Friday - 112th

 A full day. A hot, steamy, sweaty full full day.

I know, I know, we are all having unusually full days. Except those who feel emptied out and left dangling. So, let's just say we're all having unusual days.

I'm up super early. Ed's up super early. With eyes half closed, he tells me, at 6 am, that he has to fix a board up on the porch roof. I don't know why he finds this to be the right time for it: maybe he wants to avoid the heat. Maybe he was dreaming of roofs. In any case, he climbs out the upstairs window as I go feed the animals.

(on the way back from the barn and sheep shed, I throw a glance out on the Big Bed...)






Here's another day lily! There will come a time (very soon) when there will be hundreds of them. Right now, I rejoice whenever a new one bursts open.






Hi, Ed.





I turn my attention to grocery delivery. If we are in isolation a year from now (making it the 477th day of isolation), I'll know not to order produce the day before the 4th of July, especially if it's something people might want for their red white and blue celebration (corn, strawberries, etc...). It's either not available, or way past the sell-by date.

Breakfast. Under the porch roof, which is now fixed.


 








The day is a little different in that Snowdrop has a school Zoom meeting early in the morning, after which I am to bring her here (by herself) for the better part of the day. There are a number of good reasons for this new Friday plan. For one thing, it gives us a chance to do some stuff that's tough to accomplish when I'm chasing her sweet two year old brother.

(on arrival, she finds a lavender sprig..)





I start off by suggesting an art project. I am not a clever craft person, but her school sent some ideas of things you might paint and make with your kids at home and I'm happy to give those a spin.

There is a very clever way of making puppets on sticks -- I tell her.
She listens to my outline of the steps. Nope, she has a better idea. She wants to do an art project with the dolls (she has two that are, according to her, school aged).
Making puppets?
No. We'll do inspire-ist art.
Inspire-ist art? Where did you get it from?
Up in my brain. Here's what we do...






At lunch time, she asks me to eat with her. Typically I don't eat lunch with the kids. They are hungry far too early and, too, our lunch menu choices often don't overlap.

But today, I join her.




She looks at my jar of strawberry rhubarb jam.
Can I try some?
Of course.
I give her a spoonful, then another. It is the best thing that I have ever eaten!  Snowdrop has a lot of enthusiasm for foods in her.


Ed has been itching to make some ice cream "the old fashioned way." Put ingredients in a jar, shake vigorously, freeze. We do that this afternoon.






(she's timing him on his jar shaking)





I can't imagine it will be as wonderful as the stuff we sometimes make in the ice cream machine, but the process of doing it this way is definitely fun for a five year old.

And now we are back to art and Snowdrop does start sketching a new book, but then decides it's more fun to help me with my own drawing...





And now it's nearly evening. Time to go home. And still, I feel we should take one more walk out toward the farmette meadows, because it is summer and these walks are so calming and restorative. Ed comes with us. He's eager to show Snowdrop where the damsel flies (what us normal folk would simply call dragon flies) hang out. 






And to lead her to the few places where she can find some raspberries...










And now it is time for me to take her home.

(Driving past the front bed, I notice the first nasturtium are opening up...)






Evening. Ed thinks we should finish harvesting the cherries. It's hot, but he perseveres...






I return to the farmhouse to water the pots. Oh, you may wonder what the tall green shoots are toward the front right. It's garlic, growing randomly in the courtyard. We think it may have seeded from the compost pile. Lots and lots of garlic. Nature can play funny tricks on you.





A hot day, a warm eve. A holiday weekend for many. We're hearing the bang kaboom as we speak. Happy fourth. Healthy fourth. Fire up a grill and burn the stuffing out of some meats and veggies!

With love.

Thursday - 111th

The second day of July rolls in hot and steamy. And green. Looking out on my Big Bed this morning, I see a lot of buds, but not many blooms yet.






Yes, the lemon yellow day lilies are popping out in many other beds, but I'm waiting for the other colorful varieties to take over. Well now, here's one!






The true lilies -- the oriental and trumpet tall girls (real name: "lilium") are ahead of the day lilies (real name: "hemerocallis," translated as day beauty from Greek). You can see both the orange and yellow spikes here. And there are more and they are just about ready to flower.





So, bottom flower line: we're at the cusp of the big bang. But not there yet.

As I walk back to the farmhouse after animal feeding, the adult swallows come out and swoop around the courtyard. They want to appear aggressive. The cats have stayed away from their garage nest, full of little ones. I'm glad.






Dance, keeping a low profile in the courtyard.






Oh, and a random note: we wintered over three big pots in the sheep shed. Two looked like death had struck early. But lo! Outside again, in the warmth of a summer season, they're happy and thriving. Here's one:






Okay, back to the morning. And guess who calls me at breakfast time?? Yes! Little Primrose. We talk peaches and blueberries.






And after, I get this guy to come down and join me for our porch morning meal.





Phew, busy enough morning for you? In the nicest way.

The kids arrive just as Ed and I wolf down the last piece of peach.

It is hot. There are bugs, but in tolerable quantities. (Should we thank the swallows? Typically by now we are overwhelmed by mosquitoes. Oh, but this year is not typical. Not by a long shot.) I don't really need to apply super duper repellents, though I do spritz them with the "natural" stuff that makes you feel like you did something, even though you know the bugs are laughing themselves silly at your efforts.

We walk over to the young orchard.

The chickens are coming, the chickens are coming!






Snowdrop hops on the ladder and reaches for a few cherries that have yet to have the imprint of hungry birds.

Sparrow does agree to try the ladder. At two, he can hang in there, but he's not going to scale it high enough to pick any cherries. Though I'm sure he'd be happy to keep up with his sister, in all but the actual eating of the fruit.











Walking back, a pause to play with the weeping swaying lovely willows.






Sparrow's affection for Happy, the rooster, is strong and ever-present. Even with windows closed, we can faintly hear Happy's rooster cry (the bird never shuts up). Sparrow always perks up and  acknowledges the crow with a happy "Happy!"






Inside: loving the cool air after our hot walk.






Somewhere in the middle of the morning, I abandon all school-like schedules and offer them water play. On the porch, so bug free.

It's amazing to me how much they still enjoy this silly tub of a wading pool! I've thought about upgrading it somewhat but decided there's no need: they have a better deal at home. Here, it's just a fun occasional soak in cold water on a hot hot day






Our not so feral feral queen, Dance, is no longer afraid of the two kids. She naps through their raucous, wet play.






Both Snowdrop and Sparrow insist on dumping every old pool toy in the wading tub. I never acquired anything interesting or elaborate for it, but they claim every last silly bug, boat, cup and bucket is important.





Lunch is very late.


Later, much later, when the kids are home and the cats, chickens and swallows are resting somewhere, Ed asks -- want to go for a walk?

I do. A real walk along a real path. I now I vowed not to return to our county park until the virus was history and at least three seasons have come and gone, but still, maybe we can sneak in a late walk? I mean, who goes hiking at 5 in the evening?

We hop on his motorbike and head out.


There are some beautiful moments. The prairie is thick with future blooms. We see all our favorite pals: birds, bees, bunnies, dragonflies. And not a person in sight.





But as we cut through the forest, the bugs pick up considerably. So maybe this will be our last summer walk here?

Who can tell.

Evening. Lentil soup, salads, and sweet peas from our CSA box.

Summer foods for a summer mood.

Wednesday - 110th

Well, I'm annoyed at a recent article in the New York Times. Seriously annoyed. A punch in the gut, I call it.

Let me explain: I was scanning the news sources yesterday and it caught my eye: a story on deep cleaning. I (mistakenly) thought it had to do with taking extra precautions, what with the pandemic raging to horrifying new levels of infection. And so I read it. And I looked at the photos of sparkling surfaces and I said to Ed -- we need to deep clean the farmhouse.
What? Why?
To restore a sparkle to the place. A nice, thorough deep clean. Starting with the wooden floors. Do we have a mop?
I don't have a mop...
I'm trying to remember when I last washed the floor (apart from spot cleaning). No recent date comes to mind.

The article is a total guilt trip. Take out everything from the cupboards? Sprinkle baking soda (at least I think they said baking soda) on the carpet? It goes on and on, pointing out all that I haven't done, that I gloss over, all the corners I haven't fully scrubbed, leading Snowdrop to sometimes say -- gaga, there's *another* dead spider here... Oh, it's time to do that deep clean alright!

Then I think -- but one day of Ed moving through the rooms and it wont sparkle anymore. No one will notice the glistening cupboards, the brief moment of mirror-like surfaces (except maybe Snowdrop, who'll likely say -- where have all the spiders gone?). So... isn't it a waste of time?

Thank you, New York Times, for introducing a new dilemma into my life.


It is July. I think we all take the progressions to a new month with a great deal of awe these days. As in -- it's unbelievable! Another month gone by and the insanity continues! Do you remember when it was March and we all wanted to believe that come summer, everything would be that much easier?

In many ways for Ed and for me, the summer is easier. The farmette lands demand a lot from us, from me especially. (Ed said today -- if you die, I'm going to bulldoze all the flower beds. I can't possibly keep up with them. I retorted -- hire someone to maintain it! But I know better: Ed never hires help.) The work is never-ending. I cannot sit on the couch and read all the details of the horror show unfolding across the globe and unfortunately, especially in this country. I have stuff to do!

This morning... (good morning, cheepers!)


 


... I was up just enough earlier than usual, that I had the time to wander over to the front bed. I know it's the one bed that is visible to the outside world, but it's not visible to me. Out of sight out of mind.

Oh my. Post rain weeds. Grasses invading. Sprouting little saplings. Sigh... I get right to it. No gloves, no shovel, just bare hands attacking that which needs my immediate attention. (And noticing some pretty flowers showing off their sweetness right now.)






And then it's a rush to get in that morning breakfast. (Without Ed, because he was on the phone and wanted to sit down while continuing his conversation and I said absolutely not! Breakfast time is sacred. It's meditative and quiet. By the time he brought his call to an end, I was done.)






The kids are here immediately after. Again, our outdoor time is slightly different. Snowdrop waters the two tomatoes in the pots (and sprays the two bystanders! Sparrow minded less than I did).











We then walk over to the barn to check for eggs. Along the way, I point out to her the perfect and perfectly ripe raspberry. (Sparrow is still sitting on his anti-fruit platform. He is pretty good at silent rebellion.)






There aren't many. We have way too little sunlight to get a nice crop these days. So long as Ed refuses to cut down more of the big trees (the lotus, the box elders the walnuts -- they are all invasive and huge and there are very few farmette spaces that get more than four hours of sunlight each day), many of our flowers and all of our berries will lose their lushness.






In the coop there is an egg. A Henny egg, which is always special because it's green. Each child has a great urge to hold it. Egg survives.

(Walking backwards...)






(Urging the cheepers to stay hydrated...)






Inside, I suggest an art topic: paint or draw the tomato bush. Snowdrop goes right to it...






... and very quickly finds fault with the picture.
It looks like a radish.
No it doesn't.
How do radishes grow? On bushes?
Well... I sketch a radish plant.
She scribbles over her art work and wants to start again.

In the meantime, Sparrow doesn't want to touch a marker. He tries painting...






Gives it up. He then tells me to draw for him. What?
Sun.
What color?
Blue.
What else?
Sun.
What color?
This. He points to orange.
Snowdrop watches. I tell her that artists can decide to be creative. They don't have to stick with conventional depictions, colors, numbers. Under Sparrow's directive, the page now has ten suns.

And now the little girl is inspired again. She draws several pages of a new book, which she titles "The Super Team Saves a Cherry"  Here's the first hero: the flying radish.






(Happy...)






(Happy...)






After I drop the kids at their home, I return to the garden. The pots need water. They could use a fertilizer as well. There are weeds right before my nose that could use a pull. All this turns out to be a project. A long, drawn out, hot project.

A satisfying project. A July kind of gardening that you love for a few weeks before the joy of slapping away at bugs and wiping down sweat wears on you and you begin thinking that actually winter's not that bad after all.

Ed is biking today and that's a good thing. Someone in this household has to maintain an aerobic routine! Me, I stir fry a few chicken pieces with copious amounts of broccoli. I'm thinking I should sit back to take in the loveliness of a July evening and eat my dinner on the porch. It's just too beautiful right now outside.





One minute into the meal and I'm done with that idea. The cats. They are there to remind me, loudly, that they have not yet been fed. Forget it. I retreat indoors. Ed comes in just as the sun has set. By that time, I'm ready for our popcorn on the couch.

Tuesday - 109th

And what a June it has been! High on anxiety, on excitement, high on natural beauty, high on love for every day spent with a grandkid or two or three in it.

Low on physical social contacts (outside of family). Very low. And a complete zero on shopping, outside of online purchases, delivered or curbsided. Meaning, I haven't stepped inside a store since the beginning of March.

So, kind of strange, no? Add to it the constant need to stay abreast of what's going on here, and elsewhere in the country, and in other countries, and it's not because I can hope to be uplifted by any of it, right? So, lots of reading of dismal summaries of events past and prognoses of events yet to be.

Still, Ed and I have so much to love and enjoy at the farmette! Distractions abound. Follow along with us as we move beautifully from one distraction to the next!

Good morning cats and chickens! Okay, first feed chickens, then teenage cats, then rush back to get to the kitties under the car before the hoard comes charging back to steal their food and send them scurrying.

Breakfast, on the porch. Ed is not helpful in the photo taking enterprise, so you get just the table.






We talk about the proliferation of mosquitoes. His tolerance for a growth in numbers is higher than mine, possibly because he works less in the gardens and, too, he isn't the one leading kids on nature walks every morning. So I suggest we do our spraying of peppermint and garlic oils. Their odor seems to push the mosquitoes mostly to the periphery. As best as we can figure out, it does not repel in the same way other insects or frogs. We've used the stuff the past two years, with some modest success. Enough to make a walk accross the farmette lands tolerable.

But Ed pushes back now, claiming we're not yet at the breaking point. I share his concern: neither of us wants to discourage pollinators from calling this place home. Still, once the mosquito swarms arrive, it is pretty near impossible to do anything outside, at least not without covering yourself with netting. So I push back on his push back.

We make no decisions for now, but I know it's just a matter of days before I bring it up again.

And when the kids arrive, I forgo the longer nature walk and stick with a courtyard moment.


\



We count how many flowers have turned into little green tomatoes (in our tomato tubs)  -- in other words, which of our two green plants is winning the tomato race!






Inside, we forgo art today. Snowdrop really wants to make progress on a new chapter book and so we give that a shot. By page 36, not even a fourth into the book, Sparrow has had enough. We switch to books his speed. Snowdrop wanders off.

And it's a little bit that kind of a morning: His wishes are strong, hers are stronger. I move between one and the other, never really hitting them both at the same time. Well, maybe once, in this moment:






Music class, too, does not quite grab Sparrow today. He listens, and even though we sing songs he's heard many times before, he holds back.

And of course, when we do work books, Sparrow looks on -- a  little guy for whom life moved just a little too fast today.

Still, as I summarize their day to their mom, I say quite honestly that it was a super good one. The kids don't always have to be in sync to be happy. And I haven't a doubt that both were happy today. Grandmas can tell these things.











In the afternoon, I spend a long time sorting through the week's groceries. For the first time, there were a number of misfires. (Wrong items sent, wrong items charged.) I deliberate whether I should just let it go. I got food. We'll eat the food. Do details matter? We're so used to complaining when we're poorly served. Even now, during a pandemic, we review, gripe, let it all out. Sometimes maybe staying humbly quiet is a better way to be.

I think about all this as I put away the last bit of food and sit down for a good Zoom call with my two southern state friends. Two weeks ago we were in not dissimilar situations, but since that last Zoom call, at least two of our states (including mine) have surged in the number of infections. And still, here we three are, safe, keeping our distances, washing our groceries, continuing to shelter in place because honestly, if you can do that, you are lucky. We are lucky.






A light supper -- of eggs and asparagus and mushrooms. A quiet evening. Fireflies, popcorn. The last piece of rhubarb cake.