Reflections - Just Be Nice

Larry Schardt (pronounced Shard) confused me at first. I met him at a Pittsburgh Pennwriters conference decades ago. Tall and decked in business attire minus the suit jacket, Larry’s wavy, white hair fell to his shoulders. He greeted everyone with raised peace fingers, a glowing smile, and a cheery “Rock ‘n’ Roll.” A hippy business man?

Positive and energetic, Larry radiated sunshine. People around him grinned. They walked with springy steps and spoke with joyful voices. A Penn State professor, a writer, and, yes, a hippy businessman who wrote and offered motivational presentations, he befriended all.

This past year, I revived my LinkedIn account and discovered Larry posted inspirational photos and quotes. These evoked the same uplift as Larry’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll” greetings. One of his posts especially touched me.

You seriously have no idea what people

are dealing with in their personal life.

So just be nice.

It’s that simple.

His posts tucked a tiny photo of his new book, My Runaway Summer, in the corner. Curious, I bought a copy.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I had no idea what he was dealing with in his personal life.

Part of Larry’s life paralleled that of Spence’s and mine. Larry grew up in Mt. Lebanon. He hung out in the park and frequently met Reverend Bill. Spence and I had hung out at that park, especially the swimming pool. His Reverend Bill could be the Bill Barker, that Spence and I knew from Bower Hill Church, and the Bill Barker who was a friend of the famous Mr. Rogers.

But Spence and I never met Larry at the park in Mt. Lebanon. Spence and I married and left Mt. Lebanon two years earlier than Larry, at age fifteen, ran away.

Larry ran because he had lived in fear and dread of the next attack from his father. But running created more hardships—finding food and finding lodging to avoid the police. Larry could have turned bitter. He didn’t. He changed himself. He discovered what his father was dealing with and reached out to become his father’s friend.

 

Daylilies

In awe of Larry’s example, I jotted his advice on my to-do list daily.

Listen

Be Kind

However, my first experience with his admonition came years before I’d ever jotted the reminder. I taught at Ruffing Montessori in Cleveland Heights and had the privilege of briefly tutoring a sweet fifth grader. She and I spent hours bent over long division problems with two digit divisors until she stared blankly for a few seconds. Then she would say, “I’m confused. Can I start over?”

“Of course.” I resisted my urge to add, Concentrate this time. Her behavior puzzled me. She’d grasped the concepts and memorized the facts, yet she rarely finished the mechanical computations.

A month or so later, the youngster collapsed in the upper elementary bathroom. Doctors diagnosed epilepsy. Her mind had blanked and erased the calculations during those momentary stares.

Savvy Larry. I had no idea what my student was dealing with in her personal life.

At the Saegertown Library this spring, I listened to Doris, the brave one of our Pennwriters group who tackles difficult topics. Her essay ended with a poem about death and grieving. She read the lines,

Instead of sleep, emotions awaken.

A sense of loss leaves me shaken.

Memories flood into my thoughts.

Nothing replaces that absent bright spot.

I glanced across the table at Christa. She’s our cheerleader. She sits tall, smiles broadly, and offers what she likes about the piece as she bounces in her seat. This time she smiled sadly, her shoulders slumped, and her eyes glistened.

We all hope our submissions affect others, but I suspected more than Doris’s poem might be behind Christa’s moist eyes. The group offered feedback. Christa complimented the essay and poem for capturing the emotions of a grieving person. And I scribbled a note to discover why Christa reacted that way. She’d mentioned making hot chocolate with her father. He lived in a nursing home. I wondered about him.

I emailed Todd, our Area 1 Pennwriters Representative, in case Christa had mentioned news about her father to Todd at an Erie Pennwriters meeting. He replied. She told me her father died. Probably because my mother just died.

Savvy Larry. I had no idea what my friend was dealing with in her personal life.

On a trip with Spence, a younger relative made an extra effort to carve time from their busy weekend of household chores and errands for visiting me. They gave me a warm bear hug and said “Fine” when I asked, “How are you?” Though they could only stay for an hour, they stayed two and kindly answered question after question. Alas, I can't stop once I start. I learned updates about their family, job, and cat. And I savored the stories of their preferences for playing sports in sweaty temperatures which loosened their muscles rather than in chilly temperatures which cramped their muscles.

I collected three more hugs and parted with them feeling uplifted and cheery, anticipating another visit in a year or so.

I didn’t use “he” or “she” pronouns to keep my story vague because the relative never mentioned what someone else in the family told me a couple months after I returned home. My relative needs an organ transplant.

Savvy Larry. I had no idea what my relative was dealing with in their personal life.

The behavior of my student, friend, and relative keeping their personal lives private made sense. Years back, Spence and I juggled work and raising two elementary-school-aged youngsters. One had cancer. People chattering about our son’s health overwhelmed me. I hung up from challenging phone calls, curled into a ball, and wept from the overload.

Being nice to quiet, kind people is easy. Larry had dealt with his verbally and physically abusive father. I won't put myself in physical or mental danger. Not ever.

But if I meet a negative talker, I’ll remember the hippy business man, and embrace his challenge—just be nice.

 

Daisies

 

Reflections - Thrills, Chills, and Quills: A Postcard Journal

JW's Costume for "The Bells"

Dear Sophia,

     I hope you are enjoying school and have plenty of time with your friends, especially Austin. I wonder if you read any Edgar Allan Poe in English class.

     In May, I spent four days at a writer’s conference. I learned about writing elevator pitches and marketing books. I also had fun with friends. At Saturday night’s “Poe-tic” party, people dressed in costumes related to Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t like his scary stories when I was your age. I still don’t. So I dressed for his poem “The Bells” which has lovely musical sounds. Tinkling, silver sleigh bells. Mellow, golden wedding bells. Loud, brazen alarm bells. Tolling iron bells.

     I adorned the green medieval gown that I wore to my daughter’s wedding with jingle bells—silver tacked to a headband, green threaded on shoe laces, and teensy brown scrunched on an armband. They tinkled. But even better, my father in-law had lived on a farm when he was your age. He’d saved their sleigh bells. They ring in rich harmonies. I attached them to a satin ribbon. If I pinned the ribbon to the dress’s shoulder, the weight of the bells would rip the fabric. Not a good plan. I could have wrapped the ribbon around my neck and let both ends dangle. But the weight gradually tightened the ribbon around my throat. Would I become a victim like one of Poe’s characters? I didn’t take the chance. A friend tied the ribbon to my sash. The bells rang. I could breath and mingle with my friends. I couldn’t sneak up on anyone, but everyone smiled at the music I created.

Love,

Janet

Party Skeleton

Debbie Reynolds

Dear Bob and Norma,

     I hope the rains are nurturing your patio garden yet allowing you time to sit out and enjoy your plants. I also hope Norma is gaining strength and more mobility every day.

     This May, I attended a writers conference in Pittsburgh. Since my nature story collection is 85% complete, I focused on marketing workshops. I took classes on distilling book content into elevator pitches, back of the book copy, and reviews. “Squish . . . Make every word count . . . Use active verbs . . . Dump wishy-washy adjectives and adverbs.” But the harder part is selling.

     Debbie Reynolds taught a workshop on handselling, or selling from a table at events. Deb and I became friends at my ZOOM writing group meetings and at an Erie conference. She is Assistant Editor for Sunbury Press, their Catamount Imprint. If her editor accepts my book, she will be my editor. She’s a hoot. At a party Thursday night, she bent us over laughing about her running away from home last month and leading her wacky writing group in a forester’s office with heads of “defunct” animals mounted on the wall. Her workshop was also funny though she gave great tips. Dress comfortably and define your persona. Place a catchy item in the middle of the table to draw people in. Think of it as offering a gift not asking for money. If it’s torture, sell on line. Most hopeful, Deb sells Catamount books at events. I would buy anything from her.

     At the workshop, my friend Christa nudged me. “We can share a table at farmers’ markets. I’ll bring my produce. You bring your book. I love your stories. I’ll sell your book for you!” Christa’s glowing face and Deb’s words inspired me. Hopefully, I’ll publish with Deb.

Love,

Janet

Entrance Garden for the Pittsburgh Airport Marriott

If you want to see all nine postcards in the Thrills, Chills, and Quills Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/thrills-chills-and-quills

The postcard addressed to Seth includes a link to an audio version of a science fiction story written by Timons Esaias, a favorite instructor of mine. In “Go. Now. Fix.” a nearly obsolete panda pillow saves lives despite its failure to meet prime directives. Though the story will dazzle children, brief moments might be inappropriate. Please listen before offering the story to your young ones. The second story on the Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine’s January/February 2020 audio tape is not a children’s story.

 

 Reflections - George and His Hairy Snake

Chicken Soup Book Cover

George, our beloved, long-haired, black and white cat died December 20, 2018. Babs resurrected him—sort of.

Babs welcomed me to Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters (MVP) in 2013. We bonded over writing and our love of cats. At the December 2022 ZOOM meeting, she gazed into my square. “Chicken Soup is looking for cat stories. That's perfect for you,” her resonant voice purred. “You ought to submit. I will.”

Bubbles of excitement circulated through my veins. Appear in a book with Babs? Barbara Mountjoy, writing under the pen name Alana Lorens, authored romance suspense novels and the Pittsburgh Lady Lawyers.  

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Dog included “Crossing the Bridge,” my story about a neighbor’s dog Spot. But Chicken Soup receives four to five thousand stories for each title. I might as well buy a Pennsylvania lottery ticket and expect a Mega Millions win, especially with Babs entering her story. 

Doubt pricked away those bubbles of hope. Well, not all. I trusted Babs enough to look at the guidelines. Chicken Soup called for stories celebrating cats. One subtopic erased my skepticism. “Did your cat have a favorite toy?” 

Did George ever have a favorite toy!

Decades ago, with eyes twinkling, Spence dangled a thin, stuffed strip—brown fur on the front, green flannel on the back—in front of our long-haired feline. “It’s a hair snake, George.”

In cat fashion, the feline sniffed the drab object and walked away. Over the next few days, the toy magically appeared in different locations around the house. At night, shaman wails split the air. The cloth strip developed a pinched, Barbie doll waistline. We never saw George with the toy the first few years, but, for the rest of his life, he and his hairy snake couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t be separated.

 

Hairy Snake by Amaryllis

I needed to write George’s story whether or not Chicken Soup accepted the submission.

Drafted, shared with beta readers, reviewed by MVP, and polished, “George and His Hairy Snake” was ready. On April 17, 2023 I entered the story into Chicken Soup’s online form. The automatic reply read Thank you for your submission.

A year later I heard, Chicken Soup’s cherishing cat stories were published. Babs’s story and mine must have landed in a slush pile. But I didn’t regret the time I spent reliving the memories of George. 

February 2, 2025, nearly two years after submitting the hairy snake tale, D’ette Corona, associate publisher of Chicken Soup, emailed with shocking news. She asked for permission to publish “George and His Hairy Snake” in Chicken Soup from the Soul: What I Learned from My Cat. 

As if a kaleidoscope of newly hatched monarchs crawled over me, my skin quivered and my spirits soared. They’d kept George’s story?

In her March/April Inner Circle Newsletter, Amy Newmark, publisher and editor-in-chief, wrote, “. . . we occasionally will save a submission for consideration for a future book.”

And she explained the process of selecting stories. Freelance editors read all submissions. D’ette and two other staffers limit the recommendations to several hundred. Amy chooses the final 101 stories and arranges them forming an arc for the book and an arc for each chapter. George made it into the “Quirky Cat” chapter. Though his story revels in cherishing George, he also taught lessons—devotion and determination against all odds. His humorous story may require tissues. 

Chicken Soup for the Soup: What I Learned from My Cat will be released May 20, 2025.

George and the Gloriosa Daisies

 

 Reflections - An Upcoming Announcement

George on the Spiral Stairs

On May 13, my niece’s birthday—Happy Birthday, Sarah—this blog will post an announcement. In the meantime, enjoy these photos of George. This beloved cat cast his magic on Spence and me. We miss our late long-haired friend.

 

George as a Kitten

 

 

 

 

George and June Flowers

 

 

 

 

George on the Gate

George Knightly Wells

 Reflections - The Hole Story

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.

 

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.

 

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.”

 

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.

 

Spence Attaching the Nut