Reflections on the Third Week of Winter – Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters Kicked Out of Tim Hortons

      Yesterday, determined to run an efficient MVP (Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters) meeting, I walked into the Tim Hortons on the outskirts of Meadville. Two members sat at the corner table covered by folders and papers. Catherine, with an attractive maroon sweater and flattering new hair cut grinned. She pointed her pen at me and said, “Where have you been? We thought you weren’t coming.”

    I glanced through the window to check the time on bank sign across the street. It read 19º. No help. “It’s only one o’clock,” I said.

    “But you’re the group leader. You should be here five minutes early.” She laughed.

    I shrugged, figured I’d skip getting my usual cup of peppermint tea, and organized my papers to start the meeting.

    Kelly, whose long dark hair framed a face glowing with vitality as if the holidays had refreshed her, left the table to order lunch.

   Okay. The meeting wasn’t starting.

   I followed Kelly to the counter and ordered tea from a high school student with freckles across her nose and cheeks. She said, “This is my first day back after two weeks off so I’ve got to learn everything over again. I’ll try.” Standing silently behind her, another teen watched. The freckled teen must have done something right. My tea appeared in a minute.

    Kelly returned with her lunch five minutes later. “Do you get the feeling the teenagers don’t really want to be here? What an attitude!”

    Kelly shared a flier requesting donations for the art show and silent auction that she is organizing to raise money for The Arc, a building and an organization for adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

    Catherine said, “I could arrange a basket of yarns.”

    “Would you want photos I entered in the Cochranton Fair?” I asked.

    Kelly beamed. “Both would be great. Bring them to the February meeting.”

    I glanced at the bank sign which now read 1:20. Okay all the fliers, newspaper ads, and emails weren’t going to bring any more writers. Time to get on with Catherine’s Point of View and Viewpoint presentation.

    Catherine said, “It doesn’t look like anyone else is coming. Do you want me to start with the omniscient presentation?”

    I nodded.

    She gave us handouts, differentiated four types of omniscient with graphics, and started to list benefits of each when the young teenager with freckles stopped at our table.

    Clasping her hands behind her back, she said in a soft, calm voice, “We’re having an emergency in the kitchen. You have to leave right away.” Over her shoulder, she addressed the shadowing teen, “You can smell gas in the kitchen. I’m not supposed to turn any switches.” They walked away.

    We stood.

    I stuffed my arm into a coat sleeve and said, “Where can we go? To a restaurant?”

    “I’ll take you to The Arc,” said Kelly and hustled to the counter to fetch a drink holder for her cup of coffee, cup of ice, and cup of chai.

   Catherine pulled on a lime green and black hat that matched her scarf. “Where’s The Arc?”

    “Downtown on Chestnut Street,” I said.

    “By the mall?”

    “Yes.” I picked up my bags, and we left..

    In separate cars, we drove past a huddle of teens standing in the far corner of the parking lot and staring at the building.

    Kelly let us into The Arc.

    “Weren’t you scared there was a gunman in the kitchen?” she said.

    Catherine and I looked at each other’s blank face.

    “No,” Catherine said. “The teen was speaking calmly.”

    “She mentioned smelling gas, so I figured it was a gas leak,” I said. “We had time to get out before the kitchen exploded.”

    Kelly shrugged and led us into a conference room with a skylight. Sitting in comfy chairs, we spread our papers. Catherine continued her omniscient talk.

    I thanked Catherine, put her materials away and got out papers needed for feedback on the writings we’d brought.

    “Do you want to talk about movies,” Kelly said.

    Catherine did.

    They were off. A “Have you seen this one” and “No what about that one” discussion ran until Kelly said, “We should go to a movie together then talk about it.”

    Catherine agreed. “Movies are great at illustrating story structure.”

    The discussion shifted to times on Tuesday, the discount price day.

    “I swim laps but could go to a one o’clock show,” I said.

    “I like to go to the movie as early as possible in the morning because I don’t want to catch germs,” Catherine said. “There’s that math movie this week.”

    “I want to wait for the new Beauty and the Beast. It’s not out yet,” Kelly said with a faint pout.

    The conference room clock chime three. Yikes. We needed to get moving. Catherine hadn’t brought a writing for feedback, but Kelly and I had. I said, “Okay. Watch for the movie to come out, Kelly, then we’ll arrange an outing. It’s time to read Kelly’s writing.”

    Kelly shared an article from her Arc collection about a co-worker who was a model of inspiration. He daily approached every Arc participant with respectful attention to make each feel important.

    I turned to Catherine. “Isn’t this a perfect omniscient narration?”

    She nodded. “You should enter one of your Arc pieces in the Pennwriters Writing Contest, Kelly.”

    After we gave feedback on the details in Kelly’s article, I passed out my short story for the Pennwriters Contest, “Talk to You Tomorrow.”

    Catherine provided technical help. “The cause and effect on at the top of page two is off.”

    Kelly offered human nature observations, “An eighty-eight year old woman wouldn’t sound that spry right after an operation. Her speech would be slow and slurred.”

    Both advice helped.

    We ended a half hour late–not bad for having been thrown out of Tim Hortons. I left The Arc invigorated to revise my story, yet again, and positive we’d all remember that MVP meeting.

Reflections on the Second Week of Winter - Janet in the Great Room with Licorice Tea

Following Spence’s directive, “Be careful,” I cleared Christmas wrappings and gifts so I wouldn’t trip, fall, and break one of my decalcified bones. Next I brewed licorice tea in a snowman mug, set the mug on the coffee table, and settled into the Adirondack chair with my laptop. Across the table, Spence talked on the phone with our son Charlie. Outside, birds perched on wisteria vines and waited for turns at the sunflower feeder. I breathed in the peace and calm of our Christmas afternoon.

Then I reached for the mug.

The handle, shaped like the top of a stocking cap, slipped in my loose grip.

The mug tilted.

Tea splashed like a waterfall onto the keyboard.

I admit I'm not a computer expert. After coaching from my personal tech supports, Spence and Charlie, I know how to turn the computer on, use programs, and turn the computer off. However, even I figured tea flooding the keyboard was bad.

I gasped, put the mug on the table, and inverted the laptop.

Tea dripped onto my jeans.

Spence jumped off the sofa and said, “You killed it,” to me, and, without taking a breath, said to Charlie, “We’re having a computer emergency. I’ll call you later.” Spence dropped the phone on the couch and rushed to the coat rack.

I didn’t kill my laptop. Did I?

Maybe I could resuscitate it. To dislodge more water, I shook the laptop.

Spence grabbed a dirty sweatshirt he’d hung on the rack, handed it to me, and said, “Mop.”

As if compressing a drowning victim’s chest, I rubbed the sweatshirt over the upside down keyboard.

Spence interrupted me. “Do you have a hair dryer?”

I handed him the laptop and sweatshirt, dashed to the bathroom, and returned with the dryer.

The dryer whirred, and Spence waved the nozzle over the keyboard. After a couple minutes that dragged like weeks, he handed the keyboard and dryer to me. Saying, “You take over,” he disappeared into the basement.

I aimed hot air at the keyboard and whispered, “Don’t die.”

Spence returned with a small tool box. He placed the laptop on the kitchen table, removed twelve screws from the back cover, and exposed the motherboard. Blowing hot air at the motherboard, he said, “It’s dead, but you didn’t fall. That’s what matters. We can get a new computer.”

Vowing to give up tea, I fetched my Nexus tablet to email Charlie. “I spilled tea on the laptop keyboard,” I typed with one finger. “Spence says it's dead.”

Charlie wrote back. “Set it aside. Let time and tide, or a hot stove, work. If it was just tea, not much in there except water. I’ve dumped beer on dozens of laptop keyboards. Much worse. They usually survived.”

Just water.

Usually survived.

Maybe I didn’t kill it. Maybe the seventy-two hours of work I’d done since backing up files the previous Thursday wouldn’t be lost.

“It’s dead,” Spence said from the kitchen. “But, we can try again in the morning.”

I fell asleep Christmas night with “Let tide and time work. Let tide and time work,” circling through my brain.

Monday morning, I examined the exposed motherboard. The ordered array of square chips, shiny circles, copper strips, soldered dots, and random wires on a blue background looked like museum-worthy art.

Spence plugged the laptop in and pressed the start button.

Power lights stayed off.

The screen stayed dark.

He tapped his fingers on the side of the laptop. “It’s dead. I’m glad it was the computer and not you falling.”

“But Charlie said he’d spilled beer on his computers, and they didn’t die.”

“Depends on how much liquid and where it hit,” Spence said.” I’ll order you a new computer.”

I pressed the start button often during the morning. No flickering lights.

Spence logged onto the System76 website and selected options for a Gazelle computer with a Ubuntu operating system. System76 employees would have to build then mail the computer from their workshop in Colorado. For two weeks, I’d be without a computer to write stories, download photos, and communicate with a printer.

How could I publish my blog New Year’s Day?

Spence had the answer. He loaned me his old Chromebook which was sitting unused because the battery had died after six months and couldn’t be replaced. Spence plugged the Chromebook in and got a “Chrome OS is missing or damaged” message. Undaunted, he downloaded a rescue application on his new Acer Chromebook, loaded the app to a memory stick, and reinstalled the operating system on the old Chromebook. Plugged in, it functioned. Though it didn’t communicate with printers, I could still publish online. It’s inability to download photos from an SD card didn’t challenge Spence. He put my camera card into his Acer, transferred the photos to a memory stick, and taught me how to retrieve them.

I was set.

I just had to adjust to a smaller keyboard. If I typed slowly, no problem. When my fingers danced in excitement over an engaging part, I’d hit two keys at once making me chuckle over “licofrice,” “latger,” and “keyhboards.”

Manageable.

Perhaps I didn’t need to give up tea.

Reflections on the First Week of Winter – Noisy Night

Guest Blog by Emma and Her Ghost Writer

    “Emma.”

    Janet can wait. I chomp another mouthful.

    Her bedsprings creak. “Emma!”

    She can't wait.

    I patter down the hall and jump on the bed. She's on her side. Tempting target. I head butt her posterior. Bullseye.

    She reaches back to fondle my ears.

    I purr.

    She sighs and snuggles under the covers.

    Almost time. If I lull her to sleep, I can frolic without a camera pointing at me. I settle behind her back and cross my front legs.

    Fifteen minutes later, Janet's rhythmic breathing makes me yawn. I shake off drowsiness. Time to empty the toy basket. I ease to the edge of the bed and jump onto her fuzzy red slippers to muffle my landing.

    Bang, boom, crash.

    Why is George exercising on the metal steps now?

    I glance from the camera bag on the dresser to Janet under the covers. She's calm. I creep out of the bedroom. My chubby brother dashes from the basement to the loft.

    Clang, clank, thunk.

    Perhaps he's trying to wake the birds roosting in the white pines.

    Janet snorts and takes a long sleep breath.

    Silence in the loft. Fine. George's probably squatting in the litter box. I tiptoe toward the toy basket next to the wood stove.

    Thump, thung, thud.

    No litter box squatting. George beats me to the basket and knocks it over.

    Dragons, fish, and feathered pineapples fly. Jingling bells roll on the floor. Aroma of catnip floats my way.

    George chases a squishy, green tinsel ball. His claws scratch the hardwood floor. He bumps into the ash bucket and clambers over the fire place poker. Is he trying to wake the whole planet?

    On his third pass around the room, I whack him on the head.

    He stops and gives me his what-was-that-for look. Forgetting the tinsel ball, he licks my forehead.

    As if.

    But licking me calms him down. He finishes grooming me and waddles to the kitchen for a snack.

    Janet's quiet in the bedroom. I'm safe. No camera.

    I rub a catnip fish over my whiskers. Aaah. I juggle it with my paws then roll to my side for some meditation. Maybe I'll sharpen my claws on the log wall next.

    Mer-aaaaaw.

    He wouldn't.

    Mer-aaaaw.

    He would. George bites his hairy toy snake and paces.

    Mer-aaaaa in the great room.

    He thinks he's a shaman ridding the house of evil spirits.

    Mer-aaaaw in the bathroom.

    Forget the camera.

    Mer-aaaaw in the bedroom.

    Waking Janet will make her grouchier than any evil spirit. I scamper to the bedroom.

    The bed springs creek.

    She thrashes her legs.

    I jump on the bed and head butt her posterior.

    Her legs stop moving.

    George drops his hairy, toy snake and pads away.

    Yawn. I need a long winter's nap.

 

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Fall – Christmas Stranger 

    Wednesday evening, I opened the passenger door to Peggie's new Buick SUV and slid onto the seat. “Ooooh! Toasty,” I said before saying hi or thanks for driving me to the quilt guild Christmas party.

    She laughed. “I turned the passenger seat heater on when I left home.”

    Sirius XM Radio played Christmas music from the fifties and sixties.

    Spence, who'd followed me out of the log house, stood by Peggie's window.

    She opened it for him.

    “You girls be careful and have fun.”

    “We will,” we said in unison.

    “You'll never get her out of the car with the Christmas music on,” he whispered to Peggie. “She loves Christmas music.”

    Spence walked to the house, and Peggie backed out of the driveway.

     “You look nice in your red coat,” I said.

    “Thanks. I brought my down coat in case it gets too cold for this one.” She turned the steering wheel and headed up West Creek Road. “I want to stop at the store on the way home. I have to buy lettuce to make a salad for a party Friday, and I don't want to go out tomorrow. The weather's supposed to be horrible.”

    Horrible weather had kept me from a Jane Austen birthday celebration in Cleveland last Sunday. Tuesday evening, horrible weather had slowed Spence's drive home from Cleveland meetings to a thirty-five miles per hour pace on Pennsylvania state roads.

    Weather forecasts predicted the snow Peggie wanted to avoid would start tonight.

    “Why don't we stop on the way to the restaurant in case the weather is bad later?”

    “I don't want the lettuce to freeze in the car.”

    “We could take it in with us.”

    “That's an idea.”

    We oohed and aahed at Christmas lights in Cochranton then drove on to Meadville.

    At the Meadville Giant Eagle, Peggie parked by the cart return near the entrance. “I'll leave the motor on. I won't be long.” She disappeared into the store.

    I hummed along with “Silent Night.”

    Folks walked past the SUV. Two young men carried bundles of plastic bags to the recycle bin, a couple checked a paper list, and single shoppers hustled out of the cold.

    What if a teenager heard the car engine running and decided to go for a joy ride?

    No teen would want to drive a Buick SUV.

    If a car thief came, could I get the keys out of the steering column?

    Not wearing that seatbelt.

    “I'm being silly,” I told the radio. “Lots of folks leave their car running for passengers in the winter.”

    I tapped my foot to “Santa Baby” and checked colors of coats on people leaving the store. Gray, brown, black. No red.

    Several women walked close to the SUV to return shopping carts. A man, in a tan coat and without a shopping coat, approached the driver's door then veered around the back.

Perhaps he was looking for his car.

    He returned to the driver's door.

    Okay, he wasn't looking for his car. What did he want?

    He spoke at least a sentence outside the window.

    With “O, Come All Ye Faithful” on the radio, I couldn't hear him. I said, “What?” with no hope he'd hear me either. But, Spence says, my face could win a Pulitzer Prize.

    The man must have read the question in my expression. He opened the driver's door. “Is this Peggie Moorhead's car?”

    “Yes,” I forced myself to answer.

    “Good. I met her in the store. I'd left my green jacket at her house. She said the jacket was in her car.”

    “I don't know where it is, but you can look.”

    He opened the door to the backseat and picked up Peggie's powder blue down coat. His green jacket was underneath. “This is great. It saves me a trip all the way back to Milledgeville.” He closed both doors and walked away.

    I turned the temperature dial down and wiggled my over-toasted fanny to “Jingle Bell Rock.”

    When the song ended, Peggie in her red coat walked to the SUV carrying a bag which presumably held lettuce. She settled behind the driving wheel. “Did you see John?”

    “Yes. He got his jacket. Who is he?”

    “He's my cousin who lives here in Meadville. He'd left his jacket at my house after a guest preaching job at our church last Sunday. Funny meeting him at the store.” She backed out of the parking place. “I told him not to scare you. He didn't, did he?”

    “No, but I was surprised.”

    “Silver Bells” played on the radio.

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall – Snow Brings Birds to the Window

    Friday, I measured six inches of snow on the ground. With a forecast of high temperatures ranging from thirteen to thirty-five for the next ten days, we figured bears were finally hibernating. We could feed birds without attracting a bear to the deck.

    Spence fetched the plastic bird feeder, poured sunflower seeds into a half gallon bucket, and stepped outside without putting on winter gear. Snow crunched under his shoes, and suction cups squeaked against the sliding glass door. He filled the feeder with seeds and waved to me through the window.

    Maybe we'd waited too long to feed the birds.

    I sat in the Adirondack chair near the wood stove, wrote notes in holiday cards, and waited for birds to find the seeds.

    Two hours later, a thud drew my attention to the window. A titmouse gazed back at me from the feeder. The titmouse speared a seed with its beak and flew away. A chickadee zoomed in.

    Within an hour, a winter-mix flock of about two dozen titmice, chickadees, and juncos cued on wisteria vines and tomato cage wires to take turns snatching seeds.

    We hadn't waited too long to hang the feeder.

    With effort, I ignored the winged ballets outside and wrote more notes.

    Thud.

    Imagining a chickadee with broken neck, I put my pen on the table and forced myself to check the snow on the deck. No dead bird. Instead a pair of titmice pecked seeds from both sides of the feeder. I admired snow capped flower pots and watched for where birds hit the glass so that I could tape a Christmas card in that spot.

    As if walking on a tightrope, a chickadee on a tomato cage wire stepped to the right, stepped to the left, then flew towards the feeder. The chickadee banged into the plastic perch, dropped to the deck, and shook its whole body. After staring at the feeder, the chickadee made a second attempt, landed on the perch, and snatched a seed.

    Thud.

    A male cardinal bumped into the roof of the feeder. Attempting to squeeze between the roof and perch, he crashed into the roof again. On his third try, he slipped in soundlessly.

    Birds weren't bashing their brains on the window. They were adjusting flight patterns to land on the perch.

    I could relax.

    But my cat George crept to the sliding glass door and crouched.

    Perhaps he'd scare this year's flock.

    With ears twitching and tail swishing, George followed incoming and outgoing flights with his head. When two juncos hopped on the deck to gather fallen seeds, George pounced on the window.

    The juncos didn't flinch at George's thud. They pecked seeds and played tag in the snow.

    George, inside the window, hadn't scared birds.

    I sighed, and Spence said, “Just relax. They'll all live happily ever after.”

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Fall – Swimming Irritations

    Forget the apple. Swimming three times a week keeps arthritis away.

    To swim at the Meadville YMCA, I established a smooth, two hour and forty-five minute routine. Pack, drive, change, swim, shower, dress, drive, and deal with wet gear.

    Then, two weeks ago, Monday came.

    A sign that said, “Pool Closed Today,” greeted me at the check-in desk. My face must have registered disappointment because Tess's welcoming smile turned to a frown. “I'm sorry. The regulator went crazy over the weekend and dumped extra chlorine into the pool. The malfunction should be fixed tomorrow.”

    I sighed, stuffed my gear in a locker, and walked to exercise room behind the check-in desk. Mounting a stationary bike, I peddled through Paris via a video of crowded streets and views of Notre Dame Cathedral, Eiffel Tower, and Arc de Triomphe. My knees gave out before the video ended.

    Tuesday, Tess kept her welcoming smile. “The pool's fixed. You can swim today.”

    Three regulars, Leeann, Mike, and Eva, were already exercising when I toed off my pool shoes and walked down the steps into the water. Odor of chlorine assaulted my nostrils. Yuck.

   I had sixty lengths or two thirds of a mile to swim.

    I dove under and came up pulling my arms into a breast stroke. I pulled, breathed, thrust and kicked.

    My lips numbed.

    Weird.

    Fifty-two lengths to go.

   I switched to a side stroke. With my right hand, I cupped water, swished it back to my left hand, then scissor kicked. I glimpsed Jackie, another regular swimmer, standing in street clothes on the deck and talking to the life guard.

   Why wasn't Jackie in her suit?

   Forty-two lengths to go. 

    Staring at the ceiling tiles and tucking my feet toward my butt, I drew my hands up my torso then flung my arms to the side. Kicking and forcing my arms to my thighs, I splashed my face and zipped through the water. The insides of my mouth and nose were as parched as desert sand. Thank goodness I hadn't forgotten my goggles.

    Thirty lengths to go.

    I pulled, breathed, and thrust forward. The others weren't putting their heads under the water. Leeann, who marches and swishes Styrofoam barbells, and Mike, who only swims side stroke since his back operation, never do, but Eva usually varies freestyle and backstroke. Today she doggy paddled. Maybe they knew something I didn't.

    Eighteen lengths to go.

    The room quieted letting splashes from my elementary backstroke echo off the walls. I stopped at the shallow end and surveyed the pool. Everyone had left. Forget the last sixteen lengths. I'd settle for a half mile today.

    I grabbed the edge of the pool, moved my left leg back and set my heel on the bottom. While I stretched, I stared at the gurgling fountain.

    Was it circulating the maximum amount of chlorine, or had the regulator malfunctioned again?

   When I returned home, I dumped my gear into the wash tub. Suit, shoes, bathing cap, and goggles reeked as if I'd poured a gallon of bleach over them. Sheesh.

    On Thursday, Tess greeted me with an even wider, welcoming smile. “The pool's fixed. You'll have a lovely swim.”

    But she'd said the pool was fixed Tuesday.

    “Great,” I said exchanging my car keys for a lock to secure a locker. “The last swim was bleachy.”

    Her smile switched to a pursed lip pout.

    I changed and zoomed through the smooth, odorless water as if it were liquid silk. But when I swam between Eva and Jackie, snippets of their conversation bothered me. “. . . such a headache . . . my fillings felt like they were coming out . . .”

    In the locker room, I fastened the hooks of my bra and asked Jackie. “Were you talking to Eva about the chlorine Tuesday? Is that why you didn't swim?”

    “Yes. It was too high. They closed the pool Tuesday afternoon.”

    Yikes. Right after I'd left. “How high was it?”

    “You don't want to know.”

    “Yes, I do.”

    “No. You don't.”

    Pulling my turtleneck over my head I said, “Tell me.”

    “They read the indicator wrong. They thought it was six, but it was really twelve.”

    What did the numbers mean?

    I drove home and searched Google for pool chlorine levels.  Two to three parts per million is recommended. More than three will emit an odor and cause irritation.

    Swimming on that fated Tuesday kept more than arthritis away. I bet I'm still germ free from my swim in bleach.