kids

When Ed asked last night if I'd like to go to a chicken competition early in the morning, I balked. I have a day off from just about everything (grandkids are otherwise occupied, my mom's apartment is nearly ready, the garden -- well, you know, the bugs keep me away from it). Do I really want to fill my morning hours with more chickens?

I was being a little unfair and a lot cranky. My idea of a fine day would have been to look at available land in places where bugs are not a menace. (Madison is very uneven in its bug population. One place will record thousands upon thousands and another -- a handful.) We could dream of buying and building. Fantasize about summers out in the yard. About evening strolls and morning yoga in front of a flower bed. (I have a vivid imagination.) But Ed reminded me that a move would be a very big deal. A huge deal. Not something that he would even consider unless we first exhausted all possibilities.

We discuss this over breakfast.






Realizing that a miracle solution (a search for a new home) is not right now in the offing, I take the next best thing: the morning with chickens.

Let me clarify: it's not really about the chickens. The event is the Stoughton Fair. Stoughton is a small town about 13 miles to the south and the Stoughton Fair is an annual event that brings the usual fun stuff to a small town (the carnival rides, the junk food) and, too, it has that small town sweetness to it (pie eating contest, tractor pulls) and an important agricultural component: poultry, cow, swine, sheep -- all displayed by proud kids, typically through their involvement with any number of local 4H groups.

And this I do like: watching kids present their coddled and manicured farm animals.

Before we set out, I do spend a little time in the garden -- so beautiful, yet so inaccessible at the moment!...






(A dragonfly! Welcome to our gardens!)







And then we take off, in time for the Stoughton Fair early morning chicken competition.






Kids care for their animals, but the mentorship and assistance from family is obvious.






Many, perhaps most of the girls have their hair in braids. Don't you wonder why? Is it a cultivated farm look? Or merely a good pairing to the groomed look of the animal they care for?

(Mom does the girl's braiding, little brother looks on...)





Another mom looks over the chicken claw to make sure it sparkles.






The judges in the competition can be brutal. Oh, the disparaging things we heard from the judge who looked over the seemingly lovely chickens in each round!

Here's one winner! The hen is the same breed as our Peach -- a Buff Orpington, but my oh my, does this one look huge!






And another. Hey, that's our Pepper! (A Barred Rock hen...)






Of course, not every chicken can be a winner...






Never give up hope!







 And now we change venue. So many other kids to admire!






Without question, the young showmanship competition is a big deal here. The focus here is on how well you present your calf.

I can't help but think that the Snowdrop would like this girl -- pink hair, boots with pink trim -- a winner for sure, no?






In the end, pink does win. This girl, also in pink trim boots, gets high praise for her composure, her smile, her superb way of handling her calf.






The older kids are next and I really see the step up in the poise and sophistication in showmanship...






We move on. There won't be other competitions this morning, but you can still inspect the fairgrounds and all the fantastic animals, all cooling off, with the help of water...






... in shady spots...






... and always under fans brought in by the caring owners.

After looking at the two swine pairs below, can you really still enjoy bacon?


 








Unlike at the Scottish fairs I attended, there is only a smattering of sheep at the Stoughton Fair. Here's one just after a shampooing of her wooly legs.






Goats are far more common. This kid got in trouble checking out a bucket. Ed stepped in to rescue him.






You know the saying -- goats eat everything? They do! At two separate times, a kid would wiggle her head out of the pen to reach for my flowered dress.






Despite the now somewhat oppressive heat, we leave the fair refreshed and energized. There's something uniquely special about a kid learning to take special care of a "kid." Or cow, or pig, or duck, turkey or chicken. Too, it's good to step out of the farmette's current fog of wetland bugs. We take a longer route back -- along rural roads that are Ed knows all too well from his Wednesday night bike rides.





He points out a number of wildlife refuge areas and we stop at a couple, just to admire the prairie growth and the beneficial bugs they seem to attract.






We spot any number of monarchs.






It's reassuring. Surely they aren't suffering from a lack of milkweed or flower nectar.






Time to head home.

In a field not too far from the farmette we spot a pair of sandhills. I suppose there are upsides of living close to wetlands.






Home. The place of a thousand day lilies.






Of flowers that line every path, every bit of the courtyard, and the long stretch of the road...





Would we someday pack up and leave all this behind? I'm not sure. These flowers were my babes before there were grandbabes. We put a lot of work into making them happy campers here. For now, we talk about other steps we could take to make outdoor work possible again.

In the evening, I put out some extra food for our cheepers, sit back on the now quiet porch, and take in a deep breath of summer evening air.

the Fourth

On my very first visit to the U.S., I sailed in on a ship through the New York harbor. I was seven years old and I'd like to say that I was moved at the sight of the Statue of Liberty, but the fact is, I don't remember seeing it then, probably because my parents were frantically getting us (my sister was with me) ready to disembark.

Since that time, I have gained a greater appreciation for the woman with the torch and the tabula with the date of the birth of this nation.

For kids, the Fourth of July is quite likely about the red white and blue, as exhibited on bike wheels in parades and fireworks in the sky. And that's a good thing. The concepts of freedom and democracy are best left to later years. But though she is the oldest, Snowdrop is still too young to bike in a parade (though she is terrific on her trike!) and she hates the boom and the bang of fireworks. Nonetheless,  she has asked about this holiday and she now knows a bit of America's history, even though it's surely the case that a three year old's understanding of our past sanitizes things a bit.

As for the playful markers of this holiday -- the little girl does come to the farmhouse with her brother this morning, both dressed in some combination of red, white and blue. When I smile at the sweetness of her brother's checked shirt and her own red and white checked dress, she corrects me: actually, it's a little bit pink, gaga. Ah. There must have been some strategy in getting her into a red gingham dress!











But before the kids and mom show up for a late breakfast (dad is resting after a busy Sparrow night), I do make several attempts to venture out into the gardens.

It's tough going. The bugs are fierce. A local entomologist has stopped counting trapped mosquitoes at a local tracking station because the numbers are so excessive (into the five digits, just in one 24 hour period). Even when I put on my mosquito jacket and hat, I am attacked. At the same time, the gardens are quickly coming into their best growing season. I cannot ignore them! I offer just a few photos for you, to give at least some of the flowers the appropriate recognition they deserve.


(The big bed)





(My fantastic climbing beans)






(The lovely day lilies)






(A snippet of the front garden, into the sun)






(And Ed's great accomplishment -- a beautiful field of buckwheat. It's there for the bees. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes love it too.)






(The raspberries are ripe, but so difficult to pick in these buggy times! And still, I pick some. For brunch.)






And now the young family is here. Time to eat!

(The three at the table...)






(The missing two!)






And after, we play. Snowdrop's favorite continues to be an imaginative romp through family life.






There are twists and turns. She spells them out for her captive audience.






Sparrow loves the sound of Snowdrop's voice, but her tales are a bit complicated for him right now. He sticks to books that feature the less convoluted world of black and white images.






Okay, time to head home. Oh, look who's ready!






(The languishing duo...)








In the afternoon, Ed and I do spot work in the garden. Just a wee bit. A really wee bit. Insignificant. I wish I had enough indifference to the buzz of mosquitoes to do more.






(Ed picks peas from the fantastically successful pea plant -- it grew to be  taller than him!)






(One last look at a day lily border at the farthest corner of the Big Bed.)






And then we have this complicated maneuver,  where we're trying to get the hose to the replanted tomatoes, at the same time that it has to be dragged so that it does not disturb the milkweed for the monarchs, and the sun is hot, so very hot, and we're swatting bugs to the left, to the right, to the front, to the back.

You have to laugh. I mean, you really just have to laugh.

Tuesday

Every hour I get updates from Ed on the extensive research he is doing on the habits of mosquitoes and the strategies and consequences of eliminating them. As I am now moving toward a "mindful" spraying of some of the well traveled areas of the farmette (call it natural, though I find that term rather funny, under the circumstances), his research intensifies.

I like his thoroughness in this enterprise. We may well call this the summer of mosquitoes and wine and roses. (Or more accurately of mosquitoes and noise and a bubbly drink to refresh the soul at the end of the day.) He tells me -- they may come from the wetlands (to our south), or the flooded lowlands (to the east and north), but we've done a lot to welcome them here. Including my planting of buckwheat. They love the white buckwheat blossoms. Who knew.


My flowers are partly to blame, too, as mosquitoes like the nectar and shade they provide, though were we without the trees and the shrubs and the shade and all the lush greenery of the farmette, my flower beds would be a small potato in the life of the mosquito.

Of course, all that shade and lush greenery protect the cheepers from hawks and other predators. The flowers supply nectar for birds and pollinators. So eradicating just one noxious bug is tough. It has consequences.

And so Ed keeps reading: about the project of spraying blueberry bushes with "harmless" sprays in Israel and the effect it had on the blueberries once the dried spray mixed with the honey dew of the leaves. About the sugar bait research done on biting sand flies and its impact on mosquitos. About the wine, rotten fruit and brown sugar mixture with added toxins that is used in Palestinian territories, because the mosquitoes there are just so intense. Ed is impressed with how much detail the research articles provide: did you know that you can learn what equipment was used and where it came from?  -- he asks in wonderment.

Yes, now I know. That sprayer came from Birmingham in the UK. Another study using different machinery was initiated by the CDC, whose interest in mosquito control grew with the recognition of Zeka and West Nile carrying vectors. It's not exactly a delightful summer project -- the study of the mosquito -- but somehow it has filtered its way into our days, in much the same way that the sun has filtered into our porch and the flowerbeds.

And all the while I'm thinking -- oh, how beautiful this July sunshine and emergent garden are, both working synergistically to produce the greatest wonders of the summer!






Near the bean pole, the seeds of the poppies and alyssum have done well. It's a delicate and lovely corner of the garden. But you have to wander leisurely through the beds to spot it in this wealth of farmette plantings. And of course, meandering slowly with both awe and rapture through the garden is what I miss, what we both miss so much right now.






Breakfast. In the kitchen. Because of the noise. Broken record, eh?






In the front bed, the day lilies are now mixing with the others flowers.





It's all so stunning! The bed is very long and I could never capture it in one photo. Here's the eastern end of it.






These are brief forays. We're not living a meandering summer.

And still, we come back to the big question: who is harmed if we spray, even with the most natural of natural products? It's a question that everyone who cares about our natural world has to ask.

We've come a long way since I first looked into a limited spraying of farmette land for my girl's wedding. Then, only one company offered any kind of analysis of who is harmed and what can be done to avoid damage. These days, mosquito control programs are much more sophisticated. We know how to protect butterflies and bees.





But Ed doesn't have to remind me that there is a lot that still needs to be understood.

Still, for us, our beloved farmette is under attack and we know that we probably cant grow old running to the car to avoid these seasonal pests that have reached record numbers this year (there is a researcher who does the count) because of the intense rains (violent weather episodes appear to be the new normal). There are only three paths before us: a magical revelation that indeed Ed's traps can make a difference, some degree of spraying, or we move and start from scratch.

All three are on the table, the remarkable beauty of the place notwithstanding.





In the afternoon, I do three things:

I orchestrate the move of furniture into my mom's apartment (she'll be moving in herself in less than a week). I drink coffee at Ancora Coffee shop, and I watch Snowdrop dance.

The move offers no photos. It's a move, for goodness sake! We're moving stuff around, I'm anxiously studying the time as I'm paying the moving guys by the hour, and while all this is taking place, the building crew is in the apartment, replacing appliances and installing plumbing. In other words, chaos.

Ancora -- that's another story. I take several photos of my moment in this outdoor coffee shop just because it reminds me of another life -- a time when sitting in a cafe, sometimes with Ed, sometimes alone, was what I did and now I never ever do it. (I dug my own cafe grave when I purchased a Nespresso machine some eight years back. Now, it never seems worth the money to pay for coffee that is not a whole lot better than what I make at home. And, of course, the grandkids came and and the leisure moments flew away with the dandelion puffs of May.)






Finally, let's take a peek at Snowdrop's dance class.






(They're acting out some portion of Little Mermaid.)





I'll end with that smile of hers. The world may crumble, but if there is a child's smile at the end of the day, then it isn't a total crumble. You can find the foundation. You can rebuild.

Monday

More rain at night, more bugs in the morning. But the heat wave is receding and so if you pick your moments wisely -- for example in the early evening, when the sun is still with you but the air has cooled to utter perfection, and the trucks outside have stopped dumping dirt into the pits created by diggers digging sand and so all you hear is the song of birds and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald crooning nonstop by the fans that are trapping mosquitoes, and if you're sitting on the porch contemplating whether to open a Cremant de Loire and if yes, whether to pour a little Liqueur de Mure in it for a cold kir royale (or, in plain English -- a light fizzy white wine with a splash of blackberry liqueur) -- well then, the feeling is of the outdoors, the views are of flowers, the sounds are exquisite and the mood is just sublime.






In general, I can only say good things about this day. True, the morning walk to the barn was miserably buggy and so these few photos, taken for posterity, are a work of great sacrifice, since you cannot take photos and swat bugs at the same time, something must give. Ed tells me to venture out a little later: the bugs are at their worst in the early hours, but I remind him that the light in the garden is at its most splendid then. Oh the tradeoffs!





Venture out two hours later and the sunlight overwhelms the landscape. Still lovely, but not as subtle...

(the Big Bed...)






(the Front Bed...)





The noise of the digging and hauling starts very very early, so there's no point in contemplating whether breakfast on the porch is a good idea. It isn't. We eat in the kitchen.





And then, because the young family has plans for the early day hours, I find myself with a little extra time on my hands. I suggest tennis.

In many ways, this is really a dumb idea. By the time we set out (11:30), the sun is hot. I mean, not record setting hot, but summertime hot. Is it worth it?

Yes it is. It's our first game of the season! Only the coming of grandkids can explain this great delay in our venture out to the hidden and somewhat disheveled courtyard among a thicket of tall white pines.

We play for a long time. It's so quiet there! The bugs are minimal, the game is good. I even try for a time release photo, just to remember how grand it was for us to be out there playing again.'






Afternoon. I pick up Snowdrop.

It is a perfect day to give the pool another try. In thinking about it, I realized why our first pool outing this year was such a bust. Last year, Snowdrop's school day ended at 12:15. I would pick up a tired two year old. I'd revive her with a snack, we'd stroll through the neighborhood and then promptly at 1, we would head for the pool. It opened its doors then and as season pass holders, we'd beat the lines and enter an oasis of calm. Oh, within the half hour, the pool would fill with bus loads of summer kids, with families and grandparents, with anyone and everyone seeking a cool spot in a hot city. But by then, Snowdrop would be immersed and happy.

This year, the little girl ends her school day at 2:30. When we arrived at the pool for her first swimming adventure of the summer, it was packed. It was loud. It was hot. It was like Coney Island on the Fourth of July only in tighter quarters and with no hot dogs or ice cream cones. I assumed she'd be excited and so I took her straight to her last year's favorite deep water spots. Five minutes into it she asked to leave.


Today, I told her we needed to cool off. That we just need to wet our toes, sit down and maybe I would tell her a story about the pink cat with the green ears (she's been asking for it for a few days now). And still she protests: Can't we go to the playground?
No, dearest girl, the swings are too hot, the slides are too hot. Let's get our toes wet.

We find a quiet corner at the pool. This in itself is tough: all of humanity is at Madison's community swimming pool on these hot hot days. Young mom screaming at her kids, older woman doing repeat bellyflops into the water, babies squealing, gangs of kids testing their splashing prowess, but yes, we find a quiet corner.

And slowly, she relaxes and rediscovers the joy of being at a pool on a sunny summer day.










We crawl and splash and roll and jump and July begins to feel quite special after all.


Later, much much later, as I finish a text message (I never type with thumbs), Ed brings stuffies to the table so they can watch. I grin, he takes the photo.





Yeah, July is uniquely special. Bugs, pools, lilies and all.

July

Someone reminded me recently that humor is the best way to diffuse an enemy. I can see that. If someone is hell bent on bringing you down, perhaps a show of genuine indifference to that effort, partnered with a healthy dose of humor is really a sound strategy. I try to remember that when I feel irritation bubbling to the surface because someone said or did something, well, irritating.

But what if your enemy (of the moment) is the mosquito? She doesn't care if I'm furiously slapping at her or laughing at my plight. She just wants to reproduce and I am her ticket to the egg laying enterprise.

Rain came our way last night. I was heaving a sigh of relief: the heaviest storms passed us by. But in the morning, though the air had cooled a few degrees, the bugs assailed me when I stepped outside.

July has a devilish little underbelly: it can throw a tantrum with storms and if that doesn't scare you, it can shake out the mosquitoes.

Hahaha. (Are they diffused yet?)

I venture out a handful of times and it is indeed comical: I retreat waving the electric paddle. If I'm without it, I don't walk, I run for cover.

Still, garden work beckons. You pass a weed, you have to pull it, no? And, too, I must pause to admire the bloomers.






But not for long. Set camera, snap, run.

Breakfast is on the porch. It's beautifully quiet today and the heat isn't so oppressive.






We look out at the lily field before us. It's so rewarding to finally see the blooming faces of the day lilies.






But the bugs are thick and bothersome. (Tomato demands an explanation for the buzz... What can I say...)






In the front flower bed, the clumps of siberian irises are stunning.






There: I did an inspection. I pulled some weeds. That's it. I am so done with the outdoors for today. (Ed swears it will be better tomorrow.)

In the late afternoon, my older girl and her two kids come over, giving the dad a much needed rest.

Books, art...






... with a perpetually interested little Sparrow, waiting for his moment to join in the fun.






(Now can we play?)






(Sure!)






By dinner time, its cool enough to eat on the porch. One screen keeps us calm, happy, safe from the bandits of the summer months.






(Despite the lateness of the hour, Snowdrop decides the wading pool is a perfect post dinner dessert. Yes, she is really into doing things for herself. And honestly, who can tell if the swimsuit would look any better with the bow in the back!)






Sparrow dozes. The fireflies are about to come out.





So perfect, until you step outside and remember that there are platoons of armed bandits waiting for you.

Still, six months from now, I'll only remember the first two words of that sentences. And that's the way it should be. Perfect days and nights can be had even if all the pieces aren't quite in all the right places. We had so many beautiful moments on this first day of July. Were there bugs? Yes, I suppose so. How tedious! How (almost) irrelevant!