days like no other

Oh fickle blog poster! The sun comes out and my computer time goes down.

But truthfully, I was indoors again today, all day long.

Except for a brief hour-long walk with a daughter...










Or at least we intended it to be one hour. We got lost. More than thirty years living in Madison, with perhaps a hundred Arboratum visits under my belt and today, for the first time, I get lost in the woods.





We emerge eventually at the opposite end of the park. It is clear as anything that I will now be late for a meeting that I have scheduled for 4. I call Ed to help. Ed zips over on his motorbike and helps stall the people waiting for me. Thank you Ed.


In the evening, my daughter and I meet up for dinner on the Square. For pub burgers at Graze.





It is a gorgeous night – and the people were singing, they went nah nah nah nah nah...

Fine -- in truth they aren’t singing, not at this point anyway. It is the Homecoming Eve and after dinner, we follow the tail end of a parade down State Street. The night is hot and the parade is ending with fire jugglers and the streets are packed. 





The Homecoming celebrations culminate with fireworks at the Union Terrace. My daughter and I are there, on the dock, waiting for a concert inside the Union and even though we have back row seats for the concert, we have front row seats for this interlude of fire in the sky over Lake Mendota.






What concert are we attending, you ask?

It is of music that I first listened to more than forty years ago. Indeed, the artist – Joan Baez, then traveled to my home country and performed live (in Poland) at the Sopot Music Festival (this was in 1970). It was only the second time that a western pop artist of any note would come to perform before a live commie Polish audience (the Rolling Stones were the first to do this, three years earlier, in 1967).





In those years, I too liked to strum the guitar and since I sang mostly American folk songs, I usually had an attentive and generous (albeit tiny, composed mostly of friends) audience.

The summer after my high school graduation (we are now in 1969), I attended a young adult camp with my boyfriend. He was Catholic and I was not and I think he and his family hoped that I would convert.

His mother was at the camp as well and one evening she said, wistfully almost – give the guitar to Nina, she has the voice of Joan Baez.

She was an incredibly sweet woman, always looking for the good, even if it was a futile endeavor. I understood that day that she probably liked me more than my boyfriend did. I sang my usual JB favorites with that bittersweet knowledge and I tried not to mind that my boyfriend was not really listening.


Tonight, Joan Baez sang to a packed house of people, mostly my age. Next to my daughter and myself was another mother and daughter combo and that mother, too, teared up when Baez sang – you just sort of wasted my precious time... I wondered how many in the audience had once had lovers or some such entities who just sort of wasted their precious time.


The evening was splendid. I rode the bus home humming don't think twice it's alright...



[Ed and I are taking off early Saturday. We’ll be back Sunday evening. More on the where and how when we return.]

choices

I want time off this week-end. And a few hours off tomorrow afternoon. The price tag? Today is a very very long work day.

Outside my office, the sun is as brilliant as ever, the leaves are at their highest magnificence, but it hardly matters. I don’t even bike to work. No time. No time.

Here’s the one shot that I took – on my way to the bus stop.





I work, with the idea that I have a brilliant weekend before me. How good is that!

gold

You can’t do this, day in and day out! Days are never this perfect! What’s the flip side? What’s in store for us this winter??

Biking to work... I swore to myself that the camera will stay concealed. No more beautiful-bike-path-by -the-lake shots! That’s too easy.

Okay, just one.





I have to stay in the office late today, but that means I can give myself permission to scoot down for a late afternoon espresso. And I come across "gold" of a different sort. A senatorial gold.





I listen and I worry – oh my, I know how November can be a real counterbalance to the beauty of October (depending on the weather and on whom you’d like to see prevail in the elections).

Eh, politics. Let me not think about this. Let me just revel in what’s free and available for all to enjoy. The gold of this season – the utter beauty of warm sunshine on your shoulder as you trudge up Bascom hill.

reverse impressionism

I read about a special exhibit in Paris. One that opened this week and will run through nearly the end of January. Paintings of Monet.

I’m one who loves Monet – evocation of earthy, light filled beauty is something that I admire so much on a canvas that it could be argued I am inclined to look for something comparable, above all else, when I am out and about with my camera hanging over my shoulder (that’s a constant: it’s always hanging over my shoulder).

If a canvas, say by Monet or Pissarro, or Sisley (to stay with the greats) is to convey a sense of life in harmony with the great outdoors, through brush strokes that give the essence rather than the detail of a given scene, leaving you to form that lovely impression of, say, a haystack in a winter sunset, or a romp through a field of poppies, then I think what happens as I bike in these glorious days of sunshine and of early fall color is that suddenly I see myself as if I were in a painting. Their painting. Is it that I want not to let go of the perfection of that given moment?

There are times when a photo will do. This afternoon, for instance, on the Union Terrace.





Even though it was quite warm for October, the terrace chairs were mostly empty, as if no one could quite believe our luck with the weather.





But there are moments when I think that a photo will not do. Later, on the lakeside bike path, for example. In my mind, a painting is so much more suitable to the grandness of the moment. Here, on the woody and dappled path, a photo is too blunt, too sharp and contoured. The trees, in their golden shimmer, play with your senses, creating images closer to those painted by the greats. Maybe you’ll agree?

staring at the sky

Oh that blue! That stellar blue! We have a week ahead full of it and sometimes I think if there is a time to run from work it should be right now, with all that blue and a promise of more blue for days to come.

But, I don’t run away. Instead, I bike to work. With blues coming at me from all sides.











Though on the ride home (circuitous, because I have to pick up DVDs at the library) I am reminded that this Fall will forever stick in my mind as the time of purple asters.






In other news... well, truthfully, there’s no other news worth noting here.

I did have a half hour this afternoon, during which I needed to kill time. Not wanting to go back to my office (once I’m out, I’m out), I went to the bookstore and read a magazine on how to create a livable space with 500 square feet to work with. Lovely moment.

There will never be a time in which I will be creating a livable space for myself of that size – not anytime soon anyway, but it was exciting to think that I would enjoy doing just that.

That’s it. Nothing more to report.

the definition of flat

It’s straightforward. Merriam-Webster offers this: being or characterized by a horizontal line or tracing without peaks or depressions. Flat.

Such a beautiful day. Cool initially, but in a good way. And if you place yourself in a sunny spot, you forget that we almost had frost  last night.


We clean the condo in the morning. It doesn’t need it really, but it’s what I do on Sunday mornings. It’s a small place and even though we go to great bother and even take down screens and flush them clean, we are done by noon.


My bike is at the farmette, where it had been placed for the much needed repair work. Ed had replaced broken gear parts and today I am to ride it back to town.


In the alternative, there is a lovely little ride from Fitchburg (the place of Ed's farmette) to Paoli and back that we can take... Ed had done this loop on the back roads with his biking group last Wednesday and he's thinking I may like to give it a shot.

 It's flat. Really it is. A few gentle hills, but basically flat as they come.

He says this because he knows I am wise to the Wednesday night rides. They are damn challenging. I can do hills alright, but not their hills. These people seek out ascents that'll put them in good stead for the Tour de France. Or some such.

Flat? No more than a few climbs?

I can't even call them climbs.

We set out.

What can I say -- it's a beautiful ride!















But the man is prone to put a good spin on most anything. And he can shamelessly lie, too, if it'll get me to do something he thinks is good for me.






I admit, you always get the best bucolic loveliness when there is texture to the ride. Flat is boring. Hills give a layer of excitement. Every mile is different. From ridge to river, then back up again...





















...And then down once more.





I should have known. We had done rides to Paoli before. They all had quite a few heady hills.

You deliberatly mislead me! I say to Ed, panting on the next to last hill for the day.
Would you have gone otherwise?
I would have been prepared!
...to say no?

Eaten a bigger breakfast maybe...

Who am I kidding. I would have stalled and the day would have disappeared behind a night sky. I also know that, in fact, hills are what draws Ed to bike riding.  And he assumes that they must be a visible blimp on a radar screen before they can be called "hills." He still can't quite believe that I approach long uphill climbs with trepidation.  I remember the week-long bike ride he and I took in the south of France. I paused maybe ten times during a particularly long and strenuous climb up a mountain. He did it without stopping once. For him, if it's easy, it's not nearly as much fun.

Often times, I do accept the premise that hard is ultimately more gratifying. On this day, too, Ed asks (as we approach the last big climb) -- you want to veer off and head for the level path? And I answer truthfully --  No, I want to do it right. Hills and all.  I say this without hesitation. No, let me be honest: without much hesitation.

rituals of autumn

Each year now we drive north. Not too far. Half an hour maybe. Pumpkins? Yes, there are those in various sizes.





But in truth, we go for the apples. No, actually for the cider. Ed freezes quite a few gallons for the winter. This year daughters, too, pick up a number of jugs.

The skies turn mostly gray, the air is brisk. The colors are just emerging now -- the apples, sure, all amber and gold. And of course, the nearly spent leaves on the trees in the distance.
























Ski Hi orchards. There was one year in the last half dozen when we missed the Fall visit here, even as this year we're so determined to do the cider run that we're on the early side of fall.





Medium early.






Oftentimes, on the return trip, we take the ferry across the Wisconsin River.  It's a simple and quiet run. My daughters remind me that we never took the ferry when they were young. I try to think of a reason, but none comes to mind. Routines evolve. This one evolved (for me) only in the last half dozen years.

I watch a family with four sons climb every conceivable rail and shake anything loose that a kid's hand can grab and I think about the different energy levels and exploratory styles of children.







Ed tells me boys at a ferry landing inevitably will be out of the car, searching and probing for clues on the mechanics of the passage (this ferry is towed by a rope). Maybe. It helps if your blood is forever pumping hot stuff through your veins so that you never feel the chill in the air. I'm pulling tightly on my scarf even as I note that Ed is only in a t-shirt and appears not to notice the strength of the wind during the river crossing.



And now we are again on the south side of the river. We meander toward Gibraltar Rock. Ed and I came here five years ago, when we first began our occasional traveling together. Since then, we've come back now and then, always in the Fall, always looking for the twisted curvy trunks and the waves of harvested fields below. The trees are barely golden up here, but even so, it is a splendid view onto a  truly Wisconsin landscape down below the wooded hill.


















We get lost heading home. That's not unusual. Ed and I don't pay attention to roads and directions. And of course, it's always nicer on the quiet back roads. And the sky... oh, you should have seen those strips of deep blue at the very last hours of daylight!






I remember one autumn of some years back when it rained nearly every day. And once, on October 9th, I recall there was snow. Those are the odd years. Most often, autumn is like today -- brisk, sharp and deeply satisfying. As if it signifies the end of nothing at all. On days like this, one forgets that right before us we have November.  And March, too. Remember March? No? Me neither. Not today.

the first of the month

Dreamy October days... when every wisp of cloud and gust of warm air are perfectly situated.

Hearings, meetings and then slam, the work day is over.

A coffee meet-up...










A late bike ride to the farmette...





An even later motorbike ride into the countryside...





Then home. To make chili. When all is said and done, there's chili.

a thought

Do people choose places at cafés near artwork depicting people who resemble them? Or at least dress like them?










I didn’t really stay at this coffee shop – I was merely accompanying someone who was picking up an iced tea, but it struck me that we really strive to hang close to (images of) people who are in even the most superficial ways like us.

Which makes me completely befuddled (not bothered, merely befuddled) as to why I would have as an occasional traveling companion someone who thinks working on a John Deere tractor does not require a change of clothing afterwards. You know --- for dinner, or for an evening with his traveling (occasionally at least) buddy.


We are on the couch now, ostensibly watching a clip on nut production (he likes these clips, I like, instead, movies that make me laugh or cry -- either one), but really not paying attention, as he is asleep and I am posting. He is in his post John Deere garb, I am in my post teaching three classes garb. We look very mismatched.

But we both are drawn to a good baguette and a perfectly ripened apricot, so that counts for something, no?

lovely

Think beautiful fall day. Nothing more nothing less. Library Mall's cleaned up and quiet, especially between classes. A person here, a person there, bikes in racks,or leaning against lamp posts, leaves turning, still warm though, very warm...





Walk home late, in near evening light. A glance up at Picnic Point, so pretty now, in the pale colors of early fall. Breathe deeply, exhale.





Lovely.

virgin

Hard to believe, but I am that. A virgin. Or so I was told last week and I’ll admit that it was doubly true today.

I had gone in to see my doc last week about a progressively dysfunctional shoulder. Perhaps you have such a shoulder? Not yet frozen but heading there? Her reaction  – start therapy! Immediately! Then she asks -- have you ever done PT? No... I say, ashamed. A right of passage into adulthood that has passed me by. Ah! A PT virgin! -- my doc proclaims.


Tuesdays are heavy teaching days for me – three classes, back to back, and even though I can no longer erase much of the blackboard with my right arm (yes, when it goes, it goes!) I postpone the visit with the PT (whom I would prefer to think of as a Personal Trainer – it sounds so much more athletic and that's not really a long shot, as he works out of the Sports Clinic) until late in the day.

Which is why I bike frantically (not frantically enough to put away the camera) to campus in the morning...





Then bike frantically back to the west side for my session with the PT... pull arm this way, stretch it that way, no, keep it at an angle...

...and then it’s time for the decision: bike back to campus?

Obama is to deliver a speech at the UW late today. Should I bike all the way down, even as chances of getting anywhere near the podium now, close to five, are so small, especially since the line to gain entry to Library Mall (place of the event)  has been snaking and waiting for miles, since three in the afternoon?





I think back and try to recall if I have ever witnessed the live presence of a president in my life. No, I have not. (A presidential sighting virgin!) I do vaguely recall handing flowers to Nikita Kruschev as he stepped off the plane on a visit to New York in the 60s, but that was entirely spurred by my parents’ preoccupation with a certain brand of politics then, and of course, he was not really a president, let alone this country's president.

And so I turn back and bike furiously back to campus. It’s now nearly five and I think I don’t have a chance of making it inside the privileged space where only about 15,000 will congregate (the spillover crowd will go to Bascom Hill where you can't see beans).

And lo, the line has shortened and I just make it inside.

And although the viewing options are terrible, I have enough Polish squeeze in me to get a spot where I can actually witness the sea of humankind before me...









...and more importantly, I can see this...





(and so can the men with weapons, from the roof of our library...)





Ahhh, to listen to the vibe of a different world than the one you read about in the everyday!


 


My viewing spot is not especially amidst students (even though students dominate the event I am told). I have a mother and child to one side, a grandma and daughter, a single old guy, and because we are a generous bunch, we allow a running mix of people from down there to join us up at the platform for a minute or two, just to see the guy. We extend our arms and we pull ‘em up and then they dutifully go down again and the next one comes up. To see the president.





Dusk sets in. The event draws to an end and we all disperse.  I bike home hurriedly, out of habit. It's been such a long day.


 


I am part of a mass exodus from a campus that has for the first time in my lifetime hosted an American president. Big deal, right?

Well, actually, it was kind of a big deal.