Thursday

It can't last. Nothing goes on without interruption except the progression of time. So, too, these brazen and brilliant spring days will taper off, but for now, it is glorious outside!

And who said chickens don't have memories? A whole season later, they are at the farmhouse door, clucking and waiting on the doormat, knowing darn well that I will soon step out and bring them treats.






Isie boy joins us for breakfast. He passes on the food but feeds on the warmth. I like that about him: right now, in his old age, he thrives on affection. And so I tolerate his stomach issues, his trampling over us all night long, his incessant meowing to get a morsel of food. He has become a sweet old cat. Nothing else matters. We'll never have a cat like him again (and therefore no one will convince me to have another cat here once he's gone).






Snowdrop comes over shortly after. Her parents have appointments and meetings galore and they sweetly offer to bring her for the long stretch to the farmhouse, where it's easier for me to play with her and keep an eye on, say, the laundry. (I'm leaving the day after tomorrow and I have the usual boatload of things to attend to before.)

Here she is, doing what she loves so much at the farmhouse: staring at the red elephant in her musical mobile.






I have this terrible fear that the sunshine will not be with us all day today. And so we head out early for our walk -- Ed, Snowdrop and I.






I check on her. A lot.






And the skies stay blue. All day long.






After the walk, I take Snowdrop out back of the barn, to reintroduce her to the cheepers. The girls come out hastily, as if excited by the prospect of future play!






Indoors, Ed holds her as I get her feeding ready. Ed is a laid back kind of person. It rubs off a little on Snowdrop when she is with him. As always, she looks so tiny in his big arms!






And now you're going to get a series of the Snowdrop laughs and giggles. Every day they are more varied, more lovely, more delicious.





















All that is spring has entered her little heart. Mine as well.











She is so full of energy, sweetness and movement. Total joy. It's her gift and I am so so lucky that she shares it so freely, without reservation.

Wednesday

I watch the girls outside, moving across the farmette as they did before the frost and snow closed off their ramblings. They move in a pack, but not always. Each has her personality, her style. Butter is the brave one, the other white hen is the follower, Scotch is the loner -- many times walking off in her own direction. Is she happier keeping to the side of the pack? As the spring hawks return to circle the land, I worry about her the most. Who'll warn her of impending harm? Oreo? I don't think so. Oreo is protective when he is near them, but he has his disability and so he can't always be spot on in his assessments.





Life imitates Sinefeld. Maybe life imitates chicken ramblings too.

I have a rather complicated day today and so I am a woman of few words once more. I leave you with snapshots of a March day, where the sun is strong (strong enough to eat breakfast in the sun room)...





...and the snow continues to melt into the mushy soil.


I have a visit with Snowdrop:






And a drop-dead gorgeous walk with Snowdrop and her mom -- around the little lake again.






And there's more: I have a visit with old work friends, and then an unusual and special set of minutes where I poke into a school for a science fair and where Ed's most incredible design project (a mini C.N.C. milling machine) is being partially tested. By kids. Girls show enthusiasm too!






And then I pick up Snowdrop and bring her to the farmhouse for an evening with just me, as the parents have something scheduled and Ed is out playing volley ball tonight.

The poor girl tries to give me her best playful self, but it's late and she is tired.





She has had a full day. I have had a full day. No, let me correct that: a full, sunny and warm, beautiful spring day.

Tuesday

Ed said to me this morning -- all things in life eventually imitate a Seinfeld episode. He clicks on one to prove his point.

Well maybe. Or perhaps we are so overwhelmed by the magnificence of spring that we lessen our efforts at getting a grip on our own lives and they quickly spin into something comic and ridiculous. As in Seinfeld.

And we are in the midst of spring, of that I'm sure. Even with a dense morning fog shielding the sun, I sense the impending warmth. The cheepers do as well. There is so much bare ground now that they venture forth without trepidation. All the way to the farmhouse door! Welcome back, girls!






I feed them under the crab apple, Ed collects eggs -- they're all laying now, on schedule. Suddenly we again have too many eggs.

Breakfast is very late. Ed calls it lunch. I'm not sure how this happened. Perhaps I spent too much time lost in thought, wondering, imagining, predicting.






Little Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse promptly at noon today and she is as lively as ever!

Up go those little legs! (Up lifts my heart!) Then stretch. Then smile.
















We play. I show her dazzling daffodils.






Are you having fun, grandma?  I am, little one. I am.


 



And eventually the temps reach the mid forties and I am ready to head out for a stroll. So is she!






Ed tags along and we make our usual rural loop, pausing for a while to listen to the loud honk of geese.


 


Swans have made it to our cornfields as well. A first lesson in ornithology for Snowdrop.






It takes a sharp eye to note the deer at the edge of a corn field, or the geese hidden among the dried stalks. Some day, Snowdrop will point them out to me and ask -- see them, grandma? See the deer??






... and the hidden geese??






For now, she just looks on, tasting the fresh air, feeling the almost warm breeze.

Monday

I heard this poem on NPR today -- it's called Happiness and it's by Jane Kenyon. Maybe you heard it too?

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                    It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.


So beautiful...

*   *   *

For some reason, I remembered today a seminar I took as a graduate student in Chicago some forty years ago. There were weekly speakers -- guest authors of very famous published works. One student (we took turns) had to open the discussion each week by giving a review of the work. When it was my turn, I wrote my review and presented it with great excitement. I thought I had nailed all the weak points in the written argument. I saw the flaws, the problems. I was so pumped! I was standing up for scholarship, for accuracy! I read my review in class. The author was there. He listened. I finished, looking up with pride at my own brilliance. I had won, no?

The author sighed deeply. He then said, ever so briefly: wow, harsh words.

Perhaps Ocean, which tries to stray from harsh words is the indirect outcrop of that experience.

*   *   *

Back to the poem: go ahead. Dare me not to be happy. Just know that in the long run, you'll surely lose the dare.

It was a beautiful day. A warm, spring-filled day. As usual, we have the spring flock of deer pass through...

I let it go. There isn't much that they can destroy right now. (I hope.)

Breakfast. Sun room. A joy.

And eventually, I'm in Snowdrop's home, where I find mom and daughter at play.

I am semi helpful in giving my daughter time for chores. Yes, I play with Snowdrop. Yes, her mom stuffs some loads into the washing machine. But then, all three of us are raring to go and taste that spring air. And so on goes the sweater (who remembers it? Yes! It's from the Arles knitting shop), and the cap purchased just today by grandma (because yesterday's was too large, in case you missed it).

She's ready. We're ready. And so my daughter pushes the stroller and I tag along and it is a deliriously wonderful hike around the small lake. Just over an hour of pleasure, for all three of us.

When you bring Snowdrop home from a walk and you take off her outdoor gear, you see in her that look of relief. As in -- I had fun, but I was a little scared that no good would come of it and now, here I am home and I am so happy about that!

Oh, Snowdrop!

Sunday

Can I get away with only photos today? It is late and I am hugely tired and so I'll let you be responsible for the captions! The context: beautiful early spring day, family gathers, food appears, Snowdrop shows off, family leaves, Snowdrop stays, Snowdrop leaves. There! The rest is yours!



































































I think we can all agree -- it's been a full day!

For the commenter asking for the recipe for the pistachio cake, here is the link. Do note that it is a dense (rather than light an airy) cake. And it takes a long time to bake (recipe says 1.5 hrs, mine took 1.75)! But the flavors are grand!
It's this one, from Bon Appetit, 2012.