Monday

What would a grand farmhouse day have, for a little girl Snowdrop's age? It's not hard to figure this out:

It would have a rested grandma -- one who ate a hearty breakfast (with grandpa Ed), to keep those energies flowing...






Grandma would have checked the garden before the girl's arrival...






... and done some spot weeding, so she'd have more time for the little one when she arrived.






It would be a sunny day, but not to warm. The kind of day that makes you just want to sit in the grass, underneath the crab apple and take in breaths of fresh air! Oh, and it would be cool if grandma had some bread for the chickens so they wouldn't be shy about coming near.






There would be plenty of time for play inside too...






Time for a close inspection of favorite toys...






And grandma should be in a dancing mood...






And grandpa should be in a warm and huggy mood...






And when grandma marvels how the little one is dressed in the colors of the kitchen flowers, and the little one clasps a sprig of flowers and topples the whole thing over, creating puddles the size of an ocean, everyone should laugh and laugh, because it really is quite funny!






Other things? Oh, cooking of course. A little girl Snowdrop's age would be fascinated by the roasting and then mashing of coriander seeds. Even slicing onions is a curiosity -- especially to a wee one who seems to love all kitchen activity.

Of course, grandma can't neglect feeding the girl herself. For today, let's put away thoughts of spinach and peas and go back to fruits: how about peaches and mango?






The day spins by so fast!

In the late afternoon, Snowdrop and I go back to her home. It's such a perfect day for a walk around the little lake. Well, we go half way round the lake, then turn around and come back. So it's the same distance, but we stick to the shade of the neighborhood.

Oh! Welcome back, ms. serious face!







Oh, well, never mind.






(I catch us in the shop window... grandma, granddaughter...)






And then it's evening and I'm home, making a complicated but delicious farro and roasted cauliflower salad. With that ground coriander. And onion. And golden raisins soaked in carrot juice. Oh, and lemon. And rind. And mint and parsley. And pistachio nuts. And garlic. Rare is the dish that passes through here that doesn't have garlic in it.





 A fried cheeper egg on top and you've got yourself supper!


We put away the cheepers together. Ed says -- here, let me gather them. I'll show you how it's done. And he gathers them and Scotch flies out of his reach and I laugh and laugh. (She then walks haughtily by herself into the coop.)

a farmhouse Sunday?

Only the evening hours today remind me that this, indeed, is Sunday!

I wake up too early. (Don't you think that 4 a.m. is too early?) I toss and think (not unpleasant thoughts) about travel. Eventually, I note that the sun is up and so I nudge Ed, waking him up, to tell him that he needn't get up (thanks for letting me know...) because here I am, ready to feed Isie boy (who, thankfully, sleeps in the sheep shed these days) and to let the cheepers out.






It's a beautiful (but cool again!) morning, but I'm still not ready to give up on the extra hour or so of sleep --  that delicious morning sleep that is so elusive when you're young (no time!) and so impossible when you're old (who can sleep in the mornings at my age?).

And remarkably, that sleep does come and as a result, we're not up until 9:30, by which time it really is too late to do a farmhouse cleaning, right? Right?! A wipe down of the bathroom and I'm done!

Ed asks -- what are your plans for today?
I say -- I need to pick up a baguette from downtown. Maybe I'll bike over... (I'm appreciative of the fact that he fixed my bike, but the riding season is winding down. If not today, then when?) You want to come with me?
And then Ed gives such an unusual response that I sit up in bed in shock -- okay, and why don't we eat breakfast downtown? You know, one of those brunch things?

We're off!



Nina, be careful! (he never says this, but the idea of me shooting from a speeding position seems deserving of a cautionary reprimand)


It's so glorious to be riding again! It's just an hour's ride each way, but the sky is deeply blue, the field colors are sublime and the sun is out and the cool breeze just helps us along (at least going there; it works against us coming back).






When we get to Willie Street -- home of a bakery with good baguettes -- we see that this is the day for their annual Willie Street fair, which is a a carnival like event, with music, a parade, costumes, stilts...
















... with the usual very alternative Willie Street vendors selling their stuff.


The bakery is cooking breakfast and we are so lucky, because a table outside opens up just as we pull in and so here we are, munching on croissants and eggs and baguettes and it feels as if we are traveling together because honestly, Ed and I NEVER go out to breakfast otherwise!

A folk band plays some lovely songs about lavender and people gather in a very low key way and it is really just a perfect morning moment.






We meander up the street a bit after and we watch something that is very "Midwest" I should think -- a pumpkin weighing contest. The all time record goes to last year's pumpkin -- 1800 pounds! Honestly!

We watch as some of this year's entries get weighed. This pretty thing comes in at "only" 721.






We bike back, baguette in backpack,  completely satisfied.






And now it's evening and the young family is here for dinner...



(can I help mix the salad?)


So it is Sunday after all.






A very very great Sunday!



(I was at a Milwaukee baseball game, grandma!)


I think we would all agree.






The night comes, Ed and I go out to put away the cheepers. They're back to to normal patterns -- resting on the fence, waiting for us to lock them up in the coop.






We walk back to the farmhouse... the moon shines brightly...

reflection

I have a reflection on reading and writing. Skip over this section if you want. It's in blue. My day begins immediately after.

Writing

A few years back, some three moves ago, I lived in a neighborhood that had a fun book club going. We would devote an evening each month to eating desserts, drinking wine and talking about the chosen novel. A funny thing happened during these discussions. Inevitably talk would turn to actions taken, paths avoided, moods, personalities, life's indiscretions of the characters in whatever piece of writing was under review. Why didn't she simply take the job offer?? Couldn't he see that she was up to no good? If I were her, I would certainly have looked the other way! 

This is the power of the written word. If you read about an issue facing a character in the story, you want to fix it.

Ocean, of course, isn't a piece of fiction and so the temptation to want to fix something presented herein is especially irresistible, all the more so if your mind spins to possible ways of approaching a perplexing situation. (There are so many beautiful places in this country to hike in, why can't they come up with one???)

I usually smile when comments pour in addressing what appears to the reader (rarely to me) to be a real hand wringing problem. Oftentimes, I try to respond to individual suggestions. But after a while, I step back and let it go. Because there is one great big response that I ought to cut and paste into the text each time: what you're proposing, unless it's something so esoteric that two adult minds would not have been able to stumble upon it, we (or I) will have considered it and for reasons that are too laboriously tedious to articulate (nor should a good writer connect all the character dots for you anyway)  -- we let it go, or at least put it on the back burner.

People are who they are. In a work of fiction, we'll never fully understand what guided an author in those novels we read in book club to fashion the story line in the way that she or he did, but we read on anyway. Ocean, too, is a story. Nonfiction, but a story nonetheless. A happy one at that. Feel free to insert your own stories into the comments, or to let me know what strikes a chord (Snowdrop! cheepers! anything at all) or makes you smile, but honestly, to the question of why I do X and not Y -- well, I can't really answer that. 

Worry not! You do not have to fix anything! In our own way, following our own proclivities and predilections, Ed and I are okay! You can wince at our missteps, or you can marvel at how we move forward, given our striking differences and peculiar conversations (much as you would marvel why a novel twisted in this way or that) but honestly -- we're okay anyway!


Saturday

Well, the storms passed and the last of the big, menacing clouds moved east and north. The cheepers are very anxious to get out. It's a cool but promising morning.






Very cool, in fact, but with touches of autumnal loveliness.






And, finally, we get that beautiful sunshine. We eat breakfast in the sun room.






It's Saturday and so it's Capitol Square farmers market day. My daughter and Snowdrop are ready to go. And yes, they are loyal to our university town!






It's a longish walk from their home, but Snowdrop is full of chatter and excitement. So much to see, so much color to take in... In this photo, mommy's hand is reaching for peppers and Snowdrop's hand is reaching for, well, the whole table.






The sun is overhead now and we can shed our sweatshirts...






Oh, it really is a gorgeous day!

After the market, I don't stay long at Snowdrop's home. Just a few minutes...






We all have full days ahead and mine includes creating that new vegetable bed back at the farmette.

Ed and I lay down cardboard and cart load after load of chips...


 



 
... until we're satisfied that we've created enough room for some 90 tomato plants for next year.





Are you sure it's large enough? -- he asks...
You want to make more room, don't you...
Don't you?

Sometimes we make decisions based on nothing more than a moment's mood or inclination.

Evening. It's really cool again. We're out on the porch for an hour, but as the sun sinks lower, we're back indoors. Ed watches a video about cranes (not the ones that fly), I come back to Ocean writing. Home-made pizza for dinner. You could not possibly imagine a more ordinary evening. The kind we both love so very much.

Friday

There is a bit of a rush to this day, in part because I want a weekend with no rush at all.

Still, as I walk to let the cheepers out, I think -- the farmette never allows for complete madness. No matter what the day holds, there are always moments of calm and serenity.

This morning, the tranquility is in the landscape. Beyond the fields cultivated by truck farmers, we have the usual corn and soy. Whatever negative feelings I may have about monolithic crop production, on the upside, I surely have to acknowledge that soy in early autumn is quite beautiful.






Equally beautiful is the wetness in the fields around me. I go out to pick the last of the goldenrod for the kitchen table and I find the wild asparagus that grows in our "prairie" to be absolutely stunning after yesterday's rains.






The storms last night were terrifically strong. I smile now at how unruffled I am by them, so long as I am indoors. Not even a dozen years ago, I'd be the first to hide under the pillow when the crashing reached the highest crescendo. These days, it all seems so tame. When you've been on a mountaintop at a time of great lightening, or in a forest, or on a lake (and Ed and I have been caught by storms in all those places), any indoor shelter seems so terribly luxurious. And so it stormed last night. Yawn.


Two more photos of calm: a lingering day lily...






And then, of course, breakfast (the pic today highlights Ed's masterful steps; as I bragged earlier, they were made of accumulated plywood scraps and the odd brick found at the farmette.)






But if this morning should have been cooler, gentler, more autumnal after all that rain -- well, that didn't happen. By the time I came back from weekly grocery shopping, I found the air to be humid and too warm, with a perceptible threat of more storms ahead of us.

Never mind -- my afternoon and evening are with Snowdrop. Not on a mountaintop, not on a lake, but first in her home...






... and then later at the farmhouse.






The little girl and I spend a wonderful spell of time in the young orchard, just by the willow tree.






And the cheepers follow us and she is just in love with these two hens.







It is a wonderful moment.






I'll end with this photo of the girls -- one waving, the other two hovering. That's our farmette life right now: tall grasses, roaming hens, spent goldenrod, the coming of fall. And Snowdrop, taking it all in.

Thursday

I would divide this day into thirds, of very unequal proportions. The first waking hours are with Ed, at the farmhouse, then of course, the bulk of the working day belongs to Snowdrop, in her home and finally, the last third is with Ed again, though not necessarily at home.

If I look at time in this way, I notice that the parts that are fluid and intact are with Snowdrop. We follow routines. We move (most often seamlessly) from one set of activities to the next, she eats, we walk, she sleeps, I drink tea, we play some more and then her parents return and it's time for me to go home.

The other parts of my waking hours have only two anchors in them: breakfast and dinner. Everything else is unpredictable and though it all may appear on Ocean as rather flat, for me, these highly flexible hours are anything but bland.

Take this morning: there wasn't much of one today, but it tilted toward the leisurely though serious side. We lingered for a while over breakfast of course...






(To the commenter who asked about the door to the porch, well, to the naked eye it looks rather like a standard patio door. To us it's a thing of great magnificence, possibly because it was a monstrously difficult installation. As some of you may remember, they send us a door that was too large and rather than wait for a new one, we chipped away at the house to make that behemoth fit. In the photo below you have a view from the kitchen, looking out. To me, that door brings the porch right into the house and that's just grand!)





So we eat and reflect on this and that, covering some of the usual -- chickens, house repairs, Tormach, travel. And for now, we come to the unfortunate conclusion that, given our stubbornness about destinations, we're likely to split travel and chicken care between the two of us in the coming year.

On the upside, I have to admit that we do spend a large amount of time together at the farmette, so it's not as if we need travel as a way to reconnect in some intimate fashion. But, it would be lovely to put on the table an idea that sparked enthusiasm in Ed's face and of course, he wishes the same -- that I would show some real enthusiasm for his proposals.


The last set of hours today offers the bulk of our shared time and it follows immediately  after Snowdrop care: Ed and I set out together for the local farmers market, the library, Home Depot, and finally -- dinner out, at Braserrie V, where we sit at the bar and have what we always have -- a shared Belgian salad and moules frites. (Even if you're no fan of mussels, you surely would enjoy the Belgian fires. You can't get me to eat fries unless they're over and beyond the ordinary. These are over and beyond the ordinary.)






Most likely there are plenty of couples who envision something grander for a "date night out." But dinners out are so rare for us that it feels like we've traveled half the globe simply by going out in the evening to eat. Our second anchor has shifted after all, from its typical resting place at the farmhouse and that's significant! As Ed blurted out, when I asked if we should do something special afterwards (and I meant something as simple as renting a movie from the library) -- dinner out is enough! And honestly, I know exactly what he meant. (He did admit that this sounded somewhat unromantic and so he backpedaled and we got a movie at the library and we tried to watch it and of course it wasn't very good so we retreated to our evening standard -- a set of hours on the couch where we alternate between commenting on the state of life, dozing, reading, writing and eating squares of dark chocolate.)


Out of order here on Ocean, but so very orderly for me, for her as well -- are my hours with Snowdrop.






If I keep repeating myself that she is "so spirited!" it's because it's true. Another commenter predicted that she'd be walking in two or three weeks and maybe that will happen -- I don't remember how these things work: do babies stand and sway forever waiting for that magic impulse to take steps forward ? That doesn't seem like Snowdrop -- she plunges with such force and vigor into her next challenge that I can't imagine she'll ever just stand. The next stage for her is always just a stepping stone to the one after that.






I don't take her out for a long walk. We keep it down to a mere ten minute stroll (rather than the usual hour or more). There are storms brewing and you know my feelings about storms. But the abbreviated walk means Snowdrop has no "down time" today. She is just one small hurricane of energy and charm!






It's late. Ed's snoring on the couch, I'm finishing up a post. Except for the claps of thunder and the pounding rain on the roof top, I'd say we're in for a fairly standard night. And that's a good thing.