Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Winter – Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper (Part 2)

 

Mr. Hooper Up Again - Spence Checking Perimeter

Peering through the sliding glass doors into the sunny February third afternoon, I spotted my husband striding to the south garden with an armful of plastic. “Yikes!” I jumped out of my chair. Slipping into boots, I grabbed my winter jacket and dashed outside. My boots squished through the melting snow while I pushed my arms into jacket sleeves.

Spence hung plastic on one corner of the PVC pipe structure he fabricated to replace the hollow steel tubes that broke in the wind storm on New Year’s Eve. He unfolded the rest of the plastic covering for the portable hoop house he calls Mr. Hooper. Looking up, he frowned. “You were writing. I could do this myself.”

“The last time we pulled the cover on, you said we needed four people this time.” That last time took twenty minutes and proved more of a struggle than tugging new pantyhose up damp, after-swim legs. [See “Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper” January 7, 2019.] “Besides, the groundhog blog can wait.” I grabbed the plastic beside a door zipper and walked to the other end of the four-arch, hoop house frame. It looked like a backbone with long ribs. Finding the bottom corner of the plastic, I set it on the ground and slid the cover up the pipe.

Spence pulled his end to the top, and the cover fell to the ground on the other side. Two seconds.

“Why was it so much easier?” I didn’t admit he could have pulled the cover on himself.

“The new joints must be shorter.”

Leaving him to secure the cover with Velcro ties, I fetched the camera.

When I returned, he set one last cement block on the bottom of the plastic cover. “There’s a rip by one of the ties.” He picked up the plant shelves. “I can fix it with duct tape. And Mr. Hooper needs guy wires.” He lugged the shelves into the hoop house and returned with a cheek-busting grin. “Wow. I can feel it heating up.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

His grin faded Wednesday when he stared out the sliding glass door. Mr. Hooper leaned toward the woods. “Snow is melting underneath. That’s changing things.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a pad of paper and a pen then scribbled some notes. “I’ll get more guy wires for that side.”

The grin vanished Friday morning. In his garden clothes, early-rising Spence stood beside the bed when I woke. “We had a wind storm last night. There’s a pile of plastic in the garden.”

I sat up and peeked out the window. Mr. Hooper had rolled over, and its supports stuck out at goofy angles.

“It was getting buffeted.” Spence clenched his fists and moved them back and forth. “The ad was right about one thing. Mr. Hooper is portable.” He pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of his back pocket. “I need stakes and landscape timber.”

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

On Valentine’s Day, from my cozy perch by the wood stove fire, I watched Spence lug landscape timber to the south garden. When he knelt in the melting snow, I shivered. One by one, he examined PVC pipes and organized them on the slushy ground. Jeans soaked from the knees to ankles, he trudged back to the house. “Here’s the autopsy report. No broken pieces. I’ll put Mr. Hooper up tomorrow.”

The next day, while I folded laundry, I watched Spence through the sliding glass door. He connected PVC pipes into an arching frame with sliding joints to keep the structure portable. He knelt on the black plastic covering the frozen garden soil and attached the bottom of the frame to the landscape timber with plastic loops. While he screwed a support into the timber, the wind slanted the frame toward the woods and whipped the downed plastic cover into a flapping frenzy. He stood, pulled the frame into shape, and knelt to secure the next support. In a man versus nature ballet, the wind blew, Spence reshaped the frame, then he attached another support―again and again―until he secured the frame to the timber. Finally, he attached bungee cords for guy wires inside and out.

Leaving the laundry, I hustled outside and grabbed an end of the flapping plastic cover. “The frame looks sturdier with all your supports.”

The other end of the cover lifted into the air. Spence grabbed the sailing plastic. “I’m not worried. It’s an experiment.”

We slid the cover over the frame. While the wind flapped the plastic, Spence fastened a Velcro tie. The wind blew the plastic toward the road. He pulled the cover back and fastened another tie―the second movement in the ballet.

An hour later in the great room, Spence gazed out at the glass door. Wind chimes clanged on the porch. “It’s pretty windy. But Mr. Hooper’s holding up.”

Mr. Hooper held up through the weekend. 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

Early Monday morning, wind howled around the log house. Spence snored. I worried about Mr. Hooper enough for both of us. Would it collapse? I lay in yoga relaxation pose and willed myself back to sleep. But the wind and Mr. Hooper kept me awake. At 6:00, I pulled on my robe, winter jacket, and boots. Grabbing the pocket flashlight out of Spence’s vest by the door, I tramped across the porch to the deck and aimed the flashlight at Mr. Hooper. It was on its supports in the garden, but it squatted. Wonky. I hurried inside to Spence, who, yawning, measured tablespoons of ground coffee in the kitchen. “Mr. Hooper shrunk. It’s shorter.”

Wonky Mr. Hooper

He put down the measuring spoon and spread his arms to the side. “Shrunk?” He pulled his hands inward. “Got shorter?”

“No.” I bent my knees. “Got shorter.”

When the sun came up, Spence studied Mr. Hooper through the glass door. “Looks like a rib is sagging. I’ll fix it later.”

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Later came while I swam laps in Meadville. When I returned, Spence took my hand and led me to Mr Hooper.

“Wow!” I walked around the no-longer-wonky hoop house. “How’d you get it up so fast?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I strained and cursed.”

Unzipping the door, he pointed his arm to usher me inside. “I built a contraption with a turnbuckle  and a couple of wire ropes.” He pointed to green wires and smirked. “Green for a greenhouse.” He ran his finger along the center top pipe where he’d drilled holes on either side of the joints in the backbone and screwed in his contraption. “Now I can tighten the joints connecting the ribs.”

I fingered a taught wire. “Impressive.”

“This collapse was different from the others.” He scanned the ribs with his eyes. “I solved the other problems. Today I may have solved a new set.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Spence checked Mr. Hooper’s temperature and poked the top to remove ice and snow. Friday, Spence checked the weather forecast on his computer.

Thinking of the leggy seedlings under grow lights in the basement and the blog request from three of my loyal readers, I said, “Is Mr. Hooper ready for plants? I want to write part two of the Mr. Hooper saga.”

“No.” He jotted temperatures on his clipboard. “We’re getting strong winds this weekend. This is Mr. Hooper’s Big Test. No sense in it falling on my plants.” He tapped his pen against the clipboard notes. “Besides, Mr. Hooper won’t make a story. It’s a straight learning line. No climax.”

“After all Mr. Hooper’s ups and downs, setting plants in the hoop house will be climax enough for me.”

He laughed. “You’d do anything for a story.”

On the last Saturday in February, Spence disappeared inside Mr. Hooper to prepare for the Big Test. Returning with jeans caked in mud from knees to ankles, he said, “I’ve done everything I can do.” He counted on his fingers.

“Finished screwing braces on each rib joint.

Braced with emergency cross ties.

Tightened all the turnbuckles.

Put ends on the landscape timber. That creates a ledge. When the wind blows, the timbers will move the same direction.”`

Spence slipped out of his work boots. “I don’t think it’s going to hold.” He shimmied out of his muddy jeans. “When Mr. Hooper comes down,” he hung the jeans on a hook and reached for his sweat pants, “I’ll learn what else it needs.”

Dark fell. Wind chimes clanged. I fell asleep to the howl of wind through the woods. Early Sunday morning, I said, “Are you going to look at Mr. Hooper?”

“It’s dark.”

“You can use a flashlight.”

“It was real windy last night. Mr. Hooper probably came down. There’s nothing I can do until later.”

The sky lightened. Spence tiptoed onto the deck and came back singing Mr. Hooper’s still there to the tune of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Around noon, rain pounded the log house roof, and wind gusts bent the willows halfway to the soggy ground. Mr. Hooper swayed back and forth. It’s cover loosened on the woods side and flapped to the road side. 

 

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence hustled outside and re-positioned the cover. He ambled back with a report. “The southwest corner came apart. The same as last time. Apparently the fix didn’t work. I put it back but didn’t do anything different.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

I checked wind speed―22 mph with gusts up to 54 mph. Sheesh. Could Mr. Hooper survive? Through the glass door, Spence and I watched the wind push the hoop house back and forth then toss the corner cover off again.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence trudged out. Inside the swaying hoop house, he reached to the top and sides―adjusting turnbuckles and refastening Velcro ties. 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

When he walked back to the log house, the wind pushed the hoop house wonky and tossed the corner cover off yet again. Spence stepped into the house and leaned against the closed front door. “It almost came down on me.”

“It’s down now.” I pointed to the glass door.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Spence giant-stepped across the room, gazed at the hoop house, and, with a moan, left to fix Mr. Hooper a third time.

⬆ ⬆ ⬆⬇ ⬇ ⬇

Wind speed had increased by the time Spence made his fourth trip. Like a tight rope walker, he raised his arms to the side to keep his balance and prevent the wind from knocking him to the ground. Inside the swaying hoop house, three ribs had come apart. He slid the connectors into place and tightened the turnbuckles. After a tight-rope walk back to the house, he flopped onto the sofa. “This is the acid test. IF we make it through the night, I’ll make some modifications. Then we can move plants out.”

⬆ ⬆ ⬆⬇ ⬇ ⬇

As the sky darkened, Spence trudged to Mr. Hooper for the fifth time. “It’s all luck now.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

The wind roared around the log house all night. Despite my longing to end the two month saga of waiting for Spence to set seedling trays on the shelves in Mr. Hooper, I lost hope.

In the morning, Spence, in a cheerier voice than I expected, said, “What’s the good news?”

Because I figured Mr. Hooper had collapsed onto its foundation, I didn’t look outside. “Mr. Hooper didn’t blow to North Carolina?”

He laughed. “Right.”

Mr. Hooper Down

I flicked the curtains. Fat snow flakes blew around the plastic cover heaped on the road side of the hoop house, and the exposed ribs slanted in different directions. By some miracle or engineering marvel of Spence’s invention, the ribs remained attached to the foundation. Progress, but not enough for ending my saga or for the seedlings in the basement. The plants grew taller than the grow lights. Some burnt against the lights. Others went to seed.

⬇ ⬇ ⬇

The dark moment had come, and mother nature won. No happy ending for my readers. Maybe they forgot about Mr. Hooper. I could take my stack of notes outside and watch the wind blow the ideas away.

No.

I would have a mess of soggy paper wads to clean up. I stuck the notes in a file folder and put it on the bottom of my writing pile.

Snow covered Mr. Hooper, and Spence busied himself with fighting lead poisoning in Cleveland.

Friday, March first, while I hung laundry in the loft, Spence marched outside and set Mr. Hooper upright. He returned and rubbed his hands by the wood stove fire. “My fingers are cold from screwing turnbuckles.” 

 

⬆ ⬆ ⬆

After checking temperatures Tuesday afternoon―outside 14ºF (-10ºC), inside Mr. Hooper 50ºF (10ºC)―he carried a flat of tatsoi and mizuna to the hoop house.

I gulped so hard I almost swallowed my tongue. Running to grab my camera and winter jacket, I dashed to Mr. Hooper. “YOU BROUGHT PLANTS OUT!”

“Just one tray. It’s an experiment.”

First Tray of Greens

I took twenty photos of the tray. Not much of a climax after all the ups and downs, but I’d done many a wackier thing in search of a story. Back inside, I dug out the notes on the Mr. Hooper saga.

Cloudy skies and snow didn’t favor Spence’s experiment. Like the snow covered solar panels in cloudy weather, the snow covered hoop house didn’t produce any energy. Mr. Hooper lost heat. After Spence went out to poke the snow off its roof Wednesday morning, he carried the tray of curled, crunchy plants back to the basement. “Their roots froze. That was the K.O.D. [kiss of death]”

Thursday dawned sunny. Keeping to his straight line of learning, Spence dumped five large bags of potting soil into Mr. Hooper’s 2 ½ by 11 foot raised bed frame. He set out two trays of seedlings on the shelves.

Later, when I stepped inside the hoop house to admire his progress, I felt warmth as if I’d stepped close to the wood stove fire.

Spence pointed to his thermometers―a balmy 60ºF (15ºC) inside, a warm 40ºF (4ºC) in the raised bed soil, and a chilly 26ºF (-3ºC) outside.

“Woohoo!” I pumped my fist for the power of the sun.

“But I’m bringing the plants in this evening. It’s going down to ten tonight.”

Yesterday afternoon after I quilted a tree pattern on pane in an attic window wall hanging, I spotted Spence’s red shirt through the hoop house cover. With camera, jacket, and boots, I squished through the soggy soil and unzipped the hoop house door. The spring fragrance of mud mixed with new green leaves wafted out. Inside Spence knelt beside the raised bed and planted bok choy, mizuna, and Siberian kale. When he looked up, sunshine glinted off his safety glasses almost as dazzling as the glow in his cheeks. He stretched his arm to point to the flats of plants on the shelves and the row of plants in the raised bed. “I’ll put row cover over them before dark.”

So, after dark, when the wind clanged the porch chimes and howled around the house, I crossed my fingers, crossed my toes, and silently chanted Please let Mr. Hooper stay upright until I finish my blog tomorrow.

This morning I pulled back the bedroom curtain, looked into the south garden, and yelled, “Mr. Hooper’s still there!”

Finally, a solid, standing end to the saga. Mr. Hooper had its ups and downs in February. Would it have ins and outs during March? Whatever. Spence is happy learning and getting his green thumbs brown with potting soil. And I can twist my stack of Mr. Hooper note papers into fire starters for the wood stove.

Spence Planting Greens in Mr. Hooper's Raised Bed

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter – Hobble, Wobble, Flop

Emma

Claaaaaangngng!

My husband’s feet thudded onto the floor, tramped down the hall, and stomped up the steps.

I squinted at the alarm clock. Two something in the morning. Such drama over our cat Emma deciding to snooze on the loft bed. EMMA ON THE SPIRAL STAIRS! Yikes!

Throwing off the covers, I jumped out of bed. Would she wobble and fall through the open back for a two-story plunge to the basement? And how could she get to the stairway let alone climb the steps?

Late yesterday afternoon, Emma had hobbled toward her food bowl―appropriate for a cat with arthritis on a cloudy, twenty-degree (-7ºC) day. Her back legs wobbled, and she flopped to the floor. Not appropriate. She stood. Her front legs wobbled, and she flopped to the floor. While I’d carried her to the food bowl, I fretted over the sudden onset of what―stroke, kidney disease, paralysis?

Dismissing the chilling thoughts and ignoring the pre-dawn floor chilling my feet, I hustled to the stairs.

Half way up, Spence cradled Emma in his arms. “She wants to sleep in the loft. I’ll go too.” He hugged Emma to his chest. “I’ll watch her.”

Hiding a yawn behind my hand, I said, “I’ll call the vet’s in the morning.”

The voice of a vet tech on the end of the phone line Wednesday morning chirped like a chattering chipmunk. “This is Melanie. How may I help you?”

“My cat needs to see a vet today. She’s having trouble standing and walking.” I stared at Emma on the blanket in front of the wood stove―motionless with her legs straight in front of her like her brother’s when he took his last breaths. “She flops over when she stands or takes a step.”

“Oh, the poor kitty,” the voice oozed in mourning dove cooing tones. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

The voice dropped to bullfrog bass. “Ooooooooh.”

That alarmed me as much as when my retinologist peered into my left eye and said Uh-oh.

“I don’t have any openings today,” the tech said in an all-business tone. “You can bring her in as a day patient. Someone will look at her between appointments.”

Emma trapped in a wire cage for eight hours to be poked for five minutes? “No. How about tomorrow?”

The sound of a pen tapping on the counter came through the phone. “I can get her in at ten forty-five tomorrow. That’s Thursday, February twenty-first.”

After accepting the time and giving the tech our account information, I turned my attention to Emma.

Prone on the blanket, she opened her mouth. Merrow. Merrow. Merrow!

I slid my hands under her and lifted her off the blanket. Taking two steps, I held her in front of the food bowl.

She lowered her head and gobbled crunchies―nothing wrong with her appetite. After what seemed like a half hour, she leaned her head toward the water bowl.

Keeping my grip, I swung her a couple inches to the left.

Tongue lapping at highway-cruising speed, she drank. Had an hour passed?

Next I set her down in the litter box.

Her legs collapsed, her body sunk, and her ears pointed backward. Hissssss.

Not what she wanted.

Scooping her up, I brushed litter off her tummy and from between her toes then carried her back to the wood stove blanket.

She licked my hand.

Like caring for a new-born baby, I took turns with Spence. When Emma cried, we carried her to the food bowl, the water bowl, the litter box, or a different napping place. Again and again and again.

Too old for tending babies, we fell into an exhausted sleep that night. Thursday morning we woke to find Emma missing―not by the fire, not by the litter box, not in the bedroom, not in the guest room, not in the kitchen.

“Do you think she―”

Spence finished my question. “―climbed the stairs?”

We hustled up.

On the loft bed with her front legs crossed lay Emma. She blinked at us.

Spence grabbed her, carried her downstairs, and set her by the fire. “No more stairs for you.” He tromped to the basement and returned carrying a cardboard box. Pulling a pocket knife out of his vest hanging by the front door, he sliced the box creating a six by two and a half foot barrier. After writing NO CATS across the top, he drew a whiskered cat face with the circular no symbol. “In case she lost her ability to read along with her ability to walk,” he said.

No Cats Barrier

By ten forty-five Thursday morning, we were past ready for answers from the vet.

Spence set Emma’s carrying case on an exam table.

Facing the back of the carrier, Emma crouched as far away from the carrier door as possible.

After opening the carrier’s door, I grabbed her hips and tugged. Did she dig her claws into the plastic? “I can’t get her out, Spence. Lift the back of the carrier.”

He lifted.

I pulled.

Emma slid out with a merrow. Rolling onto her side, she curled into a ball. Then she hid her nose in the fur of her front legs.

The back door of the exam room swung open, and a petite woman, with a calm face suitable for playing poker, entered with a clipboard. The name tag on her white lab coat read Dr. Vanessa Wolf. Placing the clipboard on a counter top, Dr. Wolf pulled out one of Emma’s paws, flexed it, and tucked it back into the fur ball. The vet petted Emma’s head then flexed the other paws. “She’s not resisting me. The nerve messages aren’t getting to her feet.”

Dr. Wolf placed her hands under the cat’s ribs and lifted Emma onto her feet.

Emma’s paws flopped backwards―not ready to support weight.

Dr. Wolf eased Emma to the table and, as if giving a massage, rubbed both sides of the cat’s spine. Half-inch by half-inch, the vet’s hands worked down Emma’s back three times. “With a cat this age, we may not find out what’s wrong. It looks like a neurological injury. She probably had a jolt.” Taking her hands off the cat, Dr. Wolf scrunched her own shoulders and wiggled side to side. “The bones could have slipped and caused swelling and pinching a nerve.” The vet petted Emma. “There’s no test for that. An x-ray would only show she has arthritis which we already know.”

In a shaking voice, I said. “I put her in our new chair, and she jumped off with a jarring thud.” My eyes darted to Spence then to the floor. My throat contracted making it hard to swallow.

“Something like that might have caused the injury. We can’t be sure.” The vet stroked Emma’s back. “I suggest a high dose of steroids to reduce any swelling and release tension on the nerves. She’ll also need an antibiotic because the steroid lowers her immunity. Bring her back in a week.” Dr. Wolf gave Emma a hug. “We’ll see if that gets her back on her feet.”

Friday morning we woke at four-thirty to find Emma on the guest bed. In the bathroom, a puddle of pee, the size of a large pizza, covered the middle of the tile floor. Dollops of poop dotted the puddle like floating pepperoni.

Spence rested his fists on his skinny hips. “How could she jump up on the bed but couldn’t get her ass in the litter box?”

“She walked, Spence!” I reached under the bathroom sink for the Lysol. “I can clean the floor.”

Our baby watching duties changed. Instead of lugging Emma to food, water, or litter box, we watched for attempts to jump―up or down―from cushy napping spots. In the evening, I opened the pill pocket pouch, unscrewed the lid on the steroid bottle, and shook out a pill.

Ears at attention, Emma rose from the wood stove blanket and hobbled-wobbled walked. Halfway to the kitchen, she flopped onto her butt. Merrow!

Mushing the soft pill pocket into a ball to hide the medicine, I walked to her. “You’re right, Emma. It’s treat time.” I dropped the loaded treat in front of her.

She gobbled it down, sniffed the floor, and looked at me with eyes begging for more.

“Tomorrow morning, Emma.”

Saturday, she moved a front paw, moved a back paw, and moved the other front paw. Her back legs slid outward a few inches. She paused to position her feet under herself then took three more steps, slid, and re-positioned her legs―all the way from the wood stove to the litter box in the bathroom.

Tiptoeing, I followed her and peeked around the bathroom door.

She picked up one shaky leg after another until all four stood inside the box. She crouched. Her butt stuck over the edge. Pee flowed onto the tiles.

“Good girl, Emma.” I reached for the Lysol.

She wobbled out of the box and flopped onto the floor.

“It’s okay to rest. You had a long walk.” Scooping her up I carried her to the great room then returned to clean up the puddle.

By Tuesday, a week after her hobble, wobble, flop saga began, Emma managed to angle pee into the litter box. Her poop? A continuing out-of-the-box phenomenon but getting closer each day.

Thursday, while Spence volunteered to save children from lead poisoning in Cleveland, I drove Emma to the vet’s and muscled her out of the cat carrier.

She slumped by the wall at the edge of the exam table.

When Dr. Wolf came into the room, she set her clipboard on the counter and gave Emma a pet. Then she picked up one of Emma’s paws and bent it backwards.

Emma’s foot kicked away from the vet’s fingers.

Dr. Wolf’s eyes widened, and her round cheeks glowed. After testing the other three paws, the vet eased her hands under the cat’s ribs, lifted the cat to her feet, and slowly let the cat stand on her own.

Emma wobbled and whipped her tail against the vet’s arm.

In a sparkling voice, Dr. Wolf said, “Great! The medicine’s working.”

Emma slouched down.

Dr. Wolf stroked Emma’s back. “Bring her back in two weeks, but call if she regresses. Reduce the steroid to one pill a day for the next ten days. Then reduce it to a half pill a day. Keep in touch.”

“Thank you.” I set the cat carrier on the exam table, opened the carrier door, and turned Emma toward the opening.

She stood. Back on her feet, she wobbled, paw by paw, into the carrier.

Dr. Wolf grinned from pierced to unpierced ear.

The tech’s bullfrog Ooooooooh and Dr. Wolf’s beaming face signified a feline miracle for Emma.

At the Vet's Again? Sheesh!