Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter

The flames of romance kept me warm. Years ago, Spence had given me the beginning sentence for a story: “Meet me at Dairy Isle at 10 p.m.” The resulting romance, with reluctant-to-trust Jolene, weird yet endearing Matt, and a turkey chasing black lab, had gone through five versions before needing to lose six pages for the Pennwriters' competition. Wincing, I cut cherished phrases. Spence added logs to the wood stove. By Wednesday, the story was ten pages exactly, but did it still make sense? I'd ask the 6:30 to 10:00 p.m. Thursday writing group. Since Spence didn't want me driving to Erie alone at night, he packed his computer, earphones, and papers to go with me. Sitting across Tim Horton's with earphones blasting jazz, he still heard the leader's loud voice and the store's sappy muzak. On the way home, Spence asked if the group had helped. The writers had. They encouraged (tight story with great sensory details) and advised (change “forkful of chili” and fix point of view switch at “behind her”). Spence said, “You looked like a real grownup in the group–not like the cute girl you are at home.” He'll always be my sweetie.

 

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Winter

 

On the morning of my daughter's wedding, I, as mother of the bride, dressed carefully–new pantyhose and light green underwear to coordinate with dark green jeans. Curious, I emailed Ellen in West Lafayette, Indiana to ask if she were wearing her fancy blue dress. She answered, “I am wearing my work clothes since I am at work.” Spence had driven to Cleveland to lay bathroom tiles so, after a visit to Dr. Shawish late morning (increase restless leg medication and stay warm because this weather was bad for arthritis), I added logs to the wood stove fire and created a virtual celebration at Wells Wood–sewing a block for the quilt to commemorate Ellen and Chris' wedding. I measured, sewed, measured, ripped, measured, and sewed. Meanwhile, in West Lafayette, Chris got Ellen but had forgotten their papers. She called the judge's office to ask if they had time to go back for the paperwork. The secretary answered that Chris and Ellen weren't on the schedule but checked if the judge could do the ceremony in fifteen minutes. The judge, new to the job this January, agreed. The secretary printed the paperwork while Chris and Ellen traveled. The judge performed the ceremony, his first wedding ever. Ellen said, “It was casual. Chris wore jeans.”

Reflections on the Third Week of Winter

Spence studied weather.com and Weather Underground every morning for the best time to log, grease the tractor, and plow. He never found a greasing day but managed to get us from Cleveland to Wells Wood Wednesday. Wet roads changed to tire track lanes then to snow covered surfaces. Flurries and dry snow blew into whiteouts. Spence drove slowly with flashers. That weather canceled my quilt meeting. Instead of having a dangerous drive in the dark, I shred brown bags for worm food and called Mom Dot on her last night in the rehab center. Snow and ice delayed school openings Thursday. I used my volunteering holiday to cut fabrics for a quilt to celebrate Ellen and Chris' wedding. Sunshine streaming through the window was irresistible. I pulled on boots, grabbed my camera, and took a snowy photo walk. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morphed into quilt days. I cut, arranged colors, glanced out at the snow scape, and took breaks to revise my bear story for the Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters meeting–rescheduled because of the freezing rain last week. George adapted to the weather as well. He sat within a foot of the wood stove. Spence grabbed the hot-to-the-touch cat and said, “George, you're going to set your fur on fire.”

Reflections on the Second Week of Winter

 

With 2014 rolling into 2015, I reflected on endings and beginnings. I removed sand dollars, bird ornaments, and lights from the Christmas tree. The undecorated white fir didn't look forlorn. The three foot tree looked cute and fresh. We planted it in a pre-dug hole by the driveway. While we tucked soil around the root ball, the mail lady brought a package of red wrigglers. Spence assembled the worm factory he gave me for Christmas. I chopped fallen leaves, radish tips, and onion ends. Mixed with coffee grounds, the discards became food to fuel worm castings for fertilizing plants. A more significant event was the rehab center deciding Mom wasn't making enough progress so she'd be discharged Thursday. Having a week to find appropriate help pressured my brother. Mom wasn't pressured. She was upset. “They're kicking me out because I'm failing therapy. What do they expect from a 92 year old?” At the same time, she was happy to be going home. “It's my house. I should be able to live there if I want.” Endings morph into beginnings. Life is a series of cycles.

Reflections on the First Week of Winter

Spence's family defined Boxing Day, December 26, as the time English gentry gave servants hand-me-downs. For years we've used the day to celebrate a second Christmas with Spence's brother and his family. This year we walked through the woods–iron tree sightings, deer print detecting, britches splitting, fallen tree vaulting, and pauses for photographing. Next, Spence's slow cooked pork dinner disappeared. Folks identified song titles from erudite synonyms such as “I Spied My Maternal Parent Osculating.” Christmas presents were exchanged with smiles. Then, having offered downsizing extras in vain for years, I changed tactics to a Boxing Day spirit and gave hand-me-downs wrapped in brown paper bags with name tags and red ribbons. The younger generation couldn't say, “No, thank you.” Unwrapping Doctor Who novels, Laura said, “I don't let my students read them till I have.” Pat called out dates, “1925 silver dollar, 1907 Indian head penny,” from odd coins in a tin. Sarah pulled the bag off a horse head lamp and said, “I needed a second lamp at my place.” Success. The Boxing Day treasurers moved to new houses.

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Fall

 

Our son SC's campaign to dress George as Batman started before Halloween. Spence said no. I reasoned that, forced into any outfit, George would roll on his back and play for last-breath sympathy. But SC kept urging. Arthritis had stiffened George's elbows; he quit jumping onto furniture. Instead, he pleaded with his green googly eyes for lifts to the sofa. SC argued George just laked confidence. With the costume, George would think he could fly so he'd be able to jump. Was George listening? Spence and I'd find George on the sofa and ask each other, “Did you pick him up?” We wouldn't remember. This week I woke to George's footsteps pulling the covers snug against my body. Later, George sat atop the stairwell railing. I set him on the floor. Within minutes, he poked his head over the edge of the kitchen table and chomped on a Chinese evergreen leaf. I put him back on the floor and pushed the empty chair close to the table. When Spence stood to attend the stove, George jumped into Spence's chair and rested his paws on the table to survey our breakfast. Perhaps SC had been George's motivational coach. More likely, the cat glucosamine and heat-soaks in front of the wood stove fire restored his flexibility.

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall

 

On Christmas Day 2012, Spence gave me a tripod. Since I didn't get around to figuring out how to use it in 2013, learning in 2014 was a New Year's Resolution–along with writing two new stories and asking a lawyer to draw up wills and medical power of attorney papers. The stories and legal papers were finished by July. Friday morning, I pulled the tripod out of its carrying case and moved levers to see what they did. Spence helped with the mounting platform, and Google clarified puzzling parts. I learned how to adjust the height from three to six feet; how to attach the camera; how to move the camera up, down, left, and right; how to tighten parts so they didn't move; and how to loosen parts so they did. I had to unlearn trying to move the camera instead of moving the lever to move the mount to move the camera. I was ready. I set the camera on the tripod at five feet, focused on the bird feeder, and washed the sliding glass door. Between bird feeding frenzies, I wrote Christmas cards by the wood burning stove. When birds arrived, I slowly stood and clicked. Chickadees and titmice pecked and posed. A male cardinal came close enough for me to distinguish individual feathers in its crest. With nineteen days to spare, I finished my 2014 resolutions. Now I need to reflect on tasks for 2015.