Reflections on the First Week of Summer

After a couple of hectic weeks, Wednesday was a slow-down day. In the morning, I settled into my Adirondack chair, tapped computer keys, and listened to the washing machine gurgle. A small gray moth clung to the inside of the sliding glass door. I opened the door half way and slid the screen over so the moth could fly outside. Abdomen hanging below its fluttering wings, it banged between the glass and screen. It didn't follow the fresh air out so I grabbed a pack of radish seeds off the coffee table, reached around the screen, and nudged its feet. With a couple of awkward lunges, it found the edge of the door and zoomed skyward only to be caught in the beak of a diving phoebe. Butterflies in the north garden fared better. The sweet, spicy fragrance of new milkweed flowers attracted a flock of Great Spangled Fritillaries. Bees, bugs, and one Comma butterfly gathered too. While others sipped nectar and ignored me clicking the camera, the Comma butterfly took a sunbath on a wide milkweed leaf–the third Comma sunbather I'd encountered in June. When the sun set, the quarter moon glowed over the south garden, and fireflies flashed.

Reflections - Lost Hearts

Lost Hearts

Though I bought Lost Hearts from Kathy Otten at the Pennwriters Conference, I was a bit hesitant to start reading. Her first western romance, Between the Lines, was such a great read, I was afraid Lost Hearts would be disappointing.

I was wrong. Lost Hearts was a delightful read.

Kathy makes the two main characters vivid, flawed, and likable. Johnny has been disguised as a boy since childhood to protect her from her cruel outlaw father and his gang. Kathy writes Johnny’s dialogue in Oklahoma hill dialect. That kind of spelling usually annoys me, but it works for Johnny, an intelligent character who is masterful at healing and who dreams of a home with a loving family.

The one armed lawman Richard, who Johnny calls Rab, is haunted by flashbacks from the Civil War so follows rules precisely to make up for horrors he can’t remember.

Kathy makes the journey—across Choctaw territory to take the outlaws to jail—compelling with escape attempts, a festering leg wound, flooding river, and the growing attraction between Johnny and Rab.

Historical facts are woven into the fabric of the story. Pacing and tension are fine tuned. Kathy keeps the plot realistic yet manages to get Johnny and Tab together by the end.

 

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Spring

Tuesday, June 2, my body surprised me by screaming, “What the hell are you doing?” I'd never heard it talk and definitely didn't expect it to swear. I was slipping into the pool for the second day in a row. Determined to increase my swimming to three times a week for the aerobic exercise the rheumatologist prescribed, I ignored the body complaining, “But you did this yesterday” and swam a half mile. This past week I swam three days again. Monday's clouds and rain kept my line-dry-only suit damp for Tuesday's swim. I slipped into the cold wet garment and into the pool–no comments from my body. Hands cupped, arms pulling, and legs kicking like a frog, I swam the half mile in thirty-three minutes. Thursday, because I'd spent the morning on the computer making airline, rental car, and B&B reservations for Ellen and Chris' wedding celebration, I was too late to warm up with the laps that keep me panting through my deep water fitness class. I adapted. I moved arms and legs quickly and forcefully. Conversation about President McKinley leading a cow up the steps of Bentley Bell Tower, when he was an Allegheny College student, distracted me till someone explained a rope and tackle hoisted the cow to the ground. I resumed pushing for the aerobic benefit of preventing flare-ups. Back at Wells Wood, Spence surprised me with another benefit. “Cute legs,” he whispered.

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Spring

Spence and I have celebrated many anniversaries walking through pounding rain on Presque Isle. Monday, our forty-seventh anniversary, brought clouds and low fifty degree weather. We celebrated on sunny, high sixty degree Tuesday instead. At the lagoon, we rented a two seater kayak. I stepped into water sloshing in the bottom–foreshadowing the extra clothes we'd brought would be needed. We passed purple iris, yellow waterlilies, swooping swifts, calling red-wing blackbirds, a guarding Canadian goose, and splashing fish. Paddling as if we were in our canoe wasn't a good idea. Water dripped down the paddles and soaked us. We learned to use shallow strokes and harmonize our rhythm. After changing clothes, we ate at the Colony Bar and Grill. A tiffany lamp hung over the table, a gray-suited man played show tunes on a piano, and our perky waitress questioned the cook to serve me a safe pasta dinner. Back at Presque Isle, we pulled on sweatshirts for a windy walk on North Pier. I took photos of sea gull acrobatics. Spence talked to Amish fishermen about their catches. We ended our day with families and dogs on Sunset Beach. At 8:48 the sun dropped into Lake Erie, and Spence said, “You'd think there'd be a big sizzle.” On the drive back to Wells Wood, Spence listened to jazz on WQLN, I studied clouds blowing in front of the full moon, and we planned our next anniversary trip to Presque Isle.

Reflections on the Tenth Week of Spring

Early Monday morning, a crash woke me. I used the excuse of my book falling to the floor to get back to sleep. When I woke at 7:00, my book rested on the covers, George licked my arm, and a naked, energy efficient CFL bulb hung from the desk lamp. The Tiffany glass shade lay on the floor with a small hole, bent frame, and cracks. I swept the floor, shook the rug, and dumped shade, broken glass, and dust into a box for the trash. Spence and I drove to Ohio Tuesday and stopped at Cleveland Lighting. A young woman said they didn't have replacement shades, but I could try on line. I tired–including all sixty-nine pages of Amazon options. None came with a three and a half inch top opening, and none was as attractive as my broken relic with amber flowers tipping the intersections of eight cream panels. Wednesday at House of Lights, the salesman said I had three choices: find a shade at an antique store; buy a replacement lamp; or ask Mabel about repairs. “She does amazing work.” Mabel, a short woman well beyond retirement age with no Internet and no cell phone, works out of her bright yellow ranch house three days a week. She reverently pulled the dusty shade out of the box. “My mother had a lamp like this.” Mabel turned the shade to inspect the hole. “Did you know I'm the only person in Ohio doing ceramic repairs? This shade needs a lot of work.” She fingered the cracks. “It will take me two weeks, but, adding ceramic filling, I can fix it.”

 

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Spring

Like a farmer, Spence checks the weather. Will it be dry enough to mow, cool enough to weed, or warm enough to set out tomatoes? He also watches for frost advisories predicting temperature dips to the mid or low thirties. Friday, he got a freeze warning–temperatures below 32° for an extended time. After dinner I helped him cover strawberries then went inside because I was getting cold. He stayed out to put sheets of plastic and garbage bags over blueberries, cherries, and pawpaws. He also carried in trays of squash, pumpkin, tomato, pepper, and cucumber seedlings. “Don't eat my plants,” he told the cats. They obeyed till 5:00 Saturday morning when pawing and whimpering failed to fill the food bowl. Emma nibbled squash leaves. Spence got up. I waited till 7:30, grabbed my camera, pulled on winter gear, and stepped outside to the sun rising over treetops. Frost coated milkweed leaves, grass blades, and cottonwood fluff. Frost coated wisteria vines, girasole leaves, and pansy faces. Blueberry branches nestled against the plastic lost leaves and blossoms. Other fruit survived untouched. I helped Spence fold tarps. He said, “When you finish weeding and mulching the strawberries, we need to cover the bed with netting to protect berries from the birds.”

 

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Spring

 

Spence and I had different weekends. Friday, I flowed with traffic to the Pennwriter's Conference in Pittsburgh. He unclogged the drain in the kitchen sink, got a leak, tightened connections, and broke a fitting. In my first workshop, participants worried about a young woman hyperventilating–staged to show how to give readers engagement, emotion, and experience. Spence drove to Hart's because the cover on his brush hog drive shaft broke. They needed the shaft to determine which replacement. Alone in Marriott's small square pool, I swam diagonal laps. Rain fell while Spence tilled. I ate dinner by a goldfish pond on a sunny patio. Saturday Spence detached the drive shaft and took it to Hart's. They were closed. My “Walk Like a Turkey” won second prize in the short story contest. Rain drenched Spence on his way back from logging. I bought books at the author's tea. Spence installed four new parts in the kitchen drain. They worked, but a different part leaked. At the Mardi Gras party, I exchanged business cards with new friends and admired feathered masks. We discussed Aurora Borealis, rock and roll, and the use of “their” for singular unspecified gender. Sunday Spence moved porch furniture and swept winter dirt. I did yoga to jazz ballads and listened to dramatic flash fiction recitations. Spence welcomed me home, asked me not to squint, and snapped my photo.