Reflections on the Seventh Week of Summer – A Tale of Two (Part 2)

June 1, 1968 Janet and Spence

On a mid June evening, Spence walked back from the mailbox and dropped a handful of ads onto my lap. He settled on the sofa and opened a letter from our longtime friends Eric and Kay. Scanning the typed letter, Spence said, “Listen to this!”

. . . We enjoyed our stay at Wells Wood very much. It was good to talk about old times and it was nice to see you . . . Our one regret was not being able to take you out for your 50^th wedding anniversary. We got you a gift certificate so you can go when you are able . . .

Spence waved a card with blue and gold pictures of lighthouses. “They were generous. We can go to Bayfront Grille some weekend.”

Another anniversary dinner provided by Eric and Kay? My mouth watered at the memory of her spicy tomato sauce smothering the al dente zucchini spaghetti we’d eaten June first. Eric and Kay had cooked dinner for us because Spence was too ill for the planned walk on Presque Isle and dinner in Erie. Due to Eric and Kay’s gift, I’d have a chance to savor the restaurant’s blood orange sorbet that tasted like sugary sunshine. “I want to go on my birthday. We can have a double celebration―our fiftieth and my seventieth.”

Spence stuffed the letter and certificate into the envelope. “Fine. We’ll go the weekend before or after your birthday.”

“No.” I summoned my explaining-teacher voice and struck a theatrical fists-on-hips pose. “I want to go on Tuesday, July twenty-fourth, my actual birthday.” I didn’t say if neither of us gets sick.

He handed me the envelope. “Right. I’ll mark my calendar.”

A week before my birthday, I woke with sharp, pressing pains as if an elephant and stingray battled in my shoulder, upper right chest, and entire right arm. It felt like the pinched nerve that took months to subside. I called Sheakleyville Health Care Center and left a message listing symptoms for Cynthia, my physician assistant. Maybe she’d give me a cortisone shot to quicken the recovery so Spence and I could make the Presque Isle trip.

I hung up the phone, grabbed my purse, and found Spence watering plants. “I’ve got a meeting at Our Lady of Lourdes to audit the quilt guild’s accounts.” I pulled the keys out of my purse. “Please take a message from the health center for me.”

“Don’t you think you should cancel?” Spence set the watering can on the floor. “You’re not in any shape to drive.”

“Can’t. The guild treasurer is already at the church, and I don’t have the number. It’s too late to cancel.” Heading out the door, I called over my shoulder. “Besides, it’s only five miles, and I won’t stay long. I’ll be fine.”

Half right.

Because the treasurer forgot the books, I couldn’t do the audit, and I didn’t stay long. But, during the country drive, the pain increased to teeth-gritting agony. I hustled home, collapsed in the Adirondack chair, and interrupted Spence’s computer work. “What did the medics say?”

He kept typing. “They didn’t call back.”

Sheesh! I dialed the health care center and reached a nurse on the second transfer.

“There’s a note here for you.” She paused. Paper rustling sounds came over the line. “It says make an appointment with an orthopedist or go to EMS. How is the pain?”

I spit one word through my clenched jaw. “Worse!”

At twice the speed of her previous comments, she said, “Go to EMS now. A heart isn’t anything to mess with.”

Great. I could be having a heart attack. But, looking on the positive side, I might recover faster from that than from a pinched nerve.

So late Tuesday morning, Spence drove to Greenville hospital while I gripped the armrest and practiced yoga breathing.

Nurses, technicians, and doctors swarmed over me for an EKG, blood tests, x-rays, and explanations. “Your heart and blood work are fine.” The EMS doctor looked at his notes. “Arthritis degenerated your right shoulder socket. And you have a shoulder strain. Take acetaminophen and rub a topical liniment on the area. Come back if your symptoms don’t improve.”

Back at home, I nestled whichever part ached the worst against the heating pad, gulped acetaminophen, and rubbed on Capzasin at bedtime. After two days, I grumbled to Spence. “I can’t bear to sit still any longer.”

“Work on a task for fifteen minutes.” He handed me the kitchen timer. “Then rest fifteen minutes.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Every fifteen minutes, like a police car’s blaring siren coming up behind me, the timer warned me to stop.

Sew patchwork―rest.

Scoop cat litters―rest.

Pick blueberries―rest.

Though annoying, I followed the regiment and studied the calendar. Five more days until blood orange sorbet. I could do this. On the weekend, I increased the timer to thirty minutes. Progress.

Presque Isle Bay

My birthday dawned cloudy. Spence squinted at his computer. “All day rain forecast for Erie. And afternoon thunderstorms.”

Sheesh! I’d babied my shoulder and arm all week for a rainout? “We can take an umbrella and follow the Swan Cove-Waterworks Loop like we’d planned to do with Eric and Kay. If it rains, at least we won’t be on sand or a dirt path.”

If we encountered thunderstorms, my umbrella-sidewalk plan would wash out. I checked Erie book stores on the Internet, wrote the address for Werner Books, then packed―umbrella, lunch, dinner clothes, camera, Capzasin, and Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park.

Under gray clouds an hour later, Spence drove onto Presque Isle and parked at Swan Cove. With the camera around my neck, cell phone in a pocket, and Gene’s guide book in my hands, I walked with Spence and read, “. . . painted turtles . . . jockey for the best position on the log. They stack themselves atop one another . . .” No turtles jockeyed but fragrant white water lilies bloomed around the edge of the pond and a flock of red-winged blackbirds sang conk-la-ree.

We ambled along the path by the bay. A breeze blew off the water. Waves lapped. Ducks bobbed.

Crossing the tree lined sidewalk past the Cookhouse Pavilion, we followed Gene’s loop then took his suggestion to eat lunch at a picnic table by the bay.

Geese cocked their heads in our direction. They swam to shore and edged toward us. When I didn’t toss any of my pita bread or pumpkin muffin, they waddled back to the water.

Gazing across the bay, I studied the lumpy clouds hovering above the horizon. “The rain held off.” I shoved the empty containers into the lunch bag. “Do you want to take a short walk on a beach?”

Rain on Lake Erie

“I’m with you. Let’s go to Barracks Beach. It had sea glass the last time we walked there.”

At Barracks Beach, we waded through the loose sand to the water’s edge.

A woman and two preschool girls frolicked in the waves.

Sprinkles fell.

The youngest ran out of the lake and, with her bathing suit dripping onto the sand, yelled, “Rain alert! Watch out. We’re gonna get wet.”

Spence and I exchanged a wink and a smirk then left them gathering their sand buckets and towels.

Splashing through lapping waves, I walked on wet sand.

He stayed on dry sand, squinted at the sky, then looked at the ground. “Sprinkles make every rock shiny. That makes it hard to find sea glass.”

We didn’t find any glass, but I did find driftwood―fanny-perching size. I sat and patted the space beside me. “Sit here. I want to get a photo for our anniversary.”

Spence smiled for the photo then said, “Do you want to walk further or turn back?”

“Turn back. I’m pooped, and my shoulder’s had enough.”

We retraced our steps.

Clouds obscured the horizon. Pelting rain pitted sand and waves. Lightning streaked the sky.

Spence drove off the peninsula. Tires splashed through puddles. Too early for our dinner reservations, Spence navigated to Werner Books. We dashed inside the narrow storefront to a long room filled with shelves and shelves of mostly used books. After a leisurely browse, we bought nine books and dashed back to the car.

“The only problem with that book store was,” Spence said backing out of the parking place, “it was too well organized.” He turned onto Liberty Street. “And it didn’t have enough dust.”

So, after two months of anticipation, Spence drove me to Bayfront Grille. We sat by the window, watched the Scallywags pirate ships circle around the bay, and dined on grilled asparagus, rib eye, and chicken. Ducks bobbed in the choppy water.

I studied the dessert menu. No sorbet listed.

When our willowy waitress returned, I said, “Do you still have blood orange sorbet?”

She nodded. “It’s in the garage freezer, but I don’t mind going out to get it for you. Our main freezer broke.”

She walked away and came back with coffee for Spence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Everything in the garage freezer has a new name―el soup-o. Would you like something different?”

I settled for fruit salad.

While Spence drove home, I relaxed my elbow on the armrest and gazed out the window. A rainbow arced across towering gray clouds to end our day of thorough celebration―walking on the park, picnicking by the bay, wading in Lake Erie, browsing in a book store, and eating a special dinner. In addition, the manager of Bayfront Grille had written the change from our bill on Eric and Kay’s gift certificate―more than enough money left for a bowl of blood orange sorbet some future weekend.

7-24-18 Spence, Janet, and Lake Erie

Reflections on the Sixth Week of Summer – A Tale of Two

Spence, Janet, and Lake Erie

On May 26, Spence flipped a cheesy omelet―his specialty in preparing company breakfasts. I sat at the kitchen table between friends who’d flown in from Oregon to celebrate Spence’s seventy-first birthday and, six days later on Presque Isle, our fiftieth wedding anniversary. I scanned Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park. “Of the fourteen walks we haven’t done, four don’t include rutted trails or sand.”

Eric, Spence’s lanky friend from elementary school, chuckled. “Okay.”

Since his wife Kay likes to cook, I’d spent days deep-cleaning the kitchen before they’d arrived. She sipped coffee. “What are the choices?”

“Walk Number Two [ starts at Swan Cove―really the lily pond my dad photographed the year I was born.”

Kay, an avid researcher of her own and others’ family histories, looked up with a curious smile.

“Dad printed a black and white photo then painted it with water colors while he sat beside the bed where Mom had to stay because she’d bled when pregnant with me.” I pointed at the kitchen wall. “The picture hangs in the next room.”

“Everyone’s life has a story,” Kay said taking another sip of coffee.

Reading Gene’s description, I summarized the walk. “It’s two and two tenths miles. It follows a sidewalk along the bay to the water taxi landing, crosses Waterworks Park, then loops back on a multipurpose trail behind two beaches.”

“We went to the Waterworks all the time when I was a kid,” Spence said and set a plate with an omelet and bacon in front of Kay.

I squinted at Gene’s side trips list. “There’s a handicapped beach ramp nearby. We could walk along it and get a view of Lake Erie.”

“Sounds interesting.” Kay munched a bite of bacon. “Let’s do that one.”

Spence pulled out his chair and sat by the stack of presents and cards. “The weather forecasts rain. That could change.” He ripped the envelope on the first card. “Did you make a reservation for dinner?”

“For six-thirty at Bayfront Grille in Erie.” I grinned. “The food is great and the blood orange sorbet I had last time,” I rested my elbows on the table and my chin on my hands, “tasted like sugary sunshine―so divine even a President Trump superlative would fail to do the flavor justice.”

All three laughed.

I frowned and used my explaining-teacher voice. “A fiftieth wedding anniversary only comes once a lifetime so it should be special―like a fun day with longtime friends topped by a special dessert.”

“You’re right, dear.” Spence set a black and pink Friends Forever card upright on the table. “You can order two bowls of sorbet.”

So, after celebrating Spence’s birthday with a walk along Deer Creek, flower planting for the guys, flower pounding for the girls, and a cookout dinner with Kay’s homemade potato salad, Eric and Kay took a side trip to visit her friend in Ohio. They returned the night before our anniversary.

Eric and Spence

The morning of June 1, Spence lay on the sofa―his head on a pillow and his knees on three. “I feel awful.” Wheeze. Wheeze. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Hack. Hack. “I kept coughing.”

Across our open space room, I opened a kitchen cupboard. “Stay where you are. Kay’s still sleeping. Eric and I can make our own breakfasts.”

Eric fried an egg, I poured a bowl of Cheerios, and Spence closed his eyes.

Late morning, Spence ate breakfast, set fire to papers in the burn barrel, filled groundhog holes with kitty litter deposits which encourages the garden-consuming critters to move, then crashed on the sofa.

Early afternoon, I called Bayfront Grille to cancel our dinner reservation, checked on sleeping Spence, and tiptoed to the porch.

Eric and Kay sat on the love seat. He stared at his cell phone. She glanced from a Douglas fir in the tree nursery to me. “I saw a bird earlier that has red on its head and stomach but a dark back. Do you know what it is?”

I sat in the wicker chair across from the love seat. “A downy woodpecker  has a red head and black back, but its stomach is white.”

Eric tapped his phone with a finger and showed Kay a picture.

She shook her head. “The stomach has red and the bird is smaller.”

A robin flew toward its nest by the porch steps, veered away, and squawked a protest from the grass. The robin would have to brave people on the porch to reach its nest or wait.

I walked inside to get one of our bird field guides and binoculars.

The robin squawked on the grass when I returned―it decided to wait.

Through the binoculars, I spied a goldfinch, several sparrows, and a pair of cedar waxwings. None was Kay’s small red bird, but I passed her the binoculars to enjoy the waxwings.

She stood, lifted the binoculars to her eyes, and oohed. Then she swung to the right and scanned the field. “There they are! Perched on the wood shed.” She gave me the binoculars.

Before the birds flew away, I focused the lenses. “Purple finch.” I passed the binoculars to Eric and leafed through the bird guide. “Yep. Purple finch.” I showed Kay the picture. “Why they’re called purple finch beats me. Probably the same reason a red-bellied woodpecker got its name even though the red is on its head not its belly.”

Eric waved his phone “We found a Giant Eagle in Meadville with our GPS.”

Kay rested her hand on Eric’s shoulder. “We want to make you and Spence dinner for your anniversary. We’ll drive to the store for ingredients then make zucchini spaghetti with the spiralizer we sent you after our last visit.”

Since Spence planted zucchini, I never bought it. We either had a surplus or none. “It’s not zucchini season. Will the store have zucchini now?”

Eric chuckled. “They have zucchini year round.”

Last summer was a year zucchini didn’t thrive at Wells Wood so I’d stored the spiralizer in the cold cellar. Could I find it? I clomped downstairs, unearthed its box under a bag of sunflower seeds, and brushed dust off the box before carrying it upstairs. Then I checked the kitchen cupboards for canned tomatoes and tomato sauce. Plenty.

Kay wrote other ingredients on a list and asked, “Is there anything else you want at the store?”

“Sorbet?”

She wrote sorbet then they left. When they returned with four small zucchinis and other treats, Kay cooked sauce.

Eric taught me how to use the sprializer. “Push that lever to anchor it to the counter.”

I pushed.

“Cut the ends off the zucchini. Place it in the center of the dial. Turn.”

I cut, centered, and turned the crank. Spaghetti-width strings of zucchini piled on the plate Eric hastily placed at the end of the machine. “Ooh. Magic!”

When we finished transforming the zucchinis, Eric took the plate to Kay.

She dumped the raw zucchini into the pot of tomato sauce and stirred.

After wine and water toasts, the four of us dug into the special anniversary dinner. “This is the best spaghetti I’ve ever had,” Spence said around a mouthful. “We’ve got to make it when the zucchinis come in.”

Glad he’d recovered enough to enjoy dinner, I agreed. “We have to pick the zucchini young though―before they grow seeds. You can’t spiralize the seedy ones.”

Since Giant Eagle didn’t have sorbet, Eric and Kay bought two kinds of non-dairy ice cream―frozen banana raspberry and coconut milk. The raspberry tasted like concentrated fresh-off-the-vine red raspberries that Spence’s Mom had planted at Wells Wood, and the coconut milk resembled sweet, vanilla flavored cream. I savored a scoop of each then spooned out seconds.

At dusk, the four of us traipsed to the gravel driveway. I pulled sparklers out of plastic bags.

Spence struck a match. It snuffed out. He lit another and another and another until finally one flamed and ignited Kay’s sparkler. We lit our sparklers from hers and held them aloft.

Golden sparks sputtered.

Red flames flared.

Gray smoke rose.

I giggled, waved my sparkler, and watched glowing streaks undulate against the dark. “The sparklers seem smaller than the ones we had when we were young. Are they really?”

Eric chuckled. “They could be the same size. We just remember them bigger.”

A gray cloud lifted off the field and floated over the treetops.

Fireflies lit the field with their yellow flashes.

What a delightful day―not a walk on the park, but the company of good friends, bird observations from the porch, a dinner both Spence and I could eat (a rare occurrence due to aging-health diet restrictions), an evening light show, and healthy ice cream nearly as tasty as Bayfront Grille’s blood orange sorbet. Feeling thoroughly celebrated, I grabbed Spence’s hand and squeezed it while we walked back inside.

But, Eric and Kay viewed the day differently. In a letter that arrived a week later, they wrote,

. . . We enjoyed our stay at Wells Wood very much. It was good to talk about old times and it was nice to see you . . . Our one regret was not being able to take you out for your 50^th wedding anniversary. We got you a gift certificate so you can go when you are able . . .

End of Part 1

Sparklers