Reflections on the Seventh Week of Winter – A Discombobulated Groundhog Day

    Thursday morning, February 2, I gobbled potato pancakes and waited for the sun to rise over Wells Wood. WESA radio in Pittsburgh announced they’d report on Punxsutawney Phil in ten minutes. Why wait? With a few taps on the Nexus screen, a news article appeared. The famous Pennsylvania groundhog had seen his shadow and predicted six more weeks of winter.

    Seven inches of snow blanketed Wells Wood and lumpy clouds covered every inch of the sky. Only deer and squirrel tracks crisscrossed the woods when Spence and I took an investigating walk during the sunny afternoon. As our friend Joyce in England had predicted, Wells Wood groundhogs hid in their burrows all day. None of our groundhogs saw a shadow in its burrow that cloudy morning.

    Did Groundhog Day predictions even count this year when groundhogs had left their burrows earlier?

    January 18, a week after the torrential rains (See January 15 blog), I drove home from a quilt guild meeting. Clouds blocked the moon and stars making the country night blindfold dark. But the car’s bright beams lit a dozen yards and highlighted the slushy mud rains had made of the back roads. When I drove out of the mud, up a grade, and onto the metal bridge spanning roaring Deer Creek, an animal scooted two feet ahead of the car in my lane. I slowed down and crept behind the brown critter. Its broad, pumpkin-shaped posterior hid its head, but the furry tail belonged to a groundhog.

    Groundhog? On a January night?

    Groundhogs hibernate in winter. They don’t leave their burrows in January.

    Groundhogs are diurnal. They don’t come out at night.

    Discombobulated, I doubted my eyes.

    The next morning under cloudy skies, Spence called me from his truck on County Line Road. “You really did see a groundhog last night,” he said. “I just passed a groundhog looking down at me from a rise at the edge of the road.”

    Flooding must have chased discombobulated groundhogs out of their burrows.

    The night groundhog definitely saw its shadow in the bright headlights.

    Spence’s morning groundhog didn’t see a shadow under cloudy skies.

    Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow – from camera lights if not the sun.

    Wells Wood groundhogs didn’t see shadows under morning clouds and hidden in their burrows on February 2.

    Could anyone make a plausible weather prediction from the conflicting data?

    Regardless, Phil could determine something. He’d decide which fabrics I bought to make napkins for the log cabin place mats I’d sewn last year.

    Fox’s, a quilting store in Meadville, offered a 22% sale on fabrics matching Punxsutawney Phil’s 2/2 prediction. The discount applied to “lightly, brightly colored fabrics” if

Phil saw his shadow. The discount applied to “deeply, darkly colored fabrics” if Phil didn’t.

    I entered the store ready to choose “ lightly, brightly.”

    The owner met me near the counter and said that any fabric would be considered light and bright if I could find a darker fabric in the store. “And we have black fabric,” she added with a wink.

    Shadow. No shadow. Lightly brightly. Deeply darkly.

    After a discombobulating Groundhog Day, I’ll do what I always do. Slip into my boots, zip up my coat, and pull on my stocking cap till spring arrives.

 

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter – Pursuing Frozen Bubbles 

    Bubble wand in hand, when temperatures dropped between 10ºF and 16ºF (-12ºC and -9º C), I hustled outside in pursuit of freezing magic. Could I capture the soft colors and grandiose crystals of the Internet images that created more awe than firework finales?

    My first chance came on a frigid, sunny December morning when the Internet weather reported 10ºF for our zip code. I pulled on three layers of indoor clothes and another of outdoor then hurried onto the deck with my camera and a half full vial of bubbles from my nephew’s wedding. I dipped the wand and blew. Bubbles, varying in diameter from dime to quarter size, drifted through the air, landed, and popped.

    Patience. I needed patience.

    Dip, blow. Dip, blow.

    A bubble landed intact on snow. I aimed the zoom lens, but the camera refused to focus on the clear bubble against white snow.

    Chickadees scolded. They didn’t dare dart to the feeder while I tramped on the deck.

    I ignored their raucous protests.

    Dip, blow. Dip, blow till a bubble landed without breaking at the base of a flower pot. The camera focused, and the clear bubble collapsed.

    Dip, blow. My bottom numbed. Dip, blow.

    A bubble wobbled on a tomato cage wire. I raised the camera. Rainbow colors shimmered on the liquid surface. I pushed the shutter button and hoped.

    When my fingers froze, I trudged inside, peeled two layers of clothes, and checked the temperature on our weather station. Just 3ºF. Oops. I should have checked before frustrating the chickadees.

    Perhaps the photos worked anyway. I downloaded them.

    Pleasing blue, gold, and pink swirls encircled the bubble on the tomato cage wire, but the bubble lacked crystals. No magic.

    I ordered solution for “long lasting bubbles” on line, read the camera manual to increase the number of pixels in photos, and waited for the temperature to drop to arctic again.

    The first week of January gave me a second chance. When I bundled for the the 12ºF temperature indicated on our weather station, Spence said, “Blow the bubbles by the evergreen trees. You’ll have a better background.”

    Better?

    White pine and spruce needles popped bubbles faster than the pots and snow on the deck. When a bubble finally nestled intact in spruce needles, patience switched to a race.

    Ready–place the bubble solution jar in snow so it didn’t tip.

    Set–point the camera.

    Go–snap the picture before the bubble popped.

    I persisted till the bubble solution froze in the jar. Then I crunched through the snow to check if I’d captured any crystals.

    Feather like crystals did form in photo spheres, but no colors.

    Sigh.

    Spence set his computer on the table, walked behind my chair, peered over my shoulder at the photos. “They’re great! That one looks like a moon in the tree, and the other one has eyes staring at you.”

    I didn’t want a moon in a tree or eyes staring at me.

    I wanted spheres with majestic palaces or golden sprays of stars.

    This week, while I waited for another bitter day, I oohed and aahed at frozen soap bubble images on line. Google nudged me into reading an article about freezing soap bubbles inside. The directions emphasized “gently.” Figuring I had more “gentle” than “patience,” I reached for the bubble solution.

    No more “blow and burst” for me. I aimed for “blow and catch.” Literally. I titled my head backwards, held the wand four inches above my lips, and gently exhaled. Bubbles zipped into the air while solution dribbled onto my chin, rolled down my neck, and soaked my turtleneck collar. I caught a shimmering bubble and gently transfered it to the solution coated paper plate. The bubble popped, a repeating outcome. The few bubbles that didn’t break sunk into domes.

    I could deal with domes.

    I gently moved the plate into the freezer where the dome promptly broke. The rare domes, that lasted till I closed the freezer door, vanished before I put the next dome inside. Would I ever get a bubble to stay intact for thirty minutes inside the freezer? Probably not. I wiped bubble solution off my chin and pulled off the sticky turtleneck.
    I’m waiting for another bone-chilling day. Whether the soap bubbles freeze or burst, the pursuit brings the magic. My spirit soars with each bubble . . . exhilarating fun for a sixty-eight year old kid.

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter – Enticing Cats to Party 

                                                          Photo by Anita

     For the past thirteen years on January 16, I’ve told our cats “Happy Birthday,” patted their heads, and mentally added one to their age for the inevitable question, “How old are they?” This year I wanted to make George and Emma’s shared birthday special.

    My sister Anita inspired this change. She’d thrown a party for her Tibetan Terrier Lexi’s eighth birthday in August. With butterfly wings strapped to Lexi’s back and a silver party hat on her head, Lexi munched a dog cookie shaped like a bone and decorated with “Happy Birthday” in white frosting. Anita’s other five dogs chomped cupcake shaped cookies at the party.

    Treats would work for the cats, but forget the costume. If I tied wings on George’s back, he’d gouge bloody rivulets in my hand then sulk under the table. Planning ahead, I stowed the treats and two of the many toys Anita sent the cats for Christmas.

    When I woke January 16, Spence reported he’d already started the celebrations.

    Whispering so he wouldn’t wake me, he’d sung “Happy Birthday.” George opened one eye to check if Spence was okay, yawned, and went back to sleep. Emma never woke.

    A less than inspiring start.

    When the cats lounged in the great room mid morning, I fetched Anita’s party items and opened the treat package. Emma wiggled her nose, evidently detecting chicken aroma. Since the treats were smaller than cat food nuggets, I gave her two. She gulped both and rose on her hind legs to beg for more. George gobbled his then pushed in front of Emma to see if she’d left any. I gave them seconds, thirds, and fourths.

    Too much celebration.

    Not wanting to ruin their vet prescribed diet, I put the treats away and offered Anita’s straw catnip balls. Emma sniffed hers. George glanced at his then focused his eyes on my treat-empty hands. I rolled the balls. The cats left to nap in the bedroom.

    Without the food, my party flopped. But I had other ideas.

    Early afternoon, I unplugged my new laptop and called, “George.”

    He looked up from the food bowl.

    I walked to the stairs and called again.

    He followed.

    In the loft, I settled on the bed beside napping Emma.

    She merrowed a complaint.

    I had two plans in mind. I’d sit between the cats and pet both like I had when they were kittens. At the same time, I’d celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day by watching a YouTube video of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. I put the laptop on the bed by my feet.

    Emma merrowed a second complaint and waddled behind the computer.

    I picked her up and put her by my left side. Her third complaint dissolved into purrs when I stroked her from head to tail.

    She set her chin on the edge of the computer and waited for another pet.

    I picked George off the floor and set him on my right side.

    He didn’t complain. He just jumped off the bed.

    I picked him up four more times with equal success.

    Dr. King spoke in his vibrato voice. “When will you be satisfied? We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality.”

    “That hasn’t changed,” I said and scratched Emma’s chin.

    She stretched her legs.

    George clomped downstairs.

    Dr. King continued. “We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities.”

    “That has changed,” I told Emma.

    Her purrs increased to coffee-grinder loud.

    Partial success.

    Later, determined to involve George in birthday fun, I opened the bubble solution jar, dipped the wand, and blew.

Emma’s eyes followed the first group of bubbles from the tip of the wand to splashdown on the kitchen tiles. Unimpressed, she left.

    I said, “George look” and blew five more times before he noticed the floating bubbles. His head moved with one bubble’s flight till it splatted. He sniffed the soap residue then walked to the food bowl.

    I cleaned the sticky tiles with wet rags.

    Emma returned and watched each swipe.

    I should have scrubbed the bathroom for her.

    How could we engage George?

    By slicing white cheddar, Spence did. George followed Spence and the cheese plate to the sofa. Spence gave George three nibbles. George gobbled the cheese and promptly vomited.

    Not a celebration.

    Sporting his you-guys-are-crazy frown, George sat by the front door until we let him onto the porch. Twenty minutes later, he hadn’t scratched the door to come back. Why would George stay out so long in thirty degree weather?

    Spence stepped out to check.

    Beside the workbench, George pointed his taut body at the fat field mouse he’d cornered. George twitched his tail and waited for his birthday entertainment to move.

    The mouse shivered in place.

    Spence grabbed George around the middle and carried him inside.

    Next January 16, I’ll bake cookies in cat shapes and eat them by myself.

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Winter - Lord Emsworth and Others

 

Lord Emsworth and Others

Lord Emsworth and Others is a collection of nine stories by P. G. Wodehouse. The first and my favorite, “The Crime Wave at Blandings,” is novella length. The others run twenty-five pages or longer.

Wodehouse spins his tales in a slow, methodical pace with delightful language. He takes ordinary situations—Lord Emsworth cowering to his domineering sister Lady Constance over his secretary, his niece’s fiance, and his grandson’s air rifle—then twists the situations with one humorous shot in the secretary’s butt after another.

Wodehouse also puts the twist on the homely, short guy pining for the beautiful woman who attracts all men in the story, “There’s Always Golf.” Clarice Fitch wants a man who would show his love through violence. Ernest Plinlimmon accidentally hits her with a line drive, whacks her shin with a club he threw away, and punches her in the eye. She adores him.

Quiet. Funny. Amazing.

Wodehouse is a master with words.