Monday, August 4, 2025

 Reflections - Weighing In

Gilbert Catching His Breath

The afternoon of July 23, Spence steered his Maverick pickup at a modest speed around the curves on Sheakleyville Road. 


Behind him, Gilbert slashed the inside of his cat carrier with his claws. He poked his paw out.


I extended my hand from the passenger seat and pushed Gilbert’s paw back inside the carrier.


Gilbert stuck his nose through the gap.


I shoved his nose back in. Grabbing the top and side of the canvass carrier, I clamped them shut with my hand.


Like a buzz saw, Gilbert wielded his paws, clawing the canvas and me.


Though his claws pierced my thumb, I held the gap closed. I figured my elbow would snap.


We were on the way to Greenville Veterinary Clinic for the tabby brothers’ annual checkup, shots, and weigh-in. This weigh-in held significance. Last year Dr. Wheellock put the cats on a diet. Would the cats pass their weight tests?


None liked moving vehicles—especially Gilbert. He meowed. He scratched. He paced in his carrier.


In an attempt to make the ride easier for Gilbert, we’d followed the vet tech’s advice and bought gabapentin which was supposed to make Gilbert sleepy. I gave the first 100 mg capsule the previous night to calm him for the drive. I’d held Gilbert on my lap, wrapped an arm around him and forced his jaw open with my hand. I dropped the capsule into his mouth with my other hand.


“He raced about the whole night,” said Spence, yawning the next morning. Gilbert had run into Spence many times during his cat-chase escapades throughout the wee hours.


The capsule I needed to administer two hours before the drive didn’t go down easily. Spence held Gilbert. I used both hands to pry open his jaws and drop the capsule. Gilbert spit it back. In, out. In, out. In, out. Gilbert spit it back so often only part of the contents entered his system. 


But in the moving Maverick, he meowed softer than last year.


Rills meowed pathetic protests from the carrier in the middle of the back seat.


Behind me, where I couldn’t see him, Ande wailed occasionally.


“It’s okay, fellas.” Spence inserted a flash drive into the truck’s USB port and jazz floated out of the speakers.


“Jazz will make them more nervous.” I winced because Gilbert dug his claw through the carrier and into my thumb. But he didn’t escape.


Spence punched buttons, and Billie Holiday’s soft crooning voice wafted from the speakers. 


“Listen, Gil. Billie’s singing you a lullaby.”


My man don't love me

Treats me, oh, so mean


Gilbert scratched his carrier front.


I held the carrier closed. “Ande, Rills. It’s Billie. She wants you to relax.”

 

They meowed softly before quieting.


“Billie likes you, Gil. Listen.” I purred.


Love's just like a faucet

It turns off and on


Gilbert stopped scratching. He laid down and mewed quietly—for two minutes. Then he clawed through the canvas and into my hand. I kept gripping to keep his carrier closed.


After my half-hour of arm-extending at the awkward angle, Spence finally pulled into the parking lot.


My elbow hadn’t snapped. I didn’t need a tourniquet for my hand. And Gilbert made the trip a little calmer than usual thanks to his medication and Billie’s crooning.

 

Gilbert Rills and Ande Chowing Down

Next hurdle—the scale. The cats no longer grazed all day. Our son Charlie set their bowls out at 4:30 in the morning and 4:30 in the afternoon. Spence or I took the bowls away two hours later. The time extended longer if we forgot to pick up their bowls. Would our efforts for Dr. Wheelock’s diet suggestions be good enough or would we fail and have to enforce more draconian meal routines?


From daily morning cuddles, I figured Rills lost weight. When he let me, I swung him off the wood floor and into my arms as if he were made of feathers not muscles, bones, fur, and chicken pieces that Spence slipped to the little beggar.


Gilbert, who didn’t have to diet, definitely put on weight. He pranced over when I called. I hoisted him to my shoulder with an oomph. The new two-hours serving time made him nervous, though not as nervous as riding in vehicles. He gulped the diet food while crunchies were available and his stomach had space. 


Ande puzzled me. His face looked slimmer, but I didn’t notice a change in weight when he jumped onto my lap.


The vet tech led us into the room and weighed Gilbert first. Digital numbers bounced randomly before settling at 15.40 pounds. Gulp. He’d gained almost a pound and a half. So much for diet food. Would we have to put the cats in separate rooms and measure amounts? I dreaded petite Dr. Wheelock’s conclusion.


She didn’t appear.


Dr. Wolf entered, flashed a friendly smile at Spence and me, then gently stroked Gilbert’ s head. She gazed into his gold-green eyes and said in a soft voice, “You can call me Doctor Vanessa.”


Gilbert melted into a furry pillow on the exam table. 


Dr. Vanessa pulled back his ears—something that made him wiggle when I did it. He remained still for her. She kneaded his belly. “Does he eat and drink alright?” 


“Definitely. The other vet wanted us to put his brothers on a diet. We feed the three cats at the same time twice a day. They get a scientific diet food.” I heard myself blathering but I kept going. “He used to eat calmly. Now he gobbles. Perhaps he’s nervous because he knows we will take the bowls away.”


Do you feed them in the same bowl?” Dr. Vanessa kept stroking Gilbert.


“No,” Spence said. “Our son bought them their own saucers. But they eat out of each other’s bowls.”


Dr. Vanessa put Gilbert in his carrier.


I pulled out Ande, the big boned, long cat. He walked back and forth on the scale like a tiger pacing inside a circus cage. After a few moments of staring at fluctuating numbers, Dr. Vanessa said, "We'll just call it eighteen.” With that number, he’d lost almost a pound. And she lifted Ande onto the table. “Do the cats get any snacks?”


“I give them treats once a month when I clip their nails and clean their ears.” I glanced at Spence. “Spence feeds them chicken.”


Dr. Vanessa kneaded Ande’s tummy. “I’m fine with chicken. As long as it's in moderate amounts, about the size of a quarter.”


And she returned Ande to his carrier.


Rills’s turn. He only weighed 13.58. He’d lost a pound. “And after all the chicken he eats.” I raised my eyebrows at Spence.


“I don’t give him much. He just eats the other cats’ portions along with his.”

 

Gilbert Being Convinced to Share by Rills

Spence had a point. Rills does convince his brothers they want to share their portions with him.


“Rills is healthy too. They all are,” said Dr. Vanessa, “I’m not going to suggest you put them in separate rooms or measure out amounts of food for each cat. Just go along as you have been doing.”


Relief—if a four digit vet bill (including a year’s supply of flea and tick medicine) and the ride home with my arm stretched to keep Gilbert’s carrier shut can be called a relief. Though the trip was easier than last year, Spence and I aren’t looking forward to the cats’ next check up.


Weight in pounds

July 2019

July 2020

July 2021

July 2022

July 2023

July 2024

July 2025

Change in a year

Ande

4.72

12.96

14.5

16

17.43

18.95

18.00

-0.95

Gilbert

4.14

11.6

12.1

12.6

13.67

13.96

15.40

+1.45

Rills

3.88

10.1

11.58

12.5

13.35

14.62

13.58

-1.04



 

Sunday, July 6, 2025

 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

 

Sunday, June 1, 2025

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.