Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Summer – Finding the Story

    Sweeping cobwebs from the ceiling of the guest room Tuesday morning, a lump of white schmutz clinging to the log wall caught my eye. Assuming I'd found another wad of cat hair, I set the broom down and grabbed the white blob with my left hand.

    A cabbage white butterfly, wings folded, sat on my palm.

    I cupped my right hand over my left and hurried to the great room.

   “You'll never guess what I have,” I said holding my hands toward Spence.

    He stopped tapping computer keys and looked up. “What?”

    Butterfly feet tickled my palm.

    I crossed the room, slid open the sliding glass door, and stuck my hands outside. “A cabbage white butterfly.” I moved my right hand away to free the butterfly. It sat on my palm. I lowered and raised my let hand several times. The butterfly didn't move.

    “Blow on it,” Spence said.

    As if blowing a kiss, I puffed. The butterfly opened its wings, rose, and swirled away. I turned to Spence. “I can write a story about the butterfly for my blog!”

    He cocked his head. “Do you have enough material to make a story?”

    I mentally reviewed Timons Esaias' seven point story.

1) A person. Check.

2) A place. Check.

3) A problem. Oops. Forget about 4, 5, & 6, the protagonist striving and failing three times before 7, the resolution. I needed a problem, the “what's at stake” writing challenge.

    I settled in my Adirondack chair, gazed out the sliding glass doors at cabbage white butterflies fluttering among pansy planters, and commanded my brain to create a problem. Nothing.

    I grabbed my camera, attached the zoom lens, and told Spence, “I'm going to get a picture of a butterfly then I'll think of a way to make the story.”

    He waved one hand and hit keys with the other.

    A flock of cabbage white butterflies swirled over the north garden. I stepped closer to three. They flew away. Even with my zoom lens, cabbage white butterflies kept out of range. Why hadn't I asked Spence to snap a picture of the butterfly on my palm before I puffed it away? I stood still, let butterflies zip my way, and squinted through the view finder. By the time the camera focused, it snapped garden vegetation where butterflies had been. I switched to close up mode and moved the camera along the flight path of the butterflies. After forty-nine tries, I had two possible pictures. In the first, a butterfly opened its wings above an out-of-focus purple cabbage. The other showed a butterfly flying down the blurred driveway. At least the cabbage white butterflies didn't resemble lumps of cat hair.

    I wrote my saga, complete with striving for picture more than three times and failing, then read it to Spence.

    He bobbed his head slowly and grinned. “Your problem,” Spence said, “is you don't have a problem. You're looking out not in.”

    “I'm writing about butterflies.”

    “No, silly. You're the butterfly.” He walked to the deck and turned on his sander.

    Sitting in the Adirondack chair, I ignored the blue and green outside the glass door to focus my gaze inside the story. I typed ideas in a list.

    My body clenched as if I were a white cabbage pulling away from a bird's beak. I, the protagonist, had struggled in the Adirondack chair, behind the camera, and against the “what's at stake” question that every writing instructor I'd ever had threw at me. No zombie apocalypse. No puzzling murder. Just a weekly blog of life at Wells Wood with a husband and two fat cats.

    With that, I blow this story out with the puff of a kiss and head off to enjoy butterflies.

 

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Summer - Watermelon Feast

    Gardening at Wells Wood can bring feast or famine. This year we had a feast of watermelons. I hadn't expected any. Spence had grown watermelons for years, but groundhogs devoured immature fruit or frost killed plants before melons ripened.

    What changed? Spence bought seeds for Blacktail Mountain Watermelons, the earliest maturing variety, from Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds. He also slit holes in black plastic ground cover to set out his hardened off seedlings.

    By the end of July over forty watermelons grew in the patch. To protect the plants from groundhogs, Spence stood on the deck, blasted the air horn, and yelled, “Get out of my garden.”

    Riley, an eight year old visiting during the first weekend of August, wanted to open a watermelon. I doubted the fruit would be ready but cut one for him. No red. No pink. The watermelon was pure white from rind to rind. Riley shrugged his shoulders, flashed me a toothy smile, and carried the two halves to the compost pile.

    Riley didn't ask, but I wanted to know, when would the watermelons be ripe?

    On Mike McGrath's You Bet Your Garden radio show, Mike advised referring to the seed package for days to maturity. Spence checked when he planted the seedlings in the garden, referred to the seed catalog for maturation time, then added seventy days to get an estimated date of September 2.

    Groundhogs didn't wait. As if checking for ripeness, they gnawed grooves and holes into the rinds. During the last week of August, a groundhog took a half cup size bite out of one and exposed pink. I cut around the groundhog's teeth marks and tested the fruit. Red, juicy, and sweet with multiple times more flavor than grocery store watermelons.

    Without using a groundhog tester, I picked several immature watermelons to discover the round, eight-to-ten pound fruits with a yellow spot on the dark green rind were ripe.

    Though critter bites caused a dozen watermelons to rot, we harvested about thirty. I enjoyed them for dessert, served them to guests, and gave watermelons to friends and family. At the beginning of the week, I still had a bushel of watermelons.

    Saturday afternoon I tied an apron over my white slacks and cut open melons. I dug out seeds and cubed the flesh. Juice splashed. The blender whirred. I mixed ingredients for Popsicles with added lime and sorbet with added strawberries and minced mint.

    Hours later I tested the treats. Not sweet, the watermelon Popsicle charmed me with its zesty zing. The sorbet had a harmonious sweet blend of watermelon and strawberry with an accent of mint. I didn't mind that mint pieces stuck between my teeth but wasn't pleased that the watermelon juice decorated my pants with red splotches.

    I still have half a bushel basket of watermelons. At Wells Wood this year, it's watermelon feast.

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Assaulting Peppers

    Spence wanted to prepare a special breakfast for our visiting son, Charlie.

    While Spence clattered pans and rattled utensils in the kitchen, I climbed to the loft and inserted a Rodney Yee DVD into the player tray for yoga practice. Below, in the great room, Charlie petted fat cat George with one hand and took notes for a story with the other.

    I breathed out for plank position and in for upward dog.

    Whiffs of bacon floated to the loft. The refrigerator door swished closed, a plastic bag rustled, and a knife thudded against the cutting board.

    In the middle of holding downward dog for five breaths, I coughed, the lining of my nostrils tingled, and my eyes watered. Spence wouldn't be cooking hot peppers, would he?

    “Are you cooking peppers?” I yelled.

    “Yes!”

    I sniffed and whipped my eyes. “Turn the fan on,” I said without adding “please.”

    “But the lid's on,” Spence shouted, “and I can't smell the peppers,”

    I coughed. “Turn the fan on now.” Cough. Cough.

    In the great room, Charlie chuckled. “This from the woman who hates the sound of fans.”

    The buzzing fan blended with droning flutes and my coughs for the rest of the yoga routine.

    When I went downstairs, the pepper essence saturated the kitchen more than it had in the loft. I couldn't eat breakfast at the kitchen table as usual. I walked to the front door, and said, “I'll eat on the porch.”

    Stepping outside, I took a gulp of fresh air then sat on the love seat.

    A mourning dove cooed. A robin sang “cheerily, cheer up.”

    The front door swung open. Spence came out with a breakfast burrito, pears, oatmeal, and peppermint tea for me. Charlie followed with his breakfast tray. Spence headed back for his own breakfast and met George in the doorway.

The fat cat stood on the threshold and contemplated the scene.

    To clear the way for Spence, Charlie scooped George up and set him on a folding aluminum chair. He thrashed his back legs displacing the fabric cushion and falling through the metal slats. With back paws on the cement floor and front paws on the seat's frame, George dangled with a dazed expression on his face.

    Charlie grabbed the cat's ample middle, pulled him straight up, and said, “You're okay.” He set George beside me on the love seat. The fat cat circled and circled and circled and circled. Finally he lay down, tucked his tail around his back legs, and closed his eyes.

    Chef Spence created something special for all when he prepared that special breakfast for Charlie. Spence served me a porch breakfast on a lovely day. He inspired George to lounge on the love seat all morning which gave Emma, our other cat, quiet time without her face-licking brother interrupting her rest. Spence joined our alfresco meal to eat his meat and vegetable stir fry.

    His menu for Charlie?

    Bacon, potatoes, and a cheese omelet with onions, tomatoes, and the assaulting hot peppers.

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Summer – City Mouse Country Mouse

    On what she called a “respite,” our friend Darlene embraced country life with a child-like zeal. She dropped her bags on the porch, drew in a huge gulp of air, and squealed, “It smells so clean. Can I take it home with me?” Her more practical request proved almost as difficult to grant. “I want to see the stars. They're pitiful in the city.”

    Wednesday I drove her up a dirt road to our friends' farm. The stated purpose, to deliver the zucchini, peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers Spence had picked for Tom and Kathy, didn't fool anyone. Avid animal-gawkers, Darlene and I headed straight for the barn with the three alpacas. Because moving shadows made Angie, the nearly blind female, skittish, Kathy hugged Angie to Kathy's side so I could get photos and stroke soft alpaca fleece. Darlene oohed and aahed but stood close to the door in deference to her hay and fur allergies.

    In the rabbit barn, the squirming, two week old white bunny Kathy handed me let loose a stream of pee which just missed my camera and shoes. Darlene ignored her allergies, reached over, and petted a smaller gray bunny.

    We stepped around ruts and manure in search of the mini donkeys. Kathy opened the gate to let me into the cow pasture for a better angle into the horse pasture. Darlene stared at the towering llama grazing with the cows and said, “I'll wait for you here.” Ears flicked, tails wagged, and eyes followed my camera. “Watch out, Janet.” Darlene chuckled. “The llama's creeping up on you.”

    By the time the donkeys finally stopped eating hay and wandered our direction, my camera battery died. Then the sun set behind clouds lining the hilltop horizon. No star gazing for Darlene on her first country night.

Thursday Darlene and I peeled apples, defrosted strawberries, and chopped chicken. We cooked strawberry applesauce, made two of my great aunt's strawberry pies, and baked a chicken pot pie for dinner. Darlene let the food linger on her tongue. “Mm. Mmmm. You took time to make all this from scratch and half of it's from your garden.”

    The clop clop of an Amish horse pulling a buggy past the house made Darlene giggle. “Wow!”

    Night fell with rumbling thunder. Darlene sat in the dark on the porch and absorbed the calm. Rain pattered, crickets chirped, and tree frogs croaked. No star gazing for Darlene on her second country night.

    Friday Spence drove us to Presque Isle for a walk along Misery Bay. Darlene said, “We're passing different smells.” Indeed–musky swamp, decaying fish, and sweet honeysuckle. She looked overhead and said, “The wind sounds different through different trees.” She was right again. Cotton wood leaves crackled, and white pines swished. Though the sun set behind clouds on the horizon during the ride home, Darlene and I fanny danced to Carlos Santa and hoped for clearing overhead.

    Back at Wells Wood, the cats yawned a welcome. Spence turned off house and garage lights. Darlene and I stepped onto the deck. Above the south garden, burning asteroid dust streaked under myriads of stars. “Awesome,” Darlene said. We crossed the porch to the driveway side of the house where the Big Dipper outshone all the others. “Amazing. I love it,” she said. We linked arms for the dark walk over the uneven gravel driveway to the road. The Milky Way ran like a river above the log house. “It's a bit of heaven. I feel like a kid again.” she said.

    Unlike Aesop's City Mouse visiting the Country Mouse, Darlene said, “I'll be back.”

 

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Summer – First Quilt

      “For show and tell, bring the first quilt you made,” Pat said. Conversations in the back room of the quilt shop bubbled over till Pat, the woman in charge of our Country Charms Quilt Guild summer party to celebrate our birthdays, called us back to order.

      Unlike the others, I didn't remember which quilt I'd sewn first. Rather than take a class or buy a kit, I eased into quilting through patchwork. With a ball point pen, I'd traced around cardboard templates then scissor cut squares from remnants or old clothes to sew curtains, place mats, a sewing machine cover, and a seldom-worn skirt. When friends had babies, I bought fabric and sewed crib coverlets and quilts.

      But which came first? Mentally I listed babies and calculated present ages. The oldest was Halle, now twenty-eight and a biotech scientist living in California. Did she still have the quilt? Would she let me borrow it? How could I get in touch with her?

      I emailed her dad Cory with questions so that I could “tell” the story even if I couldn't show the quilt.

      Cory emailed back that he had no idea how to answer my questions, but he'd talked with Halle. The quilt was in Cleveland not California, and Halle said, “The quilt traveled everywhere with us. It might as well travel with Janet too.”

      A week and a half ago on Wednesday morning, Spence and I sat with Cory at his kitchen table. Smiling and sipping beverages, we discussed our daughters' weddings, family updates, jobs, retirement, and politics.

      Two hours later, Cory led us the few steps to the kitchen island. He spread the quilt on the counter, reached for a printed copy of my email, and read the first question on the page. “Is it quilted or tied?”

      I fingered the pink thread cut short so that Halle wouldn't choke on the embroidery floss. “Tied.”

      “Were the squares sewn in a pattern or at random?” he read.

      The quilt had faded almost to white. I stared at the squares and was about to conclude random when I squinted and discerned slightly different shades in the fabric. “Nine patch.” With a finger, I outlined a block. “See the three rows of three squares made in two alternating fabrics?”

      The fellas nodded.

      “It's faded but still in tact,” I whispered. “Not one rip.”

      “We washed it in Downy,” Cory said. “It's so soft and comforting.”

      This Wednesday, after the guild dinner at Old Mill Restaurant in Cochranton, quilters dragged heavy chairs to form a circle and, one by one, shared the first quilts we'd sewn. Several women had made king size samplers that would challenge me today. A couple sewed the Around the World pattern like I'd sewed in 2014 for my nephew's wedding. One even made a complicated LeMoyne star. Most quilts looked brand new as if they'd been stored in museum containers. Only three of us had started with easier nine patch blocks.

      My turn came near the end. “I made this baby quilt for Halle Rose Zucker so I chose rosebud fabrics.” One after another, I held up the pastel blue, pink, and yellow remnants that had been in my scrap box since 1988. “The back and binding are from the same fabric.” I waved a piece of white fabric with red rosebuds then opened the crib quilt for all to see. “Over time the fabrics faded.”

      The circle of women gasped.

      In unison.

      Pat broke the silence. “It's so soft and gently used with love.”

 

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Summer - A Time to Sweat 

    “You don't have air conditioning?” The woman pulling a bathing suit up her long thin legs in the YMCA locker room arched her eyebrows. “How do you manage?”

    I shrugged. “Spence is a temperature controller extraordinarie.”

    When the sun hits the house, Spence closes windows to keep out the heat. When the sun sinks behind the woods in the evening, he opens windows to get a breeze. Fans, the eight inch thick log walls, and the cool basement help maintain a comfortable balance. With an average high of 80º and low of 57º for the second week of August, Spence's system works fine.

    This week wasn't average.

    On Monday the temperature started two degrees above normal. By Saturday it had increased to twelve degrees more than the average high and fourteen degrees above the average low. Rather than pulling up the blanket for the morning cool, Spence peeled off his drenched T-shirt and sighed.

    Humidity made the heat worse. My glasses fogged when I stepped outside. Bare arms stuck to wood armrests. Juicy Fruit gum softened to the consistency of Silly Putty and stuck to its wrappers. Because tape lost its stick, refrigerator notes drifted to the floor.

    Friday, I had driven to Meadville to escape the humid heat in the YMCA swimming pool. At the beginning of lap swim, five regulars sorted out lanes. “Let Janet swim in the far lane. She doesn't mind the open door.”

    Mind? Each time I swam back to the shallow end, the fan in the doorway blew refreshing air over my wet body. I wanted to swim more than my usual two thirds mile, but my right knee swelled into cream puff dimples and throbbed as if it were in charge of pumping blood through my body. I climbed out of the pool, took a cool shower, and drove home under the hot August sun. Was the car air conditioner even working?

    Five quarts of bread and butter pickles cooled on the porch. I stepped into what definitely felt like air conditioning to greet Spence.

    Barefoot, he wiped his forehead and said, “It's hotter inside than out.”

    Though he'd heated water in the huge canning kettle to a boil for half an hour then processed the pickles in the hot water bath for another fifteen minutes, he was wrong. The kitchen was 82.4º. Outside was 86.4º with a heat index of 95º.

    In the afternoon, I climbed to the loft, turned on the steam iron and, while sweat oozed through my hair and rolled down my face, pressed half triangle squares for Mom's memorial quilt.

    As Ecclesiastes says, “To everything there is a season . . .” a time to sweat and a time to pull up the blankets.

 

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Summer – Droppings

    Wednesday, Spence and I walked down the lane to the horse arena at the Cochranton Community Fair. Bustling teens carried bundles of clothes into the portable restrooms in front of the cow barn and slammed the doors. Minutes later, exiting in white shirts and slacks, the teens slammed the doors again.

    One by one, seven girls and one boy led black and white Holsteins, red and white Holsteins, and a Brown Swiss out of the barn and along the lane to the arena.

    Most of the spectators climbed into the stands by the cow barn. Spence and I sat in bleachers on the far side to put the sun behind us so I could take photos. I readied my camera and wondered what Junior Fitting and Showmanship entailed.

    Guiding cows, teens inched backwards and held their stern faces close to cows' heads. Right hands gripped halters. Left hands held flabby skin under the cows' throats but briefly darted to pinch hairs on backs to make the animals stand straight. Arm muscles flexed, teens yanked halters, and cows formed a line that grudgingly moved around the hot, sunny arena.

    When the judge told the handlers to halt, two girls stepped on their cows' front hooves to make sure they didn't move. The judge commanded the parade to resume. He approached each exhibitor in turn and asked, “What can you tell me about your cow? What are your plans for the cow?”

    The creeping pace didn't suit all the cows. The Brown Swiss stopped, a black and white Holstein turned in the opposite direction, and a red and white Holstein jerked her handler out of line. The lead cow spit foamy saliva.

    I leaned towards Spence and whispered, “This isn't the same as watching ice melt, but there are similarities.”

   After the second time around the area, the judge took hold of the first cow's halter and instructed the teen to take the next cow in line. She circled the second cow clockwise before taking the halter and releasing the owner to move down the line. Transition finished, line inched forward.

    I admired the teens' deft footwork avoiding fresh droppings. And the cow chips reminded me of an incident that happened two years earlier at the rabbit exhibit.

    I had oohed and aahed at hot bunnies snoozing beside piles of poop.

    The teen on duty waved his hands and chuckled with a friend about buying tickets for Cow Chip Bingo.

    I enjoyed games but wasn't sure I'd want to play that one. I asked, “Do you put dry pieces of manure on bingo cards?”

    The teen, not wearing white but with the same stern expression as the cow exhibitors had worn, said, “They mark off squares in the horse arena and let a cow loose. Whoever has the ticket for the square where the cow poops first wins.”

    Grateful he didn't laugh at my citified interpretation, I said, “That could take awhile.”

    “When it takes too long, they put in a second cow.”

    This year, if they use the black and white Holstein that turned backwards in the Junior Cattle Show, they won't need a second cow. On the Holstein's first circle, she arched her tail and let loose a plop, plop, plop.

   Right in front of our bleacher seats.

   She's a blue ribbon dung dropper.