a day in two parts

Picture this: by some not too late morning hour, I had let the cheepers out, I'd inspected the garden, stalked fallen iris, pulled some weeds, I'd eaten breakfast, addressed security issues that arose in my Warsaw apartment, I'd purchased 25 pounds of buckwheat seed at the farmers' coop, gone to a doctor's office for a check up, argued with an Apple rep in the store about a frayed chord replacement, and given Snowdrop a bath.

On the other hand, after about two p.m., I read some stuff on the internet and contemplated starting a new book on my kindle. That's it.

Some days are like that -- bottom heavy and top light, or the other way around.

Let me load you with some photos -- all from the morning, of course. Because in addition to running this way and that, I had great contemplative moments in the early morning garden...

(This deeply yellow iris is like a dollop of fresh butter on a stalk.)






(The siberians, on the other hand, are like lemon drops, especially when coupled with the dainty, lupine-like Baptisia Carolina. Two yellow irises, so different, yet both so lovely, don't you think?)






And I had a sublime breakfast on the porch, during which Ed read out loud an article on bumble bees (we are happy to report that our bumble bee population appears to be thriving)...






And, too, I went out for a beautiful walk with Snowdrop. Let me focus on that, because after today, there will be a brief pause in Snowdrop reports, as her family has a busy set of days before them and they include the little girl, so that in fact, I wont see her again until Sunday.

As usual, after her bath, the little one tries to convince me that going out would be a fine idea.


 



We are in the thick of summer-like weather and so I'm happy to say the magic words to her -- let's go! Ah, how lovely it is to sometimes play the role of wish granter to a very young one! We so often are tasked with redirecting, restraining, stifling the impulse to explore! Today, I could tell her again and again -- sure, go for it.


We go to the small park by the lesser lake. And she does go for it. Initially.






But then she hears voices. A couple of moms show up with their young kids. The moms sit down at a picnic table to chat, the kids run down to the beach to play.


Snowdrop is fascinated by the acts and behaviors of other children. I've lost her to these kids. She is completely focused on what they're doing.






Oh, I entice her with a session on the swing (which she loves), but you can see that she does not want to lose her focus on the others.






And so when I say -- let's go down to the beach to see what's going on down there, she offers no protest. We take off our shoes and the sand is warm, so warm, but she doesn't play in it, doesn't pick up fistfuls like she did at the Luxembourg Gardens. She just watches the antics of the preschool set.






But then, there's something that is nearly as exciting as the social scene by the water. There is the water itself. I'm not a fan of Madison's lakes right now. I think we have turned our heads and let them become anything but fresh bodies of water. Still, the other kids are splashing wildly and my mental calculus tells me that letting her splash knee deep is fine (much to Ed's amusement, I wash her down again when we get home).






But I cannot keep her to the water's edge.






She just wants more. And I tell myself that if I am that good grandmother I want to be, I will find her more -- a lake that is clean and fresh and beautiful, because I had that water in my young life -- a river where I could sit down as a child and watch the water ripple its way across a sandy bottom.






I finally do entice her away from the lake. Would you like to go to the coffee shop? -- I ask. I think she is still hoping for that strawberry tart. She takes my hand and we walk to the cafe that happens to be just by the park.

I give her a piece of an oatmeal raisin cookie. She's fine with it.






It's as if she is telling me -- I'm okay with this... but can I again have that creme patisserie someday? It's a silent conversation and I respond with a nod -- and it signifies just this: Snowdrop, I make a great creme patisserie. There's Paris, yes, of course, but there's also grandma's great creme patisserie.






We go home, where she plays with her flapping squirrel, looking back every now and then to make sure the little critter is flapping properly.







Really? Nothing else? Okay, an iris against the delicate pink coral bells.