leisure

Ever since my granddaughter was born, I have become incapable of doing nothing. Even when I am not spending time with her, I believe I should be productive in some fashion -- a feeling I haven't had since I was employed.

But I am reconsidering my position on this right now. Let's start with this weekend: if I have two days before me, maybe I should take one of them, pack in all that must be done by virtue of the fact that we live on a planet that spins and a day turns into night and then night into a day and then, with the other day -- do nothing?

Or, better yet, go adventuring with Ed?

When it became clear that tomorrow's weather will be superb, I floated the idea to Ed that we should seize it and head out.

We talked about it over breakfast...






... and neither of us put forth a plan that grabbed the other, leading Ed to finally say -- think of something, or else we'll wind up getting some more chickens, or worse -- a goat!

He is correct. We tend to live dangerously in that way.

But if we are to go exploring tomorrow (as if we haven't checked out every path available to the public for miles and miles!) then today must be chock full of tasks that must be done.  Groceries. Bills. And yes, taxes, so that I would stop receiving cajoling messages from Turbo Tax begging me to take them on as a partner in that annual ritual of filling out forms you never really fully embrace or understand. Good bye trusty pencil and eraser, hello clicking your way through the dark hell hole that is the land of tax regulations.

And so you get (almost) no photos. I sat at the kitchen table and admired the cheepers for parading by the farmhouse on a rather cool day...






... but I didn't go out, didn't do yard work, didn't look for emergent greens -- I just worked.

(Wait -- all is not lost!  Can I interest you in some kitchen table flowers?)





Now, let's see if tomorrow will bring us a pleasant walk, or, in the alternative -- a goat.

Thursday

Sunshine again! Oh, maybe not a sky to brag about -- there are a few clouds which, inevitably, will multiply, but still -- sunshine in any doses is a welcome February friend.

Breakfast touched by its bright warmth.






The rest of the day is completely devoted to Snowdrop. Parental schedules are such that I am with her from early 'til late and then not at all the next two days and so there you have it -- a few enduring images of the little girl.

After breakfast, there's always time for pajama play.






And after a bath, she gets an automatic hair dry from the back and forth running. Typically she clutches a toy, indeed many toys, but this one time, she let the spirit of the run carry her along, empty handed and free...






When I sit down to check my computer, she likes to climb up and look at any photos I may have of her, of the farmette.






But hands down, the easiest way to get that chuckle to roll right out of her belly is to put on music and jump to its rhythm.






When she (and grandma!) needs a pause from active play, I bundle her against the wind and once again we go to the lake to watch the ice boats.






(Even as I aim my camera toward our downtown -- it always looks pretty to me and never more so than on a day where the sky is patterned with layers of blue and gray and everything in between.)






In the afternoon, I take her down to the Children's Museum, where I meet my good friend who is on her last day in Madison. Snowdrop has been here numerous times with her parents. Here, she greets the big sheep on the block.






The shoes I grabbed off the shelf at home for her? Worthless for the job of running every which way. No matter. They don't last.






Snowdrop is thrilled to have another person respond quickly to her outstretched arms. Here, my friend is showing her how wooden birds zigzag down wooden poles.






And the day comes to a close. Time for me to go home. I'll leave you with the very last photo I took of the little one today. Back home, playing "sounds" with me. (I say ffffff she says something resembling said letter.)






I drive home smiling. And I should say that this is not unusual. A day well spent -- there's that. But also, the drive home is just so beautiful! Here are two cranes,  playing at sunset just at the edge of the farmette.






Splendid day. Really splendid.

Wednesday

Hearts aren't just for Valentines, tulips are just for spring. Sleep doesn't come just at night and sometimes at night, wakefulness creeps in and sleep is lost somewhere in the quiet hours before sunrise. In other words, rhythms and events aren't set in stone and the predictable is never really fully predictable.

Even though our breakfast is somewhat predictable. (Thank you, NYTimes, for recognizing what I keep emphasizing here on Ocean: eating breakfast together is fantastically simple and immensely rewarding.)






After breakfast, I am with Snowdrop. I dress her in her heart dress (everyday is February 14th!) and she runs around in it as if she were in competition for the fastest toddler this side of the Mississippi. Telling her to slow down only makes her speed up, not because she is contrary but because a snail's pace comes only when she is tired. The hours of the morning are not typically (that word!) her tired time.

Straight out of the tub:






Caught in the act of running:






But both of us have a wistful pull toward the outdoors. She may be thinking of a stroller ride. Maybe even of the coffee shop.






Let's try something else this morning: a walk toward the lake, where there is, this week, an international ice boat competition.






February days aren't always good days for ice racing -- on the first day of the competition there was absolutely no wind.

Well, this day delivered! The gusts are so strong that Snowdrop and I do not linger. Enough to catch a boat zipping past the skyline...





... and then I spin the stroller around and head home.

But just because it was too cold in the morning to continue a walk doesn't mean that we shouldn't go out again come late afternoon. I see it in Snowdrop's face -- that restlessness, that desire to explore (or am I projecting?). And I see the smile as I take out her snowsuit and cap again. She gets into position right away, I zip her in and we're off, trying to move away from a lake that is windblown and probably a good dozen degrees chillier than the neighborhood blocks.

Just because it's this, doesn't mean it has to be that. It's an interesting thought to carry with you during an ordinary day that actually doesn't feel very ordinary at all.

Tuesday

In recent days, I've been reading a book to Snowdrop called Yoo-hoo, Ladybug, where the goal is to find on each page the elusive polka-dotted bug. Picture a Waldo-like experience, only for a toddler set of eyes.

As I tried to imagine how she sees the page, it struck me that we all approach an image with a different focus. Take this morning's breakfast photo.





For many of you, it's a fast forward: same old stuff. Someone once commented that Ed eating oatmeal is as ordinary as life gets, never mind that at the time, Ed almost never ate oatmeal. For me, of course, there's the magic of the entirety (every day a beautiful beginning...), and then there is the color of the berries, the flowers, the Polish red rooster -- so important for tired-with-February eyes! On some days I look at the photo and think -- my but that orchid never gives up! On other days I'm amused -- I sure do zip through a jar of honey quickly enough.

For Snowdrop, a page in the ladybug book is as rich as can be: it has now recognizable characters -- there's a penguin in there, of all things! And it has new elements that she has yet to discover. For another kid -- eh, it's all in the search. Once the bug is identified, it becomes like Ed eating oatmeal (no, no, no, dear child -- look again! There's so much you're letting fly by you! It's not just about the ladybug!).

The different eyes, different perceptions thing -- it's not only in the visuals that accost us. This morning, for example, I felt compelled to flag for Ed the story in the NYTimes about how society pays for when women's work is unpaid. (This one here, in case you're curious.) He said -- yes, I know, I read it. I've said before how keeping women out of the workplace is a terribly wasteful way to proceed.
That's not the point, or at least not the only point! -- I retorted, reminding him that at the moment, a great bulk of my waking hours are spent on unpaid work (and this would be true even if I didn't choose to be with Snowdrop). I saw in the article the recognition that devaluing certain work, typically woman's work, hurts the relationships that emerge. For a guy like Ed who has functioned in a world of machinist men (almost exclusively men) all his life, this would not strike him as particularly important.

Same article, different ideas flew out at us.

And so when I finally make my way to Snowdrop's, I keep coming back to this idea -- how does she think about her world? What does she get out of reading a book five times in a row? How solid are her images? Do they change in the course of a week? A day?

Here she is, greeting me with a run and a grin.






There happen to be balloons in her home. I "hide" behind them. She dances and giggles and "finds" me behind the strings.






A romp usually does tire her out eventually and I suggest a walk. She clutches her cap and happily trots to her snowsuit.






We stop at the usual cafe. Perhaps it's a mistake to pop into this shop on so many of our walks, but on February days, it's such a welcome warm-up place. And it's an opportunity for me to make her more aware of the concepts of calm. Of being patient. Of waiting. Of being properly responsive to the demands of a different environment.

I don't bother with the high chair today and she sits for a whole three minutes, happy with the few crumbs of scone I allot to her. She doesn't want to explore -- I'm thinking I chose shoes that are already too tight for her, though though that's just a guess -- but she takes in everything. In her own way -- a way that I cannot fully understand.






And that's okay. So long as we understand that someone comes into the picture with a different perspective. You may like the hidden ladybug. Someone may prefer marveling at the different and unique images on the same canvas.

small steps

If occasionally big events, fabulous visits, or grandiose plunges into real estate purchases pop into the Ocean story, I have to remind myself (and you) that these are rarities. A move forward most often happens through incremental steps we take every day. It's not unlike Snowdrop's walking (or, more often running these days): there was the big event of her first baby steps and then, through stumbles and slips and gradual balancing acts and mastering of slippery surfaces, she progressed to where she is today. We applaud that first set of steps, even as it's the daily grind of forwards and backs that gets her to a new level of independence.

So, too, with the weather. I'm thrilled with those brilliant days of sunshine and warm breezes, but here, the coming of spring is really an incremental thing, with several steps forward and the not uncommon stalled moments, with the inevitable drab gray skies, the brown earth, the bare branches.

But it's warm enough for me to begin the clearing of the land and so soon after breakfast...






... I take a little time to start picking up the ghastly pods that litter the flower beds (is it a honey locust? I'm not sure...). And in bending down, I see, of course, that there is emergent green. Yes, even in February.






I don't stay out for long. You don't want to clear the yard too much yet. There'll be the heaving -- warm followed by cold -- and, too, there will be better days for outdoor work. Still, it's a good start into the long process of getting the yard ready for spring. Baby steps.

And of course, speaking of baby steps, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse today. She is in a more serious mood...






... but I do coax her to go out with me. And again she is reluctant to romp in her boots, though she holds the bread for the cheepers and watches them with some curiosity as they rush toward us.






It's only when the big guy comes down to give her a boost and a poke that her face relaxes...






Does anyone ever have picnics at the picnic table?






Inside again, she picks up speed...






... though mostly she is in her asking mode: with an inquisitive eh? and a point of the finger, she goes from item to item (all this from my hip of course), asking in her own toddler way the what and the whys of life. Why is my jacket hanging there? What are these spices? Why does the light go on? Eh? Eh? Eh?

In the afternoon, during her lunch hour, Ed comes into the kitchen and offers her a pickle. Perhaps because he lets her do the unthinkable -- mess with his computer keyboard, never growing impatient, correcting her disasters after she moves on -- she believes him to be on her side.  And so she loves the pickle! (Or maybe it's in her genes?)








And she loves "stealing" his tray after he's done with his lunch of reheated Thai.






Later, as I drive her home, we pop into the local library -- I need to do some returns and to pick up a few videos (no, we do not subscribe to cable or Netflix; it's the library or rust). I want her to love the library and so I take great care to give her some freedom to explore.

She does just that.











Small steps toward learning, small steps toward spring. And a big fat moon in the sky today -- the Snow Moon, though for us there is little snow left on the ground.

farmette Sunday

Yesterday, Snowdrop's music teacher talked abut the importance of repetition. For kids, for adults as well. Ah, yes -- don't I know it!

They're standard images, these photos of Snowdrop's visit this weekend. It could be any grandparents, living on a rural road with a couple of chickens who wander around and often mess up the pathway leading to the farmhouse door. Images that repeat themselves here and the world over.

And yet, for me, each day is so different! Snowdrop is growing fast and she has her moods, too. She can be tired, she can be cutting edge funny or intensely focused. And the weather, of course -- it's been so mixed. It's spring, it's not spring, it's calm, it's windy, it's yukky it's drop dead gorgeous.

So many moments whiz by -- most do not get a photo of course, but those that do are somehow, to me, representative of a state of affairs. They're here exactly because they're not unusual. They stand, in my eyes, for the typical. Yes, it is like that. It's exactly like that! And aspects of it will recur even as so much will change!


Snowdrop once again wakes up just a short while after me. I have a few minutes to let the cheepers out, to shower, to tidy, to start in on breakfast and then her chatting in her bed becomes more forceful and I go up to get her (and to nudge Ed to prepare himself for breakfast, because I can't stall the girl much).

She and Ed eat a breakfast that is truly local. Oh, the fruits come from someplace sunny and warm, but the eggs are yesterday's, from Butter and Scotch and the jam is a grape thing that Ed made from the grapes that hang down the sheep shed walls. She loves the eggs, loves the jammy toast, loves eating what we eat.






Again, this is not unusual, it's not unique, but in its predictability lies its charm.






It's colder today, though still above freezing. I'll take it!

After some play minutes knocking around with Ed...






... she has her bath and as she busies herself, I review the possible adventures we could fit in this morning.






Most often, these are her patient hours. Not hungry, not tired, ready for whatever comes her way.






Well, more or less ready. Let's just say the outdoors is still a bit mysterious to her. She likes the chickens, but you can't build a whole playtime out of watching hens eat a bread slice.






I sling her on my hip again and we walk the land. I show her a great spot among the fir trees for a hide and seek game, but she is not fully convinced. We'll try again when it's warmer.

Inside, I do play with a self-timed photo. She surely is used to those and she quite loves looking at the result immediately after.






If the outdoors doesn't really pull at us today, going out adventuring surely does. You would laugh at what rises to the level of adventuring: a trip to the grocery store to pick up more milk and then a trip to Paul's Cafe to restock our supply of pickles and to pick up a muffin for Ed. Snowdrop does quite love this place. It's vast and there are plenty of places to explore...






... and honestly, from her (and mine) perspective, life doesn't get a whole lot better than a sweet crumb, the smell of pickles and constant people watching opportunities.






Her parents pick Snowdrop up late in the late afternoon. I'll end her weekend here with one last flip by grandpa Ed...






... and one last jiggle on grandma's lap (this photo is by Ed).






And then it grows oddly quiet at the farmhouse and life returns to its own sweet ordinariness -- though not for long: tomorrow is Monday and if it's Monday...


But wait. The day has a few more hours after all. My good good friend is in town and this evening we eke out some hours together over a ginger beer.






Later, at home, Ed and I pop a movie into the DVD player. I don't have to remind him to turn the volume down. No one is sleeping upstairs. The monitor is turned off.

Still, a pair of pink boots stands waiting. Until tomorrow.