Yesterday felt weird, schedule wise. No routine to follow, no child to pick up, no afternoon walk in the county park. So what happens the day after a weird day? I'm happy to say that we return to a normality of sorts. True, yesterday's pileup of slushy snow has now turned into a thick cover of ice, but it will melt soon, so we don't worry about it. Too much. I had urged (okay, nagged) Ed to clear a path for essential movement to and from the barn, but that was a huge mistake. Icy snow would have been easier to navigate than what remains -- a ribbon of rippled ice.
If we are to break bones this winter, it is likely to be today.
The sun is brilliant, the chickens mistakenly think it's spring, life is good.
Breakfast -- still with beautiful flowers. I mean, really beautiful flowers! Makes you want to build a greenhouse and grow your own winter blossoms. (That's been on my list of suggestions for a while. But it's a huge project, so the likelihood of it moving forward is, well, near zero.)
Despite the pretty sunshine and not too cold temperatures, we know a walk in the park is not an option for us. Too much ice. We will have to give that a pause until it all melts. And skiing? Honestly, I think we are done for the year.
Still, there's stuff to do! City stuff. Since I moved to the farmette, I turned my back on much of Madison. I have become one of those retired faculty persons who never ventures to campus, and who rarely hangs out in the blocks surrounding the university. As so often in my life, I flipped from one environment to the next and I haven't looked back.
But today I reclaim some parking passes (retired faculty can park on campus several times each month), I peek at the lake by the university...
... I glance at the street that links the campus with the Capitol...
And I let my memories take hold as I drove along streets that were once my everyday stomping ground.
Even in the short while that I've been (mostly) away -- oh, about a dozen years -- things have changed. Robots now scoot along the sidewalk making food deliveries. New building go up, new facilities are developed to aid in the learning process, new housing units appear in fancy high rise buildings -- so different than the rentals you'll get in neglected old houses with tattered couches on the porch that announce to the world "students live here!"
I drive a little aimlessly, remembering my more rushed existence, liking my slower pace. Somehow I wind up by a bakery -- Bloom, on Monroe Street. I cannot resist the breads, the cookies...
All this is quite lovely really. I tell myself I should feel the urban pulse more often. I live right by a very nice city. I should remember that.
[And as if to add an exclamation point to that remark, I read in the NYTimes today that Madison is in the top five in the country in terms of "best places to live for minimalists!" Wonder what that means? Read about it here.]
Just after noon, Ed and I go out for a walk -- along a built up road, this one hugging the shores of Lake Waubesa. Not quite urban, but still, not our usual forest walk!
And then I pick up Snowdrop.
I am dismayed that at the farmhouse, she wants to read a DogMan book (one that has been read here way too much, if you ask me).
She thinks I don't like it for its references to pooping, peeing and all those other supposedly irreverent functions. Not true. I don't like it because it's repetitive and dumb. Still, I get her reluctance to pick up the Penderwicks books again (the children in it lost their mother to cancer). She has a firm line drawn between novels she willingly reads and those she resists: if someone dies in it, she'll avoid it. Indeed, today in the car, we were talking about my book again. Our neighbor had just borrowed it from the library and mentioned it in his visit today (he came to tell us that one of our trees was about to fall on top of his house.... fair point! It's kind of leaning in that direction). I mumbled something to her about someday reading it and she asked -- does anyone die in it? A minute later, she takes it in another direction: do you love (insert her nickname for Ed here) more than anyone?
I reply -- I love him tons, but I also love other people tons. My daughters and grandkids come to mind.
So why did you say he was the one who helped you most in writing the book? (She, like so many others, read the acknowledgement section ever so carefully!)
Because he did. He was there, every day, encouraging, supporting. I'm sure your mommy and your aunt would have done that too, had they spent as much time with me, every day, as he did.
Well I spend time with you every day and I would have encouraged and helped you too if you had just told me that you were writing it! She cannot forget that she found out about the book after it was already published. It's up there with telling her Groundhog Day was just a made-up story. A real error of judgement on the part of her gaga!
Because it is a beautiful, if a bit nippy day, I ask her if she wants to check out the skating rink Ed and I discovered downtown last Sunday. I am surprised to hear her say yes. Typically she is too tired to do something that active late in the afternoon.
We are in a bit of a hurry, because I am to drop her off with her dad and brothers by 5:30. Still, despite the drive and the slight rush, she is absolutely enthralled with the set up! An inside space (warm!) to put on skates! One that serves snacks! A fire pit outside! Trees with twinkling lights! A rail to hold on to!
The big grin never left her face!
We didn't have time to go down to the lake to watch them raise the Statue of Liberty from the ice, but hey, I pointed it out in the distance and Snowdrop recognized the torch. Can you spot it?
And there you have it! A day with a lot of bells and whistles. And slippery spots. And love...
