Thursday

To finish yesterday's thought -- it pours. (When it rains...)

No wet drops today. No clouds, not even a threat of a shower. It pours sunshine and friendship and the kinder features of a November day.

So, here's the morning sunshine:

And breakfast, with Ed actually asking -- are we eating yet?

(And muffin baking, which somehow came out to be nine today instead of ten. So -- puffy muffins!)

And a long talk with my beloved Polish friend. 

And finally -- a walk (in all that bright sunshine) with Ed. The skies are so blue! And yes, he's in shorts. Absent frost, he defaults to shorts.

Kind of ordinary stuff, kind of predictable in a very delicious sort of way. Until we come to the matter of The Lights.

The observant Ocean reader may have noticed that certain Christmas lights never quite get turned off at the farmhouse. Ever. They twinkle over the porch, they brighten up the stairwell. I like them. I see no reason to limit their cheerfulness to the winter holidays. But they do have a limited life and in the past year or two, some of the lights have failed. And when one bulb fails, the whole string grows dormant. Ed, not one to throw away or replace anything, ever, was determined to find the burnt out bulb so that he could plug it a new one and save the entirety for continued twinkling. For months, there have been odd little bulbs lying around the mud room bench as he sporadically picked one up, fitted it to a string, and, finding that it failed to change a thing, put it down, and promptly forgot about it.

So this year I just gave up on his efforts and ordered a new string of lights. And they came and they have been sitting in the box waiting, because in our lives, most things that do not have the word EMERGENCY emblazoned on it tend to have a very long wait before they are given any attention. 

This morning, however, I got tough and said - I'm taking over the light-replacement project.

And in opening the box, we found the usual crazy blinking popping swaying dimming flickering strings of very ugly lights. All this is trivial stuff: we tried them out, we hated them, we packed them up and I went back to Amazon in my search for the simple, the colorful, the delightfully straightforward little lights that bring cheer year round but especially now, during the bleaker months of winter. And that took a very long time.

I tell Ed - the new lights are coming tomorrow. He responds -- guess what else is coming tomorrow? The little tool that you can use to figure out which bulb burned out on the old one.

Project The Lights is revving up for another race around the decorating track and no one can tell which colorful little strings of bulbs will shine brightly on us tomorrow.

And so if you sometimes wonder -- what is it that I do in between the meals, the walks, the animals, the friends, the kids. Well, there is always a project waiting at the sidelines. And it's usually a very stupid project with very trivial consequences. But when it sucks us in, the day can fly by, devoted to moving it forward to the next level where it will stay for X number of days until the next inspiration will rise up and we will again devote hours in our attempt to move it to completion, usually without success.

And now for the rest of the day -- much more calm, ordinary, predictable, and ever beautiful: the kids.

I had said Friday is ice cream day. End of the week celebration. Deferred gratification. All that. Secretly I was waiting to be persuaded that this day, this sunny lovely November day should beat out this week's Friday.

I am and it does.

Two of the three kids have now had their autumnal parent-teacher conferences. Sandpiper, the youngest, has been tagged at happy, social and totally able to concentrate forever on getting a tower built. Snowdrop's leading comment is today as it was last year -- great going with the school work, but here's something worth noting: the girl is really kind. Empathetic. Teachers say this as if surprised that a third greater should be concerned about the well being of others. But there you have it. Every year, same thing -- she is really empathetic.

And the evening? I wanted to make that lasagna-like farro cauliflower combo. Baked with marinara and with parmesan and mozarella -- it smells like you've just set up a pizza joint in your kitchen. It doesn't look especially exciting, but the flavors? Heavenly!

Without any twinkling lights, inside or out just yet, but gettin' there!

Wednesday

When it rains... oh, does it rain! The night pounding of furious showers against the window, the continuing drizzle when I went to feed the animals, a wet canopy of fallen leaves, the smell of a saturated earth -- November moments, to be sure.

(it's still hard to believe that this girl -- Tuxie -- is from the same litter as the other cats... Coonish, long-haired, shy...)

There is an outpouring of social connectedness as well. Today I had breakfast with a former colleague. That is, after my morning across the table with Ed.

(the real, more social breakfast was at Madison Sourdough, with a cinnamon roll because cold wet weather calls for lots of cinnamon...)

Raining steadily now, keeping me housebound, keeping the cats indoors, keeping Ed to the couch. Candle burning, furnace pumping out the warmth that I so associate with the farmhouse in winter.

Farmhouse in the winter -- those words make me smile. With windows closed, the silence inside is intense and beautiful. By the end of the month, I'll be thirsty for music, but right now, none of it is necessary. It's as if the day has its own song, interspersed with words from friends, occasionally --but not very often-- from Ed. 

And eventually I'm at the school, picking up the kids...

... and bringing them to the farmette.

In the evening, the kids leave. 

The rains have passed -- they always do, eventually, don't they? -- but of course, it's dark now. The idea of going outside for any reason whatsoever (except to lock up the hens and that's Ed's job) is downright barmy -- who wants to go out there when you could be here, under a blanket perhaps, starting in on Season 2 of Annika -- another PBS Brit Crime Drama taking place in wet, chilly Scotland? 

Oh, but I love rainy days!

Tuesday

And again I start the morning in friendship. No, no, not friendship with the hens. They're just... hens.

And I'm not thinking of Ed at this second, even though he does dutifully join me for a morning bowl of fruit.

My attention is on a friend who is passing through right now, and happy to meet up for breakfast on the town.

Sounds a little more culinary than the reality of our meal, which has in it just coffee and scones, but still, the breakfast is leisurely and it covers a lot of ground. We are living in tough times and there's a lot to sort through. For her, much more than for me. I just run through my broken record of -- still with Covid symptoms, still a little tired, but getting there! Almost done with it! Stronger each day! She has much more on her plate: a two-generational squeeze, war, retired life on hold. 

In my talks with friends these days, we inevitably compare our Covid cases. Mine had this, I got it probably there, but I'm not sure, and it went in that direction. Was it the first infection? Fact is, none of us are sure on that score. Do you always test and retest yourself when you feel a little bit raspy? Probably not. Nevertheless, we have that confidence that was so missing in the first Covid year, prior to the miracle of vaccination -- of getting through the run of the virus without hospitalization or worse.  So we discuss our cases as if we were talking about any other irritant in life -- a minor issue in the scheme of things, not coloring our lives in a significant fashion, allowing us to move on and reclaim the essence of everyday life fairly quickly.

There isn't much left to the day after we finish up, but I do want to do at least a short ride. Ed cant join me today so I am a bit reluctant to make this into a challenging spin around the rural roads, but still, at least it gets me off the couch. 

And then very quickly,  it's time to pick up the kids.

Evening. It comes so early now! Don't you think we should proclaim November to be the official month for chili? I made a pot-full! A glass of Prosecco with a splash of Torino Vermouth to usher in a celebratory moment (we're watching the last episode of a British crime drama -- reason to celebrate, no?!), a tossed salad and chili. It doesn't get more hygge than that!

with love...

Monday

How much time do you spend in waiting? I notice this in travel: getting there and returning -- those are days that are devoted to waiting. For the train to get to the airport, for the security check, for the passport control, for the gate to open and the boarding to begin. You get the picture. But in the everyday, isn't waiting unnecessary (especially if you no longer have to commute to work)? 

Maybe. And yet...

I wake up and wait until something within me clicks and I deem myself ready to get up. Early usually, but still, there is that period of a delicious idleness.

Animals fed...

... I start in on breakfast preparation. This is tricky. Eat when it's ready? No, almost always I prefer to wait for Ed. 

Most such waits are quiet times spent on reading all the stuff that comes my way -- some algorithm has figured out that I like paintings, especially by Monet and Van Gogh, that I love travel to France, Scotland and Italy, that poetry of the Mary Oliver/Robert Frost type always puts me in a good mood, and that delicious food is very satisfying to look at. My inbox and Facebook page are filled with this stuff and I dont think it's a waste of time to flip through these images, especially after I'm done reading the day's news. One needs something to balance the sad events that plague our planet.

[Somewhere at the bottom of the paper, I found an interview with Joan Baez. It's a great little piece! So much to admire there... You can read it here.]

Okay, sometimes the wait is just too long. Forget Ed, I'm eating alone today.

Which of course wakes him and in the end I get a groggy Ed at the table.

There is a picture book that (some of) the kids once liked called Waiting. A child has an awful lot of waiting in her life. Waiting for parents to stop talking to a friend they ran into on the way to the park. Waiting for the school day to end. Waiting in line for everything! In this book, figurines and toys wait on the windowsill. For seasons to change. Perhaps that touches a chord in all of us as we anticipate all the good that will come at a later date -- the rebirth, the growth, peace, happiness -- all those elusive fundamentals of a good life.

In the meantime, we wait for the little things. For motivation to vacuum up the house, clear out the porch and -- this is the good part -- to go biking with Ed on what has to be the most gorgeous November day ever. The wait is short: motivation is not hard to come by on days like this one.

Later, I wait in front of the school building -- half an hour each and every day, reading my book, but really waiting... for the kids to come out (or one kid on Mondays).

Farmhouse time!

And I think how most people dont really wait anymore. The smart phones are out, the brain is racing to catch up with email, or to read the latest newsfeed, or message someone who is, in turn, waiting to hear from you. Despite the grumbling out there on device overuse, I cant say that this kind of filler in periods of waiting is necessarily a bad thing. There are efficiencies to waiting productively. Nevertheless, once you pass 70, I think you especially love the idea of waiting without the clutter of external stimuli. I at least love combining waiting with watching: people around me, engaged in their lives, birds chasing each other over crab apples, maybe nothing more than snowflakes falling, or sunlight filtering through the last of the maple leaves. You know at some point you'll have to move on to your next task and the one after. But for a few brief minutes, or maybe longer, you pause with everything and just wait, deliciously loving the life that unfolds before you.

Sunday

Ed is juggling two ideas -- he's still considering a sailing gig toward the end of the month (wont it be cold then? Yes, especially as the boat starts out in the northeast...), and, too, he is determined to find a new hike for us for today. The second is the bigger challenge. If there is a trail within an hour's drive of us, we've done it, of that I am sure. Still, he studies maps as I half hope that he comes up empty. I feel like I can't get enough of just staying close to home. Yesterday's drive to the bakery was about as far as I want to go.

What's with the home love in me right now? Is it the weather?

Can't be. I think it's pretty warm for November. 50-ishF (which is 10-ish C).

(morning walk to barn)

I think it's the farmhouse. I may like spring and summer garden work and porch breakfasts on warm days, but I also truly love the warmth and comfort of our small space, knowing that the winds are howling and the leaves are quickly disappearing outside and yet -- here we are. Snug and happy. I'm not sorry that the farmhouse doesn't have a fireplace -- too many safety issues and environmental question marks in burning wood -- but honestly, I can imagine this place as being like a cabin in the woods. It has the feel of the great outdoors touching it at the doorstep, while all is sweetly warm within, with baking smells and candles glowing and my cinnamon plum tea steeping -- it's just hard to get up and out with that kind of a mindset.

I'm reading an article about biking in the snow in Finland, and about how they lay on the cinnamon into their baked goods in Sweden during the winter, and I wonder -- how do people in warmer climates manage without snow and ice and frosty imprints on their cars in the morning, with icicles forming on sunny winter days? Life is so much richer with the full array of seasonal variations! 

Eventually we eat breakfast, trying out (store bought) persimmons -- Ed's newest growing idea...

Liking it enough to continue with the cultivation plan, though honestly, it feels like a mismatch here. Aren't we the state of apples and pears and cherries? Still, our growing zone permits it, so we'll give it a try. Along with our quince and peaches. We're diversifying!

And then Ed finds a park we have not hiked. Donald County Park. A mere half hour drive. I guess I can handle that...

It's good for me to pull myself up and out. And the park is lovely: lots of inclines, with gentle views onto farmlands and forests, sandstone cliffs and pastures.

I have never once gone on a hike with Ed and regretted it. Every single walk with him is exhilarating: fantastic landscapes to explore, to smell, to master. This one is special in that it is the rare new one for us. 

I loved every bit of it.

And in the evening, guess what resumed after a month's pause: Sunday family dinners!

(Plenty of room on the new couch!)

The young family comes now when it's already dark, which you could say is dismal, but I feel it's just the opposite: they enter a warm house that glows from the inside with light and percolates with the fragrance of their favorite foods. 

I'm changing my mind about November. It may have to relinquish its status as "my least favorite month." But what could possibly replace it? They're all good.

with love...

days like this...

To you, one Ocean day may seem not too dissimilar from another. The morning walk to the barn... it's cold today, it was cold yesterday. Still beautifully golden, with those tiny crab apples dangling in their ornamental fashion, ready for the robins that come by all winter long...

The trip to the bakery to pick up morning treats for me, a loaf of bread for Ed, and croissants to freeze for the kids' after school snack...

Yes, I stop off at the market -- the last one until next April! I pick up some pesto for my daughter and spinach for the farmhouse. And I say goodbye until the new year.

And breakfast -- you've seen farmhouse breakfasts hundreds of times here! The better question is -- when haven't I posted about the unique magic of this morning meal? 

To me, though, this day is singularly different. Okay, I admit it -- every day has a different mood. Maybe a certain tranquility that comes only with gray skies, or an energy radiating from brilliant sunshine. Maybe I will have finalized some travel plans that will make me smile with satisfaction. Or a grandchild will have said something extraordinarily poignant. Or, I'll seethe with frustration at the post-Covid congestion that refuses to budge. Or a planting goal will have been accomplished (although that's always a moving target -- witness the planting of the bulbs which, when finished, only lead to the purchase of more bulbs).

This Saturday, for example, has two unusually delicious moments. The first came as a complete surprise: I got a message from a friend letting me know that she would be driving up to Madison for her son's sporting activity this weekend. She hasn't been here for many years. Would I have time for a coffee?

Would I! 

She is younger than me -- my daughter's age actually. And we used to have a different relationship -- she was my student back in my teaching days. And what a student she was! These were days when I barely kept up with life. New subjects to teach nearly every year, kids still needing my time at home, dinners waiting to be cooked -- it was a race to get to the end of the day without keeling over. For several years, this student -- so much younger than me! not yet a parent herself! -- kept me focused on the quality of my work like no one else at the Law School. She is a great writer and a superb thinker. So many times I kept at it because I knew that if I let something slide, she would see it, and she deserved better from her teachers.

And then after she graduated and moved for a while to Denmark, we became friends. She is that kind of a person -- she knows how to span decades and find common ground. 

So we met for coffee, at Oasis Cafe...

And honestly, it could have lasted way into the late afternoon, because she is that wise and that fun to talk to. A rare gift of modesty, humor, and smarts. You walk away thinking -- the next generation is so much more centered and broad-thinking than we ever were! How good is that!

My second outstanding moment came shortly after, when I dared myself to finally take the bike out again for a ride and walk with Ed. Covid had slapped me down. Was it perhaps time to get up and get moving again? The weather cooperated. The sun came out. We are on our way!

Was it easy? Well, initially yes. I pedaled as if Covid never made its way to the farmette. It was a glorious ride!

(here: behind Ed, who always beats me on the downhill)

The walk, too, was good. Straight into the sunshine. How could you lose?

The ride to the lake was still fine...

The return trip was a bit of a drag. I'm not surprised: the last time I rode the bike was the day before I tested positive for Rebound. One bug can really zap your strength so that you have to climb back up again to where you were before. 

I wont obsess about the movement rings again, but I have to say, I was glad that today I closed them once more. First time in two weeks. 

So no, not a day like the others. Singularly rewarding and very beautiful.

Friday

Sometimes I read an interview with some famous or maybe just half famous person and I think to myself -- I'd like to be just a little more like that in life. Irreverent. Truthful about my inadequacies. Open about my passions. Free in my search for poetry in life. 

This is exactly how I felt in reading the interview with British actress (and incredible star of the crime drama that ripped my heart -- Unforgotten), Nicola Walker. I still cannot forgive the story writers for the last episode of the series -- it demolished my inner peace for weeks on end! But the actress herself (whom I imagine to have the personality of Cassie Stuart, the character she played in Unforgotten, if only because I like Cassie so much!) seems both thoughtful and unabashedly honest. The kind of person you strive to be yourself in the finer moments when you're not blundering along tripping up at every turn.

I thought about quirky personalities and people who find pleasure in being funny or at least in being around others who are funny as I walked at sunrise to feed the animals.

And I thought about it some more over breakfast with Ed (who is even less funny than I am, but who also leans toward laughter as opposed to grumbling his way through life).

I always think that it's not too late to add some spice into your modus operandi. You do not have to be boring (unless being boring brings you pleasure -- a good enough reason to stick with what's there!), nor predictable. So long as you can formulate a sentence in your head, you have the power to flip your day, your train of thought, your conversational habits. Now that winter's nearly here, what better time to give some attention to what goes on inside your soul! 

And now it's time to put aside idle musing and get down to work: several dozen daffodils need to go in. Now!

And when I finish planting, guess what I do! (Hint -- I've got visions of spring on my mind...) 

I go inside and use my special discount code and buy five dozen more bulbs. They're on sale! Of course they are -- we are in the very last days of the fall planting season. It's the same old story -- when I walk through the flower fields, I am reminded of how vast they are. How much potential they have. How exhilarating it is to see the first daffodil tips emerge. 

Thus I'm not done with garden work yet. And still, I am satisfied. I am almost done. My work for this year is (nearly) complete.

In the afternoon, the kids are here once more. 

(with school book fair acquisitions)

Since this is Friday, the day is a little crazy with their schedules: violin for the boy, ballet for the girl.

We zip through all that has to happen before we set out for the lessons. (Lots of food must be eaten! Fruits, croissants, tomatoes, muffins and yes, even potato chips. They have voracious appetites after school.) Books read, towers built. It's not the sanest way to end the week, but then again, I'm happy that they are engaged in their extras. 

It's dark by the time I drive home. This will be the case until March now: drop off by the light of the moon! There's something very serene about driving when the light has just faded. To then enter a warm house, to exhale with your sweetie over dinner, over a show. A proper ending to a full week.