bands of sunshine

Ed, the doorbell is ringing incessantly. You go check.
What? What? He's just barely waking up.
Doorbell. Go let him in.
Isis? You're talking about Isis? He's up here with us.
At this hour, I'm easily confused: the cat's in, he's out, I can move, stretch and suddenly I can't. He's there, not there, to the side… it's hard to keep straight the progression of events.

So who's ringing the sensor doorbell? Suddenly, sleep seems remote. Once you're up, you're up. I go downstairs to investigate.

Robins. Who's said robins are birds of spring? We have them by the handful now. In the morning, they dig up our wood chipped paths, they devour crab apples, they dominate the landscape! And right now, they're working the path to the door. I go down and toy with the idea of going out to take photos of birds. Nah. Just one, through the window, to appreciate the early morning sunlight as much as the bird making holes in search of a worm.






Sunshine. It comes and goes today, but when it comes, it's brilliant.






Outside, I do my last watering duty. With a bit of nostalgia -- for a summer season that demanded such a workout from the hose!

When you stand for an hour directing a stream of water, you notice things. Like the late peas Ed planted. We thought nothing would come of them. And now, as the frost hovers over us, a handful has matured. Delightful in their late season surprise.






And I really have to admire the pansies. I always stick them into pots early. Very early. In April. Because they can take cold nights. They usually give it up when the weather turns hot, but this year, I babied them (as did my nephew, back in June) so they straggled and limped their way through the summer, only to bloom again now, on their long, long, ragged stalks. I have to admire that. The first and the last flower, giving forth rich color as if it was the easiest thing in the world.











Around the farmette, the fields and bordering trees are mighty dry. We're still officially in a state of drought. You don't notice it so much in the fall, because your expectations of blooms are so low, but if you look carefully, you can't help but notice the dryness around us. In the browning leaves of the trees. The dustiness of the soil. And still, on a (partly) sunny day, it's always so beautiful out there and especially at the close of the day. Ed and I are returning from a late game of tennis (windy tennis is tremendous fun: the ball goes where it wants to go) and I have to pause. The world is such a pretty place!






For supper -- well, we've got foods to finish off. Broccoli soup. Salads. The usual favorites.





I have work to do this evening. Ed has work to do. And so I settle in with my computer and Ed settles in with Isis.





We, the three of us --  we're highly predictable.

in anticipation

Isn't it true that the things we prepare for, worry about, take heed against -- often they don't materialize, while the things we never give a thought to ultimately bring us down? I suppose this is a good thing. Because it supports the idea that we should either worry more broadly, or, preferably, worry not at all.

Basically, yesterday's freeze warning was superfluous. Clouds came, the cold air stayed north of us and our rush to salvage crops, flowers and other vulnerable entities was premature.

Don't get me wrong -- today was not a warm day. Far from it. But, what bloomed yesterday, was still there to greet us this morning (even as we had moved some of the garden indoors).






Still, it was warm enough for me to say "okay" when Ed proposed a window washing project after breakfast.

It always surprises me a little when he initiates anything that has elements of cleaning or tidying. And I never turn him down. Who knows when the next cleaning surge will come.

We take out old rags and we set up the ladders and I wash down the lower half of each window and he washes down the upper half and I'm thinking the whole farmhouse looks like it had a makeover, just because of the sparkling clean windows.










 


The rest of the day is just as agreeable and tidy. We pluck this and that in the yard, we play an ever brilliant game of  tennis, I attend a yoga class and Ed attends to removing an AC unit from the sheep shed...






...and we play with photos, and with Isis,  and photos with Isis...


 







Evening comes. We do not eat dinner together -- I eat delicious Sri Lankan food with students  at my colleague's house and Ed eats left over tomato soup at home...






The weekend is done. I do feel that we have attended to things here at the farmhouse: we got ready for winter, even if winter didn't arrive as expected. Which, of course, is a good thing.

chill

Cold morning. And colder night ahead. Not just frost warning, but freeze warning. That means most of the annual flowers will be giving it up for the year tonight.

A gray day. No point in eating in the sun room. Back to the kitchen for breakfast.





Then, an unusual outing: we go to a political brunch in support of a Wisconsin candidate. I suggest to Ed that he may want to change into less torn pants. He chuckles.

The event is in a beautiful part of Madison.






Ed wants a few words with the candidate...





... to communicate his views on doing business in the state. The candidate listens, sympathetically. Soon after we retreat, not being the "stay and mingle" types.We take a yard sign with us.


At the farmette, I snip nasturtium. They'll continue for a while indoors. Here:



And here:





I have a large potted plant that won't make it if I leave it outdoors in the cold and only maybe will make it if I put it in the ground. So we bring it indoors. Maybe it'll stay happy in the sun room. Maybe.






In a desperate move, Ed digs up the pepper plant that never went beyond an initial flowering spell. Maybe we could winter it over? He asks. The farmhouse is becoming a shelter for wayward plants.






Evening.  
There's one last chance, Ed. Every last tomato has to come in before the night.
We survey the field that has served us so well. There are some green ones that still look like they wish they had a chance. And dozens and dozens of tiny red ones -- some shriveled in past frosts, some hardy enough to stand firm. We pick selectively. Sophie's choice: those that are likely to make it come in.






There is this moment of great sadness for all that will be left behind. No, wait, let me rethink that:  the remnants -- the dried, or shriveled or spent tomatoes are what will make next year's soil better! The easiest way to let go of anything is to believe that it all will come back to greet you in the future in one way or another.


One last look at the farmhouse, framed in still blooming flowers. With a solitary corn stalk waiting... for not much of anything anymore.


 




In the evening we go to another event. This is so not like us! Two in one day! This one is not political exactly. It's a vegan chili cook off, run by the Alliance for Animals. (Ed is a member.) Seven Madison restaurants are serving their (vegan) chilis. You get to sample all and then have a fine large portion of two of your favorites. And, add to it a hot dog. A vegan hot dog.








 


There is a silent auction, too, and you can bid on things like a home vet visit for your kitty. Or knick knacks that announce a love of animals.






We don't bid on anything, but we admire the generosity of those who have contributed to this event. As for the chili -- well, my own chili meter tells me all the chills are good and I'm thinking the Eldorado one is even better than good, but here's an idea: maybe vegan chills shouldn't feel compelled to put meat-textured stuff into their chills. You know, fermented something or other, rolled and then ground. Because there's plenty of goodness in plain chili without the meats. It's not as if we have to fill up on the pretend stuff.


We leave before they announce the winner. I don't like to see the disappointment in the faces of those who are not selected. 

It's nippy outside. We're only on October 6th and I'm already wearing my warmest scarves. How quickly we have shifted from that other season to this one!

TGIF

A checkered night of mismatched sleeping habits (between Ed and myself, between Isis the cat and Ed and Isis and myself -- you name it, it didn't match up). When finally Isis leaves for his morning stroll, I look up and notice that I am about to miss my sunrise yoga class.

So I rush. Which, perhaps, is the wrong attitude for yoga. And I tense when the instructor gets off to a late start. And, of course, she ends late. So all those minutes at yoga letting go of my tension results in it galloping right back at me.

And then I am late for one meeting, on time for the next, on time for four others (you got it: four others) and then I am spent from being so tense all day long. And I have the bulk of my work for the day before me.

Moreover, it is cold enough in the morning that I abandon Rosie and go straight for the donkey car. Which is never a good sign.

In the evening, Ed and I struggle with frequent flier miles and flights and get absolutely nowhere.

And so I offer you a photo that I quickly snapped before being late this morning and really, I apologize, but this is the best I can do.




But, the house is warm, the leftover soup is good and I stock up on milk chocolate covered raisins and pistachio nuts from Trader Joe's. Sinful, especially as I listen to various yoga people talk about fall time cleansing diets (so not me), but let me tell you -- an evening is always made better by milk chocolate covered raisins and Trader Joe's pistachio nuts. I speak from the heart.

snow day?

In a manner of speaking, it is that. Suddenly, no meetings, no classes, no campus activities. Yes, I am vaguely tempted to go to campus anyway, to take note of the President's visit. But I'd seen candidate Obama speak four years ago and besides, last night I dutifully watched the debate and remembered only after that I don't like watching debates. I understand the function they serve, but my engagement with the political process is quieter, tamer. I ask myself questions, often times bouncing them off of Ed, who has a good way of coming up with counterpoints. And I love to listen to serious back and froths, say on the News Hour. But, still, I did watch the debate and, disappointed, today I am taking myself as much as I can out of politics.

And what a good day it is (therefore?)! An early morning look outside…







 


A morning yoga class -- a slow one, a tad too slow, which tells me that I'm a Power Flow Yogi -- one who likes the quick change, the flow from one pose to the next, to the next… (Is it because I am that way in life?)


A late breakfast, too late to even catch the sun in the east room, so we're at the kitchen table, with the burst of the sunflowers from farmer Lee in our face…






After, Ed finishes painting a few corners of the house that he had missed and I play catch up with work.






And finally, finally we go for our monthly shopping trip to big, horrible Woodman's. It is, though, a mark of normal times. And because it is during a work day, we have more space in the aisles -- enough that we can play a little. If you were anywhere nearby, you might have seen, for instance, me, teaching Ed to do the Warrior III pose (think: airplane), right next to the fruit juices.


On the way home, Ed has lumber to pick up at Home Depot and we drive the rest of the way home with his arm hanging onto the too long board at the side of the car. Which does not stop us from detouring to the farmers market. For onions.







Needed for the tomato soup. Because, there are still these tomatoes. Ripening, ripening...

Wednesday

A quick morning walk along the dirt paths of the farmette. In the summer, I kept pointing the camera at the farmhouse. But now,wouldn't you agree that the shed, the barn are especially good at showing off the autumnal brilliance?





It's still very dry out here (the only rain expected at all is scheduled for the hours President Obama is on campus) and I should water, but there aren't the hours. Too, I spend time each morning plugging holes dug by chipmunks. They're all over and at the very least, they're messy. A potmarked canvas of root damage. Do chipmunks ever go to sleep already? Maybe October 4th?

Let me look up, not down. Oh, now there's a pretty scene!







How can you not revel in the warmth of this morning! The last of the easy going mornings, the beautiful sunny mornings of early October!


And I ride Rosie to campus, even though I ought to bike -- how many good biking days will there be? 'I ought to' does not easily translate into 'I will.'






Between the wedding and Ed's September fever, I think I let this past month slide at its own speed. It just sort of happened. Now I have to invent a speed. For a while -- a couple of weeks maybe -- I pick slow.





Not that on campus the pace is anything close to slow right now. Frantic construction in anticipation of a presidential visit. The precautions seem more extreme than the previous times President Obama was here. Not only are we under orders to keep the blinds shut in the windows facing the Mall (this would include my very very large window), but I see that they're draping a curtain over the windows of the college dorm, which is a good block away.





I cannot emphasize enough how disturbing it is to live at a time when such measures are considered necessary. Where a missed window covering could change the course of history.


So after too many hours on campus, I am very happy to be on Rosie again, very happy to greet Ed at Paul's cafe, very happy to be playing tennis (that's his Honda, next to my Yamaha -- both easily spotted around town because of the with milk crates on the rear racks )...








…to be cooking soup (broccoli), to be glancing out as Ed finishes the painting of the farmhouse...


 


... to be combating the fruit flies (we had a hefty population with all those tomatoes, but we have now the secret weapon -- the Isis hair-on-couch hand vacuum -- positioned to catch every last fruit fly!), to be mixing a lovely cassis kir (a splash of black currant liquor with with white wine), to be wondering how the debate goes, to be thinking happily about the yoga class I can attend, for a change, on a Thursday morning.

Tuesday

A few weeks back I wrote how this was the "last warm day" of the season and indeed, one of those posts proved to be right because I cannot remember any hot summer moments thereafter. Now, I am facing the fact that tomorrow we'll have the "last even medium warm" day of the year and after that -- well, riding Rosie will no longer be a given.

Already this morning, I felt under-protected from the wind and this despite the beautiful sunshine that warmed our pale yellow fields and dapples of gold beyond.

I pull my gloves on and forge ahead, but it is not toasty out there.

When the weather finally turns (Thursday), I'm imagining I'll not be suffering the consequences  of it because I do not have to go to work! Indeed, I cannot go to work. This particular Thursday President Obama relieved me of my duties by announcing a campus visit that places him right outside my office window over on Bascom Mall. I thought I'd have front row seats, but it appears that our building has to be emptied for the day and so suddenly I have a blank schedule. Sort of like Thanksgiving only without the turkey. In gratitude, I plan on watching the debate the day before, even though I am not among the undecided.


But until then, work continues and intensifies. I leave early (after breakfast, of course)…





 … just as the sun is cracking the horizon at the old orchard to the east.






Though the truck farmers beat me to it. These are the weeks of the final harvest and the farmers are racing to beat the big frost clock.






It's not early fall anymore.






Evening. I meet Ed at Paul's cafe and we both promptly fall asleep. Our planned tennis game goes to the wayside.

We steer our motorbikes home, past the fields of market flowers and spent vegetables…






And I pause just for a second, to pass on greetings to farmer Lee and this may be the last time that I see her this year, because she tells me (if I understand her correctly) that she's closing shop for the season. She hands me a large bouquet of flowers, but I'm not sure she is the one who should be thanking me. Who benefited most from her work at the farmette? I would guess we did.

I turn Rosie home...





…where Farmer Lee's flowers look so splendid in the late evening sun.





 There is nothing special for dinner. Ed is tired and snacked up for the day. I haven't the inclination to cook up the next soup. How about a sweet potato with a scrambled egg and a leftover piece of smoked salmon?





Isis sniffs appreciatively but I chase him down. Mine, little cat. This dinner is mine.

in the season

Why are you writing "late garden" on the freezer bags? -- this from Ed, who is watching me prepare the last of the tomatoes for winter storage.
Because these guys are different. Some are tougher -- as if they were trying to hold on to their might and some succeeded and others -- not so much. Kind of fleshy and limp. So I'm labeling them. So that I know.

I'm trying to do right by our harvest, but what do I know? All I've memorized is that late harvest grapes are sweeter and that late harvest pears are suboptimal. You should be picking pears when they're not quite ready for the table. They develop issues if left on the tree too long. But tomatoes -- they're all over the place. There are no hard and fast rules. We still have containers of green ones and some are ripening and some are not. I was told I could do a nice chili with green tomatoes. Can I? I haven't dared try.

I think about things like harvests and growing things and the coming of winter because when you live in the country, the change of seasons, the progression of time -- they're so obvious. Not only because the palate of colors changes, but because the balance shifts. With each month, everything moves toward a new center.






And if I forget to pay attention to the heaving and shifting that's taking place around me, there is yoga class to remind me of it. Truthfully, my love of yoga right now can be linked to my love of living in the country. One makes the other more vivid, more obvious.






As we inch closer to the cooler months and I shake out and move to the front of the closet my beloved sweater collection (nothing feels better than a comfy sweater on a cool day), I think how nothing outside reminds me of summer anymore. Yes, some of the flowers are still throwing out blooms…






Yes, I can still slip out scantly dressed for one thing or another outdoors (I have summer warmth stored in my bones… it usually lasts until right around Thanksgiving). But everything is on a different plane. We all know it.



 


If this sounds a tad morose or sentimental, don't place too much store in it. The day was certainly normal enough.

Breakfast.





Work. Yoga. More work. Leftover chili for supper. You got it: it was, in fact, a glorious day.