messing with forever

Nothing’s forever, right? Even if forever merely means only throughout your life. You land the job, have the wedding, buy your house, and then the job goes, the marriage goes and the house is just a sad reminder of all that is no more. So it goes too.

Here’s the upside, if you’re predisposed to look for upsides (I am): if nothing’s forever, then even when things are just fine, might you consider shaking things up some? Reconfigure your work, go to someone else’s wedding and maybe buy a house? A little one? Like a shed, only with water and a kitchen stove? Doesn’t that sound sort of cool?



I’ve been working too hard again. I took a walk along State Street after class to clear my head and to look for color. You can always find color here, even if, these days, color is muted by the everpresence of people texting. The entire month of June, I saw not a single "texter." Today, on State Street, it seemed that the entire (colorful) world was locked into punching out odd messages with their thumbs to those elsewhere.





On the upside, I suppose it’s a good workout for the thumbs.

buying big things

Well, the time has come when I’ll have to pony up the cash and buy a car. I haven’t done this since 1993, when we purchased a minivan for family use. It had a not too lengthy but nonetheless profitable existence. Without it, taking kids to camp would have been very very hard.

In the last five years, I have gotten by without a car. I have my daughters' old wreck in case of emergency, and Ed has his old Geo that could be called forth to service in case the old wreck cannot go, but really, I have had no need for much beyond that. I am a fan of walking, biking and public transportation.

Still, one ought to have a car in reserve and the old wreck is being passed on to daughters next month, and truthfully, they have a tad more affection for it than I do. It is their first and only car (passed on to them by their grandmother who moved as far away from Wisconsin as she could, leaving the car behind; she was not a fan of the great Midwest).

I have been glancing at Craigs List for vehicles under $4000. Prefereably under $1000, but I am keeping an open mind. Here’s the dilemma: a car closer to $4000 will likely be more pleasurable than the junk I’m likely to get for under $1000. But at what price would you place a fleeting moment of pleasure? I spend most waking minutes very very far away from any car. Shouldn’t I reject cars that offer so few rewards?

Sigh... Between cheap car buying and camera negotiations, I am feeling rather out of my element (my element could be defined as one that requires no major purchases of any kind).

And speaking of major purchases, I have recently seen houses listed on the Internet that are as cute as a button. Why am I living in a condo?




[Photos from the walk home: Abe is yet again looking on at the odd world of our century, and further down, the great Midwestern sky makes everything else look puny, even as the very small things in life -- for instance, the wonderful blue dragonfly -- see her, down in the corner? -- are the real heroes. They crack down on mosquitoes, don't they?]

paths

As I pack up and leave the farmette (class starts soon), I think – well, at least I cleared the path to the shed. And in years past, I put in the flowers to the left. And I’ve tried to arrest the spread of the berry canes to the right (pointless: they grow back).





But really, I’ve made not a dent. Ed’s farmette is a fine example of the powerful force of nature. Leave her alone and she’ll swallow you whole.

So why do I continue to hack away at the weeds? Why do I cut back and clear away paths? I suppose it’s in my blood. You could say my grandfather made me do it. He at least knew that in order to foster growth, you must cut back.


There’s a larger lesson in this. But so what. Who ever pays attention to life’s larger lessons anyway.

Driving in to campus (farmettes are noxious in this way: they require that you drive... a lot), we stop at the Lake Street café for a breakfast caffeinated beverage. We used to come here a lot, Ed and I. A break between classes, a moment of blissful quiet. I’d watch the squirrels outside and always I would look for the train at the side even as it never, ever rumbled by.





Not anymore. We’re beyond café breaks and such wee pleasures realized in the middle of the day. Don’t know why... Good habits become obsolete. Are they replaced by bigger better things? Sometimes. Not always.

tiger lilies and wind

To create a bug free space outdoors (where I could work while bouncing slightly in a sling back chair), Ed digs out two ancient fans and positions them at both sides of the chair, creating what must be tornado conditions from the perspective of a mosquito. Mosquitoes are not strong flyers. Wind sends them back to where they came from (unfortunately, not too far back, but still, giving a momentary reprieve).

I look at the rattling fans and I have to admire their will to continue. They are old.

But then, so is the little black and white TV in the farmhouse. I ask – can a black and white TV transmit the color of a DVD? Ed shows the dismay of a person who truly thinks his traveling companion entertains absurd hypotheticals. Still, he can't demonstrate the stupidity of my question because the VHS/DVD player, also from some junk heap or other, is pouty and unreliable.

As we take the old Honda motorcycle into town today, I think how curious it is that, for all his dedication to fixing (and using) the old and broken, Ed is not a junk collector. You would not know it by his car or his motorbike, or the ancient John Deer he is now guiding across the wet grass, but this is a guy who keeps a sharp eye out on new technology.

...Even as the project of sending an Internet signal from the sheepshed (the computer hub at the farmette) to the farmhouse has failed him. The only way for me to post is to beat down the bugs and scurry to the shed hub. Or to sit on the porch between two fans spinning madly at my sides, with towering tiger lilies in front, reminding me that summer is not always the easiest of the seasons, even as it is the most delightful.





What do you think, is the wind system working? Can you sit there without bugs? Ed asks.

Yes, even though it’s a little too drafty for me.

We’ll keep the fans on anyway. Did you know it only costs a $1 a month to keep a fan running?
I did not know that. But I’m not surprised Ed knows.

a Saturday

If ever I wondered whether mosquitoes like dawn as much as they like dusk, this morning I had the chance to find out.

Yes, they do. Up before me, ready to attack whomever comes down the road.

Sunrise at the farmette. Quiet fields, picked over for the markets. The sun breaks through and passes behind one wisp of a cloud, then another.




It’s going to be a fine day!

But a day not without chores. Last night as Ed struggled to quickly wash and dry sheets for the inflatable mattress at the farmhouse, he found that the dryer has stopped drying. Sleeping on damp sheets was novel and not altogether unpleasant, given the warm day, but this morning, Ed wants to head out in search of spare dryer parts.

We bike down to Willie Street (a mere 10 mile ride from the farmette). You could not, on the ride over, ask for a more beautiful field of flowers and a bigger midwestern sky..


 


He shops for the machine part, then I suggest breakfast.

We are so mismatched in our eating habits when we’re in Madison, my traveling companion and I, that it is rare that we both want a meal at the same time. Breakfast? No, I’ll just have a lemonade. How is it that in travel we are more synchronized?


It’s the week-end of Art Fair on the Square, en event that should excite me, except that over the years I have grown quite indifferent to it. Too hot, too busy, too depressing, too something. But we’re on the square, and the vendors are on the square, and it seems that we should push through the crowds some, and we do. (Can you tell where art ends and reality steps in?)





Soon, we turn away and walk down to where the farmers have been forced to relocate for this one summer week-end.

Exhale. Ed naps on the grass, I watch the farmers stack the beans and arrange rows of boxes of raspberries.









The ride back to the farmette is long. We finish the loop that runs through the city. Twenty-five miles later we’re done.


It’s late afternoon and I am at the point when I think it’s too late to begin something entirely new, and too early to completely collapse in an armchair with a book or magazine.

I look in the direction of Ed’s sheep shed (his home) and I can, I think, even at a distance, hear the buzz of swarming mosquitoes having their Saturday frolic in the raspberry canes and fruit trees that border the path to the shed. And because Ed has been away for so much of this spring, and also because he is so loath to pull anything with roots out of the ground, I see that the path, once wide and beautiful, is completely overgrown with weeds, canes and who knows what else.





In a moment of frantic fury I attack the path. I tear out weeds, I rip out canes, I heave at long vines and prickly branches, all the while stirring up the mosquito inferno within. I am covered with dirt and bugs, but within an hour I have cleared the path. Ed, who has been trying to till and mow the space I have created, tells me to end there and I do, stumbling with sore arms and caked dirt into the coldest most wonderful shower I have ever had.

Evening. We ride the motorbike into town to see my daughter who is there with a friend. I pick up more work at the condo and we retreat, my occasional traveling companion and I. Back to the farmette, where the bugs are noxious, but the berries are ripe and the fragrance of... everything is intoxicating.

smell of wet earth

The light fades. The mosquitoes are out. It’s not that they’re just out, they are having a convention!

Ed reads on the Internet that the adult population thrives on nectar. From willows (so many lovely willows on his farmette!), plums (yes those too!), cherries, peaches – basically, Ed’s farmette is a safe haven for any mosquito wanting life's sustenance.

My younger daughter is in Madison for the week-end and we have a magnificent pizza dinner down a few paces from where I live.





The waitress spills a smidgen from the bottle of Prosecco, which is unfortunate, because she then refills our glasses overabundantly, to compensate, and for once, no one wants to drink much, even though it’s free wine.

I had been having thoughts about writing projects and how we fail at them (okay, how I fail at them) and when I decide to air these thoughts some, I am shot down by rebuttals to my numerations of this problem or that one, and I come away thinking that if it is not the fault of the externalities, then it must be my fault and really, that’s not a surprise at all because I know that it is, indeed my fault.


I am reading a book written by a famous author who contemplates being a not so great father or husband even as it is not so difficult, in the eyes of the world, to be a good father (I haven’t gotten to the part about his husbandry). And I wonder if the world is at all lenient toward those who mean to do worthy things but somehow do not get to them in at a timely manner. And if women and men have to suffer the indignities of failure even as they half hope that it is not entirely of their making.


I’m spending some days at the farmette now. Not too many. Just a few, this week-end.

It feels more like country than any place I’d stayed at in the States. The lights are not quite bright enough, the bugs look for entryways, the smell inside and out is of the soil.

How often can we say that about the air around the kitchen table --- that it is of the soil?

It’s a good place to think again about life’s projects. The mere act of thinking assuages the guilt that attaches to lethargy.

It’s not my fault, I say to myself. At least I think some of the time, it’s not entirely my fault.

The mosquitoes outside continue to convene in huge numbers. The truck farmers who work the fields the night before Madison’s big market day (Saturday) light fires, creating protective layers of smoke over the low lying fields. They wave as we drive by. I think at first that they are waving toward us, but then I change my mind: it’s the mosquitoes – they’re trying hard to chase them away.





I look over to the side of me, as we are driving to the farmette through clouds of bugs and past fields of flowers and peas, and I think that at this moment, Ed has sad eyes.





I remember the days in Sorede when we bought extra mille feuille because he could not resist the joy of eating one on the spot.

This afternoon, we had gone to our favorite Madison boulangerie (La Baguette) and there, indeed, we see the familiar mille feuille.





Ed says no. Not this time.

That’s right. Not this time. Maybe it was not meant to be.

biking home

The end of a too busy week for me. I’m spent.

chore

Working hard again (and I know I am not alone: most of the world works hard and indeed, most of the country takes far less time off than I do). From dawn until my eyes refuse to focus. I am redoing some of the material for my classes (you cannot teach in the same way year in and year out and still walk in to a class with excitement, and I cannot teach at all if I am not excited), at the same time that I have a daily teaching schedule that is in full swing.

A spell like this makes me feel so distracted and one-dimensional. A friend asked last night – did you notice how grand it is to sometimes just do errands?? Sad to say, I did not.

Today, to break the dreary trend of morning hours on the computer, I went out early to shop at the “other” farmers market (the twice a week one two blocks away, as opposed to the Saturday one across the street). The vibes there are somewhat different, but the foods are good and the vendors as solicitous and therefore charming as anywhere.



the perennial flower seller




the fruit and veggie seller




she had superb string beans




the salsa girls


It struck me today, at the market, that I ought to recreate some of the Mediterranean salads that I would throw together for supper in Sorede. Even as I know that when the time comes to “throw” something together, I’ll have less zest for the project. In Sorede it was a vacation pleasure, here, amidst hours of work, it is merely a chore.


I have been letting myself walk home. At 3.5 miles, that’s a hefty spell of walking, but I’m not riding my bike (deflated tires and no time to pump them up), and after one sedentary day early this week, I'm determined not to give in to physical lethargy. Inaction makes me feel incapable of action.

Just as the ride along the lakeshore path offered a rather standard assortment of photographic moments, so, too, my walk up Bascom and down Observatory Drive puts me in the same places, offering the same photographic moments, day after day.

But you get an update: for instance, today, Lincoln wasn’t watching a man plant flowers at his feet. He was bouncing teens on his lap.





At the Centennial Gardens, I watched a gold fish weave her way among the stems in the pond. She seemed quite content.





At home, I make a modified salad niçoise (oh! the Banyuls vinegar is exquisite!). Is it a chore? Yes, but I admit, it is not entirely unpleasant.

shifting

Do you have days like that? ...When you find yourself thinking that the ordinary is remarkably funny? For example, Lincoln, on Bascom Mall, telling a man how to plant the flowers? No? Not funny?





But it's the funniest moment of the entire past 24 hours!

Perhaps the best part of the day was when I was with students again.

Someone might ask – was there nothing lovely to photograph on the way home?

Well, sure. Even as I miss my big camera. Still, the little guy tries and he’s got a great zoom, so that Picnic Point seems very close indeed...





And I do pass the Centennial Gardens. Totally enchanting, even though I am terribly worried that the colors are getting too bold, too “in full swing.” But the pond looks cool and charming, so there’s that...





I walk on, counting the weeks left of good weather. Ten down, fourteen to go.

the tail end

What can you say about a day when your most memorable (in a sad sort of way) activity is packing up your favorite camera for shipment so that it can be resold?

The camera, a mere infant at not even a full two years (though admittedly of almost daily and incessant use) developed a problem which is, for me, expensive to fix. (Most every photo from June had to be corrected for this issue – a very very time consuming task!) And so off it goes now on its journey to the east coast where I hear it will be treated well by people who are able to repair it and give it a loving second home.

In the meantime, I am retreating for a while from SLR cameras (sniff). And from photography, if today is any indication!

Worry not, it’s only a day’s rest. And for your kind patience, I’ll reward you with the color of last night’s fireworks – those across the street from me. (I have a 24 hour rule about posting photos -- these fit!)

Ed could not stay awake long enough to come with me and so I crossed the street, found a lovely spot on the empty golf course and lay down in the grass (hoping that it was not treated grass, but, you never know...).

Just across the tree line, the fireworks began.





Lovely and loud, as a proper Fourth should be.

Toward the final ones, it started to rain – a warm summer rain that was like a curtain pulling an end to a beautiful week-end.





Tomorrow, I start teaching again.

the Fourth

At the Saturday market, I overheard one of the vendors say – when I was a kid, Fourth of July meant decorating my bike with red white and blue streamers and then riding it in a kid parade. And fireworks, of course. We had to have those.

So, I guess not much has changed.

On Sunday morning, the neighborhood kids decorated their bikes and rode them to the park up the street for a parade...









...and last night, I watched from the rooftop of my condo the Rhythm & Booms fireworks display. Six miles away, but still lovely to see. To my right, the Capitol. To my left, explosions of color.










In my mind, the Fourth is also a time to acknowledge that we are a nation of people who love to heat up those little coals outdoors. A week ago, when I was chatting to a German expat living in France about a possible future apartment rental there, he said – oh, and we have just the thing for you! I worked at a military base in Germany with Americans, so I know that you all are really into outdoor grilling! We have a grill you can use!

He was shocked and disappointed to learn that we weren’t likely to use one while vacationing in France.

But here, the habit of grilling has somewhat rubbed off on me and we do have a small imitation Weber on the balcony and I intend to put it to firey use tonight. Grilled everything: turkey brats, corn, onion, potatoes, tomatoes, asparagus, peaches...


That’s for tonight. This afternoon, I'm taking a stroll through the park where the Hill Farms Neighborhood Association (I live just at the edge of Hill Farms) has brought together families from our community for a spirited celebration. The men are, of course, grilling.





The kids? They know all about celebrating. Tell them it's an outdoor birthday party for America, and they're happy as anything to fully engage in the event. Today, they came in red, white and blue and as they ran races and had their faces painted an asked for the balloon man to make them an animal, I thought to myself – we’d be a somber lot if we did not have kids running around underfoot reminding us to lighten up. Kids and kegs of beer. And grilled burgers and watermelon.



























Happy Fourth of July to all!

a Saturday

What Ed and I do well when we are home, back in Madison, is grab a day like today – a brilliantly sunny July Saturday and fill it with outdoor treasures. And there are two treasures that this region throws open to anyone.

The first is the Saturday market (for us, it’s almost always the Westside Community Farmers Market – because it’s just across the street and because it offers everything that we could possibly want, with familiar faces and tremendous energy running through it).

I’ve been gone for a whole month of Madison markets and I can see that I’ve returned in time for my favorite part of our growing season – when the cherries and berries are ready, and the greens still dominate, and the flowers are superb. (Perhaps our sunflowers don't serve a commercial purpose, but they do serve a "decorate my table" purpose... even as today, I chose the sweet sweet pea. As I told Ed -- it's the cheapest bunch. And quite possibly the most fragrant.)

















Oh, let's not neglect the tomatoes. They're expensive still, so I am happy that my pot grown plant survived my absence. Though I must admit that my balcony crop doesn't even meet the demands of one dinner. Ed and I consume not a small amount of tomatoes.














The second treasure extends actually beyond just southern Wisconsin. It’s the Ice Age Trail and a longtime Ocean reader will perhaps remember that we have both worked on the trail (Ed much more than I) and have hiked many fragments of it – at least those that are within a short drive from Madison.

Today, we walked the part that’s perhaps one of the closest to the city, yet so bucolic and lovely that you could be transported in your soul to a far far more remote area of the state (at least when the trail cuts away from the nearby roads that forever insult the quiet of the land with a stream of road noises).


















The idea is to walk maybe four, maybe five miles and then to return. (The Ice Age trail doesn’t loop – it continues.)

I should say at this point that I am a complete fan of the Ice Age trail project. The idea of creating a path with the help of communities of willing and sometimes quite passionate volunteers, a trail that eventually becomes one continuous scenic walk through our entire state, is, I think, tremendous. And what’s more, the trail is beautifully done – always with an eye toward the most scenic route, the most carefully positioned bridge or signpost – and, for those of us who get easily lost, it is extremely well marked.

The one issue we had today was with unwelcome companions in three short segments of the trail.

Unwelcome companions are a bother.

I don’t mean this guy – who saw us and came running our way, leading me to shoo him back toward the thicket. (Ed asks – why did you scare him? For God’s sake, Ed, the guy comes running at us – that can’t be good!) No, this woodchuck was in his element and he, ultimately, left us alone.





We had a less favorable reaction to the companions who made their presence known every time the trail spun through the forest.





Yes, the Wisconsin villains, the most obnoxiously persistent mosquitoes. Even though it was windy, even though it was still daylight – they were there in sufficient numbers that when it was time to return and retrace our steps, Ed said – how about if we take the road instead?

And we did. We shunned nature in favor of asphalt and, to add insult, we stopped at a gas station to refill our water bottle (four times, we were that thirsty!) and to buy an ice cream bar (what a deal – 99 cents! – this, predictably, from Ed).

Still, thinking back to the hike along the trail, I can now only really remember the stretches outside the forest – beautiful now, when all the flowers are in full bloom in the gentle way that happens only early on, when summer is fresh and rich with new and lively colors... yellow, purple, white...