Reflections on the Ninth Week of Spring – George On My Mind 

    Last Monday Charlie said, “George slowed down since I was here six months ago.”

    George has always functioned in his own time zone–that delay after I’ve hoisted him over my head before he merrowed a protest. Spence and I hadn’t noticed a change in George’s behavior. He still jumped onto the sofa, waited by the door for an opportunity to escape and lap puddled rain, and licked his sister Emma’s head. Spence and I attributed George’s slower steps, like ours, to arthritis and aging.

    George staring at the food bowl and walking away without taking a bite didn’t bother me either. I’d switched his prescription diet to over-the-counter food. George preferred Spence’s offerings of chicken and chipped ham. When George stopped eating the off-diet treats and an ingrown claw irritated his left front toe, I made an appointment with the Greenville Veterinary Clinic for Wednesday.

    Wednesday afternoon Charlie, in bare feet and shorts, lugged George in his small-dog sized cage across the gravel driveway and set him on the back seat of the Subaru. “Take it easy, George,” Charlie said and clicked the fully extended seatbelt around the cage. Spence slipped onto the passenger seat, and I drove to Greenville.

    Whines floated to the front seat.

    “He sounds like Emma complaining,” I said shifting gears. “He’s usually resigned and quiet.”

    “He must not feel well,” Spence said.

    “Do you think they’ll keep him overnight?”

    “Probably not─”

    More whines.

    Spence turned and patted the cage. “─ well, maybe.”

    At the vet’s, George curled as small as possible in the waiting room while five dogs barked. Doctor Heather, a petite young woman with a row of delicate silver earrings on her left ear, finally called us. “Do you mind coming into the euthanasia room? It’s the only space I have open right now, and I didn’t want to make you wait any longer.”

    We stepped into a powder blue room trimmed with hand painted flowers. A high shelf held boxes for ashes and figures of angels holding cats. George curled in the back of his cage. I tugged him out and onto the exam table. While I petted his head, Dr. Heather examined his paw and probed his abdomen. “He has some hard stools in there. He might only need an enema, but I’ll do blood tests to be sure.” She cradled George in her arms and carried him away to the treatment room for his blood work.

    Might only? In silence, Spence and I stared at each other. He leaned against the wall. I sat on the love seat across from the exam table and read poems painted on the wall . . . a joy forever . . . part of my heart . . . loving friend.

    After what seemed like hours, a technician barged in gripping George under the shoulders and holding him away from her body with outstretched arms. “He’s really angry. He might bite you. Do you want me to put him in the cage?”

    Spence lunged to the table and George. “No! Let us calm him down.” Spence petted George then cradled him. No merrows. No whines.

    I reached out my arms. Spence brought George to me, and I held him against my chest. “Good boy,” I crooned. “You’re my handsome boy.”

    Dr. Heather entered and sat beside me.

    I put my face against George’s fur and listened.

    “...lost three pounds...kidney failure...no cure...hospital for IV...special diet...owner decides quality of life...”

    OMG. What a message to receive in the euthanasia room.

    My arms wobbled. “Yes, give him the IV and keep him overnight in the hospital."

    Spence lifted George to the table.

    I stood, and we petted George until a technician brought in a big blue towel, wrapped George inside, and carried him away.

    With a heavy but hopeful heart, we took the empty cage home and left it by the side door to bring George home later.

    The commotion of our entering and setting down the empty cage woke Emma from a nap in the Adirondack chair. She glared at the cage.

    Concerned she’d be as sad as us about George not coming home, I picked her up and held her close to my chest.

    She sniffed. Smelling George, the alcohol from his blood test site, and the odor of the vet’s, she hissed.

    Thursday afternoon I drove back to the vet’s. A technician led me through back halls to George, dragged a stool over to his hospital cage, and opened the door. On the cage door hung an orange sign that read “BITES.” The tech said, “Be sure he knows it’s you instead of one of us, and try to get him to eat.”

    Beside a litter box a fourth his size, George slept, curled into a ball. An IV tube stuck in his left front leg, dirt smeared his face, and hair stuck out at odd angles.

    “George,” I whispered. “How’s my big boy?”

    His ears twitched. Head down and slower than a drowsy turtle, he turned toward me. His eyes opened a slit.

    I fondled his ears.

    He leaned into my hand and purred.

    Murmuring, “Good boy” and “Love you George,” I combed him.

    He stood on wobbly legs and licked my hand.

    Licking? I picked up the dish of kidney-diet food resembling gray goop and held it below his tongue.

    He sniffed, ate an eighth of the food, and lay down.

    “Good boy!” More petting, more leaning, more purring.

    “Where’s your snake? Spence brought it on his way to Cleveland. Did the technician give you your hairy snake? ”

    Again in slower than turtle mode, he stood, took three steps toward the back of the cage, and turned towards me.

    On the floor where he’d lain was his hairy snake toy. Even in his weakened condition he’d guarded it from the poking, jabbing, deserving-a-bite strangers.

    I picked up the comb.

    George wobbled back to me.

    I combed and chatted. When he licked my hand, I dipped my finger into the gray goop and stuck it under his nose to lick.

    Comb, lick. Fingertip-of-food, lick.

    A half hour after I’d arrived, he hobbled to the back of the cage, curled his tail around himself, and closed his eyes. Guessing he wanted to rest, I untangled the IV and closed his door.

    He looked up.

    “I have to go to a writing conference in Pittsburgh, George, but I’ll call to check on you. Eat and get strong so you can come home. I’ll meet you there Sunday afternoon.”

    George closed his eyes.

    I took a deep yoga breath, said, “Hang in there, big boy,” and left to pack for the three day Thirtieth Annual Pennwriters Conference.

    Friday morning, several hours after I’d headed south, Spence sent an email.

Stopped to pet George in his jail cell for 45 minutes. Groggy at first, he quickly glommed who it was and decided it was a jail break. I had to keep pushing him (and his IV) back into the cell. He finally settled down to just petting, licking and head butting. The vet tech said George was still not eating, but I got him into the bowl a little, and he also took some water. The only way I was able to get away was that he finally, worn out from being petted, curled up in the corner of his cell with the hairy snake.

    In Pittsburgh Friday afternoon, I called the Greenville Veterinary Clinic. The answering tech said, “George is resting quietly, but he hasn’t eaten. The doctor will do blood tests in the morning to see if he can go home.”

    Friday night, I crawled under the Marriott sheets. Was George sleeping with his snake? The toilet in my hotel room voluntarily belched every fifteen or twenty minutes. Would George put his paws on the toilet seat and watch the baseball sized bubble of air pop and splash, or would he hide under the computer desk away from the bathroom monster?

    Saturday morning Spence emailed.

News on George: bad and good

Vet says that his blood tests don't show any improvement, in fact worse than when we brought him in, but he's feeling pretty good and wants to come home. She will release him with the proviso that we give him subcutaneous fluid injections once daily. Tammy Graham [our vet tech neighbor] has agreed to do this. If we see new symptoms, we should bring him back. Otherwise another blood test in a week.

    Saturday night in Pittsburgh, I dressed like a pirate and sipped cranberry juice in a party room blasting sea chanteys. I talked with Pennwriters about costumes and writing projects, but my mind drifted to George. Was he eating?

    Sunday, after participating in Writer’s Meditation and three workshops, I rushed to the car and zoomed north. I burst in the front door to find Charlie on the floor petting George.

   “Good to see you, George,” I said.

    He didn’t walk over to greet me like usual, but gazing at me with wide green eyes, he merrowed.

    To be continued

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Spring – Moving In

    Last Sunday morning, the alarm clock flashed 4:17, and gravel crunched in the driveway.

    I jumped out of bed and ran down the hall.

    Charlie, with a bulging backpack hanging from each shoulder, stepped through the front door. He chuckled, set down the bags, and gave me a hug. The opening greeting of the phone call he’d made two and a half weeks earlier, “You’re getting a new roommate,” had come true. After years of applying for UPS transfers which would move him closer to his aging parents, Charlie landed the job of preload supervisor at the package center in Seneca, Pennsylvania, twenty-seven miles from Wells Wood.

    During the week, he adjusted to the move, and I, because nothing is more obnoxious than helicopter parenting a forty-three year old man, tried to curb overwhelming urges to help.

    The first challenge came later that Sunday morning when Spence and I settled in the great room to write blogs. Charlie carried in a load from his packed Chevy Cruze.

    I paused key tapping. “Do you want help unloading?”

    “No, no, keep writing.” He lugged crates of books to the guest room, boxes of dishes to the basement, and computer equipment to the loft.

    Turning my head, I looked up. “You’re welcome to put anything you want on top of my bookcase. I cleared it for you.”

    “He’ll manage, Janet,” Spence said petting George. “Leave the boy alone.”

    “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

    Oops. Helicopter. I gritted my teeth, read through the postmistress blog for the twenty-eighth time, and remained seated despite sounds of furniture re-arranging in the guest room.

    Next, Charlie studied Google Maps for a trial run of the winding road route to the UPS package center before he had to drive it in country dark. Rather than offering help, I said, “If you don’t mind company, I’d like to see where you’ll be working. But I can go another time if you’d rather go alone.”

    He chuckled. “You’re welcome to come.”

    “Great!” I dashed to the bedroom for my camera. “Does UPS have rules against taking pictures of their buildings?”

    More chuckling. “Not on the outside.”

    After I turned into Cranberry Mall rather than onto Route 257 and drove all the way through Seneca plus the four extra miles to Oil City, I backtracked, located Quaker Drive, and rounded the bend.

    Charlie said, “There it is.”

    I slowed and glanced at the nondescript industrial buildings on either side of me. “Where?”

    Charlie pointed further down the street. “By the UPS trucks. It’s tiny.”

    After photographing the package center from several angles, we got back in the car for the ride home. I paused at each turning so that Charlie could get his bearings. Finding Georgetown Road wasn’t easy so, helicopter revved and whirring, I said, “If you miss this turn, Route 62 will take you into Sandy Lake, and you know your way home from there.” Worth the slip. The first day he missed that turn, drove the extra miles, but got home safely.

    Adjusting for sleep came third. Because Charlie worked from approximately 3:30 a.m. to 9:30 a.m., UPSers work till the job is finished rather than to a set time, he slept from 3:30 p.m. to midnight or so. Remembering how hard I’d worked to get him to sleep when he was a baby, I’d tiptoe past his door. My cheeks ached from grinning at his man snores.

    At night, I’d wake for the quiet click of his door opening but not for any sounds emanating from the meal prep or ablutions he made before heading to work.

    During the two hours together after I got back from swimming laps and before he’d drop off to sleep. I peppered him with questions.

    “Do you like the new job?”

    He shrugged. “It’s only been one day.”

    “Do you have a guard shack? Did you get a key?”

    “No guard, and there’s a key pad. I punch in the code.”

    “You said you helped another new worker load his trucks. How do you know where to put the packages?”

    Charlie fetched an empty UPS box. “See this small label? LEFT indicates where the box goes on the conveyor belt, 17A tells you which truck, and 7098 means the box goes on the 7000 shelf.”

    “Do they treat you with respect?”

    More shrugs. “I guess so. Everyone’s busy doing their job. One did tell me, ‘There’s nothing to do around here–no excitement.’” Charlie rubbed my arm and smiled. “I told him I didn’t move for excitement.”

    No excitement for a working man, perhaps. But coming home from swimming laps to find Charlie washing dishes, glancing up from the computer to catch Charlie waving at me, and discovering a hot pot of tea Charlie set under the cozy is excitement for an aging parent.

    This Sunday morning, I pressed the button to light the face on my alarm clock, and 5:08 flashed at me. I ambled to the great room, swallowed my Fosamax pill, and chatted with Spence and Charlie. When I put my empty water cup on the counter, the button on the oven flashed red and the temperature gauge pointed to warm. Curious, I peaked inside and discovered raw bacon on a tray. “Spence, did you intend to cook the bacon on ‘warm’?”

    To me he said, “No, I wanted 450º.”

    To Charlie he said, “She’s a helicopter wife, but I need that.”

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Spring – My Kind of Postmistress

    One of the charms of living in rural Pennsylvania is the powder blue post office a four mile bounce down winding country roads. It’s open two hours on weekdays and two hours and forty-five minutes on Saturdays. Limited supplies give me a choice of American flag or birds in snow stamps year round. There’s seldom a line, but the occasional sound of clanging pots penetrates the flimsy walls that divide the cramped office from the resident’s side of the house. The best feature is Stacey.

    I first met her in January 2015 because, plowing snow, Spence backed his tractor, the wheels slid, and the bucket “just tapped” the mailbox breaking its post.

    Needing to cancel mail delivery, we drove to the post office. I imagined a bureaucrat sneering at our mishap and complaining about burdensome paperwork.

    But Stacey, over six foot tall with skinny hips and long blue-jeaned legs, greeted us in a melodic voice. “You know, lots of mailboxes have been knocked over by plows.” Her wide hands tossed long, sandy blond hair over a broad shoulder, and she handed Spence a form. “Fill this in, and I’ll hold your mail.”

    While Spence wrote our address, phone number, and date, I watched Stacey’s dangling earrings swing. She was my kind of postmistress.

    When I could tweak my schedule to fit the limited hours, I took my mail to her.

    Once was the Tuesday after Christmas that same year. I’d hustled to finish a lap quilt for

Mom, who was unhappy about being ill in a nursing home. After snipping the last thread, I threw on my coat, grabbed my purse, and dashed out the door with the lap quilt under my arm to drive to the post office.

    With ten minutes to spare before closing, I said to Stacey, “What’s the fastest way to get this quilt to my mom in Florida?”

    “Priority mail.” Stacey pointed to boxes leaning against the wall behind me.

    I selected one, stuffed the quilt inside, and addressed the mailing label. “Do you have mailing tape?” I didn’t have time to drive back home to tape the box shut.

    Stacey opened drawers and peeked under counter clutter. “The sub, who took my place while I was out for eye surgery, moved everything. Now I can’t find anything.” Stacey checked several more drawers and located a nearly empty roll. She pried at the tape’s edge with short fingernails.

    The clocked ticked.

    The tape stuck.

    “Oh, phooey.” She threw the tape across the room, rummaged in yet another drawer, and pulled a thin roll from a back corner. Muttering, “The postal system doesn’t stock small offices properly,” she pulled off four inches of tape followed by brown paper. Sighing, she dumped the empty roll in the waste basket and retrieved the thrown roll. At one minute to closing, she secured the box with two strips of tape. “That will have to do.”

    The quilt reached Mom Thursday. My brother held the phone to her ear so she could talk to me. “It’s precious,” she said.

    Mom died that night.

    I wrote letters to my cousins and added a half dozen photos of Mom. Did the heavy envelopes require one or two extra stamps? I drove to the post office.

    Stacey put a letter on the scale. “Only needs one extra stamp.”

    “Thanks, and thank you for your efforts getting the package to Mom. She got it Thursday.”

    “Oh, I was so grouchy about the tape. I’m sorry.”

    “Mom died Thursday night after the lap quilt arrived.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “My brother said it was the last thing to make her smile.”

    Stacey flipped open the counter top, pushed the gate aside, and stepped into the customer area. She hugged me and said, “I lost my mother about a year ago. I know how hard that hurts.”

    “I still have Mom in my heart,” I whispered.

    Stacey let me go. “You know, people aren’t really dead as long as we speak their names.”

    Over the following year and four months, we spoke of our mothers, compared eye operations, and shared kayaking adventures. At home, I sewed a quilt in memory of Mom.

    Last week, I finished the quilt the same day Spence and I read a twenty-five page contract for a solar cell installation on our roof. I tucked the quilt into a large blue pillow case, stuffed the signed contract in a nine by twelve inch envelope, and drove to the post office.

    In shorts and with a bandage around her right calf, Stacey hobbled to the counter and said, “Hi, Janet.”

    Forgetting my errand, I said, “What happened to your leg?”

    “Oh, I attached a spring toothed harrow to my tractor and was standing in the wrong place. The hydraulic system engaged unexpectedly and a spike went through my leg. I needed twenty-eight stitches. What can I do for you?”

    Uttering a silent ouch, I handed her my envelope.

   While she weighed it, I pulled the memorial quilt from the blue pillow case. “I have something to show you.” Unfolding the quilt, I said, “I made it from Mom’s housecoats.”

    After setting the envelope beside the credit card machine, she leaned over the counter, took the sides of the quilt in her large hands, and gazed at the half-square triangle blocks on point. “It’s so pretty,” she whispered. “It must have taken you hours and hours.”

    “Yes.” I didn’t add it took hours and hours for months and months.

    While I folded the quilt, bagged it, and paid the postage for the contract envelop, we talked about kayaking on French Creek and the challenges of losing her right eye to macular degeneration. She gave me the usual parting phrase. “Say hi to Spence for me.”

    When I got home, a message waited on the answering machine:

Hi, it’s Stacey.

    Janet was just here, and we were talking about places that you could kayak. And, you know, you could put it up at Shaw’s Landing and paddle upstream and downstream from there. That’s a big pool all the way up to Wilson Shute and down to the rapids just before Cochranton.

    Okay. I thought I’d mention it. Other than that I’ll let you know when we’re going and maybe you’ll want to go with us.

    All righty, bye-bye.

    Maybe we would.

    This past Wednesday, I showed Mom’s memory quilt to my quilt guild then boxed it to send to my nephew, who’d visited Mom daily when she was in the hospital and nursing home.

Friday, I could have stopped at one of two post offices I’d pass on my way to get a driver’s license photo, but I drove four miles in the wrong direction to see Stacey.

    I parked next to the only other vehicle in the lot, a red Subaru pickup. Where was her gray hatchback with the “I could use a good” – picture of a kayak – “paddling” decal on the back window? Was Stacey’s leg or eye giving her trouble?

    I opened the door and walked down the narrow hall past post office boxes.

    Stacey’s melodic voice rang out, “Hi there.”

    Reaching to the window, I watched her stuff letters into sorting boxes and said, “Did you get a new vehicle?”

    “No, that’s my sister’s. She hit a deer so I’m taking it to the insurance agency after work.” With a welcoming smile Stacey said, “How can I help you today?”

    I handed her the boxed quilt rather than voicing the real answer of fancying a chat. Surpassing the snow, rain, heat and gloom of night postal dedication, Stacey serves with kindness, friendship, and emotional support. Everyone should have a postmistress like Stacey.