a little off...

Third misfire, in terms of a fitful sleep. I can no longer recall why. There were no violent storms, no discussions on economics. Even Isie was his more charming self, preferring to spend the morning hours downstairs. (It helped that the window was closed and so he didn't hear Oreo sound off.) Somehow we all moved at times and in ways that disturbed sleep for the other. It happens.

And so, as I get up to let the cheepers out, I feel a drag to my pace. I go with the greatest reluctance and only my desire to let Ed sleep pushes me out without a grumble (he's been working too hard on his machining project every night this week). And when I step out, I think -- why so muggy still? Aren't we supposed to cool down already?

The storm clouds are almost gone, but their exit does nothing for the humidity.






After breakfast...






... as Ed and I proceed to go our separate ways to do our usual Friday stuff, Ed calls me from the garage where he keeps his motorbike.  
Look here... he says, pointing to the wheelbarrow where we throw weeds for the compost pile.






 Oh my goodness! One of the white hens is laying outside the roost! What is she thinking?? It's the first time I've caught them dropping an egg elsewhere, though of course, there may be hidden eggs that I don't know of.  Between this and Scotch's irregular laying issues, I'm wondering -- is it time to lay sprigs of lavender again in their nesting boxes? (My lavender is having a robust second bloom  right now.)






I do my usual grocery run for the week. I am a tad more tired, true, but I enjoy stocking up on food. It's exciting (for me) to think about the meals I'll be preparing. I'm one of those few who thinks a walk through the produce section of a grocery store is something to look forward to.

Still, the expedition has its off moment: I had a credit slip and as I hand it to the store clerk and he tries to plug it in for the discount, it doesn't work. Off I go to customer service. It doesn't work there either.
But you owe me $11 from a return of a stale product! 
It tells us you used it already. 
But I didn't use it! I just got it last week! And so on.
Forty-five minutes later, to profuse apologies, the matter is resolved. I am happy I don't have ice cream in my cart.

As I pull up to my final store stop,  I pass a man selling StreetWise (a newspaper by and for the homeless). My daughter's never faltering work on behalf of the homeless has taught me to never pass StreetWise people without throwing something into the donation box.
In a polite and appreciative moment, the guy asks me -- are you having a good day?
I say -- it's just a little off.
He frowns, obviously not used hearing a somewhat qualified response (you say no, you say yes -- but it's not the norm to aim for accuracy). Well I hope it improves...
No, really, it's not that bad, not bad at all!

I feel foolish. Because in fact, on balance, I think it's a wonderful, happy, delightful day. With just these slightly off details that add texture!


In the late afternoon, Ed and I go to our local cinema which, finally, today, begins showing Woody Allen's Magic in the Moonlight. I've long since given up on expecting a delicious satisfaction from seeing his new films, but I am always excited when one comes out and have a sense of great familiarity and continuity when I do go and see it. My adult life, which trails his adult life by eighteen years, has been marked by my watching his films (and I've seen more of his films than any other movie director's work) and somehow, like a day that may be a little off, his movies, too, can be a little off and yet on balance, they'll leave me happy.

We go to the first show: 3:50. We are the only ones in the entire theater. 

When we leave, the weather has cooled considerably. I wipe rain drops off the seat of Ed's motorbike, and a vestige of a tear from my face. How can I possibly explain how much I adored this film? You'd think that the whole experience of watching it in an empty theater would be especially offputting. How can you possibly laugh alone?

Oh, but I did laugh! Toward the end, I laughed at things that surely anyone would not find terrifically funny. Critics said: For all its visual delights, Magic in the Moonlight, the 44th feature written and directed by the admirably industrious Woody Allen, has to be one of his bigger duds (Philadelphia Inquirer). And: Can we all stop making excuses for Woody Allen now (Slate)? Well yes, but movie viewing is a personal thing. I surely understand why this film splits critics exactly down the middle. Me, I listen to the dialogue and I think -- this is a conversation with Ed! And I laugh very loudly and Ed looks at me and grins and says -- I'm glad you're having such a good time.


I huddle behind him on the motorbike as we ride home. It's really cool now. Even as at the farmette,  a few of the daylilies -- those quintessentially warm weather flowers -- have sprung small blooms. A little off schedule, a little out of the ordinary, a little beautiful.

Thursday

Let me begin with the absurd and disturbing coincidences that we've been dealing with here at the farmette.

First, there is the matter of Isis. It is deeply troubling to us that our cat quite suddenly has to share his name with one of the most horrific terror groups in the history of humankind. How could it be?? Ed named his pet something quite innocent and beautiful in a quirky sort of way and suddenly boom! The name calls forth tragedy and horror.  Lucky break for us -- at home, we nearly always call him Isie. Henceforth, on the blog, he shall appear with his nickname. Isie, consider yourself renamed for the purposes of Ocean.

The second disturbance again has to do with sleep. Ed came upstairs rather late last night and, as always, I slightly woke up when I heard him coming. And then I had a question for him about how the stock market functions. You wont believe it, but it has been bugging me that, being a product of a "communist" society, I did not understand many aspects of how some people become rich and Ed is a walking encyclopedia of esoteric information. By the time he explained things to me it was almost morning. Still, I would have gotten a fair amount of sleep, had it not been for the storms. Crashing, violent, torrential -- these are the words that well describe the remaining hours of the night.

At 6, I was, of course, wide awake because of the storms. Isie (I know, we all have to get used to seeing it in print) had no interest in going out and Ed was fast asleep. Having bothered him with a question about capitalism for a substantial portion of the night hours, I now thought it would be cruel to throw him out to free the cheepers, so I went out myself and then, of course, could not return to that deep sleep that should have/could have been mine, but for the weather, my economic curiosity and the cheepers. In that order.

Enough grumbling? Oh, just a little more. The forecast said -- hot and muggy. The last of such summer days. I am okay with that, but I was a little put off by the fact that this seems to be nirvana for mosquitoes, so that even though I tried to do some garden trimming, they won and I retreated.

On the up side? Oh, so much!

Breakfast!






Too, I finally was satisfied with my query letter (asking for a consideration of my manuscript) to the first handful of agents, so out it went! And I got two immediate (automated) responses, to the effect that "if you don't hear from us soon, we don't want you." At least in the past, there was a pause between when you sent things out and when you got your first dismissive comment. Now it's instant whatever is the opposite of gratification.

But in any case, on the upside, the query letter went out.

And, too, the weather toyed with our sensibilities. It was sunny. It was stormy. It was windy. It was muggy. It was pleasant. We had it all! Here's "stormy:"





And here's "pleasant:"





Finally, as it's Thursday, we went to our local farmers market and I'll just note a couple of things: our French bread baker was not back from vacation. Perhaps that's to be expected.  It's only been three weeks. Our cheese person was there and ready to do an egg and cheese swap (our eggs for his cheese). And veggies were at their September best.





After, Ed and I played tennis. Wonderful, joyous, delightful, cost-free tennis.

Clearly the upside has it. By a landslide.

Wednesday

It has been a long time since I stayed up until 3 a.m. messing with travel plans and emailing people who live several time zones ahead of me. Please imagine what kind of a mood I was in when then, at 6, I stumbled out to let the cheepers out. (Hint: rhymes with weepy.)

Ed, too, had been up late, but he is (lucky him) quite capable of sleeping through the whole saga of sun rising, rooster crowing, cat meowing.  Me, I'm wide awake now, so I may as well be the one up.



(fields to the north, just before sunrise)


But as I make my way to the fenced in coop, I hear the familiar noises of Scotch, our most vocal hen. She comes toward me, a touch groggy but otherwise with all feathers in tact.
What are you doing outside the coop and on this side of the fence?!? I ask her, but she just does her cackling noises and follows me to where the rest of the cheepers are clamoring to get out. I unlatch the door, they go out, she goes in and catches up on eating.

So what happened here? Why did she spend the night outside?

Ed?

In fact, it's easy to have missed her. She has always put herself to sleep in the coop. Always. The other hens doze off on the fence and each night, Ed gently picks them up and places them within, but Scotch is a self-help girl and no one ever bothers to check on her, because she's the kid who always knows the rules. She doesn't need a lift and carry. She puts herself inside.



Scotch (and Butter) on the run


But not last night. And not henceforth. Ed finds her tonight, up with the white hens, snuggled against them. How sad she must have been yesterday, to see the other two carried away while she was left behind! Lucky -- that's what she was. No one had her for dinner. She survived. Lucky.

In other news?

Well, after breakfast...





... Ed picks tomatoes -- which had been fun to imagine and anticipate when we were planting the seeds in March, and still exciting when we watched them sprout in April, and exhilarating when we put the tiny plants in the soil in June, but now, in September, you just want them all to be done already. It doesn't help that we've shared some with bugs and beasts, so you have to pick very carefully. Every two days or so, until the first frost.






The corn we planted is at its final stage. Pick now, or give it up. The cucumbers, too, are wrapping it up. Beans are done, peas too. Only the watermelons are straggling. They are just now about the size of eggplant. It was not a good idea to plant watermelon seeds into the ground in July.

So this is the end of the growing season for us. And it feels right to finally let go.






Tonight, Ed comes back late after one of the final evening bike rides of the season. So late that we're all on the brink of sleep. And still,  I take out a wooden board, throw some cheeses on it and we munch. All three of us. (Isis likes strong cheeses.) It is such a good way to end a very long day!

no school

Since I was three (meaning, for the past 58 years), there was only one year in which I was not a school girl, or teaching at an academic institution. (It was the year after I graduated from law school.) All other Septembers, for me, have triggered first day of school thoughts and preparations. I lived my life by the academic calendar! Until I switched to online datebooks, each year I bought one that began with September. This is the way I think of a fresh start. It starts now, today, with the first day of school.

So you would think it would be immensely hard to transition to a time when the beginning of school holds no meaning. That, after 58 years, I'd be so rooted in a fresh start in September mentality, that I would lose my grip on life with the elimination of the academic calendar.

Not so!

I had no trouble readjusting to a new perspective.

I was not amused, however, that Isis chose this day to get me up even earlier than a school-targeted alarm clock.
Isis, what is the matter with you??

It was the earliest cheeper wake up ever.






Barely a glow on the horizon.





Dismal, dark, buggy time of day. Makes you feel like some animal will lunge at you from behind the bushes. For company, I have four crazy cheepers and an antsy cat, who cannot sleep when a rooster crows (Oreo starts his song significantly before dawn -- I'm guessing that this is the reason Isis wakes up).


Ah well... All other roads point to a splendid day! Seventies! Cool! Sunny! The kind of day you wished for yourself when it was your first day of school.

Breakfast on the porch. For a change, Ed takes the photo -- of me bringing the usual tray out for us.






We have errands to do, but we do them together and there is never a better time to ride in the back of a motorcycle than on a day like this. We pass our neighboring truck farmer and I pause to pick up a bundle of Chinese lanters from her.





And of course, I work on various aspects of my writing project. And tennis! Yes, we do that, too.

I'm still convinced that this freedom to read and write is too luxurious. Decadent. Irreverent. That pensions will be cut, that unforeseen circumstances will place me in the employment circles again. That I'll have to write not essays or memoirs or novels, but jingles for commercials, or Hallmark greeting cards. I send this card to you, my dear, to wish you all the best next year.  Scary thoughts. Push them aside. Focus on the day before me -- a beautiful breezy day of yellow sunflowers and orange Chinese lanterns.





And I hope a wonderful day for all those who, in one way or another, did start school today.

title

Anyone reading Ocean over a longer spell would confirm that I am not great at coming up with  names or titles. I don't want the words on top to set limits on how someone may read what's below. And so in the title space for a post, I often find myself merely putting in the name of the day. You can't screw up too much with "Sunday" or "Wednesday!"

And so it probably comes as no surprise that my writing project has not had a title associated with it since its inception nearly a decade ago. I call my file Book Notes. I tell myself I'll think of a title later.

Well I'm at "later!" As I struggle to write the perfect pitch letter (and no, I cannot, CANNOT say it in less than 500 words), I know I need a title.

I ask Ed for help.

Mistake.

I throw out one title after the next to lukewarm or even downright cold responses.
Not too catchy, is it... he'll mumble, somewhat afraid of hurting my feelings or giving bad advice.
When I think I struck perfections he'll remind me -- google it. Someone surely has used that before.

Thanks Ed.

So this is my day: after rising way too early to free the cheepers...






...after a Monday breakfast that feels more like a Sunday breakfast because I know my girl and her husband will be over for supper...






...after picking out a few weeds and cleaning the coop and generally pacing up and down the farmette in a ridiculous way all day long...






...and after writing the first (then second then third then fourth) draft of a pitch letter, I come up with a title.

No, of course I wont share it just yet. That comes later. But just so you know, it was a very painful process. For a while, I considered merely titling it "Sunday." I mean, Sundays do figure in the text, so it would not have been ridiculous.

Well, yes, it would have been ridiculous, so I did better. I hope.

Two more quick photos: first, dinner on the porch. Because you never know how many of those we'll have left this year. My daughter, solo. Everything else about the photo was so poorly presented, that I cropped it out.






Second, of our wild hens, having a bad hair day. You have to hand it to them -- they don't seem to mind. Life is all about getting the worm and laying an egg. Who cares if the crown tilts a bit to the side.





And there you have it -- the first day of September. Ushering in the beginning of the school year. Though not for me. This year, for the first time, not for me.

flip the page

For the first time in many years, I do not have a manuscript waiting on my computer for a dramatic (or, in my case, not so dramatic) ending. On this last day of August, which, for me, is tantamount to being the last breath of summer, I shift gears and begin thinking about my next writing project. (This last one, of course, will still require work and attention, but I no longer have it suspended in mid sentence on my screen. It remains to be seen as to where, how, when it will be taken up again. You know how these projects go: you thinks you are capable of writing a book, you are encouraged by well meaning friends and, too, your companion who likes to refer to you jokingly as the one-day-famous-author-person and so you write. And then you finish. And then you have to deal with the "now what.")

If I am to fall apart in a post retirement disintegration and discombobulation it would be now, because for once, I really truly have no agenda. (Except to embark on my next writing project, but that one is still morphing. You can't enter a brave new world the same day you exited your comfy and familiar one.)

But I'm not falling apart. Farmette routines today had me plod through in the most predictable way: rising with the cheepers (to a foggy morning)...






...eating breakfast out on the porch with Ed...






...walking through the flower beds, mentally taking notes as to which of the spent flowers have to be cut back and how much and when.






It's a beautiful closure to summer. The sun is out, the air is warm. I imagine people are having countless picnics and barbeques  -- the American rendition of Labor Day weekend. I think the tug-a-war championships are still taking place in Madison and I know the food fair is in full swing downtown.

Here, on the farmette, things are more quiet.





The big event is witnessing Martha the groundhog parade by the great willow this afternoon. The cheepers were napping, but I surely took note. For one thing, Martha has grown awfully large this summer -- she would be hard to miss now.

Ed and I play tennis in the quiet of our secret tennis court. The sun sets, day is done. Summer is effectively over, the new season, for me, begins now.

Saturday

...and the day ran away with the spoon!

It's rare that I sit down to compose my first Ocean words this late, so be patient as I gather my diffuse and sleepy thoughts.

Instead of starting off with a chronological recap: how I slept in, how breakfast was late again...






...how the garden was hanging in there, after very many bursts of rain...



(toward the entrance edge of the porch)





(toward the great willow)





(toward the side where we eat our meals)


...I'll stick with noting just two small events from this day.

First, the trip to the farmers market.

Ed hasn't tagged along to the great downtown farmers market this year at all.
You go and bond with your daughter, he'll say each Saturday, which is really another way of saying -- no, I don't feel like it.

But today he agreed to go. My daughter is away for the day and I told him I had just a short list of produce to pick up.

On our way there, we paused at my daughter's, just to peek in on her cats. Two out of the three were delighted to see us. The third hid underneath the couch.



(Virgil and Ed, at play, with a feather toy)




(Virgil at rest)





(Goldie, the old timer and Virgil the newcomer; Goldie surely is wondering why anyone would waste energy jumping after a set of feathers on a string)


Okay, that was nice. But the market? It wasn't the usual joyous affair. Madison's food festival (Taste of Madison) was encroaching onto the square, the same square where the vendors sell their produce and so the whole downtown area was in chaos.  In the end, Ed waited in the car to the side, while I dashed out to pick up the essentials.



(I know what they're thinking: why do so many people not like eggplant??)


Not the kind of market experience you like to have. Still, we got terrific corn, mushrooms, cheddar-cauliflower and salad greens, so I was only modestly disappointed.


The second event? Oh, that's a repeat of something that we both think of as uniquely our own: in the late afternoon, we go to our favorite secret tennis court to play.

If anything speaks to the joy of these days it's that game of tennis that we go back to more often than I even mention here. It's very quiet there and the smell of pine trees is intense. The game is bouncy and perky and it goes by rules that we've made up, though we've never felt compelled to say them out loud. There is always laughter. More than in any other setting, here, on the tennis court, I laugh loudly  -- at my misplays, at his stumbles. It is our language here. The game (which we began very early in our time together) has forever been a joyous event and on days where some worry or fret is so intense that we can't let go of it there, on the court, we end quickly and go home. But not today. Today, we played!

Friday

For me, the acronym for this day should be TBI Friday -- Too Bad It's Friday. The world awaits the weekend. Of course it does. Leisure is such a limited commodity in this country. The weekend provides respite to an overworked nation.

Me, I pack this day with so many chores that I can barely keep my focus. It's as if I'm on the work treadmill again. And today I've squeezed in additional little humdingers.  For example, I want to get my phone checked out. I no longer count steps with it, but I hate knowing that should I be so inclined, it's likely to overheat and burn itself right out of my anxious little fist.

Unfortunately, appointments for a phone check at our local Apple store begin at noon. Noon? Is that before grocery shopping noon, or after grocery shopping? Let's try for the latter. That means I have to run back and forth between the farmette and downtown Madison not once but twice today. Enough to make me dizzy.

But that's all the grumbling you'll get out of me today, because otherwise, the day is warm and lovely.

Not at sunrise. It's iffy then. Ed is sleeping soundly and so I hop out to free the cheepers and in the process, I scare some two or three dozen wild turkeys. I'm not sure wild turkeys would harm cheepers, but I do know they're scared of me. The minute they hear my footstep, they scamper and fly in every direction, as if fearing the Thanksgiving ax already.

The morning is misty and humid and I spend almost no time strolling through the yard.






(Though I do notice that the cosmos are carrying a good portion of it -- a sure sign of the last days of August, when everything else seems slightly bedraggled and worn.)






But after eating breakfast...


 


...and after all the chores are done, I do take a look around.

Sigh... It's as if someone pushed a button and the Fall stage set rolled into place. Sure, it's still toasty warm, but there is no question now -- it feels like we have moved into the next season. You can see it in the light. Suspended, to the side now. As if saying -- I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but it's time for me to move on.





I don't have good photos for you. That would require stepping out a little more and I am done with that for the day. The sun retreats and so do I. The breeze is light, inconsequential, the air is still. Take a deep breath. Summer is nearly over.

Thursday

Well now, this day surely belongs to my writing project. I know of a blogger-author-type-person who always mentions in her blog how many words she had written that day and I've never known if her numbers are unusual or superb, but today as I struggled to finish the editing of what I have so far, I did the conversion of words to book and came up with the internet figure of 320. Were I to end the text today, I would, it appears, have 320 book pages. And that's without an index!

I am not finished. But I see the light at the end of this and I will soon have to make up my mind as to what the next step should be. To say nothing of what the next writing project should be! It is thrilling to think that I may in fact live long enough to see another writing project. For a while I did conclude I would never reach the end of this one.

[My list of possible book type people (agents) is very short. Like two names. And I don't even know if they're still alive at this point -- I wrote their names down some eight years ago! If you have ideas as to who may be helpful in bringing this project to its end, do send me an email!]

Of course, the day had the usual in it. The late start. The garden walk.






The breakfast.






And, too, it had a bike ride, because my daughter and her husband are gone for the day and I promised I'd check in on their cats. No photos of kitties for you, but I'll give you one of the prairie fields on the way to their place...






And a photo of the scene I encountered on my way there: it was the international rope pulling competition. Right here, in Madison! Who knew (that there was such an event)?!



in this event, Switzerland (in blue) beat Holland


And in the evening, I cajole Ed into taking me out to dinner. I even put on a skirt for the occasion! True, it's an old skirt, on an elastic band that is so frayed that I feel skinny in it because the waistband droops. But still, a skirt. (I ask Ed from the other room -- did you even notice what I'm wearing? He answers -- of course! What is it ? Blue! Okay, that's not exactly an answer, but let's go with it -- on the top or on the bottom? Top!  Hmmm... he got some of it right.)

We go to our standby favorite -- Brasserie V, where we can sit at the bar and stuff ourselves with mussels and fries and walk away happy.





Happy. Can you find reason to be happy tonight? Oh, I hope so!

contemplative

Do most people have strong opinions as to what is the right way to proceed? Or, like me, do they merely try to squeeze by and find a way to hang on, without feeling especially convinced that their course is the preferable one, more favorable than most others?

As I continue work on my writing project, I sometimes step back and wonder how a reader would react to different events described therein. Whether he or she would feel that they would have done things differently. Whether opinions would form as to which course of action is the better one.  For me, there are obvious terribly wrong directions and terribly right ones too, but it seems that most behaviors fall toward neither extreme. They are what they are. People squeezing by, finding a way to make it to the end of the day without completely falling apart in despair. And if in the course of that run they find themselves smiling, well, good for them! In my mind, one mark of a good day is when you look back and find that you have had quite a number of opportunities for a wide grin. The sun was out and you didn't completely mess up. How wonderful is that!


Today, it was easy to smile. Sure, when the rooster crowed, Ed fidgeted slightly and then mumbled something that sounded like "sleep." So I let him rest. But rising with the cheepers isn't necessarily a bad thing. Even if the sunrise is a little muted by a band of clouds on the horizon.







(oreo, waiting for the sun to rise)


Then there is breakfast - so obviously porch material, since we are having another one of those spectacularly beautiful days (last one for a while, so let's really crank it up and enjoy it!).



(his grin is a tiny bit fake so that I'd put away the camera already)


There are, today, periods of writing and there are garden walks...



(toward the porch)





(toward the sheep shed)


...and Ed and I take many soothing breaks on the porch -- to munch on pickles, to sip a cup of coffee, to do a little clothes mending. All very peaceful. Very much in line with the quiet around us. (Perhaps I overstate the quiet: we do live along a rural road that gets its share of car traffic as it leads to a county park and a lake -- a favorite destination for boat people in the summer. But life at the farmette is removed from the road. All important activities fly off the internal courtyard. We try hard to concentrate our senses toward that space and for the most part, the effort pays off.)

In the evening, Ed bikes his Wednesday night bike loop and I'm home making chili, just to use up the rest of the old tomatoes. And as I stir all those beans, spices and tomatoes, I go back to thinking about how difficult it is to make choices when, in most instances, there isn't an obviously correct path, just many different ones, with many different outcomes and consequences.