all around

Why did I mount Rosie yet again so early in the morning? At just shy of 6:30, the sun is up and out, so I cannot say I'm chasing a sunrise.

Maybe it's because I have so much to do that I want that burst of energy that comes from riding a moped early, when it's so cool that you wonder if gloves would have been a good idea.  In August.

Maybe. But I don't think so. I think it's that morning rides are addictive. Hey, Rosie, let's get going and see what we can find!

I pull out of our driveway just as the sun comes in through the old orchard. The one with the trees that routinely drop too many small apples. Of the kind you'd appreciate if you were, say, into applesauce.






I point Rosie toward Lake Waubesa. It's always so pretty there early in the day!






Monet-like. River Seine, Lake Waubesa... There are similarities at the break of a faintly pink dawn.






Back on the moped. Up the hill, surrounded by fields of corn and soy, corn and soy and corn...


 



Feeling the cold wind, looking to the right, to the left.  Seeing these guys at the side of the road. Exotic hens? Not likely. But then, what else?







And the cranes. Still congregating in the emergent widening strips of sunlight. Fields of spent gold.






And finally, rounding the last turn, picking up the road that leads me through the fields tended by the truck farmers. The market -- the landowner tells us. They only care about Saturday, when they'll take their stuff to market.  Is this surprising? Are we troubled by people who work and work and work because there's money at the end of that tunnel? Don't we admire that here? Who commands greater respect -- the person who says I work so damn hard! ...or the one who says  -- I don't kill myself on the job. I like to have time to twiddle my thumbs, to think about ... existence!






Home now. And suddenly we're rushed. Ed's up and on his way to his world of metal milling machines, I quickly finish breakfast...






...and get back on Rosie, pointing her this time toward campus. I need to check in with my mailbox there, with the stack of papers and messages that accumulate during these weeks where work takes place mostly out on the farmhouse porch.

And then it's evening and we gather our tennis rackets and ride Ed's motorbike toward the pine shaded tennis courts.

On the way back Ed almost throws us by swerving to avoid hitting an animal. What is it? -- I ask, but it's obvious --  I only need a confirmation.

It's a sleek, gray coyote. I'm protective of Isis and so I hope he stays clear of the farmette, but secretly, I am not unhappy to see coyotes here. Did you notice that I haven't posted any photos of deer this summer? That's because I haven't seen any. You know, deer? That gorgeous animal that eats the leaves of your baby fruit trees? And leaves behind ticks with lyme? There've been plenty of dog ticks this year, but we've not found a single deer tick.

And that's a very good thing.

We're almost home now... almost. Passing the fields worked by Farmer Lee...






...thinking about her now. (To a commenter: no, we do not have enough land to offer her.) About all of it -- the farming, the marshlands, the foods that we can eat in the summer that are grown just minutes from where we live.






Supper is simple. Our own tomatoes and cucumbers. A local cheese, eggs, market corn.

This is the classic summer's end. The flavors of a robust harvest. The colors of late August.

a different garden

I wanted to throw out a few paragraphs about gardening today. About mixing flowers with vegetables in the dirt patch you have to work with. About a set of community gardens I visited this afternoon (Troy Gardens, for those who live in Madison and may know the place), thanks to an invitation from a friend who lives there...












But I ran out of time. Completely, totally out of time.  So much did I run short on time today that Ed went to our local Thursday farmers market without me and, too, we had to postpone our game of tennis.

I am one busy person this week.

But I do have time for this quick thought: the home I visited, the one at Troy Gardens, used to be the home of another friend and I find this so very interesting -- to think about how these different lives and histories have come to inhabit this same space and in many ways, each regards it as her own.

It reminds me of the home where my girls grew up: I pass by that way every once in a while and I pause on Rosie, gawking, yes, unabashedly,  admiring changes and improvements, thinking about the history that's being created there, in those rooms where my girls grew up. This new history is so different from our own, though never less important or less fascinating in its own set of details.

I'll leave you with just one insignificant photo of a garden plot at Troy community gardens. Because it shows off what you can do in a very wee bit of space.







As for life back at the farmhouse? Well, it's still cool in the mornings, but if I bundle up in a thick sweatshirt, we can eat breakfast on the porch (Ed, of course, can make do with just a t-shirt)...

And that's a good thing.






(Note the peaches: it's raining peaches now at the farmette.)






Oh, and let me always give a grateful nod here to farmette flowers.

it's complicated

If I had a goal in this blog it would be to not ever imply that I know what the better alternative is out there. That I have it figured out. That someone should profit from my experiences or writings. Ed and I may not have a lot in common, but we share this belief -- that people need to figure out life for themselves. Sure -- deliberate hurt of another, of property, of anything -- can't be tolerated. Everything else is far far too complicated and does not lend itself to my judgment. Good friends, good parents, good people, good neighbors do not criticize the choices others make.


This is very much on my mind today, even as the day starts so gently -- without deep thoughts or hefty deliberations. I wake early, yes, because of some combination of Isis and Ed and I look out to see a slight mist. It had been a while since I'd taken Rosie out for an early spin. Well then, let me do it on this morning.


 



There's always something lovely to discover if you go out within minutes of a sunrise.







It is cold though. Not the kind of morning you expect on an August day. Is it a hint that I should think more about the next season?

Breakfast again is in the sun-room. The porch at 55 degrees is a tad too chilly for a leisurely morning meal.






I go to yoga. On Rosie. And on the way back, just before I pull into our driveway, I see that the landowner of the fields across the road from us is there, talking to someone -- they're both walking the land that farmer Lee and her extended family members plant with vegetables, fruits and flowers.

I turn Rosie onto the dirt road that crosses these fields. I pull up to the two men and after the usual greetings I ask -- is it true what farmer Lee told me? Are you really not letting her come back to plant these fields next year?

We know the landowner -- he's a really good guy. He cares deeply about his family and he cares deeply about stewardship of his land. He pauses now, sighs heavily and tells me -- yes; I told them they can't do this anymore. It was such a tough thing to say. Several of them have invested in these fields, planting strawberries for the long haul. For all of them, market farming is their livelihood.

So why? -- I ask.

Erosion, he tells me. They're destroying the land. The fine tilling -- it creates run off. The soil is being washed away. I have ruts here like you wouldn't believe. It's all flowing to the marshlands in the back. I have a guy here from Dane County assessing the damage -- he waves his hand to the other person out in the fields. We need to use this land in better ways.

So what will you do now? The obvious question.

The pig farmer from down there?  -- he waves his hand toward the east. He knows how to farm land in ways that will keep it from eroding. He'll lease it for corn.

And this is where I say nothing. Because it's so complicated, isn't it? We are reduced to monolithic crop farming. We grow fields of corn that scare the bees away and then we wonder about how our fruit trees will be pollinated. Where will the bees that sit in the flowers of Farmer Lee's fields go?






And will our markets miss the produce that these farmers have been supplying for years now?


When Ed and I review this conversation back at the farmhouse, we talk about how difficult it is to communicate with the farmers who do not speak our language. How we don't get why, for example, they eagerly ask us for more land, even as they let some of the already plowed field on the farmette land grow weeds.


Ed steps out to chat with the guys out across the road. He comes back after a while and brings with him the Dane County Soil and Water Conservationist. The three of us walk to the north of the farmette, where Lee's sister has been working the land.

You've got erosion  -- he tells us, shaking his head. We talk about ways of countering it. We'll try to work with our farmers. It's a small strip. There are things we, they can do. In the meanwhile, our Soil and Water guy walks through the planted fields and picks up an onion -- why aren't they harvesting these yet? He shakes his head.

I cannot answer that. But I take the onion he plucked out of the dirt and use it to make chili tonight.






Oh, let me not forget: my summer log of flowers from the farmette:

night and day

I read that someone took a blanket, flung it in a field last night and lay there gazing at the shooting meteor fragments. For an hour.

Our mosquito population wouldn't allow for that. Even as during the day we can work outside and not be bothered by them, by night time, they are on the prowl. Last night we had our tent ready. A brisk walk, zip upwards, jump in, zip down.

Do you think Isis will find us? I ask.
Within minutes.

Ed is right. Two minutes later, the meowing begins. We open the tent, grab him, put him inside. So now it's Ed, Isis and me, in a tiny tent, waiting for the meteor shower to present itself.

Not for long. Isis wants out. We push him out. Ten minutes later he's back. But he wont come in. A touch too claustrophobic for him, I suppose. So he meows. Perplexed. As in -- what are you two doing in this trap in the middle of the field?

He climbs on top of the tent. And so now, instead of a meteor shower, if you look up, you see Isis.

You could say that the hours just after midnight were spent on me telling Isis to either get in or stay out, on Isis meowing at us at a safe distance, and on watching Ed sleep through it all.

But every handful of minutes I would see a shot of light spear through the heavens, and in between, there is that vast starlit sky to remind us of our own smallness, and, too, there is a hearty nip in the air and so you would be right to think that this night is exquisitely special.

Eventually Isis goes home and when sleep comes, it comes with that powerful force of the outdoors, a heavy but kind sleep, a sleep like you would have had way back, before the kids were born.


And then it's morning and the sun climbs up, up, up and every colorful plant around us shimmers in the new brightness.












...even as it is so cool outside that, as we stumble back to the house, a porch breakfast is not our first choice. We are back in the sun room -- our winter breakfast retreat! -- just to feel that warm sun on our faces.





And then work takes hold.

Yes, there is always a break. Today I water the sheep shed flower bed for the hour I take off. There's joy in watering, especially on a cool and windy August day. Standing there with the hose I almost catch myself wondering -- why leave these routines now? Why go away? It's a familiar question and at my age, I no longer feel compelled to answer it. It is the way it is. Pleasure -- such as that found in watering my beloved flower beds -- is only one aspect of life.






Evening. We pick up Thai food at our local Curry in a Box and take it to the pine scented tennis courts. There's no one around. We eat boxes of chicken and red curry and spring rolls with veggies right there, below the pines and then we play a very dignified game of tennis...






...all the way until sunset.

sort of like a workday

The day flew out of my grasp today. I'm sure this is true for most busy people most every day of their busy lives, but when you get a tad older and you loosen your grip on some of the things that kept you running several decades earlier, days become calmer and one that runs full speed ahead is a rarity.

It's my fault. To an extent. My irksome threads of these past months -- restoring citizenship and monitoring identity theft usually clutter portions of each day still and, too, I knew when I signed on  to a new teaching load, I knew I'd have my summer instantly filled with work. In addition, I want to improve the farmette -- that's a constant that I'll have with me as long as... well, just for a long long time. Heaven isn't created for you. You are the architect. If you stand idle, it'll slowly disappear.

Finally, I take responsibility for my travel agenda. People who go away have to remember to attend to everything in advance of a departure. I know that very very well.

So it was a busy day -- too busy to go to yoga, too busy to sit back and read a book, too busy to sit on the porch and do nothing much.

But not too busy for breakfast.






(Here are Ed and Isis, playing the "are you in? or are you out?" game...)






Nor too busy for a morning garden inspection.
















And not too busy to have a wonderful game of tennis with Ed. Among the pines.

And certainly not too busy to cook dinner for my older girl and her husband.







(We're all eating on the porch of course...)






And not even too busy, late in the evening, to pitch a tent in the young fruit orchard.


 


They say there'll be a meteor shower tonight. We've dumped our sleeping bags and pillows inside. Maybe we'll see the heavens explode. At the very least, we'll feel the cool breezes that are blowing through the Midwest at night.

And that's a good thing.

(Goodnight, farmhouse. We'll see you in the morning.)

felling branches and fields of bounty

There is a lot here, at the farmette that (in my opinion) should be pulled out, mowed down or chopped off. With rainy seasons, such as we had this year, things grow madly, willfully, usually in ways that interfere with the growth of something else.

With all that exploding growth, there is also surrender: limbs that rarely see sunlight eventually give up the ship and grow brittle. I can't get Ed to be enthusiastic about chopping off live branches, but he's quite willing to hack away at the brittle stuff and today, we put the new pole chain saw to good use. And if occasionally we took down a live branch, why so be it! As I said, there is much that I wish we would prune back.

Perhaps I haven't told you this -- but there will be a wedding at the farmette next June. Much of my work on the property is with an image of that before me. And why not! It's like cleaning the house for a party -- you may do it with that in mind, but the side benefit is that you have a clean house!

So, some part of the day is spent on working the power pole saw.






...with Isis watching.






Other parts -- on the porch. Not breakfast though. It was raining and I was in a hurry to get to yoga. Maybe you're wondering -- why does it matter? Rain doesn't reach the porch, does it?  Well now, ours is a porch that you enter from the outside. Leave the house, step to the porch. So rain gives you pause.






In other news -- the cucumbers are growing to ridiculous sizes. Usually Ed gets to them before they're over the top. This one he missed. Until today.






Flowers. Can't leave the day without at least a nod to the star performers of this summer.






Finally, I do want to mention that we played an okay game of tennis. And for Ocean readers, I offer a photo taken from the backseat of Ed's motorcycle. Looking toward Farmer Lee's fields of bounty. On our way to the pine scented courts...






...and coming back.





These fields are just across the road from us. I live in a place that is like a great big beautiful painting.

one foot forward, the other one back

An unusual day. First of all, it started earlier than any sane person would wish it to start. (Thanks, Isis.) On the upside -- I had a long to do list for today, so I welcomed the extra hours.

There was garden watering and clean up. I was to have visitors later in the day and though I am certain they would not have noticed a parched garden (over the perky garden that you get a few hours after a good watering) and they certainly would not have noticed that the spent blooms weren't trimmed on the daylilies or the coreopsis, I would have noticed. I wanted a good garden for them and so I spent a handful of prebreakfast hours attending to it.






Breakfast was a sigh of relief: house is clean, garden is in order.






And the usual handful of strawberries is picked. (Thanks, Ed.)






Then came the baking part. If someone is to pay a visit in the afternoon, you should bake, no? I made these guys.






What are they? Well, if you believe that the fruit I bought was a version of an apricot (the sign said as much), then you would call them apricot cakes. For the doubters among us -- plum cakes would be a possibility. Easy, not too sweet, putting that burst of summer on your table.






And by then it was time to greet them: my little girl and her fiancee, along with their good friends from Chicago.

To say that we had a wonderful many hours on the porch is such an understatement...






I don't think much about how I miss my kids when they are off doing their thing. I'm happy that they're leading productive independent lives and that they have partners who keep them grounded and happy. But I am terribly aware of how much I really do miss them at the moment when they depart. Like my grandma, who stood in the doorway of her country home and looked sadly after us as we drove away, so too, I have this wistful longing to hang on to them as they pull out of the driveway. And so later in the evening, after Ed and I ate the reheated mushroom soup, I was especially grateful that I got coaxed by him into a game of tennis.

It was a good distraction.

That was the foot forward (noting the post title). And the foot back? Well, I do want to answer a few questions from commenters to the previous post. Most bloggers do that in the comments section, but I do not presume that anyone would want to check back there. I am humbled that someone would read forward. I don't want anyone to feel obliged to step back. 

So permit me to post a few answers here, in the main text. (I'll limit it to things that may be of more general interest.)

First, the issue of camera: I get this question fairly frequently -- which one do I use? Everyone loves their camera and true to form, I love mine. Mostly, I use the Sony NEX 6 (before this year I had the older version NEX camera and loved it equally much). It's not an SLR, but in my opinion, for the type of stuff most of us do -- it's superb. And by the way, if you ever want details on anyone's blog photo, all you need to do is click on it and then scroll down -- details will be listed there. And if you want even more details, click on "additional information" further down and you'll see more than you ever wanted to know about what settings were used, etc etc.

Then -- the flowers. No, not wildflowers and not from seeds. Or at least mostly not from seeds. To achieve a "cottage garden" look you have to think what has a dense habit and what you can do to fill in the gaps.  I use nasturtium and cosmos to fill in gaps, but otherwise, all the flowerbeds are classic perennial borders, done in a deliberately cluttered fashion, because truly I like it that way.

And finally -- my last summer jaunt? Well, it begins next Sunday and it's by myself and it has to have many hours on various modes of public transportation so that I can keep up with my work readings!



The sun moved to the west of the porch, the dishes were cleared, the company long gone. Our own supper finished, a game of tennis well played. We come back to the farmhouse, to that peaceful time where there's not much left to the day -- at least not for us, not now. The light streams in, the shadows are long.





Such a fine day it was. A really fine day.

last chance

When summer moves into its final weeks, I get the same feeling of urgency that I do when I am about to go to the airport to catch a flight home after a vacation. That feeling of wanting to pack it all in before the Cinderella hour. Of wondering whether I forgot about something -- whether I should go around one more time. And buy one more gift or souvenir. And eat one last sweet, drink one final sip of wine.

Maybe it's the same for you? The need to swing through the summer motions before August passes. The need to get away one last time -- that final immersion, before school starts, before the snow falls and the ground freezes beneath your feet. Get away. Now. Last chance!

When people hear me talk of restlessness, they assume I do not much care for home. Nothing could be less true. I love the farmette with the passion one reserves for the most time consuming and challenging projects in life. Were I not working hard now on my classes for the Fall (and were we less blighted by mosquitoes), I would spend far too many waking hours improving the property or cleaning the farmhouse. I care about both deeply even as I am like the parent of a toddler who wants the occasional break from childcare. And then another break. And another -- hating being away from the kid, loving being away, hating it, loving it, missing her, hurrying back to her, then looking forward to the next little escapade, and the next flight, and the next return.

Between thinking about the one last little trip and working madly at school stuff, I'd say the day was pretty full -- most of it, of course, spent on the porch.

And so again I leave you with little else here, on Ocean. Breakfast, garden, tennis, dinner -- these were the notable pleasures of the day. Let's run through them again, this time with photos and annotations.

An early morning examination of the flower beds.






Checking to see if the newly placed bronze figurines are fitting into their environment. They are.






Appreciating the very early streams of pale sunshine coming in from the east. We've had a whole string of beautiful days. And this magnificent weather continues today.






And now finally breakfast. On the porch.






Then it's work. And planning that final little jaunt. And more work, all on the porch. There is a break in there for weekly grocery shopping, but otherwise, I'm there, behind stacks of paper.

When evening comes, Ed drags me out for a spirited game of tennis among the pines. Isis waits for us on the picnic table. Here he is -- happy that we are finally back.






And now it's time for supper and I have to say, from now until the frost hits hard, there wont be a meal that doesn't include tomatoes. Our crop wont be as substantial as it was last year (we really stunted the growth of some by putting them in so early). But we do have a steady stream of 'em and so today's soup will inevitably be heavy on the tomatoes, even though it is, in fact, a full blown mushroom soup.






While chopping, cooking and generally fussing over the right spices and mushroom combinations, I glance outside and notice the last rays of the setting sun. Pretty in the morning, pretty in the evening too. And more of it will be with us tomorrow. And isn't that just such a good thing!