Wednesday

Where do hours disappear? One minute I wake up and walk in the predawn light to the chicken coop, marveling at the stretch of day before me, next thing -- I'm watching the sun recede at a galloping pace to the west. How is it that a day can move forward so fast?

Officially, or at least in my calculus, the day begins at the breakfast table.






But I will have accomplished a lot by then. Routine stuff. And always, there will be at least a glance at the yard. No matter what the season. Honestly, every square foot of farmette dirt is known to me by now. I take note. I think about what must be done this month. Not today though. Not today.






Very quickly the noon hour rolls around and I am at Snowdrop's school. She must have climbed onto the bench by the window, because as I approach, I hear her chirpy voice -- gaga! Hi gaga!






She wants to go for a walk as soon as we leave school, but I tell her we have errands to do and despite her tiredness and her need for a nap, she willingly goes along: to Paul's coffee shop for a container of pickles...





Then to the library to pick up several things that are on hold. It's been months since we've been here together, but she remembers well where the children's computer is. And though I don't manipulate it for her and do not bring forth anything that she might actually like to see or do, she loves to work the mouse and see what effect it has on the screen.






At the farmette, she lingers. I know she wants to head out in the wagon, but I cannot give in to this now. Reluctantly, she goes inside.






Ah-ah is there and she coaxes him to sit on her bike.She herself wont do it yet. She pushes herself around on a trike at school every day, but the two wheeler gives her pause. Still, she loves the helmet!







And then it's nap time and after -- snack time and I see the telltale western sunlight dancing across her face as she feeds her "bis." Yes, the day is nearly over.






One quick stroll with the little one across the fields to our east and we're done.





Well, we're not really done. Snowdrop goes home of course. Ed and I settle in for our usual evening meal and our low key activities. When it's nearly midnight, he coaxes me into a dish of ice cream. He takes it out of the freezer. The ice cream is very soft. As Snowdrop would say -- oh-oh!

Indeed. The refrigerator is not working. We spend the next set of hours trying to figure out what's wrong. Nothing helps. There is a small fridge in the sheep shed and we carry the essentials there for the night. I wish I could say we do it by the light of the moon, but clouds have rolled in and it's a dark night. I'm thinking that tomorrow will be another such day where the hours run away from us all too quickly.