March

Each year it's the same: March comes, the excitement mounts. Projects line up like children in a cafeteria, waiting for their turn. Dig holes for soon to arrive persimmon trees. Put up a strawberry growing station (a new idea, spun just today!). Clear the flower fields of last year's growth. And take note of all that's breaking ground right about now.

Yes, early!

By the date of my birthday (third week of April), all has to be ready and the bulk of the planting for the year begins in earnest. Perennials and annuals. All of it. It takes about a month to get it in the ground or in the pots. By late May I'm on the finishing touches. 

Meanwhile, Ed will have started his tomatoes and melons and artichokes this year. I'll help with the seeding, but it's mainly his responsibility to get things going in those reused and half disintegrated Dixie cups. Deadline for this? Late March.

There is so much to do in early spring that I sometimes wonder why I love this season at all. It's all work and no play. With the exception of perhaps a quick trip to Chicago, when April rolls around, I am up to my neck in dirt. 

(I feel a little tired just thinking about all that I want to do this year!)

So, it's March. 

Typically the weather in March is... disappointing, to put it kindly. You're hungry for spring, you get more of winter. But this year is about as a-typical as they come, so we start off with reasonable temperatures (a high of 50f/10c) and plenty of sunshine.

The chickens are happy, if a little bit lonely (I'm guessing here).

Breakfast, with Ed. And the two cats. I ask him -- did you sit down at the table when I was gone, just because the cats like to "have breakfast with us?" His answer -- yes.

Because it's such a lovely day, we go out early for a hike. Today we return to the DNR lands that are maybe two miles south east of the farmette. There's a beautiful trail running through them and there is never anyone on it!

It's slightly hilly, so every once in a while, you pause and take in the view.

Such luck to live by so many walkable paths and trails, given that we are a country where access to the rural lands is in general greatly restricted. (We have no "right to roam" here. That's a European thing.)

 

And now it's time to pick up the kids. What? Pajama day again??

 

 

 

Oh, but what's this? Snowdrop's expression is just so unusual...

Very quickly she lets her sadness spill out. She'd just found out that her best classroom friend is leaving. For good. Out of town. This weekend.

Oh, does that feel close to home! People are always leaving, in this mobile society of ours. And of course, I left too, leaving behind friends who were once as close as family to me. How to maintain friendship at a distance? Surely I've had way too much experience here. Nearly all my best friends have moved away. And one, who is truly an ancient bestie, lives an ocean away. How do you handle such distance? 

I tell Snowdrop that you can go for a period of time with little contact... (Sparrow pipes up from the back seat here -- what's contact? -- he asks. Such a good question. I talk about contact.) And then, you can send a card, and your friend responds, and before you know it, you're zooming and writing and visiting and the distance, though posing challenges, does not stand in the way of perfect friendship.

Was she reassured? Maybe temporarily. Playing games with Ed distracts her.

But eventually she comes back to it. And I cannot deny that the next weeks in school will be hard for her.

 

Friday with the kids is crazy day of course.  Eat, read, play -- but not too long because there's violin for Sparrow and dance for Snowdrop. 

A big exhale for me when each kid is at his or her proper lesson on time.

And now comes evening. My head is still full of spring ideas. Now is the time to make a Negroni Sbagliato (prosecco instead of gin). And unwind. On the couch. With Ed.

with love...