Monday

It is gratifying to see, in times when there are so many troubling world events all around us, that a little girl's smile can return, quickly and brilliantly!

Snowdrop is getting used to her new home.

It's me who is not getting used to leaving the garden alone! No more clipping indeed! This morning I cut 100 blooms out of the garden by the porch.

I want to dignify the garden's pre-autumnal subtle radiance! (Note how the annuals, to the left, are becoming the dominant force. They wont fade until the first frost, even after the lily fields will be long dormant.)






(A late variety of lily)






Hey, look who else is appearing cheerful today!






A few minutes after noon, I pick up the little one at school. The teachers tell me she is full of reports about moving to the yellow house.

Yes, she accepts the home change, even as she now understands that some things will not change. Including adventuring with Gaga after the school day ends.






She chooses the playground for our first stop.

If ever there is a barometer of her mood, it is in her facial expression once she starts swinging.






There is a three year old swinging next to her and out of the blue, Snowdrop tells her: I have a grandpa and he has a white beard! Clearly she is not shy about starting a conversation.






Yep, her ever-present smile is back.






After she is done swinging and climbing, we head for the pool. It's nearly empty today. The summer programs that had brought busloads of kids must have come to an end. A trickle of grandparents are there with grandchildren, a few small groups still come in, but the pool feels empty.






As the time comes for us to head home and I hustle her into the locker room to shower, she gets a tad boisterous and tries out a few hefty screeches to hear herself echo in the vast interior. We are alone there, but still, I don't like it and so I tell her to quiet down and after one last blast, she stops.

Quite coincidentally, a few minutes later, a group of nine or ten year olds comes in and they decide screeching is a fantastic thing to do. With a half dozen older girls, the noise is deafening. Snowdrop is terrified and I leap to confront them with a sharp "don't do that!" -- which of course is greeted with one other girl joining in, to lend support to the group scream.

I am suddenly the defender of a scared Snowdrop. I get to pretty close range and say rather loudly: "Stop right now!"

Somewhat taken aback, they stop.

And eventually a supervisor type person comes in and tells them (a bit late) not to scream and we all move on.

But Snowdrop doesn't move on. She asks me: what did you say to them?

And this is when it strikes me that I have never raised my voice at her, or around her, in the same way that I never raised my voice at my girls when they were growing up. For better or for worse, I've just never been a shouter.  (No pat on back here -- I can list many other things I would do differently on a rerun.) Though today I learn that I'm capable of a shout -- when my granddaughter is frightened. (Oh, the irony, that she herself let out a yelp just minutes ago... but hey, she is a two year old.) And so Snowdrop is taken aback.

I answer her -- I told them not to scream.
And then what did you say?
I told them to stop, just like I told you to stop. 
And what did the other lady say?
She also told them to stop.

She ponders all this for a long long while.


At the farmhouse, I ply her will all sorts of saved up treats. (When she was last here, I had run out of her favorites. I have restocked! Frozen yogurt bars! Watermelon!)










And nap time.

And after, it's a brief interlude before I take her home.

Are we going to my yellow house? -- she asks, seeking confirmation.
Yep.



Back at the farmette, I roll up the sleeves for some serious cooking. Oh, not serious in terms of quality. More in terms of quantity. I'm leaving on Wednesday and I always feel better about taking off if I have some ready meals for Ed in the fridge. This of course causes him to give me his most indulgent smile. As if he couldn't manage for weeks, nay, years without someone cooking up soups and stews!

Still, I have noticed over the years that he eats most everything I leave for him and this I know for sure: whatever I cook up will be significantly healthier than what he would have thrown together for himself.

adjustment

Sunday... Not every Sunday can be the same and yet, there's comfort in sameness, no? Why else would I post a photo of our breakfast each and every day here on Ocean?





Outside, I try to ignore their flowers. I know they could use some care. But I am due at the young family's new home. I'll be playing with Snowdrop while the unpacking continues.





And how is the little girl today?
Curious, concerned, accepting, serious. In other words, she is adjusting to her new digs.

What is this, Gaga?
It's a decoration on your front door. I think it's supposed to have the shape of a flower.





I had googled the closest playground to their house. 18 minutes by foot. Not bad. Snowdrop, let's explore!

As I follow my little map of twists and turns, down this block, up this narrow cut-through, I notice how quiet it is here. The young family lived close to downtown and you heard cars, trains, trucks, people all the time.

Snowdrop herself is totally serious.

I had purchased a kid book where the little guy moved from California to New Mexico and the change in topography was astonishing to him. I had scoffed at it for Snowdrop. She's moving within the same city. No such great changes for her!

I was wrong. Nothing about her new neighborhood feels the same. On our adventuring walks after school, we always stayed within the perimeter of her home and school. This world is not like the one she left behind. Spacious, serene, without the chaos of what she left behind. We may as well be in New Mexico.

We find the playground. Ah! A swing that she knows and loves! She stays in it for a good 15 minutes. She loves it, but she doesn't crack a smile.






The playground has other stuff that are her speed, including the spinning whirligig thingie that is familiar to her from our trip to Paris. She wants to try it. She does try it. She likes it. But you can't tell that, can you?






She goes over to the climbing structure. Again, she had seen something like this in Paris and had wanted to climb it there. She wants to climb it here as well, but she can't. I mean, it's way over her skill level. But I think this climbing set of ropes is just a proxy for wanting to feel in control, on top of it all...





We inspect the tennis courts, the other climbing structures, the fields dedicated to baseball, the picnic tables. It's all empty now. Where is everyone? Perhaps Sunday late morning is not a time to be out and about. Or maybe the distances here are so large and the yards so big that the economics of it all propel you to put up your own playground in the backyard, rather than count on the one in the neighborhood park...

But I do think that Snowdrop will someday love this 17 minute walk through secret alleys and twisting, hilly blocks. I think she will love recognizing the house where the owners care about gardening (as opposed to the ones where owners care only about the lawn), just as she learned to love the white picket fence with the pinwheel in the old neighborhood.

And I get this small twinge of worry and nostalgia: how will it be to walk after school in her old neighborhood, given that it was also the neighborhood of her old home? Will it comfort her? Unnerve her?

When Snowdrop's mommy was just about this age, we moved: from a tiny condo, to an English town, and finally to a small ranch home, all in the space of three months. I don't recall my daughter being really perplexed by any of it.

Snowdrop is different. Of course, every person is different. Snowdrop is keenly aware of detail. She will notice change in two seconds flat when she comes to the farmhouse. She is not put off by it, but she does takes note.


And now we are at her home and she and I play with foods and that is oh so familiar that I think we we are like any food loving people on the planet, losing ourselves in the familiarity of dishing out favorite stuff to beloved people.






We are approaching her nap time and so I turn back to my own home, stopping at Stoneman's farms for corn, because it's so damn good and yet we haven't enough meals this month to lose ourselves in the wonder of this vegetable.





I have so much to do before my trip later this week, but I do none of it. Instead, I fight the bugs and go out and clip the lilies. I know, I know -- I said I was done with this task, but somehow, I feel the need to clean the garden one last time. 465 spent lily blooms.





And here's a curious thing: I'm sure you don't see this, but on my extra tall lily stalk - the one that is so tall that I have stand on tippy toe and then arch its stem toward me to reach the spent blooms, I see something incredible:





Oh, you missed it! So let me zoom in just a little to the very highest bloom... Do you see that froggie on the petal? How did it get there? How does anyone get to where they want to be?






As I work the garden (so buggy today!) I hear the call of the cranes. I take Rosie and go out to take a look.





It strikes me that you can be both powerful and strong and yet cautious and afraid. They see me approaching... They extend their wings... But over time, they understand that I pose no danger. And so they settle into their quiet grazing once more.


Back to the lilies... to swatting bugs and thinking about Snowdrop, whom I know will settle in once more.

Saturday

It continues: the rush to get it all done, to help the young family get it all done, the mental listing of things that I'm not getting done...

But at least I slept well, knowing that my morning was without appointments and commitments.

You do not appreciate the gift of a simple morning unless you've tumbled through one tumult or another. This morning's basic simplicity felt luxurious indeed!

Breakfast...





... with a look toward the garden which henceforth will only receive the occasional trim, but you wont notice, because it's late summer...






I grocery shop for the week -- a day late, but hey, I've been busy!

Lunch, a meal I almost never eat, except that today I do, on the porch again, with Ed...





And then I go to the young family's new home to help with the unpacking.

Snowdrop's good, she is fine, a little confused, but excellent, wonderful, then upset, but happy, happy, happy, then upset again -- in other words, she is two years old and intellectually, she understands that she has moved, but it doesn't yet fell normal for her.

Boxes. Everywhere, there are boxes...





... wherever you step.





A window in her room that I can guarantee you she will someday love -- so sunny! so full of interesting glimpses onto the neighborhood! -- right now, looks onto a world that she hasn't yet embraced as her own.





Here's a wonderful surprise for her -- her aunt and uncle are in town and they come by to check out her new home.





Hey, aunt, come see what uncle and I have built!






Some rooms are still empty and there are the endless boxes, but aunt and uncle chase her around and around and I see the giggle in the girl again...






Fun, in a new place, with familiar faces...





Familiar hugs...





As more of the familiar mixes with the new, as mommy plays with favorite toys and daddy brings the cats home, as boxes are broken down and stacked in the garage, as the favorite foods fill the tummy and the favorite books rhythmically spell out the familiar words, the wild train ride settles into a steady chug-a-choo, chug-a-choo...


In the meantime, at the farmhouse, the garden looks its Autumn best. Or maybe it's just the way the world appears to me tonight.

Friday

It's not my move, of course. It's Snowdrop's and the young family's. Still, moves are stressful and if we can help make it less so, we'll do what we can.

Snowdrop is excited.

Not because of the new home idea (though she is young enough that she doesn't appear at all disturbed by what's ahead), but because her farmhouse bedroom has been invaded for the night by her parents.

She is up two hours too early and there is no coaxing her back to sleep. On the upside, she is feeling much better and her energy level is high (but she can't go to school today: you need to be fever free for a day before you can jump into the fray once more).

Still, we are all draaaaaaagging! Except for Snowdrop.












Slow down, little girl, slow down today! How about a book?






... or two or three...






Breakfast is a jumble of different people eating at different times, though in the end, Ed and I sit down together and Snowdrop comes along for the ride, if only for a short while.






After -- she is again a whirlwind of activity.






Can I put on your lipstick, mommy -- asks the little girl in the astronaut pj's.
Okay, but just a little..

It's not just a little.






Later in the morning, the parents are off to sell one house and buy the other...





(I'm sweeping up chicken droppings... as always, Snowdrop helps.)






...and I begin to nudge the little girl toward a bath.

I move her along to where she is without clothes and the little tub is ready and waiting (in the kitchen sink!), but she will not stop playing...


Want to sit next to me ahah and pretend to eat peaches?







He never says no.






Come inside the tent, gaga!






And this continues all the way until lunch time.

Snowdrop, you really must have a bath now! 


Finally, bath checked off, we turn to lunch, on the porch.

Pesto pasta.






Ice cream sandwiches...





And she really should be so tired now, but she keeps on truckin'!

I'm drawing my hands with mittens on them.
Well I'm drawing butterfly wings with mittens on them!






Going strong!





Until I take out the books and the bowl of fruits -- a signal to stop and nap.


As for my garden -- well, somewhere in there I cleaned the bed by the porch. It's just too in my face to leave alone. Again, it feels like the lilies are really waning. And yet I remove 75 spent blooms just from this one bed. (And I stop at that for today.)






(The cheepers are never too far away...)






(These lilies are at the side of the driveway: they're real August girls!)






Late afternoon. I nudge Snowdrop to wake up.

It's time to go home. Your new home.

She's on it!






How many times in her life will she run up the hill to the front door?





Boxes are still coming in, but some stuff is out already. She finds her hedgehog. Familiar, silly, comfy.

She's home.





Time for us to go home as well. A quiet farmhouse, across the road from a  field of sandhills, who appear to me at least to look up, in search of that friendly wave of a little one, calling out to them -- hi cranes!