now we are eight

Eight years ago, when he was a mere fifty-five (to the day!), he sent an email -- want to go out to an orchard?

I did. It was the first day I laid eyes on this tall guy who drove up in an ancient red car with a peeling stripe. (The car is still around, though the stripe is gone, as is most of it's body actually.)

We spent most of our days in each others company since that October day. In the first five years he'd be over at whatever dump (his description) I lived in. In the last three years, we've made our home at the farmette.

Shouldn't we sweep the leaves off the glass roof?
You don't like them there? They'll drift off eventually.
What if we get too many?

He stayed up most of the night fixing up a new laptop for my mom (her old one crashed and the new one has too many cluttery things on it -- at nearly 90, she'll never be able to navigate it unless all the quirks and foibles of the new Windows operating system are removed or made easier to work through). By the time he was ready to sleep, Isis was ready to be restless. We accept the fact that some nights will be calm and Isis will stay put or stay downstairs or stay invisible and on other nights he'll be causing a fuss. You can never tell which night will come when.

Breakfast. Pancakes, for a special day.






Want to watch vows on the NYTimes video?
It's odd how much we like to do this -- watch other people find joy in being together.







The idea was to go out to an orchard today. Not because Ed likes to commemorate anything as sentimental as our coming together however many years ago, but because it is time to get cider for the winter. Twice we bundled up and twice it began to rain just as we stepped outside. But the third time it stayed dry.

Still, it's too far to drive to the orchard now. Instead, we go to our favorite cross country skiing park -- just two miles east of the farmette, and we walk there.











The funny thing is, when I first saw Ed, there, in front of my apartment, he was waiting for me, pacing the railway tracks that run parallel to the road. Coincidentally, today, we are on tracks again.





Are you done? It's cold!
I want to find a rock to crack a black walnut.
You can't eat that! It looks rotten!
It looks fine. Want to try a piece?

On the path again.  The clouds release a small drizzle.

Do you suppose we should finish the front entrance to the farmhouse this spring? There are rotting boards and crumbling steps...
Maybe.

A few years back I would have wanted to do this for the aesthetics alone. Now I don't care that the door facing the road looks funky and bit run down. For us, the focal point of the farmhouse is the back, with the porch, looking out onto the sheep shed and the barn. But we like working on projects together. The reconstruction of the front entrance will be one such opportunity to do that again. I'm sure the design will be a tad original. And quirky. There always is that element of quirkiness to the this place.

We finish our walk just as the drizzle really gets going.





Tomorrow, we are told, is the official last day of our growing season. The hard frost comes, all tender plants will die back. We'll pick the last of the berries before then and I'll cast one last fond glance at all those flowers that kept right on going. Next year -- we'll see you again next year.

My older girl and her husband come over for dinner. We don't think of it as celebratory. Not really.

Hey, have a slice of cheese before the kids come...
Okay. Oh, good one! I suppose it's for them?
No, it's okay -- eat as much as you want.

I stir up the sauce for the pasta and saute the shrimp and chunks of salmon.







After, he and I watch old Seinfelds and Isis snuggles right next to us. The cat likes it that way. Both he and Ed doze off. I finish up the Ocean post.

Hey, thank you, Ed. And happy birthday.