new beginnings and a funeral

Gorgeous day! For sure the last of the beauties! Blue skies, warm breezes -- simply stunning!

I have an important assignment this morning: I'm to go to Snowdrop and Sparrow's school at drop off time. It's the little boy's first day of school!

But first -- cat care. Oh, hi Stop Sign. The holy terror is at the front door. I feed her in her own private station on the porch (accessed through a cat door). It's best that way. She is pissy hissy around the other cats. The maman terrible!

Beautiful day!

A teen age cat greets me on the walk to the sheep shed. Another one comes out and joins us on the walk. And Dance, too. They rub against me and I have to laugh: I'm going to trip over you, guys!

I had expected them all to be inside, but I suppose on a day like this, you want to be out and about. In the shed now, I see that seven cats are clustered around the bowls of food. Little Gray and Dark Pink (the second teenage girl) are missing. No big deal. Cats come and go. This is their way.

Yo-Yo, the other babe, eats like a little piglet. Such a playful little girl! Forever small. And still a little skittish.

(climbing...)





I go out to look for the two missing guys. I don't want to have them skip their feeding. Not in barn. Oh, there you are Dark Pink! By the garage. But why? Oh well, as Ed says -- cats are hard to figure out. I lead her back to the shed, put out some more food and then I quickly get in the car to go for the school photo.

And that's when I see her: Little Gray. On the road, by our driveway. Dead.

She'd been run over by a car.

The irony! For the first time this week I felt that we had ensured their safety. Against weather, predators, illness, the horrors of life on the run.

But not against cars.

I will not dwell on how hard I took this. My sadness matters little. What matters is that she had a life that ended too quickly, abruptly, meanly.

I call out to Ed, who brings out a box. We put her gently inside. She is stiff. Must have happened at night. They all must have gone out on an adventure alright. Across the road that I thought they did not cross anymore (but oh, that forest of firs and pines! All those mice!).




To school now. To a beautiful moment in a little boy's life: the beginning of the greatest adventure of them all -- learning!












Such excitement! His sister is bouncing with pride and pleasure! The young family escorts the little boy in. Best of luck, little Sparrow!






We disperse then. I drive to Finca Cafe, where Ed and I meet for a morning together, away from the farmette, away from the obvious, but not away from thoughts and words and tears for Little Gray -- the most perfect and perfectly friendly little cat on the planet. More like a puppy, really. My best kitty pal.

Ed reminds me -- she (he?) had such a happy life! She had the best mommy, so many loving siblings, humans who cuddled her! So much joy!






He's right, of course. In the scheme of things, our run through life is brief. What matters is that we were here, we were kind, and if luck's with us -- life was kind to us. Little Gray was here, she was kind, and for one brief moment of one beautiful season, life was kind to her.






(Yo-Yo watches our sad burial. Sinatra croons Moonlight Serenade from my phone in my pant pocket. It feels right: Little Gray lost his life by the light of the moon.)






(Repotting some of the annuals: tough decisions. Which should we choose to bring inside? Which have the best chance of surviving indoors?)








In the afternoon I go to pick up Sparrow and Snowdrop.

First, the boy.

By all reports, his day was awesome! (He demonstrates for me one of his favorite activities: washing a pumpkin. It necessitated a change of clothing.)






Then the girl. Bouncing with pride: my brother started school today! He's sixteen months old! He can go to school!

At first she wants to go adventuring with him in the neighborhood. But she is just on the heels of being quite sick. She reconsiders. I'm glad. Farmhouse it is!






Snack time!






Pretend play. She chooses "school." Of course.






He looks at the pillows on the floor and topples onto one with a giggle. She follows suit. They do this for about ten minutes. Topple, giggle. Topple, giggle.






True, there are adjustments for all of us. A long read of a chapter book gets interrupted. The issue of when to keep the gate closed comes up. And my arms get a workout: Sparrow is a heavy little guy.

And, too, I have this weight on my shoulder that I can't shake quite yet.

But I think we all would agree that it is a sweet and gentle afternoon.






Evening. Time with the remaining 8. Then a quiet retreat to the farmhouse. Ed bikes today. I prepare supper. Of fish and corn. Little Gray would have liked the salmon bits.

settling into routines, finally

It's still an off day, in that Snowdrop is not yet back in school (out of an abundance of precaution for other kids, since up until last night, she was quite contagious), but we see light at the end of this rather peculiar month of temporary schedules, aberrations and now horrible infections, to say nothing of cat worries and adjustments and lessons in patience and perseverance.






But here's the thing: everything looks grand in a day of blue skies and beautiful autumnal colors!

(Our "barn" cat contemplating the ladder)






I set out in the morning to feed the cats. It's a nice stroll to the barn and sheep shed and I am hearing the lovely birdsong that is so typical in this season, as robins and who knows what else hit the crab apple trees and devour the red little fruits.






One benefit of pushing the cats toward the area of the barn is that they've stopped using the crabs for their morning exercise. We've not noticed them to be birders (chipmunks and mice -- yes; and as you know, once there was this rabbit, but they seem not to care about the birds, possibly because they do get most of their food from us and are, therefore, less persistent in their hunt), but still, I'm sure the birds don't like to have cats in their favorite restaurant!

As I approach the sheep shed, I see one cat poking out of the cat door. Then another. Well now, they seem to have spent the night inside! That's no surprise. Yesterday, we closed the door on them (and put in the cat flap) and so Ed was willing to turn on the floor heat (he had installed radiant heat in the shed, so the cement floor is wonderfully toasty all winter long). I am delighted to see that comings and goings are not a challenge for the cats. One lesson was enough. (Just to make sure, I push the two littlest guys in and out a couple of times. They are clever each time about finding their way back.) The last step is to close the cat flap so that they have to exert a push to get in. That'll be tomorrow's game.

One of you asked for a photo of our set up. Ed props open the window and installs an extruded polystyrene insert with a cat door in its corner. He leans a board on the outside for the cats to climb and stacks a few bins on the inside to help the little guys get up to the window. Like this:

(inside)





(outside)




I play with the little guys, I give them their food and (deworming) meds and then wave good bye.


At the farmhouse, breakfast.






And later in the morning, I head out to pick up Snowdrop (and visit a little with Sparrow).

Hey, Sparrow! You excited?






Tomorrow is a big day: Sparrow will be hitting the crucial sixteen month mark and so he can now start school. Going forward, on most days, I will be picking up both kids and bringing them to the farmhouse for the afternoon.

Today though, it's just Snowdrop and me...






Doing the usual...






Evening... The trucks stop rumbling (they're still moving dirt around in the construction site that borders us on three sides!). The cheepers make their way to the barn, the cats gather in the sheep shed. Animals and children, all in place for the night, resting, gearing up for the great adventure of another day.

little guys

In the best of best worlds, we all look out for each other, lending a hand when needed. In reality, though, our days are full, we're stressed to the max and extending ourselves even more is tougher than tough. But I think most of us would pause to help a little one. Young and vulnerable,  not yet able to fend for herself. They tear at your heart.

And so when I go to feed the kitties, I naturally reach for Little Gray and Yo Yo, making sure they aren't nudged away from the bowls as the big cats dig in. All eating is in the sheep shed now!


The morning is cool but gorgeous. I take an hour to tidy a bit of the yard and to snip seed pods from spent flowers. Bee's Balm, Black Eyed Susans, False Indigo. Rudbeckia cone flowers, Echinacea cone flowers, Milkweed. All into a bucket for winter sowing. It's part of a plan we have t transform the remaining patches of green grass to meadow land.

(This is why I love Phlox: its repeat blooms are tremendous!)






Breakfast.






Oh, those little people in our lives! I certainly have one that is in need of special care. Snowdrop can't go to school today and so I break up her hours at home by bringing her to the farmhouse.

She has just enough energy to get up and show me how the lights on the stairs are really just smiley faces... (You know how it is when you're sick: small things stand out.)






Mostly though, there is lots of couch time.






Still, the young ones in our midst have a lot of strong healing mechanisms propelling them toward good health. One little kitten had the sniffles last week. This week he seems better.






Snowdrop, too, gets a bit of her oomph back in the course of the day. I had to carry her into the farmhouse -- she was that limp. This is the sick one when it's time for me to take her home:






In the late afternoon, Ed takes on the task of replacing my car's front brake pads. I am so very grateful: I cannot afford to let go of my car for even a day. I cook up a pot of good soup for supper. Sometimes we play out the most traditional gendered roles. (Other times we do not.)

The cats watch him work on my car. They've come up to the garage again to let us know they're hungry. It's the perfect moment to start training them on the tilted board that leads up to the window (and thus the cat door) of the sheep shed.

I have no problem in getting Dance to come into the shed this way. Once she does it, the others follow. Well, not the babies. I work with them for a longer while, pushing them through, inside, then out. In you go! Come on: jump here, then here! This is the way out again!

Yes, we do look out for the little guys. It's that protective instinct kicking in. However little time or patience we have for the rest of our fellow travelers, we do look out for the little guys.

Sunday

A grandma doesn't like it when her grandkids are sick and this grandma is no different. All three of mine have caught one thing or another these last few days, each one worse than the one before, and so I fretted yesterday evening, fretted overnight, wondering if the phone would ring asking for my help, and I fretted this morning as I waited for bits and pieces of news on how everyone was doing.

So that's the backdrop. (And as of now, two are well, while the third is expected to be well soon.)

Otherwise, it looked to be a fine day: the rains have moved on, cool and crisp autumnal air has moved in. I go out to entice the kitties into the sheep shed for their breakfast and notice that several of them had indeed spent the night inside. So we're making progress. The big challenge is to teach them to use the cat door, which is elevated and reachable only if you climb a slanted board. Once that's done, I will feel like we've done our best by them. Like sending your kids to college: we'll back you up, but we've given you all these resources to now cope, so make good use of them!

(After eating in the sheep shed, they're hanging out in the barn which, because of the missing parts of the eastern wall, is bathed in sunshine,)






Breakfast. Late. At the kitchen table.






(Autumnal colors in the gardens...)






In the afternoon, Ed coaxes me into going with him to the Brooklyn Wildlife Area to do some prairie restoration. We've worked there numerous times and today, the champion naturalist there has asked for help with seed collection. And yet I hesitate. When I fret about kids or grandkids, I back away from doing fun outdoor stuff. Maybe it's because in the past, you always wanted to stay near the phone to get doctors' calls or updates and so you still hate the idea of heading out at these times. Nonetheless, in the end, I push myself off the couch and we drive to these DNR lands and plunge into snipping off beneficial prairie seeds for winter sowing.






(Bordering the prairie: fields of soy...)






In the evening, no one comes over for a family dinner. I postpone it. My daughter is just flying in from several days away for work. My granddaughter has been too sick to eat much of anything all weekend long and I'm sure the whole family has quite a lot to reconfigure and fix for the week ahead.

Ed thinks I should have a break from cooking and so we go to our favorite local Mexican place for takeout tacos. Perfect for a Sunday where the farmhouse chef for once has little interest in rattling pans around come suppertime.





The evening is very quiet. We hang out with the kitties a little, Ed fixes a rattle in my car, we eat our tacos. And then I wait for good reports from the young families, hoping that everyone will have bounced back or at least nearly bounced back and that this period of woes and worries will quickly fade with the setting sun.

Saturday

Kids like to learn about their world. That's a given. Most of what you would say to a child has pieces of information sprinkled throughout. Don't jump down flights of stairs because you may tumble and break a bone. Have some veggies -- your tummy will love them and your body will grow. That sign says stop. That means you have to stop and make sure nothing's coming down the road. Oh, it's endless. You're coaching, explaining, even pontificating when you're feeling high and mighty.

Yet it strikes me that whereas a child does want to know how things work, Primrose, at 18 months, wants to know everything in the fullest detail possible. She wants to try out words for everything. She tests what's safe, what's permissible. She listens raptly to descriptions. She is insatiable! Old enough now to know that big people hold key pieces of information, she tugs at you to open up and share. Playing with her these days is like engaging in one long and never ending conversation.

Here, I'm munching on a mini breakfast with her and explaining the intricacies of a pb and j sandwich. If I went so far as to explain how many tablespoons of sugar are needed for all the berries in strawberry jam, she'd thank me for the information (in her own way. Or with the word itself: Primrose says a very sweet "thank you" when reminded to show gratitude).






(Peanut butter and jelly are one sticky combo. Hand wash needed afterwards.)






("Mom, can I have a little of what you're having?")






I always end my visit with a brunch outing. It's so very perfect. It's so Chicago and so special, because at home, alone with Ed, brunch seems like something we should not do. It's a frivolity for our rather frugal if not austere habits. But here, in the windy city, I want everything with the young family to be exceptionally good. I cannot see them as often as I would like and so when I do see them, I want everything to shine!

(Dressed and ready to go)






(The happy threesome!)






Today we go to the Lonesome Rose, a wonderful Mexican place just north of where they live.

("Can I take off my sweater?")






I could sit at the table and watch them for a long long time, listening to the sound of voices I know and love so much. But, a good visits always should end before you really want it to. I play "I'm an elephant" "I'm a butterfly" and a new one today that makes Primrose giggle as she puckers her mouth -- "I'm a fish" -- one last time, then hand her over to her wonderful parents and make my way up to the L platform to begin my trip home.






It's raining in Madison (because what we really need is rain, right?!). I hear that Snowdrop is quite sick. The cats are very slowly learning about the sheep shed. Ed has chopped down a tree.

I am home once more.

oats and beans

This morning, I read an opinion piece in the NYT about the difficult task of deciding where the family pet should live following a divorce. It isn't meant to be a lighthearted piece, but since the other news of the day is always so grim, I thought it offered at least mild comic relief. With this type of story, I always enjoy reading the selected readers comments. More chuckles followed.

I'm no stranger to divorce nor to pets. I well remember that when our family broke up -- kids were off on their own, on the east coast, their dad moved to Chicago, I stayed in Madison, in an apartment that did not allow pets -- no one was in a good position to take on the care of the family dog. I placed him in foster care, with a woman who loved him to pieces. It was to be temporary, until I could get my housing situation in order, but after a year, it became clear that Ollie was better off with his adoring, stay-at-home foster mom than with the old working full-time and frequently traveling primary caregiver (me). Ollie lived out his last years being coddled and loved. That fateful Autumn of 14 years ago was full of compromises and acknowledgements of our shortcomings. I think we all navigated the mine strewn field of separation pretty well, ending up in a good place in the end. I'm sure Ollie would agree.

Afterwards, I vowed never to have pets again. (I also told myself I would not live with anyone again -- you see how that turned out!)

When Ed wheedled me into letting his cat to hang out with us in the farmhouse (it took many years), I knew that I acquiesced only because we were dealing with a geriatric pet that was very attached to Ed. That I really was not a cat person and would never be a cat person. That once this cat passed away, I would never again let a cat crawl over me on the couch or worse, at night, in our too small bed.

And now here we are, with 9.5 cats living at the farmette (though outdoors!), being fed by me in the mornings, by Ed in the evenings, growing at times friendlier, at other times still skittish, with winter fast approaching and memories still lingering of last January and February when the thermometer dipped to horrible temperatures of -20F (about -30C) for days on end.

Ed and I have reviewed all options: leave them as they are and hope for the best. (No!) Set up little igloos in the garage, with or without heating pads. (But what about predators? We had coyotes visiting frequently last winter! Indeed, we lost one of the cats living here!) Bring them into the heated sheep shed.

After many discussions and in imagining all possible consequences, we decided to launch a training program, whereby we would slowly introduce the herd to the sheep shed.

We were to start on October 1. We got off to a terrible beginning! Stop Sign (the Brunhilda of all cats!) showed up that first day of the month and as always, she made the rest of the cats feel jumpy and suspicious. Then there was the morning of the butchered rabbit. No one was hungry. I began to think that we were slated to set up cat igloos on a cold garage floor.



I prop the door open to go outside.  The air is especially nippy. As I step out, I feel that first slap of a prewinter wind. And now I am spinning again: do I really want to subject these cats to a season of frostbite? I look toward the garage: a handful is there, snuggled on a ratty old quilt.


It's now or never.

And so I coax. I rattle the dry food container. And I slowly inch my way toward the sheep shed.

The cats -- all but one who is missing for God knows what reason and the two babies -- inch stealthily after me. I open the door to the sheep shed wide. They look at me, sniff a little, back away. I open a can of wet food. Nope, they hang back.

Oh, alright, if you're going to be that stubborn about it! I pick up Dance and place her unceremoniously inside the shed.

She does not run away. She hangs at my feet as she always does, begging for a rub and a tickle.

Before long, all six cats are inside, exploring, eating, exploring. I go up to the garage and pick up the two babies and bring them in as well.

Eight cats, rubbing against me, sniffing the corners of this fascinating and warm space, eating the food I put out for them.






After they have their fill, they all go out to stretch and do their stuff...





And as far as I know, they go on to spend the rest of the day playing and resting in the barn.

It's a first step and I don't know if it will necessarily lead us to have nine cats happily trudging in and out of the sheep shed in the winter months, but I do feel happy at the thought that they may continue to live this semi-feral semi-domesticated life, with us providing the occasional assist and snuggle as the need arises.

I review all this with Ed, over breakfast (because he is in charge today and tomorrow, as I'm on my way to Chicago).






And then I catch the bus to the big city to the south of us, to spend time with little Primrose, who is now 18 months old.

There is this song that keeps running through my head -- one that I used to play for my own wee ones when they were just leaving the toddler years behind. It's about oats and beans and farmers who plant and cultivate them. Maybe I'm too much of a sentimental grandma, but I keep thinking how much care we put into our kids, our loved ones, and still, we cannot really predict where they will end up. And how each time I visit Primrose (after not seeing her for a month or so), she has grown in fascinating new ways. All to be discovered, admired afresh!

Do you or I or anyone know how oats and beans and barley grow!

So, here's how this little bean has grown:


(I pick her up at her school: they were just about to set out on an outing to the playground!)






("Primrose, your cousin  and I got you this incredible cow from the cow show!")






Despite the seasonal chill, I take the little girl to an ice cream shop.






Timed release photo!






One more store. Then out again.






There is lots of playtime and lots of downtime and it is so wonderful to be with the girl as she moves from active play to a leisurely supper.


When Primrose finally falls asleep, her dad takes up the babysitting post and my daughter and I go to the newly refreshed Cancale Cafe. (It's like Brittany, only in Chicago...)
                                                                                                                             




There is so much to catch up on!


It's late now. I'm sure the moon has come and gone, the stars have twinkled on and receded. Cats have returned for the night, cheepers are long asleep.

I'm in the city of course, but the tug from all that nature is ever-present, as if demanding a show of loyalty.

Good night city skies, good night fields of corn and soy. Good night oats and beans everywhere.

moving things around (or: one more drippy, gray day)

Ed doesn't really keep to a schedule. If it weren't for Snowdrop's visits to the farmhouse (soon to be supplemented by Sparrow's visits here) and Sunday family dinners, he would not readily distinguish a weekday from a weekend day. (To add to the time obfuscation, he often does not distinguish night from day, choosing to work on projects late into the night, catching up on sleep in daylight hours.) Even when he worked what one might regard as "full time," there was no schedule. He was the master of his own time, getting things done when he felt the push to do so (rather than because of the dictates of a calendar or of someone towering above him).

Me, I like the progression of named days. I like distinguishing my Monday tasks from Friday duties. I get up at dawn and feel sleepy every day at the same latish hour. Retirement should have freed me from feeling bound to a schedule, but the grandkids roped me right back into it and honestly, that feels normal to me. I keep an eye on the clock to see how much time is left before I have to pick up a child. That's how my day unfolds.

Today, though, things are a little off. Oh, breakfast is normal. Still in the morning, still in the kitchen.





But afterwards, I feel compelled to do some tampering with what's normal. We're in a month where Ed ought to be pushed on some needed farmette jobs. We make a list for him. It's not short. And me -- well, I'm going to Chicago tomorrow and so grocery shopping has to be done earlier. That's easy. I shop today. But there is, too, the challenge of this October. I'm home, I'm not home. The kids come, the kids go. I need to prepare for all this, even as the days grow shorter and colder and winter is coming and there's much to be done that's very predictable, very seasonal, very ordinary.

In other words, there's a lot going on. And yet, the hours pass, and Ed dozes on the couch, and I play with Snowdrop. But here's another irregularity: for the first time since the girl began dance class, she does not want to go. She feels off. Normally, I would push back against a child's hesitancy, but something tells me that today she should stay home (farmhouse home!) and take it easy. I consult with her dad (mom's out of town) and with his agreement, she and I return to the slower pace of reading, building, reading some more.


(listening for her mommy's presence in a locket...)






 (farmette arrival)






(making friends with Little Gray...)












I'm thinking -- we are stuck in our core habits. Ed moves at his own pace, I move in very many baby steps and that's the way it is and imagining that we'll suddenly adhere to new and different patterns is... not very realistic.

So, a day that's slightly recalibrated, a little off schedule, a tiny bit out of alignment, but in the end, one that isn't out of character at all.

eating habits (or, wet and nasty, day 3)

Last night I cooked a hasty supper of cheeper eggs and mushrooms, veggies and a salad. As always, I threw a slice of smoked salmon on our plates. It's a standard meal that I fix at least once a week on Snowdrop days. I'm hungry after she leaves and I reach for what's there and waiting in the fridge.

Ed is not a red meat eater, but if you ask him about other food preferences, he'll shrug off the question. Indeed, he has been known to eat lots of things that you or I might consider as worthy of the compost pile. Very stale pizza. Cheese that has fungus on top of the fungus. Hugely dated dairy.

Recently, I've been thinking about our eating habits. We all seem to have strong food preferences. Oh, some of us claim otherwise. Not long ago, friends were visiting for a handful of days. When I asked the usual -- is there anything you don't eat? They hastily responded -- we eat everything! I believed them, until Ed offered up one of his mussels from a plateful of mussels and fries. Oh! Not that! I couldn't eat a mussel! It once made me violently ill. So, not everything.

I, too, used to say "I'll eat anything that's fresh and honest." Grow it, cook it, bake it -- I'll eat it. That was until I was served un rein in a Paris restaurant. That's a kidney in case you don't know your organs in French. The taste of piss was so strong that I could not finish it.

Ed showed his true colors last night as he rejected the slice of smoked salmon. It tastes like iodine! -- he proclaimed. But this particular brand was on sale!  -- I retorted, though once he gave the off taste a label, neither of us could finish it.

We just about never waste food here, at the farmette. I buy what we eat and we eat what I buy. In fact, Ed has been known to take a guest's plate of unfinished foods and finish it up himself (he routinely does that with Snowdrop's dinner, going after any kernel she may have missed on a corn cob, or a stray noodle that may have slipped off her fork). But last night, we put aside the slice of smoked salmon for the cats. It is unquestionably true that everyone has her or his threshold for what they will or will not eat.

The night was miserably wet. Torrential rain pounded our farmhouse. There is significant flooding in south central Wisconsin. But by morning, the weather had settled. When I got up to feed the cats, there was barely a trickle of a rain drop left. It's as if the clouds had wrung all their moisture out, exhausted by the effort.

Everything was so wet, that I decided to feed the cats in the garage. Dance wasn't around, but I've ceased obsessing about a missing cat every now and then. Dance is the glue that holds this bunch together. She'll be back.

I take out the usual cat food and I throw in the bit of smoked salmon. Typically, these guys are ravenous in the morning but today, they're hardly eating. Most of the salmon disappears, some of the cat food is gulped down by the little guys, but a lot of the food is left behind.

What's going on??

As I mull this over, I take out the large broom to sweep up around the garage. The cats are neat, but the chickens mess this space constantly, especially on rainy days when they use the garage for cover. And that's when I see it: bones, fur tufts, and some remains of a large animal head.

I look closely. No, not a cat head. A rabbit head. A large rabbit head. Attached to a large skeleton.

Uff! No wonder the cats are not hungry! I find the shovel and give the poor creature a decent burial.

I ask Ed -- could this be the work of a predator?
What, you think a predator delivered a rabbit to the garage for the cats to enjoy?
But how could our small cats go after a large rabbit??

It's a rhetorical question. Obviously they must have done just that.

The night is full of animal horrors. Of course, why should I regard this as somehow vile. Rabbit, or un lapin if you want, appears not infrequently on the French menu, especially in country restaurants...


Breakfast, of a vegetarian kind, inside.






In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. I'm glad I took her to the Dairy Expo yesterday. It's considerably cooler today and we haven't quite gotten used to the autumnal chill yet. (Not that she doesn't ask to go back one more time!) We quickly retreat to the farmhouse for an afternoon of indoor play. (No, she's not cold -- she tells me.)






Spirited, but inside.






It's Wednesday evening, but there's no bike ride for Ed tonight. It's gusty and wet. The cats are antsy, the cheepers are huddled in the coop. It's a good night for takeout Thai. And for staying inside.