from markets to rooftops

Hey, let’s salute the farmers! Because it is the end of the season – the last day of the outdoor market and oh, do I ever appreciate all that they have brought to my table the past seven months! So – thank you, men and women of the farmlands. I see you working every day, here, from the farmhouse. The rewards – for us, market shoppers, farm field watchers – are sublime.

So thank you.


















It’s a weekend of tremendous amount of work for me and I dare not take many pauses. The market – yes, that. And in the afternoon, I shout up to Ed, who is on the roof, scraping the cedar siding on the high dormers – hey! Break with me for the café!
Yeah, sure, in a little bit...

No, now! The café closes in a few minutes!

Can it be in ten?

I’ll go over and order our stuff. You come in ten.

I’m at the café. They pour coffee, they pour soup for Ed. No Ed.
The doors close, the last customer comes and goes.
My phone rings. It’s Ed. Where the hell are you?
When you leaned out the window to call me? After, you closed and locked the window. Making it difficult for me to get down.

Oops.

I take soup home, Ed and I sit at the table and talk... about buying a TV. I miss the moments with the big screen.
We look at Consumer Reports, we select the cheapest in its category...
This is the third attempt to reach a decision on a bigger TV set. The last two went back (we purchased one four years back and of course, another just four weeks ago). We’re going to give it one more try. For Thanksgiving. If we can’t find pleasure in the purchase, the bigger TV idea will be shelved for good.

And then it’s back to work for me. Papers to read, to critique, endless endless papers. Was it nice outside today? Wish I remembered. I read that it was the last warm(ish) day of the year. Okay, fine. Hope you enjoyed it.

beads of frost

Frosty morning. I admire flowers that hang in there. They are few and far between. This is the tail end -- no more pinks and reds, frosted or otherwise, until next spring.





I’m working at home today. I watch the sun move from one end of the farmhouse to the other, I listen to the sounds outside. Isis comes in, Isis goes out. Ed’s at Tormach, doing his Friday Tormach thing. Work, work. Can I pause now for lunch? For coffee? Work, work.

The sun is definitely more to the west than to the east now. Ed calls. Done! Meet me at the café in an hour.

I walk to the Oasis. It’s not a beautiful walk – mostly along county roads and more busy rural connecting roads, but I want to move. The "work, work" thing has made me feel stale and stagnant. Three miles. One hour. Pick me up on the road when you pass! I tell Ed.

He’s late. I walk, on and on. But it’s okay! On a day when the sun is out and the frost has long melted, walking’s good, walking’s calming, walking’s revealing.





Finally, we’re at the café. Not for long. Enough for Ed to lose his socks, lose his credit card – all that. But I have a date with my daughter downtown and so I must get going. A burger night.






An evening to think about something other than work and farmhouse living. A city night. Over a medium rare patty at Graze. Mmmmm

...that countryside

It’s the things you don’t expect that’ll run you down. Not the stuff you worry about. When I moved to the farmhouse back in April I worried about issues that are laughable now. Mice. I was sure I’d be fighting endless families of mice. After the removal of one fat mouse – the one that kept coming back for the same peanut butter trap again and again – pfft, gone. No more mice.

The bugs that were so everywhere during the years the house stood abandoned – not a problem. We redirected the ants and sealed away (most of) the box elder beetles.

Isis – such an issue initially! Now we have a vacuum for the hairs he leaves behind and a motion sensor to tell us when he wants to come in (nearly every evening). He doesn’t really enjoy sharing a bed and so when he overnights, after a while, he’ll retreat to the couch. He used to retreat to the guest bedroom, to spread out on the double bed there, but a closed door and a shake of my head put a stop to that. Really Isis. People who sleep there could be allergic to cats. Stay away from there.

Commuting has been made better by the palate of choices: biking to work when I have the time and weather on my side, Rosie when I have weather on my side, and the red hot lover (the car, people, the car!) when I have neither.

Winter is the remaining unknown mystery. The roads, the ice, the shoveling – we’ve yet to work that out. But the joy of farmhouse living is absolutely in place. Bring on the snow, I say. I’m soon to have a Farm & Fleet shovel.

My mother, herself elderly, throws in an occasional tsk tsk as she wonders out loud how an older woman (and I will be that, in case I'm not there yet) could manage alone in a farmhouse. So maybe I should worry, but I don’t. There's Ed. Or, in the alternative, maybe I'll be like the old Mrs Larson who once grew up in this farmhouse but now lives alone across the road. Maybe she has a cat or dog in her lap and a TV turned up loud.  You’ll need to drive! -- I’m warned. Okay, so I’ll drive with both hands on the wheel peering over my spectacles, going just under the speed limit and occasionally forgetting to turn off the turn signal. And besides, by then, this area will be developed. We are way too close to Madison to imagine that there’ll always be farm fields to the side. There'll be buses and/or trolley cars. Or something.

So I’m set. Maybe. Unless a bird falls from the sky, hits overhead wires in the wrong way and causes the place to go up in flames (I read a case with this exact fact pattern today!). You never know.



In other news, I want to highlight the flowers that are stubbornly hanging in there...





And I want to remember another thing: the way the sunlight still streams into the café as we sit there late in the day, waiting for it to close.





After this week-end, we’ll be leaving when it’s dark.

Finally, I also want to remember that the fields that I pass in the morning are entirely differently toned after sunset. It’s one of the most unexpected pleasure of living at the farmhouse: each vista, each vignette present itself differently at each hour of the day.

the only truth I know...

Oh the drizzle of the rain... A wet day. Not freezing. Some of the annuals haven't collapsed yet.






Looking at the farmhouse from the road, I think about how insignificant its color is right now, given that the trees in front are so vividly gorgeous.





(In the back as well. Fiery red there...)






Afternoon. Raining hard now. We are sitting in the café, me with a stack yea high of work, but I’ve dropped it on the floor because Ed and I are embroiled in a heated banter on the subject of moral imperatives. The café owner, a hugely tolerant fellow who typically is happy to see us, is hinting we should tone it down a bit. Other customers may think we’re flinging harsh language at each other.

We’re not. But Ed on the subject of relativism can become quite animated.

It’s funny that I should debate him on this, because there was a time where I would have said “amen, me too.” But, these days, I look around me and I think – no, not so relative. I see gentle and I think – gentle is good. No harm there. No harm is good. And I swear, Ed, in his life that leans so consistently toward the gentle surely doesn’t quite mean his own words. And so we banter. Until the café closes and I pack my papers and we head home.


I’ll make the chili, I tell him. But he’s asleep already. Isis comes in and joins him. I stir turkey meat and onions and tomatoes and cumin, beans, garlic and chili powder. It’s a good meal to have on a stormy and long day. Ed wakes up, we eat, watching Modern Family on the tiny 19 incher.

winter?

These days, when I go to weather.com and check for my zip code, I notice that there is a new box under each day: inches of expected snow. Sure, I see big fat zeros for tomorrow and the next day, but the fact is, we’re in that kind of a mindset now.

Still, if I thought yesterday would be my last bike ride, I quickly changed my mind this morning. Yes, I had an early morning class and so the hour ride in would have to begin very early, but man oh man, if I can’t find time to bike today, when the sun is out and the frost will surely disappear quickly, then I may as well put myself out to pasture.

So I set out. Early. When the light is lovely at the farmette.





The sun is just up, poking through the almost bare orchard trees.





It's low still, so that there are long shadows on the fields just east of the farmhouse.





I’m cold and so I bike fast. Super fast. And I take the unattractive shortcut which cuts a mile off. As I get close to campus I think – I have time for a five minute detour. I swing toward Lake Mendota and I am suddenly reminded that this was my path for four years – along the lake, spring summer and fall – from condo to campus then home again. I stare out toward Picnic Point...





...and I allow myself this question: any regrets about moving to the farmhouse? No. I’m happy there. But there is, as in everything, a downside. There’s the obvious: the longer commute to work. No good bus connection. Okay. Anything else?

Well, this: I live in someone else’s house. No matter how much Ed tries to assure me that it is my home for life, I tend to want to rephrase that. Maybe it’s a place where he’s okay with me staying for life, but it is not mine by any stretch of the imagination. One of us is the gate keeper, the other is the resident.

Does it matter? Not at this second.


I watch a crew of workers load the Union Terrace tables and chairs onto a truck. I know, winter. Must they be so in your face about the change in seasons?






My work day is yet again very long. By the time I am out of my office and on my bike, the sun is almost set. One more little peek over the stretch of water to the west of Lake Monona...





...and it’s gone. I am very much aware that the headlight on the bike isn’t working. Spent battery. But you know, I’m spent too. The battery and me. And still, we spin forward. You sort of have to when you’re on a quiet country road. Another mile, and another...

...and finally I see the farmette with its unmistakable silo, there against the western horizon. I relax. Relieved. Home. Or, as close as I am ever going to come to calling any place home. Home.

cold thoughts

I put the bike in middle gear (to free myself from paying attention to gears) and I set out. A Halloween ride to work.





Boo.





I take the eight mile route which is mostly bike path. So I would not have to think about the road. Occasionally, I look up at the last day of October colors...





...but mostly, I get lost in my own thoughts – of how Sunday had come and gone and I had a nice family dinner and a clean house but not much else to show for it. About how I hate it when I waste a good day. About how cold it is when you’re biking in weather that hovers above freezing, but just a little above. About how the holes in the helmet don’t help in keeping the head warm.

About the grayness of the waters, the blackness of the birds...





...the somber seriousness of a day without sunshine.


It never cleared up. It was supposed to, but it didn’t. Still, it feels good to pedal vigorously and be in one’s own safe haven of thoughts. Truly, time well spent.

drizzle

Two hours into movie watching last night, I said to Ed – are you still wowed by this crisp new 32 inch TV?
Now that you mention it, maybe should look for something better, cheaper...

No, it’s not that. It’s that after a while, you stop noticing how much better it is than what we had.

It’s true. It suddenly looks very normal.

Exactly. It's no longer astonishing. Not after the first hour.

It sort of blends into the background.

I hardly see the picture as large anymore.

Football – if we watched football, we’d notice the difference.

...But since we don’t watch football, we'll never fully appreciate its size.

The movie ends. The credits roll down the screen.
On the other hand, it sure is nice to be able to read these... (this from Ed.)

After Rosie, the TV (or my share of it) is by far the biggest purchase I am likely to indulge this year. But Rosie has proven herself. Rosie is dangerous, Rosie is fun. Rosie is useful. A larger TV is not dangerous and not useful. On the fun issue – initially, yes. But for how long?


Sunday. A drizzly day, a quiet day. Ed gets his beard trimmed, I tag along. For the promised cup of coffee at the café...





...and out of habit.

I should worry about my future, I say to Ed on the drive home. I should not spend money on a larger TV (or half of it; we split the $300 cost).

After, I finish cleaning the farmhouse. I hear Ed bringing in the cardboard box and disentangling the chords. Fitting the new TV into its original container. To be returned to Walmart’s later in the day.

I suppose the larger screen has come to stand for much more than what the TV really is. Ed, in his playfulness teases me about my wanting a bigger set when we are in the store. I walk away from these irrelevant displays depleted. I don't think it’s entirely an exchange about the set.


Sunday evening. The house is golden!





A warm home.

A couple of days ago, Ed and I filled out applications for credit cards. They're discontinuing our favorite 2% card,  the one with no foreign transaction fees. On the address portion of the application I am asked: "Own? Rent? Other?"

I checked off “other.”


Hands down the best part of the day is when my older daughter comes home (whose home?) for dinner tonight with her boyfriend.


 


In my mind, my daughters are (blissfully) what we are not: unencumbered by past mistakes, free to buy (or not buy) a TV at Walmarts or elsewhere without giving it weighty emotional consideration.

standard fare

It’s been a late fall. I compare photos from October 29th last year – when I spent the day planting bulbs at the farmhouse, a bleak, moldy, crumbling farmhouse – with today’s pics and yesterday’s as well and I think wow, we’re still golden this year!





Saturday. My daughter and I thought it was the last outdoor market day on the Square and so we were sure to be there, taking in the usual late fall stuff...











In fact, the last market day is next week. But who knows what the weather will be then! Cold, yes, that’s a given. But will the sun be out like it was this morning?





My older girl had purple hair today – a nod to Madison’s official Halloween. I have a soft spot for this day, maybe because I remember so vividly when Ed and I ventured out onto State Street six years ago, freshly learning to be with each other. It was very crowded and I had the uncomfortable feeling that in chasing down photos, I would lose track of him. It was on that day that I learned that there’s something to be said for hanging out with someone who is six foot four.


We're at the café. It's just as it should be: people dropping by, standing at the counter, talking.





When the café closes, Ed and I drive to the nearby Walmart’s. He needs shoelaces and I always enjoy being horrified at how much cheap stuff they sell there.

We find adequate shoe laces and are about to retreat when Ed, to be annoying, says – let’s look at the TVs. He knows I want a bigger one (the current 19 incher is not digital and, well, it’s tiny) and he knows I wont spend money on it. So he tortures me by leading us past the coveted 32 inchers every time we're in a store that sells them. I fall in love with the sets, urge us to take the plunge, he makes a tsk tsk don’t be foolish noise and we retreat. This has happened more than a dozen times over the past few years.

Except this time, there is a Sony 32 incher for under $300. That’s Walmart for you. Ed, we can do this!

We buy it. We drive home.


 


And it’s a good thing. I’m too spent to go out tonight. Too many hours devoted to paper reading. State Street kids can have fun parading up and down in various states of undress in 40 degree weather. I’m going to sit back and let technology impress me.

chasing the rising sun

The spring and summer enthusiasm I had for catching a sunrise diminished this season. Even though the sunrise is later (today – at 7:28 a.m.), on days when I do not have to scramble out of bed for work, I find it hard to scramble out for much of anything, especially when it is still dark-ish outside.

But this morning, during the usual morning toss from one side to another, I think about the frost outside (I’d read that we’d be well below freezing overnight) and I think, too, how in a week, I’ll have to get up a whole hour earlier to catch a sunrise. And the sky looks kind of interesting. Suggestive of something good.

And so I pull on some warm sweats and set out on Rosie, chasing the sun – at the place and moment when it breaks over the horizon.

And here’s a surprise: the sunrise has moved since I last looked for it in the middle of July! It's not there, over the fields where I expected it.

I veer north a little and then look east. Ah, okay, I can see the beams of pre-sunrise light...


 


Closer now. There it is -- in the place where it will emerge, from behind a barn and the lake just beyond.





And here’s another (rather unfortunate) thing I discover: riding Rosie in temps that are below freezing without gloves is a bad, terribly bad idea. I cannot stand the cold against my quickly freezing knuckles, at the same time that I cannot guard against it. I pull the jacket over my hand and clutch the handlebar (which, for those who do not know – is also the “gas pedal” for the motorbike) in a clumsy fashion through the thick leather. It sort of works. Very sort of.

It becomes obvious that the sunrise can best be viewed by Lake Waubesa. It’s a mere couple of miles from the farmhouse, but when you’re riding awkwardly and with cold fingers, it seems many moons away.

Okay, bite the cold fingers, bite the cold ankles (I also neglected to throw on socks) and move forward. A harder twist on the handlebar and I’m there. And it is beautiful.





I shut of Rosie’s engine. Rest up old girl. And be still.
The ducks paddle among the ripples. A lakeside resident comes out to look. Pretty, isn’t it?

Yes.

The sun rises.

Hi sun.

After a while, I turn Rosie around and brace for the ride home. The face shield is steaming from my warm breath. Up it goes. No, that’s too cold. Back down. Up. Down.

But after all, it’s the frost, hoar frost, that nudged me up and out to begin with. And it’s there, in the harvested cornfields, you can see it. I pause in one of my favorites spots – just around the corner from the farmhouse. In the early hours, there’s almost always a deer to be seen. Yes, she is there. They are there.






At the farmhouse, I stand under a hot shower for a long while.

singing in the rain

I didn’t have time this morning. You know how it is – you plan to be out by a certain hour and it creeps up on you, but you have one more paper to print, one more pb&j sandwich to fix, one more lecture problem to review and then it’s past the hour of departure.

Rosie. I have to take Rosie – she’s the fastest. (The car is faster, but the walk to the law school from the parking lot is longer so bottom line – it’s Rosie, or be late!)

So why is it raining? Is it raining? Or not? Or is there sun? No? Well then what?

I set out. Drizzle. No drizzle. Then rain. And then not. A wet road, here and there. A grain machine, a line of deeply hued trees, a bend in the road.





I sing and I think – damn, these country roads are pretty!

But very quickly, I’m in city traffic. Watch those cars pulling in, stopping, imagine where you might go if this one suddenly slows down, watchful, watchful. Finally, I park, I run to class. Grab cup with tea, seating chart, run down, hoist up podium. With twenty seconds to spare.


It’s a full day. Too full. In fact, the whole week has been horrendously packed with work. It won’t slow down for me, not anymore, not until it’s over in December. I’m done grading midterms, but so what -- as of today, I have four dozen memos to read, grade, write comments for.

But it’s Thursday and my teaching, if not my work, ends for the week. I get on the wet saddle of Rosie and head for the café, just before it closes.

We buy dinner sandwiches. Don’t want to cook, don’t want to even think of what I should cook.

Ed rides his motorcycle just behind me, but I wave him on. Go home, go home, I need to pause and take a photo. Because the sky is stunning now in the early evening.





And in the last quarter mile, it’s over the top beautiful  -- a tad like those canvases you see for sale in dollar stores, touched up beyond credibility. Except tonight, it is for real.

detour

I permitted myself a five minute detour on the way to the café. Leaving work, it’s not that big of a sidestep. Turn at Lake Wingra, follow the road.





It’s an empty road, as it connects with nothing but the homes secluded at the side of the Arboretum. It’s the best possible place to take Rosie. No traffic. A few joggers even more vulnerable than me. Speed limit of 25 MPH. I like that.

It’s hard to retrieve the joy of riding Rosie when she serves this utilitarian purpose of weaving me through traffic to get me to school on time. Hard, but not impossible.



In the evening, my older girl comes over for dinner. With her Halloween-like bag.





And after, Ed and I watch a library film on laughter. It underscores what we all know – that laughter, like joy, are disappearing from the everyday of our lives.

I remember how hard I laughed late at night in Ghana last spring. Why? Because the handful of people in the room wanted to laugh as much as I did then.

They say stress may lead to laughter. Well there you have it. In these weeks of intense work, I should be laughing more and more.

I’ll let you know.

re: work

I spent the entire day – from six in the morning until late at night working on classes and student issues. Since I resist writing about work here, on Ocean, I ought to let it go at that, showing perhaps only the pretty fall view from my office window, as most of at least the daylight hours were spent in my office.





But I do want to say this: teaching, for me is different these days than it was in the early years, when I was also raising kids and trying to keep my face above water as my teaching load grew and grew and grew. Those days I was audaciously bold. I had to be. Like in camping, hiking, kayaking, and Rosie riding – you’re bolder at the beginning. Otherwise you’d never move out the front door. Or you’d call a cab rather than put yourself at risk. Can’t afford cabs? Well then, swallow your fears and get going. Same with teaching: can’t afford to be unemployed? Well then, stand up and teach.

These days I wont stand up unless I’ve done all my homework. And believe me, even after some two dozen years of teaching, there is still plenty of homework.

At the end of the day, I’m more tired now than I used to be, even as there are no kids to attend to at home, no sleepless nights over a little one’s cough or sore tummy. It’s age? I don’t think so. More likely, it’s the realization that everything is more complicated than once imagined and could be improved upon if you gave it more thought, more consideration.


I ran into a colleague of mine in the faculty lounge as I waited for a printing job to end. I grumbled a little about how each year teaching required more of me for every class, how it never once slowed down. She is somewhat older than me and I could tell that she understood. It’s why I retired – she said. (She still teaches the occasional course – at the law school’s and at her discretion.)

Some work surely becomes easier with repetition. I watch the truck farmers by the farmette as they clear the fields. This one, for example (she’s my favorite – when there are flowers, she’s the first to run up and grab me a handful), maintains her bent position for many hours each day.





Surely her muscles grow strong enough to support that bend in the back! I looked on with not a small dose of admiration. Over time, she has accumulated a reservoir of strength. Over time, I’ve accumulated knowledge as to where strength would be most welcome.

light visions

Am I recovered enough to ride to work on Mr Red? I can’t help but think that, until the snow comes, it’s probably one of the last pretty Fall days. Already the fields are mighty desolate. Only good light makes them look warm and bucolic.

And speaking of warm and pretty, let me start with a morning look out at the feeding station – the tree the birds love to dine at. It was a “where’s Waldo” moment: a red bird amidst red fruits.






But this morning, the birds are outshined by what finally looks like pure loveliness (in my opinion): the freshly painted (north face of the) farmhouse. Ahhh.... (Or is it especially lovely in the softer morning light?)






Okay, so I bike to work. And because I decided (most likely) to make this the last bike ride in (the distance is too long for me to enjoy a ride on cold days), I take the longer way. Lovely, in a harvested and dry sort of way.






The bumps are a little tough on the ribs still, but still, I am happy to be biking, to be ending the season on a slightly longer ride (twenty miles for the day).


After work, I bike to the café where Ed waits, having worked some on scraping and patching now the east face of the house. It’ll be a while before that’s done, but it doesn’t really matter. When I come home, I enter through the north. Its cheerful yellow is there now to greet me.

Time to go home. In the last quarter mile, I pause. There’s not much to the land now. It’s all in the light. It’s enough. Pretty. To the core.