things

We've all laughed over this many times: ha ha ha! Ed and I have nothing in common! Ha! And yet, here we are, together for over a dozen years. So perhaps I should modify the claim somewhat: Ed and I have very little in common.

Nowhere is this more apparent than when we are faced with things. He likes his stuff: metal bits, old machining catalogues, tools, scraps, unfinished books, old jacket (you've seen it!), shoes that I swear have no sole left in them. I like my stuff -- things that are perhaps more conventional. You would not be surprised to learn that my favorites right now, beyond the computer and camera are toys and books for grandkids. And favorite comfy clothes to wear, dishes on which I can serve food, pots for cooking it up.

We do have a few common things as well: the new-ish couch. The TV set which we selected together. The chairs on the porch, the bench in the mud room. Am I missing something? Probably not.

Here's where trouble starts: it is terribly difficult to merge lives when your overlap is only that new-ish couch and a bench in the mud room. Whose things fill the rest of our living space?

Up to now, the unwritten rule had been this: he keeps his scraps in the sheep shed (except for the shoes, soleless that they are), my stuff fills the farmhouse.

The problem is, of course, that our time together is in the farmhouse. And so Ed has to adjust. Fit in. Keep things straight. My things.

From day one, I knew that Ed was Ed. (See Ocean side comment.) Adjustment for him doesn't come without a struggle and sometimes it just cannot come at all. Travel continued for eight years and then it had to stop. He had maxed out his "trying to adjust" capabilities.

We had grown so fond of being in each others space that in recent months, he has spent just about all his time in the farmhouse. Ooops -- that's not "in each others space," that's that same place that has all my stuff and almost none of his own.

In the last few days, he has recoiled. I'm hearing more of -- why can't you come over and hang out in the sheep shed? (If you ever stepped into that shed, you'd know instantly why the answer is "because.")

All this to say that living with a person with whom you have very little in common is an interesting challenge. You cannot assume that you know or understand each others next move, next thing, next preoccupation. You learn, you reset, and you both move forward, in some quirky fashion, together. Until the next time when you find yourself wondering -- how do I fit into her world? And conversely, how does he fit into mine?


Breakfast, together, but at the kitchen table. With flowers that are on their last strength.






And an afternoon with Snowdrop.

She is in a sweet and wonderful mood. For her, space is defined by the people in it. Her babes, her toys are beloved because she associates them with a place where she feels loved.

















Someday, the presence or absence of things may be of utmost importance to her, overshadowing other more beautiful feelings of attachment. May that day never come, or at least not for a long long time. May she forever feel the pull of the farmhouse (or sheep shed) because of the people there, rather than the things within.

Tuesday

Exasperated. That's the way I would describe Snowdrop's attitude toward the outdoors. Puddles yesterday and then, unexpectedly, totally unexpectedly, the temperatures fall below freezing and overnight, rain turns to ice, then to snow.

Well now, that's what you wanted, right Nina?

Not to be fussy, but I do not regard two inches of icy snow to be a winter wonderland. And neither does Snowdrop. Can we go back to the sunshine, please? We'll take the sunshine! Keep your slippery icy snow!

The cheepers would agree.

On the upside, it is sort of pretty...






Breakfast.






And a morning of writing. (ah, but I should always describe the mornings thus!)


When I pick up Snowdrop, she is clothed in a hodgepodge of stuff.
What happened to your dress?
It's wet.
She snuggles into me as I gather her things.
Will you carry me? 

I get it: no nap today.

When we get to the farm, we can play outside a little if you put on all your outdoor gear. Do you want to do that?
No. Will you tell me a penguin story?
I make one up about the penguin who ate too many purple cookies. What can I say, my creative juices seeped out during the morning of writing!

Inside the farmhouse. Happy as a clam. Reaching for the fruit and the books. It is her routine and she loves it to pieces.







Toward the end of the day, she returns to something that you may well remember from months gone by: feeding all her beloveds, big and small, real and not so real, all at her table of treats. Ed is here and she wants him to join us. He never says no to her.

(I post this picture despite its indifferent quality because it is the only time ever that I have seen Ed cuddle dolls in his lap.)






Ever the happy girl when she can serve us all cakes and ice cream.





As dusk sets in, Snowdrop asks me -- is ahah putting away the cheepers?
Yes, of course.
I want to go with him!

It's the first sign that she wants to spend any time outdoors.
Carry me, it's so cold!

I try, but she is slippery and heavy. Down she goes.

Are you sure you don't want your cap?
I'm not cold!
Snowdrop, you're inconsistent.





And once outside -- well, all her reservations and trepidations vanish, like a snow cover on a warm day.

You want to build a snowman?
Ed adds -- you mean a snow clump...
It may work if you two would shovel over some snow...
I'll help!






This is the best that the three of us could do:






And still, she keeps on shoveling...






And yes, she finds the sled... It's cold, dark and icy. She minds none of it.






The night is dark, but there are faint wisps of light to the west, to the north. It  will be a fine day tomorrow! With sunshine!






For sure. I think.

Monday

Suddenly, I feel a sense of urgency: I want to finish my Great Writing Project.

Over the weekend, I listened to stories about two extraordinarily famous British authors -- Agatha Christie and John le Carré. I have nothing much in common with either, least of all the talent that each possesses. But I do think that in being lackadaisical in my book writing, I've let go of something I once valued (and that these two certainly valued as well): the idea that a book deserves to be finished.

It is a perfect day to get excited about writing because you surely can't get excited about what's going on outside: rain. Cold, menacing rain.

(View from the sun room, where I choose not to eat breakfast.)

(Instead, we eat here. Where the orchids bloom and the daffodils are still showing signs of a happy if brief existence.)

Outside, the cheepers look like they're doing a dance around the one last clump of snow -- our slowly disappearing snowman.

So this morning and I hope most mornings of the remaining winter months, I write.

Even though the rain pauses when I pick up Snowdrop, it's not a good day for outdoor play. Say I. She has different ideas.
You see? I have my raincoat and my boots! 
Well, great then! Maybe we can find a puddle outside... I try not to think about how it's only in the upper 30sF (3 or 4C) out there.

Here she is, leaving school, with one of her favorite teachers. I ask -- does Snowdrop continue to invite friends to do works with her? (A Montessori school principle: you are responsible for your own work, unless you can invite a friend to share in it.) Oh yes, and she is very good at inviting her friends after she's done -- to help her clean up!  What can I say -- smart kid.

I hadn't intended to stay outdoors more than a minute, but when Snowdrop is revved up about an activity, it's best to let go of your reservations and join in on her spirited play.

A walk around the block in search of monster puddles is exhilarating (they are not monsters, grandma! But they're huge! No, they're not -- says the puddle expert extraordinaire)! 

Monster puddles, I tell you.

Walk done. I'm cold. She's in denial about the weather. Ah, but I have super cards up my sleeve: a fresh croissant in the car and a new Olivia book at the farmhouse.


A delicious snack, and an even more delicious set of minutes reading about the spunky pig's (Olivia's) search for a favorite toy, and now Snowdrop is ready to plunge into more active play. She goes straight for the drum. The music show is on her mind.

(She has the enthusiasm of a whole band.)

And shortly after, she returns to her stories. And her props for them. Babies, Playmobil characters, anything within reach.

(This particular tale has a running theme in it...)

When she leaves, the house grows very quiet. Ed has been lost to clearing out debris from the sheep shed -- a project that I'm sure will take the better part of winter. He and I eat a dinner of leftovers and then we return to our own works. I try not to count the days (well, more like months) until spring.  We're still owed a good sized snowstorm, no? Yes, a snowman that's bigger than the melted clump outside would be nice. I turn up the heat just a degree, close my eyes and think lovely thoughts of wintry landscapes. We're sure to have snow yet. I think. Maybe.

Sunday

Drizzle today, rain tomorrow, cold returns the day after. Our yard is like a Dalmatian puppy. Or a holstein cow.






The sled tracks remind me of finer days -- when there were a few inches of the white stuff. Will we get some more? Winter teaches you to wait and make no demands.






Let's put some color into the day! Breakfast.






It is Sunday and so farmhouse cleaning is first on the agenda. I scrub. Ed plugs in Mr. Robot, the automated vacuum cleaning pal and retreats to his computer. Life is so unfair.


We go out for a walk in our county park just before the light drizzle turns into something unpleasant.






There is, in fact, a hidden beauty to the landscape, but you really have to pause and think about where it might reside.






(Why do ice fishermen fish in close proximity to each other?)






And now we're rolling into a Sunday routine. I work in the kitchen fussing, fixing, anticipating with a smile the dinner that's ahead.

The young family arrives.






(Snowdrop spies her current favorite -- the Olivia book. Mommy has to read it to her. There is no choice. The planet will fold and disappear if mommy does not at this second read the book. Personally, I think Snowdrop has just a tiny bit of Olivia in her.)






Dinner. So grateful that on this very foggy and chilly night they are here...






And now comes the quiet of a late Sunday evening. I put on a good playlist of classical favorites, or as Snowdrop would say "some of that beautiful music without words." Oh, to be this calm always! It's a worthy goal.

bumbling along

A third day of small mishaps and great rewards!

It's often like that, isn't it? You stumble and bumble along and kick yourself for misjudging the time or misremembering the way and then boom! -- you wind up with a better outcome.

But first thing's first: it is a beautiful January day, properly belonging to March or April. Upper 40sF (about 8C) with plenty of sunshine! You could not, should not stay indoors.

The cheepers get the message. Today, they walk the path from the barn to farmhouse and back, again and again and again.






Breakfast. Sunny and delightful.





And now it's time to meet up with Snowdrop and her mom. We're resuming our last year's habit of taking Snowdrop to the Saturday morning music show at our Performing Arts Center. Today a Brazilian percussion group is playing. It's free, it's casual, and the little girl does love a good music show.

I drive downtown. I'm so on time. Never late. Not for Snowdrop. Ever!

Unfortunately, I cannot get my parking meter to work. I try. And I try. No use. I give up. Go ahead, give me a parking ticket, I dare you! I run. But by the time we're all at the entrance, the auditorium is filled. At capacity. No more kids or grownups allowed. We're not the only ones who had big plans for a lovely January day!

As a consolation prize, we're told that we can go and watch from a glassed-in balcony up above. Might as well. We join many other families struggling to get their kids close enough to see some snippet of the show.

You'll be able to hear it - the attendant tells everyone. They're plenty loud. In fact, if you stick around, there may be openings when the show starts. There'll be kids who'll want to leave.  

The performance begins. And even from behind a glass enclosure, Snowdrop looks up at us and proclaims -- it's too loud!







But she takes her cues from other kids. If they can listen, so will she. Even though it's hard to feel connected to the performers. It's like watching TV where the reception isn't too good and the volume is over the top.

She takes a break.










And sure enough, eventually we see someone leaving the auditorium.
Can we go in?
Go for it!

Does she want to be in the audience? She does!







It was, in fact, the perfect way to approach this group -- first from afar, then eventually from up front.


As we leave, she is happy to take in the small pleasures of this great big public space.

(Art on the walls...)






(An interesting staircase...)






(Intriguing posters...)






It is a really wonderful morning. Who would have guessed, given the initial Gaga stumbles?







In the afternoon, I'm sure you'll have guessed that Ed and I will want to go out for a hike. It's tricky to walk on trails with lots of mud, ice and melting snow, but the weather is so gorgeous that we are determined.

Where to?

Ed suggests the Ice Age Trail segment north of Lodi. (Lodi is a small town that is almost but not quite a suburb of Madison.) We've hiked it many times, but then, we've hiked most of the trails within a half hour's drive of here many times.

We must first pass through Lodi. We've driven to, through and around Lodi dozens of times. But we take the wrong turn (several times!) and get lost. This is so embarrassing that I hesitate to even write it down: we get lost going to Lodi! That's analogous to living in Manhattan and losing your way to Yonkers. I mean, it's just up the road! (It is true that there are many rural roads and they never go where you think they should go.)

Finally and somewhat sheepishly, I take out my smart phone and we pick up the many roads (because we're completely turned around and not at all where we should be) back to Lodi. And as Ed studies the phone map, he recalls an Ice Age segment that we once helped maintain, not too far form where we are. It's a segment we've rarely hiked since.

And it is beautiful.






Really, really beautiful.






The sky is blue and the hills are a smoky gray and the world seems so welcoming and kind!






Selfie!






That great big sky...






Leaning trees...






The golden grasses of winter.






Evening. Cheepers rounded up, locked for the night. And our new addition -- the little robot vacuum cleaner -- has huffed and puffed and whipped and sucked the farmhouse floors shiny clean.

We live in at a time where a parking meter can mess with you, a phone can guide you, a robot can clean your floors. And still, you can find a quiet path through marshes, prairies and forests, where the views onto undulating landscapes are so rich that they truly take your breath away.

We will be sleeping well tonight.