showers

The day is filled with numerous "I shoulds." I should finish working on the chicken fence -- Ed will say.
I should return to weeding -- I'll offer.

But even though it isn't terribly cold, the occasional rain keeps us mostly indoors. (The more drooping daffodils can be rescued and put into vases.)






In the early morning, the chickens are, as usual, anxious to get going. And again they are disappointed with the state of affairs out there (at least, as a commenter pointed out, I am presuming that they are that way: in my mind, their souls droop at the first drop of a cold rain).






Breakfast is our usual, plus Ed's flan. Finally. A superb treat. The day needs a bit of the sweet stuff.












The chickens are on their own, because we just haven't the oomph to spend the day outdoors. Not in this weather. Besides, I'm only easing slowly back to my weeding schedule: five minutes weeding for every hour of rest!






And this, of course, means that when I do come out, the chicks are so excited that they just cannot contain themselves.






It is unquestionably wonderful that I can call them now from anywhere with one word -- cheepers! -- it's a word that sends them running.






And still, I continue to worry about their vulnerability. Yes, Oreo protects them from hawks (as do our trees and shrubs).






And yes, the coop protects them from raccoons and nocturnal beasts. But we have a new foe whom we caught lurking outside in the middle of the night -- the possum.

Finding him at our doorstep used to be cute: those guys would not harm Isis, nor us humans. But we look at them differently now; we learn that they love to tear apart chickens, bit by bit. And they sometimes do come out in the day time. And they do climb fences. So unless we kept the chicks locked in the coop 24/7, there is always the possibility that a possum will wake up and hunt them down.

How sad is that!





Of course, this is what raising chickens is like: you have small issues and big worries and you must shake off both and let the day unfold. And if you have ever let your chickens free range, you will have understood the beauty of their freedom. The excitement in their exploration.The delight in the familiarity, even as they rarely stay with one favorite spot. They have a dozen favorites, just like you and I have a dozen favorites!

Rain. It's diminishing now and that's good. Spring teaches patience. We'll be patient.

time out

I learned some things today: That my mother was right -- your childhood oddities can make a reappearance in your adulthood. That an hour without back pain can be sublime, more so than a trip to Paris. That quinoa salad is yummy, especially if you make red quinoa. That Butter is capable of producing two-yolked eggs. That Ed has it in him to make a wonderful flan. At least I think it's wonderful. I wanted to dig right in tonight, but he pointed out just now that the recipe calls for chilling it overnight.

That truly is the full summary of this day. What -- you think fuller explanations are in order? Fine. But be warned: you'll come back and tell me that I was right. The first paragraph says it all.

We are in the thick of awful April weather. I suppose it could be worse: we could have snow. We don't quite have the cold for that, but it's gray, it's wet, it's windy. The kind of weather where I want to go back to yesterday's post and erase that part about liking to be up with the chickens at sunrise.

No sun rising within my field of vision. Nor that of the chicks. Once again, they seem distressed that the world I opened for them is so... dismal.

Never mind. In these buds, there is promise.






In breakfast, there is hope.






In my back, there is pain.

We try numerous home remedies to relieve it and sure, they help, but I am not going to be satisfied with partial success. I want total victory.

And so this is our day: the chickens are left to free range without our company outside (occasionally, riddled with guilt, I throw out a handful of seeds for them and they are happy and I am happy)...






...the rains come down and then they don't and then they do -- on and on, though really, given the violent weather south of us, we cannot complain...





And then finally, toward the end of the day, I check in with a doc. And she reminds me that I have all sorts of goodies that trace back to my childhood (my mother was right!) that would cause my back to recoil now and the best I can do for myself is to exercise, but not too much.
How much is too much?
Well, you'll know when you over do it, wont you? 
Oh, thank you. That's very helpful.

On my way home, I stop to play with my daughter's cat and as always, it is lovely to see that pouty sweet face.






In the inbetween hours, I try to do some writing and editing while lying stretched on the hard floor and for the most part, I think I make progress, both in my work and in my back restoration.

I even make supper for us, though Ed has to pick up anything that I drop to the floor.

Supper is quinoa salad. With fried eggs (including Butter's twin yolk monster egg), baked carrots and sauteed leeks. Over arugula.





Tomorrow I should graduate to greater activity. Though the weather will keep both of us indoors. It's that kind of April week!

gettin' there

If you've ever pulled your back into some miserable state then you'll know that the second day's worse than the first, but the third day is better than the second. That is, if you hang back and don't push your luck.

Hanging back does not come easy to me and indeed, when Ed asks if he can open and clean the coop this morning, I say a resounding "no!" (With a thank you.)

I realize then and there that not only do I not mind getting up with the sun to greet my cheepers, I rather enjoy it. True, the coop is not cleaned with great precision this morning, but I remind myself that many people would think it's rather bizarre to clean a coop daily anyway. And, too, I have the excuse of the weather. Neither the chickens nor I particularly like being whipped about by a cool wind with specs of rain. Again they look at me with disappointment as they sample the day's offerings. I'm sure they think that the wind, the gusts of showers are all my fault. (Here are the hens, gossiping about the weather...)






At breakfast...





...Ed and I talk about the day before us. No farmhouse cleaning. That gets postponed. How about outdoor work? We have half of the asparagus roots still to plant.

I think I am fit enough to give it a try.
You dig, I'll see if I can sit on the ground and cover the roots with soil.

Easier said. Still, awkwardly and rather slowly I put in the remaining plants. The hens are there of course, most likely thinking that we are all digging together for worms. Whitney follows the shovel closely and for a while Butter looks on...






But seeing that the worms are few and far between, she turns around and joins Scotch in a dirt bath instead.






They are truly a delightful little flock.

In the late afternoon, I visit with my daughter's cat Goldie (who loves to smell flowers...






...and fly between table and counter...)






And after, I give in to Ed's suggestion that we do another day of take out. Chinese this time.  It really feels odd not to be cooking for two days in a row, but you can only work a sore back so much in one day and if there's one thing that cooking requires, it is a lot of bending and twisting.

On the way home, I am rewarded with a terrific view of our great big cloudy sky. Honestly, it's as if you can see the wind patterns passing through.






At home, the girls rush over to greet me.





Ed soon follows, in a less sprightly fashion.

Yes, my dears, I'm feeling better. Another hour or two on a hard floor and I should be almost capable of moving without a wince or grumble.

digging fools

Okay, I understand. Finally, at 61 I get it. The human form is composed of contradictory sets of skills and impulses. You can be smart and lazy. Artistic but clumsy. Adventurous and scared. And here's one -- energetic but too old to make use of your (perceived) vast energy resources. Just because I want to dig and lift and pull with all my might, doesn't mean I should.

In a sense, I have the wrong role model next to me. Ed puts his body through far more rigorous contortions and workouts than I do. He pushes himself on hills when biking, lugs stones the size of his head, pulls out trees if I ask him to (small ones, but with mighty roots). And he is three years older than I am. So I assumed that I can do the same.

I can't. This Polish peasant stock that I carry in me gives me the will. But it hasn't necessarily equipped me with a musculature that can match my expectations of what I should be able to do.

In other words, I really pulled my back yesterday and with that event, just like in Brittany last month, I am effectively incapable of changing positions (stand me up and I can stand; lie me down and I can lie; ask me to move from one to the other and I'll politely decline -- or howl in pain, because truly, it's reminiscent of having lower back birthing contractions, only there isn't the pleasure of a baby at the end that would make it all worth while).

And of course, when the flare up settles down a bit, I think -- oh, great! I'm fine again! And even though Ed offers his chicken services in the early morning, I brush his kindness aside and go down myself to open the coop and clean it out even before sunrise!



(I'm done; the sun clears the horizon, the willow sways)





(daffodils, golden tipped at sunrise)





(the morning starts with a rest under the picnic table)


And when I come back to the farmhouse, I think I'm okay, I'm okay, but when I lie down, I realize I cannot now get up.

Which is a damn shame, because we set aside this day to help build the Ice Age trail over by Wisconsin's Gibraltar Rock. For a thousand reasons, we want to volunteer today. The trail building is in one of our favorite places within an hour's drive of where we live. It's a hill that protrudes straight up, with views over our vast farmlands and the Wisconsin River to the north, and it's where Ed and I went on our very first hiking date way back when. We have sentimental feelings about the place.

Too, we love the Ice Age Trail project -- attempting to create a continuous hiking trail across the entire state of Wisconsin -- and we try to volunteer on maintenance or building whenever the crew is working near us.

And the weather! Another (and final, for a while, we're told) beautiful April day, with plenty of sunshine and cool breezes -- a dream day for outdoor work.

Except that I can barely get two bowls of cereal on the table for breakfast.





And when Ed suggests I try stretching my back on the floor, it takes us a good ten minutes to get me back up to a standing position. With a lot of "I cants" and wails in between.

And yet...

The thought of sending Ed off to build trails in that beautiful setting is just too much and so we form a pact: get me into the car and I'll go. No no. Not to work on the trail. Ed can do that. I'll stand. Or walk if I can. Or recline in the car and count the minutes.

And we do just that. Which is why I can offer you a few photos from this glorious place on this most sublime April day. Because once there and standing, I could be pushed forward and I could walk. Slowly but surely. All the way to the top.



(the river below)





(the trail builders)





(here, too, a hawk in search of...chickens)





(the beloved view from the top)



After, I drag Ed to grocery shop. I point, he throws stuff into the cart. And, too, we stop at my daughter's home. We have kitty sitting duties and Goldie, their cat, is surely happy to see us.



(we're more fun than... a bowl of apples!)


(And Ed is happy to see her. Indeed, Ed spends so much time cuddling animals behind my back that I have to believe he has an instinct to smother in affection any living thing, especially if it's one hundredth his size.)






We're back at the farmette late in the afternoon. I was a little nervous. The chickens had been free ranging the entire time. Any number of things could have happened. But, much as Ed had predicted, nothing did happen. And they're so happy to see us! I call cheepers! -- and they come running, delighted that the treat keeper is back again.






In the evening, I stretch my back once more and I can see that the spasms are really fading. Which is terrific. Two days of pain is a lot better than a week of pain. Still, we eat take out food to keep me off my feet. And when Ed asks after supper - you want to plant the asparagus roots? I tell him -- I can do one. No more.



(he gets help digging holes from the hens)


And so we end the day in the yard, as always and I actually manage to plant a cup of free seeds from Whole Foods to commemorate Earth Day and the chickens just laugh and cackle because they are so tickled to have us back and up and digging again.

Friday

What would you do if the day promised sunshine and warmth even as next week is slated to be cold and wet?

You'd throw everything into the cart and get outdoors from the break of dawn.

So I did that. Early, very early.

Breakfast was hurried -- Ed has his Friday meetings and I'm anxious to get the cart rolling.






Yes, I admire the light, the daffodils, the blue skies, the willows bursting with new growth...





...but mostly, I want to get to my tasks.

The asparagus bed. I try to clear it -- no. I need some help here. Okay, back to the raspberry patch then. I dig, I pull, I dig, oh! There's that twitch in the lower back! Maybe it's a passing thing.

It isn't a passing thing. By evening, I can't move.

But on the upside, before I succumb to lower back distress, I have some wonderful hours noting the rapidly changing world outside. The buds, the early blooms, the first leaves on tree branches -- we've been waiting for all this for such a long time and now it's finally here -- the start of the growth season.








And there were other highlights. An evening date downtown puts me on Rosie (the moped) for the first time since October. It was grand to be riding her again.

And the chickens: let me remember on those days when they're destroying some magnificent flower or plant in my garden that for most of our waking hours, they are the sweetest birds this side of the Mississippi.











So yes, it was a beautiful day.






Now, let's see if I can flip a magic switch and force my lower back to return to its predigging state. I promise I wont rush things the next time around. I'll be the champion of slow digging. With many pauses to smell the roses (or whatever else is in bloom).

rainy days

In the eyes of a chicken, you are an agent of change. For the worse (they know you can swoop them up and carry them of to some frightening place), for the better (you open their gate, you bring them food). Being chickens, they can't fully appreciate the range of your powers. They don't know that there are things that are out of your control.

So that when I got up ever so reluctantly on this cool and wet morning to open up their coop and pen, I took note that the chickens moved more slowly, hesitating, looking at me as if asking for an explanation as to why today just doesn't feel as wonderful as, say, yesterday.

I'm sure they feel it is my fault.

I agree with the chickens -- the weather today leaves much to be desired. Unlike them, I blame no one. It is April, there are wet and cool days in April. Not your fault or mine. Not the fault of gas emissions or the result of climate change. An act of nature, nothing more.

Still, I felt that the daffodils said it well with their drooping faces: this day is just not worthy of our bright countenance.






After breakfast (French toast for Ed -- to use up stale bread and fresh eggs)...






...I should have sat down to my indoor tasks, but I am carrying now an outdoor disposition and so it is hard to think in terms of a whole day in a sitting position. I keep getting up. To check on the chickens! -- I tell Ed, who then responds -- were you like this with your children too?






When there is a pause in the rain, I should use it to amble out and work on the new asparagus patch. (There is a dysfunctional old patch that is buried under weed and shade and, too, there is a wild one out in the prairie that occasionally throws single stalks of asparagus to random places. Like right next to a new apple tree. Weird, no?) But I didn't do that. If you don't get the motor into high gear early on in the day, it's nearly impossible to do so after noon. Or at least it is that way for me. The only compelling reason I had to go out was when the hawk came back and I felt a need to wave my arms at him so that he'd come back less often. The chickens, thanks to an Oreo alert, were hovering safely in the tiny space between the house and the air conditioning unit. But I waved my arms anyway. Another one of those motherly instincts.





Finally, finally, in the late afternoon, I agree to go with Ed on errands. To Farm and Fleet to buy a summer container (no electric hook up needed) for chicken water. And a belt for the broken Zero-turn. And a new hose distribution system. Yawn, right? Not for us. Farm and Fleet feels, these days, like the store that has everything you may need to get from one day to the next.

A recount of today would not be complete without mention of a milestone: last night, Ed's car of choice, a '93 Geo finally developed an issue that he is unwilling to fix. This is the same car that has more rust on it than it has car. It's one he has loved to keep going because it is small and insignificant. It is also the car in which he came to pick me up, back on October 20th of 2005 when we decided we were worth a shot to the other (on paper, remember, we had nothing in common).

I remember coming down from my apartment and seeing Ed, walking the railway tracks just to the back of the parking lot. Then I saw his car: red, rusted, with pink stripes running across the sides. It struck me that a guy who drove that car really knew how to sift out and ignore life's unimportant details.

Since then, I've disliked the Geo because it truly feels like it will fall apart from underneath as you're driving along a rural road or worse, on a highway. Held together by sheer Ed stubbornness. And still, I have now this reminder of time passing. Of nearly ten years with Ed and his inconsequential Geo. You wont mind if I post a most unattractive photo of this most unattractive car, right? Just so I can remember how irrelevant pink stripes and rust can be.






The car, selling at $200 on Craigslist, had a dozen inquiries within a couple of hours. That's two things that will remain forever a mystery to me: why old cars get people excited and why chickens aren't scared of Ed.






Supper? Gotta use up those free range eggs. With a plethora of beloved veggies.

...and the next

And so it continues. Dawn -- up to release the chickens and clean the coop...



(good morning, Scotch!)


... then breakfast.



(zebra stripes!)


I feel like an entrenched farmer. The routines cannot vary. So long as there are chickens at the farmette, they must be tended in this way.

To some, it may seem like a brutal imposition. But of course, if you have a dog, you must walk her. Clean up after her. Feed her. Play with her. Chickens require less of you, but it is imperative that you are there to release them and lock them up again. Small jobs, but jobs they are.




(Oreo, doing his cockadoodledoo)


As Ed continues to work on the poor old disabled Zero-turn mower, I return to the raspberry patch. You will hear a lot of this: work on the raspberry patch. It's probably our biggest project. We've been at it for more than a year and it still has many many weeks of digging, weeding, ripping, chipping to go. The hope is that it wont be a terribly high maintenance area once we have finished our work there.



(the hens in their afternoon snooze mode)


There are, each day, new items that we squeeze in between the big projects: yesterday I sowed the arugula and endive beds. Today we planned the new asparagus patch and began work there. Every day is like this and I have to warn you that we haven't even hit May yet which, for me, is the most intense gardening month of the year.






So what about my writing? Is it on hold?

Not exactly. The beauty of outdoor work is that clears the mind and it requires little effort to come in, sit down and do a review or addition to an ongoing project (for example The Book). Teaching left me depleted at the end of the day. Outdoor work frees my thoughts and dehumidifies my mind. It's very (intellectually) refreshing.

Still, I am a bit stalled on The Book, as I have an interim writing project before me (more on that in mid-May) and so most often I take that out and spend some time musing over the direction it should take.

It's all very leisurely and stress-free and this, of course, is the most beautiful part of retirement. The world around me is a very calm place indeed.





Calm, but not without excitement. Of the type where the chickens have learned to fly out of the pen, for example. But that's tomorrow's issue. Today, as the rain clouds drift in, the world is a quiet place.