Thursday morning empathy nearly always pushes me out to set the cheepers free. Ed plays a vicious game of volley ball Wednesday evenings. It takes him a bit of time to recover.
It is not a pretty morning. Pellets of ice are coming out of nowhere. The sky seems unusually dark for a sunrise moment. The cheepers ignore me and stay inside.
Breakfast is interesting: I open up the sun room to let in some heat so that we can hang out there over the morning meal. I recall to Ed the many winter mornings we've eaten there.
He reminds me that typically it would have been on sun drenched days. Henceforth, we'll go back to eating breakfast in the (heated) kitchen, or (heated) front room.
On my way to visit little Snowdrop, I glance at the barn and see that the cheepers are making a valiant attempt at stepping outdoors. Remarkable, really. I guess they, too, feel shut in and anxious to experience the freedom of the outdoors.
But it doesn't last. I throw them some table scraps and usher them back into the barn. It really is too windy for them to be gallivanting outside its protective walls.
Okay. Farmhouse chores done, I head for my daughter's place. There, I find Snowdrop snuggling with her mommy.
Stripes against stripes. It's the kind of scene you love to encounter: total serenity and adoration.
In my hours there, Snowdrop and I play some...
... then she lets me know that she needs a pause. Against my striped stomach.
My daughter and I spend many minutes commenting on her perfection.
Little Snowdrop half listens, in her various positions on my lap.
Today, she is happy to while away the minutes on her tummy.
Evening. I have a dinner date with Ed. He and I rarely go out (because I rarely want to), but today seems perfect for it. We do our favorite -- sit at the counter of Brasserie V, share a frisee salad and eat pots of steamed mussels with fries. Here's a reflection of us in some very shiny brass surface at the bar.
Delicious. Every last stripe of it.
It is not a pretty morning. Pellets of ice are coming out of nowhere. The sky seems unusually dark for a sunrise moment. The cheepers ignore me and stay inside.
Breakfast is interesting: I open up the sun room to let in some heat so that we can hang out there over the morning meal. I recall to Ed the many winter mornings we've eaten there.
He reminds me that typically it would have been on sun drenched days. Henceforth, we'll go back to eating breakfast in the (heated) kitchen, or (heated) front room.
On my way to visit little Snowdrop, I glance at the barn and see that the cheepers are making a valiant attempt at stepping outdoors. Remarkable, really. I guess they, too, feel shut in and anxious to experience the freedom of the outdoors.
But it doesn't last. I throw them some table scraps and usher them back into the barn. It really is too windy for them to be gallivanting outside its protective walls.
Okay. Farmhouse chores done, I head for my daughter's place. There, I find Snowdrop snuggling with her mommy.
Stripes against stripes. It's the kind of scene you love to encounter: total serenity and adoration.
In my hours there, Snowdrop and I play some...
... then she lets me know that she needs a pause. Against my striped stomach.
My daughter and I spend many minutes commenting on her perfection.
Little Snowdrop half listens, in her various positions on my lap.
Today, she is happy to while away the minutes on her tummy.
Evening. I have a dinner date with Ed. He and I rarely go out (because I rarely want to), but today seems perfect for it. We do our favorite -- sit at the counter of Brasserie V, share a frisee salad and eat pots of steamed mussels with fries. Here's a reflection of us in some very shiny brass surface at the bar.
Delicious. Every last stripe of it.
