golden path

You have to keep up the fight against bad news. Or at least you have to find that golden path that lets you keep the spirit despite the small and large punches. Your health, your friends' health, admired people's health -- those punches are constant. Then there's that smaller smorgasbord of hits: punches landing right in your garden. Today, for example, Ed found the first tell tale signs of a tomato blight. He lost a crop to it last year. We moved the planting area, we took precautions. The plants are robust and thriving. Millions of tomatoes, ready to grow and ripen. And then boom! The spotted leaf shows up, at first just one, and before long, I expect they will all wither and the plants will keel over. So you get these knocks, and you hear other people's sad stories, really sad stories and you want to do something but of course all you can do is stay on a golden path of gratitude for all that's not wrong with your loved ones, your friends, your gardens.

My golden path this morning is through the flower fields. Maybe its magic will rub off here, on Ocean. Want to give it a try? Tag along!

(Ah, this really is a path -- a "secret" one that the kids use to get to the farmhouse door)

(Almost all the lilies here were planted a year ago so this is their first year of full bloom)

Another place of lily magic -- the Big Bed. With a big true lily stealing the spotlight right now.

Yet another -- the bed near the parking spaces. Again, true lily to the left, day lily to the right. Clematis in the back, tying it all together.

When I first moved here, there were many, many raspberry bushes, growing everywhere. Once the shade of the big trees took hold, they stopped producing and so I mowed them down. Still, pockets of raspberries remain and we always get a few handfuls of the lovely fruit.

Breakfast, with peaches from our favorite peach farm (Dickey's).

Oh, here's another calming device: bake the Best Ever blueberry muffins! It's the season for blueberries and ours, here in Wisconsin, are fabulous! Really fabulous. So, out comes the mixing bowl and within a short hour I have these:

In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop from Invention Camp. We know nothing about this program except that one of her school friends wanted to do it with her and so excitedly, she set off. Her report this afternoon? It was great. (This has been her report from every program she has attended this summer.)

(car snack between activities)

I have her eat something and then we go to her tennis lesson -- it was on hold because of various trips and holidays, but now she's hitting those balls again. (Well, first she insists on a few minutes on the nearby playground. We're early.)

And after? Softball. All under beautiful summer skies.

As for her two brothers -- I see Sandpiper fleetingly, but honestly, it's not a week where I will see much of them at all. Our schedules are complicated! It's a good thing we haven't yet totally forgotten who picks up whom at what time and where. Well, maybe we did that once. Everyone survived!

With love...

peace and quiet

It's so darn quiet without the swallows! Oh, other birds do engage in conversations, but swallows had their own voice and, too, their movement -- quick, graceful -- filled the space with energy. We scratch our heads and puzzle over this: how did they all decide to leave at once? Dozens of them! Packed their little swallow suitcases, set the alarm clock and took off. Such a well coordinated exodus! Only their nests remain. 

[If you stare at the sky long enough, you will see that at least one swallow stayed behind. Dozens have left, but one dug in her heels and refused. Why? or, is she the mom of a little bird who, halfway through the day announced that she cannot find her teddy bear? Did the mom come back to look for the lost stuffy? Clearly we have no knowledge of what goes on in a swallow's head.]

It's quiet too because the development that sprung to the north and to the west does not provide much lawn space and indeed, many of the homeowners have opted for prairie patches over lawn. So we don't have the usual suburban sounds of lawnmowers. Ed thought they might have rules about when or even if you can mow, but regardless, none are audible on this Sunday morning. Which makes it all the more embarrassing that we should be the ones making noises. Or at least Ed is. The 60 year old tractor is now running thanks to his tinkering and he is aiming to try tilling the lands out back. It will not be quiet!

But that's for another hour. In the morning, I walk through the flower beds, snipping, pulling and admiring and I revel in the peace of that moment, where nothing matters except for the count of spent lilies falling into the green bucket. Between 200 and 300 today. 

(This clematis fills the tripod with purple blooms right about... now!)

(I planted the day lily before a seed from the crab planted itself behind it and grew into a rather large tree!)

(How I love this meadow in the new orchard!)

(Bold Beatrice gets to the corn before I throw my morning handful out onto the dirt.)

(Bossy Cherry and Unfriendly One, or is it Two? -- finding comfort in shade and water)

Over breakfast, we talk about the swallows in the way that you keep talking about your kids after they've packed up and moved. You try to switch gears, but it doesn't happen right away. 

Eventually we turn to reflecting about our "neighbors." The ones across the road that are botching an "urban farming" operation. And the ones who have moved into the new neighborhood. The median strips there have mini prairies planted (instead of grass) and I'm curious about one of the flowers. It's beautiful and I cannot readily identify it.Ed and I walk over to inspect it.  Is it Ironweed? Want to help me out here?

(close up!)

As we walk in the warm sun, we see a bird hovering -- one that's bigger than our beloved swallows. It's a beautiful reminder of the richness of diversity. You miss one bird, but hey, you have another -- different, with different habits, but magnificent to watch nonetheless.

We cut through the prairie to the north of the farmette...

And now we're back, working at our chosen tasks.

In the evening, the young family is here for dinner. It's a little bit tricky because all kids were exposed to a case of Covid last week, but they appear healthy and all tests come back negative. Dodged that bullet! 

It's warm, but clouds help keep the heat down. A dinner on the porch is worth it in any case. 

I watch these swallow-like little ones and I think -- it's never dull with kids at the table.

(the dish says "peach," the mouth says "chocolate!" How can that be?)

Evening. I think how quickly summer days go by. They should be longer, what with all those daylight hours and yet they zip like a child on a zipline. One minute I'm cutting fruits for breakfast, the next -- I'm putting away supper dishes and Ed is asking me if I'd like some popcorn. 

No matter. Summer evenings are beautiful. Cool enough for opening the windows. And you know that soon, very soon, a new morning will bring its bounty of flowers and fruits and birds and kids and hope. As wise people tell us -- life is good so long as you can get up in the morning with the belief that there will be joyful elements to the day. And we do. And I hope you do as well. [Here's my reading suggestion for those of you who start the day with a scouring of the news, only to feel like slowly any joie de vivre is being sucked out of you. At least this author will tell you -- quit poring over the news with diligent attention to every detail. Your mental health deserves a better beginning to the day.]

To a happy and peaceful morning tomorrow! With lots of joie looming before you.

adventurous spirits

I'm wondering if we should finally name the four Bresse hens that we added to the brood of cheepers. Typically I hand over that task to the kids and we have had some very inspired animal names as a result. The first stray matriarch cat was called Stop Sign. (The name grows on you, really it does!) Her daughter has the name of Dance. All good. And it's not as if Ed and I have been stellar name givers: Out of the six cats living here, Dance and Tuxie were named by others, but the rest were our choices. Two nearly identical dark Tabbys we've called Friendly One and Friendly Two, even though only one of them is super friendly (to the point of being obsequious -- a name I have added to him). The other two lighter Tabbys? Unfriendly One and Unfriendly Two, because they were the more skittish of the lot. But Unfriendly One (a girl) is actually very friendly these days, so the name is completely wrong. Still, be careful what you call your pets and kids and significant others, because names and nicknames stick!

With respect to the Bresse hens -- well, a couple of people pointed out that naming an animal you're going to eat seems wrong. You're confusing pets and food. Okay, fine. We did not name them.

But as time passes, the idea that we will butcher these hens is getting to be more remote. They are indeed easy to care for and they may supplement our egg collection. Peach, our oldest hen has pretty much aged out of egg laying and we expect that Henny will also stop soon. Shouldn't we just keep these four for their eggs?

Before we brought them home, I tossed around these names -- Lazy Daisy, Dizzy Lizzy, Grumpy Greta and Creamy Mimi. But that was before I recognized personalities. Now I'm thinking I should stick with Lazy Daisy, but switch the others to Bold Beatrice (which Ed will never remember), Little Lotta (which is very hard to say!), and Middle Maddie (because there is one that just does not stand out!). Only Bold Beatrice and Little Lotta are distinguishable from the pack. Lazy Daisy and Middle Maddie? What can I say... Twins.

I was thinking about chickens today because for the first time, one of the Bresse hens came out on the path and explored it all the way to the courtyard, where the big kids were hanging. Bold Beatrice is rather fearless.

She'll leave her sisters if she hears me coming and she hovers near me to see if I come with an offering of food. It was nice to see her adventurous spirit really start to kick in.

(The older cheepers still assert their chicken superiority on the Bresse girls, but not as often and not as forcefully. Thank goodness. Here's Uni, taking a lily stroll!)

The day is splendid weather wise and the plan was for me to meet up with the young family at our community pool. After I do my lily rounds of course. 

(It's always exciting to step out in the morning!)

[I can't say that I have a favorite day lily, but I will admit to liking some of the colors especially much. Take the South Seas variety: I love the way a peachy tone flows into a raspberry blush. You don't often think of orange as pairing well with pink, yet in this flower, it's a stunning blend. All this around a yellow throat. Simply sublime!]

Okay, walk with me to see what's blooming out there!

(the tree frog has found her home for the day; tomorrow she'll have to pick a different lily.)

(peek-a-boo!)

A breakfast pause.

But at the pool, I get a surprise: somehow I had failed to notice on the website that the community pool is closed today. We met up alright, all dressed for the pool only to have the gates shut in our face. A quick recalculation had us pick the closest open and wet alternative -- Fitchburg's Splash Pad. 

Of the three kids, Snowdrop has the best time getting soaked by all the fountains and sprinklers.

Sparrow is less thrilled by surprise bursts of water.

Sandpiper? His instincts say "go for it," but he does have slight reservations.

For all his bravado, when you take him to a place full of strangers, the little guy will actually reign in his desire to run far and grab anything in sight. Mommy's lap is a safe retreat.

(Snowdrop, on the other hand is off and running. Total water kid. Though of course, she is a whole lot older than Sandpiper. He may get there too! )

There is a playground next to the Splash area and the bigger two found some amusement there as well.

So no, we did not swim, but yes, we got wet anyway. And the sun was out and a puffy cloud would drift by and the world felt like such a calm and comforting place and yes, perceptions are everything!

In the evening I make a pot of veggie soup. I have to use up last year's tomatoes and corn and this year's onion, beans, carrots, scapes, cabbage, kale, and spinach.

We eat outside on this most perfect evening and we notice the quiet. And the stillness. 

The swallows have gone. They came, they nested, they grew little ones. And then, in one fell swoop, they all left. Where to? Believe it or not, they've likely started their migration south to South America. And yes, it feels empty without them. Like kids going off to college. One day here, next day picking up their lives elsewhere. But, like college kids, these swallows will be back. Next spring. We're counting the days!

Have a safe journey little guys. Thank you for bringing us so much joy.

With love...