Tuesday

I am up very early today. I want to go back to writing, beyond what I do here, on Ocean and the early morning offers up the best hours. The evening fog has lifted from the brain, the phone is quiet, I've read the headlines, nothing beckons.

I sit at my computer at the kitchen table and watch the steady rain outside. I see Isie boy coming up the path despite the wetness. He is still banished from the farmhouse, but he retains a great desire to consider and reject food about ten times a day and so if Ed is not in the sheep shed with him, he comes calling. I hide under the kitchen table so that he can't see me and continue to type.

Since it's Tuesday, Snowdrop will be coming to the farmhouse just around noon and so any farmette work must be done before that. Outdoor jobs are out of the question, but we do want to go to a lumber company to consider yet another door for the porch, this one possibly installed by someone other than us. Ed, having figured out how to do this job, having taken apart the window that's to be replaced, is willing to hand over the work to someone else. Maybe.

And so immediately after breakfast (which is rushed and therefore inside the farmhouse)...






And right after I take my flower photos of the day (an unusually peachy tinted penstemon, and a flowering shrub --  the weigela florida wine)...











...after those morning essentials, we take off in Lily (my gray mazda) to look again at patio doors. You'd think there was great variation there, but in our price range (the bottom), there really isn't. Still,  we must go back and make a final decision.

Unfortunately, the "specialists" at the lumber company that features these doors give Ed a lot of incorrect information about them  (an ever doubting Ed calls the manufacturer to confirm his own reading of the specs) and now he is back to thinking that the job wont be done right unless he does it himself.

Doesn't it seem like we're going around in circles with this? I'm used to it. Ed is a careful type in both construction and design and he has the patience of an alligator, waiting until everything is just so before opening those jaws for the final move.
 

Right when we return, Snowdrop comes over and now the afternoon turns from drippy wet and discouragingly inconclusive to cheerful and golden.



(by Ed)





(by Ed)



As always, a very active set of hours will lead to tiredness. The best remedy for this is a sweet short nap...






And after, wake up time!






And of course,  mealtime!






 Her energies restored, Snowdrop bounces around from sitting to standing to swaying to rocking. I'm thinking -- perhaps we could channel all that energy to the outdoor world. The skies have (provisionally and not too certainly) cleared and the air is gusty warm.

We feed the chickens bread and as always, she stares at the brood with utter disbelief: how is it that they don't look like you and me, she seems to be thinking...

I'm guessing that the weather is stable enough for us to go out for a rural walk. I place her into the stroller and as I get ready to set out, Ed brings Oreo for a closer inspection.






Snowdrop still has this air of disbelief about her.  Oreo, of course, when cradled in Ed's big hands, is as docile as the morning dove that has taken to resting on our porch glass roof. I whisper to Snowdrop -- there's more to this bird than meets the eye and I push the stroller forward to take advantage of the window of good weather.





Toward evening, back at the farmhouse, Snowdrop and I play ball, and stand up-sit down, and bite the giraffe. Something about that last game causes her great anguish (teething is the usual suspect). As she sobs her heart out to let me know the full extent of her tribulations, I note that quite suddenly, a heavy shower is starting to pound the farmhouse windows. I had left the stroller on the path outside and I tell Snowdrop that we must go out and rescue it.

We come out to a very wet landscape and the minute the first drops of rain hit her sweet fluffy head, she grows quiet, curious and indeed, blissfully content again.

Her parents come to pick her up and I tell them that they have a child who loves rain. Who knew?!

Monday

Today I lay down a million daffodil stems. I ruthlessly pulled out tiger lilies -- they are part of the landscape here -- it can't be helped, but I want to curb their enthusiasm (as best as I can)! Ed drove sharp blades between the window frame and the farmhouse wall to figure out how the window had been put inside and I reminded him that neither of us has time or much love for a major construction project right now, gently suggesting that maybe we could spring for help. He took it under advisement.

Today I also went grocery shopping -- a terribly time consuming event, but one that had to be done or else we'd be eating very left over leftovers this week. And, in the yard, we rebuilt the tee-pee for string beans. The wind knocked down our last year's effort and seeing it flattened on the ground was a constant reminder of our failure to secure it, so it was good to see it up and standing firmly (I hope) again. And finally, today, we finished planting tomatoes, melon and watermelon. You should understand that any work in the veggie patch requires digging up that noxious and obnoxious bindweed that has really take hold there. We did a lot of digging.

Those were the tougher hours. Now that I've given them their Ocean moment, I can return to the sweet and gentle: for example, a quick post-rain glance at what's blooming, or almost blooming right now at the farmette:
















(Combinations are starting to be especially eye catching)






Breakfast is on the porch, at a time when it was still raining a bit, so that we feel especially sheltered, yet very connected to all that's outside. (The French lilac is the last of the lilacs to bloom here. I'm always a tad nostalgic for the passing of spring as I clip it for a table jar.)






And dinner is on the porch too! We switched our weekly family meal to this day, and we are given a warm and pleasant evening for it. I try hard to pay attention to the food (mustard shallot salmon, Marjoram swiss chard, corn, salad) and the rest of the family (my daughter, her husband), even as my gaze keeps coming back to Snowdrop!

Because there is no door to the porch yet, I have to move swiftly, in and out, bringing in foods as they become ready. And I pass a few items through the window. As I look out to catch a pair of hands, I notice a new arrangement outside: Snowdrop is out of her seat and onto bigger and better things!






With the meal on the table, we settle in to eat. Snowdrop's parents, knowing that a baby's quiet spell may not last, dig in. And Ed? Well, his eyes seem to be focused elsewhere -- to the little girl in her little chair...






I sit down and smile at her and get that prize of all prizes -- her lovely love filled gaze.






She insists then on being up where the action is and I'm happy to oblige.






And that pleases her, but very quickly, she wants to show me that these days, she's beyond "just" sitting.





Oh little girl, are you really that same infant who could not focus her gaze just two, three months ago? Is it possible that you're stomping around on my lap now?

The porch is always a quiet place, but in the evening, it is especially muted and restrained. I don't know a person who is in a hurry to leave then. It's as if you know that as long as you're gently swaying in one of the chairs out there, you'll be safe, protected. And so we linger... until it grows late.

It's a good way to bring the Memorial Day weekend to a close.

Sunday: many hands

A Sunday morning of furrowed brows. Ed, reviewing any number of sticky problems (how to get that weed out of the veggies patch... when to put in the last of the tomatoes... how to crate the new invention he has designed... how big should the opening be for the patio door)...





Me -- wondering if Snowdrop will adapt quickly to a time of many helpful hands (after being sequestered for all those days with, unfortunately, only one set of hands -- ones that had that habit of doing everything in one predictable way).

Too, I wonder about the Great Writing Project. I finally let go of my manuscript and send it to a trusted literary type to read. Will I be rewriting it substantially after I hear from her?

And I think about this simple fact about grandparenting: it's easy and tough all at the same time. Oh, I saw this early on, even as I was a kid, cared for by my own grandmother. But kids don't generally worry about the subtle twists and turns of the human condition and so I took note, but moved on. Yes, my grandma stood on her doorstep and cried each time our family car pulled out of her gate and turned toward Warsaw and I thought it was sweet that she should miss us so much, but my next thought was about the boy I loved in school and how cool it was that I would be seeing him later that day.

Today, I thought, too about the weather: I am not disappointed in the rains that greet us in the morning. I know it's a holiday weekend and I wish that a better weather situation would meet the needs of all those who want to grill, boat, play ball. But I am grateful for this day of garden quiet. Since it is so wet, I cannot work outside and just today, that's a good thing. I need an uncomplicated stretch of time.

Flowers: wet with the nighttime rains -- the sustained kind that I normally associate with Great Britain -- I still am tickled to see the explosion of more and more iris blooms.










Still morning, still wet. But here's the exciting part of the day -- I am continuing with the Mother's Day celebration with a brunch out, for the seven of us: my two daughters and their husbands, Ed, Snowdrop and me. My youngest daughter and her husband are in town for a wedding and now today we can come together over brunch for foods and stories, punctuated by Snowdrop's coos, gurgles, groans, gaggles and other 4.61month old vocalizations. 

(Our no nonsense server looks like she is pressing Snowdrop to make up her mind as to which item to order.)





(Snowdrop's uncle listens attentively as the little one explains that she likes her piggy blanket just fine for munching purposes.)






(Snowdrop's aunt joins in on the reassurance that piggy blanket is a perfect brunch munching item.)






(Snowdrop's aunt picks her up to convince her that the waitress will not mind it if she does not order off the menu.)






Here are my most favorite five young people!






(Snowdrop's dad let's the little girl sleep for a bit.)






(Snowdrop's mom gets the girl ready for a feeding by putting on a new bib from aunt and uncle.)






And finally, Snowdrop seems to be asking, almost in disbelief at her own good luck -- you mean you guys love me and are thrilled to see me again? How cool is that!






The visit ends, the rains continue, the cheepers hide, the flowers droop.


At the farmhouse, Ed and I attack the porch door project. Ed cuts strips of drywall, I suck the plaster dust out.






At Home Depot, we spend a good hour (or two, or more...)  talking to Ed's newest bud, the guy who sells patio doors and who is willing to field every question Ed throws at him about the installation process.

We don't buy anything today. We need to do more measurements and Ed has to study the various possible mechanical issues in taking one window out and putting a new door in. I half worry about being the designated assistant (carrying the doors alone is going to be... interesting). But I put those thoughts aside. My hands may not be as tough and strong as his, but they're strong enough.

Though by evening, I conclude my hands have done enough for now. We pick up a pizza and settle into the quiet of an evening at the farmhouse.

Saturday: last day at grandmas's

And again came the blue skies, the warm air, the early sound of Snowdrop playing in her crib.

Her gurgles grow more animated and I am guessing she isn't about to put herself back to sleep. I come down to be greeted, as always, with a radiant smile.





I change the diaper, re-swaddle her and cross my fingers.

I leave the window open, listening for her shouts, murmurs or cries and go outside, seeking out the flower of the day.  I'll show you ones that are just at the cusp of a full bloom: the gentle, affable Baptista (blue wild indigo) and, of course, an iris:
















Indoors again. Snowdrop is still moving, dozing, articulating, eyes closed, open, closed. It's not even 9, but I decide to get our breakfast together now. Ever so quietly.

The morning meal would have been on the porch, even if I wasn't trying for the impossible -- keeping Ed quiet while the baby (I hope) dozes. It is that warm of a morning. I set the table, put out the fruits, honeys, flowers and listen. All quiet inside. Ed and I sit down to eat.






Not for long. Through the open window I hear her chatter. It's strong and lovely and insistent. She's not sleeping. She wants to be up.



(by Ed)





(by Ed)


As I sit there and she grins with utter joy (Ed: why is she so happy?), I think about how adaptable children are. As the stand-in caretaker, I try to replicate to the letter the rhythm and routine of Snowdrop's life at home. But the rhythms of the farmhouse are beginning to seep in. I can't really name the factors that gently swayed her in our direction: is it that the light comes in strong and loud here, begging all those inside to come out and enjoy the day? Is it that our energy is lower in the evening and so she starts to wind down along with us, far earlier than she would at home? For any number of reasons, she has slowly moved closer to a farmette life (and I'm sure, within a day will ease back to her habits at home).

I bathe her in the kitchen sink again. This time she knows the tub and understands that here, too, she can play.






After breakfast? Oh, you know. The sitting up (which she has grandly mastered... except when she topples!):





The romping and twisting and playing and laughing.
















Too, we feed the cheepers. Oreo rewards us with many loud vocalizations. (Yes, grandma, at the farmette, a rooster crows!)






But the day begs for a bigger adventure. It's my last big fling with the little one! Oh sure, there are the daily encounters, but once or twice a year I get to really know her in this special way. She has no choice -- I am the recipient of her moods, her pouts, her laughter, her triumphs and mishaps. And every bit of it is, for me, thrilling. Somehow, we must finish grandly.

I tell Ed that perhaps an outing to the Olbricht Gardens might be lovely. He asks to come along and so the three of us set out to this sixteen acre treasure trove of plantings.

It's getting quite warm -- hot, in fact. I know Snowdrop prefers cooler air even as we're in the thick of a heat spell. Keeping her out of the sun isn't too hard -- the stroller has an awning and, too, there are plenty of shady trees in the gardens.





The last time I was here with Ed, I was disappointed. I felt more could be done in this showcase of perennial beds, bushes and trees. But this time, I am enthralled. It's Snowdrop's fault!



(by Ed)


This is wedding season and so a section of the garden is closed off for ceremonial purposes, but there's plenty left for us to see -- including the Thai pavilion which looks especially splendid and regal from the perspective of what I gather is the naturalizing bulb fields.






On a shady path, between birches and forget-me-nots and hostas, I take Snowdrop out (again? -- asks Ed, who thinks I should just let her sit back and chill...) to see if she is willing to stand up and take a step or two.



(by Ed)


And she is! As if overnight, her legs have gotten stronger and she can support herself without me having to take the weight of her increasingly tall frame.


There were many milestones for me in the four days that she was here. So many of them showed off her strength and determination that it seems fitting that I should end with the hug that I could share with her after this brief little "walk" in the gardens.



(by Ed)


In the evening the  deliriously happy parents come to pick her up and take her home.

After supper, Ed and I go out to weed the veggie patch. In pulling up one root after the next until it is too dark to see much of anything, I think back to my four days with my granddaughter. What was the biggest challenge? Keeping Ed quiet in the morning and, too, keeping her relaxed and content in the evening. The greatest joy? Oh, you know -- all of it. The package. The fullness of each day, each minute. The smiles.