Iceland

I remember it so well: November of 1973. I was living in New York, still wondering if leaving Poland had been the right thing to do. I was nearly done with college. Thanksgiving was just a few days away. I had wanted to go skiing in New England, but there was no snow. I wanted to get away from the city. On a student budget. I was working the late shift at an upper westside bookstore. I had enough money to go somewhere. But where?

I chose Iceland. Cheap airfares. Somewhat exotic then.

So many things stand out from that trip: I arrived without a place to stay. The Tourist Office found me a room in someone's house. Waiters were on strike and so I couldn't eat out. Everything was expensive. And the days were very very dark.

In the three days I was there, I walked, took pictures, had a massage. First one ever. On the last day I rented a car. A VW bug. I was happy that they allowed a rental to someone who was just 20. I sort of kind of knew how to drive a stick. I headed away from the city and got stuck on some icy stretch of lonely road. I was told there would be geisers, but there was only ice on a moonlike landscape and the car slipped and I pumped the brakes and tried to shift and somehow I made it back to the city.

I took a photo of the frozen lake in Reykjavik. I really liked the image -- a child pulling another child on a wooden sled across a lonely stretch of frozen water, but it wasn't otherwise a very good photo. I submitted it to some local contest and not surprisingly, it did not win. I also wrote a story about my weekend. It was my very first short story. I did nothing with it. It's probably in my trunk of forgotten papers.

Don't you think I should return to Iceland? I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow.

The day was otherwise a blur. Misty skies, fading gardens, pesky chickens, lovely children. Breakfast.  All of it compressed into the morning and afternoon hours.






























It's evening now. Storms come, storms recede. Chicken sitters are in place. And as Ed chases away buzzing biting flies somewhere on a boat far away, I'm waiting for my flight to Minneapolis. From there -- Reykjavik.

path well traveled

There are many ways to get to know a person and a place. Observe, listen, watch, read -- all good means to that end.

Most of you know me only because I blog. But since I write daily, whether I'm peppy or morose, meditative, or bummed and punchy, or just plain tired, if you pop in on a regular basis, you'll have yourself a mountain of words and images.

When I am in a hurry (and name me one day this summer when I haven't been in a hurry), I tend to favor taking the predictable picture. I know what is loveliest in my garden (at least to my eye). I go there. I photograph it, always with a sigh of pleasure at having had a chance to pin it down, to put something into the camera that I can look at (and work on) later.

(the big bed in late summer: green and lush)






And so you get to see the farmette most often at her best. But of course, for me, she always has a grand side showing. The way I present the farmhouse and gardens here is the way I see them myself. These are the images that I carry with me.

Sometimes predictable...






Sometimes a little less so....











I suppose breakfast is always predictable! I take no chances -- I take it where I know beauty abounds.






When I asked my Mom where I could take her this morning (there are still big box items that we need to purchase for her new apartment), she did mention one store, but she also asked if she could see the farmette gardens. She is feeling strong enough for such an adventure (the farmette holds many navigational challenges for an older person).

I tell her that the garden is past its prime, but still, it is beautiful in a wild and crazy sort of way.






She looks at it from the perspective of her great grandchildren. And she understands the enchantment. Because really, the farmette is very enchanting.






I do have to smile when she says of both the garden and the inside of the farmhouse -- it's just like in your blog!






So, if you are a reader who has never been here and is not likely to ever visit, know that it looks and feels pretty much just as it appears here.

(Path from the barn to the farmhouse -- a bit wild now, but it surely is a path well traveled...)





In the meantime, the sailors are skirting storms and navigating locks. They will be making a big turn and by tomorrow, the bow of the boat will be pointed in the direction of their final destination. Estimated Time of Arrival? You can never ask. Because they can never say.


In the afternoon, Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse.

Sweet, sweet child: she'd been working through the challenges of life in her head the past few days, but today it looks like she reached some resolution. She is her usual happy, playful, incredibly imaginative self.

We play (among countless other games) flower shop.






I buy them all. She asks me to pay with a credit card. In the alternative, I can use my pennies. She likes their color -- under a certain light, you can even recognize a pink sheen to them.

Evening. Calm, still, as if waiting for the big moment when summer turns to fall.

snippets

For good or bad, I have been giving Snowdrop an after school snack of a pain au chocolat for a long long time. (I go to the bakery twice a week so yes, on some days, she does have to suffer the indignity of eating a day-old or even two-day-old bread product.) Perhaps I was influenced at one point by hearing that a tartine with nutella (bread with a chocolate-hazelnut spread) is a typical afternoon snack for a child across the ocean. Or, perhaps I liked the routine of going to a bakery.

She rarely finishes it. Ed or the cheepers revel in the remains. But this week, for whatever reason, she took only one bite, then tossed it aside. It was fresh, crisp and perfect. Nope. She didn't want it.
Okay, Snowdrop. But I'm inclined not to get this for you if you don't really want to eat it.
Never one to want to hurt my feelings, she pauses and tells me: I don't want it today. But I love the water you brought me, grandma. Thank you for the delicious cup of water!






It had been nearly half a year since I had a haircut. I wasn't in a rush. What for? Long, short -- does it matter? Well, it does. Older and long rarely go well together. Women who are well past retirement somehow do not look good to me with hair that spills into their lap. And though mine isn't quite of that length yet, I decided I had pushed the limits on length.

Take tons off! -- I tell the hair cut person.

She does. Oh! I didn't mean that much! Oh well. Hair does grow back. Thank goodness.






Ed calls right around breakfast today, so you could almost way I had his company for the morning meal. The sailors are going through the locks today. I'm not sure if that's exciting or boring. Probably a little of both.

It appears to me that the men are sailing and the women are cooking dinners and touring old lighthouses and small town museums on land. I tell him -- sounds pretty gendered. He answers -- it is. We are of that generation.

I ask if bugs bother you when you're out on the water. Ed says when the air is still, black flies come and land on you. They'd had to close the doors against them. Are there any other reasons I can add to why sailing seems so utterly miserable to me?






Lilies who refuse to stop blooming are my pals right now.






But so are the other flowers in my gardens.






It's true: everyone has days when life just seems a bit overwhelming.






One coping strategy: a pause at a cafe. A snack. Tea for grandma. A pen and paper for the little one. Ideas emerge. Life seems normal again.










In the morning I hack away at shrubs that came out of nowhere and grew to be six feet tall seemingly overnight.

In the afternoon, I ask Snowdrop -- which child (in your class) do you think is happy?
Me! -- she answers.

Evening. I am in love with leftovers. I haven't cooked since Sunday.

The light is flashing on the thermostat. I wonder what that means. The windows are open wide. The air is full of a beautiful summer night.

Monday

As us three girls are spending the night at the farmhouse (Snowdrop, mom, and grandmom), three sailing boys (Ed et al) spend the day moving a boat along to its destination. (Their wives are taking a day on the shore, and this one sweetie is, of course, tending to farmette matters.)

Snowdrop has spent nights here since she was a wee one, but with a new brother and all the spring and summer hoopla, it has been a while. Plus, Ed, who is her official pancake/waffle pal, is not here right now (did I mention this already?) and, too, on this visit she is waking up to a school day. Everything is a little off.

Nonetheless, I find mornings here really special. And there is plenty of time for stellar moments, including, of course, breakfast on the porch.






The girl does love bacon and cherries, even more than whatever item she is dunking in maple syrup.






Perhaps the most precious moments for me are ones where I do farmette chores. Whereas when I am alone, many of the chores surrounding plant and beast weigh me down, Snowdrop is so excited by them (especially the animal-related stuff), that it just makes me smile endlessly when she tags along.

(Running to help me with the cheepers)






(Dishing out corn...)






(May I pick some flowers?)






(I can never say no...)






(Flowers and smiles go hand in hand)






Eventually, we do drop her off at school and I proceed to take my daughter home. I pause there to spend time with the little Sparrow boy.






My girl, Sparrow and I take a long walk in the neighborhood and I see that he, too, is a stellar stroller baby. He and Primrose are alike in this regard. You probably think he is a serious little boy. Maybe. But I wouldn't put any money on it. He is, after all, only two months old.






And in the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. She isn't with me long -- she has an appointment with her parents later in the day, but it is a terrific little spell of reading and rehashing the day's events.






Evening: a subdued time in a subdued garden.

One last study of the irrepressible effervescent lilies...












Ed's boat is likely full right now. They may well be playing cards. Or recalling yet again who did what way back when (the guys were once at the UW together), but at the farmhouse the evening is very, very quiet.

what if

What if I got up very very early, even before the cheepers are set loose by their automatic door opening mechanism, and what if I plunged into farmhouse cleaning and yard maintenance and animal care, with only a brief pause to answer a call from the sailing Ed -- what if I did all that before breakfast? Wouldn't that be splendid?






Splendid -- maybe. But it would also mean that I would not eat breakfast until after the noon hour. Even working at a brisk pace, it takes well over five hours to do all that and I must admit that I cut some corners.











And 12:30 is just too late for your first cup of coffee.






(There have been times when Ed and I have worked hard on some outdoor project and we would be so determined to get it done that indeed the morning meal would be equally late. However, working together on a project feels good. Working alone on house cleaning, window washing, yard maintenance and animal care feels ... like work.)

Determined to make the now no longer morning meal a calming and lovely experience, I pick up the New Yorker and read an article about the indie filmmaker, Nicole Holofcener. There are many good things about the piece, but what sticks in my mind are pairings of words used to describe some of her characters: "alternating strains of wickedness and remorse..." where her protagonists "try to be good, (even as) they often find unnerving evidence that they're actually bad..." And finally, there are the "intricacies of relationships -- what makes them both maddening and indispensable."

I think about Ed's call this morning. It was later than usual. I thought nothing of it -- he may well be sailing through an area of no cell service. Just before the call came, I got a text from one of his sailing pals, with a photo of an old lighthouse that they were about to visit. It was pretty. They must have been passing it just as I was furiously pulling out weeds in a futile attempt to control the overgrowth in areas of the farmette. Ed's call came shortly after.

We sailed out in dense fog -- he tells me. I couldn't call. I was completely focused on navigating with radar and GPS coordinates.

I gave this a few seconds' thought. Finally I asked -- why did you sail in morning fog, when you knew it would lift in an hour or so?

I don't know why I asked. I'm as sure as anything of the answer: they sailed in dense fog just because of the challenge.

And now the sun was out and they are about to explore the lighthouse that I was looking at on my smart phone.

When you spend so many hours working physically in the house, then in the yard, you have plenty of time for meditative, calming thoughts. But in your efforts to be that good person -- one who tends to the hearth and home and makes sure good meals are offered, along with kind and loving words meant only for your sweetie whom you adore to pieces -- you sometimes notice yourself slipping, because unfortunately, that bad side that lurks in all of us, comes to the surface every now and then.

Suffice it to say, Ed heard no sweet and tender words from me on the phone this morning. Were I near that boat, I might have been tempted to push him into the water and make him swim to shore, though I dare say, he would have regarded that to be an equally good challenge. (I do have good moments when I'm not recalling that Ed finds my form of travel too comfortable and therefore too dull. Those moments were not present this morning.)

In the evening, the young family comes for Sunday dinner and this very special meal comes with a twist today: after dinner, the dad takes little Sparrow home, while Snowdrop and her mom stay for a girls' night at the farmhouse. In other words -- a sleepover.

First, dinner.











The sleepover is something Snowdrop has been asking for and, too, it is special for my daughter, who thinks (as well she should!) that an evening on the porch watching fireflies flicker as the sky fills with stars to be somewhat magical.

We all three put away the cheepers. There's the shower -- a farmhouse first. And books, one after the next, night time favorites and old comfy ones...






And now we're out on the porch. Look, Snowdrop! The fireflies are dancing their crazy dance to the tune of the cricket song!

The child falls asleep instantly. Her mom and I stay out on the porch, listening to Italian music.

still

Predictably perhaps, I did not succumb to total inertia. I did not do nothing.

But it was a quiet day. No rush. Not here and not where Ed is sailing. (He tells me this morning: we're heading out soon, but there is no wind. Absolutely zero. We have to use the motor. He does not like to have to use the motor.)

Every now and then thoughts that began with the words "I must" or "I should" would tumble around in my head, but I dismiss them. I have instead a "why bother" attitude about anything requiring effort.

Oh sure, I do have to do the morning farmette chores and it always surprises me how long it all takes!  Two hours tending to plants and beasts. I mean, really, two hours!

(the tail end of the lily blooms...)






(a climbing clematis flower: just a handful of blooms this year; I'm hoping for gazillions next year)






(in late summer, the annual cosmos can hold a garden together, but they're vulnerable to winds and often topple under the weight of their own fowers)






(a huge and bushy cosmos fell during the recent rain storm... it decorates this morning's breakfast table)






It's Saturday and so I meet up with my daughter and Snowdrop to walk over to the farmers market. Since I've succumbed to cooking, even in Ed's absence, I have a lot to stock up on. The obvious stuff: baby potatoes, corn, beans, greens, pretty little tomatoes -- you know, August loveliness.


(there's Gaga!!)


\


Grandma, I want you to take a picture of me!






After our walk around the square, past all the market stalls, we pause on the green grass, sitting quietly. No one wants to run, romp or frolic with abandon. We sit. And do... well, pretty much nothing.






(We do admire August market flowers. I over-buy. They're irrisistable!)






And I do have to grocery shop in the afternoon. I couldn't fit it into the week, so it has to be today.

(carrying the groceries into the house, I pause to admire the last of the porch-side lilies...)






And too, I have to fiddle with my computer to get it to spark up and perform. Yes, there is that.

But I do not rush. I make no effort to make a dent in my to-do list. I do not clean the house, weed the yard (much), and I eat left-overs for dinner.

(the late summer garden is no less beautiful than the emergent garden...)





The day is warm. The breezes have died down. The air is still. And so am I. For a little while anyway.