Thursday

It is a day with its own twists and turns -- none of them harsh, none of them surprising.

To start with -- my day begins with an early errand. And because I am downtown in the pre-breakfast hours, I pick up the day's bread supplies early. And I think -- what's to stop us from having a Parisian breakfast today? I never break from my oatmeal habit at home (which amuses Ed no end), but why shouldn't I stray from the predictable every now and then?

It's odd how I have bifurcated my eating habits: those at home, which are fiendishly (attempts at) healthy and those during travel, which are decidedly less so.

Maybe the reason some of us love to travel is that it tears us away from tiresome routines? Maybe if I occasionally ate croissants at home, I'd be less excited to rush to Paris for my fix of wicked breakfast fare there?

That's probably an overstatement, but still -- today, this is breakfast:







Oh and a garden walk! Yes, there's that. There is always that.

(The dancing iris!)






(The venerable farmhouse.)






And then, because we're like every other civic-minded American, we watch the Senate Intelligence Committee hearings. Many, many years have passed since I clicked on the TV before the evening hours. Today, the set stayed on all morning.


The day gets a little tricky then. I pick up an eager girl at school...






And we do go to the playground, but so does the local kindergarten class. Snowdrop is transfixed: all those kids dashing madly this way and that! She sits in her swing and from this perch, watches and listens and then, deciding it's safe to participate -- adds her own two cents on what's happening around her.

Only when the class leaves, does she want to go back to her climbing routines.

(The captain of the ship!)






(Back to liking the slide...)






(Duck gets tail-end of croissant.)






The clouds roll in and though it's supposed to reach 80F (26C), it doesn't really feel like wading pool weather. She settles for playing with ahah in the sandbox...






... while the cheepers take advantage of the pool.





And of course, Snowdrop gets so sandy that I decide to throw her into the wading pool anyway, just to rinse her off. Once in, she doesn't want to leave.

Nap comes very late today...


In the evening, after Snowdrop is back at her home with her parents, Ed and I go to our local farmers market. It's a Thursday late in the day event and both he and I love it, though perhaps (or maybe not?) for different reasons. I love (among other things) the preview of what we can expect from the fields in the days ahead. He loves picking up cheese curds in exchange for our farm eggs.

And here's a fantastic surprise! Strawberry season has begun!







These berries are exceptionally flavorful (I'm fussy: I find most strawberries at the market very average) and we pause to talk to the farmer (and his daughter) about how they handle berry-lovin' groundhogs, chipmunks and squirrels. (Once again this year, we lost our entire ground berry crop to these critters, though we still have some hope that our raised berry pots may deliver fruit!)


And now the day ends. I wish I could show you a photo of a full June moon (called "strawberry moon" -- with good reason!), but the clouds have taken hold and besides, the full moon is due tomorrow. Even as the strawberries appeared today.

P.S. To the commenter whose question dangles unanswered because I lost my way in the demands of the day -- I buy perennials at Flower Factory, and bulbs -- well, there's always Farm and Fleet, but for the more unusual, you might want to try out the fall catalogues of White Flower Farm in Connecticut. I've been their customer since 1988 and I they've saved me from many gardening disasters with clever ideas and good solutions.

Wednesday

A Wisconsin winter has a beginning and an end. There is a definite progression, a movement forward as you count the weeks until spring. Minutes of daylight gained each week are a treasure. And when the day comes when you find yourself eating dinner by the light of the sun, you rejoice.

Summer is different. Oh, there are those who can't wait for the hot and humid and oftentimes buggy spell to move on. They talk wistfully of the crisp autumn day, the colors of fall, as if these were the highlight of the year.

They don't fool me. No one looks forward to the coming of winter in the way that we all look forward to the coming of spring and summer.

We're in a string of perfect days now and perhaps they seem interchangeable here, on Ocean. One day there are lilacs, on another I'll post peonies. The porch breakfast is here to stay. Snowdrop has her daily outing to the playground and at the farmette, she is beginning to appear rather regularly in a swim suit. If not tomorrow, then the next day -- it's all a mixture of the same, no?

To a person who pays attention to what's growing all around us, the answer is no. It's not all the same.

In the garden there is a season of change. Flowers come, flowers go. I know what's coming. I know tomorrow will not look like today.

The irises of May and June:






And yes, the peonies: early ones, late ones.






(They always make it to the breakfast table.)






And there is a difference in the light, no? Early spring is gentle. Early summer is bright, so bright that you welcome any shade, just to temper the light around you.






At the farmette the routines don't shift much, but that's because we haven't had our fill of outdoor time. The sandbox just went up less than a month ago.

(Java is ever hopeful that it will be a source of chicken treats. No, Java, there is nothing in it for you!)






And Snowdrop -- she is developing a summer look. Despite the daily use of sun screen, she has the appearance of an outdoor child. Too, her hair turns blond, her eyes sparkle.






(Ahah, your hair is all white! How true...)






(Umbrella play: the shade is always welcome!)






(The power of a waterfall...)






That grin belongs to late spring. Or summer.






Will it be different tomorrow or the next day? Yes. Like the summer season, she changes. Constantly and beautifully.

Ed and I -- well, we grow older and wiser. Hey, I'm just repeating the words of my doc, who today, looking over my skin for signs of trouble (none) pointed to a few marks here and there and said -- signs of wisdom.

Tuesday

Oh, this day, this beautiful June day really does belong to the sweet sweet innocence of Snowdrop. We talk about her, play with her, chortle with her too and her spark become everyone's spark.

I should say -- if it isn't obvious from the photos -- that this is one glorious day! Weather-wise, it cannot be improved upon. Sunny, breezy, warm but not hot. Just splendid!

My morning garden walk:






I study a bee in one of the false indigo plants.










We're always so happy when bees and butterflies spend time in the flower fields. This year, they've been ever present. Frogs, swallows -- all our friends, all here, sharing this small piece of heaven.


Breakfast on the porch...







...with a view toward the flowers by our parked cars:






And near the noon hour, I pick up Snowdrop and she is as always full of smiles and explanations.

We go to the park by the beach and I ask her if she wants to swing.
Actually, I want to climb, she tells me with conviction. The word actually is a real favorite of hers lately.

And so she climbs.






She is the king of the mountain!






The captain of the ship!






There is, in fact, a lot to observe on the lesser lake today -- the boats are removing the weed growth and the ducklings are learning to navigate the waters and we watch a bit mesmerized by it all.






And it feels so warm out there in the little park, that I suggest to Snowdrop a dip in the wading pool at the farmette when we get back. I'd filled it with water earlier to warm it up some. She, of course, loves the idea and runs to the pool as soon as I let her out of the car.

Gaga, I got my dress wet!






That's okay. It'll dry in no time. Maybe you want your swimsuit?
Yes!






She and ahah spend quite the handful of minutes splashing each other.






And then she pauses and, standing in that pool, launches into a long soliloquy -- a story that she is making up, one about her "mother" (a word she never uses in her real conversations to and about her mommy), her "grandfather" and buckets and birds and umbrellas and water and work and the one thing that is obvious is that she does not want the story to end and so she spins it on and on...






... until I finally tell her -- Snowdrop, it really is time for us to go inside.






In the evening, long after Snowdrop leaves, after dinner, after all dishes are put away, Ed and I go out behind the barn, into the backfields, and, equipped with thick gloves, we pull hundreds, nay thousands of stalks of Canada thistle. We don't cultivate the land back of the barn, but we view the encroaching thistle like a hostile force. Why should they stop at the edge of the field? Why not dominate every inch of farmette land?

So we pull. And pull. And pull. Until we can pull no more.

You may wonder -- do Ed and I enjoy breaking our backs and puncturing hands pulling at thistle? That's a tough question to answer. In theory -- no. But working side by side like this, on something tough is so deeply satisfying that the "no" morphs quickly to a "yes."

Good night, good night! Don't let the thistle bite!

another day

They can't all be perfect, these beautiful June days, can they...

We wake up to a delightfully crisp morning -- the kind that really gets you out of bed with a smile.

A walk through the gardens...






A lovely breakfast...






And soon after, someone close to me gets some sad news and for the rest of the day my thoughts are with her.

Snowdrop, of course, doesn't quite get that Gaga's mood has shifted somewhat. She is all smiles leaving school...






All smiles on the playground...






Chatting up a storm, laughing, climbing, swinging, spinning...






All smiles at the farmhouse, coloring fiercely (she is so adept at this that sometimes you wonder if it's ahah's crayon mark or her own), playing with her babies.

That girl can make the most sour moment sweet. Still, it can't be all smiles every minute of every day, can it? Sometimes, you have to pause and take on the sadness of someone and keep it, at least for a while, as your own.

Sunday

Farms, working farms, aren't always the safest places: the machinery, the fast paced operations -- all this creates some risk. But who would think that a threesome of hens would turn out to pose their own hazards?

The farmette isn't a working farm, but it does have those lovely little girls -- cheeper girls -- and today they really did me in!

I step out early to take a look at the state of the garden. Immediately the cheepers run to greet me. They want bread and they're hopeful that I come with some in hand.
I don't have any bread for you, now step aside! -- I tell them. I use the same words each time, hoping that one day they'll get the message.

Not today. Each girl wants to be the closest to me, in case I throw out the coveted crumb. I'm used to this: I shuffle along, sidestepping over eager chickens. But today, Java steps right in front of me and my foot goes straight down on her claw, leading me to quickly back off, but by that time Henny is behind me and I tumble straight down on top of her, as the hens screech and feathers fly.


(For the rest of the day Henny runs whenever she sees me. See her there, to the right?)






I'm plenty wounded, though the gashes in my leg and arm are more of a visual marker of my mishap than an indication of real damage. (When Snowdrop sees me later in the day, she demands an explanation. I tell her what happened and she immediately goes to her parents and recounts my woes: "Gaga fell on the chickens and hurt her leg and ahah helped her!" For Snowdrop, all stories have an element of the good in them.)

I continue to survey the garden...







... then retreat to the farmhouse for breakfast.
Ed, it's ready!






I'm here, gorgeous.





My fall provides a good excuse to take the rest of the day off. I don't do that. I scrub the farmhouse from top to bottom, take a long and luxurious shower, and then I go outside and spend nearly two hours watering the flower fields that abut the courtyard.

Many people regard such protracted watering as a tedious element of gardening. Not me. I rather love it. Ed asks -- why?
It's really quite simple: I imagine the flowers to be parched. Dry in the mouth, so to speak. And I have the ability to relieve that: to give each plant a good dose of the water that it craves. It's so rewarding! How often in life do you feel yourself to be the conduit of something so beneficial, so helpful, so lovely? Water, delivered to the plants that need it most (I set out to water just the newly planted stuff, but of course, I don't stop there...).











In the afternoon, Ed and I drive the few miles down the road to our favorite annuals greenhouse. I need to replace the ancient geranium plants in the front room. It's a curious thing about the sale of plants: it's all very seasonal. Our indoor geraniums should have been replaced many month ago, but you can't get those blazing beauties except in May or June. So we pick up a threesome today and I am sure they will add radiant color to the farmhouse for many years going forward.

(On the way, we see the truck farmers to the east of us, working the fields in the way that is their habit: with a bent back and little more than a hoe to help yourself along. You may be curious as to why we have farmers moving about rather than a development sprouting up. The answer is confusing and possibly not together honest on the part of the decisionmakers here: there appear to be permission delays. Yes, we'll have a development soon enough. Only not just yet.)






Evening: The young family comes running. No, Snowdrop comes running and the parents toddle along...






These summer-like dinners outside are heavenly. The air begins to cool down, the light is especially beautiful then...






(Chantilly raspberries for dessert.)






For whatever reason, I am reminded of an excursion I took with a Thai friend up to a northern part of her home country some fifteen years ago. We drove to a large lake and the air was warm and the breezes were lovely. Everywhere you looked, you'd see families and perhaps friends gathering to eat an evening meal outside, by the lake. These were no small picnics: food was grilled, roasted, plates were filled, children were everywhere and if you slightly knew someone (as my friend seemed to be at least acquainted with this person and the other), you were invited to join in. And my friend did have us join in and she lapsed into her native language and in her love of the moment she sort of forgot about me, which allowed me to exhale and really look around..

All this came to me as Snowdrop cavorted between house and porch and food was consumed and it felt like this is the moment we wait for during a work-filled week -- the time when we can be outdoors, together, over food, without fuss or worry, relaxed, happy.

Saturday

I had this thought this afternoon -- it's like Paris, only different!

I was at the market (with my daughter and Snowdrop), buying sumptuous asparagus, gorgeous flowers and my favorite mushrooms, and it was hot. Like in Paris! Only different.

How is it that summer came so fast?

But let's go back to the earlier hours. As always, I walk the gardens, to make sure everything is as it should be and really, because it's just so beautiful in the early moments of the day.

It's hard to describe, even with full use of photos, how a flower can take your breath away. For example, in the big flower bed, I have a clump of "butter and sugar" iris plants. They're heavenly!







It is, too, the month of the peonies.






... and yes, the irises. I check to see if any have fallen. I stake them, I clip the spent flowers, and I admire.






Breakfast. Ed! Hurry up! My oatmeal is getting cold!






The day starts off with clouds and you think it's going to be cool and then the clouds disperse and the sun is out and it is so warm!

We are at the market -- Snowdrop, her mommy, me -- and we pick up our needed items and I think -- all this, it's just too gorgeous!






Toward the end, the little girl has a lovely run on the grass ...






... and then it's time for her to go home and for me to eventually make my way back to the farmette.


(This is the first batch of flowers that lines the farmette driveway. Irises.)






In the flower fields, things are looking fine, but I am concerned that there is no rain in the forecast. The established flowers will be fine. The newbies need a little help.

I spend time watering the front bed. Butter and sugar irises here as well!

Evening. I'm thinking: wouldn't it be ever so lovely to have, at this hot hot moment, an Aperol Spritz?





It's a fizzy drink that you would normally associate with Italy -- it's place of origin -- but it was so warm in Paris, that if you walked the streets in the early evening hours (you wouldn't want an Aperol Spritz too early or too late), you'd see that bright orange drink in nearly every cafe restaurant.

So, like Italy, only Paris, only different?