You always have to remember that your good fortune is not everyone's good fortune. Here we are, experiencing the most splendid November weather I have ever had, and elsewhere, ten foot waves are pounding on little boats while sheets of rain are battering the crews trying to keep going, despite it all.
One consequence of having your beloved out at sea is that you are in a period of silence. There is a way to communicate, but only in an emergency and by that, I mean one that requires immediate action on the part of the sailors. You wouldn't send a message saying you just had a heart attack and are dying in the hospital because honestly, there's nothing they could do for you out there in the middle of the Atlantic. And you might be tempted to ask "honey, where did you put the remote to the TV?" but I'd advise against it. Emergency means emergency ("I need your kidney for a transplant now, so head back to shore ASAP" might qualify...if no other donor can be found).
Nonetheless, there is information out there. I track their progress on a map that has their position updated every few minutes. (I texted a sailing buddy of Ed's that's doing the same. I ask him: why did they zig zag in the middle of the night? He answered: "I was wondering that myself! I don't know...") Partial information can be a terrible thing.
But, we assume, poor weather, broken lines, and dinghy lost at sea notwithstanding, that they're finally picking up good winds and heading due south. (How do I know about broken lines and a lost dinghy? Once a day they post a one sentence summary of progress. Or lack thereof.) I'm thinking -- if lines broke, boats flew off, and calamities ensued, there's no one I'd rather have on board more than Ed. Always calm, always switches into problem solving mode. My hero.
Meanwhile, at the farmette, I deal with the crew of animals. At least one is sick and there's not much I can do for her except occasionally pick her up and clean her up. The hope is that it's just her. That it's not a virus or parasite. So far, the Bresse girls are in outstanding shape and the rest, the older bunch, are hobbling' along.
Breakfast? I take myself elsewhere. To Paul's (or actually Kim's since lately his wife has been running the show at what is actually called Oasis Cafe). The croissants here are very homemade, but what you love in a coffee and croissant is how and where you're consuming the two. This coffee shop is at the top of my list of local favorites. They could sell croissants straight out of a Pillsbury tube and I would still think of their place as perfect for a solo breakfast. The friendliness here is tremendous.
My walks are getting less imaginative. Today, for example, I contemplated walking around the UPS drop off point (where I was depositing a package). That happens to be a strip mall by busy roads. In the end I nudged myself to do better, but honestly, I didn't much care where I went so long as there was a warm breeze and sunshine on my face. But I should have cared. I drove to our local park and it was well worth the effort. November scenery can be deeply satisfying.
Snowdrop is at the farmhouse after school. Less tired...
... but still happy to snuggle under a blanket at the farmhouse. She has fallen in love with the fleece thing I bought at the Detroit airport on my trip back from New York, with her head resting on the pillow she chose when we were at the Giardini Botanici di Villa Taranto this August. Who says travel does not deliver useful items!
Evening? I cook up a pot of soup. Ed left me a whole box of veggies from our CSA, so veggie soup it is! (Not sure onions carrots garlic sweet potato acorn squash red cabbage tomatoes and corn, all together, ever would made it into a serious cookbook, but it worked for me!) How would have I ever managed to get this far in life without my yellow pot!
Good night, with love...
