Tuesday

Ed said to me this morning -- all things in life eventually imitate a Seinfeld episode. He clicks on one to prove his point.

Well maybe. Or perhaps we are so overwhelmed by the magnificence of spring that we lessen our efforts at getting a grip on our own lives and they quickly spin into something comic and ridiculous. As in Seinfeld.

And we are in the midst of spring, of that I'm sure. Even with a dense morning fog shielding the sun, I sense the impending warmth. The cheepers do as well. There is so much bare ground now that they venture forth without trepidation. All the way to the farmhouse door! Welcome back, girls!






I feed them under the crab apple, Ed collects eggs -- they're all laying now, on schedule. Suddenly we again have too many eggs.

Breakfast is very late. Ed calls it lunch. I'm not sure how this happened. Perhaps I spent too much time lost in thought, wondering, imagining, predicting.






Little Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse promptly at noon today and she is as lively as ever!

Up go those little legs! (Up lifts my heart!) Then stretch. Then smile.
















We play. I show her dazzling daffodils.






Are you having fun, grandma?  I am, little one. I am.


 



And eventually the temps reach the mid forties and I am ready to head out for a stroll. So is she!






Ed tags along and we make our usual rural loop, pausing for a while to listen to the loud honk of geese.


 


Swans have made it to our cornfields as well. A first lesson in ornithology for Snowdrop.






It takes a sharp eye to note the deer at the edge of a corn field, or the geese hidden among the dried stalks. Some day, Snowdrop will point them out to me and ask -- see them, grandma? See the deer??






... and the hidden geese??






For now, she just looks on, tasting the fresh air, feeling the almost warm breeze.

Monday

I heard this poem on NPR today -- it's called Happiness and it's by Jane Kenyon. Maybe you heard it too?

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                    It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.


So beautiful...

*   *   *

For some reason, I remembered today a seminar I took as a graduate student in Chicago some forty years ago. There were weekly speakers -- guest authors of very famous published works. One student (we took turns) had to open the discussion each week by giving a review of the work. When it was my turn, I wrote my review and presented it with great excitement. I thought I had nailed all the weak points in the written argument. I saw the flaws, the problems. I was so pumped! I was standing up for scholarship, for accuracy! I read my review in class. The author was there. He listened. I finished, looking up with pride at my own brilliance. I had won, no?

The author sighed deeply. He then said, ever so briefly: wow, harsh words.

Perhaps Ocean, which tries to stray from harsh words is the indirect outcrop of that experience.

*   *   *

Back to the poem: go ahead. Dare me not to be happy. Just know that in the long run, you'll surely lose the dare.

It was a beautiful day. A warm, spring-filled day. As usual, we have the spring flock of deer pass through...

I let it go. There isn't much that they can destroy right now. (I hope.)

Breakfast. Sun room. A joy.

And eventually, I'm in Snowdrop's home, where I find mom and daughter at play.

I am semi helpful in giving my daughter time for chores. Yes, I play with Snowdrop. Yes, her mom stuffs some loads into the washing machine. But then, all three of us are raring to go and taste that spring air. And so on goes the sweater (who remembers it? Yes! It's from the Arles knitting shop), and the cap purchased just today by grandma (because yesterday's was too large, in case you missed it).

She's ready. We're ready. And so my daughter pushes the stroller and I tag along and it is a deliriously wonderful hike around the small lake. Just over an hour of pleasure, for all three of us.

When you bring Snowdrop home from a walk and you take off her outdoor gear, you see in her that look of relief. As in -- I had fun, but I was a little scared that no good would come of it and now, here I am home and I am so happy about that!

Oh, Snowdrop!

Sunday

Can I get away with only photos today? It is late and I am hugely tired and so I'll let you be responsible for the captions! The context: beautiful early spring day, family gathers, food appears, Snowdrop shows off, family leaves, Snowdrop stays, Snowdrop leaves. There! The rest is yours!



































































I think we can all agree -- it's been a full day!

For the commenter asking for the recipe for the pistachio cake, here is the link. Do note that it is a dense (rather than light an airy) cake. And it takes a long time to bake (recipe says 1.5 hrs, mine took 1.75)! But the flavors are grand!
It's this one, from Bon Appetit, 2012.

come out and play

It was such a sudden transformation! From siberian-arctic-polar-vortexy frigid air to spring!

We opened the sun room for good -- until the thick of the summer, when the heat from the early morning rays will warm up the farmhouse too much. But right now, there's no such thing as too much!

We eat breakfast in that morning burst of warmth!






The temperatures climb very quickly and it's as if they unlock the door for all living things. Deer come out at midday, chomping at the flower beds as if by invitation!






I stick my head out the window and tell them to leave my plants alone!






The cheepers, too, are happy to march right up to me for their daily handout.






Well, not Oreo. Ed has to carry him out into the sunlight. I think his limp is getting worse, but Ed tells me that he was there chasing the white hens early in the morning, feeling a spring-like surge of manhood.






You hear the drip of melting snow and you think -- how could winter recede so quickly? Could it be true that we are done with it?

I take the time out to bake a pound cake: orange pistachio. I need it for brunch tomorrow.






And then we meet up for brunch (I drive with Lily's sunroof wide open, how cool is that!) -- the Minnesota couple is here and we all head out to one of our favorite's -- Sardine. It's Snowdrop's first trip to a restaurant. She manages just fine. Happy to see aunt and uncle...






... while mom and birthday dad look on.






Back at the house, there's cake, there's singing...


 



...there's Snowdrop.






And toward the end of the day, we all come out and play! Or, actually go for a walk. A longer one.





I'll end with three photos:

Birthday dad.


 


Grinning at aunt...





...and uncle.





Our last minutes of playtime, indoors and out. Until tomorrow!

Friday special

This is not your normal Friday.

Oh, sure, we start with breakfast. Let's get a slight variation though. Ed picks up the camera, I pick up the camera. Here you have it: the two breakfast eaters.











And yes, there is the round of chores. Groceries and all that this entails. Too, I make sure to take bread to the cheepers, but they refuse to leave the barn for it. Too wet, too slippery, too drippy -- they've had enough of winter's issues.






And even my visit with Snowdrop is out of the ordinary. She'd had her two month check up and so I'd been warned that she may be fussy after her series of shots. I expect the worst. I put her in her little swing and look at her troubled face.






But it doesn't stay troubled for long. Or at least her troubles take a pause.






And so we play.






Quite a bit.





I can't say that she remains entirely without a reaction to her earlier medical travails, but nonetheless, we manage to have a lovely and calm afternoon.


And that's not the end of it: the young parents have a pressing engagement and so Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse with me for the evening. She tries to be her usual bright faced self, she really does, but it's been a rough day for her and she whimpers appreciatively when I hold her very close.  As I reheat leftover chili for supper, I am reminded of the countless dinners I cooked with a babe slung over my shoulder (several decades ago). They are good memories.

I can't put little Snowdrop down -- not even during our supper, but she is a girl who is willing to meet you halfway and so we settle on one of her favorite holds -- one that allows me to finish my meal.






We have a big weekend ahead. The Minnesota aunt and uncle are making the long trip down once more to visit their niece and, too, it happens to be the birthday of Snowdrop's dad, so there are many variations on the happy theme of celebrations, gatherings, and eating opportunities and of course, lots of moments for Snowdrop adoration.  And we're going to finally crawl our way out of the freezing temperatures (today's high will be tomorrow's low), so please tell me how one could improve upon this set of days!

I'll leave you with the little girl herself, trying so hard to muster up a grin tonight. To a happy weekend for all of you!