Reflections - A Day with Christa
Janet and 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
“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.
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| 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.
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| 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
