going back in time

I am either getting old or getting lustful for far away places: this morning I reread my posts about my wanderings in Alsace, France. There was a prompt: I received an email from a couple who own the studio I rented while visiting the region several years back. One of those cheerful group emails saying  -- we're open and waiting for you to travel again. Reading it, I was trying to decide if indeed Alsace would be on my list of top ten places I'd like to return to before I get ridiculously ancient and weary of travel. (Reading my post I decided it would probably make the cut, even though the competition is fierce.) Still, I don't often reread Ocean stuff. I'm more inclined to think forward (where to next?) then look back. So -- am I getting old?

Somewhere in the press today, I read that once the pandemic is behind us, we're all going to go roaring crazy with excess, having been ravaged by isolation, fear, loss and grief. I can't see Ed partying like there's no tomorrow, but I am wondering how I'll approach travel then. Will I rush back to old favorites? It seems that a return to past haunts invites a comparison: I was so innocent when I was here before! Little did I know that a pandemic would shut us down and destroy so much in life for so many! Perhaps, instead, I should make up a list of brand new destinations?

These are perfect thoughts to have on a cold April day. And it is cold. But pretty! There's no going back on spring pretty anymore!

Though breakfast is, of course, inside.

(with a view toward the farmette gardens...)

The chicks stay inside as well until I tell Ed that the sun room (where we keep them) is beginning to smell like the barn. Out they go. Get hearty, little girls! Soon, this will be your life!

But I cannot rev myself up for much outdoor work. A few weeds and I retreat. Maybe tomorrow!

In the meantime, there are a couple of more posts that I need to reread. Scandinavia? Scotland? Today I washed my winter sweaters and I irreparably shrunk the one I bought in Islay. Should I whisky my way through Islay again? As I read about the wild orchids on the island, about the local catch seafood dinners Andrew, my host, cooked up for me, I wonder about how he's doing. Is the Bowmore House bed and breakfast even open now? I check the website. Only for essential workers. With strict COVID precautions. Breakfast delivered to guest rooms. Phew. At least they're still functioning in some fashion.

I go back to other places where b&b hosts became friends. In Parma. In Giverny. Berwick-upon-Tweed. Marseille. Gargnano. Paris. Is everyone okay??

Yes, it's clear to me that when travel is safe again, a return to past favorites is in order. So that I can hug and listen. And smile at the future, together with those who have had the toughest of tough years and then some.

a kid's horizon

Everyone knows that children don't anticipate anything beyond the next day (if that). If you tell them "we're going to Paris in a year or two," with the hope of stirring within them an excitement for that grand adventure, it will pass them by completely. A year or two is a lifetime. "Next fall" is nearly a lifetime. Frankly, even "later in the day" seems remote. Kids really excel at living in the present. You and I wish we could be as good at that as they are.

 

A bit of wind, a few clouds, lovely pale green colors: an April-ish kind of day. 

Cool though. It stays in the low 50sF (maybe 11C). Still, when I propose breakfast on the porch, Ed pulls on his jacket and says sure.

(on the porch, looking out...)

And then the kids come over. As it happens, it is likely the last time that the two of them will be playing here together alone. Schedules are changing yet again. More school days for Snowdrop, starting next week. Ever the shifting structures in this tricky period where kids are forever needing to adjust.

Both kids experience a disappointment today, in that they thought they had brought something with them, eventually finding out that what they wanted was in fact left behind. Sparrow was quicker to forget it, but Snowdrop was, for a good handful of minutes, despondent. "You'll have it in a few hours" is not helpful. Only letting her grow limp in my lap, fully sad until all that tragic disappointment seeps out of her, allows us to then bounce back to the usual spirited play. 

Kids are resilient. We hear that a lot these days. And it is true that they can take a lot of bounce, even in the course of one day. 

 

 

 

 

But I don't know a kid who does not worry about one thing or another. And of course, we can't smooth the road for them and make it free of bumps and worries. All we can do is make that lap available when they stumble. (Snowdrop would tell me -- gaga, that was more than a stumble! Even though in a few hours the problem was fixed and she was made whole again.)

 

(lunch)

 

 

 

A few even cooler days coming up. Truly not a big deal. I read about the horrible sudden frost that just destroyed most of the budding grape vines in France and I think about how we here take weather reports as a day setting thing, nothing more than that. Never a lost crop, a lost year, just a day, one out of many. A short horizon, compared to that of, say, a grape grower, or any farmer.

Flowers for you? Sure, I have a few. April blooms. With love.

weeding continuum

Work outside accelerates. Yes, there is a drizzle this morning. We are ignoring it. We have too much to do. It isn't exciting work: Ed is experimenting with tree planting ideas. Me, I'm madly weeding. If in early spring I ferociously attacked beds to create new flower fields (one end of the weeding continuum: a ferocious attack), I then moderated. A couple of hours a day. Maintenance work. Not light weeding, but somewhere in the middle of the effort continuum. But now -- I need to get back to ferocity, madness, and speed. 

(morning walk)

(aside from daffodils, what else is blooming robustly?)

(breakfast definitely in the kitchen, with a new batch of fallen daffodils...)

The new plants will begin arriving in less than two weeks. Everything has to be ready.

And here's a preview of what's to come: today, we drive out to the perennial nursery, the Flower Factory, to pick up a very small bag of flowers. First trip, first arrival! [The Flower Factory, my go to nursery in past years, is actually closed for retail business, but they are selling a smaller number of plants online, for assigned pickup dates. Our first date is in fact today. That's early for Wisconsin planting, but spring came early and we surely are ready for it!]

None of it is going into the ground just yet, but it surely feels wonderful to welcome the first arrivals.

And speaking of welcoming farmette arrivals -- here comes the Sunday dinner gang!

Again, no one wants to linger outside. It's just a little too cool for that (at 53f, or 11c). We are a spoiled lot: in Scotland this may well be summer weather. Still, inside is good too!

(Snowdrop is intent on spiffing us up for dinner)

(Alright then...)

As always, a day of yard work gives you that sense of accomplishment. A day well spent, among a delicately greening flora. It also makes us sleepy. Ed zonks out on the floor even amid the kid noise. I think the young parents (who also had a lot of outdoor time) are not far behind in the heavy eyelid department. How good is that!

100% rain

And again the weather forecast sets the morning activities for us. I read that by late morning we will for sure have rain. 100% sure. Well this is perfect: I'll seed the patches in the new orchard just before the rains come and then thank the clouds for sprinkling the planted soil with showers. That's the plan.

But three events messed with these good intentions. First, I had not given the new orchard wild flower patches (I don't count them as flower beds) much attention and so I had not noticed that they were completely overgrown with quack grass, dandelions and who knows what else. Out come the weed buckets, out comes the shovel. I set to work. Lots of digging in very saturated soil. Tedious work.

Now comes the second interference: the cheepers find me and delight in my shovel work. The wet soil unearths plenty of good bugs for them. Yummy.

That's fine, but the cheeper presence is most unwelcome when the time comes to sow the seeds. (And there are seeds I can put in now, even as we are not yet past our frost date). Their scratching and eating will undo all my work. Cheepers! 

(daffodils du jour...)

And here's another thing worthy of an eye roll: that 100% certainty? Can it be retracted? The pouting clouds are there, but the rains hold back. 

That's okay. It will rain. I'm as sure as anything. In go the seeds. And only then are we ready for breakfast. And so we sit down to our "morning" meal...

... just as the mob arrives for Saturday lunch!

Because there is that threat of rain (I felt a drop! Me too! Not me! Ah well...), we don't stay out long. A brief romp -- she climbs the tree...

(he wishes he could...)

(she comes down, he's happy with that...)

... then in we go. I'd say the orange couch was very popular on this soggy and yes, eventually rainy day!

Snowdrop discovered that she could quickly type in messages on her mom's phone (guess what! I typed in S and my name popped up immediately! And L brought up love!) and she occupied herself with this for a while. Sparrow (I'm sure) wished he could do the same.

A rainy day is also good for art and Snowdrop returned to her super pig sketches, while Sparrow concentrated on trying to do a picture of a baby. To his dismay, babies proved to be a difficult subject. 

We let Unie out for a brief romp, but she is now too big and too fast to be let loose in the house.

Sorry girls. We'll all have to wait for better weather before I can put you outside. 

The young family leaves, I reach for my kindle and lose myself in a story set in a place where I would like to visit for real, even as I know that's not going to happen anytime soon.

trees and worms

It'll be another rainy day today and considerably cooler. The daffodils are already sagging under the weight of past showers. But that's okay -- this is April weather, they'll survive.

As I go out to feed the animals, I take along my shovel and weed pail. An hour with only light rain is an hour to get more weeds out. The greening of our landscape is so very lovely, but my beds don't need the added junk sprouting there right now. (And it is junk: anything that spreads quickly and chokes out flowers that are struggling to establish themselves should come out.) So I work away at the wee hours of the morning.

Breakfast? Definitely in the kitchen. With some toppled daffodils in a vase.

 

During the morning meal we return to the topic of trees. Ed brings it up. He has an idea on how to protect them from weed encroachment. I listen. He's imagining discs that he would make out of a combination of wood chips and other stuff. Something biodegradable. It sounds complicated. 

You really don't have to do this...

But you were so adamant, after reading that damn "plant an oak tree" article!

I wanted something pretty and beneficial...

This will be beneficial and at least not un-pretty. I'm doing it as a birthday present for you!

And so I guess we're back on the tree planting boat again. We'll see how long it stays afloat.

In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop at school. 

 

 

 

As usual, on the ride to the farmette, we review her day. I ask about the best part, expecting to hear the usual -- recess. But no, today her favorite was definitely library hour.

How about recess?

Not so good, she tells me. Apparently her friends were dumping worms into puddles. At first she was an audience (Snowdrop will not touch a worm), but after a while, she decided to intervene. The teacher had told them specifically to not do this and, besides, Snowdrop is in her own mind a protector of the environment. In not so many words, she tells her friends that destroying worms will lead to the eventual extinction of the human race. 

They ignored her. She walked away indignant, seeking solace and a minute of peace in the "butterfly garden" to strategize the next step. I decided that next time I'll ask them how would they feel if a whale picked them up and dumped them for some other fish to eat. 

To add insult to injury, her friends picked school daffodils (against a teacher's directive once again) and dumped the flowers into the puddle, along with the worms. I asked what happened then.

Gaga, I didn't stay to see. Maybe the worms ate the flowers, but I don't know if a worm is a carnivore, omnivore, herbivore, or insectivore. 

Recess, her favorite time, was a bust.

 

At the farmette, Snowdrop now finds total pleasure in spending time in the crab apple tree. 

 

 

 

I get it. I liked tree sitting too when I was her age. And older.

More rain expected tomorrow. Because, you know, when it rains it pours.

celebrating rain

At last it rains. Every gardener in south central Wisconsin must be breathing a sigh of relief. Too many beautiful days without rain. Finally, the thirsty roots have that satisfying drink of water.

And the landscape changes overnight. The greens now dominate and they are magnificent!

Breakfast, in the rain, on the porch.

(on the other side of the screen: a wet landscape)

I have loads of "paperwork" (none of it actually on paper) all saved up for just such a day, so don't ask me what interesting stuff filled my morning. I did keep the door open and the sound of the falling rain against the roof of the porch was intoxicating! 

And then, the skies brightened a bit and we put the chicks outside and we welcomed "Dan" to the farmette. He's the guy who looks after the prairie fields out in the Brooklyn Wildlife Area. He came out to give us some advice on what to do with the land out back.

 

I don't know that we'll follow any of it. We already have competing visions for this land and someone else's take is interesting, but it does not give a clear answer on what should happen next. We are drifting in a sea of indecision. Of our own making.

Spring break is over: time to pick up Snowdrop at school. I will forever love that joyful run to Blue Moon...

At the farmette, she walks her "secret short cuts" and pauses: where is my little white flower? In fact, the snowdrops are finished. We're moving on to the next and the next. It's not up there with realizing that Santa is fiction, but I do think that on this day, she let go of the (beautiful but so innocent) idea that favorite flowers will bloom for you all season long.

Her spirit revives in the daffodil field.

... and in a contemplative moment in the crab apple.

Rain returns in the evening. Light, soundless, wet. April's gift to the garden.  Cats and chicks retire early. All is very quiet.

last day of summer...

Hot. Pleasantly hot. Of course, truthfully, none of this is necessarily good. Everything is opening up quickly, beautifully, with trust that we have crossed the finish line. But we haven't crossed the finish line! Frost is a lurking northern menace that looks for an opening to come down and visit with us once again. An early spring is happy news only if it isn't followed by stinging, blustery weather.

Still, ignoring for the moment the theoretical possibilities here, I am going to stay happy with what we have. Because it truly is beautiful.

The daffodils haven't been battered by rain storms and so they stand upright and bold. The effect is perfect!

Yes, I'd say today their bright faces are at their freshest and fullest. Some of the late varieties have yet to bloom, but this is true the whole growing season: there is always something around the corner, waiting to surprise you. We learn not to wait, but instead to love what's there at the moment.

Breakfast, warm and wonderful, outside.

The entire rest of the morning and good part of afternoon are spent on my mom's potential move. The issues multiply with each step I take, but I am not daunted. Yesterday it was "impossible." Today it's "we'll see what we can do."

Then comes a long afternoon stretch (bookmarked by buckets filled with dug up weeds) of time on the porch with my friend who is in town after a year of being cut off from her Madison family (and friend!).  It's still hard to grasp -- from Zoom meetings to porch moments. Safe because of a vaccine. How incredibly beautiful is that!

Hot air is usually followed by a storm and we were promised a storm and rain -- all of it. 100% certainty! Ed and I rushed the chicks inside quickly. He put away his tools, I put away mine, but the rain never came! Should I go biking? -- he asks.

Yes, definitely. No rain expected until much much later.

He goes and I watch the clouds do an unexpected twist and turn and I'm thinking -- if he doesn't get rained on, I'll be surprised.

if you had time...

I heard an interview on NPR with an author of a book about being a mother to young kids. Oh, and the mother has a job. And the kids have school and activities and so the mother (sorry dads, it usually is the mother who does this) is getting the kids, their lunches, their instruments, swim suits, school projects etc etc ready every single day at the same time that work demands spill over to her home time and she can't forget about that either. Exhausting stuff, requiring a sharp focus and a steady presence of mind. So what does this mother crave, had she free time? The author says -- not a massage. Not a fancy meal, not any of that. What she most likely craves is time to just sit and stare into space.

I have to say, I agree with that. I'm not (anymore) a working mom with a million tasks to attend to. Nevertheless, sitting still with an uncluttered mind and staring at something before me ranks high among favorites. You could say that all the work of gardening is toward that beautiful goal: to provide a feast for the senses, enjoyed by doing nothing more than letting it all sink in, as I sit and allow myself the pleasure of drifting in spirit from one lovely scene to the next. 

This morning offers a fine illustration of this love of just sitting and staring. I am up early. The weather people tell us there will be rain, maybe. And we will continue with the warm spell. High of 78F (25C) -- that's just two degrees shy of a record set more than a 100 years ago on this day! I feed the animals and fill a big bucket with more weeds (they pop up insanely fast!) and by then Ed is up and I look at the sky and yes, a brief but thunderous rain comes down. Thank goodness. We need it! Do I really want breakfast on the porch when there are lingering claps of thunder? I do!

And the rain passes and the sun comes out and I am still on the porch and I just don't want to leave. The smell of wet earth, the gentle sway of the daffodils in the flower beds, the greening of the crab apple along the path to the barn -- it's all beautiful and there is no greater pleasure (is there?) than to just sit quietly and stare. Our porch chairs have a gentle rock to them and occasionally, I'll give myself an ever the slight sway, but mostly I just sit, look, listen. [Ed tells me the noise of construction in the new development still comes through and it is disturbing, but I don't care. It's not constant and I can still hear the birds. Too, it's part of the more distant landscape: somewhere out there men (it's always just men) are working on the new roads and houses, while at the farmette, there is the coo of the doves and the chirp of birds that I can't pretend to identify and that smell of damp earth.]

Heaven.

(from the porch...)

Eventually I do have to let go of the serenity and the peaceful stare. I have my mom's potential transfer to attend to and it's proving to be like the forest out back: finding the trees, or in her case the right place is only 1% of the battle. The rest is proving to be far more difficult than I imagined (isn't that always the case...) and one phone call leads to another and then another and then a half a dozen more. Will it come to pass? Like with the forest of saplings -- all stars will have to align themselves well. 

 

Evening. Doors, windows open, as if it were summer, as if suddenly the outside was part of our indoors and the scents of cooking mingle with the scents of that damp earth, compost and new growth, wood chips and swaying daffodils. Summer weather. April flowers.