a big Tuesday with small photos

It was the kind of day where you just see no point in taking a camera out. Wet, drizzly, cold. With an occasional snowflake -- but the sort that goes by unnoticed by a photo lens. Nothing lasting, nothing pretty at all. Add to it a full day of teaching and and and -- a camera that develops a problem: a spot permanently ensconced somewhere within the lens!

In any case, not a good camera day.


Four years ago, the campus buzzed on election day. Today, you could not tell that anything out of the ordinary was taking place. State Street, too, looked bleak. Empty.







I did vote. In my small place south of Madison. Anyone who has voted will tell you that election places in this country are not terribly photogenic for a person just passing through with a camera in her pocket. Gym rooms, church halls, community centers… Institutional settings. Bare walls, harsh lighting, somber faces, and a handful of observers, watching, waiting. (In my little corner of Wisconsin, they tell me they have observed nothing amiss.)

At Paul's Cafe we exhaled, but not for long.

Home. A wet, wet, drippy farmette. Ed is trailing behind me, I greet Isis who has that 'where have you been?? It's dinner!'  look about him.





So I feed him in the sheep shed -- which we still think of as his home base -- and then I retreat to the farmhouse. With a look toward the wet fields, the drippy orchard branches.





But Isis follows me right back to the farmhouse, and now Ed is here as well, and I'm cooking, and Ed is trying, trying so hard to use credit reward points to purchase some secondary flights for us in January, and the election results are starting to come in, and it is at this time that Isis decides to call the farmhouse his home, and he demonstrates this by basically emptying his gut and his bladder in favorite spots -- an (apparently) favorite carpet, a closet, oh thanks, Isis! My cauliflower is burning, Ed's on the phone with the Rewards people and Florida is undecided and you poop and pee now? What kind of a cat are you?

Fact is, it's not his fault. We've avoided the inevitable. He likes it here. Yet, I never agreed to have a litter box here. We just let him out when he wanted to be let out. It worked.

Until today. The rains came down, Isis stayed in. Without a litter box, he created his own favorite bathroom situations.

And Florida is still undecided.

Ed is now playing volleyball (he's hardcore about it: if there is a game, he plays), I've cleaned up, Isis is sleeping on the couch next to me. Let the elections results roll in!


(And if anyone didn't think Wisconsin counted, it did. And two minutes ago, NBC called it. I exhale.)

frosted over

Several yoga classes back, toward the end of the hour, the yoga instructor came over to where I was doing the final savasana -- a relaxation pose that is aptly referred to sometimes as the corpse pose -- and she gently massaged my forehead. I thought then that she was giving me a bonus kick. Because I had told her earlier that I really liked her sequences. But a funny thing happened after she soften my forehead -- I noticed that my whole face was less taught. For all these years, I believed that I had etched on my forehead a frown born of determination. You know, the immigrant, determined to make a go of it here. She saw in it tension and she coaxed me into letting that fold away, along with everything else that in fact does fold away during a savasana.


On Mondays, my work tensions mount. Not that I even notice or pay much attention to this. It happens, I move forward. But this morning, it causes me to hesitate: maybe I shouldn't go to the Obama/Springsteen rally early, so early, 7 a.m early? I don't usually go to rallies, but it had been a long election period and I had thought maybe I should show this small amount of support for the candidate of my choice.

But, at the last minute, I change my mind. I look out, note the frost, think about all that I could accomplish if I did not devote three hours to displaying support. (For one, I could get a wonderful fifteen more minutes of sleep.) And so I scratch the idea of going to the rally.

Feeling bad that I had just given in to a weakness, I push myself to get up and take an exhilarating Rosie ride in the post dawn hours when the frost is still thick and the temperatures hover around 23 (and that's while standing still).

Frost can be so very pretty in the faint light of a winter sun (in Wisconsin, it feels like we're done with fall).





Our neighbor across the road grows trees -- Christmas trees. Frost tinted this morning.






In the fields -- the rough brown color is gone. We have before us the work of the frost elves.






And so I do my Rosie morning loop, no more than five or six miles, stopping now and then to smile at the enormous beauty of the landscape, at once without the dazzle of color, but as if brush stroked to a softness that is gentle and kind.





It takes a while for me to warm up after that, but, the sun comes and goes all day long and I follow it from room to room when it is there and eventually, I forget that it is cold outside.

And I do go back to yoga today, and even though it's Monday and the instructor is rather tough on the whole lot of us. That frosty ride set me, I think, in a good direction for a quiet and productive day.

Even if I do have to let out a sigh when I note how quickly the sun sets these days.

prairie Sunday

I'm getting terribly spoiled: I take yet another day, granted, a Sunday, but still a day off. Schoolwork can wait until tomorrow.

We wake up to a brisk and gently pretty fall day.





And if I put off computer work, that frees me to do other work. The kind Ed and I used to do quite regularly: clearing off brush and invasives on and around the Ice Age Trail. Today a handful of volunteers are meeting on the Brooklyn segment -- just fifteen miles south of us. (The drive there is so Wisconsin, so November, so farm-ish!)





(And speaking of farm-ish, we left Farmer Lee's sister (who is also a farmer) working away at our fields out back. Neither of the sisters is ever willing to accept imperfection. Make better. Always make the soil, the crop, the life just a tad better.)






Of course, we're late for the meet up at the Ice Age Trail work day and we haven't a clue where they're working. We walk south on the trail…





…we walk north...






... and we're about to give up when we come across the (quitter than usual!) crew. We are given a large patch of prairie that has everything from Russian Olive to honeysuckle aggressively taking hold.



 



 We work a little, pause for their lunch break with the others…









…work some more. It's such a beautiful spot! And if I groaned earlier about the dullness of the colors this month, here, I am spellbound by the ribbons of blue and gold.






And so we work longer than usual. Long enough to come across this fellow, sowing seeds on the prairie.










And if ever there was a delightful brief encounter, it was exactly this, with him, casting to the wind handfuls of white eiderdown-like seeds. As I take my  photo he tells me -- just get the spelling of my name right -- Mr. Volunteer, with a capital V. A wandering young lad, passing through Wisconsin (and volunteering on the Trail while he's here), moving from one state to the next, thinking of staying, thinking of moving on. For all my inclinations toward movement, toward exploration, I cannot remember ever being this restless.







Trout. We have trout for dinner. My girl and her husband come over and I get so wrapped up in the delicious pleasure of having them here that I forget to take the photo -- until they are out the door.





Ed and I retreat then into our own spaces even as we sit on the same couch doing so. I write, he reads. We work in silence. It is the way we process the day, the week, our time together.

November thoughts

This morning, we woke to a brief burst of snowflakes. Nothing memorable. You would have to use a spyglass to locate traces of it, but still,  it signals winter.




 A leisurely morning. A lovely meal with Ed and Isis…





Immediately after, I go to another yoga class. Again with my friend, who is rapidly becoming my yoga buddy, which is so good, because whenever she asks  -- want to go? -- unless I'm working, I am happy to fly down and meet her there.


But, I'm not really flying. I'm driving more and more now. The old donkey car is back in almost daily circulation. It is as it has to be. I will not ride Rosie on (soon to be) icy roads.


Returning from yoga, I veer a little into the dirt road that leads down to the fields where Farmer Lee and her various sisters and cousins work. There are still some reluctant but lovely plants standing…





…and I notice that here, too, they've been tilling and preparing for spring…





…but no one is out working today. I would not be surprised if I do not see anyone here again until next spring.





At home, the sun pokes through for a fleeting second and I seize the opportunity to do a beard trim for Ed. We'd fallen behind our monthly schedule. Neither of us notices the beard as much in winter. As if it's to be expected that a face should be covered against the cold.

We have the bucket of carrots to contend with. Last night I hosed down a few and then scrubbed them some more with a potato brush. I have to smile at this added farm work. On any day, we eat a lot of carrots. Mostly the kind that are pretend baby carrots. All nicely scrubbed and locked into a plastic bag. (For cooking, I reach for the bundles). Lee, by giving us this loaded pail of mud-caked oddly shaped roots reminded me that it's both a pleasure and a burden to get them ready for the table. And since Ed doesn't want to load the pipes with clay soil, we do the work outside.

Outside, too, is where the carrots will stay for the winter. Right in the space above our well. Ed climbs down to investigate the possibilities.





Inside, I flick the thermostat up another degree. End of daylight savings time. Let's keep things warm inside. Until sometime in March, when we can have our lovely long evenings back again.

back to normal

I don't know about you, but my 'normal' varies. A summer normal is not a spring normal is not an autumn normal is not a December - January normal. And no normal bears any resemblance to my October normal. So maybe it's wrong to think of myself as being back in the fold of routines, since I don't seem to have any that I stay with through the year. And yet, it sure feels like today was rather normal. For a Friday, that is.

It meant that I had time for a morning yoga class (it had been weeks, and it felt like it had been weeks), this time with a friend, which makes it nicer, even though I had to dash immediately to campus afterwards.

It meant that I had a long string of student appointments, followed by a faculty meeting, followed by catch up desk work, followed by grocery shopping for the week. All typical Friday stuff.

But here's the joy of joys: I come back home and there is nothing that I have to do before tomorrow. I can read a book, take a walk, cook dinner, take a nap (though the bed is already amply occupied by two other nappers.  So long as we're into photographing sleeping guys, let me sneak up on the two upstairs... Typical sight. In bed, jacket on, computer on chest, cat wanders over to the window).






Outside, it's a little hazy, a little gray, a little cold. The truck farmers to our east have fire going. I'm not sure if it's there to burn stuff or if it's there to keep warm in these last hours of farm work.





 It surely looks like they have the fields ready for the planting season.






Closer to the farmhouse, I come across a surprising display of resiliance. A day lily that will not give up the ship. Straining to bloom in November.






I make chicken soup for supper. Lot's of chicken. And Farmer Lee's carrots. Which take a lot of scrubbing, but hey, what are brushes for, if not this.

We eat and track the news.





...Until we each are more asleep than awake, or at least I feel that this is so.

the first day of november

I had to go easy on Isis this night. In my most difficult week, he had stayed low. Often, he'd avoid the farmhouse. As if he knew that I just hadn't the energy for his foibles. When he came this might, I petted him profusely. He'd earned it.

Not to say that he was humble in his acceptance of my gratitude. He sprawled on the bed, between my limbs and refused to move.



photo by Ed


I was so tired, that mostly, I payed no attention.
See?? Ed tells me… You can sleep through anything! Storms at sea, anything!
We'd been having this discussion -- whether I am capable of ever enjoying a long boat ride (it's part of our winter break planning). I say no, he says yes. In our life together, vetoes usually prevail.






This morning, I set out on Rosie feeling chilled, rushed and tired. But knowing, too, that the toughest work period of the entire year is (mostly) behind me. So that's a good thing. And anyone out and about today would have noticed and given a nod to our great Midwestern sky. Nowhere in the planet is it more expansive, beautiful, humbling than here, for us, standing in Wisconsin fields of grain (and other more interesting crops).






Then follows the hellishly busy Thursday. Teach, work, work, teach, teach, work work work, office hours, office hours, office hours, phew. Done.

I thought I'd be stumbling home now, depleted, desensitized, but no! It is a gorgeous evening!






Full of... sky!






At the farmette, we have s surprise gift. Farmer Lee left this for us.






Ed tells me we should winter them over in our root cellar. I didn't even know we had a root cellar.  Isis looks on.






It is the evening of a promised dinner out. Not a big deal dinner out, but a "you don't have to cook" dinner out. The kind where we each take along good reading matter (no kidding) and we look for a place to sit at the bar (at our local Dane Pub). There is a pool table behind us and as we wait for our food, Ed asks -- you want to?  Of course, it's one of those things that he's done quite a bit of in the past and I've done hardly at all and so our talents are mismatched, but that's fine -- it makes for a quick game, after which we can go back to our reading materials.



another Ed photo


We ride his motorbike back to the farmhouse when it's good and dark, good and cold too. At home, he asks if I want a hot shower to warm up. No, just turn on yesterday's Jon Stewart and sit next to me. And of course, very quickly, in mid-sentence, I doze off.

October 31

I dressed like a pumpkin today. That is, I wore an orange shirt and green cords. My students looked somewhat skeptical, but I tell you, that's about as dressed up as I've gotten on this day. Ever.

Why is it that some people love to dress up and others can't really muster up enthusiasm for it? Costume or cocktail dress -- none of it excites me. I care about the clothes I wear and yet, I can't seem to warm to the idea of dress-up.

(Excuse me: I forgot to post the morning shot. In honor of Maine, I suppose -- the poster of the fishing boats is from there...)





(And I should post this shot -- from Rosie's back, on the way to work. It makes me think we have mountains at the horizon. As you'll have guessed, actually -- they're clouds.)





At Paul's cafe this afternoon, the barista spoke excitedly about a hypothetical costume she wanted to wear: dead, bloody face and a sexy dress... when people ask what am I, I'd answer -- dead sexy. But I figured this is a child-friendly place and that wouldn't fit in. She seemed disappointed. I'd be thrilled if somebody told me I shouldn't dress up.

And yet, I like holidays. I like special days, pretty days, as Ed would say -- Hallmark days. Days of humor, warmth, days of pumpkins, if pumpkins be the way to go.

Pumpkins. I can do pumpkins! Out back, left by the farmers who farm there.





And creaky barn, with cobwebs and mice and who knows what other vermin inside.





After? Too tired to sleep. Catch up time. Scheduling a whirlwind of late afternoon/evening office hours tomorrow. Because if you give written feedback to students (this is what kept me up nights the last days), they always like to review it in person. All 54 of them. Which is a good thing. Except for the fact that there are 54 of them.

wind

I hear Wisconsin mentioned again and again in the news -- we're the western most state to feel the effect of Sandy (the storm system that pounded the east coast). I didn't believe it. You would have had to have experienced the blue skies in recent days. No storms headed here. Couldn't be.

And yet, the wind did pick up today. No, it really picked up. I took Rosie to work only because I was so harried and hurried and all things in between that I thought I could stand some cold air whipping me about a bit. It did that. I thought many a time that the wind would do me in, pushing me off of Rosie, gusting me right toward the lake or worse (yes, there's a worse) -- onto the pavement in the path of a moving car.

I write to say that none of this happened.

It was a hard day and I have exactly 15 more hours before me of hard work and then things get back to normal.

In the meanwhile, I wanted to provide you with a view of the wind. You can do that when you live in the shadows of a huge willow. Unfortunately, the wind paused somewhat, just as I took out my camera and I didn't have time to linger. Still, it's a pretty set of colors out there in the nearly evening light.






If I looked toward the farmhouse from where the willow tree hangs low, I'd see it in this way:





So there you have it, your photos for the day.

In other news, I did take the major step of disconnecting myself from the world today by agreeing to abandon my land line. This was to save money and to do away with the dozens of senseless political calls I get each day. So, tear up my number -- I do not have it anymore. I am cut off from the world.

Still other news? I took the time to make cabbage soup. Enough for at least three days. When life is knocking you about a bit, there's always cabbage soup. I suppose that calls for a photo, no? Okay then, a third shot and then I go back to my work. 14 hours and 30 minutes and counting. So hard.

a day of leftovers

Just remember, two more days and it'll be November. Remember that when you scan the post for content. Remember that I'm gasping for air and what I come up with isn't worth noting here. Do you really want to know that my one fun outing was to Target where I bought nothing at all? That I finally took the step of giving up my land line? (This last move was prompted by the election calls I got this last month. Often a dozen a day. And no one else calls, ever. Except once every two years, my father, from Poland. I have another solution for him. Google phone!) Otherwise, I worked.

After a sunny breakfast...






And a trip to Paul's cafe, where I worked some more. Until closing. Oh, here's a different shot for you -- of the farmhouse, as we approach it in the early evening from the road.





From here, it looks larger than it really is (just as from the back, it looks smaller than it really is).

Dinner? Well now. Yesterday I made spaghetti ai frutti di mare (well, at least one type of frutti -- shrimp). This, after watching one person after another in Maine last week order at a superb restaurant spaghetti with shrimp. Come on! I kept thinking... why order this here when you can make it at home? So I made it at home (or some inferior version of it). But I sauteed too many shrimp and boiled too many noodles so today's dinner was reheated spaghetti in a sauce of left overs and frozen stuff: yesterday's shrimp, frozen tiny tomatoes from the garden, frozen corn from the market, limp leftover scallion. Delightfully unfresh, but oh so honest!