to be bad at something

Last week, during a restaurant dinner with the young family, Snowdrop took out a pack of conversation cards. You pick a card and then go around the table discussing the question asked. It was actually more fun than it sounds. Us grownups had to think deeply and come up with honest answers to stuff we dont often think about. Like this one: what hobby do you wish you'd take up? 

It's easy to come up with ones you're already trying to perfect. For me, that would be writing, photography, growing flowers, getting more fluent in French. But new ones? By the time you're 70, you pretty much will have tried anything on your wish list, or given up. But they pushed me and so I finally blurted out -- ballet. I got a lot of quizzical looks on that one. Ballet? Seriously?

The thing is, I'm terrible at it. At least I was made to feel that I am terrible at it when I took ballet lessons in Poland at age 6. Somehow to those watching (mostly the teacher and my family at home), I didn't appear to have the makings of a ballet dancer. After a childhood year of beginning barre work (it seemed interminable), I gave up, choosing instead more "tomboy" (remember that word? difficult years to be a girl) activities. Skateboard, jackknife in my jeans pocket, tree climbing -- that kind of thing. On my own, because there weren't many girls interested in skateboarding, jackknife games, or tree climbing (living in New York City may have had something to do with that). 

So why did I blurt out ballet now, over a beer in a Quebec restaurant?

My younger daughter was a dancer. Her ballet was exquisite. And I know from those years of watching her dance, watching her peers dance, that for all its virtues, advanced ballet is ruinous of your feet, and demanding of a ballet figure and form that is devastating to both those who can never have it, and not much better for those who strive to achieve it.

And I want to dance ballet?

The fact is, I love the movement. The precise yet fluid motion. The balance, the demands on your limbs and core -- it's all beautiful! In my imagination, I do not dance, I don't do arabesques, I don't spin. I just do the movements, perfecting them slowly, over time.

And wouldn't you know it, this morning, there appeared in the paper an article about seniors who in their retirement took up ballet. Well that caught my attention! And, according to the wise women and men who practice this form of dance way into their 70s, the benefits are greater than any stretch you can get from yoga. (Balance! Ballet is all about balance!)

So this morning, after feeding the animals and not doing much in the garden...

I take a walk in the neighborhood of the new development (those rings!!) and then I go on Amazon and buy ballet shoes -- a $13 investment into my new hobby! (Lessons? No need! I don't want added Covid risks! For now, there is my friend YouTube. I'm excited!)

I tell Ed about this over breakfast. Predictably, he laughs.

(Ed is the kind of partner who makes you strong by all the teasing and rib cracking and knuckle pulling he does with you.)

In the afternoon, I pick up just Snowdrop at school. We are still finessing the schedule. This week, I am to take her to the farmhouse then to a ballet class. Next week will be different and the week after -- different still. For now, I'm just rolling with whatever works for the young family. So, farmhouse, then ballet. For her!

(chomping down a croissant while getting ready; sometimes it seems that the after school afternoon is one long snacking session!)

And after dance, I drive home and reheat the squash curry from last night. Portions in our restaurants are always very very large!

And in between all those moments and thoughts and shoe acquisitions and ballet preparations (for Snowdrop), I keep thinking about our hobbies. Did you ever plunge into something you're not good at because you enjoy it anyway? You did? Good for you!

with love...

roll

I'm definitely on a September roll of strong movement and ring closure (on my watch) every day. The goal of keeping this up is to undo pressure points and stay flexible and strong and yet, here I am pressuring myself to keep the routine going! We are a strange species...

So, early in the morning, I step out, sweatshirt zipped up (because it is autumn-cold outside!), feed the animals, throw a glance at the garden...

... and along with Ed, set out on a bike loop. Nothing unusual, nothing too demanding (45 minute total), but the cool air and the brisk wind really got us going! With a pause to admire the Sandhills...

... and to appreciate the strong colors on Lake Waubesa.

Breakfast follows. Inside, because a snug kitchen beats a cool porch.

In the time that follows, I read a whole bunch of stuff on Gertrude Stein. There was a time when I admired her writing, but I knew little about her last years of life and since I know there's going to be an exhibition featuring, among other things, her life and work, and most likely I will be attending the exhibition (later in the season), I decided to fill in some blanks.

Here's the thing: how do you look at art, how do you read literature, when you know that the artist or author lead a life and had allegiances to people of dubious merit? I remember a while back reading about Monet (whose art I've always found to be dreamlike and beautiful) and learning that he had really worked his kids hard in his gardens, giving them jobs they hated. Does that give you pause when you look at his paintings from the gardens at Giverny? Similarly, if Gertrude Stein, or for that matter any other artist/author, had personal histories or political allegiances that many would consider troubling, do you let that creep into your judgment of their art (or writing)? 

I'm thinking about it and am sure to return to this in October, after I've seen the exhibition.

In the afternoon I pick up the two older kids. The young one had already been asking if vacation is around the corner. The older one is more at home in the classroom, being nearly at the end of her elementary school years. 

(today, they find each other in the "car line")

Are we establishing solid routines here at the farmhouse yet? Gettin' there. 

In the evening I pick up some take-out Laotian food. One of those things -- I read an article reminding me of how good that food can be and I could not resist. I am easily swayed by the written word. Ed is amused.

A crisp day, a pretty day. May this autumn hand us many exactly like it!

clock strikes one...

By the time the clock did strike one (in the afternoon), I had just finished putting away the last breakfast dish. Or was it lunch dish? How can you tell one meal from the other? 

I felt I had lived a week in the hours leading up to the morning, no, noon-ish meal. Maybe not a week. Maybe 35 years. Or more.

Here's how it all unfolded: 

I'm up early again. At sunrise, though there is no sun to give us a hint of the earliness of the hour.

The animals, as yesterday, are surprised. Why the early feed? The bizarrely off-hour walk through the flower fields? But hey, okay, we'll eat now. Humans are strange. We already know that.

By 7, I am in the car, driving again to my daughter's house. First day of school for the kindergartner! He's excited. We're all nervous for him. The older one and the younger one are also getting ready for school. But it's their second day. It's all familiar stuff for them. But how will the middle guy manage??

I drive home, throw down my car keys, and put in an order for croissants at Madison Sourdough. The older kids like fresh croissants for a snack. I can freeze a bunch to have on hand as they plead great unfathomable hunger here after school. (The trick is to freeze croissants when they are still supremely fresh. I once had the idea that frozen two day old croissants would regenerate their freshness in the oven -- as if the staleness never happened. It does not work that way. Freeze straight from the bakery or not at all.) 

Then I bike over to pick up my order. That's a 45 minute ride. Perfect on this cooler day.

From there, I bike to the Square, where I have a meetup with a friend with whom I lost contact a good 35 years ago. She lives right here, in Madison, and our families were friends, good friends. Indeed, they hosted a baby shower for one of my soon to be born daughters. Yet eventually life carried us in different directions. The curtain fell. We didn't stay connected. 

Why does that happen? 

I suppose one answer is that it happens more often if you are "couples friends." Meaning, your friendship stays alive because each of the four people maintains an emotional attachment to the remaining three. It can even stay alive (sometimes) if you feel yourself disconnecting from just one. Any more loosening between the four and you all drift apart. That surely happened to us some three dozen years ago. 

But of course, when you retire, and especially if you're no longer married to one of the people in the configuration, then it's a new ball game altogether. It's like hitting the refresh button and looking at an entirely new screen, with some familiar elements still lurking at the sidelines.

So we found each other (it's not hard if you at all participate in social media) and had this date for a coffee and that is how I spent a couple of very lovely hours reviewing 35 years of life.

From there I bike home, and now it's close enough to lunch that I can eat a meal and call it that, or breakfast, since it's composed of typical breakfast foods and Ed joins me on the porch and that's also not a lunch thing, because when have you seen the two of us enjoying a porch lunch together? That's right -- never.

In the early afternoon I drive over to pick up the two big kids at their elementary school. And this is when the rains come down. An unexpected and very localized cloudburst, just as they're letting the first kindergarteners out.

Not knowing that the little kids are let out two minutes earlier, Snowdrop spends a frantic few moments searching for her brother. She finally comes out in the rain and blurts out -- I've looked everywhere!

Um, he's in the car.

We drive home in the pounding rain. Which has not arrived at the farmhouse yet, nor will it be copious once it does.

Yes, their day surely had bumps. Probably more than these two are willing to spell out (Sparrow said something about a noise he did not like!). An interesting article in the NYTimes recently discussed the virtue of not probing too deeply into a child's school experiences, since it is in fact the last bastion of privacy for a child who is otherwise supervised and watched over incessantly by the protective cadre of caregivers. I sort of agree, but not totally -- so I do ask and I work with whatever they want to offer up for discussion.

But, too, the day had awesome moments of joy and independent surges of satisfaction. 

Which is as it should be.

At the farmhouse, we are developing new routines. The older girl has reigned here by herself since Covid interrupted a past after-school routine with her brother here. It's important to let her retain some of her favorite habits, but it's equally important for him to feel like his time here is also valuable. We are figuring it out. (Both kids love the farmhouse and so it's actually not too hard to keep them happy here. She'll forever love to read, he'll forever love to build...)

At the end of the day I deposit the two older ones at the school of now only their young brother. It is a joyful reunion of the three. (The squabbling may happen later, but right now, the bond of starting this new school year together, albeit in different classes and structures, is strong and outweighs any competitive  urges and surges between the three.)

(waiting for parents to arrive for the pick up...)

I return to a quiet farmhouse. Ed is on his Wednesday bike ride. I settle in to a slightly bigger cooking ambition: I work with our tomatoes to prepare a broth for a hunk of cod that I defrosted for supper. You need to get creative when you have so many tomatoes claiming space on your kitchen counter. 

A beautiful day. For me at least. For you as well I hope.

with love...

a new year

All Wisconsin kids start school today (DPI mandates that no school may begin instruction before September 1st). Well, there's no such thing as "all." For example, although Snowdrop and Sandpiper do begin their new academic year today, Sparrow has to wait. His kindergarten class has a staggered first day and his happens to fall on... tomorrow!

Tradition has it that I show up at the young family's house to take that first school day photo. Not that the parents aren't capable of snapping a picture of the kids, but it is something that I love doing and in this as in so many other ways they indulge me.

To meet this (self-imposed) obligation, I am up at sunrise. School starts at 7:40, so I must be on the road by 7 to get to their house, or else!

Which means I have to do the animals on the early side. But oh, how lovely it is here, at the farmette just at sunrise!

When I arrive at the young family's home, I see a semi-excited Sparrow. Though it's not his first day, still, there is a buzz in the air and he is feeling it -- the whole "new school year" thing that perhaps affects him most of all, since he'll be switching schools and entering an entirely new learning environment.

Okay big girl and little guy -- let's get those first day pictures taken!

The Third grader (with an extra large backpack this year):

The Toddler Two boy (with a loaded backpack as well):

And now one parent takes Sandpiper to school, I take Snowdrop to school, and one parent stays home with Sparrow. I tell you, mornings are complicated! But, mommy has gotten those packs packed and lunches and snacks appropriately selected and everyone is set to plunge into a new year!

Me, I return to the farmhouse. We're having one last super hot day today and so any ambitious outdoor movement should take place early. Meaning now!

The two of us bike over to the park and walk our usual walk. It's beautiful out there! Fields of goldenrod against a very pretty sky.

And only after we're done with our walk and our bike ride do we sit down to breakfast. So long as we're returning to a scheduled existence, I may as well return to the old reliable oatmeal.

Here's another return to an old normal: I bake blueberry muffins for the kids.

Because they do believe they are the best muffins in the world. I love their faith in what I do in the farmhouse kitchen. It makes me feel like I'm doing my grandmother job well.

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. On nearly all school days, I'll be picking up both her and her kindergarten brother, but today it's just her and so I get to gently give her a chance to tell stories from her day.

(picking tomatoes from a volunteer tomato plant by the path)

All seems okay so far for all five of my grandkids. Not unexpected, but still -- always a relief to see the kids retain their enthusiasm for school. 

(Later, at the drop off point where her youngest brother still goes to school)

Evening. Leftovers, and calm. And a great big smile.

Labor Day

It was very satisfying to see many people -- walkers, bikers, joggers -- out on the bike path early this morning. Labor Day should give you that: a morning to recoup, reflect, rejuvenate your soul, all in a natural setting, so that you can come that much closer to a feeling of peace and serenity. Ready to hop back on the treadmill tomorrow!

Ed and I were out there, early bikers that we've become, because it's so damn hot later in the day. And so I wake up, feed the animals...

(the last lilies)

... and then call out to Ed, who would probably enjoy a few more minutes, make that a few more hours of sleep, but still, he shouts back "I'm coming" and we are off.

Nothing about the ride is unusual, except that we add a tiny snippet to our regular old loop, making it a 55 minute ride. (Just enough to make at least one of my watch rings happy!)

But despite its predictability, it's a heavenly ride. Fields of goldenrod, fields of Sandhills... Heavenly.

(I suppose not so heavenly was the sudden pinch I felt near my breast going uphill on the rural road. While pedaling, I reached inside my shirt and pulled out a yellow jacket. Dumb bug: paid with his life for his miscalculation!)

And we detour to Lake Waubesa, just to appreciate that small body of water, even if it suffers in the way that all our nearby lakes are suffering from too much muck in it right now (and all summer long).

Breakfast is timed to be more like brunch, but on the porch and beautiful in its simplicity and calm.

Two things of note from this afternoon: I bought a ticket to a museum for an exposition in October. One that I know I will love, if only the crowds wont push me out to the sidelines. Secondly, I read the article in the NYTimes about Elaine LaLanne. It brought back memories (both for Ed and for me) of our youth, when, back in the 1960s, we'd channel surf and stumble inadvertently on Jack LaLanne's program promoting fitness and a bunch of other health-related habits that were rather novel for that decade. (Jack was her husband.) I include the article for you here if you, like me, have too few older people who serve as good role models for where you may want to see yourself in the last decades of your life. People who have had great sorrow, but managed nonetheless to live with cheer and purpose. People who view senior years as not something straight out of a horror show, but just one more stage in life that offers interesting possibilities for a life well lived. People who you admire for their acknowledgement that some problems are very real, but so many, way too many, are there because you've let them fester and grip your soul. People who don't give up on joy. It's a very paltry set. I know nothing about Elaine except for what I read in this short piece, but I have to say, her clichéd sayings and aphorisms brought a smile to my face. I like them! Maybe you will too.

In the evening, the young family is here for Sunday dinner. I know, I know, it's not Sunday! But, we are celebrating Labor Day together and it feels so good to see their smiling faces here at the farmhouse once again.

And now it's time to face the new academic year. Kids, may it be a splendid one for you!

With love...

obsession

Refresh. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Once more. Nothing. Same screen, promising an answer today, but when? Yesterday, they posted at 7:10 a.m. Refresh, refresh. 7:30, 7:45. Nothing new. Refresh. 8 a.m.: bingo!

Ed, they have it! Today, starting at 9! They just posted on Facebook!

Just enough time to feed the animals and water the pots outside. It's going to be a very hot day.

By 8:42 we are off, on our bikes, racing down the big hill, across the highway, over to Stoneman's Farm. 

Careful Ocean readers will have noted over the years that I love Stoneman's sweet corn. In the past, they'd start the harvest around July 20th and continue until Labor Day. This year the weather really played a nasty trick. If you planted after the April rains and if you did not have an irrigation system in place, your corn was not going to germinate in the drought that plagued us all May and April.  They replanted again and again, and crossed their fingers and still the weather was only partially on their side. It took this long for them to get their first solid batch of corn to the farm stand.

Is it the best in the world, most awesome corn you can find? Maybe. I mean, if you blind sampled Stoneman's against Natalie's, Tipi's, and maybe even Eugster's, you could pick it out if you are a knowledgeable consumer of corn, in the same way that you could pick out a Stradivarius if you are a knowledgeable violin person. But honestly, the differences between these top growers are tiny. Unless you serve your corn perfectly steamed, on a special plate all on its own, your corn eaters are not going to appreciate the delicate sweet kernels, that shot of sweetness in the mouth, the delightful taste of late summer lingering on your palate.

And still, for us aficionados, Stoneman's is not a false promise -- their corn is superb and we wait all year for it, and when the announcement comes that it has arrived, we rush to the Stoneman farm (thankfully, it's only a 15 minute bike ride down the road from the farmette), because we know within an hour it will be sold out. 

We haul away 18 ears. Ten to freeze (off the cob), eight to serve for dinner today and tomorrow, because, you know, us obsessive types will eat the corn within 24 hours of picking or it's not the same -- the sugars quickly begin to break down and turn to starch. So, same day is optimal. Second day is almost as good. Thereafter -- it's just corn.

Of course, Sotneman corn fans, nuts that we are about the corn, do also form  a community of people who like the whole routine of going down to the farm, of seeing the Stoneman kids play in the yard -- older ones helping collect the money, younger ones chasing the cats and dogs that live there.

We like the fact that it's a generational thing -- Stoneman started growing sweet corn 60 years ago. The grandson took over the operation and now the entire team of kids and grandkids seem to like each other as they work together -- picking, hand checking each ear, selling it to us within minutes of harvest.

It's an obsession, sure, but not only with eating/serving the world's most delicious corn. It's with the idea that people can still get along splendidly and come together, intergenerational, to share something they know is good and will bring smiles to us hungry corn lovers. Tell me that's not something to admire and love!

(we carry in our haul...)

Breakfast, on the porch.

Hot as it may be (especially in the afternoon), we still do want to put in our share of steps. Well, that's my bugaboo. You know, the watch goal: close those rings! We review our options.

Ed thinks it might be fun to return to Paoli and do a quick swim in the Sugar River water hole. I'm agreeable. We don't bike to Paoli this time. The goal is to get there, walk to the river, follow a trail we'd noticed before, and maybe check out the town's attractions. Paoli draws a bigger crowd on the weekend. Does it come alive in some fashion? We'll find out.

And I'll tell you right away, without any buildup or hesitation -- for us, the trip is a bust. The village is packed with visitors, not only because there's live music by the river and a small farmers market (of sorts) extending inland. It's especially crowded today because there is an art fair on their village square. Tents of art. Quilts, ceramics, paintings, metal sculpture -- you name it, it's there.

It's not that we object to art, or even that we don't like or value the stuff local artists display. It's that we are not buyers or browsers. And today, Paoli gives the impression that it's just one big shopping mall. We weave our way between tents, and walk in and out of the Paoli shops as well, and they, too, are full of trinket stuff. With perfumed interiors and shelf after shelf, counter after counter, table after table packed with things to display, some nice, some of questionable value, impressive in the sheer quantity of it, there for you to buy and take back home and forget about the next day. 

And the water hole? Well, there were kids at the shore, attempting (unsuccessfully) to catch fish and Ed decided it was too crowded to offer the tranquility that he likes so much in these more remote places.

And the path? We explored it, he picked up some burrs in his socks, I kept an eye out for ticks and then the path sort of ended in a thicket with nothing to show for it. A bust, I tell you.

Nor did our luck improve thereafter. On the way home, we stopped at another place we like to hike and we found the trail there too to be overgrown. Passable, sure, but offering the same burrs and sticky seeds for Ed's socks and tall grasses surely with ticks. So we turned back.

And as we drove home and listened to the radio, I said, quite truthfully, that this has been an exceptionally wonderful afternoon, because, well, it was just that. Adventuring with Ed brings its spectacular rewards and not a small number of busts and dead ends, but it's always peaceful and beautiful and fun.

(evening, at the farmette...)

with love...