You know how sometimes, in the middle of winter, or toward its end, there will be those two or even three glorious, warm days -- unexpected but so terrific, portending of things to come? Days that remind you that winter is just a brief nothing, that spring is there, waiting to regale you with its bounty?
We never had them this year. It was just one linear slog through winter messes, with a couple of Arctic dips to really freeze your knuckles.
But this weekend (and I count Friday as the beginning of it), we are finally stepping into some unseasonable warmth! You can feel it, smell it, love it. And we will!
First, though, it is still foggy and cool. Chores await.
Breakfast -- somewhat hurried because we both have our Friday line up of activities.
And then the sun comes out and the kittens play and the rooster crows and most importantly, the stalks of spring flowers do a significant push, so that you can see the daffodil buds, formed and ready to pop!
(The cheepers, in love with this weather, enjoying their favorite cafe-like spot under the lilac bush...)
In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. I do not know what got into her, but she is on a roll with books. I spend 2.5 hours reading: two (looooong) chapter books and a handful of picture books that she dug up from the past and in which she now finds new meaning. There are no photos to be had from an afternoon of reading.
Toward the end of her visit, Snowdrop returns to her pretend play.
But it doesn't follow standard play lines. She tells me she is speaking in a new, made-up language.
What is it? -- I ask -- Snowdrop-ish?
No, Gogs, the name of the language changes all the time.
She is so expressive, that the meaning of the words ceases to matter -- the emotional tone says it all.
Outside, Stop Sign hovers. We're dishing out a lot of cat food these days. She's eating for a whole new family once more.
Evening. We're eating eggs again. We'll never make a dent. The girls keep laying. Every day. Eggs, filling our refrigerator, eggs, piling up everywhere.
Ed, we need to do something with all the eggs.
Okay, gorgeous.
He's not really listening. He's enjoying a documentary on the New York accent. An hour of listening to his people. A grin never once leaves his face.
We never had them this year. It was just one linear slog through winter messes, with a couple of Arctic dips to really freeze your knuckles.
But this weekend (and I count Friday as the beginning of it), we are finally stepping into some unseasonable warmth! You can feel it, smell it, love it. And we will!
First, though, it is still foggy and cool. Chores await.
Breakfast -- somewhat hurried because we both have our Friday line up of activities.
And then the sun comes out and the kittens play and the rooster crows and most importantly, the stalks of spring flowers do a significant push, so that you can see the daffodil buds, formed and ready to pop!
(The cheepers, in love with this weather, enjoying their favorite cafe-like spot under the lilac bush...)
In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. I do not know what got into her, but she is on a roll with books. I spend 2.5 hours reading: two (looooong) chapter books and a handful of picture books that she dug up from the past and in which she now finds new meaning. There are no photos to be had from an afternoon of reading.
Toward the end of her visit, Snowdrop returns to her pretend play.
But it doesn't follow standard play lines. She tells me she is speaking in a new, made-up language.
What is it? -- I ask -- Snowdrop-ish?
No, Gogs, the name of the language changes all the time.
She is so expressive, that the meaning of the words ceases to matter -- the emotional tone says it all.
Outside, Stop Sign hovers. We're dishing out a lot of cat food these days. She's eating for a whole new family once more.
Evening. We're eating eggs again. We'll never make a dent. The girls keep laying. Every day. Eggs, filling our refrigerator, eggs, piling up everywhere.
Ed, we need to do something with all the eggs.
Okay, gorgeous.
He's not really listening. He's enjoying a documentary on the New York accent. An hour of listening to his people. A grin never once leaves his face.
Oh, the Brooklyn Accent of Eddie Money.
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