Friday, May 11, 2018


It's a cold and wet day. Really cold and really wet. But I can't possibly mind! I look outside and think -- what a difference a month makes! On April 11, the farmette was brown. The trees were as bare as they had been in December and January. The flower fields were flowerless. It may not be warm today, but still, when I look outside, I see this:

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May is like an Impressionists' canvas. The rainy weather and pouty skies merely bring out the subtleties of the color outside. It's all rather magnificent!

Still, we do eat inside and we comment on how good it is to have a snug and warm farmhouse to retreat to on days like this one.

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I haven't much to show for my morning. A fridge full of foods for the week, a tank with gas. And a good many minutes looking out at the rain and wondering if I could get Ed to cut the grass again so quickly after his first mowing job earlier this week. The showers have felled a good many of my daffodils, but they surely are responsible for the growth spurt in so many of the flowers and plants outside. And grasses.

In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. To her, rain means two things: no playground time during the school day (too bad), and the need to bring out the very pinkest umbrella on the walk to the car (yeah!).

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Our rain is so constant, our temperatures so low, that even a small amount of outdoor time is not in the offering. It's been a long time since we've had to sit tight inside. And very early on, Snowdrop runs into trouble: something irritates her eye.

Hold on, let me see...
It's gunk! (She gets the terminology from the days she and virtually every child in her class had pink eye.)
No, Snowdrop, it's not that...
It's a sliver! A piece of wood! (Again, something that a classmate of hers struggled with, thankfully in her hand, not in her eye.)
It's not a sliver, Snowdrop. Just a piece of dirt. Maybe an eyelash.

There's nothing to do but to wash it out and then bring something out from the box of hidden treasures -- a few trivial things that I save for times like this. I reach for the Etsy dresses I had purchased from enterprising grandmas who sell hand sewn dolls' clothes. Snowdrop's doll family has lived in ratty jammies up to now. Today, they are regally attired!

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The rest of the afternoon is devoted to her babes and us celebrating something or other. Oh, I remember: one of her babies had a birthday. How old is she? -- I ask. Sixty-eight! -- Snowdrop responds.

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Much later in the evening, Ed, who has been at tech meetings most of the day asks me if I've seen the little chicks.
I have not.
Should we hunt around for them?

It's not hard finding the three girls -- they're huddled together in the barn. The winds are ruffling their feathers and they are clearly not a happy lot.

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It's the coldest day they have ever known. We pick them up (for once, they're cooperative) and put them in the coop early. We've made their corner quite windproof. They happily settle in for a delicious late supper of chick feed and corn (we keep the big girls out for now to give them some space).

It's just this one last day of cold, I say to them, to Ed, to myself really. Just this one last day. I take a whiff of damp spring air -- it really does smell heavenly out there, in the wet, lush farmette gardens. Just heavenly.