Wednesday - 173rd

Such a gorgeous day and yet I do nothing new with it. I'm taking a pause from thinking creatively about the day before me. In part because I've fallen behind with practically everything -- emails, straightening the play room, lily snipping, so that only this day's blooms remain.






Yes, there are still lilies to snip, though I admit, the time needed for this is minimal. (And yes, it did rain a tiny bit last night.)






(the old familiar path...)






(good morning cheepers!)






Over breakfast, Ed and I talk about what it would be like to live in a country where we could not speak the native language. A friend of his noted that he'd look forward to immersing himself in something that new. But, Ed and I are ancient! His view is that if we ever spent time in a new culture, surrounded by people who speak a new for us language, we would be like those people who came to America as grandparents and who never could master the English language, relying on their kids to be their guide dogs.






I protest this, but just a little. I've grown much more fluent in French in my recent years of travel to France and yet I also have to admit that I'm a little stuck now: I navigate familiar terrain, using familiar constructs and vocabulary. It's as if I have accepted the fact that I will never speak like a native and so I stay in the old world of what I know.

I mention this because I have heard many people say that when they retire, they will study a new language/musical instrument/art form. I admire the words, even if I don't quite believe that there will be a follow through. It's a warning to all you pre-seniors. If you want to embark on something different later in life, get your foot in the door now, while you can. Be that dilettante, test new waters. You may be an amateur, you may feel you haven't the time to do an all out effort. It doesn't matter: start early. Most likely, you wont want to take that plunge once you pass a comfy, entrenched age of, say, 67.

As for the rest of my day? I spend it mostly on the porch. It's just so beautiful now! Oh, maybe we don't have the flowers we once did, but maturity is not unattractive.

I Zoom with friends, I write letters to children, And at the end of the day, with the last warm rays of the sun on my back and while Ed is biking his Wednesday ride, I walk up and down the streets of the new development thinking minor thoughts. Not great thoughts, not creative thoughts, but wonderful inconsequential minor thoughts.

We should all have such calm days, don't you think?
.

Tuesday - 172nd

You have to try things out to see if they work for you. Maybe they will, maybe they wont. You have to give it a go.

I think of this when Ed tells me this morning that the water heater sprouted a new leak. It's slow, but it's telling: no, you cannot fix me. I am ready to give it up. I've done my duty, I've given you all that hot water. Twenty-two years is ancient. Go find a replacement.

Well, he tried. So now comes the protracted period where Ed meditates on the next move. He is in that phase with both the front farmhouse entrance and the water heater. I tell him that it surely would be better to replace it now than, say, during an Arctic blast in December. He agrees and retreats to his contemplative space, letting thoughts pass through his head until something sticks: rebuild the whole system? switch to on-demand heating? Stone steps? Wood trim?

All this after breakfast.






Morning interlude in the garden:

(no children, but plenty of cheepers!)





(I've always liked this path by the pines... No one really shared my affection for this space, but someday I know the kids will feel equally dazzled by the smell of pines here and the sight of all that goldenrod!)






(call this "the path well traveled:" so many walks, alone, with the kids, with Ed, alone, with anyone and everyone, to the barn and back to the farmhouse)






(the colors of early fall...)






Here's another thing to try: a meetup with the young family outside, with social distancing in place. Typically, Snowdrop and Sparrow will have full days of school and baby sitters (how are the new sitters? according to Snowdrop, "fun and kind"). But just this afternoon, while school hasn't yet officially opened, there is a window of opportunity. Their mom has a free hour. We arrange for a meetup in the Arboretum.

I've been apprehensive about a get-together of this nature. The kids climb all over me when they're at the farmhouse. Hugs and snuggles, holding hands -- it's all so routine that breaking with those norms has to be weird. Can we even pull it off?

I arrive with picnic blankets, a book, some favorite snacks. The weather map tells us that there will be rain. How unfair is that! All these weeks with no rain and now the skies are threatening to release all that pent up anger!

But no. We are lucky. The clouds come, but they send down no rain.

And how was the socially distanced encounter?

At first, Snowdrop was apprehensive. She would be twenty feet away and anxiously remind me not to come closer. Sparrow? Well, we were outside and his expectations were unformed. I suggested a picture by the fields of goldenrod. Hey, that's familiar! Gogs always take photos by flowers!






It's easy to find empty grassy stretches of parkland here.


 


We put out blankets. I read, they eat.

And then we play tag.










This is not so easy. The purpose of tag is to actually tag someone. We chased each other into safe zones instead.

The thing is, I have plenty of oomph left in me, but Snowdrop is fast! There were times when she forgot the distance requirement. Indeed, there were times when I -- the most vigilant person on the planet with this COVID stuff -- forgot about the distance requirement. Oh, Sparrow, you bumped your head? Let me take a look...

In the end though, it was a very safe trial run. And I had my hand sanitizer to help me correct the mistakes. Well, mostly my mistakes.

I was thinking that the goal here is not to have me relax, in the way that I do at home when they come over. The goal now is for them to relax. To feel some continuity as they begin this very strange new school year. How often will we fit in an outdoors, socially distanced meet up? There's no schedule really. This week is less tight because there isn't school yet. Going forward -- we'll see. However the winds blow, wherever the tide carries us.

Monday - 171st

Many people have trouble with retirement. The abrupt change shakes them up. The sudden isolation,  the lack of structure, the sameness of each day, the boredom -- it can all hit hard.

But for me, the switch to retirement was easy. Most law faculty juggle two substantive areas in their teaching. I was juggling four and two of them were fairly new additions. Keeping up with legal developments was so time consuming that I stopped reading for pleasure. Completely. I just read law. Weeknights, week ends -- it didn't matter. Law and more law. Retirement was one big exhale.

I had a retirement agenda for myself: travel more, read for pleasure, write more.

That agenda lasted exactly one month. Right after I retired, Ed backed out of travel, causing me to rethink my frequent departures. I became less adventures and never stayed away for long. So now it was a retirement filled with farmette work, occasional ocean crossings and plenty of reading/writing.

Then, within a year of retirement, Snowdrop was born.

At first, I would go over to the young family's home (from day one!) and give the parents much needed respite from child care. And when Snowdrop grew to be a year and a half, she started school and I began to bring her to the farmhouse after her mornings at Montessori.

I found that I loved having her here. Ed was around, of course, which gave the place a layer of mischief. But, too, it was our space and integrating her into our setting added a playful whimsy to this place. I began to acquire toys that I thought would suit Snowdrop's temperament. And books -- so many books!

Sparrow began coming here even earlier -- before he even started school. And over time, the front room became 100% her playroom, then their playroom, and the sun room, where Ed and I once ate a winter breakfast, now became their art room, and the living room, mostly free of toys (one has to preserve some order!) nonetheless has stacks of their books and puzzles everywhere. And a toy car, just because they like to occasionally mess with riding it around the living room floor. And a toy whistle, which has been variously used -- to wake up Ed, to announce the closure of the hair cutting salon, and just occasionally to be loud.

Upstairs, the guest room had a crib added (which is now switched to a little kid bed) and within that tiny space (it's a really small room!) we also squeezed in a pack-and-play, so now when Primrose visits or Sparrow stays over, everyone has a safe place to sleep.

Our kitchen has kid dishes and forks and cups everywhere. Our pantry has kid favorites on all the shelves. My grocery deliveries are made with an eye toward them: her beloved fruits, his broccoli cheese puffs, their heart shaped ginger snaps (they always take two each for the car ride home).

In other words, the farmhouse and more importantly, my life after Snowdrop was born (and then Primrose and then Sparrow) was transformed. The kids filled every corner, every little space, and they filled my days, and now the orange couch is their couch and the playroom carpets -- their carpets and my big desk -- their drawing table and I travel less and less and nearly all my days have become farmhouse grandma days.

Then along came COVID -19.

Most grandparents I know suffered terribly when it became clear that seniors are at great risk with this infection. Contact with young families became limited. For grandparents who lived a greater distance, just getting to their kids' and grandkids' homes became impossible. I know many, many granparents who haven't seen their young families since winter.

I was lucky. Both my daughters and their husbands could work remotely. Everyone was within driving distance. So long as the kids weren't going to school and the families could isolate, I was able to be with them. As you know, (because I've said it often enough here!) this now changes. With schools, sitters and work schedules in place, I have to fade to the sidelines. Kids can't come here anymore.

And though I am not complaining -- I've had a wonderful spring and summer --  nonetheless I am noting how abrupt and weird (and yes, sad) the change is for me: everything at the farmhouse is geared to having kids here. The structure remains. Missing are the kids.


The feeling of emptiness is familiar: when each of my daughters went off to college, the abruptness of that change was punishing. In Europe, you're not so cut off from family at the magic moment you enter the university. Most parents and kids do not have to hop on an airplane to see each other. In the U.S., we send our kids off and hope for the best, knowing that it will be a long time before we can reenter their lives in a meaningful way again.

Right now, it's obvious that this mega change in our lives has been brought on by the pandemic. But it is also true that mini changes were already on the horizon. Because Snowdrop is starting public school this year and Sparrow was still to be at Montessori, visits to the farmhouse would have had to have been adjusted. Snowdrop may have wanted more time at home. Sparrow may have rebelled against so much time in the car, scooting between his school, her school, farmhouse and home. I'm just guessing, of course, but it seems likely that the steady drumbeat of kids being dropped off here at the farmhouse most every day of their lives would need an adjustment in a year or two or three.

Still, right now I am lost in their world here of toys, of stacks of books, stacks of drawings (so many flying pigs!), with her babes -- Rosie, Bluebell, Clover, Apple, Moana -- and his "family of three" along with the two Frozen Duplo girls which he loves with a passion.

If I remember correctly from college drop off days, it takes 48 hours for the heaviness to lift somewhat, after which you start counting down the days toward the kids' next visit! So, I'm waiting for the heaviness to lift. Somewhat.


And what's cookin' at the farmette? Well, nothing is the same, even as to the outside observer, nothing has changed. We are bemoaning the disappearance (second day now) of the cat, Friendly no.2. Also, Ed has turned off the water and is attempting to fix the water heater.

We have a late breakfast where I stare sadly at the two flower stems picked yesterday by Snowdrop...






(What's blooming in the garden? A lot of gold!)






And the afternoon? Well, it sprinkled. Not much of a help to the plants out there, but the small weather front matched my mood: gray, with a chance of tears.


In other news -- Ed took on the water heater today. Several leaks and a death sentence.
How old is it? -- the manufacturer's rep asked the other day.
Twenty two years -- Ed replies.
You realize that the life span of these things is about ten year?

My personal views on such things as water heaters in the basement is that when you're nearing seventy and the average life expectancy in this country is low eighties, you should bite the bullet and get that new heater now. This is not Ed's view. He aspires to extend the life of the current leaky machine for another -- oh, I don't know -- week? Year? Decade maybe?

Still, machines are Ed's thing and so I agree to fill a couple of pots with water while he messes with pipes and sealants in the basement. And wouldn't you know it -- he pulls it off! For a week or a year or a decade, we will continue to have hot water.


In the late afternoon, I pull him out for a walk. I need to leave the house so that I can get my mind off of all the books I want to be reading with the kids and art projects I love to watch unfold in the art room.

The bugs are gone for the season and so we head out to our county park. Last time we were here the fields were covered with purple bee balm. Today? Oh, the goldenrod dominates for sure! With a heavy splash of tickseed.











I suggest a selfie. He has a yellow shirt, I have a yellow sweater, we pose before a field of gold.
No, wait, switch sides, he tells me. You're on the lower end of a hill. I'm even taller than normal.

I have to smile at that. Most of you know that Ed and I met on match.com. Except we almost did not meet. I'd put up a profile (you need some wine assist to write good stuff, though not so much that you will regret what you wrote in the morning). He was doing a search, having decided at just exactly the same time as I did that he needed new people in his life. He put in some filters. One stands out: only women over 5 ft 5 inches. Understandable. He's a big guy! Then he decided it sounded better if he wrote 5ft 5 inches or taller.

I stand at 5 ft 5 inches. Had he not edited (on an impulse!) his wording, we would have never met.







(Who needs to pay to walk through cultivated gardens when you have this, for free...)






(Riding the motorbike home, we note that there is that chance of rain. You can see it coming in from the west, right over the new development. Except.... we get nothing from it. Nothing at all. Just a cool breeze and pouting sky.)




So ends the first day of total farmhouse quiet. And here's something that hasn't changed: a Monday dinner of leftovers, a crime drama (though we're hooked on an Australian series at the moment), popcorn.

And here's another thing that never changes: my total love for my kids and grandkids. And of course that guy in the yellow t-shirt, currently occupying more than his fair share of the couch.

Sunday - 170th

I don't care what the calendar says -- when the night temps dip to the low 50s F (about 11C), we're in Fall. When Snowdrop wakes up (having spent the night at the farmhouse with her mom), she tells me -- Gaga, turn down the air conditioning, it's cold!

We moved very quickly from humid and hot to this. Just yesterday we flipped on the AC for a few minutes to cool off the upstairs. Today? Time to reach for a sweater. (Even if it's my sweater!)






I'd fed the cats and checked on the garden.






I can't really save it anymore. It's so dry that I think we just have to let it go. For the most part. (Yes, there are always the flowers that defy everything.)






Breakfast. That lovely meal, today set for four. Snowdrop asks for bread and cherry jam. Bacon. Fruit. Milk. Delivered!






For Ed? Just fruits.






Such a beautiful way to start a day!






And now we have a little bit of everything: we finish the mystery book we had put aside for a few days.






We draw. We play hair cut salon. And we talk about next week.






A new school, remote learning, new baby sitters, only social distanced meetups with Gogs. She protests, of course she does. Deep in my soul, I protest them too. But we do what we have to do.

(One last spin with her babes...)






My daughter takes Snowdrop home for a bit and then they all come back for one final farmhouse meal. It could not be a sunnier, lovelier day. It should be terrifically exciting! Snowdrop should be looking forward to her first school bus ride. Sparrow should be moving up to his second year at Montessori. Instead, we have this best possible effort at normality, patched carefully together by parents, educators, scientists, with the hope that families will be safe and that someday we will all look back at this school year and say -- wasn't that just so weird?! Yeah, we're so glad that we didn't get sick though. And we'll laugh and hug and move on to something far far less weird.


Last farmhouse visit, so lots of photos. Can you stand a dozen more? You're getting a dozen more.

(I'm not sure anyone wants an evening nature walk, but they humor me...)





















(Pre-dinner cheese and roasted beets: a farmhouse standard)






(Spaghetti with squid and shrimp in a tomato preparation: everyone's favorite. And corn. Because it's still August.)


















(Oh, those two....)


 



Last hugs, lots of them. Lots.






(I remember too well when she was just their age...)






(yeah...)





And then an empty house.

Saturday - 169th

It's as if the rain clouds are boycotting where we live. The heat wave passed, some weather front pushed it all away and we have brilliantly cool and sunny days ahead. But we never got a drop of rain.

Needless to say, my morning is spent giving relief to at least some of the flowers. They need the water.

Here's what's still blooming:
















Breakfast is very, very late.






I have a bit of straightening and house fussing before me. This day and the next one truly belong to the young family. We've tried to fit in time for some of the things that wont be possible going forward: a sleepover, a longer visit with my daughter, a Sunday farmhouse family dinner. And so I get ready for their visits.

Here's a welcome pause. FaceTime with my Chicago girl! Almost like being in the room with her!





Almost like eating pretend ice cream popsicles together...



Snowdrop and her mom arrive toward evening. Sparrow stays home today. He hasn't yet the sleepover bug. He'll be here tomorrow.






The little girl and her mom take things slowly, leisurely. There's a lot of hanging out, some reading, some lovely play.






There is, of course, the pizza dinner out on the porch...





















And a movie (Snowdrop refuses anything new: she just wants a replay of old favorites), popcorn...

A glass of wine, maybe a second, trying to remember all that I want to ask now, to find out still, before everyone gets busy and we have to retreat to socially distanced encounters, outside, separated by some invisible wall that seems to me to be very thick and forbidding.

Photos, videos -- should I take more? Here, at the farmhouse? I want to and yet, I want to not think about that part of our life together that plays itself out on a screen. For now, we have the real deal and it is grand.


Late night for me. Windows open, cool breezes, wistful wishes for a gentle end to summer and most importantly, for a gentle fall and winter for my beloved children and grandchildren.