how can you not be thrilled with them...

I know what you're thinking: here comes another grandmotherly post about those magnificent grandkids! Well yes, they are that, and yes, I'll say a word on them in a bit, but they aren't in my immediate field of vision when I first go outside this morning. And I'm not thinking about the chicks either, except that soon I wont be calling them chicks because they are getting plump and feathery. More and more like pullets (in case you are not a chicken person -- a pullet is a hen that's not quite an adult, but without the down of a baby chick).

I am thinking, when I step outside today, how thrilling the flowers of spring are when they do finally blossom. Even though one that is indeed blossoming massively (not because I planted it, but because someone once did), has this habit of spreading and squeezing out others, which makes it actually an invasive.  I'm thinking of you, scilla siberica! Pretty and bluebell-like, introduced here in the Midwest as an ornamental and now taking over many a wooded area. Including at the farmette. You really should not plant it. Still, it is, well, very pretty. 

I do take full responsibility for the crocuses. They are not natives, but they cause no harm. And they're gorgeous.

Similarly, I'll take responsibility for planting daffodils. Again, it's not a native, but not invasive either -- so no harm done and lots of beauty in its first appearance. Last year my first daffodil bloomed on April 1st. This year -- today! So three days earlier.

It's no surprise, really. By afternoon, we reach 65F (that's 18C). It's terribly windy, but who cares! It's 65F! (Well, Sparrow cares. As I help him navigate the great outdoors, he tells me -- I hate the wind. I list some of it's virtues and he does an about face -- okay. I like the wind. Kids are so impressionable.)

The early morning though is still a bit nippy. Breakfast in the kitchen.

The kids come soon after. I love how they find their own paths to the front door!

These days, Sparrow often begins his time here with a man-to-man chat with Ed. 

Snowdrop, on the other hand, almost always begins with a bowl of fruit and book time on the orange couch. I'd dug out some books on Jane Goodall. Snowdrop, who had had some exposure to Goodall previous to this, has a spirited discussion, also with Ed, about whether a chimpanzee is an ape or a monkey. (Happy to report that indeed, chimpanzees are apes. No tails, stand upright. Like us.)

And speaking of Ed, I'll put in this photo, because I don't think there's been a year where there hasn't been a photo of Ed pulling garlic mustard out of the raspberry patch while Snowdrop (and now Sparrow) romps.

Is it still windy? Yes it is!

Evening. We have some gizmo failures today -- my Fitbit battery is draining like a speed demon, to the point of making the movement tracking device useless, and Ed's little solenoid on the chicken coop overheated and died. Terrible news! How will I know my step count? And how will the cheepers get out in the morning? (The solenoid is set on a timer to spring the door open. Since it's dead, a real human being has to be there to let them out.) But by the end of the day, replacement parts for both gizmos are in place to arrive soon-ish. Once again I marvel at how easy it is to work through problems from home. All this and spring daffodils too. How thrilling is that!

the primrose

The English Primrose can surely withstand Wisconsin winters, but you have to mulch it, and care for the roots since they detest hot summers or very cold winters, and watch the water saturation of the soil, and kick any early plant loving animal out of your yard when the first shoots emerge. In other words -- it's not an easy flower for me to grow here. Some people prefer to put a primrose into a container. In that typical trilogy of spiller-thriller-filler (where you often see in a pot a trailing flower, a tall showcase bloom, and a low growing dense filler), the primrose takes on that "filler" role. But personally, I prefer to see a primrose where it does so well -- in her natural habitat, wild, in the English countryside. (Or, carefully planted and tended in the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris!)

In the alternative, I'll snatch one from a shop in early spring and put it on my table, where it will perform nicely for a little while.

Such a pretty flower! As you may remember, it's also Ocean's name for my little grandgirl. She turns three today!

 

We are adhering to virus precautions and so I cannot zip down to Chicago to be there for her grand day, but I know the little one is in for a spirited time, extending her celebration from school on Friday through
the weekend with her Chicago family. She is happy and so I am happy!

 

It's a bright and cheerful day, full of that wonderful spring sunshine. And wind! We hear it all day long -- like the sound of a train speeding through the farmette lands...

Breakfast, in the kitchen. I'm exasperated with Dance, our on and off feral cat who these days chooses breakfast time as the moment when she absolutely has to be petted or else. There goes my quiet morning meal!

We work outside  -- a little in the yards, but mostly on the porch. Spring cleaning time!!

And of course, I break for Primrose.

Such a perceptive, playful and affectionate little girl! Big observant eyes, big heart. And a big voice, too -- she is my one enthusiastically singing grandchild! And today she is three. How awesome is that! (And yes, she loves to dance. Put on Coppelia and she's off!)

I can't believe it: three!

 

Evening. A sunny evening! The young family comes for dinner and for the hundredth time I smile to myself about the grandness of having daylight with us the whole time they are here.

(Predinner munchies: yeah, she's the family beet thief)

 

(He stays with cheese and crackers...)

The day ends, the sun sets. At 7:20! I remember all too well when it set at 4:25 in December. Short winter days call for patience. The reward? Days like this one. 

Happy birthday, little Primrose. Happy evening everyone else!

With love.

expected rain

It was slated to be a rainy day and for the most part, it delivered. What would you do on a wet Saturday? Fine, read a book! The ubiquitous answer to everything. But besides that?

Here's my Saturday. Yes, it does have a book in it, but there's more.

Breakfast, no surprise, in the kitchen. Ed is barely awake. Rainy days bring out the sleepiness in him.

 

Then I celebrate the arrival of my tea pot. Stimulus check (well, part of it) put to good use! I've waited a long time to buy one and I am tickled that it is finally part of my kitchen pack of essentials. (I don't go overboard: I don't, for instance, give it a name. Though I am tempted!)

And the tea pot leads me to spend not a small amount of time thinking about where I will travel when I finally do resume traveling. I know it will feel weirder than weird. And that I will have some trepidation about going off on a solo adventure, because I've had so much time without the company of others this last year! In the past, I never minded sitting over a dinner in a restaurant alone. So much to observe and take in! But somehow these days I think I'd mind just a tiny bit. 

So I thought about all this. Where would I go? Hill climbing in a familiar place? Try something altogether new? I don't have a clear idea about any of it!

As is our new Saturday habit, in the late morning, my daughter comes with the two kids for a visit. 

A few snapshots tell the story of how kids take in a rainy day:

And in the afternoon, the steady sound of rain patter ceases, and Ed and I look at each other, and he notes that weeds are easy to pull out of wet soil, and I mumble that there sure are plenty of them out there after the rain, and so yes, we do go out, right into the mud.

Dedicated gardeners, aren't we? Pulling mustard garlic out of wet, muddy soil, roots and all, every last one of them. And then the next rainy day will come, and new weeds will sprout and we'll have to go at it all over again.

Evening quiet. All is still. Except for the chicks, who cat nap (forgive the pun) all day long, then chirp and peck their way late into the night hours.

 

March days

There are days when you get impatient with March. You step outside and mutter -- I don't want to work out here today. Your grandkid says -- let's go outside, you say -- let's not. You want the return of the warmer days where the jacket stayed on the hook in the farmhouse. You want progress in the flowering department. 

This is the moment where you have to remind yourself of all that you've gained already. Of the greening of the landscape. Of the fattening of the daffodil heads. Of the plumping of the cherry buds.

Of cheepers laying again. Sometimes in the strangest places!

Too, I think about northern countries that I love -- Scotland comes to mind. Days like this one (cloudy, quite cool, jacket definitely in demand) are commonplace there. People pay them no heed. You don't talk or even think about the weather when it changes on you, usually for the worse, many times in the space of a day.

We have many warm months here, in south central Wisconsin. March just doesn't happen to be one of them.

 

In the meantime, the three chicks are growing. We can't let them spend time outside yet -- that wont happen for at least another month. Still, they do get their adventuring time in the sun room.

And they clamor for it. You can tell that they are bored in their coop. But, it's an unfriendly world that awaits them. We wont let them out until they're ready for the challenge.

Breakfast, with spring flowers inside.

Periods of rain always make the weeds grow faster and sure enough, our weeded flower fields have sprouted stuff that needs to come out. I can't say that I enthusiastically attacked the new invasives, but I do go out with a shovel for at least a little while.

And then I break for a Zoom visit with my Polish friends.

Poland, like many countries in Europe, is experiencing a virus surge. It's the all too familiar pattern: rates go down, you relax too much, rates go way up. My friends are mostly in the age category where vaccines are now becoming available to them and so at least they have some security in the near future. Still, Wisconsin had those astronomical, highest in the land numbers back in the Fall. I know how worrisome it is to live through that.

I have to stop the call to run out and pick up Snowdrop at school. Her teacher insists that the girl clip her outgrowing bangs back. Possibly it's to keep her from constantly touching her face with her hands. She complies, but takes the clips right off the minute she gets in the car.

Now here's a girl who is truly looking forward to even more outdoor time! Starting yesterday!

Inside, she wants to write love notes. She writes some, I write some. I try to be creative, but still, I think we both agree that hers are that much sweeter...

Evening. Primrose calls and I find out all about her school birthday celebration! How good it is to have school kids around you! Last year we were at the beginning of the pandemic and the little girl had only her parents. This year, as she turns three, she will have had others to share in the grand event.

 

 

 

And so ends Friday. This weekday always feels different, even if you no longer work: it's a marker of a week gone by. A good week for us: kids are well, parents are well. And spring -- it's here, in its own blustery way it has made its presence known and we are grateful for it.

planning

 Since my gardening work this year is on the ambitious side (so many new plantings to put in!), I decided that I simply cannot do it in my typical fashion of deciding what goes where once the plants arrive at the farmhouse. I have to plan ahead.

I'm not used to doing this. Sketching flower beds seems really weird. (And walking around the farmette with these sketches later, when the plants get here, will seem even weirder.) Still, given the volume of planting, it has to be done and what better day for filling out those flower field maps than a day that is cool, gray and unhurried.

(I take my work to the breakfast table, letting Ed sleep in. He'd been up way too late for a morning meal with me. Still, he hears me clang dishes and before the leisurely cup of coffee is finished, he is with me, groggy, but good company nonetheless.)

I do throw a look at the flower beds outside and I notice the first signs of trouble: emerging tulips, chomped down by -- oh, who can even tell! Deer? groundhogs? Rabbits? We've got them all. There's not much you can do about it except hope that there soon will be enough stuff growing elsewhere, so that these plant eaters will leave my flowers alone.

I put down my planning maps and notes by early afternoon. I'm not nearly done, though it strikes me how much pleasanter it is to actually work outside than to draw up the plans for working outside. Ed has always accused me of being excessively meticulous in my planning. When I travel, I know exactly where I will be sleeping each night. But it's not the process of planning that is attractive to me. I just don't want to leave the worry of deciding for later. So, too, in my gardens now, I don't want to feel the stress of making choices down the road. If you do it in advance, then the trip, whether in travel or in the garden, begins with a clear head and an open heart.

In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop at school. As always, I come super early, so that I can take my place toward the front of the very long line. She doesn't have to wait too long to run to my car.

 

A new school, with all new kids for her, in these new and unusual times. Everyone wonders when our lives will return to some semblance of prepandemic normal. Me, I keep wondering when this little girl will be able to play with a friend, at home or at school, in the way that she once did. 

For now, I try to find crazy special things to do here at the farmette, even as she most likes to revert to her old faves. 

This includes -- cold weather notwithstanding -- time outside.

Kids are resilient. She is resilient. I am grateful for that.

the kettle

Each time I travel to England, I come face to face with the electric tea kettle. Even the simplest Bed and Breakfast will have that kettle, with some packaged biscuits and tea bags, all on a neat tray in your room. British travelers who go abroad and fail to find a kettle in their hotel room are outraged. How uncivilized!

If you make use of something in your travels, sooner or later you'll be tempted to bring it home. And I've been tempted! You flick the switch and the kettle reaches a boil quickly and then shuts itself off. Water is ready, perfect for your tea. (And I do drink tea daily.)

Still, I have this old stove top kettle and I've had it for decades and I have a little of Ed in me: why replace it? It works.

This morning the clouds stay, the sprinkles come and go, the wind picks up.  The overnight rains have brought out even more new growth. Lilies, daffodils, tulips, as if in a race.

 

 

 

No matter. I have a very early morning appointment -- one more to check off my list of delinquents from the year of hibernation. I quickly feed the chicks, play with them for only one minute and head out, yawning deeply. Way too early to be up.

 When I return, Ed is stirring. I finish my morning chores and we sit down to breakfast. 

We review things we could do outside, if only the sprinkles would let up. Realistically we will do none of those things. It's the kind of day where you will only work outdoors if you really have to. We don't really have to. Instead, I fall asleep with a book on the couch.

An hour or two later, Ed fixes himself lunch and in puttering in the kitchen, he finds my charred tea kettle, sitting on a burner, no water in it of course, just hissy noises of a scorched pot, long gone dry. I must have flicked the spout open so that no noise alerted me to a boil and then of course, I fell asleep.

Ed tries to scrape off the blackened grime, but I tell him to put it aside. I have this inner bubble of joy: I can finally purchase an electric tea kettle. Guilt free! To be delivered Monday!

Was it a coincidence that last night I looked back on Ocean posts from the Lake District of England? And that I wondered if I would again trek across those mountains that rise over the sinewy lakes? The kettle episode tells me that I am not ready to give up on the UK. My travels have stalled of course and who knows when they will unstall. But when they do, I wouldn't be surprised if I returned to places with long trails crossing fields of bluebells. With a tea kettle and biscuits waiting in my room upon my return.

(Just  to complete the coincidence cycle, I have a Zoom chat with these two, my fellow travelers to England a way long time ago!)