the music inside

The new, red helmet came in the mail yesterday. This morning I put it on.





Nice snug fit. A visor to keep that wind from slapping my face around. All good.

But I know, too, that I’m entering the tough season. Not cold enough to give up riding Rosie, but cold nonetheless. And I’m stepping into a palate of grays and browns.





On a blustery day like today, the ride is starting to be a real challenge. And, since the tumble last week, I’ve been riding as if I had ten precious babies in the basket behind me. Or at least egg cartons. By the time I arrive at work (or at the café after work), I feel like I’ve jogged the seven miles, even as I’ve moved hardly a muscle.

And still, I have to say, the rugged start to the day (and, too, the rugged ending) feels right. It can’t all be easy out in the country. It’s part of the deal: I have this ride, when the wind feels rough and the hills and skies look gray.

And here’s a small new pleasure that I’ve discovered with my new helmet: when the face shield is down, I can sing and hear myself inside the capsule. The noise of the world is muted. Whatever tune I hum fills my small world. It's oddly satisfying.

the fall crab

Last night Isis joined us upstairs. It has taken him six months to be successful in establishing himself as a permanent part-time resident at the farmhouse. (There is no litter box and no kittie door, hence the "part time" nature of the enterprise,.)

Wait a minute, has it really been six months since I moved to the farmhouse? Almost. This Thursday celebrates the sixes: six months since the move, six years since I met and started hanging out with Ed and it is, too his 61st birthday.

How he hates that I remind him of it! (Ed has a small set of strong negative feelings and in that set you’ll find his feelings about celebrations, especially as they pertain to him.)

But let me not jump ahead. For now I’m thinking about how pretty it is outside the farmhouse. How every morning, our crab apples, studded with red fruits, are the feeding station for these guys:





I know that if you live in a place where you hate some detail of your environment, that feeling of dissatisfaction eventually passes. You get used to most anything: ugly carpets, miserable wall paper -- it all becomes background noise. So I wonder: does beauty become background noise as well? Or is it that I will always step out in the morning, see the same birds against the fall crab apple and think -- wow.

briefly stated

If you do something before you’re ready for it, it could very well be that you will surprise yourself and others with your newly identified abilities. In the alternative, you’ll suffer the pain of unpreparedness. So that if you’re not quite healed, what with with your ribs and various muscle groups -- if they’re still a tad sore and if all your limbs bare signs of a mishap by virtue of being discolored in awful shades of black and blue --  despite this, if you insist on a regular Sunday run of housecleaning and then bulb planting and then dinner fixing for older daughter (equal time!) and her BF, then you’re going to pay the price for it.

Let me post two photos from the day: one taken in a moment of utter delight when I was dusting the farmhouse. I noticed that winter light was changing the way I could regard the living spaces. Suddenly the front room gets the sunlight. Plenty of it. So different than last summer, or even spring!





The second photo is from the back of a motorcycle, as Ed and I are zipping over to get some parts to his Geo. Why he would want to fix that skeletal piece of rusted near-junk is beyond me, but he does and so we head to the Auto Parts store late this afternoon – me, simply for the pleasure of a little outing on this cool but gorgeous October day. The good thing about this trip is that it takes you past very pretty country vistas.





Evening is family time. Sunday dinner at mom’s place. Unless I’m out of town, my kids surely know this about life: if it’s Sunday, they can come home, alone or with their SOs and get a warm meal.

And after – Ed and Isis sleep, one on the floor, the other one on the couch, while I work and try very very hard not to join them in the slumber department. [Yes, that's right:  Isis is the one on the couch.]

trip south

Ahhhh, Chicago! I especially love my trips there now. There is no downside. An easy bus trip – time to work, read, nap. An even easier El trip and then I am at her stop. My daughter’s place.





And the promise of good, fresh and honest food. An evening of it. Wine, too.

A walk back, and now we’re home, her home. Her boyfriend plays the guitar very very nicely and he strums now.





...and she plays with it too, my little harlequin.





As usual, my eyes stay open far longer than the rest of me. Somewhere in there I drift off to sleep, to wake up now not in the country, but in the city. I used to live in cities.

A short walk for a brunch on the town – and this always spells vacation for me because at home, I never eat breakfast out. We have a very urban meal.





A leisurely one, with her and him, the very urban pair.





And now I’m back on the El and then the bus, returning north, to the country, to the farmhouse that’s just a little bit yellow.





What’s there not to love?

saddle

Rosie and I are riding again. I had to go to campus to pick up exams – Rosie delivered me there and back without incident. True, I have taken to avoiding most every bit of traffic. And keeping a safe distance in front and in back. And slowing down for each intersection. And watching for possible cars going the wrong way. It’s awfully tiring.

Every road imperfection is, of course, a shot of pain to the ribs. The way to avoid being jostled is to elevate yourself a bit over the bumps. Which I do. Like in horseback riding, when you’re trotting.

The wind was severe and fifty degrees felt more like thirty degrees. You’d think I’d put it all away for the next six months. That I’d go back to the last of the red hot lovers (aka the Ford) where, at the very least, it’s warm. No. Can’t wimp out. Can't feel fragile.


In other news, let me report on some progress on farmhouse painting. Now, if I limit my farmhouse photography to just the entrance, then it looks almost fine. All pale yellow, with white trim. Just imagine the rest as being of the same tones. That’s all you can do for now: imagine.





I’m off to Chicago tonight for dinner with younger daughter. It’s so nice of her to live within a bus ride so that I can have an occasional meal with her. So very nice.

little ones

Watching students type their midterms brings back memories of all the many years I myself was studying at one university or another (from 1969 until 1987, with only a year off somewhere in there).  My father used to comment that I was heading towards being a career student. I don’t think he was pleased.

If I ride a moped, am I in fact imitating studenthood? I don’t know of a single faculty member who rides a moped. Even as I have no interest in upgrading toward a full motorcycle.

Right now, I am still incapable of riding anything. Ed, who typically does not baby the fallen around him, was sympathetic enough to chauffer me in to work...

...then home again. I come out and the limo is waiting.





But I know that he himself would never stand for such dependencies. "Help me out, please" are not words I'm likely to hear from him.

We drive to the Fitchburg farmers market. Ed wants squeaky curds, I want tomatoes. Most every farmer is showing off the last of the squashes now. Big ones, little ones.






I wonder sometimes -- what would Ed have been like had he been a father? (A purely theoretical speculation... Ed, by being Ed, would never opt to take on parenting responsibilities.) Would he have nudged his children toward independence so that they would be as unencumbered by need as he himself is? Would they have build houses out of sheepsheds? Spent hours figuring out why a router isn’t working? And if they fell and broke a leg or sprained an ankle would he hustle them out anyway, to shovel snow when the storms came?





Dinner’s still of the thrown together kind tonight. I am sore and movement is difficult. I sauté cauliflower with garlic and red peppers. I fry eggs, make a salad with the last of the home grown tomatoes.

It’s evening. Ed installs a motion sensor by the front door. When Isis the cat comes by, the thing rings to high heaven so that we know he’s there, waiting for us to open the door.

I clean the dishes, we settle in to watch a movie – the Weeping Camel. The midterms from this afternoon aren’t printed yet. I have a last evening of no work. The sound sensor lets out a shrill beep. My cell phone is ringing too – it’s a daughter calling. I have to smile. Our children are looking for us. We both jump up to respond.

rest

The evening passes. After the initial burst of energy (get me out of this ER place NOW!), I flop down on the couch at the farmhouse. No oomph. Spent. Sore. I remember watching Romancing the Stone on TV a few days back. Maybe you've seen it? The heroine and her soon to be lover tumble down a mountain in a mud slide. At the end of it, they get up and keep on walking. I want to say – you’ve got to be kidding! What about sore ribs and swollen knees?

I half watch a movie, half doze. Isis, the empathetic cat, comes in and right away snuggles next to me. If ever you need evidence that animals sense your need for comfort, Isis surely proves himself this night. He stays by me, paw extended over my chest, moving hardly at all the entire evening.



photo by Ed


It was incredibly lucky that I should tumble yesterday, because today is one of two Wednesdays this semester when I am free of classes. So I stay home. But not entirely. By evening, I remind Ed that we are out of basic foods. We drive to Woodman’s to restock. Now that's entertainment! We find a cart with an attached bench. I sit in it as Ed pushes me and the accumulated bulk foods through the aisles. At one point the impish side of him (never dormant for long) resurfaces and he sends me flying down the aisle. I don’t crash, but I remind him that I am a little sensitive at the moment in the matter of crashes. He buys me an extra Cava, to compensate, I think. (Woodman’s has the best Cava prices anywhere.)

I bought a new helmet today. You can’t reuse one that’s bounced around on a pavement protecting your head. It’s like a bee: one sting and then it’s over. I imagine riding Rosie again and I think of routes that would avoid heavy traffic. I like the quiet roads and I think Rosie will fare better there.


Thanks to all who posted comments here or on Facebook or via email. It was so supremely wonderful to hear from you. It always is.

the ride

Six years ago, I took up biking in a serious way. Good bye car, hello open road. Within a month I crashed. My wheel stuck in a crevice and I went over, head first. The helmet cracked, I got out with a severely bruised hip and a few lessons to remember about biking.

This year I took up mopeding in a serious way. Good bye car, hello free parking anywhere. Today I crashed.

Let me tell you, falling from a motorbike and bouncing head and ribs first along the road takes some getting used to. But again, I learned a ton in the course of this. If I can ever sit again without pain, you’ll see me back on Rosie. She’s great – me, I’m just human.


The day had a fine beginning! Since last week, the countryside has changed around here. The fields and forests are dryer. Louder in their rustle. Lovely to look at.





Rosie and I scooted out and made the trip to campus in no time. I let out a few tsk tsk around campus as students cycled and mopeded in the oddest ways, helmet-less, carefree, as if nothing could happen to them. I am not like that. I have a full motorbike helmet and today – the leather jacket that was made for biker people. I watch all intersections. I am on guard!

A long day at school. It’s midterm week and in addition to the classes, I had exam Qs to write, students to reassure – the usual though lineup for a mid-October Tuesday. I was very happy when, at 4:30, I could pack my bags and head out to meet Ed at the café.

I never got there.

Rosie was waiting, ready for her ride, standing under a now bare tree.





I hopped on, looked in all directions and set out. Singing! The day was done, I had a long wonderful evening before me. Yay.

A few minutes and I am on Park Street. And here’s where I relaxed too much. I followed a truck past a busy intersection. We both burst the speed and made it even as the light began to flicker yellow. But for reasons I wont know or understand, immediately after crossing the intersection, the truck put on the brakes. It was so unexpeceted and I was too close. To avoid a crash, I swerved and fell.

My head bounced a few times against the pavement and I thought – wow, this is one hell of a good helmet. I don’t feel a thing.

My ribs and leg had no such protection.

But, you gotta love Madison. I’ve seen this time and again: an accident happens and there are people offering every assistance you could possibly need or want within seconds.

Sure, I spent the better part of the evening having my bruised bones examined and made much of. Ed came and promptly dozed off in the ER room. My daughter was there too, story telling, entertaining the both of us.

I’m home now trying to figure out how one can remain comfortable when half of one’s insides (the left half) are sore. There are a lot of nerve endings around ribs. One has to wonder why nature felt it necessary to place them there, but so be it.

I’m walking away with a few mementos from this fascinating day of 11.11.11. Mostly, I’m happy that I can walk away. I’m not deterred from Rosie rides. Not in the slightest. Only I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t follow closely behind trucks. If they stop, you’re dead meat. Unless you’re wearing a superb helmet and your friends’ leather jacket. Then you’re just bruised meat.

from dawn to dusk

The sun rises over the sandy banks of the island in the middle of the Wisconsin River.





Oh, it’ll be a warm Sunday. Very warm. And we have a long haul before us. So far, we’ve paddled barely a third of the way to Boscobel, our take out point.

Still, Ed lights up the little stove and I pause over oatmeal and a coffee. (This is the one use I have for Starbucks these days: they make a hell of a delicious instant.)

Normally, we do not hurry a morning. Here, where the sands squeak and the current ripples against the banks in the most wonderful way, it’s especially difficult to pack the boat and go. But, there’s no choice. And so by 9:30, we’re in the water, paddling.

We’re now going through the bluffy part of the river and here’s where autumn looks just as you want it to be -- touched gently by color. Not jarring, not exaggerated. Almost timid, but lovely nonetheless.










The sun stays behind us at first, then slowly moves toward the bow. I am getting one heck of a tan – on my left (south) side only.






We try to read the river, to cut back on the “getting stuck in the shallows” routine, but it’s hard. Again and again, we have to get out and push the boat to where the current is strong and the river bed is deep. Each hoist out of the boat is tough enough under any circumstances, but in this boat especially it’s a challenge. She sways, she rocks and if you tip her over six inches, she fills with water (there’s not much freeboard on this vessel).

We pause on another island for a lunch of bread, cheese and tomato, but only when my calculations tell me that it's okay, that we will get to the final point by sunset. Even so, I hurry Ed along. He tries to hury, but he cannot. A swim? Sure, there’s time for a swim. But hurry!

Yes, hurry. The enemy of a good passage here. I hurry right into the canoe, tip it six inches or so and fill her with a good base of water. We spend the next fifteen minutes bailing her out.

And we continue in our Huck Finn wannabe way. Getting a charge out of the most routine of events -- a flight of geese, a passage of a puffy cloud.


 


Past countless turtles, resting at the side, but only until we come close – then they jump off, one by one, plopping in, leaving no turtle behind.









We watch the occasional fisherperson too. I liked this one. I waved, She waved. I imagined her filling the truck with fish for the whole cold season before us.





The sun is now definitely on a steady descent.





We’re gettin’ there, but both Ed and I are putting in a lot of muscle on the final stretch. And we miss spotting some of the submerged timbers. Twice we hear the sharp scrape of underwater logs against the kayak’s (or canoe, we don’t quite know what it is...) bottom. We pause each time to check for holes. A scrape on a fiberglass boat is no big deal. On this boat – a rip is a very real possibility.

But we’re lucky. And we are at the final bridge before 6.






Ed sits back as I do the final paddle in. On the shore, a woman shouts out – you realize he’s making you do all the work! I know, I know, it’s been that way all along, I retort. But I don’t mean a word of it.





The light is deliciously golden. We pack up our boat, load the car and head back to Spring Green. Ed's car is there and we look affectionately at the two cars together -- quite likely the ugliest little cars this side of the Mississippi. He switches to his, I stay in mine, we head home.

give me a boat, that can carry two...

In my mind, rivers are like cats: they have their own personality, a strong one at that and you better not mess with it, or else. Instead – study it. Find the gentle spots. And if there aren’t any, then go with what you’ve got.

I think about this now that we’re half dragging ourselves into the farmhouse, hungry as anything, ready to plunk down and devour the takeout pizza. That Wisconsin River, the old cat, it can play tricks on you.


It was to be a two day trip – on a stretch we’ve done before: from Spring Green to Boscobel. I’d say it’s a solid two day paddle, but one that’s not going to let your heart race.if you spread it out right.

The thing is, our start was substantially delayed. We lost our way driving there. No kidding. At one point, Ed pulled me over (we took both cars) and said – we’re going to see a lot of Wisconsin. We’re way off target.

We saw a lot of Wisconsin. 122 miles worth (instead of half that).





So there was that. Additionally, when you do a paddle in a country that doesn’t adore public transportation, you have to leave a car at the take out point, then drive over together to the put in point. You need two cars, strategically placed. Tick tock, tick tock.

Then, too, putting the kayak/canoe together – that same boat that gave us such a whopping great run along the Dordogne this summer, took a while. That sassy old girl! Not easy to work with, that's for sure. That's before she lets out air in her bladders when she's had enough.

But, finally, we’re set.





I look at my watch. 2:30. We are pushing off at 2:30! Late!  Knowing full well that in October,  the sun sets at 6:25 and shadows form over the water even earlier than that.


Still, we are on the river and it is a fine river and who can worry about getting to Bascobel now.






The sun, even in the late afternoon, is toasty warm, the river is plenty challenging, what with her sandbars and downed timber, and the scenery? Gorgeous.






Still, we can't go for too long. We need to find a place to pitch a tent before the sun's gone. October doesn't give you much time to work with.






At around 6, we find a beautiful stretch of sand on a river island.  Facing the setting sun.

We unload the boat, put up just the inner mesh wall of the tent (no chance of rain, not tonight), Ed boils water for the mac and cheese supper, all this while the sun puts on the show of shows, right there before us.






And then it's gone. And there is complete quiet, except for the occasional splash of water as a fish jumps out then back in again.





Quiet. The hunters' rifles -- such a common sound in our state at this time of the year -- are still, the birds have settled down. Quiet. Ed's asleep by 8. Me, I drift in and out, checking up on the stars, the passage of the moon, listening for the next splash of a fish, then another...

where the waters flow...

7:30. Time to get going. Sun's been up for an hour already. If ever there is a fall week-end that begs for something special, something outdoorsy, something more gutsy than a walk – this is the one.

We’ll be taking the boat down the Wisconsin River. With a night on the sandbars. Back tomorrow evening.

Have a beautiful Saturday and Sunday. Full of sunny thoughts and small pleasures.

boxes

Time passes audaciously quickly when I am busy. But then on week-ends, when work slows down, time positively speeds. Beyond the speed limit, beyond what I find acceptable. It’s very odd.

Three boxes came this week: one has some hundred plus bulbs, plants and some bare-roots to put into the ground. I had the presence of mind to open it and take out the few plants that had to go in RIGHT NOW, but the rest – the bulbs – sit in the mudroom, waiting. The second box has a winter coat. I never bothered getting a winter coat when I lived in Madison – a versatile sports jacket served well for everything, from skiing to taking the bus to work. But I’m in the country. I want to ride Rosie when it’s cold. I need a coat. The box sits unopened. I haven’t the minute it would take to hang it up.

The third box has a flannel shirt for Ed – in commemoration of the around the corner anniversary/birthday (I met him on his birthday), but really because he needs one. He’ll sit in his Farm and Fleet all season jacket when he’s cold. The one shirt he has (that one, too, from Farm and Fleet where he tells me “normal people buy their clothing”) is made of scratchy wool and it is mighty uncomfortable to sit next to him when he puts it on. (It is only slightly better than the stiff jacket. Of course, he wont accept the shirt, because it is a gift and Ed does not deal well with gifts and so I anticipate that that box will remain in the mudroom for a long long time.


I leave campus today when it is still very very warm. Dry, too.






Rosie and I scoot past the lakes, taking a somewhat different route home.






There, the shadows are long, the colors are mellow. Autumnal gold, yes, that, and lemon yellow – see it?

hello, day

I am up, the sun is up, we are up together. There is a little window in the farmhouse bedroom. Through it, I can see well enough the emerging light each morning. And today, that emerging light looks like it's worth stepping out for. A pretty sunrise to start the day!






Thursday is a very long work day. Rosie waits patiently for me. She goes from being rather naked, to standing there as if showered by golden leaves.






These days are workdays, that’s for sure. But here's something unique: this is an October day when the temp hits 82. To be repeated tomorrow. You can’t ignore that. Perhaps getting up early and taking a shot of the misty skies just as the sun breaks through is one way of saying – I’m grateful. It’s going to be beautiful out there today. How splendid is that!

life is warm

On days like this, I feel I am dangerously close to Andy Rooney, as depicted in a cartoon I saw this week – in it, he comments on everything and nothing. Mostly nothing. Yeah. Exactly.

But this is the way it is: a day blooms, I venture forth. This morning, in the bright, heavenly light of a warm fall day.





I’m out early and so I take the longer route. Mostly bike trails. Warm! One of those October days you can’t really believe is an October day.





My final bike lap is on State Street. Here I am, taking a photo while careening down the middle of the bike and bus only street. (Even Rosie isn’t welcome on it.)





In the evening, I bike from the Café to the farmhouse. Past fields of corn and meadows of autumnal prairie flowers. Most are dry now. But occasionally, I’ll still be able to pick out the asters and the goldenrod.





I ask my students if they like such splendid weather on days that are super busy for them. Most say no. Me, I’m thrilled with the warmth, the brightness, the idleness of my steps as I walk from the Law School to the bike rack, or to Rosie’s stand by St Francis (it’s where I park her).

There’s winter ahead. I know that. But in this week of drying corn, drying leaves, drying grasses, I can hardly remember what winter’s like. Life is warm. Life is good.

days of October

It’s 11 p.m. There, I am forcing myself to stop work. Now... about the post. What? Has the day passed me by??

And it is such a splendid golden sunny week! I wish I didn't just get to feel the tail end of each day. Still, leaving work, I had a chance to sample that wonderful parched heat of another dry autumn day.





Rosie and I zipped over to the Café, then to the farmette. Across the road, the shadows cover the fields early. And still, on a day like today, who can groan about diminishing light! It was just so beautiful. Even as by evening, I have to wear the biker jacket. There’s a chill as you dip through the valleys. Sun or no sun, I'm definitely tasting autumn air.





Supper? Leftover cabbage soup! We just cannot get enough of it.