evening

Work is done. Home now. Groceries put away, books stashed. Outside, the sun is catching the few patches of snow – there, by the porch, just so.





It’s the night of our dinner out. At Sardine – a place just twelve minutes from where we live. We go early, to take advantage of the happy hour specials. A golden drive of winter fields and herds of deer.






And now we’re there, by the lake’s edge and the sun is nearly gone...





...and we order the oysters and the sandwiches and it’s all so not home cooked which, in this case, is perfectly wonderful.

Night. Home now, at the farmhouse. Tired, well fed, anticipating the moment when I can close my eyes and give in to...

...sleep.

winter ride

An email tells me it’s “winter bike” week in downtown Madison. Bike to work! You’ll find free coffee along bike paths! Bundle up and pedal away!

I don’t see any free coffee anywhere along the seven or eight (depending on how I cut it) miles from the farmette to campus, but I’m not likely to be biking for the coffee anyway. Free coffee is usually too watery and the milk isn’t real.

I bike because it is warm again. (Low forties by mid-afternoon.)





There are many ways for me to pedal to town. Today I had extra minutes (thanks, Isis, for waking us at five-thirty again). And so I kept to the rural roads all the way until I hit the city.






Cycling between fields and farms gives me time to consider stuff. For example, this morning’s article in the NYT (one that I missed, but a commenter this morning referred me to it). Our campus is changing. You could say it’s merging into the downtown even as really, our downtown is quite small. If in the past, State Street linked the campus with the capitol, now it seems campus is moving away (in more ways than one!) from government – toward one lake, toward the other, with new cultural, entertainment, shopping venues along the way.






A person revisiting our university after a short break would not recognize the place. There is a new extension of library mall – running south. What was once called University Square – a quaint strip-mally mishmash of shops, eateries, dental clinics and movie houses – is now glitzy and very urban and it has a student’s essential: a terrific supermarket (about time!), a bike shop, a coffee house.

So I’m thinking about this new mix of town-and-gown and it occurs to me that students these days have it so much nicer and easier (than I did) in all ways but one: compared to my days here, it costs them a fortune to merely go to school.





Me, I labored in grungy rooms, inadequate libraries with too small computer labs. Without google and wiki and a million other Internet tools, information was hard to come by. Nothing about studying was easy. Nor aesthetically pretty (unless you like grungy).

So now we have a booming downtown and a new student union and this new corridor and it’s all so spiffy. And very much theirs. Not mine, not anything I would find familiar.



In other news, I want to point out that Paul’s café got a thumbs up in our local paper on Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you he makes Russian dumplings for lunch? Read about it here.

pathetically yours

Outside, there's a light quilt of snow again. It's the kind of day when you're glad to live in the country. In the city, the snow will amount to nothing more than wet slush.





It's barely light outside. Meekly he says – Happy Valentine’s Day. 

Funny how noticeable an absence of celebration is when you’re used to thinking of this as a special day. Not important, perhaps a little fabricated, commercialized, nonsensical, but special nonetheless. Because, darn it, it’s the middle of February and any distraction from that calendar reality is a good thing!

So all week, in anticipation, I balk and protest his indifference to it. The more he claims that indifference, the less I, myself am indifferent. Valentine's Day begins to matter in ways that sort of surprise me.


At breakfast, I bring to the table a box that came by UPS from J.Crew. Pants I purchased for spring. I open it and tell him – let’s pretend this is from you. He laughs.

On the window sill, my scented geraniums remind me that every day may at least pretend to be Valentine’s Day.






After classes, I stop by Trader Joe’s. We’re short on chocolate covered raisins (a staple in the farmhouse). Trader Joe’s has the best deal in town on them. While there, I look at the flowers – roses, everywhere roses on sale and I toy with the idea of buying some. $12.99 a dozen. Ufff... Pricey. On the other hand, these daffodils, at $1.69 per bunch -- what a deal! I'll take some home. Ed, look at the flowers that follow me home on Valentine's Day!






We meet up at Paul’s café. He eats two large pickles and I drink my milky espresso.





So, Paul -- I ask the owner, did you do something for Valentine’s Day? I’m only guessing that his fiancée would like that.
No... I haven’t the car today... Paul works ungodly long hours.

You want to give her a bunch of daffodils? I have some in the car...

You’re kidding?

No, here, take them... it’s not as if they’re from Ed.

Ed grins, a smile of kindness.

What'you been up to?  I ask him.
Work emails. Then he tells me – here, I watched this. Take a look.
He clicks through to the statement made by a (Republican) legislator voting (in the state of Washington) in favor of same sex marriage. He knows I would love this message. Have you seen it? No? Well, give it a go. It’s only four minutes.


We go home. He has a volley ball game tonight so we wont be eating dinner together (he doesn't like to fill up before playing). And anyway, dinner is scrambled eggs with veggies. Healthy but inconsequential.





Let’s go out for sure Thursday.

Have a good game.

Happy Valentine’s Day, gorgeous.

snow showers

You got it, it’s Monday and I’m dead – at the very least tired and not a little unhappy that I cannot watch little doggies march across the big TV screen. (I was hoping for dinner of leftover chili in front of the Westminster Dog Show – that was before I realized that those who don’t pay for cable can’t watch poochies – not in the same way, with commentary – as those who pay.)

Oh well. The better to eat quickly...





...and get back to work.


Earlier, out my office window, I watch daylight disappear. Snow-showers are dusting Bascom Hill with a thin white layer of wet stuff.

Snow showers. It’s a term you hear often this winter. Snow showers: cold enough to make you suffer, but not abundant enough to make you smile in wonderment.





Here’s to a sweeter, gentler tomorrow!

Ice Age Sunday

I admit, today is balmy, really balmy as compared with yesterday. The morning reading showed temperatures in the teens and those sage predictors were jubilating that we would get close to freezing (32) by mid-afternoon.

I step outside.





No excuses. Zip up and head out. We are off to the Ice Age Trail to work on chopping and burning invasive trees and shrubs.

I have some trepidation. The wind is gusting, making it that much colder. At the same time, I’ve given up wearing my warmest jacket for these outdoor projects. Branches shred and rip anything in sight. I can’t afford to subject a good jacket to this kind of brutality.

We drive to the hills just north of Madison. It really is gorgeous today.





These short rides are perhaps the only time I like being in a car. There is rarely traffic on week-end mornings. Public Radio usually has a good talk or game show on. The sun is streaming and until the moment when we start losing reception, I feel almost at peace with the car, even Ed’s rusty wreck of a car. Still, I ask him – wouldn’t it be lovely to have a newer vehicle with great radio stations?
You don’t need a newer car for that. You need paid satellite radio.
Paid? No, not us. We still adjust the antenna on the TV to pick up a wide spectrum of free channels.

We’re late for the 9 a.m. meet-up and so we again must find the place on the trail where the volunteers are working today. I should note – very few volunteers. Only the diehards. I suppose we’re becoming diehards. Especially during a winter that offers no snow for cross-country skiing.





The forest is still made pretty with patches of snow. Eventually we come to the unmistakable scent of burning wood.







We get to work.






This time we’re assigned hauling duties. The Trail Regulars are sawing timber and there’s plenty that needs to be thrown onto the heaps that eventually turn into blazing fires.





Managing a fire is tricky: you need to get close to move the branches and again my face gets that red leathery stiffness that comes from too much heat. Within an hour, my jacket is off and even so, I’m plenty warm.






We work, as always, until the Trail guys break for lunch. This is our cue to hike back to the car.


 


I’m feeling the joy that comes after a morning of outdoor work.

Ed, I’m just so happy to be here...

No you’re not...

Turn off the negative! You could say something to the effect of being glad to be here, alive!

We’ll be dead soon.

Me before you.

Not likely. Though how you’ll manage then is beyond me.

Hey, don’t slip on the ice here! You twist your ankle so easily.

Don’t you slip. You know you’re clumsy.

It’s what I'd call a perfect Ed and Nina moment.

the good days

Well now. I didn’t mean it! March is good! (Thoughts upon waking to a chilly 7F outside and a gusty wind, which you know makes it so much more bitter.)


An oatmeal kind of morning. Dig into the frozen fruits from the summer garden: peaches, raspberries.

And after? A small, really small period of work. But I’m restless. The sun’s out – are things warming up outside? I go out in a skimpy shirt to brush off the snow from the walkway to the farmhouse.

No they’re not.





And yet...

I suggest we ski before the one inch of new snow (truly only that) is ruined by others. Ed is skeptical. The wind is blasting snow this way and that. Bare patches mean scratches on skis.
Still, it’s so sunny!


We drive round the bend to our county park. My, but it’s cold. Must be all of 11F by now. The trail is not skiable. We opt for walking it.





It’s so cold that if you lift your chin up, high enough to look ahead, your eyes start to water and freeze, all at the same time. And so mostly, we look down. At deer tracks and mouse paths. I watch a gray one scamper into the buried marsh grasses. Why do you come to the farmette if you have such lovely and abundant homes here?





Our walk is just short of an hour, but it serves us well. But then, what walk has ever not been good for us? If you were to place Ed and I on the boulevard of life it should be on a path through a meadow or a forest. I like to think we are at our best there.







My scented geraniums (yesterday’s Valentine) need real containers and we drive down to Johannsen’s – the best place in town for the classic Italian clay pot, always cheap (under $3), always beautiful. I throw into the bag packets of seeds – more flowers for the garden. And why not! There is so much “garden” land at the farmette, so much soil to dig into. Ed’s shaking his head, though I’m sure he’s relieved that this year I’ve let catalogues alone. I have a good base in the garden from last year. I need only fill it in. Or not.


At Paul’s, over a coffee, I marvel at it all: to have this much choice on how to arrange a day (or a garden), even if it is only a week-end day, is such an incredible luxury! Shall we go home? I ask Ed.
In a few minutes. 

Okay. No rush.

The days where I can say those words are, without doubt, the good days.

regional seasonal

A friend wrote – so far, this winter has felt like one long month of March. I have to agree. And let me say here, for the record, that March is one visually ugly month in Wisconsin. Nothing’s blooming, nothing’s budding. People have spring on their minds, but it’s all quite imaginary because spring is never really with us until my birthday. And that’s in April.

And so today, when I look outside and see flakes in the air, I hustle. After all, it may all end in minutes. And revert back to March. Cold and bare.

The snowfall does not end. Not right away. Take a look – the farmette looks lovely again! Whipped by flurries and gusts – this is as it should be in February.






The farmhouse stands proud and yellow against the unexpected onslaught of white stuff. Caribbean gold against Wisconsin white. 






And the winds howl and the temperatures drop and I’m thinking – was I complaining about March?







In the early evening, Ed and I drive down to Madison’s Expo Center. It’s the week-end of gardening ideas and planting demos and it just seems like such a good place to be when the thermometer reading (14 and falling) is so disheartening.





We listen to a presentation on bee keeping. Not great. The presenter loses us when he begins to reflect on the healing properties of watching bees play.

We then listen to a person talk up grapevine-growing. And now I’m mesmerized. Us? Growing grapes?

I could do this! I say to Ed. Grape vines on the farmette! I’ve always thought that rows of vines are beautiful to behold, at any time of the year.
Now you couldn’t. Not without help.

I could take an online course!

You can’t even drive a post into the ground.

Ah dreams! They are so pleasant at a time where no decisions need be made. No pressures, no imperatives. Spring and summer possibilities, nothing more.

We take pamphlets and information on where to get more information.


Our walk through the expo center is delightful. We buy seeds for the summer garden and talk to experts about the possibility of planting a forest in the acre behind the barn (in case the grape vine project proves too... stressful).










On the way out Ed tells me – you wanted a plant for the farmhouse. Let’s go back and pick it up.
Really? You’ll buy me a plant? I know why this sweet impulse: it’s to demonstrate that every day is Valentine’s Day. Not just the forthcoming February 14th. That's for fools. Real people treat each day with care.

Look! I tell him. Three for $12!
Ed takes out his wallet. Do you think I’m too nice to you? He asks.

It’s late. We walk toward the car with our delicate purchases. Not a trivial walk – we park far far away, outside the expo grounds, to avoid the fees.
Do you mind if we go easy on dinner tonight? -- I ask. I’m tired and hungry and a freshly cooked dinner seems terribly out of reach.
Of course not! I just picked up some more frozen lasagna at Woodman’s.

Every day is Valentine’s Day.

back then

I could write many paragraphs about how often I am reminded that I am no longer really even middle aged. I am, I think, several generations upwards of that period, no matter how generously you define it.

I’ll tell you one poignant example of such a reminder: my daughter directed me this afternoon to the local paper (is it still a 'paper' if it’s a page on the Internet?) where an author muses about her childhood connection to a strip mall – the Midvale Plaza, for those who know Madison. The nondescript lineup of shops has recently been leveled and replaced by a sweet little condo complex – units on top, library, ice cream shop and café on the bottom. What more could you want (if you’re into condo living)! And yet...

My daughter was nostalgic. We, too, once lived by that strip mall and she, too, remembered days spent walking from our home to the then rather shabby library, past a hobby shop, a Baskin & Robbins (31 flavors!) and the Hoover vacuum repair store.

I thought – this is what it means to be ancient: not old, but ancient – when your daughter remembers an era that is no more.



In other news:  in the hours of the early morning, I am, as ever, getting ready for school, classes, work – you know the routines. Finally, I head downstairs. I pause in mid-step. From where I am, the front room looks so pretty! The light is dappling in, the painting from Jerez, finally set in its frame, is up, the geraniums are blooming.





It is a “life is good” moment.

And there is another  such moment – heading home from Paul’s. The light is just so, the work week is nearly done with.






And now the evening is mine, for the first time in a long time mine -- nothing that needs attention, no student emails to contemplate, no project that needs to be completed before tomorrow. I'm buoyant. To a point. As I put away groceries, dinner ambitions wane.  I ask Ed -- do you mind if we just eat a frittata tonight? We have some fresh spinach and leeks...





In my younger years, I never just made a frittata for dinner. Or reheated yesterday's soup or plunked frozen lasagna into the oven. Ah, but that was then. Right now, ask me to put together a three course meal and I'll respond -- what's the occasion? None? Then forget it.

café

You know your priorities aren’t in order when you start skipping your regular visit to the café – class goes too late, another meeting, too late, too late... How did it come to be so difficult to find the half hour each day – one lousy half hour, stretched maybe to an hour, but with a computer, for God’s sake, in the American way of taking your work to a café, so that it’s not all about the pleasure of being social, it’s also work, café work!

Well now, time to make amends. This day will be different. This day we’ll make it to Paul’s. (I call it Paul’s because without Paul there would not be the convivial atmosphere that I look for, but the place does have an official name – the Oasis. Oh – you wont see that on the outside. It’s EVP there. Confused? So just call it Paul’s, like I do.)





Ed is never on perfect behavior there and most of the time, that’s okay, because Paul can shoot back at him if he needs to, providing the balance that I like to see in these exchanges.

Ed eats soup, I drink coffee. That’s our gig. He reads and dozes, I write. And eventually the sun goes down and we are back at the farmhouse, happy. But there’s a price: it’s frozen lasagna night again. Can’t have it all.

the cool

Late afternoon. I’m hanging with the cool guys.





Well, okay, cool guys plus Ed who under no circumstance can be characterized as such.

We’re looking at the lauded building designed by architect Douglas Kozel. (Kozel is with us, walking us through the stunning structure.)






It’s a mission with a purpose. Not my purpose, but sort of kind of Ed’s. His business is growing and the players need space and someone's got to build it. Might they create a place built along the lines of this? And if not, couldn't one pick bits and pieces and incorporate them into a final vision of what is to be?

So we look at bits and pieces.






I think how being a state employee for nearly all of my professional life has kept me away from decisions about how my workspace should look. My own office is pathetically small, cramped, basic. I purchased the chair in which I sit twenty years ago at a discount store. I believe it was under $50. The best part of the space is the window. (It is a grand window, looking out on Bascom Mall.)

I like great work spaces, great living spaces too. Even as for me, there’s beauty now in the uncomplicated. The farmhouse is one such place.

Still, I am tantalized. At the point where we examine the superbly designed employee snack space, I almost ask – may I please submit my resume to work here?

Then I think how after snack, there’s the desk with a work project before it.

If I can have only one, I prefer loving the work project.

But man oh man, it's beautiful to imagine that one can have it all!

Maybe not. Too much pressure. One has to confront something in the everyday that is imperfect. Otherwise, it's not life. It's fantasy.

Monday Monday

By now, any Ocean reader should know not to mess with me on Mondays (this semester). It’s a killer day, made all the more challenging because immediately after there comes Tuesday and Tuesday has a morning run of classes that requires work, even as on Monday, there is no time for that. The best that I can come up with is to come home Monday night, plunge into dinner prep...





...fall into exhaustion after the final clean up, recover sometime, say, around 2:30 am and use that magic middle of the night moment to prep for the morning class. If you have a better game plan, please advise, but keep in mind that I already am trying to work hard on Sunday to get things in good stead for the week ahead and yes, I know I could do frozen dinners on Monday but on tough days I especially want to eat well. Besides, I’d defrosted the shrimp. They had to be used.



Tomorrow is the “full snow moon.” Funny how that goes. Not much snow out today. That snowman on Bascom Hill? Gone.





Snow moon. No matter how inaccurate your name, you were beautifully bright as I drove home to the farmhouse tonight.


 

pressure

The pressure of the Super Bowl! If the world around you is watching The Game and you’re not, shouldn’t you be doing something that benefits from the sudden quiet as the game begins? The world’s moved indoors, huddled, with bowls of chips and chicken wings and cold six packs of locally brewed beer. And where are you, oh football detractor? Are you skiing the empty trails? No? Not that? (No snow.) Are you at the cinema, enjoying great seats at movies that tonight aren’t packing a crowd? Not that either?

In fact, the day is unusual, even as, by the end of the game, it turns very ordinary.

Brunch. There is a birthday brunch for a friend. Downtown. Can’t think when I last ate brunch downtown. And, since it is just a smidgen above freezing and all the slush has long trickled off, I can bike.

Cold, but good for the soul.







Brunch is with the Younger Set. Meaning – the small pool of friends that I sometimes see even as they’re all half my age (or thereabouts).






They’re hearty eaters – not yet at the wake up age where food becomes the enemy. We met at Samba Grill – Madison’s great place for buffet salads and endless meats carved at your table. It is the perfect place to go without Ed. Beef? You have beef? Layer it on!

Is it appropriate to say that one can pig out on cow?


I bike home.


 


Ed is in a reclining mood and I spend the rest of the day attending to chores and phone calls with various parental figures.

In the evening Ed asks – want to go to Dane Brewery?

We never eat out. Ever. And so I don’t turn down the invitation because I can never tell if there’ll be another.

Are you sure it wont be packed? Because of the Super Bowl?

Ed calls. In fact, it’s a quiet night there.

We sit at the bar, eat, drink, with one eye to the screen (especially when the ads come on) and the other – buried in the newspaper. Comics. Ed’s reading comics.

I feel we should not be reading during our rare dinner out.

What’d you say gorgeous?

I shrug and pick up a section of the paper while burly players topple each other and the clock moves slowly towards halftime.

And then we go home.