Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Fall – Litter Logistics

George Sleeping

 

After lunch Monday, Emma’s cat snores reverberated through the house. If her brother George slept too, I might have time to scrub their litter boxes without a messy mishap.

The memory of the two minute dash I had made with the liter box from the upstairs bathroom to the basement still wrinkled my nose. I’d preferred carrying the box down the stairs for a one inch fresh topping of litter rather than lugging the twenty-five pound box of litter upstairs. Mistake. Before I had gotten back with the topped-up litter box, George had pooped in the shower stall.

So Monday, I tiptoed up the spiral stairs to check. Both cats slept on the loft bed.

I carried the litter boxes from the loft and the first floor to the basement then gathered the basement litter boxes. Keeping all five plastic boxes in an arc on the cold cement floor to remind me which box went where―as if the cats cared―I dumped, scraped, and scrubbed. Then I turned to grab a cardboard box of scented, multi cat, clumping litter and gasped.

No fresh litter.

Had I forgotten to tell my husband to put litter on his shopping list?

Or had Spence not heard what I’d said.

I could dump the dirty litter back into the clean litter boxes.

After all that work? Don’t be silly.

But driving to the store for more litter would leave the house open for . . .

What’s the alternative?

There wasn’t an alternative. With Spence in Cleveland fighting lead poisoning, I couldn’t send him to the store while I held makeshift diapers under the cats’ butts. And driving to Meadville for our brand of litter would take an hour. Not good. If I drove to Cochranton and bought pot luck cat litter, I could save a half hour.

Reassured by Emma’s snores, I climbed out of the basement, grabbed my purse, and slipped into outdoor gear.

At Market Place in Cochranton, I parked, jogged into the store, and grabbed a cart. Speed reading the signs above the aisles, I steered down the cat food aisle. Beside cans of food were two shelves of litter. I had a choice of one multi-cat brand. Lifting the first twenty pound bag into the cart, I read clay. The cats had used clumping litter. 

Could adapt to the different texture? They had to. I lifted the second bag, then the third, and left the shelf bare.

Hustling, I joined the checkout line behind an athletic grandma, who looked ready to hit the sky slopes.

Her three-year-old granddaughter clutched a clear plastic container to her chest. Sugar cookies with pink frosting and red sprinkles nestled inside.

The grandma pointed to the cookies. “Put them on the counter.”

The little girl lifted the container, set it on the counter, but didn’t let go. “Don’t put them in the bag,” she said to the cashier.

As the cashier scanned the container with her wand, her bored expression morphed into a twinkling smile. “Don’t eat all the cookies at once. That wouldn’t be good for you.”

The girl pulled the cookies off the counter. “I can eat one.” She pouted and turned to face her grandma. “One won’t hurt me.”

“You may eat one in the car.” The grandma picked bills out of her wallet and handed them to the cashier.

A tall man tipped his hunting cap at the grandma and laughed. “You’re going to sugar her up then send her back home?”

“That’s right.” She tucked her change in her wallet and scooped up three plastic grocery bags.

While the grandma and little girl walked out of the store, the little girl shouted, “I can have one cookie!”

Finally, I got to the register, paid the cashier, and pushed the cart with sixty pounds of litter through a cold, drizzling rain to the car. I lifted them into the trunk, and, as fast as I could without slipping in the slush, returned the cart. Now, if I got back before the cats woke up . . .

I started the engine and pulled onto Franklin Street. At the traffic light, three school buses turned onto Route 173 ahead of me.

Uh-oh.

Two buses turned right at Route 285, but the third, still I front of me, moseyed up the mile-long hill out of Cochranton.

The bus driver waited for an oncoming pickup to stop, then opened the door for two kindergarten children who, hand-in-hand, crossed the road. A quarter of a mile later, a junior high girl stepped down and strode to her farmhouse. Eight more stops along the three mile, no passing stretch of Route 173 added fifteen minutes to my trip.

Were the cats still asleep?

I turned onto West Creek, zoomed down the slippery dirt road faster than Spence would have approved, and pulled into the house driveway.

One by one, I lugged the bags of litter to the porch. Then, one by one, I lugged them inside to the kitchen table.

Emma snored, but George peaked through the rails of the loft stair landing.

Pulling off my boots but still wearing my coat, I fetched an empty litter box from the basement, set it on the bathroom floor, and lugged a bag of litter from the kitchen.

The plunk of George’s paws on the spiral stairs kept me motivated. I yanked at the top of the stiff paper bag.

It wouldn’t rip.

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

I hustled to the kitchen for a pair of scissors, dashed back, and cut the top of the bag.

George stared at me from the first floor landing.

I dumped litter into the box, shoved it under the laundry tub, and stepped back.

George padded to the box, stepped inside, and let loose a river of pee. Turning around in the box, he sniffed some dry clay litter then the litter he’d wet. With a puzzled expression on his face, he sat in sphinx mode and stared at the wet clay. After two minutes contemplating the new situation, he stepped out of the box and ambled to the great room for a drink of water.

Phew! Mishap averted.

Emma Opening One Eye

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Fall – Trees of Light

Trees of Light from Moving Boat

As long as I can remember, I’ve oohed and aahed over winter holiday lights.

Last December, my quilt guild held their Christmas party at Silver Shores Restaurant in the Borough of Conneaut Lake. I ate mediocre salmon and gazed. Ropes of white lights entwined in evergreen boughs, colored lights flashed on Christmas trees, and flickering candles reflected in window panes. Movement outside the window drew my eyes to a line of people walking past in the dark. Their huddled bodies made me shiver. “What are those people doing outside?”

The quilter across from me turned to look then waved a forkful of roast beef at me. “They’re coming off the Barbara J. They rode around the lake looking at Christmas lights.” She scrunched her nose. “You wouldn’t catch me on a boat this time of year. Too cold!”

So, mid November, when my husband settled on the sofa with a glass of wine and a dish of cheese cubes, I propositioned him. “Would you go for an hour and a half boat ride on Conneaut Lake so I can gawk at Christmas lights?”

“My only goal in life is to make you happy.” Spence swirled the wine in his stemmed glass then took a sip. “That and ending lead poisoning.”

Interpreting his answer as a yes, I researched Trees of Light Boat Tours, studied weather forecasts for the three weekends after Thanksgiving, then ordered two tickets for Sunday, November 25^th.

That day, before bundling as warm as a kid in a snowsuit, I packed picnic boat suppers then fetched the camera and tickets. Anxious not to miss the boat―boarding promptly at 5:15 with no reserved seats―I called Spence off his tractor so we’d have an extra half hour for getting lost.

We didn’t get lost.

I had my choice of all but three parking spaces in the lot by the dock, and I had plenty of light for a photo of the Barbara J. While I paced the dock for the best angle, another couple parked, walked down the gangplank, and boarded the boat.

So, forty minutes before the 5:30 departure, we walked up the plank and met Captain Clare standing in the bow and holding his hand palm up. “Welcome aboard! I’ll take your tickets.”

He glanced at my computer printed tickets, folded them, and stuffed them into the pocket of his winter jacket. “You picked the best weather of the season for the ride.”

While the engine rumbled and the floor vibrated under my boots, I debated. The open air deck for better photographs or the enclosed lower deck for a modicum of warmth?

Clutching the railing on both sides of the steps, I led Spence to the upper deck then past plastic chairs and tables to the stern and peered down at the still paddle wheel.

A gray and pink sunset decorated the western sky. Strings of lights angled from the top of a flag pole to a circle on the ground to form a conical tree. Each tree glowed a single faint color. I gawked at trees of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and white. A lone coot swam past the Barbara J. And bundled passengers, carrying pillows, blankets, and thermoses, flowed up the stairs. Ten minutes before the listed boarding time, squeeze-in, standing-room-only space remained.

I angled around people for photos of trees along the shore.

Spence stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets. “I might need to wuss out on you.”

“Do you want to go below now?”

His torso shivered, but he shook his head.

Finally, the first mate untied the lines, the Barbara J backed away from the dock, and adrenaline surged through my veins to the rhythm of the swishing paddle wheel. I clutched my camera to my chest and suppressed a giggle. All heads turned starboard to the shore. I’d picked port. So when I flicked the mitten covers off my gloves and peered through the view finder, I saw stocking knit caps in front of the tall orange tree. Sheesh.

Barbara J ready for Trees of Light Tour

The sky darkened, tree lights brightened, and their reflections shimmered on black ripples. I silently oohed and aimed my camera over the paddle wheel.

Twenty minutes into the ride, a holiday insight flashed between my chilling ears. The boat ride wasn’t like riding in the back seat of my father’s car in the fifties. Back then I’d gawked at a nativity scene in one yard, Frosty the Snowman in another, and Santa with his reindeer in a third. Trees of Light meant just that. A hundred trees decorated the lake shore. No snowmen. No nativities. No reindeer. Only a few houses had lights strung along gutters or stairways.

My fingertips numbed in the 37ºF (3ºC) night air. No need to stress them for more pictures of the same trees. “I’ve got enough photos, Spence. Let’s go downstairs and warm up.”

He bent forward and swung his arm for me to lead the way.

“No. I want you to be my battering ram and plow through the crowd. I’ll follow.”

With an “excuse me” here and an “excuse me” there, he parted the crowd, and we made our way to the stairs.

At the bottom, I opened the door to the enclosed lower deck, and we walked into pitch black, stuffy air. Spence inched down the aisle. I followed and bumped into a post supporting the ceiling. Before I bumped into another, my eyes distinguished shadowy people sitting at tables on either side of us. No empty spaces.

We inched back toward the door where I spotted a lone chair next to the cabinet storing life preservers.

A male voice from the dark said, “There’s a chair over there.”

Spence grabbed the over-there chair and sat beside me―this time on the starboard side.

The engine rumbled, and a breeze chilled my fanny every time someone opened the door. But I didn’t need my mitten gloves. I pulled them off, stuffed them in my coat pocket, and rubbed Spence’s thigh.

He patted my hand and stared out the window.

I unpacked supper.

Spence ate a handful of peanuts. “Put the rest of mine away. I don’t feel like eating now.”

Sipping warm tea, I gobbled a turkey sandwich, carrot and celery sticks, and trail mix.

Between residential sections lit by trees, we passed dark shores with bare branched tree silhouettes. The captain aimed the spot light at a flock of coots, an American flag on a pole surrounded by water, and dark islands he had to steer around.

Returning to the south end of the lake, the trees of light grouped together again. The door to a house with a green tree opened. A man stepped outside and waved to the boat.

The captain blew the boat horn.

I patted Spence’s thigh again. “What are you thinking?”

“About what the lake looked like before it was build up.” He pointed to three islands big enough to support one or two maple trees. “I imagine this lake is like Otsego Lake in Cooper’s Deerslayer.”

The horn blew again when we reached the dock.

After the nine mile ride, I shivered down the gangplank and huddled next to Spence like the people I’d observed departing the Barbara J a year earlier. In the car, I turned the heater on full blast and eased out of the parking space. “I’m glad we went,” I said turning onto Route 322, “but once was enough. I don’t need to ride the boat to ooh and aah at Trees of Light again.”

Trees of Light from Docked Boat