Gallop apace...

Do you know these lines? Said by Juliet, on the eve of Romeo's coming to spend the night with her. Before you get all bothered about it, they're married already! Juliet, just shy of 14 years, Romeo -- likely to be somewhere between 15 and 17.

Juliet's anticipatory soliloquy (go ahead, read through it, as if said by a young girl!): 

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a waggoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
Hood my unmann'd blood bating in my cheeks
With thy black mantle, till strange love grown bold
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

I am not at all a Shakespearean know-it-all. I know little of the analyses of his works, having studied only one of his plays in school (Hamlet, in Polish), but Romeo and Juliet was special to me because of the Zefirelli film that came out in 1968, when I was just shy of 15. And because of the fact that my kids participated in Young Shakespeare Players productions for several summers in a row. They were between 7 and 13. The last one they did was, in fact, Romeo and Juliet, exactly thirty years ago. The younger girl got the part of Juliet. The older one was Romeo. I was terribly ill when they were learning their lines (so many lines!) and I have vivid memories having my little nine-year old Juliet next to me on the big bed as we worked through her lines, repeating them until they stuck (and they stuck well -- she never forgot a line on stage).

This monologue of Juliet's stayed with me more than any other Shakespearean verse. In my mind, it's such a powerful evocation of the angst, the longing, the uncertainty, the impatience, the lust of adolescence. 

*     *     *

I didn't get to sleep until very late. Yes, I was home around midnight, but shortly after, the phone rang and I had to deal with the fact that my mother was in the hospital. A phantom pain that bothered her enough to send her to the ER. Late this afternoon, after scans, tests and who knows what else, the doc determined that she merely pulled a muscle, except when you're 100, that can have severe consequences, because people that age simply cut out movement to make themselves feel better. And in that lies the problem. Without movement, they rapidly lose any remaining mobility and independence. Goodbye assisted living, hello nursing home. If my mom hated her reliance on aides in assisted living, I am sure she will hate even more reliance on care in a nursing facility. So my job is to see if she can turn things around for herself.

*     *     *

I wake up early, despite the late night. I like mornings. I believe in their worth. I dont mind being tired. I need to be up to witness the sun's first strong rays.

 

 

Except this day is rather on the cloudy side. More rain? Maybe. Storms? Maybe. There is uncertainty in the air, that's for sure.

(a drive to the store in the later part of the morning)

And still, this second day of May displays the same radiance as yesterday. The same beauty of trees in full bloom.  Of lingering late tulips.

It's a little nippy at the outset, but still, we eat breakfast on the porch. I clipped some lilac branches, even though I know our lilacs dont have staying power once they're cut. Still, their scent, their evocative drooping flower heads are something that I cannot resist.

*     *     *

I read an article in the paper today -- no link for you, because quite frankly, I did not like it. But, it did get me thinking about why we grow flowers. The author suggested that too many gardens were born of the hard labor of many, for the use of the privileged few. That kind of a garden can be viewed  "as a place to hide from reality in a private paradise." (Okay, fine: NYTimes, by Olivia Laing.) It's not that I disagree, but I would venture to say that this isn't the reality behind most gardens or gardeners. (And most comments to the article are with me on this.) Whether it's for physical nourishment (fruits and veggies) or the nourishment of the soul (flowers), most gardens are deliberate attempts to link our lives with nature in some fashion. And we do most of the work ourselves. (At the farmette, we do all the work ourselves.)

Having lived for many years in Warsaw, then New York, then Chicago, I did not have access to any land where I could grow things. The minute I could plant something (first time: on the balcony of an apartment in Madison), I did it, with a fury! And passion. Anxiety be gone! Let my life as a planter begin.

 

Today, I finally seeded the meadows and then I took stock. 

 (the meadow by the peach trees: Ed redid the strawberry experiment... looks way less funky now!)

 

(the meadow in the new orchard: this is where we planted the blueberries and it's where the apple trees are blooming right now)

 

Not much time for anything else. (Though Ed does some minor work around the garlic patch, which accidentally got established in the courtyard and there is stays...)

I'd moved grocery shopping to this morning to make for an easier Friday evening this week. That took time. And I visited my mother in the hospital so that I could give her a chance to air her woes (and she did!) in person. That took lots of time. 

But in driving back and forth to all these places, I had a chance to think more about my flower fields. You can argue that clearing weeds and introducing flowers, only some of which are native to, say, Wisconsin, is not environmentally helpful. But I like to side with those who claim that just because it's beautiful and colorful and kempt, does not mean it is hostile to local insect or wildlife populations. Ask our groundhog families and the bees and insects that swarm around our blooming trees right now! 

Gardens that are dense, scented, and colorful are invitations. Not only to us humans who seek refuge among the floral riches, but for all creatures and plants and trees who stand to benefit from the biodiversity presented, say, in a flower field. 

(perfection: the fleeting moment when the crab apple and the lilac are both in bloom)

*     *     *

Here's an annual rite of passage: a trip today to the first of the season local farmers market. Typically, the spring ones are hard for me to get to because they fall on a Thursday afternoon and with two tired kids in tow, that can get tricky. But, I asked for a day off from childcare today, after a busy yesterday and in anticipation of a busy weekend. Things didn't quite pan out this afternoon, what with my mom being in a state of great agitation, but all this rearranging of schedules did allow me to pop into the market with Ed and it was grand!

John the cheese curd guy told us about his winter in the Philippines, Natalie the gardener/farmer, showed off her red hair which she claims comes from drinking iron-rich water. And the bakers who take in our rhubarb. And the farmer who always brings flowers to his stall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Delightful people with a very positive attitude toward others. I suppose you wouldn't do markets if you didn't have the sweetly charming personality for it! Just about everyone at our market will happily share stories with you if you take the time to stop and listen. (Unlike the downtown market, which is so packed that there's rarely an opportunity to pause for a longer chat.) It's fantastic to be here once again.

*     *     *

Evening in early May. The house did not get cleaned. Weeding is at a pause. And yet -- how grand it is to crack the patio door and take in the sweet scent of the lilac just outside! It's a flower of my childhood, and of my stormy and steamy adolescence. Gallop apace...  I cook up some soup, pour a kir vin blanc and exhale.

La Fête du Muguet.

Did you know that May Day, or May 1st is called La Fête du Muguet in France? A festival of the lily-of-the-valley. The custom is to give a bunch of these dainty white bells to friends and family as a gesture of friendship and appreciation and with the hope of bringing luck to the recipient. 

For you, from me. True, they're still buds, lily-of-the-valley buds.

Our May first is brilliant. A bit chilly, but appropriately so. It's only May 1st after all. A cool breeze is perfectly seasonal for the day. 

Ed says that his favorite moment for the crab apple is when it's all white. So, right now.

Without doubt we are at the peak of beauty here, on the farmette. True, I may repeat this claim in July and maybe in October, but this year, I have to think May 1st will win. Take a look at my walk to corral the animals to their feeding stations this morning.

My schedule yesterday was wild. Today? Wild times two. First of all, Ed is to spend the day at the machining company, so he is up and out at the same time that I am up and out. But we cannot eat breakfast: he has an early meeting and I have one of my usual appointments -- this one with a new doc who is replacing one of my retiring docs. So it's like a meet and greet. And as luck would have it, this new doc has a love of travel -- to Italy and France. I think we remembered to touch on some medical issues and questions, but I'm not sure. In any case, we had a lovely time explaining to each other our historic affiliations with these two countries. Medicine, as it was once practiced: with a heart.

Ed was gone by the time I came home, so breakfast was on the porch, but without him. A bit cool, but so very lovely that I did not mind it in the least.

And now I have competing projects bearing down on me: I want to seed the meadows, I want to transplant some lilies from shady spots, I want to chip the spot where we dug out the rhubarb, I want to spray the last batch of late tulips that came to life overnight (see above). And I need to feed the potted flowers -- keeping to a first-of-the-month schedule. But I also have to help with the Steffi House project. Phone calls to make -- that kind of stuff. 

And, I have to pack an overnight bag. Long ago, I promised my daughter that I would move to her place for the day and night while she and her husband went away (work, not pleasure). This used to be an easy peasy thing, but has become more of a Big Deal, ever since Sandpiper grew to be an active, willful (but delightful!) almost three year old, and ever since getting everyone off to school by 7:30 became a Project of Great Magnitude and Impossibility for me. I can imagine a time when babysitting all three will not be so demanding. (Maybe.) But that time is not right now, so I have to psych myself for it and pack up all necessities to take with me just in case.

Okay, I have a few hours for all the above! Can I do it? Almost! (I run out of time on the meadow seeding project.)

Before long, it's time to pick up the big two at school. Damn. Police in front. No kids in sight anywhere. A lockdown? I check the news. Indeed. Active shooter in a school in the town just to the west of us. How do you count your blessings when some kids, dozens of kids, not too far from here, are running from school because they are told to RUN? While others are hiding in closets and bathrooms? Because there is that pop pop sound of gunfire? Are we insane to let this happen again and again?

Thankfully, my two had a lockdown without being told they had a lockdown. They come out happy and excited about their special eve.

They've already decided that today will be ice cream day and so we go to the local coffee shop first.

Then to the farmhouse...

And finally, we head out to Sandpiper's school. We pick up the lively little guy. (You cannot just tell him to stay on the sidewalk. You have to chase him to make sure that he does not choose this moment to act out his playful impishness. Out on the street, for example.)

Initially, the kids wanted to go out for a pizza. Is that doable? A 71 year olds taking three little kids to a restaurant? Crazy, right? Luck is with me: they change their minds and opt for Culver's. Nice drive up Culver's. America's best fast food! No restaurant manners required! No chasing down of little restless ones.

Sparrow has a date with the neighborhood kids, so I need to get him to the house, fed and ready by 6:25. We just manage that.

And eventually the youngest guy's (theoretical) bedtime approaches. (Well, I tell him that it is bedtime when I feel I need it to be his bedtime.) 

 

 

 

Good night, Sandpiper! One more Daniel Tiger story! Good night Sandpiper!

Many minutes later, he is settled. Snowdrop and I read, Sparrow returns, bedtime routines put everyone where they need to be. Except for the cats. They look for opportunities to claims some food as their own.

Finally. All is quiet. And here's another break for me: parents are eager to return home today. Midnight maybe? Or later still? In any case, I dont have to sleepover (unless I fall asleep, over here) and more importantly, I dont have to be the one taking them to school tomorrow morning. Life is suddenly very very easy!

Happy, happy Fete du Muguet! May the tiny lilies continue to bloom in your life! Figuratively speaking and for real. Intoxicating fragrance! The hygge of spring!

with so much love...

milestones, generational shifts, and highbush blueberries

Did you know that all blueberries are native to North America? Canada is the world's top grower of lowbush blueberries (the wild ones) and we are the main exporters of highbush blueberries (the cultivated kind). The ones I see in grocery stores in Poland are, in fact, from here and not surprisingly, they're called "borowki" which translates into "cranbaerries." Highbush blueberries are from the same family as cranberries. They're all Vaccinium plants. 

Morning walk on the most beautiful day ever. Perhaps this is Wisconsin's best -- the beginning of May. (I know we're not there yet, calendar wise, but we are ahead of ourselves this year. When I look at photos from just two years ago, everything was rather tame, whereas this week, we have an explosion of blooms outside. The lilac is catching up to the crab apple, the unique daffodils are still popping up, the tulips, though nearly done, remain radiantly colorful and of course, the plants in the tubs and baskets have happily embraced their new outdoor homes for the season. Til frost do us part.

(from both sides now...)

I pause at the sheep shed, ostensibly to feed the shed cats, but of course, none of them are anywhere near the place. Ed's work colleague, the one from Poland, moved in yesterday and with that fell swoop, the cats moved out. They are terrified of all humans (except for the two of us). I use the moment to chat with the guy, whom I would say is maybe a tad younger than my daughters. This generation of Poles is a world away from my generation. Sure, people born into the age of advanced technology are going to live in a new stratosphere in any country, but I feel that young Poles, especially the ones I know (mostly city raised, or at least schooled in the bigger cities of my home country) speak a language that is far removed from that of their parents. We, their moms and dads, are the postwar babies. The ones who suffered family memories of Germany's attempted destruction of our country. And we suffered the political upheaval that took place after the Soviet Union seized indirect control of our future. We were homogeneously of one religion, most of us traveled rarely. Gender roles were fixed far longer than in the western democracies. As my friend noted a few days ago, we can be described as a generation of scared introverts -- intensely private and often finding fault with life, with everyone who is not like us.  (I'm borrowing from others' words here -- I know too few Poles by now to feel confident in my own views on how they present themselves.)

But this next generation -- the one born as the country moved to a market economy and dusted off a dormant democratic tradition -- they're different. I see that in Karolina and her husband, I see that in our visiting friend. And though you can't shed cultural norms and values in one generational shift, I'd say Poles are doing a pretty darn good job of it. And really, that's a good thing!

Breakfast? On the porch! 

And now I'm off for my one year anniversary visit with my knee surgeon (well, not the robot who actually did the cutting and slicing but the control guy who directed the operation). Do you remember how competitive I felt after the knee replacement? I had to be at the top of performance standards at my physical therapy! I pushed that knee to do thing it was reluctant to do. It paid off. My fantastic surgeon said that the knee is about as good as they get. My knee bowed down, did a good bend and seemed to smile humbly at the words of praise.

See you in four or five years, my doc said. Four or five years? Do you say that to all aging patients? I tell you, I have myself a very optimistic doc!

And now finally, Ed and I attack the blueberry plants. These guys:

It's a process! Digging up the soil, mixing in the needed ingredients, putting down fabric for weed control, throwing chips on them -- it takes time. We finish putting in four and then pause, because Ed has machining obligations. Me, I have zero seconds to spare and I quickly move to my other project for the day -- digging out and moving a great bug chunk of the rhubarb plant. That baby is monstrously huge and it holds a prize spot along the path to the farmhouse. I want to move a lily to at least part of the space. Ed begs me to find a spot for what I take out and I do, but I warn him that I have already moved out clumps of rhubarb to various corners of the farmette land and we hardly use any rhubarb at all in the course of the year. Still, he begs, I oblige.

And now it's time to pick up the kids at school. 

 

 

 

Though our farmhouse time today is slightly limited (you'll see why!), I nonetheless convince them to take a hike across farmette lands. On a day like this, it's absolutely awesome in every corner of this place!

And we find some asparagus stalks!

... but I need to get them back to school by 5 (and so I hurry them inside for the usual food and books and play) because tonight is their music concert night. Each grade is performing a series of songs and of course, count me in on being in the audience, even though the kids are spaced in such a way that Sparrow is up on the stage at 5 and Snowdrop -- not until 6:30. In between? I hightail it to a coffee shop. It's way too late for coffee. I choose an alternative.

Here's Sparrow on stage, singing...

 

Here's Snowdrop...

And Sparrow playing an instrument...

 

And Snowdrop playing an instrument.

I'm not home until way after 7. And I have no clue as to what to do for dinner, but hey -- I ate a bag of potato chips and I can worry about more food later. We want to finish planting the blueberries!  

And we do finish. To a darkening sky.  Dinner? It's close to 9 by the time I fry up some eggs.

You could say that this day was a bit wild. Yes you could. Or you could say that it was intensely beautiful with all the goodness of the season thrust upon us. It was that for sure.

chips ahoy! (or -- be careful what you wish for)

Stunning landscape, blooming crabs, lovely May-like weather. Perfection. Truly a gardener's dream.

Cloudy initially, but it hardly matters. It's beautiful out there!

(the last of the tulips)

(yet another crab apple)

(wet from last night's rain)

(the last of the unique daffodils)

(magnificent!)

In my walk to the barn, I made a list in my head of all I could/should do today. The blueberries. We should put those in. Weeding. Always that. And I see some forgotten plants that could be moved. Spraying of the deer fodder (with our special hot pepper spray! It works!) -- hostas, strawberries, tulips. Yes, definitely. Need to spray.

And since we have all those wood chips, I should spread them over several beds that are showing many bare spots and plenty of spaces for new weeds to emerge. 

During breakfast (on the porch!)...

I talk to Ed about our various outdoor projects. He has been busy the last few days cleaning out the sheep shed. A young engineer (or programmer, or something) from Poland is going to be staying there for a couple of weeks and the place needs to be made habitable. (I mean, I wouldn't overnight there, even in its cleaned up state, but then I'm older and fussier. There was a time where I did sleep in the shed, with Ed. Those days are, thankfully, behind me.) I do all the work in the flower fields, though Ed does help with the occasional heavy duty job. He calls the flowers my "hobby." I dont quite agree with that definition. It's more like a challenge: to give a helping hand to blooms that need it, to more fully realize nature's potential. It's making room for the little guys. Getting rid of the bully plants. The invasives.  But I do agree that this is my project. Still, I need his help in loading up carts and wheelbarrows with wood chips.

And so this morning, we set to it: he loads and I spend several hours with a pitchfork, distributing the chips in two flower fields -- the glorious one near the house and the front one along the road. (That last one has been neglected for years. Between the drought, and the slope, and the winter road salt, and the encroaching maple roots and branches, it's been a pretty challenging space. This spring, I'm trying to restore its vitality.)

 

(busy bees...)

 

 

It's good for your upper body strength -- Ed tells me as I heave another pitchfork-ful out of the cart. And I agree with that, but it's also true that I don't actually exercise my upper body musculature with any consistency and so for me, this morning's work is tough! Load up, heave out, sprinkle nimbly between plants. Load up, heave out, sprinkle nimbly among plants. Over and over again.

...until it's time to pick up the girl at school.

That smile you see in the photo? It lasted all of one minute. Maybe less. There had been a grave injustice committed toward the end of the day by the teacher and Snowdrop was crushed by the unfairness of it all. It's tempting to dismiss it with a "life's unfair" kind of response, but if you think about it, aren't we all crushed when someone whose respect we need in life points an accusing finger at us with a string of unfair comments and characterizations? 

We talked it through, weighing her options. Confrontation? No, that's not Snowdrop's style. She tells me what would please the teacher most is if she lied and admitted to doing something that in fact she did not do. Well that's not right either! In the end she settles for moving on. 

(a distracting playground pause on the way to the farmhouse)

 By the time we pull into the farmette driveway, she is her old cheerful self again.

 

Monday is our nonstop reading day and today we started in on a new book about a Jewish girl forced to take on a different identity to survive the war years in France ("The Night War"). Heavy stuff, but of course, you can't avoid heaviness with kids. And maybe books like these give perspective. Suddenly the school injustice seems, well, inconsequential.

 

Evening. There's a cool breeze, but still, it's beautiful out there! Looking out our kitchen window, you can't help but smile. Lilacs are days away from blooming, and the crab? Ah, the crab!

You can never tire of it. All of it. The unfurling of gazillion petals in a season of flowers.