Thursday - 55th

 When you go out to feed animals in the wee hours of the morning, your thoughts meander. Barn, coop, sheep shed. Sheep...

A sheep, a sheep dog or a shepherd? Which of these are you? In the new world that was thrust upon us, for me 55 days ago, which am I?

If you catch yourself sheepishly longing to be told what to do, which path to follow, it seems to me that's not a bad thing. Sheep do not know where their best food source is, where there is shelter ahead of a storm. They need the shepherd, and the uncanny talent of the dog.

Or maybe you catch yourself in the role of the shepherd? Wanting to protect those you love, those you feel are under your care (even if they are not really under your care)?

I was thinking this morning that I am not a sheep dog. I don't move boldly forward, I do over-protect, and over-analyze and I'd probably be the kind of animal that would have all sheep huddled en mass, sheltered from all storms and dangerous weather patterns, even if the grass is greener on the other side of the ravine.

You tend to muse in this way when you've been sheltering in place, indeed, isolating in place for 55 days in a row.


The polar blast is coming our way. Tomorrow for sure. Maybe even tonight. It's terribly disappointing and sort of hard to believe, especially since right now, the weather is not so bad. Rather pretty in fact.
















... Though Ed does complain that breakfast on the porch is rather on the cool side. Perhaps. 55F (13C) seemed okay to me when I fed the animals, but for lingering over a morning bowl of cereal -- well, I see his point.






The kids come over shortly after. And we do stay outside for a while. Snowdrop wants to water some flowers.






(I teach Sparrow how to do this as well...)






(The two, on the picnic table, with flowers.)






(Helping Ed water the tomatoes...)






And they want to play in the sandbox.











And Snowdrop munches on some more asparagus...






And Sparrow rejects it, of course, because it's green, or because it looks suspicious -- which is his attitude toward most every veggie out there. (It appears here that he will eat it. Believe me, he wont.)






And then we play inside, feeling quite happy with the warmth of the house!


The afternoon is a mess of things. We bring in plants from the outside. I navigate upcoming medical appointments for my mom. The to-do list is endless -- a mess of stuff, of the kind you'd like to stick in the basement and forget about until next year or later.

But it is topped rather splendidly with a zoom call with my two friends (who have far better weather than I have, being in more southern climes).





They do a good job of feeling sorry for me. No one likes a polar vortex in May.


Evening? Warm soup. I mean, am I on target, given the weather, or what!

Thoughts tonight -- of the sheep dogs out there. The ones who have the smarts and the brave hearts to help the herd out when they need it most.

With love.

Wednesday - 54th

Once again, all eyes are on the weather. It's a beautiful day! Really lovely!






But we know what's around the corner: on Friday, a polar blast is coming our way. It seems to me that having this gorgeous day now is like dangling chocolate kisses in front of a child and then tossing them aside, to be replaced with broccoli, maybe even uncooked broccoli.

And of course, if there is to be a cold spell, much of my remaining planting should go on hold until this weather drama is behind us. I spend the night hours thinking instead about how to protect the annuals that must in some way now be covered if they are to survive the polar vortex.

Still, we do eat breakfast on the porch. The thing to note? Well, the sunshine, of course. Maybe the tulips? They're not from the garden! Oh, and Ed's hair. It's too long. He wants a haircut. I take care of that immediately after breakfast.






And then I log in solid paperwork. Without the paper. Phone calls: "if you leave your name, someone will get back to you..." More phone calls: "we are experiencing an unusually high number of calls..." Screen time.

Funny how all that can take ... hours.

(Outside: we're at the peak of the tulip run))






And in the afternoon, Snowdrop comes over. We have a lot to do! There's a big Lego project that we started last week, there are books to read. There'll be time for all that. First, there's the great big beautiful outdoors, with tulips and dandelions...











... and a trip to the asparagus patch for the first few stalks of the year. (She eats them, right then and there. Freshly picked asparagus is tender and sweet and wonderful. She does leave us *one* big stalk for supper...)





(while the kitties watch...)






And bubbles! Don't forget about bubbles!


\








Evening? It's frittata time again! And as always, I get to post my same old showoff image of that lightly baked wonder dish, loaded with cheeper eggs and today, also with brussles sprouts, mushrooms, garlic scapes, lots and lots of cheese and one asparagus stalk..





What grateful nod do I end with? Undoubtedly all those who keep on working out there so you and I can be sheltered in here. And I'll add a nod to a llama. Because according to this WashPost article (I apologize if the link will not give you the full story -- I'm not sure what the paper's shared link policy is), at least one llama is giving researchers treatment hope for CoVid. I'm remembering my summer visit to a nearbyfarm, where I almost bought a pair of goats. The goat owners also kept llamas. Lots and lots of llamas. Who knew then that a llama would be celebrated now, because of a pandemic!

Thank you, all you brave and hard working people. And thank you to Winter, the llama in Belgium.

With love.

Tuesday - 53rd

It does not surprise me that we adjust our observations and behaviors to fit our own preconceived ideas about the planet, our neighbors, food, child rearing, travel -- in other words, everything. It's hard to turn off a belief system just because some new information landed in your lap disputing what you hold dear.

Still, wouldn't it be nice if, at least on some topics, we worked hard to keep our crusty old minds nimble, so that we could actually acknowledge the possibility that we are sometimes (oftentimes) wrong? Wouldn't it be terrific if we allowed scientific findings to discredit stuff that somehow warped our way of thinking way back when and for who knows what reason?

In my view (correct me if I'm wrong! Even though I'm not wrong!), science is our friend. Research is our tool to a better life. Nothing is impossible, until it is proven to be impossible, but once we have such proof, let's use it! Why get stuck in a rut if you can move forward?

Well, because, I suppose, we grow fond of our ruts.

This is what was on my mind this afternoon, possibly because the day is cool, a little wet and I had a whole load of delivered groceries to scrub in the kitchen sink.

It is not easy to wash, for example, bags of romaine lettuce, given that there holes in those bags and sudsy water makes its way inside and suddenly you notice that the green leaves have bubbles all over them. [So you unpack the lettuce, throw away the bag after washing it of course, because you don't really want to have CoVid in your trash can, or at least I don't want to have it there, then rinse off the lettuce, wondering if you should maybe wash each leaf, then you scold yourself for being compulsive, but hey, perhaps "too compulsive" is better than not compulsive enough? This is when you let your mind drift and take on such topics as calcified thinking and the hope that rests in scientific inquiry.]

And it started off like such a normal day in these very abnormal times!

Up to feed the animals...






... breakfast in the kitchen. Always lots to discuss, to review on these mornings. We used to have quiet breakfasts. Not any more.






I then go to spend the morning with the grandkids. Snowdrop is tired. She blames it on the clock. Something about getting up too early or going to bed too late. Anyway, it's the clock's fault.






Sparrow has no issues with any time piece.






Eventually she revives and plunges into a story.






This is the time when I have to work hard to keep Sparrow out of her play space. There are several strategies for this -- distracting him with some of his favorite characters (Elsa from Frozen is at the top of his list), building with blocks, or better yet -- reading his books of choice. I can always tell if I did a good job in the reading department because the boy then will ask for a reread. And another. And another. [And here's one more new habit that Sparrow introduced to our time with books: when he sees a racoon in a story picture, he has to kiss it. Many times. You would be surprised at how many pictures of raccoons there are in children's literature!]

And then I come home and groceries get delivered and I lose myself in suds.






Evening. I give Ed a choice of supper foods. He picks chicken brats and spinach. That's just a tiny bit funny because we are not meat eaters. We have chicken, in any form, at most once a week. But I'm thinking that the press coverage is a little bit suggestive: all this talk of meat shortages has us reaching into the fridge for chicken sausages, a suddenly coveted item!

And after, we are back with our pop corn with grated parmesan and I stir up a kir (I know, the French would wince at this, since kir is an aperitif and not an after dinner drink) and I sit down to edit the post before sleep takes over.

My thanks tonight? Too many people make the list these days. There is, however, always room to include the scientists, whose work today will shape our thinking (I hope) about everything for years to come.

With love.

Monday - 52nd

I've said this before: it's reassuring to remind yourself how much has stayed the same. It is what it was before the pandemic. Your mind may be in a different place, your emotions may be reacting to a new frontier, but the fact is, most of us (not everyone, of course) have not become different people. We are who we were and we march to the beat of old and familiar habits.

For example, would you believe that even in these days of abject disruption and disquiet, I still cannot resist thinking and writing, here on Ocean, about the weather? I mean, who cares! The weather is the least of anyone's worries (unless you're a farmer).

Well, in fact, I care. The weather nearly always sets the day for us. It has an impact on where we eat, how we work, it influences our levels of energy (oh those couch potato cold spells!), it limits or enhances my play with the grandkids. I glance at weather pages much more often than I look at Facebook, to say nothing of Instagram or Twitter. I need to know how things will develop in the week before me. Weather is a big deal.


It's cooler today, a whole 15 degrees cooler than yesterday and my morning walk to feed the animals feels nippy. I need a thick sweater. The tulips appear all folded up once again.







We eat breakfast inside. The little cups and vases of cut and picked flowers are getting more numerous!






Snowdrop and Sparrow are at the farmhouse early (they are isolated, we are isolated, and so we are like one household for now).

(Running in...)






Snowdrop wants me to reread Tales from Decawoo Drive books. It's a quirky set of stories with quirky characters and the one that she likes best (Where are you Going Baby Lincoln?) has a haunting existential crisis tone to it, and even though I like it, I never understood why she, even a year ago, loved it to pieces.






I was not at all sure that Sparrow would sit through any of it. Sentences like "Detective Henrik Spigot was an extraordinary man, recognized by the department of police, the town of Winsome, and the whole of humanity as such" would have little meaning to a not quite two year old and the pictures of some of the characters troubled him greatly. A few pages into it, he left to play with Duplos, reminding me that what he would way prefer a reading of an Olivia story.






We rewarded him for his patience  by playing afterwards with a set of his favorite rubber puzzles for a very long time.












After lunch, Snowdrop wanted to join Ed outside, even though it is a little nippy. Like 50F (10C) and none of us have jackets handy.  And still, the kids love this hour-long romp in the courtyard...




















... and then in the sandbox. It's the first time I open it up for Sparrow this year (last year, when he was just barely one, he was quite unimpressed with it). I have very few sand toys there, but it doesn't matter.





Each child has their own way of playing in it, though both watch each other to get clues on what else can be done with this very fine golden sand.

Watching them play, I don't even mind (too much) that it is, well, on the cold side of things.






And the rest of the day? I promised that I would plant the seeds for the salad greens in our new veggie patch today and so Ed and I spent a productive hour laying down good soil (on top of the not so good clay) and putting in the seeds for a future outstanding salad! (One can hope.)






And in between, at some hour that seems entirely irrelevant, or similar, or indifferent, Ed baked his next batch of cookies.






Evening. Leftovers! I love many things about Sunday family dinners, and surely up there on that list is the fact of leftovers for Monday supper. The beginning of a week always seems daunting for some reason. You might as well give yourself a pause in the cooking department.

And here's a treat: I'm finishing my dinner just as Primrose is finishing her dinner in Chicago. Let's join forces!






I'm back to lighting a candle, sometimes during the day, sometimes come nightfall. I received two heavenly ones from my daughters this past birthday and somehow the act of putting a match to a wick is soothing and beautiful and significant, all at the same time.


Finally -- thank you, to all of you who keep on working so hard all these days, good weather, bad weather, no weather. Your work keeps us alive and well.

With love.

Sunday - 51st

We're at the end of a four day run of grand weather. And it's a fabulous finale: sunny, 70F (21C). Okay, I'm not greedy. It's May. Cool weather is part of our seasonal mix. Bring it on. And, too, the rain: we need it! What, not until Tuesday? Well okay, but make it a solid, soaking rain!

On the other hand, can you please spare us a night time frost? Every time I refresh the forecast page, the predicted low for next Friday drops a degree. We're now looking at several degrees below freezing. What a disappointment! Not only will I have to cover the annuals, but if it becomes a hard frost, our fruit trees, which are just beginning their bloom period, will suffer. So please, oh mighty weather gods, for the sake of the fruit trees, especially the apples and the pears (stone fruit trees do better with a cold spell), let's push it up a bit, okay?

Okay, let's get back to this day. This glorious, warm day.






If there is one thing that the pandemic has taught us, it is to live for the present. To put aside the anxiety that comes with speculation as to how tomorrow will look. You've heard it from many sources I'm sure: take one day at a time and find a way to make it good (or at least not awful! I realize that aiming for "good" is a heck of a lot easier if you are lucky enough to not be sick, and are able to pay this month's bills).

And if you're in south central Wisconsin, your "good" is surely going to include a few solid whiffs of this fabulous weather -- sunshine, Vitamin D and all.

Breakfast, on the porch.






It's a little late, because morning animal feeding is getting to be a challenge. I have to first distract the cheepers and the teenage cats with their own food, then run to the driveway where the little kitties usually hang, and coax them to dig into their grub, quickly, before we have the attack of the band of looters (both cheepers and the teen cats can't wait to dash to the car to see if there's kittie food they can appropriate for themselves).

All this would be easier if Calico hadn't decided lately to spend her nights up in a tree. For the second morning now she has had to be coaxed down, and by the time she takes the brave final leap, the looters are there in full force. So now comes Act II of the feeding drama: I get Ed to play with the teens and I throw bread for the cheepers and I try again to sneak some food under the cars for the kitties. They usually manage to get a few good mouthfuls before the bandits realize they've been had. Happy, the rooster, does a fantastic job of sprinting to the car and squeezing his huge feathery body underneath to gobble down anything that's left in the bowl.

Some people just let the chickens share in the outdoor cat food, but I find the cannibalistic elements (cat food has a lot of poultry parts to it) to be disturbing, so I snatch the dish away as quickly as possible.


After breakfast, Ed and I work. Hard. Some more seeds arrived in the mail: lettuce, arugula, beets, carrots, bok choy. The leafy stuff should go in now, but we haven't prepped the bed for it yet! And we don't immediately begin our work with that project. Instead, we take a look at the old tomato bed in the young orchard, we weed the blueberry bushes there (Java helps! oh, and note the lovely plum!)...


 



... and run a hose over the flower seeds I sowed yesterday in the young orchard meadow.

Then comes the hard stuff -- pulling our golden rod roots and thistle plants in the new veggie patch in the making (back of the barn). This is where the leafy greens will be planted. Tomorrow, for sure!

I've inherited another chore -- a daily one it seems, and not one that I like. We seem to have a flock of hawks keeping an eye on the farmette. Four of them. They come in the early afternoon and they swoop down low to see where everyone is. It's true that Happy has been doing his job well. He hides the girls, often under the car, sometimes in the bushes and he stands guard. Nonetheless, the cheepers aren't always together and I worry that one day the hawks will find the wayward girl (sometimes returning from the roost, other times searching out some grub while her sisters rest) and swoop down and pick her up. So I do what I'm told is the proper protocol: I go out and make myself look big (I do this by waving a broom in the air) and I shout at them. Ed says it's pointless or unnecessary or both. Still, I persevere and eventually the hawks fly away and peace is restored.







(A double petaled tulip is so remarkable that it has many (for example Snowdrop) wondering -- is this really a tulip??)







In the evening, the young family is here for supper. (They're isolating for now, just as we are, so we can share households.) Of course it's all outside. It is the perfect day for it.





















(I step in to make my first Aperol Spritz of the year! The dandelion bunch is gift from Snowdrop.)






Dinner, on the porch.











(Banging on the table, just because...)






Late evening. Dishes done, pop corn's popped, eyes are closing. I'm hoping your Sunday was beautiful and that you had a chance to exhale. No? Too busy? I'll do it with you now!  Deep breath on the count of four, hold it, one two three four five six, let it out slowly. Make room for good thoughts, high hopes. And if you've been working hard, Sunday or no Sunday, know that your efforts are appreciated. Deeply. By so many!

Sleep well, good night.