Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter

My Valentine to Spence read, “It's all the moments we spend together that matter,” so, on Valentine's Day, I ran errands with him. With flashers blinking, four wheel drive engaged, and bluegrass on the radio, we crept through a snow squall to CVS for meds and dental floss. Next we crossed Meadville to Dunham's for long underwear. Ready for Giant Eagle, Spence turned the key. No clicks. No grinding. Nothing. I called AAA and waited fifteen minutes for a counselor to say a technician with equipment to test and replace the battery would arrive within an hour. Spence offered to have a friend take me home, but I stuck with him. We went back into the store to stay warm. Forty minutes later, he tried the truck. It turned over. Then my phone rang–help was five minutes away. Since the help was a tow truck, not a battery diagnosing technician, I canceled the request. Spence maneuvered the truck to Giant Eagle. I stayed with the running engine while he got groceries and licorice, his second Valentine for me. Most Valentine treats had arrived earlier. He'd given me a red anthurium Monday. Thursday, the first mail delivery in our new box included cards from friends. But the best Valentine came Thursday night. Our nephew emailed, “Adelaide River Wells: Welcome to the world, little girl.” I'm looking forward to moments with my grand niece.

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Winter

 

Because my rheumatologist urged me to do aerobics three times a week and because Spence raved about his deep-snow adventure in the woods, I pulled Marge's red, green, maroon, and tan striped leg warmers over my slacks, grabbed my camera, and bundled in winter gear for a Saturday stroll. Spence came too–expecting, no doubt, that he'd have to rescue me. On the slog to Deer Creek, I kept borrowing his Sharpie to mark compacted snow measurements on a maple twig. Depths averaged eighteen and a half inches. Our boots sank sixteen inches through layers of dry powder and crunchy iced-snow. Pulling feet back out challenged balance, but wide arms saved me from landing on my butt. The only prints, besides Spence's, were of squirrels scampering across the top of snow or digging to caches. Though dozens of birds gathered at the deck feeder, none flew in the woods. Deer Creek gurgled under ice and rushed between snow walls. I'd forged a fresh trail going down but was content to step in Spence's prints climbing up. My heart pounded a jitterbug, I breathed as if I'd run a mile, and sweat coated my back. Aerobics indeed.

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter

When I drove home Tuesday night, the waxing moon shone above the garage, Orion glowed over the log house, and the mailbox was missing. I greeted Spence with “Hi, Sweetie. What happened?” He said, “I didn't think you'd notice.” Late afternoon, after I'd left for Meadville errands and a quilt lecture on color in Saegertown, Spence had plowed the driveway with the Mahindra. He was backing up to pull snow with the bucket when the front wheels slid. Spence tried to straighten the wheels. The tractor kept slipping and hit the mailbox. “I just tapped it.” The box fell. The post had rotted–only ice had held the box upright. Wednesday morning, when the temperature had risen from -2° to -1°, we drove to Carlton Post Office. The transgender postmistress helped with the hold form. She suggested putting a box on a sawhorse till the ground thaws for digging a post hole. Spence has ideas to build a wood stand for a temporary box. In the meantime, the frigid scenery on the 7.7 mile round trip to fetch our mail is a winter delight–sunshine, snow-lined twigs, icy French Creek, and frosted ornamental grasses.

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter

The flames of romance kept me warm. Years ago, Spence had given me the beginning sentence for a story: “Meet me at Dairy Isle at 10 p.m.” The resulting romance, with reluctant-to-trust Jolene, weird yet endearing Matt, and a turkey chasing black lab, had gone through five versions before needing to lose six pages for the Pennwriters' competition. Wincing, I cut cherished phrases. Spence added logs to the wood stove. By Wednesday, the story was ten pages exactly, but did it still make sense? I'd ask the 6:30 to 10:00 p.m. Thursday writing group. Since Spence didn't want me driving to Erie alone at night, he packed his computer, earphones, and papers to go with me. Sitting across Tim Horton's with earphones blasting jazz, he still heard the leader's loud voice and the store's sappy muzak. On the way home, Spence asked if the group had helped. The writers had. They encouraged (tight story with great sensory details) and advised (change “forkful of chili” and fix point of view switch at “behind her”). Spence said, “You looked like a real grownup in the group–not like the cute girl you are at home.” He'll always be my sweetie.

 

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Winter

 

On the morning of my daughter's wedding, I, as mother of the bride, dressed carefully–new pantyhose and light green underwear to coordinate with dark green jeans. Curious, I emailed Ellen in West Lafayette, Indiana to ask if she were wearing her fancy blue dress. She answered, “I am wearing my work clothes since I am at work.” Spence had driven to Cleveland to lay bathroom tiles so, after a visit to Dr. Shawish late morning (increase restless leg medication and stay warm because this weather was bad for arthritis), I added logs to the wood stove fire and created a virtual celebration at Wells Wood–sewing a block for the quilt to commemorate Ellen and Chris' wedding. I measured, sewed, measured, ripped, measured, and sewed. Meanwhile, in West Lafayette, Chris got Ellen but had forgotten their papers. She called the judge's office to ask if they had time to go back for the paperwork. The secretary answered that Chris and Ellen weren't on the schedule but checked if the judge could do the ceremony in fifteen minutes. The judge, new to the job this January, agreed. The secretary printed the paperwork while Chris and Ellen traveled. The judge performed the ceremony, his first wedding ever. Ellen said, “It was casual. Chris wore jeans.”

Reflections on the Third Week of Winter

Spence studied weather.com and Weather Underground every morning for the best time to log, grease the tractor, and plow. He never found a greasing day but managed to get us from Cleveland to Wells Wood Wednesday. Wet roads changed to tire track lanes then to snow covered surfaces. Flurries and dry snow blew into whiteouts. Spence drove slowly with flashers. That weather canceled my quilt meeting. Instead of having a dangerous drive in the dark, I shred brown bags for worm food and called Mom Dot on her last night in the rehab center. Snow and ice delayed school openings Thursday. I used my volunteering holiday to cut fabrics for a quilt to celebrate Ellen and Chris' wedding. Sunshine streaming through the window was irresistible. I pulled on boots, grabbed my camera, and took a snowy photo walk. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morphed into quilt days. I cut, arranged colors, glanced out at the snow scape, and took breaks to revise my bear story for the Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters meeting–rescheduled because of the freezing rain last week. George adapted to the weather as well. He sat within a foot of the wood stove. Spence grabbed the hot-to-the-touch cat and said, “George, you're going to set your fur on fire.”

Reflections on the Second Week of Winter

 

With 2014 rolling into 2015, I reflected on endings and beginnings. I removed sand dollars, bird ornaments, and lights from the Christmas tree. The undecorated white fir didn't look forlorn. The three foot tree looked cute and fresh. We planted it in a pre-dug hole by the driveway. While we tucked soil around the root ball, the mail lady brought a package of red wrigglers. Spence assembled the worm factory he gave me for Christmas. I chopped fallen leaves, radish tips, and onion ends. Mixed with coffee grounds, the discards became food to fuel worm castings for fertilizing plants. A more significant event was the rehab center deciding Mom wasn't making enough progress so she'd be discharged Thursday. Having a week to find appropriate help pressured my brother. Mom wasn't pressured. She was upset. “They're kicking me out because I'm failing therapy. What do they expect from a 92 year old?” At the same time, she was happy to be going home. “It's my house. I should be able to live there if I want.” Endings morph into beginnings. Life is a series of cycles.