Monday

A bright summer day. That description really fits the bill. The sky is blue, the colors are intense. The bugs retreated for a while, the humidity dipped -- all this and flowers too!



 


(Unusual: a double lily!)






(The bed that almost never appears on Ocean: the one lining the driveway.)






(A look toward the sheep shed, with that intense look of midsummer.)






(Last year's new bed, getting a lot of traction here on Ocean, because I'm watching closely its beautiful development.)






Breakfast. Wonderful in every way.






It's Monday and Snowdrop spends a full day at the farmhouse. Or, rather, at the farmette. Once she arrives, there's no keeping her indoors. Not for long, anyway. When I ask her -- want to pick blueberries? -- she torpedoes herself to the door, pushing mightily on the handle to let us out.

(Here she is, munching from the cup which itself has blueberries on it.)











We go to the tomato patch. She's familiar with it and she is excited by the fact that we can finally pick a tomato for her to taste. (Wouldn't you love a sun warmed small tomato right off the bush?)






Yes, there are a few minutes indoors. For those favorite upside down swings with ah-ah-eh (that would be grandpa Ed)...






... and always, always, a few precious moments with books, and with penguin, and with a book read to penguin...






But when I ask her if she would help me water the pots outside, she's right on it!

(Even though it's not an easy watering can to handle.)






(I need more water, grandma!)






And suddenly, I am reminded of something. I do not pretend to do things here that follow in the noble path of the Impressionist painters. But looking over the photos from today, I have to smile at the similarities.






(Isn't it just a tiny bit in line with Monet's "Garden at Vetheuil?")

And this one:






Didn't it for a minute recall for you another impression, this one by Renoir?

It's not that I have here, at the farmette, anything that is special, or unusual, or worthy of a canvas. The greater truth is that we all do this stuff: we grow flowers and delight in seeing our toddler lift up a watering can, and yes, great artists have painted it and us lesser beings simply live it -- the canvases of life's happiest moments.


So yes, terrible things take place daily. But those of us lucky enough to escape the horror, we almost have a duty to recognize our brilliant everyday. The flowers. The child with the watering can. The smiles that are around us, even in trying times.







I do. You do too, I know that. And I am delighted and grateful for your comments that tell me so.

Sunday

On this very hot and muggy day, something pushed Ed and me to do the unpleasant, the unthinkable, the totally wrong for the day job of farmette maintenance.

Rototilling the courtyard. Clipping dozens and dozens of spent lily blooms.Weeding the out of control strawberry patch. (Let's call it the former strawberry patch, because I have to reimagine that space next year; all those berry plants simply support the tastes and habits of the groundhogs and chipmunks. No more! Next year, there'll be flowers. Of the kind that appeal to no animal that passes through this way. Divided day lilies come to mind.)

More: after a rather toasty breakfast (did I mention it's a hot day?)...





(with a cool view toward the side beds...)





... Ed turns all soft and amenable to doing things I've wanted to do for a long time now: trim some of the big limbs from ancient old trees that are overhanging the large flower bed. He takes out his power saw and we get to work.

By now we're completely drenched. I've chased off scores of insects and still we continue. But at the grape trellis, we finally slow down. Our vines are nearly ruined by an invasion of beetles. Ed's discouraged. I vow to come back and work here on a cooler day, though I doubt we'll have a spectacular grape harvest. For now, we do some mild weeding and, too, some mowing around the new roadside flower bed and then we turn to the wonderful, blissful, without doubt most heavenly of  all possible diversions -- we take turns standing under a cold shower to wipe away the grime, sweat, and slapped down bugs. Sublime.


So the garden looks pretty okay again. Let me post a few photos. The entirety, that's so important to me:











And today, I'll break out of my general reluctance to make art out of individual blooms. Macro photography (super closeups of individual flowers) is not really my favorite thing, but right now, the most spectacular lilies are in their final chorus and somehow I feel compelled to make an exception -- to recognize their infinite beauty, down to the very last vein. Here are three close ups, just because I want to remember this moment in their brief performance.









And one more, with just a little distance:






And now I really will expect no more grandness from the flower fields. I'll be satisfied to watch it do the gentle retreat.

Even as today, there is no indication of a retreat.






Late afternoon. It's still hot. This is the time where I love sitting behind Ed on his motorcycle. We take it over to the nearby corn farm, where the earnest family of farmers has just finished picking a batch of bi-colored corn. And I think  -- we're so very fortunate.  Corn that will be cooked minutes after picking. Inexpensive, delicious. Remarkably delicious. Just ask Snowdrop.

And speaking of the little one, in the evening the young family is here for dinner. They vote for a meal indoors. Who can blame them? The humidity is so high that each time I step out with my camera, the lens fogs over.

Snowdrop is very happy to have her daddy home again (he'd been away for a few days).






She's also pleased to eat her share of predinner snacks -- carrots and roasted beets for her.






And she is delighted that ah ah eh is willing to play with her the game of "toss the stuffies."






We eat. Yes, corn is on our plates, to Snowdrop's delight.






An after dinner walk...






End of a weekend. I'm already looking ahead to the week before us. That is, of course, tomorrow's story. A good story, I hope: for you, for all of us.

stormy day

Well, it's a good thing that I was the one letting cheepers out at dawn. This would be, in the end, the best and perhaps the only time when I could find peace and not a small amount of delight outdoors.






Though even then, the bugs were there to tease and taunt me. I went in, went out, hurried in, caught my breath, went out again, back and forth quite a number of times.






I did some garden repair work telling myself that I shouldn't give up on that too soon.






After all, so much in the flower fields is spectacular and in fact, arguably at its strongest and finest.






Oh, but those bugs!

And it is a hot and humid day so that I almost take our breakfast indoors. Almost.






(Looking in toward the porch.)






After the porch break, I do some idle computer work and then the storms come again and it is a done deal: I will spend the rest of the day indoors.

It really is quite amazing how strong and rooted most of the trees are: the winds gust fiercely, whipping the heavy limbs about, but in the end they fail to uproot much of anything (though we surely have fallen limbs to clean up on a better weather day).


In the evening, Snowdrop and her mom come over for a light spaghetti supper and that is of course delightful. (An infusion of joy!)...






... even as the thunder comes and goes and comes back again, giving the impression that it is settling in for a rather lengthy visit -- uninvited, unwanted, but there you have it: thundering away and causing everyone to scurry indoors.

The little girl helps me cook (tasting her way through the preparations)...






And she engages ah-ah-eh in a game of throw the penguin back and forth...






And it is, in the end, the weather to the contrary, a very joyous evening.





So where are we with our seasons? Heavily into summer, no? Or maybe just a tad further along than that?

It's hard to believe that just a few months ago I was celebrating the coming of spring...

Friday

I posted early yesterday, fearing that the powerful storms that were about to push through here would take away our electricity.

In fact, our power lines and internet service remained in place, but driving out later with Ed and a visiting colleague to get something to eat, we saw why flash flood warnings were blaring everywhere. Most of the dips in the roads were completely submerged and the rushing waters were frightening enough that several times we turned back and found alternate routing.

Never did a trip to get pizza take so long. Moral of the story: next time make your own pie.

Most of the day lilies looked unscathed and unbothered this morning, though a number of other tall flowers were barely hanging in there. But my attitude toward my flower beds changes right about now: I no longer look for perfection.

(Well, I still trim and pamper the really showy day lilies.)





The storm pushed the garden into a retreating mode. It's slowing down and turning the corner, as if it's beginning to ready itself for the next season.

Or maybe it's that I have turned the corner. Working outside is less fun in the steamy hot days we've had lately and, too, there are the bugs. Righting fallen stalks was an occasional thing before, but now there are a number that bend this way and that. I don't want to bother picking them all up. A late summer garden isn't about perfect posturing. I learned that in Giverny -- it's about maintaining a balance, nothing more.

We do eat breakfast on the porch...






And I want to show here a view from it to the side. This part of the garden is too often neglected on Ocean. I think it offers some of the more serene vignettes at the farmette.






Shortly after, Snowdrop shows up. I have for her Pete the Cat -- a stuffie that is a character straight from some of her favorite books here at the farmhouse.






As I watch her play (including here, brushing the"teeth" of her favorite penguin), I am reminded that her bangs need a trim.






I bribe her with blueberries and get to it. Verdict: it always looks better a few days later...

We go out to feed the cheepers. Scotch is studying her dress carefully: is there something for me there? No? Hmmm...






You sure? Oh, go away, Scotch!
(Me, I notice the girl holding a flower petal, in a flowered dress, against a backdrop of flowers.)






Okay, cheepers -- Snowdrop and I are off!






... to the Arboretum.

There are many wonderful things that can be said about that vast expanse of greenery right in the  center of Madison, but from the point of view of a little girl, the allure is loud and clear -- there is space. To run. To take the lead and have me follow.






(Me, I can't help but notice, too, the flowers...)






(This would include the rose bushes -- the blooms are fading, but they still are there for her to gently touch. She knows well from the farmette gardens that you do not pick anything unless someone tells you it's okay.)






The Arboretum feels empty and this is good, though I think it makes it more of a solitary, contemplative outing. Still, Snowdrop is happy. I can tell.






It's a hot and muggy day and she is delighted when I suggest a trip to a coffee shop on our way back. We sip our cold beverages through our straws.






Back at the farmhouse, we eat lunch, she naps, her mom comes, I grocery shop  -- -- this is our Friday...

Outside, the warm colors of the garden make me reach for the camera one last time.





This is home.

Ed and I watch Brooklyn tonight -- a rerun for me  -- and I am again flooded with my own memories of being undecided as to where I should imagine my future.

Those are distant thoughts now. I have no doubt now what place, for me, is home.