the old, the new, and a combination of the two

A new week. So what -- you say. A day is a day. True, but something about the ordering of the days of the week strikes me as significant. So that Monday, for me, is always a beginning of sorts.

But breakfast is the invariant. Sunny, not sunny, early or late, it's always there.






We continue our morning meal discussion for a long time after, speculating about the farmhouse -- its future, our work on it.

And before we realize it, it's time to pick up Snowdrop. Ed asks if he can tag along and then go out to a coffee shop with us. Sure!

The little girl is delighted to see him at school! That's my ahah! -- she tells everyone. (I am fairly certain that this is the first time Ed has ever set foot in a preschool.)






On our way to the coffee shop, we stop at Trader Joe's to stock up on their bags of oranges. (The little one loves the small oranges and can put away many in the course of a day.) The free sample of the day is mac and cheese. Snowdrop has many helpings! (Again a first for Ed: pushing her around in the cart. She insists that he do the pushing. He looks at the little seat and mutters -- is that what that's for!)






At the coffee shop, she has her orange and cookie bit, but she is incredibly curious about Ed's snack and crawls over to be by him and share in his food.






I have a bit of a nostalgic reaction to our being there. Ed and I used to hang out at coffee shops for hours in the earlier years of our relationship. That diminished once I retired. No good reason for it. Our daily rhythm simply changed. It felt sweet to be enjoying a coffee drink ('pucino! -- as Snowdrop would say), now with the two of them.






(She is playing hide and seek again.)






Later, at the farmhouse, for whatever reason, she goes straight for the miniature Eiffel Tower. It's funny how that whole Paris trip stays with her in one form or another. I'm sure it's not a vivid memory, merely a recognition of words, as well as scenes that are immortalized in her photo book. Still, the little one does know there is a Paris in her past.






As I unpack grocery bags, Snowdrop does her disappearing act again and this time I find her in the sun room, where I had hidden my guitar. She has discovered it and is in love with what it offers! She has seen people play it, but this is up close and personal. And since it is an old and weary instrument --  cheap is a word that comes to mind -- I do not worry that she will do damage to it.

But she doesn't do damage. She carefully examines every component...






And bangs and strums and strums again! (All this is far more exciting for her than having me play it. And that's okay. I'm not especially hungering for an audience.)







Later, much later, she wants to go out. I offer no protest: it's above freezing!

We visit the cheepers and I think  -- okay, fine, let's go in now. But she's not ready. I tell her I'll make a wee snowman out of the wet snow. Well now, that's interesting! Her little hands reach out to help me. Oh, I hope her parents are not reading this! I didn't put on her mitts for the barn walk! Her hands must be so cold now!






She never complains. Indeed, she wants more of the outdoors. She begs for the red wagon that stands just inside the porch.  Oh, you've earned it, you sweet tempered child!






Evening. She goes home, Ed and I eat a spicy supper. So... a spicy beginning of the week? Maybe.