Pennsylvania Hills and Florida Flatlands

Dear Addy,

On June 1, your uncle Spence kept saying, “Addy would call this an adventure.”

We wanted to hike through the Forest Cathedral in Cook Forest State Park, but we were riding and riding in his red pickup. He drove. I read directions. When he saw the sign, Cook Forest 11 miles, he followed the arrow. I put the directions away. He spied another sign, Scenic Cook Forest Drive. “That sounds good,” he said and made a sharp right. We were lost.

After wandering along roads with no signs for miles, we stopped by the Clarion River for a picnic lunch. Then we found a town with a traffic light, pizza shop, and post office. In the post office I asked, “How do we get to the Log Cabin Environmental Classroom in Cook Forest?’’ The young woman scrunched her nose so I said, “We want to hike the Longfellow Trail.” Her face smoothed. “I don’t know the environmental center, but turn left at the light. Follow route thirty-six till you cross a bridge. The park office is on the right. They’ll help you.”

The kind park officer told us to take a right at the Y. We saw three Ys and got lost on River Road. People floated on rafts in Toms Run’s lazy current. Turning around, we studied the park map, took the correct Y, and finally found the trail—six miles down the road from where Spence had turned off for the scenic drive.

It took 143 miles, 3 hours and 48 minutes (not counting stops) to find Longfellow Trail. It took 66 miles, 1 hour and 35 minutes (not counting stops) to go home. You do the math. Were we lost longer than we were on track going to Cook Forest?

Love,

Aunt Janet

The first photo is Uncle Spence hugging an ancient hemlock tree. The second is a hemlock leaning over the trail at Cook Forest.

Dear Amelia,

Have you been splashing in rain puddles? Rain soaked the dirt pile you played on when you visited. That dirt is now in the raised-bed your uncle Spence was building while you played.

It hadn’t rained for a long time before Spence and I drove to Cook Forest June 1. Part of the park has tall, old trees. They call it the Forest Cathedral. We hiked on two trails there. On the Longfellow Trail, we smelled a white pine. It’s the Tree of Peace honoring Iroquois Chief Jake Swamp. The pine had brown branches. We passed a Memorial Fountain. No water came out of its spout. Wooden bridges crossed creeks. They only had trickles. Not enough rain had fallen.

The trail was a little scary at first because the edge dropped straight down. As we got higher, the trail cut into the woods. We switched to the Ancient Forest Trail and climbed up. No flowers grew. Chipmunks scampered under hemlocks and white pines. A blue headed vireo sang—See me? Here-I-am—but we didn’t see him. Some of the trees were 300 to 400 years old. Uncle Spence hugged a hemlock to show you how big they grew. Some trees fell across the path. Workers cut and moved them. I asked Spence to put his hand beside mind on a white pine log for a picture. Fresh sap made our hands sticky. One large hemlock leaned over the trail. We walked under it. That wasn’t as scary as the trail dropping off.

The 2 ½ mile hike took two hours. I had to rest sometimes. I sat on logs, recorded bird songs, and took photos. Spence helped me. He held my hand for steep climbs. Seeing the big trees was worth the hike. Maybe your daddy will take you out to see them someday.

Love,

Aunt Janet

Dear Sophia,

I hope you had a great school year. I know your aunt Lori would be proud of you. What kind of books are you reading this summer? Mysteries? Every spring when poison hemlock flowers bloom, I think someone should write a mystery using those flowers as the murder weapon. The hemlock, Pennsylvania’s state tree, isn't poisonous. Some people confuse them.

Spence and I saw both on June 1. The flowers lined Pennsylvania state roads for our trip to Cook Forest State Park where we gawked at the majestic 300 and 400 year old hemlock trees. I’d also wanted to see the tallest white pine (183 feet) in the northeastern US, but a park ranger explained that a microburst cut that tree to twenty feet. It didn’t matter. Leaning back to view the tops of trees, I almost toppled backward. I couldn’t estimate how tall the trees were anyway.

I’d expected the ancient forest would have rows of tall, fat trunks with branches way high in the air. That was unrealistic. A forest isn’t static. It’s living. Like people, as trees age, some weaken and die. Plus severe storms struck in 1956 and 1976 destroying many old trees. In the sunny spots left by the fallen trees, young trees grew creating new generations besides the older ones. Stumps and logs litter the ground. Ferns and moss grow in the shade.

Though we hiked on a hot day (88° F), the trees kept us cool. A black-throated green warbler and chickadee serenaded us for the steep climb up. A red-eyed vireo and winter wren sang as we were careful not to slip on gravel coming down. No bugs bothered us. I’m not sure what the birds ate. Perhaps they flew to the valley where wildflowers bloomed.

Love,

Janet

Dear Spencer,

Do you have fun outside? Your great-uncle Spence and I do.

We rode in his red pickup truck to the Clarion River. Your great-grandfather Spencer used to take your grandpa Larry there.

At Clear Creek Park, Spence and I parked at a boat launch. We walked down the ramp for boats—slowly because it was steep and slippery. The river gurgled and splashed in the valley between tree covered hills. Stones covered the mud by the water. The river is deep enough for boats, but we didn’t see any on the water that day. Have you ever gone for a boat ride?

When Spence and I climbed back up the hill. I sat on the truck’s tailgate. I kicked my feet and ate a chicken sandwich. I also listened to birds sing. A crow cawed. A robin sang cheer-up, cheerily. A tufted titmouse whistled a tune that sounded like peter-peter-peter. The vireo sang a short song that sounded like a question and answer. A Baltimore oriole had a quiet, flutey song. Have you heard any of these birds? I bet you could sing their songs.

Spence pointed to different trees and bushes. He found a hemlock, white pine, cheery, oak, elm, catalpa, lilac, and mountain laurel. What trees and bushes grow near your house?

Love,

Great-aunt Janet

Dear Seth,

How was first grade? I bet you’re ready to have fun this summer.

Your great-uncle Spence and I had fun hiking on trails in Cook Forest. On our way home, we stopped at Benjamin’s Roadhouse in Franklin. We ate outside under a big red umbrella.

Our waitress said her name was “Cat.” If she were a cat, she would have been a black panther. She was pretty, tall, slim, dressed all in black, and had tattoos.

The restaurant was at a busy intersection across from the courthouse and two parks. Motorcycles, semi-trucks, and cars passed by. Midway through dinner, people walked to one of the parks. Some of the people carried instruments. I asked Cat, “Is there a concert tonight?”

“Yes, the Silver Cornet Band is playing.” She pointed to the park. “The band got started in Franklin over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Soon the community band played a Star Wars melody. The cornets, trombones, french horns, and drums were loud enough for me to hear. That made me happy. I could listen to the concert while I finished my dinner—well, not the soft parts of the music.

But a jeep, with its radio playing loud, stopped at the red light. More people came outside to eat and they talked, talked, talked. The courthouse carillon played a long song. A baby at the restaurant cried. Spence and Cat discussed gardens. I couldn’t hear any more of the concert.

I hope you have better luck listening to what you want to hear.

Love,

Great-aunt Janet

Dear Susan,

I hope you, Scott, and your kitties are well.

Spence and I left son Charlie caring for our three black and white tabbies while we visited my brother Bob in Florida. His orange tabbies—brother and sister not quite a year old—sniffed our bags, shoes, and pant cuffs. No doubt the orange tabbies smelled our cats.

The orange tabbies are hard to distinguish except Rusty, who Bob calls Big Boy, is longer and managed to slip out of his collar. He’s friendly but shy, watching us from under the end table. Piper, who Bob calls Little Girl, wears a collar with a bell. She’s more curious.

Bob had closed the door to his office with the air mattress inside. The cats had clawed his other air mattress making it useless. I went in with my bags, and Piper sneaked in behind me. Panicked, because I didn’t want Bob to lose a second air mattress, I grabbed her around the middle. She was displeased! When I petted her to make amends, she let out a long, loud disapproving hiss. In general both cats accepted pets, but Rusty returned the favor by gently biting our fingers—a behavior we discouraged because Bob’s on blood thinners.

The cats delighted in toys and scattered them all over the floor. Bob, who has Parkinsons, calmly navigated around them with his wheelchair, walker, canes, or holding onto furniture.

When Spence and I got home, we expected our cats to run up and sniff the orange tabbies on us. They didn’t. After 4 ½ days, Ande and Rills met us with wide, surprised eyes. They accepted pets and followed us from room to room. Gilbert slept through the homecoming.

Take care,

Janet

Dear Pat,

I hope you and your cats are well. You often ask what I’m reading. Well, this book has a backstory. I ordered Helpless, Zoe Chambers mystery #12 by Annette Dashofy. She’d switched publishers so I checked the back of the title page, finding “reader copy . . . do not sell to public.” Disappointed, I returned the book to Amazon. The next day Annette posted her newsletter. I emailed her my Amazon news. Annette answered, “Oh, no! I’ll let my publisher know . . . and send you a signed copy of the REAL book . . . thank you for giving me a heads-up.”

Weather dominates her mystery and is a tiny part of my story. Usually, I visit my brother in Florida during winter so Bob’s “Oh no!” text on May 31 with a National Hurricane Center map tracking a storm alerted me that my June trip was scheduled in hurricane season. Friday afternoon June 2, the storm became Hurricane Arlene for three hours in the Gulf of Mexico. It tore many red flowers off his royal poinciana tree but turned south to the Keys and Cuba by the time we flew into Sarasota Bradenton Airport Sunday, June 4. No problem for us.

Annette’s book made the airport wait in Pittsburgh and the direct flight down a pleasure. I tuned out the little girl kicking my seat and people chatting. Our pilot detoured over the gulf to avoid a thunderstorm, making us late and giving us some bumps. Coming back Thursday, clouds surrounded the plane and, in Baltimore, we descended and ascended through smoke from Canada wildfires—nothing compared to Annette’s characters struggling through the remnants of a hurricane to rescue a seven-year-old girl from a killer and reunite her with her dying father.

Take care,

Janet

Dear Julie,

I hope you are well, enjoying your family, and getting out in the sunny weather. Despite Florida’s heat, when my brother told me he needed more surgery on his spine, I asked Bob if he was up for company. Of course he gave us a warm welcome to his home which, despite his Parkinson’s, he’d remodeled—new floors, appliances, countertops, wainscoting, and trim.

I enjoyed chatting with our nephew Robert, who was visiting when Spence and I arrived. I quizzed Robert in depth about all his stories, especially concerning his promotion to head of food services in a Venice, Florida hospital where he supervises thirty-five people making sure all patients, workers, and visitors are fed daily—a hero in my mind.

Memories of my parents also welcomed me. The pendulum clock Dad built from a kit appeared larger than I remembered. Bob had the clock repaired and set the chimes on St. Michael’s which rang the quarter hour day and night.

Pictures Mom had hung in her house—a white magnolia, Hilton Head beaches, needlework, and collages of family photos—adorned the walls.

And I learned things. (1) Bob found papers that Dad had Top Secret clearance. (2) Bob goes to Bayside Community Church three times a week: Sunday service, a prayer group, and Iron Men’s Breakfast led by Charles Manson’s grandson. (3) Bob “did a Carly” at our last breakfast together. He rubbed his waffle with the end of a butter stick. The action got its name for our dads’ cousin Carly doing that with corn on the cob. Had you ever heard of that?

Love,

Janet

Dear Nancy,

I hope you are reveling in retirement. It has advantages beyond the time for extra medical appointments. When my brother emailed he needed surgery on his spine later this summer, for example, Spence and I made a spur of the moment visit. Bob and Spence started their mornings with rich coffee. I preferred to begin the day on Bob’s lanai doing yoga.

The first morning, Piper, a female orange tabby, sat atop Mom's old organ and peered through the dining room window while I pushed the chairs and plant table to the side. Piper stayed to watch me stretch to a Yoga with Adriene video on YouTube. Evidently, Bob doesn’t do anything as strange as downward dog, forward bends, or eagle poses.

The lanai windows muted the bird chorus a bit. After my yoga practice the second day, I walked outside in bare feet, stood under the royal poinciana tree, and turned on the Merlin app from Cornell Lab to record bird songs. A house sparrow, the closest to me, sang first and most frequently. Second, a northern mockingbird whistled. Spence had seen it at the top of a high tree two doors down the night before. Next came a fish crow, laughing gull, tufted titmouse, Carolina wren, and killdeer. Playing back the chorus, I showed the list to Bob. He said, “I don’t know whether to be surprised there are so many or there aren’t more.” Birds fly north to escape the heat. He doesn’t hear the cardinal that graces your Christmas card each year.

And every morning, I watched the sunrise behind the jacaranda tree. The ambience of the Florida trees, birds, and sun benefited me as much as the stretching.

Love,

Janet

Dear Reid and Claire,

I hope you two are comfy, cozy, and taking care of each other.

When my brother emailed that he needed another operation on his spine, I impulsively asked, “Are you up for company?” Bob said yes, and if I was there June 6, I could drive him to his colonoscopy in his Chevy Bolt. Spence and I flew to Florida June 4.

The next day, Bob sipped liquids and opened Lakeshore Serenity, a 1000 piece puzzle. Sitting elbow to elbow at the dining room table, he and I sorted border pieces and different color pieces into aluminum pie pans. Then we pieced the border.

Working on his computer in the kitchen, Spence monitored puzzle progress by sound. When Bob commented, “That works” or I cheered “Bingo” and taped a piece with my finger, Spence called, “Sounds chipper in there.’’ Another time Spence said, “Got awfully quiet.” Bob yelled, “This puzzle is beating our ass.” By the end of Bob’s liquid day, we had the 100 inch border finished, a bit of the bottom left corner, and the flannel shirt attached to the left side.

Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, we got the store sign and the left side connected. I fiddled with the two canoes without making any sense of them. Bob said the puzzle was “to pass the time.” For me it made happy memories. I challenged Bob to finish the puzzle by July 4th. He scoffed and said it would be done before then. After a day of trudging through airports and flying above clouds, Spence was driving me home on I 79 when Bob texted a photo of his progress on the puzzle. He’s right. He’ll finish before the Fourth— if his cats don’t disassemble it first.

Love,

Janet

Dear Marion,

I hope your Queen Mary 2 trip to South Hampton, England will be utterly divine.

Spence and my trip to Florida to see my brother Bob before he had another operation on his spine had its moments. Bob suggested we come when I could drive him to his colonoscopy. So Monday, June 5, I accompanied him to his physical therapy appointment then got behind the wheel for a lesson driving his 2016 Chevy Bolt. Cars zoomed everywhere, but I concentrated—reaching in vain for the gear shift and stepping on the non-existent clutch. Only the Bolt’s tires made noise. The car seemed to speed, and its brakes reacted to the slightest touch. I crept. Bob encouraged me. “You can go faster. The speed limit’s thirty here.” Eventually I summoned the courage to turn right on red. After watching a half dozen cars turn left on their green arrow, I stepped on the gas. Bob said, “Stop. You’re going to hit that guy.” I braked and missed broadsiding a sheriff’s SUV making a U-turn. At least I didn’t get a ticket.

The next day, having written directions, I made the trip perfectly without Bob needing to give advice. Driving back to Bob’s, I remembered all the streets but, not reading the directions, made a right instead of a left. I didn’t panic. Streets run in a grid. I could get back on track. Unfortunately, the development I turned into was an exception. I ended up near the surgery center, drove through its parking lot again, and made a second, no-mistake drive to Bob’s.

After the procedure, I navigated the now familiar trip with ease. Bob got to and from the surgery center in one piece. So did the Chevy Bolt.

Love,

Janet

Dear Lori and Eliza,

I hope you are well and enjoying your special pets. Do you still have your pig?

Spence and I visited my brother Bob so I could drive him to his colonoscopy—one excuse for a Florida vacation. Tuesday, June 6, I drove Bob to Bradenton Surgery Center in his Chevy Bolt, signed papers as his designated driver, and watched him fill out his forms. Then he shooed me. “I can handle it from here. You might as well go to the beach.”

If traffic cooperated, Spence and I would have time to wade in the Gulf of Mexico. Back at Bob’s, I picked up gear, and Spence drove the rental car to the beach. Traffic cooperated. The parking lot didn’t. We circled in vain. Only getting a glimpse of the gulf, I said, “Head back.”

We stopped at a boat launch on Palma Sola Bay. This “beach” had a stretch of Bermuda grass, a foot of sand, and warm, shallow water. Rolling down the windows, I ate a picnic lunch while a lady carried her dachshund into the water and let him paddle back. Next, Spence strolled on the sand. Wearing Bob’s old slippers, I waded. Inch long translucent fish darted past. Wading further, I discovered 2 to 3 inch husky fish with yellow noses and black stripes. Four inch, skinny fish with long noses, silver bodies, and black stripes zipped super fast. Later Bob said the skinny ones could have been barracudas or mackerels. “Any kind of fish is common in Florida.”

Heading back, my cell phone rang—Bob would be ready in thirty minutes. I wiped sand from between my toes and changed into shoes. At Bob’s house, I hopped into his Chevy Bolt and drove to the surgery center. I arrived for him with ten minutes to spare and stories to share.

Love,

Janet

Dear Millie,

I hope you are comfy, content, and reveling in whatever tickles your fancy.

When my brother Bob emailed from Florida that he would need yet another operation on his spine, I impulsively invited myself for a visit. Spence came along, serving as super facilitator.

He drove us to Pittsburgh airport through switching construction lanes, toted my carry-on through the long airport corridors, and hefted it into the overhead bin on the plane.

After a warm welcome by Bob, his two orange tabbies, and my nephew Robert, we chatted until my stomach growled. Spence quietly provided snacks then headed to the kitchen with Bob to cook dinner.

The next morning, Spence researched how to connect Bob’s three monitors using Linux instead of Windows. He left the complicated instructions for Bob. Then Spence drove to Publix to buy groceries, including a variety of sodas for Bob’s colonoscopy preparation.

The day of Bob’s colonoscopy, Spence drove me to Holmes Beach while Bob was at the surgery center. The parking lot was so crowded we couldn’t get a space, but flexible Spence found a boat launch, and I waded in Palma Sola Bay instead of the Gulf. When Bob and I watched Hallmark movies that evening, Spence served us a gourmet spaghetti dinner, sat through the films with only a few snarky remarks, and took a solo walk around the neighborhood.

On a layover in BWI airport coming home, Spence treated me to dinner at Zona Cocina. Kicking the bags cluttered at our feet, I was thankful my best friend came to help.

Love,

Janet