Monday - 24th

The only reason I know for sure that it is the beginning of a new week is that it follows a Sunday dinner, which means there are extra dishes in the dish rack in the morning. So it must be Monday.

Of course, retired people often are not tied to schedules that would distinguish a Thursday from, say, a Saturday. But, I've been living with an academic schedule all my life and it did not end with retirement. From teaching, I went straight to babysitting for a child of parents themselves tied to an academic calendar and of course, once Snowdrop was old enough to start preschool, she too was locked into a school schedule, and so my days were once again governed by first days of school, winter breaks, snow days and the like. Peeking at my calendar right now, I see that today, Snowdrop and Sparrow were to resume school after a spring break. Well now, that's one more item to ignore!

Without a school schedule to guide me, I follow a pattern of childcare that the young parents and I established when we all went into isolation. School schedules no longer structure my days. As someone recently joked -- today feels like Satnesday in the month of Femarember. Or some such.

But here's the thing: as a gardener, I track the spring season very very carefully. We know when we must plant tomato seeds. When we should trim the fruit trees. When I can safely put in new day lilies or plant nasturtiums. The garden sends me signals all the time. Reminders of where we're at. These daffodils, opening just a little, tell me for sure that we have just checked off the the first week of April.





Buds on the old willows, chives poking through, the first tiny rhubarb leaf unfurling -- that's all typical early April stuff. Oh, and the scilla. Don't forget the ever spreading scilla.





I track this stuff carefully because every set of new spring days demands something of me. And so, having abandoned (for the first time ever) an academic calendar, nature's own directional hand has completely taken charge. It's not Femarember of Jugustary, but very clearly April.

But, mornings are mornings here at the farmhouse. Each one starts with my going out to feed the animals, followed by breakfast with Ed.






The kids are with us immediately after that.






And here's something unexpected: today, Snowdrop is really begging for a brunchy lunch -- one that she can take the lead in preparing, from setting the table to mixing pancake batter.





This is a surprise. Like any grandma worth her salt, I tried to get the kids excited about cooking with me. Initially, Snowdrop was a happy mixing/chopping/flipping pal. But it didn't last. Sparrow, I hear, does love to "help cook dinner," but I haven't seen him here hit the pots and utensils in a while. So, no future junior chef stars here thus far.

And yet, today, Snowdrop showed me that the initial enthusiasm doesn't go away. It gets tucked away until a later date. Which for her, seemed to be right now.

(snowman pancakes: done!)






Afternoon: Ed and I go out for a walk, crisscrossing the dug-up lands to the west and north of us.  It's not a beautiful walk, but it's an interesting one. Fourteen new houses popped up in the last couple of months. Mostly though, the landscape looks ravaged. Torn up and left naked, exposing the clay soil that is so common here. We wonder how the development will proceed now. Will the economic downturn slow it significantly? Will construction eventually perk up, or come to a grinding halt?


Back at the farmette, everything is remarkably quiet. Less traffic, far less airplane noise, fewer construction sounds. Indeed, when I was putting the kids in the car to take them home, Snowdrop commented -- that's a very loud bird! I had to smile. It wasn't the bird that was loud, it was the rest of the world that had hushed, so that we could hear the chirping in all its sweetness.


Evening: leftovers, salads, popcorn and cookies. Uniquely unspecial, but wonderful nonetheless. Like so many things in life.