Paris

Millions of people love Paris. For the art, the architecture, the food, the style, the beauty of the layout, the richness of the markets, stores, window displays. For the cafe culture, the park culture, the pace, the vibe.

I don't think any of that is at the base of why I come here to Paris so often. It helps of course. But any number of places could boast the same or similar delights (albeit in different configurations). And though I like the architecture, layout, parks, cafes, shops, foods, etc. I think my constant returns have to do with something else. Paris came to me full force at a time when I was in search of a different environment and felt myself to be ready to plunge into one that brought me peace of mind. Sensual gratification. In my younger years, I'd been treating Paris like any other lovely place -- a nice city to visit, to show the kids, to learn about its foods, art. But some two dozen years ago, I found my most perfect hotel (Le Baume), and I walked a few times to the next door Jardins Luxembourg, and I felt the calm and the happiness of being in a place that offered so much and asked so little of me -- just that I pay attention to how I present myself to the public.

I'm so glad that I never had the money to buy a small apartment in France as my "second home." I wanted to, but I know now that I could not have sustained travel to it alone for more than a handful of years. On the other hand, at Le Baume, I return to familiar hallways, familiar rooms, familiar people who work there and I think -- this is so much better than I could have possibly imagined.

Before I step off the plane in other cities, I often wonder -- how will I feel here? With Paris, I don't wonder. I know. And knowing takes out the stress of facing the unfamiliar. I know so many details by now that the mystery is only in what weather I may have and how lazy/motivated I will be as I begin each day.

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The departure yesterday from Chicago was trouble free in the areas I expected there to be issues (baggage check, security), but of course, if you are to take off during the rush hours, you should expect take off delays at the big airports. And there were, and my leisurely transfer in Amsterdam suddenly was not going to be so leisurely.

*.     *.     * 

One forgettable movie, one very forgettable meal. I was asked if I had any dietary preferences and I thought -- why not ask for low sodium... the meals in flight are always so salty (to bring out any flavors at all at high altitudes, with dry air, and low cabin pressure -- conditions that dull your sense of smell and your taste bud function).  Mistake. It was so bland that blindfolded, I would not have guessed what I was eating. 

We arrive in Amsterdam almost an hour late. The one benefit of this is that I am eligible to go to the "short connection" passport line. Given the length of wait for current entries into Europe, this was a blessing. I zipped through, after a very pleasant conversation with the passport agent: "why are you going to Paris?" Vacation. "you go there often?" I do. "You think they will have finished with the riots there?" I do not.  I'm always curious about the line of questioning, whether upon entry to the EU or return to the US. Do they look for a shifty gaze? A nervous movement? When do they flag you as "someone to keep an eye on?"

The walk from one gate to my next one is listed as taking 34 minutes. Dutch people are very tall. Should I assume it will take me longer? I hustle.

I needn't have done so. I even had time to grab a cup of coffee before boarding. (I am not a demanding airplane diner. I will eat even bland tasteless low sodium food. But I will not drink airplane coffee. Too acidic. I need the milk to soften the blow to the gut.)

 As I look at the murals of lovely Amsterdam, I have to smile. I have such fondness for this airport and the city attached to it. If you are a longtime Ocean reader, or perhaps a Like a Swallow reader, you'll know that I lived in New York as a child and then returned later to the United States on my own, to work as an au pair. My return to the U.S. was through Amsterdam and I was dazzled by everything -- the KLM flight, the airport, the city. Once I relocated to America permanently, my returns to visit Poland were almost always via Amsterdam. And then I married, the kids came and we were short on money (saving for college was top priority). The trips to Poland, to Europe, stopped. I made no ocean crossings and after about a dozen years -- very few ocean crossings. When they did resume, once again, Amsterdam was often the port of entry to Europe. After that period of no travel, I was overjoyed to get off a flight in Amsterdam. To see the familiar Illy Coffee stands. The fake tulips for you to buy. I suppose in both directions, Amsterdam was, for a long time, a sensory message purveyor. Home, I am going to a place I think of as home. The US, Europe. Interchangable at the time. A citizen of both, one foot in each. Eventually I switched to Paris as my port of entry, but Amsterdam never really went away. Today I am back, passing through, going to another place I now think of as almost home.

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When I pack for Europe, I never forget the essentials anymore. My checklist is so ingrained in my brain that it would be hard to forget the standard items. But I always do forget something trivial and this time it's the metro card for Paris. Darn it! 

Instead of zipping to the commuter train, I have to negotiate the ticket machines and buy another metro card. It's early, and the added cost is only 2 Euros, so it hardly matters. The frustration is purely with the fact that I forgot something.

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When I think about an upcoming trip to Paris, I always, always imagine the moment when I emerge from the RER commuter train station to the street. Before me -- Paris. To my left -- the Luxembourg Gardens. It's an overwhelming feeling of serenity. Of the same peace that I have sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, with Millie, and looking out at my flowers. Contentment. My own idea of joy. 

I haven't been to Paris since I got Millie (she came into my life on April 4th). On my last trip here though, I knew I was going to be picking up Millie right after my return. Snowdrop, my travel companion then, partnered with me in studying the mini doodle dogs we encountered in France. There were many! I wondered what my pup would be like...

Now, of course, I know my little girl well. Selfishly, I wonder how she would fare in Paris! I've brought every friend and family member here, but not Millie! Would she be properly well mannered in a cafe? Would she want to make friends with every Parisian dog she passed on the street? 

Of course I would never, ever bring her here. The flight would be torture. Transitions scare her. And, too, you have to be pretty darn rich to fly a pup to Europe. And still, I see myself here with her. Because something tells me she'd like it. Maybe not the narrow sidewalks. But the parks. Wait, do they allow dogs in the Jardins Luxembourg?

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I get off the train, go up the escalator and enter the park. For this first real look at Paris.

They do allow dogs.

(puppies, it's not that cold yet)

Hello, Paris.

I like this open space quite a bit, but it's not my favorite area of the park. I love the western edges and especially the southwestern corner where things empty out considerably. 

Quiet spots are not hard to come by in this park, but people really love the central courtyard, with the chairs, the pond, and in the colder months -- the sunshine.

 

 

 

I turn aroun, leave the park, and head for my hotel.

 

 

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The Baume. What can I say... It's role in my Parisian stays is huge: this is where I began to think that Paris is truly my second home. My place of contentment. Of spiked curiosity. Of a place that I know and love almost as much as my own backyard.

As always, everything is... well, perfect!

I grab a small croissant from the downstairs breakfast room and have it with a coffee. 

 

 

But I am tired. Is this what being 73 does to me? In the past, I'd throw my bags down and set out. Today, I unpack, wrap myself in a warm sweater and doze off on the couch, feeling very grateful that the room was ready early in the day.

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But in the afternoon, I do set out. Where to? Well, you know how it goes: I think I'll stop at the cutlery store to get an orange fork for Sandpiper (dont ask: the story of the forks is long... and boring). Then, I remember that I need to pick up a night cream. I did not forget it -- I simply ran out. I'm told that I should go to one well loved cream store. I do that. Oh, and shouldn't I start checking out chocolate shops to see what's what? And now I'm so close to the Bon Marche food halls! What's new there? Maybe some buckwheat snacking crackers and French plums to bring back to the hotel? And so on.

It is a lovely walk. The kind you might do if you lived here. Though perhaps without the chocolate shop hopping.

 (Cezanne!)

 

 

((is this a specialty chocolate with roses? I am soooo into roses!)) 

 

 

(French plums)

(my demographic)

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In the evening I try a new restaurant called Fellows. The name wants to suggest a neighborhood hangout place. It is in fact very informal. And youthful. Their food? All plant based. It's relatively inexpensive (3 courses for an all inclusive price of 25 Euros), and the food is good! Home made pastas with lots of interesting veggie choices. (mine with a mushroom ragu). A side of zucchini artfully prepared. Panna cotta with prune-plums. Really delicious stuff. I broke and added a glass of bubbly rose.

*.    *.    *

A short walk back to the hotel, a good, solid catch-up chat with the brilliant general manager of the Baume, Sylvia Herrault (she has been overseeing operations here for decades), and I am back in my room wondering if I should open one of my chocolate purchases. Surely that's required! It's been such a full day!

with so much love... 

leaving

Hard to grasp that I am in fact on the 10:30 bus out of Madison, headed for Chicago's O'Hare. It's not that I thought I wouldn't make it -- in the end I would drop everything and go for the bus no matter how many things still remained on a mental to-do list. But my thoughts have been so focused on the garden, on Millie, that it seems completely weird to now be thinking instead about the trip before me. I'm a little numb from the sudden switch. Turn off that, turn on this.

In essence, the morning was smooth. Perfect, rather warm weather, a Millie wake up at the usual 6:45. I've made a small pile of what to still throw into my half empty suitcase, and another pile of stuff that goes in my backpack. I put on ratty clothes and go downstairs with a watchful but not unhappy Millie. We eat breakfast -- she's first, I'm second.

Then comes the "get the house ready" part: put away dishes, pack up odd foods for Ed, line up Millie protocols -- her probiotics, her Psylium, her treats (I'd already typed up a thirty point instruction/information sheet for Millie's caretaker), finish packing suitcase, oh, let me stop already. You know all those million and one details that need your attention before a departure.

And now it's dangerously close to the time Julie (my house and dog sitter and Millie's true love) arrives and I still have those two perennials -- my midnight deliveries -- to plant. And I do it! And throw some water on the freshly planted handful of roses. (They really should be watered during the week, but I'm thinking one rainfall will take care of their moisture needs.) And finally, a shower, and a snuggle with my true love!

 

 

 

Julie comes promptly at 9:40 and Millie just cannot believe it -- her hero! Here, at home!

 

 

 

Dogs are funny that way and not unlike kids -- they love their mommies (or whoever takes care of them), their families, but they often have a crazy infatuation with someone who is not their primary person at all, but is instead the one who comes in for the cuddles and treats and games. This is the case with Millie. She definitely has a crush on Julie and she pretty much adores all the people at the doggie daycare. It's her happy place and expensive as it is, and distant as it is for me, I am so glad she has that and hero Julie in her life.

Ed, too, is punctual. There at 10, driving me to the downtown bus stop and at 10:30 I am off.

One last point before I post. Where to this time? Completely predictable and perhaps not too exciting for you, but so totally what I want (verging on need) right now: a week in France. (Actually only six nights once I get there tomorrow.)  And I'll be even more specific: four nights in Paris, followed by two nights in the countryside. And more (so rare for me to tell you what I expect from my travels): there are three art exibitions I want to see and I have tickets for them all. Food is less important to me this time around, though I am trying at least one new place in Paris. So now you know. I suppose the only confusing thing is that I am rushing to catch my KLM flight to Amsterdam (even though less than an hour later, there is a direct flight from Chicago to Paris). Why oh why go through the hassle of a connection, in one of the more chaotic airports no less? And why depart from Chicago? It's because I am using miles for this trip and this was the best deal I could find for these dates.

My last solo trip was in January, also to France. I have a whole half a year to process in my head. I'll break my alcohol abstinance on the flight, pick up a glass of white wine, or champagen if they insist, and sit back and think about it all.

with so much love... 

done done done done done!

The Great Rose Project is finished. (When I said this to my daughter, she laughed, noting that I often said "just six more" and then the next day amended it to "just eight more.") Truly though, it's done. I dug out and replanted a rose, I put in one last new one that needed to go in, I upped the soil and chips on some, and I watered them all. Ninety roses -- half of them in my side rose garden...

 

(partial view) 

The rest? Planted throughout, especially in and around Millie's yard. 

They should be set.

But here's the rub: my gardening work isn't done. Yes, there are the bulbs, waiting for my unenthusiastic planting. And I did not really think about this in years past -- I just ignored the garden after August/September -- but in fact, all the roses AND the perennials should be watered until several hard frosts freeze the soil. So, until the end of November. Not in great quantities, like in the summer, but sufficiently to keep the roots and soil moist. Wet soil, when frozen, is apparently warmer than dry soil. (My flowers at the farmette and in earlier gardens never complained when I stopped watering after August. But I should have helped them along with a good soak every now and then.)

(I've loved this combination of lavender and phlox right below the porch balcony.)

 

 

Too, I will have to rake up the rose leaves once they fall, and I will have to mulch, but I cannot do that until after the deep freeze. Them's the rules!

So, done indeed, even if only with respect to the planning and planting. Now I just help things along, to keep everyone of them strong, healthy, and happy (synonymous concepts for roses). Sort of like fixing fruit bowls each day for the grandkids and encouraging them to pick good books to read at the bookstore or library. They do the rest.

The day is insanely busy for me, and Millie has a bit of an upset tummy, but the noticeable thing about this October 10th, 2026 is that it is hot here, in south central Wisconsin. Shorts weather indeed! 84F/29C. And no, we haven't had even a light frost yet, which is good for my new plantings, though I don't know about the rest of the flora and fauna -- they expect cold. They're not getting it.

Breakfast...

And then to work, while Millie rests. Actually, she is back to complaining when I leave her alone in the crate. I do ignore her for about an hour, but she is persistent and so I find myself hurrying even more. Toward the end, I take her outside with me. 

 

 

 

A happy pup!

 

 

And all this allows me to say by 2 p.m. "I am done!" 

For afternoon errands, I want to take Millie with me. She does not like car rides, but I think she dislikes being left alone even more. Nonetheless she gives me a hard NO on a driving adventure, wedging herself in the crate instead. Too bad. I like having her with me.

In the late evening, after my supper of leftovers, I see that the last two perennials and bags of soil were delivered. 

 

(what's in those boxes??)

 

 

I would truly need a flashlight to put these in now. I'll have to find a handful of minutes tomorrow, before it's time to leave.

Have I packed yet? Minimally. For once, I do not care what clothes are most suitable for my week away. I have a standard set of pants and tops that I always use for travel. In they go. I'll worry about the rest tomorrow. Or not worry at all. More important is what I stuff in for my downtime -- my rose notebook. It's still empty and arguably I should work on it when I have the beds before me, But I have sketches and lists and I'll take those too. My roses, or at least notes on roses, are taking their first vacation!

with lots of love... 

 

turn around

 Let me give you a summary of my day and then you can move on, thinking perhaps that this post doesn't deserve a read-through! So, Millie woke too early but with good reason, it rained on my last hours of planting time even though it wasn't supposed to and thus I did not finish, and the rose nursery that sold me three roses (one already planted, in my garden) and noted that they should not be planted below the dirt level it came in, reversed course (via email), noting -- that's true for our growing zone, not for yours, where it gets cold. Dear people! You sell to Wisconsin, you post instructions that apply to Wisconsin, or at least do a disclaimer -- "this applies to our beautiful California climate only!" And then it rained some more.

A reminder -- I'm going away for a week. Leaving on a bus Sunday morning. That means I have to finish planting by then, I have to pack by then, and I have to get the house ready for my house sitter by then. Write out instructions, a quick wipe down (not needed, but it seems the right thing to do) -- all this under the observant gaze of Millie who, did I tell you? -- had an upset tummy this morning. Is it something she ate?

Well, let's not go nuts here. Morning -- earlier than perhaps I'd like, but still, lovely, albeit not bathed in sunshine.

("got here first!")

 

 

Millie goes to doggie daycare, I quickly run errands. UPS returns, gas for car, cardboard taken to recycle center, a few foods purchased for the next few days. And I do put in three roses, leaving me with just one except, I will also have to dig out a rose and replant it. Thanks for the incorrect info, rose sellers! Then there are the dozen perennials that came this evening... Tomorrow's job? Has to get done, even if I'm to do it at night with a flashlight.

I meet the boys at the school bus stop.

And yes, it's Friday so after feeding them, walking Goose, and mulching some of their flowers (I can't help it, they looked needy), I pick up Snowdrop...

 

(she claims not to be cold...)

 

 

...and all of us go to the bookstore, for browsing and treats.

Pick up Millie...

... return home, greet Ed who brings over some frozen pizza and my Mom's old printer. He's determined to make it work. It doesn't. I need my printed document, but I'm sort of glad the printer isn't going to snap into action. The old unreliable clunker! And with a history: it was, over the years, the subject of many phone calls from my Mom, usually because she would forget to turn it on -- totally understandable, only she refused to believe it, until Ed would get on the phone and have her take some magic steps and bingo! It would work. My Mom had a love-hate relationship with men: hated them or loved them. Ed fell into the latter category despite the fact that he often did a hasty retreat, hanging up on her when she got over the top. Perhaps she did not notice.

 

 

 

I order a very cheap printer at Walmart. It is delivered twenty-five minutes later. We live in a world full of conveniences. At a price of course, one that isn't always just measured in dollars.

This day was not what it should have been, but you know, it's okay. I liked it anyway.

with so much love... 

 

a day of breaks

Yes, it's beautiful and warm and lovely outside. Yes, I really love this Fall weather. You could almost call it late summer. I should have worn shorts today, except that the mornings are brisk. But, despite all that prettiness around me, things are getting dicey here at Steffi's House. Time is running out.

Breakfast? Well that's always special, always leisurely and wonderful. And rosy: two blooms from Strike it Rich.

But then, things get twisted up in knots. Impossible to unravel. I drop off Millie, all the while thinking about everything that I need to accomplish today. For sure. No off ramps left!

First on my list is the farmhouse. I stop at there to print out several travel related tickets. I know I dont have to do this, but when you're standing in a long line to get into, say, a museum and your phone refuses to bring up the relevant file, or you can't see the file because the sun is out your glasses are hidden and the screen is one big white tableau, well, it's handy to have a paper copy in your purse.  

My computer turns its nose up at the printer. Honestly, Ed and I got this printer a couple of decades ago, but there is nothing wrong with it and it works just fine with Ed's cheap computer. My Apple, on the other hand says no, not workin' with that piece of junk!. Ed drags up my mom's even older and somewhat broken printer. My computer positively recoils. (Unfortunately, Ed swears that he can do a work-around. A shame. A neat little printer, nothing fancy, but new and preferably blue-tooth, would have been my solution.)

At home, I throw in a load of laundry and go out to mow Millie's yard. She needs to have trimmed grass for the week I am away (I have a house sitter who will be here with her). And of course, I butcher the drain pipe cover with the mower. I'd done that before. Not sure why the thing got in the way again but it did. I hurry to Amazon and here I get stumped. Most drain pipe covers fit a 4 inch diameter pipe. Exceptionally you'll find 6 inchers. Mine happens to be 5 inches. I took a ruler for pete's sake! How can this be? I need to cover the thing before I leave or else a zoomie moment may result in a broken Millie paw. So I order both, quickly, thinking that it would be my luck if neither fit.

I then water. And wait. For someone to get back to me on a rose that came with a ripped main cane. It's been days since I sent them an inquiry (I first notified them of this over the weekend). In the end I decide to put in the "broken" rose. It's not a great solution. It may survive the rip, but it surely will be weakened. But, I have a hole, I have a rose. Best to put it in and argue later.

Next -- I need to bring up a suitcase and hide it in the closet and pack when Millie's not looking. But tell me please -- when exactly is Millie not looking? She does not let me out of her sight. The weather for my week away is going to be pretty much the same over there as it is over here: warm-ish, no rain. That's great but I have no idea what to pack for it. Here, I'd be in shorts and an early morning/evening sweatshirt. That wont do where I'm going. I stare at my closet and walk away. I dont have time for this nonsense.

Three more roses arrive. I have time to put in one and then I rush to pick up Snowdrop.

I'd picked up Anne Carson's Wrong Nora -- a poetic prose collection. We chose one to read out loud. Now she knows what Gitmo is... 

Time to bring Millie home.

 

 

 

And of course, we step into chaos. Piles on the island. (Normally, my kitchen island stands bare.) Laundry heaps on the dryer. Two boxes, with roses, in the kitchen, because they were on the doorstep. Food for Millie. Food for me. I have to say, Millie takes one look at all the strange items in strange places... 

 

 

 

... and retreated to her reading chair, enveloping herself in its cushions. Yes, her reading chair. She has appropriated it as her own, shared with me only at breakfast. 

 Tomorrow, I will bring order into the day. Tomorrow.

with so much love... 

 

again

How many times can I say this before you get bored? Well I cannot help it. The weather is glorious and perfect, and there hasn't even been a threat of light frost, and my roses -- newly planted no less -- are still putting out the occasional bloom, and it is all very lovely.

(Scepter'd Isle rose)

(Sunrise, from one corner of Steffi's House -- with rose bed at the side -- to the other, during morning walk with Millie)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfast bathed in sunshine.

I have noble goals for this day and I do get to some of them. Millie spends a half day at doggie daycare and that helps me accomplish a number of outside tasks. Like, for example, planting an onion right in the back of the rose bed.. Well, it's really a spring blooming allium. Same thing. The goal here is to put some companion plants into the rose bed. Not densely, but in a few spaces, and an allium not only has compatible blooms, it also has a fragrance. A distinct onion smell.

Planting it seems at cross purposes with what I have tried to do -- to create a very fragrant rose garden. But I'm hoping that the onion, stuck toward the rear, wont affect our nostrils, while at the same time that it scares away the aphids and insects that love roses but detest the smell of onion. One of those organic solutions that may or may not yield results, but at worst, I'll have pretty pink allium blooms poking out in between my Teasing Ginger and Parfuma Bliss roses. 

I do also plant roses today. Two of them -- the noble Francis Meilland and the lovely Boscobel. If you are a rosarian, you will have heard of Francis Meilland, after whom my Meilland rose was named. Here's a fun fact: I'm sure my father, who was not a gardener let alone a rosarian, heard of Francis Meilland. Let me tell you why.

Meilland was  a French horticulturalist and rose breeder. In the late 1930s, he developed a beautiful new rose -- yellow, with a touch of red at the edges. Disease resistant. Sending repeat blooms. But the Germans were about to invade and Meilland was concerned about the survival of his newest cultivar. So he sent cuttings to various rosarians around the world and importantly, one cutting left France on the last flight before the invasion and that one went to the United States. It was safely received and propagated in Pennsylvania. Different countries gave the rose different names. The US, along with Norway and Sweden, called it the Peace Rose and eventually it became recognized as that, officially given the name in April of 1945, on the day that Berlin fell. And later that year, Peace roses were given to each of the delegations at the inaugural meeting of the United Nations in San Francisco. My very young then father was part of the Polish delegation that went to San Francisco in 1945. 

In case you're wondering, I did also plant a Peace rose in my garden. May it bloom.

 

In the afternoon, Ed stops by. He came to help with the carrying of some heavy boxes to the basement, but he stays for a while, just because. Here's my chance! I have a wheelbarrow full of rocks and hard clay soil (today's diggings). I look up at him with puppy eyes and get him to do the odious task of pushing and dumping that wheelbarrow up the hill to where I usually unload extra soil and sod. Ed does tell me that I'd have an easier time of it if I didn't have a flat on my wheelbarrow. Who knew...

And then I continue my work outside until it is time to pick up Millie.

So, a grand day with rosy overtones. Again.

with so much love... 

hands down

What a handy expression! Hands down, the rosiest day this week. Maybe this year. Have you noticed how many phrases, idioms, adjective and participial phrases incorporate into them some variant of a "hand?" Hand, foot, face -- they're everywhere. So maybe you want to keep your hands clean and not face off with someone before you get your foot in the door? 

I'm thinking about hands right now because mine are a gardener's disaster. Yes, of course I wear gloves while working with roses, or any other plants. Mostly.Yes, I wash my gloves regularly. But perhaps not often enough. Yes I have multiple pairs, but somehow I always reach for the same gloves -- the ones that are easy to pull off and that look substantial. And yes, I use balms and creams. Nonetheless, my hands are calloused, lightly blistered, usually too dry, and with a new one added this year -- pricked all over. I laughed when on the LIVE rose sale show, the seller bragged that a rose she was in love with was practically thornless. Who cares? Roses have thorns. Wear gloves!

Ha.

 

Another gorgeous day in a string of them! I do not take them at all for granted. The sunshine is so delicious on a cool October morning, that I park myself by the corner windows, ostensibly for breakfast, but really just to feel the pleasure of every ray of sun that comes through to warm me. It is, hands down, the best set up -- a large southeast set of windows in a Wisconsin home.

 

 

 

 

 

And then come the roses. I plant two today (so eight to go) and I water the entire side bed. The roses are not all looking dry yet, but I have to pace my efforts now. I dont see rain in the forecast and I'm leaving on Sunday, with lots of planting work still before me. I want to make sure I'm not up all night doing the impossible the day before I take off.

 

And then I pick up Snowdrop... 

 

 

 

... and we do the very dull but necessary chore of clearing out her closet. I pull things out, she tell me yay or nay while at the same time studying my computer, having forced me earlier to take the Briggs Meyer (or some version of it) personality test. Turns out she and I have remarkably similar results. You could argue that these tests are pseudoscience, and yet, they do have value, in that they leave you thinking about the way you function in life -- your strengths and weaknesses, your approach to tough situations. So I go along, and we talk about being assertive, introverted, resilient, empathetic.

After, I take her to scouting and I bring Millie home. 

 

Ed comes over for supper tonight and for once I do something other than reheat chili or order out pizza. A veggie frittata and a salad. And a Millie, wondering if there's a treat for her somewhere in the mix.

Yes, I seem to be in a week where I look out at the world in rose colored glasses. Nothing wrong with that! Roses are joyous and sensuous and entirely worth the effort and the roughening up of my hands.

with so much love... 

 

the last one

It's always like that: the last stone you dig out is the biggest and heaviest and most impossible to dislodge. The last bucket of soil and rocks you carry to the vacant lot is the heaviest. And you want the last rose that you plant to be the most beautiful, but that one at least is wishful thinking, because you cannot tell which one will wow you most once the blooms emerge.

Yes, it's another stunning day! Sunshine and pleasantly warmish temperatures. Millie seems happy. 

 

 

 

Breakfast is lovely.

I had decided yesterday that I would let her go to daycare this morning. (She typically does not go on Mondays.) Yes, I could crate her while I work outside, but that's no fun on a beautiful day. She should be running outside with Juno (her Shiba dog bestie from daycare), warming her joints and spiking her serotonin levels in glorious sunshine. 

While she is there, I tend to my garden. 

The thing about roses is that they require steady oversight. Day lilies needed my snipping fingers during July and into August. Roses, on the other hand, need a vigilant eye throughout the growing season. You're checking for pests. And for disease. At this time of the year, black spot is a common fungus and it's unavoidable. If you care about the health of your flowers, you'll pay attention to it and snip off, sweep up,  and throw away all affected leaves. (In doing this, you prick yourself so often that it's not even worth mentioning -- it's a constant.) And of course, you cut off the spent flowers. With day lilies it was a question of aesthetics. With roses it's a matter of encouraging repeat blooms. These are modern roses that sprout blooms throughout the growing season if you take care of them.

So far, I've loved all the work I've had to do in Steffi's Garden. Unlike at the farmette, there isn't a plague of mosquitoes buzzing around me. And right now at least, everything in manageable. And it's not repetitive and mechanical. Snipping hundreds of spent lilies each morning can get... boring. I'm not doing boring work here. Frankly, it sort of feels like spring (my favorite season): rose stems are sprouting new growth, the beds are newly planted. Are we really heading toward winter? It's all turned around in my head! 

My "greenhouse" arrived today. I take a break in gardening to set it up (it's just a growing light really). I'm trying to imagine a bright and flowery winter. We'll see how that goes!

Three of my remaining ten roses also arrived today and I wish I could have put them in, but they came just as I decided Millie had had enough of doggie play. Tomorrow then. Tonight I'll take a look at my rose garden plan one last time to make sure everything is going to be planted in the correct spot. 

[I did a last minute change when I realized that the  rose, which I thought would look nice by the curb, was extra thorny. That's not good! You dont want dogs scratching their noses and kids ripping up their pants while walking by. So Ausmajesty Elizabeth will go to my side rose garden. and Gentle Hermione, with her delicate pink flowers and less thorny stems, will be placed by the curb.]

(the side rose garden, almost fully planted!)

 

There's one more aspect to my garden work here that is truly sweet: people stop by and talk to me. Just today: a solo walker strolling the back alley when I was transplanting this morning ("we have to do something in the back of our house, it feels really nice to pass by here with all these flowers"), a woman walking her dog when I was digging the hole for Gentle Hermione ("what are you planting now?"), another, younger woman who was doing some promo marketing for ATT ("what's in those boxes? Roses? Seriously? Like, real roses, not plastic? How long will they last? You mean they wont die in our cold winters? None of your flowers will die here??")  Making something out of this lot that makes people smile. How deeply satisfying is that!

 with so much love...

 

 

 

another day, another gate

Since when do we have to entertain our dogs?!  In the day, dogs just were dogs. You walked them, fed them, maybe trained them a little, maybe played with them, if you were the playful sort. Most days they chewed on a bone (somehow splintered bones never worried us) or cuddled at your feet, or looked out the window, sensing perhaps that there was a bigger and better world out there.

Nowadays, you give your dog toys, many toys, which become to them like old wallpaper -- mostly ignored, boring because they open no new doors. You give them brain games (that activity lasts all of 10 minutes). You take them to doggie day care and to dog parks. You'd think with all that, boredom would be an unfamiliar concept to them. 

Enter Millie.

 

 

 

I have to say, it's a beautiful day (yet again!) and we should go to the dog park, but after breakfast...

... she seems ready for her nap, so I go out to train, not my pup but roses. 

I have trained many a dog, but I've never trained a rose before. Still, as Ed will tell you, there is nothing in this world that a YouTube video can't teach you, so I equipped myself with as much knowledge as you could take in by staring dumbly at your laptop for thirty minutes. And then I grab a handful of ties and begin my game of cane directing.

There is an art to this, but like any art, first attempts are very lackluster, unless you're a Claude Monet (who incidentally loved roses and called them the most romantic of all flowers). 

I know you're not supposed to cross canes (though it's okay if you really must). I know you have to either tie down or cut off long canes for the winter so that they aren't destroyed (and along with it, your awesome rose bush) by heavy snows (what heavy snows? Haven't seen those for a while...). But aside from that, it's all rather trial and error-ish, YouTube tutorials notwithstanding. 

Done. Next -- some sod removal, and finally, I take Millie out to her yard, where she does her beautiful zoomie runs.

And finally I settle in to do some reading. Millie plays for a few minutes then goes upstairs. I'd closed all the doors to the bedrooms so I feel confident she can do no harm

That confidence is sorely misplaced. In two minutes (I never trust her to go off by herself for more than two minutes, which I will now reduce to one minute), I go up and see that she has destroyed the edging of the carpeting leading to the bathroom -- the one door I hadn't closed (it probably wouldn't have helped anyway). 

I know you're not supposed to scold dogs. I know you redirect and give them a treat, but that just seems so wrong! She got my attention -- I am up there with her. How can I possibly do anything but say in a very loud voice --- Millie that was NOT a good idea! I did not use profanity and I limited my reprimand to a sentence and a half. I did not redirect or give her a treat.

I clean up the shreds of carpet, go downstairs and order another gate, this one for the stairs. No more solo trips up there, little girl. And, too, carpet protectors so that she can not possibly tear out more carpet bits at the entrances to rooms. (Of course, she could still just go after the wntire carpet. Millie loves yarns to pull on, and yes she has a dozen toys with dangling yarns, but those are so yesterday, so boring!)

Ed suggests a walk (it's just so beautiful outside!) so I pluck Millie, put her in the car, pick up Ed and we drive over to the nearby dog park. With these familiar feathered friends along the way...

Great walk. Surely Millie must be tired?

 

 

 

The young family comes over for dinner. With Goose. 

It is unbelievable how hard these two mismatched dogs play!

And I have to say, Millie is the primary instigator.  She is all over Goose, growling her silly little growls , tail wagging furiously as she grabs his ear, his mouth, his leg. Goose indulges her. He could slap her down with one paw with his eyes closed, but he is a dog's dog and loves to play with any lively canine, so we have a terrific evening watching those two try to destroy each other (and the house, but luckily they are more interested in going after each other than, say, the couch or ... the upstairs carpet).

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

The evening is lovely. Kids are after a good week of school and activities and, well, that good weather we're having -- how could you not love a day with sunshine, a cool breeze, with all those scents of autumn in the air?

with so much love...