Tuesday storms

When you retire and you live in the country, your attitude about winter storms changes considerably. A big snow is an adventure. So long as the furnace keeps churning out heat and the lights don't flicker, you throw an extra blanket down on the couch (for show as much as anything), cook up a pot of soup and watch the snowflakes fall.

Unless you're the babysitter for your granddaughter. Back comes the worry: will the roads be clear when I set out? When the young parents set out? Will I get home if they don't plow the rural road we live on right away?

And still, there is a slow motion to it. You are in control of your own time, after all. You can pace yourself. The element of wonder is not diminished.

And so when I wake up to see that the snow, predicted and yet unpredictable (no one can agree if there will be an inch or a foot of the new stuff by day's end), hadn't yet started, I feel just a touch of disappointment.

Never mind. I move the day forward. Breakfast. Just a touch hurried, because I luxuriate in the perfection of the morning too long (the orderly farmhouse, the warm shower, the coffee aromas -- these can't be rushed, until it's so late that they do have to be rushed). Look cheerful! I haven't time for anything else!






And then to Snowdrop's home.

Were I to pull out just a few favorite episodes from my time with her, surely I would have to say that this was the morning for peeking out...






... and hiding. Only to be found.






... which makes her laugh and laugh.






I'd also include what I would call the more thoughtful, contemplative moments.






... oftentimes with her stack of books.






In the late afternoon, I wondered if I would be struggling to get home, what with the snow and the winds, but what snow came down, fizzled to something drearily reminiscent of slush. They say we'll get more of the white stuff tonight, but I'm no longer holding my breath. The storm came and went and at least in Madison, left very little in its wake.

I'll leave you with a photo that ought to sport the title: "if I gave you one of these, would you be my friend?"






It's so cool to see that some will never give up trying to be nice.

Monday

Sometimes, on any given day, themes emerge -- both on Ocean and in the unfolding day. (Sometimes it takes Ocean writing to make me understand that all along there were hints of -- well, whatever the thematic element might be.)

Today, there was no ambiguity. I don't even have to spell it out, right? (Hint: it's positively golden!)

Here's my morning run to the cheepers:






It used to be that letting the hens out a little after 7 would allow me to witness a sunrise. Not anymore.






Breakfast -- in that room!






Of course, there's never just one thread -- there are at least a handful. For instance, today is Monday. A regular Ocean reader would likely remember that this often leads to an uptick in Snowdrop photos, just because she spends the day at the farmhouse and does (photographable) things that are specific to her visit here -- always just a little different than what she might do at home.






Too, there'll be a lot of Ed. He comes in and out of the farmhouse and, when he's in, she insists on a lift. In the next photo, she and I have just fed the cheepers chunks of bread. She hails a ride back to the house. (But do note that first theme as well!)






Sometimes we'll be playing and she hears the door open.






She has to investigate. And again she'll bum a ride. (Here, she caught him eating an orange. She gets a cut of a slice He complains that her pucker causes the juice to dribble. I laugh.)






Ed'll fix himself a lunch -- we're low on leftovers and so he defaults to peanut butter and jam. She is interested! I ask -- are we sure that peanut butter is safe for a toddler? Web says yes, in small amounts. It's hard to tell here if she loves the pb&j, or just the j, or equally likely -- sharing a bite of something, anything, with the big guy.






There are the usual vignettes too -- they could be here, they could come from her home, or even across the globe: the beg for a lift to see the world from way up high:






The concentrated "reading" -- flap books rank high right now.






The eating -- this time lunch. Beloved orange segments!






Oh, but let me go back to the first theme, that theme, you know, the one that made such an impression on me, on anyone who loves February sunshine. (There, I've spelled it out for you.) You can almost touch it!






Tantalizing when indoors, but of course, most evident outside. Here are two photos from our late afternoon walk, back in Snowdrop's neighborhood. Oh, that play of light on her face!






And finally, our skyline, by the lesser lake. The water is frozen enough for ice fishermen to set up camp (not many women out there), but it surely looks like the few days of warmth have left their mark.





I'll end with that. Tomorrow there may be storms, today, there was that gentle, beautiful February sunshine.

Sunday

It is a quiet day. Wet and quiet -- we wake up to rain. Not the kind that washes away all remaining snow...






...but the kind that forms water droplets on branches of trees.






We eat breakfast in the kitchen, just because. The house is freshly cleaned it seems a happy place to settle in for a morning meal.






The rest of the day? I'm at the kitchen table as well. The tulips keep me company. I read stuff on the computer about photography. (With a break for yoga. The tulips keep me company for that as well.)






I haven't done that -- read about photography -- for a while and if you do not pay attention, the world of camera technology moves in bold new directions and leaves you behind. (I have always been a reluctant learner of new technology and so I give myself time today. Okay, with another pause for coffee and cookie treats, which, I suppose, is the counter pose to yoga.)


By dusk, I focus on preparing supper.

The young family comes and the farmhouse is quiet no more.











What's for dinner, grandma?
Pasta with sun dried tomatoes, garlic and arugula. And parmiggiano reggiano.
Yum!!!!
























One last story for the night...






...and the little girl goes home and I tidy up and get ready for the week that's before us.

Saturday

Late Friday evening, Snowdrop returned to her home and Ed carried away the trapped possum. Butter, our white hen was pushed back into the coop and the door was locked tightly behind her. But we spotted a second possum hovering to the side and more importantly, Scotch was missing.

You looked all over the barn? I ask. It's easy to miss something in the dark. There's machinery, there are boards, wire netting, bales of hay.
With a flashlight. Nothing.
How about in the garage? She'd been hanging there earlier in the day.
Not there either.

I'm tired. I need to get some sleep. But I can't leave our girl vulnerable to the predator that seems still to be nearby. Reluctantly, I put on my jacket and stick a flashlight in my pocket.

I search the garage thoroughly. No, certainly not there. I turn toward the barn. It's a beautiful night and I take a moment to gaze up at the sky. The clouds have parted to reveal a brilliantly display of starlight. It's the kind of stuff you see in picture books but rarely in real life.

But in looking up, my gaze wanders to the big crab apple tree. There's something bunched and huddled high up in the branches. An animal waiting to pounce? I shine my flashlight.

It's Scotch.

Honestly, I'd never seen a chicken high up in the tree. I reach for her -- I have just enough stretch to get her down.

Look what I found in our crab apple!






So the girls are now safe in the coop. The trap is set for the second possum, but by morning, it stands empty. Ed thinks maybe he's run away.

I can't pretend to understand the life and habitat of wild beasts. I'm just glad our girls are safe. For now.


Saturday breakfast. A happy set of minutes.






That's almost a genuine smile! We're not rushed, there are bands of sunshine -- bliss!

I go out to say hi to the cheepers (and to make sure yesterday's visitor, the one who eluded us in the end, hasn't returned). They're buoyed by the warm temperatures (we're having an unusually warm day -- 40F/4C -- a rarity for January) and they even take a few steps out of the barn to catch the treat they know I always have for them.






It's a perfect day for a walk along the rural roads. Ed had been studying google maps and he thinks we may be able to veer off our favorite road and eventually come to a lake. It's called Hook's Lake. It looks quite big on the map.

This is not easy on a day where paths -- if there are any -- are covered by ice and snow. But we take a stab at following deer tracks leading off the road and sure enough, we find the lake.

Let's cross it and see where we end up.
Ed, how do you know it's frozen? I'm only a tiny bit worried. Our big lakes are frozen solid. This smaller body of water is probably solid ice to the bottom.
You'll be fine.
Wait, first a photo of me lying on the lake. You know, a parting shot...






He takes it, then walks forward. I look after him.
If it's so safe, how come there are absolutely no footprints on the entire lake?
No one comes here.
Not a single foot has stepped here? People may know something we don't.
Stay in my tracks. You'll be fine.






And of course, he's right. It still feels somehow precarious to be crossing a lake in this way, but I know the feeling of vulnerability is irrational.






Besides, once we move even further from civilization, we do come across prints. Plenty of them.






They're wild turkey \ foot prints and their patterns are nothing short of splendid.

In fact, it is an exhilarating walk, made all the more memorable because I know many, many weeks will pass before we have such fine weather again.


In the evening (after carting off a load of books that I'm donating to libraries and Goodwill), I spend some time thinking about books I had read and especially those that taught me stuff I hadn't quite grasped about human nature. Like great moments in travel, great reading experiences for me are those, where you say to yourself: this is new... it doesn't affirm anything I thought before. It creates a fresh image of the way people can be with each other. (The book I'm reading does that and I love it to pieces for it.)

It is one of those pleasantly pensive times, when deer romp through your yard, dusk sets in and you are at peace with the world.

Friday

How did that happen? How did the day start with sunshine...






...giving us a wonderful breakfast moment in the sun room...






...then, as if changing its mind, the skies turned gray. For a while.


And how did it happen that I bought six full bags of groceries today?

And why, after taking forever to unpack them, just as I'm leaving to go to Snowdrop's home, why do I see Scotch walking up the path to our farmhouse door? The cheepers never come this way during the winter. And I mean never.






I greet her, give her some bread, but it all seems wrong to me. Where is her buddy Butter?

I go down to the barn. Butter is agitated. She's pacing the barn. Like someone awaiting test results. Agitated.

What the hell's going on here?

I look inside the coop. Oh no!





A possum is inside, eating chicken feed.

I'm due at Snowdrop's. I can't be late. Scotch is by the house, Butter is pacing, Ed's at a tech meeting and the possum is firmly inside the coop. And I mean firmly. When I approach, thinking surely he'll scamper off, he hisses his sharp teeth at me.

Slam. I close and latch the coop door, trapping him inside. I don't know if this is a dumb move or a smart move, I haven't a clue as to what the possum might do to the cheepers, but I wanted a barrier between them and him and this is the fast way to accomplish this.


And then I play with Snowdrop. I put in calls to Ed with basically one message: help! I have no clue where to go from here.

I concentrate on Snowdrop.






We play, we read, we dance -- all of it.






She is to spend the evening with us at the farmette, and by late afternoon, I pack her into the car seat and we zip home. To a beautiful sky, with an almost setting sun. (There's that blue again!)






Ed is home now and he has borrowed a trap and stuck it inside the coop. Butter is still pacing. Scotch has no interest in going near the barn. Snowdrop and I feed her bread at the picnic table.












Unfortunately, the possum, possibly well stuffed with chicken feed, has no interest in going for the food in the trap. He has settled in the roost.

I don't think he'll ever leave!

And if he does, will the girls ever want to go back?

Snowdrop and I retreat to the farmhouse to prepare supper. I make the mistake of giving her a chunk of parmiggiano reggiano which I am grating for the asparagus. She loves it so much that, for the first time, I get a strong protest when I take it away from her. So she's at heart Italian. I'm okay with that.






We eat, she eats, she naps, we play. She revels in a piece of fig newton Ed breaks off for her.






And eventually, the young couple picks her up and she goes home.

As for the cheepers? Late into the evening, the possum is trapped and Ed takes him away. Is that the end of the siege? No. As Ed carries the intruder off, he sees the second possum emerge and hover near the entrance to the barn.

It's going to be a long night.