Tuesday - 179th

Poignant changes. If ever there was a theme to the day, this would be it.

And one change that's not so poignant: it is cold today! Really cold! Like, "sweatshirt isn't enough" cold!

Let me unscramble this day for you, just to keep everything straight:

First of all, there is the early wake up. It's still dark-ish outside. It doesn't help that it's a cloudy day, with a constant threat of rain. As I make my way to the car I tell myself -- well it's a good thing the kids aren't standing at the bus stop waiting for the school bus today. Half of them would be down with colds by the end of the week. (Yes, I know you don't get colds from cold weather, but you do weaken your immune response with less sunshine in your life.)

By 7:45, I am at Snowdrop's home. It's her first day of Kindergarten! True, it's all online, but it begins at 8 and it is a full schedule of instruction and group time and individual learning and music and who knows what else. (It is the little girl's fifth "first day" in her life and I've always been there with my camera. I'm not going to change that now!)






I do a two second dash inside to take a picture of Snowdrop at her new "school" desk.






Sparrow is crushed to learn that this is not merely a new set up for their play!






Meanwhile, in Chicago, Primrose, too, is starting her new school year. (It's her third "first day.") Hers is in person. Also on a cold, wet day.

Oh, how schools define us! The teachers we grow to love, others -- not so much. The stumbling blocks, the repetitions, the routines, the recesses and lunch times, the excellence, the boredom, the friendships, the bullies, the quiet corners in the library where you can always find a good book to read. My memories of childhood are nearly all of school. Was there even life outside the classroom?


Back at home now, feeding the cats, waiting for Ed to wake up so that we can have breakfast.






I'm sure you'll have guessed -- the morning meal is in the kitchen.






The rest of the morning is spent on getting the kitties in the writer's shed ready for a transfer to an adoptive home. A futile effort. The person who wrote to us changes her mind at the last minute. Ah well -- we are learning on how to get them ready for this eventual journey, even if it doesn't happen on this cold and blustery day.

And speaking of getting ready -- we thought we'd try out the furnace today. It's good to check out its functioning before a real Arctic blast comes our way. And it worked! For a few minutes. And then it stopped working. And so the rest of the day for Ed is spent on identifying the problem (condensate sensor malfunction), then searching high and low, calling every possible source, trying to find the small needed part to make it work properly again.
What if you can't find it? -- I ask.
Let's not go there... -- his reply.

I lose myself in my computer for a while. I look for photos of kids on FaceBook -- it's always such a beautiful thing to see their "first day" smiles. And I come across a post from a friend (Paul, who does not read Ocean to my knowledge) who is asking for some positivity -- "post a picture you took of the great big beautiful outdoors! No explanation, just post it!"

Since I have never done one of these memes, I hesitate. But it does make me wonder -- if you were to pick a picture that you loved from your own collection of outdoor shots, what would you pick? Without doing a search or giving it much thought, I immediately (and poignantly) recall one of mine that I took some five years back. Maybe it came to me because of the similarity in the weather?





No explanation, no apology, just a smile at a scene where rain and cold air did not detract from the beauty of a day.

Monday - 178th

When I woke up this morning, a cold, gray morning, on this holiday, on this day of rest for the working people of America, I did not realize that it would be a packed day. A supremely busy day. Out of nowhere! It just sort of happened.

Everything began with an early text exchange with my daughter. Before I had even finished my morning walk through the farmette gardens...





... I found myself offering to read to the kids over Zoom and to bake a rhubarb cake for a distanced, outdoor meeting that my daughter had scheduled for the afternoon. We still have a lot of rhubarb in the garden. Let me whip up something yummy for her.

Ed and I eat breakfast while the cake is in the oven.






Done.






A quick trip to the young family's home to deliver the cake, with a sweet peek from one member of the clan as I put the cake down...






... and then a greeting from some of the others...






And now I am back at the farmhouse for our scheduled Zoom reading session, where I do what I often do when both Snowdrop and Sparrow are my audience -- first pick a book he'll like, then switch over to one that she'll want.





Unfortunately, I have to cut off a mystery story before reaching the denouement, because I have, for this early afternoon, a Zoom call with my Polish friends. This group:





We've been getting together like this every two or three weeks since March -- the month I canceled my scheduled trip to Poland. Amazing how life moves forward despite this world health crisis. In this period of zoom calls, we've celebrated a birth of a grandchild, mourned a death of an aging parent, laughed over stories from another child's wedding. Kids have stopped their schooling, then, in Poland, England and Italy where all their offspring reside, schools have resumed in class instruction. Infection rates are low. Cautiously, life moves forward.
 
My grandkids are not yet in school and given the new spike in infection rates, I doubt that they will step inside a real classroom anytime soon. And still, we tell grandparent stories of first days of the school year from the past, because you know, a grandparent has lived through these milestones before. If this year is strange, we have plenty in our storehouse of memories that is so much more normal.

The call ends and I switch back to Zooming with my grandkids here. We're in the middle of a book! We finish it. We add another. And two more. I'm thinking -- I sure have used my vocal chords a lot today!





And now I'm baking again. Ed had looked with longing at the rhubarb cake I made for the young family.
I didn't think you'd want one.
I'd want one.

Here it is -- second for the day, only this one starts out with fruit on the bottom (the first had fruit sprinkled on top). One has to innovate to stay engaged.






Not done yet! I have to do a photo shoot of the kitties in the writer's shed. We want to do a posting of their availability for adoption. We had a good pic of Calico. We need one of Cutie. Maybe this one?






Or, the two sisters, rubbing against our ankles?






Dinnertime. Normally, Monday is a day for leftovers. But why be normal on this unusual Labor Day? Why not bounce out of the ordinary and go with the atypical? How about a mushroom and corn and onion and potato and spinach frittata?

More baking. Finished product:





Phew! Day is done. Gone the sun. Feet up, big exhale, but with a smile.

Sunday - 177th

Such a week! From car, to roof, to the kitchen counter. I've shifted from scrubbing and wiping, to prepping and cooking.

It's a stormy morning and yes, you have to be happy with the rain. We were bone-dry out there in the flower beds, meadows, fields of corn and prairie.

My morning walk up and down the farmette path was quick.






Our breakfast was with the rumble of distant thunder.






Then came the tomatoes: many, many pounds of Romas, which we purchased from our CSA farmer to supplement our own crop of mixed varieties.





I don't do what most cooks prefer to do to preserve them: I don't cook up a marinara sauce. I just wash them, trim them, bag them, and freeze them. For our chili meals, this works well. Still, even this simple storage solution takes time. And immediately after, I shift to cooking Sunday dinner. Oh, it's not the usual farmhouse celebration of the end of the weekend, of family, of food eaten with those you love. It's me fixing some family favorites and taking them over to the young family, for their own evening meal.

We do score one lucky break: the storms recede and we have a bit of warm air, so that we can spend a few minutes sort of together, outside. It's an intense set of minutes. So happy to see them...










But I can't stay, and it is Sunday, and it is all just so unlike every other Sunday, and Sparrow just doesn't get the social distancing requirement. Still, I get to stand my distance and see them and man oh man, I'll take that bit of wonderfulness!





I leave them to their meal and return to eat with Ed. Same meal, played out in two different homes.


Evening: so cool, so suddenly! But of course, it's as it should be: a night chill, a cover over the lap on the couch, maybe a candle, just for the comfort of a twinkle in the room. A glass of wine -- white, from Italy today -- and popcorn.

And here's a grandmother's lament: I sent a note in the mail to Snowdrop and Sparrow last Wednesday (morning). Right into the hands of the mailman it went. Obviously we live very close to these kids, but it was a way to preserve some continuity in our contact with each other. So in case you're one of those skeptics about emergent problems with mail deliveries, guess how long it took for said note to reach them? Answer: well, I couldn't tell you, because they're still waiting.

Saturday - 176th

Of the many things I like about Ed, one trait that stands out is that he has a sound grasp of professional norms for jobs about which I am clueless. For instance, today, as I precariously balanced myself on the glass roof of the porch, he shouted out -- Gorgeous, roofers never move backwards. Ever. Just keep that in mind.

It is true that Ed himself has put down at least one roof in his life (the sheep shed) and has fixed leaks in the farmhouse roof on the rare occasion that one has sprouted, but I can't recall any of his friends being roofers. And yet, he knows. And he is correct, of course and I am grateful for this wise tip, because the porch roof (both the glass panels and the strips of wood holding them down) is very very slippery when wet. You have to know what you're doing when you venture out to do some maintenance up there.

So now you know my day: after a quick survey of the garden...






...and after a very protracted and chatty breakfast (how cool is it in the mornings? Cool enough for me to bring out a throw for my lap!)...






... I had Ed hoist up the hose as I climbed out the bathroom window onto the roof, with rag in hand.

The glass panels get a solid coating of pollen in the late spring and early summer. Rain does not wash it off. You have to scrub them down. In previous years, I'd work with a pail of water and scouring materials, but this year's idea of running the hose up there was brilliant: I could really keep the glass clean as I mopped my way from one panel to the next.

(the view from up there is pretty nice...)






It took more than two hours and I have to admit, by knees are pretty battered. They look like those of a kid just learning to ride a bike. Still, the effort was well worth it!

You have to wonder how long I'll feel myself to be agile enough to take on this task. At 67, I think I exceed the average age of a roofer. When I raise the possibility of someday not being quite up to the job, Ed reminds me that we don't have to scrub the roof.

And that leads me to wonder -- why did I do it? For the next several months, no one, absolutely no one will visit the porch of our farmhouse. No family dinners, no friends flying up for a farmhouse stay, none of that.

And yet, that crystal clear view up to the sky is somehow regenerative, refreshing, and revitalizing. Hi world! We're still here, loving the beauty of the landscape, of the blue sky, waiting for better days for us all...


(looking up, from our perch on the porch...)






In other news, Ed and I hopped on our bikes in the late afternoon, both for the exercise and because it truly is one heck of a gorgeous day. Not many photos for you -- our route is mundane -- to the lake and back again. But it truly is a fine day to be cycling the rural roads of the upper Midwest.











(back home, watching the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees... no moon though!)
















I hope you had time to get outdoors as well. To find that calm that comes from movement and from the warmth of the late summer sun.

Friday 175th

While the pandemic tore at the heart and heartland and soul of the country, while news stories flashed warnings about every calamity that may (or may not) befall us, while parents struggled to educate and babysit their children while at the same time the lucky ones who held jobs tried to actually get work done and keep the household functioning, while the planet reeled from crisis after crisis after crisis, I set for myself today the goal of washing the car.

It is what you do when you are ancient and you can't care for your grandkids and you are isolating yourself at home for day number 175.

Oh, sure. First there were the animals to feed, the flower pots to water, the garden to take note of...

(love that path...)












(Yes, no kidding! Still throwing the rare lily bloom...)






And a nippy breakfast to eat outside (it was 59F, or 15C and we both brought out pillows to sit on, protecting ourselves from chill of the metal chairs).






The purpose of the car wash was not to shine it up in any way. After thirteen Wisconsin winters, it's pretty rusty. It will never look grand again. But the inside -- ah, the inside! I remember before Snowdrop was born, reading a book about how French children eat meals and only meals. They do not snack, they aren't bribed with food, they expect to occasionally be hungry and to look forward to all forms of vegetables and meats and stinky cheeses, to be eaten politely at the family table. The author compared such habits with our own, as exemplified by the interior of the typical family car. Ours was likely to have crumbs, cheerios and sticky candy pieces lodged in every crevice of the back seat. French cars, I read, have none of that.

I don't remember how the car looked when my kids were growing up. I do know that I was never big on unhealthy snacks, but the line between healthy and unhealthy is subjectively and sometimes inaccurately drawn, and I'm sure I erred on the side of goldfish crumbs rather than clean car seats. [Too, I have seen lots of French kids nibble on baguette tips on the way home from a bakery, so I do cast some doubt on the author's claims that snacks, eaten in transit ne sont pas faites (are not done) in France.]

With the grandkids, I vowed to do even better!

That was before I was charged with picking up two starving tykes after school every day. And before I was the one taking them home every day this summer. And before Snowdrop fell in love with croissants first, then apples, then the teething biscuits which her brother devoured with the speed of a hyena. And before tiny ginger snaps came to be popular lures to get them to the car for the summer ride home.

Today I cleaned out all that debris, along with the leaves and wood chips and picked dandelions and everything else that seemed to have made it into the car over the past... well, probably several years.

Job done, Ed and I set out for a hike.

It's a gorgeous, sunny day -- the kind that defines the autumnal beauty of this month in Wisconsin (in the years that it doesn't rain every single September day... we've had years like that!). The Ice Age Trail is a twenty minute drive for us, but it's worth it. If not now, then when?

Follow along with us! The fields of corn, the golden rod, tickseed and black eyed susans, the gently fading birch leaves -- all amazingly beautiful!































(the view...)












(pure gold...)






(the corn is as high as an elephant's eye...)






I realize when we come back that this pretty much ends the first week of not baby sitting for me. I've done nothing unusual or new. I did not reach for new recipes, I did not resume yoga (unless you call vacuuming the deep crevices of the car yoga), I haven't resumed my writing (Ocean doesn't count), or reading (the mystery books on my night stand don't count), I've not readied the garden for the winter season, or studied much of anything in great depth (except the number of sunny hours in various corners of the world, just because Ed and I found this to be an interesting topic of discussion lately).

And that's okay. I transitioned. We'll see what next week will bring.

Evening? The usual, beautiful quiet of a stir fry meal, prepared in the same old way. Just because it's easier that way. With cauliflower, corn, and a handful of other things found in the veggie bin.

Have a good holiday weekend. Be mindful and kind.

With love.

Thursday - 174th

You know how you tell your kids that all one can do is try? You want to acknowledge their struggle, tell them that they wont be marked by success as much as by their own efforts. Don't look at a super pig picture and tell me it's imperfect. Show me how passionately you worked on it and I will be enraptured!

I thought about all this today as I continue to admire the efforts of so many to make this a good year despite, well, everything.

(morning garden walk: early fall always looks to me like a Seurat painting)





















(breakfast)






And I thought about effort as I went off in the morning for an outdoor, socially distanced visit with Snowdrop.

Since school has yet to start, the little girl hasn't a schedule and so we decided to log in such a visit now, while things are still loosey goosey for her. We considered the impact: is it disruptive? Does it offer continuity and reassurance? Are we over-worrying it?

The answer is -- who knows. We decide to give it a go. The run in the park was okay -- it normalized social distancing, but it didn't offer any of the stuff that Snowdrop and I share in our years of time together. Sparrow -- he's tougher to appease now. What he wants from me is harder to deliver. He does not get social distancing. At all. I can only offer walks, where some adult is holding tight to his little hand. But Snowdrop gets the distance metric and she seemed okay with it and so I pack a bag of stuff -- sticker sets, favorite old books, some new ones, her special art paper and favorite markers, a bowl of peaches and strawberries.

Clouds roll in, but there will be no rain and indeed, as the morning progresses, the sun comes out and warms our landscape and our souls.

Snowdrop comes out and she is on her blanket and I am on mine, and the breeze is so strong! We put rocks on all corners to keep the blankets from whisking us away into the high heavens!






She plays with her sticker set, I watch. Ed had asked me why Zoom is only second best, why a child can't be satisfied with just that much of you. Well, it's because of this: the wind that you both feel on your faces, the warmth of the sun when it does come out...






I read one old book and a whole new one and then I start in on a third and she switches to art on her favorite paper...






... and yes, it's super pigs and as she tells it -- they're having a picnic on a blanket and it's windy for them as well, just like it is for us!






We could stay there far longer, but it's lunch time and I know there is a sitter switch that's to take place and so after a couple of hours, I hustle her off and pick up the pieces of our morning together and head for home.

And yes, in the end, the departure is upsetting to her, but I have to think that expressing sadness is a good thing, no? The change for her in March and now again in September, has been huge. For Sparrow too, but his age makes him more resilient: a toddler's world is always changing. His mom and dad and his sister are his anchors. Everything else is fluid. (I had to smile last year when we all traveled together across the ocean and I looked at him and tried to guess what was in his head and I'd come with such possibilities as -- "oh! We are living here in this little house in Wales, with a castle out the window. Okay. I guess this is my new life now!") To be sad is normal. And still, a grandchild's sadness breaks your heart.

But, we're all trying. We are. You and me, in our new lives, where there is far too much out there that hammers at you and shouts at you to give up, we don't give up at all. We keep on trying.


In other news -- well, Ed and I hopped on the motorbike and made our way to Stoneman's for a last purchase of corn this year. I got two dozen ears, who knows why. It's me, wanting to keep that summer season going, as if we were still plotting our next wading pool splashing session and setting the table for a porch family dinner with everyone.






The late afternoon sun is so warm! Ed and I take a walk. Our goal? I suppose you could say to trespass on neighbor's land. I have trepidations. How is this permissible? -- I ask.
You don't understand these cultural norms: we're investigating.
Isn't it the norm that the owners could take a gun and shoot at us?
Nope! We're checking out new neighbors, that's all.
You mean like with a "welcome to the neighborhood" basket, except without the basket?

In truth, the new neighbors (across the road, not part of the new development) haven't even begun building their new home. And there is no indication of ownership. We knew the previous owners of the land. Nothing shouts out that this is now someone else's tract of land. And so we scale the hill, admire the new gravel road and walk over to the neighboring conservancy land.

At least here, we're on firmer ground: we've been very much a part of the effort to transform this to educational organic farming plots.

(looking out over the wetlands which this year are not very wet...)






At home again, I have video chats with grandkids. If I said it's not as good as the real deal, I must quickly add now that it's a pretty damn good filler for what could have, should have been.










We all keep trying. Really hard. With love pushing us forward.


Evening. Ed and I resume our talk of travel. Somehow, now that neither of us can go anywhere at all, talk about very distant places is on the table again. Go figure!