Reflections on the Sixth Week of Fall – Ah, Black Walnuts!

Walnuts Ready to Harvest

In mid October, my husband walked me to the garage, and a squirrel burst out of a leaf pile. Biting down on a black walnut fruit larger than its head, the squirrel dashed across the road in front of us and dove into leaves on the other side.

“That’s one nut I won’t get,” Spence said opening the garage door and handing me my swim bag.

Tossing the bag onto the passenger seat, I slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

He stepped back so I wouldn’t drive over his feet.

Backing out and heading up our dirt road, I visualized the eight walnuts he’d husked and left on the porch to dry. He hadn’t wanted the squirrels to get all the nuts this year.

In the rearview mirror, I watched his arms wave in the usual wacky, wild arcs signaling goodbye, stay safe, have fun.

Returning his farewell, I waved my arm outside the window and wondered if squirrels appreciated the rich, earthy black walnut flavor. Though I ate English walnuts daily, I hadn’t eaten a black walnut since I’d harvested ours in the fall of 2011. I would love to taste their wonderful richness again―if only they didn’t take so long to process. 

You’re retired. Make time.

What if my hands turn brown like they did before? My students thought I had some dread disease.

Wear rubber gloves and don’t tear a hole in them again.

But doing the intensive hand work might trigger an arthritis flare up.

Pace yourself. Work thirty minutes then rest.

Maybe I could, then the squirrels wouldn’t get all the black walnuts. Besides, my friend Diana endorsed walnuts in her Medical Insider article, “Walnuts are shaped like a brain―need I say more?”

The next afternoon, I dressed for walnut harvesting. I pulled on pants that I’d ruined leaning against a freshly stained deck railing. Next I added a dull yellow sweatshirt spattered brown from working on the 2011 harvest and an old red sweater that moths had ventilated. Finally, I grabbed my garden gloves and tracked down Spence on his office-sofa in the great room. “Do we have any bushel baskets I can use?”

He set his finger on a paper to mark his place. “Why do you need bushel baskets?”

“I’m going to hunt for black walnuts.” I pulled on my gloves.

He pulled his finger off the paper, walked to the boot tray, and slipped into his garden boots. “The tractor will work better. I’ll get it and meet you under Dad’s walnut tree.”

So, while he crossed the field, I walked along the road and checked for walnuts under the young trees that squirrels had planted. None. Was I too late? Had squirrels harvested all the nuts? I hustled to our rendezvous.

When the tractor rumbled to a stop under Dad’s towering walnut tree, Spence jumped to the ground. “Not many to harvest.”

I glanced at the grass, grown-past-mowing-height, to spot the round, yellow-green fruit that contained a walnut inside. None. I penetrated the grass and leaves with a laser focus. Walnut fruits. Bending to pick them up, I inhaled their pungent, lemony-ginger fragrance.

Harvesting Walnuts by Dad's Walnut Tree

We tossed walnuts, plunk, plunk, plunk, into the tractor bucket. Figuring we’d found all the fruit in the spot, I stepped away, felt a hard lump under my shoe, and reached down for another one laying camouflaged in the grass.

The wind gusted, separated fruit from the tree, and propelled them diagonally toward the ground. In case one came my way, I covered my head and listened for the landing thunk. Then I headed in that direction.

After we’d collected a half tractor bucket of walnut fruit, I drove the tractor around the garage to the gravel driveway, adjusted the gas lever to idle, and stepped on the pedal to set the brake. I’d planned to mash the fruit by driving my Subaru over them. But a glance at my soiled sweatshirt convinced me I didn’t want the brown pulp splashing my white car. I hopped off the tractor.

Spence rounded the garage. “Aren’t you going to dump the walnuts?”

“Would you spread them at the end of the driveway?” I glanced from him to the tractor. Brown garden mud. Brown pulp. Who could tell the difference? “Then drive over them with the tractor.”

He mounted the tractor and revved the engine. Tilting the bucket he inched forward spreading the fruit on the ground. When the last fruit fell, he tilted the bucket up then drove back and forth over the pile. Leaning over the side to see how to guide his giant nutcracker, he cracked the green husks and mashed the brown pulp. All but one of the hard black walnut shells stayed in tact.

With the fruit mashed, I needed different gloves and plastic buckets for the next step of separating the husk from the nut. I fetched rubber gloves, and Spence searched for two empty plastic buckets. We met back in the driveway.

Sitting on the gravel, I grabbed a mashed green fruit in both gloved hands, twisted off the husk and pulp, then dropped the nut in one bucket and the scraps in the other. Sunshine warmed my face, and pieces of gravel drilled into my bony butt.

I called to Spence, who’d disappeared into the garage to change the oil in his pickup. “Do you have a piece of cardboard I can sit on?”

Out of the garage came thumps, bumps, and “No. But I have a pine board.”

He brought me the board.

Standing, I positioned the board then sat. Hard but smooth. I could deal with that. I twisted the next fruit revealing a dozen wiggling, white maggots―each a third inch long (.8 cm). Having lain on the ground, most of the fruits would have acquired maggots. With the rubber gloves, I wiped as many maggots off the nut as I could and dropped it into the save bucket. Reaching for more fruit, I freed the walnuts from husks, pulp, and as many maggots as I could.

Spence finished changing the oil, backed the truck out of the garage which smashed a few more fruit, then took a test drive. When he returned, he topped the oil up and said, “Aren’t you done?”

The wind intensified and blew gray-bottomed clouds that looked like they’d been quilted in ripples. Chilled, I pulled off the rubber gloves and looked at my hands. No walnut stain. But the flesh around the metacarpal of my left thumb ached as if the tractor had rolled over it.

Time to quit for the day.

End Part 1

Removing Husks

Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall – Tied by Written Words

Grandma Lohse's Diary

Grandma Lohse kept a journal?

I reread my cousin Julie’s September 16^th email.

I recently found a journal of Grandma's . . . It was 1957 . . . she had an entry on the day I was born . . . It was a great find. It is pretty basic. One sentence entries . . .

What would those sentences reveal about our dads’ mom in her sixty-sixth year? I emailed back. I'd love to take a peek at her journal – if you could bring it when you visit in October.

Last Sunday Julie, as bright as a tulip and wrapped in a gray winter coat, stepped inside the log house. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a paperback size, green leather book that had lost its spine. Gold letters labeled the front―Five Year Diary.

My pulse scissor-kicked into lap swimming speed.

Julie and I sat side by side at the kitchen table. Like a youngster about to divulge a secret, she held the book between us and opened to the middle then flipped pages. “It’s a five year diary. Grandma mostly wrote in fifty-seven and fifty-eight.”

I poured tea. Whiffs of licorice fragrance rose from our china cups. Fifty-seven and fifty-eight were years Grandpa and Grandma rented a room from Betsy in Louisville, Kentucky. But Betsy, I’d learned on a family visit, was more of a friend than a landlord.

Julie stopped flipping at November 7, smoothed the page, and read.

Went to Covington Dayton & Carrolton.

Jim called Baby Julie

born at 11.15 7 lbs

We giggled.

Julie turned back to mid April and I read.

Betsy went to Indianapolis

Worked

“Grandpa worked at GE in Louisville,” Julie said and turned the page.

Each of us held one side of the book and took turns reading Grandma’s words out loud.

Bot blue dress $10 black and white dress $17

I put my finger under Bot. “She simplified words!”

“Seventeen dollars was a lot for a dress back then.” Julie sipped her tea.

We kept reading. Throughout the next two months Grandma listed symptoms.

Dizzy . . . vomited . . . headache . . . Dr said niacin

“Niacin?” I put the book down, bit into a blueberry drop cookie, and savored the cookie’s light almond flavor mixed in with Wells Wood blueberries.

Julie said, “Vitamin B.”

I took Vitamin B supplements for vertigo. Putting together the symptoms Grandma had listed on various pages, I wondered if I’d gotten my vertigo from her.

Several pages later, Grandma’s 1958 entry of new Mercury dampened my enthusiasm. Voice quavering, I said to Julie, “Dad drove that Mercury after Grandpa died.” I flipped pages back and forth. “Grandma doesn’t mention Grandpa dying. When did he die?”

Our eyes met and the dread I felt about not finding the answer reflected in Julie’s eyes. We couldn’t ask our dads―they had died along with all the others in their generation. Would our older sisters know? Our older cousin Joe?

I racked my memory. “Grandpa died in the summer. We’d driven from Pittsburgh to Erie for the funeral, but I played with my little brother in Grandma’s front yard while the family attended the funeral. I wore a new summer dress. But what year?”

A spark erased the dread in Julie’s eyes. “There’s a copy of Grandpa’s obituary in Dad’s old desk. I’ll email the date to you.” And she did―June 28, 1960.

Grandma Lohse's Diary - November 7

But, reassured at the time, we continued and discovered patterns.

Tornado . . . rain . . . HOT HOT HOT . . . snow

Permanent LaRue . . . nails LaRue . . . hair cut LaRue

Ate at Glass House . . . ate at race track . . . ate at Leonharts . . . ate at Bolands . . . coffee and pie at Mason Dixon after church

“Who’d have thought they’d eat out so often?” Julie said.

What impressed me were Grandma’s repeated entries about letters.

Letter from Marge . . . Letter from Jane . . . Letter from Dorothy . . .

My husband, who’d been typing away at his computer in his indefatigable pursuit to save children from lead poisoning, called to Julie from his great-room-sofa office. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’m making pizza with homegrown tomato sauce.”

Julie set her side of the diary on the table and turned to face Spence. “That sounds delicious, but I don’t have time. I’m working two jobs now so weekend time is precious.”

While they discussed her new job with Aetna and her old job counseling private clients, my mind ruminated on letters. Grandma had valued letters.

On my computer, a Keepers folder stored special emails. And in the loft letters from friends and family crammed a file cabinet drawer. The latest came from Lori, a cousin on my mom’s side of the family.

I’d sent her a postcard, Adventure of Tea Cup Rock – Part 1 [See “Adventure at Tea Cup Rock” September 30, 2018], ending with Spence and I locked out of our rental car without cell phone service and needing help. I’d sent her daughter Ellie part two of the saga so that Lori wouldn’t be left in suspense.

After Lori had read the postcard, she wrote me a five page letter.

What a great story! It so sounds like something I would do. Ellie is out for the evening so I can’t get episode II until she gets back.

Snuggled in my Adirondack chair, I’d read Lori’s news with relish.

Ellie is still at home. She is trying to find full time work that she will enjoy. But isn’t being 22 and undecided what being 22 is for?

Twenty-two? It seemed like just a few years ago that Spence and I had visited the cousins in Toledo, and I’d played swimming Barbie dolls with first grade Ellie in Lori’s kitchen sink. I read on.

As I write this her mini pig, Pigby Proctor, is walking around the family room grunting hello to you. He is a 50 lb, pot belly mix . . . very handsome . . . all black . . . kind, loving, sweet and sometimes very pig headed. He was of course a rescue animal . . . I’m still retired. I’ll help out at fund raisers for animal rescue groups doing psychic mediumship readings and animal communication. Work is much more fun when you’re doing it to help someone else . . .

Lori’s five pages, like Grandma’s diary, Keeper emails, and filed letters, were written words that tied others’ lives to mine―like threads securing the layers of a quilt.

The movement of Julie turning in her chair and picking up her half of the diary pulled me back from my letter reverie.

Julie and I finished reading through New Year’s Eve then started back on January first. When we’d nearly finished, we found a reference to me―not flattering―on April 4, 1958.

Bob & kids came

4:30

Janet got sick

Maybe, if my nine-year-old self had treasured letters as much as my adult self, I could have made an entry in Grandma’s diary for writing her a letter instead of for getting sick.

Grandma Lohse's Diary - April 4

 

Reflections on the Fourth Week of Fall – the JANE AUSTEN marriage manual

I purchased Kim Izzo’s the JANE AUSTEN marriage manual while Spence and I celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary on Prince Edward Island. An easy decision. I enjoy modern Jane Austen inspired fiction and the title matched the purpose of our trip. 

The premise of the story is that Kate, a single forty-year-old who lost everything in the recession, sets out to marry Scott for security. She succeeds only to discover she can’t go through with the ceremony because he doesn’t love her and she doesn’t love him.

Early in the novel, any Janeite would predict, Kate really belongs with Griff, the Darcy figure. I love Griff. He rescues Kate again and again and again. But he also stands aloof because of Kate’s mercenary values.

Izzo continually makes things worse for her protagonist. Kate must pet a horse which terrifies her. The horse sneezes. Kate falls and lands in a pile of horse manure which ruins her white dress.

Izzo explores relationships of family and friends—especially in terms of love. She also dips into pregnancy, motherhood, and personal values.  

The ending is a Janeite’s dream Kate secures Griff on page 320 of the 324 page story. This novel ranks with Clueless for a favorite Jane Austen inspired story.

 

Guest Blog by Spencer Charles – A Journal by Emma Wells (Technically, a Cat)

Tall Emma - photo by Spencer Charles

       It is very difficult for a person in my position to gain the attention and respect of which any sentient being should expect as their due. I attribute this to my height. Were I taller, I feel, that the slights and injuries to which I am subjected every day, would be far more reasonable. To rectify this, I have been practicing. So far the results have been mixed, but one must endure and persist.

      My people mean well. They are nice. But being tall themselves, it is quite easy for them to overlook me, and in doing so, frequently to turn what I am sure they look upon as an act of kindness into that which borders upon wanton cruelty.

 

My brother, on the other hand, is an idiot. People seem to think he is eccentric and big hearted. They are incorrect. He is an idiot. To say that he means well, would be to imply that he thinks. To date I have seen no evidence of any such activity. It came therefore as a very cruel shock, when I discovered that my person, Janet, has had my brother, this semi-animated hairball, writing guest posts for her blog. [See”George’s Big Morning” September 23, 2018 and “Bonus Guest Blog” September 6, 2015]

 Not once, but twice! Twice! Once, one might grant as a momentary desperation so great to be willing to sacrifice one’s own self worth for whatever stick-figure, comic-strip, drawn-in-kitty-litter drivel that that semi-animated hairball was able to come up with. Possibly, although less likely, there was a case of mistaken identity. But, twice! One shudders to think what Jovian patience Janet must have had to conjure up in order to cope with reading through the scornful, vitriolic hate mail she must have received for subjecting the internet to such posts.

      Caring for my people, and the world at large, as I do, I can not but feel at least somewhat responsible. I have been asked, numerous times in the past, to help with providing a well penned word or two, invitations which I had always felt obliged to turn down. Had I known what the results of those refusals would be, I should not have been so quick. As tried and oppressed as I am by my boorish brother, clearly it is the rest of the world that needs protecting from him. My duty then is clear. Seeing that Janet is at the end of another short week and in need of a guest blog once again, I have offered myself up to provide a web-post-thingie in her (and definitely in my idiot brother’s) absence. It is the least that I can do.

      I must confess that I am not an avid consumer of “the internets.” Tweets are for birds, webs are for spiders; late romantic literature is more to my taste. However, the concept does not seem too hard. Having looked over Janet’s previous posts, her blog would seem to be a timely recounting of various daily events. That seems easy enough. Just last week, I lived through a Wednesday that, if not worthy of an Homerian Epic, should still prove quite grand in the telling. So, it is my great pleasure to provide you with an outline of it for your entertainment. Please enjoy.

Emma's Head in Toy Basket

4:00 am Ready for the start of a fast paced, hectic day. A large nourishing breakfast is required.

4:01 am Strange. All of my people seem to be asleep.

4:02 am My attempts to wake Janet and the Old Man Person have failed. This is quite intolerable.

5:37 am After a quick nap, I am awake again. Another quick circuit of the house reveals that all my people are still asleep.

5:38 am My idiot brother approaches. I quickly deter his advance with a savage beating about his vacuous head. He runs, chastised.

5:39 am Success! In search of comfort, my idiot brother has awoken the Old Man Person.

5:41 am Morning sustenance has been obtained. Now, there is just enough time for a quick nap in the hallway.

6:47 am Emergency! Panic! All of my people have awoken and are trying to WALK THROUGH THE HALLWAY! WITH SHOES ON!!!

6:48 am I have finished administering reprimands. All seem appropriately chastened.

6:50 am I have arrived at the living room couch.

6:51 am After a great expenditure of effort, I have enlisted the assistance of the Young Person. He has cleaned the sofa of unwanted pillows and lifted me up onto it. Working from experience, I have deftly cut off his attempts to escape and convinced him to sit down and commence with the petting. Perfect.

7:05 am The petting has stopped for some reason. Did the Young Person hurt his arm? No matter. It was about time for a quick nap anyway.

9:57 am I awake to find that the Young Person is gone and that my idiot brother has taken his place. I administer a head beating as a corrective.

Two Cats on the Sofa

10:10 am Time to curl up on the rug on the floor of the guest room, just so. It has to be just so, so that one eye can be kept on the door to the hallway, and the other closed while taking a quick nap.

10:30 am Success! The Young Person tried to sneak past me! He has however been stopped. Time to be picked up, placed on the guest room bed and petted.

10:49 am The petting has stopped. There must be something wrong with the Young Person’s arm. Perhaps the Old Man Person should take him to the vet.

1:09 pm After another quick nap, time for LUNCH.

1:10 pm My idiot brother is at the food bowl. He isn't eating. He is staring at me.

1:11 pm He is still staring at me.

1:12 pm Outrageous. Just as I start to eat, the IMBECILE STARTS LICKING MY HEAD. This is intolerable.

1:13 pm I give up and let him have the food bowl. The idiot starts to eat. Apparently he is hungry now. Fine. I will get some refreshing water instead.

1:14 pm NOO!!! MORE LICKING! That’s it! I can't take anymore.

1:15 pm I have retreated to the bed in the loft where no one will think to look for me. I clean my head thoroughly. Maybe I will just lie down for a quick little nap.

3:30 pm Still thirsty. Time to sneak downstairs, just so. It is a manner that will guarantee that no one will hear the gong like, resonating tones as I drop from stair to metal stair.

3:31 pm Arrival. All my people and the idiot seem oblivious. Success!

3:35 pm Refreshment acquired, it seems like time for a quick nap in Janet’s room.

5:35 pm The Old Man Person is yelling? What is going on?

5:37 pm They forgot to call me for dinner! Imbeciles.

5:45 pm Janet is ignoring me. I need petted. I know she can see me. I am right here on my blanket beside her chair. Hello? This is intolerable.

5:46 pm Janet is not responding to my good natured attempts to maul her arm. Fine. I will take a nap instead.

6:38 pm Refreshed. Now, it’s time to get up into Janet's lap!

6:49 pm Still on the floor. This is intolerable.

9:07 pm Awoken by the Old Man Person calling me. What? No! It is not time to go to bed with Janet! She was ignoring me! She can sleep by herself!

9:08 pm WHY AM I BEING PICKED UP?!? THIS IS INTOLERABLE.

9:10 pm In bed with Janet, receiving pets. What a day!

FIN.

Emma Napping in Yoga Twist Pose