Friday

Well, we stumbled along in our own loopy way toward Friday. I'll say this -- thank goodness it is the end of January. The sun now sets at 5:02 p.m., the air has that whiff of pre-spring, and we can look forward to our goofy speculations about the groundhog's spring prophecies and flip through flower and seed catalogues for the spring that is just around the corner!

(The cheepers think spring is here today. Give them 40F (5C) in the morning and they come trotting to the farmhouse door -- something they never do in the dead of winter.)






Breakfast -- back in the front room, table badly in need of fresh blooms. The pot with the colorful ranunculus is from Giverny. They're fake.





Appointments this morning last longer than I had anticipated. Finally done! But wait, it's nearly one? How am I to grocery shop for the week and pick up Snowdrop in the next hour? (The time I spend in the grocery store each week is, on the average, 75 minutes. I mean, I examine each piece of fruit very carefully! Today, however, I zip through the place in one third the time and without a ready grocery list. It will be an interesting week of eating.)

I am on time to pick up Snowdrop. Phew! Such a relief.

Today isn't a spectacular weather day. Earlier, it rained, quite unexpectedly. It's not cold, but it's not pleasant. There's a bite to the air. Still, it is above freezing and it is January and one must seize these times to take in the greater world, because when the temps dip again (and they surely will), you'll run from car to house as if chased by a herd of angry hyenas.

But that girl! All those days when it was so cold, she begged for time outside. Now, when the temps are hovering just above freezing, she's indifferent to it. Rain and puddles covering icy surfaces? Bleh! It's as if she is telling me -- give me spring, nothing less will do.

So at pick up time, I resort to tempting her with little goodies: Snowdrop, if you put on your jacket and shoes, we can maybe go to the playground.... I bet the swings will be empty now... Mmmm! Back and forth, back and forth!

The dawdling child is in her jacket and shoes in a flash.

Back and forth, back and forth, for a goodly half hour!






We look out at the lesser lake: so interesting now! It looks like it's melting. Fools' dreams! You're actually seeing rain puddles on top of the frozen lake. It will remain frozen until the middle of March, or even into early April.






Snowdrop comes alive now that she is given plenty of time to spin her stories in this beloved little park. Yes, she should be wearing gloves and a hat. Go ahead, tell her that.






Snowdrop, you haven't munched on your croissant yet. Want it?





After an hour, I start to think of creative ways to get her back to the car. Well, maybe not so creative. Snowdrop, you want to check out the coffee shop? Maybe they'll have a cherry scone...

Ah, it's like old times...






As we wait for a rest room to become available, she finds a chair that she "just loves!"

Here comes another story...






I laugh in appreciation. She laughs in return.






Out we go for our walk back to her school and my car...






But if I thought I was going to have an easy time of buckling her in and heading out -- not so! She is full of memories of how it once was, before the cold crept up on us (and it did so early and fiercely this winter). She used to play in the car before our drive home, creating a mini universe of school and home for her tales of woe and redemption. She so wants to do this again today. I let her.
Just for one more minutes, Snowdrop! 
No, five! (I doubt she has a grasp of how long minutes are, but five is greater than one!)

Alright, five.






Later, much later, she asks Ed to go out to the barn with her to lock up the cheepers. He'd done that already, but it hardly matters. They head out to "inspect" the girls. They'll open the coop door and "make sure" that everyone is there.

After, he takes her to the picnic table (she was riding on his shoulders and so she is without shoes). They stay there for quite a long while. I watch from the kitchen. She works his flashlight. On, off. On off.

I ask him later -- what did you talk about?
Oh, she wanted to know about the deer antler that's on the table. I told her that once a year, a deer will shed his antlers. Every now and then, we find them in the yard.


(Ed, Snowdrop, flashlight, antler.)





Such a day! Full of stories with superb endings. Full of love for what has been and hope for what's ahead.

I blame January

An Ocean reader sent a comment after yesterday's post. The gist of it is this -- what about the porch??

You recall I had been speculating about how little of what is in the farmhouse is here because Ed would have willed it to be here. Most of the things were purchased by me, for me, or brought here from my former life. Perhaps that was Ed's thought when he recently looked around and sighed. His stuff was in the sheep shed. He wasn't spending much time in the sheep shed.

This led to reflections (both his and mine) on how our life together has evolved. I'm not sure that this is a worthwhile project, but January seems to be the chosen month for state of the union speeches and so we found ourselves suddenly and quite unexpectedly in the thick of such an analysis.

I do blame January. In the kinder seasons, Ed and I are too busy doing things outdoors, together, to think much about where or why we're doing them. We work the land. We built the porch! We rip out weeds and plant tomatoes. We extend flower beds. All that belongs to neither him not me -- it is ours.

And despite its furnishings, toys, and kitchen paraphernalia, so is the farmhouse. We created a life in it and around it and so it is ours. Glass roofed porch (his project, our labor) and all. He for me, I for him, and so it's all rather irrelevant as to whose it is, or who is most pleased or bothered by the final outcome. We try for success. So often we succeed. Sometimes we don't quite get it right. But, that's what projects are -- they are adventures. Our days at the farmette are one very raucous, spirited whirligig of an adventure.



Today the melt began again. A few degrees above freezing, wisps of lovely sunshine and the light layer of snow begins to disappear.

(The cheepers are puzzled by yesterday's addition of the snowman. They dance around him,  peck out his black olive eyes and move on.)








Breakfast: at the kitchen table again.






Ed suggests a walk. Actually, he suggests many things: why don't we do yoga? why don't we hike? should we go out for dinner?  Do you want to go away for the weekend?

I agree to the walk. It really is such a lovely day! We haven't much time, but that's okay - this is when the trails are most slippery -- we'll only hike so far. At our favorite of all places -- the Brooklyn Wildlife Ice Age trail.






You know, the one through the forest...






And looping around to this most gorgeous (in our opinion) view.






Selfie!






And back to the woods.






Driving home, Ed proposes a stop at the chocolate shop. It's been a while. Yes, that would be so fine! How many? -- the clerk asks. I go big: 25!
I want to do Ed a favor. We eat these chocolates at the rate of one a day (we always split them in two and we never eat more than that half each). With twenty-five, that'll take us past February 14th. Consider this then your Valentine's Day gift for me! You need do nothing else!
Nothing else?
Well, a card, if you so choose...






And now it's time for me to pick up Snowdrop.

She is in a fantastic mood! All smiles, all the time.






(Cookie thief!)






Most of her time today is spent on playing school with her babies and Ed and me. It is totally incomprehensible to me why she decides that I should be the kid and he should join her as a teacher (Snowdrop is obviously the master teacher: she gives detailed instructions on how he should proceed)...






So be it. Perhaps I'm more of a handful.






Ed nearly always does whatever she asks him to do.






One last photo -- of her leading us in a circle song -- the more we get together. It was very sweet to hear his deep voice and her gentle one singing the same words...





The more we get together, together, together
The more we get together the happier we'll be! 

things

We've all laughed over this many times: ha ha ha! Ed and I have nothing in common! Ha! And yet, here we are, together for over a dozen years. So perhaps I should modify the claim somewhat: Ed and I have very little in common.

Nowhere is this more apparent than when we are faced with things. He likes his stuff: metal bits, old machining catalogues, tools, scraps, unfinished books, old jacket (you've seen it!), shoes that I swear have no sole left in them. I like my stuff -- things that are perhaps more conventional. You would not be surprised to learn that my favorites right now, beyond the computer and camera are toys and books for grandkids. And favorite comfy clothes to wear, dishes on which I can serve food, pots for cooking it up.

We do have a few common things as well: the new-ish couch. The TV set which we selected together. The chairs on the porch, the bench in the mud room. Am I missing something? Probably not.

Here's where trouble starts: it is terribly difficult to merge lives when your overlap is only that new-ish couch and a bench in the mud room. Whose things fill the rest of our living space?

Up to now, the unwritten rule had been this: he keeps his scraps in the sheep shed (except for the shoes, soleless that they are), my stuff fills the farmhouse.

The problem is, of course, that our time together is in the farmhouse. And so Ed has to adjust. Fit in. Keep things straight. My things.

From day one, I knew that Ed was Ed. (See Ocean side comment.) Adjustment for him doesn't come without a struggle and sometimes it just cannot come at all. Travel continued for eight years and then it had to stop. He had maxed out his "trying to adjust" capabilities.

We had grown so fond of being in each others space that in recent months, he has spent just about all his time in the farmhouse. Ooops -- that's not "in each others space," that's that same place that has all my stuff and almost none of his own.

In the last few days, he has recoiled. I'm hearing more of -- why can't you come over and hang out in the sheep shed? (If you ever stepped into that shed, you'd know instantly why the answer is "because.")

All this to say that living with a person with whom you have very little in common is an interesting challenge. You cannot assume that you know or understand each others next move, next thing, next preoccupation. You learn, you reset, and you both move forward, in some quirky fashion, together. Until the next time when you find yourself wondering -- how do I fit into her world? And conversely, how does he fit into mine?


Breakfast, together, but at the kitchen table. With flowers that are on their last strength.






And an afternoon with Snowdrop.

She is in a sweet and wonderful mood. For her, space is defined by the people in it. Her babes, her toys are beloved because she associates them with a place where she feels loved.

















Someday, the presence or absence of things may be of utmost importance to her, overshadowing other more beautiful feelings of attachment. May that day never come, or at least not for a long long time. May she forever feel the pull of the farmhouse (or sheep shed) because of the people there, rather than the things within.

Tuesday

Exasperated. That's the way I would describe Snowdrop's attitude toward the outdoors. Puddles yesterday and then, unexpectedly, totally unexpectedly, the temperatures fall below freezing and overnight, rain turns to ice, then to snow.

Well now, that's what you wanted, right Nina?

Not to be fussy, but I do not regard two inches of icy snow to be a winter wonderland. And neither does Snowdrop. Can we go back to the sunshine, please? We'll take the sunshine! Keep your slippery icy snow!

The cheepers would agree.

On the upside, it is sort of pretty...






Breakfast.






And a morning of writing. (ah, but I should always describe the mornings thus!)


When I pick up Snowdrop, she is clothed in a hodgepodge of stuff.
What happened to your dress?
It's wet.
She snuggles into me as I gather her things.
Will you carry me? 

I get it: no nap today.

When we get to the farm, we can play outside a little if you put on all your outdoor gear. Do you want to do that?
No. Will you tell me a penguin story?
I make one up about the penguin who ate too many purple cookies. What can I say, my creative juices seeped out during the morning of writing!

Inside the farmhouse. Happy as a clam. Reaching for the fruit and the books. It is her routine and she loves it to pieces.







Toward the end of the day, she returns to something that you may well remember from months gone by: feeding all her beloveds, big and small, real and not so real, all at her table of treats. Ed is here and she wants him to join us. He never says no to her.

(I post this picture despite its indifferent quality because it is the only time ever that I have seen Ed cuddle dolls in his lap.)






Ever the happy girl when she can serve us all cakes and ice cream.





As dusk sets in, Snowdrop asks me -- is ahah putting away the cheepers?
Yes, of course.
I want to go with him!

It's the first sign that she wants to spend any time outdoors.
Carry me, it's so cold!

I try, but she is slippery and heavy. Down she goes.

Are you sure you don't want your cap?
I'm not cold!
Snowdrop, you're inconsistent.





And once outside -- well, all her reservations and trepidations vanish, like a snow cover on a warm day.

You want to build a snowman?
Ed adds -- you mean a snow clump...
It may work if you two would shovel over some snow...
I'll help!






This is the best that the three of us could do:






And still, she keeps on shoveling...






And yes, she finds the sled... It's cold, dark and icy. She minds none of it.






The night is dark, but there are faint wisps of light to the west, to the north. It  will be a fine day tomorrow! With sunshine!






For sure. I think.

Monday

Suddenly, I feel a sense of urgency: I want to finish my Great Writing Project.

Over the weekend, I listened to stories about two extraordinarily famous British authors -- Agatha Christie and John le Carré. I have nothing much in common with either, least of all the talent that each possesses. But I do think that in being lackadaisical in my book writing, I've let go of something I once valued (and that these two certainly valued as well): the idea that a book deserves to be finished.

It is a perfect day to get excited about writing because you surely can't get excited about what's going on outside: rain. Cold, menacing rain.

(View from the sun room, where I choose not to eat breakfast.)

(Instead, we eat here. Where the orchids bloom and the daffodils are still showing signs of a happy if brief existence.)

Outside, the cheepers look like they're doing a dance around the one last clump of snow -- our slowly disappearing snowman.

So this morning and I hope most mornings of the remaining winter months, I write.

Even though the rain pauses when I pick up Snowdrop, it's not a good day for outdoor play. Say I. She has different ideas.
You see? I have my raincoat and my boots! 
Well, great then! Maybe we can find a puddle outside... I try not to think about how it's only in the upper 30sF (3 or 4C) out there.

Here she is, leaving school, with one of her favorite teachers. I ask -- does Snowdrop continue to invite friends to do works with her? (A Montessori school principle: you are responsible for your own work, unless you can invite a friend to share in it.) Oh yes, and she is very good at inviting her friends after she's done -- to help her clean up!  What can I say -- smart kid.

I hadn't intended to stay outdoors more than a minute, but when Snowdrop is revved up about an activity, it's best to let go of your reservations and join in on her spirited play.

A walk around the block in search of monster puddles is exhilarating (they are not monsters, grandma! But they're huge! No, they're not -- says the puddle expert extraordinaire)! 

Monster puddles, I tell you.

Walk done. I'm cold. She's in denial about the weather. Ah, but I have super cards up my sleeve: a fresh croissant in the car and a new Olivia book at the farmhouse.


A delicious snack, and an even more delicious set of minutes reading about the spunky pig's (Olivia's) search for a favorite toy, and now Snowdrop is ready to plunge into more active play. She goes straight for the drum. The music show is on her mind.

(She has the enthusiasm of a whole band.)

And shortly after, she returns to her stories. And her props for them. Babies, Playmobil characters, anything within reach.

(This particular tale has a running theme in it...)

When she leaves, the house grows very quiet. Ed has been lost to clearing out debris from the sheep shed -- a project that I'm sure will take the better part of winter. He and I eat a dinner of leftovers and then we return to our own works. I try not to count the days (well, more like months) until spring.  We're still owed a good sized snowstorm, no? Yes, a snowman that's bigger than the melted clump outside would be nice. I turn up the heat just a degree, close my eyes and think lovely thoughts of wintry landscapes. We're sure to have snow yet. I think. Maybe.

Sunday

Drizzle today, rain tomorrow, cold returns the day after. Our yard is like a Dalmatian puppy. Or a holstein cow.






The sled tracks remind me of finer days -- when there were a few inches of the white stuff. Will we get some more? Winter teaches you to wait and make no demands.






Let's put some color into the day! Breakfast.






It is Sunday and so farmhouse cleaning is first on the agenda. I scrub. Ed plugs in Mr. Robot, the automated vacuum cleaning pal and retreats to his computer. Life is so unfair.


We go out for a walk in our county park just before the light drizzle turns into something unpleasant.






There is, in fact, a hidden beauty to the landscape, but you really have to pause and think about where it might reside.






(Why do ice fishermen fish in close proximity to each other?)






And now we're rolling into a Sunday routine. I work in the kitchen fussing, fixing, anticipating with a smile the dinner that's ahead.

The young family arrives.






(Snowdrop spies her current favorite -- the Olivia book. Mommy has to read it to her. There is no choice. The planet will fold and disappear if mommy does not at this second read the book. Personally, I think Snowdrop has just a tiny bit of Olivia in her.)






Dinner. So grateful that on this very foggy and chilly night they are here...






And now comes the quiet of a late Sunday evening. I put on a good playlist of classical favorites, or as Snowdrop would say "some of that beautiful music without words." Oh, to be this calm always! It's a worthy goal.