the end of a wet chapter

It's pouring rain outside. A steady, thick, noisy rain.

(As seen from the porch)






A Wisconsinite might get discouraged. Enough already! We're slushing in wetness! Everything is soaked. Roads remain closed. Stop!

But here's the incredible gift: looking at the weather going forward, it appears that sunshine will be with us for most of the mid September days. Everyone in our neck of the woods can at last breathe a sigh of relief.

But not today.

Breakfast, on the porch.






Ed has a meeting and so we're up and moving at very early hours. This is a good thing. It means that I have a long morning before me. It means that I can write. And I do. For the first time since my spring grandchildren were born, I'm back slugging away at my text.


In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. Who insists it is hoodie day.












Our play is brief...
... Because today, we resume Storybook Ballet classes.

She wants to wear her pinkest tutu.

Why not...






In class, the smile never leaves her face.






(Today's story: the Princess and the Pea)






Acting out a story: this is Snowdrop's love right now.






Her mom comes toward the end of class to pick her up. Sparrow is with her.

"Is that my sister?"






When Snowdrop comes out of the class and sees her brother, she rushes to him with total joy.






Outside, the rains come down and we all huddle under an umbrella.

But of course, all rains do eventually go away. You just have to hang in there and wait. 

first day of school

Since starting school in Warsaw, Poland in 1959, until I retired from teaching in 2014, there has always been for me a memorable first day of school. But the players have shifted! It used to be all about my school, my university days, my school supplies and class assignments. That changed when the kids were born and, too when I joined a university faculty. And when the grandkids were born -- it brought me around to childhood school days once again.

I love the mark of importance given to this day. Maybe we lost faith in institutions, but many of us still see hope in education and our enthusiastic focus on the beginning of a new school year reaffirms and recommits us to the schooling of our kids and grandkids.

For once, the weather cooperates. I step out to a lovely early morning.






It'll be a tad warm, but first days of school often are a tad warm.

(The fading yet still glorious Big Bed)






As before, I am invited to join on the ritual of ushering a young one off to school. I meet Snowdrop and her mom outside and we take our turn (because so many families are doing exactly the same thing!) at taking a photo of this excited and happy little girl.






And only then do I return to the farmhouse and prepare breakfast for Ed and myself.






In September, I no longer am duty bound to work in the garden. I think about its appearance a little, but it's not like I run a Giverny here: I do not need to please an audience of onlookers until November 1st. And so I dare to think about other things. Like asking a friend out to lunch. Today I had a leisurely midday meal with a former colleague. It was wonderful. The garden shrugged with indifference. Like the adolescent child who tells you -- go on and have fun, I don't need you right now.


In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. I think her day was a good one. Her teacher said as much. But her focus was on the now and she was in no mood to review the past.

Her "now" does include (by her request) new books and I have the total joy of reading one that was a favorite of mine when my daughters were growing up. It's called Miss Rumphius and it is the story of a little girl who traces the life of her adventurous great aunt who sets out to do three things: explore the world, live by the sea, and do something beautiful for the world. I loved the book every time I read it thirty years back and I loved it today. And Snowdrop was spellbound.






It didn't take long for her to launch her own story...






Ed is roped into it, of course ...






She has a knack for roping us all in -- and we're all the better for it.







Sure, there will be first dayers out there who will be disappointed. To them I say -- each day is a first day! If it's a tough beginning, you can really come back flying tomorrow. That's the thing about first days: you can always say that today was just a trial run.

Labor Day

Anyone living in Madison will remember these days as wet. Heavy storms, flooded city streets. And so it continues. We wake up to more rain. The recurring Groundhog Day of thunderstorms and pounding rainfalls.

Ed and I were awake and mulling the possibility of getting up just after six (well, I was mulling, he was tossing). We have mosquitoes popping up again and so we had scheduled a spraying of garlic and peppermint (it really does help), but the rains make this impossible. I get up to feed the animals...






I look at the wet, drippy everything...





... and go back to bed, waking up several hours later. I don't think I've done that in decades.

Breakfast is, therefore, late.  I'm putting up a photo that's mostly about Ed because he wants one for a profile he's submitting for a future sailing expedition. You'd take him as part of your crew, wouldn't you?






It's a catch-up day for me. Catch up with emails. With finding a replacement handbag online because the one I have has four holes, one in each bottom corner and I'm worried something may escape. Tidy this, straighten that.

And in the evening, the young family comes over for dinner. No, it's not Sunday, but it is a holiday and for us, a holiday means family eating together.

Snowdrop wants to know why we're not eating on the porch.


 


Sweet child! I don't have a good answer for her. After all, it's not exactly raining on the porch. It's just that you're that much closer to the damp landscape. Inside seems snug and friendly.

(Snowdrop and her dad are in a race for the roasted beets!)






She says to me -- you made so many beets! Why? I tell her that Ed likes to have them around. She runs over with slices for him.

And Sparrow? He just listens for the voice of his sister in the room.






Where did she go??






And now we are all at the table. Snowdrop doesn't have to be the center of all conversational flow, but when a space is made for her to enter into the discussion, she seizes it!






Her input is never dull!






There's a wisp of nostalgia as I take out a carton of Jeni's ice cream. I do always miss the youngest family on our Sunday meals. But, the memories are good and strong and the next meet up will take place later this month. For now, I leave you with a snapshot of a girl enchanted with her bowl of cherries and her dish of Jeni's Splendid ice cream.

farmhouse brunch

It has become a tradition, and one that none of us want to mess with: Sundays are family meal days at the farmhouse. It is a rare Sunday evening when the young family is not here for dinner and it is a rare Sunday morning, or morning/afternoon, when the visiting youngest family doesn't end their Madison stay with a big family brunch around the now big family table in the kitchen of the farmhouse. And I have to say -- I love cooking for all of them, all of us on this day.

The farmhouse brunch doesn't vary much. I always make a frittata. These days I make two of them, because we've grown. Into this egg dish, I'll sauté vegetables of the season. Today -- well it's obvious: I do corn and zucchini. Ed tells me he'd like some mushrooms in there as well. Sure! No problem! And I add basil. (I am not too old to learn new tricks: only yesterday did I discover that you're not supposed to refrigerate your basil leaves. Put the stems in a jar of water and keep them on your counter. I should have guessed as much, but I didn't.)

The table is set: simply, with added chairs from other rooms. Snowdrop always complains when I give her the "black chair" and for some reason I do it anyway, just to tease her.

Note, too, that there are fifteen eggs from our hens. Perfect for one large frittata and one small one.






The veggies are now ready for the egg pour. And a generous sprinkle of Italian cheeses. Frittatas love the Italian touch.






As I finish up this terrific eggsy dish, the families gather. Here's Ed, wondering why Primrose's feet are so wet. Because she likes to stick them in her mouth! Oh, that's such a good thing -- he says with a smile.







I think Primrose is a total ham. No wilting violet, she talks to you with a wide range of vocalizations and she adds emphasis to everything with her gaze, which sort of acts like an exclamation mark.






Everyone's here! I add prosciutto and cold smoked salmon to the table. And plates of fruits and berries. And sweet buns and rolls. Nothing home baked today. Some weekends allow for it, but this time, we make do with store bought stuff. Shots of espresso and  milky cappucinos are always there for the asking. Snowdrop settles for orange juice. Many of the grownups love sparkling water, so there'll be cans of that everywhere you look.

Here we all are, all nine of us at the table, though only seven are eating brunch foods.






(Primrose may well join in the next time she sits down at the table with us.)






The meal is not rushed. This is crucial. Someone may want seconds, another person may get up to attend to a child's pressing need. But lingering is really important. The point is to be in the presence of the others. Just to be physically with them. At the table, then in the living room.

I want a photo of all my grandkids with me. It's great fun to try to get this done where no one is slumping, squirming, fidgeting, or pouting. We did okay here!







I had hauled up some of Snowdrop's baby stuff and now we're trying them out on the younger kids. Both Primrose and Sparrow take a turn on the jumparoo. I remember when Snowdrop, at a somewhat older age (say six or seven months) would spend a very very long time jumping up a storm. Her brother here is not even three months, but he's giving it a good try. Because, you know, what the older sibling does must be just great, right?






I have to hand this to Sparrow: he is the proverbial second child as he awaits patiently for his turn, even as the older kids and grownups talk up a storm all around him. Here, he looks appreciatively at his uncle, who takes the time to chat him up and make him smile.






But I do have to turn again to Primrose. She's our visitor, our special farmhouse guest, if only because she is the one child we wont be seeing for several weeks now.






How will we all change by the time we next gather here for a Sunday brunch? Perhaps those of us at the older end of the continuum (Ed, myself ) -- perhaps we wont change much at all. Same old stories, same old us.

Ed, take a picture!
daughter: do you feel like a matriarch yet?
Ha ha ha! I'm just the frittata cook with a few little ones bouncing around me!






Here, at the farmhouse, the ingredients of this wonderful egg dish may shift and change. Everything else --  may it stay the same in all its glorious and wonderful essence always.

September 1st

My September begins with the calm of farmette life and with a flurry of family life. I could not ask for a better combination. Well, I suppose if you were handing out time, I'd take some more of that!

I wont be wordy today... Photos will have to suffice. Here we go -- a roll of images from a grand beginning to non-summer days:

Breakfast. Hi Ed.






Garden: a little bit of yellow here, a little bit of yellow there...






A resilient lily!






Stop Sign, the feral cat, is getting to be a finicky feral cat. He complains a lot if the cat food is not to his liking. I want to say -- it's this or mice or whatever else you can catch out there. Usually he caves and chooses the cat food.






Now here's the big deal event: the youngest family is coming up from Chicago to spend the weekend with us! Included in this is a visit with my mother. Here's your classic picture: four generations of women.






There is a lot of hanging out to the rest of the day. We all do this very very well. Here's Primrose, balanced on her dad's leg, reaching for her own toes to nibble on.






Snowdrop is thrilled to see us all here. She is engaging us in a complicated game of elevator...







Evening: we all walk over to a local gastro pub (Longtable Beer Cafe) for dinner.






Dinner. A blur of family faces....






Cousin love...






He does well with all three.






Snowdrop just loves these family days...






Walking back... Two sisters and a babe...






Crossing carefully...






Enjoying the gift of a beautiful evening.






The sky grows darker and still no one wants to call it quits. We play basketball with Snowdrop...






We read books. We help this child settle, that child go down.

It's like so many family moments played out in so many homes tonight. We are not unique, we are, all of us, so ordinary. And yet, each of these evenings is beyond special. It's as good as it gets.