day four

I interrupt this work evening to bring you this unremarkable announcement: after four hours of lecturing, three hours of student office visits and one hour of Rosie rides to and from work, I am spent. However, I MUST finish writing an exam tonight and I am not anywhere close to the completion of that job. So you have me sitting here, with Ed fast asleep, pressing into my shoulder and a twenty-five page single-spaced document that must be proofed and modified before the Cinderella hour of midnight.

It's not that the day had no smiles, no light moments, no pleasurable indulgences. There wasn't the sunshine for the morning meal, but still, it was warmer today and so I had no issues with riding Rosie to campus. Delightful.

And, after work (way past the setting of the sun), I took the time to do a five minute errand. This placed me on State Street -- the one that links our campus with the Capitol -- at a delightfully bright and busy evening hour.





Then Rosie and I zipped home and I sat down to Chinese take out (thank you, Ed, for having it here and ready so quickly upon my return!) and then to work. Tomorrow… ah, tomorrow! It seems many moons away.

Okay, excuse me while I return to the task at hand.

day three

I cannot compare DAY THREE to the others this week. Day THREE was an odd specimen. Pushing the buttons, retreating, hitting hard at me and Rosie, only to leave me smiling again -- until the next little jig.

I am grateful that I at least had a good rest before the start of the day. I didn't think I would. Tension and pressure are not good bedfellows. Even worse than Isis. But Ed tells me that in one breath I announced that I was bound to have trouble sleeping and, in exhaling, I let out a big snore. (I don't think I usually snore.)

Our morning breakfast was sunny and that was good too.



I thought we were heading in positive directions. But after working on my classes, the computer word processing program crashed -- and with it, all my lecture notes disappeared. Ed helped me recover some of the text, but not all of it. Sigh.

I took Rosie to work because there was no threat of rain. But man oh man, it was cold. In class, I look out on my students and I ask them why most are in outdoor jackets. It's cold in here -- they tell me. Well now, I'm feeling toasty after the frigid Rosie ride. This is the good side of being out in the cold: any warmth is warmer than what you've just been through.

In the afternoon, I get a call from Apple. They rushed the missing parts and are now happy to install all that is needed and they will do it as I wait if I can come this afternoon.

So here I go again -- after work, I steer Rosie west toward the mall (that's where we have our Apple store), I hand over my MacBook and now I am let loose in the mall and I thought it would be tough to kill an hour here (I brought pencils and note pads -- how quaint! -- to keep me busy), but it isn't tough at all. I shop. I try on clothes. I purchase pants that were normally $79, but are on sale for $29, with an added 30% off the sale price (Okay, they are bright orange, but so what!) I think to myself -- so this is how shopping looks. I rarely do it (if I buy, I buy on line). I'm kind of enjoying it today. A necessary pause from the grind that awaits me after.

The Apple people are fantastic. Within a few hours, the computer is better than new. No cost to you! -- the lad tells me. Not true. I point to my shopping bag: one pair of pants and one sale sweater with a pear design on the front. The price of getting my Apple repaired.

The ride home is murderous. It's dark, it's way below freezing and the mall is a good half hour (more?) from the farmhouse.  I catch the last thread of pink at the horizon, nothing more.





But, the computer is fixed, I have a $19 pair of orange pants and I have only two more days of tense times before me. (Warning: tomorrow is by far the worst. On the upside -- Friday will be the easiest of the five. And the last.)

day two

(It is DAY TWO of a handful of demanding work days.)

Perhaps the most comforting part of the day is now -- I am at the farmhouse, supper dishes are stashed away, I'm listening to music (Ed's off playing volley ball). I want to get a snack but I cannot get up. Isis has his face firmly pressed against my thigh and it surely would be heartless to nudge him to the side. When they say that pets keep you young and chirpy, they're referring to moments like this: the snuggled animal who loves the comfort of just being next to you. (They don't mean the times when said animal wakes you, or fouls your carpet or shares your bed -- those would be the prices you pay for the moment of that face against your leg.)

Otherwise, DAY TWO threatened to be almost worse than DAY ONE. I thought I had time after work to pop into the Genius Bar at Apple Store (the promise of prompt and courteous repairs is a big selling point behind Apple products), so as to inspect a possible squashy key on my MacBook computer. I'm leaving Sunday and I don't want issues when I am away. The Genius Bar is almost always the model of good sales work. I have this image that nothing can fail there, nothing can't be fixed. The name (Genius) implies as much.

Unfortunately the lad who took my computer for inspection actually broke it (or at least the return key). So a non-problem turned into a problem and one that may or may not be fixed by my departure time. And it took him one hour to fess up to this. As I rode back home on Rosie in the fading daylight I tried hard to remember the good breathing exercises that yoga teaches are so vital to your well being.

It helped that my ride was, in part, by the water's edge. At dusk, the ribbons of color are splendid.





At home, Ed is sweetly sympathetic, though he does rightly point out that these things happen and that obviously the lad had not intended to break the computer. So I felt less disappointed with the Genius Bar, even as I have a slightly dysfunctional computer and another trip to the Apple Store in a few days, at which time I will have to relinquish my laptop for overnight repairs. Considering that most of my laptop work happens between the hours of 9 and midnight and then, on sleepless nights, between 4 and 6 in the morning, it is going to be, I think, difficult to make up for this period of abstinence.

On the upside, there is the weather -- or, what I saw of it. In the morning, we had cloudless skies and the same fields that yesterday looked like someone had poured dirty water over them, today looked… vibrant (in a brown sort of way)!





And here's another chipper note: when the day gets to be a tad over the top, there's always a pot of soup to be made when you get home. There's a reason why we bagged all those tomatoes this summer and stuck them in the freezer. They were for nights like this, where nothing, nothing is as satisfying as a warm bowl of home made chunky tomato soup.





But what really made this day quite fine, despite the tribulations, was actually, in the scheme of things, a  small thing -- lasting seconds, really -- and it happened in the morning: as I am rushing, rushing so fiercely to get to work on time, I realize that the poor overused Rosie is out of gas.  I let out a mournful groan and Ed dutifully, kindly dashes out to pour in some to get me going. I point my camera at him, thinking that this may well be the only shot I'll have for the day and he, the man who really shies away from my camera lens, stretches out his arms to make it worth my while.





You gotta love a day when someone is so keen on giving you a boost in it.

day one

Here we go: I offer you a set of five days when the most trivial detail will have to take center stage (they are my last five days of the semester and they are bound to be almost completely overwhelmed by work).

DAY ONE (Today)

We wake up to warm fog. Not even pictorially pleasing fog. Gray, wet, dark fog.

 


The kind you know won't lift on its own, not today, not ever (you get that touch of resignation on days like this). The kind where you have to keep the lights on all day.






I do have a self-indulgent yoga hour early in the morning (my yoga buddy kept me on schedule with that one -- I may have stayed home without the gentle push). After -- breakfast. At the kitchen table. The honey tones come from, well, the honey. And an overhead lamp.





And then? The only, THE ONLY other pause for me was a late walk to the new orchard. Ed had designed yet a new protective cover for the young fruit trees and he was anxious to show it off. It was a beautiful set of minutes. I can design dinners,  courses to teach, I can design trips, I can even, sort of, design book projects. But Ed's designs are always ideas in the making and he improves and perfects them with a patience of a sculptor who chisels for years on hard stone to get the shape just as he or she imagines it on that day, only to be changed the next.






The wind picks up a bit and the clouds seem less dense, less soggy. I can't believe we are in the third day of December.

But I can't pause for long. These are days where I need to clean up the ship -- finalize the courses, respond to infinite student questions, set up another infinite number of office visits, write exams -- so I return to all that and DAY ONE ends with a simple meal of eggs and spinach and a salad. About as throw together as it gets around here. Let's see if DAY TWO will offer something more delectable.

Sunday

Last night, when Ed, having fallen asleep downstairs finally roused himself, so that he could walk upstairs and (eventually) fall asleep in a bed, as opposed to the floor, I asked -- where is Isis?
Probably snoring on the couch.
Okay with me. Sometimes the cat does not follow us when we move around the farmhouse.

And I have to say, every minute without Isis in bed is luxurious from my perspective.

The wake up is leisurely too.  Isis never made it upstairs. Ah, delicious! No cat to watch out for (we have kicked him off the bed accidentally more than once). But after a while, I have to worry. What's the matter with him? Is he hiding? Did he pee in the hall closet again? (He's done that twice in the last month -- we're not quite sure why.) So I go searching.

Ed, there's no cat downstairs.
You're just not seeing him… I stare at the man whose vision is far worse than mine. I know how to look for a cat. He's not there.
And then I hear it -- a faint meowing. I follow the sound downstairs and out to the mudroom (the unheated, closed off space that separates the entrance from the main house). Oh oh, sorry Isis. Who left you here?

Most likely Ed went out, the cat followed, Ed came back in, the cat lagged, the door closed. Ah well. Better than the time we locked him accidentally in the garage shed overnight.


Harder to explain is the following: Ed asks -- where did you find it?
Find what?
You know, the deer antler. Almost a match to the one I found last winter.
I didn't find any antler.
It's by Rosie. On the garage floor. I picked it up and put it on the shelf, next to the other one.
I did not find an antler, I did not bring an antler into the garage shed...
The mystery of the antler. We'll probably never know why a deer would come in and drop an antler right there, next to Rosie. Might it have been an early Santa visit?



The day is beautiful.


 


A rare December warmth slips into the region and it's staying with us -- all the way through Tuesday. But today is the only day where I can turn my back on everything else and go outside to help Ed with the honeysuckle. He saws, digs, heaves. I drag.





And so we work. Until the sun moves from the left to the right and I cannot haul another limb. We've not cleared it all yet, but we've made great progress. We'll catch up with it someday. Not this year, but surely in the next or the one after. (You can see Ed, lost in the dense clumps of honeysuckle branches. When we're done with this project, you'll only see tall trees, standing proud. The thicket will be cleared.)







Late afternoon: I have school work to do, even as Ed stays outdoors. If you haven't the demands of a schedule, you can do this -- follow your own prompt. Right now, he's listening to the sound of the woodpeckers.







And now it is dark and it is supper time and because it's Sunday, I can cook for my older girl.





It's the last fairly normal weekend of the year. I love normal. But I also love pleasurable disruptions and we have plenty of those in the month ahead. A change of pace is good. So that you can enjoy, after all is settled again, a return to the ordinary. 

and now begins December

Ed calls me from the sheep shed. We do that -- he'll be working on some project or other there and I will be at the farmhouse and we'll call each other with some trivial observation. Though perhaps not so trivial this time. He tells me -- you know, the door looks kind of nice.





He's referring to the string of lights I had him put up (with his height, he need only stretch his hand just a little and push the string over the frame). For a non-holiday guy, Ed is awfully agreeable when the spirit strikes me. Today, the spirit kept striking. Like when I decided to work on holiday notes.





And, in a repeat of last year, when I moved my now somewhat puffy (rather than svelte and erect) Norfolk Island Pine so that it can stand in for a Christmas tree.





Here it is, all lit up and, this year, it's sporting one decoration -- my daughters will recognize it as one of my all time favorites from the family set:





Oh, you see something else underneath, on the crate? Yes, there is a Santa and Mrs Claus. These guys were ornaments purchased when I (finally) embarked on adulthood. Year: 1976. (I was 23. You might say that I became an adult very quickly in some respects and less so in others.)





So, the farmhouse recognizes the season! Between the bells, the lights and the "tree" with its small trimmings… oh, too, there is a tiny poinsettia. Right behind Ed, who has just sat through a hair trim. Poor man. It takes me a while to work around all those curls.





I can't help the shirt. Ed's favorites can never be thrown out.

tree

You, Ocean readers,  are all correct, of course: my supreme, heart palpitating work demands will taper off soon. There will be then a taxing, but dull period of exam reading, mixed in with a holiday lull, and a slow refocus on the next semester toward the end of January, when it will start again. But with the end of classes (soon!) everything becomes more flexible, more fluid. Work never completely disappears, but there will be travel There will be yoga again, I hope. And great family times, and times with Ed and Isis. Okay, maybe I don't need to reconnect with Isis. Isis is quite good at inserting himself into the scene even in these more busy times.





But enough about work. Let me tell you about non work moments today. In the morning, after breakfast...





...I went with my girl to the Stock Pavilion -- a place on campus where the Forestry Department holds its annual tree selling event. My daughter picked out a nice, hefty balsam fir. A forestry dude showed it off for us...





The red donkey car was there to carry the tree to her home.





We're in the middle of a warming trend -- this puts everyone in a good mood, gray skies notwithstanding. And there's music in the air. (Yesterday I passed a construction site where a high-rise (for Madison at least) was going up and I heard holiday music coming out from the insides, so that the whole skeletal structure virtually shook with the melodies of the season.)

Music, light, color. All that you crave in these dark days of early winter. (Note, please, the jingle on the  farmhouse door:)






In the evening I help the lovely young couple (you know, the newly marrieds...)





...decorate the big balsam fir.

There aren't many who would display the needed patience for it -- all those ornaments! the lights! the tinsel! -- but my girl carries proudly the banner of reverence for this holiday (I taught her well, you could say...). And so we toddle forth, unwrapping each ornament in turn, placing it with great care on the branches...






It isn't all whistles and cheers. Decorating the tree is not an easy task and it takes a certain amount of nerve to carry it through. For all the years until now, her sister (my younger one) was there to help it along. Not this time. As the younger one could not get away from work demands, we had to be the sole torch bearers. In placing each beautiful (or sometimes not so beautiful, because we have those as well) ornament on the branches of the great big balsam, we thought how perfect it was when we could all work together on this ridiculously complicated project. But, new circumstances place new demands on our time (and they'll do that again and again) and so this year, I'm the only helper and my older one (and her husband) persevere and in the end, we pull it off: the tree is beautiful...





The spirits are bright, December and the holidays are upon us.

Thursday

There wasn't even a pretense of lightheartedness. I knew today would be tough and it was and by the time Rosie and I hit the rode home, it was too dark to even think about taking out the camera. 

The days are intensifying. The end of the semester is always like this, but as I get older, I notice it much more. As in, what the hell is happening here?? Where have all the hours gone? How can I slow down??

Tonight, you could see that Ed felt sorry for me because he pressed for a dinner out, but then we used my gift card to pay for the meal at our local Italian place and so I told him that this didn't count. Count for what? Oh, for the tally of magnanimous gestures that each claims s/he makes for the other. At this point, I'd say we're pretty even.

At home, sweet Isis comes within five minutes of our return which is pretty darn lazy on his part (he is usually here within 30 seconds). The cat knows. We are here. He can come and go and we will be here to let him in when he is ready. He has it reversed: indoors when he needs a comfy toilet situation (terrific litter!). Then outside -- to inspect briefly the comings and goings of all living things. Then inside again, usually to nap.

To nap... Sounds so pleasurable.

Tired. Damn tired. Tomorrow will be better.

Pictures? Just of the farmhouse. When I was leaving, early this morning.

long day's journey

This morning, as I was scrambling to attend to the last detail -- the printing of lecture notes -- I said, not too quietly, I am so, so late! Ed noted that I have said the exact same words every day this week (and in weeks prior). And I retorted, as I usually do -- well, you don't have to ever worry about being late, but I do! It's not entirely accurate, but it has great impact value, I think.

We did have our breakfast, but that, too, was late. So we took it to the front (enclosed) porch, rather than staying in our usual breakfast nook.





It was a beastly cold morning, but I could not, would not see myself for the second day in a row in the car, so I revved up Rosie and away we flew. (But it was cold!)


After classes, there were meetings and after meetings there was the email -- you have to appreciate how computers have changed our lives: they make sure that our work day never ends. Ever.

I had an errand to do on State Street and so my photos for today will be from the quick run down the street that links our campus with the capitol.





...just before the sun set and the day turned dark and cold.






(The dark and cold part set in on the Rosie ride home.)





Reheated dinner, reheated evening, waves of warm air inside the farmhouse, moments of peace before the pace picks up again tomorrow.

about Christmas

I was thinking today about the American Christmas. I was first exposed to it as a seven year old, when I landed on the shores of America. This, after living in a country that certainly had Christmas on the ground and even Christmas in the air (contrary to what westerners think, we had the trees, the Santa, the music, the holiday foods even in the 1950s, when I was a kid), but it wasn't quite like Christmas in America. People in the States use the term "commercial," often in a derogatory way. Too commercial. Too over the top. Insane. It's all about buying. That's a funny accusation since we now watch the economics of it all and we cross our fingers that there will have been enough buying on Black Friday or Cyber Monday to push us nearer to a recovery.

But this isn't what lead me onto this path of Christmas thought. Instead, as I glanced at the TV listings (for those of us who have just the basics, meaning no cable), I noticed a handful of holiday offerings and I thought -- hmmm. Despite the season, there is no sign of Christmas at the farmhouse.

Which is curious, since as a kid, I was perhaps more than my mother, father, sister, grandma, grandpa -- the one who loved Christmas most. The little atheist kid who could not get enough of Christmas. And when my family moved for a handful of years to the States, I loved it even more: I firmly believed that Americans did Christmas well! Yes, yes, commercial and with puffy Santas and a whole bunch of Christmas specials on TV -- perhaps not having a whole lot of connection to the original Christmas story, but with the spirit and passion of a nation who never did anything tamely.

And when I had my own family, I put on the music early -- a terrific combination of John Rutter, acquired very early on, when my kids were just babes, comingled with the Muppets, and Williams Sonoma Jazz CDs that you could purchase right there as you were paying for the stocking stuffers.

In those days, I had so little time to fully engage the holidays -- go ahead, you try to be spirited when your kids are tots and you're still going to law school and taking finals up until the day just before Christmas Eve.

But there was the music and the tree and the chocolate covered gingerbread from Clasens and and and there were the young child's Christmas books that we bought each year from Border's bookstore.

December rocked with Christmas!

So it's curious that the farmhouse is 'Christmas light.'

Maybe I needed a break. Maybe I found holidays to be too hard.

Or maybe it's that I hang out with a New York Jew who never really understood or liked holidays -- at least not after he turned twelve. 

I'm rethinking my position. This year once more I will not put up a tree. I'll join my daughters in their celebrations. But in future years maybe I should moderate my approach. Maybe a small tree? With music playing as I put up a decoration or two? Maybe?



In other news, it was a tough day with all those details that make it impossible to tread lightly through the hours. Wake up early, eat breakfast, in the east room, by the exploding Christmas cactus (it puts on quite the show each year, but it doesn't always get the Christmas dates right).





Then work.

At dusk, I stop briefly at Paul's cafe and then Ed and I continue home. By the light of the full Beaver Moon (well, one day short, but who can tell)…





I cook up our farmhouse tomatoes and made a bisque out of them and then, as Ed goes out to play his game of volley ball, I turn on the Christmas specials on TV. 

Monday

Ed will say again and again that the more items you have to care for, the less free you are. This year he has the evidence for it: as he moves from fixing one car to the next, to the tractor, to the snow blower, to the chain saw, to the water heater, and so on, he does it without complaint, but I can just see the resolve sink in not to acquire a single other item. Every item has a life span of ten years, he'll tell me. We move from fixing one thing to the next, to the next...
I protest a little: Most people, unlike you, will pay someone to fix these things for them! But it's a poor argument this week when he has seen me spend hours trying to get someone to fix (under warranty!) a malfunctioning camera for me. Hiring someone to do the job doesn't necessarily mean that your burden is lifted.


So it doesn't feel that great to spend a second day now clicking away my credit card information at various websites. But, at least most of this is in pursuit of gifts for others. I'm burdening them, not us with stuff. Hopefully, most of it is indestructible. At least not readily so.

But I need a yoga class today and I am glad to have a Peaceful Flow one available early in the morning. I almost left you with photos of bleak landscapes, nothing more, but on one of my afternoon errand runs, I came across a family of cranes and pulling over to watch them stomp through the fields definitely counts as a highlight.





Later, Ed and Isis amused me with their games...





And still later, as we were returning from a quick run to Paul's and to the library, we caught against our backs the red beauty of the setting sun.






The temperatures are falling dramatically tonight. I'm not worried. The farmhouse is very very snug. Always. And that's a good thing.

turtle pace

I surely cannot be proud of this day. It fizzled and died on me early and any great idea that I or we had for it was lost in the disappearing hours.

It has been a long and hard semester, but I've had those before and so I can't entirely blame my lethargy on that. Nor on the holidays -- they've been over and done with for three days now. You do not need three days to recover from preparing a meal.

There are the small frustrations -- I could kick those around a bit. Ed has had a stream of brakes to replace -- on his car, on mine, on the truck. During the last weeks he has spent a good part of each day underneath cars, prying apart rusty bits of metal. But why would that have an effect on my level of activity? True,  I've been struggling with my own stream of malfunctions: a broken camera, for example -- which I had sent in to be repaired (under warranty!) and it came back as broken as ever! So there is a bit of frustration there, but hey, days are full of repair troubles.

What's really making me restless is the fact that I read a stack of clippings my mother sent me on a recent book about the political upheaval in postwar Poland. So I've been thinking about that. In the middle of the night, I wake up and want to put down on paper how this all fits into the story (okay, the book) I am writing on the side. You know, the long neglected one -- the one that I have not touched since the semester began.

I'll be in Poland again in just a couple of weeks and of course, this makes me anxious -- as if I ought to now, more than ever, give more thought to how I can use my Warsaw time productively,  even though my time there will be, as always, very short.

So, I wrote all these excuses for a slow day and they aren't especially convincing but there you have it. I didn't leave the house until late in the afternoon and only because I had to -- to supplement groceries for the week ahead. And let me assure you that shopping late on the Sunday after Thanksgiving is especially disheartening, as the shelves are bare and the music, Christmas music, seems hollow and not very convincing.

But, there were Christmas trees for sale outside the store and the smell was lovely.

And, too, even on days when I hardly step outdoors, I need only look up and remind myself that I live beneath the great midwestern sky…

Driving home from the store, I glance out at our lakes. This is part of my world. Amazing.





How could it be this beautiful...





And, to add bounty to the day, my older girl and her husband drop over for Sunday supper. Nothing fancy -- spaghetti all'amatriciana (which has spicy peppers in addition to the usual garlic, olive oil, bit of tomato). Some people would call it comfort food. Okay. But I was comforted significantly before I worked the fork into the plate of noodles.

It was a slow day, but who's to say that a fast paced Sunday is preferable?

city mouse

Normal and different. Most days are like that. You see it, don't you? The normal:





And now for the different: a shopping day.

It's cold outside -- it never moves beyond freezing. And still, I take Rosie out. I want to go downtown and she's a champ for that: no parking issues, none at all. But oh, do I feel the freeze on her windy back! There's a beautiful sky around me and I detour slightly to get a good, satisfying look at it.





But when I turn Rosie around to get back on my route, she slides, glides, tips over and falls. And I fall with her. At 2 mph, it's an inconsequential set of bruises. But it's a reminder: Rosie does not like winter. Much as I love the freedom she brings for me, I really should retire her for the cold spell. And in the meantime, I should watch the turns.

Alright: out of the country, into the city.






It's "small business appreciation day" and I'm plenty happy to be doing what little gift shopping I have down on State Street.





I have the luxury of taking my time on this. If you're crowding someone's home with more stuff, it better be thoughtfully acquired. Today I can be thoughtful.

It's pretty downtown now, in a holidayish sort of way.





Nothing at the farmhouse would tell you that we are at the cusp of the Christmas season. The same cannot be said of downtown.

At a kids' store, I come across a book signing. This throws me back to days when bookstores where a place I'd readily spend any and all my free hours. And when my girls were little, any new book by this author would be near the top of my shopping list:





It's satisfying to see him still drawing a crowd (our local hero: Kevin Henkes).

And it's delightful to see among the shoppers a beloved character from his stories -- the lovely Miss Lilly, with her plastic purple purse.





That wold of children's stories! Of sadnesses, presented so well in just a few words, and of hope- filled endings, of colorful characters, of impossible feats, silly, serious, all in one -- how could you not love that world!


I get back on Rosie, I tell her to stay focused, to go easy. We head home.


At the farmhouse, we have a pleasant, if slow evening. Not much crossed off any master list. We make a trip to the public library, I prepare leftovers for supper.

It's a good ending to a superbly wonderful holiday period. As one commenter noted -- I have two weeks of intense work ahead. A deep breath and a look to the weeks after, when I can exhale again.