if it's Monday...

The new routine is that Snowdrop will be spending at least part of Monday at the farmette. It's a superb way to begin the week and you couldn't ask for a nicer day today. We're stuck in that classic glorious September weather and honestly, I cannot get enough of it.

I do have a few small chores to do around the farmette and so as Ed begins the delicate work of building a frame for the new patio door...






... I go back to my garden work, surveying the flower fields...






... and picking some spaces for the last of the bulbs I have for planting. Immediately after breakfast (on the porch again!)...






... the cheepers and I set to work.



("where are we going to dig?")



And then Snowdrop arrives and this is not the time to go indoors! Instead, we make our way to one of my favorite farmette spots -- the place where my younger daughter was married more than a year ago, under the great big willow and Snowdrop and I spend some beautiful moments playing in the grass with the swaying branches.













Too, she and I feed the two hens the remains of a blueberry bagel she had been chomping on yesterday. She was very excited about the possibility of petting the hens, but these girls, though not afraid, usually prefer to give a wide berth to the outstretched hand. Someday you'll be able to feed Scotch worms from a spade, but not today, I tell her.






In the late afternoon, grandpa Ed returns to the hammering and sawing. Snowdrop is highly interested in the project and there is definitely an "I want to try that!" look in her eye. Again, not today, Snowdrop. But, she is distracted...







... by the carpentry work...





 ... and we spend not a small amount of time watching nails go in.


Of course, now that she crawls, there is no keeping the girl in one place. She has the will to explore.








Late in the day, Snowdrop and I go for a walk in her own neighborhood and it is again a grand promenade around the little lake.



("let's get going, grandma!")



The day passes so quickly! A few more moments of play in her room...






... and then, a spirited chase of her favorite buddies, the three cats...






(But as Virgil, the cat, prepares to run, she gets diverted by something more interesting: daddy's slippers.)





... and our day is done.

At home, Ed is still working on the door. I fix a supper of eggs and local oyster mushrooms. We lock up the hens, noting that Butter has returned to spending the evening on the fence by the coop. She's erasing memories. We're vigilant. The hens don't known this (or maybe they do?), but the predator returned last night and dug up the land around the coop. We're working hard to keep them safe.

The day was beautiful. The evening is quiet. And that's such a good thing.

circles

If you think you've heard a version of this conversation before, well, that means your memory reaches as far back as a year ago.

I don't think I want to do a canoe trip on the upper Missouri...
(With genuine surprise and disappointment) Why not? It's perfect! We've found the outfitters, there are no rapids...
The book we ordered second hand? I've been reading it. The author talks about the known dangers...
Dangers? What dangers?!
Rattlesnakes, for one...
(Looking up venomous snake bite statistics on the internet)... a few thousand per year and only a half dozen deaths. In the whole country!
It's not that I think I'm going to die from a snake bite, but it's one of those things you're likely to encounter. Like bears if you go up to Canada. 
You're not going to go because of rattlesnakes?
The guy also talks about meth labs, overturned cars and junk in the river, mud banks if the river is low, not many places to camp when the river is high...
We read accounts of good trips there!
But he writes about the down sides...
You did this before our last camping trip and see how beautiful it was? Didn't you have a great time?
I did, but that's because nothing went wrong. We didn't have any major mishaps. It was insanely perfect. This one's not likely to be that perfect. 
Your ride on Rosie is more dangerous than a canoe trip on the upper Missouri!
I don't try to talk you out of your boredom with Europe...
We had been to Sorede so many times -- same thing again and again...
And when we camp, we do the same thing: we pitch a tent, you boil water, we open pouches of "curry in a hurry"...
Small stuff! The big stuff is always different and new.

So our spring adventure, on the table since our last Adirondack adventure, suddenly is off the table because I do not want to go.

Haven't we been down this path before?!


I let the cheepers out at around seven in the morning and I note that the thermometer is registering temperatures in the forties. Yes, there's a morning chill in the air, but I hardly notice it. It's a beautiful early fall day!







We clean the farmhouse and then pause for breakfast...






...and after, we throw ourselves into work outside. I dig out more of the weeds and old strawberries and it takes many hours before I'm satisfied with my progress. Ed looks at the pile of spent plants.
It was such work planting them all!
Yes, but they never gave us more than a handful of berries. And now they're simply old and invasive. 

Indeed. In the first years, we didn't weed them because we tried throwing netting over the whole patch to keep birds out. Netting, weeds, runners -- all got tangled and the animals found their way inside anyway. This year we removed the netting, but it was too late: most of the plants were getting too old and the weeds, new plants, old plants all meshed together into one huge chaotic mess.

Plant, pull out, plant something else. Try a new spot. Try a new crop. Or a new version of an old crop in a new place. This is out way of growing food.

Our tomatoes, though abundant enough to fill our large freezer this year, nonetheless need to be moved next year. The soil needs to be refreshed -- our stuff is coming in smaller, less robust. So it's back to the re-digging of a veggie field that had been in use before I moved here. We'll have to start work on that bed next week to get it ready for a spring planting.

Still, as I continue to dig and pull, dig and pull all day long, I think that these are not full circles. We're spinning out toward a greater understanding of our limitations and our possibilities. I think that this is good, even if honestly, sometimes it seems like we're merely spinning ourselves silly and in effect, staying quite still.

Let me leave you with just one garden photo -- of a gaura stem against sprigs of lavender. Ed tells me -- I thought the garden stops blooming right about now... and yet, look at all the flowers around us!
I am in total agreement: there is much to admire!







In the evening, the young family comes for dinner and we eat an old family spaghetti dish -- making use of our garden tomatoes of course. Snowdrop has had a long and busy day, but she continues to be in high spirits. We cook together.






And then, for the first time at our Sunday dinners, Snowdrop joins us at the table. She's not eating with us yet, but she will be soon!






She takes her task of being a full dinner participant very seriously.






And we do too! It's a beautiful evening. Yes, we needed our sweaters, but no one is complaining. At all.

Saturday

Well, it's cold enough to turn on the heat in the house and to eat indoors. In the sun room! Now there's a seasonal change if I ever saw one!







And after, I walk over with my daughter and Snowdrop to the Capitol Square farmers market. The little girl turns chatty (la la, bvvvv, ga, bvvv!)  and serious, all at once.






There is so much to take in! Every pause is an opportunity to admire something new. Chard, for example.






It's chilly, but the sun is out. I come home after to an Ed who is ready to do some farmete work -- after munching on the almond croissant from the market (bits of it were exceptionally popular with the two hens).






We work hard, all afternoon. Ed fixes my bike, his own motorcycle, carts chips. I dig up the oldest, messiest, most neglected strawberry bed -- the one that used to provide berries to chipmunks, birds and the woodchuck until it passed its fruit-bearing stage. A project like this is a feast for the cheepers and predictably, they follow me all afternoon long.






The rains, the warmer sunshine -- all this has been good for the garden of course, and the plants continue to throw out the occasional blooms. There are the colonies of gold and the emerging purple asters...






But, too, we're clearly not done yet with the roses and the lilies. They're rare now, but you can surely spot them!






I divide and move irises and plant more bulbs and it is a most perfect day for it. I think Wisconsin should hold the gold medal for its Fall weather and this year, we're surely off to a grand start.


In the early evening, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse for a visit while her parents attend to various social obligations.

Yep, happy with that beard!






... and getting very bold in staying upright!






The week-end -- a concept not readily identifiable by the newly retired me prior to Snowdrop -- seems now very much a weekend. The schedule changes, the hours hold no predictable structure. And despite the digging, the work around the farmette, despite it all, that kind of shift in gears gives me a pause, so that I can start the work week -- not my work week of course! -- with a fresh hop and skip into Snowdrop's world.

But for now, I just enjoy the loosey goosey evening hours with the sweet little girl with berries on her pants, dangles on her shirt and outstretched arms for the world before her.

Friday

This is my Snowdrop-light day, which means that I (ridiculously and regrettably) attempt to stuff too many errands into the daylight hours. Truly, in the future, I must reform!

The start was easy: for the first time since returning from Europe, I let Ed open up the coop. I am too set in my early wake up routines to really sleep in, but I drift in and out of a dozy state that feels quite luxurious while Ed goes about the sunrise routines.





But of course, it's Friday and so we must get up and running and it's an especially important day for Ed, as it's his last day of managing the ship at Tormach, the company that tragically lost its CEO in the middle of July. Ed has tweaked and taught and transferred and reorganized things sufficiently that a new CEO will begin his duties on Monday and Ed will once again (he hopes) return to his designing projects at the sheep shed, attending, like before, only a Friday techie meeting at the company offices.

And so breakfast is a bit rushed and in the kitchen (welcome to the cool mornings of September in Wisconsin)...






... and wouldn't you know it, as he rushes out, he finds that his motorbike has a flat tire.
Can I please borrow your moped?
Rosie is not meant for the speed with which you ride her!
I guess I'll take the car then... (glum look).
Oh go ahead and take her; I'll use the car. No one loves riding a motorcycle more than Ed.


I fuss around Scotch and Butter. Honestly, Butter seems a bit depressed, but what do I know about chicken feelings... Still, I find her more than once peering longingly inside the farmhouse.






Sorry, Butter, you cannot come in. And in any case, I haven't much time for cheepers contemplation. It's grocery shopping day and, too, I have cucumbers and tomatoes spilling out over the counter -- they have to be pickled, or frozen, or cooked, or something and I, of course, think this is the perfect morning for it which really puts the pressure on the shopping expedition.

And so when the noon hour comes around and I know it's time to set out to be with Snowdrop, I feel a sense of relief. My time with her knows no rush. I must accomplish nothing else while I'm there except perhaps diversify our play efforts somewhat. These are the moments to clear my head and refresh my spirits.

Hi Snowdrop! Lunchtime!






Just a few photos today. The week is winding down after all.



Yes, but did you have fun, grandma? Oh, so much fun, Snowdrop!





A hug for the sloth...





and a real favorite: a bounce on the knee (photo on a self timer)



In the late afternoon my daughter comes home in time for us to do the walk around the lake together. Snowdrop loves this best -- to hear our voices behind her, as she babbles on, possibly thinking herself to be part of our conversation.






And now I am home. Dusk. Ed and I go out together to lock up the two hens. It's chilly outside! For the first time, I throw on the fleece jacket that hangs in the mudroom.

Butter is still hiding in the garage. I hold her close and walk her to the coop where Scotch waits for her.

Thursday

Many thanks for all your kind words! Perhaps most of all -- thank you for understanding that the loss of little hens can bring on such sadness. Attachment is a curious bedfellow: it grows out of steady contact. Out of sweet gestures and familiar sounds. Out of common routines and a sense of community. And I find out that yes, you can feel it toward two young hens.

Of course, you move on. A good night's sleep helps. Remembering about other members of your community helps as well. I understand that, as I tell Ed to go back to sleep and get up this morning to set the two big girls free. (And Scotch immediately follows me back to the farmhouse.)






Being around a sympathetic soul is wonderful too.  Ed and I have breakfast, though not on the porch. Cool, wet and very early (Thursday is my earlier Snowdrop sitting day) -- there's something to be said for making it easy on yourself!






I am at Snowdrop's home now and very happy to see her. Good morning, little girl!






I bathe and feed her and when I reach for something for her to wear, my hand migrates to a t-shirt I had picked up in Edinburgh. I remember it well -- I thought it said "have a nice day" and I thought then that this would be a nice message for a baby to wear. It reminds you that niceness and joy are so deliberate and intentional. Only recently did I notice that it actually says "have a mice day" -- as a mouse is a frequent mascot of this particular British clothes line.






We do have a very nice day! A sampling of our play:


Practicing standing, supported:






And unsupported, though heaven help us if she decides to pull out all the books she is grasping now! Ah well, the carpet is soft and grandma is hovering.






Here are the books that she does pull out (and I have to think it's for their smooth, thin line, rather than the content, though I do believe that this girl, with a scientifically inclined dad and a mechanically inclined grandpa Ed, will know about physics sooner than, say, I did).






On a level closer to her age group, she still likes to practice kissy noises...






And bang on the koala pillow as if it were a drum.







And of course, she loves to jump! In her jumparoo...






... and off her jumparoo.






I should include an update on eating: notice the absence of the scrunched face, even as I'm pushing on her here blueberries, pears and purple carrots.






And, too, we're in a new era of stroller walks. This one, around the small lake again, has her sitting up and paying attention to the world. Too, she checks on my whereabouts again and again...






Probably the best part is when I sing and Snowdrop joins in. She doesn't articulate the words or notes perfectly yet, but it's all very joyous and between the two of us, very loud!

The clouds come and go, but we avoid any rains or stormy moments. I'd say we've navigated the day just fine!






In the evening, I have my monthly dinner with my former law school group. None of them read Ocean and it strikes me how trivial a recount of an event such as a chicken catastrophe would be if you hadn't been aware of the role these girls played in our farmette week. It is at times like this that I recognize how important Ocean is to me, not only for the writing practice -- which has always been my excuse for blogging daily -- but because of its power to bring to the forefront the stuff that doesn't reach headline status.  Sharing (but not imposing -- you don't have to read this!) something as low key as the naming of the new chickens or Snowdrop's kissy noises is so gratifying and so difficult to accomplish in our fragmented communities where everyone lives too far away for daily story telling, of the trivial kind, even though it's this stuff that fills our waking minutes.

So I say nothing about chickens and instead I search for the big ticket items, which of course, is never very satisfying because on the retelling, banner items all seem rather bland and devoid of emotion, especially since currently, at this very minute, my world is still full of kissy noises and chicken drama.

I mention this because it is not the first time that I wish the storytellers among us (meaning those who enjoy the craft -- whether in the telling, commenting, or merely reading) had stayed with blogging rather than migrated to facebook (not that I don't recognize the importance of facebook) or worse -- twitter.



I return home just as dusk fades into night. Ed is working outside and I ask him about the big girls. He tells me he tried putting them in the coop, but it had been too early. You can't do it too early because they wont acquiesce. But you can't do it too late either.

We walk to the garage -- Butter is inside, hiding. She wont go near the coop in the evenings. I pick her up, gently -- she lets me -- and I tell her stupid things as I carry her to her safe spot in the little hut of good and terrible things. Scotch had gone in by herself just a few minutes earlier.  So they're getting there. We're all getting there.