Monday

A bright summer day. That description really fits the bill. The sky is blue, the colors are intense. The bugs retreated for a while, the humidity dipped -- all this and flowers too!



 


(Unusual: a double lily!)






(The bed that almost never appears on Ocean: the one lining the driveway.)






(A look toward the sheep shed, with that intense look of midsummer.)






(Last year's new bed, getting a lot of traction here on Ocean, because I'm watching closely its beautiful development.)






Breakfast. Wonderful in every way.






It's Monday and Snowdrop spends a full day at the farmhouse. Or, rather, at the farmette. Once she arrives, there's no keeping her indoors. Not for long, anyway. When I ask her -- want to pick blueberries? -- she torpedoes herself to the door, pushing mightily on the handle to let us out.

(Here she is, munching from the cup which itself has blueberries on it.)











We go to the tomato patch. She's familiar with it and she is excited by the fact that we can finally pick a tomato for her to taste. (Wouldn't you love a sun warmed small tomato right off the bush?)






Yes, there are a few minutes indoors. For those favorite upside down swings with ah-ah-eh (that would be grandpa Ed)...






... and always, always, a few precious moments with books, and with penguin, and with a book read to penguin...






But when I ask her if she would help me water the pots outside, she's right on it!

(Even though it's not an easy watering can to handle.)






(I need more water, grandma!)






And suddenly, I am reminded of something. I do not pretend to do things here that follow in the noble path of the Impressionist painters. But looking over the photos from today, I have to smile at the similarities.






(Isn't it just a tiny bit in line with Monet's "Garden at Vetheuil?")

And this one:






Didn't it for a minute recall for you another impression, this one by Renoir?

It's not that I have here, at the farmette, anything that is special, or unusual, or worthy of a canvas. The greater truth is that we all do this stuff: we grow flowers and delight in seeing our toddler lift up a watering can, and yes, great artists have painted it and us lesser beings simply live it -- the canvases of life's happiest moments.


So yes, terrible things take place daily. But those of us lucky enough to escape the horror, we almost have a duty to recognize our brilliant everyday. The flowers. The child with the watering can. The smiles that are around us, even in trying times.







I do. You do too, I know that. And I am delighted and grateful for your comments that tell me so.