Reflections on the Tenth Week of Spring

Early Monday morning, a crash woke me. I used the excuse of my book falling to the floor to get back to sleep. When I woke at 7:00, my book rested on the covers, George licked my arm, and a naked, energy efficient CFL bulb hung from the desk lamp. The Tiffany glass shade lay on the floor with a small hole, bent frame, and cracks. I swept the floor, shook the rug, and dumped shade, broken glass, and dust into a box for the trash. Spence and I drove to Ohio Tuesday and stopped at Cleveland Lighting. A young woman said they didn't have replacement shades, but I could try on line. I tired–including all sixty-nine pages of Amazon options. None came with a three and a half inch top opening, and none was as attractive as my broken relic with amber flowers tipping the intersections of eight cream panels. Wednesday at House of Lights, the salesman said I had three choices: find a shade at an antique store; buy a replacement lamp; or ask Mabel about repairs. “She does amazing work.” Mabel, a short woman well beyond retirement age with no Internet and no cell phone, works out of her bright yellow ranch house three days a week. She reverently pulled the dusty shade out of the box. “My mother had a lamp like this.” Mabel turned the shade to inspect the hole. “Did you know I'm the only person in Ohio doing ceramic repairs? This shade needs a lot of work.” She fingered the cracks. “It will take me two weeks, but, adding ceramic filling, I can fix it.”

 

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Spring

Like a farmer, Spence checks the weather. Will it be dry enough to mow, cool enough to weed, or warm enough to set out tomatoes? He also watches for frost advisories predicting temperature dips to the mid or low thirties. Friday, he got a freeze warning–temperatures below 32° for an extended time. After dinner I helped him cover strawberries then went inside because I was getting cold. He stayed out to put sheets of plastic and garbage bags over blueberries, cherries, and pawpaws. He also carried in trays of squash, pumpkin, tomato, pepper, and cucumber seedlings. “Don't eat my plants,” he told the cats. They obeyed till 5:00 Saturday morning when pawing and whimpering failed to fill the food bowl. Emma nibbled squash leaves. Spence got up. I waited till 7:30, grabbed my camera, pulled on winter gear, and stepped outside to the sun rising over treetops. Frost coated milkweed leaves, grass blades, and cottonwood fluff. Frost coated wisteria vines, girasole leaves, and pansy faces. Blueberry branches nestled against the plastic lost leaves and blossoms. Other fruit survived untouched. I helped Spence fold tarps. He said, “When you finish weeding and mulching the strawberries, we need to cover the bed with netting to protect berries from the birds.”

 

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Spring

 

Spence and I had different weekends. Friday, I flowed with traffic to the Pennwriter's Conference in Pittsburgh. He unclogged the drain in the kitchen sink, got a leak, tightened connections, and broke a fitting. In my first workshop, participants worried about a young woman hyperventilating–staged to show how to give readers engagement, emotion, and experience. Spence drove to Hart's because the cover on his brush hog drive shaft broke. They needed the shaft to determine which replacement. Alone in Marriott's small square pool, I swam diagonal laps. Rain fell while Spence tilled. I ate dinner by a goldfish pond on a sunny patio. Saturday Spence detached the drive shaft and took it to Hart's. They were closed. My “Walk Like a Turkey” won second prize in the short story contest. Rain drenched Spence on his way back from logging. I bought books at the author's tea. Spence installed four new parts in the kitchen drain. They worked, but a different part leaked. At the Mardi Gras party, I exchanged business cards with new friends and admired feathered masks. We discussed Aurora Borealis, rock and roll, and the use of “their” for singular unspecified gender. Sunday Spence moved porch furniture and swept winter dirt. I did yoga to jazz ballads and listened to dramatic flash fiction recitations. Spence welcomed me home, asked me not to squint, and snapped my photo.

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Spring

At Wells Wood nature celebrates Mother's Day with trilliums and lilacs. This year the flowers arrived just in time. I, however, celebrated early and long. The previous weekend, I flew to Florida to visit Mom. We hugged, baked strawberry pie, and played Words on Tour. While she napped, I shopped at Publix's for Mother's Day flowers–cinnamon edged white Peruvian lilies with fuscia leaves. My son never actually says, “Happy Mother's Day,” but he sent goodies via his traveling dad: a box of tea; a pen; and four cat mysteries. My daughter says “Happy Mother's Day” often. This year she sent enthusiastic wishes through an e-card and four emails. I spent the weekend at a quilt retreat sewing stain glass blocks into rows for her wedding quilt. Sunday, I'd eaten one of Spence's gourmet breakfasts at home so, while the quilting ladies went to the cafeteria for brunch, I sewed sashing strips and listened to a chorus of cell phones ring–attempted Mother's Day calls no doubt. Back at home that evening, Spence took me for a wildflower walk. Trillium, that had bloomed mid week, glistened with raindrops, and lilac buds finally opened.

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Spring

 

“How many memorial plantings have you made?” Mom asked over the phone. She'd been looking at photos of mini daffodils I'd planted for my sister-in-law's mother. The question made me curious to see if the marsh marigolds I'd planted for Aunt Jane, who was the last entry of my “In Memory” book, were blooming. I walked through the grass awash with violets and spring beauties then into the woods decorated by trout lilies. By a woods pond, Aunt Jane's marsh marigold had vibrant leaves but no buds. Had the cold winter or critters nipped them back? I continued downhill. Bluebells and spring cress flowered near Deer Creek. All the wildflowers on Wells Wood were tributes to Spence's parents, homestead founders and guides for many a wildflower walk. I circled up to catchment basin that slowed road runoff's travel through the south yard. In the trickles, Aunt Jane's second marsh marigold flourished–lots of buds and an open flower. Smiling, I thought of special flowers. Forget-me-nots, black-eyed-Susans, lilies, daisies, asters, and more would follow. I'd made twenty-seven memorial plantings.

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Spring

Sixty-two and thirty-seven, average temperatures for Wells Wood's fifth week of spring, didn't convey the surprises and variability for the time of year. Monday rain pounded. I wore boots for a muddy walk to cut daffodils. The sky cleared, and sunshine lit raindrops dangling from leaves. Willow branches swayed like lacy ribbons. Wisps of vapor grew into glowing white and dense gray cloud mounds. Rain misted then puddled the ground. Whistling wind brought back blue skies. The rain-sun cycle continued throughout the day. Cooling temperatures brought wet snow Thursday. Flakes covered pansy faces, daffodil cups, and downed logs. The snow wasn't surprising, but three other incidents that morning were. Ambling through the field, two bear cubs heard Spence in the kitchen and galloped into the woods. Spence, voted the-most-easy-going husband by my friends, asked me what I was going to wear for swim class. And, the Learning Center children, who'd waited so long for spring, didn't even mention the snow. Better at indicating the surprises and variability for the time of year were record temperatures–eighty-nine and nineteen.

 

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Spring

Because soaking in chlorine made my hair feel like straw, I bought the only kind of swim cap Dunham's stocked–a flat, round piece of silicone. The newfangled thing puzzled me so I tried it on at home. I couldn't get it on my head let alone over my hair. The cap shot off like a charged rubber band or shrivelled into a bun. I donated it to the YMCA and ordered a “Luxury Diva” from Amazon. The textured black cap had a white strap, slipped on, and snuggled my temples. My ponytail created an air pocket which bounced my head during sidestroke. Since I had a new cap, I decided to retire my old black and white suit with its faded-to-gray belt, drooping skirt, and stretch-marked polyester. I sewed in extra elastic to tighten the top of my daughter's jaunty, but modest, two piece suit. Then I squeezed between two men in the middle section of the YMCA pool for a quarter mile swim before Deep Water Fitness. On breast stroke, the front of the suit dropped four inches off my chest, filled with water, and gave me the experience of swimming topless. Did the men notice? I didn't want to know. Men did notice Saturday, however, when I wore the new garden hat my sister gave me. As I cleared dried plant stems from the front yard, passing fishermen honked and waved.