The New York Times

Why sit on your hands and wait to hear from agents about your big manuscript, when you can be writing small pieces and stories in this interim period? And submitting at least one of them, say, to the New York Times?

Last Friday morning, as Ed was poking me with his elbow, to show me a youtube clip that he found relevant to our daily existence (sometimes he strikes gold, other times -- more like aluminum), I muttered empty uhuhs and yes dears and typed away at a piece that was eventually retitled "Soon To Be Grandma, Ready to Learn." And submitted it to Motherlode -- the section of the NYTimes that deals with families.

And boom! This boomer has spoken! It was accepted and it appears today. Read it by clicking here.

And do comment, if you want, over there, over here -- agree, disagree -- this is your chance to join the discussion on what it's like to plunge into something familiar, yet brand new. Hey, wasn't I a mother? Doesn't that give me credibility with my own daughter (possibly both daughters) as they become mothers too? My blunt answer is: no, it does not. Find out why.

In other news ...wait a minute, you want more news than that? Alright! I'm on a roll!

In case you have thought me to be stuck in the tried and true, like for instance, committed to posting photos every day of breakfast at the farmette table (and I am committed to it! for now!)...






...and of our four very free ranging chickens -- cheepers in my parlance -- on this cold cold day in Wisconsin...



(early morning, looking toward the barn, on my sleepy walk to open the coop)





(sunrise!)





(two of our brood)



...well yes, there is that, but I am also jumping (feels more like plunging: think falling off a cliff rather than crossing a great divide) into the next stage of technological acumen by embracing Twitter. From now on, I am as committed to daily tweets as I am to daily posts here, on Ocean. If you're a Twitter nut, follow me there @ NinaCamic. Too much, you say?

There is never too much writing in my life. Not now, not in my first year after retirement.

Tuesday

And what would you do on a day that is suddenly so... uninviting?

I look outside and notice snow showers. This will have been the highlight of the day: snow showers. So wet that they don't even stick. The landscape remains predominantly brown. Thank God for the red sheep shed and the remaining crab apples!






(Can't see the wet snow falling? Let's look again.)






Ed lets the cheepers out, but they don't seem inclined to make the long walk from barn to our front door (whereas on previous days, they'd any annoy the hell our of Isie boy by claiming squatters rights to our doorstep, making it impossible for the cat to go in or out without coming into contact with at least one of them -- a risk too big for our rather distrustful guy).

I go out and call to them -- cheepers! cheePERS! Move! You need the exercise!

Nothing.

We eat breakfast surrounded by chickens of the type you place on your dining table.



(tussled hair)


(Can you look less out of it, Ed? Thank you!)






After, I try again. Cheepers!






Alright. The girls heard me. slowly they make their way over. I reward them amply with stale bread (their favorite) in addition to black sunflower seeds, trapper peas, and GMO-free milo. (Dont ask; it's what the Chicken Store sold us. For a special treat.)





When they finish picking out the foods from the soil, they retreat under a bush and there they rest for the better part of the day. This leads me to say to Ed -- you know, I can't really think that they are happy in winter. They must live with a constant feeling of cold.
I can't give them Florida, he responds and goes back to his computer. Ed is very matter of fact about what can and cannot be had in life.

Since the sun refuses to show any signs of emerging, I follow its lead and stay inside. Wouldn't you? It's just a degree above freezing and the forecast tells me that this is the warm spell for the next two weeks. But without sun, it just looks dismal out there.

I'm thinking -- if the cheepers need exercise (and they do), then shouldn't I nudge Isie boy toward some activity as well (in the few minutes out of the day when he is not asleep)?

I try.





As you can see, very unsuccessfully.

This is the kind of day where the best thing you can do for your (retired) self is to read, write and hatch plans for better days and sunnier spaces. I do all the above!

And for dinner, we eat home made chicken soup, ignoring the brutal fact that the meat in the broth is awfully similar to what we have resting in the coop right now.

Monday

What a pretty day this is! So gentle and calm -- with the softness of September rather than November. A quiet day with no shouts, no great noises.

Breakfast is a little rushed, because I do have a doctor's visit. (That frozen shoulder/elbow begs for a quick assessment.)






(As I pull out of the driveway, the hens look up from their scratch work, asking with their whole bodies, in the way they always do -- where are you going?? I always respond. This time I tell them -- I'll be back soon!)






My doc has me do the needed xray and within a few hours dispenses the needed reassurance that I have not yet given over my upper left joints to arthritis or worse. I tell Ed, radiantly, happily that I have this good fortune of just a small problem rather than a large problem.
He grins: this is what you do -- you imagine you have something, you go to a doctor, get the report that it's actually no big deal and then you feel good! Wow! 
I growl at him (but with a wide grin): I needed to make sure!
Of course you did, he nods his head, with understanding if not sympathy. (The man will be one of those who dies early because he refuses to ever believe he is sick or in need of care. Or, he'll be in that special subset of people who will reach 100, because he has absolutely convinced himself that he is incapable of being really ill. They write stories about people like that: the psychology of believing you're fine is, apparently a powerful medicine in its own right.)

And so I am at peace, happy, relaxed. The cheepers look up as I pull in, the sun dapples our pathway to the barn...





The world is unbelievably kind to me.


I work hard on various writing projects. But as I look outside, I note that kind, gentle sky and I think -- one more game! We surely should be heading out for one more tennis game!


We play as the sun recedes quickly toward the horizon. (If you step beyond the court and cross the line of trees, you can see it --- here, take a look.)






Alright. Done for the year. We put away the rackets and warn out balls and drive home as the last sliver of light blazes over the tree line.






Goodnight trees.
Goodnight sweet hens, settling in their respective spots (Ed will pick them up eventually, in his most fatherly way and carry them into the coop).






Goodnight Oreo.

patterns

What do you do when your partner's range of operations diminishes over time? When the idea of heading out (or even heading downstairs) seems less pleasurable than, say, staying under a quilt with mountains of material to read on the internet?

I've said plenty here, on Ocean, on the topic of Ed's desire to stay closer to home -- to not travel across the ocean, to forgo trips even across the continent. I've stood up in favor of traveling alone when your partner digs his heels into his (or her) familiar home turf. I've said it time and again -- solo travel is cool! It allows you to open your eyes wider to people and places you encounter. It buys you freedom. It's cozy, it's comforting, it's adventurous.

But what if that range (your partner's range) keeps growing smaller? So that you're recalling months of hikes, expeditions, explorations together -- all in the past tense?

I thought about this after Ed and I finished our Sunday cleaning this morning and I saw that he was ready to crawl back under the quilt and resume his reading. I didn't want to wait for breakfast, so Isie boy and I ate alone.





As Ed came down sheepishly, right when I was finishing my last bite of oatmeal with kefir, honey and fruit, I thought -- maybe it's time to give a little nudge. (If I were to be honest, I'd have to admit that it was more like an impassioned plea.)

And so on this last fine day before the polar vortex begins its slow descent to our neck of the woods, we do not retreat to our various projects. Not today. It becomes, instead, a day we'll spend together and I mean more than being simply in the same room of a farmhouse.

We pick a beautiful segment of of the Ice Age Trail and we hike, pausing not infrequently to explain various parts of our projects and preoccupations to each other.











I don't know that Ed needed that, but I certainly was missing some back and forth.











It's such a perfect place for a probing conversation: a back and forth up there, where the trees are now bare, the grasses golden and the air as crisp as the leaves beneath our feet.






On the way home, we make two stops. At Culver's for the frozen custard...






... and at DB Chocolates (in Madison), where Ed tells me to fill a box. I do.





Most of the times, he and I give each other plenty of room to hunker down, pursue our own projects, stay put in our own bubbles. But sometimes that alone time is just too long. Today, I so appreciated walking in step again.


In other news -- the chicken mama called and left a message: sorry it took so long. I'm coming this afternoon to get Oreo.

I saw Ed's face drop. I watch Oreo trundle along, after the white hens...





...trying his hardest to keep up. Winter is coming. I'm not out in the yard that much. Oreo is part of the pack. I call the chicken mama back: don't come. We'll keep him until spring.


In the evening, my girl and her husband come over.



(I told her to look pregnant!)


There aren't many of these Sunday dinners left. A number of the weekends between now and her due date will be given over to other activities -- holidays, travels, etc.






You think you've established a pattern and before you know it, the pattern is untenable and you have to start afresh.

Sometimes breaking a pattern is a good thing. Other times you're just so hungry for a new one to fill its place.

free range chickens as a metaphor for a life well lived

I can hear the quiet mumbling among some of you, see the eye roll, the shake of the head: here come those cheepers again! It's like Ed for breakfast: a record replayed over and over again!

You are so right. The brood of hens and the rooster are, to me, like a play, a hit parade -- with hints at something greater, vignettes of a life that proceeds along a different path than, say, yours or mine, but it is a life well lived and I assure you, we profit by watching it unfold before us.

So like the breakfast that sets our day in motion...





...the cheepers, too, have their place in my day.

Fact is, they scale down my expectations for it. Consider this: a throw of seeds and bread bits leaves them in a state of bliss for hours on end.






An ill conceived snack of crushed yam tortilla chips (I know, I know, whose dumb idea was it to buy those?) has Scotch come back to our door and ask -- can we do better here?






They have group think, yes they do!


 



But sometimes they go off on their own explorations (this next photo is yesterday's but I forgot to use it).






They're curious about us, but they're not overpowering in their affection. In other words, if we're not around, they manage. (As, for example, when we go for out game of tennis today.)






There is a give and take, of course. The eggs. (Still laying!) Their pleasant demeanor. Their fine looks.






But they want help with food and shelter. We deliver. In the winter, they're in the big barn.






But they always -- every day, in fact several times each day -- come to the farmhouse, right to our door, reminding us that sometimes a little gift can go a long way...






By dusk, they move closer and closer to their coop. The roaming foursome, respectful of property lines, always moving not too far from each others field of vision...


 


...slowly retreats when the sun is just this close to the horizon.

Their conversation subsides. The white girls find an evening spot where they will linger, often together, dozing off, forgetting that there is a safer place (Ed needs to lift them off the fence each night and place them inside the coop). Scotch finds her favorite place right in the laying box and these days, Oreo climbs up and sits in the upper doorway, so that the white hens have to squeeze past him as they climb up. Chickens don't make a fuss about personal space violations. No one protests when there is a bit of pushing and shoving.

In general, they're all so agreeable. Give them an open field, a safe place for the night and a handful of grains and they ask for nothing more. They are, otherwise the masters of their own well being. They fashion their own castle -- right there in the dirt or underneath a bush or pickup truck. Tell me there is no such thing as a happy chicken and I'll invite you to spend a day around our cheepers. Just so you can see their take on what counts as a good day.

stronger than us

When my sister and I returned to Poland as young teens in 1966, we noted a new movie playing in the local theaters. It was French, by the director Lalouch. The name was A Man and a Woman. I don't know if this was widely distributed in the States, but in Warsaw, it was a hit and she and I saw it many times. Briefly, the story is about a two people, both widowed, who begin to develop a relationship with each other, except that she is burdened by memories of her deceased husband.

The film has beautiful cinematography. You could call it a classic French movie -- Ed would say: nothing happens! In fact, the film is also short on dialogue. The visuals are much more important and Ed would be wrong because a lot does happen, though it's all at the emotional level.

And there's music throughout. Beautiful songs, including the memorable for me L'Amour est Bien Plus Fort Que Nous (love is much stronger than us). When I was thirteen or fourteen, this was a reassuring message: if I act stupidly because I am in love (and I was and I did), it's not my fault! Love is stronger than us!

Why am I thinking about this on a cold November morning in Wisconsin? It's the idea of emotions driving actions.  My Friday morning is full of this stuff: Ed had had a restless night and I just couldn't get myself to nudge him out of bed to release the cheepers. And so for the first time since early September, I get up myself to open the coop. Just as the sun is about to break over the horizon.







Love is much stronger than the fear of a rooster.


In fact, Oreo not only doesn't attack me, but refuses to come out. Somehow, God knows how, he got himself up to the second floor of the coop where the chickens typically sleep (it's warmer with the girls!) and he isn't in a hurry to get down (even as they are).


Back at the farmhouse (beautifully welcoming against a brightening sky)...





...I notice that the two infallible mouse traps that had thus far captured and held EIGHT mice for us over the course of the last week or so are, this morning, empty of peanut butter on crackers. Meaning a mouse has figured out how to go in, eat, go out. It seems impossible, really it does. The door shuts behind the critter and the cracker is all the way in the back, so she has to go way in! And yet, a mouse's willpower is stronger than you and me, with our feeble reasoning processes. Yes, desire is more powerful than the plastic door of a mouse trap.


But let me return to the subject of love. What, you think I'm going to post one of my breakfast photos again? Yes, I am. With this tiny story: as I take out my camera, Ed says, as usual: hurry up! My next girlfriend isn't going to bring an annoying camera to breakfast. And I say: my next boyfriend will cooperate and look radiant rather than sour when I take out the camera.






But actually, I'm thinking of something else: in acquiescing to having Oreo here still (or at least not actively hounding his true owner to come and get him), I have not only allowed his gentler side to reassert itself again, I have also allowed the guy to have some really good moments with his own girlfriends. (Don't know if they are still his sexual partners. I haven't seen him chase them lately. Maybe it's a use it or lose it thing with roosters...) Here is how they love to spend their downtime (when they are not foraging for food).





It just warms your heart to see them dirty and happy together.

Yeah, l'amour est bien plus fort que nous...

the real November

So how cold is it, Nina?
Oh, so cold that a one minute foray outdoors, to throw some seeds and bread pieces at the cheepers has me cowering and huddling. Their feathers blow every which way and I have to wonder -- do they maybe hate winter? is it tough for them to get through the next five months?






I have this sense of guilt as I come indoors into the warm farmhouse. And mix up a pancake batter for Ed. And pour sweet honey over my oatmeal.





How is it that we have so much privilege? For a fleeting second I almost want to go out and get a heating unit for their coop, but we've been warned: don't give it to this unless there is a polar vortex, or they wont be able to adapt to the cold. Seems like tough love though, doesn't it?

In contrast to yesterday's productive slog through tough work, today is gently paced. The winds howl, the temps stay in the upper thirties, the cheepers crouch for most of their daylight hours under the old pickup.

But close to evening (these days, evening merges with late afternoon!), I go out. To meet a friend for a cup or glass of something downtown. The skies are pouty, the air is crisp.






And the light is gone when I leave the cafe to find my car again. A black cat moves slowly across my path, then hesitates as I do my cat calling noises.





He comes over and stretches himself at my feet.
Sorry, buddy. I need to get home to my guys. I'm not a night prowler anymore. This is your domain. Your way of life.

I get in the old Escort and drive into the deeply dark night of the country.

digging in

Split the day in half, right down the middle. Catalog the first part under "intense outdoor clean up, the tail end" and the second part under "let's get back to manuscript work, shall we?" -- and you have my entire day laid out for you.

I know I've been claiming that I'm done with farmette work for a number of days now, but really, with so many beds, trees and who knows what else to tend to, the job is never really done. Not until it gets so cold that you cannot conceive of going out with a shovel and pruning sheers again. From what I hear, that kind of a chill will creep down on us tomorrow, so most likely these are the last photos of cheepers watching as I chop, pull and trim and Ed mulches down all spent growth (and puts away things that should have been stored some weeks ago).





Perhaps you have noticed that Oreo is still here. Indeed. Just as I stood ready to dance a crazy rooster dance right back at him, he decides to settle down. Yep -- you got it. The rooster has stopped chasing me. And so he has bought himself time. Surely I'm not going to call the knife to him when he is, at the moment, doing nothing more than tending to his girls.










I do have my eye on the guy, but for several days now, he has held steady.

Oh fine. I should have given a proper introduction to the day. Here we go -- a healthy breakfast. One that prepared us for the physical work outside.






And one more comment on the outdoors: the prize to the stubbornest bloomer goes to this wonderful girl -- she is awash with white flowers right now. I took a photo of one with the bee still doing her work.





The afternoon? Well, it's been nearly a month since I did anything to move my book project forward. Sure, I can sit back and hope that the few letters and inquiries will suffice, but frankly, that's an exceptionally dumb strategy, as odds are so not in my favor. I should not place faith in a small  handful of letters, even if the occasional one is warmly received. Warmth does not a contract make.  I have got to keep on plugging away and so this afternoon, I plug away.

And honestly, everything today is about work.  It's as if I had rejoined the world of the employed, only without a paycheck to show for it. (Not yet, anyway.)

I hope you felt equally productive in whatever task you took on today. Success should be measured not by outcomes but by what you attempt to do on any given day, don't you think?