Thursday - 244th

One of my favorite winter moments unfolds during a morning walk, after an especially cold night. This is when you'll find crystals of ice lingering on shaded grasses and spent flowers.

To me, it's winter's gentle touch. A frosted over landscape. Lovely, but in a subtle way.

The paths are freezing up at night so there is a crunch to the step as I walk to the barn and round back, to the pines and spruces that are at their finest even in winter. 

Breakfast is cozy. How else to describe a warm kitchen and a steamy cup of milky coffee? Oatmeal with local honey? A streak of sunlight from the mudroom? The quiet of the world outside that seems destined to sleep away the coldest months of the year?

Later in the day, I have a Zoom call with my Polish friends. Each time we meet up in this way, there are worse stories of growing infections and political upheavals, both in the US and in Poland. We spend a lot of time on filling in some of the details. On recounting "what it's like" to be "here," rather than "there."  But in the end, it's the family stories that lighten the moment for us. There is a lot to celebrate. To be grateful for. Even at a distance. 

In the afternoon, Ed fits in a "Wednesday Night Bike Ride." Of course, it's not Wednesday and he has to set out early to make it back before dark, but still, at 52F (11C), it's warm enough for him to pedal away. And I use this opportunity to set out for a solo walk through the new development. Because it's just so convenient to have that sidewalk nearby!

 

An evening of chicken brats and a salad with the first of our winter spinach. Well, not really ours, in that we did not grow it. It comes from farmers that have been supplying us with cold harvest hoop spinach for many years now. Every two weeks, two big bags of deep green leaves, sweetened by the frost. From mid November through mid April. I cannot imagine a Wisconsin winter without this heavenly treat.

We finished yet another a gruesome crime series and are starting in on a new one. Ed is winning the bet: we have not had to to subscribe to Netflix since the whole COVID menace came into our lives. Plenty of good, free viewing to be had out there. With a candle and pop corn and perhaps a glass of wine. And did I mention the chocolate square? With a glass of white wine, from the Bergerac region (inexpensive, lovely)?

Feeling grateful indeed. Worried about our health care workers, to be sure, really worried. But grateful for my family's good health and the peace that has settled over the farmette lands.

Wednesday - 243rd

You should never let a beautiful day escape from you. Grab it, hold onto it, use it. Even if it's chilly. Sunshine and clear skies, calm breezes -- they're a gift.

(No more breakfasts on the porch though...)

But of course, sometimes it's beyond your control. Sunshine be damned, I have to fix my mom's accounts, which are wiggling around in crazy ways and thus far, no one can explain to me why. And so I call person number 1, number 2, number 3. I'm on hold with person number 4, number 5, number 6. I leave my number and ask for a call back with person number 7 and then number 7 once again.

By early afternoon, the problem is solved. Or at least the discrepancies are explained to me. I tell the gentleman who helped clarify something that stumped the best of them that I'll hold on to his name and number and keep it by my pillow forever more. He responds -- you're welcome, stay well.

I relay just a fraction of this to my mom. She doesn't need to know about each issue that arises. I do her paperwork for her. Still, the outcome is to her benefit, so I pass on that piece of news. She says, genuinely wondering -- what would I do without you?

I have to smile at that. Without me here, nothing would change. Bills would get paid automatically, social security would come in, all would roll forward, even if I vanished with a puff of smoke. Ed is the much more indispensable link. He is her computer right hand, adjusting glitches and snafus and mis-clicks and outages as they arise. Her computer is her connection to the outside world. Ed enables that for her. So I better make sure he stays safe from COVID!

Of course, "making sure that he stays safe" changes nothing for us. We are in a bubble now for 243 days (how did I know that?!). Isolated at the farmhouse. We didn't relax restrictions in the summer and so we don't have to tighten them now! We are where we were. Or, as they say -- it is what it was and what will be all winter long. You have to find ways to wrap yourself in pockets of joy even in your weird new existence or else you're going to shrivel to a mere fragment of who you once were. And of course, for us, the joy has been and continues to be found in the natural world that surrounds us. And in family, in whatever temporary substituted form they are offered to us. Ed would say -- don't forget the cats! 

 

 

Well, popcorn too. We love our evening popcorn!

(We took a late afternoon walk in our favorite county park, with a beautiful view of sandhill cranes going there and another coming back.)

 

Tuesday - 242nd

I had half hoped for a peaceful transition: from the strange almost summer like weather of the past week, to the usual settling in of what should come now -- winter. No such thing. A violent storm erupted in the afternoon and for a while we were smack in the middle of a tornado watch. I had never before heard of a tornado watch in November.

Typically, this is a transition month in the upper Midwest. We use it to push away thoughts of gardens and growing things and color and light and accept the reality of winter. But this year, of course, we were tricked. Promises of endless sunshine and balmy breezes, enough to make you believe that winter is unnecessary. That maybe we can get away without it. We deserve a break, no? 

No. Wisconsin has four seasons and cheating your way until summer gives superficial pleasure, but if it lasts too long, that disturbance ripples through the natural world in ways that cause more harm than good.

 

It's not quite November cold today, but we're moving in that direction. 

 

 

 

(A quick morning walk in a light drizzle. The five cats look like they're ganging up on poor old Tomato, but it's just not so. The cats and cheepers all give each other plenty of space.)

Still, we manage to carve out a porch breakfast one last time.

And the rains pause long enough for me to climb out on the porch roof once more, to sweep away the maple leaves that would mound on top if left alone through the rains and the snows that are sure to come. (The roof is at its loveliest if it is cleared of spring pollen, fall leaves, and deep winter snows, though of course, you can do nothing and it will still carry on, like a brave if battered soldier, never for a minute giving up the good fight against the elements.)

And then we settle in and take up our various indoor tasks, waiting for the storms to pass and for the cooler air to take over in the next day or two.

Of course, my step tally suffers. I'd managed to maintain my "10 thou" daily goal since October 1st (is this a brag? I suppose so. Sorry!), but dismal wet days do nothing for my count. It's back to the treadmill. With my kindle. I can handle that!

In the evening I cook up a pot of soup. My CSA brought in bunches of kale and I have enough onions to last me nearly all winter. Add some other veggies and Cannellini beans, squirt a lemon, sprinkle with grated Parmesan and you've got yourself a warm meal! With a salad, because, well, that's our other habit: always the salad, these days with the radishes and carrots and cukes and avocado that inevitably crowd the veggies drawers of our fridge.

As the soup simmers, I have this very welcome interlude! (Primrose, too, is eating soup. With a sandwich.)

Storms do pass. They always do. You're grateful when there's no damage, when you come out of it all head still on shoulders, house still standing.

Then you pop that corn, light that candle and... well, you know the rest.

With love...

Monday - 241th

Narcissus Baby Boomer, Tulip Pink Impression, Snowdrops. The remaining bulbs for planting. Two dozen Dutch Master daffodils still to arrive, but I think I can handle putting in that amount, even in freezing weather. And we will get freezing weather. Just not today.

I can give you some numbers which would impress you about how rare it is to have five November days in a row where the temperature climbs above 70F (21C), but I'm sure you get it even without the data: Wisconsin doesn't do this kind of stuff. November is typically bone chilling and drab. This year, we were being soothed. Our spirits needed a boost. We surely got it with our brilliant string of warm days.

Good morning, farmette lands!

Probably the last porch breakfast. We linger for an extra long time.

We have a grocery delivery then and it still takes me about an hour to wash stash and sort through foods that come in, but immediately after, Ed and I head out for a hike along our favorite trail in the local county park up the road. 

Bare trees never looked so grand!

 

Yes, shorts and a t-shirt weather. I could have gotten away with that as well, though I'm too attached to pants that I suppose could be called lounge wear, with a touch of stretch. Worn all my waking hours.

Back in time to put in my bulbs. The cheepers try hard to undermine my effort (they scratch up all places where I plant the bulbs), but I fend them off with bread crumbs. I think about spring and how beautiful it's likely to be.

In the afternoon, I drive over to my daughter's, where I have a last warm weather meet up (outdoors, distanced, with masks) with Snowdrop.

(the fruit of the season: the pear) 

The girl has her own clothes style these days: tucked it everything! And oh my, can she swing herself high!

 

 

Drive home at sunset: bare trees are stealing the show!

 

 

Or maybe it's that we're having spectacular sunsets lately?

So grateful for a whole string of uplifting days. So very very grateful.

Sunday - 240th

I imagine this is what November would be like if we lived, say, in Georgia. Warm, but not hot, plenty of sunshine. We're getting an insight into southern living without having to travel. Yes, once again, we're in for a beautiful day. Slated to climb up to 74F (23C) -- an unheard of reading for this date. Our average high is in the 40sF. Do the math -- we're off by some thirty degrees.

(A very pleasant morning walk, checking on the animals, then assessing what needs to be done out in the flower fields.)

Cold October nights did away with the last blooms. But you can still find secret survivors!

(Breakfast, with a couple of cats, on the porch.)

Whatever work I do in the garden now can be subtracted from my tasks come next spring. But one can't be overzealous. Some texture in the flower beds needs to remain in place for the winter. I snip away, but without drive, without great ambition. Just a little in each bed.

(And the sun plays on the last pockets of color, such as the peach tree with its golden leaves...)

 

In the afternoon, Ed and I search for nearby places to hike. Someplace where there aren't hunters with guns or bows and arrows. We try out Camrock Park, perhaps a half hour's drive to the east. I don't remember ever walking there, but of course, today any place is going to look stunning.

The trails aren't empty, and if it were up to me, I'd slap masks on most everyone we pass, but still, it's a sweet little walk.

And on the drive home: that fabulous Wisconsin sky.

As is now my routine, toward evening I cook up a dinner for the young family.

(Knock knock! Foods's at your doorstep!)

 

(The masked bandits!)

 

 

I cannot emphasize enough how peaceful the world had become for us here, at the farmhouse. The tumult, the counting, waiting, to say nothing of the even longer period of waiting as the campaigns unfolded -- it all ended this week. 

I'll light a candle, Ed will pop corn -- an evening seemingly like so many others. But not at all like the others. Not even close. 

Saturday - 239th

What a day! Unforgettable! And that's an understatement. The weather, the election, the kids, their families, the walks, the sunset. All stunning.

It's very late. I have many photos to sort through and they're important. They include the young family whom I haven't seen since... July.

Today was all about meeting up in the new reality of the pandemic. I was up early, I fed the animals, Ed came down for breakfast...

 

... and then I drove down to Raven Glen, a forest preserve just south of the Wisconsin - Illinois border. Illinois residents cannot travel to Wisconsin without having to quarantine afterwards, but I surely can go there for an outdoor, distanced, masked meetup with the younger family. A couple of hours in the car and I am with them again.

(On the drive down, I hear the election call. Calm restored!)

The rest of the day can be told in photos. Lots of them, because I see the little girl so rarely now! She should command today's space on Ocean. And she does.

 (A game of soccer...)

 

 

 

(The hike)

(The lake)

(The picnic)

 

(A day of unicorns...)

 

(And eventually, of distanced hugs)

 

(Last wave good bye...)

Sigh...

Typically, I spend Saturday afternoons reading outside with Snowdrop, but today I arrive late and only for a few minutes...

(A good zoom lens is my photographic best friend these days... No mask required for the minutes that we are outdoors, some twenty feet apart)

 

 

 (Anything closer and the mask goes on...)

 

(It's late and so I only stay a short while. Long enough to give my eager listeners an account of how Primrose is faring...)

  

By the time I drive home, the sun has almost set.

 

 

 

Still, as I pull in, I find an Ed, ready for an early evening walk. To count steps, sure, but mostly to review everything. To exhale, with gratitude for this most beautiful day. 

With love...