one more time

Oh, indulge me! It was a week of hard work, a week of fighting off viruses that are surreptitiously creeping up Bascom Hill, a week of meetings, appointments, a week of late hours at the little corner shop.

And all I could think of was how enchanting even the hellishly busy weeks can be when the air is warm, the sky is blue and the sun dapples the bike path with crescents and obelisks of harvest gold.

I’m not going to campus tomorrow and next week promises the more typical pattern of rainy days and cool evening rides. So I give you this one last day of brilliance.

…on Bascom Hill, just outside my office…











On State Street, during my afternoon coffee break…





…and on the lakeside ride home.






Look closely at the faces: soon they’ll be hidden by scarves and turned up collars. Not today. Today the caps are decorative, the scarves – absent. Young bodies, stripped as far as decency permits. To take it in, one last time.










…while the sweaty band plays on.

language

Two tail ends to my day: a quick good bye in French and a greeting in Russian.


I have to say that nothing challenges and excites and depresses me more than having the opportunity to use a different language in the course of a very normal day. Let’s focus on the depressing elements of this: I am always worse than I think I ought to be.

But wait, my day started at the market. Nothing complicated about that. I try to decide between garlic.









Ed is with me so we go with the cheapest per bulb (the German).

That is the easy hour. So long as your day’s challenge is in deciding between Georgian and German garlic, you have nothing to complain about.


Then the day gets tricky. Teaching. Yes, of course, Lots of it. After, I pedal madly up hills and across excessively busy intersections for an appointment on the far far west side of town.

And now things become complicated in a pleasant sort of way. At 5:30, my obligations are behind me and the rest of the day is completely open.

I bike to La Baguette (ca va? Oui, ca va bien. – that was easy…) where a loaf of wonderful bread is waiting for me.





And soon after, I bike home. Or almost home. I choose a circuitous route. Past the Sheboygan Community Gardens. I waver. Tired, hungry, I want my home. (There are exactly 45 pounds of tomatoes waiting for me. Ed and I had gone overboard at the market.)

But I throw the bike down and go up the hill, because the sun is setting and I hear a language I hadn’t heard in a long time.

And there is a family, tending to the remains of a summer garden.





I recognize one person instantly: she used to sell bagels at Bagels Forever. I knew then that she was Russian. A very long time ago I had asked about her. They said she had a son, same age as my daughters…

I listen now, watch, inquire with my eyes if I can take photos, they (there are four of them, older, and still older) nod yes.





And then I leave. hesitating, but just for a moment. With (now, switch to Russian please) a comment about how beautiful the colors were.

Are you Russian?
No, but close. Polish. I sort of understand your language.
Yes… Polish. Polska…

And that is it.
Very lovely colors. Good bye.

And I think – I really love languages. And people who speak them well, naturally, from day one.

no you can't

Most everyone from my demographic category (past fifty, raised in Europe) will say that our parents tracked our lives less than we track the lives of our children. But my parents, championing independence from (it seems) the moment of my birth (I can give examples!), were especially hands-off.

So much was there an absence of directives (especially of the “don’t do that” type), that I recall vividly the three times during my teen years when my parents said “no!”

Thinking back, only once were they right (“no! you cannot go to Afghanistan!”). I was 19, but, as a Pole, I could not travel to most countries unless I used my dad’s diplomatic papers, so their “no” was a deal breaker. Good thing. That was one ill-conceived trip.

But remembering another “no!,” the one where I learned I could not move around Manhattan on a bike -- I kind of think, even now, that it was misplaced.

[The third "no!" isn’t something I want to mention, because you, on this side of the ocean, would dislike my parents for it and it is not my intention to create blog hostility toward either my mom or dad.]

I was already 18 and on my own, so their “no!” to the bicycle was a symbolic kind of shout down, but it was loud and rare and so I retreated and used the bus.


This morning, as I manipulated my bike across four lanes of University Avenue during rush hour (to get to the left turning lane), I thought maybe I am latently (very latently) asserting myself, as in: I can bike wherever I damn want to!

Most of my morning bike route is along a tame path by Lake Mendota. It requires no concentration and so I offer it none.





I daydream as I pedal. Someday I wont notice a rut and I’ll end up veering off into the lake. So there is greater danger in the benign.

But my satisfaction comes from that initial urban crossing of the four lanes. A sense of pleasure in mastering a skill that my parents never intended for me.


Let me add a post script to past night's note here. I was commenting then about shirtless men. I'll give equal time now to another category of underclothed student: the one with a bare foot. On warm days, common as pie.

half bare

Is it correct to call men without shirts “topless?” Or “half-naked?” In some stores, you’ll read that “shirtless” patrons are not welcome. So is the proper term “shirtless?”

It would be impossible for me to even imagine a male student coming to a law school class without an upper-body garment. But at the college level, this (shirtless male) must be within the realm of the not absurdly ridiculous, because today I saw a number of young men looking somewhat bare.





That's men for you.

Oh, but wait. On my ride home (or, rather, to the little corner shop...) I saw a college aged maiden arise from the waters.





It could be that she is the example that I need to make this post gender neutral. It could be.

But, if half-bare males on campus are rare, half-bare females are, for all purposes, not to be found. Predictably, this goddess turned out to have all the strings in the right places.



All this to say that it was a warm day. Anyone needing to rely on extraordinary measures to keep cool (for example -- come to campus shirtless) had my total understanding. Inside as well? Yes, sure. Though I would have been just a tad thrown off.

sheepishly

I’ll say this about Sunday: if you wake up and you remember that most every minute of the day ahead is accounted for, you feel cheated. As if you lost a week-end.

But every minute is not accounted for today! I have a handful of hours before the clock strikes the noon hour (at which time I will get ready, dress in black, walk to work). I hand over several precious minutes to reminiscing about how on recent, more flush September week-ends, I would be elsewhere, attending to grape harvests, or listening to the ocean waters pound the shores far far away.

To these musings I think Ed grunted. Or said nothing at all.

We should have house-cleaned, but I already cleaned this week-end and I felt I might well overdose on the stuff I spray on bathroom surfaces. Even though the container calls it eco this and green that.

Ed asks – do you want to go see an art show where the artists make things out of cigar boxes?
What things?
Don’t know. There are eleven artists displaying their cigar box works at a cigar shop.
It’s too perfect outside. I don’t want to breathe cigar smoke.
How about the Jefferson Sheep Fair? You like sheep.







Actually, I think sheep are pretty dumb. You look at them and they look away and they do it in unison. A bunch of sheep avoiding your gaze. It’s weird.

But I miss Scotland. Or, more accurately I miss the June days when I had nothing urgent on my plate except to hike from point A to point B, amidst fields of sheep.

We climb on Ed’s Honda and head east. Less than an hour out of Madison and we’re there.





We don't have much time, but I think we do take it all in: the market lamb contest…





The baby lambs…





The sheering of sheep (he charges about $4 per sheep; ...picked the skill up in New Zealand. It’s a lifestyle, he tells us. You don’t do it for the money but for the lifestyle. He sheers here and in Scotland and God knows where else. I think that I work for the love of teaching and for the money, sure, but I think that lifestyle – all indoors and very confined – is at odds with what I think of as healthy)…





Sheep. Everywhere sheep. And their attendants.





Sometimes back to back…





Or, really, just back to back sheep. Or the backsides of sheep (unlike the backsides of people, these are quite exposed).





I enjoy most watching the sheep herders participate in the herding event. I like how hell bent the dogs are – as if they could not run fast enough. Except when the master orders a stay. They crouch then, waiting to be released again.





There were other displays – of wool, spun by nimble hands…





Really, lots and lots of wool, for sale wool, for prizes wool, oily, beautiful, fragrant wool.





But in the end it was a joyful morning, full of those dumb, hairy sheep, uplifting to me, just because they made this Sunday morning less predictable than I thought it would be.

old dogs

On the one hand, old dogs have a hard time with new tricks, on the other, if they’re of a playful disposition, then sometimes they can surprise you.

Here's a photo of Ed, prior to dinner last night. Ironing. It would not shock me to learn that this was the first time he had ever held an iron.






The dinner itself was, of course, terrific fun – both to cook and to share. On the other hand, today was spent in the miserable company of dirty dishes, tired limbs and a great desire to not go to work at the little corner shop.

Ed and I took a walk by the lake just before I was due to join the retail world and truly, our pace was that of two very old dogs. He said it was my fault. I lagged behind.

Still, the summer weather continues energetically, as if it can’t get over its own wonderfulness. Take this one! And this! And another!

We watched others watching ducks. The water was murky, the sun hot, the air still.

2001

Eight years is a very very long time. September 11th eight years ago, for me, like for all Americans, was a milestone. We expected a different world after that.

Now, looking back, nearly all the changes that occurred both in my own life and in the life of the country have taken me by complete surprise. My days now are stunningly different than they were then (and the country, too, has moved in stunningly unforeseen directions). What does that say about life…


Eight years ago, I was about to set out with a small group from the old neighborhood for six day trip to France. I’m sure all of us remember the wait to board the plane on September 17th – it was one of the first flights to cross the Atlantic after a complete cessation of air travel. A very quiet wait. Do with us what you want, we were thinking, only get us there safely.

Safety was almost as big a word then (the safety of children living on the east coast, the safety of others in various parts of the world) as shovel-ready and big government appear to be today. Each year brings in a new vocabulary of concerns. And they’re always very local, very personal. And loud. And intense. As if no one has worried about any of this before we thought of it. Understandable, I suppose.


Tonight, I’m cooking dinner for people whom I have neglected for far too long. Indeed, one of the big changes in my life is that I cannot remember when I last cooked for someone other than Ed or my daughters.

So I’m thinking maybe the next two, three, eight years will still be different. Maybe I’ll write more, maybe. Tonight, I’m just fussing with food though. And opening a bottle of wine that I bought in September, eight years ago.

identity

I think Wisconsinites would do well in… California. We take to good weather like fish to water.

During a long stretch of beautiful sunshine and mild temperatures, we have demonstrated our real capacity for enjoying the outdoors. We have biked, boated, found peace in quiet spaces, eaten lunches outdoors, stretched out and reached for the cushion of a loved one’s belly – we have done it all.




peace in quiet spaces





lunch outdoors





stretched out and reached for the cushion of a loved one’s belly



So please, continue with the warm stuff! We’ll become known as the state that does good weather well. We’ll set an example of balance. We’ll work steadily and appreciate the leisure hours afterward. Just make us (climatically) into a California! (We are so almost there...)

a moment in time

People behave irrationally. There, I’ve said it! We are not nearly as logical and sane in our actions as we pretend.

I’m impulsive, I know that. I also know that my impulses have taken me down a mixed path. Some good stuff has come of it and, at other times, I’ve done things that make me later wonder – what was I thinking?



When I was a kid, I loved the number nine. I don’t know why. It’s just a touch demented! Addicted to a number? It’s not that my ninth year of life was more memorable than, say, my eight, or tenth.

Still, I loved that nine. (Recently, I changed my mind, I have a new favorite, which only goes to show that you can continue to be irrational into your post-middle-age.)

So I thought I should do something special tonight as we get to the numerically significant moment when on 09/09/09, we roll by the time of 09:09.

Here’s what I’m going to do:

Nothing.

Because, even though we behave irrationally and we say things that are stupid and against our own interest and the interest of someone less favorably positioned than us, we really should not flaunt our irrationality. We should try to curb it.

At least this is my hope.

And so I end now, before 09/09/09 at 09:09, just so that I can make the statement that it is possible to let go of insanity. It’s not too late.

I leave you with a photo from the market. This morning, I went there, for the flowers, for the quiet. For the love of markets and the foods that bring people together.

for granted

You should know that this semester, Tuesday will be a posting challenge. I am out, teaching, then again teaching, and finally, in the evening hours, selling stuff at a little corner shop nearby. So, I'm out of the house a very, very long time.

This should make it an exciting check of Ocean under fire. Like speed dating, where you only have a minute or two to impress.

I begin this round of crazy Tuesdays with a post on corn. Surprised? Here's why I'm corn-focused:











I found these people pushing corn and apples (and messages of sustainability) just down the hill on library mall. And the reason I title this post "for granted" is that we are so used to fresh corn and the bounty of apples now, that there actually wasn't a line for either. Even though both were free and it was lunchtime.





It's hard to appreciate bounty.

Today there was yet another day of warm, gentle sunshine -- the kind that warns you that there's only so much left... And yet, we go to work, we worry about this or that, we go home, eat a meal, go to sleep with little appreciation for what we have, and are about to lose.

Let me end with an assurance that, even though I passed on the free corn and apples…










… I did not take the warmth of the day for granted.

Labor Day

From farming machines on Saturday, to working people on Monday. From free time (can’t remember, when was that? Oh, that! That was illicit free time! I should have been reading!), to no hours to waste.

To have work, health insurance, health, more work – that is, of course, a good thing.

Except today, it’s easy to feel discouraged. One of those times when I’m in the “one step back” part of the course (or, is it that I’ve switched to “two steps back” for every step forward?).

Oh, I know. We all have disagreeable days – when the IRS tells us we did our taxes incorrectly (why are they picking on me? I’m not worth the money it takes to review my paperwork!), when worry about keeping up with the demands of the everyday make you shake, when surfing the Net brings no relief (quite the contrary – you wonder where people find such tremendous reserves of belligerence and fury) – we all have them.



When Ed suggests we take a spin by the Labor Temple, I first say -- no time! But by late afternoon, I change my mind. It’s Labor Day. My grandfather was a labor organizer. I’m one of those who thinks that people who provide labor have had an especially tough year.

Let’s go.





It feels good to be there.















I invaded the farming machinists' reunion on Saturday, and today I invade the gathering of another segment of hardworking men and women.
















I think I’ve had a very, very well spent handful of days.

whirligig of time bringing those sweet revenges

Here’s an interesting phenomenon: as you get older, days spin forward like mad and then, so that you can make sense of it all, they all land in quotes that your brain has accumulated over the decades. If I continue to blog for the next five, ten, twenty years, expect to see increased reference to anything from Beatles to Shakespeare.

This post is a bonus – I already have a notation for September 6th. But I want to bring up an omitted photo from the Thresheree (see previous post). Why? Well, see if it does anything for you.






Nothing? Sure? You don’t identify with the endlessness of mechanical genius? Of collector solidarity? Of Wisconsin’s garden tractor mania?

Still no great awakening? That’s okay. Me neither. But Ed loves it. So there’s that.