a question of time

A kid's memory is fantastic. I remember this from when I was a child: my parents would ask me to remember a bit of information for them. And I would. No problem.

But for a two year old, time is still somewhat of a mysterious thing. Yesterday and today -- fine. Tomorrow -- okay, I guess. But next year? Or even "in a few days" -- what does that mean? How does a toddler measure time?

And just when I think she got the season's straight, this year's spring mixes it all up for us: one day it's summer out there, the next day it's like winter's end. Perhaps I exaggerate, but today's high is 40 degrees (or some 23 degrees in C) colder than two days back.

Breakfast on the porch? Forget it. A Snowdrop playtime in the sandbox? Not if I can avoid it. And the sprinkler? Ha! Don't even think it.






(With cloudy skies and colder temps, the new wave of flowers remains tightly shut for now. This is when you really appreciate annuals...)






It's Friday, so I do a light grocery shopping. "Light" because I'm going away Sunday. Here's the deal: the four of us -- Snowdrop, her parents and I -- are flying out together for a short vacation. Oh, the young parents have far more on their plate than I do. They need to pack for three, get the house/cat sitter in place, attend to their work deadlines.  Me, I had to finish planting the yard. Now, I just need to zero in on how to pack well for the trip. A piece of cake? Typically yes, but this time, I have Snowdrop on my mind.


When I pick up the little one at school, her teachers already know that she is headed for a vacation, possibly because she says every other minute "I'm going to Paris!"

She skips out of school joyously. Paris is not such a distant memory: it's been kept alive for her with a photo book and with Gaga's somewhat frequent references to that city (to give me credit, I talk about other cities as well).

But she is obviously disappointed when I tell her that we're not going to Paris right now. Not tomorrow either, Snowdrop. The day after.
Huh?






To add to her disappointment, I tell her that a walk in the neighborhood is not a great idea. It's raining, it's cold and I need to buy panties!  -- three good reasons! She understands all three, but still, she loves her neighborhood walks after school.

Me, I dislike malls and the older I get the more I dislike them. And perhaps my low enthusiasm for them is evident, because she is subdued as I take out the stroller for her in the parking lot of Madison's largest shopping complex.

I didn't really think Snowdrop would love picking out adult panties, even if some turn out to have colorful pineapples on them. She isn't very excited about stopping at the kids' clothing store either (where I finally purchase a sweater to keep for her at the farmhouse, because, well, the girl loves sweaters).

I asked her then if she would like to walk around a little.
No.
You just want to stay in the stroller?
Can I go see the train?

I can't think what she means by that. To my knowledge, her last trip here was in the winter, possibly with me. Was there some train displayed for the Christmas season?

As I push her down the long mall walkway, I look up to see before me exactly what she means: the play area for kids, where there indeed is a train of sorts. I didn't remember it, but she did.

The girl is thrilled.

The place is noisy, full of careening kids -- ones that in my mind should be in school because they seem that age already -- and Snowdrop does not want to lose sight of me (I basically act as a guard against out of control youngsters), but she is very happy to be finally riding that train!





Shopping done, I am now just anxious to get back to the farmette. Snowdrop checks out all aspects of the play area but she does not protest when I then direct her to the stroller and eventually the car.


At the farmhouse, there isn't much time for extensive play. I can leave you with one photo -- it is nearly the same as what you would have seen here yesterday and the day before. The weather has changed, the week has moved on, but this book is still her favorite and because it has many children and babies in it, she always reads it with her own baby.

Don't you think your baby should have a name? You once agreed that Annie is a nice name.
Her name is baby, Gaga.





Okay, Snowdrop.

Evening. It is Snowdrop's last moment at the farmhouse for a number of days.
You want some watermelon with ahah?
Yes. It has water. Can I drink it?
Sure.
Slurp...






Can we dance polka now?






It is exactly at this moment that her parents arrive to take her home.

Ed and I eat a supper of farmhouse favorites: asparagus, mushrooms, eggs, lightly smoked salmon, with a huge salad of greens on the side.

A cold day, a warm day... It's all in how you look at it. And Sunday (that's in two days, well no, actually one day, Snowdrop!) we'll be on our way.

what you can expect from a chicken

Strong winds, occasional thunder and then, magically, the night storms move on, leaving us alone again.

But we wake up to a somewhat cooler morning. May weather. Still good enough to eat breakfast outside.







But I know it can go either way: the clouds may bring rain, or they may choose to keep it all inside.

The garden gets only a glance from me today. An appreciative glance, because the iris flowers are now really at the center stage. And I have a lot of iris clumps scattered throughout. Today's star pupil:






The rest of the morning is spent on helping friends haul stuff out of their home in anticipation of a move. It strikes me that I have no plans at all to move and that I could well never move again. In the best case scenario, Ed and I will hobble through the courtyard years from now, admiring our overgrown garden (because who will take care of it if I can't readily crawl around in the mud?) and speak of the good old days when we could still chop down tree limbs and haul timber.



I pick up Snowdrop, who is quite ready for an adventure, even as I hesitate on where to go.







We settle on the park by the lesser lake where she swings so long and hard that I wonder if I can get tennis elbow by pushing her eternally "way up high, in the sky..."

After, she eats her croissant on the life guard perch...







And she talks about the blue sky.
Yes, I answer rather mindlessly, as you sometimes do when a toddler is testing a bunch of new ideas all at once. It's blue when there are no clouds.
But gaga, there are clouds in the sky.
Sigh, why are toddlers nearly always right?






At the farmette, I want to bypass the sandbox. We lingered too long at the playground and I'm hoping she'll nap before her usual late retreat to bed.

I am in luck, even if it comes with a Snowdrop life's lesson.

Java hovers as the little girl gets out of the car. Is there a treat? Is there anything in it for me? -- she seems to be asking.
But when she sees that Snowdrop is empty handed, she retreats. Snowdrop is disappointed.

Of course, I know how to get the cheepers close. Come with bread and they're all over you.
Would you like to give them some stale bread?
Can I have some too?
Sure. A piece for you, a piece for them. Watch -- they'll come running.

And they do come running to her. And at first, she is delighted!






She is still laughing when Scotch leaps up and takes a peck of her piece of bread. And still half smiling when Scotch does this again. But she is less amused when Scotch does one of her famous grabs, jumping up and taking the whole piece of bread right out of Snowdrop's clutch.

Oh Snowdrop, she's just a chicken! She thought you were giving it to her. She doesn't know it was yours!

In Snowdrop's world, animals (at least the ones in her books) have feelings and intuition and friend obligations. The little girl is finding out that a real chicken is, well, a chicken.

Let's go inside... she says, shoulders hunched.


In the farmhouse, she wants to play with Ed, but he is unfortunately preoccupied with a work phone call.






But he doesn't say no...






Finally, a much needed quiet time. Book time. (New and dumb...)






(Old and favorite...)






Evening. The girl goes home, Ed and I just make it to our local farmers market. We exchange a dozen farmette eggs for a bag of cheese curds, then move around the vendor stalls to see what's growing right now.

A May evening. Easy to admire. Easy to love.

avoiding the big storms

We have been lucky. Storms pass through to the south, to the west, to the east. We have seen little of them thus far. True, we eat breakfast on the porch today while the clouds rumble loudly not too far off, but none of the damaging winds and ball size hail passed through this way. Yet.





I'm not sure if our luck will hold today. As I study the weather maps, trying to decide if there will be a few hours of good outdoor play with Snowdrop, I see that we may dodge the weather mess. Or we may not.

I don't do much yard work this morning. A few seeds planted, strips of grass by the driveway trimmed -- nothing huge. We're moving slowly in these unusually warm days.

But I do notice that we are now in a new stage of farmette life: we've moved from fresh spring leaves and emergent perennials to a lushness that usually comes at the very end of spring. Everything looks terrifically abundant!






As I pick up Snowdrop at school, I spot her playing in the school's sandbox. Has she had her fill of sandiness for one day? I don't think so...






We explore the neighborhood.

She is happy to again pause at the coffee shop, as much for the refreshing water (yes, there's the sweater again!) as for the bite of blackberry scone.






After, she lovingly takes her paper cup for a walk.






But if sweater stays on for the walk, it comes right off when we arrive at the farmette and I tell her she'll have to take stuff off if she wants the sprinkler and sandbox.

I did it! I'm ready!






It's a delicious hour of water and sand, then water again.

(The cheepers catch the stream flowing from the sprinkler. Snowdrop wishes they would wash their claws in the spray itself, but that's just not going to happen...)






She is exceptionally sandy and wet by now, but it's nearly 80F (26C) and so she minds none of it.






When Ed walks over to examine the tomato plants (doing fine!) and the cherry trees (they'll be producing heavily this summer, for the first time!), Snowdrop wants to follow and explore. And the dandelion puffs (abundant!) transfix her!






Throw them in the air and watch them fall!






Again. And again.
















Henny wonders: what's all the fuss about? Frankly, we like the little white flowers better. So refreshing to munch on!






The little girl marches around the tomato field, to the grapes, to the fruit trees. Want to follow ahah? Does he ever say no?






Evening. Snowdrop wakes up from her nap, a bit disheveled, way too warm in her jammies (her choice of wear, as I rinsed and dried her dress). Ed comes in and takes out the watermelon from the fridge.
Want some? -- he asks her.
He's eating it, so it must be good. Yes!

They sit on the floor across from each other, she, still in her jammies, munching watermelon.
It is so wonderful! -- she says, excitedly.
Wonderful? Big word for a little girl -- he smiles.






Ed gets a work phone call and Snowdrop will not leave him to it, so I take her outside.
I want to wear those boots! - she tells me, pointing to her winter shoes that I neglected to put away this spring.
They're for winter. It's warm, you don't need them.
Can I please wear them? She does know the magic words...
Okay.
Is it dark outside?
No... In the summer, it gets dark much later. You're in bed and it's still light.

We go to the far end of the farmette and watch the farmers work the fields. I tell her -- you're getting to be taller than our baby tree! (It's an especially slow growing tree...)






The wind gusts now. Ed can't bike tonight. The weather is too unstable. But Snowdrop is just in love with it all!






Her parents come. The wind rages. She hugs. She's happy.





We're all happy.

summer in May

How warm is it today?

This warm!






A brief summer interlude. It may be a record high. Right around 86F (30C).

Oh, what a day it is!

Of course, it doesn't all hang together. There are no pesky summer mosquitoes. And for Pete's sake, the lilac is still blooming! Weighed down now by the flowers and the wetness of the night, it is brilliant in its full loveliness.






(We eat breakfast on the porch.)






As is the case in mid May, hardly anything else is blooming yet. Just at the cusp, nearly nearly, but not yet.






(Well, there are exceptions: the lily of the valley -- a flower I adore but have removed from all my flower beds because it's just too invasive. So it grows wild and strong in the front of the farmhouse. And I always pick a bunch and it smells of my childhood -- a sweetness so intense that I want to share it. Ed, smell these!)






Not a week of many new blooms, but most definitely a week of rhubarb.






I no longer have a big list of gardening chores (just lists of little things), which perhaps is a good thing, but then a morning passes and I wonder -- what did I accomplish today?

Never mind, time to pick up Snowdrop...

... who continues to be very attached to her sweater.

Little one, shed your wraps!
I don't want to, gaga.
I try peer pressure again: look at all the kids in short sleeves!
She gives me that look of disappointment, as in  -- I thought you'd understand, gaga...






Alright. I'm contrite. Let's go to the coffee shop and share a cherry scone.

We eat it outside and coincidently, at the table next to ours, a school friend is also eating a cherry scone. Snowdrop pays attention.

I throw out an incentive: after you're done, we can go to the farm and if you take off your sweater and put on a bathing suit, we could take out the little pool...

The sweater is off instantly. As if the pool was there, on the sidewalk, waiting.






She swings it, wraps it, parades with it off, right next to her school chum (who, as it happens, also has a fondness for sweaters and sweatshirts)...





... and proclaims: I'm taking my sweater now for a walk!

And away she goes.






At the farmette, Ed and I had set out her pool earlier, anticipating the extremely warm afternoon. Snowdrop is joyous!






Want to come in, ahah?
I'll just sit here...






She's up, she's down. She dips, pours, drinks, splashes. In other words she is a kid. In love with summer.






(And back in the farmhouse, in love with that book about families, babies, sisters and brothers, coming to visit grandma...)


Can we read it? Can we?





Yes, Snowdrop.


Evening. These days, Snowdrop asks to go out. For an evening walk. I always hesitate. This isn't a good time to play, to open up the sandbox. What will she want to do outside? I don't want to end the day with a series of "nos."

But mostly, she just wants to touch the evening.

Maybe pick a tulip, but this is easy -- they're past their prime anyway...






Maybe run to the barn to check on the state of the coop...






Maybe sit in the grass in the front yard and watch the cars go by.
Snowdrop, that grass is taller than you! I must tell ahah to cut it.
Ahah will mow the grass!

Ever the optimist...






How good is that!