up, down, round and round

The sunrise in Madison today is at 5:18. It has been at 5:18 for a few days now and it will remain at 5:18 until June 21 -- after that, well, it's countdown to winter. In the next days, we'll gain our additional minutes of daylight, but they will be at sunset.

Oh but I do love June. And I love being up with the sun. I never intend to stay out long then. It really just sort of happens.

I open the coop, walk over to one of the buckwheat fields and decide I may as well do it the favor of pulling out some of the emergent bind weed and thistle. That takes a while. By the time I move on, the sun is already on its way to giving us the hottest June 10th on record: we peak at 91F/32.5C today, which is several degrees upward of out previous record set some forty years ago.

(This corner of the farmette is, I always thought, secretive and lovely. The smell is of pines. Were I a child, I would imagine it to be my own little corner: private and quiet. The type of place you like to run to when grown ups make unreasonable demands and scold you for no good reason.)






And by the time I assess the work that I might do this morning, the sun is higher still.





For the next several hours, I move hostas and heucheras. This year, the hostas have exploded. They grew three times their usual size and I've moved nearly a dozen of them out of the dappled shade garden by the farmhouse path. This morning I also rearrange heucheras so that they will be less crowded and more in line with their maximum height.

This is an incredibly stupid thing to do on what will turn out to be the hottest of hot June days. Moving plants is stressful (for the plant) and even though I coddle them with our very best compost soil and water them plenty, by afternoon, they are all in a state of shock and deep wilt.

I glare at the cheepers who look at me from behind the plants, waiting for a treat: it's your fault! If you would quit digging at the roots so much, things would be looking much better, thank you very much! Sometimes I'm glad they don't speak English.


What plants might I show off today? Well, the lupine is trying to set a record in terms of its spiky height.






And here's a beautiful clematis that I planted by Ed's sheep shed window. I thought it would give him a frame of lovely flowers all summer long. What I hadn't realized is that birds have set up a permanent nest in the roof corner just above it. By the end of summer, the plant will be covered by their droppings. Ed, of course, doesn't mind.






And the annuals. I go back to them for an image of colorful bounty.






Oh, and the various lavender plants at the farmette: they're having a really good year.







Alright, breakfast. Not very hot yet, but warm enough for Ed to move out of his usual spot in order to sit in the shade.






And then I'm off to be with Snowdrop.

She, of course, wants to go out. It's as if my presence triggers in her that yearning to be exploring the world. Today, I'm happy enough to oblige, but I also know this about the little girl: give her Wisconsin cold and she seems hardly to notice. Give her a hot, muggy day and she is terribly uncomfortable. Still, she really wants to go, pulling my hand toward the door with all her little strength.

I have my shoes on! Let's go!






So we go. Indeed, her mom joins us for part of the walk, as she is heading for a work meeting that's on our path. And our path leads us past Madison's zoo.

It's a great place for Snowdrop, even if she is only mildly interested in staring at the animals. It's a park with many walkways and alleys and she can run free.






The heat notwithstanding, the smile is genuine.






The park is filled with families and spirited children -- we're not the only ones who think it to be a great destination on this summer-like day. And here's a big treat: this is where you'll find one of the two (known to me) merry-go-rounds in Madison. The last time Snowdrop rode one, we were, of course, in Paris. The day had been hot, the wait to get going -- round and round, up and down -- seemingly interminable to a little girl. Today isn't greatly different. When you put yourself in the head of a toddler, you surely can understand: why are we standing in line? Why doesn't this thing move already? Why?

Oh, but when the bell rings and the carousel spins...






... Snowdrop is in love with life again.

She is intense about this in the same way she is intense about quite a lot of things.






And grandma just waves and waves.






She and I do stop by a cafe on the way home, but it's so very warm, that we just do a quick nibble and run. I point to the umbrella above the table (shade, Snowdrop, it gives us shade!), but the girl is a bit doubtful about the whole set up.






And now we do the final leg home. Snowdrop does not want to be wheeled back in a stroller. She wants to sniff the flowers.






She wants to walk. And this is her favorite (which I remember so well from Paris) -- she wants to push the stroller (which she has to do in a backwards fashion, as the bar is too high for her to reach).





True happiness. It's slow going this way, but honestly, is there a reason to rush when the air is clammy and hot and the spirit is soaring from the sheer act of pushing your own stroller with bits of clover in it?


At the farmhouse, for the first time this year, I turn on the air conditioning. Tomorrow promises to be even hotter. We live with such incredible privilege: turn on the switch and your home is cool. Oh, life -- so beastly unfair to some. So wildly kind to others.

Thursday

As I studied the weather map for the day, I almost regretted having wished for rain. I'll take that slow British drizzle. Storms? I'm not a fan.

It seemed a bit drab outside this morning and my walk through the yard was on the quick side. What's blooming? Let's go deeper into one of the flower beds: this Globe flower (Trollius) is just starting, which is perhaps a tad late for it. It's a moisture loving plant but it's happy in this partly shady area, chipped heavily to keep the soil from drying out.






Oh, and on this rather somber day, why not bring out the color of the coral bells? This is the plant that you love for the leaves as much as for the dainty flower stalks. (There are three here, lining the walkway, each with a different leaf color.)






Okay, straight to breakfast. Ed rouses himself from a day of rest. It's cloudy and about to rain, but warm enough to sit on the porch.






And then the rain does come, just as I drive up to Snowdrop's home.

She's as always, full of vim and vigor and she indicates in her usual way that going outside would be her idea of a good time. But it's a no go. The rain may be helping the plants at the farmette, but it's not making a little girl happy about having to stay indoors.

Never mind. She invents games that test her constantly shooting up height..

(Playing on the table...





... while the cat watches.)






... and she uses not a small amount of energy playing ball, which, in her version of it, requires quite a bit of running.






But when the rain stops and the storms seem to have skirted again the greater Madison area, I acquiesce and we venture out. To the closer coffee shop, where she surveys the clientele...






... then the art...






... then contemplates life.






She insists on walking home by herself and aside from street crossings, I let her. She has earned this little bit of freedom.







I go home then and catch up on computer work and paper work and singularly uninteresting tasks, pausing only to give the cheepers their bread treat...






... and then to go to the local market with Ed, where we talk to a farmer (who actually knows something about growing things) about growing buckwheat...






... and buy these beautiful berries from another farmer...






And then it's evening and I see Snowdrop once more, this time at the farmette.

Everything I'll write about  now, you'll have heard and seen before: Snowdrop and cheepers, willow branches, running freely through a field, making pizza at the farmhouse -- none of it is new. And yet, when you navigate the evening with a Snowdrop (or any little one), suddenly it's not the same. It's completely different. The sounds are unique to this season, to this day (she looks in awe at the hawks, listens to the multitude of birds, watches the bunny cavort before her). Tomorrow, she will be that much older and her reactions will be fresh and lovely to observe. Think how mundane our daily tasks are (cleaning a house, going to a grocery store, pulling a weed from a yard) and how un-mundane a simple evening walk is to a very young child.

(With the cheepers...)






(Watching the bunny rabbit...)






(Swaying the willow branches...)


 



(Running through a grassy field...)






(Helping make the pizza...)






(Waiting for it to bake and climbing on grandpa Ed to help pass the time...)






(Fresh and honest...)






I never heard a single rumble of thunder today. And the rain was modest. Maybe I should hope for just a tad more rain? If not, bringing out the hose this weekend isn't such a bad way to while away an hour here and there.

Wednesday

It's a rare day when one of us is not feeling up to snuff here at the farmhouse, but for Ed, today is such a day (he would deny this, so don't bother asking "how are you?" -- you're just going to get "great!"). I blame the frozen peas I told him not to eat.

The rhythm of the farmette gets a little thrown off when this happens. If he doesn't sleep well, I don't sleep well, so rest is rather elusive.

I finally get up just at the crack of dawn (that would be 5:18) and my early photos are all on the "new day is dawning" theme.






Every single one seems to be about sunshine poking through.






Even when I give one more nod to the peonies.





I do have to admit, the absence of rain is not good for anything. I'm watering all new plantings -- one bed each day (I have 8 major beds), but watering is a poor substitute for a good soak. (And no, I don't do soaking hoses. Watering is my hour of meditation. You can't meditate watching water drip out of a soaking hose.)

I have breakfast while Ed sleeps. Sleep is his way of dealing with just about any malaise.






And then I'm off to be with Snowdrop.

Now there's a perky child! Here she is, after her bath, running with an open book, telling a story with dramatic emphases. Clearly at this point, the tale has taken a frightening twist.






Yes, but does it have a happy ending?? She leaves me hanging.






We take a walk to the coffee shop and her mom joins us. Snowdrop has forgotten about strawberry tarts and delves with relish into bits of an oatmeal raisin cookie.






That was great, grandma!






We alternate between walking and pushing the little one in a stroller.






And then, at home again, Snowdrop and I play. Of course we play. But what? Well, there's "shapes." Circle goes in the circle, heart goes in the heart...






Okay, cool. But can't I put heart on my shoulder just for fun?







Or behind my back...






Ah, Snowdrop!


They say it will rain tomorrow. I don't believe it. I throw some water on the western bed that hasn't seen moisture for a while.

A message comes in from Al, the beekeeper. If we can establish buckwheat, he'll split one of his hives here. (Will we be bee keepers, or simply enablers in bee keeping operations?)

Days are so full of uncertainty. Will it be this way, will it be that? Should we even fuss?

But too, there are things that are rock solid. I love you, you love me, said to the ones in your life who really matter. No reminders needed, even as reminders are always welcome.

Tuesday

Walking the land -- you've heard me say it: Ed and I walked the land. Snowdrop and her parents walked the land. Snowdrop and grandma walked the land.

For me, observing the changes that take place around us figures prominently into this, but I do it, too, to take note of where interventions are needed.

This morning, after letting the cheepers out, I walked from back to front, taking note where a plant was dug out (thanks, young squirrels and chipmunks!) and of course, appreciating the blooms that are about to subside and in places -- beginning to emerge.





When a sleepy Ed asks me -- what's new with the cheepers? -- I give him a report on the eggs (Scotch has stopped laying, so we typically get 2 - 3 each day), I tell him that the coop needs fresh wood shaving, and then I complain about my dug up and decapitated plant.

He responds -- but you have so many that are thriving! I remind him how terrible he felt when we found two tomato bushes destroyed by some animal. We had planted over 100 tomato plants, which is substantially too many for our needs and yet we grieved the loss of two! You get very invested in things you grow and though I have hundreds or perhaps thousands of plants that I put in, divided, started from seed, ordered from catalogues, picked up from the market, moved from isolation to prominence etc etc, I honestly know where each is and how it is faring.






As I approach the new front road bed, I am surprised to see the cheepers, too, walking the land. It's one of their endearing traits: they set out as a foursome and they move in tandem, pecking here and there, completing a circuit. (They do this once, sometimes twice each day.)






Me, I don't stay out long. It's cloudy and cool this morning (and still with no sign of rain).

I hide under the bed covers and study kiddie pools on the internet, thinking that when it gets hot, perhaps Snowdrop would love to play in one at the farmette.
Don't buy one. This from Ed.
I think she'd like it.
There'll be mosquitoes..
I can place it in a clearing.
I'll build you one.
How will you build a kiddie pool for a toddler?
With boards and tarp.

Sigh. Ed really does hate adding stuff. Use what you find. Don't add. I agree in principle. But sometimes what you find just isn't as good as a molded piece of plastic picked up from a big box. Do you stick to your principles then?



We eat breakfast inside. 58F (14C) would have been lovely at the beginning of April, but now we are spoiled. Too cool for a meal on the porch.





And immediately after, Al and his wife come over to walk the land with us. They're bee keepers and they're assessing the farmette to see if they can place a hive in one of the farther corners. It's all about the availability of flowering material. They're intrigued by our buckwheat project.

It looks promising. Perhaps next spring.

I zip up my jacket and take out rosie the red moped. Brrr! It's a cold ride to Snowdrop's home!


When I get there, she is still in her pajamas...





We go through the morning rituals, which include a bath and a lot of play...

(Two balls, Snowdrop?)






(So many books, so little time...)






... and then we set out for a walk to the park.

She uses the swing, surveys the equipment, but prefers the grassy fields for dandelion picking.






At least at this stage, she'll pick a good romp over a good slide or climb.






There are no children or people here today and I watch her in her solitary play and I offer my services as a "flower transporter" -- which basically means taking the dandelions and saving them for "later."






We walk then to the coffee shop, she eats a bit of scone...





... we go home.

And in the afternoon I am back at the farmette and the air is so cool that I am not at all tempted to be outside. I take a nap -- a rare but wonderful occurrence for me! And by the time I wake up, the sun is out and I am out there with it, giving water to the pots and crossing my fingers for rain this week.