Three Clebrations Spring 2022

Allegheny River View Tiger Swallowtail on Dame’s Rocket

Dear Reid and Claire,

I hope you’re both well and getting outside when the weather cooperates.

To celebrate Spence’s 75^th, we walked along the Samuel Justus Recreation Trail outside of Franklin, Pennsylvania. Trees with end-of-spring leaves obscured our view of the rippling, gray-green Allegheny River hurtling below us. Above us, on the other side, ran Route 322 under shale cliffs. The paved trail made easy walking—especially since not many folks ventured out on a cloudy Thursday afternoon.

When I heard rap music and the loud voices of two young men approaching behind me, I stepped off the trail to watch them pass. One didn’t. He steered his low-slung bike right at me, stopped two feet away, and tossed a long plastic cigarette holder onto the ground. “Is Franklin ahead? We want to stop at Sheets.”

“No. You just passed it,” I answered surprised he’d picked an old lady to ask.”

Spence pointed. “Use the ramp. Turn left. Cross over the river. That takes you into town.”

The fella swore a chapter, called his friend, and pedaled up the ramp.

Spence and I continued our leisurely walk listening to catbirds, robins, and red-wing blackbirds harmonize with traffic sounds. We found eleven different wildflowers blooming including three firsts-of-the-season for us—rough-fruited cinquefoil, mouse-ear chickweed, and black medic. My favorite, for their lavender color and sweet fragrance, were dame’s rockets. They attracted tiger swallowtail butterflies.

Love,

Janet

Spence at Mr. Bookman Book Purchases from Mr. Bookman

Dear Julie,

I hope you and yours are doing well—especially your adorable two-and-a-half-month old granddaughter.

Inspired by Aunt Marge, I convinced Spence to celebrate his 75^th birthday browsing at Mr. Bookman, a used bookstore in Franklin, PA. Like me, Marge would’ve enjoyed the fact that the bullhorn lady, of the January 6 assault on the Capitol, works there. Spence didn’t care about her. He connected the store to The Bookman, a villain using books as weapons in steampunk novels.

The store occupies half of a warehouse. It smelled of old books. In the lobby, we passed paper hedgehog statues, a glass case of 1800s books, and defaced political book covers. After rewriting George Bush’s title, the marker-defacer drew devil ears and tails on the Clintons.

Only a young woman with a long dark braid attended the store. Disappointed not to see the bullhorn lady but glad I could explore the open space maskfree, I studied the center display in the main room. Eclectic. I found Christmas short stories next to quilting mysteries. Spence looked for science fiction—The Bookman series in particular. The science fiction had very few copies compared to the multiple Christian living, health, and cookbooks. He concluded the store served people looking for high quality second hand books, and reading a wide but shallow scope. He continued searching for The Bookman in a back corner. No luck. While there, we heard someone banging behind a curtain. The bullhorn lady? Maybe. Our trip proved successful. We bought five books.

Love,

Janet

Spence at Benjamin’s Roadhouse Busker

Dear Nancy,

I hope you’re well and enjoying your granddaughters—the sports enthusiast and the musician.

We combined both their interests, on a modest level, to celebrate Spence’s birthday in Franklin, Pennsylvania. After a walk gawking at flowers along the Allegheny River and a stroll through a used book store, I took Spence out to dinner at Benjamin’s Roadhouse. I do mean “out.” We sat under a red umbrella on a patio at the corner of Liberty and 12^th Streets. Our view provided a metaphorical portrait of modern life. Traffic rushed and halted in the foreground. Green parks —Fountain Park with a splashing centerpiece on the left and Band Stand Park on the right—flanked the white, Victorian Courthouse in the middle ground. Tree-covered hills rose to dizzying heights in the background.

While Spence enjoyed his rib eye steak and I savored bruschetta chicken, clouds darkened. Wind whipped the edges of the umbrella. Tree branches swayed, and traffic lights bounced from cords in the intersection. Instead of pelting rain or thunder, however, blues floated through the moist air. Amplified sounds of a guitar, harmonica, and voice from a one-man-show echoed through the valley. Parked cars blocked our view, but Paige, our young server, explained. “A man is standing in front of the court house. He plays for tips.” After dinner, we left tips for Paige and the busker—even though Spence said, “He needs a backup singer. He’s weak on high notes.” A summer job for your older granddaughter in four or five years?

Love,

Janet

Wooden Bear Statue on Porch Get-Together Dinner on Porch

Dear Robert,

I hope you are well and work in the hospital kitchen isn’t too crazy. Have you heard your dad tease me about bears? I thought about him Memorial Day weekend. Spence’s relatives visited. When a bunch of us chatted in the driveway, our five-year-old great niece ran around the house alone. I gasped. “Amelia, don’t go outside without an adult. It’s not safe.”

She stared at her shoes, and her daddy said, “Tell her about the bears, Janet.”

“I don’t want to scare her, Patrick.”

“Go ahead. Scare her.” He knelt and scowled at Amelia. “Bears will scratch your eyes out.” She cowered. At least he didn’t say they would eat her.

On a flower hunt, she skipped ahead pointing to dandelions, forget-me-nots, and daisy fleabanes. Soon her attention waned. “I’m going back.” She ran toward the house. I shouted, “Incoming girl.” Spence answered. “We see her.” And so the day went until dinner.

Spence had grilled meats and made salads. Amelia ate plain hot dog buns. Half way through her second, she held it up and asked, “Can I feed the birds?”

Her grandpa said, “Ask Aunt Janet. She’ll tell you about bears.”

“We only feed birds when it snows and bears hibernate. We don’t want them looking for food on the porch. They could hurt the cats.” Folks quizzed Spence and me about bears that licked the bird feeder, tossed poch containers, and pooped in a flower pot. Amelia ripped the bun and dropped the pieces onto her plate. Hopefully, she learned to be bear-safe without fearing bears.

Love,

Janet

`Bean Trellis Girls on Grass

Dear Aunt Audrey,

I hope you are well and content. I wonder if you celebrated Memorial Day with Prescilla like she celebrated with us over the years. We continue her tradition by inviting the Bruce Wells family to Wells Wood every year.

This year, late Sunday afternoon, a group headed for the south garden. Laura and Beau, her boyfriend who willingly helps with anything, built bean trellises for Spence. They measured five feet from the first row of plants in the tilled area then constructed a trellis with PVC pipes and connectors. Around them, great nieces Addy (seven-years-old) and Amelia (five-years-old) frolicked, helping Spence water plants and picking up stones—for a few minutes. When he switched to cooking hotdogs on the grill, Sarah distracted the little girls by lying in the grass for example. Bruce and Patrick manned the porch and welcomed folks who wanted breaks.

Cindy and I put the finishing touches on watermelon sorbet. Though I’d already pureed the mixture, made from juice of homegrown watermelons, it needed to be pureed again—in small batches. Cindy smashed them with a knife and fork. I scooped the mush into the blender and pushed buttons. Brrrr. The pink mush bounced up and down. We held our sticky hands up in the air like cactus arms, and I mimicked the bouncing of the pink mix in the blender. Spence passed through the kitchen to get grilling utensils and said. “You girls are cute.” We put the sorbet in the freezer for after dinner. Though the sorbet chilled our teeth and brains, the gang enjoyed its watermelon flavor for celebrating the cultural beginning of summer like Priscilla had.

Love,

Janet

Dear Barb,

I hope you’re enjoying good health and pleasant trips to the shore with your grandsons.

For us, the tradition is a Memorial Day weekend creek walk at Wells Wood. This year nephew Patrick arrived smiling, saying he’d talked up the creek walk with Addy (age 7) and Ameilia (age 5). Sadly, I explained pounding rains left Deer Creek a high, opaque-brown, hurtling torrent the day before. Unsafe. “But we can check. It might have receded.” Pat, his mom Cindy, and I left the girls with their Uncle Spence and Grandpa Bruce. We walked across the north field, through the woods, and over the floodplain to Deer Creek. Shallow. Clear. Calm. Safe for wading.

After dinner, I put away leftover food while nine adventures tramped to the creek. Spence later said, the girls, their dad, their Aunt Laura, and her boyfriend Beau waded to a stony island. They skipped stones. After hip surgeries, however, Bruce wanted to keep walking. So the three older folks and niece Sarah walked along the floodplain parallel to the creek.

Shrieks from the valley tempted me. I hustled down to photograph the fun. No one was at the bottom of the path. Though trees obscured the view, I walked beside the creek until I outpaced the waders. Soon Pat and the girls—kicking, splashing, and squealing—came into view. Beau and Laura appeared next. I missed the older folks. They’d already returned to the log house. The waders paused for their picture then turned upstream. The Memorial Day creek walk tradition had been handed down to the next generation.

Love,

Janet

Barracks Beach Presque Isle Beach Shoes in Surf

Dear Ellie,

I hope you’re well and have found a satisfying job. Spence and I spent our anniversary at Presque Isle June 1 following Walk #13 in Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park, but not precisely.

Leaving View 3 parking lot on Erie Bay at 2:15, we crossed Peninsula Drive, passed the closed Stull Center, and climbed a sandy path edged with healthy poison ivy to Barracks Beach.

Though the guidebook suggested we walk in the deep, dry sand by the grass and trees, I preferred walking on harder, wet sand by Lake Erie. Water looked dark blue far off and seaweed green close to shore. Birds outnumbered people. A trio of starlings flew in a triangular formation. Seagulls waited on spindly legs for the waves to wash in tidbits or soared, shrieking overhead. Waves curled and crashed—pounding, splashing. The cool water tickled my feet. As waves receded and foamy bubbles melted, we walked on and on.

The guidebook said we’d find driftwood and seaglass. Driftwood littered the beach—easy to find. We found smoothed, red and gray stones. Waves had also polished pieces of shells fit for jewelry. We didn’t find any seaglass—perhaps because we hadn’t dug knee-deep and sifted the sand. After following the curves of the lake for forty-five minutes, my knees ached. We sat on a thirty foot drift-log. On dirt roads in boots, we would have walked a mile-and-a-half. Did that equal the guidebook’s eight-tenth-of-a-mile on sand in beach shoes? I debated whether to retrace the long walk on sand or gamble that we’d walked long enough to connect with the Multi-Purpose trail for a shorter, easier walk back. Your mom’s postcard has the sad answer.

Love,

Janet

Barracks Beach Presque Isle Driftwood

Dear Lori,

I hope you’re well and enjoying life with your pets. Do you still have a pig?

When Spence and I celebrated our anniversary at Presque Isle, the only four legged creatures we saw were chipmunks and dogs. We’d followed Walk #13 in Gene Ware’s A Walk on the Park up Barracks Beach. With no mile markers, I hadn’t a clue if we’d walked the directed 8/10 mile. The sky darkened. Winds whipped waves. A thunderstorm had been forecast. It was time to head back. I decided to follow the guidebook. Leaving the beach, we turned left for the 1/10 mile walk on Old Lake Road to meet Peninsula Drive and the Multi-Purpose Trail.

We walked for ages and ages along the road. I kept saying, “It’s probably around the next bend.” It wasn’t and I didn’t want to wade through the thirty yards of swampy woods.

Spence finally said, “Does it make sense to walk in the opposite direction of the car?”

We turned around. Old Lake Road would have been delightful under other circumstances. The breeze blew puffy cottonwood seeds and carried the fragrance of black locust. But the pavement smacked my feet through the thin beach shoes and jarred my sore, swollen knees. I limped. Spence pointed at tiger swallowtail butterflies. Too weary to look, I trudged for another century until we reached the spot we’d joined the road—and yet another until we found the path across to the drive and trail. Only 8/10 mile to the car. I glanced at Erie Bay and read signs that nesting red-winged blackbirds could get aggressive. Many called chit chit but none threatened an old couple completing a two-hour walk, having thoroughly celebrated their 54^th anniversary.

Love,

Janet

Dear Eric and Kay,

I hope you are well and getting to your beach house as often as you wish.

As you might predict, Spence and I celebrated our anniversary at Presque Isle followed by dinner at the Bayfront Grille in Erie. Thunderstorms, traditional for our celebration, had been forecast, but sunshine graced our dinner. The middle-aged couple ahead of us at the hostess desk only ordered carry-out coffee. They turned to leave through the front but changed their minds and exited via the patio. The chatty hostess led us outside only to dither at seeing the carry-out couple seated at a table for two. She murmured to herself about people arriving then put us to an umbrella table for four. Though further back from the bay, the umbrella shielded our eyes from the direct sun. The squatter couple lingered while our server made several trips for questions about soy and dairy. The squatters remained while Spence sipped Commodore Perry Pale Ale. While I savored red, white, and purple baby potatoes, the man talked about sermons, the choir, and his mother. His smiling companion chirped in happily. Spence and I couldn’t decide if they were dating or interviewing. Before we got our bill, every two person table had filled. The squatters finally left through the front.

We took the patio exit and walked along the calm bay. When Spence drove onto Bay Front Drive, sprinkles fell. Rain increased until in Saegertown, it pounded the car. Lightning flashed. Spence slowed and put on his flashers. Sheets of rain turned the landscape gray. Patches of poison hemlock flowers lined the road for yet another wet and memorable anniversary outing.

Love,

Janet