winter's end

Well, it was a fitting end to a wonderful winter. Because, really, we (those of us who love cross country skiing) did have a fine season. I know most of you don't really care that much about this odd sport where you basically push yourself on boards across a snow covered terrain. In very cold temperatures. But to profess a love for skiing is really to profess a love for something deeper: for the quiet of the forest, for the crispness of every breath you take in, for the beauty of a world turned, for the most part, black and white. (It turns out that if you look hard enough, you'll notice significant color differentiation even as the day progresses.)

Let me go back to the early hours of the day. Sunrise. I don't have much time for anything come Thursday -- it is my treadmill day, when I spin madly, trying to keep up with the world, hoping not to slip off and fall flat on  my face. But I do have time to step outside just as the sun breaks the horizon.





And I always have time for breakfast. In the sun room today (note the blooming nasturtium!).





From sunrise, I roll over the hours of work to sunset.


I'm speeding home now, hoping so much that there will be time for a ski run before dusk. Ed comes out to reassure me. There's time, there's time...

I know winter is a tough time. I know it.  I have infinite empathy for those who work in the cold outdoors now. But tonight, we experience the kind side of the season.

We're out. The trails are icy now: it is the way it must be in the final hours of winter. There'll be bare spots tomorrow. And if the predictions hold true, the rains will wash the snows away by Sunday.

But for now, we are in a wintry state of bliss.




This is it -- the sunset of a day. Of a season. We've been made tougher by months of cold.


 


In a day or two, we'll be rewarded with spring. But today, we're still skiing, still pushing those boards across fields of snow.






At home, I fix a supper that is everything and nothing. Foods we love, foods that are easy. A one frying pan meal of spinach and mushrooms, eggs and smoked salmon, and as always, a large, very large salad.





As I glance over this post, I think -- how could this be at all exciting? Sunrise, sunset, with little in between. Plain food, known scenery, little variation in any of life's essentials. And yet...
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

and one more time

You have to forgive me. We're in that final spin, when weather and life and the imminence of spring all push us out onto the cross country trails, no matter how late it is, how tired we are (rephrase that: I am), how inconvenient it may be to fit in a run in our favorite county park just minutes from the farmette. This is it! The tail end! The snows will melt, spring will come, this is the final push!

And of course, in many ways, this is the best time to ski. The weather is mild: just at freezing in the early evening. The snows are (today) packed and solid. And there's that mellowness in the air, that whiff of a breeze that portends of great things just around the corner (spring!).

So, of course, after work, just as people are settling in to watch the evening news, Ed and I go out to ski.

It's so different today! Yesterday, the snow was a mile high, the winds created dips and valleys. Today, the trails are groomed, the forest is still, life is easy!






Yes, yes, I admit it: these last days of winter are good days. From the morning...





...until that last spin on the trails at dusk. And somewhere beneath all that snow, the crocuses are getting ready for their show. Yes -- life is good.

one more time

I think we should be looking for crocuses right about now. It's what we do in March. Whatever snows fall -- they melt the next day and the crocuses recover and all's right with the world again.

So it's not really good that we have snow piling on top of snow, because all that snow is just not going to melt anytime soon (I was hoping for crocuses by the weekend...).

On the other hand, all that snow surely is a thing of beauty. Clumps of snow cling to tree branches and form gorgeous patterns on the porch screen.





We were told  -- storm is coming! -- and it came and so we were prepared.

Early breakfast in the front room...





...then a slow drive up unplowed roads to campus. Tuesday is a heavy teaching day for me and so the snow is just a thing out there, outside my office window.





But when it is time to go home, that snow tempts me. At the same time that it is really piling up there. Should we ski? We waffle. It's late. And there wont be trails. Just high drifts of snow. I had thought I said goodbye to skiing before my trip to SF. And here I am wondering if we should ski.

When we're uncertain in this way, the default option is always to go ahead and do it. So we do it.

Snow continues to come down and it's nearly dark. The skis disappear underneath drifts, so that it looks like you're pushing away at piles of snow with your ankles. No one else is out and about -- I understand that. A storm is raging, the winds are blowing -- these are not your inviting conditions for outdoor play.

But oh, it is beautiful!





Maybe this is the last time we ski this year, maybe it's not, but I feel like it's the run of all runs.





It's a winter high alright, to be out there tonight. I don't regret living in the north. I don't regret not having crocuses yet. I don't regret the incessant shoveling of the path to the farmhouse. None of it. Tonight is our homage to the snows we've had this year.






A trial at times, sure, but also beautiful. Yeah. Perfection in the forest by the lake.

pre-spring

At home, I fall in step with the routines of pre-spring. For example -- the brick walkway to the farmhouse was kept free of ice and snow almost obsessively by me all winter long. I'd shovel and clear it even before the snow touched the ground. In my absence, portions of the path iced over. I kicked at the ice for a small while, then shrugged my shoulders and moved on. I thought -- by the weekend it'll melt.

Mind you, we have yet another snowstorm heading our way. Tomorrow may create a travel terror, even for the short distance I have to cover from the farmhouse to campus. But after, the tides will turn. By the time you're springing your clocks forward, most of the snow should be melting away.

I have no revelatory photos from today. We did have breakfast, Ed and I and that was quite nice.





After, there was too much work, too much of a retrace of past days, of old routes, too much, tediousy too much, all in a month that, in any case, begs not to be photographed (March competes with November in this way).

It was in the near evening, just as I got home, that I took note of the sunset. And then, as I walked to the edge of the farmette to see it more fully, I saw a large herd of deer. I was too far and with my lesser lens camera, so you'll see not much of either -- the sunset or the deer.






Or, maybe a little of both?



there are six deer in this photo... can you spot them?



Chili for supper today. Of course. To have ready for the snowstorm ahead. Just  in case.

B. California notes: the final word

We are sitting at an outdoor table at a cafe off of Shattuck Street. Lunch is long finished (eggs with goat cheese for both of us).





If yesterday was too warm for my fleece, today is too cool for just a sweater. I can't get these California temperatures right. Not that I'm complaining. I read that back home, we're due for another snowstorm on Monday. Seems I said goodbye to winter a tad too early.

I don't want to get up though. My mom is running through a set of stories from her life. I know most of them, but each time she talks about her past I learn something new -- if not in detail, then in intonation.

In many ways, my own story cannot be separated from my parents' stories (something I am acutely aware of as I continue to work on my book project in the months when I am not teaching). I ask her once again to write all this down. She has already written down her parents' stories -- invaluable ethnographic materials for anyone who is curious about that great tale of the Polish peasant who comes to America just before the Great Depression, especially since this tale doesn't follow the typical trajectory. This particular Polish peasant (my grandfather) doesn't remain a peasant, nor does he, in the end, stay in America. So I ask her to write part 2 of all this. I don't think she enjoys writing, certainly not to the extent that I do and yet I wish she'd do it. She and I share this quirk of history: for different reasons and under vastly different circumstances, we moved between the States and Poland many times in our lives, each time thinking this is the last migration only to find out (in her case, quite late in life) that we were wrong -- that there was yet one more move across the ocean.

She hesitates now. What if I get it wrong? What if I don't remember?
Listening to her now, I already see that she and I remember certain details quite differently. But isn't any story really nothing more than a photoshopped picture of the past? Does it matter that the details don't always add up? We are a composite of impressions. Our impressions are what matter, especially since our impressions -- hers, mine -- are so different than those of anyone living here, in America who hasn't moved back and forth between these two different cultures and political realities.

Eventually, the nip in the air gets to me and we get up to return to her place. No walk for today, but that's okay. I had had a morning stroll already. To the farmer's market across the street from my hotel in San Francisco. Here, let's take a look at this March market and let me try to contain my envy:



a selection of fresh herbs




a California original




persimmon




clipped locally




a good combination




he wears rosemary in his jacket pocket and buys tomatoes to plant in his yard. in March.




my breakfast today: granola, fresh fruit, yogurt. I know, familiar.




buying mushrooms




the first of two tshirts that I liked; this one from a pork store...




...and this one from a chocolate shop



And, too, before meeting my mom, I ran clear across Berkeley...



a fragment of a street mural




they grow on the median strip




oh, Berkeley...


...hoping to find a shoe store in the northern part of the city. I had purchased summer shoes here last year (it's tough to pick the perfect shoes, as I only want one pair for the season and it has to be pretty enough to be fitting for an evening in a city and sturdy enough so that if I end up hiking the Pyrenees right after a breakfast in Sorede, it'll stand up to the job). Last year's pair was good, but by the end of the season it collapsed, from exhaustion I suppose. I am brutal with shoes.

So I am picking a pair again because surprisingly, it is cheaper here than in comparable stores in Madison. My mom looks at my new purchase and says, somewhat taken aback -- such a strong color! I look down on the shoes (I'm wearing them straight out of the store). I suppose they do look orange. The salesclerk suggested a pair of purple socks to go with them. A Berkeley combination if ever I saw one.



...to the side of her building, some of the residents plant gardens


In many ways, our 'day two' conversation is different than that on 'day one.' I worry that I'm wearing my mom out, taking her away as I do from her routines. Disruptions take their toll. Still, she is game to go out to dinner -- to her recent favorite, Rivoli -- a place that is most certainly fresh and honest in a lovely California sort of way. This meal was to be Ed's treat, but she wouldn't hear of it. She is always like that -- beating her to the check would only make her upset.

We eat our identical seafood and avocado salads and I think about how many meals I've eaten with her across the table from me. Quite a number, since when we were a foursome -- my sister, my mother, my father and I -- we always divided ourselves in this way: my dad and I on one side of the table, my sister and my mother on the other.










People say now that I look like my mom. It used to be that they said I looked like my dad. In how many other ways have I become more like her? Less like my dad? Like both? Like neither?

The day ends with that dinner at Rivoli. I take a Bart to San Francisco, she finishes her cab ride to her own tiny apartment in the heart of Berkeley. I hope she rests well after the visit. I hope she returns smoothly to the routines that she loves so much.

Back at the hotel, I ask for a 4:30 a.m. wake up call. But as always, I don't need it. I'm up and showered by the time the phone rings. I'm programmed to be always ready for travel, for the next trip and the next. It's just the way I am.

A. California notes, continued

Whenever I ride the bus in Berkeley, ten people jump up to offer me a seat. It could be that I am nearly always with my mother. She doesn't look fragile, but she does use a cane and she certainly is of a Medicare eligible age and so people rise for the both of us.

I have reached a mature age, finally. Perhaps other signs of maturity will soon follow.

Tonight, on board the Bart train bound for downtown SF (and therefore to my hotel), I sat back, wanting very much to reflect. To mull things over. And smile at the recollections. It was not to be. Four rowdy youths absolutely dominated the entire space of the Bart car. They weren't vulgar (unless you find vagina jokes vulgar) or threatening in any way. They were (NCU) students, done with watching some ball game or other, heading out for... various things. One of them definitely wanted to lure a girl to bed (his choice of words). The remaining two appeared to merely want to talk loudly.

The rest of the people in the Bart car bonded by darting meaningful gazes at one another. I should have made a youtube video out of this, I tell my seatmate -- it may have gone viral! 


Still earlier? Well, there was the Bay Bridge outside my hotel widow. Stunning at sunrise. 





I could not sleep after I rose to look outside. And now, predictably, I am too tired to finish the story of the day.

Here's an idea: I'll do the ending when I get back to Madison tonight. One can't be rushed with a recount of a rich day.

California notes

A long long time ago, when I was just done with college, I considered coming to Berkeley for grad school. Of the places I was accepted, it turned out to be my second choice. Almost, but not quite right. Too far from Europe.

I think that was a good decision for me. Even though I've sometimes wondered -- what would it be like to live in California? I mean, what would it be like to be in this kind of a climate? This kind of culture? Among this many people? This close to the ocean?


I wake up to a foggy morning. I mean really foggy. I zip up my fleece and feel grateful for my scarf.






The commute back to the airport and then, by Bart, to San Francisco proper...






... is a bit of a long haul and I decide to switch things around a little and stay the next two nights (as opposed to just one night) in downtown SF. Sure, I have a predawn flight to catch on Sunday, but that's Sunday. Let me get out of the airport area already and spend my time close to where I want to be.

There is a terrific deal at the Harbor Court Hotel, just by the Embarcadero (for those who track the Bay area) and every time I call, the deal just gets better. That seals it. First thing on the agenda: off to the Harbor Court to drop off my bag there.


The room isn't ready (well what a surprise -- I arrive just after 9 a.m.) so I take a little walk in the city. A partly hidden by fog city.






But a lovely city nonetheless because, for one thing, it already made friends with spring some weeks ago.











As long as I'm trotting around downtown SF, I may as well give you a few postcards from my walk. It was a rather random walk, though it did have a goal of sorts  -- to get up high enough to see the Golden Gate. A trip here cannot be complete without a peek at the bridge of all bridges.

So first, a stroll through Chinatown,






then a climb up...






...to Coit tower and from there you can see it -- the Golden Gate, rising in that stunning way above the wisps of morning fog:






Of course, there is also that 'other' bridge to admire, the one over the Bay...






Okay. My morning is complete. Now, is my room ready? Not yet? No matter. I'm off to Berkeley to meet up with my mom.

Berkeley. I've changed my mind about Berkeley so many times already that I can hardly understand why this one community puts me in such a spin of contrasting emotions. The first time I visited it, I didn't like it. Later, I liked it. Then, I really didn't like it. But since my last visit here a year ago, I finally began to give it a good consideration. Looking at it from, say, my mom's point of view. And this is when I truly started to like it quite a bit.





After some minutes in the place where she lives, we set out for lunch at Slow. It's the kind of place where once you order your sandwich or salad and sit down, it's hard to leave. The sun beats down on your back (nearly all the tables are outside), stories and recollections flow to you from across the table, the ice tea is refreshing and has raspberries floating in it -- it's a life is good kind of place. Or, is it that when I am there, I am acutely aware that life is indeed good?







We then walk to get an ice cream cone at my mom's favorite ice cream place (what a deal!)...






...and then for a quick coffee at Peet's because somehow this morning I forgot to have breakfast and with it my daily shot of caffeine.

My mom is still game for more walking and this surprises me and pleases me all at the same time. We stroll through the Berkeley campus which is quite beautiful and I smile to myself as I think how close I came to attending school here.






After, a quick bus ride brings us to my mom's place again.

She has arranged dinner for us, along with her good good friends, at a local Thai restaurant.






My mom is turning 90 this year and she calls this her birthday celebration, even as her real birthday isn't until fall.  Not that she wants a fuss. That's not her. Like Ed, she'll insist on keeping the birthday theme to a minimum. But, the kind restaurant people bring out some sticky rice and mango and in there somewhere there is a candle and in my mind, it is a fitting end to a very lovely evening.






The Bart train -- that wonderful thing that I wish Wisconsin would embrace already -- takes me back to SF and from my hotel room I watch lights set the Bay Bridge aglow...


 


...and I think about how nothing about SF or Berkeley is home for me and yet, because of these familial circumstances, I don't feel like a visitor here. I tell people -- I'm here to see my mom. She lives here. And that makes it almost an extension of my home.

outsmarted

February this year was looking to be a no flight month for me (a rare thing), until I realized that a year had passed since I'd seen my mother. She lives in Berkeley. Is that ever a bonus! Here I am, writing about the imminence of spring while blizzards rage outside and there's my mom, in Berkeley, where spring happened weeks ago. And so on this last day of this short, but in many ways very long month, I'm taking off for California.

After a breakfast in the front room, with a view toward the snow covered trees…





…I get ready to set out at once for work, but too, I take with me a packed bag for an evening set of flights to San Francisco.

During our breakfast minutes at the farmhouse, Ed and I consider the braininess of mice. We have this plastic trap. It's a simple device: a mouse enters in pursuit of a dab of peanut butter, the thing tilts and slams shut. In the now nearly two years of my life at the farmhouse, this little contraption has caught nearly a dozen critters (mainly in late fall, but this year, in the winter as well).

Until this week. Every evening, we set the thing downstairs. Isis is indifferent to the whole project. Once he waved his tail and smacked the trap shut, but mostly he just steers clear of the whole thing. He'll chase mice, but on his own time, when the mood is right and the air is sweet and the flowers are blooming outside.

So we set this trap and sure enough, in the middle of the night, we hear the slam of it shutting tight. Except in the morning, we find that the trap is empty. Peanut butter eaten. Mouse, filled with our organic crunchy stuff -- nowhere in sight. This has happened five times in a row now. Five times!

So how could it be? I propose several ideas: maybe it's this, maybe it's that. Ed, the engineer among us, rejects them all as physically impossible. The only answer, he tells me, is that the mouse is smarter than us. The mouse knows to go in and not mind that the box slams shut. Because he (or she) knows that after feasting, it's possible (I mean it has to be possible) to turn around and lunge for the entrance, causing it to open just enough so the he (or she) can exit.

After five days of feeding the mouse, we conclude that we need a smarter trap, because the intelligence of this animal far exceeds that of the human who invented our heretofore infallible device.


Onto Berkeley. And I write this with great relief because I nearly missed the second of my two flights. Not because of the usual February culprit (bad weather), but because of a malfunctioning gate door at the Detroit airport. And if you're wondering what I'm doing in Detroit when my destination is in the opposite direction, well that's just the reality of flights these days: if you take what's cheap out there you're likely to find yourself flying in circles.





And because I have become that kind of a cheap person, I will not post this on the expensive in flight WiFi, but will wait until I arrive at my San Francisco airport hotel (the very affordable Hilton Garden Inn). So technically I can't say I am yet in Berkeley and not even really in San Francisco, but I am on the west coast when I click the "Publish" button and that means that I no longer need the snowshoes, the cap, the gloves (I do keep a scarf, just in case). Hello, California! Thank you so much for warming up for me this weekend!