being one

Even those of us who celebrate our own birthdays do not, on the day of the big day, spend much time reviewing our accomplishments and shortcoming from the year that's just passed. You don't wake up on your sixty-second birthday and think -- wow, in this last year, I learned at least five new French words and moreover, I perfected rolling out tortelli con zucca. You're more likely to think ahead. For example: gosh, next year at this time I'll be sixty-three. That's three years from standard retirement age under Social Security.

With a young child, it's different. You do look back.
Remember the day she was born? How cold it was outside? Remember when she did tummy time and we couldn't imagine her sitting up? Look how far she's come!







Yes, Snowdrop is a year old today.


Unlike a year ago, this day is not especially cold, hovering around freezing most of the daylight hours. I let Ed do cheeper duty and it is so very luxurious just to stay in bed and think about how good these days are for my family, for Ed and me.

Breakfast is in the sunroom!






And so you know that we have before us at least a partly sunny day.

Because I have some time to myself this morning, I spend the hours catching up: I roll and freeze several balls of pizza dough. I descale the espresso machine. And I study Ocean's pages (something I rarely do) dating to the first weeks of Snowdrop's life.

In so many ways, our infancy predicts our childhood and our childhood predicts our adult years. Except -- you do not know in which ways! Which traits, which physical characteristics will vanish -- pffft! gone with the wind, never to be seen again? And which will be the ones that'll have us say later on -- you remember, she had this habit from day one!?


In the late morning, Ed and I go cross country skiing again. Though there is a blast of polar air in store for us next week, the snow is dwindling to an icy cover that will diminish even more with the expected Thursday rains. And so we especially enjoy our time on the trails, choosing one that meanders over marshlands and up through the woods.











I do hesitate as two dogs come out of nowhere -- bounding toward me as if I were their best friend or worst enemy...





They are alone and I wonder whose garden gate they managed to open. Is someone looking for them now? I stoop down to see who the owners may be, but they cavort off off and away, as if their own youthful exuberance forces them to seize that moment of freedom.



I go to Snowdrop's home just for a couple of hours in the afternoon. The big celebration of the little girl's birthday was, of course, the day after Christmas, with grandparents, aunts, uncles clustered around the little girl. There was cake, there was singing, there were gifts.

Today is low key and I leave her to the young parents in the evening -- they have their own small birthday plans.

Nor am I very active in engaging the little one-year old today. I sit back (or at times chase her around with my camera), letting her wander and wonder about the toys...






 So much new stuff (in the broadest sense) the world throws in your lap each day!






So much to like and admire!






I've given her my grandma toys on the day of the family celebration. Just one book and one card today (and I'm not the only one who sneaked in a book on Paris for her birthday!)...






The girl is sweetly polite about every last gift, but we have to remember, it's not always easy being one...






Here, she is resting on the floor with a wee booklet. I can see her in this pose when she is sixteen! Oh! That's not so far off!






Since Ocean notes the experience of being a grandma, I allow myself one time released selfie of Snowdrop and me.






But I'll end her part of today's story with what I see so often and admire so much -- her ready and happy smile.






In the evening, Ed and I go out for our postponed dinner date -- at Brasserie V, a place where we sit at the bar and fill up on mussels and fries. It may not look like much, but it really is the height of pleasurable dining for us.






The day ends for me with that deep contentment that comes when you know the people you love are doing okay in life.

One birthday down, many to go. Happy years ahead, Snowdrop. Your joy is so very contagious!

a winter day at the farmette

This is the kind of day I'll stand behind here, in the northern parts of the country. There is snow on the ground. The air is charged with the energy of the rising sun. It's just so beautiful out there, in the early morning hours!






The skies promise us a radiant blue. It's cold, but that's okay -- it's winter! And of course, the farmhouse is so luxuriously warm.






Ed and I are a little late to breakfast, but even the north facing kitchen is gloriously bright on a day like this.






I tidy, I write a little, but really, I'm just waiting for Snowdrop to arrive. She is to spend a full day here and she is a lucky girl, because the farmette shines on a day like this! (Warning: a full day at the farmhouse translates to many photos; Snowdrop's activities and shenanigans are ever-changing. Ocean simply takes note!)


Hello Snowdrop!







Ooops! An early tumble and the markings of a black eye.






Grandma and grandpa hugs and tickles help.






She looks fine to me -- this from grandpa Ed.






Snowdrop, can I interest you in some big girl crayons?
Maybe....






But what's grandpa doing? Eating leftovers? 
Snowdrop looks up at him with pleading eyes.
Come on up!

Asparagus? Great! But what's this? Beets? Yum!






Ed, she needs a bib, or at least a kitchen towel! Beets are forever stains!






After, I tell her it's time to give the cheepers bread. The upside -- it's the cheepers! The "not so sure" side -- I use the sled. But, the adventurous spirit prevails. We're off!






The reward -- the cheepers come out of the barn for the first time since winter set in some weeks ago.





Happiness is having chickens at your side.


In the afternoon she really moves with full speed, exploring everything within her reach.






Your sled was blue, Snowdrop.





The girl just loves my record collection.






When she struggles to take every album off the shelf, I decide that she might benefit from an outing.
You want to go to Paul's Oasis Cafe to pick up some pickles for grandpa Ed?

I know that's an odd question. Ed and I used to go to Paul's almost daily when I still worked. Now, ironically, we haven't the time. But Paul does use for cafe lunches the one pickle in the Midwest (aside from those made at the farmhouse!) that Ed deems acceptable and so periodically, we go there and buy as many as he's willing to sell.

While we wait for the cook to bring out the pickles, Snowdrop explores. Oh, does she explore! From the children's corner (no, not her scribbles!)...






... to one end...






... and the next.






Snowdrop! Come back! The pickles are here.






I think I like them!






So long as we are in the area, we walk over to our local library. It's a beautiful space with many many excellent books for kids, but today's visit is just introductory. Besides, Snowdrop is much more interested in the children there than in selecting books to take home.






At home, grandpa Ed is delighted with the pickles. And with the little one.






When Ed retreats to his projects at the sheep shed, Snowdrop and I take steps to get dinner ready. Well, sometimes we just hang out. Put on music and set her free and you'd be amazed at the discoveries she makes, the books she works through, the new tricks she'll master with old toys.

And really, the little one also loves just to chill.






Today is the last day that she is less than a year old. I couldn't have asked for a better set of hours with her. (Well, minus the black eye.) Tomorrow, little Snowdrop turns one.

Sunday

Here's a happy turn: those Arctic temperatures that we usually associate with January in Wisconsin will not arrive for another week.

Still, the gray skies, in my view, make any day feel cold. I say this to Ed as we yet again eat breakfast in the front room, because we haven't had the clear skies that would put us in the east room, which retains heat only if there is plenty of sunshine in the morning.

Ed, contemplating a pear slice:





I do a thorough farmhouse cleaning. It's time to get back to weekly routines. They make the winter move forward more rapidly.

Then I spend the better part of the day writing and that makes me very happy. It feels like I wrote a lot. It doesn't matter that others, the more serious, dedicated, earnest writers may think that my paltry pages are like a handful of peanuts in an empty jar. To me, it felt like I'd done a lot.


I agreed to go skiing in the afternoon, even though the absence of sunshine called for a warmer sweater, a warmer scarf, a warmer outlook on the outside world.

Here's what you'll see out in our fields and vales on a day like this:






(Do note though that an absence of polar air keeps the waters and streams running. The deep frost next week will surely freeze things over.)






 And then in the evening, because it's Sunday, the young family comes for dinner!

 Hi grandpa Ed!






A pinwheel!






Is everyone ready to eat?






Yay!






We discovered something that is remarkable and unusual: Snowdrop loves asparagus.






I mean, really loves it! You could bribe her to do cartwheels just by offering her one more stalk.

Who knew.






The young family leaves, the dishes are put away and then Ed and I do something totally not within our repertoire -- for the first time (ever), we watch Downton Abbey.

Sometimes it takes us a while to catch up with the rest of the world.

Ocean 12

I learned something about myself a long time ago: I am capable of giving in to frustration, capable of being impatient, frazzled, angry. Quick to blame someone other than myself. Well, aren't we all capable of that -- you'll say. And it's true -- most of us know how to lose our cool.

But if you know this about yourself, you can take charge and stay mellow. How do you do it? For me, putting myself in a calmly quiet environment is like a magic tonic. Clouds evaporate, calm sets in. I forget that I have this capacity to... lose my composure.

Today, however, I was tested.

The day had a great beginning and an even more beautiful agenda: I didn't let the cheepers out -- Ed did the morning run to the coop. The sun was brilliant...






... and I knew we would be able to fit in a lovely day of skiing. Before that, I could pop in on Snowdrop and after, toward the evening, Ed suggested a movie and a dinner out. Wow. Days don't get grander than that, do they?

Ed had one small chore he had to knock off this morning and so after a beautiful, sunny breakfast...






... I told him that I would go to the mall and do my iphone upgrade while he finished up his stuff here at the farmette.
It shouldn't take more than an hour! I said. I'd done upgrades before: half hour, maybe 40 minutes if I can't make up my mind which case to get.

I made a point of getting to the Apple store when it opened. I know it's Saturday. Things can get dicey.

I look around. Many Apple employees, standing with their devices, looking clever and ready to assist. I'm thinking: yay! A phone upgrade and a speedy exit.

But no. I am assigned the slowest Apple salesperson on the planet. His thumbs move over the device in the way I imagine mine will when I am 95. He makes a mistake. Has to do it all over again. Explains nothing well. It is a miserable set of hours.

My eyes canvass the Apple store -- help me out here! Get me someone else!
No one is catching my gaze.
The store fills.
The phone will not load. iCloud is not delivering. Several hours later, I have a phone with nothing on it.

This is when I almost reach into my inner chamber of horrors. And perhaps some will say I did cross the line. I said -- this is taking too long! There was no kindness in my voice.

My salesperson tells me he needs to go on mandatory break and I am handed over to someone else. I swear there is a magic button, the use of which allows the sales guy to convey the message that "this customer is trouble." Everyone is suddenly very edgy.

Here's when I really wanted to be mean. Oh, but to write a negative review of my shopping experience. Satisfaction on a scale of 1 to 5? Zero!

It takes me over three hours and three separate Apple reps (they keep telling me breaks are mandatory and somehow all my people just happen to need breaks) to finally work through the mistakes, the errors, the long downloads that have to be done again and again.

But here's the thing: at the end of that time, I have a working phone. In a sage green case (well, some say it looks more like mint toothpaste). No one is hurt, nothing is damaged.

And so nothing happened, right? Nothing except this one thing: I was again reminded how easy it is to lose one's cool and how close I came to doing it today.


Onto the rest of this gorgeous Saturday.

Snowdrop!

Good banana, grandma!





She is in a happy, chipper state. I'm not here for long -- just enough for a few books, a few pretend iPhones...

No, Snowdrop, do not get sucked into those!






A few moments where I can just sit back and admire her curiosity, her gentleness...






Her tenacity...






Her desire to understand the possibilities.






And then I'm back at the farmhouse, and Ed is ready and waiting, and off we go! Skiing at our county park up the road.






It's a beautiful hour on the now groomed trail. Lake Waubesa is not yet frozen, even as some would like to believe it's solid.






We finish our ski run in time to get to the movie house, but as we get to the ticket counter, we find that all the tickets for most of today's shows are sold out.

So we don't go to the movies. And we don't go out for dinner. On the way home, we pick up take out Thai and at home, Ed turns on his most favorite show on his computer -- Air Crash Investigations. He's now on show number 90-something. You get to see a reenactment of a plane crash of the past and then listen to an analysis of the causes for it.

And in a weird way, it's a superbly beautiful evening. Ed loves the engineering puzzles behind the crashes and I love having this moment to only half pay attention, but mostly tune it all out and give myself a chance to reflect on how well the year is proceeding.

A mall misadventure and a missed movie and dinner out. How utterly trivial. A quiet evening in a warm house and good food on the table. How good is that!


In other news: Ocean is twelve years old today. Twelve years of daily blogging. For as long as I do this, inevitably someone will ask -- why? And the answer is so very simple: because I love the process. Of writing. Of hearing from someone who may have read a post. Of connecting, correcting. Of learning. Of writing! Thank you -- all you loud and all you silent types. To me, writing something down makes sense only if at least one person (perhaps you are that one person) reads what you've felt compelled to state. Ocean, to me, is a quiet conversation. I say the first word, you supply the rest. Thank you.