Thursday

You could say that Ed and I are spinning in wildly different orbits right now. He has machine design projects that are reaching a crescendo, keeping him up at nights and excited during the days. I am on a much more even keel. I am not running. I am moving ahead slowly. Nor am I up at nights!

And yet, even as we are at such disparate levels of intensity, following paths that seemingly do not converge, we are not at all out of touch with each others worlds. He plays with Snowdrop. I listen to his remarkable work stories. We are sailing the same ship, even if, to an outsider, it may seem otherwise.

Breakfast, such as it is for him, wonderfully predictable for me...






And shortly after the noon hour, I bring Snowdrop to the farmhouse.

She notes the flowers...





And then she hurries off and I have no idea why or where.

Within minutes it's clear: she's heading toward the tomato patch -- the one place where mosquitoes are holding their own.

Quick, little one. Let's pick and run!

(Well, she picks and lingers, but we run shortly after.)






At the farmhouse, she does what she nearly always does now when she comes in straight from school: she takes out the Snowdrop in Paris book and shares it with her animal friends. ("Pars!" she'll say with quite a bit of intensity.)






And then she wants to play with ah-ah. Mind you, he's one tired guy, so he tries to convince her that he can throw her the stuffies from a sitting down position.

No way. She pulls him up by the hand.






She is a little wound up after school...






But they do their penguin toss...






And eventually she scores what looks to be a catch.





She really does need her nap after her intense morning, but one has to proceed slowly. It's better if I first give her time to release.


In the late afternoon, Ed and I take her to our local farmers market, with promises of cheese acquisition. "Buy cheese!" -- she proclaims excitedly.

(A girl with a cheese curd.)






Ed hangs onto her as she rides the big cow...






... and then we're home and it's time to make pizza for supper and this excites Snowdrop no end because finally, finally she gets to eat tomato sauce in great quantities, straight from the bowl, pizza be damned.






Well, not totally be damned because she does love this pie of our own concoction. She eats every last  bit of it, fork, hand, however she can stuff it in...


 


...and, because she's here and we love her to pieces, she gets a dessert of strawberry ice cream with our garden rhubarb sauce. Heaven!

Wednesday

The rain came down. All night, most of the morning, into the day -- rain, at times loud, at times as if receding, then loud again.

The flowers drooped. (Double cosmos in the front bed.)





Some seemed to take it in stride.





Ed sweetly did coop duty in the morning. I predictably did breakfast preparation later, much later.






When I picked up Snowdrop at school, I told her to hurry toward the gaga car before the next drenching rain. She already had had outdoor play in the puddles (I'm told by the teachers), which honestly sounds so incredibly fun that I wish I had been there just to watch. (I'm carrying a sack of very wet clothing -- evidence of her outdoor shenanigans.)





At home, she wants music.

I notice that she is getting creative with her movements!






(A ball comes into play here. Head up, steps backwards -- it doesn't take long for her to collide with one thing or another, but after a brief period of recovery, she goes right back to it.)






On the other hand, when I engage in my own version of creative movement, she looks rather shocked. As in -- really, gaga? You sure that's within the range of normal?






She returns to her own movements...






And then gathers all her friends just to watch -- at which point I know she has had a very long day and needs a nap.






In the late afternoon we play picnic.






A lively version of it. She climbs. On the table.






And on the various couches and cushions.






Her wiggly small form is such a forceful reminder that we all start out free, unencumbered by the weight of what the world wants from us. She's in that free phase still. Happiest if I flip her up and around, as if she were a wet piece of laundry to hang dry. Again! -- she'll shout. One last time -- I'll retort. Again!-- she'll plead, holding up one finger. One, again! Of course, one again it will be.

Tuesday

We have  a large number of humming birds passing through the farmette each day. I remember years when I'd run with my camera just to catch their crazy dance by a flower head. Not any more. They are as common as the white butterfly you see out in the meadows. Both are pretty, but their repeat presence makes you smile and move on. Is it my idleness or is that we are always in search of the unusual?

Must be idleness, because there is nothing unusual about this photo!





Of course, Ed is easier to photograph than a butterfly or a bird. But, too, though each morning photo looks like yesterday's and the one before that, and each bowl of fruit awfully resembles the other bowls of fruit you've seen here, the feel of those few minutes is never the same, never mundane, never boring.



Early in the morning I water the pots of flowers and I think how much the annuals I stick in there love the beginning and the tail end of summer. The purples haven't looked this vibrant since May!






I water the new front bed too, because it's been a while since there'd been rain and the roots are young and not yet strong. And again, the beauty of the lavender, deeply purple, wins me over.






(And of course, the minute I put down the hose, the National Service issues a severe weather bulletin for tonight: heavy rain, coming out way.)

It is a warm day. Warm enough for the AC to come back on (we set it at 75). Warm enough that when I bring Snowdrop here from school, I only stay out with her for a handful of minutes.






Of course, the cheepers are excited to see her arrive.

 Scotch, she doesn't have anything for you...






We don't believe you...
It's true. She's admiring the flowers, that's all.
Flowers? Is she eating them? Should we eat them?






Cheepers, you're hopeless. But pretty in your own spoiled way. Alright, wait here, I'll get you some bread.






Meanwhile, Snowdrop runs off with her own piece of bread. (Well she might: when Scotch sees her holding bread she looks for opportunities to snatch it away.)






And she practices walking backwards with it. (It's very hard to photograph the act of someone walking backwards.)







Inside again, she wants to play with ah-ah (grandpa Ed). He tosses her the moose she's had since early infancy. She catches it. He's very impressed! They do this again and again and of course she gets better at it, much to her own delight.






After her nap, I tell her it's time to bake some cookies for ah-ah. Our trips to the coffee shop have dwindled and there isn't a grocery store oatmeal raisin cookie that he likes.
Ed, 1140 people reviewed this recipe online and it gets a rousing 5 stars. If you kvetch, you'll be going against a tsunami of approval. (Ed is very fussy about his cookies.)


Put on the aprons and get to work.

(I should note that she is a pro at this: not only has she baked before at the farmhouse, but, too, she's mixed up cookie dough at home.)

 She knows her ingredients. Egg! She tells me and proceeds to put it (all of it) into the batter.
I explain we have to crack it open first. She's agreeable. I dump it into the little cup, she dumps it into the batter.







I use the handmixer. We move it around together. (Ed takes a picture.)






Happy? Yes.






When the cookies are baked, she is delighted. (As is Ed: delicious, he tells us.)  Snowdrop likes the cookie, yes, but, too, she loves the fact that I've eliminated her high chair tray and pulled her up to the grown up table.






That, and drinking from her big girl cups: her happiness runneth over. (As do dribbles of milk and water.)






And then there is a brief cloudburst, followed by a hot blue sky and I wonder if there might be a rainbow. We'd talked about rainbows, read about rainbows, sang songs about rainbows, but they seemed rather imaginary. Sort of like sheep in a jeep and cats that get their shoes wet.

But in fact, today there was a rainbow.






I don't know that she recognizes it. Maybe she does. I do.

Labor Day

I set a task for myself: today I'll provide balance to my recent run of purchases. [Through Pani Karolina, I have been acquiring all the necessities for my Warsaw apartment. Though I've kept it to a minimum -- one pot, one frying pan, one set of sheets, etc -- nonetheless, I've felt very consummerish lately.]  I'll clean out, delete, flush out, get rid of stuff here at the farmhouse.

And after breakfast...


 


...that's exactly what I do. I reduce my supply of books yet again, by at least a third, I eliminate most anything I haven't worn recently, and I empty a year's worth of photos from my photoshop folder. (Okay, that's sort of a cheat as it takes no room to store stuff on a computer, except I'm straining the capacity on my very ancient MacBook, so this is not an insignificant endeavor!)

It feels grand. It always feels grand to downsize, to minimize, to declutter your environment. Indeed, I want to do even more, but I think I'm getting a little bit reckless and besides, there is dinner to prepare.

But first, we haul bags and crates of stuff to Goodwill. Uff!

Everything around me now feels lighter and brighter, even though I am sure it's more in my mind. Ed points out -- you hardly made a dent, to which I retort -- maybe you could get rid of some of the moldy road maps from the  1960s in the basement, even though I know I'm going to get something like -- they're of historic value! from him, and I do.

The younger family comes for a Labor Day cook out and I cheat heavily, because I cook the chicken brats and the corn indoors (easier!). I'm hoping they won't notice. Snowdrop usually distracts us from such details.

(Here, she devours my predinner snack of roasted beets...)






(A moment of respite for the mom...)






Finally, dinner. Lovely, calm, beloved by Snowdrop. Chicken brats? yes!! corn? yes!! garden tomatoes? yes!!)






Strawberry ice cream? Yes!!






I can do this!!
(A flurry of polka dots!))





Yes you can.

The Labor Day weekend draws to a close. Oh, but it was such a good weekend!

Sunday

Kindness deserves a reciprocal kindness. Reward for reward. A good act for someone elses generous impulse.

These are my thoughts as I go out in the near dark to chase the cheepers into the coop. It's Ed's task, but he did me the favor of opening the coop in the morning (far easier, though with the downside of having to be up before you want to be up) and so I offered to be the one to shut the cheepers up for the night.

Java, the big black hen, is always in the coop by nightfall. The rest? Sprinkled around, high in trees, dozing, but not asleep.

I can't reach you, you dumb hens! Can't you come down a bit???

Eventually I get them inside and I latch the latches and I think -- you are one pampered set of cheepers!

You'll know from this story that I was not the one to open the coop this morning. I thought about it, worried about it, woke up for it, but then, miraculously, Ed took on the task and I stayed in bed until 10:30 in the morning, which is possibly the latest I have stayed under covers since I had the flu forty plus years ago in grade school.

Hey Ed, are you ready for breakfast?  -- I ask at an hour that dangerously threatens to put us into the afternoon.






Morning flowers to admire? Annuals!






I do a quick run to Snowdrop's home after. It's a pick up/drop off kind of trip, but it does give me a few minutes with the little one.

She is in an intense mood.






Dreamy at times...






Ultimately, as always, playful.






I tell her -- your mommy is cooking lunch for you. She's off!






Are my cheese tortellini bathed in pesto sauce ready yet?






Lunch over, energy level restored.






Totally.






And now I'm back at the farmette, assessing what work I need to do once the mosquitoes disappears, taking mental notes, liking this, wanting to adjust that., appreciating the totality...






In the late, late afternoon, Ed and I admit to each other that we are lazy. Or at least that we can be lax. Or perhaps that we are slow to move on something.

We had promised each other that we would hike today, but as the hours pass, our reluctance to set out becomes obvious. In the end, rather than giving in to our slothlike inclinations, we set out for the county park that's just five minutes down the road from us.

It's buggy out there! We are amazed that there could be a place that has a higher concentration of mosquitoes than that at the farmette, but there you have it -- the park trumps us in this regard!

But here's something new: the small silo (standing at the entrance to the park) has been completely revamped. There is now a set of steps inside and you can climb up to catch the view.






And it is a wonderful and bug free view. The golden prairie below takes your breath away!






And this recalls an idea Ed has had for a while: might not we be able to convert our tall, really tall silo to an observation deck?

Ed studies the construction.





I could do this... he mumbles.

I know those words. It does not necessarily mean "I will do this" and it certainly does not mean "I will embark on this project in the near future."  Many of our crazy ideas have come and disappeared. But others have hatched and come to fruition.

Time will tell if some day we will have an observation deck at the top of the farmette's old silo. Right now, we've simply shifted this project a little. From the "wild and crazy" to the "I can do this."


Our walk in the park is brisk. Before the breeze kicks in, the mosquitoes are dancing! We walk as if in training for a marathon.






And it is a beautiful walk, full of prairie flowers and swooping swallows. (This is the place where we most often ski if there's snow. I cross my fingers for that event. We've had pretty tame snows last year and the year before. It would surely be nice to have a solid snow cover this coming winter.)






(Prairie flowers and forest trails -- is there a better balm for our stress filled life styles?)






Dinner is late. And that's just fine. It simply means that we were lost in projects and adventures. Big or small, projects and adventures keep us alert to the possibilities. And that's such a good thing!