Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Summer – Addy’s Big Adventure Part 2

Addy and Janet Unload Apples while Grandma Cindy Watches - photo by Spence

I ladled homemade applesauce into paper cups and distributed them to the Wells family in the great room. While everyone quieted and dipped spoons into their dessert, I collapsed into the Adirondack chair. With the warm cup in my hand, I took my first spoonful. The smooth sauce tasted sweet-tart―worth the effort for the Wolf River apple harvesting adventure that involved all nine of us at the traditional Wells Wood Labor Day gathering.

Addy, our three-and-a-half-year-old great niece, gobbled her applesauce and licked her spoon. She had unloaded apples from the apple picker, ridden the tractor that hauled the apples, watched grown-ups cut and cook apples, and eaten numerous slices of fresh apples. But she didn’t call the apple event an adventure. Addy loved adventures. Because grown-ups had said, “Later, Addy,” she waited for the three adventures she’d planned.

Addy’s nineteen-month old sister, Amelia, lifted the applesauce cup Patrick, her daddy, had set on the coffee table. She peeked inside the cup. Then she stuck her hand in the cup, rubbed the edges, and licked her fingers. She set his cup on the table and toddled over to pick up her Aunt Sarah’s. Amelia repeated her hand-scraping, finger-licking tactic and moved to the next abandoned cup.

Folks drifted outside except for Addy’s grandma and me. We packed left overs and cleaned the kitchen. On the deck Amelia toddled between her grandpa and daddy. Addy’s aunts chatted on the love seat. Spence and Addy set out on a small adventure across the north field.

Their destination? As Spence would report in detail later, they walked to his gravel pile because Addy had studied gravel by the grill while he’d lit the charcoal. When they reached the mound of gravel, Addy threw her arms wide and squealed, “A gravel mountain!”

She rushed to the gravel mound, took one step, and slid back to the grass. She ran and slid. So Addy lowered her hands and crept up the mound like a four-legged daddy longlegs. When she reached the top, she threw her hands above her head, slid down the side, and crawled up―again and again.

The sun fell behind the trees in the woods. The sun fell to the top of the woods’ trees. Spence swung his arm in the direction of the log house. “Let’s go back so we can gather people for the big adventure.”

Addy slid down her gravel mountain, jogged in the direction of the house, but halted at the edge of the garden.

“We can walk through there.” Spence stepped over the chicken wire fence.

Addy scowled at the fence. “How can I get over?”

“With a little help.” Spence grabbed her by the waist and lifted her over the fence to the black plastic controlling the weeds. Addy walked between pole bean plants towering over her head and tomato plants drooping from heavy fruit. She pointed at a green tomato. “Can I eat this?”

“It’s not ripe.” Spence picked a tomato further down the row. “Here’s a red one.”

Addy gobbled the cherry tomato, took a few steps, and shouted, “Here’s another one!” She pulled it off the vine and gobbled the second tomato.

Addy traipsed through the plant corridor, and Spence lifted her over the garden fence. She ran to the house and asked each of us, inside or out, “Do you want to come on a big adventure?”

Addy’s big adventures involved ambitious walking. After a day of preparations, the apple adventure, and kitchen cleaning, I couldn’t walk as far as the mailbox without aggravating my knees or hips. So, when she looked up with her shining brown eyes and invited me, I said, “I’d like to, Addy, but I’m too tired.”

She nodded and dashed off to join the gang gathering on the gravel driveway. Only Addy’s grandpa, who napped on the deck, and I stayed behind. Spence filled us in on what we’d missed when he returned.

Addy’s big adventure began with Addy asking Spence, “Where are we going?”

He said, “You’re the leader.”

Her eyes doubled in size. She turned in a circle to survey the possibilities then dashed to down the slope to the grill below the porch. Spotting the path between the white pines, she raced into the woods.

From time to time, she stopped on the path and turned around to see if folks followed her. Spence and Patrick kept close. Her Aunt Laura followed with Amelia. Addy’s Aunt Sarah walked at the end of the procession with Addy’s grandma. Satisfied, Addy dashed ahead. When she reached Deer Creek, she shouted, “Let’s go in!”

Spence stepped down the two foot bank, lifted Addy, and set her in the creek. Patrick followed. Sarah and Laura helped Amelia in. The group walked upstream while Addy’s grandma watched from the bank.

Addy took several tentative steps on her own then moved at a walking pace. “I walked in the other river.” Earlier in the summer, Addy’s family had camped by the Clarion River. “I can walk in this river too.” When her confidence increased, she splashed and giggled. She ran-slipped-fell-got up, ran-slipped-fell-got up, and ran-slipped-fell-got up again.

Laura set Amelia in the creek.

Amelia - photo by Sarah

Holding tight to her Aunt Laura’s hand, Amelia took careful steps through the water. At her toddling pace, she didn’t fall.

Stooping, Spence selected a stone from the rocky creek bottom. “I’ll show you how to skip stones, Addy.” He flicked his wrist, and the stone skipped twice through the smooth upstream water.

Addy tossed a round stone. Plunk.

Spence stooped for another stone. “Pick a round-flat stone, Addy.”

Addy glared at the underwater stones. She selected a round-flat stone and tossed it. Plunk.

Patrick chose a stone and skipped it upstream. He laughed. “I did this when I was a kid here.”

He skipped stone after stone.

All Addy’s stones plunked.

Amelia whimpered about a diaper issue, and everyone got out of the creek―Laura carried Amelia, and Spence lifted Addy.

Cheerful voices clued me that the gang crossed the north field. I stepped onto the porch to greet them.

Laura stomped up the porch steps first. “May we borrow a towel, Aunt Janet?”

Addy scampered up next. She grinned and patted her soggy tank top with both hands. “I fell in.”

I fetched a blue bath towel.

Addy rubbed herself then slipped into a tank top and bathing suit bottom―the only clothes left in her grandma’s-SUV-emergency-stash that would fit Addy. In dry clothes and proud of leading the family on a big adventure, she followed me into the house. “Can I go up there now?” She pointed to the bridge between the lofts.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take you.” I demonstrated how to hold onto the railing when climbing the spiral stairs, and Addy followed at an Amelia-pace.

Addy ran across the bridge and grabbed a toy duck off the railing. She ran back and bounced the yellow duck on the bed. Leaving the duck, she dashed to the book shelves, grabbed one of Spence’s community organizing books, and brought it to me. “Will you read this to me?”

“That’s an adult book,” I said though I thought That’s a dull book. I took the book from Addy and put it on the shelf. “I’ll find a children’s story.” Figuring one of the six stories in The Big Red Book of Beginner Books [ https://www.amazon.com/Big-Red-Book-Beginner-Books/dp/0375865314 ] would entertain Addy, I pulled it off the shelf and sat on the bed.

Addy sat beside me.

I opened to the first chapter, I Want to Be Somebody New. “Would you like to hear this story?”

Addy nodded and folded her hands on her lap.

With my finger under the words, I read and gave each character a different voice.

Addy sat as still as the angel statue in the north garden. When I finished a story, she said, “Read another one.”

After five stories, Addy said, “Can I read it to you now?”

The clock chimed nine. Folks downstairs collected their gear.

“I wish we had time, Addy,” I said. “But your dad has to work at Get Go at four-thirty tomorrow morning. He needs to go home and sleep.” I closed the book, stood up, and put the book on the shelf. “You can read to me next time.”

Addy jumped off the bed, ran to the spiral stairs, and took a giant step backward.

I held out my hand to the youngster who’d gone on a small, gravel-mountain adventure, a big, creek-wading adventure, and a calm, story adventure. “You can do this. I’ll hold your hand and go first. Hold the railing with your other hand.”

Addy clutched my hand and the railing. Step by step we descended the twelve, backless, metal stairs. The adventuring youngster conquered the spiral steps too.

Addy on the Run - photo by Spence

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Summer – Addy’s Big Adventure

Laura's Apple Picking - photo by Spence

Addy, my curious, three-and-a-half-year-old great niece, loves adventures. When she arrived at Wells Wood last Sunday with her little sister Amelia and an entourage of grown-ups―her grandpa, grandma, dad, and two aunts―I had a plan.

The plan came from long-ago childhood adventures visiting my great aunt. She had set a pot of water on the stove to boil, then hustled my sister and I to the corn patch. We picked corn, shucked it, and dropped it into the boiling water. That farm to table experience prejudiced me against store-bought corn because it failed to replicate the sweet taste of my aunt’s fresh corn dripping-with-butter.

I could offer Addy a similar adventure. “Spence bought an apple picker this week,” I told the gang gazing out the sliding glass door in the great room. “We can pick apples and make applesauce.”

Addy zipped around me and reached for the penguin toys Spence left on the end table to share with visiting children. She clutched one plastic and two stuffed penguins to her chest and circled the grown-ups.

Laura, Addy’s younger aunt, tapped the coffee table. “Leave the penguins here, Addy. We’re going to pick apples.”

Addy’s forehead wrinkled, but she set the penguins on the coffee table, ran to the door, and jumped the single step down to the porch.

The family gathered around the semi-dwarf Wolf River apple tree in the south garden. Leafy green branches obscured our view of all but Addy, Amelia, and grown-ups’ legs.

Laura grabbed the eight-foot, wooden apple picker handle and maneuvered its metal rake into high branches. “This is harder than it looks,” she said. Leaves rustled, metal tapped wood, and an apple plopped onto the foam pad in the collecting basket. After harvesting a second apple, she pulled the picker free and lowered it toward Addy.

She grabbed the four-inch diameter, red and yellow-green apple. It dwarfed her hand.

I pointed to the empty bushel basket at my feet. “Put the apple in the basket.”

She tossed the apple in. Thunk.

“Next time place it gently, Addy.” I demonstrated with the second apple. “That way the apple won’t get bruised.”

Addy unloaded the next set of picked apples and placed them into the basket―no thunks. She pointed to the apple picker. “It’s too long for me.” After watching Laura raise it into the branches one more time, Addy sprinted around the tree.

Nineteen-month-old Ameila toddled to the bushel basket and peeked inside. When Laura lowered the next harvested apple, Amelia grabbed it with both hands and turned toward the bushel basket. She lowered the apple without a thunk and glanced at me. Sunshine illuminated her chubby cheeks and curly blond hair giving her the look of a cherub with a halo.

On the other side of the tree, Addy shouted, “What’s this?” She grabbed the fluted edge of the round, stainless steel tray hanging from a PVC structure. It had eyes which Spence had fashioned from glow-in-the-dark tape.

Spence crouched beside Addy. “Aunt Janet likes apples. And deer like apples. This is a deer baffler to scare the deer away from the apple trees.”

Addy frowned and batted the baffler.

It thunked against the PVC pipes startling Addy. She laughed and dashed off to circle the strawberry bed.

Amelia toddled under the apple tree and pushed the deer baffler with her hand. The baffler swung away from Ameila then back and tapped her nose. Amelia’s face clouded. She whimpered and headed for her grandma.

In turn, four grown-ups wielded the apple picker. All grown-ups pointed and called, “There are three up there. Stand where I am, and you’ll see them.” Two by two apples mounted in the bushel basket.

Spence said, “Come on Addy. We’ll get the tractor to haul the apples to the house.” The two walked away. Soon, the rumble of the tractor engine echoed through the valley. Wearing ear protectors and matching grins, they rode into view―Spence in the seat and Addy on the fender. He steered the tractor with one hand and seat-belted Addy with the other. When Spence paused the tractor, Addy’s Aunt Sarah lifted the heavy bushel basket into the tractor bucket, and the tractor trundled to the log house with the apples, Spence, and Addy.

Spence and Addy on Tractor - photo by Sarah

Addy’s grandma, Sarah, and I sat at the kitchen table peeling and coring apples. Addy tiptoed to the table and peeked into the pot of cut apples. “Would you like to peel?” I moved over on my chair. “There’s room for you beside me.” I offered Addy the peeler.

She shook her head, looked in the pot again, and said, “Can I have a piece?”

Sarah cut her a slice.

Addy gobbled. “I want another piece.” She took another slice from Sarah and dashed to the other side of the great room to collect a pair of penguins. She munched and marched in a penguin parade.

Amelia toddled to the apple table and raised her hand.

Sarah looked at the silent toddler. “Do you want a piece of apple?”

Amelia moved her hand closer to the apple in Sarah’s hand.

Sarah cut a slice and handed it to Amelia. Amelia ate the apple then held her hand up for more. With the fifth piece in her hand, she toddled to the Adirondack chair where our cat Emma was resting. Amelia held the apple to Emma’s mouth. Emma sniffed then moved her head to the side. Amelia took a step to the side and offered the apple piece again.

Sarah called, “Cats don’t like apples, Amelia.”

Amelia put the apple in her mouth, stepped to the cat’s food bowl, picked up a crunchie, and stepped back to the Emma.

Emma sniffed it then moved her head to the side. Amelia stepped to the side and offered the cat food again. Emma refused to eat it so Amelia dropped it onto the floor.

When I put the apples on the stove to cook, Addy tugged at my t-shirt and said, “I want to go up there.” She pointed to the bridge connecting the two lofts.

Stirring apples, I said, “I’ll take you later, Addy. I’m making applesauce now.”

Addy’s shoulders slumped. She carried her penguins to the coffee table and danced them over Laura’s laptop.

Laura grabbed her laptop. “Weren’t you supposed to help Uncle Spence cook hot dogs? Go outside and ask if he needs help.”

Addy turned.

Laura said, “Leave the penguins here, Addy.”

Addy slammed the penguins on the table and trudged outside.

As Spence would tell me later, Addy met him at the grill below the porch, a meeting which sparked two, future Addy adventures. She watched Spence stoop to grab a handful of charcoal briquettes from the bag on the ground and put them in the grill chimney.

“Can we go on a big adventure?” She pointed between the white pines to the path that led into the woods.

“Later, Addy. I’m making the fire now.” He added crumpled paper, a lighted match, and more briquettes.

Addy grabbed two rocks from the ground and hit them together. “I can make a fire.”

Spence lifted the box of matches. “It’s easier with the matches. And those aren’t the kind of rocks that make sparks.”

Addy dropped the stones, grabbed a briquette, and reached toward the chimney.

Spence gently held her arm and took the briquette away. “The fire’s too hot, Addy.”

She watched Spence drop the briquette into the chimney. “How come you can put them in?”

“’Cause I’m old.”

Addy put her hands behind her back, glared at the charcoal bag, then stared at the gravel beside the bag on the ground. She bent her knees, picked up a stone, and showed it to Spence.

“That’s round,” he said. “Did you notice the stones are all different? They have different colors, sizes, and shapes.”

She selected another stone―

“That’s flat.”

and another―

“That’s round and flat.”

and another―

“That’s a trapezoid. If you like gravel, we can take an adventure to the gravel pile after dinner.”

She dropped the stones one at a time. “A big adventure?”

“Probably a little adventure.” He dumped the coals from the chimney and placed the cooking grate over them.

Later, Spence and Addy carried the cooked meat from the grill to the great room. The gang ate chicken, sausage, hot dogs, potato salad, pole beans, pickles, cheese, and tomatoes. We saved the applesauce for dessert.

 

Amelia Studying Apples, Addy Losing Interest - photo by Spence

End Part 1

 

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Rhubarb Rhapsody

Rhubarb Plants Across from Cucumber Plants

My friend Jennifer and I rinsed our shoes at the hydrant by the south garden Tuesday afternoon. We’d waded in thick-soled shoes to protect our feet from the rocky bottom of summer-shallow Deer Creek.

Holding a watering can, my husband called from the winter squash patch. “Do you want to see my rhubarb?”

Jennifer, who’d driven from Cleveland for the day, pushed down the hydrant handle. “Sure.”

Spence set the watering can by a squash plant then stepped over his PVC and chicken wire fence.

Jennifer and I followed a garden path to meet him on the black plastic controlling weeds  in the cucumber patch. Spence and the cucumbers smelled like dead fish because he’d just watered the plants with fish emulsion and liquid seaweed. To the left of the cucumbers, five enormous rhubarb plants grew. He pointed at the largest and turned to Jennifer. “Do you know anything about rhubarb?”

“My grandmother used to grow it.” Jennifer leaned over and lifted a large leaf that resembled a baby elephant’s ear. “These stalks look healthy.”

Healthy maybe, but mostly green. “How do you know when they’re ready to pick? The only red is at the bottom.”

Spence shook his head. “This variety [Glaskins Perpetual Rhubarb] might not get red.”

Holding a stalk, Jennifer glanced at Spence. “Do you have a knife?”

He reached into a pocket of his garden soiled jeans, pulled out a pocket knife, and handed it to her.

With the blade, she sawed back and forth to cut off four inches of green stalk. She sliced a half inch off that, put the small piece in her mouth, and grinned. “Mmmm. This tastes like the rhubarb my brother and I used to eat from Grandma’s garden. I love the flavor. It was our SweeTarts before that candy sold in stores.” She cut pieces of rhubarb for Spence and me. “You can eat it green.”

When I chewed, tart exploded in my mouth. Was tart the flavor? I looked at the bitten green stalk in my hand. “Will the rhubarb turn red when you cook it?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.” Jennifer pulled rhubarb strings out of her mouth. “It’s stringy, but, like stewing celery, it softens when you cook it.”

I chewed another bite of rhubarb―still tart. “I always wanted to bake a strawberry rhubarb pie.”

Jennifer leaned down to cut a stalk at the top and bottom. She tossed the leaf over the fence then handed the stalk to me. “I loved my grandma’s rhubarb pie. Strawberry rhubarb tasted too sweet. It ruined the flavor.” When she’d handed me eight stalks, she said, “Dice the stalks for your pie. If that isn’t enough, cut more.”

Spence fetched his watering can.

Jennifer and I checked cookbooks and the Internet for rhubarb recipes. She questioned all until I found “Best Ever Strawberry Rhubarb Pie” which used three cups of rhubarb, four cups of strawberries, and one and a quarter cups sugar.

“That might work,” she said, “but I still prefer plain rhubarb.”

Because I spent Wednesday tipping, stringing, and freezing five cookie sheets of pole beans, I didn’t get to the pie until Thursday afternoon. I diced the rhubarb―exactly enough―then sliced strawberries, which I’d picked six or seven at a time throughout July and August. Next I stirred in sugar. The green and red chunks looked Christmas festive. I put a lid over the bowl and waited an hour for the fruit to juice.

When I lifted the lid, the fruit swam in a pool of ruby liquid. Straining the mix yielded three cups. I only needed a fourth cup of juice for the pie.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

After mixing the pie filling, I made the crust and, like the recipe directed, brushed egg white and sprinkled sugar on top. It looked attractive. I put the pie in the oven and stared at the bowl of thick strawberry-rhubarb juice. Should I pour it down the drain?

What a waste!

But it isn’t cooked.

You can eat strawberries and rhubarb fresh.

It does look like punch.

Try it, silly.

I poured a quarter inch into the bottom of a juice glass and sipped. As if swallowing the whole cup and a quarter of sugar in a tiny sip, my taste buds registered super sweet―sweeter than a child’s lollipop. No wonder Jennifer preferred plain rhubarb. But a tangy flavor enhanced the strawberry. With water, I diluted the red liquid ten to one and sipped again. The tangy flavor was delicious, but it tasted sweeter than a child’s lunch box drink. Leaving the bowl and glass on the table, I washed measuring cups and mixing bowls. Like a magnet, the unusual juice lured me away from dish washing. After three more tastes, I paused with the glass half way to my lips. I often got dizzy after eating sugary treats. And I didn’t want the extra calories. I poured the mixture down the drain and hoped most of the sugar had drained from the pie filing so the pie would be palatable. Maybe I could have a slice for breakfast Friday morning.

Friday morning, I rolled onto my side and pushed my hands against the mattress to sit up.

My brains whirled.

The room swirled.

I fell back onto the mattress.

Vertigo. And the super-sweet, ruby juice probably triggered the attack. Would the pie trigger another?

After lunch Friday, I cleared the kitchen table and cut the pie. I lifted the first slice, set it on a plate, and licked the gel that had dripped onto my finger.

On his way outside, Spence grabbed the doorknob but didn’t open the porch door. “I’ll wait for a pie report before I check the truck’s oil.”

 

Licking the spatula, I compared the gel to the super-sweet ruby juice. It might be safe to eat. “It’s not sweet.”

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you like it?”

 

I ate a bit of crust. The thin layer on top crunched like a saltine cracker, and the doughy under layer tasted as bland as cheap white bread. “Maybe.”

 

“That’s not an answer.” Spence opened the door and stepped onto the porch. 

Sitting in the Adirondack chair, I gazed out at the south garden and took a bite of the strawberry rhubarb pie. The soft fruit tasted tart, tangy, and faintly strawberry. I examined a hunk of baked rhubarb. Though covered with red strawberry glaze, the rhubarb stayed light green, but its fresh-picked-smooth skin now had ridges like the backs of celery stalks. Savoring many more bites, I made two decisions―first use my regular, flaky, olive-oil crust and second try plain rhubarb. 

 

Then I would experience the full Mmmm flavor that Jennifer cherished from childhood.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie