Reflections - The Hole Story
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| White Spruce |
For want of a bolt, our plans went askew.
Spence tramped down the spiral stairs, rummaged around his workbenches, and hustled back carrying a shovel blade, a handle, and a drill.
Curious, I followed him out to the porch.
He set his assorted gear on the battered table he props his feet onto in summer—sipping his morning joe and catching up on lead safe volunteer work. But this was Sunday, December 15, a rainy late afternoon with dark falling. He reached for a rusted coffee can at the corner of the table and stirred his index finger through the contents—assorted bolts, screws, and nails. “Huh. Nothing here will fit.”
Questions percolated through my mind. I only blurted one. “What are you looking for?”
“A bolt for the shovel.” He slid the handle in and out of the blade. “To dig a hole for the spruce.”
We’d driven to Kraynak’s earlier that day and bought our Christmas tree, a three-foot white spruce with a root ball wrapped in burlap. The sooner after the festive season we planted the evergreen, the better chance the spruce had of surviving its transplant. Digging the hole and filling it with mulch before the ground froze was wise. But in the rain and the dark? “Maybe wait until tomorrow? We can pick a spot on our walk.”
Spence glanced to the south field. “Makes sense.”
Monday, December 16, dawned dry. I celebrated Jane Austen’s 249th birthday by wearing a regency dress.
Spence wore his regular clothes. He slid the white spruce off of the truck bed and into the tractor bucket. Spruce branches jiggled out the garage driveway, down West Creek Road, and along the walk to the deck ramp. Spence placed a wash tub on a creeper beside the tractor bucket and pushed the tree out. Thud. The root ball landed askew in the washtub and wouldn’t wiggle straight. No matter. Spence could straighten the tree by shoving logs under the tub. He rolled the tree up the deck to the sliding glass door. The creeper’s wheels thump-bump-thump-ed in the cracks between the deck planks.
While he shoved logs under the tub to straighten the tree, I directed him by waving my hands on the other side of the glass door. Two thumbs up stopped his maneuverings.
With the regency skirt swishing, I hung white lights, a gold garland, sand dollar ornaments, and Santa Clauses on the tree.
We still needed to dig the hole. First we would walk and find the right spot.
Jane walked in regency dresses so, despite the drizzle and gray afternoon skies, I walked too. I wore modern boots and hiked the skirt up to keep it out of the mud. Spence and I ventured half a mile down the road and turned at the end of Flickingers’ horse pasture.
On the way home, sprinkles vanished. Rain pelted. “Yikes, my dress will get soaked!” I only had one other regency dress, the fancy ball gown—not something to wear around the house all day. And I never put the regency dresses in the dryer. I needed to keep my dress dry so I could wear it the rest of the day. I grabbed handfuls of skirt and shoved them inside the jeans I wore under the dress to keep my legs warm.
“Just relax.” As rain soaked Spence’s padded winter vest, he helped me tuck the skirt into the back of my jeans.
Squishing home, I prioritized the dress over the spruce. “We’ll pick a spot for the tree tomorrow.”
Tuesday dawned sunny. At the end of our midafternoon walk, we ambled through the end of the south field. I chose a spot visible from our deck and away from other trees we’d planted. Flinging my arms wide, I twirled. “Put a marker here, Spence.”
“I’ll remember.” Getting his bearings, he glanced from the disused woodpile to his mowed path then an old hawthorn tree.
Maybe he would remember. I’d rather be sure. I stamped my feet on dried goldenrod stalks. “Don’t you have a cement block or some sticks to mark the spot?”
He peered over his glare glasses.
Okay, those weren’t available out here. “How about a log from that old pile?”
He obliged and toted a log.
I stepped back.
He dropped the log on the trampled plants. They would have lasted a day. The log could mark the place in case Spence didn’t get around to fixing the shovel before dark fell.
He didn’t.
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| Blade and Handle Ready for Bolt |
And Wednesday? A rain-snow mix drenched Wells Wood. Snow and ice continued daily. Temperatures never climbed above the low thirties. The shovel—in pieces or not—was no longer an issue. The ground froze. Snow fell and compacted keeping a constant twelve to eighteen-inch ground cover.
Even if Spence had dug a hole, he didn’t trust the tractor to navigate through the deep snow. The first week of January, our usual planting time for Christmas evergreens, came and went.
The next week, on a day Spence drove to Cleveland for his lead safe volunteer work, I layered in winter gear. Resembling a youngster dressed by her mom for sledding, I trudged outside and removed my gloves. I needed bare fingers to unwind wires securing sand dollar ornaments from no longer supple needles in frigid 15 ℉ air temperature—not counting windchill. And the wind chilled. My digits numbed and turned as red as cardinal flower petals.
Chickadees scolded dee-dee-dee. I focused on my task and let them swoop past to snatch their seeds from the feeders on the glass door. With the sand dollars safely detached, I hustled inside for a warm-up break—tidying the kitchen and washing dishes in hot sudsy water—before braving the weather to remove the rest of the decorations. This time a lake effect storm whipped flurries around the spruce and me. Because the Santas, garlands, and lights slipped off easier than the sand dollars, I could wear thin gloves. Cold still pinched my fingers. For warmth, I left the tree skirt tucked around the root ball.
By February, more snow had melted. Spence could drive his tractor out the garage basement back door, up the slope, around to the road in front. He plowed our driveways. Soon he would move the white spruce for transplanting.
With a bounce in his step, he headed toward the garage and his red Mahindra tractor. He returned shortly without the bounce. “The battery’s dead. I’m charging it.”
During the next two weeks, he charged the battery several times. None took. Battery replacement involved removing the push bar and grill while the bucket was elevated and the engine was running—too complicated for Spence. He needed the help of our tractor repairman Daryl, two miles away. “I’m going to jump the battery.” He slipped into his jacket and boots. “If it takes, I’ll drive to Daryl’s.”
“Do you want me to follow and bring you home?” I didn’t relish the idea of him trundling up Route 173 alone. I should follow with the car’s flashers blinking.
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| Spence Driving His Tractor |
“No. Daryl will want to talk. I’ll call if I need a ride.”
An hour later, he called. “Daryl can’t leave for another hour.”
“I’m on my way.”
By February’s end, Daryl had installed a new tractor battery. Snow had cleared off the field. Ground had thawed enough to dig.
But Spence didn’t dig the hole. He’d twisted his ankle.
We were returning from a visit with my brother Bob in Florida. Because I wibble-wobbled off the plane, Spence grabbed my suitcase from me. He pulled it while toting his suitcase and carry-on. His luggage flip-flopped through the concourse and out the extensive walkway to long term parking. On the uneven Pittsburgh Airport lot surfaces, he took a misstep.
The ankle swelled and throbbed. He elevated his foot, wrapped the ankle, and hobbled. He reinjured the ankle several times by stepping backward or sideward. Though he continued to drive his pickup truck, he couldn’t lift a three-foot-tree into the tractor bucket nor dig a hole.
The undecorated white spruce still adorned our deck. Queuing for turns at the bird feeders, chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches perched on its branches. The birds were happy. Our three tabby brothers watching their feathered friends were happy. Spence monitored the root ball and watered it as needed. I felt the white spruce needles. They were supple and green so I was happy. Never had we kept our evergreen tree on the deck so long.
At the kitchen table on March 12, I bent over my cell phone’s calculator and tapped in numbers for the township’s confusing legacy liabilities, aka withholding amounts messed up by a former secretary-treasurer. Kelli, the township’s helpful, new secretary-treasurer, stared at the computer screen full of expenses beside me.
A bump-thump-bump floated inside. Spence had rolled the white spruce down the ramp to his tractor. Then he tramped in and interrupted our calculations. “Do you want a picture?”
Kelli’s friendly smile broke her concentrated expression. “Go ahead.”
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| Leaning Tree |
I rushed out with my phone and tapped the camera icon. Because the white spruce’s heavy root ball had settled slantwise in the washtub, the treetop leaned over the side of the bucket. I pressed the shutter release button for quick photos and wished our “leaning” liabilities would come to a comfortable balance like the tree. I only had to wait one day for the township’s balance. The white spruce waited in the washtub four more days.
March 16, I knelt on the deck—more spacious without the spruce providing perches for birds winging to the feeders. The tractor rumbled carrying Spence to the spruce. My trowel scrunched into worm-compost rich soil, and I imagined Spence pressing his healthy foot on the reassembled shovel.
March wind howled. Pansies bobbed.
When Spence returned, I peppered him with questions. “ How did the root ball look? Was the tree okay? Will it survive?”
“Wet. Fine. Yes.” He gazed out at the white spruce. “Weather staying cold helped. Don’t worry.”
“So you found the bolt and fixed your shovel. Right?”
He blushed behind his beard. “No-o-o. I was collecting cans for Stewie.” He rubbed his nose.
What did gathering aluminum cans in the garage for his buddy Stewie’s recycling business have to do with shovels? I didn’t ask. I let him finish.
“You gave me an Ames shovel years ago. I found it hidden behind stuff.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “It’s a great shovel. I used it to dig the hole.”
The blade and handle Spence fetched in December rested beside the drill on his porch table a couple weeks longer. Without inserting a bolt, Spence stuck the shovel into the front garden and stomped on the blade—with his healthy foot. “The blade wobbled,” he admitted, but he kept digging a hole large enough for one of the two white Lenten roses he’d bought on sale last fall before the snow fell. “And the rose had a pink bud.”
No doubt aware my story was ready to edit, he searched the basement and garage for a quarter inch carriage bolt. He found a sheet metal screw. Screw in place, Spence ambled—his doctor wrote orders for a foot and ankle brace—out front, dug the hole, and transplanted the second Lenten rose. Hopefully, this one is white.
I waited with a question. “Did the shovel wobble?”
“No. It’s solid.” He held his index finger and thumb two inches apart. “Archaeologists will dig up that tool. It’s not coming apart. Ever.”
When Spence digs a hole for our 2025 Christmas tree, he’ll have a choice—the Ames shovel or the shovel with the screw and nut to delight future archaeologists.
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| Spence Attaching the Nut |
