group hug

It's a little awkward when humans do it -- gathered in a circle, in an embrace of protruding elbows and squashed faces -- and still, there's tenderness in the effort. Group hug! A show of team spirit, of support, of love.

Cats, on the other hand, have no problem with this at all. As I feed them in the sheep shed, I watch as they first eat, then, taking a pause, they gather on the deliberately lumpy blue quilt (they like the hills and bumps!), with Dance going down first, then the others, all eight of them (sigh...) piled high for one big mass of cat fur, licking each other's faces, purring in deep contentment.

Cats are not pack animals. They can function alone (Stop Sign surely does). On the other hand, if socialized and rewarded for their playfulness, they retain that kitten love of closeness. In this particular group, they are indeed like a pack of kitties. A tad fearful of strangers, happy to find warmth among their brothers and sisters.


A morning of catch up work, some of it outside...

(planting Hellebores, aka Lenten Rose; Pepper always follows my digging practices very closely)






(we're getting a freeze tomorrow... so long, nasturtium!)






(Autumnal prettiness...)






All this after breakfast, of course.







As I glance at the paper (is it still "the paper" when you read it online?) and learn that Olga Tokarczuk, a Polish writer, won the Nobel Prize in literature. She is so very different from the last Polish Nobel laureate in literature! In 1996, Szymborska won for her very beautiful and very readable poetry. Tokarczuk, who is both unconventional and outspoken (and therefore not necessarily popular with some in the Polish government), writes in ways that force you to think as you read. The Polish Minister of Culture tweeted recently that he hasn't been able to finish any of her books. (A statement more about him than about her writings.) She may not be an easy read for those pressed for time and so may I suggest at least a look at an essay about her? It appeared in the New Yorker this last July. (You can read it here.)



In the afternoon, I pick up the kids.

(If he is interested in a book, she then is interested as well. Even if it's a flap book for toddlers.)






Yesterday, she was more independent, he was more clingy. Today, she is more tired, he is happily occupied with any number of silly things.


(She settles into drawing, he sorts snack foods on the floor)
















There is a bit of a challenge: Snowdrop has dance class later in the day and she is not one who likes to stay within the confines of a schedule. When she is engaged in play, she can be extremely pokey, begging for just one more minute, delaying, delaying, until the clock has moved dangerously close to the hour of class. It's not that she doesn't want to go to wherever it is we're heading. She just wants to go there on her own time.

(Sparrow watches, trying to understand why there's suddenly a rush to get going...)






There was a time when I could whip up two little kids into some state of readiness and  cart them off to one lesson, then the next -- no problem. But today, I am very much aware of the fact that I am a generation removed from the moms and dads who are chasing toddlers in the waiting area as their daughters (the class is 100% girls) dance. Since we do the transfer of kids and their stuff at the ballet studio, I must cart all their school junk along with a squirming boy to the lesson, at the same time that I need to hold on to Snowdrop's hand in this very busy with traffic part of town. I'm wondering how this will work when we add snow shoes and snow pants and caps and scarves and mittens to the mix! Today, we merely have to contend with a little bit of a downpour. "Cover my school painting, Gaga!"

(Storybook Ballet)






In the evening, Ed and I talk a little about the cats. The dynamic has changed a bit: Little Gray was the one you could always count on to be at your side. Now, it depends. Every one of the lot has at least a little fear left. We can work to lessen the grip of that fear, but with 8 of them, it's slow going. But there's progress! These guys may never be lap cats, but they definitely are inching toward being our good pals. Little Gray set a good example.

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.