conversations

We wake to the steady patter of rain. Like everything, this has its downsides. More rain surely will bring with it more mosquitoes. But, plants need rain, the kind that falls steadily, for an hour, perhaps two or three hours. The kind that replenishes and rejuvenates.

Too, I need a rainy day to keep me grounded. Backs recover far more quickly if you're not walking the yard cheating on your resolve to stay upright, just so you might stake that flower or pull that weed.

Okay, one quick walk, to enjoy the Big Flower Bed which, arguably, is the prettiest of the flower fields in early June. I resist picking any weeds.






Breakfast is on the porch. It's warm enough and it's quiet, but for that slap slap slap of rain against the glass roof. The trucks retreated. The ditch where they're working to remove sand (who knew that underneath our clay soil there is all that lovely sand -- needed in other parts of the development) is likely very wet by now.

Serenity comes to you during a rainy day breakfast outside.






Ed is now off at meetings after, I'm sipping tea, smiling at small nothings that you only remember when you take the time to sit and mull over the events of the past few days.

I'm remembering yesterday's afternoon conversation on the porch. Ed had gotten up to do some machine work in the sheep shed and Snowdrop wanted to know what he would be doing.
He's fixing one of his machines, I tell her, not knowing exactly which one or for what purpose.
And what will he be doing after that?
He'll be fixing the truck. See how it leans to one side?
It's broken? 
You could say that.
Just like this Saturday he fixed the broken "inta-net." (To Snowdrop, anything that happened a few days back, happened on a Saturday.)
I smile at that. What, to a three year old, is the internet? Yes, so that our computers could work.

The girl surprises me constantly. Children do that to you: you get used to their knowledge base, not realizing that tomorrow, it will be that much greater. A couple of days ago (let's just say Saturday!), I told her that she was using her brains well. She looked at me and I could almost detect an eye roll.
Grandma, I only have one brain. Inside one skull. 

I learn that this piece of wisdom came from a conversation she had with a teacher in school. Things like that trickle down to me sometimes. Teachers don't report them (I asked yesterday at pick-up -- what did she do today? The teacher answered -- chopped carrots, which she likes, both the chopping and the carrots), but if you ask Snowdrop the right questions, sometimes you get these glimpses into who said what, even if you can't quite figure out for what reason.

(Looking toward the farmhouse after the heavier rain)






Time to pick up Snowdrop.

I'm feeling a bit like one does when milestones gallop before you: could it be that this is the little one who still seemed so toddler-ish a few months ago?





Can I untie your sweater? -- I ask her.  It's getting warm again. Someone must have shown her how you can keep it nearby without actually wearing it.
No, gaga, I'm fine.






Yes you are!






There is still a threat of stormy weather and so I bring out my rainy day supplies -- today I'm trying out a set of marker/paint/crayons. (What'll they think of next, eh?) And a new coloring book.





Snowdrop is a consummate artist: she uses her pinks and purples with total concentration. And more importantly -- finds great joy in the whole process.

But after an hour or so, the outdoors beckons. Can't I go in the pool today?

Well why not. It's 80f (26c) and just to make me feel good about acquiescing, we even get a bit of late afternoon sunshine.

Plus, Snowdrop adds an extra plug for the wading pool: I had just banged her foot with the sliding door to the porch and of course, she was upset by it.
I'll calm down much faster if I can swim. The tears will stop coming to my eyes.

How true.






In the meantime, the three little chicks settle in to roost among my peonies and irises. I demonstrate my total love for these babes by letting them do that.





Evening. It's so quiet now! A tweet, chirp, a flutter of something in the sky. It would be perfect were it not for the bugs. Ah well, as we always say -- there is always the porch. A haven, with an eye toward my gardens and a whiff of all that makes this season so extraordinary.