Reflections - Garage Door Mystery

 

Front of Garage

April first this year, nature didn’t fool around. Wind howled. Rain pelted windows. The midday sky darkened. Our house did too. Electric power winked and cut off. The absence of house motors humming intensified the thrashing of tree branches outside—a cue Spence took to see if Mark, our township supervisor, needed help.

Out of habit, Spence pressed digits on the garage door keypad. The door didn’t open—no electricity. Rather than fiddle with the manual release in the dark interior, he trudged back to the house and grabbed his keys for the old Colorado pickup. “It’s got three hundred nineteen thousand miles.” Spence waggled the ignition key. “The truck needs exercise anyway.”

He didn’t find Mark but met crews who were cutting apart downed trees. Because Spence had left his chainsaw inside the dark garage and the crews cleared the blocked roads, he trundled home.

Leaving for the grocery store the next morning, he discovered the first clue in the mystery.

Flashlight in hand, Spence entered the person-door on the side of the garage, stepped over the mower attachment for an old walk behind Gravely tractor, and edged around his Maverick pickup to the center of the garage. He pulled the garage door release cord. Click. He pushed the panels of the garage door upward.

The door didn’t budge.

Puzzled, Spence repeated his actions with the same results. “Maybe I should call a repairman,” he mumbled, fetching the Colorado keys again.

Penn Power restored electricity before he made the call. The garage door opened and closed like usual. Almost.

We pushed the keypad button. The door rolled up rrr, rrr, rrr and down rrr, clank, rrr.

Spence wrote “Call garage door repairman” on his list of things to do. Someday.

The clanking grew louder in June when the outside keypad grew finicky. I would punch in the four digit code, press enter, press enter, and the door might or might not open.

Spence changed batteries. The pad continued to act with the personality of a two-year-old deciding on a whim not to open some days. I became adept using the person-door, giant-stepping over the mower attachment, and pressing the door release inside.

“All the other openers work.” Spence sputtered in frustration replacing the battery again. He had a point. The car openers and the pad inside the garage commanded the double wide door to roll immediately. He cleaned and adjusted the metal clip holding the battery outside. The erratic behavior stopped. The door rolled up and clanked down. “I’ll call a repairman.” Spence transferred the task to a more current to do list.

On the last Friday in July, I treated myself to a trip to Fox’s Sew and Vac in Meadville. After fingering fabrics and considering color combinations, I walked out carrying two bags of fabric treasures. Listening to Japanese folk music on a koto, I drove home past green fields under an oh-so-blue summer sky. Mellow, I parked the Subaru in the garage beside Spence’s Maverick. Toting bags, I touched the button on the keypad Spence fixed and walked away. Behind me the door did its thing.

 

Maverick and Subaru Side by Side

                                                    You can tell who travels more!

Rrr, rrr, CRASH.

Peeking over my shoulder, I checked for devastation. None. The door appeared to have rolled down its track. Hustling to the log house, I burst in the front door. “Spence, the garage door crashed. Maybe the cables broke?”

“Are you hurt?” Shock drained his face white behind his beard.

“No. Nothing’s hurt. But . . .” I paused, pondering how to explain. “I was walking away and it was grinding, grinding, BANG!”

Without another word, he walked out the door. In minutes he came back and pulled the yellow pages from a kitchen drawer. Dialing a number, he waited. “Yeah. I need someone to fix my garage door . . . I think the cables broke . . . Monday between noon and two? Okay . . . Thanks.”

Monday at 1:15, while I munched leftover pizza and Spence, wearing earphones, stared at a webinar on his laptop screen, a commercial truck motor rumbled to a stop outside. “They’re here,” I shouted.

Spence looked across the great room to the kitchen table. “What?”

I pantomimed pulling earphones off.

He did.

“The repairmen arrived.”

Spence set his earphones on the coffee table and headed out. Within two minutes he returned. “Where are Charlie’s chocolate chips?”

An unlikely tool for fixing a door—my surprise must have shown on my face because Spence said. “The young repairman feels sick. He thinks he needs to eat.”

“We have lots of fruit.” I remembered a friend gobbled raisins at the YMCA pool when her sugar levels dropped.

“No. I offered fruit.” Spence opened cupboards. “He said he wanted sugar.”

Opening the refrigerator, I grabbed our son’s bag of chocolate chips and handed them to Spence.

“Great. Make him a sandwich.” Spence hurried off.

I warmed whole wheat bread and a chicken burger. Not knowing whether to use ketchup or mustard, I set both on a tray.

Spence returned, saw the tray, and said, “Mustard.”

Spreading mustard on the bread, I transferred the sandwich to a paper plate.

Spence snatched it and dashed off.

Finishing lunch, I moseyed outside, and paused to gaze at the mural of a multiple-garage-door fire station painted on the Plyler truck.

Plyler Truck

A muscular, thirty-something man, tools clinking on his belt, met me halfway between the truck and the garage. “Thanks for the food.” Towering a foot over me, he waved his hand in a salute. “It really helped.” A smile lifted the ends of his mustache. “I’ll give you a discount if I can.”

“I understand crashing. You don’t have to.” Duh! A discount would be nice. “What was wrong with the door anyway?”

“Both springs broke.”

“And why doesn’t the manual door release work?”

The young man’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ll check when we finish with the springs.” He fetched a part and entered the garage through the person-door.

Following, I found a shorter, quieter worker and Spence staring at the floor between the vehicles.

“Maybe the socket rolled under the mower. Spence fetched a broom on the wall beside me. “There she is,” he winked and swept under the round, red metal obstacle. Dust and grass came out. No socket.

Not needing a ladder, the tall worker reached to fiddle with the center apparatus at the top of the garage door. Then he pressed the button on the inside keypad.

The door rolled up. He pressed the button again. The door rolled down. No clank.

As if knowing how pleasing the performance had been to my eyes, he repeated the show. “You said the release didn’t work?”

“Yeah.” Spence answered for me. “I pulled the cord. It clicked. The door wouldn’t budge.”

The young man pulled the cord. It clicked. He pushed the door upward with his hands. It rolled up.

I looked at Spence.

He shrugged.

The young man pushed the panel to close the door. He repeated the manual opening the door twice more.

Nudging Spence with my elbow, I asked. “Is that what you did after the storm?”

“Yep.” Spence pursed his lips.

“Why didn’t it work then?” I hate machines not operating like they should.

“One spring must have broken in the storm.” The tall repairman bent to pick up tools. 

Spence bent to look under his Maverick. “Here’s the socket.”

The quiet repairman broke into a grin wider than a happy Halloween jack-o’-lantern. He reached for the socket, nestled it in his hand, and broke his silence. “It’s great you found that! Thanks.” Tucking the socket into a box, he chatted with the fellas all the way to the Plyler truck.

Had he lost the socket? Perhaps he’d been reprimanded for losing tools in the past. The quiet repairman’s motivation over the socket would remain a mystery.

As for the garage door mystery—the temperamental outside keypad had been a red herring. The friendly chocolate-chomping repairman solved the dysfunctional door release, the door opening, and the door clanking. 

 

We’re back to normal—for now.

 

Plyler Truck Inside

 

 

 Reflections - Aunt Audrey

Great Spangled Fritillary on the Butterfly Bush

Audrey Bryan Boate

October 28,1926 - May 1, 2023

At the funeral for my mother-in-law Priscilla, Audrey said, “You consoled me at my brother’s funeral. Let me console you now.” Back at the house, we looked through old photo albums together. Photos of the Bryan family in Florida during WWII didn’t have Priscilla in them. I asked why. Audrey said, “She was with her first husband then.” Audrey shocked us. None of our generation had known Priscilla had been married twice!

I have fond memories of watching Christmas concerts in Audrey’s church on video. They were grand productions complete with bell choirs.

Audrey and I bonded over butterflies. Every letter I sent had a return address label with a butterfly picture. When we visited her in Florida, she treated us to a trip to Butterfly World.

 

This July, Spence and I purchased a purple buddleia in her memory. While the butterfly bush was still in its pot on the deck, a tiger swallowtail swooped in to drink the nectar. Other butterflies followed.

 

 Reflections - Buck, Boom, and Berries

Wild Black Raspberries Ripening

I didn’t want Spence’s offering. When we’d passed the wild black raspberries on one of our health walks, I told him, “Don’t pick them. Let the birds eat them.” But July 4, he interrupted the Flash Point board game I was playing with our son Charlie. Spence held out a plastic pint container with half a cup of berries he had picked, one by one, for me.

“The birds ate some. Lots more are ripening.” He applied his mind reading talents and answered my unspoken question. “You can make pie or sorbet.”

Summoning my manners, I reached for the container with the rolling black raspberries. “Thanks.” I appreciated his kindness and the time he took picking the berries. Though I loved both black raspberry pie and sorbet, I wouldn’t make any.

In a discussion about avoiding statins—because all the types my mom’s doctor prescribed made her want to die, and because my sister could only tolerate a very expensive type—I had asked my nurse practitioner Deb, “Is it okay to eat dessert? I like cookies and pie. I don’t have any other vices.”

Deb studied her fingers for a while before answering. “You could have one small cookie or small piece of pie,” she held her fingers to indicate a sliver, “once or twice a week.”

Bad news. That would tempt me to eat far more sugary sweets. Since January, I’ve gone without dessert—gobbling dry fruit after dinner instead. My cholesterol numbers improved by April, pleasing Deb. But she said, “Your numbers go up and down. I want to check you in October.”

Sorbet and pie weren’t options. Spence hadn’t picked enough berries anyway.

After finishing the game with Charlie—rescuing six people and a cat while keeping the game’s faux fire under control—I rinsed the berries. They tempted me. I plucked a berry and popped it into my mouth. Warm, semi-sweet juice trickled over my tongue. Eating another five, I confessed to Spence. “I probably shouldn’t eat any more. Seeds don’t agree with my digestion.”

His mustache scrunched. “You could make juice.”

Homemade juice would be healthier than sugar-sweetened juice from a store. And Wells Wood berry juice would make a special dessert for the holiday . . . if I could convince myself into believing that con by the time I’d prepared the drink.

After dinner, when Spence and his cat-buddy Rills napped on the sofa, I eyed the berries. Too few for the blender, and I didn't want to squish them through the sieve we use to drain coffee grounds in case the coffee left its flavor on the metal. Instead, I mashed the berries in a bowl with a fork.

Juice didn't separate from the seeds. Mushy pulp formed and stained the bowl purple. No worries. I would strain the juice. Not waking Spence to ask where he stored the cheese cloth, I grabbed a clean, but old, white sock and spooned a bit of pulp inside. I squeezed. My fingertips turned red. Juice dribbled out. I spooned the rest of the mush in, squeezed, and a tablespoon of precious liquid dripped into a porcelain tea bag saucer.

 

Black Raspberry Juice in Tea Bag Saucer

Tossing the sock into the garbage, I washed my hands, raised the saucer, and—

BOOM!

Rills dove off the sofa and scampered around the great room with his bristling tail straight up. He stopped to stare at the door.

Spence sat. “It’s okay, Rillzie.”

I lowered the saucer. “That cannon sounded closer than before, Spence.”

He shrugged, pounded his pillow, and lay down again.

Two neighbors have calcium carbide cannons—Matt, our auto mechanic, lives atop the hill to the north, and Daryl, our tractor mechanic, lives atop the hill to the south. One must have tested their cannon in preparation for a family-and-friend firework show later that evening.

Rills gave up on the boom, left the door, and descended the stairs to the basement.

Lifting the saucer, I sipped the juice. Semi-sweet, intense, berry syrup electrified my tongue. A second batch could be thinned.

The next evening after dinner, Spence and Rills lounged on the sofa again. 

With no wild raspberries to squeeze, I splashed dishwater and gazed through the kitchen window at the north garden.

A buck sauntered to the blueberry cage—still uncovered because I’d procrastinated. After all my weeding, mulching, and covering last year, climate change ruined the crop anyway. I didn't want to work in vain this year. The buck stopped at the cage as if by a lunch counter, stretched his head through the gap between the chicken wire and the overhead PVC frame to munch on the blueberry bush laden with green berries.

Remembering the taste of fresh picked blueberries—seedless berries I could eat and berries that took hours and hours of labor to cultivate in the garden, not just pick from the wild—my anger let loose. I grumbled, “You cheeky devil,” but felt more anger at myself for not putting up the row cover cloth. Stomping outside to the top of the porch steps, I yelled in my stern teacher voice, “Get out of my blueberries.”

The buck stared at me then calmly bit off another mouthful of bush.

“Didn’t you hear me?” I stamped my feet and waved my arms. “Leave my blueberries alone!”

The buck didn’t even look. He continued munching tasty shoots as he probably had on many evenings when I hadn’t been looking out the window.

If only Daryl or Matt would shoot off the cannon again, but women don’t have to rely on a man rescuing a damsel in distress. I reached to my toes for increased volume and bellowed, “SCRAM, YOU IDIOT!”

The buck jerked his head out of the cage. Spinning around, he dashed for the woods—his white tail up.

I’d learned my lesson. Nature cooperated with wild raspberries this season. If we got more rain to nourish the blueberry bushes that grew taller than me, those berries might ripen rather than wither. I needed to get off my duff and cover the cages. That buck, not to mention his relatives and birds nesting nearby, would be back. Blueberries called to their bellies as much as they called to mine. 

Blueberries Ripening

 Reflections - Independence Day Has a New Meaning

CLASH (Spence, Darrick, Erika,Yvonka) and Monica

Shoulders tense, hands gripping the wheel, Spence steered his beloved Maverick along empty country roads early Monday morning, June 26. He’d invited me as his plus-one to an event that had caused him organizing nightmares. And I was making him late.

Cleveland Lead Advocates for Safe Housing (CLASH), an all volunteer organization, is conducting a study of barriers to child lead testing with Monica, their volunteer scientist from Thriving Earth Exchange and the University of Arizona. The event was her onsite visit. Spence grumbled that planning the event was like “herding cats.”

A week before the event, Spence and I walked along West Creek Road grinding gravel under our feet while he ground his teeth. “No one will be happier to see July than me.” He clenched his fists. “Independence Day has a new meaning.”

Because we attended a memorial for our son-in-law’s sister in North East, Pennsylvania, Spence and I missed the welcome for Monica at the hotel Sunday evening. Spence planned a one-on-one with her Monday before the events started at noon.

After all the support he’d given me in June—from his hand up climbing under Cook Forest’s ancient hemlocks to his hand steadying me on the path beside Presque Isle Bay—I wanted to support him.

“I need to leave at eight,” he’d said. “I have a meeting at ten.” A tight schedule for dropping me at Jennifer’s and getting into town, but I trusted him. He’d made the trip from Wells Wood to Cleveland more than a thousand times.

Setting my alarm for 5:40 a.m., I piled clothes, snacks, and electronic essentials for shoving into my bags when I woke. Skipping morning writing and yoga, I gulped breakfast, raced through dish washing, and jogged between litter boxes. Unfortunately, the cats deposited extra poop. I didn’t buckle my seat belt until 8:11.

Without a single recriminating word, Spence drove. We had little traffic, but hammering rain slowed us in Orwell. Fifteen minutes later than planned, he dropped me at Jennifer’s in Novelty.

Jennifer and I hugged. We totted my bags to her kitchen counter. I counted. “Oh, no. I’m missing my food.”

“Call Spence.” She grabbed her keys. “I drive you to meet him.”

We hustled to her van, and I pressed Spence’s icon. “I forgot my food bag. Jennifer’s driving. We’ll meet you at the corner of Heath and Sperry.”

A long sigh came over the phone. He must have been chanting Independence Day has a new meaning. His plus-one had become minus-plenty.

With raindrops bouncing off the pavement, Spence and Jennifer passed the grocery bag of food in the intersection. He drove off a second time, arriving forty-five minutes late for his appointment—luckily Monica ran late too. Despite repeated email reminders that morning, the noon appointment didn’t show. Succeeding interviews proved productive. The evening focus group for child care workers in Brooklyn, Ohio, had four, of the twelve child care workers that signed up, attend.

Meanwhile, Jennifer and I sipped tea in a refreshing breeze on her back porch while rain drummed the metal roof. In her store, Jane Austen Books, we unpacked and shelved items she’d taken to PRIDE in Geauga. Though I squinted to read authors' names, being surrounded by Jane Austen books, puzzles, and stationery enchanted me. Then, to my surprise, Jennifer said her daughter and grandson wanted to see me. We dashed through the rain and sat under a huge red porch umbrella that swayed in the wind and dumped bucketfuls of water when least expected. Their adorable mixed collie-size puppy bumped knees, gathering pets. Back at the store, I packed, labeled, and gawked at books before Jennifer fed me and drove, dodging several racing rabbits, to MidTown.

From Jane Austen Books

We hugged goodbye in the lobby of Tru by Hilton, and I walked to the elevator. Pushing the call button, my cell phone rang.

Spence's voice came over the microwaves. “Checking on you.”

“I had a fantastic day.” Not wanting to lose connection in the elevator, I returned to the lobby. “And yours?”

“Not a disaster.” His voice softened. “That’s the football stadium.” He resumed his regular volume. “I’m giving Monica a tour.” 

“Hi, Janet,” she called.

I imagined Spence and Monica with the phone between them in the Maverick’s console. “Hi, Monica. I hope you’re enjoying Cleveland.”

“Yes. Spence took me to see the lake.”

“Monica wanted to get a selfie with Lake Erie.” Back to the tour voice. “That’s City Hall.”

At 9:50, after fifteen more minutes of three-way chatting, Spence and Monica walked into the lobby. Despite her long day, Monica—petite with a full head of gorgeous, long, curly hair—strode erect, backpack slung over her shoulder, and a warm welcoming smile on her face. I would learn that smile was her signature.

Returning the smile, I welcomed her with a hug as if she was the friend she would shortly become.

My plus-one status fared better Tuesday even though I didn’t get up at 5:00 to join Spence in the lobby where he sipped coffee, munched almonds, and tapped computer keys. I slept another hour before slipping on hotel bath towels over the fake wood floor for yoga. Then I sat across from him at an elevated computer table keeping him silent company while he filled in computer spreadsheets.

My friend Darlene, a retired nurse, arrived the same time as Spence’s CLASH day started. He sent his research people off to talk with the Director of Public Health downtown then gave Darlene and I a quick tour of Tech Hive across the street from the hotel.

Since I wibble-wobbled getting to the door, Darlene grabbed my arm—something she did the rest of the day when we walked. “Do you want to see Deva? I checked. She’s working today.” Deva, Darlene’s youngest daughter and my daughter’s best friend, is branch manager of Maple Heights Library.

Driving from MidTown to Maple Heights, Darlene switched lanes and dodged orange barrels among more cars than I’d seen in Western Pennsylvania during all ten years of my retirement.

We surprised Deva. I gave her a bear hug. She gave us a tour of the children’s room upstairs with areas for babies through teens. The impressive supply of emergent readers, creative toys, and a calming center with bubbling fountain tempted my inner child to flop on the rug and play.

Darlene took a different route north encountering even more construction and a five car pileup complete with an ambulance, siren blaring toward the scene. Being inside her second floor condo with a view of trees outside felt safe—especially with birds flocking birds to feeders her neighbors had hung in their yard below. Rain pelted trees and filled the creek to roaring.

 

Janet and Darlene at Tech Hive

I introduced Darlene to Cornell Lab’s Merlin bird app for her phone. She downloaded the app. Not wanting to scare the birds, Darlene stood by the screen door to her deck, recorded bird songs, and used the bird identifying section. Mesmerized, she discovered names for visitors to the feeders she’d been seeing for a while—grackles, juvenile gray catbirds, red-bellied woodpeckers, and white-breasted nuthatches. We spent a quiet afternoon chatting and bird watching until Spence called.

“Where are you?”

“Still at Darlene’s.”

“Stop at the chicken rotisserie. It’s across from Whole Foods.” He sounded busy. “You couldn’t eat anything from the pizza shop.”

While fetching food for the evening focus group of parents, I’d become a problem for him again. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.”

But Darlene shook her head furiously at the rotisserie idea. “They use butter.” Instead, we circled the Whole Foods hot salad bar selecting fish, brown rice, and green vegetables.

At Tech Hive, I connected faces to CLASH names I’d heard for years. Darrick has the same beard and baseball cap as Spence making it easy to see why people call them brothers. Erika has the sister smile of Monica’s and wore bright red which highlighted her dimples. Yvonka, the other mastermind of CLASH, came dressed to impress from her bold gold necklace to her high heel sandals. She didn’t go inside the room like Darrick, who facilitated for Monica with the seven participants, but stayed out with Spence and me.

Yvonka asked for the whole story of me moving into Spence’s locker in high school. She told stories about the Lee-Harvard community where Darlene had given me the construction tour. Yvonka also discussed cultures of different Cleveland neighborhoods with Spence. Near the end of the evening, Spence carried supplies to his truck. I opened the locked door to let him back in.

After the group, Monica sat alone in the room. She needed to write notes, gather her thoughts, and rest. The experiences of getting lead testing for children were so dark that they drained her.

Spence made sure Tech Hive was secure then called the manager to lock the building remotely. As I walked Monica back to the hotel, I felt better about supporting Spence.

Wednesday gave me the chance to be Spence’s plus-one without interruption. We settled around a corner table in Cafe Phix at Tech Hive for a breakfast meeting with our friend Cory and Monica. Spence and I wanted to catch up with Cory and his family news—his mom loved my Florida photos and story plus he’s going to be a grandpa.

Monica, intrigued that Cory had a paint company, made a request. “I’m using the creds of these two special people to ask you this. Do you have any old samples of paint with lead in it?” The samples would give her the signature of lead from paint so that she could distinguish which lead in the environment came from paint rather than other sources. Paint companies weren’t forthcoming in providing samples for her studies.

Cory stared at his folded hands. “We haven’t used lead in paint for twenty to twenty-five years.” He looked into Monica’s eyes. “It would be unfortunate if we still had samples. But, I will check and let you know.”

After two hours of friendly chatter, Cory left for work, and the three of us moved into the Tech Hive open community space to spread out at a long table. Spence and Monica reviewed the slide presentation for Monica’s 1:00 ZOOM interview with a

biostatistician, who had data on lead testing of children. I quietly scratched notes in my journal.

A few minutes past noon, I spotted our son-in-law Chris crossing the street from the hotel parking lot to the front of Tech Hive. Spence had invited Ellen and Chris to take the first of several rest stops on their trip from North East, Pennsylvania back to West Lafayette, Indiana for visiting us in Cleveland. I ran out front to greet them.

The corgis, delighted to be free from the car, tugged on their leashes, raced about peoples’ legs, and watered trees. While Chris and I sat with the dogs, Spence took scientist Ellen inside to meet Monica. Phoenix, the puppy, climbed the benches, stuck his nose in sand, and barked at passers-by. Lyra, the two year old female, calmly accepted pets, watched people with a whipping tail, and let loose a few welcoming barks. Monica returned with Spence and Ellen to see the corgis. Being from Arizona, she especially appreciated Phoenix’s name.

At 1:00, when the corgi crew left, Spence made introductions for the ZOOM meeting.I heated the last piece of the chicken pot pie I’d cooked for the trip. He and I waited outside the “phone booth” while Monica conducted her ZOOM interview. Spence worked on his computer. I ate and wrote in my journal. Around 2:00, we packed up in anticipation of Monica finishing. Her arms waved. She bounced in the chair. The interview continued until she bounded out of the booth with a wide grin.

“You were animated in there,” I said.

“Was I?” She checked her wrist. “My heart beat is up to seventy-one. Usually it's fifty at rest.” She shrugged. “I was taught to mirror the emotion of the subject in interviews. He was excited. I reflected that excitement back.”

“Yvonka is coming at two-thirty.” Spence put his computer in a tote bag.

“She’s taking me for Thai food.” Monica raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to wait.” She hugged us both and waved us away.

Driving through the smoke from the wildfires in Canada, Spence pointed the Maverick toward Wells Wood. Shoulders relaxed, his fingers gently held the steering wheel.

“Do you feel like a weight has been lifted off your back?’’ I sipped water to ease the soreness the smoke left in my throat. 

“Oh yeah! The event went better than I thought.” Spence stared down Route 322. “Not as good as it could have been. Better than the catastrophe I feared.”

Tru By Hilton

 

 

Reflections - Driving Pennsylvania Hills and Florida Flatlands

Clarion River at Clear Creek State Park

Dear Addy,

On June 1, your uncle Spence kept saying, “Addy would call this an adventure.” 

We wanted to hike through the Forest Cathedral in Cook Forest State Park, but we were riding and riding in his red pickup. He drove. I read directions. When he saw the sign, Cook Forest 11 miles, he followed the arrow. I put the directions away. He spied another sign, Scenic Cook Forest Drive. “That sounds good,” he said and made a sharp right. We were lost.

After wandering along roads with no signs for miles, we stopped by the Clarion River for a picnic lunch. Then we found a town with a traffic light, pizza shop, and post office. In the post office I asked, “How do we get to the Log Cabin Environmental Classroom in Cook Forest?’’ The young woman scrunched her nose so I said, “We want to hike the Longfellow Trail.” Her face smoothed. “I don’t know the environmental center, but turn left at the light. Follow route thirty-six till you cross a bridge. The park office is on the right. They’ll help you.”

The kind park officer told us to take a right at the Y. We saw three Ys and got lost on River Road. People floated on rafts in Toms Run’s lazy current. Turning around, we studied the park map, took the correct Y, and finally found the trail—six miles down the road from where Spence had turned off for the scenic drive.

It took 143 miles, 3 hours and 48 minutes (not counting stops) to find Longfellow Trail. It took 66 miles, 1 hour and 35 minutes (not counting stops) to go home. You do the math. Were we lost longer than we were on track going to Cook Forest? 

Love,

Aunt Janet

Longfellow Trail

 

Palma Sola Bay

Dear Lori and Eliza,

        I hope you are well and enjoying your special pets. Do you still have your pig?

        Spence and I visited my brother Bob so I could drive him to his colonoscopy—one excuse for a Florida vacation. Tuesday, June 6, I drove Bob to Bradenton Surgery Center in his Chevy Bolt, signed papers as his designated driver, and watched him fill out his forms. Then he shooed me. “I can handle it from here. You might as well go to the beach.”

If traffic cooperated, Spence and I would have time to wade in the Gulf of Mexico. Back at Bob’s, I picked up gear, and Spence drove the rental car to the beach. Traffic cooperated. The parking lot didn’t. We circled in vain. Only getting a glimpse of the gulf, I said, “Head back.” 

We stopped at a boat launch on Palma Sola Bay. This “beach” had a stretch of Bermuda grass, a foot of sand, and warm, shallow water. Rolling down the windows, I ate a picnic lunch while a lady carried her dachshund into the water and let him paddle back. Next, Spence strolled on the sand. Wearing Bob’s old slippers, I waded. Inch long translucent fish darted past. Wading further, I discovered 2 to 3 inch husky fish with yellow noses and black stripes. Four inch, skinny fish with long noses, silver bodies, and black stripes zipped super fast. Later Bob said the skinny ones could have been barracudas or mackerels. “Any kind of fish is common in Florida.”

Heading back, my cell phone rang—Bob would be ready in thirty minutes. I wiped sand from between my toes and changed into shoes. At Bob’s house, I hopped into his Chevy Bolt and drove to the surgery center. I arrived for him with ten minutes to spare and stories to share. 

Love,

Janet

Fish in Palma Sola Bay

 

If you want to see all thirteen postcards in the Pennsylvania Hills and Florida Flatlands Postcard Journal, use this link:

https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/pennsylvania-hills-and-florida-flatlands

 Reflections - Adventures in Rural Western Pennsylvania

West Creek Road Spring

While some think adventures only come in frozen outer space or deep caves in Timbuktu, adventures find me in rural Western Pennsylvania.

In one of my adventures, an hour long telephone call, I discovered Babs. She welcomed me to Pennwriters and nurtured my writing. Under her pen name Lyndi Alexander, Babs writes science fiction and fantasy. Under the name Alana Lorens, Babs writes romance and romantic suspense. The real adventure is talking with Babs face to face. She's got a big heart . . . and a lot of cats.