Reflections - Foiled by a Polar Vortex

Half Birthday Card

On November 26, Spence’s half birthday, wind howled. I figured Spence would have forgotten his 78½ and I could surprise him with a card. I’d used a blanket stitch to attach a patch of fabric decorated by a green pepper, red tomato, and shaker of spices. Inside I wished him savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. My wishes were bound to come true. We would celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, he loved driving his Maverick pickup, and he often said, “I’m not worried.”

I didn’t surprise him.

Spence picked the envelope up off the breakfast table. “A half birthday card.” He opened the envelope and read the card. “Thank you.”

Perhaps if he foresaw what the day held, he wouldn’t have thanked me.

At 11:00 a.m., he drove to Meadville to fetch our fresh, ten pound turkey at Malady's Meat Market plus brave Giant Eagle for a few last minute items. The day before Thanksgiving grocery store crush? I didn’t envy him.

Instead, over the phone, I answered my friend Darlene’s questions about her memoir/self help book for widows. Then I chopped the stuffing ingredients. The ciabatta smooshed under the bread knife if I didn’t cut at a precise angle. Celery behaved better but left dangly strings. And the pungent onions made my eyes water like the cat fountain. I sniffed and blinked so I didn’t contaminate the chopped bits. My stomach growled—way past lunch time. I warmed homemade chicken barley soup, sipped two spoonfuls, and wondered, Shouldn’t Spence be back by now?

The phone rang.

“A tree hit me.” Spence’s voice quavered through the line. “Pick me up at Matt’s.”

I dropped the spoon. “I’ll be right there.” 

Hustling to fetch keys and a coat, I replayed his words in my mind. A tree hit me.

Had he swerved to miss a vehicle and ran off the road?

Had his Maverick malfunctioned and ran off the road?

Had he been injured when he ran off the road?

More questions bubbled through my mind but I ignored them. Focus. Race to the Crosstrek. Drive to Matt’s auto shop. Find Spence.

In Matt’s parking lot, I found Spence—leaning against his beloved Maverick with the passenger side bumper crushed and pushed upward. I parked beside the bashed pickup and stepped out.

Spence was talking to Cody, Matt’s mechanic. Buffeted by the high wind, Cody’s hair pointed skyward. The fellas stared at the pickup’s smashed front. One murmured, “leaking coolant and oil.” Then they swerved their funeral faces toward me.

Cody said to Spence, “The Maverick’s not safe to drive. Order a tow.” He waved at me and walked into the warm shop.

Spence said, “We need to take the groceries out.” He gathered plastic bags from the truck's back seat. “My clipboard’s on the front seat. Will you get it?”

I found the turkey beside the clipboard and carried them both to the car. I stashed them behind the driver’s seat. Spence put his load behind the passenger seat. With both of us settled inside the Crosstrek, I steered out of the parking lot.

Since Spence appeared unharmed, I didn’t hold my questions any longer. “What happened? How did the tree hit you? Did you run off the road?” 

 

“A tree blew down . . . Wait.” He turned in the passenger seat and pointed at Matt’s. “The turkey’s on the front seat.”

 “I picked the turkey up when I got your clipboard.” I continued driving down the country road. “Where were you when the tree fell?”

Spence stared at the road. Was he watching for falling trees? “I was driving on Mercer Pike. I heard the tree break.  I didn’t even see it. It hit the bumper.” He shuddered. “The truck kept going, crunching over the tree. The engine light flashed immediately.” He wiped his forehead. “I’ve cleared many trees off that road. I didn’t want to be stuck. I wanted to get to Matt’s. I put my flashers on and kept moving.” 

Damaged Maverick

Back home, I pulled the car onto the parking pad out front. We each lugged bundles of groceries up the ramp and into the house. The three tabbies met us at the door. Only Rills, the smallest and the one with a ferocious appetite, swarmed around our legs. We unpacked the groceries.

Spence grabbed the spare keys for the Crosstrek. “I’m driving to Cochranton. I’ll report the accident to Pendersen’s. Then I’ll get an appointment with Runyan’s. And I’ll order a tow.”

Reporting the accident to our insurance company and securing a spot on the waiting list at the body shop made sense. But he shouldn’t be driving the Crosstrek with a clutch. He’d been wearing a brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon for months. The brace made it difficult to push the clutch to the floor and prevented him from feeling the clutch engage. I stuck my arm back into my coat. “I’ll drive you.”

“I can manage the clutch. It’s just difficult.” He walked out before I got my other arm into the coat.

Gilbert jumped onto the table and swished his fluffy tail over the soup bowl. Right. I hadn’t finished lunch. I lifted the tabby off the table, slipped out of the coat, and warmed the soup again.

Lights blinked off for a second. Gilbert blinked at the silence in the house. While I finished eating and washed the lunch and stuffing prep dishes, the lights browned out twice. The wind howled outside. I hoped Spence didn’t encounter any more downed trees.  

He didn’t. 

But when he returned, looking sheepish, he walked inside, settled on the sofa with his buddy Rills, and said, “I stalled out four times in three miles. I’ll have to drive without my brace.”

“When is your appointment?” We live in deer country. I figured he would have to wait two-and-a-half-months for body work. Deer darted across our rural roads with the reckless abandon of children escaping school for the holidays. Dented vehicles were more common than red trucks.

“Not until December twenty-second.” He pouted under his mustache. “Someone canceled just before I arrived. I got their spot.” 

“Terrific. You were lucky to score an appointment so soon.” Perhaps they let Spence take the cancellation because he couldn’t drive his truck. Others could drive their dented vehicles safely.

Spence didn’t agree. “That’s a long time to wait.”

I didn’t remind him the body shop would only start repairs that day. He couldn’t drive his beloved truck home then.

Rills snuggled against Spence while he read his email.

The lights cut off again at 4:17 p.m. Silence inside. Wind howled outside. At the kitchen table, I waited for Aimee Eddy’s blog, “First Thanksgiving Week Off in Thirty Years,” to unfreeze on the computer screen, the kitchen lights to flick on, and the refrigerator with our fresh turkey inside to hum.

None happened.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked. Outside wind howled. Twilight faded.

I pushed back my chair and climbed the spiral stairs in the fleeting afternoon light to fetch the battery powered lamp from the loft sewing table. The light blazed inside our dim log house. Back downstairs, I dragged a chair to the counter, clambered onto the seat, and pulled out herbal tea cartons in front of the hexagon corner cupboard. I reached into the back and, fumbling, grabbed the tucked away gifted candles I’d received over the years.

Across the open space room, Spence nudged his buddy away and set his laptop on the coffee table. “Sorry, Rillzie.” He grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and headed downstairs to our son’s mancave. Murmurs of men’s voices reached me. Spence tramped back upstairs. “I’ll fetch water. Then I’ll make a fire.” He bundled and went outside.

Charlie trudged upstairs and handed me the flashlight. He yawned and pointed at a light clamped on his shirt. The poor fella must have been ready to sleep, a routine because of his early shift at UPS. He clomped back downstairs.

Sometimes our rural blackouts last nearly a week. Since our water is pumped from the well by electricity, filling five gallon buckets with the cistern water for toilet flushing, allows us to conserve the well water already in our intake tank, filtered tank, and hot water tank for dish washing and sanitary needs.

I powered down my cell phone, computer, and iPad to save their batteries. 

Carrying armfuls of logs from the woodshed, Spence hobbled up the porch steps.

I twisted junk mail for burning. At least this time the advertisements served a purpose.

Spence loaded the fire box of the wood stove and lit the paper. Flames leapt. Kindling snapped. The scent of burning logs floated in the air.

Essential tasks accomplished, Spence asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Enchiladas.” We’d decided that earlier. I still wanted them.

“Enchiladas?” His face blanched. He bit his lip. “I guess that’s possible.”

He bustled from the kitchen area to the wood stove.

Holding a candle high, I walked toward the bedroom. Thump. My foot hit a furry lump in the hall. I wobbled. Cat claws scratched the wood floor. I didn’t know which of the three tabbies I’d bumped. Alas, I couldn’t find the poor cat in the dark to snuggle him and say sorry. At least I hadn’t fallen.

Spence yelled. “What are you doing?”

“Getting my Jane Austen puzzle book. I ran into a cat.”

“Be careful.”

I shuffled the rest of the way.

Flickering candlelight added romance to Spence’s concoctions. He topped my not-too-spicy enchiladas with just the right amount of sauce. His coleslaw and grilled steak fit my savory wish for him. In our comfortable conversation pauses, I pondered roasting the turkey on top of the wood stove for Charlie and us tomorrow. I could forget oven times and rely on a meat thermometer. I would roast the rest of the meal while the turkey cooled. No worries.

“Don’t wash dishes until tomorrow,” Spence said, breaking my reverie.

“Right.” I hadn’t planned on washing dishes by candlelight. I would miss too much. Besides, I could conserve water better in daylight.

Spence retreated to the sofa, snuggled all three cats, and read with a book light.

I picked up in the kitchen and lined eight candles on the table to solve word searches from Northanger Abbey.

Logs crackled in the firebox. Human and cat snores drifted from the sofa.

I blew out the candles, held the battery powered lamp aloft, and tiptoed past the sleepers on my way to bed. Around midnight, I woke. Lights leaked into the bedroom from the open space room. Grateful, I fell into a deeper, restful sleep. 

The next day, while Spence poured olive oil onto my hands so I could rub the turkey, he said, “I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking if I’d been five seconds later. The tree would’ve hit the windshield. And me.”

Off and on since Thanksgiving, Spence has repeated, “If I’d been seconds later.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. He frequently mourns his Maverick. “I miss my truck . . . It’s a long time to wait.” Without his brace, he’ll manage the clutch in the Crosstrek.

I still wish Spence savory eats, smooth rides, and a worry free half-year. Because of the polar vortex, he’ll have to wait until January for the second two wishes.

He’s adaptable.

He’s resilient.

He’s worth celebrating.

Close Up of Bumper

Reflections - Waiting for Pawpaws

Pawpaw Trees

Hands on hips in early spring about a decade ago, I stared at my husband. “Are you crazy?” Spence had paid for a twig with a few scraggly roots.

He raised the twig in the air. “It’s a pawpaw.”

As if that explained the wacky purchase.

Reading my mind he said, “They’re native fruit trees. You like fruit. You’ll see.”

I did like fruit. The scrawny twig grew taller, branched out, but didn’t fruit.

Three years later, he bought two more twigs. “Pawpaws need to cross pollinate,” he said. At least the few dangling leaves indicated life. Spence planted his two twigs behind our garage. The three trees formed a triangle.

 

A month later at the township garage, Spence and I sat on metal folding chairs beside our neighbor Stephanie and breathed in the diesel fumes from the graders, tractors, and dump trucks at the supervisors’ monthly meeting. Spence told her about his new pawpaw trees.

Stephanie squeezed the minute sheets she’d rolled into a tube. “We had pawpaw trees growing up. They take ten years to bear fruit, but they’re so good.” A dreamy look came over her face.

I didn’t doubt his new twigs would grow. Maybe I should have.

Once, after Spence brushhogged, he trudged inside. His shoulders drooped and his face clouded under his beard. “I cut one of the pawpaws.” He held up a twig—a rootless twig.

I rubbed his back. Since I’d never seen or eaten a pawpaw, I didn’t care that this sapling failed to mature. Hundreds of saplings sprouted in the woods every year. Not all of them survived. But the poor guy was mourning his tree.

“We still have two. They can cross pollinate, Spence.”

He forgot the names of the varieties. I figured the name pawpaw was strange enough to remember.

These trees of the understory grew into pyramidal shapes with the first tree growing twice the size of the second. Their oblong leaves dangled like fringe—grass green in summer and dandelion yellow in fall. Because they were different varieties, the taller tree’s leaves always displayed a darker shade.

We waited for the fall fruit.

On a garden walk five years after he’d planted the first twig, I searched the trees for fruit. None.

“Takes ten years.” Spence rubbed my shoulders.

Though I’d never had the urge to taste a pawpaw, the trees at Wells Wood made me curious. I didn’t want to wait ten years. Considering the first twig he’d held, however, waiting until the tree matured made sense.

Each succeeding summer we checked. No fruit. Not a single one.

This year I concentrated on my Down a Country Road short story collection rather than the garden.

Spence walked into the house one July evening while I washed dishes and said, “We have pawpaws.”

I turned, dripping water onto the floor.

Rills, the cat who chose Spence for favorite person status, clawed Spence’s jeans to be picked up.

I must have looked my question, Of course we have pawpaw trees. What do you mean?

Spence scooped up his cat buddy and said, “The trees have fruit. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, sunglasses in hand because I didn’t want to distort my vision, I followed Spence to the pawpaw trees.

He pointed.

I peered.

Pawpaws

Two fruits dangled from branches above our heads in the tall tree. A dozen or more hung on the shorter tree. The lime green potato-shaped fruits grew in clusters like bananas only each fruit separated like fingers spread wide.

I touched one of the pawpaws. Rock hard. No bird bites. No insect bores. How long would the fruit take to ripen?

Spence attended the August 11 township meeting. He also asked Stephanie when the pawpaws would ripen. I stayed home to wash dishes and order expandable folders for my beta readers’ copies of Down a Country Road. His report back discouraged me. “She said, ‘end of September or early October.’”

Okay. Fall fruit should ripen the end of September or early October. And I checked online for how to tell. Touch proved a better test than color. My new quest—discover a pawpaw that felt like a ripe peach.

At least once a week throughout the rest of August and September, finger tests for the pawpaws—which grew fatter and longer—failed. Rock hard.

Our tests increased to every other day in October. On the twelfth, we made yet another trek to the pawpaw trees with their yellow leaves and fruits—some turning yellow-green with black splotches. All rock hard. No animals had taken any. No birds had pecked any. No insects had bored into any. None had fallen off the tree.

Pennsylvania already celebrated its pawpaw festival in York. Actually, all U.S. festivals finished. Only Quebec held a festival that day. And our area of Pennsylvania had been under a drought watch since April. Pawpaws are drought sensitive.

Would the pawpaws fail because of the drought? Would frosts stunt their development? Would our fruit ever ripen?

As if Spence could read my thoughts, he peered at the pawpaws and said, “The trees took ten years to bear fruit. They’ll take ten years to ripen.”

Not funny.

Three days later, we headed out for a health walk. Instead of turning toward the ramp which led to the road, I turned toward the porch steps which led to Spence’s tractor path, the back of the garage, and the pawpaw trees.

Behind me Spence snorted. “I checked yesterday. Rock hard.”

I walked the path anyway. Spence was probably right, but I might as well walk by the pawpaw trees as along the road. Buttercup yellow pawpaw leaves lifted slightly with the breeze. Tawny leaves lay under the trees.

Two pawpaws had fallen off the short tree and landed in the leaf pile. A bite opened one fruit’s side. Cracks marred the brown skin and flesh of both fruits. Yellow jackets and flies swooped in and feasted. Way past ripe.

I felt every fruit on the trees. Rock hard until the eleventh. The top depressed under my fingers. Though he stood beside me, I hollered, “Spence! The top mushed. It’s ripe.”

He put his arm around my shoulder and led me toward the road. “We’ll pick it on our way back.”

After our walk, I checked the sides and tops of the pawpaws. I picked two. They popped off like bananas snapping away from a cluster. While I slurped homemade chicken barley soup, I studied the fruit. Lime-green colored the larger one and the bottom of the smaller one—four-and-a-half-inches long and two-and-a-half-inches wide. Lemon-lime with small black splotches colored its top. Because the small pawpaw’s top smooshed under the finger test, I chose it to eat first.

                                                                            Pawpaws

I washed the pawpaw, centered it on a plate, and played a drum roll inside my head. With a sharp knife, I sliced the fruit lengthwise. A faint banana-like fragrance floated in the air. The split fruit revealed creamy flesh containing black bean shaped seeds—five-eighths to one-and-one-eighth-inch in length. I dipped my spoon around the seeds and, finally, tasted our pawpaw.

Spence leaned with his hands clutching the edge of the table. “Well?” As a diabetic, he didn’t eat fruit.

I swirled the smooth, sweet fruit around on my tongue. “It’s creamy like custard.”

He frowned. He could see that.

“And it tastes like banana with a hint of mango.”

He took one step away.

 

I stopped him. “You should try it.”

His face debated the pros and cons of tasting fruit. No, he regulated his diabetes with medicine and a strict diet. Yes, he’d planted the trees and waited ten years.

Spence opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a teaspoon.

I shoved the plate toward him.

Spence scooped a quarter teaspoon of the creamy pulp and opened his mouth. Spoon inserted, he stood still as if contemplating his dainty bite. Then he dropped the spoon into the sink and walked across the open space room to the sofa.

Curious, I pursued him. “Well?”

He shrugged. “It tastes like fruit. It tastes like a pawpaw.

 

Pawpaw Partially Scooped

 

 Reflections - A Day with Christa 

Janet and Christa

Giddy as a youngster about to open a present, I bustled around the kitchen packing food for a day with Christa. 

Memories of late Aunt Marge swirled through my mind. Today, Saturday, September 13, was her ninety-seventh birthday. I privately celebrated all seventeen of her birthdays since her death. A Lake Erie native, lover of people, and connoisseur of books, she would have appreciated my plans for this one the most—riding with a friend to attend the Lake Erie Lit Fest.

And Marge would have loved Christa. 

When she gave feedback on stories at Pennwriters meetings, she bounced in her chair. Or she held her hands in prayer position by her heart, looked the writer in the eye, and offered comments about what pleased her. Who could resist her? Not me. 

Christa, outgoing, business savvy, and half my age, had organized activities for one of two Pennwriters tents at Lit Fest.

Grateful she accepted my request to be a beta reader for my collection of nature stories, I wanted to help her. And I could enjoy time with her in the car and at the park.

I also wanted to hug myself, but I didn’t dare waste time. I needed to drive twenty-five minutes north from Wells Wood, park at Christa’s house, and ride with her another forty minutes to reach Erie by 11:10.

At 9:45 I texted, I’m on my way. Bags slung over my shoulders, I stepped outside and hoofed to the garage thirty yards down our dirt road. 

I entered the dim garage, slipped into the Subaru Crosstrek, and stowed my bags in the passenger foot space. After I slammed the car door, I fastened my seat belt and sighed. Relief. I would be on time. I turned the key.

Silence.

Maybe I hadn’t stepped on the clutch far enough like Spence hadn’t the time he told me the battery was dead. The foot brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon prevented him from stepping all the way down.  

I pushed my feet farther down on both the brake and the clutch. I turned the key again.

Silence. 

Except a cricket chirped outside. The engine didn't hum.

Not wanting to believe the obvious, I turned the ignition key twice more.

Silence.

No lights glowed on the dashboard with the key in the ignition. Even I could diagnose this problem which would prevent me from helping my friend today.

West Creek Road

With a heart heavier than the bags I scooped up, I trudged to the house and tapped Christa’s number on my cell phone. “I’m sorry. My car battery died. Spence drove to Cleveland and my son needs his car.” I took a deep yoga breath and held back my mounting disappointment. “Go without me.”

“But I wanted to be with you.” Christa’s sad voice wafted through cyberspace.

“We’ll get together another time.”

“I’ll drive up. Matt can come down and get you. He’ll drive you to Erie and drop you off.

“No, no, no.” I wanted to support Christa. And I wanted to support Pennwriters for their help with feedback, courses, and workshops. I didn’t need to go.

“Matt drives all the time. He won’t mind. Driving’s nothing for us.”

“No, no, no.” I’d never met Christa’s partner. I had seen him briefly at the Saegertown library when he’d stopped by to pick her up for a wedding. Dressed for the occasion and waving at our writers from the stack of books, he came across as a hunk. I didn’t want to rob the fella of two hours. And he had four children at home.

A male voice floated through the cell speaker. “I’m not going to kidnap her.”

I waved to Charlie leaving for his blood work and called Spence, already volunteering in Cleveland around lead safety issues.

“Call AAA,” Spence said. “Then you could drive up on your own.” 

Though his voice soothed me, the idea of waiting a couple hours for AAA to jump the battery jangled my nerves. What if the battery died again on the trip? I sniffed back a sob. “I’ll stay home.”

Spence could trickle charge the battery Sunday. On Monday I would drive the Subaru to another Matt, our polite mechanic who treats me like I’m his mother. He could check the battery’s safety.

Spence sighed. “But you had your heart set—”

My phone buzzed. “Wait. Christa’s calling.”

I connected with Christa.

“I’m coming to get you. We’ll be later than planned. That’s okay. Be ready.”

Twenty minutes later, I walked along the road in front of our log home and admired our crimson burning bush beside the towering girasoles—the ones the deer couldn’t reach. Headlights gleamed under the canopy of trees down the road.

 

Burning Bush

I picked my bags up off the gravel parking pad.

Christa stopped her black Ford Explorer.

I hopped in.

She hopped out. “I’m going to leave this bag on your porch.” And she dashed up the ramp.

Before I clinched the seat belt, she returned—out of breath—and jumped in. We were off. “I’m going to make up time by speeding on the highway.”

I directed Christa the ten miles to I-79 and glanced at dairy cows grazing in fields. “I finished Doris’s Landlord. It’s a quick, light read. And her characters are hilarious.”

Christa blended into the line of vehicles passing a semi. “I love her essays.”

As our girl talk continued, we rolled—five miles an hour above the speed limit—by green hills, under clouding skies, and past troopers who pulled cars aside to the berm.

Once we reached Frontier Park in Erie, Christa cruised along the street by the row of festival tents. “There’re the Pennwriters.” She pulled her Explorer over the berm. “You can go sit with them. I’ll carry the stuff.”

No way. “I can help.” We only had to carry the bags and equipment twenty yards.

Christa lugged the heavier items—easel, folding table, folding chairs—while I toted bags with handouts, clipboards, and table cloth. She even brought a canvas lawn chair because it would be more comfortable for me. We avoided eye-poking crab apple branches and masses of small, round fruit underfoot.

Other Pennwriters arrived hours earlier. Todd and Marianne had pitched the tents. Todd and Ellen positioned a table at the front of our tent. 

In a calm bustle, Christa and I organized our tent—her table in the back, chairs in the middle, and a whiteboard with colorful lettering about the chance to win a prize on the easel in a front corner. For children, we placed crayons and Janyce Brawn’s coloring sheets of her character Oliver the ferret. Clipboards with information sheets lined the front table.

Done.

We collapsed onto chairs between the tables several minutes before noon—the festival scheduled opening time. Glancing out at the tents across the oval of grass, Christa said, “I’ll be happy if we get a page full of emails.”

Fruit trees surrounded an oval around a grassy park area. Exhibitors tents for books, artwork, and organizations lined the oval in front of the trees. At one end food vendors grouped. At the other end sat the main tents with tables for authors.

Readers and writers, all with a story to tell, wandered in front of our tent. They glanced at Christa’s colorful whiteboard. “Welcome,” she called in a cheery voice. “We’re a local writing group. Sign up to win one of the free prizes.”

Most couldn’t resist her beaming face and dimpled cheeks. They stepped toward the table. If they were shy, she beckoned to them with her hand until they approached. Christa handed them a pen.

By this time people's eyebrows had risen.

“We’ll also email you information about our group.” On a roll, she tapped each flyer and explained, “This is a list of our area meetings,” and down the line.

People listened as if she were narrating a suspense novel.

If they hesitated about signing, she engaged them. “Are you a reader or a writer? What do you like to read?”

While Christa and I listened to the answers, I imagined Marge taking in the scene. She would have reveled in the stories.

A mother wanted her young adult son to connect with us. “He’s a fantastic writer. He needs you. He’s shy.”

A woman gripped a pen with her fingers and circled the pen around her head. “Stories float inside my brain but never make it to paper.”

A teenager said, “I have a goal of reading three hundred books this year. I’m already at two hundred sixty-eight.” 

Sheila joined us behind the table. “Sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t find the place. I drove all around. I was ready to give up and go to Romolo’s when I found the festival. Then the lot was full. I had to park on a side street and walk over.” She gulped for air and plopped into a chair.

With Sheila’s support, Christa hadn’t needed me. She drove the extra miles for my company.

At 2:00, Ellen Byham left her author’s table in the big tent and joined us to write poems for people. First she interviewed a young woman from a neighboring tent.

Christa asked people who stopped for information, if they wanted a poem written. Few resisted her enthusiasm. Ellen never had a lull. She wrote eight poems during the hour. While each recipient read their gift, their eyes glistened in appreciation.

I gazed over the table at the grassy oval and visualized tall, thin Aunt Marge in her loose slacks and long-sleeved, plaid shirt, striding down the grass. She would push her glasses up the slope of her nose, and observe the crowd. I imagined her belly laugh at the young men walking and juggling colored wooden clubs.

The daydreams stopped when Christa took breaks. I mimicked her “Welcome, we’re a writing group” approach in my softer voice. “What do you like to read or write?”

At the festival attendee’s answer, Sheila or I said, “Our Pennwriter” and we inserted a name—Aimee, Christa, Dan, Debra, Ellen, Fritze, Janet, Janyce, Kathy, Karen, Sheila, or Todd—“writes that genre.” We gave directions on how to find the Pennwriter at the event.

Though forecasts hadn’t predicted rain, by the end of the afternoon, rain thinned the crowd. The soaking made it easier to talk with people. “Come under the tent and stay dry.”

People welcomed the respite.

Christa and the Wyandot

Christa’s email list grew and grew. By six o’clock, the clipboard held two full pages of contacts.

We loaded Christa’s Explorer and headed home.

“You received twice the number of emails you wanted.” I watched the clouds billowing on the horizon.

“I’m pleased but surprised.” Christa didn’t push the speed limit.

“I’m not. You’re super with people. And goodness, what great stories they could tell.”

We reminisced about our experiences and families. Before I realized, the parking pad’s gravel crunched under the Explorer’s tires. The day had flown.

At 7:10, I leaned over to hug Christa, whispered “Thank you,” and stepped out clutching my bags.

Brace supporting his ruptured Achilles, Spence limped down the ramp. He shouted, “Thanks for rescuing Janet today.”

Christa’s dimples glowed. “I enjoyed our adventure together.”

Holding Spence’s hand, I walked up the ramp.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “It did you good to get out.”

The bag Christa left earlier nestled in a porch chair.

Curious, but as tired as a youngster who stayed up past her bed time, I trudged into the kitchen and peeked inside at her cornucopia—cucumbers, tomatoes, and a dozen fresh eggs in pastel pinks, greens, and tans.

The dead battery brought me luck. Christa brought gifts and I had her companionship for a longer time than planned.

What Aunt Marge taught me is true. It's the people that matter. 

 

Produce from Christa