photos

If I posted no words today, just a handful of photos, you'd get my day right. Only, maybe you'd falsely believe that we were made mellow by sunshine all day long. In truth, the sun was an on again off again kind of thing, but everything else is quite accurate.

The glance out the window at sunrise.





Breakfast in the sun room.





A quick look at the farmhouse from the sheep shed path.





Then, work, work, campus work, work and then, blissfully home. Just before sunset. Enough time for a quick hour on our local trails.









So no words today. No time, no talent for it, not today. Just the photos.





A handful, quickly taken, before the light disappears.





A final one of supper: turkey chili, with our garden tomatoes hogging the limelight.





And that's it. There is no more. Or at least there isn't time for more.

all I can say is that it's February 5

The surprise of the day is that there is no surprise. No sun bursting forth just as I make my way home from work. No herd of deer against a clementine tinted snow.  No pot of good stuff on the kitchen stove.

Breakfast offered a view toward a burdened bush. Overwhlemed by snow.





The drive to work offered nothing at all. And the hours in my office offered even less. Views of equally bedraggled types walking against the snow, the cold, the winter, the dreary skies.





I leave work late, come home later. It isn't even close -- I'm not going to cook: it's a day for take out. We'd recently discovered a Thai place nearby (Thai Noodles). It's not exactly inviting for sit down purposes...





...but we never want to sit down outside of home these cold days and so it is irrelevant. The curries and stir fries are good. I don't have to cook. We take bags of food home. We are happy.


A long work day can drag you down. Not for long though. I shovel the path to the farmhouse -- dainty snow, not much of a cover, pretty stuff. We bring in the food, the stacks of mail. Time to exhale. Easy: breathe in, breathe out. Sit down. Eat. Yes, we are happy.

patterns

You'd think each day repeats the previous one. I look out in the early morning: more snow covering the walkway, gray skies.





I throw a coat on and shovel the pathway.

Breakfast. You know how that goes: no sun? Eat at the kitchen table.






Yoga. I do an early morning class. It's tight, but I can do it on Mondays because I've had the weekend to get my classes ready.

After yoga -- well work, teach, work, work. Like for so many, Monday brings on the stresses of the week ahead. What yoga untangles, the work week throws back with a vengenace.


But, it's February. The days are longer. At the end of it all, when I leave campus, I see that the sun has pushed the clouds away (is that how it works?). Ski weather!

Even though we're near 5 pm, the sun is still above the horizon.





Our nearby trails are easy to get to. We keep the shoes and skis in the car. Within five minutes, we're on the trails.






Just a quick run. Less than an hour. Before the sun totally disappears.






So you think these days just repeat themselves: breakfast, yoga, work, ski, fish soup, sleep. And it's true. All days had these components to them. But each has its own magic. Tonight's stellar moments came after the ski run.

We're done. We throw our ski stuff in the hatch of the donkey car and head home. Dusk. This is the time to look around. The world is really pretty in the pink hues of a winter evening. And, yes. There are the deer.





I pull over the donkey car. We watch.






They scamper away.






Except for one. He (she?) goes in the opposite direction.






Hesitating, but not for long.






Meanwhile, the herd gathers by the clump of trees. One deer steps out. Greeting.






His love? She is interested. For sure.






They nuzzle, look out toward the world...





... and walk away. Into the forest.


We pull into our driveway. Home. Our own forest. Our magic. Our slice of heaven.





A day like the others, a day like no other.

super bowl sunday

I wish I liked football enough to participate in the great American experience of watching the Super Bowl. But I don't and so I wont give the game more than the few minutes and even that will be strained.

It's a tough day for those of us who can't quite understand why a football isn't even round.

For me, it's just a regular old day. With breakfast in the sun room...






...a lingering breakfast, because it's Sunday and you can do that on Sunday.






Then, a super good yoga class and today I am in class with my yoga buddy. Followed by a cup of tea with her at Paul's.






It's another cold day. But like yesterday, the clouds thin out by mid morning. What looks sulky gray early on, turns out to be a ravishing blue by late afternoon.

Ed and I load up the skis and head to our local park. One with a trail that I'd never tried before.





Most of our skiing is in the beautiful sunshine of a true Midwestern winter day. 






Cold? Well yes, that. But when you're skiing in sunshine, temperatures out there, single digit or otherwise, are (nearly) irrelevant.






The day moves forward. Closer and closer to the game.





I should think that one clever way to savor Super Bowl Sunday is to make your way to some typically crowded spot on that day, just so you can revel in the quietness as everyone (but you) huddles around the TV set at home.

But timing is everything and so it does no good to show up, for example, at Woodman's -- the cheap mega supermarket -- a chunk of hours before the game. We are then just one grocery cart among millions, all hurrying to load up on (I'm guessing) chips and salsa in time for the kickoff.


I do remember, at the end of the evening, to check which team won. Hmmm. Not San Francisco. Too bad. I like San Francisco. As if that would be any reason at all to wish a team success. I tell you, I'm just not a good football fan.

groundhog day

My doc said Thursday -- stay off the skis for a couple of weeks. And especially after I take the stitches out. You don't want any concussion on your leg. 

That seemed just too doomsdayish for me. Can I do yoga?  -- I ask. Yes, she tells me. Well now, if I can do yoga, I can cross country ski. A simple deduction on my part. She senses my stubbornness. Maybe we'll keep the stitches in longer, she says, half to herself, half to the nurse. So that she can do her skiing.

I read it as  -- permission granted!

I start my Saturday with the usual attention to breakfast.







I know it's Groundhog Day. I know I should consider the shadows outside. But I don't need that to forecast the coming of spring. All I have to do is go to Trader Joe's and note that they are now selling bunches of daffodils for $1.69. That's spring for me.






(But if you were to ask -- would a groundhog see a shadow upon awakening in Madison, I'd say no indeed. No shadow. Cloud cover.)







After breakfast -- I have a solid 75 minutes of yoga. And if ever I felt defiant in class, it was on this day. In facing the fact that I might have to do less (due to leg issues), I am spurred to do more. Take that! And that! I leave satisfied.


At home, Ed asks if I want to ski.
Yes! Three more inches of snow came down during the night. We would have died for such conditions last year. Cold? Oh come on! Not cold at all! It went up to something like 10F this afternoon!

Still, I'm not oblivious to my leg. I absolutely cannot fall.

The Arboretum! There's not a single hill to navigate there. The easiest cross country skiing this side of the Mississippi.






We spend a grand 90 minutes in the forests of Madison's best nature preserve.







Late, at the farmhouse, I settle in to write a long overdue letter -- to a friend whom I haven't seen (or written to much) for more than 30 years. Can I suggest this for you? Go ahead, write a letter to someone once close to you explaining your life of the past few decades. Be honest in what you say! It's a humbling experience.

In the evening I make bouillabaise. Or, my own version of it. If, like me, you've been cooking all your life from cook books, at some point it becomes important (I think) to free yourself of recipes:  you start to look for ideas and cooking styles rather than ingredient lists. My bouillabaise will have seafoods that I like...


 


...it wont have fennel because neither Ed or I think it assists flavors much. It will make use of our storehouse of tomatoes. It will be easy and fresh and honest (I hope).

Here it is:





We eat, we sit back, we think our thoughts. Mine stray all over the place. What if, shouldn't I... It's not always pleasant to hold yourself accountable for where you are and what's before you, but tonight I feel at peace with all of it. We are fine, so fine, here, on the couch, on a good course, paying attention to the other. I play music from my iTunes folder, picking familiar tunes, ones that prompt me to sing along. Ed grins. He's an utter sweetheart on the rare evenings that I choose to sing.

two sides

It's funny how things align themselves sometimes. You think you're going to slide off the road in a snowstorm and instead you bang yourself falling off a high stool which you scaled clumsily in pursuit of a box elder beetle that was making its way across the bathroom ceiling. (Thank goodness for shower curtains which, though easy to tear down as you reach for them, do break a fall.)

I'm cautious on the roads. Obviously less so when I chase box elder beetles.

But that's not what I am thinking of when I start this post. My mind is on the photos of the day: they have an funny pattern to them. I don't read much into this (signs, astrology -- it's all silly), but still, it's interesting to observe.

For example, sunrise. I wake up to it because Isis now likes to do sun salutations every morning at around that time. And at my age, anything wakes you. Anything.

I look out. The sky looks pretty. Should I? I should. Out comes the camera, on goes the coat.

Oh my goodness. Minus 7 F. It takes your breath away.

Still, it is a beautiful morning. But I do not linger. I give you two photos from that quick venture into the world of Arctic air. Sunrise, from one side of the grand old willow.





And then, curiously, one from the other. On my retreat back to the farmhouse.






Indoors, a smarter than me cat is sitting in his usual morning perch -- on the corner of Ed's night table. Isis takes in his sunshine wisely, without the bite of cold air.






I tell him to look at me and he obliges, moving to another corner. Here he is, posing.






Alright, breakfast. There is no question but that we'll eat it in the sun room. I mean, of course! Outside, the world is white and blue and beautiful to observe.






Inside, we have a variation on the breakfast foods. Step aside oatmeal, it's granola time!






Fine, but my favorite breakfast shot will always have a human dimension to it. Here's the human giving his dimension.






After, I work for a while at home. Ed goes off to a meeting, using the Ford pickup this time because the Geo right now is in such a troubled state that even he wont drive it. It takes Ed a while to decide to trash something that still has some moving parts to it and so I expect we'll be looking at the Geo for a few more weeks before he finally admits that it is beyond repair.

Eventually I leave for campus. I encourage (meaning push) Isis to go outside now. He is not happy about that.






Sorry, Isis. I gotta go.

I have my donkey car to use for work today. The doors on it are sealed shut as well, but at least with some combination of hair dryer and crawling in to bang from the inside, we (okay, Ed) manage to get things swinging again.

I hadn't used the car since before the storm and I now I have to pull over twice to clear off some of the offending snow. Even as I think the donkey car looks far better with snow on top: it covers up two of the car's fatal (visually speaking) flaws: the taped together cardboard front fender and the absence of any back fender. You can't tell, can you?





Inside, the car is so cold that ice crystals remain in place on the windshield for the duration of the ride in. Pretty, in a chilling sort of way.






You may fault this day for being too cold. Fine. I agree. Anything that hovers around 0 F is on the chillier side of alright.

And yet... the sun was out. February came in with a smile.  

in, out

Everything about this day was changeable. Unsteady, unpredictable. And therefore poorly observed and even less well photographed.

Up early. Snow? Again? Is it supposed to snow?

We eat breakfast quickly, at the kitchen table.






And then I'm off. Except wait, that's a pretty patch of blue up there. Might we have a lovely day ahead?







Cold. It's beastly cold. Single digits. The doors on the cars are sticking. Snow clumps to the underside. It takes me a while to clear a car enough to get going and so I do not have time to even pause for a photo of the beautiful interplay between clouds and sun over the fields to the side of the road.

For a while, the sun dominates. Walking up the hill to my office, I snap this photo.






But it doesn't last.

After my first class, I have a necessary doctor's appointment. Leg surgery  -- of the type that you have when you've been around for a while. With assurances that I can teach right after (because I am unwilling to take the day off).

During the procedure, the doc and I chat about Turkey. Okay, that's fun. The hour under the knife flies. After, I rush back to campus for my afternoon class. Except, when I park in the garage, I find that I can't open the car door. I crawl over cross country skis to exit through the passenger side. Right. Will do. Maybe something froze somewhere.


Classes done. Survived being on my feet after leg surgery. Back to the old Geo to drive it home. And again: door wont open. Passenger side as well. Now what? (Key is inside, hidden in it's usual inside spot.)

Ah. Hatch is unlocked. I scramble in through the rusty, dirty hatch over clunky skis to open the passenger door. I then crawl back out, close the hatch, and crawl once more, this time on the passenger side, over to the driver's seat.

Now that was a challenge!

I think of people who drive cars where doors open and close, where you don't have to shut off all peripherals at the beginning (heat, lights, radio) to get the fan belt to stop squealing... I tell Ed that my patience with his Geo is really diminishing. He grins -- but you're having fun!

I consider his point: do adversity (of the kind when you cant get into a car and cant run the heat or lights or radio for the first two minutes of a trip) and challenge create a sense of fun? I've always thought that the last place where I will put good (potentially travel) money is on a car. I enjoyed talking with my doc about Turkey. The recollections of my travels there thrilled me. No account of any car would have made me half as happy.

I pick up Ed at the farmette and we drive to Paul's cafe. I show him how once again, I cannot open the door. He laughs: you're banging it with your elbow! That's silly! Bang it with the palm of your hand -- everyone knows that! Okay. I will remember: keep heat/lights/radio off until fan belt quiets down and to get out, use palm not elbow. In the alternative, climb in and out through the hatch.

My doc told me I absolutely cannot ski for at least 24 hours. So I have a reason to say no to skiing in the Arctic blast. I settle in at Paul's and drink my decaf skim whatever and think again about Turkey and Crete and all the islands in between.

During the short drive home, the muffler on the Geo splits. Rusted through to the core. The noise now, when I accelerate is deafening. The door? Well, if I couldn't open it before, we now find ourselves in the position of not being able to close it. I drive home slowly, keeping the door "shut" with my hand pulling it toward me.

At home, Ed mutters -- I may have to retire that car.

He goes to fetch Isis from the sheep shed...


 


...while I roast all remaining vegetables in the refrigerator for a thrown together supper of everything and nothing.





The last day of January. Thank you January -- we've really had such fine days with you!