Reflections - The Twelve Bungle Method

Impatiens Shadow

Bungle One

Spence flashed his are-you-crazy smile at me. For the last four years, he’d done that every time I mentioned using shadows for a calendar theme. “Shadows are black. No color.”

Disappointed but trusting his judgment, I had switched to a water theme for 2019, gardens for 2020, and holidays for 2021. But shadows still intrigued me. Pictures are light. Light makes shadows. Even if their photos only pleased me, I would make a 2022 Wells Wood Shadow Calendar.

Bungle Two

Starting in October 2020, I prayed for sunny days and toted my Nikon on walks. The camera flashed to compensate for dark areas. No problem outside. Photographing inside, however, the flash erased shadows. I turned it off. Photos came out gray and shadowless. I switched to the phone camera and positioned Spence’s work light to darken the natural shadows. Shaking hands blurred these photos. No worries. I click, click, clicked the shutter release and deleted the fuzzy photos.

Bungle Three

While searching for shadow pictures, I debated paper. We used 20 lb paper for everyday printing. Last year, I switched to bright 28 lb paper for brighter photos. But, by mid year, the photos bled through the paper spoiling the date pages. I sent Spence to Staples—the closest one is an hour away—for heavier paper. He came back with bright 32 lb paper. “This is the heaviest I could find.” Brilliant colors printed on the heavier paper. Time will tell if the photos still bleed through.

Bungle Four

Formatting came next. I opened the 2021 calendar file on our loft desktop and changed the pages to 2022 dates. Easy—until the computer died. I didn’t panic. That computer had died and resurrected itself several times during the fall. I waited a day, logged in, and, voila, the computer sprang to life. Not taking chances, I formatted the rest of the pages in one sitting, printed test copies, and saved everything to the portable hard drive.

The computer died. Again. 

This time it stayed dead.

My stomach dropped to my toes. The printers wouldn’t talk to my chrome book or the portable hard drive. “Spence, we need a new computer. Now.”

“I’m on it.” Within hours, he ordered a generic computer at a price that would have made his late mother proud. One hundred thirty-two dollars.

Bungle Five

A tiny box arrived two weeks later. Spence held it up and grinned. “Your new computer.”

The object he pulled out of the box was 5 by 5 by 1 ¾ inches. “You’re kidding. That’s not big enough to be a computer.”

“It’s a mini computer. Don’t worry. It’s more powerful than the old one.” For another week, he tinkered with the computer to partition the hard drive—part for the Windows operating system that came with the computer and part for the Ubuntu operating system that I’d been using for years. Logging into Windows took one password. Switching from the Windows to Ubuntu took eight steps. Spence made a list for me to follow. Number six read, “WAIT PATIENTLY.” He knows my tolerance for computers. 

Once in, I immediately transferred the calendar, farm journals, and recent photo files from the portable hard drive to the Ubuntu desktop. Safe. But the Ubuntu desktop would only talk to the black and white laser printer. I had to use the Windows desktop for the color Canon printer. I shut down, rebooted, plugged the portable hard drive in, and selected the file for the calendar.

Corrupted. Unreadable.

But I’d just used it on the other desktop! I ran downstairs, fetched a pen drive, and booted into Ubuntu. After copying the calendar file, I shut down the computer, booted into Windows, and opened the pen drive.

Corrupted. Do you want to fix it?

“Yes,” I screamed as if the computer could hear me. I clicked the fix button.

This could take some time.

“Okay!” I clicked the fix button again.

The computer responded immediately. No errors found.

 

Creek Road Shadows

Bungle Six

Before the new computer proclaimed more hassles, I printed the January photo. The printer spit out a dull, full page photo of snowy Creek Road striped with tree shadows. No margins. No caption. Biting my thumbnail, I printed February and March. “Spence! The computer is messing up the format.”

He clomped up the spiral stairs, peered over my shoulder, and watched me print April and May.

“Why is the computer printing dull photos without captions and borders?”

“The photo quality deteriorated with the enlargement.” He patted my shoulder. “I can’t explain the format.” He left.

Shutting the computer down, I stared at the blank screen. I couldn’t, wouldn’t give up.

Rebooting the umpteenth time, I chose the picture for January and tapped print. The printer spit out a bright photo with borders and captions. Before the computer changed its mind, I ordered it to print nineteen more. 

Later I would discover the calendar folder contained a photo folder and a picture folder. The first time, I’d selected photos, with raw photos, instead of pictures, with formatted borders and captions. The computer did what I asked rather than what I wanted—a frequent source of frustration for me with the non-mind reading machine.

Bungle Seven

Because photo ink—especially black—had smudged in the past, I spread the calendar papers on the loft floor to dry before scooting downstairs.

Overhead, paws pattered. Papers swished. I imagined Gilbert—the other cats slept in great room chairs—skating on my calendar sheets. When I climbed the stairs, Gilbert slid on the papers, bent edges, and arranged my neat rows into bunches.

I finger pressed the bent edges smooth, spread the pages into neat rows again, and grabbed Gilbert. “You’re quite the skater, Gil,” I crooned and carried him downstairs. Setting him on the knitted afghan, I pet him until kneading the squishy yarn with alternating paws mesmerized him. I could stack the dry pages after dinner.

The next morning, paws pattering and paper swishing interrupted my ablutions. I’d forgotten to stack the calendar sheets. Spitting frothy toothpaste into the sink, I dashed upstairs. Gilbert swished his tail, scattering more pages. I moved him to a bare patch of floor then stacked the papers. Rolling the folding table across the bridge—from the sewing loft to the computer loft—sent Gilbert pounding down the stairs. He didn’t trust a table that moved and made the sound of a bowling ball. I set the calendar papers on the table.

Bungle Eight

That afternoon, I printed multiple copies of the other nine calendar photos. I spread them on the table, over the floor, and atop book shelves. Each time Gilbert approached the papers, I grabbed him, said “NO” in my teacher's voice, and toted him downstairs.

He zoomed back.

I removed him again and again and again.

When I left the papers drying, I coaxed Gilbert to come with me. He did but raced upstairs when I cranked the spiralizer to turn zucchini into strands of spaghetti.

I fetched him.

He tilted his cute face at me when I set him in my hewn log chair. Then he disappeared.  

From overhead came patter-patter, swish-swish.

I growled.

“I’ll get him.” Spence carried Gilbert to the great room and set him by the food bowls. 

Gilbert nibbled a few crunchies then dashed upstairs.

“My turn.” I stomped up, grabbed the cat, tossed him into the bathroom, and slammed the door. “Time out!”

Twenty minutes later, Spence opened the bathroom door. “We still love you, Gilbert.”

Gilbert ran around Spence, pounded up the steps, and patter-swish skated.

Dry or not, I stacked the papers and left them on the table. 

To dry the date pages, I spread them on the table or atop shelves.

Gilbert didn’t skate again.

 

Gilbert and Calendar Sheets

Bungle Nine

With Gilbert and his brothers sleeping in the great room—each in his own rustic chair, I tiptoed upstairs to print the cover pages without feline help. I booted into Windows then reached for the folder containing the test calendar pages and the pen drive. Grabbing the bottom, I lifted the folder off the shelf next to the railing. 

The folder tilted.

The pen drive slipped out and flew over the railing. Tumbling, twirling, and flipping from black side to red, it plummeted. With a crack-boing-crack, it bounced across the great room floor.

Six cat ears swiveled. Three tails swatted chair cushions. Ande scampered into the bathroom. Rills ran to the guest room. Gilbert blinked and closed his eyes.

I needed that pen drive.

Clomping downstairs, I figured the pen drive would be easy to spot with the red side up or with it landing in the open space. Neither happened. The plastic missile had skittered, red side down, under something. “Ande, Rills, Gilbert! Help me find that red thingie.” 

Silence. 

Ande hid between the shower curtain and liner. Rills crouched under the guest room desk. Gilbert curled in a ball. His side gently rose and fell.

Despite objections from my bony knees, I crawled around the great room peering under the sofa, end tables, and chairs. Twice. No pen drive. Pulling the coat tree away from the wall, I spied a sliver of red on the floor behind the squirrel-observation table. I fetched a broom. With a swipe, swipe, swipe, the pen drive slid out.

Fearing Windows would declare the freefall-drive corrupted and unreadable, I plugged it into a USB slot. The computer made no comment. The cats hid or slept, Windows cooperated, and I held my breath until the last cover page shot out of the printer.

Bungle Ten

Because of Gilbert’s shenanigans, I sorted calendar pages on the rolling table rather than on the floor. Twenty piles grew steadily—December, November, October . . . Humming “I Am Woman,” I swayed my fanny coordinating the song’s rhythm with placing pages on piles until I picked up the August stack.

Gilbert’s dusty-brown paw prints marred the end of the first week.

I set the page aside. He probably only damaged one. Checking the remaining pages, I discovered more paw prints on another August page, an upside down June page, paw prints on a May page, and half a dozen bent edges that finger pressing wouldn’t smooth. At most two pages in the same month were unusable. I’d made two extra copies in case. In case had happened. I discarded the damaged pages and searched for Spence.

“Gilbert put paw prints on some calendar pages so I won’t have any extra copies this year.”

“Awe.” His face took on a reverent look. “He autographed the calendar. We could use his copy.”

Spence had a point. I hustled upstairs, fetched the discarded pages, and assembled a Gilbert autographed copy. One extra calendar.

 

Bungle Eleven

With Gilbert sleeping in the bedroom downstairs, I fetched a stapler upstairs. On the wobbly, rolling table, I slipped calendar sheets between covers and whacked the stapler. The staple bent. I eased it out with a tooth-trimmed fingernail then gently crunched the stapler. The staple bent. Experimenting with different forces didn’t help. At whatever pressure I used, some staples bent and others sank in smoothly.

After assembling the eleventh calendar, blood oozed out from under my fingernail. Folks might enjoy paw autographs. No one would appreciate bloody days. I sucked the offending finger, figured Dracula had strange tastes, and wiped the rest of the blood on my stay-at-home pants. Choosing different bit-off fingernails to dislodge bent staples when blood appeared, I managed to keep the calendars clean. My pants, however, looked like I’d taken a shortcut through a blackberry thicket.

Bungle Twelve

Last year, I mailed calendars in early December. One to New York City arrived in February and another to England arrived in April after its recipient had died. I blamed Louis DeJoy, the new postmaster general, for making the postal system “more efficient.” 

This year, I compensated for his efficiency and mailed those calendars two Mondays before Thanksgiving. An email from New York three days later surprised me. The shadow calendar had arrived. Dismissing the timing, because five weeks early beats two months late, I let the shadow theme fade from my mind and contemplated horizons.

Driving Spence home from the eye doctor’s because his eyes were still dilated from the exam, I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the berm on the bridge across Lake Wilhelm. “Sorry.” I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket. “The light behind the clouds and the reflections of the trees in the water make a great horizon photo. “Want to come?”

He shaded his eyes with his hand. “I’ll wait here.” He didn’t flash his are-you-crazy smile. 

 

Lake Wilhelm Horizon

 Reflections - A Tale of Two Elections

Pin Oak Tree

Though Spence and I began with a common mission, our Election Day tasks diverged.

Early that morning, I pulled the Subaru into the parking lot behind the Milledgeville Community Christian Church. Spence jumped out of the passenger seat, tied his mask on, and hustled over to Kathy. Glasses and the stocking knit cap snagged my mask strings. I pulled the mess off, untangled it, and layered one item at a time. When I reached Kathy and Spence at the edge of the lot, he asked her, “Do you need anything? Food? A coat? A hot drink?” 

She wore a denim jacket without a hat, but her hair is much thicker than either of ours. She chortled. “No, I'm fine. I’ve got everything I need.”

We had nudged Kathy into running a write-in campaign two years ago. I took her campaign photo and composed the campaign letter. Sitting at her kitchen table with a menagerie of rescue dogs and cats weaving around our feet, I addressed envelopes for a mailing. Spence knocked on doors, handed voters the campaign letter, and answered questions about the write-in process. We also posted her campaign sign in our front yard. She’d lost by eight votes to a crazy whippersnapper. 

He only attended a few township meetings but disrupted most of them with angry outbursts. He pulled shenanigans like convincing a plaint supervisor we needed a $104,236.97 backhoe that will take five years of tight budgeting to pay off. 

This election, Kathy circulated petitions to get on the ballot. For the sake of civility and the township budget, we needed to elect her.

Inside the church kitchen, four masked neighbors greeted Spence and me from behind a long table. Linda, from the quilt guild, shoved the sign-in book toward me. “Did you walk?”

I took the offered ballpoint and scribbled my name while Spence answered. “Janet drove. I’m off to Cleveland next.” 

Handing the pen to Spence, I told the group. “He calls this my coming out party.” They laughed knowing I hadn’t voted in person since the pandemic began.

The man, whose face I recognized when he pulled his mask onto his chin to talk, pointed at another black pen in a voting booth. “Use that. Fill the ovals completely.” 

Behind me Barb, whose house is near the bridge we turn around at on one or our walks, told the man’s wife, “They’re voters number eight and nine.”

Sliding our ballots into the scanning machine fulfilled our shared mission. At 9:00, Spence moved onto his second mission—helping Rebecca win.

Rebecca Maurer, a lawyer, wrote a lead safe housing ordinance for the CLASH’s petition campaign two years ago. The city adopted her resolution that same year. She was running in 2021 for Ward 12 council member. Her website listed implementing lead safe housing reforms second after treating residents of the east and west sides of her ward equally. Her opponent, the 16-year incumbent Anthony Brancatelli, was the only council member who had voted against Rebecca’s lead safe housing ordinance. He greeted members of the Realtor association by first name and owned rental units that had poisoned two children.

Rebecca needed to win for the sake of Cleveland’s children.

Spence hopped into his old Chevy truck. On his bright sunny drive to Mound School in the Slavic Village neighborhood of Cleveland, he daydreamed of his not-yet-built Ford Maverick. 

Driving under the same periwinkle blue sky to Joann Fabric in Meadville, I daydreamed of balmy weather for Spence’s outdoor campaigning and my walk. Joann workers, unlike poll workers, didn’t wear face masks. I bought two yards of olive green belting to make tote bag handles and hustled outside. Unfortunately, lumpy gray clouds hovered over Wells Wood when I got home. And, as the Chevy edged into Cleveland, a bank of black clouds formed to the north.

Rebecca's Postcard

Spence parked in Mound School’s back lot and lugged his gear to the tent one of Rebecca’s campaign workers had set up near the driveway of the main parking lot. Two of the tent legs stood on the sidewalk, two on the tree lawn. On the other side of the sidewalk, American flags flapped in the cold wind and marked the campaign free-zone for the polls.

Rebecca’s first volunteer sat at a table under the tent. Besides wearing a winter coat and hat, she’d wrapped herself in a blanket. Spence took over for the wrapped bundler. He stood on the sidewalk behind the flags, shouted “Vote for Rebecca'' and waved her campaign postcard every time someone pulled in.

Some voters ignored him. Some glanced but kept driving. A few stopped for the postcard. They smiled at the photo of Rebecca with Yvonka, the executive director of Northeast Ohio Black Health Coalition and a CLASH member who works closely with Spence. Occasionally Spence returned to the tent to check emails. Mostly he stood, shouted, and waved—his exercise for the day.

At Wells Wood, I exercised by walking through the woods. Tree branches littered Spence’s tractor paths. Stooping to muscle the large branches out of the way provided an additional aerobic workout. Moving one branch, I discovered a pile of bear poop nestled in brown leaves. I’d forgotten my bear bell, the jingle bell I attach around my boot lace to alert bears a human is around. No worries. Shuffling through the thick leaf carpet made plenty of noise.

In Cleveland, Susan sat under Rebecca’s tent, passed out literature for Brancatelli, and chatted to Spence about restarting her life after five years taking care of her recently deceased father. From her car, she fetched a coat for Spence—which he didn’t wear—and sunglasses for a voter with glaucoma who had trouble seeing in the sunshine. 

Gradually pushing the black clouds southward, the wind increased in intensity. It picked the tent up and blew it into Ackley Road. 

Without checking for traffic, Susan darted after it.

“Careful,” Spence shouted.

Susan couldn’t handle the tent, twice as tall as her. Spence muscled it shut and pulled it out of the road. The wind opened the tent and sailed it back. Mimicking the Keystone Cop comedies, Spence wrestled the wind to return the tent to the tree lawn. Then he fetched supports from his truck—two small barbells, two screwdrivers, and duct tape. Taping the improvised weights to the aluminum legs, he balanced the tent.

At home, I sat inside the toasty log house, balanced the checkbook, and paid bills online. Gilbert walked over the computer a couple times. I didn’t have to struggle to lift him off.

With the tent in place and waiting for voters, Spence talked. He talked with optimistic, chatty Susan. He talked with TJ, a young radical CLASH member, who came by to borrow Spence’s copy of Let Them Call Me Rebel. They discussed Saul Alinsky and organizing. Spence also talked with Darrick, a CLASH friend who stopped on his way home. He’d spent the day knocking on doors and encouraging people to vote for Rebecca. The fellas had lead poisoning and Rebecca’s chances on their minds.

I let the radio’s election news talk to me while I sewed recycled sunflower seed bags into totes then ate warmed-up pizza by the wood stove fire.

In the rain, Spence sipped hot coffee and shivered. Worse than the weather, Joe replaced Susan. “He only has half a brain,” Spence described Joe to me later. “The half he has spends all its time looking for the other half.”

Joe’s complicated. He’s an investor landlord who lives near Brancatelli. Joe showed up at CLASH meetings to oppose and tear down Rebecca’s lead safe ordinance. But, he’s obsessed with lead. He took the course to become a lead risk assessor and makes money doing lead assessments for other landlords on weekends. Joe accused Spence of ruining the world by working to make houses lead safe. “No landlord would poison a child,” Joe argued. “That just wouldn’t happen.” 

While Spence dealt with bully Joe, I encountered two bullies, the father and older brother of a high school wrestler struggling to control his weight in a short story by my writing friend Keith.                

I emailed Keith to compliment him on his development of the literary bullies.

Spence ignored his real-life bully and watched for voters.

A black woman drove slowly down the road and turned into the driveway. Spence waved the postcard with the photo of Rebecca and Yvonka. The voter stopped, rolled down her window, and reached for the card.

Joe pulled his jacket open, thrust his chest forward, and flashed a big Brancatelli badge at her. “Hi, neighbor. Come over here and say hi.”

She parked and got out of the car. “Hi, Joe. How long have you been out in this cold?”

They chatted for a while before Joe said, “Vote for my buddy Anthony.” He turned away.

She looked at Spence and nodded. Though she’d humored her crazy neighbor, Spence had won her vote for Rebecca. He convinced others, one vote at a time, in a race where every vote counted.

While he drove home in sleet and snow, I slept beneath a comforter and quilted bedspread.

The next morning Spence searched the internet. Our efforts, in different places and of different intensities, paid off. Kathy won in a landslide—one hundred thirty-two to forty. With over three thousand votes cast, Rebecca won by sixty-eight. French Creek Township and Ward 12 Cleveland will be in better hands next January.

Rebecca's T-shirt

 

 Reflections - Amish Shadow Lap Quilt

Amish Shadow Quilt

I made an Amish shadow lap quilt for my sister Anita for selfish reasons. I wanted a picture of a quilt in my 2022 shadow calendar. The Amish would have used pastel strips to contrast with the black, but, when I asked Anita, she said green, brown, and black were her favorite colors. She also needed sturdy fabrics on account of her Tibetan Terriers. These requirements limited the selection.

I added a piano key border for her piano expertise then quilted two Tibetan Terriers in each of the thirty blocks.

 

Tibetan Terrier Quilting

Both the piano key border and the Amish Shadow quilt were firsts for me. When calculating yardage for the lap quilt, I mistakenly accounted for squares not triangles. I bought twice as much material as the quilt required. 

 

Quilters never have too much fabric.

Ever since a woman at a quilt retreat collected our scraps to stuff her dog mattresses for shelters, I’d pondered making dog mattresses for Anita. So with dog strength material, I made my first dog mattresses For Anita’s Tibetan Terriers—Mr. Mumbles, Emma, Smidge, and Gilbey. I sewed zippers into the ends and stuffed the covers with old blankets for easy laundering. The mattresses have quilt blocks but no quilting.

Dog Mattresses - Tops

 Reflections - Walnut Snatcher

Baskets of Black Walnuts

The cats discovered the theft Monday morning, October 4. Sitting side by side by side on the hewn log table, they gazed through the window at the porch desk. Tails twitched. Ears swiveled. Ande whimpered. Eh eh eh.

If one of the brothers had acted that way, I would have suspected a butterfly or grasshopper. All three meant a critter like the mouse with a nest of babies under Spence’s printer or the gray squirrel that carved wood sculptures. I mentally rooted for the mouse because of our black walnuts. Mice don’t have the teeth to gnaw through walnuts. Squirrels do. 

Our venerable black walnut tree dropped fruit with each wind event starting late summer. Though plum size at first, I scooped up every lime-green fruit, fingered the bumpy husks, and inhaled their spicy fragrance. I stored the first nuts in an empty flowerpot on the porch desk. 

Fall came. The walnut tree dropped lemon size fruit. Spence and I crisscrossed the yard under the old walnut tree as if following the lines on a checkerboard. I stuffed the fruit into my picking apron. Spence dropped them into a five-gallon bucket. We transferred the fruit to a bushel basket and covered the bounty with newspapers to hide it from the squirrels. 

 I even lured others into snatching the walnuts away from squirrels. When our nephew Patrick came to haul away the old dryer, I bent to great-niece eye level and used my excited first-grade teacher voice. “Want to go on a walnut hunt?”

Addy, age six, whooped.

Amelia, age four, hopped.

Their grandma Cindy gave me a thumbs-up signal. “That sounds like fun.”

Chestnut-brown hair swaying, Addy leapt across the yard as gracefully as deer leapt over Spence’s garden fence. Searching for the camouflaged fruits in the six-inch grass tickled her sense of adventure. “I found one!” She snatched the fruit and tossed it into Spence’s five-gallon bucket or into the bushel basket her sister and I had fetched from the garage. Thunk. Addy bounded off for more. 

Cherubic Amelia pranced across the grass with her head bent and blonde curls bouncing. She lunged, grabbed a fruit, and dropped it into the bushel basket—never the bucket.

The walnut adventure didn’t hold Addy’s attention for long. “I want to go to the house.”

I glanced from the empty porch to Cindy’s wrinkled forehead. Imaging Patrick and his sister Sarah maneuvering the dryer down the ramp with Addy’s grandpa and great-uncle supervising, I said, “Not yet. We have more walnuts to find.” A twinge of guilt poked my heart because we didn’t have to gather all the walnuts. The squirrels could have a few.

“But I want to see my daddy,” Addy threw her hands to her sides as if trying to reason with a dense old person.

In a soothing voice, Cindy said, “We have to help Aunt Janet.”

Amelia scampered cheerfully through the grass. “Found one!”

I’d stopped picking up walnuts. Instead, I pointed my shoes at the fruit saying, “Here’s one,” for the energetic Amelia to find. 

When no more fruit could be found, Cindy and I glanced at the empty porch, shrugged our shoulders, and granted Addy’s wish. 

I hefted the basket to rest on my hip. Cindy toted the bucket. We marched. On the porch,  I set the bushel basket beside the full one already there, dumped the walnuts from the bucket into the second basket, and called to Spence. “Are they done?”

He rounded the corner. “Yeah. They’re just talking beside the van.”

“Addy wants her daddy.”

Spence cupped his hands and yelled. “Patrick. Addy wants you.”

Within five minutes the six adults selected porch chairs. Addy snuggled on her daddy’s lap. Amelia put a hand on Spence’s knee and pointed to the walnuts. “What’s inside?”

Spence selected a fruit, pulled his utility knife from a pocket, and cut into the husk. 

“Can I do it?” Amelia reached for the knife.

Exposed Walnut and Walnut Brown Fingertip

“No, honey.” He made another incision. “Your hands will turn brown.” Cutting away a section of husk, he exposed the nut. Juice dripped from the fruit, and his fingertip turned walnut brown. 

Amelia clasped her hands behind her back.

Cindy asked. “How do you process black walnuts?”

I explained.

Spread the fruit on the driveway.

Ask Spence to run over them with his tractor.

Twist and scrape the husk off.

Drop the nuts into a bucket of water.

Discard the floaters—they’re empty.

Scrub the sinkers with a wire brush until all the pulp is gone.

Dry the nuts on a screen for a couple of months.

Crack the nuts with a heavy-duty walnut cracker.

“That’s why I never complain about the price of nuts.” 

While the family muttered about grocery bills, I fetched a handful of frozen black walnuts that I’d processed the previous year. To test if frozen nuts were edible, I popped one into my mouth. A bold, earthy flavor exploded over my tongue. Yum. I dumped the nuts into a bowl and went back to the porch. “Only take one at first. Some people don’t like them.”

Addy grabbed one and munched. “They taste okay,” but she didn’t reach for more. 

Spence and Sarah declined. 

Cindy munched. “It has a fruity flavor.” 

Bruce smacked his lips. “Tasty.”

Amelia spat hers onto the floor.

“I don’t like it. But I swallowed mine.” Patrick picked up Amelia’s half-chewed nut and tossed it into the wastebasket. 

If only squirrels had taste buds like Amelia. They don’t. Squirrels fancy walnuts. They would gather all the nuts if Spence and I dallied at harvest time.

Still rooting for a mouse to be mesmerizing the trio of cats, I tiptoed to the porch and stayed a COVID-19 safe distance from the table to give a squirrel jumping room. 

No mouse.

No squirrel.

No walnut sticking out of the husk Spence had cut for Amelia. 

Judging from the husks on the table, the critter had absconded with at least two walnuts.

Squirrels taking nuts under the black walnut tree is fair. I didn’t appreciate them stealing nuts tucked under newspapers on the porch. For a temporary fix, I added a canning kettle lid over one bushel basket and an empty Amazon box over the other. The lid might baffle the squirrel. The flimsy carton wouldn’t. The real fix would be to move the bushel baskets, but each weighed as much as two sewing machines. I left them on the porch desk.  

As if the guard cats had expected me to bring them the thief, their ears, eyes, and tails drooped when I came back empty-handed. 

“We need to move the walnuts into the cold cellar, Spence.” I explained the theft and the gray suspect. 

He jotted a note on his clipboard. “I’ll do it with the dolly.”

The dolly resided in the garage, and the Mahindra—his dolly hauling vehicle—was in the tractor repair shop. I had to wait until we ransomed the tractor on Wednesday.

In the meantime, Rills provided more comfort than the ad hoc covers. He sat on the hewn log table and stared at the porch desk. No body parts twitched.

Three days after the theft, we moved the fruit but not to the cold cellar. We rolled the baskets to the bottom of the ramp and dumped the walnuts into the tractor bucket. 

Spence spread the fruit across the parking pad out front and drove over them to break the husks. He trundled off to gather the latest windfall. 

Dressed in the walnut-stained clothes I only wore for black walnut processing, I pulled on red rubber gloves to cover my hands and forearms. Perched atop a step stool, I grabbed the nearest smashed fruit, twisted the husk off, and scraped the freed nut with an old knife. I scraped off most of the pulp—stringy tan or slimy black depending on the freshness of the fruit. I also scraped off every single wiggling, white maggot.

Wild turkeys clucked in the woods. Spicy walnut fragrance mingled with the scent of decomposing leaves. A large insect landed on the back of my neck. I could feel its feet but couldn’t brush it off with my wet, pulpy gloves. Instead, I wiggled my shoulders until a grasshopper jumped away.

The husking process attracted yellow jackets. They buzzed over the mashed fruit. They landed on the scraped nuts extending their tiny tongues to the juice. The yellow jackets crawled on my pulp-splattered pants and flew at my face. I let the feisty wasps fly wherever they wanted, because, when riled, they sting repeatedly. At least they didn’t steal any walnuts.

Eight days after the walnut theft and four sessions of scraping with yellow jackets later, Spence stored the scraped nuts in the cold cellar. The walnuts are safe from squirrels while I scrub four or five dozen at a time—a task I hope to finish by Thanksgiving.

In the meantime, the cats take turns sitting on the hewn log table and staring out at the porch desk in case the walnut thief returns.

Walnut Processing Clothes