finality

Sometimes you expect finality and sometimes you expect things to continue and oftentimes what happens is exactly the opposite of what you would have predicted.

I had made two predictions yesterday -- one about eating outside, the other about plans for the future and it turns out I was wrong about eating outside and the jury's still out about whether I am right or wrong about the future. I'm betting I'm right and if I am right you will soon learn the full context of this rather vague discussion. I need certainty before I post things on Ocean. (Except for predictions about eating outside, where certainty is not required.)

Yesterday was such a bizarre day that I'm still trying to put a correct spin on it.

First -- the weather. Shorts and tank top were not light enough. The temps peaked at 88 but it felt like Miami Florida in mid August.

I worked on the porch, trying to understand how it could be that the flowers are spent and yet the weather is screaming at them that it's not time to retire! Too early! Too soon!





Fine, except when you're done, you're done -- they retort and continue to drop their petals and go into hibernation.

In the afternoon, I take a break and plant my seven irises -- four in one bed, two in another, one on the side. Really? -- they seemed to be asking. You expect us to settle in and establish a home base here before winter? If you say so... I add good composting soil to make the transition that much pleasanter. Now it's up to them.

Finally, in the evening, I am reeling from a tumultuous day of work and decisions and irises and the hot muggy air and as I continue to work on my laptop I get the email warning of storms coming through. And it is at this point that Ed sets up the ladder to begin one of his most challenging construction projects ever -- to  replace the porch roof with strips of glass.





It will be a long and arduous job -- weeks and weeks of work up there -- but I have to throw out this question: are you *sure* you want to begin just as the storms are about to descend on us?
He shrugs: tell me when they're here -- and continues with his sky-high assessment of the work ahead.

The irony is that the skies turn an eerie dark navy and the trees shudder a little and then -- nothing happens. A flash elsewhere, a small gust and quiet.

You'd think that the air cleared and that we have returned the corner -- to the same old crisp fall weather that we count on now, but it's never quite like that, is it? More often, transitions happen over an expanse of time and this one is moving slowly, artfully, so that in the morning, I step out, sample the air and say to Ed -- we'll be eating breakfast on the porch again.

And we do.

the night

It started as a regular old Wednesday. I do a quick walk through the gardens, noting that the cosmos troopers are really carrying the show in many places, including along the path to the sheep shed.






By the farmhouse, the reblooming daylilies are showing signs of life, and the phlox, and... oh, let me not list them! There are that many.






I teach today and again I stay in my office late, working on exam questions. And so it's evening by the time I swing rosie by the secondary lake...






...pulling into our path in the golden evening light. The garden looks at its best now, just as the sun is setting.






I note that it's warm outside. Warmer than the morning, warmer than just an hour ago. Nonetheless, the plan is  to cook chili tonight and I do that. So many small tomatoes to clean, cut, stir in!

And again I'm tired early. We both are. But wait -- could it be daytime again? The night is so bright!

Sometime after midnight, I wake up and glance out at the dazzling sky. In the distance I see faint signs of a thunderstorm. But above us, the skies are almost clear.

I go outside. Warm! How can it be this warm?!






That moon! it surely cannot be anything less than full!

A September 19th harvest moon -- beautiful and proud.






The cat goes in, the cat goes out. The night passes. The morning is still as warm, no -- warmer! We eat breakfast out on the porch -- of course we do! The last time perhaps...






Yes, the last time.






I sit down and rewrite for the millionth time a very important letter. Just after the noon hour I send it, then I settle down to work.

the ride back

It was a time of such intense work that I even skipped the morning walk through the garden.

And so I have no photos to offer you from the day.

But, in the evening, as I swung rosie south and then west (aiming toward a strip mall where they have quite good take-out Thai food), I flipped the helmet face shield up to catch the breeze and took a look around me. It was a cloudy ride -- in fact, for a few moments I thought I'd surely get the rain on my back. No pretty sunsets, no lovely autumn colors and yet, if you look hard, you can be enchanted.






Even the mostly dried corn has a stark but splendid air to it. Like a color guard team, only without the color.





The Thai takeout had somehow toppled and spilled in the back crate and you could say that was an apt ending to a day that deserved no better than a sloshy meal scraped from a plastic sac, but I'd rather remember that turning into the final stretch, the skies cleared over the soy fields and even though it was nearly dark, that final view of field and sky was so satisfying, that it was worth a pause and a smile, the back crate supper mess not withstanding.






Breakfast today? Hurried and still a tad on the gray side. In the kitchen this time. But, I could put this caption to it and it would not be incorrect: light at the end of the tunnel.

shelved

When I moved to the farmhouse two and a half years ago, I dumped my storage contents on the basement floor and left it all there until some future date. You know storage stuff -- Christmas decorations. Suitcases and camping gear. The kitchen utensil you hardly ever use. Jigsaw puzzles, old dysfunctional computers, a picnic cooler.

Two days ago, as I climbed over boxes to look for a potato masher (Ed is about to make grape jam), I commented how nice it would be to one day organize it all and store it in amore accessible manner.

Three hours. It'll take me three hours to put up some sturdy shelves for you. This from Ed, as he sets out to Menards to pickup two by fours and threaded rods.

Right after breakfast, as I sigh deeply (deeply!) and sit down to work on my classes, Ed clamps and drills...






...and boom! By lunchtime, there are shelves. And we place all storage items neatly on the shelves and the world immediately feels safer, more organized, together. (Yes, I'm one of those who thrives when there is order.)





And this was the highlight of the day.

Unless you consider the predinner tennis game? My game was horribly bad but, the evening was beautiful, the secret forested courts were reassuring and back home, the flowers (those leading up to the sheep shed) got me thinking that in the scheme of things, being super busy isn't that awful. Agree? Hmmm, I'm not sure I agree either.






And in the morning, the sun is out again and we eat breakfast in the sun room.

rain

It was a welcome shower. If anything, I'd complain it wasn't long enough, forceful enough, deep enough to really get to the roots of the thirsty plants at the farmette.

Pouty skies: they let out a short drizzle, then clam up again. All day long.

And so I work.

But in the afternoon, I need a break. These are the last days when I can put in plants for a June bloom period. Bearded irises, for example. Dave, over at the Flower Factory promised he'd hunt me up some leftovers. Ed and I set out to pick them up.

Past fields of brown and just a touch of green.






The Flower Factory is ever tempting. It's like setting loose a kid in a candy shop.






Irises. Stick with those. No more other planting this year.






At the farmette, I have this deep gratitude for the late bloomers. I hardly plant for late summer at all and yet, come September, there's still plenty of color in the garden.






Evening. Ed has been waiting for me to help him lift some of the fabric under the far end of the raspberry patch. It shouldn't take long -- famous last words. We struggle with just one strip (you need to lift a lot of sod before you can get to the fabric) for half an hour and it is such heavy work that we give up the rest for another day.

Besides, I have dinner to fix for the four of us -- a Sunday meal, with my daughter and her husband. It's cold tonight. We eat inside.






The skies clear at night. And again we wake up to a bright and sunny day. A Wisconsin fall -- quintessentially upbeat. Quintessentially beautiful.

Breakfast. With a handful of strawberries from the patch.

this way, that way

I cannot tell you how much I have danced around endless ideas about how to go about my days in the year just before me! Is it that I am at an age where nothing aligns itself in a predictable way anymore and so your mind reels at all that you can do?

My family, Ed, my friends must be so tired of the emails, the calls -- guess what, I decided to... Fill in the blank there. It's been a steady stream of new and often short-lived ideas.

And so, once again, it's been a weekend of flips and of flops. Weather-wise as well. Saturday was a coolish but sunny day. Perfect for the market with my older girl.





She has a favorite flower vendor -- Mai -- and when I spoke with Mai's family at the stand, I found out that they grow their veggies and Mai's flowers just about a mile or two from where we live.






My daughter was having friends over and she asked to borrow some simple candle holders. I thought -- surely I can pick up something for her at the store! But no. Nothing was simple, cheap, straightforward. Ed asks -- why buy anyway, when you can make something for her? And he did. In a handful of minutes.  Here they are, made by him, from our old willow branches.






Predictably, the rest of the day was spent on work for me. And thinking through the what ifs that have plagued me all month long. And lunch on the porch -- the usual. Peanut butter, with Ed's peach jam.






This morning, I was so glad to wake up to rain. At least my field of operations is contained. And, I wont have to water the garden! Inevitably, after breakfast...





...there will be the hours of work. But, too, of scheming and thinking. It's just the way it is this season.

the lake

It is an annual event: the sunset boat cruise on Lake Mendota along with Ed's Tormach pals. When the trip is placed on the calendar, you can't predict the weather. There have been years of rain, years of clouds, years of hot air. Not any of those tonight: the day is cool -- topping at just sixty-five (the porch stands empty -- I work indoors)..





 ...the evening even cooler. I bring a scarf.

But the boat ride is, therefore, spectacular: a clear night -- the kind you get sometimes in the middle of winter -- electric and crisp -- with every detail (and every person who is still enjoying a water sport) for you to admire.





We eat, we drink, we talk and some of us record the slow shift of light -- from the glare of the late afternoon, to the last dip of the sun...


 



...to the shine of the moon on the lake waters.





The evening made up for an extraordinarily tough day (though the upside of the tough day is that, with the help of Ed, I make some good decisions -- more on that later in the month).


And now it is morning and the sun continues to work its magic.  Breakfast in the sun room -- for its warmth, for its cheer.










Good Saturday morning, all! 

it's about the corn

Even if your workspace is a beautiful porch and you're there on a beautiful day, with beautiful views to the sheep shed, the barn, the old orchard and raspberry patch...

...you need to get up and out every once in a while.

To play tennis maybe. Or to go to your local market, where your wonderful and thankfully still local farmer takes veggies off her table and sticks them in your bag, refusing to take the dollars you hand her.

Without hesitation, Ed and I will tell you that the truck farmers who came to work the fields around us some half dozen years ago, have added a greater excitement and beauty to the landscape. Still, this is perhaps the one week when it's hard to complain about the (otherwise) omnipresence of corn and soy in this region. If yesterday's photo showed off the golden patchwork of soy, today, it's all about the corn. From the seat of Ed's motorbike:

And speaking of the guy's motorbike, this afternoon he affixed this to the back crate:

Where did you get it? -- I ask, knowing damn well what the answer would be. A discarded Santa, lying in the gutter somewhere...
Ed's not a Santa fan, of course. So why this?
Whimsey! -- he says, grinning.


In the evening, after a supper of leftover chili, I take the bike out on the country roads around us. Fields of corn, at their evening best:

Not for long, maybe just this week, but surely they, too, can take your breath away.






We talk about travel, Ed and I, late into the night. And even as he sleeps, I grab some sale fares to head out somewhere when the semester ends. I can't think about anything beyond December right now. But I can surely think about December.

I left the windows wide open for the night, forgetting that we're beginning the night time dip in temperatures. Mid forties! Soon it will be time to bring the potted guys in for the winter. Soon.

In the meantime -- breakfast is in the sun room.





So long as the days stay this bright, nothing seems difficult. Not even the work that's going to fill this day and the one after and the one after.

later than expected

The dainty achillea millefolium is having a late go of it. I planted three, from different nurseries and they are just now starting to unfurl their pretty little faces.





As if saying -- now, you will notice me! Back then, I was just one of many.

Is it like walking away from a deal? Now, you'll notice me. Back then, I was just one of many...


I leave work later than expected. Classes end for me late and I am forcing myself to stay in my office after to write drafts of exam questions. It's better to do this when the material is fresh in your head.

I turn Rosie on to Park Street (one of several competing ways to go home) and as usual, the traffic kills the joy of being on her curvy saddle, so I turn away, to the east and track the quiet road by the secondary lake.






It's really nice to have options in life.

The country roads though are perfect. They said storms might be passing through, but they were wrong. It is the kind of evening you dream of, come November or March. The soy fields are at their best. The sun is warm enough to ride with only a thin sweater. The air smells of a brilliant autumn.






I make chili at home. Those tomatoes are spilling out on the counter -- I've frozen so many, but they keep coming, at various stages of ripeness and oftentimes I don't catch their perfect freezing moment -- this is the time to make chili.

Ed comes home from his bike ride. If you hurry, you'll see the sunset, he tells me.

I go out, but it's too late. Wisps of red cloud remain. Nothing more.





Late, too late -- relative terms. Too late for one thing means a chance at something else. Would a view of a setting disc be any prettier than the above?

I turn toward the farmhouse, which to me, always looks beautiful, even in the growing darkness of a summer evening.






The night is made restless by Isis. Up, down, meow, clear the stomach, (Isis!) meow, out, in, out again.

I try not to glare at him as he ambles over during breakfast. He is only partly to blame for sticking so forcefully to his preferences. Why shouldn't he make demands? We (Ed!) pander to his requests. He's merely competent at stating them in a convincing fashion.






We eat breakfast on another one of those glorious Fall days that you love for its strength of tone and color.






Skies of blue, lands of a dusty green. After walking the gardens, I come back to the porch. A good place to work, a good place to imagine what next year will be like.