black Friday

Ed watched all Thursday afternoon as I clicked through holiday shopping lists and fulfilled the dreams of my beloveds (one can hope!) on line.
You really are a true blue American consumer, aren't you... he marveled.

I admit it: I like to holiday shop for my family. I like bugging my kids for hints of what they or their spouses need. I like going "off list" with a few surprises, even though I'm sure they have some trepidation when I do this. (Consider the couple of years I moonlighted at l'Occitane: one girl eventually told me that she didn't care how good the discount, I really have to slow down with filling their drawers with tubes of hand cream.)

Today, of course, is America's big retail binge. But, like so many others, I had let my fingers do the walking/clicking and except for shopping that I always leave for myself for the December travels to the other side of the ocean, I'm done.

Still, there's grocery shopping! And so after breakfast...






... I coax Ed to tag along with me on this weekly ritual of mine.  No, cheepers! You're staying home!





To Ed I say -- there are sure to be free samples at the store!
He comes.
There are no free samples.
He reads the paper in the cafe while I shop, happy to have him at least there, somewhere on the sidelines, like in the old days when I lived in the city, grocery shopped nearly every day and nearly always had him tagging along.


So why have we become such awful home bodies? Aside from walks -- and they're terribly proximate to the farmette  -- we hardly ever venture out together. Remember daily afternoons at Paul's cafe? I can hardly believe we did that! Lunches at Pasqual's and dinners at Great Dane? A thing of the past.

I blame retirement (his, but especially mine) and winter. Those two forces have the strength of a gale wind to shut the door and keep us huddled inside. As I carry grocery bags into the farmhouse and the cheepers hover underfoot again, I'm thinking -- I'm sure glad I'm not like them, facing a winter of cold. Once I step inside the farmhouse, I do not have to go out!


But, the realization that we are so glued to our warm spaces gets to me and I propose another walk along the rural roads today. And Ed agrees.

And if ever you should commend us for being good sports about getting in that walk, it would be on this day -- gray, yes that, but also quite cold (I don't think it ever passed freezing). Just a couple of photos. It was hard to feel inspired to reach for the camera. November can be that way.










Ah, but the return to the farmhouse was fabulous! Really fabulous!

the real Thanksgiving

On our real Thanksgiving day, it's moist, dark and warm outside. A November warm -- the kind where you don't know what jacket to wear (except if you're Ed).

Rain threatens, the indoor lights stay on, the snow has melted.

That last fact makes the cheepers really happy. They come to the farmhouse once more and beg for a handout. They get it. Happy Thanksgiving, cheepers!






Ed and I have breakfast, but it's hardly special. Well, I eat granola and Ed looks cheerful without my prodding him to look cheerful.






We talk about his winter allergies. I suggest cleaning the air ducts. Or cleaning the couch. Or getting rid of the couch. Or getting rid of the house and starting over, with a building that doesn't have forced air heat (in my opinion, that's the trigger). Of course, all this he rejects. Mustn't rush. If you have to post a credible logo over his head, it would be "mustn't rush."

But he does want to demonstrate that our ducts are clean. We certainly do not have mold, but I tell him that mites and pollen are often invisible. I read stuff on the Internet to lend support to my push for having them professionally blown out.

I should have remembered the equally important logo that also hangs invisibly over Ed's head: "never hire someone to do something I can do myself." And so we spend the morning taking apart ducts, inspecting them for dust (minimal), wiping down the main air intake unit, vacuuming up the basement -- in other words, setting up the system for a clean run, further improved by turning down the thermostat to 50F, switching the fans onto high and opening all the farmhouse windows. In theory, much of what remains in the ducts will blow out, out, out over the river and through the woods and leave us with fresh air inside.

At least we aren't dealing with a major septic tank issue. That belonged to Thanksgiving 2011.

While all this clearing, blowing, airing is taking place, we take a walk in the small window of time we have for any outdoor activity (at around noon, when it's not supposed to rain). Up the scenic rural road, past the lovely cattle...






Then down a trail into the marshy lands that drain into Lake Waubesa. My, but it's muddy down there!






The rains come down just as we close the loop of our hike. And oh, does it rain! All remaining Thanksgiving hours are drenched in rain.

We stay indoors.

When it is finally dinner time, we brave the rains and set out to our local Indian restaurant. Last year, Ed and I went to the Japanese place for Thanksgiving sushi. It wasn't a great idea. We were the only diners there and the owners couldn't wait to close shop for the night so that they could go to the stores and hunt for holiday bargains. At our Indian eatery, there is another family  eating away, even as we get ready to go home.
They're not American, I whisper to Ed.
What do you mean? He seems somewhat aghast, as if I were passing judgment. I heard them ask for a table for four.
I laugh. As if being able to speak in English confers the status of a native son or daughter.
I'll bet you they're not from here. 
How would you find out?
I'll ask.
No!

It's rare that I have the ability to socially embarrass Ed.


We go home. We talk about couches, heaters, turkeys. The usual Thanksgiving fare.

I hope your day was equally peaceful, filled with warmth, love, and of course, good food.

scattered thoughts on the last Wednesday of November

Morning at the farmette.






Sunrise. Cheepers are out!






This is the time to indulge in the colors of November.












Back at the farmhouse. I take out my computer and mull over the morning stories.

A commenter noted how she did not like the word blog. In reading this I realized right away that this one seemingly insignificant detail -- the word "blog" -- has been irking me too, in all the years that I have been keeping a (hold my nose in disdain) blog. When I travel and people ask me about my various postings, I never admit to "blogging." Not only is the letter configuration unlovely, but the associations are (in my mind) also unpleasant. Blog conjures up (for me) a writing style that blurts out onto the pages of the Internet strong statements, for impact value.

You'll argue that there are blogs that have nothing to do with opinion or with the harsher realities of life. There are food blogs, photography blogs, travel blogs -- doesn't Ocean share at least some of those same pleasant intentions?

Perhaps. Even so, the word seems somehow offputting. Requiring an apology. I blog. I'm sorry. Writing a column for your local daily or weekly doesn't have such connotations. Can I just say "I write, using photos as illustrations?"


Next:

After breakfast, Ed wants me to watch with him a youtube video. Oftentimes, he'll have picked something that is up my ally. Perhaps a piece with some amusement value.

This time it is a perfectly serious instructional clip showing how you can take a "lightly soiled" diaper and mix its contents along with potting soil to make an excellent planting mixture. Interested? He asks. I shake my head. Clever, but the dead of winter is not the time to get me excited about repotting all my home plants.


Next:

We have had a running theme these past few weeks -- about the concept of relativity. Appropriate, given that I believe we're just at an anniversary of the publication of Einstein's work on the topic. But our discussions are less about the spacetime concepts and more about the ideas of good and the not so good.

Take geese, for example -- a nightmare for Madisonians, but perhaps splendid from a naturalist's perspective.  We have a lot of geese in this town and I thought tonight how, despite my distaste for all that they bring to our community (to take the diaper discussion one step further -- we have an abundance of geese droppings on walkways and bike trails around town), on a November evening, the flight of these birds toward the wetlands just east of the city is quite magnificent.

Ed and I are taking a (somewhat muddy) walk along what not too long ago were ski trails and we watch the geese take flight and really, much as I wrinkle my nose at the mere mention of the great Canadian bird, it is a lovely sight.






Next:

Here are two things that are indeed good, in fact without doubt -- great: first (chronologically, not in order of importance) -- our early morning breakfast.






And secondly -- a surprise text from my younger girl. She tells me that she and her husband have enough time to detour (on their long drive to Chicago) for a meal in Madison and could I possibly join them? Could I!






(For dessert we split our favorite peanut butter cookie.)






It's drizzling right now and tomorrow offers more of the same November wetness, but the air will smell of leaves and mushrooms and the car will get a good rinse and the cheepers will appreciate the disappearance of the last snow and I'll be able to shed my jacket and, like today, step outside (for a few minutes anyway) with just a sweater on.





All relative, Ed would say. All relative.

Thanksgiving Tuesday

You can, of course, declare any meal, or label any day of the calendar "Thanksgiving" and it will count. It is nowhere written that living the spirit of this holiday must be felt on the fourth Thursday of the next to last month of the year.

I can, therefore, call this my "Thanksgiving with Snowdrop" day. Not only is she with me for all her waking hours, but, too, it's the last time I'll be playing with her until the end of the weekend and so I shall think of it as my own turkey and Snowdrop celebration.

Not that I'm roasting a turkey for supper. Thankfulness doesn't require having a stuffed bird in the oven.

The day starts as it always does -- with me releasing the cheepers at some very early hour (and thanks to one of Ocean's longest readers, I have the proper wrist warmers for the task. In fact, I think I create the perfect image of a farm frau -- walking to care for her chickens in the man's ten sizes too large overcoat, so well suited for a walk to the barn, clogs on bare feet, woolly wraps around my bare hands. All you need now is a photo of the chickens (who are so cold that they do their funny foot to foot stomp).






After tending to their needs, I hop over to the sheep shed to feed the very very aged Isie boy and finally I walk back to the farmhouse which, I think, looks properly ready for the winter holidays (icicles, sled and all).






Breakfast in the sun room (wake up, Ed! I need to get going!).






And then I'm with Snowdrop, just minutes before she herself wakes up.

Not too many words for you here -- I haven't time for lengthy writing today. A few photos, yes, of course. My own grandmotherly Thanksgiving photos.

What now, grandma?






Lap bouncing's fine!






I'm concentrating here!






A dance and a hug? Okay! I like to watch the little light flash on the camera before it clicks! All by itself! Amazing!






More serious play...






Which can be exhausting! Familiar Snowdrop thumb suck follows.






But it's always short lived. Life offers too many opportunities for lighthearted romps!






I'm so very thankful for all this. Every day I think about the wonderful moments that flow my way. A call from a daughter, a message from the other, a day with Snowdrop.

But let's put some trimmings and trappings of the holiday onto this day. Snowdrop, how about some turkey and root vegetable mush for lunch? You first turkey -- yum!






After a big turkey meal, a walk is highly recommended. It's above freezing, but just barely so.

Going out in winter sure is complicated! 






Off we go!






Look, Snowdrop! The lake is starting to freeze!






And now the afternoon light fades. We hurry over to the farmhouse for that one last sled ride before the snow melts in the days ahead!

Is she happy in her little blue snow rocket? Well, the protest is loud and persistent until I hand her the bread we are to feed to the cheepers.






The then mood changes. Cheepers! Now that's fun!






Grandpa Ed can't resist joining in on the fun.






Back in the farmhouse, it's the same -- he tries to find instructions on the Internet on how to fix my headlight, but Snowdrop thinks hanging out with him is just the bees knees.






Next time I look up, they're figuring out the headlight problem together.






She eats...





She naps, she plays. And then it's time for her to go home.

Thank you for your superb enthusiasm, Snowdrop! I'm so grateful for all that you bring to the table.

Here, she's telling all of us -- do have yourself a very happy Thanksgiving week! With love.

good routines

So much of what I do each day is just a repeat of what I did the previous day. Getting up to open the coop, preparing breakfast and later -- dinner. Caring for Snowdrop. Sipping tea in the afternoon. Eating squares of chocolate in the evening. I mean, you're yawning, right?

Oh, but I love it all so much! And I look forward to the next set of minutes and the one after. Is it because I'm so often away that I remain so excited about, say, a regular old Monday?


On this regular old Monday, I am up with the sun, which is always a grand way to begin the day.






And we have breakfast in the sun room...






And then Snowdrop arrives (because it is Monday).






Just a few morning photos with her: reading her favorite farmhouse book...






Dancing (yes we are, even though it may not seem like it!)...






Exploring her environment for the nth time, but of course, each time everything is a little different...






When the sun is at its highest, I suggest a run on the sled. She's not to keen on the idea. I can almost hear her saying it -- why can't we just play in the farmhouse? And me answering: because it's beautiful outside and you can glide over the snow and maybe we can even build a snowman!

We do glide and though I'm sure you're laughing at this small imitation of a snowman, well, you have to start somewhere!





But all the while, I can hear it in her babbles -- can we go home now? Can we?

And I wonder about why she wouldn't instantly fall in love with sledding and of course, it's not too hard to guess that the novelty of it all is a bit overwhelming. This girl is so tall and toddler-like in so many of her behaviors that one forgets she is just ten and a half months old. Sledding has not been part of our routine. But it will be!

I remember how eating elicited once a big grimace. And now:






Too, surely grandpa Ed  took some getting used to. (That was a while back!)






So in the afternoon, we try again with the sled and the snowman and we'll try many times in the months ahead. Coveted routines are ones you learn to love. Over time.






(What brings out the smile is a visit with the cheepers, who leave the shelter of the barn for a few paces, enjoying the sunshine, the cleared path and a few bits of stale bread.)






And of course, if you venture out into the strange (one hopes one day thrilling) world of sledding, the return home to the farmhouse is that much sweeter.






Grand routines, lovely days. Such really lovely days.