wild Wednesday

The hour before the sun rises is, in my mind, the prettiest one out here, at the farmette. The gentle colors, wisps of mist caught in crevices of barren fields, a delicate frost in the cold seasons – it’s all rather breathtaking.

But on teaching days I haven’t the time to really take note. If I wake up early, I pick up my laptop and get going. Emails, lecture notes, the usual stuff.

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the rules change. I haven’t formal lectures today. Work can wait. I look out the east facing windows. Isis is purring somewhere at the foot of the bed. Who let you in? Never mind, I know.

I pull on sweatpants and a jacket and go outside. Frost has again covered the fields beyond the orchard.





I take Rosie out of the garage shed. She starts easily enough, but the cold is fogging the helmet face shield. The rearview mirrors, too, are icing over. Have to be careful on the pavement. Easy to slide on a day like this.

There is no traffic on the rural roads. Not at this hour. Just a beautiful sense of peace, quiet, and a muted pink beginning to a day.





I go further – toward Lake Waubesa. Past empty fields, past bare trees and leaning mailboxes.





I’m feeling the cold. I remembered gloves this time, but the air is bracing! Can’t be more than 25.

Oh, but it’s worth it! The lake is as if Monet had painted it.





The mist lingers, delicately shielding the waters from the first blast of orange light.





I don’t stay for the sunrise. I’m happy with this mellow predawn sky. I don’t want it to be upstaged.

As I turn the motorbike around, I hear the blast of gunfire. It reverberates across the lake, as if someone was shooting toward the other side. Deer hunters, for sure.

I head back home past the fields that so often tempt the deer to come out of the forests here, even at this most dangerous for them time of the year. Yes, they’re out.





I’m at a distance, but they see me. They wait, watching intently. I try not to move and perhaps that is warning enough. They turn back and saunter toward the forest.

Just around the bend from the farmette is my favorite spot and here, I almost always see deer. Yes, she’s here.





I linger, but only for a little while. My youngest one and her boyfriend are coming for an early breakfast. I have things to bake. Whipped eggs with leeks, spinach, sausage, on a potato pancake. Apple puff pastries.











I’m working in the kitchen with an eye out to the birds that still come to our trees outside. But wait, what’s that coming up the woodchip path?

Oh, it’s a wolf!

He comes toward the house as if he were a pet, a welcome guest! I grab the camera but I know I wont get him – he has a determined gait. Past the house, into the fields. My shot, from behind the screened window barely catches his furry tail. (Ed later laughs and tells me it’s like a photo of a UFO. Here’s the evidence! Some evidence...)

You can’t have seen a wolf. A you sure it wasn’t a dog?

I know the difference between a wolf and a dog. That thing was huge! And his tail...

We check the Internet. Yes, over the years there have been wolf sightings outside of the city. Add mine to the list. I let Isis out and he immediately sniffs the path followed by the wolf. You be careful, you hear? – I tell him.


Pre-Thanksgiving morning. How gorgeous is this day! I take a few photos and I suppose I could post one of us gallantly sitting around the farmhouse table, but I like this one best. She’s telling a story. Or maybe reacting to one. He’s amused. I’m amused too.






Later in the day, my girl and I have a coffee break at the café. Now is the time to catch up. And we do.





At home, I throw a load of laundry Last minute preparations. The farmhouse will be full. Two nights of guests. Things are clean, ready, but I need this one last load.

What’s this? A puddle? A huge puddle in the basement! Ed!

We have a backup in the sewage pipes. Oh oh, Ed frowns. I wonder if the willow roots finally broke through the pipes leading to the septic system... He plunges coils into the old pipes – nothing. His friend comes over with more sophisticated rooter coils, cables, cameras. 80 feet into the pipe, he finds a blockage. Tree roots. You really should've taken down that willow, he tells Ed. (Ed loves the grand willow that hangs over the driveway; he’s been avoiding the inevitable, hoping that he can stall that huge project for a while yet.)

I return to the kitchen and take stock: without water, cooking and baking have stalled. I can only hope that the roots are small. Removable for now. That we’ll have water. That the meal will go forward.

To be continued. Tomorrow.

tuesday

It used to be, in years past, that I kept long lists of small things I needed to attend to each day. My lists are shorter now, but the items seem bigger. Address student needs (with a sublist that is frighteningly complicated). Teach one class, then another, then another. Shop for Thanksgiving dinner. Prepare house for two days of family visits. Get Ed to take out three weeks of mail from the mudroom bench. Beg Ed to wear clean jeans in the days ahead. I mean, these items are huge!

They fall on this day, this Tuesday before Thanksgiving. And I saw it coming. (I want to know – why do we toss and have trouble sleeping before days that require the most from us?)

No matter. It’s not as if anyone would be lusting to be idling outside. Here’s what it looks like just to the west of the farmette. A tractor working the fields adds a drop of scarlet to the otherwise ghostly landscape.





It's hard to revel in fields that match the color of the bare trees, that match the color of the skies, that match the color of most everything within eyesight.

The day ends, as usual, at the café. I push aside thoughts of lists and work and dark prewinter landscapes and concentrate on the essentials: a late evening “lunch” of a peanut butter and jam sandwich, a strong cup of coffee and ... nothing more than that.

back and forth

Tom Sawyer was wrong. What can I say – he missed an opportunity. Remember the very early pages where he is whitewashing a picket fence? A punishment for him and so he tries to hand the task over to others? Mistake. Lesson for me this week: enjoy the utter simplicity of running that brush one way, then back again. The journey.


I couldn’t do any of that today. Early in the day I dusted off Rosie and set off to campus.

Damn cold out there! Deceptive sunshine of a Wisconsin winter(like) day! Still, it is a beautiful ride! If I hit the hour exactly right, I avoid the toughest traffic. It is like a sail along a vast and empty byway into town. Surely one of the last of this year’s rides. And one of the most satisfying.


Fine. The day passes. I’m anxious to get home. If it was cold in the morning, it’s colder now. I ride Rosie around a different edge of the lake.





 Lovely colors. Cold in the thighs.


I pull up the dirt driveway of the farmette. Leaves scatter. I love the way the motorbike suddenly hits the woodchip stretch that leads to the garage shed. It means I am home.

Ed’s there with a can of paint.
It never got anywhere near 48, he tells me.





And yet he’s done a huge amount. The east side is nearly all yellow!

I put away Rosie and we drive in the warmth of the Red Hot Lover to the café.  The car's old, but it can still spit out the heat. A beater with a heater, Ed will say.

I’m sorry I didn’t help paint toward the end. Running the brush, back and forth, dabbing at the deeper crevices in the cedar boards.

from tropics to reality

Last night I attended a dinner party where the guests where all about half my age. Since my daughters are in that demographic, I am not entirely unfamiliar with the ways and habits of that world, but still, it’s rare that I sit at a table and banter along with people who think it’s quaint that there was once a life without cell phones.





Ed was invited as well, but if you put Ed outdoors for several hours, then sit him down to a plate of warm and filling food, there is absolutely no chance that he will keep his eyes open after the last bite. May as well leave him home with the cat, where they can both purr at the bliss of lying on the floor undisturbed by the human kind.

The dinner was billed as a Hawaiian themed event – to chase away the blues (or, more accurately, grays) of the season and I swear the message with the invite suggested Hawaiian attire. I’m not one to dress up, but I did unearth a very colorful Mexican embroidered shirt which, at a pinch, could be regarded as tropical.

I was surprised then to see that no one gave even a nod to the Hawaiian theme. Not even the hosts. When I asked how come, they smiled indulgently, as if to say – most people know that you don’t follow goofball advice about how to dress for a dinner party.


After the dinner, I stepped outside and took in the city lights against the darkness of the lake before me. So different from when I pedal or roar past these waters in the light of the work day! I'd post a photo, but, I don’t want to end on a gloomy note. Bad enough that I have to end on a cold note.

...because this morning, Ed and I were out early scraping, painting – working hard to make progress on the east side of the house – and then, shortly after noon, just after I mentioned to Ed that I was running low on Caribbean sunshine yellow, he came over to my spot and asked – aren’t you cold?
No, not especially. Stroke, paint, dab, stroke, paint...
Well I am.
A first. And he was right to notice that the temperatures were falling. We were two degrees upwards of the “no paint zone.”

Reluctantly, I followed him indoors.
I should work on my exams, I say to him.
Come, watch a movie with me.
We do. I can’t remember the last time I watched something in the middle of the day. An eerie, but not altogether unpleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

November notes

This is November. This unexpectedly (or perhaps what should have been expected even if it was not predicted) gray day teasing you with a drizzle and just as you sigh and pick up the paint can to go indoors, ending its tease so that you’re back at it until the next time and the next.

Isis regards all this as highly unpleasant. He rarely leaves the sheep shed. If he does come to the farmhouse he may take me up on the offer of a drink,





...but immediately after he’ll run back to his own place at the shed, burying himself in an open drawer of a dresser where Ed sometimes remembers to put away clean shirts.


I joined Ed in the painting project today. It’s the only way. At first he grunted, but not for long. In fact, he moved his white paint to my yellow paint so that we were within a breath of each other, so much so that we stumbled and got in the way of the other, but in a pleasant sort of way.

In the distance we heard the gunfire of November’s deer hunt.

Ed repeated the journey comment (see post below) and I began to think that he does really take pleasure in this particular task – this prolonged journey around a building, replacing warped boards, patching this, scraping that.

I remain goal directed. That’s November for me: get it done, finish the lectures, write the exams, get the painting finished before frost sets in, buy the holiday foods, check off items on the list, get it done!

Alright. Let me slow down. One week at a time. And I got a good one coming up: Thanksgiving. Daughters come. We cook. This year and maybe every year henceforth, in the (almost) yellow farmhouse.

journeys

Okay, I’ll let you scrape more, only don’t rush it. And be quiet. The journey, you have to enjoy the journey.

Ed’s not a new age kind of guy, so I know there’s a grin in that statement.

I was loud because the wind was knocking down the ladder on top of me. I scraped all morning long. My hands are blistered. With bloody knuckles. I’m doing it so you can paint before the cold spell sets in.

The instructions on the can warn not to paint below 35 degrees and Ed is interpreting that generously: last week’s high of 37, for example, was not good enough. Too cold.

And he is right – I am in a rush. We’re so close now to having the most visible portions of the farmhouse painted. I'll settle for that much. So that when you drive up it mostly seems yellow rather than oddly multi-toned.

The journey, gorgeous, he grins.  It’s the journey.

The nickname “gorgeous” comes up a lot ever since I stopped cutting and coloring my hair. Jason, the hair color genius would be appalled.

We paint and scrape in silence.





Ed positions the ladder and I climb higher.  Don’t fall. Please. You’re so clumsy!

He doesn’t mean it. And yet he means it. But even as he means it, he’s not bothered by it.







In the evening we stop and drive down to the café. Paul, the proprietor, is getting ready to close. Between the routines of shutting down the place he talks about what it’s like to have grown up with a very remarkable but also remarkably unusual dad. I think about unusual parents, unusual upbringings. I think about how I’ll be seeing my own father within a month.






The café's closed now. Ed and I make our way to Harbor Freight – that "guy" store (his description). Lots of metal. He picks up another motion detector so that we can better monitor the comings and goings of Isis the cat. Do we really need it? I ask. Yes! I think Ed would have been an interesting dad.

We drive home with just the faint light of the inadequate beams of Ed's ancinet Geo. There isn't a bright moon, but there are plenty of stars outside. It'll be a cold night again tonight.

something new

A day of work, yes, still that, and also of a few small new details.

First, I should note that it was cold when I set out to campus this morning and it stayed cold the entire day. And so I drove to work – there and back. It felt like a letdown, but a nice and warm letdown.

The drive home was a bit circuitous. I passed the lagoon of Lake Wingra and I had to stop, get out and take a closer look. From far away, it seemed as if the lagoon was developing a sheet of ice over the surface.





On closer inspection, it appeared that the lagoon WAS developing a sheet of ice over the surface.

Such a cold, cold day.


Other new things? Well, I have some new Ocean readers who, understandably, are having a hard time figuring out what’s what here. Some have threatened to read the whole blog to get a better sense of who’s who and doing what for which purpose. I feel bad about that. So I wrote up a brief summary of the pertinent (and impertinent) facts of the past 6.75 years – i.e. from the period of the life of the blog. If you are a new reader – take a look, scrolling down to the bottom of the right hand column. Does that help? Let me know.

Ocean is forever evolving. It surely isn't what it was 6.75 years ago. And that's a good thing.

fa'nter

Now’s the time to reflect. The bursting at the seams with work weeks are rapidly coming to a close and though work will continue to dominate the waking hours for months on end, at least it’ll stop keeping me awake at nights.

Fall is slowly receding. Indeed, I think we’re in that period of overlap where it’s no longer fall...


 
(on my way to work)


...and not yet winter.


 
(ditto)

Call it fa’nter.

So I have emerging pockets of time. Early morning time, evening time – time to reflect. And I reflect best when I am on the move. For example biking.

But is biking compatible with fa’nter?

I tested it today. First, I thought about riding Rosie. But when I left the farmette, the official temperature was hovering near freezing and the wind was brutal.

I don’t like being cold. Zipping around on a motorbike would be cold.

Riding a bike is different. You work hard and you move with less speed. I put on a snug cap, bundle a scarf many times around my neck and set out on Mr. Red.

Whoaa! That is some gusty little wind! Straight in my face. The shortcut ride (of seven miles) stretches into a looooooooong ride. (An hour.)

Eyes tearing, cheeks burning, I push on, thinking -- this is crazy. It doesn't help to be mocked by holiday snowmen on the approach to the downtown.





Yeah, hi to you too!


In truth, I am immensely proud of my efforts, even though reflecting is not possible (for me) when I’m battling wind. I'm not like the black ducks (are they ducks?) on lake Monona. I don't have a coat of oil protecting my goose-bumpy skin.






My older girl is at the farmhouse for dinner tonight. I want to tell her about the ride in, but the topic does not present itself.

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.