Tuesday

Warm, blustery, Rosie weather...


 


... then a rain burst -- oh dear, not so much Rosie weather! -- then a mixed up day of work, lots of that -- it is a full full day, so that I can only appreciate the lovely (and brief) flashes of sunlight from within, looking out on Bascom Mall…






After work, I head for Paul's cafe -- it's been so long! -- but briefly, only briefly, because my daughter and her husband are coming for dinner in place of the Sunday dinners that could not be this month…




And in the midst of all this, Ed finds some good airfares for our winter break, but it's too sudden, too quick so it only excites us, without fulfilling any promises.


After, Ed heads out to play pickup volleyball (but it's the debate! but it's the day I play volleyball!) even as his college bud(s) came over to the farmhouse for the debate and so I set us up for the political theater that is before us this year.


In the midst of all this confusion (and I admit it - it was a confusing day) there is the more predictable: the peaceful moment on Rosie, as I leave the farm in the morning and set out along the familiar and quiet route to town…





And the quick glance toward the back of the farmette where farmer Lee and/or her sister (I can't see their faces from here) are planting garlic...





And all the rest of the lovely little tidbits that didn't quite make it into the camera or into the blog but they surely made it into my day, making it so very very fine, despite the mishmash of this and that and all things in-between.

warmth

After a night of hiding deep under the quilt (reminder: our gas was not flowing adequately and so we were without heat), we spent the morning following the sun around the house. In the early hours, we could not get enough of it here:





Isis joined us (of course). We almost couldn't get ourselves to leave.





But we did leave. Isis reminded us that we have a day to get on with.


 


Ed located a heating and plumbing supply store that actually had the part (the malfunctioning regulator) he needed for the gas pipes. Which relieved me because although the "deregulated" gas was weak and inadequate, I imagined that it could also be out of control too strong at some point. Basically, deregulation scares me.

So we split up the noon hour nicely: I went to yoga (it's always such a beautiful stretch between here and there)...





...and Ed worked on the gas pipes. I was so overheated by the strain of the Vinyasa routines that I almost didn't notice that, when I returned home, the farmhouse was warm again. The fix was successful: the gas is flowing in a controlled manner once more.

I thought about which essential service I'd miss most (should it malfunction) -- gas, electricity, water. Since I've moved to the farmhouse (a year and half ago), we've lost water at Thanksgiving (that included toilet water) and we've had rare, sporadic, tiny outages of power and now, of course, we were, for these two days, without gas. I have to say that had an outage happened in the coldest months, every one of those would feel like a major event. But this morning, as I woke to that cold air just on the other side of the bedcovers, I thought -- not that different from when we camped in October. Cold. But nothing a good quilt can't ward off.


The house is quiet again. As if in repose. And we're quiet too, along with it. Sleepy, Ed tells me. Even though it's barely 8.

Dishes from dinner are long washed, put away. Not a complicated meal. Chickpea tomato stew. With a fried egg on top. Had I the spinach for it, I could have said -- Spanish.  (I'm missing travel just a tiny bit.)

looking out

You folded my laundry? I hear both the gratitude and the accusation in those words.
Yes…
Ed takes pride in looking after his own stuff. Especially laundry, realizing perhaps that, if I lay my hands on it, I may never deliver upstairs some of the most ancient shirts that go through the (equally ancient) machines.

I go back to grading papers, he reads, Isis sleeps. It's not an unusual pattern and you would think that I would feel burdened by it, but it's raining again today, really raining. We have a hard time kicking Isis outdoors to do his stuff.





So it feels rather comfortable and warm to be in the farmhouse in this threesome, with the various agendas before us.
Or, it seemed warm and comfortable (past tense). I pull on a sweatshirt and glance at the thermostat. Hmm. Must be getting ready to click on. I go to the kitchen to finish up a few dishes… Oh oh.
Ed, two things: no warm water and now another issue: no furnace.
This shakes him up and out rather quickly.
Turn on the stove burners. 
Oh, they're really low!
He's on the phone for this one. Low gas pressure. Dwindling pilot lights. A major problem and perhaps (one can hope) not one that belongs to the farmhouse.

The Madison Gas & Electric guy is over and within an hour we think we have a diagnosis (for the curious, it's a failed regulator). Do you carry spare ones? -- Ed asks.
No. And it's not as if they're readily available. At least not the ones that would work here at the farmette.





We call the usual suspects: Menards, Home Depot. Forget it.

So… no heat in the interim?
No heat. Basically, erase anything that requires gas.

It is our good fortune that we've been invited to dinner on this Sunday (by Ed friends, college and thereabouts) -- out at Lake Mills (for non locals -- that's 30 miles east of us: a pleasant drive, especially since the car is warm, even as the scenery today is so... well, brown and gray).


 


Our hosts grill salmon brought down from the state of Washington.






It's perfectly delicious, as is the apple cobbler and for a while I feel that farmhouse issues are nothing more than a good story to laugh over at dinnertime.

But eventually we have to go home. Cold home. With cold showers and cold pots standing on a cold stove.

On the upside, it isn't the coldest outside (upper thirties tonight). And maybe we have finally identified the issue behind our sporadically malfunctioning water heater.  And maybe the furnace will magically fire up again.. tomorrow. Or soon after.

I am always amazed how many things can and do come apart inside a house. Or within a car. Or a scooter, or a bicycle and I am once more grateful that Ed has the time and the ability to work through most any problem that emerges, usually out of the blue, usually when we aren't looking.

soupy wet

Wet, soupy wet. We knew it was coming and we need the rain, but most anyone would prefer that it would come on, say, Monday. Or Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.

You get spoiled when the rain is a rarity. Ah yes, another day of partly cloudy skies. So when the clouds hang low, when the hours bring in the drizzle, the wetness, the rain, you almost don't know how to treat this interloper, this storm cloud, this moisture laden weather.

I have four photos for you:

The first -- from early morning. I step outside and look around. It's wet alright. And still, I'm a little curious about a day without sunshine. Walking the farmette I think -- it surely has charm, this Denmark-like weather, no?




The color code is different now. The flowers are insignificant, the leaves are drying out. And still, that old farmhouse glows! Washed by the day's rain, ready for a photo! So, number two:






We spend most of the day indoors. Playing with Isis (that would be Ed; I had work to do). Number three:





There are, too, the exceptional moments: like the hour out on the local tennis court. Ed takes the wrong tennis balls -- the leaden ones that have about as much bounce as I can expect to have at age 100. Still, we volley and he tells me more than once that finally, finally I am improving! I'll take the compliment and ignore the wondrous shake of the head.

The tennis court is wet and Ed throws his shoes to the side and goes barefoot, thinking that this would be an improvement. (Number four.)





To me, it's just a game, a lovely game, in the same way that to Ed it's just a life and to another this would be just a week-end, a wet weekend, one of many.


When the cloud layer gets too heavy and wet to send balls across a tennis net, he and I motorbike home... to an exciting (for me it is that!) evening of roasted brussels sprouts and scrambled eggs. After which, I can hardly stay awake, but I do and we watch somber movies because our stack is short and we haven't picked up newer, lighter fare from the library.

look up, look up and tell to me...

Waking early, thinking about the day ahead, remembering that I had university hearings to go to -- seven of them, which is a lot -- I note that the sun isn't up yet. But it will be soon. There was a freeze and, in fact, at this predawn hour, there still is a freeze.

I get up to see if there are the telltale signs of a hoarfrost. There are not. Still, the sky is almost clear, with just a wisp of cloud near the horizon. It's been a while since I chased a sunrise. This morning. I'll chase it this morning.

In the past, I've done it without attention to gloves and scarves. I've learned my lesson. Rosie on a frosty morning means that you protect exposed skin or you suffer.

I'm off. I love this morning loop I make -- not much more than a half a dozen miles, but it has it all: The fields to the north and to the east…






Lake Waubesa -- where I usually stay for the moment when the sun breaks the horizon, but not this time. I take note of the water, the pink and orange wisps of cloud, the ducks (the swim quietly and then take flight, leaving behind an almost still lake)…






…and I move on. Let me witness the coming of the morning sun elsewhere for a change. Maybe from this hill? Yes, it's pretty here. And immediately very bright.






And, as if running to hide from the encroaching world, a herd of deer saunters across the road, down toward the harvested corn and the forests beyond.






This is the hour when you're likely to see reclusive animals and this is the hour when you're most moved by the sight of them.










And yet -- it's just a morning. Like any other. You get up, you eat, you work.

No. Not just like any other. There is that emerging sun... Even had I not scooted out on Rosie, I would have been able to take it in, just east of our old orchard at the farmette, right here:






And, of course, in the breakfast nook. Here:






It's such an elegant start to a cold, winter cold morning. (The less elegant aspect of it? Well, we are having issues with the water heater. Five out of seven morning showers this week were in cool water. There is a quick fix that gets the heater to deliver what it should deliver without a prod -- hot water. But, inevitably, I haven't the time. So I step into the cool shower and shiver.)



Afternoon. Work duties are behind me. I can't quite go home yet -- I have a late afternoon appointment on Madison's far west side. If I just take a two minute sidestep on the ride there, I'll find myself in Owen Woods. If I point the camera straight ahead, toward the sun, the light is so bright that the automatic settings have to work extra hard to make sense of it all. But they get it: It's surreal and gloriously radiant and my wee camera is up for it.





The day doesn't end there. I'm longing to do a yoga class and there is one, right at the close of the day,  so that by the time we're done, the light is almost gone.  I am outside and there's not even a pretense of brightness left. Bands of fading color, then darkness.





I have to say, it's been a challenging week. A bunch of doctor's appointments (because unlike Ed, I pay my dues and I take the time to talk to doctors whenever I have questions about why this or why that). An intense series of lectures at school. An Ed at home who, through it all, is Ed-like in all ways. And now the week is behind me and I've moved on. To the tougher season, when it's no longer quirky cool to zip around on Rosie in shorts and flip flops. When I need to watch for black frost on the roads. When the sun doesn't quite get up early enough nor set late enough.

But transitions and seasonal adjustments have this wonderful thing about them: after shaking you up a bit, they plunk you down in a new setting with its new twists but with elements of loveliness that are just as gorgeous as what you've left behind. Goodbye trailing nasturtium, lily blooms, stalks of lavender. Hello fields of autumn, trees of gold.





I almost cannot believe I'm writing this, but at least one small part of me is really looking forward to even colder days, frosted days, or, better yet, snow covered days... Yes, it's true. Or, it's true insofar as we get the water heater to be reliably working for us again. So that after a morning spin on Rosie, I can step in the shower and steam my way into a bliss of warmth again.

cabbage

When I think the semester is especially difficult, I count the number of Thursdays remaining and I feel better. All days pale as compared to the crazy fullness of this day.

And it didn't get off to a rollicking start today. Everyone has mornings like this, I'm sure. Unresolved topics that need more discussion time at home, too few hours of fitful sleep, a little bit of this, a little bit of that -- it all adds up. Typically I give myself a pep talk before I begin teaching. I think about what I will say and how I will say it. I encourage myself. Really. Today, my pep talk consisted of telling myself that I better snap to it or else. It was more of a threat than an encouragement.

If you're thinking -- well, at least there was that delightful breakfast, I'll note -- eh. It was dark. It was rushed. It was Thursday.







But here's a Thursday high: I finessed my new office. I know, I know -- a silly play of moving this piece in, this piece out, but here's the final product:





Ah, for the first time I look around me and I think -- how pretty my work environment is right now!

At home, I make cabbage soup.





Not a delicacy, I know, but it's what I think describes the day. Simple, not spectacular, find a way to warm the insides, find a way to be happy, even with a difficult day.

gold

I was thinking this morning, scooting to campus on Rosie, that sunshine should make everything fine. But I was feeling too chilled to feel totally fine and indeed, after five minutes I turned around in someone's driveway, intending to go back home and switch to the donkey car, but then I turned again and resumed my trek. Mustn't be soft, mustn't be soft...

When you're not chilled by the wintry temperatures, sunlight can, in fact, spin you into a wonderful morning. Say, at breakfast...





And as you make your way through the farmhouse. There's a ray! And another! And here, note the sun coming through, right between the geranium and the shelf...





And I'm made better by it. Though I know now I cannot assume it will be radiantly warm outside. Today it was not.



Other notable things about this day: well, they came and they tore my office up. It all started that August day when I thought I ough to move things around a little. Today, initially much to my dismay, but by the end -- much to my joy, I had a desk set installed (I didn't pick it -- it's the Law School standard) and there was the usual chaos when you have too little space, too little time, and two men trying to build things right as you're trying to remember why emotional distress is such an unpopular Torts (legal recovery) concept (the topic of today's class).

It's impossible to get a photo of my office (the space is so small), but I want to put this partial one up anyway, because, really, every aspect of my work day was consumed by this mess, finally resolved at the end of the day, so that I could leave it and not dread coming back the next morning. (The highlight of my office is and will always be the floor to ceiling window facing Bascom Mall .)





There are two other events worth mentioning: in the near evening, my daughter showed me a path not too far from her house. We walked it and I have to say I was somewhat stunned to realize that a beautiful path existed so close to her, to me and I never knew of it. This is not a country walk -- we are at every second in Madison...





And yet it seems we've stepped into a different canvas altogether...





Only when we were again by the lake, did I remember we were a short breath from the center of the city.





And here's my second point: that sunshine I spoke of earlier? It is no less compelling on an evening ride home. Scooting down on Rosie, pushing forward on the last mile, I see this stretch of road and I am just tickled by it.




And it's no less touching when I put away Rosie and look up at the farmhouse. Most of the flowers have succumbed to the cold weather, but some are still there to frame this magnificent old structure, Caribbean yellow, in shades of Wisconsin gold.





Remarkable. Or maybe not. I can't remember a time when I looked around me here and didn't think it was drop dead gorgeous.

middle of everything

Are we at the beginning of a string of flyover days (sort of a calendar analogue to a flyover state -- the one you pass on your way to, say, California)? Too cool, to gray, too suspended between work and a great desire to have easy sleep nights (as opposed to Isis nights)? I hope not. I hope I don't merely check off calendar days as if they were somehow disposable. May I never forget that flyover also means uncomplicated, uncrowded, calm. A time (or place) when you don't have to spend a lot of money to reap the benefits of life. Good things within eyesight: a bird, a lasting flower, a corner of a room.




farmhouse


Still, it is a cold and dreary morning, so I never even give Rosie a thought. Donkey car for me. And I have the many classes of a Tuesday and, too, suddenly, after today, fifty-five exams to grade at home. And, even though I really do not want commotion in my work spaces, I have the announcement that some office furniture is being installed tomorrow and so I have to be prepared for chaos, which is a shame.




campus


On the upside, Ed's college friends are in town and because it's midweek, Ed takes us out for dinner rather than having me cook. This is perhaps a run of the mill event for any other person, but Ed and I so rarely go out for dinner, that I have to say, the novelty itself was worth a mouthful. I ate a fishy dinner at Sardine and for a brief second I thought about how curious it is that in some weeks - weeks spent away from Madison -- we would regard this as a normal event. Go out, order food, eat. But at the farmette, I get into the routine of cooking and it never even enters my imagination that we should eat anywhere but home.



farmette


Home. How is it that it has such a hold on us -- this idea of home? I've moved so often and to such different homes... how is it that the farmette feels now like home for life?

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.