A cold day, with a new dusting of snow. It's not a morning where you want to linger outside. A quick walk to the barn to tend to the cheepers and that's it.
I don't have to go out again for a while. Or do I?
I get that early morning phone call that can only mean one thing: Snowdrop's down again. I offer to go to her home after breakfast so that the parents can attend to at least the most pressing work business.
Over the morning meal...
... Ed talks about fishing with his dad.
I liked going out with him on the boat to fish. Flounder. We'd be fishing for flounder. Often times we wouldn't get any. And in fact, I'd prefer that. It didn't make me happy to catch the fish. I just liked being out there with him, fishing.
Me, I love Ed's recollections of time with his father, though I feel this particular musing is heading somewhere.
Indeed: you should write this on your blog: shopping for a dining table is like fishing with my dad for flounder.
From this, he spins into fishing tales. Did you know that trolling differs from fly fishing? Actually I know next to nothing about fishing. Last time I tried to catch a fish was when I was right around Snowdrop's age and I cast about the pond by my grandparents's village home with a butterfly net. I think I netted and released a tadpole or two. Now, Ed is suggesting that we watch a youtube on fly fishing.
This is how time simply disappears when I am with Ed.
When I get to Snowdrop's home, she is rallying again! It's such a relief!
She has her medical kit close at hand. I bring over her farmhouse baby. She checks her baby's health.
All good. What now, grandma?
We run through many books and games, but what really gets her going is the idea that she should dance. (It's her inspiration, likely tied to the fact that she knows she has to skip her Storybook Ballet class today.)
Seeing that smile on a grandgirl who was so dragged down by a bug just a few hours ago makes this grandma's heart swell!
(She picked up from a book that dancers do Arabesques. Okay!)
(As in her Storybook Ballet class, we end with a story. This time, she does the reading. I, in my own "light dance wear" -- undershirts are a winter staple for me -- listen.)
(Then, one more check, to make sure we're all well...)
... and I return home.
(From the cheepers: where have you been???! They're so demanding of attention on days when they're cooped up in the barn!)
In the late afternoon, Ed and I hop over to the local park for a quick ski run. I mean, there's enough snow and there is a patch of blue in the sky. What more could you ask for?!
Evening. I think about fly fishing. I think it reminds me of flower tending: long periods of silent work, alone, working in cooperation with that what nature allows.
I don't have to go out again for a while. Or do I?
I get that early morning phone call that can only mean one thing: Snowdrop's down again. I offer to go to her home after breakfast so that the parents can attend to at least the most pressing work business.
Over the morning meal...
... Ed talks about fishing with his dad.
I liked going out with him on the boat to fish. Flounder. We'd be fishing for flounder. Often times we wouldn't get any. And in fact, I'd prefer that. It didn't make me happy to catch the fish. I just liked being out there with him, fishing.
Me, I love Ed's recollections of time with his father, though I feel this particular musing is heading somewhere.
Indeed: you should write this on your blog: shopping for a dining table is like fishing with my dad for flounder.
From this, he spins into fishing tales. Did you know that trolling differs from fly fishing? Actually I know next to nothing about fishing. Last time I tried to catch a fish was when I was right around Snowdrop's age and I cast about the pond by my grandparents's village home with a butterfly net. I think I netted and released a tadpole or two. Now, Ed is suggesting that we watch a youtube on fly fishing.
This is how time simply disappears when I am with Ed.
When I get to Snowdrop's home, she is rallying again! It's such a relief!
She has her medical kit close at hand. I bring over her farmhouse baby. She checks her baby's health.
All good. What now, grandma?
We run through many books and games, but what really gets her going is the idea that she should dance. (It's her inspiration, likely tied to the fact that she knows she has to skip her Storybook Ballet class today.)
Seeing that smile on a grandgirl who was so dragged down by a bug just a few hours ago makes this grandma's heart swell!
(She picked up from a book that dancers do Arabesques. Okay!)
(As in her Storybook Ballet class, we end with a story. This time, she does the reading. I, in my own "light dance wear" -- undershirts are a winter staple for me -- listen.)
(Then, one more check, to make sure we're all well...)
... and I return home.
(From the cheepers: where have you been???! They're so demanding of attention on days when they're cooped up in the barn!)
In the late afternoon, Ed and I hop over to the local park for a quick ski run. I mean, there's enough snow and there is a patch of blue in the sky. What more could you ask for?!
Evening. I think about fly fishing. I think it reminds me of flower tending: long periods of silent work, alone, working in cooperation with that what nature allows.
