If yesterday morning and evening (that is in the hours I was not with Snowdrop) I planted day lilies in the former tiger lily spots, divided and moved the yellow cone flower clumps, dug up and moved hostas, planted sweet pea vines, and pulled out what seemed hundreds of garlic mustards (to his credit, Ed pulled out even more), today I did none of that. Take away the sun and you have an April day of the sort where you hesitate before plunging into any project outdoors. After all, it may rain.
On my early walk to the coop, I keep my hands clean of dirt. They're roughened by unplanned spot diggings (I wear sturdy Farm & Fleet gloves, unless I start pulling, scraping, working the soil on the spot, without reaching for them -- this happens far too often).
I pause to admire the daffodils -- especially those in the western field -- they always bloom first.
Breakfast is in the kitchen. Too cold to eat out on the porch. [You have to laugh at that last statement. Just a few weeks back I would not have attached the words "too cold" to anything that promised to reach the upper fifties F. Now I think that reading is chilly and uninviting.]
I leave early for Snowdrop's home. There I tell her -- it's back to tights, little one. Or, how about a pair of pants and a work shirt?
From bath, straight to "her car," with "cell phone" in hand. Great going, Snowdrop!
Who on earth are you texting, little girl?
I have a better idea. Want to read me a book, grandma? Or ten? Or twenty?
(After a book, or twenty...) How about a walk before the rain comes down?
Yes!
With a pause at the distant coffee shop?
Yes!
(At the coffee shop.) You know the routine. Let's find the high chair.
Look penguin! Someone's smiling at us! Penguin just stares at the cookie, wondering if he gets to partake.
The showers start just as we get back. This is the time to return to the book. Or twenty.
In the afternoon, the rains come down good and hard. Snowdrop knows this. There is a wistfulness about her...
But not for long. We go to the kitchen and play "chef." She's "mixing" here, very expressively of course.
And then I return home. Warm soup for tonight. Seems strange to bring back the comfort foods, but there you have it. April is very unpredictable.
On my early walk to the coop, I keep my hands clean of dirt. They're roughened by unplanned spot diggings (I wear sturdy Farm & Fleet gloves, unless I start pulling, scraping, working the soil on the spot, without reaching for them -- this happens far too often).
I pause to admire the daffodils -- especially those in the western field -- they always bloom first.
Breakfast is in the kitchen. Too cold to eat out on the porch. [You have to laugh at that last statement. Just a few weeks back I would not have attached the words "too cold" to anything that promised to reach the upper fifties F. Now I think that reading is chilly and uninviting.]
I leave early for Snowdrop's home. There I tell her -- it's back to tights, little one. Or, how about a pair of pants and a work shirt?
From bath, straight to "her car," with "cell phone" in hand. Great going, Snowdrop!
Who on earth are you texting, little girl?
I have a better idea. Want to read me a book, grandma? Or ten? Or twenty?
(After a book, or twenty...) How about a walk before the rain comes down?
Yes!
With a pause at the distant coffee shop?
Yes!
(At the coffee shop.) You know the routine. Let's find the high chair.
Look penguin! Someone's smiling at us! Penguin just stares at the cookie, wondering if he gets to partake.
The showers start just as we get back. This is the time to return to the book. Or twenty.
In the afternoon, the rains come down good and hard. Snowdrop knows this. There is a wistfulness about her...
But not for long. We go to the kitchen and play "chef." She's "mixing" here, very expressively of course.
And then I return home. Warm soup for tonight. Seems strange to bring back the comfort foods, but there you have it. April is very unpredictable.
