Saturday lite

My low key Saturday! I do not see many of such Saturdays in the months ahead, so let me sit back and relax through this one.

Well, not entirely. Up early, checking on Ed, who slept on the couch because I thought his restlessness would keep me up. But he wasn't restless. Indeed, I think he slept a good 20 out of the last 24 hours without twitching a muscle.

Checking on the animals would have been more fun if we hadn't plunged into an Arctic blast once again. 

(The two youngest cheeper girls: is this cold for real??)

And I wanted to bake something for breakfast. Not that Ed is eating anything at all, but the kids are here today and another one of those snacking cakes would be good to have around for the weekend. I pick the Double Apple Cake. And it will turn out to be one of my favorites.

Quick bite with a cup of coffee...

... and then I zip over to pick up the two older kids. Sorry Sandpiper, you're eating/napping/sitting at home today!

The older guys are spirited and playful...

... and it is altogether a grand set of hours with the grands.

Now comes the "Sit Back and Veg" afternoon. I don't completely tune the world out: quite the contrary, I spend a lot of time researching corners of the globe that may see me in the next few months or years or decades. Or weeks. (You cannot commit to anything right now, but I'm pretty certain that I'll be on my feet and moving soon. Well, maybe toddling along. I haven't entirely regained my swag from before the winter tumbles.) 

And the evening came before I even noticed the lateness of the hour. Yes, we've been lax in our sport activities. A busted knee, a twisted stomach, an Arctic blast all tipping the scales in favor of just staying put. Yep, Ed, me and the cats who are forever coming in, going out, coming in, going out.

missing pieces

1. The Way It Works

Writing an Ocean story every day is anything but rote. Nonetheless, I do try hard to stick to certain rules of the road. If I follow them, the process is generally smooth. A post appears at your doorstep when you wake up in the morning (if you are in North America). 

 

Here's how it works: during the day, the post gets its first rudimentary form. This is my Stage One. It's not finished and it will go through several edits, but I find it really helpful to at least get an idea on paper early, so that I dont have to struggle with it later. As with everything in life, you learn from your mistakes.

Stage two happens after dinner. Here, I rewrite, I add on, I edit photos, I slap it together, do a read-through and then put it aside. But, dinner is getting to be later and later for us. I don't start cooking until 6:30, we rarely eat before 7:30 and there's a lot going on in those evening hours: the cats come in and out. They clamor for tidbits from dinner. Simultaneously we start our evening viewing (lately it's been the Olympics, plus the incredibly disgusting but excellent Breaking Bad episodes: we're on season 4). There are pauses while I clean up. And pauses for when Ed makes pop corn. And pauses because a cat wants to go in or out. So really, our evening, in all its professed calm, is pretty chaotic.

When I'm done, I put the post aside. Stage Three (publish!) will happen between 10:30 and midnight, because that's when I go to bed. I either give it one final read through, or I assume I've done enough work on it. I click publish and the day ends with me reading novels upstairs.

There is a Stage Four: in the morning, I often go back to Ocean, giving the post one quick read-through to correct typos. They're easy to miss when you're tired. 

Spreading things out in this way assures that a post will appear on time every day. But of course, things happen. Yesterday was a day when things happened. Let me turn to that.

 

2. Fill in the Blanks

I have said this repeatedly: Ocean is as honest as the sky is gray right now (trust me, it's gray here, at the farmette). But it leaves things out. Personal stuff, of course. Especially other people's personal stuff. But mine too: the older I get the less I like to write about doc visits. People get health issues when they age. Most get fixed, some linger. There, I've said all that needs to be said on this subject. (Similarly, Ed and I rarely review health matters. Neither of us likes to talk about them.) So, unless it's essential to what I consider to be the main story point of the day, I'll leave medical stuff out. I am not that older person who gathers with equally aged persons, thinking it's fun to go around the circle and upstage each other in what's wrong with you on any given day. But, sometimes my silence in a post messes with things down the road. Like for instance, I left out yesterday that the reason I was up all night was because I was dealing with the usual Crazy Whatever syndrome. It's annoying, and it also requires that I check in with a team of docs to make sure things are okay. Since we're still in Covid times, I calculated that the best time to do a check in was when the night shift was leaving and the day shift just starting. Meaning early. Before sunrise. And dedicated as am I to Ocean, I took my laptop with me, in case I had to stay there the whole day because, you know, we're living in crazy pandemic times!

I didn't have to stay there the whole day. Things weren't crowded or chaotic (Omicron is really waning here) and so I breezed through in a couple of hours.  By evening though, I was exhausted with my Crazy Whatever syndrome. It was the rare time that I didn't want to cook. Ed said "Let's Get Chipotle's take out." We ate and I occasionally dozed off, but we proceeded as usual and watched the Olympics and Breaking Bad and I slapped the post together and then I nursed a stomach ache (see point 3). So I skipped the final edit and went to bed. And I forgot to click publish. Ooops. Sorry guys. I woke up to emails and calls asking me if I had died. 

 

3. It Isn't What it Was

Related, but deserving its own reflection was our take out from Chipotle's. We used to pick up their burrito bowls maybe once a month before the pandemic. Every couple of weeks I come across an evening when I dont want to cook. We alternate then between Thai, Chinese, or Chipotle's. Occasionally there will be a pizza, but it's rare, because I dont like most of the pizzas within driving distance. Or it will be sushi if I'm beyond caring about all the soy salt I take in on a sushi night. 

During the first year of the pandemic we did not do any take out at all. I just cooked. Every day. No exceptions. Eventually though, I loosened up and we reintroduced Chinese. And yesterday, we reintroduced Chipotle's. 

The whole experience of going back to a prepandemic place reminded me of when my daughter and her husband went out to a restaurant this winter (after Covid had swept through their home, they were in a safe place, having both been vaccinated, boosted, and plenty exposed to the virus). They dined at one of their favorite places, which happens to be a favorite for Ed and me as well, so I was eager to hear about the splendidness of that meal. Well, it was a bust. The place was empty and understaffed. My daughter's favorite dish came late and half the essential ingredients were missing. Conversation never runs smoothly when you are waiting too long for food and you are keenly aware of the fact that you have to be home before the babysitter time runs out on you. The evening, in other words, was... not the best.

I'll say the same for our dinner from Chipotle's. I hadn't gone there for these several years because it has inside tables and there are always people eating at them, breathing in, breathing out. Plus, Chipotle's always seemed a little germy to me, even in prepandemic times. The servers are young and careless and the food sits out in the open. Still, we are not crazy fussy and we always loved our burrito bowls.

Yesterday, as we were feeling more optimistic about the state of the pandemic, I entered the fabled halls of Chipotle once again. 

It was nearly empty. I thought -- fantastic! Less exposure! 

In retrospect, that should have been a warning: Food Not So Fresh. Not many people eating means that the young servers and cooks, with their masks half way down their chins, are going to be careless. Food sits. Too long. Young servers do not observe hygiene protocols. Ed and Nina get food poisoning.

So, I'd say it was a pretty crazy Thursday!

 

4. As for Today... 

 

Well, Ed stayed in a supine position upstairs all day (he was hit especially hard) while I went about the business of life. Breakfast most definitely alone!

 

 

 

I'm feeling good about the animals. Yesterday's adoption of Berry really lifted my spirits, so that I no longer look at the six turfy feline residents of the farmette and scowl. And the cheepers, too, are doing well, this despite an attack on their coop the night before. The angry chicken-hungry predator did not get in. Everyone's safe and indeed, enjoying the one-day warm up.

 

 

And I pick up a cheerful Snowdrop. It's her last day of school for a while. Next week, most of the days will have schools closed here, because the teachers need a pandemic break. True, the parents need a pandemic break as well, but hey, whoever said that life is fair.

(Happy boys at home)

Maybe not fair, but very wonderful. And full of hope.

 

With love...

 

Thursday

Up most of the night, out of bed by 6, with no naps in the game plan for today. This is a recipe for a very tired day going forward. You have to ask -- why the heck do I do this to myself? The answer -- a shrug. It happens.

I had some appointments this morning and so breakfast was on the late side. I was glad that Ed joined me for it because the table looked unusually uplifting. I had ordered some bunches of daffodils from the grocery store but they ran out. The shopper chose a substitution -- a primrose for each missing daffodil bunch. I mean, don't they all shout spring at you? 

 

 

 

Ah, the primrose... the lovely, lovely little flower of Parisian parks and English woodlands! And Wisconsin kitchen tables. I've tried growing them, but the animals chomp at anything that pops out of the ground that early here in Wisconsin. 

And speaking of animals, I have a flash bulletin on RD Berry, the cat we took to the Humane Society just yesterday. We checked in on him today. We see that they cut off his clumped hair and checked him over and gave him a name (to their credit, they did not ask us if we had named him). There he was, listed as Big Mac.

Big Mac?? 

There is nothing big or hamburger like about him! Still, his personality wowed them and wowed new owners. We were told they are very excited about bringing him home. And so RD Berry, aka Big Mac, is adopted.

This makes us so happy! May it be a forever home for this gentle little feline. 

In the afternoon, I pick Snowdrop up at school. I listen to her stories of recess play. She and her friend are working on a language that trees would understand. It's silent and takes place in the quiet of the head. I have to smile at this account: are they just playing? She would say no. They're very serious about it. Well now, don't I sometimes murmur a humble gratitude to the trees in the forests we walk or ski through? Why do it if the trees do not understand my words? Maybe speaking to a forest is a method of simply acknowledging our connection to the trees within. And what lover of the natural world would not want to do that?

On the way home she tells me she wants to be an environmental lawyer. (This after I cursed -- in a family friendly manner -- a truck that spewed a dark cloud of smoke from its exhaust.) And here I do smile. It's been a quick jaunt from dancer to chemist to veterinarian to environmental lawyer. It's wonderful to see kids excited about their futures.

Including this guy:

He graduated to munching on bread sticks before supper. Soon it will be olives and roasted beets and stinky cheeses. 

Kids grow up. They're good at that. And we just sit on the sideline, wondering what just happened...

 

With love...

puzzles

It's like jumping into the icy waters of Lake Monona in February to raise money for a cause. Or buying a pet rock. Or wearing cat-eye glasses. It's a fad. So I resisted it in the same way that I did not jump into a cold lake, nor own a pet rock, nor choose pointy frames for my eye glasses.  I did not play Wordle. Not until 7 days ago, when I said what the hell and took the plunge. No, of course I wont join the club of result posters. For one thing, a good score on my part may simply mean that I have more time to waste on thinking about the possibilities. Unlike, say,  team big T, composed of Snowdrop, dad and mom, whose goal is to finish the darn thing at breakfast (which they do), before they all have to leave to get to school by 7:40. I'd crumble under such pressure!

So it turns out I like Wordle. And I like the NYT Spelling Bee (which I just tried today), though possibly not enough to pay their extra monthly fee for it. I think word puzzles should be free for seniors. You want to keep their brains exercised so that they don't develop dementia and cost the taxpayer extra money in needed services. But how do I feel about adding these brain teasers to my "goof off" list? That list has things on it that take me away from my platinum level "awesome ambitions" list. Is it okay to not be inspiring or productive or mega-creative at age 68? Can I shed my life long ambitions, in the same way I have given up on bikinis and skinny low-rise jeans?

Ed asks almost every day if I will ever return to my book writing. But I think he's merely speaking to his own momentary laziness. He still aims to get things done. Big ticket items. Inventions and designs. People doing nothing make him nervous. There but for the grace of God walketh he. Me, I think my whole person is telling me to quit making grand plans. Puzzles are an important component of that process of letting go. I know that the president of the United States is ten years older than me and has to keep straight many important details like which country is an evil enemy and which is our best friend forever. But he also has a staff that walks his dogs and writes his emails for him when he's feeling not quite up to snuff. And I bet he did a good number of puzzles on that train ride home to Wilmington Delaware each weekend, because you can't just always read policy papers and write proposals for new legislation.

 

In the afternoon I got my shingles vacc no.2 (I still need no.3 down the road). I read a compelling piece (in the NYorker) about the unexpected consequences of being fully vaccinated (I'm talking about ALL your recommended vaccinations, not only Covid). And I had to smile: so, you think vaccinations may lead to unknown bad outcomes down the road? Think again. It appears that vaccinations may well protect you in ways beyond shielding you from the disease under consideration. Your flu shot may have boosted your resistance to Covid. Your polio -- to the flu. And so on. So, I'm loading up: shingles vax, get to work on boosting my immunity in general, so that I can do more puzzles, write at least a few stories and still travel far and wide.

(As a side note, I do find it remarkable that the recommended Shingles vaccine is not covered by Medicare. I mean, you're told to get it, right there on the state registry and on your MyChart page. And then boom! You get the tab for close to a couple of hundred. Our preventive health care system is so messed up!)

This is my day then. I did not take my camera out, except once, for breakfast, and only because I thought the tulips looked liked they deserved a moment of glory.

What, you think my day looks gloomy? It doesn't though! Oh fine -- here's a sweet bright spot -- a screenshot from tonight's FaceTime with Primrose. We both happened to be munching on apple chicken sausages and playing with our spinach.

There. Happiness abounds. Look left, look right, look in front of your nose. It's there.

With love.

things are what they are

Find the good, be grateful, keep the hope -- remember how hard it was to live by those words at the beginning of the pandemic? Things have improved. It's less of a stretch to search for joy when infections rates are going down and hospitals (at least here in my region) are discharging many of the Covid patients. And we are finding the good in this snowless winter. And we are grateful that we had this short time with the sweetest cat we're ever likely to know.

It's not that RD Berry has died. Quiet the contrary -- he is doing well. Ed did not manage to comb out many of his clumps of matted hair, but he looks only a little ugly now. And the face and the soul -- all charm.

But he wants to go out. It's not good to keep him in the shed, even though it is warm there and we bring him lots of food and rub his cheeks and Ed plays a solid hour with him each day. RD Berry looks out the window, he sees the other cats, he watches the deer graze at dusk and he wants to be part of it. Even as we have 6 stubborn cats who have marked their turf and accept no other feline into what they consider to be their farmette lands. You know, they pay the taxes, and feed the cheepers, so it must be theirs.

If we let RD Berry loose, they will chase her away, just like they've chased all other ferals and strays -- Pancake, Marmalade, Coon Guy -- they came, they stayed for a bit, loving the food we left for them and then they got chased away. 

The only thing left is to take the abandoned and neglected RD Berry to the Humane Society. They will care for him, they will chip him, and they will find him a good home. That is the hope. (I refuse to go through Craigslist again: placing two reasonably friendly feral kittens through  Craigslist was awful: they switched homes constantly and in the end one escaped and never returned.) 

We sure will miss his gentle ways and gracious acceptance of whatever is handed to him.

It's very sad to see him go.

 

At home, I bake. When in a kerfuffle, I bake. I pick out a Ricotta Blackberry-Blueberry cake. Many berries to honor RD Berry.

And in the afternoon, I bring Snowdrop to the farmhouse. 

She is in a philosophical mood. I should be able to handle a 7-year old's philosophical mood, but I find myself stumbling. She goes right to the heart of it: meaning of life, what if this, what if that... Surely it is not my place to punch holes in her belief systems, her dreamy imaginative world -- who am I to say no, Virginia (Snowdrop), there is no Santa Claus (quest for magic in real life). 

We stay in the car in the farmette driveway, motor off. She seems determined to get me to commit to something. I go for the copout -- "different people believe different things..." But in today's times, I feel this has to be further qualified. I mean, there are verifiable facts and there are wild conspiracy theories. How do you preserve fantasy for a child and at the same time teach her that truth is fact-based? 

I remember this happening with my kids too: when they were very young, I thought -- my, the physical work in caring for them is brutal! I can't wait until parenting moves to challenging discussions, rather than wiping noses and playing dress up. And then one day it moved to challenging discussions and I thought Holy Granola! They can really ask the tough ones!

And then, in one snap, Snowdrop turns off her serious deliberations and skips to the farmhouse.

I had moved a bookshelf from the upstairs bedroom into their playroom. The chapter books have been stacked in piles all over the place (there's no room on the picture book shelves). She needs easier access to them. Too, I have to get her permission to move out the endless series that she has outgrown. Sophie the Mouse -- all 40 books. Critters Club -- same thing. I doubt her brothers will reach for these. Maybe Primrose and Juniper would like these books with strong female protagonists. Daisy Dawson, Cam Jansen, Just Grace... But do I need to keep dozens upon dozens on the off chance they might someday like these when passing through here? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I bring Snowdrop home, I find her two brothers playing with blocks and structures on a mat together. True, the little guy is content just clutching a block in his sweet chubby hand. Building is not in his skill set yet. But it will be. Very soon, it will be.

 

At the farmhouse, the cats come in, go out, come in again. I shake my head at them: guys, you shouldn't have chased Berry out. I know you cant help yourselves, but still, you shouldn't have. Sigh... We love you anyway you crazy animals! Yeah, we love you anyway.

Monday

A ridiculous day! 

The animals thought it was the onset of spring. Chicks hiked to the garage, the cats perched on tree stumps.

Breakfast started off well enough...

... but in the middle of it, I got a text that my groceries had been delivered. Groceries included ice cream for the kids, so I needed to get up and refrigerate the darn yogurt pops. I checked the back door (where the bags should be delivered). Not there. I checked the front door (where they are sometimes mistakenly delivered). Not there. I checked the porch (where they are delivered when it rains; it's not raining, but still...). Not there. 

Finally, I clicked on the photo they take of the bags once delivered. Seriously? They're by my mom's mailbox at her Assisted Living residence.

Well, at least I got to say a quick hello before I scooted off to bring the bags with ice cream pops home.

And then I chased a vision. For the rest of the day. A vision of what I would do in March, given that March is never a great month here in south central Wisconsin, at the same time that this year, March may offer us at least a partial reprieve from Covid prison. So I made plans. Big and little, all day long. And it wasn't until the sun was getting low and the air was getting nippy once again that Ed and I looked at each other and said -- shall we? And off we went to move our legs some, because really, it's the only way to stay strong: get off that couch!

I'm still bracing the knee, but I swear it feels better rather than worse. At least that's the way the mind works when you look outside and you think -- my, next month we're getting sprung! And it will be spring! Amazing!

Sunday

1. RD Berry

RD Berry remains a big topic of discussion for us. Remember? She is that once lovely Coon-like cat who went backwards in life and turned into an ugly duckling. Her hair is densely matted and even Ed's patient comb has not undone what living in the wild had produced. But, she is darn friendly and easy to handle. So much so that we are convinced she isn't a true feral. She is gentle and kind and you could put her next to a baby and not worry that the kid will be scratched.

 

 

So what do we do with her??

For a couple of days, Ed tried out a new idea: he'd put her in the cage (she is so easy to handle!) and carry her to the sheep shed, so that the other cats to sniff and (cross your fingers) accept her. We don't want a seventh cat, but we prefer that than letting her cope with homelessness.

She hated being trapped in the cage while the cats sniffed. She threw up from the experience. So today, he brought her into the sheep shed and set her free. She looked around. One of the cats -- we call him Friendly, who knows why, he isn't that -- snarled and jumped at her from behind. She retreated and started marking space. Okay, time to call her what she is: She is a male cat! So, he didn't fight back, he just tried to carve out space for himself, away from Mr. Obnoxious.

Well that wont do! A marked up battle ground? The smell alone would be too much. Ed picked him up and took him back to the writer's shed.

Is there a Plan B? Nope.

 

2. Chocolate

Breakfast? Yesterday's pain au chocolat. I tell you, habit forming. 

I'm baking again today. Back to my Snacking Cakes book. I pick the "Chocolate Almond Olive Oil Cake with Raspberries." I know, that's a mouthful of descriptors, but each one is important. Without the dark cocoa, it wouldn't be chocolate. Without the almond flour, it wouldn't have that extra bite to it and without the Olive Oil, you'd be in milder territory. Oh, I should add yogurt to the title: without it, you wouldn't have the tang. The raspberries speak for themselves.

And it's delicious, though I'm wondering if the kids will agree. If ever there was an adult cake rather than a sweet and gooey concoction, this would be it. We will see tonight.

 

3. The End of Skiing?

While my friend in Michigan has been Nordic skiing for many hours each day, Ed and I have been slacking off. While the Olympics skiing event has showcased the beauty of this beloved sport of ours, we've been uninspired. Why? Well, there was maybe a day when the skiing conditions here have been perfect. On the other days, we made do. Either too icy or too thin. 

Still, looking ahead, I don't see any snow in the forecast and today's temps are going to creep over the freezing point. And so we decide it's worth giving it another try.

And it isn't great. Bare spots. Arresting twigs poking through. Ice on the trails. Basically, everything that could be wrong out there in our county park was wrong. Ah, but the air! Beautiful winter sunshine, just a dab of a cool breeze. We were glad to be outside.

But, unless we get a significant snow dump, we are done with skiing. A sad statement, coming as it is at the beginning of February!

 

4. Some Kind of Normal?

There is no question but that we are all putting back into our schedules activities that even a month ago seemed so out of reach that honestly I thought we would never return to things we did two years ago. Yesterday's trip to the bookstore was a great example of that. And this morning, I got a photo of Primrose, running with excitement to her ballet class in Chicago. They returned to in-person instruction last week. (I don't typically post pics taken by others, so enjoy this rare exception.)

Some of my firm pandemic holdouts (eating out and traveling) are going to be put to rest at the end of the month. What will remain is grocery shopping: I dont miss it, I dont want it, I'm going to stick with delivery, even if it does mean that I dont always get the veggie or fruit I want. Time. I am forever short on time. Ed keeps asking -- when  will I return to my novel writing? And I laugh at him and don't bother fabricating an answer. But if and when I again pick up my Second Book Project, it will be because I will have abandoned my weekly trudge to the grocery store. Three hours out of the day, right there, in my pocket!

4. Dinner

All three kids and both parents, here again, cheerful and exuberant. 

As to the cake? One child was okay with it, another loved it to pieces.  You can never predict how kids will react to a cake that's a little out of the ordinary. This one won them over. We'll see what next week's baking efforts will do for them.

the bookstore

I rarely unleash the emotions for things that are long gone. You'd think that in my senior-hood, I'd be more inclined to reminisce. To recall with fondness. To chuckle at a memory of some youthful transgression . But I don't often go there. Oh, sometimes I'll torture Ed by playing La ou je t'emmenerai ("where I'll take you") over and over on my smart phone. I consider it "our song" from years when we used to return each June to Sorede in the south of France. Hmm. Maybe I torture myself more than I torture him. But it happens rarely. The exception. My preferred path has always been to look forward.

But today I was pulled into one big nostalgic moment that lasted a good hour and it was intense.

It caught me by surprise. I had woken up way before Ed (whose sleeping cycle at the moment makes him a good candidate for watching the Olympics in China in real time, except that he's not a fan of watching the Olympics or any competitive sports period, even ones showcasing individual excellence; he says they're all too tribal and nationalistic). After feeding all those animals, I drove to Madison Sourdough Bakery because croissants on the weekend can be terribly habit forming.

And I took some croissants to my daughter's home, because that was the plan.

They'd munch on what would be their second breakfast and then we'd all bundle up and go.

Where? To the bookstore. 

Snowdrop had a Christmas gift certificate she wanted to use there and their mommy leveled the playing field a bit and told the kids they could each choose a few books to take home.  Sparrow was delighted.

Two things going on here: the fact that we are going to a REAL LIVE BOOKSTORE with a very large children's reading section (it's a chain -- Barnes & Noble, but still...), and secondly, the fact that we are going to a REAL LIVE STORE doing some REAL BUYING from REAL PEOPLE who take in cash or credit cards for your purchases.

When was the last time we all did any of that? The answer's too sad to think about.

Bookstores used to be an amazing place for me. When I moved from Poland to New York, once I finished my work as an au pair, I moved on to find work at a neighborhood bookstore. And I loved it! Despite the fact that it was tight and stuffy (the Paperback Forum, on Broadway, across the street from Columbia University), despite the fact that I was given the job of cashier -- way less sexy than actually shelving books and helping customers, despite the fact that I often had to close the shop at midnight and make my way back to the lower east side of the city, despite the fact that there were so many cockroaches that I could amuse myself by running an index card behind a cork bulletin board: it would always stir up a roach party -- despite all that, I loved that place and everything about it. If a book was hot (100 Years of Solitude!), I'd pick up a copy for myself (discount for employees!) and then read everything else the author wrote. In Poland I could only access English language books by raiding my parents' bookshelves. At the Paperback Forum, I had the written and published world before me. 

And that love of bookstores stayed with me. When I was looking for a home to move to after my divorce, I looked mainly at places that were within walking distance to Borders. And once I moved, I spent so much of my free time there! I was the person who hogged a cafe table with a stack of books to look through while I "sipped" my beverage. I spent a fortune in that shop! But mainly, I liked being there. I liked the proximity to great reading. So many shelves of great reading! 

 

 

(Sandpiper was a little gobsmacked by the whole outing today. A product of the pandemic, I'm not sure he's ever been inside a store. As for safety, for once I had no anxiety: one was vaccinated and all three had had Covid.

Many have said this, but I'll add my name to the very long list -- I surely think that Amazon has undone something fabulous and important, trading convenience and price (no small matter), and electronics (which do save trees), for sitting in a room with the smell of new books. Sure, the grandkids make frequent trips to the local library. They participate in the summer reading program there: read 50 books, get a free pizza. They love bringing home library books. But a bookstore -- that's a whole 'nother layer of pleasure. And my daughter was sweet enough to ask me to join in on the fun. And it was amazing.

is ignorance bliss?

1.  Avalanche

Last night I read about avalanches. The ones that typically slide down a mountain and bury anyone in their path. It appears that the spot I have decided would be the ideal skiing location, were I to travel anywhere to ski, is quite the hotbed of avalanche activity. I am curious how that plays out in the everyday lives of people who live there. Or travel to it. 

I learned that there are two types of avalanches and the ones that are the scariest (meaning fastest and doing, therefore, most damage) are slab avalanches, where bonded snow breaks off and roars down the incline. In spring, you tend to see many point release avalanches. The snow is wet and heavy and you rarely find people hanging out in danger zones. Deaths are less frequent.

Mountain ski areas rate the danger each day. They give a score to the likelihood of avalanche -- from 1 to 5. 1 Is the least likely, but they caution you it's not zero. There is, apparently, no such thing as a day with zero probability of an avalanche.

People that go off the trails (in North America, this is often not allowed, but in Europe it's permissible and many do this) are in far greater danger, and they are advised to travel with avalanche burial equipment. Transceivers, shovels, probes. The things is, you can't do yourself any good with these -- it's not as if you can dig yourself out of a burial -- it's for rescuing others near you who may have been swept away by moving snows. If you ski alone, all that stuff is pretty useless, especially since you have between 5 - 15 minutes before your own CO2 does you in. 

All this is super interesting, because frankly, in all my years of skiing, I never gave avalanches a second thought. For that matter, I never wore a helmet when downhill skiing. No one did. (Helmets are routine now: you're a fool to not put one on.) On my last Alpine skiing adventure (recorded here, 5 years ago), I ignored the dangerous winds, I was unaware of avalanche ratings, I was without head protection, and I seem to have skied through rib damage inflicted by some Russian skier who barrelled into me at top speed. 

I wonder if, knowing what I know now (about rib pain, about winds and avalanches), I would still have found myself on top of that Alpine ridge, looking down to Italy on one side and Switzerland on the other. Indeed, in these Covid times, would I even get on a gondola to get to that ridge in the first place?

Was it bliss then to live in ignorance?

2. Speak Your Mind

As you know, I maintain a strong connection to my friends in Poland. We often Zoom, I correspond heavily with one of them. I grew up in Poland as a little kid, then, too, as a teenager and university student. So you could say my formative years were spent in Poland. A Poland where even badass kids never talked back to a teacher. They smoked whatever they smoked outside of class, they skipped lessons and drank beer or vodka and probably snitched things that weren't for the taking. But they never talked back to a teacher. There was a line that you did not cross.

On the other hand, my elementary school years were spent in New York and I finished the university studies in New York and my mother herself spent pretty much all her formative years in New York. So there is a lot of New York in me.

I'm torn between the two cultures, that's for sure. And nowhere is this more evident than in the way I talk to people. Mine is a combination of blunt forwardness (the American influence) and cowardice in the face of authority (the Polish influence). And I don't mean political authority. I mean authority in school or at home. In my Polish world, young people were deferential to older people. Adult kids of my friends do not treat me as an equal. And my friends, I think, listen with horror when I sometimes lose the tone of respect that they maintain all the time when referencing those who are older in their family. My American side allows me to occasionally slip off that ladder of respect. Occasionally. Quietly, on the side. But, my Polish side (of my youth -- who knows how people act now) is rigidly in place: you never disrespect your elders to their face. Ed cannot understand this. He is blunt. He is honest. He does not cower. He hung up on his mother when she said things that were noxious. My Polish friends and I would never hang up on our mothers. (My mother shares the blunt speak that was handed to her in New York. She and Ed can blunt speak their way together through any problem.)

The thing is, the older I get the more I miss this here, in the US -- the reverence for age. Sure, in Poland you may curse your great aunt Jadwiga behind her back, but she will never know that you find her placement of a Christmas tree weird. She will go to her grave thinking that all those years, you loved her putting that tree on the kitchen table. 

Isn't it bliss to live in that kind of ignorance?

3. He Is Not An Angry Person

I have been together with Ed for more than 16 years and in all that time I have never heard him raise his voice in anger toward me. This is remarkable, because he is big, and he has a loud booming voice, and I am sure I have provoked him plenty of times. His preferred method is to grow quiet rather than grow loud when someone crosses him.

I should say that anger isn't something I have within me either, but I do get upset. You wont ever hear a torrent of curse words from me, but every half year or so, maybe even less frequently, I will unleash the fountain of tears and they will flow, and flow, and flow. And then I, too, will grow quiet. We are just not shouters, here at the farmhouse.

Some people will say that quiet aggression is nonetheless as noxious as hysterical wailing and shouting. I disagree. I'm with the opinion writer in the NYT today (read it here) who wonders whether we overuse and hyper-inflate words  to give them the strength they don't deserve. Experiencing obnoxiousness in another person doesn't necessarily inflict trauma. And no, every retreat into silence is not passive aggression. Just some of it is. You can usually tell the difference just by looking at the quiet person's intent.

I've always wondered if Ed had been different as a young guy. Surely in a house full of rowdy brothers, he was rowdy and angry right back at them. Surely he complained and yelled and whined when he was a little guy. But I prefer not to think back about him that far. I prefer to see him always as I know him today -- the quiet guy who never gets angry.

 

 

 

Isn't it bliss to live in ignorance (of someone's past behavior)?

4. The Knee

It turns out that the Ace bandage is fantastically effective on knees that have whatever my knee has going on inside.  So of course, living in a consumer culture, where more is thought to be better, I want to get the next better guard: the knee brace. 

Ed is skeptical. Wouldn't it be better to simply stay off the knee? Oh such naivete! There is no staying off the knee when you're around little kids, or when your home bathroom is up steep stairs, or when dinner preparation is all on you. (Please, no advice needed here: I do not want to eat meals cooked by Ed.) Besides, knee injuries take a long time to heal. I've had this one go down on me once before (from overuse, after days and days of nonstop walking/hiking). I need immediate relief. Life goes on! I need to move!

But, but aren't I asking for trouble in the long run?

Who can tell. My speculation about "trouble in the long run" did not anticipate a pandemic that would rip two years out of my senior travels. I do not know what next year will bring.

And perhaps ignorance is bliss.

5. The Child

Once again I am with Snowdrop. She had proclaimed, in a very Anne of Green Gables way, that today is going to be the best day of her life! I wondered if we should do something in the afternoon to commemorate that, but in the end, we just came home to the farmhouse. The sun was out in a patchy sky for a bit, but then it disappeared and a haze of insignificant light snow rolled in. Snowdrop just wants to come in and do what we always do: play, read, eat. The trilogy of pleasures.

As I watch her play and spin her stories, I think about the defining characteristics of this child. In many ways, she is like any other seven year old. But I do believe that each child has her superpower. And there is one place (well, more than one, but let's stay with this for a while) where I think she stands out (and this is what draws kids to her): she practices intentional kindness. It's on her mind. And I distinguish this from politeness (I still have to occasionally remind her to say hi/bye and please/thank you), or from compliance (Snowdrop, put that down please -- will not always have the effect of her putting that down; she negotiates!). This girl worries about saying or doing something hurtful.

[I should note that on the car ride home I asked her what she thought was her super strength or power. She threw the question back at me and I gave my answer. Then she said -- I guess I'd add imagination. I think I have a good imagination!]

(snow?)

Her empathetic soul makes it difficult to introduce stories or a history where people deliberately hurt each other. Not even just physically, but at the level of feelings. She can watch Disney movies where monsters chase innocents and horrible storms wreck ships and swallow up the universe, but show her a movie where someone says something intentionally mean and she runs to the art room and closes the door. At this age, my daughters already knew about the Holocaust. But Snowdrop would have an even harder time processing something so violently cruel.

For now, for her, ignorance is bliss.

Evening. Soup's on the stove. A mass of veggies and beans, a squirt of lime, a sprinkle of Parmesan. Twinkling lights, a sliver of a moon.

With love...