finally

It snowed last night. Not the icy shower we got in December. Not the wet two inches we got in January. Not the scant dusting that comes and goes leaving nothing more than a thin cover over packed ice. It snowed the beautiful snow of the high mountains. Light powder, several inches of it, covering every mistake and imperfection that winter has carved out thus far. In the morning, the sun is out, the skies are crystal clear. This, my dears, is what makes us love winter so much!

I am still mightily bruised from my ice tumble yesterday, but I can tell that nothing is shattered or punctured and even the swollen knee will recover at some point, perhaps in the near future. In other words, I'm on the mend so I wont fret about it. Indeed, I joined Ed in shoveling outside. The snow is light, the air is bracing, the farmette lands look splendid with their winter quilt of white stuff.

Breakfast, on the other hand, shows just how muddled the season can be: on the one hand, we have our warm oatmeal and I have the furnace up to give us plenty of warm air and there is a candle on the table celebrating the coziness of the season. On the other hand, Ed and I are talking about our spring planting project. I have ordered some stuff for it and I need to read up on how best to transform the soil out back to something more hospitable to the new arrivals than solid clay. Too, I bought a small bouquet of flowers at our grocery store (we're still doing home deliveries) and it could not shout more clearly that it belongs to the season that comes after winter!

Winter beauty and spring thoughts. They often go hand in hand.

In the afternoon I decide to throw caution to the wind and go skiing with Ed. I just cannot resist it: perfect snow, perfect sunshine. It's as close to a majestic mountain winter day as we get around here.

Despite the fact that my rib cage still feels like it's on fire, though not as blazing a flame as last night, and I still cant use my knee in all possible bends and permutations, nonetheless, I feel like we ought to aim big today. We have a number of Nordic ski trails within about an hour's drive of the farmette. I pick a cluster to the east -- in the Kettle Moraine State Forest. 

And it is beautiful! We are a little late to arrive. Ed had slept until the noon hour, we lingered and dallied and did this and did that. (For example, I conducted a mega transaction today: I sold my apartment in Warsaw.) Still, we have a few hours of daylight left. The trails are full of new snow and most of them are beautifully groomed and ready for us devoted Nordic types. We choose the intermediate runs. None of this sissy gentle stuff. (My ribs will never be the same again! Uff!)

We see fewer than a handful of others. We have the peace of a snow covered forest. What more could a person want...

We drive home in that blissful state of quiet satisfaction. It was such a stunning winter day! We are grateful and content. (And a little sore.)

 

With love...

the cheepers are coming, the cheepers are coming...

Is it the first sign of spring? Today, the girls and their protector left the barn and walked (slid?) over to the garage.

This sign of movement, of abandoning their corner of the barn where they huddled all day long for all of  January, is hope-filled. It's as if you can remind yourself that no huddle lasts forever, no brutal wind can bar you from eventually moving forward. 

Marveling at the beauty of it all, I sit down to breakfast, alone because Ed could not, would not wake up before the lunch hour.

It looks like it is a fairly good day for ice skating. Below freezing, but with a bit of sunshine. Yet there's a hidden gut punch: the wind. Oh, the bitter cold wind! Nevertheless, I had said that if all goes well and Snowdrop manages to check off the requisite number of days under incarceration (surely it felt that way to her) symptom free (check!), we can go skating today. Sparrow wants to join, but he doesn't have skates and I feel he is not yet ready for them (unless you put him on double blades and even there, I think he would be a reluctant ice boy). Nevertheless, there is such a thing as boot skating and what's to stop him from keeping up with us on the ice in this way? His mommy would be there for moral support.

And so we meet up by their neighborhood ice rink: my older girl and her two older kids and I. Eating snacks and figure skating and boot-skating on a pretty good piece of ice.

(look gaga! with eyes closed!)

All was grand until we were done. I waved them toward the bench and went out to do one last fast loop around the rink. Yeah, there's the clincher: I wanted to be quick and so I picked up speed. And the blade caught on something and pretty quickly I went down, chest and knee thumping the ice like a big lid clamping down on a pot that's about to boil over. That'll teach me!

I doubt that I did any lasting damage but it was a good reminder (because I seem to need a million of them) to not go for speed. I suppose my ego had been bruised when the other day Ed said I was good, but not as good as the twelve year olds playing hockey on the ice rink the evening he and I stopped by to test the ice. The kids had commanding speed. I suppose somewhere in the back of my head lodges the idea that I still can have commanding speed and at the same time remain safe from crushing falls. Possibly that is not a good way to approach skating at my age.  

At home, I spent the rest of the day cradling my ego on the couch and hoping that the knee and the ribs are all intact. 

(Ever nimble deer outside, laughing!)

a routine out of the abnormal

One thing that we've learned from all this (she sweeps her hand broadly to indicate the whole mess we're in...) is that we rely on, we like, we thrive and prosper with routines in place. Just think how you begin your day, how you approach food, how you plan visits with friends or family, how you pour yourself a cup of coffee at this hour and a glass of wine at that hour. Flexibility is good, but establishing routines is what makes a household hum and what frees your mind to explore the unusual and the adventurous.

Covid continues to be ever so clever at taking a wrecking ball to our well established routines. Sure, it's fantastic if you don't get sick and especially fantastic if you don't die. Millions would give a lot to be in that privileged place. Still, I cannot blame you if you are despairing at how your days look with Covid breathing down your neck (eww! what a horrible image!), day after day after day.

The young family in Chicago is once again having their week turn upside down, as after a few days of school, Primrose needs to quarantine once more, because there was a case of Covid in her class. Here, in Madison, Snowdrop is still under quarantine with her very real infection, though her brother has returned to school. The non-Covid babysitter has had to hang back for the past two weeks as the family has moved from one infection to the next. Me, I brought the girl to the farmette one day, then retreated, as first her dad and then she herself turned positive. But, I like routines, and especially around kids and food, and so I have fallen this week into a steady habit of driving over to her house, each afternoon, with our usual fruits and some baked goods (muffins remain a big favorite), some book about some aspect of winter, and lately -- a big old quilt that is a great cover when you just feel like the cold has penetrated every layer of your clothing.

But first, the morning: it is a very cold day. (But not enough snow still! Take a look!)

Ed and I both eat hot oatmeal once again.

And eventually I drive over to chat/read/eat/play with the housebound girl.

We are outside for a good hour. I give credit to the hot chocolate, the quilt and the sunshine.

(it's called boot-skating)

There is a gusty wind, which means that the high of 16F (-9C) doesn't feel very high at all. Snowdrop's face is pink, my nose is now probably closer to the color of beets, but still, we persist!

If at the beginning of the week things looked extra gloomy for her, for her entire household, right now they look better. Not only are we slowly climbing out of their Covid attack, but, too, the new routines have offered a pleasant regularity to each day: I found, she found, we all found some pockets of predictability and yes, joy, in this crazy and weird week. 

 

Toward evening, Ed and I walk along the trail that hugs Lake Waubesa, with a little detour onto the lake...

 

 

 

My it's windy and piercingly cold out there!

Still, it is another evening of stunning colors! 

We were ever so happy to be outside, and perhaps even happier coming back into a warm farmhouse.

several calls later...

When it is a supremely cold day and you can't imagine an enjoyable walk, let alone a bout of ice skating, you turn toward your inside world and you reach for the phone. Well, in my case, for Skype and Zoom. I have a bunch of oversees calls to make and today seems perfect for this.

Ed claims I exaggerate the chill in the air, but I tell no lies! A high of 11F (-12C) is by definition nippy. Nonetheless, the sun is out and the farmette lands look dazzling, even though there are too many bare patches for my taste.

Breakfast, with an Ed who now has short hair and no beard.

We do some armchair gardening then. This is tricky. Ed likes to research every step we take while I settle easily for things that "sound like they might work." I'm charged with figuring out how to put in a large crop of lavender, he assists with selecting more trees for our Great Tree Planting Project out back. Guess who gets done first? And guess who then offers suggestions and revisions that completely upend my entire planting idea?

 

By late afternoon, I have had it with couch sitting and spinning in circles over trees and lavender cuttings.  I drive out to do an outside visit with the grandkids. Sparrow was back in school today but Snowdrop unfortunately has to suffer the disappointment of staying home and not going anywhere at all. I reassure her that even if she could go skating today, she would not want to go skating today. Way too cold. She disagrees.

I'm prepared for the frigid temps. I come with quilt!

 

(Sandpiper comes out to say hi... He cannot get used to my mask!)

My toes freeze, but the older kids and I put in a good forty minutes of play. Snowbirds and rabbits. Footprint makers.

And so ends another day of this rather choppy week. I'm still smiling, still enjoying the winter world, but honestly, I'll be happier when we finally return to greater predictability with our routines back in place. So far, every day of 2022 has offered surprises of the kind where you have to adjust your thinking and your daily life to feed the needs of the moment. Never before have I felt so much that being flexible and resilient serves you well in life. We adapt. So long as everyone is well or getting better -- we are happy.

With love...

and many more...

Whereas I cannot remember a year where I would have not been present for my older girl's birthday, my younger daughter has by now had more birthdays without me at her side than ones where I could pop in and give her a great, big hug. Shockingly, more birthdays hit the weekday than the weekend (ha!) and so more often than not she has been busy with far away studies, then work, rarely afforded vacation days in this cold winter month. We have postponed and deferred and I'm sure she feels less fussed over than the average family member (especially since an increasing number of family members are below the age of 8 and so fusses abound). But I am equally positive that she knows that she is and always will be my beloved younger one, the little girl whose spirit is gentle but whose passions run deep. Happy, happy birthday!

(From a FaceTime call today: I'm in the car, bundled up and pulled over, she is with Juniper)

It's a brutally cold day. That's not unusual and indeed, it can get even worse at this time of the year. Still, despite the brilliant sunshine, no one is especially clamoring to go outside. 

(the cheeper girls give it a try, then give up and retreat to the barn)

It's the kind of day where both Ed and I think hot oatmeal for breakfast is a good idea.

Afterwards, I trim his hair. I always ask if he's absolutely sure he does not want to grow it out to a ponytail and he always smiles in response, recognizing the ridiculousness of the idea. Pony tails require care. I can't get Ed to comb his hair, let alone do something so taxing as pulling it back into a neat swag of curls.

And when the sun is at its warmest moment and the thermometer reaches a toasty 12F (-11C), I drive over to my older girl's home, where the kids run out for an outdoor greeting and then shiver on the front step over their gogs snack.

Sparrow is not a cold weather person and after a few minutes he retreats indoors. Snowdrop lasts a little longer and we read together in this fashion, there on the front step, over muffins, gingerbread, cherries, berries and mango, and of course that essential -- the warm thermos of cocoa.

All three kids are okay, but each presents a trickle of mild symptom, the common denominator being fatigue, maybe some sniffles, maybe a slight infection. Troopers all.

And then I drive home, stopping at the post office to send a registered letter, and as I wait forever in a place where mask wearing by some is mocked (have you seen the "just up to my lip line" version of this?), I think -- my sick grandkids come outside in this cold weather to see me for a little bit in this protected fashion and you can't even sell postage stamps to customers of various vulnerabilities wearing a mask properly! How weary one can get with humankind...

But not too weary. Most people care. It is always important to remind yourself this: most people care very much.

In other news, I read today about the tragic skiing death of a well known and well loved young French actor. The details of this caught my eye because it all happened in a place where I would surely go, were I to go skiing in the near future -- a quiet skiing corner in southeastern France. And it reminded me of why skiing these days is such a dangerous sport: it's not how you ski, it's the reckless others who are your greatest enemy. Someone ran into this guy.  Okay, this is a tragic and rare ending, but to a rather routine these days event. Last time I skied the Alps some eight years ago, I was also slammed into by an out-of-control big guy who was skiing on a slope well beyond his skiing abilities. I swore I would never ski again. These days I keep going back to the idea of maybe someday doing one more grand run down a big mountain. And then I remember the craziness of some novices who go to ski resorts because it's a badge of honor to do so, rather than because they care about the art of the sport, and I think -- eh, maybe I'm done with downhill. Let's stick with Nordic!

Which reminds me -- might we get some more snow please?

There is something astonishingly peaceful about a January night. My candle is Evergreen from Brooklyn Candles. It's my new favorite: pine needles and a touch of eucalyptus, laced with cedar, oakmoss and wild currant, with just a touch of balsam, black walnut and smoked vanilla. That's their description. And it's spot on.

Happy winter birthday sweetest little girl! 

With so much love!

where are we now?

For the young family, it's a question of waiting out the remaining days of a mild but perniciously infectious virus. Both of the older kids need a negative test result and/or the requisite number of days to pass before they can return to school. Sandpiper, the youngest, is probably happy to have them around. Virus / no virus -- this has no meaning for him. Brother and sister are home. Yay.  As for me, well, the farmhouse remains off limits to them all for now, and even ice skating with Snowdrop is put on hold. I'm also counting days and/or waiting for better test results. But I will permit myself an outside meetup with the young family, at a distance, me in a super duper mask (which probably is a fake, even as it has proper markings... I mean, what's to stop someone from putting on fake "proper" markings? Such a challenge it is to pick out colorful masks that are authentically what they claim to be!).

In terms of the bigger picture (the one beyond just our immediate back yard), we are all also waiting: waiting for this surge to pass, for our hospitals to empty out covid wards, for schools to reduce the number of Covid alerts (which no longer scare the daylights out of me, since Omicron cannot do even more harm to my Madison grandkids).

Staying patient is not a skill that is rock solid within me, but the following things help:

I can say honestly that I am done with living in total diffuse fear. Ed asked me today what scared me more during the pandemic -- our own infection or passing the virus to the young families? A regular Sophie's choice type question, don't you think? I told him honestly, it kept changing. Them, us, us, them, the pregnant moms, us again, the kids, the babes! But since yesterday, when the last child here got infected, I (mostly) quit worrying. Even in Chicago, we are moving past the weeks of having a newborn in the house. The vulnerabilities diminish. [And I say this knowing that other families are still in danger. Immuno-compromised, or with underlying conditions, and of course, the anti vaxxers who stubbornly would rather crowd the hospitals and infect the babes and the vulnerable among us, than get that protective shot.]

The other thing that helps is reading less about the horrors of Covid and more about what post-pandemic life should look like. It brings me that much closer to the idea that we actually may well be approaching a post pandemic life. (No, do not tap me on the shoulder here and tell me about all the variants that can still mess with us. I do not believe in living with imagined and not yet real or likely dangers.)

So, that's where I am now: (a tad) less scared for my family, for us, and happily diving into really ambitious plans of how I might behave once we are done with being in crisis mode. Ed said to me, as if realizing that this pandemic may indeed be on the wane -- from my vantage point, it's been really great to be hunkered here with you. I share that feeling. We had one pandemic crisis moment just before Christmas (call it the "excessive clutter" moment), but it passed rather quickly and with no damage to anyone. Otherwise, we really, really like being under the same roof together for extensive periods of time. 

But I do miss the occasional trip. One that takes me far and has me wake up in distant lands. The pandemic has taught me to not love grocery shopping. And restaurants are fine, but I can live without them. Big parties? Loud music happenings? That's never been me. But waking up and starting the day with breakfast in a place where people speak a different language, or at least a version of English that sounds like it couldn't possibly be English -- that is where I grow and learn best. And I miss it.

Okay, a few particulars.

It's the third time this month when we woke to a beautiful day with temps just over the freezing point. It would have been perfect for skating with Snowdrop, but as I said, that's on hold. Instead, I drive over to my daughter's house and set up an outdoor snack for the three older kids stuck at home (the third is a daughter of the babysitter. She's finishing up her Covid run as well). I've baked some muffins, cut up some fruits and warmed up a thermos of hot chocolate.

The kids play and I mostly concentrate on keeping my distance.  

(Snowdrop and playmate for the day)

 

 

 

 

 (Sparrow, recovering)

 

 

It's a little hard when Sparrow wants so much to be pushed on the swing, or one child wants help with a boot, but I am very good at not breathing for a few seconds as I attend to these trivial demands.

Mostly though, they saunter and take in the sun, and when the two younger guys go in, Snowdrop and I linger by the swings and she says in her reflective voice -- gaga, do you realize that every second is a moment in your life? Yes it is, little girl. Yes it is.

And after my visit, I swing by the farmhouse and pick up Ed and we head out for a walk -- a now late afternoon walk along a more distant segment of the Nature Conservancy. And the light is once again stunning!

After, I have an errand to run at the UPS store and Ed tags along with me, which I like to pretend is sort of like traveling together to distant places only without the inconvenience of long flights. 

The sun has set by the time I'm done. Ed suggests we go back to the pond by the Montessori school where Snowdrop first stepped on ice wearing skates. You should skate today -- he tells me. I keep the skates in the car these days and I like the idea of just swinging by our local rink (or is it pond?) and putting in a few laps. The ice is beautiful tonight. Just a few lumps and bumps, but otherwise perfectly refreshed and cleared of any snow.

 

It still surprises me how far I am from my skating of some decades ago. Oh, I'm fine, I'm confident, I'm plenty smooth. But I dont have the command I once did. I feel like a grandma on ice. An experienced grandma, to be sure, but no one could say I'm showing off. I have become modestly ambitious. And that, perhaps is a good thing!

With love....