Monday

I heard this poem on NPR today -- it's called Happiness and it's by Jane Kenyon. Maybe you heard it too?

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                    It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.


So beautiful...

*   *   *

For some reason, I remembered today a seminar I took as a graduate student in Chicago some forty years ago. There were weekly speakers -- guest authors of very famous published works. One student (we took turns) had to open the discussion each week by giving a review of the work. When it was my turn, I wrote my review and presented it with great excitement. I thought I had nailed all the weak points in the written argument. I saw the flaws, the problems. I was so pumped! I was standing up for scholarship, for accuracy! I read my review in class. The author was there. He listened. I finished, looking up with pride at my own brilliance. I had won, no?

The author sighed deeply. He then said, ever so briefly: wow, harsh words.

Perhaps Ocean, which tries to stray from harsh words is the indirect outcrop of that experience.

*   *   *

Back to the poem: go ahead. Dare me not to be happy. Just know that in the long run, you'll surely lose the dare.

It was a beautiful day. A warm, spring-filled day. As usual, we have the spring flock of deer pass through...

I let it go. There isn't much that they can destroy right now. (I hope.)

Breakfast. Sun room. A joy.

And eventually, I'm in Snowdrop's home, where I find mom and daughter at play.

I am semi helpful in giving my daughter time for chores. Yes, I play with Snowdrop. Yes, her mom stuffs some loads into the washing machine. But then, all three of us are raring to go and taste that spring air. And so on goes the sweater (who remembers it? Yes! It's from the Arles knitting shop), and the cap purchased just today by grandma (because yesterday's was too large, in case you missed it).

She's ready. We're ready. And so my daughter pushes the stroller and I tag along and it is a deliriously wonderful hike around the small lake. Just over an hour of pleasure, for all three of us.

When you bring Snowdrop home from a walk and you take off her outdoor gear, you see in her that look of relief. As in -- I had fun, but I was a little scared that no good would come of it and now, here I am home and I am so happy about that!

Oh, Snowdrop!

Sunday

Can I get away with only photos today? It is late and I am hugely tired and so I'll let you be responsible for the captions! The context: beautiful early spring day, family gathers, food appears, Snowdrop shows off, family leaves, Snowdrop stays, Snowdrop leaves. There! The rest is yours!



































































I think we can all agree -- it's been a full day!

For the commenter asking for the recipe for the pistachio cake, here is the link. Do note that it is a dense (rather than light an airy) cake. And it takes a long time to bake (recipe says 1.5 hrs, mine took 1.75)! But the flavors are grand!
It's this one, from Bon Appetit, 2012.

come out and play

It was such a sudden transformation! From siberian-arctic-polar-vortexy frigid air to spring!

We opened the sun room for good -- until the thick of the summer, when the heat from the early morning rays will warm up the farmhouse too much. But right now, there's no such thing as too much!

We eat breakfast in that morning burst of warmth!






The temperatures climb very quickly and it's as if they unlock the door for all living things. Deer come out at midday, chomping at the flower beds as if by invitation!






I stick my head out the window and tell them to leave my plants alone!






The cheepers, too, are happy to march right up to me for their daily handout.






Well, not Oreo. Ed has to carry him out into the sunlight. I think his limp is getting worse, but Ed tells me that he was there chasing the white hens early in the morning, feeling a spring-like surge of manhood.






You hear the drip of melting snow and you think -- how could winter recede so quickly? Could it be true that we are done with it?

I take the time out to bake a pound cake: orange pistachio. I need it for brunch tomorrow.






And then we meet up for brunch (I drive with Lily's sunroof wide open, how cool is that!) -- the Minnesota couple is here and we all head out to one of our favorite's -- Sardine. It's Snowdrop's first trip to a restaurant. She manages just fine. Happy to see aunt and uncle...






... while mom and birthday dad look on.






Back at the house, there's cake, there's singing...


 



...there's Snowdrop.






And toward the end of the day, we all come out and play! Or, actually go for a walk. A longer one.





I'll end with three photos:

Birthday dad.


 


Grinning at aunt...





...and uncle.





Our last minutes of playtime, indoors and out. Until tomorrow!

Friday special

This is not your normal Friday.

Oh, sure, we start with breakfast. Let's get a slight variation though. Ed picks up the camera, I pick up the camera. Here you have it: the two breakfast eaters.











And yes, there is the round of chores. Groceries and all that this entails. Too, I make sure to take bread to the cheepers, but they refuse to leave the barn for it. Too wet, too slippery, too drippy -- they've had enough of winter's issues.






And even my visit with Snowdrop is out of the ordinary. She'd had her two month check up and so I'd been warned that she may be fussy after her series of shots. I expect the worst. I put her in her little swing and look at her troubled face.






But it doesn't stay troubled for long. Or at least her troubles take a pause.






And so we play.






Quite a bit.





I can't say that she remains entirely without a reaction to her earlier medical travails, but nonetheless, we manage to have a lovely and calm afternoon.


And that's not the end of it: the young parents have a pressing engagement and so Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse with me for the evening. She tries to be her usual bright faced self, she really does, but it's been a rough day for her and she whimpers appreciatively when I hold her very close.  As I reheat leftover chili for supper, I am reminded of the countless dinners I cooked with a babe slung over my shoulder (several decades ago). They are good memories.

I can't put little Snowdrop down -- not even during our supper, but she is a girl who is willing to meet you halfway and so we settle on one of her favorite holds -- one that allows me to finish my meal.






We have a big weekend ahead. The Minnesota aunt and uncle are making the long trip down once more to visit their niece and, too, it happens to be the birthday of Snowdrop's dad, so there are many variations on the happy theme of celebrations, gatherings, and eating opportunities and of course, lots of moments for Snowdrop adoration.  And we're going to finally crawl our way out of the freezing temperatures (today's high will be tomorrow's low), so please tell me how one could improve upon this set of days!

I'll leave you with the little girl herself, trying so hard to muster up a grin tonight. To a happy weekend for all of you!

Thursday

One last wake up to below zero readings. After this day, we'll be done with that bracing cold that comes after a moonlit night and a brilliant sunrise. Not that I saw either. No one lets the cheepers out that early after a cold night. In fact, letting the cheepers out has been only modestly close to a sunrise. We've been less scheduled about it and less frantic, at the same time that they have become less insistent. They huddle and wait and if there is sunshine, they'll come out and search for a spot that's not iced over. That's a challenge!






Eventually I coax them out of the barn, and each time, I get the chicken ballet before me as they dance over the worst spots.






In the crab apple tree, a pair of squirrels returns for their daily fruit raid. Do they know that they'll soon have competition from the spring flocks of birds?






Ed and I eat breakfast at the kitchen table. We each have a plateful of chores to do today and so this meal is especially important. We talk about spring farmette projects. There are many and that pleases me no end.






My midday is a bit of a rush between one thing and the next. Let's zip past that and go right to where I want to be -- at Snowdrop's house. Though instead of giving you the next string of smiling Snowdrops, I'll show you something a tiny bit different:

Here, you can pretend she is jumping! (In reality, she is, as always, merely kicking her feet -- she is a terrific kicker!)






A closeup...



(you liked that,  grandma?)



Perhaps my favorite is where I get her to really stand up.  Bonus: for those who complained I did not show off yesterday's haircut, here is one wild version of it! Hers and mine!






Snowdrop is exactly two months old today. In so many ways, she seems quite a bit older! Except when she exhales after a period of play.

Wednesday

This weekend, we'll be told that our clocks can spring forward. Such a poor choice of words, because for me, in this season, time can stand still. I love the onset of the the first long spell of warmer weather (coming for us, this weekend!). I love how the landscape seems so brown, but if you look down at the dirt, you can find green heads pushing up, cracking the wet soil. I love the return of birdsong. And of course, by late spring, I love the planting of new flowers, fruits, vegetables. To be on the cusp of this most perfect season is thrilling!

Today's sunshine primes us for what's to come. (Here's our old reliable golden girl, looking splendid against a blue sky.)






Yes, we're in the promised polar blast (we've stopped calling it "vortex" this year), but honestly, you have to be a real winter hater to mind. It's sunny, bright and our hearts are pointed toward spring. Sort of  like in yoga where, you're always told to raise your heart. Mine is raised! As is Butter's: she ignores the cold, the ice, and daintily traipses through the snow to greet me.






Scotch looks like a ballerina as she navigates the ice!






At the farmhouse, breakfast is rather early. Blame it on the cat.





And then I treat myself to a professional haircut. Ed did a serviceable job a few months back, but I want something more fitting for the season. A splurge, for sure, but I'm psyched for it! Let the local young woman do her tricks.

We discuss the options. I repeat what she already knows -- even though I loved the color of my hair the years I let Jason the color expert use his potions on it, I refuse to ever go that route again. And here, the young hair person says something that just makes me smile: you have such a wonderful palate of colors! You don't need added color!

Of course, "wonderful palate" does not translate to "gorgeous palate," but I choose to interpret her words in the best possible way and give it the contextual meaning it deserved.


After, I fly to Snowdrop's home.






We do our stuff: tummy time, pull ups, a bit of book play...
















Snowdrop has one of her smiliest days ever.






It's impossible to look away.

And why should we? The smile of a two month old is so real and true. You cannot doubt it. We don't doubt it. We just smile along.






Oh, Snowdrop!