Sunday

If Sundays have a certain repetitive pattern to them, this one broke away a little and ran on its own steam.

It was a sunny morning, but I wasn't brave enough to take breakfast to the porch. The sun room is a grand alternative!






We work outside then, but there is less of a rush and more attention to detail. I have, right now, seven very large flower fields to work with (I began calling them fields when I realized that they have little similarity to a perennial border), and one massive one to add where the brambles have been dug out. All this would be a burden to most, but to me, these fields are my tender babes. I know the soil well. I know the irksome parts, the difficulties, the weeds that threaten -- which ones and from which side. I know what I have to do to make the flowers thrive and I set to it in much the same way I would set to anything looking to me for care and nourishment. It is deeply satisfying work: I'm at the level of the soil in spring and early summer and spraying water on warm summer evenings. At the end of the season, I put my feet up and think -- I've done okay by you!



(the girls, happily trampling over the new field being readied for flowers)





(the bed along the gravel driveway is, right now, displaying crocuses)




(sometimes, when I open the front door, I am greeted by ... Butter.)


And so today, I continue to use pitchfork after pitchfork of chips and I dig out what doesn't belong and I am utterly happy to see the progress my babes are making.

And still, at times, I have to pause. Life is more than the farmette -- I tell myself, as I throw down the shovel, the clippers, the pitchfork.

I lure Ed out on a bigger hike -- one along the Ice Age Trail. We've done every segment within hundreds of miles of here, but this one is especially pretty  and not too far. It starts next to a goat/diary farm and makes its way up one hill and down the next so that in just a couple of hours you can get quite a workout.






It's a delicious time to be out in the forest!



(there's just a little bit of green at the edges...)





(midpoint selfie)
 

In the evening, Snowdrop and her mom are to come for dinner, but since the meal preparation isn't complicated (pan fried trout with a wine and caper sauce and buttered snap peas), I offer to help my daughter with her own yard work just before.

She and Snowdrop want to assist, but glancing at the littlest girl, I see that she is unlikely to be of much help yet...





...so I send them off on a walk while I tend to the weeds. Working in someone's garden is like cooking in someone's kitchen -- you don't know where to begin and you haven't a clue as to the final vision. And where we have layers of lovable wood chips at the farmette (they let go of weeds with greater ease, even in clay-ish soil), this yard has pebbles and rocks, which create a new challenge.


Finally, I am home and cooking dinner and Ed and mom and babe are here and it is a very Sunday-ish moment indeed -- with time to sit back and take in the beauty of a very bright evening.






Perhaps it's wrong then to say this Sunday hadn't a predictable pattern. It had the warm April air. Outdoor work. A stellar hike. And a meal together. And a moment to soothe Snowdrop. Yes, a Sunday as it should be. As I would want it to be.

Saturday

Even as I write this, I can hardly grasp the reality presented to us today: the day is so beautiful, so stunningly clear and calm that the itch to work outside, to be outside, comes on strong, even before breakfast.











But by 9:30, we needed a break. We had been doing such mighty work, that I hardly noticed that the thermometer is at a mere 45F (7C). It feels pleasantly warm! I've shed my jacket long ago. So is it warm enough to take the plunge with breakfast? Yes!






Breakfast on the porch is perhaps the finest of the farmhouse meals. Yes, it's just April, yes, there's a chill in the morning still, but somehow it feels right to do this today. We bask in the wonderfulness of eating outside.






And then we return to our yard work.











The cheepers follow us, as they always do. Oreo behaves and then he doesn't behave. [To the commenter who wondered if I project a dislike for him -- well, no. Because he is so erratic, I mostly forget about him. I get very engrossed in what I do outside. And sometimes he goes along with the rest and at other times he gets that gleam in his eye and then he pounces. Will he do it to others? Oh sure. The only one he completely accepts as his superior is Ed. Still, the most unpleasant aspect of his behavior is the element of surprise. Otherwise, I can certainly ward him off with any number of sticks, brooms or shovels. I suppose we both think that his injured leg looks so awful right now that he is bound to succumb to his maladies in the not too distant future. The question is whether I can tolerate him that long.]

By the early afternoon, I complete the better part of early spring work. Oh, I could fill every hour for the rest of the season making improvements, but the bulk of preparatory ground work is behind me.

And so we leave the farmette to take a walk. Ed suggests the Arboretum. It's a brilliant idea. Here, the displays of spring are both visible and audible.

We take one of the many the forest paths...






...and then veer off toward the wetlands.  The marsh is remarkably loud. Young crane? Frogs? Crickets? What? We pause to listen. Among the spent reeds, we spot a nesting Sandhill.






Ed wants to move on. He hates to disturb the privacy of a bird.

At the edge of the wetlands, we stop again to look around. We live close to endangered wetlands and we often go to meetings and public hearings to give support for their preservation. But it's when you stop and look straight in the eye of this fantastic ecosystem that you come to appreciate the dynamic interplay of its diverse elements.






We leave the wetlands, the forest and meander among the grassy knoll with its many maples, magnolias, hickories and of course, forsythias, now in full bloom.
















This is the kind of April you dream about all winter long.


In the late afternoon, I go to Snowdrop's home. She is, as ever, a joy to play with...






...though her mom (and perhaps she?) is raring to be outside and so I take another walk, this time with the two of them, doing the little lake loop -- a distance of just over three miles.

[Again an answer to another commenter: Snowdrop is starting the whole teething thing and so she uses all her might to get anything and everything into her mouth. Not so much a thumb -- more like the whole fist.]






We walk by the big lake too and here you can, perhaps, appreciate the deeply blue sky that is with us all day long.






It is so easy for me to spend most of the daylight hours outdoors on a day like this. I'd forgotten how grand it is to switch one's focus from what's inside your space to that vast world just outside your door.

Friday

In the late afternoon, after a day of being on my feet without pause, I sit down to a cup of espresso, along with the last of the madelines I had brought home for Easter. Ha! Last of the treats... so it must be time to travel again?





Well, no. End of April, all of May, much of June -- those are the best months here (unless, like last year, spring comes late, mosquitoes come early and tornadoes rip through this area). The work outside seems never ending, but it's grand work: digging, tidying, fixing and eventually planting. To travel in this period seems unthinkable -- except when I remember that this is the best time in any number of destinations across the ocean.

As if telepathically intuiting my musings, Odile, the inn keeper from Marseille who is fast becoming a good friend, writes and asks when I will be coming for another visit. Good friends should never live in far away places. I think of my Warsaw friend whose sage advice I could use from time to time -- when will I see her again?

I sip my tiny bit of coffee and I keep an eye on the artichokes that I'm cooking right now. They're nice, but they're large. You could not eat them raw. Still, I think most instructions have you over-cook an artichoke. After fifteen minutes, I drain them and think back to my artichoke salad in Nice. But that was so long ago! Madame who served me the artichoke salad will have had her birthday, the Niçoise season will have moved forward to a warmer set of temperatures. Time doesn't pause.






Even as many things, over time, stay the same. Breakfast in the sun room! Ed, hair still wet from a morning shower, is getting ready to go to his techie meetings.






(Morning sunshine -- that's a surprise! The forecast called for clouds and showers!)






I tell Ed I cannot work in the yard with Oreo's unpredictable mood swings. He points out how much the cheepers band together and enjoy each others company.



(a typical huddle under th lilac bush)


Well yes, but if you took away one, would they notice?





And how mean must Oreo become for me to take the rooster away from Ed?


I go grocery shopping, putting off outdoor jobs until Ed's home again at noon.

And then we work hard. More wood chips to heave onto flower beds, more weeding, more bramble removal. We have a surprisingly lovely day for it.





Cool, but not in a bad away. Looking at the forecast, we have a beautiful set of days before us -- nothing at all like the wretched snows that fell on April 15th in 2014.


In the evening, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse for a few hours.

Before I even get ready to feed her, she has her funny time with Ed.











He tells me how much she has grown! Yes, she doesn't seem so tiny in his arms anymore.






After her supper, she is ever joyful and expressive and of course, being a grandma, I can give her all of my attention.












The parents come, Snowdrop goes home.






It's late when Ed and I finally give in to tiredness. Upstairs, I leave the window open just a crack. You can hear the owl that way and in the morning, beginning in April, the birds are at their loudest. Who would not love this month?!

Thursday

Yes, it's a "careful what you wish for" kind of day. I wanted rain. All of us who grow things wanted rain. We got it. The night was full of spontaneous cracks of thunder and the rain beat hard on the windows and parapets. We'll be over the April average rainfall by the time this band of wetness moves on.

Not only is breakfast in the kitchen, but the lights are on, the windows are closed, the door to the under-heated sun room is shut tight. Ed asks for pancakes, I eat the usual oatmeal and it all feels cozy in the way that it does only when there's inclement weather out there, beyond our farmhouse walls.




Of course, the rain puts the pressure on to get things done outside. The daffodils are quite high now in all the beds and the perennials, too, are visibly sprouting. We need to lay down the wood chips before it becomes too difficult to spread them in between growing things. Too, I need to finish pulling up the rose brambles and preparing the bed for planting.

The soft earth makes this not too difficult, though I notice that my back has stiffened some after yesterday's marathon weed pulling. It's a fine balance this doing too little and doing too much! Life's dilemmas play themselves out in the garden constantly!
















As Ed and I spread chips, the rains come back. I'm not cold: I want to continue. But, my jacket is wet and the rumble of thunder causes me to finally put down the shovel and pitchfork.


In the afternoon, I am with Snowdrop. Now, you may think that there's not much you can do with a three month old. Wrongo bongo!



grabbing kitty kat





Letting grandma do timed selfies: power to the babe!





kicking and gurgling





quiet time





learning to sit up tall!




a quick walk between downpours





copying each other's silly faces


All in the space of a few hours.

Storms roll in tonight. Tomorrow, I'll be intensely tending to the garden. If you care about your plants, this is the time to get your hands dirty.

Wedensday

The rains come, the sprouts continue to push their way upward and onward. In other words, I have a lot of outdoor work to do. The beds are more or less trimmed, but the raspberries need a thorough preliminary weeding and the flowers would benefit from layers of wood chips. All back breaking work, even as this year, my back appears stronger and my resolve to keep the yard in order? Unwavering.

And so, even though it's cool and gray, immediately after breakfast...



(a plateful of raspberry madelines and chocolate chicks tempts us)


... Ed and I go out to shovel out the deep roots of weeds and to throw down a solid layer of wood chips.

There isn't much that I would photograph from our morning efforts. Well, maybe the ever lovely emerging golden girls...






... and the budding lilac.






I could also photograph the cheepers... (oh, Scotch is so adorable in her new plump state!)...





...except that Oreo and I have a run in and so he gets a time out from Ed, who is convinced that the rooster is teachable, while the hens scatter this way and that, already overfed from a bounty of bugs and worms.

In the afternoon, I am with Snowdrop. That girl! She has an expressive, playful disposition that is indescribably lovable.






Watching her giggle and bounce and clutch and concentrate on getting a good grip with her little fist is mesmerizing! And she responds especially well if you are right there, talking her through her high points and holding her closely when it all gets just a touch overwhelming.

Perhaps one role for a grandma is to help a little one find calmness even in difficult times. Grandmas (especially this grandma) know the value of calmness.






We find time, too, to take our long walk around the lake. Snowdrop's mom joins us and once again we brace for the lakeside winds and bundle Snowdrop's legs in a fleece jacket.






The girl insists on studying the fingers of her hand for the duration of the walk and so she has one very cold fist afterward, but those rosy cheeks and happy smiles (and warm feet, thank goodness) reassure us that she is a girl who adapts well to Wisconsin's weather challenges!

Oh, Snowdrop!