Chestnut Redemption

In April, 

I submitted the following essay 

to a Science and Faith writing contest. 

Recently I found that I had not placed, 

but no worries-- 

it was fun to integrate a childhood memory 

with college botany memories 

and a current breakthrough. 

Skip to the end 

if there is too much science for you. 

Appreciation to Lori Mulligan Davis 

and Steve Zimmerly 

for their Very Useful Comments. 

(...and Lori, I reinstated a bit of 

not-the-best-choice-for-publishing stuff 

and added slightly distracting pictures. Ha.)

A PARTIAL REDEMPTION OF CREATION:

Genetic Engineering in the American Chesnut

I crawled out of the back seat of my grandfather’s Volkswagen Bug

and walked, hand in hand,

with my grandma through the overgrown field

to a corner of the woods.

It was Grandma Maud who taught me the creation story at VBS,

using visual aids she had made with paper fasteners and magazine cutouts,

photos of skies and waters and lions and monkeys and trees

and drawings of Adam and Eve’s sin that doomed the earth to imperfection.

However, it was my Grandpa Bernie, a nonbeliever,

who most appreciated the Creator’s details.

His basement barbershop, a source of side income since the Great Depression,

contained turtle shells,

snake eggs in jars,

and furniture made from the burls he’d found on old trees.

When we arrived at the edge of the woods,

Grandpa Bernie spoke.

“Look carefully and remember, Susie.

You’ll never see one of these again.”

“What is it, Grandpa?”

“It’s an American chestnut tree, the last one in these parts.”

It was enormous.

 The three of us holding hands did not stretch around even half the trunk.

And it was dead.

The corner of the same field today

A Polaroid of Grandpa Bernie's barber shop in the 60s

When Grandpa Bernie was a boy,

there were billions of huge American chestnut trees.

Chestnut was the species that made up the largest part of the forest canopy.

One of every four trees in the forests of the Appalachians

was thought to be a chestnut;

many of them had diameters of eight to ten feet.

Some even reached fourteen feet,

with no branches for the first fifty feet up.

It was thought that a very energetic squirrel

could start in Maine

and adventure to Alabama
solely on the branches of American chestnut trees.

Bernie and his dogs in the time of chestnuts

The American chestnut has had a place in literature for hundreds of years,

beginning with explorer Hernando de Soto’s travel journals in 1540:

“Where there be mountains, there be chestnuts.”

Longfellow’s poem “The Village Blacksmith”

immortalized the spreading chestnut tree.

Henry David Thoreau and Louisa May Alcott were familiar with chestnuts

and wrote of them.

Each Christmas while driving alone,

millions of us sing quite loudly,

“ChestNUUUUUUUTS roasting on an open fire...”

but most of us do not share lyricist Bob Wells’s memory of chestnuts.

"Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands..."
A Paul Detlefsen painting from my childhood kitchen

The American chestnut tree, Castanea dentata,

was a keystone species,

 a species that makes a huge contribution to its environment.

The chestnut’s mast, or nut crop,

was reliable each year

and supported many kinds of wildlife,

as opposed to the present-day oaks whose nut crops vary from year to year.

Passenger pigeons
and many other creatures
were dependent upon chestnuts.

Farmers would turn their pigs loose in the forests

in the autumn to fatten them on fallen chestnuts.

The bark was used to produce tannic acid for making leather.

Chestnut wood was strong and straight,

easy to work and resistant to rot;

this near-perfect construction material was used in houses

and barns

and fences

and furniture.

The branches that fell into streams provided long-lasting homes for fish,

and still can be pulled from waters today.

We inherited Bernie's chestnut drawers

In 1904,

when Grandpa Bernie was a toddler,

a fungal blight was discovered in an American chestnut tree

in the New York Botanical Garden.

It’s thought that a NYC nurseryman

accidentally imported the fungus Cryphoectria parasitica in 1876

with a shipment of Asian chestnut trees.

The nation took action to save the lives of its chestnut trees.

In the 1930s,
my father-in-law Walt worked for the Civilian Conservation Corps,

trudging acres of woods with a mattock

to dig out gooseberry bushes that were thought to host the fungus.

It was too late.

By the start of WWII,

it’s estimated that four billion chestnut trees were gone.

A few of the Windfall Run Civilian Conservation Corps boys
near Cross Fork, PA.
Walt and his grin are front and center 

I learned more about the American chestnut in my college botany classes.

The fungus spores were wind-borne,

so pockets of chestnuts at least ten miles from infected trees
survived longer.

C. parasitica entered a tree at a wound site

and began to produce oxalic acid,

which formed a canker,

damaging the bark as well as the inner cambium layer,

interrupting the nutrient-water uptake.

As C. parasitica’s fingery mycelium fanned out in the cambium layer,

the damage widened

and the canker grew bigger,

circling the tree

and cutting off nutrient flow to anything above the wound.

The chestnut tree died slowly, from top to bottom,

or weakened until reproduction no longer occurred,

and without reproduction there is no next generation.

Oaks, maples, staghorn sumac, and shagbark hickories

also were susceptible to C. parasitica;

they got cankers but did not die,

which allowed the fungus to survive
and attack other American chestnut trees.

In Senior Biology Seminar,
we discussed the possibility of genetic engineering,

but it was still mostly at the theoretical stage.

Canker on our only remaining American chestnut tree

When my husband Denny and I moved to our Pennsylvania mountain,

we noticed prickly hulls

beneath an ugly-but-interesting understory tree behind the outhouse,

like miniature porcupines on the forest floor,

and so found our first American chestnut.

A new sprout had grown from a surviving rootstock
to a diameter of eight inches.

Its nuts were non-viable,

making it functionally extinct,

but we were thrilled to find the feeble chestnut tree.

When it died some years later,

we used chestnut wood to panel the bathroom in its memory.

I show its hulls to my first graders

and remember Luther Burbank, the pioneering horticulturalist

whose quote hangs in my classroom:

            "Every child should have mud pies,

            grasshoppers,

            water bugs,

            tadpoles,

            frogs,

            mud turtles,

            elderberries,

            wild strawberries,

            acorns,

            chestnuts,

            trees to climb ...

            any child who has been deprived of these

            has been deprived of the best part of education."

The now-deceased chestnut tree's view from behind the outhouse

American chestnut husks are Very Prickly,
just like little porcupines

Resistance is the only way to control blight,

and Burbank’s method of hybridization is one way to achieve this.

Botanists crossbred American chestnuts
with their much smaller, resistant cousin,

the Chinese chestnut,

to introduce resistant genes to the hybrid,

and then backcrossed them
to try to restore much of the American chestnut’s typical look.

This method takes a long time

and results in 1/16 of the 38,000 genes being foreign.

Looking up our  Chinese chestnut tree

Chinese chestnut husks and leaves
are very similar to those of the American chestnut

Another method to control C. parasitica

is to introduce a beneficial fungal virus,  hypovirus,

into the chestnut’s system.

This method was tried in Michigan

on a pocket of two to three thousand American chestnut trees

that had avoided the blight for decades.

They were planted a century ago,

far from of the natural Appalachian range of chestnuts,

and had only recently become infected.

The hypovirus worked—too well.

Scientists had hoped that the virus-infected C. parasitica

would spread itself from tree to tree,

but instead the infected C. parasitica died 
before it could spread to other trees.

Using hypovirus,

chestnut trees can only be saved on an individual basis.

Recently, I read of a third hope

that made me dance wildly across the kitchen floor—
transgenic chestnut trees!

William Powell, Ph.D.,

of Syracuse’s SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry,

and his colleagues are using a bacterium,

Agrobacterium tumefasciens,

to transfer a resistant gene from wheat to the American chestnut.

This wheat gene produces an enzyme,

oxalate oxidase,

which strengthens a plant’s ability to fight off C. parasitica

by breaking down the oxalic acid secreted by the fungus

into carbon dioxide and hydrogen peroxide,

both non-toxic byproducts.

Bacteria have been moving genetic material between species
since the beginning of time;

Dr. Powell’s research team simply

(... or not so simply)

introduced the wheat gene that resists C. parasitica

to the chestnut’s genome via Agrobacterium.

He and his colleagues have developed transgenic American chestnuts

that now have full blight resistance to C. parasitica.

Because they are only adding two genes out of 38,000,

the American chestnut’s genome is essentially the same,

and backcrossing is not necessary.

Kitchen floor without the dancing feet

This is how transgenic American chestnuts are being produced:

wheat-gene-containing Agrobacterium,

along with a common selectable marker gene,

are mixed with chestnut embryos in a test tube,

then moved to a petri dish

and given time for the genetic transfer to take place.

Next, embryos are moved to a medium containing antibiotics

that kill the Agrobacterium

and selects the embryonic cells that have incorporated the new genes.

Introduced hormones then cause new embryos

to multiply from the transgenic chestnut embryos.

Hormonal and nutrient changes in medium allow shoots to develop.

When the shoots are two to three inches tall,

they are dipped into rooting hormone

and put into potting mix.

These rooting American chestnut shoots

are placed in a controlled-environment growth chamber

and covered with plastic bags

to provide the high humidity levels of previous tissue culture stages.

The bags are gradually removed

to accustom the young chestnut trees
to the coming natural field conditions.

Plastic bags, miracle workers in transgenic chestnut labs.
Who knew?

Currently,
several of the earlier versions
of transgenic American chestnut trees

with intermediate levels of blight resistance
are growing
in the New York Botanical Garden,

just across the street
from where the blight was discovered over a century ago.

With approval from the USDA,

the Food and Drug Administration,

and the Environmental Protection Agency,

the newest transgenic American chestnut trees

with high levels of blight resistance

should be ready for planting in restorative locations

such as old strip mines,

abandoned fields,

and public lands, where they can spread naturally.

In one hundred years,

our grandchildren may again

see adventurous squirrels

traveling through forests of American chestnut trees.

Potential site of future American chestnut trees.
Adventurous squirrels are waiting...

**********************************************************************

For chestnuts American and Chinese,

Lord, we thank thee.

For miniature porcupines on the forest floor

and the joy that accompanies hope,

Lord, we thank thee.

For grandmothers who share the good news

and grandfathers who come to faith very late in life,

Lord, we thank thee.

For creation and recreation and restoration,

for what has been and what will be,

Lord, we thank thee.

For minds that imagine and minds that organize,

for left brains and right brains working together,

Lord, we thank thee.

For Dr. Powell and the shoulders on which he stands,

Lord, we thank thee.

For patient colleagues and plastic bags,

Lord, we thank thee.

For what we know about fungi and bacteria and gene transfer

and all that we do not yet know,

and for the glorious coming day when all will be known,

Lord, we thank thee.

Amen!

Bernard H. Rensel and Maud Waugaman Rensel,
original tour guides to the ancient American chestnut

This essay is dedicated to the memory of Fern Allen Hart, who studied Castanea dentata with me.

Listening in the Night

“Sue! Wake up! Come here!”
It was 1:30 AM and Den was on the balcony.
I shuffled my way to the bathroom to get my glasses.
“Come here! You don’t need to see, just listen!
It’s a cow elk chirping!”

The day before, during a thrift store adventure trip,
a friend had told me of her middle-of-the-night adventure
when she thought she had heard an elk.
“I know what elk sound like,” she said. ”I’ve heard them before.”
“The Pennsylvania Game Commission doesn't allow elk
to remain on the south side of I-80,” I responded,
“and you live pretty far from 80.
Maybe you heard a raccoon.”
“Maybe, but when you get home, ask Den if he thinks it could be an elk.”

As we sat around the fire that night, I told Den her story.
He suggested an injured rabbit instead,
whose squeals could be reminiscent of an elk.

Now it was the middle of the night
and Den was hearing an elk.
An elk, or maybe an owl with an injured rabbit.
The descending grunts were followed by piercing squeals.
We stood on the balcony, listening.
The sound seemed to come from the horse pasture.
Den shone his flashlight around.
Nothing.
I went downstairs to get a different listening angle.
Den followed,
then went outside on the deck
while I groped for my iPad to record the sound
which continued unabated.
Den walked off barefoot through the yard,
and I followed his bouncing light.
Ouch! Acorns!
Thump! The garden cart.
I soon found myself in the middle of the pasture,
ankle deep in the cold dew
recording the sounds continuing in the darkness to my right.
There were only ascending notes now,
no squeals.
I whistled for Den, wanting him to light up the area
but he had disappeared.
I heard a mouse at my feet
and a scratching in the tree behind me.
I whistled again, louder.
I then heard irritated stomping from under the big oak to the left.
It sounded like it was made by Quite Large Hooves.
I pondered my situation.
The headline would read
“SLOW BAREFOOT WOMAN INJURED BY ELK”
I whistled again.
“Den!”
There was more animated stomping and several big snorts,
but no Den.
He and his flashlight must be on the other side of the barn.
Remembering that discretion is the better part of valor,
I retreated to the house,
where I found Den in bed, snoring.
“Hey! I need your light!
...and some shoes.”
We went back to the pasture,
faster this time.
The area under the oak was now silent and empty,
but plenty of grunts and squeals came from the apple tree.
Den shone his light toward the tree,
then up into its  branches
where we saw the backside of a porcupine, grunting.
Further illumination showed a second porcupine, squealing.
We watched Nature’s show for a while,
laughed,
then returned to bed.

Technological incompetence prevents me from loading audio. Frustratingly sorry

A Memorial Day Prayer

 

Dear Lord, 

We humbly adore you this day.  

We adore you 

because, in a beginning, 

it pleased you to set the universe on its path 

and make it so the sun would rise each day.   

We adore you 

because you have sought relationship with mankind 

and breathed, through your spirit, your word, 

so that we might get a glimpse of your heavenly realm 

and find kingdom relevance in our daily lives.   

We adore you 

because you chose prophets and wise teachers 

and you sent your son Jesus

who made it possible for us to receive grace.   

We adore you 

because of all of the provision you have made for us, 

for the food we eat each day, 

for the blessings of health 

and of happiness,  

for friendship 

and for family, 

and for this opportunity to worship you 

and be called your servants.  

 

Father, 

we thank you that you have seen fit 

to allow our country to prosper 

and we pray that it may always be true 

when we pledge ourselves as a nation under God, 

undivided in promoting liberty and justice, 

because liberty and justice 

are Godly principles according to your word.   

We pray that our hearts will always be thankful for these things, 

and that you will give us the hearts of servants 

to meet the needs of those less fortunate in our neighborhoods, 

in our country, 

and across the world.  

Help us to practice compassion.

Father, 

on this Memorial Day weekend 

we pause to remember the lives and spirits 

of men and women who, 

down through our history as a nation, 

have served to promote these principles of liberty 

and justice, 

men and women who have served well.   

We honor the lives of those who gave their lives, 

as a full measure of service to their country 

and their comrades.  

Father, we thank you for their courage 

and for their resolve 

to do what they could. 

Allow us now to contemplate their service, 

and for some, 

the terrible price paid in life 

and in mental anguish.   

As we contemplate current or past family members, 

friends or neighbors 

who served in the Army, 

the Air Force, 

the Navy, 

the Marines, 

the Coast Guard, 

the Merchant Marines, 

or in other service to our country, 

allow us to value them for all of the right reasons, 

and allow us to resolve to be better because of them.  

Cause us to devote ourselves to wage peace.   

Cause us to be ever vigilant 

and devoted 

in our attempts to serve others.

I pray this in the name of Jesus.   

If God be for us, 

who can stand against us?   

Emmanuel.  

Twelve More Drives

Twelve more days of school.
Twelve more drives to Penfield Elementary,
then it will close its doors to students.
Forever.
I will miss the elk tracks in the ballfield,
the view of the huge chestnut barn,
the rock dams the kids and I built in Wilson Run,
the walk to the damp hillside spring when learning "ing" words,
the hundreds of thousands of violets,
the bent apple tree blossoming each May,
the huge classrooms,
and the closeness of friends,
both figuratively and literally.

I will also miss the drive.
Penfield is not as close as my previous schools--
sixteen miles as opposed to eleven--
but there are few buildings between home and school,
a lovely stretch to pray
and watch the seasons change.

When the jeep turns left onto route 322 each morning
I pass rock people scattered along both sides of the highway,
sitting,
standing,
balancing,
appropriate for the mountain called "Rockton".

Near the entrance to Spruce Hill Road

On the north side of 322

On the western hillside of 322

Near the ash dump on 322

East side of 153, near junction with 322

East side of 153

Upper DuBec-153 junction

I pass places where we have rattlesnake memories.
One is near the Greenwood Road.
When Paul and Luke were preschoolers,
we spotted a rattler on the roadside.
I remember my arms being stretched in opposite directions
as one boy pulled me toward the snake,
the other, away.
Funny, I don't remember which son was going which direction.
Years later,
Luke, Den, and I were motorcycling home
when we spotted a rattler on that same stretch.
We watched it crawl across the shoulder--
or "berm", as we say in central PA--
and   d  i  s  a  p  p  e  a  r   into the vetch
after I had been walking in vetch all day in sandals.
And daily I pass the big rock
where Den once stepped on a lurking rattlesnake.

Warning!

When the dirt road shortcut, DuBec,
is icy
or dusty
or slippery with mud,
I take the highway route,
but if I can drive thirty miles per hour
DuBec is a more time-efficient route
and potholes become the obstacles in a real-life video game.

Today, dust

Often at about 8:15
I am near the highest point on Interstate 80
east of the Mississippi River.
Big trucks of all types exit I-80 here,
and the road becomes busier.
There is the ravine where my grandparents' car landed
when they were struck by one of those trucks in 1984,
and there is the office for the Moshannon State Forest,
the road to the fracking wells,
and the fire danger sign near the entrance to S.B. Elliot Park.
Elliot was a busy place generations ago
when it was filled with family reunions
and baseball games.
My father-in-law,
Walt "Slick" Shaffner,
was one of the best-known ballplayers,
and I imagine him trotting around the bases after a home run.
This area contained the state tree nursery in those days as well,
but now the trees are all grown,
much too big for transplanting.
I follow the semis
and dump trucks
past the road to the sphagnum bog
(Bogs are SUCH cool places!)
down the absolutely straight two-mile stretch
past another nursery,
Johnston's Nursery,
where Paul landscaped during college summers.
It is now closed as well,
and up for sale.
Near the end of the two mile stretch
is a tumbledown fence.
Each April it is undergirded
by hundreds of daffodils
waving in the breeze of each passing truck.

Halfway point. On a clear day, you can see the Boone Mountain ridge

Many years ago in this area, seedlings grew into trees and boys grew into men

A great place off the beaten path

Daily fire probability update

Two mile straight stretch

Anybody want to buy a nursery?

April daffodils

Laurel Run's headwaters sparkle
between the cattails
in the beaver dams.
Laurel Run is dammed downstream
at Parker Dam State Park,
where CCC boys planted trees in the thirties,
where I swam as a girl,
where Baby Luke played in the sand
while Paul ventured out into adventurous knee-deep waters,
and where I have swum cooling laps
after sweltering September first grade days.
Next year there will be no more of that.

Headwaters of Laurel Run

Parker Dam State Park. Entertaining our family with frigid waters for generations

Before descending to the valley,
the trucks ahead of me are commanded to pull over
and I follow different trucks down the mountain,
in third gear so I don't wear out my brakes.
I pass signs for the Moose Grade Road
and Oak Stub Road
and the Lady Jane mine,
bump over the railroad tracks,
pass Morelli's gas station
(Full service! I will miss it.)
and stop at the light.
A semi zooms through
and then it is my turn.

Trucks must stop here...

...so you can follow new and different trucks.

Love these names

Beware of entering trucks

Morelli's. Always cheaper than Minit Mart, and they pump it for you!

My one stoplight

I pass the flashing slow-down-this-is-a-school-zone sign
near the historical marker in Deannie's yard
and turn left into the parking lot.

Penfield, thy days are numbered

Next year I will turn right on 322
and go to an as-yet-unknown city school.
I will visit these familiar mountain stretches
only occasionally.

Spelling Bee

It's been a busy week.
Instead of relaxing on the mountain every night,
I stayed at school.
This year was Penfield Elementary's turn
to host the DuBois District spelling bees.
Each night,
students from the seven district elementary schools
would compete for individual trophies
as well as for the traveling trophy
awarded to the school with the best overall spellers.
Our third grade teacher, Heidi,
volunteered to be in charge
and I told her that I would help.
While she did the many organizational aspects--
copying lists
and ordering medals
and trophies
and cookies
and lining up helpers,
I made signs and name tags.
While she met with the judges and pronouncer each night,
I gathered the contestants in the library.

Tuesday night was the third grade bee.
I met the kids just inside the door,
sent them for a bathroom break,
verified their names,
reviewed the rules,
drew for slots,
and lined them up.
As they waited,
I reminded them to smile
and to breath deeply if they were nervous.
Most were obviously nervous,
so I also entertained them with witty conversation
and had a ventriloquist conversation with my hand.
They responded with slight smiles,
then went on to spell their little hearts out.
C-o-n-c-h!
E-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a!
At the end of the night,
a Penfield contestant raised her third place trophy high,
radiantly smiling in her pink fluffy dress.
Yay!


Wednesday night was fourth grade.
I expected them to be nervous as well.
Ha.
There were huge personalities in this group,
semi-humorously trying to intimidate the others.
I had to think how to gain control of the verbal bantering
without seeming autocratic.
"Only one of you will win," I said.
"Let's practice saying 'Congratulations'."
In hindsight,
I should have told them
that their name tag was not a toy
and not to talk onstage.
At the end of the night
I found myself hoping
that I would never be assigned to a fourth grade classroom.

As I prepared for the last competition on Thursday,
I opened my desk drawer to use my chapstick
and picked up a glue stick instead.
Hmmm.
I took this as a sign
to pare back my opening talk.
The fifth graders
were good combinations of smiling and serious,
earnest and funny.
In the opening, practice round,
a boy confidently misspelled "mom".
Thankfully, he did better in later rounds.
One of the kids that I thought would go far was the first one out.
He later confessed that he had done no studying whatsoever.
Among the contestants was D,
a former student from a former school.
D spelled word after word confidently in his newly-deepened voice.
O-b-s-i-d-i-a-n!
And so did the boy beside him.
After countless rounds,
Heidi called the parents up for a consultation
and the spelling bee was declared a tie.
D immediately turned to his co-winner and shook his hand,
then walked to the runner-up and shook his hand as well.
My eyes got a bit misty.
It doesn't really matter who wins a spelling bee--
every device has spell-check these days,
but to see good sportsmanship in young students
is a huge encouragement.
I was so proud of him!
It truly ISN'T whether you win
or lose,
but how you play the game.

I am truly thankful for D
and for his parents
and extended family
who have raised him to be thoughtful
and persistent
and interested
and smart
and funny
and kind
and gracious.
I am thankful for the opportunity
to have been his teacher years ago.
I am thankful
for all the other families
who are raising kids like D,
who have their priorities straight.

Our future is in good hands.

A Trip to New York City

It's been a week since I left the mountain
and went to New York City
with my friend Jill
on a Fullington "Do Your Own Thing" tour.

Jill and I had asked for NYC advice from friends.
We decided on the Intrepid aircraft carrier
and the 911 Museum.
(It was raining and 33 degrees,
so Central Park
and the High Line
were Right Out.)

On the Intrepid,
the gigantic seldom-used anchor chain in the fo'c'sle
was impressive,
as is the word "fo'c'sle"--
TWO apostrophes!
Some planes had folding wings
like Uncle Ric's Clairton basement toys.
We saw the space shuttle (!!!!) Enterprise
and ate hot dogs in the Intrepid cafeteria.
"For $4.50,
they had better be darned good hot dogs!"
They were.
We saw the intersecting triangles of the new World Trade Center,
the sober footprint pools of the former World Trade Center,
and photographs of thousands of faces of people
who died that morning in September.

The space shuttle Enterprise! Wow!

Our first destination

Jill on the deck of the Intrepid

The new tower disappeared into the sky

Pools rimmed with names now stand where the twin towers once stood

Jill and I have many memories of the things we saw that day,
but is the people that we encountered
that perhaps have made the most lasting memories:

The skid steer driver
clearing the streets of trash and snow
after the Saint Patrick's Day parade
who waved at us as I picked up my first souvenirs,
three new green plastic hats.

The skid steer driver had more work to do

A man told us in an Australian accent
about seeing Sully and his airplane
float down the Hudson River
 right there.

The young guide on the submarine Growler
told us that the cigarette smoke
was so thick
that men had to reach above their heads
to find enough oxygen
to light up again,
and that cinnamon rolls were served at midnight.

One Intrepid veteran
told of a shipmate who had fallen overboard
while taking on supplies
and was found the next year.
ALIVE.
Hmmmmm.
I asked,
"Did he,
perchance,
fall in shortly before midnight
on December 31?"
He grinned.

I asked another veteran,
an ex-marine pilot from the carrier Lexington,
what it was like to land for the first time on a carrier,
and how to know if you need to abort
when something goes wrong.
He replied,
"Did you ever get up in the middle of the night
and stumble to the bathroom
and sit down when the lid is still down?
You know immediately that something is wrong.
Flying is like that..."

The girl at the souvenir shop
told us exactly how to catch a bus,
then gave us all the quarters we'd need.

The crosstown bus driver at the Circle Line stop
explained bus transfers,
then reminded us when to get off.

We remember the old women in wheelchairs
who that same busdriver
loaded oh-so-patiently
and gently strapped in
for a trip of a few blocks.

A woman with long dreads
waited with us at the downtown bus stop.
We wondered together
why those guys on bikes
kept disappearing and returning.

We remember the driver of the downtown bus
who explained a bit about the treeless neighborhoods--
I wonder where the closest squirrel is?
and the passenger who was so enthusiastic
telling us about the neighborhood schools
that she missed her stop.

A woman from Chicago
had just taken her first subway ride
and imparted her new-found wisdom.

The helpful worker at the subway entrance
advised us to get one ticket
for the two of us
and thus save a dollar.

A woman at the subway turnstile
showed me the Goldilocksian way to scan the pass.
"Too fast!"
"Too slow..."
"Ju-u-u-ust right!"
She smiled a goodbye
as I pushed through the gate.

The subway was much faster
but didn't have quite the same camaraderie as the buses.
A earbudded man sat across from us,
his stocking cap  pulled over his eyes.
Was he antisocial?
Probably.
Thought curious about his story,
I respected his silence.
I also restrained my inner cheeky child
from beeping his exposed nose,
much to Jill's relief.

We still had an hour
before the bus to Clearfield would return
so we walked the few blocks to Times Square.
The music blared from Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum
and I danced with a few happy strangers
in the middle of the sidewalk
before moving on.

I took a picture of Jill taking a picture of the Times Square ball

Dances With Strangers--
perhaps a good phrase for a movie title
or an epitaph.
Will Rogers,
who once visited this mountain of mine,
said, "Strangers are just friends we haven't met yet."


Joy in your journey
as you turn strangers into friends,
Sue

The House That Den Left

Last night
we celebrated Den's return from the Dominican Republic
with stories of time well-spent with friends
and Daeny's raisin cake.
Den had walked the cake through customs specially
so I could enjoy Daeny's gift.
Delicious!
He then caught me up
on the lives of friends not seen since the late nineties,
when we helped with education seminars.
He told of songs sung enthusiastically
and a presentation
where the Prodigal Son's family was played by monkey puppets
and the tour of Lilo's state-of-the-art school
and gave me the perfect gift:
a colorful necklace made of a water beetle's body.

Daeny's raisin cake

Bible school

Den coaches monkey puppeteers

Then it was my turn.
My story was more like The House That Jack Built:
See this skirt I'm wearing?
This is the skirt that was still in my closet
after I sleepily packed up many bags of clothing to donate
and accidentally gave away some of my favorites
because I may as well clean out my closet
since I had to take everything out of the closet at midnight on Monday
to let the plumber
(who made it up the driveway
because the snowstorm of the decade failed to materialize)
...to let the plumber see to fix the leak
in the closet's frozen pipe
that soaked the carpet padding
that wetted my socks
and thankfully let me know
that there WAS a leak
before it ruined the kitchen ceiling below.
And it only took two hours and a small section of pipe to fix.
The bill is on the table.
I haven't looked at it yet.

Newly cleaned closet

A new pipe elbow at The Scene Of The Crime

The pen that signs checks to the plumber

This morning there was leftover cake. Yay!
As I walked to the jeep
wearing the new water beetle necklace
and other clothing I had NOT accidentally given away,
Den, with happy cat at his ankles,
gave me the traditional daily send-off:
"Thanks for letting me be retired!"
to which I gave my traditional response:
"Thanks for taking care of the house and the bills!"
Except I rrrrrrrreally meant it,
like 287% more than usual.

Water beetle necklace. Cool.

We both have had adventures this week
and are grateful to have our missing parts back.
This week,
may all your adventures be good ones,
but if they're not so good,
may they at least make an interesting story.


PS. Three dollars at Goodwill
should pay for what I accidentally gave away.