consider the peppers

A pretty interlude. Not a gorgeous day, not one that screams beauty at you, but one that lifts up your heart just a tiny bit.

I wake up to sunshine...





... and of course, that calls for breakfast in the sun room. And here, I want to show off something on the sill of that room -- there is the Christmas Cactus which, irrationally blooms in months that have nothing at all to do with Christmas. And there is the pepper plant. This guy was sown from seed last spring. When we slipped into the fall season and frost became a danger, I pulled out the pepper plant (which had yet to produce a single pepper), packed it into a pot and carried it indoors. Why not. And sometime in the winter it bore two peppers and they have been hanging in there for months now. Delightful as they are, we cannot decide if we should eat the peppers or keep them on the plant, as mementos of a better time (weatherwise).






Okay, okay. Breakfast. A variation on the usual, but in the beauty of sunshine.










Late, much much later, after work, I drive home by way of the isthmus lakes. Where you can still find a solitary ice fisherman waiting for a fish.






I'm heading home. The sun is still with me. Faint now, but still there, letting me admire that  great and magnificent evening sky...






The paths around the farmette aren't entirely free of ice yet and so I help them along, using a sturdy shovel to chip away frozen (but softly so) surfaces. Just to bring us that much closer to... spring.





I'm thinking of spring now. Every single day, it's on my mind. Even though I've got a chunk of life to confront before that.

a Tuesday...

A Tuesday in the middle of February.


 


Don't hold me accountable for the text here: my thoughts wander on days like this. To the past, to the future. Just not to Tuesday in the middle of February.

It is for this reason that I'm bugging Ed incessantly about Valentine's Day. (That's a Thursday, unfortunately even busier than a Tuesday and still in the middle of February.) I tell him how he must make plans for it, how chocolates and champagne are never wrong, I tell him all this, though not with the expectation of observing Valentine's Day. It's merely my way of being grumpy. As in -- if this is all that February has for us, can't we at least go along?

This morning is busy, this afternoon -- busier. Sometime, the sun comes out and I ought to take note of that because I love sunny days so much, except on this sunny day I can only observe from within.

On the way home, it seems to me that the world is suspended -- between winter and non-winter, snow and not snow...





...satisfying no one at all.

In other news, we talk again about raising goats and chickens and other farmish things and though these discussions never go anywhere, they make us feel like we are being true to the land around us.

On the upside, the sun set significantly after 5.










...and I made thick cabbage soup. With turkey sausage. (Our meals seem both strange and predictable.)

wild things

Anyone who is predisposed against farm living ought not keep reading. There's too much of the rural stuff. Too much of stray animals and their perverse habitats.

There's too much of the wild, the uninvited.

It starts in the predawn hours, when I hear the telltale thrashing of the mouse trap downstairs.
Ed!
Sh, go to sleep.
I know we have another catch. And that I will be the one looking for a field in which to set this brat free. Ed's the stay at home guy now. I go to work, releasing mice along the way.

Farmhouse living. We eat breakfast at the kitchen table.


 


We talk about how the weather people had miscalled the temperatures. Above freezing turned below freezing. We have a sheet of ice on the driveway. Ed stands ready to push me and the donkey car out onto the road.

But as I leave, I spot the intruder.

The intruder was around last night. Isis and he exchanged stares for a minute and then the cat retreaded. Maybe because the intruder has very large, sharp teeth. Or maybe because they know each other. The intruder appears to be living beneath the writer's shed. He comes out to hunt for food in the makeshift compost pile that we keep by the garage during winter months.





'Possum. In the south, people cook them. Our region is as far north as these guys go. No one cooks opossum here. We leave them alone, they leave us alone.





Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Mr 'possum. Go hang out with your family now.

I take the trapped mouse and head to campus. I pass cornfields, rather submerged right now...





Canadian geese love it here. We're less in love with them. They multiply faster than rabbits (it seems) and they squawk at you if you get too near. And, worst of all, they leave behind many tons of poop.

I stop at a snow covered prairie field and let the mouse out.





He looks at me defiantly and scampers off toward a plant hole, disappearing somewhere in the snow.

In the evening, back at the farmhouse, Ed reads me passages from a book written by a woman (Jennifer Reese) who took to raising chickens, bees, ducks, against all odds -- against intruders who invented clever ways to get into the fenced off areas and raid them for her birds. She never gives up, building bigger and better (meaning more expensive) enclosures and I laugh at these stories appreciatively, as if this was my fate too -- protecting Isis, protecting the warm spaces inside the farmhouse from the wild things that roam the farmette fields.

indoors

All good things today took place indoors. Why? Well, outside, it was like this:





So, back to the indoors. Breakfast at a coffee shop, with my good, good friend who happened to be in town for just a few short days.





Then, drip drip drip, rain falls steadily, I don't want to go out anymore, I do not want to go out.

Still, yoga with my yoga buddy... I wont say no to that. No photo there, though I do offer this comment: the class is a long one: two hours, combining music, meditation and the usual vinyasa practice. I should have felt the inner peace that all participants seemed to experience. Instead, I kept thinking that somehow, when nature gave out genes, she did not give me one that made me amenable to group meditation, religion, or spiritual enlightenment. As the musicians chanted site ram, site ram, site ram ram, all I could think was -- I wonder how you spell that...

And when the entire room burst into many rounds of may all *beings* be happy and free, may all things be... -- I listened carefully to see who was singing "beasts" instead of "beings." As if it mattered. And it's not as if I don't wish all beings and beasts happiness (except perhaps for mosquitoes, but I don't really think count) and yet I got no inner tranquility from singing about it with two dozen others.

Still, I am a yoga-in-smaller-doses fan. I cannot imagine becoming one of those older women who can twist herself into unlikely contortions because she does this so often that it becomes second nature. But I do love, really love the hour that I can take every few days to stretch and to exhale, so I'll stay with that attitude and not mind that occasionally, I am asked to reach for something more.


There is one more good indoor element to this day and it is Sunday dinner with my older girl and her husband. The store had monkfish for sale. Good with potatoes, prosciutto, tomato, capers...





And so we eat that, albeit not around the table, but on couches, keeping an eye toward the music that is coming at us from the Grammy Awards. Listening to music with people who know it and like it is always better than listening to it alone and so I have a wonderful handful of hours paying attention to what's cool out there. 





Outside, it rained a crazy wet February rain, turning snow into slush and icicles into wet daggers that fell on anything and anyone who'd dare walk underneath a farmhouse dormer. Wham! Down goes another. And another. No respect for beasts or beings whatsoever.

Let's hope the rest of February brings in gentle days. Snow's okay. Sunshine would be sublime. I'll look for it. Tomorrow maybe?

up north, one more time

Several points.

Up north, they don't run away from the cold. This morning, downtown Wausau was abuzz.





Second point: if you stay at a place that is not a b&b then you have to fend for yourself if you're looking for protein in the morning meal. I look up on the Internet where Wausau people go for breakfast. Mint Cafe. Okay. We go there.





Eggs and blueberry pancakes for me. I know I'm in for a long run today. I need a solid morning meal.


We're on the trails (at Nine Mile Park) by 11:30. So one more point: the weather people tell us it will be a dry day. They are wrong: light snow accompanies us for all the time we are out on the trails.






I have to admit that we are the more laid back skiers. Unlike us, sportspeople at Nine Mile take their skiing seriously. Most everyone passes us -- we are too pokey, too not dressed for the part. (Compare us to him: color coordinated no less.)







Did I mention that today's run is the same one we did last year? It's the 20K and from what I read here on the blog, it took us nearly 5 hours to complete it then.






Will we find it harder now that we're a year older? Will it demonstrate our fitness? Out unfitness?

We have small bottles of water, but these empty out fast. After, we replenish them with fresh snow.
Why doesn't it melt in the water?? What's wrong with this snow?? I expect no answer. I leave for you the most basic Qs about life, skiing, and the ways of frozen slush.


Halfway through the 20K Ed tells me we ought to rewax. Okay. A pause. I welcome a brief respite. There are a handful of shelters on the 20K. It feels so fine to be out of the wind for just a few minutes.





The snow keeps falling, the wind picks up a bit.


 


My cheeks grow very red.





Ed's beard ices over.







Twenty kilometers. This year we do it in 4.5.  At least we're not rapidly declining into some permanent state of disrepair.






Or are we? It's dark on the drive home. I'm at the wheel and I realize that that ribbon of highway is hard to pick out at times. I slow down. Ed looks at me -- are you alright?
I remember so many trips across the country where I was the driver, where I would push forward at all hours, wanting so much to get there. Apparently that's a thing of the past. For me anyway. I pull over at a rest spot. You drive -- I tell the ever up for a challenge Ed. He loves the dark hours. I'll always prefer good visibility. Clarity. Light.

Sometimes it's good to have various and even incompatible talents.


We pull into the farmhouse driveway with a pizza picked up at our beloved Roman Candle.

You didn't fall once today, I tell Ed.
You made it without losing anything, he responds.

 Isis runs over to the farmhouse the minute he spots headlights in the driveway. Where have you been - he seems to be asking, not without accusation.

Up north. Where the wild things roam, I tell him.

P.S. to Up North

Ocean readers with young children, you have no excuse!

Up north (or, for us Madisonians it's up north!), the whole family takes to the trails!

up north

When you say you're going 'up north' in Wisconsin, everyone knows you're heading for the woods and the lakes and the clear crisp air. Maybe to fish if you're into throwing down a line. Yeah.

So we're going up north. Not for long -- one night. I take what I can get from my traveling companion!

First, the morning meal. I take note of Ed's beard: I missed the January trim. Oh well. After the ski weekend.






Heading out of here... Not that it's disagreeable right now in Madison! The morning is deliciously blue (it doesn't last, but it is a pretty beginning).






And all that sunshine really melts the snow on our sloping roof. A loyal Ocean reader from Boston wrote that she was watching to see if her roof would crash under the weight of the snow. Well now, Lili, at least you don't have the wall of ice forming on your eastern overhang.






I work indoors, glancing now and then at the pretty new bargain bouquet ($6.99, again, sort of from Ed. Sort of.)





The goal is to leave around noon. Ed is up at his business site, waiting for me to join him. We'll drive together from there.

Except, come noon,  I cannot get the donkey car out of its spot under the willow tree. Tires are spinning. Ice!

Okay, I can handle it. I hack away under the wheels, tearing my hand, tearing anything and everything.

Still spinning. I take a shovel to it. I chip away with such vigor that I must have over strained. Stomach cramps. Drat. Hack, pound, chip.

Still spinning. Cardboard under tire. Not helpful. The wheel moves over it and spins on the other side, on the next sheet of ice.

An hour later I call Ed, not so much for help -- he's forty minutes away from me, but for that sympathetic acknowledgement that life is tough. I can't get out!

But of course, with enough hacking and chipping, I do make progress and eventually I am free and driving to join him.

Are you okay? Well he might ask. My hand is bleeding and I'm doubled over with cramps.
Should we be going up north? You probably tore a muscle... He asks even as we veer left and onto the highway.
I'll be okay... I say, thinking that I most likely ripped my stomach open or am suffering a protracted heart attack with spleen complications, to say nothing of a pancreatic ulceration. Your imagination can do wonders as you head north on the road while your companion dozes, seemingly oblivious to the tragedy that unfolds.

Halfway up north, I pull over. You drive, I tell Ed. I need to lay flat.
I think about how easy it is to get into a tizzy about most anything at all if you can't get yourself to let go. It's not the first time that sudden and extreme exertion has pushed me into a tailspin. Time to take stock: are my insides really disintegrating in rapid succession, or is it that I need to unwind? Lay down maybe. Let the knots untangle.

Within minutes I am fine, we are fine, the world is a safe and peaceful place again.


Wausau. That's our destination. We were here last year and it was a wonderful winter escape. Interestingly, it's the same number of miles from our home to Wausau  as it is from our home to Chicago. One is to the north, the other to the south. This weekend, it's all about the north. The forests. The snow. The trails.

We know where to go. Even before finding our hotel (the Jefferson Street Inn), we head for the Nine Mile County Park. Their cross country trails are superb! Like no other! By 3:30, we're set to go.





Skiing against a northern sunset is difficult to describe. At once, you want the sun to stay steady, to give you that glow you need to keep going. At the same time, you appreciate the fading light, the shadows, the muted colors. We do the 6 kilometer loop (the shortest one) tonight.





It's a wonderful set of hours. The body feels whole, the mind -- at peace again.






And now for dinner. That's easy in Wausau. We loved the Red Eye Brewing Company the last time we were here and even if neither of us is inclined toward beer tonight, it is a wonderful place to go to for the salads, the mushrooms with goat cheese, the pizza of our own creation.





Day is done. Yes, I have to wonder if Isis is okay. If the mice are staying away (we caught one at the farmhouse just last night). I have to miss, just a little bit, the morning rituals in the breakfast nook of the farmhouse. Not for long though. We are up north. The weather's holding, the snow is perfectly groomed and ready. Exhale, let out a big sigh of relief, smile.

hi from Wisconsin

We are watching "under the Ice." It's a documentary about sturgeon spear fishing on Wisconsin's Lake Winnebago. Basically, ice fishermen gather in huts, drill holes in the ice and then wait for a sturgeon to swim to that spot. The spear is thrust down once a fish is spotted. Some fishermen have done this for years and have yet to spear a sturgeon.

Only in Wisconsin. There you sit, on a cold day, in the middle of a frozen lake, looking down into a hole in the ice. For hours. Days maybe. Staring down at the icy still waters. Fun!

I write this on a day that is so fully 'Wisconsin' it hurts.

A dreary morning. Of rain. You really hate to see rain in February. It wipes out the fresh, pure snow and leaves streaks of brittle, muddy ice behind. And it's not as if it portends the end of winter. No, not at all. It's February after all!

So you compensate with a cheerful breakfast. And we do.





After, I drive, very slowly, willing the donkey car not to slide in the slush.

Work. When I look out the window, I see that the rain has changed to snow. Wet, uncomfortable snow.





Eventually that snow will turn denser, heavier, more pronounced. The city wont clear the sidewalks now. Pointless. Stuff keeps coming down. Miserable for those who have to navigate the sidewalks now.  I have my weekly shopping errands. They require patience. Traffic is crawling. I want light rail! Buses, trains, anything but this car crawl.

Finally. Time to head home. It may be beautiful out there, but that 'out there' is difficult to capture if you're shy about getting wet. Or about sliding off the road.





Home. Finally. I know the northeast is getting the headline blizzard tomorrow. I'm not really complaining. We're not threatened in that way. We've got just enough to stir the passions without going overboard. (Tomorrow after work, Ed and I are heading north to fully indulge the senses.) And still, it's been a challenging winter. Not for the cold, not for the icy stuff, but for the unpredictability and changeability of it all. Snow tonight, sun tomorrow, rain Sunday, freezing Monday, wind Tuesday, even colder Wednesday.

But that's next week. For now, home.


 


Where the pretty, lacy patterns of snow touched trees make winter look positively delightful.

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.