like summer, only not really

Near 90 today. Hot, deliciously hot air, so that the windows stay open all night, fully open. In the morning, there’s not a doubt that breakfast belongs on the porch.

Ed, are you ready (for your cereal and fruit)?

No, gotta work, it’ll be hot... gotta shovel the chips...

 

But within minutes, he’s on the porch with me. No one can resist cereal and fruits and the gentle rock of a wrought iron chair..

I go to the market with my daughter. It’s crowded – extremely so. Graduation weekend means that thousands of graduating Wisconsin students are looking for things to do with their parents, aunts, uncles. The market! You have to see the market!

Yep, they were all there.To admire, to taste.

In the afternoon, I grade.

Well, for a while. There are hours of woodchip shoveling too, in the hot hot air of a day that is still a month short of the real summer season.

And maybe because the flower beds are looking so good and so he wants to lend his support to the project, or maybe because they don’t look good enough and so he wants to improve them, or maybe he wants to distract me from the incredible damage done to the strawberries by the chipmunks – for whatever reason, Ed offers to go with me to pick up five daylilies from the Flower Factory. Probably our last trip there this year. After spring planting, gardening becomes all about maintenance. 

Ah, the Flower Factory... The place that has grown in leaps and bounds in marketing perennials -- at the same time that I have grown from being mildly intrigued by planting them to being fully dazzled by their various quirks and permutations.  Of course, part of the joy of visiting the place is in seeing what's growing in their own gardens.

We make the trip on the motorbike on a very windy day. Windy rides are always an adventure and especially when you’re trying to tote five daylilies in the milk cart behind you. We manage. Just barely.

And then evening comes and it is time to water. I pick our first radish...

 ...and lots and lots of rhubarb and then I move through the pattern I've developed for my watering ritual and I have to say, nothing, nothing is more satisfying than standing with a hose on a hot “summer” evening, thinking of little more than how pretty drops of moisture look on emerging flowers.

onwards upwards

This is the right way to end a school year: faces of students appear, one after another – graduating. Once just starting, now at the end of it. Faces, faces, with parents, lovers, friends, mostly happy faces, hiding worries. Not today, no, today celebrates the accomplishments, the graduation, the future lawyers, those who’ll help you when some grave injustice befalls you. (You forgot that that’s what lawyers do? I’m here to remind you!)

I am up early, but not early enough. Ed says (as he comes back up after letting Isis, the restless one, out) – beautiful morning. I say – oh, maybe it’s time to take a look at a sunrise over Lake Waubesa! Just two miles east of us, a fast scoot on old Rosie. Except I forget that it’s May and in May you need to be up and away before 6 to catch a sunrise.

But, it is indeed a beautiful morning. Early morning always looks good in the "old orchard" of the farmette.

Eventually Ed goes off for his Friday meetings and I get on Mr. Red, peddling to the Monona Terrace for the Law School graduation.

And, as it is a special day, I can, while biking, look up and see a doe prance off, even at noon – a rare time for deer to prance in front of you.

So, they’re off, those wonderful wonderful students of ours – past the little kid stage...



 



...past the first year at law school stage, they are almost there, almost part of the world of balancing work and family or no family, or work and friends, or something, something to keep them grounded or maybe the proper word should be 'afloat.'

One of the graduation speakers, no, sorry, two of the graduation speakers talk in one way or another about the need for that balance. Ah, yes. If only the employers were listening and taking notes!

Me, I’d like to say that I’m with you, those who would love 1. a  job and 2. one with balance. We will rise above the clamor that pushes the young professionals to do nothing but work, we will stand united, we will reject the pressure to give our souls to the workplace! (That would be my own revolutionary call.)

Or maybe they, the young professionals, already know and fight for what it is that matters?

For now, these weighty thoughts are dispersed, floating somewhere, but not here, not in the giddy hallways and ballrooms...


 
the faculty gather


... where graduates pass through and have photos taken, in hot black robes, on a hot May afternoon in Madison.

the student commencement speakers

Congratulations sweet students – adults when you came, but so much stronger today, after the toil of it all, so much stronger and – I do believe this – wiser and, I hope, happier.

just say no

It’s not easy for me to say “no” to opportunity. Maybe it's because I’m an immigrant – one who came here alone, focused on taking chances and risky steps.

Two ideas percolated in recent days and today I had to give some kind of an answer.

The first had to do with a legal issue. Should I work on it? If it succeeds, it may be financially rewarding. Or not. Ed tells me most large gains grow out of chancy investments of time. And yet, wont I feel hugely frustrated if, after several years' work, nothing comes of it? Just say no, my internal voice shouts at me, just say no! But my immigrant’s brain can’t just say no. And so I sit on the fence. One more day – I tell the party who is asking for my input. Just give me one more day to think about it.

The second idea has to do with the writer’s shed. You remember the writer’s shed? Years ago, before we came to an agreement about the farmhouse, Ed put great efforts into constructing the writer's shed -- a place where I could write, sleep, stay for a day, or two, or three...

We tore down the structure that once stood there and, with the help of Amos, the shed builder, put in the structure that stands there now. But we never finished it. I agreed to move into the farmhouse instead. The writer's shed stands incomplete. A shell of what was once to be.

And that’s a shame. Recently, we've tossed around the idea that we should put in the floor, the little kitchen, the shower, toilet. And then we should rent it! Not year round, but occasionally! A real money maker!

And yet...

So many times we’ve rented rooms in private homes and looked at each other to say – who would want to do this? Who would want to cater to the needs of grouchy travelers? Who would want to listen to complaints about bad TV reception or an overabundant mosquito population?

But, but, we could rent it just to special, preapproved people! I tell Ed.

One more house to maintain...

We could meet interesting folks!
*You* could meet interesting people. People who would complain about the grouch on the premises. Me. Besides, do you really want to lose your privacy?
I smile. I wrote about my colonoscopy on Ocean. What privacy could he possibly be referring to?

Just say no, just say no...

I will, I will, but why is it that I am regretting saying no? In both cases?

We bike to Paul’s café. We pass Lee, tending the fields south of us. When are you planting in our quarter acre?

I have planted! Beans and cucumbers. And my sister will plant some more!

We swing by the local market, too. The last of the perfect asparagus. And spring spinach. And, of course, as every week come spring and summer, Madison’s best baguettes.

Finally -- home.

...Where the iris stands tall, the tomatoes are getting chomped down by the chipmunks, and the lettuce seems too stubby and tastes...like lettuce.

the next phase

 Surely you do not want to hear that I did a clean sweep of three grocery stores today? Is there a story in that? Perhaps not a story, but room for a smile: does anyone else walk away from Woodman's giddy, after loading up a shopping cart with many, many jugs of fruit juice (blueberry-grape-wild cherry -- mmmm! Diluted with sparkling lemon mineral water -- the best!) and many many packs of sparkling lemon mineral water?

And I’m no longer surprised when, at Trader Joe’s, the clerk asks if I make my own trail mix since my cart is full of unsalted pistachios, lightly salted cashew pieces and peanuts. Oh and how could I forget – so many containers of chocolate covered raisins. (The answer is -- I do not.)

I venture out to town so infrequently that I now buy as if for a winter season in North Dakota. Anticipating a powerful snowstorm. That will bury me deep for four months. Without access to unsalted pistachios, chocolate covered raisins and sparkling lemon mineral water.

At the farmette, my focus has...evolved. To grading – but please don’t let me get into the habit of repeating day in and day out for the next two weeks that I’m grading. Know that whatever else I may be doing, I’m also grading. There, I’ve said it.

And what else? Ah, the seasonal job of carrying water to the thirsty plants. Much of it is accomplished by standing still with a pointed hose. But some of it is significantly more taxing. I am reminded of the resentful kids of Monet, the artist. They complained that their childhood was lost to watering his expansive gardens. My plots aren’t one hundredth as vast, but they stretch far and wide so that even multiple extensions to the hose wont do. And so I carry the watering can. Back and forth. To keep the flowers satisfied.

(Sorry, how could I forget: and the fruits and veggies.)

It’s an evening task and one that, honestly -- I sort of like. At least now, in the early stages of the growing season.

Then, tonight, a special return to town – for a Mother’s Day meal at Graze. This is the city trip I’m always happy to make: for a meal with the terrific younger set.

My littlest one is, of course, in Chicago, but in spirit she is there too. And since it's "Mother's Day," I am left to open boxes. (These days, insofar as I am at all decently dressed, it is because they attend to me in this way. What I am wearing for example is, from head to toe, their doing -- from a recent birthday.)

At the end of it all, Rosie transports me home. Past a sun that set over the fields, past deer that always come out when I ride at their hour of play.

A beautiful evening. You could not hope for a better one.

pause

A break. No weeding, planting, watering – none of it today. I cast a half hearted glance at a dead strawberry plant and shrug. What are you gonna do...

There is a breakfast out on the porch...

 

...a poke out to the barn, where Ed cleared out years of debris...

 

...a trip to town – a lovely bike ride, past fields and meadows...

...and hidden barns...

...for a lunch meeting downtown, and then a return to the farmhouse, for another meeting, a most wonderful one, with three of my graduating students...

We sat for a long while on the porch and reviewed the past years – theirs and mine.

When you’re in the business of teaching (an inflated term, I know), you accept the idea that your role is just that of a temporary assistant in the process of moving someone from point A to point B. Sometimes your role is quite small. They sort of know what needs to be done and if left to their own devices, they’d probably figure it out themselves. (I see this in Ed who never studied law, but knows quite a bit of it just because life forced him to tangle with the judicial process and learning about it was preferable to being pushed and pulled in all directions without a clue as to what was happening.)

And still, we’re there to help them ask the important questions. Or at least what we think are the important questions.

And sometimes we’re there because we just love working with young people – people whose minds are still open to numerous possibilities.

I thought about all this as my trio of students lingered over a glass of juice on the farmhouse porch and clouds tumbled above as if ready for a storm but not a big one, not tonight, not now...

And then I cooked dinner for Ed and myself -- a dinner which was just veggies and eggs and I felt a tiny bit nostalgic because this is the way one feels at the end of something, even if that something is as inconsequential in my scheme of things as the end of another academic year.

He said then – let’s go play tennis.

Tennis? I hadn’t played for a couple of years. Last year, my shoulder froze for some inexplicable reason and I could hardly move it to write on the blackboard, let alone play tennis.

Okay!

As the sun moved to its final place at the line of the horizon, we volleyed the ball back and forth, me – clumsily, he – with greater skill. I laughed so hard at myself that my eyes filled with tears and then I laughed some more and you may wonder about tears and laughter and the relationship between the two, but I can assure you, it was a fine evening, down to the last missed opportunity to hit back, do a good serve, gloat at a success that was not to be, not in this lifetime anyway.

day after, day of

There are so many punchy jokes I could have made here yesterday, admitting that the reason I was not up for celebrating Mother’s Day was because the next day (today) I was scheduled for a colonoscopy. Anyone who knows the routine understands that even brunch is a no no on the day before. Dinner? Out of the question. (Remarkably, one can still ingest wine, albeit white wine, but after jugs of apple juice and white grape juice, the last thing you want it juice of any kind, including fermented and with alcohol.)

The reason not to poke fun of picking this day to not eat is because colonoscopies are not really funny. Too many people avoid them, too many results are suboptimal – it’s all part of getting older, even as, if truth be told, my first colonoscopy and surgery on my colon were at age twelve. One of the many childhood traumas that I bring to the table.

This morning, Ed dropped me off at the hospital and then quickly departed. He’s a good sport about taking me places when I ask him, but he’ll seize any opportunity to not interact with the medical community. When I came to, we scooted out on his motorcycle before the hospital staff could hold us back and say – hey, when we asked that someone drive her home, we didn't mean on a biker's seat, with a milk crate as a back rest!

I was unconcerned. After all, Ed turned around every few blocks and asked if I was still awake. I was. Right up until we pulled into the driveway. After that, I promptly dozed off on a chair outside, on the wood chipped driveway. Eventually I woke up.

And now I’m just full of appreciation – among other things, for the foods I can eat. (When I was told that for the week before the procedure I should avoid eating fruits, veggies, grains and nuts, I thought – well what else is there? Needless to say, I cheated.)

I did not work much in the garden today. I walked the rows of strawberries, noting that all the ripening fruits were nibbled on by our resident chipmunk. I’m going to have a shouting match with him before the season’s over, that’s for sure. The Hmong farmers have planted berries all around us and they appear to harvest a significant number of them for the farmers markets. So why do the chipmunks come to our small motley assortment? I cannot answer that.

In the evening, I planted five, yes only five tomatoes out back. That’s unremarkable. But what was remarkable and is always remarkable is the big willow we pass every time we walk to our orchard out back. We have two such willows, but this one is bigger, mightier, coddled by hours of unobstructed sunshine.

The willow has to be older than I am. Its branches are as unruly and untamed as my hair, its roots mess with everything below, but it is beautiful especially in the morning and in the evening, when the wind tussles its branches this way and that.

...with the red sheep shed peeking through at the lower end.

What a beautiful May 14^th! What an absolutely splendid day!

mothers and others

 

Well I hope you had a happy Mother’s Day – if you’re not a mother, then you are at least the kid of one and whether you are able to stay in touch, or wish you could, or didn’t give it that much thought – I still hope that there are some calm and joyous recollections that you have of that unique relationship between kid and mom.

 

You would think that I would be celebrating with my daughters today. Not so. We postponed it for later this week, for reasons that are completely inconsequential. In the meantime, I say to Ed – wish me a happy mother’s day! – and he does, with a notable absence of enthusiasm that is deliberate and childish and sometimes adorable.

Andy, our construction guy, the man who helped us rebuild the farmhouse last year, stopped by. We have a small project that we want to discuss with him. It’s like old times – Ed fires off construction questions and ideas, Andy, shakes his head – and still it all moves forward.  

 

Moving forward. In the garden too. One plant at a time.

We hunt for strawberries, buried under weeds – tall plants straining for light, without much hope, salvaged at the last moment, placed in the quirky bed of veggies and now fruits.

Flowers. They’re each taking their turn now!

They’re always framing the farmhouse for me. The entrance along the brick walkway is defined by what grows at the sides.

The entire house, even the still-light-beige-brown-whatever-off-color dormer, stands in a thicket of growing things.

It's always this way: I look up, see the farmhouse in a bed of greens and emergent blooms. I rush inside to grab the camera, not really caring that I’ve already taken this photo. Many times. And yet, I need another.

There are subtle changes! Flowers change. What I cut for the table changes too. Daffodils done, lilies of the valley – out. Lilac – I’m back with lilac, a late blooming variety.

And so, to that sweet smell of middle spring! And to you, moms of kids and kids of moms!