Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter

     Spence says, “I retired so I could hammer wood.” Currently he's hammering maple flooring in the bedroom.

     I only helped clear the room. In multiple trips, I lugged books, closet-floor accumulations, and knickknacks to the loft. He balanced our full size mattress and box springs on top of the twin bed in the guest room. Together we moved the dresser beside the beds. That left a small walkway–no room for the tall desk with cabinet shelves. We moved them to the great room.

     Spence's craft of laying a floor reminds me of sewing a quilt. He sorts through the stack of 2 ¼ inch tongue and groove boards to match colors, patterns, and lengths. Trimming and fitting, he arranges then attaches rows. Louder than the hum of a sewing machine, his work sounds like an exuberant drum solo: clank, tap, bang of boards slipping into place; buzz, zing of the chop saw cutting; rumble of the air compressor warming; and cracks louder than overhead thunder of the nailer hammering boards to the subfloor.

     Little by little through the month of January, he's hammered all but the closet floor and the last board in the threshold.

     I thought the changes would bother the cats, but I was wrong. George checks the rooms from the hallway, yawns, and ambles away to watch birds through the sliding glass door. Emma marches through the guest room clutter and jumps onto “her” antique chair for a nap.

 

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter

      Saturday snow fell at four inches per hour on my sister in New Jersey, but the sun shone in azure skies at Wells Wood. Spence and I bundled for a winter walk.

      Deer prints curved through gardens. Squirrel trails ended at tree trunks. Rabbit tracks hopped across paths, mice tails dragged between tiny footprints, and wind-blown leaves etched mini divots in the snow.

      We followed a raccoon trail onto a half inch of snow covering rock hard ice over a shallow feeder stream. The prints continued along the ice edging Deer Creek. I climbed to the bank. Spence didn't.

      Muskrats had tracked in and out of bank burrows. Their prints mixed with the others. “It's like a parade,” Spence said.

      Creak.

      “You better get off the ice. It's cracking.”

      “It's fine.” He bent to inspect front and hind paw prints.

      Crack.

      “Spence.”

      “No worries. See . . .” He straightened himself and jumped.

      Craaaaaaaaaaaaack. Splash. Spence dropped into the creek. Water flowed over the top of his winter boots. Ice shards bobbed around his shins. I hustled to the bank, but he grabbed a stump and pulled himself out of the water.

      “What a surprise.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The water is deeper than I thought.”

      “We're going home. Now.” Memories of my frigid, March, toes-to-neck creek soaking urged me forward. But mid way down the path, I said, “You keep going. I want to get a picture.” I focused on the sparkling, burbling water.

      “We'll get there soon enough. My boots are wet–not my feet.”

      “Your jeans are wet too.” I clicked pictures then led the way up the hill.

      He pointed down the field. “Do you want to look for mountain lion tracks?”

      “No. I want to get you inside.”

      “Okay, after I show you the pine cones. They'd make a great photo.”

      I photographed pine cones and the chickadees he said were posing. We even checked that deer hadn't nibbled his little Christmas tree before finally going inside.

      Spence took off his boots.

      “Socks and pants come off too.” I pulled a warm bath towel from the dryer. “Dry with this. It's toasty.”

      He scrunched his forehead. “You're just ordering me around cause the children aren't here to boss.” But he dried with the towel and settled on the sofa with a cup of Constant Comment tea. “I bet I end up in your story. I shouldn't have jumped. The ice would have held.”

     Hadn't he heard the creaking and cracking?

       I checked email. Twenty-eight and a half inches of snow lay in my sister's backyard. But the storm was slowing, and she still had electricity.

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Winter

      Temperatures plummeted to the teens, six inches of snow blanketed the field, and the rumble of a township snowplow echoed through the valley. Winter weather had finally arrived, and we readied ourselves for the seasonal bird show.

      Spence hung two suet cages and poured sunflower seeds into the feeder attached to the sliding glass deck door.

      As red, yellow, gray, and blue-gray birds zipped to and from the feeder, their bellies plowed notches in snow piled on the railing.

      George, tail wagging, crept behind the rosemary plant for a futile pounce on the glass door.

      Titmice and chickadees ignored him. Dining like carry-out patrons, they zoomed in, selected a seed, and zoomed out–pausing occasionally on a bare wisteria vine to crack open the seed.

      By the wood stove Emma rose to her hind legs and monitored aerial and deck flutterings.

      Cardinals and juncos dove to the deck and sunk back-deep into the soft snow. One by one, they flit up and over to scrounge for spilled seeds under the feeder.

      The four goldfinches, in winter-faded yellow, didn't share. They perched on the feeder and ate seed after seed as if dining in a fancy sit-down restaurant.

      In yoga clothes, I slipped bare feet into boots; added vest, winter jacket, hat, and scarf; then walked out to the deck for photographs. Birds swooped toward the feeder only to veer off when they saw me and the long barrel zoom lens. Brave chickadees flew out of sight to the perch on the other side of the feeder, grabbed a seed, and sped away. With no birds in camera range, I retreated into the warm house to try for bird portraits through the glass.

      The red-bellied and downy woodpeckers preferred the suet cages–too far away for clear pictures. Black feathered heads masked chickadee, junco, and cardinal eyes. Scrawny goldfinches glared as if warning me to stay away from their perches.

      I concentrated on titmice. They zipped to and fro, cocked their heads, and radiated personality. After selecting the best photos, I held up my computer screen for Spence to admire.

      He nodded and said, “Great tits.”

 

Reflections on the Third Week of Winter

“There's our movie star.” Jim, the hefty guy from Deep Water Fitness, called from the shallow end of the pool.

      My mirror lens goggles, the only pair I could find in my size, had given Jim that crazy idea the last time he saw me at lap swim.

      “You're a regular Ester Williams, Janet.”

      Dripping from a pre-swim shower, I smirked and climbed down the steps into the cool water. Without any resemblance to Ester, I kicked and stroked a half mile. After another shower and putting on dentist-visit clothes, I hefted myself up on a tall chair in the YMCA lounge to eat lunch.

      Jim tapped keys on a computer at the next table.

      I waved.

      Scowling at the computer screen, he barely nodded.

      I ignored the television sitcom behind me, critiqued a workshop writer's chapter about a short high school sophomore being hustled to join the wrestling team, and munched a fish sandwich. Not until I hopped down from the chair and stuck my arms in my coat sleeves did I hear Jim again.

      “This is embarrassing.” He blushed. “I didn't recognize you in your clothes.”

      I chuckled. “I guess I don't look like a movie star now.”
      “Oh, you're a movie star all right. You're just incognito.”

       With shiny, polished teeth, I shared the movie star, in clothes, incognito episode with Spence.

      He laughed then scrunched his forehead. “Are you sure he wasn't . . .”

      “Jim chats up everyone at the Y. He wasn't hitting on me.”

      In a week punctuated by unexpected tears shattering quiet moments, I was grateful for the laugh.

 

Reflections on the Second Week of Winter

 

Mom said goodbye when I called December 1^st. Several times she started to say she couldn't talk any longer because she felt like vomiting, but she kept talking. How she got to the hospital and why she was there confused her, but she remembered her home care worker had come with her husband that day and brought Mom a book to read.  

      In a calm, rational voice she said, “You'll always be my little girl . . . I'm ready for whatever happens . . . I know what you are going through. I went through this when my mother was dying.” After we'd talked about a half hour, she said, “Hey, I'm feeling better.” But she didn't want to say “goodbye.”

      I suggested we say, “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

      Every day through December we did talk. Sometimes her energy was high, and she chatted forty minutes to an hour. Other days she wasn't feeling well, and the conversation barely lasted five minutes. Especially on the short call days, she'd say, “Thanks for calling. I appreciate you checking on me.”

      New Year's Eve Day, we had one of the short calls. I'd waited for my brother to cue me that he was visiting her at the nursing home so he could hold the phone for her. The lap quilt I'd hustled to make for her had arrived that day. She thanked me. “It's so cute.”

      I explained the quilting with Xs and Os were for hugs and kisses since I couldn't be there to hug her myself. The quilted labs were for her dog Lucy.

      She ah-ed and sniffed back tears.

      New Year's Day, my brother called to say, “Mom died last night at 11:30 . . . Your lap quilt was the last thing that made her smile.”

 

Reflection on the First Week of Winter

      Winter arrived on the calendar, but winter weather didn't. The average temperature for the first week of winter at Wells Wood is 35°. This year we averaged 55°. In the past sixty-seven years, I remember an occasional warm day in December–like the Christmas evening in Pittsburgh when I walked out onto the grass with only a sweater over my indoor clothes. But a whole week of warm days? Is climate change making a wacky swing from last year's bitter cold?

      The first day of winter was 63°. Spence, in a short sleeved T-shirt, and I, in a light jacket, walked through the woods. Our feet smooshed wet leaves and cracked twigs. Dark green ferns, bright red partridge berries, and light green skunk cabbages decorated the leaf covered ground. Blue jays squawked. Deer Creek rushed mud brown just below the top of its banks. Wet weather ponds and streams dotted the flood plain. When we got back to the log house, Spence reached for a cold can of carbonated water rather than a hot cup of coffee to warm his hands.

      Christmas Eve Day was clear and balmy. At the YMCA, the water glowed with sunshine. Life guard Bailey opened the windows and pulled a chair to the edge of the pool. In short shorts and sunglasses, she plopped into the chair then threw her arms and legs wide as if she were sun bathing.

      Back at Wells Wood Spence harvested bok choy. Though earlier frosts had softened the stems,fresh leaves grew and flowers bloomed. Honeybees gathered pollen from the bok choy and bolting chickweed.

     This morning rain pelted Wells Wood. After thunder and lightning stopped, Spence and I sloshed under umbrellas to explore the submerged flood plain. What if all that rain had been snow?

    Though the weather has been entertaining, it's also been unsettling. When will the temperatures turn cold enough to hang bird feeders without luring bears onto the deck? Will birds wait for us or find another food source? I'm not alone in wondering. Spencer's friend Roldo Bartimole sent this holiday greeting: “Hope you enjoy the holidays and the weather even though it means disaster in the long run.”

 

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Fall

Guest Blog by Emma and Her Human Ghost Writer

      Managing Janet is a chore. She's been in a tizzy over writing a story about “her other cat,” meaning me, and she whines to Spence, “Emma behaves like a cat. She isn't quirky like George. George thinks he's a dog.”

      What's she expect? At least she got “quirky” right.

      Whatever. I try to sooth her. When she bangs up the spiral stairs, I follow. She crinkles paper and dangles ribbons. I give an assuring merrow, let her pet me, and knead the afghan on the loft bed.

      George whacks the dangling ribbon, and Janet sets a white box on its side. “Doesn't that look like fun, Emma?”

      As if.

      George dives in head first and twitches his butt. No way that fat ass will fit. Maybe he does want to be a dog. I take a nap.

      Janet calms down a little, but I stay alert. I cue her to fill the food bowl and squeal when I'm resting on the floor cause she forgets to watch where she's walking. I give her extra attention like singing a chorus of merrows to help her talk on the phone. I even rush to the bathroom so she can pet me every time she sits on the toilet. That should be enough.

      It isn't.

      As I amble toward the food bowl, she grabs me, wraps me in a red blanket, and whisks me outside. “Look at the pretty Christmas tree, Emma.”

      Berrrrrrow. I could have seen the white lights from beside the warm wood stove. Where's her imagination? But I look. Best to satisfy her craziness and get back inside.

      She carries me to the deck. “Look at the snow, Emma.”

      She looks. I check what's happening inside the glass doors. Spence is hitting his computer without me curled next to him. George eats out of my side of the bowl. “Merrow. Merrow.” Doesn't she understand I want to go in?

      Apparently not. She hugs me tight, hauls me across the porch, and heads down the steps.

      “Merrow. Merrow.” I squirm and try to jump out of her arms.

      She squeezes me and keeps moving away from the house.

      I glance around to get my bearings. Snow flakes melt on my head.

      “Look at the snow on the tree, Emma.”

      Doesn't she feel the snow? But I look. I even sniff a branch.

      Still not satisfied, she sticks my paw in the snow.

      Sheesh. I withdraw into the blanket and wait for her episode to pass. She stops at tree after tree. No birds. No squirrels. No food. What's so fascinating? Finally, she heads for the porch. I let her carry me to the top step then make my move. I wiggle my front paws out of the blanket.

      She squeezes harder and opens the gate.

      I wiggle my back legs out of the blanket and twist so I'm paw-down.

      She squashes my middle and opens the door. Finally, she sets me down.  

      As I race for the blue bedroom, I hear Spence ask, “How did Emma do outside?”

     Yawn. I need a nap.