Reflections - A Day with Christa 

Janet and Christa

Giddy as a youngster about to open a present, I bustled around the kitchen packing food for a day with Christa. 

Memories of late Aunt Marge swirled through my mind. Today, Saturday, September 13, was her ninety-seventh birthday. I privately celebrated all seventeen of her birthdays since her death. A Lake Erie native, lover of people, and connoisseur of books, she would have appreciated my plans for this one the most—riding with a friend to attend the Lake Erie Lit Fest.

And Marge would have loved Christa. 

When she gave feedback on stories at Pennwriters meetings, she bounced in her chair. Or she held her hands in prayer position by her heart, looked the writer in the eye, and offered comments about what pleased her. Who could resist her? Not me. 

Christa, outgoing, business savvy, and half my age, had organized activities for one of two Pennwriters tents at Lit Fest.

Grateful she accepted my request to be a beta reader for my collection of nature stories, I wanted to help her. And I could enjoy time with her in the car and at the park.

I also wanted to hug myself, but I didn’t dare waste time. I needed to drive twenty-five minutes north from Wells Wood, park at Christa’s house, and ride with her another forty minutes to reach Erie by 11:10.

At 9:45 I texted, I’m on my way. Bags slung over my shoulders, I stepped outside and hoofed to the garage thirty yards down our dirt road. 

I entered the dim garage, slipped into the Subaru Crosstrek, and stowed my bags in the passenger foot space. After I slammed the car door, I fastened my seat belt and sighed. Relief. I would be on time. I turned the key.

Silence.

Maybe I hadn’t stepped on the clutch far enough like Spence hadn’t the time he told me the battery was dead. The foot brace for his ruptured Achilles tendon prevented him from stepping all the way down.  

I pushed my feet farther down on both the brake and the clutch. I turned the key again.

Silence. 

Except a cricket chirped outside. The engine didn't hum.

Not wanting to believe the obvious, I turned the ignition key twice more.

Silence.

No lights glowed on the dashboard with the key in the ignition. Even I could diagnose this problem which would prevent me from helping my friend today.

West Creek Road

With a heart heavier than the bags I scooped up, I trudged to the house and tapped Christa’s number on my cell phone. “I’m sorry. My car battery died. Spence drove to Cleveland and my son needs his car.” I took a deep yoga breath and held back my mounting disappointment. “Go without me.”

“But I wanted to be with you.” Christa’s sad voice wafted through cyberspace.

“We’ll get together another time.”

“I’ll drive up. Matt can come down and get you. He’ll drive you to Erie and drop you off.

“No, no, no.” I wanted to support Christa. And I wanted to support Pennwriters for their help with feedback, courses, and workshops. I didn’t need to go.

“Matt drives all the time. He won’t mind. Driving’s nothing for us.”

“No, no, no.” I’d never met Christa’s partner. I had seen him briefly at the Saegertown library when he’d stopped by to pick her up for a wedding. Dressed for the occasion and waving at our writers from the stack of books, he came across as a hunk. I didn’t want to rob the fella of two hours. And he had four children at home.

A male voice floated through the cell speaker. “I’m not going to kidnap her.”

I waved to Charlie leaving for his blood work and called Spence, already volunteering in Cleveland around lead safety issues.

“Call AAA,” Spence said. “Then you could drive up on your own.” 

Though his voice soothed me, the idea of waiting a couple hours for AAA to jump the battery jangled my nerves. What if the battery died again on the trip? I sniffed back a sob. “I’ll stay home.”

Spence could trickle charge the battery Sunday. On Monday I would drive the Subaru to another Matt, our polite mechanic who treats me like I’m his mother. He could check the battery’s safety.

Spence sighed. “But you had your heart set—”

My phone buzzed. “Wait. Christa’s calling.”

I connected with Christa.

“I’m coming to get you. We’ll be later than planned. That’s okay. Be ready.”

Twenty minutes later, I walked along the road in front of our log home and admired our crimson burning bush beside the towering girasoles—the ones the deer couldn’t reach. Headlights gleamed under the canopy of trees down the road.

 

Burning Bush

I picked my bags up off the gravel parking pad.

Christa stopped her black Ford Explorer.

I hopped in.

She hopped out. “I’m going to leave this bag on your porch.” And she dashed up the ramp.

Before I clinched the seat belt, she returned—out of breath—and jumped in. We were off. “I’m going to make up time by speeding on the highway.”

I directed Christa the ten miles to I-79 and glanced at dairy cows grazing in fields. “I finished Doris’s Landlord. It’s a quick, light read. And her characters are hilarious.”

Christa blended into the line of vehicles passing a semi. “I love her essays.”

As our girl talk continued, we rolled—five miles an hour above the speed limit—by green hills, under clouding skies, and past troopers who pulled cars aside to the berm.

Once we reached Frontier Park in Erie, Christa cruised along the street by the row of festival tents. “There’re the Pennwriters.” She pulled her Explorer over the berm. “You can go sit with them. I’ll carry the stuff.”

No way. “I can help.” We only had to carry the bags and equipment twenty yards.

Christa lugged the heavier items—easel, folding table, folding chairs—while I toted bags with handouts, clipboards, and table cloth. She even brought a canvas lawn chair because it would be more comfortable for me. We avoided eye-poking crab apple branches and masses of small, round fruit underfoot.

Other Pennwriters arrived hours earlier. Todd and Marianne had pitched the tents. Todd and Ellen positioned a table at the front of our tent. 

In a calm bustle, Christa and I organized our tent—her table in the back, chairs in the middle, and a whiteboard with colorful lettering about the chance to win a prize on the easel in a front corner. For children, we placed crayons and Janyce Brawn’s coloring sheets of her character Oliver the ferret. Clipboards with information sheets lined the front table.

Done.

We collapsed onto chairs between the tables several minutes before noon—the festival scheduled opening time. Glancing out at the tents across the oval of grass, Christa said, “I’ll be happy if we get a page full of emails.”

Fruit trees surrounded an oval around a grassy park area. Exhibitors tents for books, artwork, and organizations lined the oval in front of the trees. At one end food vendors grouped. At the other end sat the main tents with tables for authors.

Readers and writers, all with a story to tell, wandered in front of our tent. They glanced at Christa’s colorful whiteboard. “Welcome,” she called in a cheery voice. “We’re a local writing group. Sign up to win one of the free prizes.”

Most couldn’t resist her beaming face and dimpled cheeks. They stepped toward the table. If they were shy, she beckoned to them with her hand until they approached. Christa handed them a pen.

By this time people's eyebrows had risen.

“We’ll also email you information about our group.” On a roll, she tapped each flyer and explained, “This is a list of our area meetings,” and down the line.

People listened as if she were narrating a suspense novel.

If they hesitated about signing, she engaged them. “Are you a reader or a writer? What do you like to read?”

While Christa and I listened to the answers, I imagined Marge taking in the scene. She would have reveled in the stories.

A mother wanted her young adult son to connect with us. “He’s a fantastic writer. He needs you. He’s shy.”

A woman gripped a pen with her fingers and circled the pen around her head. “Stories float inside my brain but never make it to paper.”

A teenager said, “I have a goal of reading three hundred books this year. I’m already at two hundred sixty-eight.” 

Sheila joined us behind the table. “Sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t find the place. I drove all around. I was ready to give up and go to Romolo’s when I found the festival. Then the lot was full. I had to park on a side street and walk over.” She gulped for air and plopped into a chair.

With Sheila’s support, Christa hadn’t needed me. She drove the extra miles for my company.

At 2:00, Ellen Byham left her author’s table in the big tent and joined us to write poems for people. First she interviewed a young woman from a neighboring tent.

Christa asked people who stopped for information, if they wanted a poem written. Few resisted her enthusiasm. Ellen never had a lull. She wrote eight poems during the hour. While each recipient read their gift, their eyes glistened in appreciation.

I gazed over the table at the grassy oval and visualized tall, thin Aunt Marge in her loose slacks and long-sleeved, plaid shirt, striding down the grass. She would push her glasses up the slope of her nose, and observe the crowd. I imagined her belly laugh at the young men walking and juggling colored wooden clubs.

The daydreams stopped when Christa took breaks. I mimicked her “Welcome, we’re a writing group” approach in my softer voice. “What do you like to read or write?”

At the festival attendee’s answer, Sheila or I said, “Our Pennwriter” and we inserted a name—Aimee, Christa, Dan, Debra, Ellen, Fritze, Janet, Janyce, Kathy, Karen, Sheila, or Todd—“writes that genre.” We gave directions on how to find the Pennwriter at the event.

Though forecasts hadn’t predicted rain, by the end of the afternoon, rain thinned the crowd. The soaking made it easier to talk with people. “Come under the tent and stay dry.”

People welcomed the respite.

Christa and the Wyandot

Christa’s email list grew and grew. By six o’clock, the clipboard held two full pages of contacts.

We loaded Christa’s Explorer and headed home.

“You received twice the number of emails you wanted.” I watched the clouds billowing on the horizon.

“I’m pleased but surprised.” Christa didn’t push the speed limit.

“I’m not. You’re super with people. And goodness, what great stories they could tell.”

We reminisced about our experiences and families. Before I realized, the parking pad’s gravel crunched under the Explorer’s tires. The day had flown.

At 7:10, I leaned over to hug Christa, whispered “Thank you,” and stepped out clutching my bags.

Brace supporting his ruptured Achilles, Spence limped down the ramp. He shouted, “Thanks for rescuing Janet today.”

Christa’s dimples glowed. “I enjoyed our adventure together.”

Holding Spence’s hand, I walked up the ramp.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “It did you good to get out.”

The bag Christa left earlier nestled in a porch chair.

Curious, but as tired as a youngster who stayed up past her bed time, I trudged into the kitchen and peeked inside at her cornucopia—cucumbers, tomatoes, and a dozen fresh eggs in pastel pinks, greens, and tans.

The dead battery brought me luck. Christa brought gifts and I had her companionship for a longer time than planned.

What Aunt Marge taught me is true. It's the people that matter. 

 

Produce from Christa

 Reflections - Blue and Green

Blue and Green

Summer mornings I reach for the sky. Literally.

Lithe, yoga instructor Adriene directs from my iTablet screen. “Reach for the sky.”

I reach beyond the towering, ever-so-green, pines at the end of the deck and for the periwinkle blue sky. On one side of me, bumblebees buzz in the pansies growing in five, huge, plastic pots—holding up to ten gallons of soil. On the other side, Ande, our mostly white tabby cat, presses himself against the inside of the sliding screen door and mews requests for me to let him out.

Chickadees sing, Hey sweetie. Cardinals harmonize with cheer, cheer, cheer. A resident robin adds cheer up cheerily.

Yoga on the deck bathes me in the velvety calm that Miles Davis creates with his trumpet by playing "Blue in Green.”

This summer I needed to wrap up my morning writing asap and hustle out for yoga before the sun topped the trees on Porter’s hill. One day the sun’s rays overheated my iTablet. The black screen of death interrupted me in the middle of cat cow pose. I picked up the heated machine with an ouch-ooch and hurried inside. Ande scurried under the sofa. Fearing my fingers would melt, I set the fiery tablet on the tile by the door. The hot computer hadn’t singed my fingers, phew, and it blinked back on within ten minutes. From that day on, I placed the tablet in a deck pot’s shade.

Hot and dry dominated the year.

Delta Light Blue Blotch Pansy

Though Spence watered the pansies on the deck, their leaves browned. Their blue, purple, and amber, flower faces withered. 

I picked the drooping flowers, cut them into pieces, and sprinkled them in the food tray for the composting worms. Their castings, or poop, would provide fertile soil for future pansies. Nature’s cycle at work.

Heading out for our health walk during the third weekend in July, I glanced at the pitiful pansy stems—like burnt trunks sticking up after a fire cleared the woods floor. “What do you think about me buying geraniums for the pots, Spence?”

“I’m going to plant begonias.”

Not my favorite, but he liked the flowers, and he would take care of the planting. I could live with begonias.

I stretched by the dry brown pansy sticks. A few green leaves popped up at the bottom of the brittle stems. Then a few more. After a while, the pansy stems were masts in a sea of green. Weeds covered the surface of the sixteen-inch diameter circular pot—green under the blue sky. Nature provided a tide over until Spence had time to plant his begonias.

Eyeing nature’s garden as we set out for a health walk during the first week of August, I asked Spence, “When will you plant the begonias?”

“Begonias?” He screwed up his face as if he tasted a squashed ladybug. “Did I say that? I planned to transplant my tomatoes and peppers. I haven’t had time..”

Believing George Washington Carver’s wisdom, “A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place,” I watched our weeds grow taller and fuller. They didn’t flower. Perfect. I didn’t want them to seed. Their lush green leaves filled the deck pots. Blue and green accompanied my yoga stretches again.

Around the time the weeds grew from six to twelve inches in height, however, glancing at the healthy crop no longer calmed me. My shoulders tensed. Their roots would grow similar amounts under the soil. I didn’t relish the chore of wrestling with the entangled roots that filled most of the pot. Sweat formed on my brow at the mere thought of yanking the green  trespassers.

Weeds in Deck Pot

The evening of August 10, Spence banged pots in the kitchen. I lugged a bushel basket, trowel, and garden gloves to the deck. Ande scratched the sliding screen door. I pulled on the gloves, tapped the screen to nudge Ande off, and eyed the five pots. If I hustled, I could clear two before dinner.

Wrong.

I dug wide circles around stubborn dandelions and thistles as if digging root balls for evergreens. Once I finessed those weeds out and shook the loose soil off their roots, the smaller weeds, like ground ivy and chickweed, eased out quickly. Years of adding rich worm compost to potting soil had created a super mix. No wonder pansies thrived—in appropriate weather.

Under Ande’s screen-door supervision, I cleared all the weeds. Only rich brown-black soil filled the five circular pots. My trowel scooped through the soil as if I was scooping flour to mix pancakes. Weeds overflowed the bushel basket. A pair of crows cawed in the woods, and I toted my gear inside.

“I left a basket of weeds for your compost pile.” Heading toward the stairs to store the gear in the basement, I called over my shoulder. “The weeds are on the deck.”

“Great. I’ll move them later.” Spence flipped ground turkey in the iron skillet.

At the table, I said, “The pots are ready for your tomatoes. If you tell me how you want them transplanted—”

“I’ll get to them. I just haven’t had time.”

The bushel basket of weeds disappeared. Crickets chirped. With a background of blue and green and rich brown—in the pots—I stretched for the sky and inhaled the dewy morning air.

Lead safe work kept Spence busy. In his home office, he worked at his desk with the tabby cats sprawled on the guest bed. He also attended tenant events and meetings in Cleveland.

As August progressed, mornings chilled to the upper fifties. I pulled a sweatshirt over my turtleneck. Twisting for side bends, I gazed into the pots. No weeds invaded the soil awaiting Spence’s peppers and tomatoes. I inhaled a thankful yoga breath.

Morning temperatures dropped to the lower fifties. I added hospital gripper socks to my yoga outfit. Crow cawing replaced background melodies of songbirds and crickets.

The evening of August 20, I sat at my desk in the bedroom for a ZOOM class on writing short stories. Ande whimpered in the great room. A click-tap-tap sound floated in from outside. Jotting notes on emotional scenes, I forced myself to stay put rather than investigate.

After class, I found Spence on the great room sofa and asked, “Were you hammering? I heard a tapping while I took notes.”

Spence’s Janet-is losing-it expression flashed briefly across his face. “No.”

The next morning, juggling the yoga mat and my iTablet, I stepped onto the deck and gasped. 

Deck Peppers

In four of the five pots pepper plants stretched toward the sun. Some even sported fruit—inch-and-a-half long banana yellow peppers and tiny curled green peppers.

I hustled back inside. “You planted the peppers!”

“Yes.” He didn’t look up from his computer.

“The clinking sound must have been you tapping the trowel on the side of the pot to get the soil off.”

He looked up. “Right.”

“What about the empty pot?”

“There’re too many tomatoes to fit.” He tugged the end of his mustache. “I’ll think about where to put them.”

Green wisteria vines dangled over the empty pot. For most of the yoga routine, the pot was behind me. It could stay empty until spring.

Soon our crazy climate brought temperatures back into the eighties again. I left the sweatshirt and hospital socks inside. Inhaling the moist morning air, I stretched beside the green peppers under blue skies. Hover flies checked out Spence’s plants and landed on me. I swiped them off between poses. Beyond the deck railing, bumblebees droned in yellow touch-me-nots.

When Adriene’s cheerful voice instructed, “Spread your feet wide and raise your arms into star pose,” a buzz too loud for bees erupted.

Forgetting my focus on balance, I glanced toward the buzzing. The long beak of a hummingbird dipped in and out of the yellow flowers. A female ruby-throated humming bird darted straight up. Her golden-green back feathers shimmered like sequins against the chicory blue sky. And she paused to eye me for three precious seconds before zipping away.

I wobbled a bit and wondered—mouth open wide enough for pesky hover flies to explore—that the tiny female would be curious enough to stare at me.

Now that September has come, I’ll soon be stretching in the loft daily. Ande will collect pets from me when I bend forward, position himself underneath me when I stand in a wide-legged pose, and curl against me when I lay in rest pose.

But, while weather permits, I will imagine Miles Davis’s trumpet crooning “Blue in Green,” soak up nature’s blue and green, and reach for the sky.

 

Blue and Green