Tuesday

If you sequester yourself inside just because the day is gray, sticky and uninviting,  then you may miss the spell of sunshine and warmth that appears unexpectedly.

And what if that spell of sunshine isn't a brief spell after all? What if it decides to stay with you all afternoon long, despite dire predictions of clouds, fog, drizzle and all combinations of an otherwise bleak day? I'm just trying to say that you should always consider the possibility of a good outcome. Not all predictions of gloom are going to be accurate.

One short sentence says it all: we were to have an overcast day. And then, boom! Just as I left to pick up Snowdrop at school, the sun poked through, eventually pushing all clouds aside.

I could spend many words describing this wonderful transformation, but I think I'll let the photos tell the story.

Early morning. Green, lush, damp. A deer comes over to consider the possibilities.






The young chicks find their way in between clumps of flowers.






All is green. It's that time when there are few blooms. But oh, who could doubt that we have an abundance of flowers?!






A last clump of tulips:






And now the sun comes out -- just as I am picking up the girl. We walk over to the playground!






How many times have I wheeled her over here in the last three years? One hundred? More?

This year, blowing off the dandelion seeds from a puff is a piece of cake!











Pause for a pain au chocolat snack.






The skies are so blue! The colors -- so magnificent!






Snowdrop is hugely expressive. It's funny that she is such a chatterbox. She hardly needs words to tell you what she is feeling.






At least half of our afternoon is spent in the farmhouse. And I do have one photo from this lively indoor period.






But honestly, in so many ways, our day belongs to our time out in the sunshine today. You could say that each and every one of us benefited from the unexpected surprise of sunshine and gloriously blue skies.

(Here's a late day photo of all our animals pals: old cheepers, young chicks, and Stop Sign.)






Oh, and then there's the two of us...





Delighting in all of it.

Monday

I think rainy days mess with Ed's otherwise cautiously conservative attitude toward acquisitions. Typically, he does not look to add anything to his life, or to the farmette. But this morning, as I slowly wake to the patter of rain on the rooftop, I'm hearing Ed throw out this question -- do you know that muscovy ducks are not at all like ducks?

I respond with a more pragmatic query: you haven't fed the chickens yet, have you? It's rhetorical. Ed is always in bed after me and never out of it before me.

No. But listen, muscovy ducks are really unusual.
Where is all this coming from?  -- I ask.
I've been reading about them. I'm looking for ways to control bugs. Did you know muscovies are great bug catchers?

I go out into a wet but enchanting landscape to feed the cheepers.





The three big girls brave the rain and run with me to the barn.

But where are the three little girls?

I look everywhere. I mean, I've been through this before. But I'm an expert looker now and besides, these days they always come running when they see me coming to the feeding stations in the morning.

I walk the land carefully -- around the house, around the sheepshed, calling, calling... Nothing.

Back in the farmhouse, I tell Ed -- I think we've lost them.
All three? That can't be!
I have looked everywhere.

He comes out, we look together. Carefully. Nothing.

It's such a sudden thing: here yesterday, gone today. What predator grabbed all three??

Ed is sullen. I guess you're right. They're gone. Let me just go check the orchard.
You know that's pointless. (No chicken ever goes there -- it's a bit remote.)

And lo! There they are! Why? Because yesterday, we weeded and tilled the land by the grapes and this, along with the rains, brought out the worms. The girls are soaked, but happily picking them out in the rows of planted buckwheat.

Why didn't you come when I called you?! I scold them, with that flood of relief that comes from finding out that all is well in your small wee world. (Of course, they did not come because they did not hear me -- the orchard is over an incline.)

We eat breakfast with great relief.





And we come back to the discussion of ducks. Not just any ducks -- muscovies.
Ed is enthusiastic.
I'm apprehensive. We can't anticipate all that might go wrong. Still, I read about their friendly nature, about their quirky habits, their wagging tails, their utter cuteness, and I waffle.

We go back and forth, all morning long, reaching no conclusion. And yet, when I study the summer before me, I firmly believe that there is no room for anything that is either challenging or out of the ordinary.


In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop.





The girl is spirited and happy, despite the long day, lack of rest and the cold, wet weather outside.

Neither of us wants to play outdoors. We've had days of sunshine and afternoons of splashing in the pool. Today's high of 58F (14C) is just not that attractive.

As I come in dripping wet, laden down with her school bags, shoes, coats and lunch boxes, I find her engrossed in a book that she clearly cajoled Ed into reading.





It is an afternoon of many, many books for us.

But not only! (I'm showing off my ventriloquist's skills here: did you know that I can make that cardboard doll talk? Well, credibly enough for an audience of one three year old.)






Toward evening, the rains finally subside. I follow Snowdrop (Ukrainian crown and all) outside. It's like setting a pent up little pony loose!






Tomorrow, Snowdrop. Tomorrow we'll explore the great outdoors again. Today? It's a day for reading up on muscovies. Just because.

Sunday

In the quiet of the day, we're working again.

We're not compelled to be doing something all the time (especially not Ed). It isn't that. I think it's the weather that pushes us so forcefully to be outside. Having spent many months hiding against the cold weather, it seems somehow wasteful now to not let your senses take in all that nature has to offer.

It was to be a cool and wet day, but the rains subsided in the late morning. And I have to say, not only does the rain help my flower beds develop to their fullest potential, it also creates a certain unique beauty now. For instance, I've always thought the lilac looks most sumptuous when the flower heads lean under the weight of the rain drops. Today, after the rains, you'll see more than one photo of the lilac!

(looking out from the porch)






Because really, it's absolutely at its most gorgeous moment exactly now.






Breakfast, however, is indoors. Not long ago, 60F (15C) felt so sweetly warm. Now it feels too chilly for a meal outside. We've become summer spoiled.






Since the rains have moved on, I go out to see what might require my gardening attention. Weeding. Digging out spreading raspberry canes. That's a never ending light job.

In the meantime, Ed has been studying a plant that Natalie's husband Jaime and I rhapsodized about when we visited their greenhouse. It's alyssum, and the smell of it is intoxicating! Like honey poured over a lilac! Ed suggests we sow it in between the tomato bushes (for weed control and to provide more organic matter in the soil). I'm enthusiastic! And while we're studying our tomatoes, we walk over to the old grape vines that we diligently pruned this year to imitate the pruning job I'd observed in Burgundy. The grapes are doing well!

We weed the bed and Ed sows more buckwheat.






All of this is guesswork for us of course and it strikes me that there ought to be on Craigslist a service called "rent a farmer," where a like-minded person who actually has experience growing things comes over to your farmette to review your plans and make suggestions. I can hear her or him now: buckwheat next to grapes? what a terrible idea! You'll get nothing but beetles and your buckwheat will cave at the sight of all those thistles!

But, we proceed in blissful ignorance, with knowledge gained only from my vague memories of Polish village life, supplemented by youtube clips, possibly made by people who are as clueless about farming as we are.

In the late afternoon, I throw down the shovel and hurry to fix dinner. The young family is back from their Chicago visit and they're coming for supper!

Snowdrop had her soccer game today (she is sporting her lion t-shirt because this is the name of her team)...







... and you'd think she'd want to slow down now and rest, but no! She wants to say hi to the cheepers -- an easy task, as the whole bunch of them are hanging out together by the barn.






(I point out the sweet smell of the lilac... now is the time to learn about the beauty of a spring fragrance!)






(In the meantime, Snowdrop's mommy is looking/feeling very pregnant!)






Dinnertime. Inside, unfortunately, but hey! I love my dining table and we spread out oh so comfortably around it, taking in the whiff of lilacs clipped from the bushes outside.






It's late now. The sun is setting, the young family has long gone home. I tidy a bit, but I'm interrupted in this by Ed, who has been working on some some small planting project outdoors.





Come outside, gorgeous! It's gorgeous now!

I smile at his choice of words. I put down the sudsy sponge and follow him out. We visit with the chickens, then walk over to the edge of the farmette land to survey the construction site. We can't make heads nor tails of it. Truckloads of clay soil have been removed where the farmers once farmed. The plan says this is to be a green belt, but the definition of it is vague. Right now, if you step to the edge of our land, you'll be looking down into a pit at least ten feet deep right before you. One step and you're in it. That can't be the final plan!

Still, we think of the good possibilities that might follow. Perhaps there'll be a lake or a pond sloping from our land. Perhaps the cranes will come and sing their warbly song, in sync with frogs and to the rhythm of dancing dragonflies. We don't know. But as with everything else these days, we are hugely optimistic. Spring does this to you: it opens your eyes to the beauty of an evening, it has you believe that a big hole in the ground may someday be a beautiful lake.

Saturday

It is a day of the expected and the unexpected.

First, we wake up to gray skies and a bit of wetness. Well good. Gardens need water and gardeners need a break. I am so happy that the Big Spring Yard Work neared its completion yesterday evening! There will be rain tomorrow. I need do nothing (for now) but sit back and take it all in.

But here's an unexpected: I did not anticipate that Ed and I would wake up to the Royal Wedding at some minutes after five this morning. I mean, really? But, it's such cotton candy for the eyes and Ed is trying to be gracious and attentive after letting me know that he has a planned absence this summer to help a friend with a boat. I understand his great desire to sail again, but it will be tough to manage the farmette without him. He is compensating by being at my side now right now. Including this morning when he nudges me and asks -- want to go downstairs and watch the wedding?
I don't. Well, I do. Fine.

And it's lovely and everyone is smiling. The world may be a sad place for some, alright, for many, but on this lovely English day, two people dress up and ride around in a carriage and smile and wave and the music brings tears to my eyes and the church bishop talks of love. Yeah, I can deal with all that!

A less pleasant surprise comes to us shortly after 7: we hear the loud rumble of the grading trucks working on the development around us. It's Saturday, but I guess they need to work when the days are dry and so the noise of the machines is with us again, even on this weekend day. I know this is wearing on Ed. I suggest we do an excursion.

After breakfast, of course.





We revive an adventure idea Ed came up with a few weeks back, only then the farmette work was so intense that we hadn't the time for it. The outing includes a hike in a forest and a bike ride along an old rail bed by the Wisconsin River. But in getting our bikes ready, Ed notices that the frame on his trusty bike is cracked.

It's almost reason to call the whole thing off, but he does have an ancient backup bike. (I rode that one over the Rockies, he tells me. Yes, Ed. That would have been many decades ago.)

By now it's mid afternoon and the trucks are still rumbling and I feel I have done no work at all today and that should feel mighty good after so many hard work days in the yard, but instead it feels decadent in a couch potato sort of way.

Outside, the petals from the crab are falling and the cheepers delight in eating this sweet little salad, fresh off the tree!






(Cupcake: Is this what a wedding looks like?)






More rumbling and groaning outside. We stack the bikes -- his old one, my fairly old one -- in back of the car and set out.

The first destination is a little more than an hour away -- it's the McGilvra Woods. Never heard of the place? Neither had we until this year. To quote from the DNR website, it is "one of the richest mesic forests in southwestern Wisconsin." And yes, I had to look up the word mesic: it has to do with the ability of a forest (or other ecosystems) to retain moisture in deep rich soil. Such forests, with maples and beech trees and a great abundance of flora, used to dominate the landscape in the Upper Midwest, but agricultural ambitions cleared away much of the woodland.

As we drive north toward Baraboo, the skies begin to clear a bit. What a pleasant surprise! It's going to be a very lovely late afternoon.

The McGilvra Woods have no hiking path. You can walk pretty much anywhere. What they do have is something special, but, too, something not so grand. The good? Oh, the spring flowers. We had read that the woodland mix of ferns and delicate flowers is just lovely, and it is! I see woodland phlox, trillium, may apple, bellwort -- and many tiny blooms that I cannot name.


(the phlox)




(Trillium)




(the forest)





But here's a harsh reality check: all that "preserved moisture" is heaven to insects. We encounter mosquitoes. In May!

We do not stay too long. We're not ready to face that beast just yet.

Just a couple of miles down the road is another DNR site -- again, one we'd not heard about until now. It's called Pewits Nest and it comes with warnings that the cliffs are not for climbing or jumping off of.

It's a beautiful spot with a heavenly scent of firs and the noise of the gurgling waters and small falls of the Skillet Creek.

(the cliffs of the gorge)




And another noise as well -- of local teens (or are they young adults?) doing exactly what they're not supposed to be doing -- jumping off the cliffs into watering holes below.

We stay clear of all that and follow a path further back from the ravine. You can't get me too close to the edge of anything steep anyway.





And now finally we are back in the car, searching for the new bike path that begins in Sauk City and makes its way up north. We eventually find it after taking several wrong bike trails first, but it's all very pretty and you could not ask for better weather for it. And the occasional views of the serene Wisconsin River are worth pausing for.

(a boy, splashing)






(we once kayaked from here...)





With what has to be perfect timing, we return just as the trucks and diggers and who knows what else have been cleaned off and left in their line up, waiting for their next work day, which I know will not be Sunday because, well, it's Sunday and, too, we're slated to have rain.

But tonight, the farmette is our haven and the sounds are only of birds and occasionally, of the cheepers, reminding us that worms are good, but corn and stale bread are the spice of life.





Goodnight, cheepers. Good night farmhouse. Good night all!

Friday

As I put down the shovel and for the hundredth time wash off the mud from my gloves, I think -- today is one of those times when everything comes together in the garden. I've planted most everything I will plant this year. I've weeded the main beds and did some last minute moves of flowers. And, to make things neat around the edges, Ed did a super mowing job and he fixed the grass whipper so that I could trim stuff that can't be mowed.

It's sort of like the day when I shave Ed's beard (an event that takes place ideally every month, but in reality -- less often): I look at him then and think, wow, this is when he looks spruced up and ready to take to the stage. So, too, does the garden today.

Of course, it wont last. You have to maintain, maintain, maintain... until... well, until you're done for the year.

But today, I am so at peace with what's out there right now. It's not perfect. It can never be perfect. But it's good! Really good!

As Ed and I drive to Natalie's Greenhouse (before breakfast, we're that dedicated!) to pick up the last of the annuals for the porch, we talk about future projects: to level the land in the back of the barn and plant... buckwheat? a prairie? trees? And less ambitiously -- to slope down the farmette land to meet whatever it is that's being put in place at our borders. They're vague images. Lovely ideas. Nothing more than that for now. This year, we're done with our investment. Now we just work our tails off to keep it vibrant and lush and beautiful all spring and summer long.






(the tulips' last hurrah...)






Breakfast is late and leisurely, I suggest we take it outside. I mean, all the way outside: to the picnic table (that is more like a utility table...  I've never seen anyone eat a meal here before). Close to the blooming crab.






And framed by the blooming lilac.






... while the cheepers scoot this way and that...






... in and around and through the flower beds.






May can be fickle: it can surprise you with a cool shoulder or with radiant sunshine. This year, it more than made up for April's late start. It's hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago I complained that it was too cold and that nothing was growing yet...

the middle of May

Fine. I'll admit it. I love spring with all my being. I love that it comes after a cold and monochromatic season. I love that it's fresh and let's you believe that you can correct mistakes and start anew. I love that once the first flower appears, there will always be something lovely blooming. I love that the fragrance of flowers is in the air. I love that the bugs haven't yet established their summer residence. I love that it's the season of daffodils, tulips, lilacs, apple blossoms and lilies-of-the valley and if that isn't enough, it's also the season of peonies and irises.

The day is sunny and warm once again. And once again, I am out digging, moving and planting just after sunrise.

The crab apple is so heavenly that you will be flooded with her images here. After this day, the petals will start to drop, but today, we are given the full glorious display of her blossoms.






Is it in competition with the lilac? Not really. True, the crab apple dominates the landscape because the tree is so vast and the delicate flower heads are so profuse. But the stately lilac -- oh, that's a winner too. And the fragrance! Oh, that lilac fragrance!






But, but -- it's the best day for the crab! Let's concentrate on the way this tree gently frames so many of the farmette's lovely treasures!






Better yet, let's admire the two mid-May beauties together. I found out today that the best place to get a photo of both is from the porch roof.






Breakfast is on the porch. Not on the porch roof!






And then we both set to our outdoor tasks. I finish planting nearly all of the new acquisitions. "Cupcake! Would you like to move?"






The fact is, both the big girls and now, too, the little girls love to keep us in their fields of vision. If we disappear into some corner of the farmette, sooner or later they'll track us down to see what it is we're up to.






Ed is done prepping the bed for the tomato plants and so I pause with my flower work and join him in the field. We had planted 96 seeds and all but three produced magnificent plants. In they go!

The cheepers help!






And now it's evening. Tomatoes are in, most of the new flowers are planted, the seeds are sown.  And now we enter stage two of spring farmette work: it's the aid and assist period, where my job is to feed, prune, water and watch over the plants that are in the ground. And exclaim in surprise and great delight when something new opens up its face for the first time. Today: the yellow iris!





As we end our work for the day, we take the time to walk toward the edge of the farmette, to asses the progress of the development work. We really don't know how it will look at the end of the week, month or year. Right now, there are areas of packed clay soil, some high, some low. The truck farmers' gardens are nearly all destroyed, though we find one with asparagus still growing in it. We harvest what's left, before the trucks plow it down tomorrow.


It's a brilliant evening. The bats swoop, the lilacs release another burst of fragrance, the swallows circle and retreat, circle and retreat. Their nest is, as always, in the garage. The little ones will be born soon.

To the scent of lilacs, I add a whiff of lily-of-the-valley. Blooming just now.





In May, every day brings new flowers. But it is of course the entirety, the whole big mess of beauty that sets our senses spinning.