Tuesday back to quiet

In humming to myself the song "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" (for obvious reasons -- I'm running low on time today once again), I paused for a second and tried to recall who sang and wrote that song. I'm sure I knew it from Judy Collins. Here:

 

Let me flash the last verse for you, in case you're in no position to listen right now:

So come the storms of winter

And then the birds of spring again

I have no fear of time

For who knows how my love grows?
And who knows where the time goes?

I didn't know anything about the woman who wrote it -- Sandy Denny -- which is strange as I've always loved folk-pop music and never more than in the years she was writing and recording. I suppose it's because I lived in a near music vacuum when the song was released in 1969. Those were my Warsaw years and western music trickled in ever so slowly, randomly, a song here, a song there. Strawberry Fields (1967)! Then silence. Ruby Tuesday (1967) and again silence. Build Me Up Buttercup (1968), silence once more. Judy Collins, on the other hand, really picked up in popularity just when I reemerged in New York (as an au paire). Send in the Clowns hit the charts in 1973.  I'm reading that Sandy Denny died soon after, at the terribly young age of 31.

How do some lives become so twisted and complicated? Sandy (I read) suffered from depression and probably a lot of other ailments. A life cut short. And yet, out of nowhere, I picked up her song and here I am working in my flower fields and singing silently And then the birds of spring again, I have no fear of time, For who knows how my love grows? And who knows where the time goes?

Artists who die before their time do leave us their art. We forget about their maladies, we remember their canvases, poetry, music. Those of us without the gift of genius leave behind something else: images of how we were. Isn't that reason enough to make it a life's goal to try hard to make those images ones we can be proud of?

My morning walk:

Breakfast:

Weeding. Appointments. Errands. Mowing. (Missing in there is "cherry picking" -- better get to it tomorrow, or else the birds will win.)

 

 

 

And just like that, my day is nearly done. Who knows where the time goes, who knows where the time goes...

Let's salvage just a little of it by putting ourselves someplace new-ish. We read about it in the local paper -- there's a newly constructed building, called  the Black Business Hub (which seeks to house small startups and businesses run by Black and minority entrepreneurs), that has a Tuesday market of Black pop ups and food vendors -- mostly selling prepared foods. Sounded good in the paper. We got on the motorcycle and rode off to it.

It was a disappointment in that there was only one vendor -- a delightful one, aided by her granddaughter -- but just one, selling two foods: catfish hoagies and beef something or other.

We picked up a hoagie, though it was richly seasoned and mayo-ed, and so we are likely to nibble a little and call it a day. No matter, I can add a veggie frittata to the supper menu!  I do hope the Hub market fills with more vendors over time. The article indicated as much. Fingers crossed.

Monday, reasonably quiet

Here's something that caught my eye at Grace Cafe in McFarland this morning:

And here's the frustration I felt with humanity when I read it (and that includes myself -- last I heard, I was part of humanity): we all think we are kind. That we practice it, live it, breathe it. When my mother was still having more or less normal conversations on the phone with me, she would say, as if she meant it: it's important to be kind. The implication was that she practiced this herself. Though she didn't give examples of it, I felt that she very much placed herself in the category of "people who are kind."

And don't we all do this! We remember the smiles we dished out and forget the cruel nastiness that surely escaped every now and then. If we were glaringly unkind, so that we couldn't fool ourselves into believing otherwise, we tell ourselves, and others -- well, they deserved it! As if our unkindness was merely born of self preservation. Punch out, or die!

In my experience, the people whom I think of as genuinely kind are not blind to their occasional lapses. They know their strengths, their weaknesses, and they never give up trying to do better, even when no one seems to notice or care. If they slip up, they recognize what went wrong. They're mindful, observant, they listen, and yes, they smile at you. And maybe they'll read that sign to be kind and think to themselves -- okay, a smile is needed here, let me deliver.

Now, what was I doing early in the morning at a McFarland Cafe? Well, it had actually been a trying morning. My mother called many, many times with the usual stuff, though inserted in her litany of complaints was one that I did need to address. Not that doing so would help improve her outlook on the world, but still -- fixing that one glitch was important and it did occupy a good chunk of my time today. Feeling somewhat sympathetic to all that was thrown at me from before I was even fully awake, Ed asked -- want to bike over to that coffee shop in McFarland for breakfast?

And so after a brief walk to feed the animals...

(there is one day lily plant that forgot it's not yet July!)

(look what else is about to burst into a sea of purple, right behind the barn!)

(let me not neglect the Bresse hens...)

... we got on our bikes and headed... east! Over the river and through the woods...

It's such a nice ride. Easy, too. McFarland is only about a half hour bike ride from the farmhouse. And the morning is nippy but beautiful!

The coffee shop is spacious and colorful...

 

 

 ... but it's such a brilliant day, that we take our croissants and drinks to the outside table -- me, warming up in the sun, Ed, sticking to the shade.

 

 

 

And I said as much -- isn't this simply the best? These are words that always lead us to the same reflection, which honestly, isn't totally unrelated to my earlier mention of kindness: we are all not grateful enough. For what we have in life. Focusing too much on that what is missing. (To bring it back home, my mother can get incensed, absolutely incensed that an aide will not run to her room and bring her a missing cookie from the tray the minute she presses the emergency call button. Dont even ask how many times in the course of the day she presses that button. You;re guessing twenty? Thirty? You are off by a lot.)

Ed and I both lived for long spells in places that had no plumbing (me, at my grandparents' village home, Ed -- in the woods, for a few months, in Tennessee, then in an old farm in Wisconsin. Also without plumbing) and so we always bring it back to the toilet: you don't appreciate on a daily basis your toilet, do you? What if you had to live without one for a while? (Because so many people do...)  Go use an outhouse in the winter on a regular basis. You get to really love your shower and the modern waste management system.

It's hard to practice gratitude. You say the right words, think the right thoughts and then the next minute  you go back to griping about not getting good service at a restaurant, or a child's loud voice on an airplane, or your colleague's better parking spot allocation at work. Never mind that you sat down and had a whole meal prepared for you, and yes, you were once that child with a loud voice, and hey, it's a parking spot. For a car. That you drive. As opposed to horse and wagon, on the coldest days of the winter.

Ed and I talked, too, about slavery and communism and authoritarian autocrats and religion. And toilets. That's what happens when you step out of the quiet of a farmhouse life.

I then spent the whole morning on taking care of my mother's stuff, with only a short break for more pleasant readings. The afternoon? Appointments. Remember, I over-scheduled myself.

In the evening, Ed's engineering friends, including the Polish young man and his very pregnant wife, are here for a supper of take-out Thai. The good thing about these people is that they are young and charming and totally pleasant to be with. We ate on the porch. A little cool, but still -- so very beautiful.

 

 

 

Not such a quiet day maybe, but stunning in its simple, late spring beauty.

Sunday quiet

The notable change for me this week is that I do not have kids at the farmhouse. This is very rare -- indeed, it may be a first! A whole week without young family members coming and going? Weird.  (They have other family obligations and activities sprinkled throughout and so I am stepping aside for a bit.) 

Stupid me: I made the mistake of scheduling various appointments for each of those days. Doctors, dentists, closings, installations -- you name it. I never have free afternoons for this stuff and so I excessively seized the opportunity to check things off my list. What a blunder! I could have had an unscheduled week. Instead, I still have to be places and do things every single day. To be trite: ya' live and learn.

Nonetheless, I do feel, for better or for worse, the immense quiet of the week and that quiet starts today. Suddenly, the farmhouse feels like it's standing still. Taking in the day, keeping to a slow pace.

Morning walk. Leisurely.

(early this year and already being attacked by the birds!)

(my happy meadow!)

Breakfast. Also leisurely.

The day is beautiful. Mostly sunny, not too hot, with a stiff breeze. Of course we are going to take ourselves outside. A bit of weeding ("dont wear out!" -- he tells me... he knows I can quickly overdo it in the gardens) and then we load up the truck with boats and bikes.

Our plan today is to ditch the bikes at the edge of the Yahara River, over at Fish Camp Park, and to drive down to the southern tip of McFarland,  to start our paddle there. (About an hour and fifteen of kayaking and maybe twenty minutes of biking.) We did this very "paddle and ride" in November of 2005. I'd been with Ed barely a month then and he proposed that I leave work early, so that we can do this kayak trip before the weather turns wintry and nasty. With bikes. And we did it once again, in the summer of 2012. I felt I really knew Ed well, seven years into our life together! But of course, now, as we get close to our nineteenth year together, we are like old pegs in a board. Firmly in place, and not too far from where we were in those early years: loving our life, loving the scenic landscape of our little corner of Wisconsin, loving these paddle and bike excursions -- only now I'm on my electric bike. Oh yeah! Greatly appreciated on this very windy day.

Those gusts of wind were on our backs on the water, and at first, I thought this was awesome! Pushing us down the Yahara.

 

 

But when we reached Mud Lake, I changed my mind. A shift in the direction, a choppy water -- I had to work hard to keep the boat on course.

((that there is Ed, hanging on to his hat)

No matter. Good for the arm muscles, right? 

(a very spiffy new kayak landing at Fish Camp Park)

The bike ride back to the truck for me was about as easy as they get. Hills? Wind? No problem. Crank up the battery and away I fly.

 

At home, it feels exceptionally strange not to be fixing dinner for the whole lot of them. Leftovers on Sunday? How can that be? 

 

 

Still, we do love the occasional quiet. Ed dozes, I read, write, and take in the dappled light as the tree branches shift and sway in the breeze. 

You could not ask for a prettier evening!

 

pause and a birthday celebration

The pause is in the weather. It's cold today! True, we get only this one lousy day of rain (yes, more rain) and nippy air, but still, I wish the kids began their vacation season with something other than this. Me -- well, I have my usual indoor work to catch up on, so I don't really mind. That much!

My very early walk to the barn:

(Rorschach question: what do you notice, the new Clematis or the cat? Or the cat crushing my new Clematis?)

('Tis the week of the Tradescantia, which sounds a lot better than referring to it by its common name, Spiderwort.)

Despite the cloudy-with-a-chance-of-rain skies, I do drive over to the farmers market. For the kitchen bouquet, for the carrots, and for a few potted annuals to replace a diseased tub flower.

 

(on my way!)

 

I'm not surprised that it's not crowded at all. 

(This is one eight of the total market, which wraps itself along the Capitol Square.)

There's lots to buy, if you are in the buying mode, but our fridge is full, from my weekly shopping, from our CSA delivery, and from our Thursday trip to the local market. Nonetheless, I cannot resist these strawberries!

Absolutely stunning! I'll put them out for breakfast.

(And flowers, of course, though I do see that the growers are struggling here: too much rain. Too, the lupines are barely holding it together, peonies are almost done, and the summer blooms haven't yet opened up.)

 

(Here's an unusual bunch! Poppies!)

After the market, I drive over to Batch Bakehouse. We'll be celebrating Sparrow's 6th birthday today! (His family is out of town on the day of his real birthday.) So we need a cake. He's going for all chocolate. Fine with me, fine with all of us. And while at Batch, I get to pick up some stuff for a very indulgent breakfast. 

 (And I admire the pies: such an American classic! You do not see pies and brownies so expertly executed in many other countries!)

We do eat on the porch, but I'm back to wearing a hoodie.

Now come the emails, the paper work, and, too, there are the issues surrounding my mother's care. 

My mother's care. Skip this paragraph if you want to stay with the upbeat! My mother has spiraled into a cavernous dungeon of unspecific complaints. What exactly does that even mean? Well, to her, everything and prtty much everyone is awful and she is suffering total neglect, mistreated by an uncaring and spiteful staff. Given her history of such messaging, you can't take her at her word. The same accusations have been levied against other places, other caregivers, other people in her life. Nonetheless, as the person who oversees all aspects of her care, I can't ignore her dissatisfaction either. You dont want to learn later that actually, for once, for the first time perhaps, she was sounding proper alarms. So I try to extract specifics, get absolutely nowhere, am lumped once more into the category of no longer miracle daughter. And so I call the staff, which means that they now have a double waste of time -- on her incessant calling for unspecified reasons, and on me, because I need to talk this stuff through with them, ask for details, make sure that they are doing their job and that her harshness -- well, that it's just the usual stuff. Nothing that can be fixed for her, nothing that could possibly be improved upon. And I walk away from all this once again resigned -- knowing that she has a team of compassionate, professional individuals and yet, she has been and will continue to be belligerent and hostile toward these hardworking people. And to me. Because we dont measure up to some imagined standard. As they say -- it is what it is. She is safe. She is cared for. This other layer of drama cannot be wished away, or washed away. It's there. Built over decades. You listen to it, take a deep breath and return to a better space.

My better space is... everywhere and everyone! And today, I'm very focused on Sparrow's celebratory dinner. They all come, of course, and it is lovely.

(the big two lead the way)

(To stave off starvation: predinner snacks. the gold standard? D'Affinois cheese on very long crackers, and olives)

Sparrow is like they all are -- unique and loving. He's a real hugger and his sensitive soul is epic, known far and wide! He gets no pleasure out of mischief. This kid wants to be your friend! Your grandson. Your brother. Your sweet child. Not rough and tumble, not especially turned on by athletics -- he prefers his art projects, his math sums and his dance class. 

(Head of the table for the birthday boy)

Happy, happy 6th, Sparrow. And many more!

with so much love...

Vacation!

Funny how much I get sucked into the mentality of a little kid, finishing up school today, embarking on a period of a long summer vacation! I can see myself back in the days of being a mom, anticipating this more relaxed period, yet more demanding on my time, because kids needed programs and activities and they needed to be taken to and from programs and activities. I can see myself, too, as the young teen, finishing school for the academic year, heading out to my grandmother's village house for the summer. A good bye to one set of friends, a hello to the summer gang. Leisurely wake-ups, breakfasts with my sister, on the verandah. Left to our own devices all day, every day, all summer long.

American kids, as they get older, get more industrious than, say Polish kids ever were. They get jobs. They earn money. They save up for clunker cars or video games. None of my Polish friends got summer jobs. We all just hung out. Took forest walks. Swam in the river. Bike rides to nearby villages. Impoverished money wise, but free to explore, take chances, be our own bosses.

These grandkids of mine are not only 100% American in their habits, but, too, of a different generation. Left to their own devices, they would probably sneak in too much tablet time. Snowdrop, at age nine, can't wait to start baby sitting. When I grilled her on the reasons for it, she scowled at me, not liking the fact that I was questioning her choices. Babysitting, to her, is what mature kids do! A little capitalist in training.

Still, these kids, like me, love the idea of a summer of no school. Vacations are different. Less stressful. With more time, to just be. Vacations rule and today marks the start of a kid vacation.

 

It's a brilliant morning!

Still windy, so the bugs are mostly staying away. 

(More poppies poppin'...)

(Childhood memories: of poppies in a wheat field... farmhouse poppies are in the grassy meadows.)

I do a quick weed pull, but then I throw it all aside and bike over to Steffi's House. You remember this place?

It's in the new development that abuts the farmette lands and a friend is in the process of purchasing that house. Closing next week. Inspection -- this morning. I'm helping move things along and so I bike over to listen in on the details. 

In new construction, there's plenty of room for fussing. This board doesn't fully meet that board. Pipe wet, electrical outlet not wired correctly. This is just normal stuff that you work through once the keys are handed to you. My friend isn't going to be living in this place right away (others will inhabit it) and so I am keeping an eye out on the details. This takes up a good chunk of my morning.

On the upside, the house is right next to Tati Co Coffee Shop. I stop by on my way home and lo! They have a fresh delivery of Madison Sourdough baked goods! Guess who's going to be eating croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast!

Weeding in the wind follows.

And then it's time to pick up the now officially vacationing kids!

(exuberance: vacation!)

(ambivalence: I dont want to leave kindergarten!)

Lots of treats today: french fries from Culvers, ice cream from Tati's.

And now to the farmhouse, where they have spent their free time on school days all year long. Sparrow goes off to the art room, writing endless math sums -- as is his joy on so many days, Snowdrop and I read together. I glance over and tell her -- you're so grown up! She laughs. Gaga, I just put the wobble board between the two carpets pretending it's a bridge. I am not very grown up!

I drop them off as usual at their brother's school. It's his last day too, in that he moves to a different space and different teachers next year. But of course, he knows none of this. The smile isn't for vacation, it's for seeing his family at the end of the day.

 

These guys:

With so much love...