anything from the pizza shop.”

While fetching food for the evening focus group of parents, I’d become a problem for him again. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.”

But Darlene shook her head furiously at the rotisserie idea. “They use butter.” Instead, we circled the Whole Foods hot salad bar selecting fish, brown rice, and green vegetables.

At Tech Hive, I connected faces to CLASH names I’d heard for years. Darrick has the same beard and baseball cap as Spence making it easy to see why people call them brothers. Erika has the sister smile of Monica’s and wore bright red which highlighted her dimples. Yvonka, the other mastermind of CLASH, came dressed to impress from her bold gold necklace to her high heel sandals. She didn’t go inside the room like Darrick, who facilitated for Monica with the seven participants, but stayed out with Spence and me.

Yvonka asked for the whole story of me moving into Spence’s locker in high school. She told stories about the Lee-Harvard community where Darlene had given me the construction tour. Yvonka also discussed cultures of different Cleveland neighborhoods with Spence. Near the end of the evening, Spence carried supplies to his truck. I opened the locked door to let him back in.

After the group, Monica sat alone in the room. She needed to write notes, gather her thoughts, and rest. The experiences of getting lead testing for children were so dark that they drained her.

Spence made sure Tech Hive was secure then called the manager to lock the building remotely. As I walked Monica back to the hotel, I felt better about supporting Spence.

Wednesday gave me the chance to be Spence’s plus-one without interruption. We settled around a corner table in Cafe Phix at Tech Hive for a breakfast meeting with our friend Cory and Monica. Spence and I wanted to catch up with Cory and his family news—his mom loved my Florida photos and story plus he’s going to be a grandpa.

Monica, intrigued that Cory had a paint company, made a request. “I’m using the creds of these two special people to ask you this. Do you have any old samples of paint with lead in it?” The samples would give her the signature of lead from paint so that she could distinguish which lead in the environment came from paint rather than other sources. Paint companies weren’t forthcoming in providing samples for her studies.

Cory stared at his folded hands. “We haven’t used lead in paint for twenty to twenty-five years.” He looked into Monica’s eyes. “It would be unfortunate if we still had samples. But, I will check and let you know.”

After two hours of friendly chatter, Cory left for work, and the three of us moved into the Tech Hive open community space to spread out at a long table. Spence and Monica reviewed the slide presentation for Monica’s 1:00 ZOOM interview with a

biostatistician, who had data on lead testing of children. I quietly scratched notes in my journal.

A few minutes past noon, I spotted our son-in-law Chris crossing the street from the hotel parking lot to the front of Tech Hive. Spence had invited Ellen and Chris to take the first of several rest stops on their trip from North East, Pennsylvania back to West Lafayette, Indiana for visiting us in Cleveland. I ran out front to greet them.

The corgis, delighted to be free from the car, tugged on their leashes, raced about peoples’ legs, and watered trees. While Chris and I sat with the dogs, Spence took scientist Ellen inside to meet Monica. Phoenix, the puppy, climbed the benches, stuck his nose in sand, and barked at passers-by. Lyra, the two year old female, calmly accepted pets, watched people with a whipping tail, and let loose a few welcoming barks. Monica returned with Spence and Ellen to see the corgis. Being from Arizona, she especially appreciated Phoenix’s name.

At 1:00, when the corgi crew left, Spence made introductions for the ZOOM meeting.I heated the last piece of the chicken pot pie I’d cooked for the trip. He and I waited outside the “phone booth” while Monica conducted her ZOOM interview. Spence worked on his computer. I ate and wrote in my journal. Around 2:00, we packed up in anticipation of Monica finishing. Her arms waved. She bounced in the chair. The interview continued until she bounded out of the booth with a wide grin.

“You were animated in there,” I said.

“Was I?” She checked her wrist. “My heart beat is up to seventy-one. Usually it's fifty at rest.” She shrugged. “I was taught to mirror the emotion of the subject in interviews. He was excited. I reflected that excitement back.”

“Yvonka is coming at two-thirty.” Spence put his computer in a tote bag.

“She’s taking me for Thai food.” Monica raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to wait.” She hugged us both and waved us away.

Driving through the smoke from the wildfires in Canada, Spence pointed the Maverick toward Wells Wood. Shoulders relaxed, his fingers gently held the steering wheel.

“Do you feel like a weight has been lifted off your back?’’ I sipped water to ease the soreness the smoke left in my throat. 

“Oh yeah! The event went better than I thought.” Spence stared down Route 322. “Not as good as it could have been. Better than the catastrophe I feared.”

Tru By Hilton