morning, noon, night

At four (in the morning), I can’t sleep. Too much to do. I’m thinking – if I start attending to it now, the load would be easier. But I haven’t the energy and so I drift from computer, to half sleep, to a wakeful conversation with Ed on the subject of a couch. Random, right? But we’ve been going around this for a while: is it good to have a couch in what appears to be the sunniest room in winter – the south facing front room? It is a theoretical discussion: I have no funds nor great desire to fund even the cheapest couch. But it’s a challenge, too – how cheap would the cheapest acceptable couch cost? It's a game that Ed and I so often like to waste time playing. (Answer: $469, yet again at Walmart.com. I hate that Walmart always comes in ahead of the pack.) Ed’s ideas come in cheaper, but they’re (in my book) rather off the wall: throw pillows on the floor. Buy a stained piece of junk off of Craiglist. Inflate something. You’re not credible – I tell him. It’s a juxtaposition of who we are: the guy who will eat ramen, me – who prefers the fresh and honest.

The light just outside the windows is strengthening. I look toward the east. Ed – it’s such a pretty sky! I should take a photo...
From where?
It’s a problem. I haven’t the oomph to chase a sunrise. I take another look out the window. I could climb out on the roof...
Is it iced over?

Can’t tell... Looks alright.

Go for it.

I’m in a state of...nighttime underdress!

A few seconds on the roof – you can handle it.

It is freakishly disconcerting: the slope is significant enough for me to feel off balance. Or is it the weirdness of being up there, cold, barefoot and bare armed, gripping with my toes the asphalt tiles of the roof of the farmhouse?






Eventually the sun climbs higher. Time to pack up and fire up Rosie.  Classes start early for me today.






This day is perhaps the peak of intensity: classes – the first, the second, the third, interspersed and followed by endless office hours, as students try to add the finishing touches to their written work.

I take a coffee break – yes, I have to. Today is the free extra espresso shot at the University Bookstore coffee stand and I am so happy to go down the hill for it.

It is a lovely day, by the way. In case anyone noticed. Some made good use of it.






I leave my office when the sun has already set. By the time I am near the farmette, the sky is just ever so faintly aglow.





But you know, it was a deeply satisfying day, too. For the “busiest day of the year,” I did okay by it. And I talked to my mother who was surprisingly happy. I had sent her photos of my daughters for her birthday. She is 88 years old today. For once, I had no doubt that I did something that brought a smile to her face.

a time of sunsets

Has it come to this? The best that I have to offer is an image of the receding sun over the harvested corn fields? With a farmhouse and silo in the distance?






Yes, unfortunately. Just that. When I am focused on work, nothing during the day seems photographable or blogworthy. Only when I finally shut down the computer in my office and close the door behind me does it become possible to notice the day. Even as, for the most part, it will have passed me by.

I stop at Whole Foods to buy fruits and veggies – we’re so low on them!  I throw down groceries at the farmhouse and proceed to the café where Ed is already waiting. In that seven minute drive from farmhouse to café, the sun moves from over the horizon to below the horizon.






I’m late and in any case, Ed is in the wrong place at the wrong time, but finally we are settled into the café couch, he, ready for a nap, me, ready for a pick me up. You okay? Yes, you?


Yes, okay. Just that for now, but “okay” on a hard day surely is a good thing.

family

A commenter said – and I paraphrase – it’s good that your husband likes to do things around the house.

I think that her husband is a lobsterman.

I want to say – but Ed has never brought home lobster for dinner! Indeed, Ed is not the type that’ll fix dinner at the end of a long day (my long day). And he is not the marrying type. Hasn’t been from birth, he’ll tell you.

And yet, the house is rapidly turning yellow.






The sky – so luminous again! Verging on storminess, then clearing, then not, then -- who knows, who can tell...






Our café is closed this afternoon and so we head out elsewhere for coffee, continuing on to Home Depot – the place where we had spent many a free day just a few seasons back. Familiar. I like that.


There was a lot about this weekend that could be improved upon, but not this – not the sense of quiet contentment. Returning home after Home Depot, we saw her, out in the harvested corn fields...






At home, we unpacked more cans of paint and a new snow shovel. Ed worked late into the evening again...





... and I grumbled about him wearing torn, dirty painter’s pants to dinner. My daughter and her guy came, we ate, they left and now – I have time to take stock of the good stuff.

Always, at the end of the day, one should take stock of the good stuff.

house

I never left it today, this home of mine. Home of his. This home.


Isis woke us up early, say, maybe 4, 4:30 and demanded entry... then exit. I tried hard to ignore him, but I couldn’t – what with the moonlight streaming in. So I followed him out.

I'll just take a photo or two – I said to Ed.

A quick walk down the stairs, a reach into a closet to pull some coat like thing on and I’m out, with camera, looking at the long shadows. Isis has decided to stick by me for the photographic moment.

But it’s short lived. The moon is bright, but I can’t quite focus. The camera is fine, I can’t quite focus my mind on the project. So I lean the camera on the picnic table, grumbling all the while as Isis nudges against me, against the camera, just for that rub against the cheek.A quick photo of the eerily bright house and I'm done.






Daylight. It’s a bright and pretty Saturday, but I’m inside most of it. Friends stop by and we talk and Ed paints and really, the day has a way of passing quickly under such circumstances.






After, I help Ed scrape flaking paint on the south end and we talk briefly about the future of the house except I get tired of its future and so we focus on scraping and painting and finally it grows dark and we go inside.

day, night

End of a busy week. Check in on life again. Pick up loose ends. Make calls, read articles. Start writing finals. Water plants, sweep front walk. All from the quiet of the farmhouse.





A commenter asks me if, in the end, the larger TV was worth it. Let me say this: some great steps forward and a few slight ones back. The tuner is weaker and therefore we need to exert ourselves to get reception for, say, public TV. We have to position the antenna just so (we do not subscribe to cable). I thought we were done with positioning antennas. And, too, Ed has spent saintly hours (considering he didn’t want the bigger set) fiddling with wide screen v. normal screen v. who knows what shape screen adjustments. At one point I almost said – lets take it back and go back to little Toshi. A TV should not be this complicated. I didn't say it though. I don't regret not saying it.

Upshot? Well, Ed just leaned over and said – you know some of the not so good movies we bring home from the library? They look less not so good on the big screen... Make of that what you will.


The snow has disappeared. It’s cold, but I think the snow decided it’s going to hide for a little while more. I walked the farmette land, taking note of the squash in the field to the north, wondering if it is left behind...






...wondering, too, if the hole in the barn roof will let in snow... and admiring the last of the color of the few trees that haven’t shed their pretty leaves yet.






It struck me that the farmhouse looks bigger from this corner. It looks finished and yellow. Something about the angle (it's actually only half painted and after tomorrow, we're putting away the brushes; it's getting too cold)...






Isis comes out, but only for a minute. As the air turns frosty, he hides indoors.






At the café, we stay until closing. I work on my little Apple, Ed dozes off over comics from the local paper. As we pack up to go home, Bill, the café dad, reminds me – full moon. You and Ed should take note of it. (It's actually the day after, but to us mortals, it looks the same.)

How could we miss it! It’s huge, there over the fields as we drive home. November moon.





Let me pull over, I tell Ed, moving the car slightly off the narrow road. We look at the moon and I consider how best to take its picture without a tripod (I don’t own one). A truck rolls to a stop next to us. An older man leans out. Ed waves him on. No no, just taking a photo.

Just wanted to make sure you folks weren’t having car trouble. Oh, I see. The moon.

Exactly right.

He drives off, we’re left there at the side of the road – Ed and I and the Beaver Moon. Frosty Moon.

true colors

The sunset last night was fantastic. A faint layer of cloud created an orange glow – sort of like a tropical mandarin drink, with a whole mandarin swimming in a punch bowl. I didn’t take out my camera because I wasn’t in a pretty location for it. I thought – there are so many pretty things in the course of the day that you see, you note and you have to quickly let go of.

There’s a little bit of snow still on the ground today. A handful of winter, sown on empty fields.





It’s settling down now, life is. And that’s a good thing. Fast pace is great for a marathon. Not for the everyday life of a person hunkering down for the next season at the farmette.

picture perfect

I wake up when it is still dark, but I know we’re getting a whipping out there. It’s not the sound of raindrops, it’s the sound of a thousand lashes. Sheets of rain, sheets of something.

I get back to my paper grading. The light comes in, slowly, tentatively. I look out the window on Ed’s side. I know that stuff! Cold, wet snow.





It’s always thrilling to get that first thin layer...


 


...To imagine digging out some time soon. To think of the ski trail just down the road. To forsee a landscape of thick powdery white stuff.

For now, it’s just an introduction.






And downtown, it’s only a wet, unlikable mess. I look out onto Bascom Mall and watch the usual march of students braced for the worst.





Students. Which reminds me. My students. It’s their turn now. I’m done grading and commenting (for a bit). They’re working on what I gave them, I exhale.

...And eventually I'll catch up on groceries, on house cleaning, on planting the last of the bulbs – all that was on hold for several weeks and weekends now.

But first, we, Ed and I, have our wonderful moment of respite at the café. It’s a brief spell of quiet, because within minutes we're at it -- gnashing over the central issue of our lives:

I would really like to pick it up today. To celebrate my finished paperwork!

Must we?

Yes, it's there, at Walmart’s. Ship to store. Arrived and ready. We paid for it.

I don’t really want a bigger set.

It’ll be beautiful. Consumer Reports said so.

Bigger, everything has to be bigger. Why do you want bigger...

Let’s try it.

How much do you really want it?

On a scale of 1 to 10?

Yes...

7.

Funny, for me it’s 3.

So we’re a complete 10!

Ed threatens to tell Bill that I am lusting for a bigger TV. Bill is Paul's, the café owner’s, dad. He’s here every day, helping out. He and Ed share a dislike for any number of things, including consumer spending.

Don’t tell Bill! 

You're embarrassed, aren't you?

I am... Of course I am. Besides, you know he’ll side with you.

Side with what? – this from Paul as he comes from the kitchen.

Oh, Ed and I are continuing our four year disagreement.

I explain the issue.
...I’m with you, Paul says to me. Movies these days are about the visuals.
Bill comes in and, to my shock, he backs me up as well. Get it, enjoy it, it’s not a big deal.
Ed looks crestfallen.
I’m an 8 now, Ed! I say, glowing.
That’s interesting because I’ve just slumped to a 2.

We drive to Walmart’s. We pick up the set. 37 inches! Twice that of the current one! I think of the nature shows we so often watch. Finally vivid. Vibrant. Luminous.
Ed’s scowling.
We wheel the set out, pausing at the cash register to pay for cartons of mineral water (which are almost as cheap here as it is at Woodman’s).
The salesclerk is pleasant, friendly.
An early Christmas present? She asks.

No, no, not that.

Ed grunts.

Don’t mind him. He’s grumpy. He doesn’t want the set.

It’s big. Too big. Do you have a TV set this big? Ed asks.

Actually yes...I have eight sets. Two of them are bigger. Fifty-five's.
Ed throws up his hands.

At home, the snow is nearly melted. Ed climbs on the roof to take down cans of paint. It’ll be cold tonight. Indoors, he works to connect the set. I eat soup from a box. We watch a library movie -- An Education, then Nova.

Gorgeous.

drops of rain

A wet day, a rain saturated day, so that there is no more room for all the moisture – it hangs, suspended.






Suspended. Everything is that right now. This period of early November, work-wise, is the most intense period of the year for me. A day or so more, then balance will be restored.

A rainy day. That’s fine. It would be so much tougher to turn my back on a deliciously bright, sun splattered late fall day.

home game

I know I keep thinking and saying here that this is going to be my last bike ride to work. Surely the month of November will require a commuting adjustment. But today, the blue skies pushed me to pedal once again. Last time! Really. I’m sure of it. I think.






And here, look how close to winter we are right now. I biked under this new display.






Oh, but the blue of the world around me! This is what makes Wisconsin so sublime, even in the off months. The sky. The great blue sky, so often cloudless. Expansive. Awe inspiring.






The post-work return trip – now that’s tougher. Even though I leave campus early – shortly after three, the sun is rapidly losing its warmth. It’s getting more like November. The blues cease to dominate. I pick up the pace just to get through the hour ride before it gets unpleasant out there.






I meet Ed at the café, but I ask him to come by car so that we slide the bike on the rack and drive home.

Home. Today, after a long period of wondering where home is, it's settled. Home is here. Home is the farmhouse. Here's where I'll stay.

evening walk

For a good while I thought that the day’s post would begin and end with a photos of what I see from my bedside window. Yes, it’s a pleasant little view, especially now, when the colors are still so bold and beautiful...





...and it is especially easy to snap a photo now that the screens are down so that Ed can climb in and out to do his upper story painting. (When I don’t leave him stranded... Yes, well, I apologized!)

The rest of the day is spent on reading and commenting on student papers. Truly, October and November are tough. The work never ever goes away.

But as we get closer to dusk and I realize I have taken no more than two steps in any particular direction, all within close proximity to the couch, I rebel.

Walk, I need to walk. Come with me!

Ed balks. For me, the couch has become the enemy. For him, it is a pleasant place to while away a leisurely day reading.

It’s still not too cold outside. Come on, let’s go to the fields and watch for animals..

A walk in the country is always full of cool surprises. The wind, warm, but spirited, knocks us around a bit, but I am quite happy to have its force against me. It's invigorating!

The sun is setting. Its colors come through vividly now that the trees are mostly bare.





There are no animals to be seen. No deer, no furry beasts. The cornfields that line the forest where they so often play are being harvested. Loudly.  Sunday or not, like my papers, corn stalks can’t wait. They are dry now. Out they come.





We walk further – along the Rustic Road...





...All the way to the Nature Conservancy Trail, there behind those trees, illuminated by the moon now...





Finally, we turn around, retreating toward home. Any animal encounters? No, not really. One black cat, a few distant turkeys. As we approach the corn fields, the machines are still at work, aided by headlights now...





For me, country walks are never ever dull. At home -- eh... I return to grading while Ed naps. There'll be a dinner break. Surely at least that. Sigh...

from markets to rooftops

Hey, let’s salute the farmers! Because it is the end of the season – the last day of the outdoor market and oh, do I ever appreciate all that they have brought to my table the past seven months! So – thank you, men and women of the farmlands. I see you working every day, here, from the farmhouse. The rewards – for us, market shoppers, farm field watchers – are sublime.

So thank you.


















It’s a weekend of tremendous amount of work for me and I dare not take many pauses. The market – yes, that. And in the afternoon, I shout up to Ed, who is on the roof, scraping the cedar siding on the high dormers – hey! Break with me for the café!
Yeah, sure, in a little bit...

No, now! The café closes in a few minutes!

Can it be in ten?

I’ll go over and order our stuff. You come in ten.

I’m at the café. They pour coffee, they pour soup for Ed. No Ed.
The doors close, the last customer comes and goes.
My phone rings. It’s Ed. Where the hell are you?
When you leaned out the window to call me? After, you closed and locked the window. Making it difficult for me to get down.

Oops.

I take soup home, Ed and I sit at the table and talk... about buying a TV. I miss the moments with the big screen.
We look at Consumer Reports, we select the cheapest in its category...
This is the third attempt to reach a decision on a bigger TV set. The last two went back (we purchased one four years back and of course, another just four weeks ago). We’re going to give it one more try. For Thanksgiving. If we can’t find pleasure in the purchase, the bigger TV idea will be shelved for good.

And then it’s back to work for me. Papers to read, to critique, endless endless papers. Was it nice outside today? Wish I remembered. I read that it was the last warm(ish) day of the year. Okay, fine. Hope you enjoyed it.

beads of frost

Frosty morning. I admire flowers that hang in there. They are few and far between. This is the tail end -- no more pinks and reds, frosted or otherwise, until next spring.





I’m working at home today. I watch the sun move from one end of the farmhouse to the other, I listen to the sounds outside. Isis comes in, Isis goes out. Ed’s at Tormach, doing his Friday Tormach thing. Work, work. Can I pause now for lunch? For coffee? Work, work.

The sun is definitely more to the west than to the east now. Ed calls. Done! Meet me at the café in an hour.

I walk to the Oasis. It’s not a beautiful walk – mostly along county roads and more busy rural connecting roads, but I want to move. The "work, work" thing has made me feel stale and stagnant. Three miles. One hour. Pick me up on the road when you pass! I tell Ed.

He’s late. I walk, on and on. But it’s okay! On a day when the sun is out and the frost has long melted, walking’s good, walking’s calming, walking’s revealing.





Finally, we’re at the café. Not for long. Enough for Ed to lose his socks, lose his credit card – all that. But I have a date with my daughter downtown and so I must get going. A burger night.






An evening to think about something other than work and farmhouse living. A city night. Over a medium rare patty at Graze. Mmmmm

...that countryside

It’s the things you don’t expect that’ll run you down. Not the stuff you worry about. When I moved to the farmhouse back in April I worried about issues that are laughable now. Mice. I was sure I’d be fighting endless families of mice. After the removal of one fat mouse – the one that kept coming back for the same peanut butter trap again and again – pfft, gone. No more mice.

The bugs that were so everywhere during the years the house stood abandoned – not a problem. We redirected the ants and sealed away (most of) the box elder beetles.

Isis – such an issue initially! Now we have a vacuum for the hairs he leaves behind and a motion sensor to tell us when he wants to come in (nearly every evening). He doesn’t really enjoy sharing a bed and so when he overnights, after a while, he’ll retreat to the couch. He used to retreat to the guest bedroom, to spread out on the double bed there, but a closed door and a shake of my head put a stop to that. Really Isis. People who sleep there could be allergic to cats. Stay away from there.

Commuting has been made better by the palate of choices: biking to work when I have the time and weather on my side, Rosie when I have weather on my side, and the red hot lover (the car, people, the car!) when I have neither.

Winter is the remaining unknown mystery. The roads, the ice, the shoveling – we’ve yet to work that out. But the joy of farmhouse living is absolutely in place. Bring on the snow, I say. I’m soon to have a Farm & Fleet shovel.

My mother, herself elderly, throws in an occasional tsk tsk as she wonders out loud how an older woman (and I will be that, in case I'm not there yet) could manage alone in a farmhouse. So maybe I should worry, but I don’t. There's Ed. Or, in the alternative, maybe I'll be like the old Mrs Larson who once grew up in this farmhouse but now lives alone across the road. Maybe she has a cat or dog in her lap and a TV turned up loud.  You’ll need to drive! -- I’m warned. Okay, so I’ll drive with both hands on the wheel peering over my spectacles, going just under the speed limit and occasionally forgetting to turn off the turn signal. And besides, by then, this area will be developed. We are way too close to Madison to imagine that there’ll always be farm fields to the side. There'll be buses and/or trolley cars. Or something.

So I’m set. Maybe. Unless a bird falls from the sky, hits overhead wires in the wrong way and causes the place to go up in flames (I read a case with this exact fact pattern today!). You never know.



In other news, I want to highlight the flowers that are stubbornly hanging in there...





And I want to remember another thing: the way the sunlight still streams into the café as we sit there late in the day, waiting for it to close.





After this week-end, we’ll be leaving when it’s dark.

Finally, I also want to remember that the fields that I pass in the morning are entirely differently toned after sunset. It’s one of the most unexpected pleasure of living at the farmhouse: each vista, each vignette present itself differently at each hour of the day.

the only truth I know...

Oh the drizzle of the rain... A wet day. Not freezing. Some of the annuals haven't collapsed yet.






Looking at the farmhouse from the road, I think about how insignificant its color is right now, given that the trees in front are so vividly gorgeous.





(In the back as well. Fiery red there...)






Afternoon. Raining hard now. We are sitting in the café, me with a stack yea high of work, but I’ve dropped it on the floor because Ed and I are embroiled in a heated banter on the subject of moral imperatives. The café owner, a hugely tolerant fellow who typically is happy to see us, is hinting we should tone it down a bit. Other customers may think we’re flinging harsh language at each other.

We’re not. But Ed on the subject of relativism can become quite animated.

It’s funny that I should debate him on this, because there was a time where I would have said “amen, me too.” But, these days, I look around me and I think – no, not so relative. I see gentle and I think – gentle is good. No harm there. No harm is good. And I swear, Ed, in his life that leans so consistently toward the gentle surely doesn’t quite mean his own words. And so we banter. Until the café closes and I pack my papers and we head home.


I’ll make the chili, I tell him. But he’s asleep already. Isis comes in and joins him. I stir turkey meat and onions and tomatoes and cumin, beans, garlic and chili powder. It’s a good meal to have on a stormy and long day. Ed wakes up, we eat, watching Modern Family on the tiny 19 incher.