Sunday - 149th

When my grandkids -- Snowdrop, Sparrow, or Primrose -- sleep over at the farmhouse, I'm sure the excitement is in the evening here: the making of the pizza, the later bedtime, perhaps the movie and popcorn. For me, though, the sweetest part is the morning (assuming everyone sleeps until at least 7 and these days, that's almost always the case for all three).

Maybe it's because I remember so well my own mornings at my grandparents' village house in Poland. My bed was always in a room by the kitchen and the sounds from her morning kitchen, as she stoked the fire in the oven and brought in the day's produce for cleaning and cooking, or, better yet, rolled out the dough for baking poppyseed cake or cabbage and mushroom dumplings, all of it against the backdrop of light rays of sunshine poking through the curtains of my east facing windows -- heaven.

I can't say that I replicate any of it here, in the farmhouse. At least at these young ages, the kids, Snowdrop included, all want to come downstairs and be part of the kitchen activity the minute a grownup gives them permission to do so. Nonetheless, it is for me the best part of a sleepover.

Sure enough, today Snowdrop woke up bouncy and full of smiles. In the kitchen, she supervised my preparations, assisting in making decisions -- this fruit for that person, these spoons, those bowls, no, not that mug -- use the other one!

In many ways, preparing a breakfast is more of a timing challenge than even a dinner for a crowd. For an evening meal, the food is pretty much the same for everyone. For breakfast, I let everyone pick and choose. I stay with my oatmeal with kefir and fruit. Ed typically stays with his fruit. Snowdrop today asked for Cheerios and toast with cherry jam. And fruit of course -- she is on a peaches and strawberries kick. Her mom loves farmette eggs and so I scrambled some up, along with bacon for anyone who wants it. And toast. She's a tea drinker. I'm a frothy milky coffee person.

All this must come out at the same time and if we are to eat outside, you can't put out anything that might tempt a cat or a little girl. (The cat will steal the bacon, I'm sure. The little girl snitches fruit from her bowl.)

Alright! Ready!






(Looking out from the porch...)






Breakfast must be leisurely. It's a given in my book. Years of a morning rush have taught me that if you can slow down early in the day, do so. It's miraculously calming.

(Snowdrop brings a jump rope outside to practice high speed jumping while the grownups are lingering...)






Eventually there's nothing left on the plates or in the cups to linger over and so we retreat to our usual morning activities. Today, Snowdrop helps me feed the cats...

(You have to run back from the shed to get to the little kitties waiting under the car...)






...and then we settle in to read a new chapter book.






And soon after, the two return home and I return to my garden work. Sunday is a day when my flower beds get a big boost so that I can, these days, go easy (or easier!) during the week.

Here are today's garden canvases:






















(Froggies, where will you go once the lilies are done for the year?)






(Calamintha is such a draw for honeybees!)






Toward evening, the whole young family is here for dinner.

(Sparrow, with cheese and cracker.)





(Snowdrop and mom, going after the same.)






It's our usual foods -- pasta, seafood, corn, salads. Indoors. A storm rolls through and causes me to hastily bring the whole meal back into the kitchen.






After, Sparrow and I go on a little adventure. He's so eager to get back to the barn!






(And back again...)






A Sunday with a good morning and good evening and a whole lot of calm in between. I could not ask for more. Well, a Primrose family visit would ice my cake splendidly. But in these challenging times, one cannot turn greedy. Instead, the greater our ability to remain patient, the sooner we'll be where we most want to be: with our families, our friends, out and about, without great thought or worry.

The storms passed, the night is clear, the stars are out for those of us who can't quite get to sleep at the end of the day. Look at us, they seem to call out. There's so much more to this universe than your earthly petty problems!

Well yes, sure. But this is our life and we are all waiting until it returns to where it was 149 days ago. Give us a break, stars. We're mortal.

twinkle twinkle twinkle shrug.

Ah well. Never try having a conversation with a million stars. You're outnumbered.

Saturday - 148th

Weekend mornings are leisurely. I know for you, the reader, there isn't much difference here: I take care of animals on all days of the week. I tend to the garden, then eat a breakfast with Ed, almost always on the porch, every single day. But on a Saturday, I ignore the clock. I just don't look at it. I move at a comfortable speed, I work outside until that vision of a mug of coffee with steaming milk is just too powerful, at which point I tell Ed -- breakfast is soon! And he says -- sure it is. Call me when you're sitting down. He knows that it will take another half hour or more for me to actually give up the work and concentrate on fixing and mixing bowls of fruit.

Our flower beds are August flower beds. There hasn't been much rain this year and so the soil is dusty rather than richly moist, as it is in spring. The colors are there still, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that we are nearing the final stages of a summer season.

Today's garden photos:

(bee, coming in for a landing!)






(I learned from one of Snowdrop's book that most frogs shed their skin once a week. Where are all those skins? Oh, the frog eats it up! Yum!)






(Stepping out of the farmhouse door...)






(Eyes towards the driveway)






(There are still lilies to be had...)











(The meadows...)






Followed by a very late breakfast:






Followed by veggie gathering: our own tomatoes -- the ones that haven't been chomped down by deer. Corn: from our local farmers...






And the CSA box, which has grown heavy, overflowing with green, purple and yellow veggies, new potatoes, little tomatoes, and today -- melons. I'm beginning to realize that one box per week is a lot for two people. Perhaps we should have gone with the "every other week" plan. Still, I've been mostly keeping up! When we eat a week's supply of beans or broccoli, we eat mountains of it in one night. Somehow, by the end of the week, the fridge empties out.


And here's a small twist to the weekend: Snowdrop and her mom are here for a sleepover. Since the farmette will be off limits to the young family come September, we are all soaking in its small magic at every turn now. And so we have this special additional time here on a summer evening that is rich with the sounds and smells of farmette life.

A few photos from this sweet farmhouse interlude. (We are determined to not give in to the sadness of it all. You just can't think in those terms. Every contact with my young families, live or streamed through the internet, is meaningful and grand. And it will always be meaningful and grand.)






("Would you like to look at a cook book, mommy?")






(I don't think that Snowdrop has ever slept over here when there hasn't been a home made pizza..."






(Two pizzas today!)






A movie, some books, lots of snacks. Popcorn. Late tuck in. The two younger ones sleep. The grandparents stay up and marvel at how quickly they all grow up.

Friday - 147th

We are both attacking the problem of Snowdrop's drawing. We have to: our paper supplies depend on it! The little girl is a determined artist, but nothing satisfies her. "The neck is too thick!" "I made the arm too fat! Have you ever seen anyone with such a fat arm?" "I don't like the shape of the head!" And so it continues. She wants to start anew. Again and again and again.

Ed tells her that the most famous artists painted over their mistakes. Of course, you can't really draw over something sketched with a magic marker, but the point is that no one paints perfectly (or writes perfectly or dances perfectly or does anything at all perfectly) the first time around.

Xray machines show entirely different versions of paintings underneath what you and I see, he continues.

This at least intrigues her: how do they do that? Having never broken anything, she's not that familiar with x-rays. He shows her x-rays of a hand, a foot.





From there it's a hop and a skip to youtube clips on help with drawing. She's not convinced. She likes her own style, even as these days, she is bothered by any imperfection. Ahah, let me draw for you the one thing that I can draw perfectly: a flying super pig.

The rest of the subject matter remains elusive.

*.    *.    *

The big cats are again harassing the little guys and there is not a thing we can do about it. I glare at the main culprits, even as Ed tells me that I'm just making myself feel better and accomplishing nothing.


*.    *.    *

The flower beds are less demanding in part because I am less exacting. It just doesn't matter anymore. I may be a perfectionist the first half of the growing season, but I'm very laissez-faire the second half. Nonetheless, I tidy things up a bit this morning. Even a garden gone wild deserves some grooming.




















With time remaining for breakfast, on the porch.





*.    *.    *


Snowdrop is here for the better part of the day without her brother. The weather is absolutely perfect, but she resists staying out too long. Just long enough to admire the hydrangeas in the front bed...






... and to pick the fat tomato ripening on the potted bush.







(Still waiting on the full ripening of the peaches on our peach tree...)






*.    *.    *

The evening is so very quiet. The construction sounds disappear. The rural roads are mostly empty. It's as if the end of the week deserves this slowdown.  A moment of reflection. A silent nod of thanks for being safe. For all this stunning weather. For ripening tomatoes and the blush of pink in the hydrangeas.

Thursday - 146th

We all have images of what is a perfect weather day. Snowdrop still claims that a snowy winter day is her idea of heaven. Me, I like this day. It feels a little like spring, or maybe early autumn: partly cloudy and mild. A cool night, a lightly warm day. Somewhere in the 70s F (low 20s C). Really, just exactly right.






The morning work in the garden is less taxing now. Fewer lilies to snip. Fewer weeds invading the flower beds.
















Breakfast is, therefore, more leisurely.











We've stopped thinking big thoughts about the garden, concentrating, instead on little goals, like hunting down cheeper eggs (two of the girls for sure are hiding their eggs), or thinking of ways to keep the deer from our tomato patch (not too successful there either: the minute a tomato shows signs of ripening, the deer bite into it). The flowers are still on my mind, but I'm less concerned about their performance. They've done their bit to make our summer happier. If they show signs of retreat, so be it.


The kids, come as always, charged with enthusiastic energy.











Ed takes us on an egg hunt, even as we know this is getting to be a futile endeavor. But of course, I like it anyway: we're walking farmette lands on a beautiful day. What could be better?!






Inside, we do some art.






Snowdrop is once more hyper critical of her work product. She doesn't like the shirt she drew. Nor the cow. She crumbles the paper and pronounces that she does not know how to draw. It's no use telling her otherwise. She has learned to distrust Gaga's positivity, even when it's of the type you're supposed to dish out -- "I like the way you added a bright color to that shirt." She tunes it out.

Nonetheless, there is something that she still loves to do: climb on my lap and join in (and eventually seize control over) my own doodles, making improvements, filling in designs and colors, adding a story line. It's a good moment to do a timed-release selfie!






Just before supper, Ed nudges me to get active: want to go out for a bike ride? Just in the neighborhood...
It's a great idea. A half hour loop -- past prairies, through woodland, past a pig farm and fields of corn and soy and finally through the development that has sprung up so quickly next to us. No camera. No iPhone. Nothing but the wind, against my back, then in my face.


And after supper? A visit with Primrose!





She is back in school now -- a small, carefully monitored setting. I ask her mom if she feels relief in regaining work time. She laughs: four and a half months of juggling has left its mark. When is it really going to feel normal for parents? For anyone? Not one event will accomplish that. Time. It will take time.


Evening. Our quiet moment. Popcorn. Glass of wine, a show, fighting sleep, resisting the compulsion to read one more thing, to reach for the ice cream, to do all those indulgent things that one does at the end of a day. Windows are wide open, breezes are so cool! Remarkable! So much trouble out there and yet, on a most perfect summer evening, you can almost pretend that these are the best of times. Almost.