happy families

Happy families are like happy gardens: they take generations of confidence and effort to grow. They don't just happen. A flower grows strong because it is made of the right material to thrive. It is much the same with young ones: they are born trusting, or not trusting. You can't assume that they will embrace your love. Sometimes you have to spoon feed it and even then, they may not have the ability to let trust take hold. They resist, because generations before them have resisted. This is what they know.

I'm talking about feral cats of course. I have no great wisdom to offer about people families! Happiness in kids is much discussed in literature and the consensus seems to be that it's a complicated business!

Back to gardens and cats: it's to be a hot one today! Strong storms passed through last night, but they did not clear the air. Quite the contrary -- they ushered in heat. Summer heat that feels like it will stay with us now for the next several months.

Does the combination of moisture and heat speed up the flowering of perennials? It does! Walk with me through the garden in the early morning, when the drops of rain still cling to the peony, the clematis...











... when the brightness of the sun hasn't yet undone the gentleness of the garden's colors...






But not for long. It's Wednesday and so Sparrow is with us!






Happy guy! There is no question -- no deep analysis needed. He is content.

We eat breakfast on the porch. Ed comments that the demise of the huge walnut by the house (it died this winter) has taken away some of the morning shade on the porch. As a result, if you are seated facing east, you're going to squint.






Afterwards, I take Sparrow on a little stroll through the garden. There isn't really a place for him to sit.

("I don't feel very stable here, gaga!")






Every blade of grass is still wet after the rains. Ah well, I carry him around, showing off the deepest pockets of color. Flower power!

 



As we are about to return to the farmhouse, I see a quick movement by the door.

It's Tulip, our Main Coon kitten.

Except, of course, she is no longer so small. (Was she ever small?)  We were sure she was gone, if not shot by the neighbor then on her own, navigating the wilderness, perhaps overwhelmed by all that can harm her.

Tulip is still desperately shy, though not as skittish as Dance or even Stop Sign. I have Sparrow, so I cannot really approach her now, but Ed and I put food in the bushes where she is hiding and eventually she comes to eat it and even lets me get within a few feet of her. I see that one of her eyes is fogged over. She looks basically scared. Dare I say, unhappy?






And this is what leads me to think that these cats, who have lived with fear all their lives, who have been born with it and have had it reinforced by their mama cats, cannot easily give it up, even if a cat whisperer were to come by and speak reassuringly to them all day long.

There was a time in the coldest months of the winter, when Stop Sign would lie on a blanket strategically placed in a sunny spot of the garage and her kids would snuggle next to her and I thought -- now that's a happy family! When Tulip was born and came to visit, I believed she'd always be around, joyously reassured by our calm demeanor and the never ending supply of cat food.

Foolish thoughts. We can do stuff to make these cats less likely to succumb to illness. We can offer a calm environment. There is little else we can give them and each day is a surprise as to who will be here and for how long.



When Sparrow wakes from his nap, he and I concentrate on indoor play.






School pick up time!

Dare I say it? It's hot outside! (A statement reiterated by Snowdrop, who once again wants to scurry inside, where the old farmhouse walls provide much needed cool relief.)






Snack? All cool things: cherries, watermelon and... ice cream!






We were to go swimming. Perfect weather for it. But the pool is closed. I take Snowdrop home where she is ever hopeful that I will stick around and learn a game that's a new family favorite (Outfoxed, a little like Clue, only it's everyone against the wiley fox!). I do.






In the evening, Ed is out on his Wednesday night ride. I tend to the animals, thinking all the time that the chickens are, well, chickens, and the cats are wild, and wouldn't it be pleasant to have goats who like to nuzzle you when you come over to feed them. (Our cats alternate between hissing at each other and meowing their dissatisfaction at us when they don't like the timing or content of their meals.)

As I step outside to take out the trash, I see that Tulip is here. She's become a hisser too. Facing me, she looks fine, but looking at her from the side, I see that she is matted and weather-beaten. And of course, her eye looks damaged. She has had a rough two or three months of life.





I asked Ed to make a final call on the goats. He can't do it. "You want them so much..." he'll say. "Not if you don't want them..." I'll say.

The night is calm and beautiful. We munch popcorn later, much later and we do not talk about goats anymore.

storms and sunshine

I look outside. We're expecting rain, that same rain that has been incessantly coming back to torment the Midwest.

But not immediately. I see Dance is waiting for me. She comes out in the morning and watches the farmhouse from the perch of the picnic table. Or, since Ed rolled that piece of felled tree over -- from the nicely smoothed surface of the stump.






The garden is unfurling its petals, but it is a slow process. Perhaps that's good -- you don't want everything to be there and gone too quickly! We've waited so long!






Oops, the rumble of thunder. In I go. Breakfast with my calm and happy guy.






We talk about goats.

The sun pops out after a few hours. In and out, all day long. I tell Ed we have a mountain of things to do, but when he asks for specifics, I can't think of a blessed thing except to find the sign we painted for the wedding, informing people where to park.

He finds the sign.

I weed the gardens. That's a constant, of course. The weeds grow slowly because of the abundance of wood chips, but after all these rains, they do come up.

(Here's a view that I like; and do notice our second lilac to the right -- it's a late bloomer, but it's pretty and fragrant!)






In the afternoon, I pick up a very happy little girl.
Want to stay out for a little bit?
No, I'm going straight inside! (I had mentioned a new book and a plateful of cherries...)










Only when it's time to go home does she linger, complaining that she hasn't had her outdoor time today!

She pauses to smell the alyssum (I have taught her well! Does any flower have a sweeter fragrance?)...






... and explains to me that she and Happy (the rooster) know how to talk to each other. (Snowdrop does a fine imitation of a crow. You can tell this kid's been around a rooster!)






As I drop off one child, I have a chance to say hello to the younger one.






But I don't stay long. I return home in time to see the last wisps of light play with the flowers in the Big Bed...





... and yes, we continue to toss around goat ideas. Slightly more concrete now, as there came to be available two little ones nearby...

Monday maintenance

It sounds so tedious, doesn't it? Work to maintain. Where's the excitement? It's not creative (usually), it's repetitious, it's as if you're standing still.

But in the garden, maintenance is a cherry on top of a spectacular cake. You're maintaining what you've created, finessing it, polishing, clipping, straightening. You're not forced to start anew, you like what's there! You just have to maintain it!

This is my morning today. TLC work in my garden. In the wee early morning...






(With a pause for breakfast...)






And into the early afternoon.






(Hey, Peach, who are you hiding from? Happy?)






It's quiet work. Ed joins me in some of it (more branch trimming), but mostly I work alone, moving fluidly from one field to the next, thinking no great thoughts, simply enjoying the sensual pleasure of being among plants.

At some point I stop. On my way to pick up Snowdrop, I detour to get a couple of boxes of tissues and some cans of chicken noodle soup. Ed is an old fashioned kinda guy in his treatment of sniffles.



It's impossible to predict in what state of drowsiness or perkiness the little girl will be when I come into her class. Today, she surprises me with a decidedness and determination: she wants to go to the coffee shop. There's a "please!" thrown in there somewhere, but mainly I sense urgency: now! Let's go!






Once inside, she makes sure that there are cookies still available (it's not a given) and immediately after, she searches for her favorite chair. Again, there are no guarantees, but today she scores a home run.






Of course, she then wants to go to the playground. It's right outside the cafe windows. Here's the funny part though: she wont play her favorite games if there are other children using the play structure. Today, a whole classful is bouncing about on this warm and lovely day. Snowdrop hangs back, waiting patiently until they're done and gone.





Several times, I propose that she join in, or at least do the swings in the moment when they're not in use, or that we give up and come back another time, but she shakes her head to it all: you have to be patient, Gaga -- she chastises me.

In the past, I'd wondered about her need to go solo on this playground. I mean, this is a city park. You can't expect to ever play alone. It's meant to be used by many.

But over the years, I've gotten to understand her more on this: the game she loves to play here is imaginative, vocal, and it doesn't blend well into the background. Her gut tells her that this wont play well with kids watching or listening. And so she'd rather wait.

And eventually her luck holds: the kids disperse and we have the place to ourselves and immediately she dives into our game of "ice cream shop."

The premise is very simple: I want a cone, she runs the shop. And that's all that's simple about it. From here, she and I improvise and each time it becomes a different game as a result.






Today we have an especially good run of it: I've introduced additional customers, she has upped her character load as well. We are on a roll!





Eventually, a handful of other children come over and Snowdrop stops her game and pauses to watch them unfold their own story. I can tell that this is a good time to leave.


Later, in the evening, Ed and I sit back and eat pop corn. We do not talk about goats. Does that mean the topic is closed? Of course not! With Ed, no topic is really ever closed. Except -- I'm not moving to New Zealand to see what it's like there. The door is totally closed on that idea. Otherwise, we take each day as it comes.

Sunday

You live for days like this! I mean, really, if you're not a fan of this weather, then you and I are not of the same fabric. In my view, in my world -- this is your perfect late spring day.

I'm up early. Schedule-wise, things are getting tricky. In a good way, mind you, but still, there is lots to be done.

Oh, but the rewards of viewing life in the hues of the early morning light! Even the porch looks over and beyond its normal fabulous (and yes, it was worth the quick trek to the market to pick up that bunch of flowers yesterday).






It rained last night, but I think the flowers were okay with that. Still, they need a push to open up their faces. I'm going to bet that this girl in the front bed will be my first blooming peony of the season! We'll check on her later in the day!






Whatever sniffles I had are now migrating to Ed. I told him to rest up in bed, but he hears me running the mini espresso machine downstairs and so here we are, both enjoying the perfectness of the morning.






(Dance: hey, what about me??)






(Cheepers: hey, what about us??)






I do some flower bed maintenance (always pausing to admire what's around me)...











... and then I make myself absolutely sick by working the tractor mower across areas that really do need a trim. Ed volunteered to do this for me and it is in fact his chore, but I'm feeling picky (I want it done with attention to detail!) and a little sorry for him (the sniffles), so I do it myself, regretting it for a good half hour afterwards. The bumps, twists and turns really make my stomach bump, twist and turn!

At about midday, my mom comes over.

It's rare for her to venture out here, to the farmette -- it's not a place that can easily accommodate her these days -- but a friend of hers is visiting from California and so she makes the effort and, well, here she is!






We linger for a while on the porch. True, the garden is not even in a partial bloom yet, but nonetheless, it's heavenly to look out and imagine what soon will be.

I drop the ladies off at their next destination and return to this oasis of calm and serenity. It's how you regain your strength: you sit facing the garden and listen to the farmette sounds - of birds, of the wind, of Happy's crow.

But what's this? Ed is on the roof again?
What are you doing?
Scarping paint.
Why?
It's peeling. Visibly.
But... are you going to paint it in the next day or so? I know we're to get storms again. Are we going to have a leopard spotted house for our big reception on Thursday?
I'll paint tonight... I think about his hovering sniffles. He's pushing his luck.
Do we even have enough paint?

He checks once he's done scraping. The answer is "maybe."


In the evening, the young family is here for dinner. They come after an afternoon at a local fair (this is Snowdrop's third fair this season -- she adores everything about fairs: the rides, the chance games, the foods). Look Gaga, this is what I won!
Did you whack the duck? (It's a joke -- a reference to a joke in one of her current favorites Bink and Gollie  books.)
No, but I grabbed a duck with a number of a prize! This is the prize! Not the ball -- that's from Target.






We make our way to the porch. Ed is on the roof above us. Snowdrop keeps shouting -- "Hi ahah!" Ed paints away. It really makes one smile...

Dinner. Yes, Ed's back on terra firma, though not quite within the frame of this shot.













The young family eventually leaves, Ed resumes painting.






And the peony? It opens up to the warmth of the day and blooms like crazy.

Saturday

It's the kind of day where at the end of it, you sit back, tired, but with a smile on your face: the house is scrubbed clean, the garden is on track to fulfill its promise of summer abundance. Order reigns! For a day at least. Ed can track in yard stuff into the house faster than you could possibly imagine. Don't ask me how many times a day I sweep the mud room!

I work on the usual and the not so usual. And I start early. My sniffles are receding. Act while the energy levels are there!

(Dance thinks I should feed her first: the poor girl must be lonely. Stop Sign still comes and goes. Her brother? Nope. Gone.)






Breakfast is in the kitchen. Cloudy days do this to us -- they push us to eat our meals in a cozy setting.






I waffle about going to the market with Snowdrop and her mom. Forecasters say there will be scattered storms. Is it worth it? I think not.

Still, I need stuff: a bouquet from the flower farmer, spinach from the growers of everything and anything, asparagus from our favorite asparagus guy. I decide to do a quick run by myself: touch on the three stalls and return home.

(Here's a view I rarely show these days: from the Capitol steps, toward State Street (which leads to the university). As you can see, things get pretty crowded on Saturdays!)






When I come back, I find Ed where I left him -- on the glass roof of the porch. A piece of stripping had gotten loose and he was screwing it back on. Once up there, he decided to clear out some butyl -- a compound that binds the panes of glass to the wood strips and which tends to ooze a little over the years.





Dance is absolutely flummoxed to see him up there! Well, little girl, you're about to see another human form fly up, because as long as he's working on that roof, I may as well join him. I take a mop and pail to wipe down the panes. Rain wont wash away pollen. Of course, no one would notice the light haze on a porch roof, but Ed and I do! We always appreciate it when we've taken the time to clear stuff off of it.

More house cleaning, more yard tidying. The peonies are still holding back, but the irises are like dominoes right now: one bloom after the next!





A day of progress. In the weeks ahead, I wont have to worry about compounded neglect: it's spiffy and neat, as of June 1st!