Wednesday - 110th

Well, I'm annoyed at a recent article in the New York Times. Seriously annoyed. A punch in the gut, I call it.

Let me explain: I was scanning the news sources yesterday and it caught my eye: a story on deep cleaning. I (mistakenly) thought it had to do with taking extra precautions, what with the pandemic raging to horrifying new levels of infection. And so I read it. And I looked at the photos of sparkling surfaces and I said to Ed -- we need to deep clean the farmhouse.
What? Why?
To restore a sparkle to the place. A nice, thorough deep clean. Starting with the wooden floors. Do we have a mop?
I don't have a mop...
I'm trying to remember when I last washed the floor (apart from spot cleaning). No recent date comes to mind.

The article is a total guilt trip. Take out everything from the cupboards? Sprinkle baking soda (at least I think they said baking soda) on the carpet? It goes on and on, pointing out all that I haven't done, that I gloss over, all the corners I haven't fully scrubbed, leading Snowdrop to sometimes say -- gaga, there's *another* dead spider here... Oh, it's time to do that deep clean alright!

Then I think -- but one day of Ed moving through the rooms and it wont sparkle anymore. No one will notice the glistening cupboards, the brief moment of mirror-like surfaces (except maybe Snowdrop, who'll likely say -- where have all the spiders gone?). So... isn't it a waste of time?

Thank you, New York Times, for introducing a new dilemma into my life.


It is July. I think we all take the progressions to a new month with a great deal of awe these days. As in -- it's unbelievable! Another month gone by and the insanity continues! Do you remember when it was March and we all wanted to believe that come summer, everything would be that much easier?

In many ways for Ed and for me, the summer is easier. The farmette lands demand a lot from us, from me especially. (Ed said today -- if you die, I'm going to bulldoze all the flower beds. I can't possibly keep up with them. I retorted -- hire someone to maintain it! But I know better: Ed never hires help.) The work is never-ending. I cannot sit on the couch and read all the details of the horror show unfolding across the globe and unfortunately, especially in this country. I have stuff to do!

This morning... (good morning, cheepers!)


 


... I was up just enough earlier than usual, that I had the time to wander over to the front bed. I know it's the one bed that is visible to the outside world, but it's not visible to me. Out of sight out of mind.

Oh my. Post rain weeds. Grasses invading. Sprouting little saplings. Sigh... I get right to it. No gloves, no shovel, just bare hands attacking that which needs my immediate attention. (And noticing some pretty flowers showing off their sweetness right now.)






And then it's a rush to get in that morning breakfast. (Without Ed, because he was on the phone and wanted to sit down while continuing his conversation and I said absolutely not! Breakfast time is sacred. It's meditative and quiet. By the time he brought his call to an end, I was done.)






The kids are here immediately after. Again, our outdoor time is slightly different. Snowdrop waters the two tomatoes in the pots (and sprays the two bystanders! Sparrow minded less than I did).











We then walk over to the barn to check for eggs. Along the way, I point out to her the perfect and perfectly ripe raspberry. (Sparrow is still sitting on his anti-fruit platform. He is pretty good at silent rebellion.)






There aren't many. We have way too little sunlight to get a nice crop these days. So long as Ed refuses to cut down more of the big trees (the lotus, the box elders the walnuts -- they are all invasive and huge and there are very few farmette spaces that get more than four hours of sunlight each day), many of our flowers and all of our berries will lose their lushness.






In the coop there is an egg. A Henny egg, which is always special because it's green. Each child has a great urge to hold it. Egg survives.

(Walking backwards...)






(Urging the cheepers to stay hydrated...)






Inside, I suggest an art topic: paint or draw the tomato bush. Snowdrop goes right to it...






... and very quickly finds fault with the picture.
It looks like a radish.
No it doesn't.
How do radishes grow? On bushes?
Well... I sketch a radish plant.
She scribbles over her art work and wants to start again.

In the meantime, Sparrow doesn't want to touch a marker. He tries painting...






Gives it up. He then tells me to draw for him. What?
Sun.
What color?
Blue.
What else?
Sun.
What color?
This. He points to orange.
Snowdrop watches. I tell her that artists can decide to be creative. They don't have to stick with conventional depictions, colors, numbers. Under Sparrow's directive, the page now has ten suns.

And now the little girl is inspired again. She draws several pages of a new book, which she titles "The Super Team Saves a Cherry"  Here's the first hero: the flying radish.






(Happy...)






(Happy...)






After I drop the kids at their home, I return to the garden. The pots need water. They could use a fertilizer as well. There are weeds right before my nose that could use a pull. All this turns out to be a project. A long, drawn out, hot project.

A satisfying project. A July kind of gardening that you love for a few weeks before the joy of slapping away at bugs and wiping down sweat wears on you and you begin thinking that actually winter's not that bad after all.

Ed is biking today and that's a good thing. Someone in this household has to maintain an aerobic routine! Me, I stir fry a few chicken pieces with copious amounts of broccoli. I'm thinking I should sit back to take in the loveliness of a July evening and eat my dinner on the porch. It's just too beautiful right now outside.





One minute into the meal and I'm done with that idea. The cats. They are there to remind me, loudly, that they have not yet been fed. Forget it. I retreat indoors. Ed comes in just as the sun has set. By that time, I'm ready for our popcorn on the couch.

Tuesday - 109th

And what a June it has been! High on anxiety, on excitement, high on natural beauty, high on love for every day spent with a grandkid or two or three in it.

Low on physical social contacts (outside of family). Very low. And a complete zero on shopping, outside of online purchases, delivered or curbsided. Meaning, I haven't stepped inside a store since the beginning of March.

So, kind of strange, no? Add to it the constant need to stay abreast of what's going on here, and elsewhere in the country, and in other countries, and it's not because I can hope to be uplifted by any of it, right? So, lots of reading of dismal summaries of events past and prognoses of events yet to be.

Still, Ed and I have so much to love and enjoy at the farmette! Distractions abound. Follow along with us as we move beautifully from one distraction to the next!

Good morning cats and chickens! Okay, first feed chickens, then teenage cats, then rush back to get to the kitties under the car before the hoard comes charging back to steal their food and send them scurrying.

Breakfast, on the porch. Ed is not helpful in the photo taking enterprise, so you get just the table.






We talk about the proliferation of mosquitoes. His tolerance for a growth in numbers is higher than mine, possibly because he works less in the gardens and, too, he isn't the one leading kids on nature walks every morning. So I suggest we do our spraying of peppermint and garlic oils. Their odor seems to push the mosquitoes mostly to the periphery. As best as we can figure out, it does not repel in the same way other insects or frogs. We've used the stuff the past two years, with some modest success. Enough to make a walk accross the farmette lands tolerable.

But Ed pushes back now, claiming we're not yet at the breaking point. I share his concern: neither of us wants to discourage pollinators from calling this place home. Still, once the mosquito swarms arrive, it is pretty near impossible to do anything outside, at least not without covering yourself with netting. So I push back on his push back.

We make no decisions for now, but I know it's just a matter of days before I bring it up again.

And when the kids arrive, I forgo the longer nature walk and stick with a courtyard moment.


\



We count how many flowers have turned into little green tomatoes (in our tomato tubs)  -- in other words, which of our two green plants is winning the tomato race!






Inside, we forgo art today. Snowdrop really wants to make progress on a new chapter book and so we give that a shot. By page 36, not even a fourth into the book, Sparrow has had enough. We switch to books his speed. Snowdrop wanders off.

And it's a little bit that kind of a morning: His wishes are strong, hers are stronger. I move between one and the other, never really hitting them both at the same time. Well, maybe once, in this moment:






Music class, too, does not quite grab Sparrow today. He listens, and even though we sing songs he's heard many times before, he holds back.

And of course, when we do work books, Sparrow looks on -- a  little guy for whom life moved just a little too fast today.

Still, as I summarize their day to their mom, I say quite honestly that it was a super good one. The kids don't always have to be in sync to be happy. And I haven't a doubt that both were happy today. Grandmas can tell these things.











In the afternoon, I spend a long time sorting through the week's groceries. For the first time, there were a number of misfires. (Wrong items sent, wrong items charged.) I deliberate whether I should just let it go. I got food. We'll eat the food. Do details matter? We're so used to complaining when we're poorly served. Even now, during a pandemic, we review, gripe, let it all out. Sometimes maybe staying humbly quiet is a better way to be.

I think about all this as I put away the last bit of food and sit down for a good Zoom call with my two southern state friends. Two weeks ago we were in not dissimilar situations, but since that last Zoom call, at least two of our states (including mine) have surged in the number of infections. And still, here we three are, safe, keeping our distances, washing our groceries, continuing to shelter in place because honestly, if you can do that, you are lucky. We are lucky.






A light supper -- of eggs and asparagus and mushrooms. A quiet evening. Fireflies, popcorn. The last piece of rhubarb cake.

Monday - 108th

What do you call a fun weather adventure with kids? Maybe taking a hike in a snowstorm? Or finding yourselves in front of a rainbow?

Probably low on your list would be barrelling in a car through torrential rain and booming thunder on a highway, where you really can't see much and the noise of the rain is so deafening that even the thunder claps seem tame.

And yet -- I'd say this crazy ride was a highlight for Snowdrop. (And since she was squealing with delight, her brother went along, casting only the occasional nervous eye at the pelting rain outside.)


The day did not start out wet. Instead, it began with a sticky heat wave. (I'm keeping an eye out for the next blooms. Here's one of the pretty groupings...)






The kind of morning where you probably would not choose to eat breakfast outside. Unless you're us.






When the kids come, I have to do a little arm twisting to start off on a nature hike. I promise that they can pick a few California poppies in the meadow...
















... and yes, even a couple of sweet pea stems.











The AC is definitely on in the farmhouse. Nothing outrageous -- we rarely bring it down below 75, and yet it feels heavenly cool as compared to the sticky mess outside.










What's on our plate at Gaga's Summer School? Well, in this particular school, the kids have a say in the curriculum. We do a lot of reading -- first choice for both -- and then they vote for free play. I'm fine with that. It's Monday -- Snowdrop especially has missed her various story setups. Eventually I bring them around to geography.

Here, it gets difficult. I think the idea of different countries and different cultures is still a bit nebulous to a boy freshly turned two. Still, we persevere. I mean, the young mind is a sponge, right? (Snowdrop told me last week that my "sponge" was getting old and therefore my memory was bound to be less good than hers.)

We finish. We do some addition puzzles. The rains begin. We rush to the car and drive out into the monsoon-like storms.


In the evening, the thunder rumbles somewhere out there, but the rains move on. The animals come out of hiding. I'm thinking -- it will be time to do some weeding again. But not today. We don't load chores onto a Monday eve. Reheat the shrimp with green mole. Pop a few tortillas into the toaster. Stir up some of last week's rainbow chard with onion, garlic, balsamic. Look at the news one last time then turn it all off.

And here's a transition into a totally calm evening: FaceTime with Primrose in Chicago!






(It's fun to see that their CSA box is not hugely different from ours. Primrose is really loving the first peas of the season! Along with her veggie burger.)


 


After,  Ed and I sit on the steps of the porch surrounded by our brave teenage cats who have been chased out of the courtyard by swallows swooping down on them to protect their young cheeps. We watch the brilliant dance of fireflies...

And exhale.

Sunday - 107th

All my grandkids have had several parentless sleepovers at the farmhouse and I can tell you right now that there is no pattern to the wake-up times. Some nights they fall into a deep farmhouse sleep and wake up at their normal or even somewhat later time. Sometimes they wake up way too early and bounce out of bed as if it were Christmas morning.

Today it was the Christmas morning variant. Even though Snowdrop went to bed an hour past her bedtime, she woke up and got up two hours before her usual morning rise and shine.

I tried to coax her back to bed or, failing that, to encourage her to go play for a while while I dozed on, but she proclaimed that if Ed was up and working on his truck (say what?? at 6 a.m.??), then she could and should be up as well. Thanks Ed.

I thought she'd have a tired and even cranky morning, but that turned out not to be the case. She had an "I am a curious nearly five and a half year old and I have a lot of questions about everything" morning. Why do swallows eat insects in flight, why is gaga's hair still brown in places instead of all white, why do I think there never was a unicorn ever anywhere?

Breakfast is very early.











She and I had already fed the cheepers and cats...





I was definitely ready for my coffee.


I take her home before noon. I have quite a bit of catch-up work to do, but of course, I do hardly any of it. After a coffee/lunch/something break on the porch...


 



... I turn to cooking. Not only do I have the young family here for dinner, but I am just swimming in rhubarb. Time to bake again.






Dinner. First for the kittie sisters...






... then for us.

(Reading while waiting for the food)






Dinner for us all.






Happy. The child, not the rooster.






And finally,  Ed and I take a moment to unwind, with popcorn. The upside of such busy days is that there is little time left for reading all details of all stories that make the news. These days, that's a good thing.

Saturday - 106th

Feeling nostalgic for some event or place from the past can be very pleasant. You recall a moment well lived. How good is that!

But in these times of great uncertainty, it can be hard. Many have said that we all will carry that marker with us forever: before March 2020 and after. It's not that the "after" will remain dismal. The hope is that many, indeed, most of us will pull through and do alright (and it's not a far fetched hope). Nonetheless, the "before" is full of such innocence, especially for us Americans, that it hurts to go there. We so want to reclaim anything that once was deemed merely ordinary.

For me, music and photos are the triggers. There are songs that recall visits and travels with my daughters when they were just entering adulthood. Lovely memories! Then there is this one song on my shuffled playlist -- je t'emmenerai -- you can listen to it here:

I first heard it on French Radio during one of those car rides with Ed in and around Sorede -- the village in the south of France he and I returned to many times before he had enough of travel. I don't think any period of time was ever so free of worry for me, so perfectly attuned to the moment as those weeks in Sorede. Life moved seamlessly from a croissant on the main square with a cafe creme and a good book, to a lunch in the shaded garden, and a dinner sometimes at home, sometimes at a favorite pizza joint, once in a while in a real restaurant. In between, we visited markets, swam in the sea and hiked up daunting trails that took you to the Spanish border and back. True vacation stuff. But more importantly, we took not a single worry with us. Our days were squeaky clean!

Still, you can look at the upside of "now:" Ed and I know each other far better than in those Sorede years. We may not be living through calm times, but our understanding of where we are in life is far greater now than it was back then.


And photos? Well, I don't have much from the years when my daughters were growing up. Somehow the pics all got moved to Chicago and so I haven't great access to them. That's okay for now. I have them etched in my memory. But then along came Ocean. It's only a year older than my life with Ed, so you could say that the blog traces perfectly my time with him. And it traces all the years of my being a grandparent. I don't go back often to posts from the past. Not now, when I'm still so insanely busy with life in the here and now. But in cleaning out my (overloaded) computer drive, I did have a real run through my earlier years with my grandkids.

I don't know what you miss most in this strange period of social distancing or isolation. I'm sure it's time spent with people you love who are just too far away and perhaps not safe for an elderly person's visit. Of course. For me -- I miss the stupidly simple acts of going places with my grandkids (the two here and the one in Chicago). What makes me shake my head in disbelief is how suddenly we lost our excursions to the park, where Snowdrop loved to play ice cream store on the playground equipment. Or, with Primrose -- a walk to a coffee shop where she and I would play with the camera over a mini-lunch. Sparrow never got his adventuring moments. Last summer he could not walk and so trips to the playground were less interesting to him. How would he treat them now? Would he chase his sister and try to figure out why something that looked like a metal post was suddenly being called an ice cream stand?

These are, of course, sweet memories. Not necessarily of happier times -- all my hours with family, with Ed (those are the only people I see now) have plenty of happy times, even now. But they were of another era. The "before we had to deal with all this stuff" era. Life was far simpler and that simplicity can be very beguiling!


Today, it is hot. I mean, steamy hot. We should be bringing the fan to the porch. Breakfast, close to noon (after a morning of cleaning up and out all rooms of the farmhouse -- Ed is doing a haul to Goodwill as we continue our attempt at downsizing even more)...






More chores, indoor, outdoor, food related, garden related...






And I plant some peas. It's totally the wrong time to plant peas, but I had not imagined we could get away with a crop. The groundhog had always found ways to get to the shoots before I could snip off any pods. But this year, the decorative peas are doing fine and so we thought we'd give the edible ones a try. Even if it is nearly July. Way too late to be guaranteed any peas at all.






Finally, as it's Saturday, I attend to the pick up of my Community Supported Agriculture  box. What additions this week? A cucumber. A bag of peas. Oh, how ironic, given my own late planting. Cabbage, of the salad variety. And some spring favorites that I've seen before: green onion, broccoli, lettuce, kale.


And toward late afternoon, Snowdrop comes for a sleepover.


 



She hasn't had one since... winter. Or was it fall? Now, at nearly five and a half, she knows her own mind and she has planned out all meals and many of our activities: book reading, movie watching -- we do it all.























It's late by the time the farmhouse is completely quiet. Snowdrop sleeps, Ed and I put our feet up and read. Well, I read, he dozes. I have lots of fizzy water, a glass of wine, a piece of chocolate and the cool air from the AC. Incredible luxury, don't you think?