Friday

The sunrise is crazy beautiful!





I almost do not mind being up early for it.

But breakfast is rushed. It's Friday. Errand day. All packed into a very busy morning.






But I'm on time for Snowdrop pick up (though one less favorable traffic light and I'd be in trouble...)!






There is one word that perfectly describes this afternoon: windy!






I mean, really windy! Initially, the little one doesn't mind.






But when we venture out on the rural roads (her choice), the gusts are fierce. She doesn't protest when we turn around and head for the shelter of the farmhouse.

And yes, it's time to bake cookies again!






Equally important -- it is peaceful and warm inside. Perfect for teaching yourself how to make little people sit in Duplo chairs.






As she naps, I watch the weather turn: from summer warm to blustery cold.






So we stay inside afterwards. She colors (oh! is she contemplating a left hand drawing mode?)






She plays with her Duplo characters: chicken finds comfort at the top of the barn.






And she is oh so happy when ah ah comes back.  They play with the Duplo characters... I swear, Ed loses layers of crusty adulthood when he is with her.





The winds continue to howl. There'll be frost. There'll be winter. There'll be tough stories on the news. There'll be tough news from friends (we had our share of those this week).

And then there'll be days like this, when Snowdrop looks up with earnest eyes and asks nothing more than to help her place a character in a chair. And when you deliver, she'll give you the biggest smile.

Thursday

There's much to be done at home now. For the last three years, the family Thanksgiving took place in Chicago, while Ed and I ate Chinese food one year, Japanese the next and Indian last year. But this time the complicated holiday family gathering schedule was resolved differently and Thanksgiving -- with my daughters and their families -- is coming back to the farmhouse. So there's stuff to be done!

I know people begin their holiday cooking many days in advance. That's not going to happen here. I can't think that far ahead. For one thing, Snowdrop is a farmhouse guest this weekend and, too, there's a Sunday family dinner to think about. But getting the house ready for the holiday and the Thanksgiving menu finalized takes time and I surely should be focused on this right now...

... except that today, we're to have near record highs, plenty of sunshine and gentle winds that belong more to early September than to late November.

And so shortly after breakfast...






... Ed and I throw down out chores and projects and escape to our nearby county park for a walk on this most glorious of days.

We love the park for its closeness (less than five minutes by car) and for its good cross country skiing. In the summer, it's less welcoming because the mosquitoes really favor the nearby boggy terrain. But today -- oh, it is just perfect!






I tell Ed we must commemorate this day of short sleeves and lovely blue skies with a selfie. He knows to look my way. He sometimes forgets to keep his eyes open as he snaps.







I pick up Snowdrop just as the day is at its warmest and sunniest. But I go easy here. I've learned my lesson about expecting too much during this time where she really should be settling down for a nap.  We walk a little by her school...






...listen to the train nearby, look at the last of the flowers...






... and then we zip back to the farmette, where I let her take the lead. Today she asks to feed the chickens (and her loud cry "cheepers!" really brings them running!)...






... and she wants to spend time playing in the leaves...






... and picking remaining flowers. A deep frost is coming this weekend. There is no point in saving them now.







We're in the front flower bed and this gives her a chance to watch the occasional car speed by. Today she is thrilled to see a big piece of farming machinery thunder along, with the farmer waving to us from his great heights. But she's also happy just to see the occasional school bus or truck.






And now she's had her fill and is ready for a few musical prenap minutes back at the farmhouse.






And then, finally, some much needed downtime with her bises (penguins) upstairs.

When she wakes, the bises come down with her and I watch as she engages in a spirited race around the farmhouse.






Not infrequently, Ed is on the phone when the little girl is playing at the farmhouse. I tell her he has work to do and she is pretty good at leaving hm alone as he retreats to the sun room to conduct his affairs. Today, he is not only on the phone, but, too, immediately afterwards, he retreats to the sheep shed to work on one aspect or another of his machining project.

Perhaps one of the most smile inducing moments of the day comes when he leaves and she picks up her old play "telephone." As I watch her act out her own mini drama, I'm impressed at how exact she is at imitating what she sees around her. Do kids really grasp this much from what we think happens over and beyond their sensibilities? No one taught her how to work the phone. How to conduct a conversation. About the resulting back and forth. And yet, here she is, imitating it all so perfectly:






She is a real chatter box this way and when I listen to her, I am so impressed that I take note of her words for posterity I suppose, exactly as she speaks them:

Hi, this is (Snowdrop) talking. Ah ah is in sheep shed working there.






For emphasis, she hastens to the porch door from where she can see the sheep shed and repeats her earnest bit of news.






And then she puts down the "phone" and asks to go out to see if indeed ah ah is in the sheep shed.

He never ever minds an interruption by the little one. At the sheep shed, very quickly she scrambles onto his lap and makes the letters fly on his computer screen. The machine to the side -- his recent invention that has so occupied his waking hours? She is a bit intimidated by it. The computer feels safer.







She is, in general, curious about his work space and I show her that there is a chair near his desk -- one where I sat for many many hours in the days when I didn't live at the farmette, but would visit on the weekend. She is thrilled to climb up and down and onto the foot rest, proclaiming it all to be "Snowdrop's black chair."






I usher the little girl outside then and we explore the great outdoors.  Our magnificent find: a couple of Henny's feathers just outside the coop.






Add to it a dandelion puff and her cup runneth over.






As does mine. It really isn't hard to find peace and joy just by stepping outside for a minute or two. If you need lessons on how to do it -- ask Snowdrop. She's a pro at it.

Wednesday

Ed is late for breakfast (I ask when we should eat, he suggests a good hour and then usually comes down as promised) and I am all set to complain about the cooling down of my coffee and oatmeal, but he flashes that grin just as I take out my camera. I have to smile back!






Afterwards, we set out for the big box store that has the biggest collection of Christmas lights.  We are starting anew, but with an idea as to how to proceed: get something that matches the porch lights, use twinkling bulbs by the path and white cords around the door. How's that for knowing one's own mind!

I am sort of hoping we'll find a deer or snowman to add to our outdoor collection of holiday brightness, but it is not to be. We settle on the twinklers and the bright steady glows.


Back at the farmette, Ed begins work on pounding in posts that will anchor the garlands of lights. Me -- I can't help much. It's noon. I need to get Snowdrop...

... who is possibly in the best mood I've ever seen her at pick up. (Later I find out that this is the day of the week her class does yoga. If ever you need me to plug yoga for toddlers, just sound the bell. I have proof of its efficacy -- today.)

Outside, we find the car. And a pile of leaves.






But we don't linger. We head  for the farmette, where everything is at once familiar and curious.

"There, gaga, there's ahah's rake!"






Snowdrop, we have things to do! We're putting in winter lights!


At first, she makes me pull out the stroller. She climbs inside and watches.






Not for long.  The strings of lights are exciting!






Standing to the side is fine, but soon, she wants to be in the thick of it: "grandpa, can I help bang in the posts?"






"I think I can do it!"






The hammer is heavy. Ed let's her use it anyway...






...but when she wants to do the whole job by herself, he's sure she'll drop the hammer on her toes.

Still, she so wants to do the banging. He lifts her. The banging continues, albeit in a most peculiar fashion.






She would have kept on going like this for a long long tine, but I insist on a nap.



In the late afternoon, I give her a 2 year old puzzle I'd purchased last spring in Paris. You have to match the pieces to create a range of animals. She nails it way too quickly. There isn't even the slightest challenge.






Fine. She's strong in puzzles. But can she shop??

Yes she can. She tells me here she's off to "shop at Target..."






The sun is setting. We go outside, despite the evening chill. She checks the coop with us, she feeds the chickens. And then we walk back to the eastern edge of the farmette.






Tall firs dominate the landscape here...






... but Snowdrop loves the little guys. Baby trees, she calls them, using her most gentle tones.






And then we return inside. The lights are now on.

We've done our holiday duty at the farmhouse.






It's time to look at the moon, time to rest.

Tuesday

It's unusual to start with a morning photo of the moon, but in fact, it is that lunar spectacle that catches my eye as I walk to the cheeper coop just before the sky takes on the light of a sunrise. The moon had moved in the course of the night from east to west and it strikes me that it, too, has a path and yet it feels mysterious and unfamiliar to me -- unlike the sun, whose movement I follow all year long, constantly. Poor, forgotten moon! Well, you get your moment today as I start my post with you in mind.






Breakfast is in the sun room. I float three ideas past Ed. Poor guy, he hates just saying no to everything that I put on the table, so he picks a yes for one, a maybe for the second and sticks with a no to my third (which, predictably was the most significant and so it had little chance of sliding in on the coattails of the others).





The "yes" is simple enough: I want to shave that Santa Claus beard off already.
You look so much younger without all the white hair spilling down your face!
Is that important?
No, but let me trim it off anyway.
I do. He looks way better.

The "maybe" has to do with holiday lights, or as I prefer to call them "winter lights," because I like it when they go on when the days are short (now!) and stay on until the first crocuses break ground in March.

It's no secret that Ed's not much of a holiday guy, but he has a soft and sweet side to him and he can actually get quite engrossed in projects that have a direct or indirect link to seasonal celebrations.

We test the lights on the porch: good and ready to flip on, starting tonight! But I remind him that the ones around the entrance door gave out last winter. In other words, we need new ones.

We're off, on this again sunny and mild November day, oddly out of sync with a mission to find winter lights for the farmhouse.

(The landscape around us is so pretty when the sky puts on that cornflower and cotton balls look!)





In one of the big box stores, I form a ridiculously strong attachment to a blue-yellow-white combination of lights. And I also notice the twinkling characters (you know -- the deer, the snowmen, etc) that people scatter on their suburban lawns. There was a time when I would regard this as kitsch of the highest order. Nothing I would ever put in my yard!

But over time, Ed and I have softened on our tolerance for some small aspects of it. Perhaps it's a bit of a joke for him (after all, he has attached a forlorn stuffed Santa that he found in the gutter to his motorbike and believe me, Ed does not believe in Santa). Maybe it is for me as well, though I do find some prettiness in putting light into the landscape for those dark winter nights (which are that much darker here in the country).

I look past the Santas and elves and pick up a large light filled chicken (chicken??) decked in a winter scarf -- how about this?
You're kidding?
No, it's actually sort of charming.
I absolutely refuse to get anything that's not LED. Imagine how horrible it would look with bulbs burning out!

In this, I find permission to continue, so long as it's LED!

In the next big box store, we find nothing that passes our critical eye (and the LED requirement), but we do agree to extend strings of light along the farmhouse path.
Look here, these lights twinkle! -- I say this with some bit of excitement, which a little bit surprises me.
They don't match what we got for the door...

Still, we bring them home -- a mishmash of lights, twinkling and not twinkling, colorful and monochromatic. And of course, we conclude that they really dont work well together and therefore must be returned and exchanged for a more coordinated effort, but I call this a step forward! A day ago I would not have believed that Ed would accept the task of pounding posts into the ground along our walkway so that I could deck the place with twinkling light bulbs.

But for today, we're done. It's noon -- time for me to pick up Snowdrop!






(For a moment I am tempted to drag her to the stores with us to look at lights again, but I resist such selfish thoughts. Ed and I take forever to decide on any purchase, even one that doesn't call for great cash outlay. Snowdrop deserves a better afternoon.)

We walk with her to the coop where she studies our routines: check for eggs (none), load in more wood shavings (spoiled birds!), clean out the bucket of chicken droppings. Ah, farmette life! (Snowdrop is all too familiar with these small tasks and she is an experienced and excellent chicken caller: her loud "cheepers! come here cheepers!" can be heard far and wide as we call them in for their bread treat.)






At the house, she feels the need to snuggle with her penguins. She is a tired girl. A nap will be a welcome pause after a full day.






And indeed, it is a long nap. We're all recovering from bugs and viruses. Sleep, good sleep -- it's an essential.

The evening creeps in. Snowdrop is intensely engaged now in every game! Here, she's shopping. Target, she explains to me. 






She and Ed decide on what essentials to put into her gorcery cart.







Eventually, she piles a bowl with toy veggies and proclaims she is eating "soup for supper." To my knowledge, she has never had soup for supper (though it is indeed a staple at the farmhouse), yet there she is, piling on the vegetables ladled into a bowl from the toy soup pot.






It's a quiet night. A darker night. A beautiful night.

Sleep well Snowdrop.

All of you -- sleep well.