Friday

Here's something terrific that I learned today: I don't need crutches to hobble along for the next few months. My doc was convinced that I had a fracture. He was wrong. Whatever challenges I'll have this winter -- they wont include slip sliding around with child under one arm and crutch under the other.

What other news? Let's see... I worked on getting the house together for the weekend, for the month, for the visitors, for Ed.

And we ate breakfast.






As it's Friday, in the afternoon I pick up just Snowdrop (Sparrow goes home with dad). I find her in her class hurrying to finish a painting...





How I love these preschools that give my grandkids such a broad array of learning opportunities and creative outlets! How I wish this was available to all kids everywhere...

As we drive up to the farmhouse, I notice that the gusty winds have taken down one of our signs warning of animals at play. Ed! Help us out here!






How many times do I ask Ed to "help us out here?"  In the case of the sign, I wanted to point out to Snowdrop that we could easily do the fix ourselves: a little wire, a good branch... But still, the little one has long ago figured out that Ed is better at fixing broken stuff than I am. The next challenge: to teach her to be more like him than me.





The evening is calmer than we had expected or wanted. The young family from Chicago set out to visit and shortly into the trip they developed car trouble. Ah well. We will see them tomorrow. A busy day it will be! But hey! No crutches!

ants in pants and mice in mouths

We're coming upon a confluence of important (in my view) events: tomorrow the young family comes up for the weekend. They leave Sunday. I leave Monday, I come back Sunday, Ed leaves Wednesday, the holidays are upon us shortly after. In between, there are the awesome twosome here each day after school.

It makes for an interesting set of days.

We start in on the day early. I feed the cats, noticing that there is a bloody trail inside -- another hunt at night must have netted a chipmunk or mouse. Dance in fact is out at this moment. When I call her, she shows me another mouse dangling from her mouth. A hunt for the challenge if not always the food. Dance drops her catch and follows me to the sheep shed for real food, leaving me to take care of burial rites.

After, I have this bone scan, fitted into the schedule because no Badger team member had come into the clinic with a training injury today. The scan will tell me how much freedom of movement I'll have in the days ahead. I suspect I'll face some recovery limitations, but hey, I'm just guessing. I really have no idea. I may wind up with crutches before the week is through. There will be adventurous adjustments no matter how you slice that pie!

Ed and I go to Finca Cafe following my appointment. I am always so happy there: the music, the floor to ceiling windows on three sides, the lovely people who work behind the counter, the fireplace. You don't have to work at hygge when you're there -- it enfolds you into the community of cafe people in the pleasant aroma of good coffee and baked quesadillas.






At home, I hurry through chores. The last bulbs to plant, Ed's hair to cut and beard to trim, seeding the young orchard meadow, posting signs warning of cats and chickens at play -- these are musts on my list. We get to most of them.

(haircut for Ed: one of my better ones...)






In the early afternoon, I pick up the kids. I have an agenda for us and I count on them to help me meet the demands of the afternoon. And they do. Cheerful and cooperative, happy and playful.

(first stop -- coffee shop. How many times have I taken Snowdrop here! Well, today, I take both.)




















(Bangs trim for Snowdrop. They do it for her at Bang Salon, right by the coffee shop)






Farmhouse, at last!

(A game of "orange catch" with ahah)






Sparrow still loves being held, but he'll substitute that for a long (handheld) walking session most anytime. And here's another sweet thing about the boy: He loves to come up for the reading of a chapter from Snowdrop's book, even though we're sure he understands very little. He's a sweet presence on the reading couch.

(On the floor again, they sometimes do get lightly in each others way. He wants what she wants, she wants what he wants...)






It's dance day for Snowdrop and I haven't yet figured out an easy way to transport everything and everyone punctually to dance class. I mean, we make it on time, but toward the end of the run to class, I'm holding Sparrow as if he were a slippery hotdog leaving my grasp.

(Dance class)











And in the evening, the very late evening, I bake a rock fish with olive oil mayo, kefir, pickle juice and parmesan cheese. Bizarre? No, just my own take on a fisherman's recipe from the fish shares that we receive from Alaska each month.


My eyes stay open for the meal, for the posting, but just barely. The next goal: get a decent amount of sleep. It's now or not for a long time!

Wednesday

Remember when I wrote here, as if to convince myself of the truth of such a claim, that I am done with major garden work for the year? Ha! Today, Ed and I spent the morning digging, pulling stuff out, clipping, pushing dirt. And to be honest, I'm not sure we're done. Suddenly, where a few days ago I saw order, I now see chaos and need for more effort. Somehow, with more leaves falling to the ground, I recognize a more brutal truth: we're never going to be done. We'll hang up the clippers and put away shovels only when the weather is too miserable to continue.

And right now, we're in a stretch of lovely days. The kind that last month would have made me shiver, but my blood is slowly adjusting to the cold season. It's just fine to be outside, to put in some effort into improving the vast (in my view) farmette lands.

After breakfast, of course.






In the afternoon, I put away the work tools and head out to pick up the kids.

Both Sparrow and Snowdrop are very happy at school. But Sparrow is still adjusting to the drop off and pick up routines. When I show up, he rushes over (insofar as the little guy can rush) and clings. Sort of like those prickly seeds from a burdock plant, only a lot heavier.

From his class we walk over to pick up Snowdrop. This, unfortunately, requires a long climb to an upper story. I'm teaching him to walk up on his own (with my support), but the little guy is in his most huggy state.  We're working on independence nonetheless.

Sparrow has only a lunchbox to take home with him. Not so Snowdrop: she has her lunchbox, plus two rag dolls in case she chooses to nap, plus outdoor stuff, plus copious artwork of the day, plus show and tell whatevers -- it's a boatload! Now comes the challenge of getting all this stuff plus Sparrow plus Snowdrop to the car.

We manage! So far so good!

(At the farmette.... I'm always so relieved: we got ourselves home without a glitch! Stuff, kids, everything!)






After we pass through the cuddles, snacks, books, more snacks, more snuggles part of the day, we settle into play routines. This is when I take note of small details. Like the fact that the kids' nails are getting long.  I have a pair of scissors at hand and I snip away as the need arises. Sparrow has always been fascinated by this and today, he insists that he should go after his toe nails on his own.






In the evening, the kids' school is having an Open House. I meet up with the parents just outside the school house.






We visit Sparrow's classroom first. He is confused. Am I being dropped off again? No! I dont want to stay and play!






Snowdrop, on the other hand, is thrilled to show off her works, her friends, her habits. I leave the young family to this joy of watching their kids thrive in their warm, secure worlds, where every child is a friend and every teacher is there to give them the support and warmth they crave.





At the farmhouse, Ed and I eat tacos once again. It's late, I'm tired, he's tired. Easy dinners, quiet moments. It's a good way to end  the day.

Tuesday

Such a day! Busy in good ways, odd ways, pretty ways, profound way, silly ways.

And to think -- the cats aren't even at the center of my orbit today. They must take a back seat. I'm in a tailspin of life's demands.

There is, however, always time for breakfast.





Then? The ridiculous and the sublime.

Examples of the ridiculous: after breakfast, I glance at my to do list for the week. Okay, here's an easy one: descale the coffee maker in preparation for a busy weekend of use. Last time the Chicago young family visited, the coffee machine was broken. We suffered through a weekend of bad coffee. Oh, people spoke polite untruths about it being fine. It was, in fact, wretched. I replaced the coffee maker immediately after.

Except I find today that the descaling program on this new-ish machine is broken. I take all the steps to troubleshoot. They yield nothing. I call the customer service. They have me run through the troubleshooting steps five, six, seven, eight more times. No go.

In essence, I spend the morning trying to get the machine to clean up its act. In the end, predictably, it doesn't. A new one will be delivered. Probably next week, after the young family leaves.


How about the profound? Well, Ed and I talk about where we're heading. It's not a discussion he initiates, but it's one I need, especially when we spin quickly through one week after the next. So here it is, in between curse words levied against my coffee machine.


And the odd? Here's one story: this week, my "sports doc" issued an order for an MRI. Long story, not too interesting, certainly not too threatening, but it needs a quick resolution because otherwise I may be inadvertently causing damage to some bone or other. Well, despite my doc's insistence that I do this now, this week -- no appointments are available this week.  Fine. I understand. I'll do it next month. My doc says no! This week. So I'm back with the MRI scheduler. Don't worry, she tells me. You just have to call first thing in the morning. We (this is the UW health care system) always reserve spots for the Badger team. If none are needed that day, you can have one of those. 

Well now, I didn't care about scheduling until I heard this. You mean that our football team gets priority over, say, a little kid who is in need of an MRI? I'm willing to hand over my slot to a little kid, or a parent whose bones need help while they juggle ten million things in their over-scheduled lives. Not so sure I believe in football players budging the line before all the rest of us.



In the afternoon, I pick up the kids. As always, the first few minutes are full of their needs: to be held, reassured, to be fed, to be read to, to be loved.












After a while, everyone settles down and finds a calm and happy place. Snowdrop wants to make a book. Sparrow is delighted to join her in that effort.






When the kids leave, I turn my attention to the farm animals. You have to walk carefully when the cats and cheepers dance around your feet in order to get you to their feeding stations.





It's become such a ritual. As ingrained as our morning breakfasts. Ed encourages the cheepers into the coop, I walk the cats back into the shed. Happy cats, happy chickens. It makes for happy campers all around.

Monday

A day of brilliant light and spiffy fall colors. How many more will have before the leaves tumble and leave behind a landscape that stays naked until April? You never know. Gusty winds and pelting rains could bring it all down pretty quickly. It's important to take in everything that's bright and beautiful now, today,  before we are pushed into the next season (visually, if not according to calendar readings).






The morning sunshine moves us to the Sun Room (how apt!) for breakfast. In these colder months, we chase the sunny farmhouse spots from east to south to west. It's worth it!






In the afternoon, I pick up the kids and suggest an outdoor adventure. Actually, I don't merely suggest it -- I insist on it. If we are to catch autumnal colors, it better be now! I borrow the young family's travel stroller (the one they necessarily had to purchase in Amsterdam), I ask Ed if he wants to come along, I pack a bunch of snacks  and set out.

As I suspected, initially the kids balk. It's so much easier just to head home where toys and books and warm sunny spaces await them. But I don't give in to this. Every season deserves a respectful outing where we notice all that's grand and beautiful about it. Today we pay homage to autumn and there's no better place for it than here, at the Arboretum.






And it is beautiful. And the kids take note.






(a snack, and a hunt for the reddest maple leaves...)
















(tall grasses)






On the return drive, Snowdrop asks if we could stop at Culvers. If you're not from these parts, perhaps you'll not have heard of it -- it's a fast food chain originating from Wisconsin. What sticks in my mind is the commercial for it -- Culver's: home to the original butter burger.

I ask her -- what would you like to get there? I'm thinking -- she'll want the frozen custard. Surely that's on her mind on this sunny if not too warm a day.
The fried cheese curds! -- she answers without hesitation. A true Wisconsin girl!

It's a true indication of how much we love these kids that I pull over and fill the car with the smell of greasy curds. Three out of four of us wolf down the fried breaded melting curds (though one of the three knocks off the bits of batter). (I'll let you guess who's the holdout!)


Finally, home. Farmhouse home. These two mainly play in their own spaces, but every once in a while, they come together, like this:






Sparrow is a pretty tired guy. He naps at school but not nearly long enough. Toward evening, he is in my lap,  barely keeping his eyes open. It's a long day for everyone, but without doubt, a most beautiful day -- with all the colors and scents of spent leaves and autumn sunshine.

Sunday

Such an easy day to summarize: Ed and I sleep long and work hard. There you have it. We are both on the couch right now, tuckered out.

Initially, the day has a very conventional start to it: at around 7, we go to feed these guys:

(Dark Blue, waiting.)






(Stop Sign is around as well. Perhaps she slept in her little igloo -- who can tell.)

In the sheep shed, all eight are there, happy, bouncy, warm. We play with them a little (meaning we try to get them to stay calm and trusting, which is hard when they have both of us there towering over them) and then both Ed and I go back to sleep. We're catching up on some very short periods of rest!

Breakfast is, therefore, late.






Then it's just a question of getting a huge cleaning accomplished in the farmhouse (that's my task for the day) and for Ed to finish working on the brakes of my car. We each spend over three hours on this stuff. I surely have the better deal, as it is cold and damp outside and warm and cozy indoors. Indeed, with gentle music playing and a lovely soy candle burning, I'd say I have the upper edge on bringing out our inner hygge! You don't know what that is? Ask the Danish. Or read about it here.

I also snip a few nasturtium blooms. They wont survive this coming night. Let's enjoy them together one last time, here:






In the evening, the young family comes for dinner.

(She spins tales, he fits lego blocks together...)






(oh, and walking: he is super into practicing moving about in an upright position!)






Dinner: she likes squid and corn, he likes pasta with the occasional shrimp.






Happy kids!






(she brings out the art supplies...)






Sparrow does wonder why he wasn't given a corn cob. I boil up some water and cook one more for the little guy. Yes, he is ever so grateful!





It's such a good evening! We talk about next weekend, and too, about the weeks after. We watch the kids play, lending a hand when needed. We exhale. We've had some tough days, but here we are, eating well, watching the kids play. Exhale.

missed by one

It may be cold outside, but we did not have the anticipated freeze. When I checked the thermometer at 6 am, I saw us hovering between 33 and 34F (around 1C). But I did not need to see the numbers -- the nasturtium was not (entirely) a floppy mess when I stepped out to feed the cats. It (mostly) survived for a few more days!






But whether we reached that frosty number here on the farmette hardly matters. We've done most of the necessary work to get us winter-ready. All that remains out there is purely visual: I need to shape the spent perennials so that they look decent once winter sets in. Cleaning and clearing. A handful of tulip bulbs still left to bury. Raking and mowing. Clipping and pruning. There's no rush with any of it.

As for the cats -- well, Ed was right. They're all going in and out of the cat door as if they had been doing it from birth. Even Dark Pink, yesterday's holdout, has no trouble popping in and scooting out.

They are in a good place. This morning at feeding time (which resembles a whirling dervish of cat fur!)...






... I sit with them and rub their heads, their back and I know they are content. Group hug follows (no, I'm not part of that!) and then they break into smaller configurations. Some go out, some stay in. The sheep shed is at long last their safe haven. (So long as neither of us makes an unexpected sound: today I turned on the warm water, which triggered a small "puff" sound as the water heater went on. The cats flew en masse out the cat door.)

(the beautiful Dark Blue)






Breakfast is late. I don't know why. Call us lazy on this day!






Though we actually do get serious about stocking up at the farmhouse and getting ready for the month ahead. It is our last completely quiet day for a long while -- perhaps not until after Thanksgiving will I wake up to the thought that nothing awaits me, no one is counting on me. I have plenty of young family in the week ahead, and then both young families the weekend after, and then, well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves! One day at a time!

And so with the thought that we ought to do that which will get us ready for a more busy set of weeks, we go to Walmart and buy lots of cat food. A crazy supply of it, so much so that we are the subject of questions and speculation in the check out line. How many cats do you have, anyway? (Nine to feed, counting Stop Sign.) How long with that last you? (We're hoping until the end of November.) And so on.

At home, Ed and I talk about what to do with Stop Sign. We still do not know if she has hidden kittens somewhere. She comes to us twice a day, eats a copious amount, then disappears. I trailed her recently and saw that she crosses the road. She clearly has a destination.

Ed thinks it's a matter of time before she figures out that there is good stuff to be found in the sheep shed. That, in my opinion, would be unfortunate. It's no secret that I don't really like Stop Sign's manners. She is most comfortable with me (though I wont try to touch her), she is scared of everything else, including the cheepers. And she is positively hostile to her children. They say that spayed cats dont really get into cat fights (cats are territorial, but not confrontational), but in this case, her kids want to extend their cat love in her direction and she regards this with the distaste you save for your very worst relatives.

In my view, the best we can do is create an alternate environment for her that she will find acceptable. She is currently eating on the porch. Today, we set up an igloo like space for her, shielded from wind, with padding inside. Last winter she survived in the garage. We think this is better. If she brings any kittens, we can run a heat source to the igloo. Safe from predators, fairly protected.

Alright, enough cat talk! Our farmette has so many other things to offer!  Even as the days grow shorter and colder and the winds gust fiercely enough to make the birch trees shiver and the crab apples shake.





Sushi for dinner. Just because.

freeze

Any Wisconsin gardener who is not scurrying around her precious yard today, bringing in pots of tender plants, picking the last of the tomatoes (or any other fall bounty), has either given up on the whole shebang for the year, or is ahead of herself and has done all this earlier. Me, I'm scurrying. Three pots of annuals -- to the sheep shed. Four grand orchids split between the house and the sheep shed. One rosemary bush to the house. And so on. Tonight, we expect a freeze. Not just a light frost, but a real freeze -- the kind that will make your garden shiver and wilt.

But first, the cats. Ed and I are a little at odds here. On a continuum, where you have "cautious and risk averse" on one end and "tough and gutsy" on the other, he and I land on opposite poles. Typically, this is sort of amusing. He teases me about my cautious nature, I nag him constantly to take better care. But there are times when we clash. Over small things.

Today -- bang! We go to feed the cats together, for the fun of spending time with them. And this is when Ed decides to let the cat door down to its shut position. Little magnets hold it in place. I worry that the cats will not be able to get in or out. They now have to push against it with their heads. Will they?

Most of them manage just fine, but Dark Pink does not. She stays outside pushing and scratching ineffectively with her paw, meowing all the while.

This is too hard for her! You need to change that door!
You need to wait. She'll figure it out.
It's wet and cold and she is hungry.
She'll figure it out.

She didn't figure it out. She went back to the garage with what I'm sure was a broken heart.

Of course, Ed's probably correct. In fact, she may be flipping the damn door, back and forth, even as we speak. Still, I know that I am more protective with the kitties. If I think they need help (by my human calculation), I want to step in. Ed's a big picture guy. They are capable of doing this, Nina. Let them do it on their own.



After the cats, after the plants, we eat breakfast.






The winds pick up, the temperatures drop. Are we that close to November? Yes we are...






In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop. Just Snowdrop. On Fridays, Sparrow's dad is with him.





Snowdrop and I spend the bulk of the afternoon reading. We finish yet another Ramona book. At the end of it, my eyes are brimming with tears. Snowdrop, too, feels the emotional swell of the final chapters. The story line is so sweet, so touching in its simple truth (it's about the little spunky 2nd grader and her relationship to school, to her family -- in other words, it's every child's story).


We have only a few minutes left afterwards. Snowdrop wants to watch an Olivia video. Now, I have nothing against the videos. They're all of ten minutes long and they usually have some small  message of hope and resilience. But Snowdrop gets hooked on them. Once she is given the go-ahead, you can bet she'll ask for another. And another.






A little amused, a little exasperated, I finally tell her (after listening to impassioned pleas for "just one more!") -- I am never ever going to play a video here for you again! She is crestfallen! "My friends will probably tell me that they go visit their grandmas and watch videos there. I will have to say that I cannot watch any at my gaga's house! That will make me so so sad!" I smile and tell her that of course we'll watch stuff together. I didn't really mean "never."

We get in the car then and I drive her home. During the ride, she is quiet and then she asks -- Gaga, why did you say that? About never watching videos?
I tell her it was just a momentary feeling of frustration, a small overreaction.
So you said it to get me to stop asking for more? 
I suppose so... It was a little bit of a tease. I wasn't serious. Did you think I was serious?
Yes. And it made me so so so sad...

I told her then that it was a bad tease. That you should never tease someone in a way that makes them sad. I said I would not do it again. To myself, I thought -- how myopic we are in the way we listen to stories! I'd just finished a whole book about a little girl who felt that her behavior was causing her mommy, her teacher, any number of other people in her life to not love her. In the end, she learned that she was wrong, that she was very much loved despite, no, because of her spunky ("sparkly") personality. Why had I so quickly forgotten that simple truth -- that kids take your words seriously? Very seriously?

Ramona had wanted to be her family's little rabbit. I reminded Snowdrop that I had once referred to her that way: bunny rabbit hop hop.
She asks -- When you call me by an animal nickname, can it be that? Bunny rabbit hop hop?

I catch her foot with my free hand and give it a squeeze. Yes, little bunny rabbit hop hop. Yes I can. 


In the evening, Ed and I spend time trying to reassure the cats again. It appears that in our absence from the sheep shed, they had gone exploring. Their sheep shed adventure took them over the keys of Ed's computer, triggering a very loud video on sheep sheering. The sudden flash and noise of it send them all flying to the barn.

Come inside, little guys. There'll be a freeze tonight. Come inside.