patterns

What do you do when your partner's range of operations diminishes over time? When the idea of heading out (or even heading downstairs) seems less pleasurable than, say, staying under a quilt with mountains of material to read on the internet?

I've said plenty here, on Ocean, on the topic of Ed's desire to stay closer to home -- to not travel across the ocean, to forgo trips even across the continent. I've stood up in favor of traveling alone when your partner digs his heels into his (or her) familiar home turf. I've said it time and again -- solo travel is cool! It allows you to open your eyes wider to people and places you encounter. It buys you freedom. It's cozy, it's comforting, it's adventurous.

But what if that range (your partner's range) keeps growing smaller? So that you're recalling months of hikes, expeditions, explorations together -- all in the past tense?

I thought about this after Ed and I finished our Sunday cleaning this morning and I saw that he was ready to crawl back under the quilt and resume his reading. I didn't want to wait for breakfast, so Isie boy and I ate alone.





As Ed came down sheepishly, right when I was finishing my last bite of oatmeal with kefir, honey and fruit, I thought -- maybe it's time to give a little nudge. (If I were to be honest, I'd have to admit that it was more like an impassioned plea.)

And so on this last fine day before the polar vortex begins its slow descent to our neck of the woods, we do not retreat to our various projects. Not today. It becomes, instead, a day we'll spend together and I mean more than being simply in the same room of a farmhouse.

We pick a beautiful segment of of the Ice Age Trail and we hike, pausing not infrequently to explain various parts of our projects and preoccupations to each other.











I don't know that Ed needed that, but I certainly was missing some back and forth.











It's such a perfect place for a probing conversation: a back and forth up there, where the trees are now bare, the grasses golden and the air as crisp as the leaves beneath our feet.






On the way home, we make two stops. At Culver's for the frozen custard...






... and at DB Chocolates (in Madison), where Ed tells me to fill a box. I do.





Most of the times, he and I give each other plenty of room to hunker down, pursue our own projects, stay put in our own bubbles. But sometimes that alone time is just too long. Today, I so appreciated walking in step again.


In other news -- the chicken mama called and left a message: sorry it took so long. I'm coming this afternoon to get Oreo.

I saw Ed's face drop. I watch Oreo trundle along, after the white hens...





...trying his hardest to keep up. Winter is coming. I'm not out in the yard that much. Oreo is part of the pack. I call the chicken mama back: don't come. We'll keep him until spring.


In the evening, my girl and her husband come over.



(I told her to look pregnant!)


There aren't many of these Sunday dinners left. A number of the weekends between now and her due date will be given over to other activities -- holidays, travels, etc.






You think you've established a pattern and before you know it, the pattern is untenable and you have to start afresh.

Sometimes breaking a pattern is a good thing. Other times you're just so hungry for a new one to fill its place.

free range chickens as a metaphor for a life well lived

I can hear the quiet mumbling among some of you, see the eye roll, the shake of the head: here come those cheepers again! It's like Ed for breakfast: a record replayed over and over again!

You are so right. The brood of hens and the rooster are, to me, like a play, a hit parade -- with hints at something greater, vignettes of a life that proceeds along a different path than, say, yours or mine, but it is a life well lived and I assure you, we profit by watching it unfold before us.

So like the breakfast that sets our day in motion...





...the cheepers, too, have their place in my day.

Fact is, they scale down my expectations for it. Consider this: a throw of seeds and bread bits leaves them in a state of bliss for hours on end.






An ill conceived snack of crushed yam tortilla chips (I know, I know, whose dumb idea was it to buy those?) has Scotch come back to our door and ask -- can we do better here?






They have group think, yes they do!


 



But sometimes they go off on their own explorations (this next photo is yesterday's but I forgot to use it).






They're curious about us, but they're not overpowering in their affection. In other words, if we're not around, they manage. (As, for example, when we go for out game of tennis today.)






There is a give and take, of course. The eggs. (Still laying!) Their pleasant demeanor. Their fine looks.






But they want help with food and shelter. We deliver. In the winter, they're in the big barn.






But they always -- every day, in fact several times each day -- come to the farmhouse, right to our door, reminding us that sometimes a little gift can go a long way...






By dusk, they move closer and closer to their coop. The roaming foursome, respectful of property lines, always moving not too far from each others field of vision...


 


...slowly retreats when the sun is just this close to the horizon.

Their conversation subsides. The white girls find an evening spot where they will linger, often together, dozing off, forgetting that there is a safer place (Ed needs to lift them off the fence each night and place them inside the coop). Scotch finds her favorite place right in the laying box and these days, Oreo climbs up and sits in the upper doorway, so that the white hens have to squeeze past him as they climb up. Chickens don't make a fuss about personal space violations. No one protests when there is a bit of pushing and shoving.

In general, they're all so agreeable. Give them an open field, a safe place for the night and a handful of grains and they ask for nothing more. They are, otherwise the masters of their own well being. They fashion their own castle -- right there in the dirt or underneath a bush or pickup truck. Tell me there is no such thing as a happy chicken and I'll invite you to spend a day around our cheepers. Just so you can see their take on what counts as a good day.

stronger than us

When my sister and I returned to Poland as young teens in 1966, we noted a new movie playing in the local theaters. It was French, by the director Lalouch. The name was A Man and a Woman. I don't know if this was widely distributed in the States, but in Warsaw, it was a hit and she and I saw it many times. Briefly, the story is about a two people, both widowed, who begin to develop a relationship with each other, except that she is burdened by memories of her deceased husband.

The film has beautiful cinematography. You could call it a classic French movie -- Ed would say: nothing happens! In fact, the film is also short on dialogue. The visuals are much more important and Ed would be wrong because a lot does happen, though it's all at the emotional level.

And there's music throughout. Beautiful songs, including the memorable for me L'Amour est Bien Plus Fort Que Nous (love is much stronger than us). When I was thirteen or fourteen, this was a reassuring message: if I act stupidly because I am in love (and I was and I did), it's not my fault! Love is stronger than us!

Why am I thinking about this on a cold November morning in Wisconsin? It's the idea of emotions driving actions.  My Friday morning is full of this stuff: Ed had had a restless night and I just couldn't get myself to nudge him out of bed to release the cheepers. And so for the first time since early September, I get up myself to open the coop. Just as the sun is about to break over the horizon.







Love is much stronger than the fear of a rooster.


In fact, Oreo not only doesn't attack me, but refuses to come out. Somehow, God knows how, he got himself up to the second floor of the coop where the chickens typically sleep (it's warmer with the girls!) and he isn't in a hurry to get down (even as they are).


Back at the farmhouse (beautifully welcoming against a brightening sky)...





...I notice that the two infallible mouse traps that had thus far captured and held EIGHT mice for us over the course of the last week or so are, this morning, empty of peanut butter on crackers. Meaning a mouse has figured out how to go in, eat, go out. It seems impossible, really it does. The door shuts behind the critter and the cracker is all the way in the back, so she has to go way in! And yet, a mouse's willpower is stronger than you and me, with our feeble reasoning processes. Yes, desire is more powerful than the plastic door of a mouse trap.


But let me return to the subject of love. What, you think I'm going to post one of my breakfast photos again? Yes, I am. With this tiny story: as I take out my camera, Ed says, as usual: hurry up! My next girlfriend isn't going to bring an annoying camera to breakfast. And I say: my next boyfriend will cooperate and look radiant rather than sour when I take out the camera.






But actually, I'm thinking of something else: in acquiescing to having Oreo here still (or at least not actively hounding his true owner to come and get him), I have not only allowed his gentler side to reassert itself again, I have also allowed the guy to have some really good moments with his own girlfriends. (Don't know if they are still his sexual partners. I haven't seen him chase them lately. Maybe it's a use it or lose it thing with roosters...) Here is how they love to spend their downtime (when they are not foraging for food).





It just warms your heart to see them dirty and happy together.

Yeah, l'amour est bien plus fort que nous...

the real November

So how cold is it, Nina?
Oh, so cold that a one minute foray outdoors, to throw some seeds and bread pieces at the cheepers has me cowering and huddling. Their feathers blow every which way and I have to wonder -- do they maybe hate winter? is it tough for them to get through the next five months?






I have this sense of guilt as I come indoors into the warm farmhouse. And mix up a pancake batter for Ed. And pour sweet honey over my oatmeal.





How is it that we have so much privilege? For a fleeting second I almost want to go out and get a heating unit for their coop, but we've been warned: don't give it to this unless there is a polar vortex, or they wont be able to adapt to the cold. Seems like tough love though, doesn't it?

In contrast to yesterday's productive slog through tough work, today is gently paced. The winds howl, the temps stay in the upper thirties, the cheepers crouch for most of their daylight hours under the old pickup.

But close to evening (these days, evening merges with late afternoon!), I go out. To meet a friend for a cup or glass of something downtown. The skies are pouty, the air is crisp.






And the light is gone when I leave the cafe to find my car again. A black cat moves slowly across my path, then hesitates as I do my cat calling noises.





He comes over and stretches himself at my feet.
Sorry, buddy. I need to get home to my guys. I'm not a night prowler anymore. This is your domain. Your way of life.

I get in the old Escort and drive into the deeply dark night of the country.

digging in

Split the day in half, right down the middle. Catalog the first part under "intense outdoor clean up, the tail end" and the second part under "let's get back to manuscript work, shall we?" -- and you have my entire day laid out for you.

I know I've been claiming that I'm done with farmette work for a number of days now, but really, with so many beds, trees and who knows what else to tend to, the job is never really done. Not until it gets so cold that you cannot conceive of going out with a shovel and pruning sheers again. From what I hear, that kind of a chill will creep down on us tomorrow, so most likely these are the last photos of cheepers watching as I chop, pull and trim and Ed mulches down all spent growth (and puts away things that should have been stored some weeks ago).





Perhaps you have noticed that Oreo is still here. Indeed. Just as I stood ready to dance a crazy rooster dance right back at him, he decides to settle down. Yep -- you got it. The rooster has stopped chasing me. And so he has bought himself time. Surely I'm not going to call the knife to him when he is, at the moment, doing nothing more than tending to his girls.










I do have my eye on the guy, but for several days now, he has held steady.

Oh fine. I should have given a proper introduction to the day. Here we go -- a healthy breakfast. One that prepared us for the physical work outside.






And one more comment on the outdoors: the prize to the stubbornest bloomer goes to this wonderful girl -- she is awash with white flowers right now. I took a photo of one with the bee still doing her work.





The afternoon? Well, it's been nearly a month since I did anything to move my book project forward. Sure, I can sit back and hope that the few letters and inquiries will suffice, but frankly, that's an exceptionally dumb strategy, as odds are so not in my favor. I should not place faith in a small  handful of letters, even if the occasional one is warmly received. Warmth does not a contract make.  I have got to keep on plugging away and so this afternoon, I plug away.

And honestly, everything today is about work.  It's as if I had rejoined the world of the employed, only without a paycheck to show for it. (Not yet, anyway.)

I hope you felt equally productive in whatever task you took on today. Success should be measured not by outcomes but by what you attempt to do on any given day, don't you think?

good work

Waking up to a dreary and cold day is just fine if you have a clear and clean day before you: no work demands, no doctors' appointments, no pesty paperwork that needs your immediate attention. How wonderful is that!

Yes, it's a kitchen breakfast -- why move dishes to the southern front room or eastern sun room, when the clouds are equally dense no matter which way you look?



(wild hair)


It's a good day to return to my writing, to put in solid hours of reading, but I'm not ready for it just yet.  I walk out into the brisk air, thinking that it's time to switch out of my light fleece and into something more substantial.

At the other side of the barn, I hear the noise of birds and so I pause to watch. A cloud of them is hovering above, waiting to swoop down for a last feast on anything that the still soft ground may offer.



(birds against a gray sky)


How is it that they are able to fly in unison? As if startled, they swoop up and away.

At lunch time, I remind Ed of the mouse (no. 7!) that needs to be let loose in a more distant field.



(over lunch)





(looking out the kitchen window)

So long as I'm going out with the mouse, want to go vote?
Good plan!
So long as we're out voting, want to play tennis?
Well now, that's an interesting idea. It's rather cold. Forties maybe. But the sun is emerging! It's going to be a nicely bright afternoon. Why not?!

We play an energetic game! Reading a number of articles recently about older people (that would be Ed and me!) and their loss of mobility and balance reminds me that he and I haven't a huge number of tennis years left. Better improve my game now, or forever stay relegated to the low end of mediocrity!

At the secret, woodsy tennis court, I warm up almost instantly. And of course, the more you skip and hop about outdoors, the more you're motivated to skip and hop some more. And so, after returning home, I take on the winter garden.



(bird against a blue sky)


When you imagine a winter garden, you have to envision all the dry plants and flowers and decide which texture would look best under a blanket of snow. Of course, when the snow cover is deep, it hardly matters -- it all collapses under its weight. But initially, you can do a lot to create something original and splendid. And so I weave through the flower beds, pruning and clipping, doing what I can in the one afternoon I have allocated to this task. Hydrangea puffs stay. Monarda -- clip off. Lavender -- without question stays. Coreopsis -- ugly as anything when it's dry and spent. Off it goes. And so on.



(hydrangea)


The cheepers are with me now and Ed reminds me how mellow Oreo has become.
That's because I avoid him! I protest. Besides, you never know!
We'd read about another strategy for dealing with a rooster who aggresses against people:  chase the bugger to give him some of his own medicine! Flap your 'wings' and wave a stick! I am skeptical, but so long as the chicken mama is not coming by to get him, he is here and truth be told, he is acting a lot tamer than when I first came back from Europe.
But when people come....
I'll lock him up.
And when there is a toddler... But I don't end that sentence. That's miles away from now. Who knows what the cheeper story will be when we get to that era.











So I work outside, and the cheepers watch, and Ed comes out occasionally to help, and it is such a good way to spend a November afternoon! It truly is as grand as a spring day when your hands get dirty, and your clogs get muddy, but the smell of wet earth clears your head, and the stiffness in your shoulder recedes, and your cheeks are cool, and your soul is as warm as the air on the warmest of warm summer days.

the last day

At breakfast, I tell Ed -- if we still have outdoor work to do this year, this is the last day to do it. Afterwards, it'll be tough. 






There is one task that has to be done, and there's another that should be done, and there's a third that Ed has offered to do to help my daughter at her place. Our plate is full.

I tackle the "should" -- mowing. Especially the front yard, to mulch down the maple leaves.






It really does help the yard and it makes my work in spring that much easier. Raking half frozen leaves that blow onto my flower beds is tough work. And so Ed brings out the Zero Turn and I get to it.

There are two issues that plague me with the Zero Turn (and, too, with the tractor that we sometimes use for the tough, rutted hills out back): first of all, the jostling and turning has the same effect on my gut as a sailboat would. In rough waters. And secondly -- I overdo it. Once I get going, I don't stop. Because really, the raspberries need a shave and a cut, and the creeping charlie has to be pushed back, and the grasses around the writer's shed are too tall, and the prairie needs a trim along the edges... A good trim keeps the mice at bay, right?  [Farmhouse caught mouse count so far this year: six! At some point it will taper off to near zero, but right now, they're desperate to find warm shelter for the winter.]

I needed a good hour to recover after the mowing.

Next on my list -- helping Ed with the move of the coop. He has cleared out a nice spot in the old barn (the one that has too good a ventilation system, what with missing boards and cracks every which way you look -- but still, it has a solid roof and it is better than having the coop face the winds and snow outside). We carry the coop to a place by the barn entrance...

 


... and pile bales of hay at two sides for further insulation.

The cheepers are puzzled. Even though they often hang out in the barn and even though they lived just on the other side of the barn wall, the move of their roosting place is disconcerting.






Eventually though, they turn the unfamiliar into the familiar by claiming pecking rights to the hay -- a funny statement on their part, since the hay has been in the barn all the while and they never before showed any interest in it.

Move done.






Cheepers protected. Or at least more protected than before. If we have Polar Vortex situations this year, we'll have to heat the coop, but for now, they should be set, even if the temps reach levels significantly below freezing. (Their water dish has to be plugged in and the eggs have to be picked up pronto, but otherwise, the winter residence is up and running.)






Finally, we go over to my daughters, where Ed helps change some of the electricals. It's outdoor work again and I resist being a nuisance and play with the cats instead.






We return before five and it is shocking to see how dark it is at this hour. I turn on the porch twinkly lights. They'll stay on for all of winter.