the new normal

July is so abundant! When I look at the grocery shelves, I'm in awe. So much fruit, so many veggies! How can you sample it all? And of course, when I look out on my flower fields, I have that some sense of explosive growth.

It is the month of the daylily. Such a curious flower -- bloom a day and be done. One day, that's all you get. But oh, is it a day of beauty!






Does the frog know to get off before the flower wilts and folds in, taking away his resting place?






The lilies in great masses aren't as spectacular  as some of the other flowers. For one thing, if you don't pick off the spent blooms, there's a lot of dangling nonsense from the stems.

Today, I gently force myself inside the main  bed just by the front porch and deadhead the lilies.






And I stake some of the asters and the sunflower-like heliopsis.






It is wonderful working in the yard without the threat of a rooster.






The girls follow me around (Isis is still cautious when they get too close to him)...






... and honestly, despite the stickiness of the summer heat and the occasional appearance of mosquitoes (we are having a relatively tame summer so far as far as they're concerned!), it is a most wonderful morning.

Breakfast? Yes, of course, somewhere in there we have a porch breakfast. Yes, sublime. It always is.






In the afternoon I play with Snowdrop.






Storms pass through, but we find a window for a walk.






... By our lakes. I look at them with different eyes now. A boat at the edge of a storm, a duck on the water -- the Adirondack recollections are still very fresh, very vivid.






In the evening, Ed suggests we go out for dinner. No -- it's a kind thought, but I'm very tied to the farmette right now. By the end of the day, I want to stay within her folds.

... with my flowers, hens, and popsicle loving guy. Hey, at least I made these -- watermelon popsicles, easy breezy recipe found here.

whirligig of time

Changes. They come in all shapes and with different degrees of revorberation.

This morning, I tiptoe around the farmhouse (to not disturb Snowdrop, who spends her mornings alternating between sleeping and trying to crawl, right in her crib) and prepare an early breakfast. Suddenly, unexpectedly Ed must crawl out of his beloved sheep shed and spend considerable amounts of time in an office.

We eat on the porch despite the sticky air that comes with mid July. This early, it's pleasantly warm rather than beastly hot.






Then Ed digs out his cat carrying case and after a very protracted petting session...





... he places Oreo inside. Someone at work, a woman who has 21 hens, is willing to take the rooster. Perhaps chasing so many girls will take his attention off of people. I'm not questioning the whys and wheretofores of the transfer. I am just thrilled to see him go (and somewhat scared that she'll change her mind and he'll come right back. But let's not worry in advance!)

I walk freely past my flower beds and even volunteer to clean out the coop. No pogo stick rooster will attack my ankles now. I am safe.


Eventually Snowdrop is ready to be up. As usual, her morning greeting is sublime: all smiles and dimples and chortles and coos. (Note the sheep on the P.J.'s! Yes, of course, from that country.)







She has a delightful and very splashy bath and then a warm and fuzzy feeding time.

After, I ask her to help me with the changing of linens in the bedroom upstairs. The room must always stand ready for the next visitor, whomever he or she may be.






(oops! a tumble! but a fun one!)






We go out to feed bread to the cheepers. So easy now! No lurking threat, just happy hens.






But our playtime is short. I hand her over to her dad early in the day. I have a remembrance lunch to go to at Tormach. Our days ahead will necessarily include a lot of Tormach, sometimes silently -- it's not always Ocean material after all, but insofar as Ed is drawn into the fray now, in many ways so am I.

[Thank you to all those who passed on kind messages to Ed. I deeply appreciate every one of them. There are many people affected by this tragedy, but the fact is, Ed is the one who now bears the heavy burden of putting together the bits and pieces that will move the company forward. That may get lost in the general discussion, but it's not lost on me. Of course, I know him. He'll do it carefully, wisely and with infinite attention to every detail. But it will be a drain. He lost much of his own freedom when his friend went down in the boating accident two days ago.]


And then I am with Snowdrop again. her mom is out of town and so I have a chance to be even more helpful. Oh, but how joyous it is to step into Snowdrop's world!






Storms are passing through Madison right now, but they don't linger. In the late afternoon I see that the skies are a steamy blue again. Snowdrop and I set out for a walk around the little lake.






All is still, all is calm. I smile at the recollection of paddling through similarly peaceful waters.






No, not forgotten. The peace -- still there, waiting for the right day again when it can take hold.

In the meantime, the flowers bloom, the raspberries ripen, the farmette life continues.

halcyon days

 A post in three parts:

Part One

We leave our beautiful cabin in the Adirondacks. I turn around for one last look and something prompts me to photograph that entryway. Maybe because it displays the name of the cabin: Halcyon.






It's a wonderful name and too fitting for our one week on the lakes and rivers here. Way too fitting.

But why are the skies so brooding? How is it that only now the clouds set in over this ancient mountain range?





We eat breakfast in the car, on the ride to Albany International. Ed's to fly through Atlanta, I'm to catch my Madison connection in Detroit.

One last check of email at the airport.

One last feeling of complete tranquility.

We find out then that Ed's longtime friend and business partner Greg died last night, sailing on Lake Michigan.

It is so unexpected, so terribly tragic that it knocks the wind out of both of us, but of course, especially Ed.

Greg grew the company that arose out of a dream Ed had -- of creating computer operated milling machines that would be accessible (cost wise and size wise) to the hobbyist, the inventor, the innovator. The educator, the developer. With workshops and support services to help you along, so that you can create anything your imagination allows. Metal fittings for a flute, intricate knives, golf clubs. Simple things, complicated gears and machine parts. A milling machine to put in your basement or garage, school classroom, or plant.

Ed the designer, Greg the organizational star with engineering skills to boot. One guy's dream, turned into a team collaboration. But Greg was the one who worked daily to make the company a success. You can now find Tormach milling machines all over the world. Apple, Intel, GE, Amazon. Universities, many dozens of them -- from Harvard, to the University of Nairobi.

Greg shared Ed's passion for sailing as well. Ed says that if you must die, what better way than out on the water. But must it be now? So tragically early?


Part Two

We fly in at different times and the whirligig of events, commitments, lovely commitments, beautiful and pure pull me in right away. My most wonderful nephew is on his last day and night at the farmette and I want it to be a good set of hours for him. And I'm anxious to see Snowdrop!

My nephew and I hurry down to little Snowdrop's music class and this is where I first spot my daughter and granddaughter...






After we sing, dance and shake rattles in the air, we leave the car and walk over to the Capitol Square for Madison's beautiful summer event -- concerts on the square.



cousins


We buy foods and settle in on blankets that my daughter had set down for us and as the music seeps in and the hushed whispers and the clash of plastic forks and splash of wine into plastic cups fills the evening, I sit back and breathe deeply.

I watch Snowdrop and she is at her best, playing first with her little rattles and chewies and then climbing on her mom and finally settling into the safety of that well known shoulder.











Part Three

This morning, the skies are once again cloudy. Occasional drops of rain suggest a wet day ahead. I have only a few minutes for a glance out at my garden.





I'll give it more time later. July is its prize month. I wont ignore my blooms.

We eat breakfast on the porch. It's an early meal. Ed must go off to Tormach and, too, my nephew will have a bus to catch for Chicago's airport. This evening, he'll be in Stockholm again and the farmette will be strangely empty without him here.





I grocery shop of course. Stock up, fill the fridge, think cooking thoughts. No no, not just boiled water into a pouch, eaten on a bed of pine needles! Halcyon, halcyon...


I poke in on Snowdrop whose smile fills the room.





And here's a wonderful thing -- I get to have her at the farmhouse all evening and through the night.

Watching her exploratory roll, and now perfectly supported sit, her play, bounce, and grab is so wonderfully satisfying -- as if she is there to show us how it all begins, how all that energy grows into something deeply creative and beautiful.






We play, she eats... well, I try to convince her that veggies (peas, beans and spinach) rule!






She gives them a wee chance...





And then she relaxes over a bottle of the usual. Such a relief to have something familiar to hold onto.

And so we are back, Ed and I. As my nephew reminded me -- good trips are never pushed aside in the tumult of an especially rocky return. They recede, but you come back to them in future times and you remember and you smile.

the Adirondacks

Part 2

I 

If you wake up in the middle of the night on the shores of Low's Lake, you'll hear it: the plaintive voice of a loon. You'll never forget its strong and trailing voice, coming out of the misty waters of a still lake.





II 

And now comes the low point of the entire Adirondack adventure. The moment of disagreement. 

To understand the momentousness of this, you have to know that Ed and I, being so different in so many ways, never disagree. We each engage in acts the other wouldn't dream of pursuing, but our common path is steady and peaceful.

Camping area number 27, where we overnighted, turns out to be the only place during this entire Second Journey where I am able to pick up a cell signal (admittedly I don't try very often elsewhere). I have enough battery life left to check the weather, which so far, as you can see, has been incredibly generous to us. Sure enough, the promise is of storms. Well, it's a speculative promise: 50% chance, the entire afternoon.

If weather were not an issue, we would pack up (leaving the beautiful number 27) and head out on a side trip -- down Bog River to Bog Lake. Then we would look for a site to pitch the tent closer to the tip of the lake (where we came in and from where we would be leaving the next day). The lake is so empty! Maybe another magical site would present itself to us.

All good ideas for a good weather day. But I do not want to be in a canoe in a storm. If the skies seem okay, I think we should do a quick excursion and come back. In the alternative, skip the excursion and head out now in search of a new site. Ed wants to ignore the whole weather issue.
If the storm comes, we'll wait it out by the shore.
You know there are no landing spots for long stretches of shoreline!
We can pull over and ride it out in the canoe.
That's not safe!
Nina (no "gorgeous" when he thinks I'm being irrational and it affects the direction we take), it's a lot safer than driving a car.
But I'll be scared and it'll ruin it for you!
Do you want to stay here and I'll explore Bog Lake alone?
What if you don't come back? 
I have no answer to that (..very stupid question).


III 

After I'm done shedding tears of indecision, I take a look at the sky and see no sign of trouble.

We eat breakfast -- nice, very nice... 
 





No threat yet and the lake is absolutely still.






I take a deep breath and agree to pack up camp and head out together. (It is our history: when I turn braver than I feel, Ed turns gentler and more willing to accommodate my foibles. And I know I'm nursing an irrational foible.)


IV 

The lake crossing is memorable: not a single ripple, not a wave or a shudder. Just us and the loons.
 





V 

Let me introduce you to the names of the lakes and rivers around us: Otter, Iron, Horseshoe. Beaver Brook, Big Moose Lake. Marian Lake. I'm sure when they named a lake "Marian," it's because someone had a sweet spot for a Marian in his life. And Otter Pond had otters. 

And Bog Lake has the bog.
 





The floating bog is easy to pass. A few shallow spots, a few murky moments, but all doable.

Thereafter, we pick up the slow moving river, which meanders between bogs, lilies, pickerel weed, and fallen timbers.

Suddenly the population of black flies explodes! The dragon flies, our most precious friends and warriors are outnumbered. They try, they really do. But the flies rule vast stretches of the river.

After a half hour of constant battle, we turn back. However pretty Bog Lake may be, it's a messy paddle to it. 

Alright. We're almost out. Pass the floating bog and we'll be on Low's Lake again.








(with dragon fly friend)


And now I relax, because I know we can beat whatever storms come our way. My biggest fear throughout has been not the currents, winds, flies, sites, navigational quagmires, but storms. My sailor guy has no fear of them, whereas every encounter with lightening and thunder in my life, when exposed and outdoors, has left me shaking.

I know now we'll pitch the tent before a storm will find us.

It is a huge relief.


VI 

Now is the time to see if the prize of all prizes (in my opinion) - the lovely tip of an island at the head of the lake, with pine needle beds and water every which way, and a beautiful beach to the side -- is unoccupied.







It is! (If you're ever on Low's Lake, it's number 18 -- a stunning place indeed!)

We pull out the canoe.

Among the pines, there is a beautiful fallen log: lean against it, sit on it, contemplate the entire lake before you. Like all the wilderness camping places, it's immaculate. Leave no trace behind. No one has even carved his or her initials on the naked log. When you sit on it, you are part of something greater than just yourself.

From tears of sorrow to tears of joy. Isn't it always like that?




(lunch)


VII 

It's early afternoon when I set up camp (I let Ed rest a bit -- he does all our cooking). We have nowhere else to go, no exploring, no climbing to do.
 





We read, I write, we swim.






What're you doing, gorgeous?
I'm running along the island beach ready to plunge into Low's Lake! -- I shout back.






VIII 

The wind picks up, a few puffs of clouds roll in. We meet a couple of passing paddlers from Mystic. We compare notes on sites, on the water conditions, on the wonderful roaming ranger woman. We feel like oldtimers.

And the afternoon waves bang against the shore and if there is peace to be had ever in a life that sometimes gets too complicated, it is here, on a log, facing Low's Lake in the Adirondacks.



IX 

Our last dinner in the wilderness. I'm half tempted to build a fire: someone has neatly stacked kindling to the side of a carefully cleaned out fire ring. But like Ed, I prefer the simplicity of doing none of it.

He lights his ancient stove and boils water. We eat our pouch dinners in the fading light of the sun. 
 





And the storm? It rumbled past, just south of us. Ed wanted to watch a display of lightening on the lake, but all we got were beautiful clouds, playing hide and seek with the sun.






And a farewell sunset.






X 

In the morning, we shower to the music of loons. A long, clean note, a quiver. Ed says -- people come here for this sound. Maybe we did too?
 





A last breakfast. We're down to Cliff bars. And coffee for me.






We pack, efficiently, rhythmically.






And we pull out and make our way toward the river, we feel a gentle wind on our backs. The current, too, is with us this time.



(loon family)


It took us four hours to paddle down the river to the tip of the lake heading out. It takes us just three to paddle back.

But in that time, everything above us changes. At first, a solitary cloud moves in from the west. Halfway down the river, the sky becomes overcast.

And the rain comes down. Initially it's gentle. Just a tease. We do the portage, past the dam, without fuss, experts now, each in our roles of carrier and mule.












But as we paddle into our final hour, the shower turns into a steady, relentless rain.

How funny, really! I had so trusted the sunny forecast, that I pushed my rain jacket to the bottom of the bag. I had to dig for it now. Ed has his on as well.

And yet, despite this miserable (from one perspective) weather, we encounter paddlers heading out toward the lake: a group of three canoes, heavily loaded with coolers, as if for a never-ending feast. Then a couple: she is in a bathing suits and life vest. He's in a t-shirt (and vest). They greet us cheerfully. Looking at us in our jackets, he shouts out -- someone's afraid of getting wet!

I have to laugh. Everything downward of my jacket is soaking.
No, not afraid! 

 And so the Second Journey ends.
 






XI 

If I were a New Age type, or inclined to meditation, I'd write about such things as inner peace, finding one's center, touching eternity. The week of camping in the Adirondacks grew each day -- from just an adventure, to something that became really grand and extraordinarily beautiful. Calming any tumult that I brought along with me.

But I'm not inclined in that direction and so I'll leave that thought, to dangle here for your own contemplation. 


XII 

We overnight at the Dartbrook Lodge, in Keene, New York. Just east of Lake Placid.

It's not really a lodge. There are a few Adirondack cabins, neatly tucked into a landscape of wild flowers.

Our is just gorgeous!

Outside: 
 





Inside:






And all around:






Normally, I'd settle in and enjoy the detail of this rustic but so very comfortable little gem. But I can't. I gave my soul to the outdoors this week and I'm not ready to part with it all.

Ed naps, I go for a hike. To these falls and back (toward center left, there is a guy fishing on the rocks -- to give you some perspective on their size).






Not more than a couple of hours, there and back. The falls are nice, very nice, but they are only an excuse. The goal is to connect all these strands of thought and move forward. And I do.

We eat dinner at the village cafe. It has a menu that's remarkably similar to the one at the Long Lake place we ate at our first night in the Adirondacks. Again we split a roasted chicken. With salads. I missed my salads!






Ed falls asleep soon after, but I find myself already gliding into routines from home. A late night, an Ocean post and only then -- the comfort of a bed. A big bed, a crispy linnened bed.

I am acutely aware of the fact that there is no breeze blowing through our night. No stealthy movement of a curious animal. No music of a loon out on a lake.