Today I thought about my repeat travels to the Isle of Islay in Scotland. For a while, I went every year. Always in June, when the days there were so beautifully long. I stopped returning because it took too long to get there and for many many reasons, I no longer wanted to be away from the farmette for extended periods of time. Too, I had always traveled to Islay alone and after the nth time, I reversed my thinking about it. Islay, I became convinced, was better shared. The hikes, the drams of Islay whiskey, the loveliness of island people -- they made me wistful for a companion.
Still, I often go back to Islay. In my mind. I think about the sweet little shop where I would look for Scottish books for the kids and scarves made at the local mill, and pottery from any number of the Scottish islands. About the smoked salmon with eggs for breakfast. And about my hosts in the village of Bowmore. Over breakfast, inevitably everyone talked about the weather. Old timers would laugh at the visitors who sought predictability. The saying was -- in Islay, you can have all four seasons in one day.
This afternoon, here in south central Wisconsin, I thought that we, too, had all four seasons in one day.
Don't be fooled by the prettiness of the morning.
It doesn't last.
Or does it? Maybe the beauty of this day is in its race through so many weather patterns! Sunshine, rain, gusty winds, snow, more sunshine, dappled skies -- as beautiful as Islay on a June day.
But let me roll it all back to... breakfast.
We hurried. The kids were on the way!
Snowdrop bounces these days between her usual effervescence and a quieter, more contemplative mood. But today, both kids were upbeat, liking to play next to each other -- she, losing herself in her stories, he, having his favorite characters do more simple tasks like walking up and down stairs, or sitting themselves in a row in strange places.
A request was put in for a lunch of mouse pancakes. Fine with me.
And soon after lunch, the little ones return home and Ed and I set out on what is to be our last hike in the county park. Why last? Well, our local park is actually also part of the state park system and today our governor issued an order shutting down state parks, including the one just down the road from us. (Vandalism, trash, excessive congregation -- the usual stuff that reveals how undisciplined we can be even in times of acute crisis.) For the next few weeks, we'll have to turn our attentions elsewhere. But for now -- our favorite local walk! In the craziness of a four-seasons' day!
(windy!)
Much like the weather, our afternoon feels like a silly putty ball that's bouncing about in all directions. There's the hike. Then I put in some time weeding the big flower bed. And there is some mom troubleshooting time (problem solved! another pops up!). And here's Ed, baking again. "I'm going to use less butter and substitute it with yogurt!" Go for it.
And some computer time. People write. I love hearing from them. I write back. Time well spent.
And suddenly it's evening. Can you believe how bright it is at 6?
It seems wrong to be cooking up a wintry meal in April, but here I am, cutting up half-defrosted tomatoes and stirring them up with the usual sautee of onion and garlic, with added beans and chicken meat (yep! sausages, torn apart) and of course -- spices. A farmhouse chili that never grows old around here.
No day should pass right now without a grateful note of humble thanks to all those who are not sheltered in place, because their work demands that they be out there, taking care of you and me. So -- thank you.
With love.
Still, I often go back to Islay. In my mind. I think about the sweet little shop where I would look for Scottish books for the kids and scarves made at the local mill, and pottery from any number of the Scottish islands. About the smoked salmon with eggs for breakfast. And about my hosts in the village of Bowmore. Over breakfast, inevitably everyone talked about the weather. Old timers would laugh at the visitors who sought predictability. The saying was -- in Islay, you can have all four seasons in one day.
This afternoon, here in south central Wisconsin, I thought that we, too, had all four seasons in one day.
Don't be fooled by the prettiness of the morning.
It doesn't last.
Or does it? Maybe the beauty of this day is in its race through so many weather patterns! Sunshine, rain, gusty winds, snow, more sunshine, dappled skies -- as beautiful as Islay on a June day.
But let me roll it all back to... breakfast.
We hurried. The kids were on the way!
Snowdrop bounces these days between her usual effervescence and a quieter, more contemplative mood. But today, both kids were upbeat, liking to play next to each other -- she, losing herself in her stories, he, having his favorite characters do more simple tasks like walking up and down stairs, or sitting themselves in a row in strange places.
A request was put in for a lunch of mouse pancakes. Fine with me.
And soon after lunch, the little ones return home and Ed and I set out on what is to be our last hike in the county park. Why last? Well, our local park is actually also part of the state park system and today our governor issued an order shutting down state parks, including the one just down the road from us. (Vandalism, trash, excessive congregation -- the usual stuff that reveals how undisciplined we can be even in times of acute crisis.) For the next few weeks, we'll have to turn our attentions elsewhere. But for now -- our favorite local walk! In the craziness of a four-seasons' day!
(windy!)
Much like the weather, our afternoon feels like a silly putty ball that's bouncing about in all directions. There's the hike. Then I put in some time weeding the big flower bed. And there is some mom troubleshooting time (problem solved! another pops up!). And here's Ed, baking again. "I'm going to use less butter and substitute it with yogurt!" Go for it.
And some computer time. People write. I love hearing from them. I write back. Time well spent.
And suddenly it's evening. Can you believe how bright it is at 6?
It seems wrong to be cooking up a wintry meal in April, but here I am, cutting up half-defrosted tomatoes and stirring them up with the usual sautee of onion and garlic, with added beans and chicken meat (yep! sausages, torn apart) and of course -- spices. A farmhouse chili that never grows old around here.
No day should pass right now without a grateful note of humble thanks to all those who are not sheltered in place, because their work demands that they be out there, taking care of you and me. So -- thank you.
With love.
