Saturday

Well, it's cold enough to turn on the heat in the house and to eat indoors. In the sun room! Now there's a seasonal change if I ever saw one!







And after, I walk over with my daughter and Snowdrop to the Capitol Square farmers market. The little girl turns chatty (la la, bvvvv, ga, bvvv!)  and serious, all at once.






There is so much to take in! Every pause is an opportunity to admire something new. Chard, for example.






It's chilly, but the sun is out. I come home after to an Ed who is ready to do some farmete work -- after munching on the almond croissant from the market (bits of it were exceptionally popular with the two hens).






We work hard, all afternoon. Ed fixes my bike, his own motorcycle, carts chips. I dig up the oldest, messiest, most neglected strawberry bed -- the one that used to provide berries to chipmunks, birds and the woodchuck until it passed its fruit-bearing stage. A project like this is a feast for the cheepers and predictably, they follow me all afternoon long.






The rains, the warmer sunshine -- all this has been good for the garden of course, and the plants continue to throw out the occasional blooms. There are the colonies of gold and the emerging purple asters...






But, too, we're clearly not done yet with the roses and the lilies. They're rare now, but you can surely spot them!






I divide and move irises and plant more bulbs and it is a most perfect day for it. I think Wisconsin should hold the gold medal for its Fall weather and this year, we're surely off to a grand start.


In the early evening, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse for a visit while her parents attend to various social obligations.

Yep, happy with that beard!






... and getting very bold in staying upright!






The week-end -- a concept not readily identifiable by the newly retired me prior to Snowdrop -- seems now very much a weekend. The schedule changes, the hours hold no predictable structure. And despite the digging, the work around the farmette, despite it all, that kind of shift in gears gives me a pause, so that I can start the work week -- not my work week of course! -- with a fresh hop and skip into Snowdrop's world.

But for now, I just enjoy the loosey goosey evening hours with the sweet little girl with berries on her pants, dangles on her shirt and outstretched arms for the world before her.

Friday

This is my Snowdrop-light day, which means that I (ridiculously and regrettably) attempt to stuff too many errands into the daylight hours. Truly, in the future, I must reform!

The start was easy: for the first time since returning from Europe, I let Ed open up the coop. I am too set in my early wake up routines to really sleep in, but I drift in and out of a dozy state that feels quite luxurious while Ed goes about the sunrise routines.





But of course, it's Friday and so we must get up and running and it's an especially important day for Ed, as it's his last day of managing the ship at Tormach, the company that tragically lost its CEO in the middle of July. Ed has tweaked and taught and transferred and reorganized things sufficiently that a new CEO will begin his duties on Monday and Ed will once again (he hopes) return to his designing projects at the sheep shed, attending, like before, only a Friday techie meeting at the company offices.

And so breakfast is a bit rushed and in the kitchen (welcome to the cool mornings of September in Wisconsin)...






... and wouldn't you know it, as he rushes out, he finds that his motorbike has a flat tire.
Can I please borrow your moped?
Rosie is not meant for the speed with which you ride her!
I guess I'll take the car then... (glum look).
Oh go ahead and take her; I'll use the car. No one loves riding a motorcycle more than Ed.


I fuss around Scotch and Butter. Honestly, Butter seems a bit depressed, but what do I know about chicken feelings... Still, I find her more than once peering longingly inside the farmhouse.






Sorry, Butter, you cannot come in. And in any case, I haven't much time for cheepers contemplation. It's grocery shopping day and, too, I have cucumbers and tomatoes spilling out over the counter -- they have to be pickled, or frozen, or cooked, or something and I, of course, think this is the perfect morning for it which really puts the pressure on the shopping expedition.

And so when the noon hour comes around and I know it's time to set out to be with Snowdrop, I feel a sense of relief. My time with her knows no rush. I must accomplish nothing else while I'm there except perhaps diversify our play efforts somewhat. These are the moments to clear my head and refresh my spirits.

Hi Snowdrop! Lunchtime!






Just a few photos today. The week is winding down after all.



Yes, but did you have fun, grandma? Oh, so much fun, Snowdrop!





A hug for the sloth...





and a real favorite: a bounce on the knee (photo on a self timer)



In the late afternoon my daughter comes home in time for us to do the walk around the lake together. Snowdrop loves this best -- to hear our voices behind her, as she babbles on, possibly thinking herself to be part of our conversation.






And now I am home. Dusk. Ed and I go out together to lock up the two hens. It's chilly outside! For the first time, I throw on the fleece jacket that hangs in the mudroom.

Butter is still hiding in the garage. I hold her close and walk her to the coop where Scotch waits for her.

Thursday

Many thanks for all your kind words! Perhaps most of all -- thank you for understanding that the loss of little hens can bring on such sadness. Attachment is a curious bedfellow: it grows out of steady contact. Out of sweet gestures and familiar sounds. Out of common routines and a sense of community. And I find out that yes, you can feel it toward two young hens.

Of course, you move on. A good night's sleep helps. Remembering about other members of your community helps as well. I understand that, as I tell Ed to go back to sleep and get up this morning to set the two big girls free. (And Scotch immediately follows me back to the farmhouse.)






Being around a sympathetic soul is wonderful too.  Ed and I have breakfast, though not on the porch. Cool, wet and very early (Thursday is my earlier Snowdrop sitting day) -- there's something to be said for making it easy on yourself!






I am at Snowdrop's home now and very happy to see her. Good morning, little girl!






I bathe and feed her and when I reach for something for her to wear, my hand migrates to a t-shirt I had picked up in Edinburgh. I remember it well -- I thought it said "have a nice day" and I thought then that this would be a nice message for a baby to wear. It reminds you that niceness and joy are so deliberate and intentional. Only recently did I notice that it actually says "have a mice day" -- as a mouse is a frequent mascot of this particular British clothes line.






We do have a very nice day! A sampling of our play:


Practicing standing, supported:






And unsupported, though heaven help us if she decides to pull out all the books she is grasping now! Ah well, the carpet is soft and grandma is hovering.






Here are the books that she does pull out (and I have to think it's for their smooth, thin line, rather than the content, though I do believe that this girl, with a scientifically inclined dad and a mechanically inclined grandpa Ed, will know about physics sooner than, say, I did).






On a level closer to her age group, she still likes to practice kissy noises...






And bang on the koala pillow as if it were a drum.







And of course, she loves to jump! In her jumparoo...






... and off her jumparoo.






I should include an update on eating: notice the absence of the scrunched face, even as I'm pushing on her here blueberries, pears and purple carrots.






And, too, we're in a new era of stroller walks. This one, around the small lake again, has her sitting up and paying attention to the world. Too, she checks on my whereabouts again and again...






Probably the best part is when I sing and Snowdrop joins in. She doesn't articulate the words or notes perfectly yet, but it's all very joyous and between the two of us, very loud!

The clouds come and go, but we avoid any rains or stormy moments. I'd say we've navigated the day just fine!






In the evening, I have my monthly dinner with my former law school group. None of them read Ocean and it strikes me how trivial a recount of an event such as a chicken catastrophe would be if you hadn't been aware of the role these girls played in our farmette week. It is at times like this that I recognize how important Ocean is to me, not only for the writing practice -- which has always been my excuse for blogging daily -- but because of its power to bring to the forefront the stuff that doesn't reach headline status.  Sharing (but not imposing -- you don't have to read this!) something as low key as the naming of the new chickens or Snowdrop's kissy noises is so gratifying and so difficult to accomplish in our fragmented communities where everyone lives too far away for daily story telling, of the trivial kind, even though it's this stuff that fills our waking minutes.

So I say nothing about chickens and instead I search for the big ticket items, which of course, is never very satisfying because on the retelling, banner items all seem rather bland and devoid of emotion, especially since currently, at this very minute, my world is still full of kissy noises and chicken drama.

I mention this because it is not the first time that I wish the storytellers among us (meaning those who enjoy the craft -- whether in the telling, commenting, or merely reading) had stayed with blogging rather than migrated to facebook (not that I don't recognize the importance of facebook) or worse -- twitter.



I return home just as dusk fades into night. Ed is working outside and I ask him about the big girls. He tells me he tried putting them in the coop, but it had been too early. You can't do it too early because they wont acquiesce. But you can't do it too late either.

We walk to the garage -- Butter is inside, hiding. She wont go near the coop in the evenings. I pick her up, gently -- she lets me -- and I tell her stupid things as I carry her to her safe spot in the little hut of good and terrible things. Scotch had gone in by herself just a few minutes earlier.  So they're getting there. We're all getting there. 

the vulnerable

Heads up -- this is a tough post to write and probably more than one of you will find it ridiculously over-emotional, but Ocean is Ocean, Ed is Ed, I am who I am. In other words, hang in there, this too shall pass!

Let me not dance around the drama: last night, Ed went to close up the coop and as he put the two big girls inside, he checked to make sure the little ones were safe in there.

Both were dead, brutally attacked by a predator.

We spent the night hours burying them and alternately crying (well, that would be me) and telling each other that this is it: we have no stomach for nature's tough rules. We wont get new hens.

The two Brahmas -- they weren't here long, but they sure had an impact on us. Their little chirpy noises -- so sweet and gentle -- possibly gave them away that night. They never tired of talking to each other. Easy to find, easy to attack.

You'll say -- they're just chickens! Indeed. You would be right.  After all, we eat their eggs and have chicken meat not infrequently for supper. Too, we follow the news of the world. We're heartbroken over the hardships endured by so many!

And still, the little hens were part of our small slice of calm here, at the farmette. They came with chirps and trust and each morning they were the first to greet me and to follow me as I cleared a spot for them to munch on handfuls from the $4 (not the $3.50!) bag of scratch. We loved them for their sweet souls and their quiet mark on the landscape around us.

It was a very hard night for the both of us.


This morning, Scotch and Butter seem glad to leave the coop area. Well no wonder -- even though they themselves were outside the coop, they surely saw and heard last night's raid. The fact is, they may themselves be in danger. The predator has not gone away (we know that from nocturnal diggings). We will be locking them up on the early side and Ed will make sure all the coop latches are in good working condition. After that, we can hope that whatever instinct kept Scotch and Butter safe all these years will help them along now as well. (And no, we wont get a dog to guard the hens. Not even a rooster. It isn't clear one would have helped and most free range hens manage to get by on their own.)


Breakfast on the porch.






The two older hens hover near the farmhouse.












I work on laying down wood chips.






And then I have a day with the girl who is herself so young and so vulnerable. It's easy to slip in caring for the young. I tend to be one of those over protective types and so she is not likely to fall down stairs or go crashing into hard furniture. As I watch her, what stands out is how much trust a child has in the world of adults and how nonetheless imperfect we are in living up to that total confidence the little ones have in us.



(crawling over to grandma)


We play, talk, sing, eat -- the usual set of beautiful tasks and routines. I smile when she smiles and believe me, that's a lot of smiling in the course of the day!






She does a sweet imitation of a kissing sound, not yet understanding how potent that little gesture is -- how warmly reassuring.






(And of course, she does a lot of chewing!)






(... and crawling!)



(can I catch up to the cats?)


 And we go for a walk around the little lake on this bright, cloudless day. Yes we do! The weather is nearly perfect.






And the day goes by so quickly! Snowdrop makes sure of that.


In the evening, Ed rides his bike, I do some more wood chip work around the yard. All is quiet. All is calm. I hope it stays this way for a long, long time.

if it's Tuesday...

Well, this is the last of the "...if it's Tuesday" banners, as the schedule changes somewhat next week and Snowdrop switches to a Monday at the farmhouse. And even today is somewhat convoluted and strange, as we are cycling through some heavy storms and heavy schedules and all in all, it's one of those days where you're glad you have a roof over your head (the rains!) and sleep under your belt.

I am up ridiculously early for the cheepers and I rush to give them a few minutes of stretching and scratching before the rains return.









(sharing water)






(the lily that thinks it's still summer)



Of course, our girls are insanely lucky, as they have a whole huge barn to escape to at a time of storms -- rain, snow, and whatever else falls out of the sky -- but still, I'm of the European old school where you believe fresh air is as important to one's well being as anything else this planet has to offer (and that includes a chicken's well being) and so I'm glad they have at least a few minutes to cavort among the wet shrubs and grasses.


I'm about to settle in to a leisurely breakfast preparation (a routine that I quite adore), when we get the call that one of our wood chip sources -- a local tree service -- has a truckload of chips to deliver. We hadn't heard from any of the tree crunchers in months and we assumed it would be spring before we would return to yard work of this kind and yet, here we are, with a ditch and driveway filled with chips.

And so right after breakfast (which is on the early side because I do need to be at Snowdrop's home before 9)...






...Ed starts to load the cart with the chips...






... and that gets us exactly nowhere because the rains then come down and I mean really come down and so we abandon all pretense of outdoor work and hide inside.


And now it's 9 and I am at Snowdrop's home and the girl is waking and we begin our day together.

There are many, many themes to pick out from any day with her. A few ideas: "the daily rituals" -- which would include that early bath, which I give her even before she eats breakfast...






"The favorite games" --  a solid chunk of time on the jumparoo guarantees some giggly moments...



(a third tooth coming in on the bottom, of all things! the girl likes to do things her own way.)



... It would have to include a lot of crawling toward her favorite toys. Here, she is greeting her friend, the sloth.






Or how about this theme: "new challenges!" In this next photo, she is standing at her favorite post in her room -- by the rocking chair with the koala cover on it. She is not solid on her feet yet and still she loves this swaying, unsteady place and, to make things harder on herself, she loves to stand on tippy-toe!






But honestly, the theme that keeps pushing its way to the forefront for me is the very many ways in which Snowdrop expresses joy. Her smiles and giggles vary, of course and they're all beautiful.






And that's just our morning. Because on this day, if it's Tuesday,  we must spend some time at the farmhouse.

The rains have receded for a little while...






...and so I go over with Snowdrop to meet the new hens. Ed is delighted that the young girls do not, for the most part, shy away from being petted!






The egg isn't hers, it's Butter's, but still, this is a photo of a man who loves his friendly cheepers.


Snowdrop is equally photogenic at the farmhouse, but I'm concentrating on play over picture taking and so you get just this one, which tracks its own theme:






Late in the afternoon, I swing back to Snowdrop's home, where stroller walks are easier, especially when there's still the possibility of rain (there are many places to run and hide in the city). We head out.






She's different today. Perhaps because it's just me and she doesn't hear the voices she is so used to hearing from behind the stroller. She keeps straining her head to see if I am still there and then she smiles her radiant smile when she is reassured. We do this maybe two, three dozen times.






Back at her house, she is still chipper, still happy, though a tad more serious.






And then, I hear the garage door open and I know the parents are coming home and I tell her this and she is coy: she crawls to the sound of her mommy's voice, not sure, not sure... and then she sees her mommy and all's right with the world again.





And it is for me all right as well, because if there is one goal that I have in my hours with Snowdrop, it's not that she should learn X or Y, or that she should eat all her fruits and veggies (though the latter is surely important), but that she will remember the important things in life. She is a smart girl: she gets it. In that image, she lets me know that she gets it.


At the farmette, the rains have receded. It's late, but nonetheless, I plant 60 bulbs that we purchased last Saturday. I think about spring each time I push a bulb six inched into the earth -- wow, spring. A long time away.

And maybe that's a good thing.