call me after October 23rd

My sister sent me an email in what was the middle of the night in Wisconsin, and I woke up to it first thing this morning. A simple few sentences, with a link to a YouTube clip. With that, she changed the course of the month for me.

A little background here: we all have had transformative events in our adolescence. That's what happens when your faculties push you toward adulthood while your heart and soul cling to something purer, stirring within you emotions you were just barely aware of. Quite suddenly, you find yourself doing an about face, neglecting all reason, indulging in a fantasy-land of emotion: joy, sorrow, pain, love.  And it's powerful. And then it passes and you grow up and only the memories remain.

For me, one such pivotal moment came in October of 1970. I was in my second year of studies at the University of Warsaw. I knew I did not like my chosen field (Econometrics). At all. Not one bit. I don't know how things work now, but back then, once you enrolled in a program of study, you were stuck with it. I was accepted in the field of Econometrics. That's what I had to stay with. And maybe for this reason, or maybe for no reason at all, one fall day, on my walk home from the university, I paused at the Philharmonic Hall (it was on the way), and I noticed that the Chopin Competition had begun.

The Competition is an every-five-years event and it is hugely important to any Pole with even the slightest interest in classical music. As a student, I could attend many of the Competition's performances for free. These concerts filled my days. Sometimes I went alone, sometimes with my sister, sometimes with friends. Nothing else mattered that month. I barely made it to the compulsory university classes. I'm sure I skipped some. I lived in the world of Chopin's music. And I rooted for the person who was, in the end, the winner -- to this day, the only American to ever claim first place in the Chopin Competition -- the then 22 year old Garrick Ohlsson. 

It was a heady time of life for me! A year later I would leave Poland to work and go to school in New York, but I did not know any of that in the Fall of 1970. Chopin held my soul. I could not tear myself away.

So my sister wrote to remind me that a couple of days ago, the 19th Chopin Competition began. And by the way you can hear it online. And here's another thing -- the chair of the jury this time is Garrick Ohlsson (now 77 year old).

She writes that at this point, the favorite appears to be Polish -- Jan Widlarz. Take a look at his profile here. He has a face structure that has "I live to play Chopin" written all over it! If you want to listen to/watch  him play, you can go to the Competition's website here. They have videos of all contestants, playing all their chosen pieces here. But don't go there if you're Polish or a music lover. You'll lose the month to Chopin, I swear you will.

 

For this special (to me) morning, I forsake the mushy Bircher Muesli and open a bag of Hudson Granola and I take it all to the comfort of the couch. Such a satisfying crunch!

And I listen. And read about the contestants. We have had the first elimination round and are at the First Round of the competition. 84 remain! Out of those, 28 are from China, 13 from Poland, 13 from Japan, 5 from Canada,  5 from the U.S., the one or two each from a variety of other countries. But pinning nationalities onto the competitors is only a first step in understanding a talented musician's evolution. In the world of music, you find that a nation's borders are permeable and movement is constant. You chase musical depth, and the broader your reach, the finer your own musicianship. Just take a look at the Jury's bios from this year's Competition (found here). They have played, competed, taught, studied, performed the world over. A lesson to those who still think growth and development can take place within just one country's borders. It takes more than a village to nurture talent.

 

I go the farmhouse. The weather is fine. I seek out nature. It's so dry this month! I water the tubs.

And I  trim some of the spent stalks. A good winter garden requires a careful balance of some stuff left behind, and some removed for compost. I dont strive for a careful balance. I just take out the egregious stuff that seems really in the way. Garden clutter. Because I still walk this way and I still see what's happening in the flower fields.

 

 

 

 (the very happy front farmette meadow)

 

 

Ed has me try some of the tomato sauce he made this morning. 

 

 

 

You've become domesticated! Impressive. Well, I have to eat. I have to smile as I hand him the next batch of leftovers from yesterday's supper. Next time, leave out the butter. And add some fresh basil when you eat it. But, overall, well done!

He and I go for a walk. Just in the neighborhood of the new development. I tell Ed -- it may be boring there, but it's less boring than my current neighborhood.

 

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. Her brother is living it up in New York City (that boy has an urban streak in him for sure!) so it's just her today.

And she has evening Girl Scouts, so it's not even a long visit. 

There is a social event at the Edge tonight and I pop in just to say I did it. Not a recluse! I'm engaged! 

And then I return to my Chopin. And I think to myself -- I could not have come across this at a better time. It beats binge watching sitcoms. And of course, it is fitting that I should listen non-stop to Chopin in this period of greater solitude. I never thought of his music as joyful. Not even the polonaises or mazurkas. But I'm not searching for joy at the moment. More like mindful pensiveness or soulful processing or any other terms you may want to use to describe a time of sifting and sorting, of pausing, listening, watching. And waiting.

with so much love... 

questionable Monday

My kids and Ed laugh at me for always wanting to have all my pegs in place in advance. It's not that I am inflexible. Changes are inevitable. But let's start with some semblance of a plan and take it from there! I've kept an events and appointment calendar ever since I was a kid and had no appointments to speak of. In travel, I have my flights booked and seats selected through March and I'm seriously thinking of making a commitment for June's trip. Yes I change my mind and rebook and cancel. But roughly, I know where I'm heading and when.

You could analyze this to death and conclude that surely my life of many draconian shifts and movements has pushed me to always want to have a plan. Fine, I can accept that. I'll add, too that in postwar Poland everyone lived in a state of permanent uncertainty and it wasn't cool, it was a "one day at a time" mentality that was foisted on us because planning was so... pointless. Now I'm overcompensating.

One reason why Ed and I are currently living in separate spaces (for the time being?) is because for many years he ignored this fear of uncertainty that is deeply ingrained in me. My "I need to know what's ahead" was mostly amusing to him (as it is to others) and he mostly paid little attention to it. Until I couldn't take it anymore and moved out to my own place where I could fashion my own future. (Which of course is likely to be dismantled shortly, as we are now figuring out a better path for us together. In some form.) 

So what stands out to me this morning is that I wake up completely confused as to where I should be at what time and for what purpose. I'm trying very hard not to mind, but of course, I'm fighting strong rip currents here. The urge to call/text/email others to get some clarity is very strong. There are two elements at play: Snowdrop is still sick (I think) and so my childcare is (probably) suspended. Then, too, I had told Ed I'd bring him some leftovers and muffins this morning, but there was no family dinner last night and so there are no leftovers, and Snowdrop (probably) is not here today so there are no muffins. Besides, I'm falling into a pattern of too many trips to the farmette. Which amuses Ed ("you move out and then you spend the day here"), which in turn exasperates me.

 

It's a pretty morning. Cooler, at last. Having a southern exposure in the darker season is pure heaven. I see sunrise skies to the left and sunset skies to the right. So, this morning there's this:

Breakfast -- well, I have to work through the Muesli. Here's my final take on this: I realize that when I travel, say, to Switzerland, I don't just have Bircher Muesli. I add a croissant or if I'm craving more healthy options -- a slice of dark bread perhaps. Something with a crunch! Something that is a great accompaniment to those last sips of milky coffee. Bircher Muesli is, by definition, soggy. I think my experiment with Swiss living will push me right back to the land of granola and the occasional croissant. Crunch! Yum! I'm missing it today.

By mid-morning the uncertainty drives me nuts so I get in the car and go to Owen Woods Conservancy. An 8 minute drive from the Edge. It's a park I know well from years of living nearby.

 

 

 

And it's at its best in the Fall. True, the more radiant fall colors are not with us yet. Still, the Sumac bushes are a splash of ruby red and the prairie grasses and blooms add a texture that is magnificent. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early autumn, at its finest.

(And a bluebird, spotted coming out of its bluebird hut! I know, I know, barely visible here, but still, I felt the elation of seeing something rare and beautiful.)

 

 

Right about then I find out that Snowdrop is indeed still home with a fever and so I'm off duty this afternoon. I let Ed know that a visit later in the week makes more sense. In one fell swoop I wiped clean my calendar for this Monday. 

There is some joy in allowing yourself time to read (I'm alternating between two novels at once), time to do a stand up yoga routine, time to put on joyful classical music, time to wipe down with almond oil the wood furniture in the apartment. At the same time, I realize that this isn't me. This sudden urge to take a nap? Not me. Going back to my French practice? Nope, not me. This closing of the door to everyone and everything, in the middle of the day no less, certainly not me. 

Someone recently said that retirement is the time to really challenge yourself to be the author of your story. Well, maybe I was the one who said that. In any case, you are responsible for creating something out of whatever resources are left to you. But of course, it's easier to let go of this responsibility and simply to keep on truckin' in the same way you always have done it. To check in with your kids and see what they need. To apply your cooking skills to the demanding eater(s) at your table. To clean up other people's messes (broadly speaking), including nature's messes (because nature is not neat and tidy, not by a long shot). You don't then have to be an author at all. More like an editor who watches over and facilitates the creative work of others. Taking the responsibility for your own text, your own day is hard, especially if you feel that doing things for yourself is tantamount to being a slacker. Self-indulgent, privileged, and maybe a little empty. Who is made better by the fact that I'll speak French just a little more fluently next time I'm in France? 

Ed has said (most recently) that I spend too much time doing stuff for others. You'd think that's a compliment, but in my mind, it's not that at all. There's an intellectual laziness to it: if I fill my days snipping daylilies, digging up weeds, chasing cats and chickens, fixing snacks for the kids, picking out books for them, and cleaning up Ed's messes, then I can check the day off as productive, without having to think much at all about what else I might be doing. 

So I struggle with these thoughts today. Thankfully, tomorrow I return to a day with imperatives: muffins to bake, foods to deliver, a child to care for. No decisions, no guilt, no worry!

with love... 

speaking of Switzerland and other unrelated stuff...

Hot, yet again. 

Before going to bed last night, I finally reached for my old fashioned oats, and two apples, and yogurt, and milk, and a jar of honey and I made Bircher Muesli. With added dried cherries and a few walnut bits. It keeps for up to a week in your fridge. The important bit is that it needs a rest of a minimum of six hours.

This morning, I finally have Bircher Muesli for breakfast.

And immediately I am reminded not of my rambles in Switzerland (where a morning with Bircher Muesli was de rigeur), but of the fact that a dish, transported from its place of origin to your kitchen table, does not bring with it the wealth of cultural provenance, does not put you right back in the milieu of where you first ate it, does not taste as sublime as it did then and there. On the up side, the Muesli is healthy and good enough. Just not with the depth and power of, say, a croissant with homemade jam.

In mid-morning, I drive over to the farmhouse. If this is to be a fine day, at the very tail end of a warm weather system, with gusty winds to lessen the impact of the unseasonable highs, then I want to be in nature. The farmette is a good jumping off point.

I still have pockets of stuff to clear out at the farmhouse, and today's task is to finish up the kid room closet (easy -- there's hardly anything left there) and the liquor cabinet. That last is hard. For many years my most favorite alcoholic beverage was the aperitif. If I could have only one solid one in a day, then the predinner drink is the drink of choice for me. Whether an Aperol or a Campari or a Prosecco with a splash of cassis -- I had the ingredients for them all. But of course, I stopped drinking last April. My aperitif these days is a non-alcoholic beer. (And yes, I will be very mad if they tell me in a few years that wine is actually just fine for your health and that sleeping better without it is just a psychological thing.)

So what to do with all those bottles of opened and unopened alcohol? I took some with me to the Edge for special occasions. I imagine I'll break down when the whole family visits for the holidays and crack open a bottle of (leftover) champagne.  But the rest? We lined the bottles up and took pictures and send it around to local friends. You want it? It's yours!

And then Ed and I head out for a walk to our favorite park along our favorite trail and as always, it's beautiful.

Ed brings along the kite I had kept in the basement for years (ever since the day we tried it out with toddler Snowdrop and found that she hadn't the patience nor interest in watching it fail again and again). The wind is gusty, Perfect for kite flying! 

Except that the darn thing refuses to climb the skies, way up high, where birds do fly... We try again, and again. He runs with it, I run with it, and then I run some more. It never went up. Not once. 

On the upside, it was good exercise.

I am just about to head home to start in on dinner for the young family when I get a text telling me that one of the kids is sick. I suppose that's not altogether surprising -- both the mom and Sparrow were down with a bug last week. But the timing is awkward. The mom and Sparrow are headed out to the east coast tomorrow for a conference, leaving the dad and the two other kids (one of them now sick) at home. The one drawback of having a grandmother babysit your kids is that she backs out when they come down with something. Their short-lived virus can be a 72-year old's nightmare. So, no dinner tonight and who knows how the week will play out.

But now I am not in a hurry to head home. Nature and Ed are a powerful draw! 

I pull weeds in the lily field. 

 

(an October beauty) 

 

He cuts me slices of watermelon, I make myself a coffee and munch on a granola bar. And again I have this weird feeling of being here, and not being here. Of being of the farmette lands and of being far from this place. Present but not present. Watching the changing season and being removed from it all. But not really removed at all. Not one bit.

 

And then comes another twist to my day: I ask a friend if she'd like my booze loot. She and her husband entertain a lot. Surely guests would like to try a Swiss pine liqueur served as a Spritz maybe? With Italian Prosecco?  Perhaps out of compassion for my plight, she agrees to take the bottles. And here's the odd coincidence: she and her husband are in fact having a dinner party tonight -- for a couple I've known for a long time -- my daughters' pediatrician and his wife. And the doc happens to be Swiss. 

I'm tempted to stay, really I am. I love everyone in that gathering. It's the perfect chance to become socially engaged once again. And yet... 

I stay just for a wee bit. 

One step at a time. I've been a recluse for too long to plunge. (And haven't I done enough plunging of late?)

As I get in the car to head back to my neighborhood, I text my daughter -- I'll be stopping by your place to drop over Snowdrop's backpack. (She'd left it in the car.) She texts back -- stop by Capital Brewery if you want to meet the dog we just adopted!

Seriously?! Seriously.

It appears she's been scouring listings of rescues. And she found one that may well fit into her large and active household. Three kids, two cats and a partridge in a pear tree.

So, meet Goose, a new member of the young family. 

(He's an abandoned mutt with obviously some black lab in him. Seems to love people. And a babe at barely a year and a half. About. They're not quite sure of his age.) 

 

At home now, I take stock. I wish I'd still adhere to my drink before dinner habit. I'd pour a good one tonight. Instead, I open a pilfered from Ed Heineken 0, open a box of buckwheat crackers and try to remember what lead me down this path. Broadly speaking. 

Life can be very unpredictable!
 

with so much love... `

 

the last of the hot days...

And yes, it really has been hot. Today we'll hit a record breaking 89F/32C. Sweaty hot. With a brittle landscape of fading colors. By early afternoon, I will have to turn the loathsome AC on and pull down the shades against the brilliant sunshine -- that says it all. 

But the early morning is lovely. I'm up at my usual time, sitting down now at my new usual place, eating my usual granola (determined to make bircher muesli soon!). And waiting for Ed.

He's signed us up to do seed collecting at Pheasant Branch Conservancy -- that vast strip of land that is at one end an 8 minute drive from the Edge, and at the other -- well, slightly more. At this further end, volunteers have been working to restore a prairie. That's a multi step (and multi-year) project. In the early stages, the invasive weeds have to be eradicated. In their place, you want to encourage prairie plants -- rye grasses, black eyed susans, cone flowers etc. So you keep spreading seeds. But first, you have to collect them. That was our job for this morning.

It was wise to do this in the earlier hours, when you didn't feel the heat yet.

We spend two hours among the prairie plants. He picks a bagful of rye seeds, my task is to harvest black eyed susans.  I tell Ed that I feel like I am snipping lilies, only without the mosquitoes. 

A morning well spent. 

Afterwards, we hang out at the Edge. Ed is trying hard not to put the total burden on me (in terms of traveling), even though I know he'd prefer to have the run of the farmette, especially on a good weather day, when he can get small jobs done. I know that push to work there well! I may miss our farmette days, but I don't miss the constancy of waiting work. Though I do realize that I can lapse into the more sedentary lifestyle here, at the Edge, where there is no job waiting for me outside. Tradeoffs. Always the tradeoffs. 

He leaves, I do some apartment cleaning. Amazing how a vacuum can pick up so much in just two weeks! Of course, at the farmhouse, a vacuum could pick up nearly a container-ful in just one swoop through the house. And it took time. At the Edge, vacuuming takes ten minutes.

 

Mindful of the lure of the couch, I take a neighborhood walk. Funny to call the blocks around me a "neighborhood." I do a loop to the south and I pass corporate offices and hotels (or are they modern versions of motels, or is that not a thing anymore?), and day care centers, presumably for the people who work in the corporate offices. Not one residence, not one person out walking on an early Saturday evening. On the upside, there is a commendable amount of greenery. All professionally landscaped. Mature trees, shrubs, and the occasional flower for balance.

What I'm also grateful for are the sidewalks. It's a good place to fit in a half hour jaunt just out the door. But interesting it is not. Up there with having leftover soup for supper. The last of the hot days ends on the cool side of the excitement spectrum!

with love... 

 

from the mixed up files...

Did you ever read that book as a kid? From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil Frankweiler? I've always loved the title (as I recall, the book's good too). Now, I wonder why it sprung to mind this morning, as I considered the day before me! A day that is one big heap of mixed up everything. No logic, no symmetry, no great order to it. A leap here, a dart there, a wiggle elsewhere. 

Some days are like that!

It was a very decent beginning. Another one of those very warm days, but shades of autumn are showing up everywhere. I look out my balcony, across at the corn field, and I think -- it really is October.

Breakfast, with Natalie's sunflowers and joyful classical music.

And then it's onto my disorganized day of confusing errands and annoying appointments, capped with a visit to the farmhouse and an afternoon with just Snowdrop, since Sparrow is still gathering his strength at home after whatever bug he had yesterday.

I mean, how pleasant would you find the carting of yet another Amazon return to the UPS? Followed by a long wait at Walgreens (because my Medicare number wasn't working for them), for a pre-booked flu shot? Worse -- after that, I went for an interview with an insurance rep to discuss long term care insurance plans. (You see? I'm really attending to my senior needs!) I don't want to discourage all you prudent ones who have such plans. They may be fabulous. They may save you a lot if you become incapacitated. But basically, for people my age, the overhead is large and the payback is small. You're better off saving your money and crossing your fingers on stock market returns. So, a wasted two hours there.

 

(At the farmette: just about all the blooms now are from the flowers planted in the pots and tubs...)

 

At the farmhouse, I have to smile at the "improvements" Ed made with my leftover pieces. Yes, the art table is in the former kid room now. As are the plants. A toy truck is digging up the Christmas cactus and I see some toy planes have crashed into it...

 

Ed also brought in the black chair from the sheep shed -- purchased nearly twenty years ago to entice me then to spend more time in the sheep shed. Once again, it's positioned so as to make me more comfortable during a farmette visit, only we've graduated now to the farmhouse -- significantly more appealing than the sheep shed.

 Unfortunately, Friendly the cat claimed it immediately for himself.

So long as I am out here, so close to nature, I suggest a walk. Or better yet -- a bike/hike. We pedal over to the Nature Conservancy lands -- maybe a couple of miles up the road from us. 

From there, we take the path up past the grazing cattle to the woodsy area that abuts the sprawling wetlands that eventually feed Lake Waubesa.

This isn't a demanding hike. More of a quiet one, to get myself aligned with that part of the world that I cut off so suddenly.

And then it's time for me to go back to my new neighborhood. With a stop at the grocery store, where I pick up a few necessities, and, too, a few items off of Ed's grocery list which I swear, he's never otherwise going to fill. He can get them from the Edge tomorrow. Is that a weird way to grocery shop or what?! 

 

I pick up the girl at school and bring her to the Edge. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

She is tired. The kids are often tired on Fridays. It's as if the week's early wake up hours and long days catch up with them right about now. No problem: at the Edge, we read. And today she gives a loving few minutes to her small mice collection.

And she asks -- if you do Gaga summer camp (for the older grandkids) next summer, can it be at the farmhouse? There are no toys there anymore, I tell her (the toy excavator by the Christmas cactus notwithstanding). But maybe it can be close to the farmhouse... Or here. 

Next summer seems so far away.

with love... 

Incongruous

It is to be a quiet day. It is to be a hot one. Some years back, it snowed on October 9th. True, we're one week short of that date, but today and tomorrow we're topping at 88F/31C. My south facing apartment has large windows and unless I pull the shades down, it can get quite toasty by early afternoon. One big part of me likes this. I imagine cozy winter days, the warmth and brightness of all that light streaming inside and I smile. Northern exposure is a killer in the Upper Midwest states. I feel trapped in it. A six month long gloom sets in and it's tough to think chirpy thoughts when all you can see are shadows outside. [The farmhouse had a couple of somewhat sunny rooms: the art room and play room had periods of sunshine when the tall trees let it through, but the kitchen and living room never quite got the benefit of it. There was plenty of light -- indirect windows everywhere! -- yet in the winter I'd find myself flipping the light switch on.] Southern exposure, on the other hand, is pure joy! But toasty on a day like this.

Though the early mornings remain cool, I take my breakfast outside today. Yesterday, I transplanted the huge rosemary at the farmette into a bigger pot. The plant had really grown dry and brittle indoors during the last                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           winter months, but as always, it had exploded with happy new growth once I put it out in late spring. It likes to reach down into the soil beyond the pot and yes, I had to pull those roots out of their comfortable summer home, and the whole plant looked pretty unhappy at the time of the transport, but I think it's recovering now and I wanted to keep it company this morning. (It's out on the balcony until frost sets in.)

All the years I lived on the farmette, I never thought much about how to fill my morning. I had appointments, and I had garden work. Everything else was stuffed between the two. I need only step outside and some big project would beckon and there would go the day. At the Edge, I actually thought about how best to use my time. A hike? A few hours with my book (the Director, about an Austrian filmmaker who lived and worked in the shadow of the Nazi occupation in Europe)? 

I settle for a neighborhood walk, targeting the farmers market -- last one this year in this area! -- where of course, I pause to talk to Natalie, the farmer/gardener who has supplied us with foods and flowers for years now. 

The last ears of corn for me, for Ed, a bunch of radishes, sunflowers. My loot for the day.

In the meantime, Ed is slowly working through my discarded stuff. Most goes to Goodwill, but some items he has picked out to sell on Craigslist. Like the guitar that I bought in anticipation of many singing hours with the grandkids. None showed interest. The guitar was put aside. Now for sale! Ed is incredibly wonderful in finding ways to move stuff along for others to use. That he should want to take the time to do this with my old dust collectors is ... well, quite remarkable.

 

In the afternoon I pick up the kids. Sparrow first...

Then Snowdrop.

It's not a perfect pickup situation. Sparrow is feeling a bit under the weather and so I take him home to rest with his mom, while Snowdrop and I return to the Edge to read. She hasn't played once since I moved here. It's been all about books. Ours together, hers alone. That she regards this as "special time" is so endearing...

 

In the evening I use up the rest of my garlic supply for a shrimp and broccoli stir-fry. With lots of leftovers for Ed. No, he doesn't ask for this. Yes, he does eat it anyway. At odd hours, in strange combinations I'm sure. On the couch, with lights out, and a cat or two clawing at him to share the good stuff.

with love... 

the strangeness of it all

Moved out (of the farmhouse), yet in each room, a handful of stuff remains. And Ed -- he is there of course. On the couch. Me, I'm sitting by the window in what was once the playroom. There is sunshine and I like sunny spaces. A few toys are left but mostly it's empty. Ed moves an old end table that I left behind and a wicker chair that actually once belonged to my younger daughter when she was a mere nothing!  Here, gorgeous, you can drink your coffee here. I'll move the table to this place later. Yeah, the table that was to be my writing table, but it never was that. The kids used it for art.

I have an old coffee machine that is erratic but still can produce a decent brew. He slices a piece of cranberry black walnut bread for me, smothers it with strawberry jam that we had made. Brings me a chunk of homegrown watermelon. Lunch.

 

 

 

People move in, move out. We are a mobile society. But what feels bizarre is this: I am in the space from which I moved, sitting in its hollow emptiness, enjoying a few hours with the person I moved away from. 

 

And I started the day not here, of course, but in my very comfortable new bed at the Edge. In my very neat apartment, taking a very fine shower, picking up a fleck of dust here, wiping a water stain there, sitting down to breakfast, with a book, at the island.

So long as I had read Viorst's poems from her 80s (see yesterday's post), I thought I'd reach for her previous book from her 70s. 

That took all of half an hour. (It's a quick read.) I thought about the words of one of her poems ("Easier" in Unexpectedly Eighty) -- living with someone who has irritating habits (because really, don't we all have irritating habits?), but in the end there is the person himself whom you love. Lifestyle choices are just a fraction of the entirety and hardly enough to have pushed me out the door. At the same time, both Ed and I realize how much we both sacrificed by accepting the choices of the other. Ones that were so at odds with our own. And still, neither of us felt pained by it. Why? Well, because we loved being in each others presence. As one of my daughters observed, you don't just love, you like each other! 

Still, sitting here now, in this dusty room after getting my coffee in the kitchen where even the counters do not shine anymore, I have to wonder -- however will we come together again, once we do work those deeper questions out? 

And then of course there's the garden. I'd arrived a little late today because I had a doc appointment to get tested for yet another listed allergy that I swear was the figment of someone's imagination. When I drove up the farmette driveway, I right away noticed the last of the lilies, the still blooming glad...

And the wilted tubs of annuals. And the rose I had started this spring that was determined to climb sky high if only someone would train it! And all the damn weeds and grasses. Abundant, in places where they do not belong. Some of you have asked me -- what happens to the garden now that I no longer work in it? I don't know. Ed wont keep it going. He'll either let it slowly get lost in a wilderness of grasses and shrubs and invasive weeds, or he'll mow it down and plant yet another orchard which, I tell him, will not have enough sunlight to produce much of anything. 

I water the tubs and spend a half hour clearing the weeds just from the bed that is at the side of the walkway to the door. At least next year, there will be flowers here.  

 

 

Over time, will I be able to watch this place disappear? Ed says -- this was all for you. I say -- this was all for us.

And so it stands.

Today's designated room for a total clear out -- the basement. My storage space. I have a cabinet of papers. I throw them all away. I find all my university diplomas. Bachelors, Masters, Law. Should I chuck them as well? I hesitate. Christmas ornaments, suitcases -- that stays for now. The rest -- up and out.

By late afternoon, Ed goes biking -- his Wednesday ride -- and I drive home. My lovely new home with an uncertain future, but with plenty of sunshine. 

and so much love... 

money well spent

Like perhaps so many, I have a hard time assessing if an expense incurred, whether with aforethought or impulsively, was worth it. For example, impulsively, I signed onto Britbox streaming last fall. We watched maybe one show the whole year I kept that going. So -- not worth it. How about Babbel's  French practice? Debatable. I bought a lifetime subscription and used it intensely. At the beginning. Now? Every few weeks. But here's one that I finally succumbed to after years of spending money on single song purchases for my music library: Apple Music. I signed on this summer after being impressed with my son-in-law's flipping of stations, playlists and programs. My standard playlist was long but played so often that it was getting really frayed around the edges. I needed an infusion of music, even if I rarely played it when Ed was around. So I purchased Apple monthly music streaming.

Better than any TV streaming! Better than my newspaper subscriptions (so depressing to read them each morning)! What a wealth of pleasure! I start the day with Apple's Joyful Classical and move from that to various lists put together by the ever intelligent streaming service, and I am set!

 

Breakfast? Surprisingly at the island again. I'm kind of getting fond of sitting there with my music and my reading material. Today I get through a whole book -- it's of poems by Judith Viorst. She has a volume on each decade of her life (starting with the 30s). This one is called Unexpectedly Eighty and yes, you're correct -- it's about life as an octogenarian. It's funny in a very sweet way.

 

Since this move is very much much about resetting everything to meet the challenges ahead of me, I also read the article in the NYTimes today -- A 102-Year-Old Yoga Teacher's Simple Approach to Aging Well (gifted for you). A delightful piece! I am always on the lookout for role models going forward since, as you know, my own family did not leave me with much to work with here. The woman in the article is French with the winsome last name of Chopin and yes, she does yoga. But she also lives with a smile and her favorite meal of breakfast: bread, butter and honey or jam, with coffee. 

After reading these pieces, I did some stretches of course, because that seems essential to good movement, and then I went out for a walk.

But where to, in this wasteland of commercial and residential space? I reminded myself that for most of the 14 years that I lived at the farmette, I couldn't just go out for a walk. I had to drive or bike to a park. It was only when the new development exploded next to us, that I found it easy to step out and walk among the new homes there. On sidewalks and bike paths. Here as well, the better walks require a short drive. But the ones I like so much -- the ones where you just open the door and walk -- aren't terrible! Two blocks, cross over to the other side of the highway (it forms a bridge over the road), and I am on my way to downtown Middleton. 

 

 

There and back, with a few pauses to look into shop and cafe windows. One hour total. No car required.

 

In the afternoon I pick up just Snowdrop today. And instead of going to the Edge, we get on the highway and head to the Dairy Expo. Ed joins us at a side entrance.

She and I have been coming to what we affectionately call "the Cow Show" for years! Ever since she was a babe and had never laid eyes on a live cow before. We missed some years when I was away traveling, but we are back at it!

(this afternoon's competition: the Winter Brown Swiss)

 

 

 

 

The Dairy Expo is a huge production. Maybe you recall -- when I was traveling along the northern coast of Scotland, I met a cattle farmer from Australia who regularly attended this event in Madison. It's a time for assessing what's out there -- be it machinery or cattle stock. I believe he bought bull semen in the course of his week in Madison (it's a central focus of the Expo). For us, the Expo is just a time to feel the essence of living in the dairy state.

(first place? from Wisconsin!)

 

Of course Snowdrop wants ice cream and she is lured to the souvenir stalls. We were too late for souvenirs: the shop closed at 5 and we were well beyond that. The girl settles for a lemonade.

 

 

We leave satisfied.

 

Ed returns to the farmhouse, I return to the Edge. In an earlier phone conversation, we again reiterated to each other our different visions for our senior years. But, in the end, he said -- we'll figure it out, gorgeous. And I'm pretty sure he is right on that one.

with so much love...