Thursday

Well it's Thursday. You can never expect much from this day here. So let me spin you through a couple of photos and let's call it a day, okay?

Early breakfast in the sun room:




This, after Isis yet again rearranged his stomach on the bed moments before sunrise. Isis! Get off the bed if you're going to clean your internal digestive system! (Add to list for today: laundry)


After breakfast we have a half hour's worth of intense negotiations over summer travels. Pakistani Airlines (the airline offering the cheapest fares to Europe) has, according to a number of websites, a terrible safety record. Ed rightfully points out that even if their record is ten times worse than the next bad one, the chance of a fatal accident are incredibly small.

But I remind Ed that anxiety doesn't always track reality and I do not want to begin nor end our big vacation with anxiety packed tightly into my backpack.

We end this back and forth abruptly as I have an early morning class to teach. And then another. And there are office hours and meetings with important people at the Law School and before you know it, the daylight hours are fading.

My routine is that on Thursday after work I pick up groceries for the week. Today I am so buried in office tasks that I almost put shopping off and suggest that we make do with pizza. And then I reconsider. To get this done - work, the shopping, the cooking -- all of it, will give me a sense of relief. So I persevere.


Two grocery stores later, I'm driving home. I take the pretty route. It's still cold, but the sun is out momentarily. And yes, I know the whole next week is slated to be cold, but I'm no longer upset by this. I am now on a roll toward spring and in any event, spring break begins soon and by the time that's over, we'll be in April.






At home, I start the laundry, unload groceries, stir-fry a dinner and clean up. Dinner isn't special, but it's fresh and honest, with left over chicken pieces for the cat.






And then, too, I picked up a $5 bunch of flowers for the week. Uplifting to the core.





So we watch our crazy stack of library movies and we come back to our talk of summer travels and eventually, hours later, I exhale enough to sit down and write a post. There you have it. Thursday. I say this with a smile. Because the day is almost over and predictably, I survived.

then and now

A year ago today... I remember it so well!  Go ahead, click on it: right here.

Important things to take note of:

A year ago, the lakes were no longer ice covered.
The snow was long gone.
Crocuses were abundantly in bloom.

You cannot expect 78 degrees on a March day every year. But can we split the difference? Because I would have loved 53 degrees, as opposed to the 28 I had to confront today at noon.

Of course, there was the sunshine. I do love the sunshine. I wake up and it is the first thing I notice.



(through the snow on the skylight)


The second thing I notice is that Isis is turning over his stomach (I have no better explanation for it) on the bed. Well now, dear old cat. That took care of the rest of sleep time.

So long as we were up early (and we were: thank you, Isis), while stumbling through breakfast routines...


 


...we resumed our discussion of summer plans. Ed found cheap flights and we would be booking them right now but for the fact that they are on Pakistani Airlines and it's not part of my frequent flyer program! Ridiculous -- he tells me. Not for me it isn't. So we're stuck. It could be that we'll fly separately. We've done that before!

The rest of the day was so predictable that I'm shying away from any more details. Just a photo of our frozen lake, so that next year I wont feel so terribly morose when March 13, 2014 will (again) fail to produce the crocuses.



Lake Monona



Monona Bay, with a snowman in the middle

cat cow

If you have done yoga, you know this:  there is a cat pose, where you're on all fours, curving your spine, tucking your chin in and typically this is followed by cow pose, where you drop your belly, lift your head and, with chest soaring, gaze directed upwards and outwards. In the next breath you return to the cat pose. A classic sequence.

You could say that we had a cat cow day today.

The morning is delightful! An unexpected cloud dispersal, a touch of sunshine -- cold still, but who cares!





Breakfast (with the crazy haired inventor) is in the sun room...





...and I have to push my chair to the side. Too bright!





I know it wont last. By late afternoon, when I come back to the farmhouse, the flakes are coming down hard and fast. I'm almost charmed by the delicate nature of this snow shower, were it not for the fact that I know damn well it's March 12 -- a time when inconsequential snow showers are no longer welcome.





Still, you could say that it is a classic sequence. Because later, closer to sunset, I witness this beautiful clearing of the skies:





Dinner? You could say that Isis set the menu. Here's why:

Every morning I am the first one showered and dressed. I go downstairs, I straighten up, I put away dried dishes from the previous day. No matter how deeply asleep Isis is, when I'm in the kitchen, he instantly wakes and trotts down to look for me there. As I start to bring out breakfast foods, he positions himself on the floor and waits. I cut up fruits, pour oatmeal, get out the yogurt. He sits, quite still, except for his roving eyes that follow my movements. And inevitably I'll ask if he wants a morning snack and it'll appear to me that by his presence he is giving me a firm "yes" response. So I take out whatever meaty leftover there may be (perhaps from many days back) and give a piece of it. Satisfied, he returns upstairs and joins Ed in bed while I continue with breakfast preparation. (If he wants a second breakfast of milk, he'll come down when Ed comes down.)

I realized this morning that he has devoured the last of the Sunday's chicken breast. And so I have to prepare dinner with him in mind. Well now, that's easy: nothing, nothing pleases him more than Trader Joe's smoked salmon (he'll take it from Whole Foods as well, but I'm not offering that), so I defrost the salmon and plan dinner around it (with a broccoli scrambled eggs concoction at the side and of course, the salad).






Meanwhile, outside, the clouds have returned and it's snowing. Cow. Or cat. Or both.

Monday

It's tough not to get too preoccupied with the weather. Last year at this time we had a burst of heat that killed the apple crop, but gave the rest of us a wonderful March -- of sunshine and of warm, jacket-less days, enchanting days of hope.

This year it's quite the opposite. We can't seem to dig out from that freezing level. It rained, sure, it did that for a while. But the ground is frozen solid and the rain stays in puddles and ponds, flooding creeks, refusing to sink into an inhospitable dirt.






It was a hurried day. My work plate was full.

Still, every day has color. Let me take you straight to our supper of left over tomato soup. Very red. With Hook's cheddar shredded on top. And the inevitable, wonderful, eclectic salad.






But for real color, there's the guy who would not let me test a camera photo card without making faces, dodging my aim, blocking with a hand, a finger -- but I got him! My crazy inventor, adding spice and color to the day.

fog

Eerie, dreary, drippy, ghostly, soupy... wait, stop now. The list is too long. The weather map states: zero visibility. That says it all.

One way to turn a day around is to accomplish things despite the odds. So I clean the farmhouse before it is even decent to be up and about. And then I go to a 75 minute yoga class. Well now.

It is foggy nonetheless.






Breakfast: let's have it in the sunroom!
There's no sun...
So what, who cares, let's pretend...





He looks like a mad scientist in that photo and that's not entirely wrong because he is immersed in design projects right now. And so he retreats to the sheep shed for a good part of each day. I take stock. Okay, granola baking time.





The farmhouse soaks in the aroma of cinnamon. I settle in to do work. Classes will be well prepared this week. There are no distractions. Lots of time to work.

In the evening, Ed comes in from the sheep shed. Project put to rest for the night. Because it's wet outdoors, Isis refuses to step down until they both are on the safe, dry floors of the farmhouse.





My daughter and her husband come for dinner. The proverbial burst of sunlight.





And then things quiet down again. The sun disappears and I never even notice that it was one hour later than yesterday. No matter. You have to pay a price for spring. The upswing will come. It's just a little late to our liking, but it'll come. Maybe this week, maybe not. But it'll come.

Saturday

They said it would rain and it did rain, though not enough to wash away the snow, which is a shame. If I can't ski on it, or find beauty in its freshness, then I would like it please to go away.

Not surprisingly, I focused my attention on future fun projects. I've already planned out major garden expansions (I did that in February, when every northern gardener goes hog wild with ideas and spends too much on seeds and to-be-delivered-in-May bare root plants). So I focused on forthcoming breaks and slightly more distant vacations.

But first, there was breakfast. Isis has been joining us for the morning meal. He seems to be respectful of my desire to keep him off tables (whereas in the sheep shed, there isn't a surface that he hasn't inhabited in one way or another) and I am grateful for that.





Lately, we've had multiple cat visitors to the farmette. I bang pots and make loud noises when they come. I feel Isis is vulnerable in the territorial squabbles that inevitably take place between him and vagabond cats. Isis is getting old. I know a thing or two about not wanting to fight anything or anyone when you get older.

Ed, however, is always intrigued by cat visitors. He talks about cat projects that we should take on once Isis is no longer with us. I listen, respectfully but without enthusiasm.

Over the years, of course, I have come to quite love Isis (except at night, in bed). But my affection for animals pales when compared to Ed's passion for all things that move on fours (or, in the alternative, waddle on twos) and can't speak any language, let alone the English language. He even likes these guys:





I photographed them for you today on my way to my yoga class, but they are no special subject for me at all. Any Madisonian, or person living south of the city will see more geese -- in the fields, geese on the bike paths, geese flying in pairs or in clusters, geese just hanging around -- more than  one could possibly want to in the course of a day. Two years ago, our city decided that there were too many geese here and, with permission from the federal government, they set out to shoot some 350 of them. (There were protests. Some geese were indeed 'removed,' but we continues to have a lot of geese.) I would like to believe that someday, these Canadian geese will reacquaint themselves with their true national origin and fly north, like they're supposed to. Ed, on the other hand, has a soft spot even for geese.
They poop everywhere! -- I'll protest.
You mean they fertilize our soil -- he'll retort.

So after yoga, I try hard to work on my classes, but I find myself instead finishing up details of spring break planning and then, with a shift of focus, I begin my annual ritual of trying out summer adventure ideas on Ed. What will tickle his fancy is a true life's mystery.

Finally, in the evening, we put aside the leftover tomato soup for future nights. Ed has suggested that we try take out form a nearby Indian restaurant.

And here I just want to say that trying out restaurants was a lot more exciting before the advent of Yelp or Tripadvisor. You would venture forth because someone told you that the place is a good bet and more often than not you'd come out entirely satisfied. These days, I'll read a published review and then, just to be thorough, I'll go on to read what the general populace had to say about it. Even the very best places will have their detractors. The lesser eateries will be overrun with condemnation:  "bland!" "we were poisoned! Avoid this place at all costs!" "they treated us like scum!" "reheated, dry, tasteless" -- on and on. It can take the anticipatory spark out of dining out.

In the end, Ed does pick up foods from Taj (which may well be the closest restaurant to the farmette at only 4.4 miles door to door). And it was fine and so far, neither of us is sick. I know that's setting the bar low, but honestly, on a gray drizzly March day, I think staying healthy and focused is a good enough goal to set for oneself.

the bright side

I pay my respects to winter today. I know no one likes this challenging season. I admit that I prefer spring. And summer. Maybe even autumn. But a winter like the one we're putting aside now, did bring us its share of joy.

There's fog early in the morning. Not serious stuff (as it appears to me). Pretty wetness that clings to thin branches and makes them look very lacy, very fragile.





I have no appointments, no meetings and so I can work at home. After breakfast.






This is the day that I get back to doing yoga and that's really good, because it's been a while since I've stretched myself into a downdog or a pigeon pose. On the way to class, I pause to watch deer to the side of the road.





They look at me, I look at them. It takes no more than a second for them to decide to flee.






I wonder if they're made bolder by the weather? By the sunshine? By the feeling of spring?  I rarely see deer at this time of day. Maybe they need that indulgence? That lovely warm feeling of sun on your back?

I get that very feeling today: Ed and I do our final ski run for the year (I know, I know, there have been a lot of finals, but this is the real one... there will be no more). It's almost evening and the sun is low. But it feels good and warm. I unzip my jacket. We're both hatless.











The snow isn't great. Icy in places, thin in other spots. We go off trail for a while and that really is painful: wet, deep, uncomfortable. But it doesn't matter. It's like being on the final minutes of a vacation -- you feel protective, attached to the time, the place. Our ski runs this year have been wonderful. You can't help but feel somewhat nostalgic about letting them go now.





Supper. Tomato soup, to use up those bags of garden tomatoes in our freezer. Next week, we'll be starting seeds for this years crop. Incredible to think that we are this close to the growing season.

winter's end

Well, it was a fitting end to a wonderful winter. Because, really, we (those of us who love cross country skiing) did have a fine season. I know most of you don't really care that much about this odd sport where you basically push yourself on boards across a snow covered terrain. In very cold temperatures. But to profess a love for skiing is really to profess a love for something deeper: for the quiet of the forest, for the crispness of every breath you take in, for the beauty of a world turned, for the most part, black and white. (It turns out that if you look hard enough, you'll notice significant color differentiation even as the day progresses.)

Let me go back to the early hours of the day. Sunrise. I don't have much time for anything come Thursday -- it is my treadmill day, when I spin madly, trying to keep up with the world, hoping not to slip off and fall flat on  my face. But I do have time to step outside just as the sun breaks the horizon.





And I always have time for breakfast. In the sun room today (note the blooming nasturtium!).





From sunrise, I roll over the hours of work to sunset.


I'm speeding home now, hoping so much that there will be time for a ski run before dusk. Ed comes out to reassure me. There's time, there's time...

I know winter is a tough time. I know it.  I have infinite empathy for those who work in the cold outdoors now. But tonight, we experience the kind side of the season.

We're out. The trails are icy now: it is the way it must be in the final hours of winter. There'll be bare spots tomorrow. And if the predictions hold true, the rains will wash the snows away by Sunday.

But for now, we are in a wintry state of bliss.




This is it -- the sunset of a day. Of a season. We've been made tougher by months of cold.


 


In a day or two, we'll be rewarded with spring. But today, we're still skiing, still pushing those boards across fields of snow.






At home, I fix a supper that is everything and nothing. Foods we love, foods that are easy. A one frying pan meal of spinach and mushrooms, eggs and smoked salmon, and as always, a large, very large salad.





As I glance over this post, I think -- how could this be at all exciting? Sunrise, sunset, with little in between. Plain food, known scenery, little variation in any of life's essentials. And yet...
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

and one more time

You have to forgive me. We're in that final spin, when weather and life and the imminence of spring all push us out onto the cross country trails, no matter how late it is, how tired we are (rephrase that: I am), how inconvenient it may be to fit in a run in our favorite county park just minutes from the farmette. This is it! The tail end! The snows will melt, spring will come, this is the final push!

And of course, in many ways, this is the best time to ski. The weather is mild: just at freezing in the early evening. The snows are (today) packed and solid. And there's that mellowness in the air, that whiff of a breeze that portends of great things just around the corner (spring!).

So, of course, after work, just as people are settling in to watch the evening news, Ed and I go out to ski.

It's so different today! Yesterday, the snow was a mile high, the winds created dips and valleys. Today, the trails are groomed, the forest is still, life is easy!






Yes, yes, I admit it: these last days of winter are good days. From the morning...





...until that last spin on the trails at dusk. And somewhere beneath all that snow, the crocuses are getting ready for their show. Yes -- life is good.

one more time

I think we should be looking for crocuses right about now. It's what we do in March. Whatever snows fall -- they melt the next day and the crocuses recover and all's right with the world again.

So it's not really good that we have snow piling on top of snow, because all that snow is just not going to melt anytime soon (I was hoping for crocuses by the weekend...).

On the other hand, all that snow surely is a thing of beauty. Clumps of snow cling to tree branches and form gorgeous patterns on the porch screen.





We were told  -- storm is coming! -- and it came and so we were prepared.

Early breakfast in the front room...





...then a slow drive up unplowed roads to campus. Tuesday is a heavy teaching day for me and so the snow is just a thing out there, outside my office window.





But when it is time to go home, that snow tempts me. At the same time that it is really piling up there. Should we ski? We waffle. It's late. And there wont be trails. Just high drifts of snow. I had thought I said goodbye to skiing before my trip to SF. And here I am wondering if we should ski.

When we're uncertain in this way, the default option is always to go ahead and do it. So we do it.

Snow continues to come down and it's nearly dark. The skis disappear underneath drifts, so that it looks like you're pushing away at piles of snow with your ankles. No one else is out and about -- I understand that. A storm is raging, the winds are blowing -- these are not your inviting conditions for outdoor play.

But oh, it is beautiful!





Maybe this is the last time we ski this year, maybe it's not, but I feel like it's the run of all runs.





It's a winter high alright, to be out there tonight. I don't regret living in the north. I don't regret not having crocuses yet. I don't regret the incessant shoveling of the path to the farmhouse. None of it. Tonight is our homage to the snows we've had this year.






A trial at times, sure, but also beautiful. Yeah. Perfection in the forest by the lake.

pre-spring

At home, I fall in step with the routines of pre-spring. For example -- the brick walkway to the farmhouse was kept free of ice and snow almost obsessively by me all winter long. I'd shovel and clear it even before the snow touched the ground. In my absence, portions of the path iced over. I kicked at the ice for a small while, then shrugged my shoulders and moved on. I thought -- by the weekend it'll melt.

Mind you, we have yet another snowstorm heading our way. Tomorrow may create a travel terror, even for the short distance I have to cover from the farmhouse to campus. But after, the tides will turn. By the time you're springing your clocks forward, most of the snow should be melting away.

I have no revelatory photos from today. We did have breakfast, Ed and I and that was quite nice.





After, there was too much work, too much of a retrace of past days, of old routes, too much, tediousy too much, all in a month that, in any case, begs not to be photographed (March competes with November in this way).

It was in the near evening, just as I got home, that I took note of the sunset. And then, as I walked to the edge of the farmette to see it more fully, I saw a large herd of deer. I was too far and with my lesser lens camera, so you'll see not much of either -- the sunset or the deer.






Or, maybe a little of both?



there are six deer in this photo... can you spot them?



Chili for supper today. Of course. To have ready for the snowstorm ahead. Just  in case.