Saturday

Every flower has its moment of glory. Typically, its blooming period is short. A day lily has only a day for each bud. A tulip -- a week, maybe two if you're lucky. Fruit trees -- less.

When a plant is at its peak moment, I'm in awe. It's almost as if there is nothing that could follow that would be better than this! The bloom, maybe a fragrance -- they're riveting! I wish then that it would last.





But of course, the garden would look ridiculous if everything bloomed at once and for the whole season. Nature gives us a progression of events and with every blossom there will be a wilt and a fade.

And still, the impression stays with us, for a long long time. I have stored images, recollections of enchanting moments and I'm sure you do too.  Heavy lilac heads just outside the porch, nasturtium in the gardens of Giverny, buttercups and forget-me-nots growing along the riverbanks in the village where I spent my childhood summers.

At the farmette, we're following the age old spring sequence.  And today surely belongs still to the lilac bush. (But not all lilacs: we have a white lilac that's long past her prime and a French lilac that's just budding.)

Okay, enough flower talk. Let's get on with the day.

Breakfast is in the kitchen. Not because it's cold outside, but because it feels... wet out there. Too much rain, too many clouds.






So, kitchen it is. But with a very fine view of the yard beyond.





A few minutes later, the clouds part, the sun is out. I'm meeting my daughter and Snowdrop at the Farmers Market. I have a short list, but it's an important one: flowers, asparagus, lettuces.

After you've been doing this market for as long as I have (thirty years plus!), you realize that you need to have a solid base of favorites. It's not the kind of market where you can spin around all the stalls and go back to ones you like. The walk is too long, the space too crowded. So you develop a short list of farmers to talk to.

These are my go to flower people. I love what they grow and their blooms are solid! They wont wilt on you by tomorrow.






This stand is my catch-all for produce. Whatever is in season -- they'll have it. Today I pick up their baby lettuces and baby bok choy. (And then I promptly lose the bok choy. Where the hell did I put it??)






Snowdrop's mom picks up cheese curds from Farmer John. Ed and I get our cheeses from him on Thursday, so today, I just admire her true Wisconsin nature: we are a cheese curd state!






At the end, we have our romp on the grasses. Snowdrop loves to take off her shoes and chase her mom (gaga makes excuses; I am easily captured by a four year old).






She is a free spirit, a doe, a barefoot wonder.











We take the old stroller just in case. She has to share it with my purchases.






At the farmette, I have a small list of tasks. But a porch break comes first!






After -- there's weeding and moving rocks and fixing cheeper damage and, well, taking it all in. With deep breaths, because the scents right now are phenomenal.





It's a warm spring night here, in Wisconsin. We waited a long time for it to come. The windows are open, the breeze is sublime.

storms and such

A number of people I know and love actually like storms. Not the violent ones that shatter homes and lives, but your regular, garden variety storms -- lightening, thunder and all. They tell me storms can be dramatic and beautiful.

Over the years, I have tried to be one of the pack. I've tried to not be bothered by the rumble, the clash, the roar. And I've come a lot closer to it than in years past when, in the middle of the night, if a storm roared over us, I'd run from room to room closing all the windows, checking on the kids, making sure they were safe. As if that storm could savagely snatch them out of their comfy beds and carry them to dangerous places.

I'm not like that anymore.

Still, when I hear we're in for heavy storms, I want to stay inside. I want to know where my kids and grandkids are. Vestiges of the old me remain.


We didn't get violent weather last night or this morning, but we've gotten the warnings and we surely got the rain. Again. For Ed and me, perched as we are on a hill, this simply means a muddy driveway, a small puddle in the basement, and a leaning lilac.

And I have to say, a leaning lilac is a thing of great beauty. It is perhaps the one plant that looks even better after a heavy rainfall. It reminds me then of secret, overgrown gardens hiding old buildings that have seen all that life entails -- tragedy, love, anger, renewal and hope.

(to the north...)





(to the west...)






It's not really cold, but nor is it really porch weather. We eat breakfast inside.






One effect of the rain and the wind is that the crab apple quickly shed most of its petals overnight. It's always pretty at the moment when the little white flakes cover the walkway...






It's a very brief loveliness though. Very quickly, they wilt and turn brown, blending into the chipped pathway. And the tree itself? As you can see, within a matter of hours, it is more green than white or pink.






In the afternoon, I am with Snowdrop. She astonishes all of us with her day's project: carefully articulated continents, painted with precision on her own atlas.






Yes, the girl has art in her blood.

The afternoon was to be stormy. I worried about getting Snowdrop to the farmette in light of this forecast. Instead, the clouds broke up into inconsequential puffs of nothing. The sun dappled the farmette land. The girl whirligigged her way across fields and paths strewn with flower petals!





















(A timed release with violets! Wait, I have to rub my eye!)






(The cheepers focus their attention on the petals. They love spent apple blossoms!)












And there you have it -- just when you least expect it, the weather can turn mean. Or, beautifully inviting. Today we went from a downpour, to beautifully inviting.

Thursday at the farmette

People in the Upper Midwest look forward to summer: lazy crazy summer. I understand the attraction: it's rarely (never?) too cool for breakfast or dinner on the porch. You swim, you play ball, you eat oversized ice-cream cones -- summer stuff.

But it comes with its own challenges. You know what they are: the heat, the bugs, the parched earth, the spent flowers. The dusty lilac leaves, the failed garden projects (oh, last year's tomatoes!).

In May, those challenges are few and far between. You may have your own personal struggles with the beauty of the season. I did: my first good friend when I moved to Wisconsin died in May, just two years after we became friends. Too, the only life threatening illness I've had to cope with attacked me in May. It's hard to be giddy under those circumstances. Nonetheless, for people (like me) who are extremely focused on creating great gardens outside (as best we can) -- it is a month full of perfect days. Days like no other!

And today is one of those days "like no other!"

Flickr, my photo hosting site is down for most (all?) of the day, so you may or may not see pictorial proof of this (I'll slide in the photos into their proper spaces as they become available), but imagine being in a place and at a time where color, fragrance, sunshine, vibrancy and freshness all coalesce. This is the farmette of today.































Breakfast, joyously, on the porch!






Immediately after, we plant our tomatoes. This is a project that is both exhilarating and fraught with life's lessons on patience, perseverance, and accepting adversity. I think this year will set us back once again: the soil is good, the plants are strong, the weather is cooperating. But since the last study of our various options, the trees have grown, the shade has crept in and I do not think we'll have enough hours of sunlight on the new patch to hit a home run. Still, we keep on trying, because we have these wee plants and we have this space...


(buckets of water)




















Time for a quick coffee/lunch break, surrounded by flowers because, well, it's May! (Lilies of the valley are the latest addition.)






In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. It's been a stressful time for the school (nothing to do with Snowdrop but rather with the realities of having kids at any school in America today), but the little girl is full of smiles because, well, she is four and though she sees and hears a lot more than we would like to believe, still, there are some things that pass her by.

(teasing me)











I have a surprise for her today -- the kiddie pool. She is of course far too old for it. And in a few days, she will tire of it. But it is a marker of the warmth of the days before us and she absolutely loves to play games in it right about now.






(cherries and juast-picked asparagus in the pool? why not!)






(mesmerized by the cheeper scratch-and-pick routines)






Inside again, I expect her to insist on continued play, but no. She has missed her faves: she wants me to read. And read. And after paging through the new book, studying it carefully to see if it is perhaps too frightening, she wants me to read that one as well.












This is our day then. I expect it to fade out quietly. I'm tired from a week of too little sleep. But Ed and I are not done yet! We must visit our local farmers market. And eat dinner. (I reheat leftovers, we settle down to eat.) And still Ed is restless. The west-facing windows, the ones we see during these long days when the sun pours through them at the dinner hour, are dirty.

Can we wash them? -- he asks.
Now? -- I groan.

We wash windows until the late hours. And I keep checking flickr, until nearly midnight. That's it: no more minutes left in the day! Good night!

UPDATE: finally, by 6:30 a.m., photo loading is complete. Good morning!

Wednesday in Chicago

We begin our march toward summer. Or so it seems: we jump a lofty distance and wind up near 80f (26c) today!

I am still in Chicago. Primrose needs another day at home. A quick last book with mom...






... and then I take over.

So what shall we do today, little girl? How about art class? Your cousin loves art. Do you?

(good...)






(better...)






(best!)






Yes, I can see that we'll be coming back to art during our times together!






Somewhere in the morning hours, I have breakfast. The usual.






And sometime around noon, we take a walk... So warm, so sunny, so different from these past weeks!






Primrose has moved ahead in so many ways since we last walked together in the fall. She doesn't want to be left to her own devices, she wants to have a conversation. She may not have the words yet, but she surely knows how to communicate!






Giving her words is of course so important at this age. Perhaps predictably, I steer toward all that is beautiful and growing around us. Trees, with green leaves, creating lovely arches above...






Lilacs! Very purple, very fragrant.






Look, little one! A butterfly!





It hovers, showing off its enchanting dance over these full clusters of little flowers and eventually it moves on.

Sigh... we all do have to move on.

A final meal with Primrose, joined by her dad...






And then, later, I am on the bus again, returning home.

As always, I am so torn! In three directions -- two young families and Ed at home. For each, I know I could do so much more, but only if I left the remaining two for longer spells. If you add to it my travels, then I surely have filled my time, even as I want to extend my reach even further. I could have helped more in Chicago! Even as I'm rushing back, because, well, there's Ed, who never asks for more time, but has pretty much devoted these years to hanging out with me. And of course, Snowdrop and Sparrow, waiting, because we were right in the middle of games when I took off. And yet, when I ride the bus home, I think -- I could have done more. Everywhere, I could have done even more.


It's still light when I pull into the farmette. I catch Ed just before he goes off for his weekly bike ride.

(evening rituals: watering the baby tomatoes)






And then I sit on the picnic bench, shaking off wisps of angst, allowing myself to drink in the beauty of the gardens around me.