night noise

Since we’ve been back (one week!), Isis has been kind enough not to sleep in the farmhouse. Let’s just say I don’t encourage him to overnight here and most of the time, he seems content to leave by midnight to prowl, or do whatever it is that cats do at night.

Last night was different. Isis did not spend the evening with us and I thought he may have called it a day earlier, until, just before going to bed, I open the windows (it's a cooler night! yes!!), while continuing to chat away with Ed. Isis hears our conversation. The door bell rings (in case you don’t remember – we have a sound sensor that functions as a doorbell if any living creature passes by).

No! You don’t have to let him in! – I say this without any hope at all that Ed would leave Isis outside when he’s obviously trying to come in.

And so there is Isis, in my very least favorite space: between Ed’s shoulder and my shoulder, on the bed, content, nails clinging to the quilt cover, purring away.

But not for long. Two hours later he’s meowing to go out. I leave that one to Ed.

One middle of the night wake up, several more to come.

Another hour passes. I’m dozing, but then I’m wide awake. Did the door bell ring again? I can’t tell. I listen for a repeat – no, nothing. Ed snores, I go back to sleep.

Within minutes, I’m awake again. There's loud, very loud howling. Coyotes? Cats in love? Cats fighting?

Ed!

Go to sleep, gorgeous. He’ll wake for a doorbell, but not for night noises. Me, I worry. Is Isis being attacked? Again?

I go downstairs, open the door, call out to him. Isie-boy, Isie-boy! He comes trotting up the walkway. Whatever it was, he’s not hurt. I let him in, relieved. He’s back on the bed, this time at Ed’s feet.

...until an hour or so later, when I wake up to the sound of him throwing up. On our quilt cover. Thanks, pal. I saved you from the night’s horrors and you do this. Ed takes him out, wipes up the mess (a very temporary fix), we try to sleep.

But an hour later, the door bell’s chiming again. Ed’s up, stumbling down the stairs – no Isis, no anything.

By now the sky is not so dark. Predawn. We pick up our laptops because really, you can only try to sleep so many times in any one night.

Here’s Isis playing, later in the day. In case you're wondering -- the cat is doing well.

In other news: I was late for every appointment today because... well, Rosie the moped cried “no fair.” I’d neglected her for months and expected her to rev up and deliver now that I’m back. She balked. So there was that. Sorry, Rosie. But can we please get going? Crank, crank, roar. Finally.

It's nice to be zippin' around the rural roads again.

 

Second item: we're still pumping water onto the garden round the clock. I'm not sure it helps, but it makes us feel better.

Third item: I’m on the Capitol Square (it's the night for a picnic and a concert on the square) enjoying the most perfect outdoor evening (however warm and dry it is during the day, the evenings are back to a delightful cool) with my daughter and her fiancée. It's good to be around people who are happy. They are happy.

For the first time in the ten years I’ve been coming to these outdoor events, I bring my laptop. People eat, drink, talk quietly (unless you’re by a rambunctious lot), I type.

The ride back to the farmette is magnificent (battery still dead; crank, crank... roar!).

And finally: Tomatoes! Thanks to my nephew, as well as Ed’s insistence that nitrogen supps are good for growth (don’t ask), our crop out back is thriving! Today, we have our first (small) harvest!

There are few things as delicious as  plucked tomatoes, still warm from the afternoon sun.

thoughts and photos

1.     Thoughts

An article in the NYTimes, written by a literary types, attempts to set forth the context for why people travel and how they go about doing it. (Through managed tourism? Through a more humble exploration? Through uncomfortable encounters and enlightening observation?)

I had to read it, of course. I spend every spare penny on travel (and in younger years I spent money I had yet to earn on it too); indeed, I find a period of several months without leaving home to be – tough. Having someone explain to me why I do this is... interesting.

As usual when reading these kinds of speculative essays, I find myself protesting the stated categories: it’s this or it’s that. Well no, for most of us who are energized by observing (through a lens, or at a café bar on the village square) a world of strangers, it’s most of the above.

The world elsewhere is never better than my own, even as some things there, far away function in ways that are more to my liking (and of course, some things function significantly less well). And while I’m on this topic of “better” (or worse), let me say a word about showers. I mean the public ones – at beaches. Both France and Spain have lovely outdoor shower heads (the Spanish ones are newer, aesthetically delightful, but in both countries, they are superb) for the general use of the public. We found them indispensable – wash off the salt, the sand, refresh yourself, move on.

Yesterday, at Devil’s Lake, as I noted here on Ocean, we read posted warnings about swimmer’s itch (in case you don’t know, it’s a gross parasite that enters through your skin and causes rashes, swelling, etc etc, sometimes for weeks on end). Tips on how to minimize the possibility of this include rinsing yourself in a shower right after the dip. Ed swam, I waded – so a rinse was in order.

A rather large and ugly building to the side housed a toilet and two shower stalls for each gender. A line was forming at the female end of things and I poked my head inside to see what the hold up was. Close the door! I was told emphatically. It’s crowded enough in here. I closed the door and waited. Minutes passed, nothing. I looked in the door next to the showers – a general toilet area. I poked inside the shower area again and got the same  -- close the door! Two women, not showering at all, were changing. Well okay, but I suggested that, since this was taking a while, they may want to use the space next door, as the line was getting long for a shower. I got the loudest public scream in my face I ever remember getting. Shut the door now! We want privacy! There was spit and fire in her eyes.

I thought about this for a minute. Privacy. Our big entitlement. Mine, mine, not anyone else’s. It struck me that if someone screamed at me in this way in, say, France, I’d have to think that there’s pent up anger seething there, among the people. But then, France doesn’t have closed off (in ugly buildings) shower stalls, so I’m not likely to ever face this problem there.

So I wondered if maybe we are a nation of very angry people. As the media broadcasts our general dissatisfaction (with Congress, with each other), as opportunities for expressing anger flourish (blast away at the person you don’t agree with – it’s your right!), maybe we let it all out at the expense of looking for something less... well, loud?

I am reminded sometimes of a children's book I had for my girls a long time ago -- "Screamy Mimi." We live in times of very many screamy mimis.

I’m allowed to express my opinion! Yes, but must you? Isn’t it like second hand smoke – it so often harms those in the vicinity and it seems more and more that we cannot get away from it, because everyone is smoking angry words of rage?

So back to my thoughts about why I travel (and, too, write about travel): for one thing (and there are other things), it helps me see the good ways people treat each other. Sure, I'm on the prowl for it. There are plenty of hopelessly angry and disenfranchised people in France and Spain. I know that. But how does the rest of the population cope? We can always use additional insights here, no? I’m interested in finding this out. And so I like watching the small everyday things: the way people greet one another in the bakery or at the market. Or leave stale baguettes for someone's chickens. The way kids learn to surf on the beach. The way they all use public showers. Kindness to strangers, even when the strangers are a pain in the ass, toting cameras, knowing too few words and understanding too few customs. I like that. It gives me hope.

2.     Photos

My daylilies [“Hemerocallis” -- or hemera ('day' in Greek) kalos ('beautiful') -- the flowers that are right at the front of the farmhouse]  should be starting their colorful parade in July, continuing at least until mid September. I plant them with that in mind. Instead, they’re nearly done for the season. A final tribute then, to the flowering of the farmhouse pretty girls:

cool

It seemed like a good plan to take a few hours out for a walk and a swim today. The draining heat hasn’t eased much (a handful of degrees lower than 105 doesn't count) and so looking for outdoor activities is not easy.

If you’re a Madisonian, thinking of where to go for a cool escape, what's your go-to place? Devil’s Lake. A cool body of clear water with beaches on both ends and towering bluffs at the side for good hiking. About an hour due north.

That was the plan.

But Devil's Lake is tricky. The hiking trails are a mess. Maps stray from reality. Reality strays from the predictable. And once you lose your markers, you'll never reclaim your path. The best you can hope for is some safe return home. This way or that.

Then there's the matter of a cool, clear, deep lake – since when has Devil’s Lake turned murky, shallow and warm?

I know, I know, we need the rains to fill the streams to flush out the warm waters of our lakes some.

In the meantime, we have what we have.


Okay, so this is our day:

Breakfast on the porch – with the hope that we wont quickly jump from 70 degrees in the first hours of the morning to 90 by noon. (Hopes dashed in this regard.)

A hike along the trails at Devil’s Lake. It should have been forest and bluffs, instead it was forests and meadows and a lot of warm sunshine in between. (No dashed hopes there, just a lot of hot confusion.)

A quick dip in the warm lake waters. For me – only up to my ankles. Something about the sign cautioning against swimmer’s itch (even though the park ranger swore they haven’t had a complaint for two weeks now!) was off-putting. (So hopes dashed, at least slightly in this regard.) Note alternative to swimming: fold out chairs in the water.

But hey, the exercise is splendid, the meadows are ever lovely and verdant and the company is superb (Ed, please don't hide your face!)

It was a wonderful day. (No dashed hopes at all in this regard.)

movement

As I consider the three days since our return, I see that they have one thing in common: in all three, we’ve slowed down to a crawl. Whereas during our trip, each day had a good dose of walking, hiking, or swimming, since we’ve been back, each day has had a good dose of sitting. Yes, there was a market outing and there have been many hours of watering, so not every moment has been spent on the couch, but I do have to admit that especially on hot days, it’s hard to come anywhere near the amount of activity that we typically have when we’re away.

Sunday. Ed, we have to return to our more active ways! (I say this now that the temps have dropped a handful of degrees.)

And so in the morning, we plan on doing one of my favorite small loops – a combination of kayaking-biking that brings back memories – it’s the first such “excursion” that Ed and I did in the year that we met.

We eat breakfast on the porch (at last! it's 'cool' enough!)...

...then I poke out a few wasps from the hinges of the old pickup truck (this, after poking out a few wasps from the lid of the second garbage can, having already done this once from the lid of the first garbage can) and we load it with the two boats and two bikes. Off we go.

...Toward Lake Kegonsa, where we leave the bikes. We drive then toward Lake Waubesa and put in the kayaks on the Yahara River (just after the damn).

It’s a lovely little run – not taxing at all, but it’s bird filled (and algae filled and, unfortunately, in the Mud Lake – dead carp filled) and the breeze is wonderful and the sky is blue and it just feels good to be pushing at water again!

My Huck Finn Ed says to me – we should take the boat down the Yahara this summer, all the way to the Mississippi... (The Yahara runs into the Rock which, in turn, eventually runs into the Mississippi). I say – okay.

Our summer play is just like that: plans hatch from the seat of a bike, or a boat on a very warm day.

As we glide into Lake Kegonsa, the Sunday boat traffic picks up, but that’s okay, we get out here, leave our kayaks and bike back toward the truck.

The bike ride itself is mostly flat and delightfully bucolic.






Ed rides always a few paces behind me. I comment over my shoulder that my tires need a little more air and within seconds I hear a little crunch and I think surely I must have flattened one. I glance back and see that my tire is just fine, but Ed and his bike have landed in a ditch.

Now, Ed is one experienced cyclist and I have never ever seen him fall. Yes, I know that many years ago he broke his collar bone going down a hill fast and flipping over something on the road, but that was then and it was a hill and this is now and we are on a stretch of simple, quiet roads.

Eventually I learn that a car came up on him and in trying to merge behind me, what with my lackadaisical la-di-da peddling, he managed to hit my tire and take a tumble.

He’s not hurt and indeed, the whole incident is one that is chuckle worthy, nothing more than that, but I post about it with the hope of encouraging all out there to wear helmets, because even on the simplest runs, you just never know.

We're pedaling along, and we pass a nature trail and we’re curious about this too, so we leave our bikes and hike down a bit, past willows and tall cattails and prairies that haven't yet turned yellow and brittle.


 













We push around an old, abandoned tennis ball, outdoing one another in the distance of the kick.

In the course of this rambling kind of a day, we come across your typical side of the road corn and melon stand and we pause to buy both, but it’s sort of a sad moment because typically, corn here spills from trucks loaded down with it and it is joyously sold in huge quantities to willing cob loving buyers. This year, the crop in southern Wisconsin is in severe trouble because of the heat and drought. The family selling what little they have looks grim. Rain, where the hell are you this year?

In the evening, my girl and her fiancé came over for supper, which of course has the corn and the market tomatoes etc etc. An Ocean commenter reflected that when you are on vacation, you always eat better than when you’re home. That’s not true for us. We eat with great care at home and we let go of any hard and fast rules when we travel. And so it’s good to be back to a fridge filled with veggies and seasonal stuff.

But let me repeat – may we please help out the growers in the south of our state by giving them (us) some rain?

tribulations

1.

Late last night, as Ed and I fell back (so quickly!) into an old routine of falling asleep downstairs while watching a movie, then waking up with a jolt long after the movie had ended. I see that Isis is purring next to me, but quietly. I’m thinking – maybe he’s missing my nephew.

As we get up to retreat upstairs, Isis goes outside. There isn’t a litter box in the farmhouse and in any case, he often takes a night’s stroll through the yard. He spends the night in the sheep shed and I don’t see him until after breakfast the next morning.

Morning: Isis meanders slowly up the brick walkway to the farmhouse. I’m horrified to see a big gash at the side of his head – a rerun of a cat attack from some five weeks back, only bigger and uglier. This time we're prepared. Ed washes the wound and puts on some antibacterial cream. Isis seems fine otherwise – appetite’s good and he follows us, sitting back in the shade to watch the world go by, but I have to worry about this aging animal. He’s slouching more and in my eyes, he’s looking old.

2.

For the first time, Ed joins my daughter and me for the trip to the downtown market. It’s cooler today – 86 instead of 96. It makes a difference!

We are shockingly coordinated, the three of us. Perhaps you can spot the (accidental) similarity?

I am pleased to see so many farmers displaying robust crops. They’re hanging in there, though most of the daylight hours are spent on bringing water to the fields. We buy the usual – tomatoes, potatoes, cheese curds, oyster mushrooms, shiitakes. And flowers.

 

Relieved to see so many bright colors (after feeling the oppressive heat of the past week), we retreat to the farmette and check on Isis.

So far so good. More ointment on the wound. Hoping that the attacking cat will learn to stay away.

3.

This morning (and afternoon and evening) I open a Word file that I had not viewed since October 3, 2011. It’s my book project and I hope to make significant inroads during the remaining two months of summer.

I spend the day rereading what’s there (and wanting so much to edit it some more, even as I know that what I need to do is not edit but write – add pages to the current 124).

4.

For dinner, I make a salad.

change

My nephew and I surveyed the garden one last time.  I’ve learned what survives the heat. All the lavender plants are thriving. Of course. Hot and dry. So... southern France.

Nasturtium? (Monet’s standby in the more northern Giverny) Forget it. No amount of water helped keep them sprightly and flowering through the heat wave. They hate it and they let me know it. You touch them in a kind gesture of sympathy and they shrivel, like a kid sticking out a tongue at you for not giving her what she wants.

But of course, next year may be different altogether. It may rain again. Wisconsin (like life?) is so unpredictable.

As I drive my nephew to the airport, we talk about uncertainty. Not clear when I will see him again, not clear where he will be.

So my nephew’s gone and Ed and I have to think about watering, but in the meantime we’re back at Paul’s Oasis Café and here’s a change for you – Paul is married now! You go away for a month and the wheels keep spinning.

For dinner I cook up one of my market standbys: green beans, potato, egg, tomato, scallion.

 Missing are the Mediterranean anchovies. Present is Isis. (The photo of him is from the time I was watering. He sat back, somewhat sleepily and contemplated life amidst the smallest of the tomato plants.)

Life. ... when I jump out, you jump in (jump rope song from childhood days).

heroic efforts

It is always surprising to me how easy a complicated journey can be when nothing goes wrong. Take our trip back: Wake up at 4:30, cab comes at 5, check in at the Barcelona airport an hour and a half before flight takes off, and by 6:50 a.m. -- taxing along the runway.

Land in Paris (no issues – weather’s beautiful throughout), eat lovely breakfast of pain au chocolat and café au lait at the airport, board plane (okay, insert here a qualifier: Delta, you should update your interiors to remain competitive!), take off within acceptable timeline, eight and a half hours later land in Detroit.

Immigration officer is friendly, customs officer even cracks a smile. Now, there is a problem with the plane to Madison, but so what. We’re an hour late. We have crossed six time zones and traveled thousands of miles and crossed an ocean. I can take being an hour late.

Here’s the tough part: we came home to record breaking heat. Whereas last year, June was cold and wet, this year June in Madison was hot and dry.

And I mean hot. Several days of above 100 degrees. In my thirty years here, I’d never known it go that high – not even in July or August.

My nephew, whom I asked to occasionally water the garden, you know, in case it doesn’t rain, had his hands full. Thanks to his herculean efforts, the orchard is saved, the tomatoes are thriving and the flowers, though already peaked in terms of their blooming time (more than a month ahead of schedule..sigh...), still add color to an otherwise parched and limp looking farmland.

And here’s another thing: my nephew befriended Isis to such an extent that the cat is actually a tad indifferent to our return home and spent the evening snuggling next to my nephew rather than next to us.

[Slightly disconcerting, though in a very good way, is the fact that my nephew was better at keeping the farmhouse spotless than I would have been – disconcerting because I always thought I could claim top honors in cleaning. I was outperformed.]

This morning I faced the problems that farmettes tend to have: the wasp nests in the garbage cans, the holes made by animals all over the yard, the spent flowers that I can only clip and say – sorry I missed your show... see you next year! and the various packs of animals that are regularly visiting here. The latest ones? A family of sandhill cranes seems to like the barn area. Deer are frequent guests as well. I can’t even imagine what other more secretive creature has come to the cooling shades here.

And still, things look good for us. Great even. 

In the evening, we do last minute all-American things with my nephew (he leaves tomorrow). A visit with my daughter and friends...

A trip to a multiplex ('Moonrise Kingdom'), a pizza at our favorite local pizzeria...

... and then, following the inspiration from a fellow blogger and encouragement from my nephew, I take on the task of cutting Ed’s hair.

Before...

...and after:

...to the backdrop of my nephew doing his final act of watering.

It’s good to be back. But I do wish my nephew didn’t live so far away.