Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Spring – Celebrating Two Dads

Tiger Swallowtail on Dame's Rocket

When From You Flowers sent emails this week, I didn’t glower at their insensitivity in sending Father’s Day promotions to people with deceased fathers. I smirked. After years missing my dad and father-in-law while others celebrated with dads on Father’s Day, I had a better idea. I would celebrate my dads with activities they enjoyed.

My dad golfed.

He even took me golfing once. I’d been five or six. On the tee, he leaned down, looked me in the eye, and said, “If someone yells four, lay down and cover your head with your hands.”

My sister and I waited two yards behind Dad and his friends. A man set his golf ball on a tee, spread his feet, then swung his club back and fourth. “Four!”

I dove to the ground, put my hands on my head, and wondered how long I had to stay down.

Dad chuckled and lifted me off the ground. “Not on the tee. On the fairway.”

His friends laughed.

Eyeing Dad’s golf bag, I wished I could hide inside. Too big. And the breeze blew my bangs off my forehead. I couldn’t even hide behind them.

The men stopped laughing and swung their clubs. Swearing at balls, they rolled golf carts off the tee.

After that, when I heard four, I stood with my arms against my sides―ready to absorb the sting of an incoming ball. I needn’t have bothered. No balls flew near, and Dad let my sister and me take the flag out of the hole on the green. I had more fun holding the flag than the men had putting.

Sixty-some years later, I’d never golfed, but I putted―on miniature golf courses. I convinced my husband, who mumbled something about living with an obsessed woman, into an outing at Putt-It Miniature Golf in Meadville Tuesday evening.

That eighteen hole Putt-It would have fit on one of Dad’s greens. Blue, orange, and yellow carpets replaced the close-cut grass. Water replaced flags in the holes―Western Pennsylvania had more than its share of rain this season. Instead of fairways, we got a wagon wheel, a swinging faux-bowling ball, and an outhouse complete with shoes sticking out from under the door.

Feet together and putter snug against the ball, I studied the T-shaped first hole. Thinking more like angling a ball on Dad’s pool table rather than driving down a fairway, I tapped the ball out of a dent in the carpet. The ball rolled down the straightaway and stopped a foot from the hole―an easy par two for me. The succeeding holes with curves, speed bumps, and metal shoots proved more challenging. By the end of the first nine, I’d hit a hole in one, two scores of six, and every number in between except five. Spence covered the five score for me. And we tied, each fourteen over par.

I couldn’t imagine Dad, a man with high standards, scoring fourteen over par on those nine holes. He would have frowned at that score. Dad had scrutinized my report cards and said, “You could have gotten more As.”

Dad and Violets

Parring and bogeying the next eight holes, I imagined Dad’s face easing into his that’s-better expression.

Then came the eighteenth hole.

Spence and I waited behind the grandmother and her two grandchildren that we’d followed through the course. While five young boys and a couple teenage girls cheered, four adults angled their shots up the rise and into the slot of the upward-curving shoot―in vain. Balls rolled back to the tee or bounded off the course. The cheerers hooted and laughed. The line grew―a dating couple followed us, two millennial women came next, and a father-son duo waited last.

When our turn came, my ball rolled back to the tee, hit the side of the shoot and angled off the course twice, then rolled through the shoot and onto the green. But, with penalty shots for going off course, I’d already used the allowed six strokes.

I could hear Dad’s chuckle as loud as if I were on the golf course when I was little. This time I didn’t want to hide in his golf bag. I wanted to give Dad a hug. I hugged Spence instead.

Spence would have joined me when I celebrated his dad, but Spence had driven to Cleveland Friday, the day I made time after chores, kittens, and lap swim.

Harold, Spence’s dad, enjoyed walking through the woods in search of wild flowers.

Slipping into outdoor clothes, I stuffed a pad of paper, pencil, and scissors into my jeans pockets then headed for the woods. The most dramatic flowers grew out of a tree’s upturned root ball in Deer Creek. Dame’s rocket. A tiger swallowtail butterfly flitted from flower to flower sipping nectar.

Leaving the tiger swallowtail, I ambled along the path that Harold had mowed with his walk-behind tractor and Spence mowed with his pull-behind-the-tractor brushhog.

Some forty years earlier, when Harold and I’d walked this path, a garter snake wriggled through the weeds toward me. I stopped and stared.

Harold let loose his classic chesty laugh. “The snake’s more afraid of you than you are of it.”

I wanted to believe him, but the snake kept coming and crawled over my shoe.

Another laugh. “Garter snakes are good for the garden. They eat bugs and slugs.”

Passing fox gloves and wild roses, the only other flowers blooming in the woods, I strode to the field and garden. The Solomon’s Seal in the raised bed above the north garden had finished blooming. Harold used to point to False Solomon’s Seal in the woods and say, “That’s not the true Solomon’s Seal. It’s false. It’s Sealomon’s Sol.” Since he didn’t burst into his chesty laugh, I didn’t discover his joke until I came across the plant and its proper name in his wildflower guide years later.

Laughing for Harold, I listed twenty-eight flowers in bloom from alsike clover with its pink-tinged petals to yellow zucchini blossoms.

Since the memorial flower walk hadn’t turned up any flags or iris, my dad’s favorite flower, I straddled the drainage ditch along West Creek Road and cut ox-eyed daisies for him. For Harold, I cut a red peony and dame’s rocket―not the from the plant the butterfly chose.

Inside the log house, while kittens raced on and around my feet in the kitchen, I snipped and created bouquets for my two dads―more personal than From You Flowers could have arranged.

Happy Father’s Day, Dads, and thanks for all the laughs.

Harold in the Woods

 

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Spring – Reintroducing Ande with an E, Rills, and Gilbert

Gilbert, Rills, and Ande with an E (Jumping)

Laying on my side under the laundry tub, I stretched my arm behind the washing machine Wednesday afternoon. My fingers wiggled toward Gilbert’s round kitten eyes six inches away. I kept reaching though I figured Gilbert would rake me with his claws like his sister Rilla had.

At least I’d stood to grab Rilla in the kitten room where she napped on our son’s bed. I’d reached, she dove, and I clutched her back legs.

She howled. Thrashing, she freed her legs, but I tightened my grip around her middle.

Eighteen claws dug into my hand like mini-circular saws moving at the speed of light.

Ignoring the stinging-drops of blood, I stuffed her into the cat carrier. She pounced on the door and clawed at me through the wires.

Unnerved by Rilla’s reaction, Anne Spelled-with-an-E squirmed when I picked her up. I tipped the cat carrier onto its end, Rilla slid to the new bottom, and I dropped Anne inside.

During that commotion, Gilbert clawed the cardboard barrier blocking the kitten door and escaped.

My husband and I searched the first floor for ten minutes before Spence spotted the kitten behind the washer. We covered both exits―Spence by the side wall and me under the wash tub.

Gilbert sat out of our reach and curled his tail around his paws.

“Try sticking the broom in your end so he runs this way.” I shifted on the cool, hard tile.

“Wrong angle for a broom.” Spence said.

The floppy extension of the dust mop appeared at the end of the tunnel behind the washer.

Gilbert charged toward my face.

Grabbing his torso, I pulled him to my chest.

Out hearts thumped in wild, out-of-sync rhythms.

With Gilbert in my hands, I couldn’t scoot out from under the tub. “Spence. Please take him from me.”

Man hands encircled mine.

I released Gilbert.

“That’s my big boy.” Spence pulled the kitten away. “Want to see your sisters?”

A half hour later―the cat carrier strapped in the back seat, Spence and I strapped in the front―I steered round back road curves toward the Greenville Veterinary Clinic. I hoped the vet could fix Anne’s problems―her runny eyes and the bright yellow diarrhea she squirted down my turtleneck and jeans when I’d cuddled her this morning. The kittens also needed shots and deworming. Barn kittens always had worms.

“Slow down.” Spence braced his hands against the dashboard. “We’re not late.”

Glancing at the speedometer, I calculated I’d gone three, maybe four, miles above the speed limit. Moderate for me. In the next mile, I caught up to a dawdling country driver. I slowed to fifteen mph below the speed limit.

Spence relaxed.

When we got to the clinic, he set the cat carrier on a bench in the middle of the waiting room. He straddled the bench and lowered his face to the carrier door. “That wasn’t bad. You’re fine.”

Vet techs took breaks to coo and peek at our eight-week-old kittens. “Ahhh. They’re adorable . . . Oooo. So cute . . . What are their names?”

Carrying three manila folders, the tallest peeking-tech led us into an exam room. Spence put the carrier on the table, I opened the carrier door, and the kittens huddled in the back, aka the alternate-bottom.

The tech picked up a towel. “I need to weigh them. Hand me one at a time.”

Reaching into the carrier, I pulled out the white kitten with a gray tabby splotch on her back. “This one’s Anne.”

Wrapping Anne in the towel, the tech transferred the kitten to the scale then back to me. I put Anne in and pulled Gilbert out. Then Rilla. The kittens submitted to the handling with resignation. No claws.

Gilbert Chasing his Tail

The tech giggled. “They’re a tenth of an ounce apart.” She scribbled numbers in the last folder. “Anne is one point nine ounces. Gilbert’s one point eight. Rilla’s one point seven.”

Stethoscope dangling like a necklace and lab coat curling out from her hips like a 1960 flip hairstyle, Dr. Tammy Clark strode into the room. She probably had exam tools in her pockets. “I hear you have three kittens.”

Reaching into the carrier, I put my hand around Anne’s middle. “I’m concerned about Anne. Her eyes are runny, and this morning she developed diarrhea.” Anne emerged with legs peddling. “And I need you to check their genders. The farmer said one kitten was male and the other two were probably females.”

Dr. Tammy reached under her lab coat and pulled a cotton swab from her hip pocket. She held Anne around the neck and swabbed dirt from her ears. Then Dr. Tammy flipped Anne upside down and studied her bottom. “It’s hard to tell,” she murmured and squinted. “Ah! Anne’s a boy. Let me check the others now.” She handed Anne to me.

Putting him back in the carrier, I pulled out Gilbert.

Dr. Tammy flipped Gilbert and pronounced him a boy. No surprise. Her lips twitched in and out of a smirk when she examined Rilla. “Another boy.”

The tech giggled and jotted notes in the folders.

Spence and I looked at each other. My face must have registered the same surprise and disillusionment that his did.

Three boys!

Change their names.

I took four days to decide on those names!

You should have listened to your sister or son and picked unisex names.

I had seven pages of names!

Spence hasn’t built a fire in weeks. The lists are still in the fire starter box.

Dr. Tammy interrupted my fretting. “We can use their names for today.”

She finished her exam and checked the results of the blood and poop tests. “The kittens have conjunctivitis.” She picked up a tube. “Put this medicine in their eyes three times a day.” She exchanged the tube for a blue vial. “They have coccidia. Give them half a pill once a day for ten days and keep their bottoms clean. A bath today would help.” She put the vial on the folders and reached for three plastic bags, each with a filled syringe. “And they have round worms. Give them this liquid in ten days. We won’t do their shots today. Don’t give them flea medicine yet. Bring them back in two weeks.”

The doctor left and the vet tech fetched a helper to give the kittens their first dose of the three medicines.

Spence carried the boys to the car while I paid a hefty bill. I dashed through pounding rain to join the fellas. When I pulled out of the parking place, no sound came from the carrier, but a muffled air-raid siren sounded in my pocket. I reached inside, pulled out the cell phone, and handed it to Spence. “It’s probably a flash flood warning. Check for me.”

He opened the phone. “Flash flood warning until seven.”

Windshield wipers on high, I steered to the end of the driveway and waited for a line of cars―all their tires spraying water. I joined the end of the line and drove through two inches of water on the main street of Greenville. Steering to avoid ponded water by a clogged drain, I said, “If main street’s this bad, how will the back roads be?”

Spence stared straight ahead. “Don’t go the back way. Stay on three-fifty-eight.” He set my phone in a cup holder. “There’s a dip under the railroad trestle. That could be flooded. Go around by the hospital.”

Weaving from lane to lane as if I couldn’t decide if I were driving in England or the US, I avoided pools of water, passed the hospital, and crossed the railroad tracks.

“Turn right. Go uphill to the main road.”

Following Spence’s directions, I joined the line of cars creeping along the main street. Water shot into the road from cross streets and driveways.

“Slow down. You don’t want to hydroplane.”

Outside of town, I followed a jeep. When it slowed, I slowed. And I watched how much water its wheels sprayed. I often often took the opposite lane from the jeep―it had a higher water clearance than the Subaru.

Cat Tent - Rills, Ande with an E, and Gilbert

“You’re going too fast.” Spence clutched the sides of his seat. “When the jeep breaks, slow down! It’s telling you something.”

I sighed in frustration. He must have been as tense as I was. But I valued his expert navigating advice. “Should I drive all the way to Greenville?”

“No. Route nineteen will be better. There’s only one low spot―at Hadley.”

Before we got to route nineteen, two cars parked half on the berm, half in a farm yard. Lines of traffic stopped in both directions while a twenty-foot-wide stream rushed across the road. The jeep plowed through. I didn’t. I watched the oncoming traffic.

One by one, a tractor trailer, an SUV, and a pickup veered onto their berm and crept through the stream. Deeper than we’d been through, but not too deep. A compact car stopped thirty feet from the stream. I waited for it to pass. It didn’t budge. Steering for the shallows, I crept ahead.

“Wait,” Spence shouted. “There’s another car coming.”

If I hadn’t been gripping the steering wheel so hard, I would’ve bopped him on the head. Between gritted teeth, I spit, “It’s waiting for me.”

The Subaru inched through the stream.

After lots more “slow down,” “move over,” and a few “you’re doing great” comments, we made it to the low spot in Hadley.

Muddy water rushed downhill.

White-capped waves hurtled across the road.

I stopped the car.

We stared out the windshield.

“This might be the turn around spot.” Spence adjusted the tractor cap on his head. “It’s a crap shoot.”

Watching the traffic from the other direction, I made mental notes. The water flowed faster than the stream by the farm, but ran the same depth coming out of the Rainbow Valley Restaurant parking lot across the road. And the stream was narrower―only ten feet wide.

Three kittens in the backseat. Too far to walk home. I steered toward the shallow water and held my breath.

Spence put his hands on the dashboard. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

The Subaru trundled through.

I exhaled loud enough for Dr. Tammy to hear me back in Greenville. The drive home from Hadley had more puddles, several cross street streams, and two on-coming emergency vehicles―all minor compared to the Hadley crossing.

Spence carried the cat carrier inside to the bathroom.

I fetched baby shampoo, hand towels, and a bucket. I filled the bucket and the wash tub with two inches of warm water. Then I reached into the carrier and grabbed Anne. Keeping my left hand firmly around his middle, I dipped him into the water.

He squealed and thrashed his legs.

I rubbed his bottom with the soapy water and carefully washed his legs and head.

He squealed and squirmed.

After pouring rinse water over Anne, I wrapped him in a towel and rubbed his fur. He purred. I wrapped him in a dry towel and handed him to Spence.

“We could call him Ande with an E.” Spence cradled the kitten against his chest. “That’s the way Ande in Columbus spells his name.”

After rinsing and refilling the wash tub and bucket, I picked up Gilbert and lowered him into the water. He was calm―stoic even. His bath went quickly. When I wrapped him in the towel and patted his fur, he shook. “He’s shivering. He must be cold.”

Spence took Gilbert from me. “Or scared to death.”

Rilla came out of the carrier like he’d gone in―all claws bared and ready to gouge. Once his paws hit the water, though, he calmed and accepted the bath as if he’d bathed daily for pleasure. While I dried him, I cuddled him to my chest. “You could be Rill. A rill is a little brook.” I kissed the top of his head. “You’re little, run like a flowing brook, and had multiple water adventures today.”

The kitten blinked his eyes at me.

“Even better, we could call you Rills. The z sound at the end gives the name spice, and you have plenty of spice.”

Ande with an E, Rills, and Gilbert rested in the kitten room.

I cleaned the cat carrier and looked at the floor below the wash tub. Cool. Dry. No unnerved kittens. No spraying tires. After my long afternoon, the floor tempted me to lie on my side and take a catnap.

Sleeping Kittens - Ande with an E, Gilbert, and Rills