a never ending discussion

I read a lot about travel. Other people's trips and journeys. Stories that combine personal elements of discovery with movement, with travel to some far away place where the cultural imperatives are different from those back home. And every once in a while I will come across that familiar story of the bad American tourist abroad. She or he will be described as poorly dressed, loud, arrogant. Incapable of uttering a single word in the native language. Demanding service, demanding entry, demanding perks that are typical in America but less abundant elsewhere. Snapping selfies, pushing into already crowded spaces. 

This morning, once again such an essay popped up in the opinion section of the NYTimes. Every time I read these things, I try hard to remember all my encounters with Americans abroad. And maybe I have a knack for avoiding these horrible scenes of poor behavior, but in my experience they are rare. I seem to bump into Americans who are enthusiastic about being wherever the trip has taken them. They are mindful. They snap selfies, but rarely with one of those annoying sticks that puts the camera at a distance and impedes the flow of traffic. 

The problem is, of course, that these days, there are crowds. Crowds of travelers to popular destinations. Venice or Yosemite. Giverney or the Grand Canyon. To say nothing of small islands, disappearing reefs and habitats that can't take the influx of eager visitors. It's not Americans abroad, it's all of us collectively creating crowds, destroying the peace on Barcelona's La Rambla and hiding the Mona Lisa behind heads of over-enthusiastic museum goers. We are all collectively responsible.

What to do? People have been dishing out advice for decades on how to be a better tourist. I have to say, it's stuff that applies to daily life as well. Why limit it to being abroad? Be deliberate in your choices. Be mindful. Be courteous. Listen attentively. Observe. Don't be pushy. Isn't this stuff you want to see around you, in your own neighborhood? Perhaps what's missing in our daily lives (hasn't this become obvious during the pandemic?) is a feeling of social connection, a responsibility to do well by others, to value the collective experience, to make small sacrifices so that others may have a chance at a good outcome. But for goodness sake, don't stop visiting places that are outside your comfort zone. It's far easier to learn humility when you are outnumbered by people who speak a different language, eat strange looking foods, have habits that don't mesh with what you're used to seeing back home. Seems to me that we all may do well with a mega dose of humility every once in a while.

*     *     *

The collective experience. Let me come back to this now, because I was thinking about it as Ed and I drove up once again to the Fitchburg Family Pharmacy this morning, this time to get our flu shots.

I switched to this pharmacy a couple of years ago, liking very much its approach to serving the community. It's the kind of place where the pharmacist will tell you he hopes you'll feel better after you take your medicine. They'll talk to you about your experiences with the booster the next time you stop by. They're just nice people and they are about as close as you can get to having someone local be there with you, sharing a tiny bit of the day in all its small permutations. (I used to get that sense of community at Paul's cafe and then at Finca Coffee shop, but to be close to the people who sell and who come in and buy, you have to stay inside and Covid stopped that dead in the tracks.)

As I write this, I am fully aware of the ridiculousness of our lives at this moment: we get our dose of community by going to the pharmacy to get a flu shot!  But the reality is that we here are not like Ghanaians in Hohoe (so social minded!), or Italians in Parma, or Bretons from Dinan. It's not easy to find groups of people congregating, or even pausing to exchange a few updates from our daily lives. (One curious feature of the new development is that every house has a front porch. And every front porch of an occupied house has at least two outdoor chairs on it. I have walked the neighborhood sidewalks now many many times, in great weather, at all parts of the day and I have never once come across anyone sitting in those chairs. Aspirational symbols of a life not lived.)

*     *     *

It's another beautiful day.

You could never tire of them, even though I know we're nearing the end of this warm spell. September ends, October begins. We're moving ever so slowly toward the cold months. But oh, do I appreciate the pauses of sunshine and warmth! Outdoor weather! Cafe weather, don't you think?

*     *     *

Snowdrop is here this afternoon. We have so many projects that are waiting in the sidelines! But there is no rush. The beauty of after school time is that it moves without a schedule, without must-dos. We read, we play. I take her home.

*     *     *

Evening: the joy is in the quiet, the warm quilt thrown over our laps against the cool air that inevitably comes in each night now.

For now, to my small community of Ocean friends -- good night, with love.

two paths

Do you think you are open to new ideas?

I bet you answered yes. Most people think they are. Most of us believe we are flexible, nonjudgmental, open-minded. With good values that we wish everyone else would emulate! I mean, we have to live with ourselves so we create these images of our thought processes that check off all the important qualities. You and me both.

I do think that as you get older (remember, this is a grandmother writing!), you have a choice: either you cement what's already there, or use your newly acquired free time (assuming that you have newly acquired free time) to take a detour or change course altogether. Not on every position for sure. But at least on some. You can be the stubborn old coot -- you're old, you're entitled. Or you can chip away at some of that cement.

It's hard to shake up stuff in your head if you like your life and want to be left alone to do as you have always done. It's a lot easier for people like me who tend to be restless and who like an occasional infusion of the bizarre. (In other words, people who like to travel.)

This is what I thought about while sitting on my Adirondack chair (having chased off the cats who love it as much as I do) on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon on this nearly last day of September. It is truly a splendid day. From the get-go.

(You rarely see pictures of Tuxie; she is very beautiful, very sweet, and very shy. She doesn't make friends easily. She's very different from the rest.)

I'd come across an article in the New Yorker about a film, a documentary, that seeks to challenge the idea that we should treat immigrants as fitting into a binary: family or felons. I was fascinated by this, one, because I am an immigrant and two, because if asked, I'd have probably agreed with the need to create classes of people along some "good" or "bad" axis. Why accept the bad dudes when there are plenty of deserving "good" ones who want to come here, right?

But the article, or rather the film it described, raised questions about this. Here was something to chip away at in my old brain. And suddenly the groceries were melting by the front door and I was ignoring them because my thoughts were spinning back to my daughters' high school years: I had marveled then at how some kids, but not all kids, who did dumb stuff got second chances in life. They escaped quite handily being ruined by their misdeeds.

I also thought about younger girls, say Snowdrop's age, who are very focused on making and keeping friends. Sure, we want to see them develop social skills of a certain acceptable type. Because otherwise, will they be liked? So, yes, on the one hand, we want our kids to be socially skilled and conforming to some model of what we imagine is a good kid. But there's a flip side. And I thought about it the other day as I watched a show on TV. I am a sucker for biographical stuff and so it's no surprise that I like the PBS show "Finding Your Roots." I cannot tell you how many times on that show grown and famous men would talk about how they were misbehaved in school or at home and everyone on the show would laugh and chortle and I got the sense that this was something to be proud of. (I don't mean bringing weapons to school or beating the daylights out of your friend, but small stuff -- the kind that a child might do to test boundaries.) So here we are again, excusing some, but only some, for stuff that we find inexcusable in others.

 

Beautiful day. Made even better because I had the time to think differently about something, with the help of people who are smart enough to shed new light on old ideas for me.

attitude

Attitude counts for so much! Sure, there are people whose lives have been rocked to the core by the pandemic or by other horrific tragedy. I'm not thinking about them at the moment. They can have the worst attitude on the planet as far as I'm concerned.  So let's leave out these heartbreaking examples of loss and sacrifice. My mind is on the rest of us who have days with the usual share of ups and downs (and yes, in the last 18 months -- more downs than ups): I'm thinking that so much can be improved with a flip of the attitude switch. 

I love Ed for his attitude toward life, toward people, animals, nature. Toward his own day, toward our time together. Acceptance, peace, compassion, good will. None of the pig headed judgments, belligerence, self-pity -- attitudinal traits that make me recoil.

With this in mind, I look out, see that brilliant sunshine, feel the scented air, admire the autumnal resilience in a garden, and especially this garden, and get to work. I have flipped a switch on my attitude toward weeds.

(After breakfast, of course. Beard is gone for now!)

Ed is shredding branches over by the wood pile. Patiently, feeding one heavy limb at a time into the small chipping machine. It is far more difficult and far less pleasant to shred branches than it is to dig up weeds. And really, it doesn't matter if he never gets to the bottom of the huge pile, nor if I never get the last weed out of the flower fields. The day is beautiful, we are tending the land. Joyously...

(the new orchard meadow)

... until it is time for me to pick up Snowdrop at school. Wait, I am that early? I can make a cafe stop!

Now to school, where I get in the car line, take out my book and wait. For her:

 

 

 

Not many photos today. I concentrated on taking care of the girl's finger that got slammed in the car door and so the camera stayed mostly idle. (Nothing that a towel wrap, a bowl of fruit and many chapters of a book couldn't fix!)

One exception:

Gaga, you can take a photo of me playing with the ponies? They are at a fair!

Evening: Out comes the hoodie again. I bring home takeout fish tacos. Ed says it reminds him of our picnics. It's a sign of the seasonal shift to recognize that it's too cold and dark now to think about a picnic. One foot stuck in summer, but the other has solidly crossed over into fall.

stories

There are people out there who, from early childhood, feel the need to tell stories. Spoken or written -- it hardly matters. It's what you are driven to do. (With or without talent for it. You want to use words to paint a picture.)

In my own family, I am told that my grandfather had that yearning. Then it skipped a generation, and then it hit me. And my kids? Well, one of my daughters was a story spinner at an early age and then she channeled it into other gifts and venues. The stories stopped. Until Snowdrop came along. (It could be that some of the other grandkids are story spinners too. Primrose may lean in that direction and Sandpiper looks like he may have it in him!) The girl needs time and space to listen to stories, both written and told, and to tell stories.

But my point is that not everyone lives to tell a story and not every story told is worth telling, even as it is absolutely true that there is that urge within some of us to put thoughts into words. It's just the way we see the world -- in numerous stories playing out there, waiting to be told.

*     *     *

A brilliant, warm, sunny day. Need I say anything more?

(breakfast: hmmmm, he needs a beard trim...)

(one of our two meadows...)

(the VF -- venerable farmhouse)

(a walk, in the company of sandhills...)

*     *     *

Some of my friends are traveling again. Indeed, some have been scooting across the country and back since the vaccinations first came along, and a few have even crossed the ocean. For me, it is abundantly clear that planning something for later is still iffy. There may be surges, there may be variants, there may again be waning efficacy. However, in the short term, the picture is much clearer: going places is always riskier than staying home, but you can maximize your chances of a safe trip by way of vaccination, powerfully protective masks for the journey, and safe behaviors once at your destination, which should be one of low infection rates and decreasing community spread.

Just sayin'...

*     *     *

 

Evening: I'm thinking autumnal evenings are the best. They have the right amount of an earlier dimming of light, with cooler air (shorts during the day, but a sweatshirt after dusk), but not yet cold air. I haven't brought out the candles. That, for me, is a winter thing (you need props in winter, you really do!). But I'm getting hungry for winter soups and hot chilis. I've purchased hot chocolate and marshmallows for the kids (though they've discovered the loot and have munched down the mini mallows considerably, even as hot chocolate weather is still a ways off). 

End of September, beginning of October -- it's a beautiful time to travel, but I was thinking today that it is also a beautiful time to stay home.

 

Sunday, beautiful Sunday

Autumn is almost always lovely here. (I'm going to push out of my mind that one September when we had zero days of sunshine. People took light therapy flights, to put themselves above the cloud layer for just a few minutes.) But this year, perhaps because there are so many challenging moments to work through, we are completely bedazzled by the weather. It's surely giving us some top of the line Wisconsin fall moments.

Today we are back to late summer temperatures. Same garden views, but in a warmer frame of mind!

 

 

We wake up energetic and ready to do some work.

After breakfast.

 

I'm still a little overwhelmed by the weed invasion into the flower beds. Not sure why there should be so many, given that we had a rather dry season. It could be that the addition of three more flower beds made the job that much more arduous. Whatever the reason, the weeds are there and I am digging them out, enjoying the sunshine, but honestly, disliking the fact that there is just so much work before me. I can't even see the end. Never mind. As my sidebar has told you -- I'll be taking a break soon. For now, the weather is grand and the shovel goes in and out, in and out.

In the late afternoon, the young family drives up straight from Chicago. We have more time to talk, the kids have loads of time to play.

I fix dinner of course. Our Sunday routine is back on track.

Later, much later, after the dishes are done and the house is quiet, after Ed and I have had our moments on the couch, watching a show, munching pop corn, talking about this, about that, about Covid, travel, Angela Merkel (I am mindful of all her enumerated flaws, but I am also mindful of the fact that, being a postwar child from Poland, it wasn't until the time of her leadership that I could think normal thoughts about Germany again) -- after all that, I think about the article I had read yesterday about being a grandparent. I found the comments to it to be especially thoughtful (or the editors of the NYT picked out ones that were better than the usual range of opinions). It is true that most grandparents want to be remembered by their grandkids. It is also true that these kids are being born later in their lives. My mother had her last grandchild (of four) when she was 61. My grandmother had me (youngest of the two she got to know) when she was just 52. All my grandkids will have been born when I was older, my two youngest ones coming in when I am 68. Whatever memories they will have, they'll be of an older grandmother!

But unlike the writer and so many commenters, I'm less concerned about specific acts that may stay lodged in their little memories. Yes, we have traveled together. Yes, they've all spent many hours, days, weeks even with me at the farmhouse. We've done stuff inside, outside, up and down and all around. All good. But even if they remember none of it, or think about few of those details, they will take with them, whether they know it or not, a confidence born of being loved, without criticism, condition, anger, without ever me turning away from them (because I never will), without expectation that they should be anything else in life beyond remaining good natured to those who cross their paths, well read as they make decisions and choices in life, and, when all is said and done -- content and at peace with themselves.  If I want to model anything for them, it is that.

Oh, fine! A few pictures to remind them of the joyful moments we shared will be good too! My camera works hard to help build that story. But the smile toward others, a few good books on your nightstand, and of course, the love -- they're far more important.

So goodnight, with a genuine grin and with love.

different

Here's one more way in which Ed and I are completely different. Polar opposites, in fact. It's the way we react to vaccinations. For him, there are no side effects. Not even a sore arm. You'd think the pharmacist leaned in through the car window and accidentally vaccinated the seat cushion rather than his arm.

For me, after the second shot and now the third, I am full of aches and flu like symptoms. They start at night and continue into the next day. Of course, it's not a big deal. One big nothing compared to a Covid infection. Nonetheless, the night and day after a shot, I am the wet noodle of wet noodles. Limp. Useless.

I'd signed us up for a Friday shot precisely for this reason. The young family went down to Chicago for a couple of days and nothing here requires my alert presence. So I can veg out. And believe me, I do just want to veg out. The walk to the barn to feed the animals feels like a jog up Mt Everest.

Breakfast, inside, because we have another chilly day. And besides, I'm feeling extra chilly myself. One of the little bugga buggas to deal with.

 

Ed and I did have something on our plate for the noon hour and I seriously doubted that I would be up for it, but sometimes when you push yourself, you can perk up for a little while. So I pushed myself and we went, first to the farmers market (which was over in a sports field, because the Square is being occupied by the Art Fair this weekend), for the flowers and carrots...

And from there, we drove to the Lifting Hearts Therapy Gardens. It's a bunch of acres managed by Groundswell Conservancy, handed over to the Hmong for cultivation. A section of it is given to the Hmong Elders so that they can farm there and, too, use it as a place to come together safely, all summer long, in this period of distancing and isolation.

The Hmong people are an important part of our food scene here in south central Wisconsin. They are a strong presence at the farmers markets, bringing to them produce that aligns with our local tastes, but also expands those to include stuff we wouldn't have expected to see at a market say ten, twenty years ago. And they are master flower growers! 

 

At the Lifting Heart Gardens, the Elders are indeed elderly: they are the generation that escaped persecution by fleeing from Laos to Thailand, eventually settling in parts of the Midwest. Many feel themselves too old to learn English, so they speak through their children and grandchildren.

Today, they displayed their talents and interests that extend beyond just agricultural work.

 

But it is the harvest that is behind the day's little celebration. (Ed and I were invited because he is a loyal supporter of Groundswell Conservancy.) 

 

 

 

We sampled, we listened to small presentations and then I was more than ready to go home (though we did pause to walk a Conservancy trail across the road: who knew that we had such hills just to the north and east of Madison!).

At the farmhouse, I nearly ran to the couch so that I could lie down and sleep. And of course, here's the beauty of vaccination side effects, even the most extreme ones (I seem to belong to the 11% who get those): one minute they are there and the next minute they're gone and you are back to normal. It's the quickest bounce-back you'll ever have from feeling totally limp to feeling just fine.

 

sleep

I don't think either of us logged in more than a couple of hours of sleep. He dozed off on the couch, I eventually went upstairs, only to stay up reading. Eventually I dozed, he came up, we chatted on and off for the rest of the night. Nothing important. I tested his knowledge of the personal lives of colleagues. (Amazing how little he knows!) We talked about the reasons for the confusion in who gets a third shot. I was about to tell him my thoughts on Merkel, but then I dozed off, only to be woken by my phone, or was it his phone first? No matter. It was, in fact, a gentle, lovely night.

This morning, it became clear that we are in for a warm-up. We may have tasted fall weather the last few days, but it was in the end only a taste. On my morning walk, there was a definite feel of late summer in the air. I'm back to short sleeves!

Morning walk -- forget the hoodie.

(We have two quince trees -- a rare reminder of my father, as he was the one who urged me to plant them; this year, each tree produced one fruit.)

 

Breakfast -- most definitely on the porch.

And then we drove off just down the road to get the newly approved third shot. Ed and I are nearing on eight months since our second shot. Given the fact that we are ancient, and in addition, we have solid indoor time with school-going kids almost every day, I'm happy to follow the guidelines and accept the boost.  

It was, I admit, disheartening to see the long snaky line for Covid testing at the pharmacy. That many people fear that they may have been exposed! Our county has a large student population and their age group is by far the largest driver of new infections. Just like last year, only this year, so many of us are protected. Not the kids though. Still holding my breath for the kids to get the luxury of feeling safe.

Speaking of kids, here's one of mine, coming to the farmhouse after school! 

 

 

 

I'd baked muffins for us, for her...

 

Time to play!

And talk. I ask Snowdrop about school. She's not a recounter of detail from the day. She tells a story or two and then she is done, claiming she is saving the rest for later. 

It's okay if you don't want to talk -- I give her a way out.

Oh, I do want to talk, but with you, I talk about different things! 

Like what? 

Books!

I have to smile. She must be thinking of yesterday's discussion about controversial authors that are sometimes kept out of school libraries. Today though, during the ride to the farmette, she is into playing our own word game. Her favorite -- "name the lake elections" (don't ask). 

Once here, she is full of energy!

Hard to believe she just finished another full week of school.

 

 

 

 

It rains this evening. Ed works on setting up a new phone system (we'll finally join the legions of young people who have given up on landlines), I cook up a frittata. In September, our frittatats are totally local: bok choy, green beans from our CSA -- Tipi Produce. Corn kept over from Stoneman farms. Mushrooms from the market. Parmesan from Farmer John. Eggs from Peach, Pepper, Cherry and now also Uni. 

The house is calm -- Ed's presence makes it so. I had asked him earlier in the day -- do you ever worry about anything? I knew the answer of course. I knew it from the first days we were together now nearly 16 years ago. I just like to hear him say it. No. It never fails to make me smile.

cold hands and tall kids

What's the first thing that you notice about your body in Autumn? For me, it's that my nose and my hands turn cold. I mean, not bricks-of-ice cold, but you know -- no longer warm. And I noticed that last night, just before going to sleep, as I glanced at the thermostat. Hmm, that's a little low for us. I up the temperature by a couple of degrees. Nothing happens.

So much for a furnace that's working.

Clang! Ring! Hoot the horn! Yes, it is the winning week for malfunctioning mechanicals!!

It's not that hard to figure out the problem. There is an error code and it translates into the trouble spot (something about a condensate sensor mis-sensing) and Ed does a temporary fix, promising to return to it on the next day. Meaning today.

To show you how determined we are to check off all the unaddressed issues, we are also up early -- both of us -- so that we can catch Uni as she comes out of the coop. We want to attach a blue tooth tracker to her neck. We want to find out where she is laying her little green eggs!

She's not happy with the device and Happy (the rooster) is not happy with her device either. Both peck at it relentlessly. We predict that they'll peck it off before the day is through. In the meantime, we try to remember to pick up the smartphone and follow the signal, but of course, we get distracted and time passes and by the end of the morning we still haven't located her laying station!

It is, however, a beautiful autumnal day. We can't forget that. 

 

 

 

(A warm September means there will be a few lily reblooms! Like summer, only different.)

 

 

Crispy clear skies. Even if it is on the cool side of the river. (Remember when 60F, or 15C, was a springtime delight? So warm, after winter lows! Well, not anymore. Darn cold.) We eat breakfast on the porch, but I think we may be nearing the end of that ritual.

I pick up Snowdrop at school. Hoodie weather indeed!

I watch as she plays with the cheepers, collecting some of the feathers that they routinely drop at this time of the year...

 

 

 

... and I see that Uni is not with the pack. Might she be laying? Where? I retrieve the smart phone and hand it to Snowdrop. Find her! 

I guess the hoodie conferred upon her super powers of detection because within minutes, the laying culprit is located. I would have never ever looked there -- in the tall grasses beneath the front maples. Strange girl!

Many days have passed since Uni has appropriated this spot for herself and so the egg buildup is tremendous: 16 little green eggs! They survived predators and storms and the lawn mower! Amazing...

 

Toward evening, I return Snowdrop home and visit for a few minutes with her brothers.

How are they all getting to be so tall?

Yes, even you, Sandpiper!

It's so easy to forget this most basic truth as you're reading with them, playing, feeding them -- kids grow up. They actually become adults pretty quickly. Funny how that works, isn't it?