Reflections - Daffodils for Easter

                                                Daffodil in the breeze

                                                    Waving yellow flag

                                                Daffodil in the rain

                                                    Dripping yellow trumpet

                                                Daffodil in the snow

                                                       Bowing yellow crown

                                                 Daffodil in the sun

                                                       Welcoming yellow spring 

Mini Daffodils

“It’s a funny kind of April.” Spence gazed at the trees near the end of our walk. Not a single tiny leaf tipped a branch. “Nothing’s out.”

 

 Inhaling the fragrance of spring mud—enhanced by the previous night’s rain, I scanned Wells Wood. Grass had greened. Coltsfoot bloomed on the berm, river willows sported the gold of new growth, and a handful of snowdrops blossomed. Buds topped daffodil shoots. Would daffodils bloom in time for an Easter bouquet?

Let me digress. People have Easter traditions. My mother-in-law had called Easter morning, said “He is risen,'' and waited for the reply “He is risen indeed.”

My mom outfitted my sister and me in new dresses for church. Sometimes we shivered in the short-sleeve springy-things.

A neighbor tethered a huge plastic rabbit to pillars on their front porch. Others dangled plastic eggs from trees.

I’ve celebrated Easter in a variety of ways—listening to the Hallelujah Chorus, dying Easter eggs, baking hot cross buns, and painting hollowed eggs to hang on bare branches of the burning bush because dyed eggs washed white in the rain. And every year, since we built the log house at Wells Wood, I’ve picked a bouquet on a daffodil walk. My Easter tradition.

Daffodils are the flower of rebirth and new beginnings. They are Lent lilies, blooming by Easter all but five times since we built our log house in 2005. Those were early Easters. This year Easter comes at the end of the fourth week of spring. Daffodils have always bloomed by then.

That cloudy, rainy, April day, daffodils still had ten more days before Easter. My tradition was safe.

Later that afternoon, Spence called from Meadville. “Go check the mail.”

Pulling the receiver away from my ear, I stared at it. Couldn’t junk mail wait until he got back from Giant Eagle? But, figuring he must have a reason, I returned the house phone to my ear. “Okay.”

“Look at the slope beside the garage while you’re at the mailbox. A daffodil might’ve bloomed. I saw a flash of yellow.”

Grabbing my camera, I pulled on a jacket, slipped into boots, and hustled along the tractor path to the garage. The row of daffodils beside the asparagus patch had promising buds. Three of the daffodils behind the garage had opened a quarter of the way. The bank below the mailbox had a half open fancy daffodil. I knelt in the soggy soil to get photos of this lopsided flower from several angles.

Remembering that mini daffodils on the grassy knoll above Deer Creek usually opened before these fancy ones, I left the mail for later and strode toward the woods.

You don’t have your bear bell.

I didn’t need it to get the mail.

You’re heading for the woods.

It’ll take too long to go back for it.

Your brother told you to hang it by the front door.

I forgot.

Picking up a small branch, I snapped it in half, and struck the pieces together in a funky rhythm. Great. I sounded like a drunken woodpecker.

At the grassy knoll, blue jays called jeer-jeer. Deer Creek babbled. A breeze gently tossed the first mini daffs on their stems. I knelt then lowered to my stomach and focused their yellow crowns in the viewfinder. My clothes—elbows, knees, and abdomen—soaked in moisture that could have nourished the flowers for the week to come.

I’d mislaid the bear-deterring sticks when getting the photos so hooted on the way back. Whooeee. Hooeee. To my surprise, an unfamiliar migrating bird’s voice sang back. I hooted again. Wooooeeet. The bird answered my call. So much for alerting bears that a human was on the loose.

Hustling to the mailbox, I grabbed the junk mail and walked back to the house. As soon as I took off my boots, I fetched the bear bell and hung it by the door—ready for my solo walk to select the daffodils which would be ready for Easter. Not the flowering mini daffs on the grassy knoll. They wouldn’t last ten days. But sunshine would open other flowers. We had hundreds of buds. Daffodils are one Wells Wood flower that deer don’t eat. I would have lots of choices for the Easter bouquet.

The next day dawned cloudy and colder. Snowflakes mixed with rain. Spence pulled a pair of long johns out of his drawer and dangled it in front of me. “I need these again.”

I smirked. “I never put mine away.”

Daffodils, that had partially opened, closed up. The coltsfoot did too.

When the weather hadn’t improved by Palm Sunday, I checked the weekly forecast. It predicted warmer temperatures but mostly clouds and frequent showers. Not good for opening daffodils. I needed Easter Plan B. I could take a Good Friday walk, pick daffodil buds, and let them open in the warmth of the great room. The only problem would be guarding them from the petal-nibbling tabby cats.

I didn’t need plan B.

The following Tuesday evening, while my writing friend Maggie and I discussed possible endings for the Easter blog over Google Meet, Spence altered this slice of life writing with his pocket knife. He appeared behind me with a fistful of fancy daffodils—stems wrapped in aluminum foil, petals dotted with dew, and a frilly trumpet occupied by a nestling lady bug. He provided the Easter bouquet. 

 

Daffodils Spence Picked

I still took a daffodil walk though switched from Good Friday to Maundy Thursday because

Spence drove to Cleveland for lead safe volunteering that day. After gathering scissors, camera, and birthday cards to mail, I grabbed the bear bell by the door and secured it in my boot laces. I jingle-stomped down the road to the green mailbox by the garage, stuffed the cards inside, and raised the flag to alert our rural postwoman.

Then I jingle-squished through the grass to scout daffodils. They bloomed:

near the mailbox,

behind the garage,

in the cherry tree yard,

along the old driveway,

by my father-in-law’s cabin site,

under the burning bushes,

on the grassy knoll, and

throughout the woods.

Though I brought the scissors, I didn’t plan to cut flowers. Spence already had. But the mini daffs on the grassy knoll had reached their peak. They would wither in days. I cut some. And the daffodils my mother-in-law had planted in the woods brightened the brown leaf mulch with their traditional yellow trumpets. I couldn’t resist. Spence had only selected fancy daffodils or ones with white trumpets.

As I arranged two bouquets, a spicy spring fragrance tickled my nose. The cats sniffed but didn’t nibble. Maybe they took their cues from the deer.

Easter morning fluffy snowflakes trimmed Wells Wood in lacy white. Inside, Easter daffodils radiated sunshine.

Mini and Traditional Daffodils

 

 Reflections - Nancy

Lenten Rose

 

Nancy Musser

May 20, 1949 - January 19, 2022

Nancy, head township auditor for almost thirty years, stood at her kitchen table after we’d completed the audit my first year and pointed her arthritic finger at the numbers on a twenty page report. "These are the numbers you girls found for me.” I was clueless, but she was ecstatic. “Everything balanced.” She didn’t take credit for the many sleepless nights she’d put in searching ledgers for errors that blocked our balances. 

After four years, when her memory started to fail, she trusted me to help her find glitches in the records. Teaching me to audit by immersing me in numbers was a gift. She also gave me hazelnuts from her backyard, a bolt of denim fabric with tiny red roses, and bags of her favorite bakery donuts. The best gift was her friendship. 

I planted an Ice N’ Roses Red Lenten Rose in the front yard for Nancy. The rose blooms around auditing time each year.

 

 Reflections - Finding the Balance (Part2)

“Coming together is a beginning,

staying together is progress,

and working together is success.”

Henry Ford

Milledgeville Presbyterian Church

 

 

 

My heart felt as heavy as the box I lugged up the church ramp. The joy of balancing the state fund in two days had evaporated when Sandi, the new auditor, predicted we would finish by the end of the week. I’d mumbled, “The general funds usually take longer,” and hoped for a miracle. After auditing four years, I had to lead my inexperienced coworkers through balancing the French Creek Township accounts. Had Nancy, the head auditor for decades, taught me enough before she died of dementia?

I dumped the box of financial records on the table in the Milledgeville Presbyterian Church’s classroom, pulled off my coat, and joined the others.

Resting her sling on a pillow, Sandi wiggled her pen back and forth. “Where do we start?”

Carol straightened in her chair and raised her eyebrows.

“We’ll audit expenses after writing down the general fund’s beginning balance. It’s on Gretchen’s January reconciliation sheet.” Forcing a confident smile, I grabbed my calculator. “We can verify the balance against the January bank statements.”  

Fingers tapped calculators. Sandi reported. “There's a three hundred ninety-seven dollars and seventy-two cents difference.” 

Carol’s mouth formed an O.

I bit my lip. 

“I gather you weren’t expecting that.” Sandi adjusted the ice pack on her shoulder, the site of recent surgery. 

“No, but we have to start with the number Nancy submitted to PSATS last year.” I flipped through the files. “Gretchen gave me a copy of that report.”

“I have it.” Carol waved a report. “Nancy gave me one.” The balance on Carol’s report didn’t match the bank’s or reconciliation’s. 

My report’s balance matched the reconciliation’s. 

We scanned the reports. Everything was the same except the summaries and cover dates. I headed a paper with QUESTIONS and scribbled which beginning balance. “I’ll email PSATS later.” Pulling out files, I said, “Expenses ladies.”

Ruler in hand, Carol accepted the computer ledgers. Sandi took the bank statements, and I grabbed the folder of January bills. Expense by expense, Carol marked her ledger with pink dots, Sandi made left-handed checks, and I wrote cleared-dates.

Sandi worked quickly. She blurted out the number and amount for the next check before Carol and I finished marking. Sandi reminded me of Mr. McFeely, the Speedy Delivery mail carrier on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Carol and I were plodders. Inside my head, I hummed, “I like to take my time and do it right.”

Our list of questions grew. Could Gretchen get credit for tax paid on gravel and for an overpayment when she transposed numbers? Why did the ledger assign several checks duplicate numbers?

We also learned about each other’s families. Carol’s daughter worked as a missionary in Slovakia. Sandi was sewing a quilt for her two-year-old grandson. And Carol spoke for us all when she said, “Taking a bathroom break was never so pleasant.” Sandi’s sister had painted a floral border near the ceiling brightening tedious auditing tasks.

 

Floral Border in Church Bathroom

By the end of the first week we’d followed the general fund paper trail for bills, the debit card, and bank transfers. We even made a dent in revenues—not finishing like Sandi had expected but progress. All three auditors followed every step, and Friday's clean up brought a surprise. Sandi softly sang, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Was she a mind reader as well as speedy?

The following Monday, with Sandi on a three-day trip to Pittsburgh for medical appointments, I took our questions to Gretchen. Seated by her sofa-size desk, I confessed. “Jennifer from PSATS said to use your report balance, but I’m confused. Why were there three different beginning balances?”

Gretchen opened the PSATS email on her computer. “Last year, Nancy entered the January first balance instead of December thirty-first. Jennifer changed it.” 

Gretchen’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Nancy insisted I change my balance sheet to match that number instead of the actual bank balances.” Gretchen stared at her lap. “I’d only been secretary-treasurer for two months. She’d been an auditor for more than twenty years.” Gretchen sniffed. “I didn’t understand, but I did what she told me.”

“It’s okay. Nancy could be insistent.” I rubbed Gretchen’s arm. Had Nancy known what she was doing, or was she confused? “She must have been trying to compensate for the public auditors changing the beginning balance years back.”

Gretchen pulled up a reconciliation document. “Nancy added three hundred ninety-seven dollars and seventy-two cents in August twenty-twenty, but took it out this February. Why did she make me change my bank balance?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll balance your actual accounts. Then we’ll deal with the legacy issues so they’ll stop haunting us.” I didn’t add, if I can figure out what Nancy had tried to do and work a miracle.

The other questions on the list didn’t need miracles. Gretchen fixed them in minutes.

At the church that afternoon, Carol and I started on payroll. “I’m glad Sandi isn’t here to see how clueless we are,” I said. 

Carol studied the ledgers while I inspected state quarterly folders and payroll checking statements. We juggled net and gross amounts then divided each check among various codes—snow removal, road repairs, and holiday pay. We even finished auditing the general revenues.

On the ninth day of the audit, Sandi joined us to begin the part Nancy always did alone—filling in the report worksheet. We added the amounts for each code, checked them against Gretchen’s trial balance, and wrote the totals in appropriate boxes. Manageable, until page twenty-two which had separate lines for the dreaded liabilities. Nancy had put numbers on the line for unemployment compensation and the line for worker compensation insurance. We only found unemployment compensation. And our number was twice as large as her combined numbers.

Sandi adjusted the strap on her sling. “Nancy didn’t do you any favors working on her own. You’re both clueless.”

So much for working on payroll while Sandi was away.

That night, I emailed Gretchen for a detailed list of the withholdings. The new papers, that I picked up on the way to the church, didn’t show workers comp and increased the amount. 

Rubbing my forehead, I said, “We know the liabilities are wrong, but let’s do a balance to see how far we’re off. That amount will provide a clue for what we're missing.”

Carol and Sandi exchanged worried glances but picked up their calculators. Off by more than seventeen thousand meant liabilities wasn’t the only problem. I kept that to myself.

Sandi tapped her worksheet. “It says employer contributions. We put in workers’ contributions too.” 

“Right. About a third was from employers. Another third was already reported with worker’s pay. But that last third is a mystery.” 

The next day I drove to Gretchen’s. Again.

“Our insurance covers workers comp. It’s not in the liability folders.” She scrolled down her computer screen. “And you’re right. You shouldn’t add the employee . . . Gosh! Why is Dan’s withholding so large on this check?” She clicked. An enlarged check stub appeared in the corner. “Oh, no. I coded it wrong. The whole check went under withholding. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” I exhaled in relief. “That’s why townships elect auditors.”

But I worried. In the wee hours, auditing nightmares woke me. I couldn’t get back to sleep. The next morning I peered at Sandi through blurry eyes. “Carol, er Sandi, call the numbers for us and we’ll try balancing again.” I’d known these women for several years and hadn’t confused their names. Putting them at the table together sparked many blunders.

Sandi called the numbers and announced, “We’re off by five hundred forty-one dollars and twenty-one cents.”

“That number sounds familiar.” I reached for the folder of computer ledgers and handed several to Carol and Sandi. “Look for that amount.”

 

Auditing Tools

Silently, the ladies ran their rulers down the lists. Had I sent them on a fool’s errand? 

“Found it.” Sandi tapped the ledger. “And it isn’t checked.”

Taking the ledger from Sandi, I studied the listing. “Carol, wasn’t the Segworth plow repair in the state funds?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

I grabbed the spiral notebook and leafed through to the page with codes. Under 437, I’d written S 541.21. I shimmed in my chair and shrieked, “Yes!”

Carol and Sandi exchanged a there-she-goes-again look.

“Soooooo,” Carol said. “What does it mean?”

“It means the bill is listed in both the state and general funds. I hope it doesn’t change the state fund. That already balanced.” I ran my hand through my thinning hair. “I’ll email Gretchen tonight and pick the new paperwork up in the morning.”

The next day I passed out Gretchen’s latest trial balance. “The good news is the state funds didn’t change.” I took a deep breath. “But we need to recalculate the general fund.”

We did and Sandi blurted, “One hundred seventy dollars and eighty-six cents.” 

That number didn’t sound familiar.

Sandi raised her pen. “I think it might be in the January bank statement.” We looked. It wasn’t.

Carol pointed to the records box. “Maybe it’s a reality transfer.” 

By the end of the day, we’d chased every lead the ladies suggested. None worked. 

March 1, I trudged up the church ramp, yet again, fearing we would never find the balance.

Sandi wiggled in her chair. “What do we do now?”

Lacking a magic wand, I handed out the ledgers. “We look for something we missed.”

“Again?” Carol wrinkled her forehead. 

“Again.” I took off my glasses and squinted at the tiny print on the ledger. 

Papers crinkled. Carol’s chair scraped and her footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey.” I grabbed Sandi’s arm. “There’s an expense that’s not marked. Check the trial balance. Does it have a line for code four hundred ninety-three?”

Sandi scanned the sheet. “No.”

“But, it’s on the ledger.” My heart pounded. “Quick, add this to the expenses.” I put a shaking finger under the number and shoved the paper at Sandi. I was too nervous to read it. “Then subtract it from the beginning balance and the revenues.”

Sandi did. “I get three hundred ninety-seven dollars and seventy-two cents.”

“That’s the extra money Nancy identified,” I whispered. Jumping out of my chair, I screamed, “CAROL! We found it. It balances!”

A few minutes later, Carol strolled back. “You would wait till I took a bathroom break to find it.” We cracked up with bonding, never-to-be-forgotten, belly laughs.

Having balanced Gretchen’s accounts, we coded the legacy money as a prior year expense, subtracted it from Gretchen’s books, and prepared the audit report. 

After Gretchen and I submitted the report electronically, the auditors met in her dining room to sign the paperwork. 

Sandi sat without her arm in a sling. Carol stood rocking from foot to foot. Gretchen fetched pens and copied papers. Each thanked each other for their help and cooperation many, many times. And me?

Leaning against the back of a chair, I watched the baby sleep in his swing and the little girl play with her blocks on the floor. Gratitude overwhelmed me. Gratitude these women worked together as a team. Gratitude I got a miracle. Gratitude that I don’t have to lug the heavy box up the church ramp until next year.

Audit Report