Dear Reid and Claire,

I hope this card finds you both in comfortable health and enjoying life together.

Saturday June 1, Spence woke me at 5:30 a.m. I skipped morning writing, hustled through yoga, gobbled breakfast, and stuffed in the last of my gear. No time to scoop cat litter boxes or wash breakfast dishes. I left those chores for Charlie. He wasn’t worried. “No one but you expected you would finish them, Mom.”

Leaving Wells Wood by 7:00 would provide plenty of time to meet my dad’s cousin Norma and her husband Bob at the Buffalo and Erie County Botanical Gardens by 10:00. Spence and I drove off at 7:37 a.m. in his hot pepper Maverick. Not bad. A summer green landscape edged the roads. Blue skies laced with wispy cirrus clouds towered overhead.

Lazy dairy cows lounged along Route 285. Steers waded through tall grass next to I-79.

By 8:30 we passed Erie on I-90 and listened to NPR’s Weekend Edition news. Further east, vineyards and glimpses of Lake Erie appeared.

In New York, I-90 toll warnings loomed. We pulled out wallets, but “We will bill you” signs and overhead cameras popped up. Traffic bunched as distance between exits shortened. We exited the highway, passed multiple cemeteries and a huge Basilica, before entering the Botanical Gardens parking lot. Norma and Bob stood at the back of their silver sedan. Bob walked over, leaned into the Maverick, and glanced at the dashboard clock. It read 9:59. “You’re early,” he said. Our 56th Anniversary trip was off to a good start.

Love,

Janet

Dear Addy,

I thought of you when Spence and I visited the Buffalo Botanical Gardens. Lots of folks took pictures. Only I wrote flower names in a notebook like you and I did on our flower walk in May.

Spence and I dressed in long sleeve layers because the temperature was a chilly 41° F when we left home. We met my cousins Bob and Norma, who wore short sleeves. I found out why.

In the dry, hot dessert room, I wrote Bear Grass, Prickly Pear, Barrel Cactus, Foxtail Agave, Butterfly Agave, Crown of Thorns, and Ponytail Palm. I gawked at shapes—fans, barrels, snakes, fingers, and puffs. Sharp spines convinced me not to touch.

In the steamy hot rainforest room, foot-long koi swished in a shallow pool at the bottom of a tall waterfall. Besides being fun to watch, the fish were part of a natural cycle. They ate plants growing beside their pond, and their poop fertilized the plants.

In the hot carnivorous plant room, pitcher plants were cool. The pitchers, which are leaves, hung from vines. Their lids emitted nectar to attract insects. The insides of the pitchers had hairs pointing down to make the walls slippery so the bugs couldn’t get out. Liquid in the bottom digested the bugs. No bugs flew in while we watched.

By then we were hot, HOT, HOT. We came across a fountain of a barefoot girl standing in a pool of water. “That looks like something Addy would do,” I said and took a picture of the fountain for you.

Love,

Aunt Janet

Dear Marlee,

I hope the weather and your health are letting you get into your garden.

Do you remember Mrs. Henderson, our biology teacher from Jefferson Junior High? Norma’s my dad’s cousin. She and her husband Bob treated Spence and me to a tour of the Buffalo Botanical Garden on our anniversary. The palm trees soaring to the towering glass dome enchanted me, but I focused my phone camera lens on the swirly greens and pinks of the wide leaf plant under them. The sign in its pot read, Betel Nut Palm—a clue I’d have a problem later.

In a room labeled “Beautiful Colors,” two bonsai were among the greens. The one labeled “Tropical” appeared to be a citrus tree. No tiny fruits let me decide whether lemon or lime. The other tree was a majestic conifer. Spence and I guessed fir. I asked three workers near the room. Each said, “I’m not a horticulturist. Check with the people in the bonsai exhibit. They’ll know.”

We tramped to the next building over and viewed the Bonsai Show hosted by the Buffalo Bonsai Society. Delightful Junipers, White Pines, and Japanese Maples didn’t distract me from my mission. I showed one after another bonsai expert the photo of the majestic conifer. They suggested spruce. Maybe fir. Maybe larch. They couldn’t tell from the picture.

If we were still in junior high, you could guard the door while I crawled up and felt a needle to see if it rolled like a spruce. Now I’ll let the noble tree stand in peace. The needle looked flat without a point—most likely a fir. One of the non-horticulturists made a note to put a label on the tree. I’m satisfied with that.

Love,

Janet

Dear Amelia,

I hope you are getting lots of time to run and play outside.

Spence and I sat outside at a picnic table with my cousins Norma and Bob at Buffalo Harbor State Park. While we munched our food, lots happened.

First came animals. Seagulls soared and screeched. A groundhog climbed over the rocks by the water. And a furry, black puppy scampered along the sidewalk without a leash.

Second came the wind. It blew waves in the harbor. The wind powered sail boats and rocked motorboats. The wind also propelled the blades of tall windmills.

Third came people. They strolled, peddled bikes, rode scooters, pushed strollers, and jogged.

Fourth came pickups with motor boats on trailers. Their drivers dumped the bilge water—the lake water that got into the lower compartments of the boat. The boaters rinsed the compartments to be sure not to take any zebra mussels to the next lake.

Last came the best—a powered paraglider! A motor buzzed on the pilot’s back. The white paraglider spread wide like a parachute over the pilot’s head. The pilot flew over the harbor and out of sight as if riding a bicycle in the sky. I bet you would like to do that someday.

Love,

Aunt Janet

Dear Spencer,

I hope you are having fun outside. Run and play!

Spence and I visited our cousins in Buffalo. They took us to see the Seneca Chief. It’s a canal boat. It will sail from Buffalo to New York City on the Erie Canal next year. Volunteers are hurrying to finish building it. They want the boat to resemble a canal boat 200 years ago. So they painted it yellow, red, green, and white.

This boat will carry people. It’s a party boat. Do you like parties?

When we went inside, we had to duck. The ceiling is low. We didn’t want to bump our heads. The boat rocked and creaked. It smelled like fresh cut wood.

Stairs led to the boat’s flat top. People ride there. I wouldn’t. You have to flop onto your tummy when bridges come. Otherwise you get knocked into the water. I could look out the windows instead.

Spence showed me how to steer the canal boat. You use a tiller. The tiller is in the stern. The canal boat man pushes the tiller on the top. The tiller’s bottom turns the boat in the water.

Maybe you’ll ride a canal boat someday.

Love,

Great-aunt Janet

Dear Pat,

I hope you are meeting more interesting characters at work—the pleasant girl scout cookie seller type, not the grumpy complainers. And I imagine you enjoy volunteering at Lakeview Cemetery with all the flowers.

When Spence and I visited my dad’s cousins Norma and Bob in Buffalo June 1, we toured the botanical garden to see flowers first. Since Spence requested spending time at a used book store, Bob led us to the AAUW book sale in the afternoon. More than a store! In a corporation building, fifty categories of books were spread out over spacious conference rooms and tiny offices. Volunteers offered overused, wrinkled maps. Arrows pointed the way.

Armed with a page long list of authors and books people had recommended, I looked. In vain. I couldn’t find any authors on my list. I did find a table honoring feminist women authors. Jane Austen books outnumbered the others by far. Alas, many were fan fiction. But Jane’s category topped the price ranges for donations to the Buffalo Branch of the University Women.

And I found mysteries by Janet Evanovich—not on the honored table. I’d read Evanovich years back. Her narrator, bounty hunter Stephanie, is a hoot. “I wasn’t such a bad person. I only cheated a little on my taxes, and I paid most of my bills. I didn’t cuss at old people . . . So why was I having such rotten luck?” Mostly, I like that the author’s name is Janet.

A kind volunteer, navigating with a cane, helped me locate a Merriam Webster dictionary in a tiny, out-of-the-way office. I don’t recommend my selections, but I wish you happy reading.

Take care,

Janet

Dear Carol,

I hope you’re venturing out, making new memories, and finding comfort in old ones.

Spence and I ventured to Al Qimma Hala Grill & Butchery in Cheektowaga, New York. Arabic music blasted. A long counter with trays of meats, salads, and delicacies lined one wall in the narrow room. Five small tables and a drink refrigerator lined the other. One of the young men eating at the front table jumped up. “He’ll be right out to help you.”

Reading a menu by the cash register Spence whispered, “We can leave if you want.”

A Palestinian flag hung on the wall. I’d wanted a restaurant not a deli, but I didn’t want to be rude. And I remembered Jeff taking our young families to a Mexican restaurant. I’d worried my children wouldn’t eat. Spence countered they could experience something new. I could too.

The owner approached with a professional smile. I blurted, “I don’t understand ‘shawarma’ and I’m sensitive to dairy and soy. The cucumber salad sounds good but—”

His smile turned friendly. “No, that has yogurt. Try Arabic salad. Shawarma means the meat is wrapped around,” he pointed at the turning meat and rolled his arms, “and cooked rotating.”

In moments Spence and I placed our orders. The food tasted divine, especially the olives “picked fresh in Jerusalem yesterday” and the coffee, not on the menu but brewed for Spence.

The owner checked in frequently. His smile broadened with each assurance. The Arabic music changed to mellow love songs. People picked up carry out orders. A family of four settled in. The little girl waved to Spence. We had a savory memory to treasure.

Love,

Janet

Dear Nancy,

I trust you garden between showers and dote on your talented granddaughters. Spence dotes on my dad’s cousin Norma—Spence’s favorite junior high biology teacher. We visited Norma and her husband Bob in Buffalo for our anniversary. They arranged adventures.

The first day we drove in tandem. After a visit to the Buffalo Botanical Gardens, we followed Bob and Norma along one way streets to Buffalo Harbor. Bob circled the “Park Closed” sign and drove into a crowded lot. Confusing, but Bob explained, “The other side of the park is closed.”

After a picnic, Bob drove over speed bumps, executed a U-turn, and followed detours—one a cobblestone road, great for shaking off pounds. The goal? Shoreline Trail and canal boat replica.

The next leg of the trip to the AAUW book sale took three-quarters of an hour through busy traffic. One car after another butted between us on the four lane main street. Frustrating!

The second day, Bob drove all of us in his car. I mentioned wanting a photo of a buffalo statue if convenient. He immediately swung a sharp right onto the airport highway, pulled to the berm, and turned on flashers. I jogged across three lanes and focused my phone camera on statues. Traffic buzzed around the bronze beasts and me.

Overcast weather didn’t dampen spirits on the drive to Niagara Falls. We chatted about books and shared stories. When close, my companions discussed former industries along the Niagara River. The first grader in me oohed at roiling rapids and rising vapor from the falls ahead.

Traveling with Bob and Norma enhanced every adventure.

Love,

Janet

Dear Robert,

I hope all those heavy Florida rains didn’t make driving to work at the hospital difficult for you this June. Spence and I only had overcast skies when we rode to Niagara Falls State Park in New York with your Grandpa Lohse’s cousin Norma and her husband Bob, another Robert. We ambled through the parking lot, admired a Lamborghini, and checked license plates—none from Florida. On the path to the American Falls, tourists posed their children for photos beside signs and flowers. The children focused on lollipops or stones in the dirt.

We zigzagged down a ramp and gawked at the manicured gardens along the side. Quarried stones left over from bridge repairs, so Norma conjectured, accented the spring flowers. Crossing the lawn, we reached the railing by the Niagara River. It roiled toward the precipice then plunged with a roar. My vocabulary plunged to “Wow . . . wow . . . wow.” People walking, jogging, and pushing wheelchairs or strollers milled by. Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, and languages I couldn’t identify floated on the breeze.

We eased through the crowd further along the walkway for a wider view of the American Falls. Folks took selfies with the falls in the background. They pointed at the Maid of the Mist boats nearing the thundering water. Some walked on the bank of the river. Others took elevators to the observation tower. I was content to stand by the railing and soak in the scene—misty air, the babble of voices dimmed by pounding water, seagull cries, and the amazing natural wonder of Niagara Falls.

Love,

Janet

Dear Sophia,

I hope your school year with friends was terrific. Do you have summer vacation plans?

Spence and I took a trip to Lockport, New York with my dad’s cousin Norma and her husband Bob. Before attending a craft show, we stopped by the locks for a picnic lunch. Though gray clouds threatened and a damp breeze hinted at rain, we chose a table under a tree and crossed the cobblestone road to the lock. A squirrel darted directly at my feet. Not good. Rabid animals act crazy and aggressive. I stepped aside and let it scamper to the picnic area. No drool or foam formed around its mouth. Maybe it was friendly?

We glanced at the locks and decided to tour later. Spence fetched cold coffee at the shop down the street. Norma, Bob, and I unwrapped sandwiches. The squirrel scampered under the table around our shoes. I pulled my feet off the ground. Norma, a former junior high biology teacher, used her teacher-voice. “Go away squirrel.” It scampered around the couple’s feet at the next table. Maybe it was hungry?

After lunch Bob and Norma took us into Lake Effect Ice Cream just to read their menu. Frozen Hot Chocolate, Peanut Butter Epiphany, and Paula’s Glazed Donut would have tempted me if I were your age. Maybe the squirrel was partial to ice cream?

We toured the locks, watching them fill to lift boats, then wandered back. I oohed and aahed over a cluster of irises. I especially liked the chocolate iris in the middle. The squirrel, ignoring us, gnawed away at a purple iris that had bent to the ground. The critter had been hungry!

Love,

Janet

Dear Seth,

I hope school was fun. Now you can play outside all day. Do you ever play with cousins?

Spence and I had a picnic with our cousins, Norma and Bob, in Lockport, New York. The Erie Canal is there. The Niagara Escarpment is too. It’s a steep slope or cliff. Boats can’t sail up a hill so engineers build locks, like watertight boxes. Lockport has two locks.

A Lockport tour boat and a catamaran from Toronto sailed into the lock. The boats had to stay in place without bumping the concrete walls. So crews tied them loosely to the sides. Tour boat people stood and took photos. Well, not the baby. His mom bounced him in her arms so he wouldn’t cry.

The friendly lock keeper let us into a gated area near his control house so we could see down into the lock. He turned a gate paddle. The downstream gates swung closed s-l-o-w-l-y. Then water flowed through a sluice. Shish. Water inched higher—like filling a humongous bathtub. Twenty-five minutes later, the boats had risen thirty feet. That’s as high as a three-story building. Is your school that tall? The keeper turned another gate paddle. The upstream gates opened. The crews untied the boats. The boats moved into the second lock to raise another thirty-feet for the next part of their trip along the Erie Canal.

The people on the tour boat rested on benches or took pictures. What would you have done?

Our cousin Bob sailed through this lock to celebrate his 90th birthday last summer. Maybe you’ll do something just as neat to celebrate your 9th birthday next spring.

Love,

Great-aunt Janet

Dear Cory and Millie,

I hope you are comfortable and delighting in your precious grandson/great grandson Kieran.

Spence and I visited my dad’s cousin Norma and her husband Bob. He drove us to Lockport, NY for the 100 American Craftsmen Show. I thought of your stories about the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Cory. This show was inside, a tenth Ann Arbor’s size, but seemed huge to me.

Wood carvings, jewelry, ceramics, stained glass, photography, fabrics, sculptures, paintings, metal—a delight for the artistic soul in every direction. We soon strayed apart.

I gawked at Michael Cancilla Jr.'s watercolors so long he asked, “Are you a painter?” I admitted taking photos. And the artist engaged me about lighting and capturing images until Spence found me and commented on a barn painting. Michael had photographed the barn. Lucky, because the barn collapsed before he finished the painting.

Spence led me to Roy Ticen’s Twisted Timber booth. His walnut glowed, vibrating as if still alive. Spence had questioned the craftsman about keeping bark on the pieces. Roy preserved the wood while it was green. And Spence had fallen in love with a four foot bench. I would have bought it despite the price, but we have no room in our home for the rustic treasure.

We contemplated puzzles for our great nieces—commanding princesses, cute monsters, clever cats. But three piece puzzles seemed below their intelligence. “It’s art,” Spence argued.

We agreed on one purchase—a hand painted blouse by Jane Miller for Ellen’s birthday.

Outside under a canopy in the rain, Bob and Norma listened to live music and waited for us.

Love,

Janet

Dear Xavier,

Did you run outside today? I hope so.

Uncle Spence and I went to Buffalo. We saw lots of flowers like you saw at Wells Wood. We saw animals too.

Fish swam in a garden pond. They were koi. They reminded me of tabby cats. They had orange, black, and white splotches. They even had whiskers.

Chipmunks and squirrels scampered in parks. One squirrel circled our feet. I think it wanted food. We didn’t give him any. He ate a purple iris instead.

Seagulls soared and screeched overhead. They flew near water. They searched for fish.

And we saw a lot of buffaloes. They weren’t real. They were statues. Because the city is named Buffalo, people decorated corners with buffalo statues for fun. Some were painted. Some were bronze.

Real buffaloes wouldn’t like living in a city. They need space to roam and run. They want masses of grass to eat. The males can grow to be six feet tall—almost as tall as a door. A male can weigh 2000 pounds, about as much as a small car. You don’t want him stepping on your toes!

Love,

Aunt Janet

Dear Julie,

I hope you’re enjoying the warm weather and your lovely family.

Spence and I spent June 1st and 2nd with Norma and Bob. They guided us through sites all over the Buffalo area. Sunday evening, windshield wipers swishing, Spence drove while I read directions Norma had dictated to me. He didn’t listen. Bob had driven us by Presbyterian Village earlier and showed us which parking space to use—the one at the left end next to the fire plug.

We parked, splashed through puddles on the patio, and entered their “new place.” In downsizing, they kept furniture that fit and family treasurers. A Michael family crazy quilt covered the guest bed. Pink thread chain-stitched and red yarn tied the shiny fabrics. A brass bed with pillow shams Nancy quilted dominated the master bedroom. A mahogany desk from Norma’s family graced the living-dining area. Pictures of flowers, birds, and family decorated walls. Norma used the picture from her 85th birthday to update us on her grandchildren: two engineers, a communications expert, and a specialized infant nurse—no great-grands yet.

After a yummy rotisserie chicken dinner with salads and focaccia bread, the miracle of the evening occurred. We cleared the drop-leaf table, and Norma talked Spence into playing a game. Bob and Norma spread the dominoes while explaining the rules for Chickenfoot. Though Spence doesn’t enjoy games, he is fond of our dads’ cousins. He played Chickenfoot THREE times.

Being with Norma and Bob was the best part of the vacation—but you already knew that about family.

Love,

Janet

Dear Bob and Norma,

After our delightful adventure-packed days with you—thanks again—we made the 1.2 mile hike to view the Eternal Flames Falls in Chestnut Ridge Park. My alliterative mind interpreted the website’s “moderate” hike description as “mild.” I got a surprise.

In boots, we stepped over tree roots and squishy mud. Towering old hemlocks and oaks blocked sunshine and kept air moist. Red-eyed vireos and hooded warblers cheered us on as did hikers coming back from the falls. Then we reached the steps—nineteen sections varying in number from three to twenty-something. YIKES! At the bottom, a narrow path edged Shale Creek. Returning people grinned. “You’re almost there. Just a walk up the river.” River? The shallow creek spanned ten-foot wide at most. But “up river” made sense when the path disappeared. A dad and toddler splashed into view. We waded in, taking care not to slip on the shale. The creek trickled round curves. A mother and young-adult daughter appeared. The mother motioned with her arm. “It’s around the bend, but it's probably out by now.”

“I’ll go back and light it for you.” The daughter, part wood nymph, giant-stepped over shale, scrambled up the side of the falls, and reached into the grotto with a cigarette lighter. Oomph. The natural gas lit. A foot-high flame flickered beneath spraying water. Stoic Spence whispered, “Wow!” Amazing.

Heading back, we encouraged folks on their way. But managing the stairs without a single bench? I climbed, huffed, and rested by standing still until my heart stopped pounding and I could breathe without gulping. Then I climbed again—the active definition for “moderate” hike.

Love,

Janet

Dear Lori and Eliza,

I hope you’re soaking in sunshine, enjoying those charming pets, and having adventures.

Spence and I had an adventurous two days with Dad’s cousin Norma and her husband Bob in Buffalo. Then, at 9:30 a.m. Monday, June 3, we left for home. I collapsed into the Maverick’s passenger seat. Spence hopped behind the wheel. “We’ll be home by lunch time,” he said.

Scenery flew past the window and the thought of the Eternal Flame Falls, just seven miles from I-90, according to Google, haunted me. I dithered. Rest or hike to the falls? Would I regret missing the flame flicker under the waterfalls? Duh! The 1.2 mile walk could be my exercise for the day. “Pull off here, Spence.” I turned on GPS to guide us for the promised seven mile jaunt to the falls. The friendly female voice directed us into Orchard Park, zigzagged through back streets, curved us out of town, and dumped us on the side of the road. We U-turned, back-tracked to the main road, and found the parking lot a quarter mile further along.

No worries. We’d walk in, see the flickering flame, and walk out. I hadn’t counted on the tree roots, nineteen sets of steps, a wade up the Shale Creek, or the time to gawk. I could eat late.

We sped into Pennsylvania. Close to Erie, traffic slowed to a crawl. A couple yards past an exit, GPS announced, “Traffic accident ahead.” We inched along. By 2:00, Spence pulled off so I could use the ladies and get my lunch from the truck bed. “I’ll take you to McDonald’s. They always have clean restrooms.” Clean, but no toilet paper. I washed my hands three times.

At 3:02 GPS said, “Welcome home.” Welcome indeed as were all the memories we made.

Love,

Janet