Morzine details

Is there anything more winter beautiful than the first rays of sunlight licking the tops of snow covered mountains?

(from my room)

Big impact mountains, small stuff. Which plays a greater role in my week here in Morzine? (As I mentioned in my previous post, Morzine is in a river valley of the highest French Alps.) It's like choosing between wild blueberries and a delicious five course meal (as served to me here, at Le Samoyede upon my arrival last night). Both create forceful memories. But ultimately, for me at least, real beauty resides in the smallest of details.

Breakfast at the hotel Le Samoyede can be hefty or it can be light. There's a menu, or you can just fill your plate from the buffet. That is a recent return to something resembling normality. Hotels had to scratch buffet servings during the height of the pandemic. But here, in Morzine, it wasn't just about canceling the buffet. The pandemic brought the whole place to a standstill. Everything shut down. My hotel closed in mid-March of 2020 and stayed closed until a year and half later. Thanks to vaccination mandates, it could return to doing business this past December. I know there are those in France who objected to Macron's heavy handedness with the mandates, but places like this one benefited hugely: by giving only the vaccinated access to hotels, restaurants, ski lifts, etc., all could open up and get going again, even during the greatest Omicron surge. Now people are more loosey goosey with masks, but there is still the vaccination mandate in place and the hotel insists on masks in public spaces, though in a polite way and without penalty if you choose to be hostile to keeping others safe. Many many customers are return guests. This may affect the higher than average compliance with masking. You dont want to flaunt your ridiculousness when Sophia (who co-owns the Samayede along with Alexandre; they are the third generation to run this place) is there greeting you and Alex looks over from the office to say hello.

I remembered my last ski trip to the Alps five years ago: I did not eat a good breakfast. I suffered. Today, I'm mindful. In addition to the fruits, juices, yogurts, croissants and homemade cake, I boil myself a European egg. (Sorry to call it European, but I really don't know anyone who eats a soft boiled egg in a cup in the U.S., whereas here they are ubiquitous.) I'd go for their omlette, but I'm still feeling a tad piggish after lapping up the last saucy crumb last night at dinner.

And then comes the moment of decision. What should I do: investigate on foot? Should I take the gondola up and ski back down to town? Should I look for the cross country trails up above?

I opt for the last one. Downhill skiing may be a bit of a brazen way to start the holiday. And though they do have a blue run down (blue in downhill parlance is the gentlest), I'm not sure how blue it really is. The French are sportif. I've gotten clobbered by their rating system on hikes where a gentle climb turned out to be what I regard as intermediate, and their black (challenging) trail turned out to be nearly impossible. Besides, I do want to poke around up there, on the crest of the hills that sweep down into Morzine. What better way than on cross country skis!

I take the gondola up.

I was a tiny bit worried how I would deal with packed gondolas (such as I have known in Italian ski destinations), but it turns out that the ride isn't long and there are only 5 - 6 in each car (out of which half plus me wear masks). It is pretty amazing how many skiing options there are in this area. As a result, none of the lifts appear to be crowded. I waited 1 minute to hop onto a gondola. And on the top? Oh the views!

(Looking down to Morzine: by now, most of the snow down there has melted)

(feeling the closeness of the mountains...)

I had a little booklet which sketched out the cross country trails. It is quite unfortunate that when you begin where I begin (coming up from Morzine), the first segment is labeled "difficult," the second, linked to it, is called "intermediate," and only the third is labeled "easy." Well yes, it's not level up there in the mountains. There are gong to be lots of ups and downs.

But the snow is pretty slick and I do not have metal edges (they're not allowed in many US Nordic skiing places). And importantly, I haven't found my ski legs yet! (I'm not going to mention my knee which resides in a brace to keep it stable. That one's on me!)

And so early on, I try to hop from classic to the skate trail on a downhill run and I lose control. Down I go. I had such confidence in my ability to handle anything out there that I dangled by good BIG camera around my neck. It could have gone in the pack. It did not go in the pack. Down it went too. Good thing it's basically water tight! And I nearly went off trail into some very steep territory at another point. Those were my two fiascoes. Otherwise, I managed!

(good views everywhere!)

I pulled up to the end point (or the beginning, if you were coming at it from another village) and there I saw this cafe bar with swing chairs and did I tell you that it is a brilliant day? I should have brought sun screen!

I purchased a farmstead apricot juice and sat down in what I have to regard as one of the better reasons to ski: so that you can find your spot in the sun and exhale afterwards!

Unfortunately, I noticed that I was now at a lower elevation than when I started. What goes down must now go up. But, I had my ski legs back and it was a fine run, progressing now from easy to difficile.

It was close to 1 pm when I reached the gondola station. Here, I decide to lean the skis against someone's fence and go out along the path for pietons to explore the area up high on foot. There are a number of trails and every once in a while you'll see a hiker, but in general, hikers and cross country skiers are a rare breed in this area. It really is all about downhill.

As I walked along the ridge line...

I feel the mountains are walking along the side of me. Keeping this solo traveler company. Protective rather than threatening (they just lifted the avalanche warnings the day before I arrived, so I don't give snow slides another thought).

But I wondered which was Mt. Blanc. So I ask a passing French person.

The rest of my time up here is a lesson in happenstance and serendipity. I thought how much of our life is governed by chance! If I lost control and went down a ravine while skiing, that would have been bad luck (or a bad skiing decision or both). If I happen to meet a helpful French man who couldn't tell me which mountain was Mt Blanc, but who did tell me that if I walked five more minutes, I'd come to a restaurant that cooked locally and they surely would be able to answer my question. And by the way, it is rumored that they had good food.

And at the Vaffieu they did point out Mt. Blanc. I asked if I could sit down for lunch, but they said all tables were reserved, but I could buy food at the window over there, and take a tray to any of the easy chairs sprawled out on their snow covered meadow.

So first, Mt. Blanc, because I promised I'd point it out to you.

Then the lunch. In line and all around me, I hear French and British and some German. But mostly French. And no Russian. This makes me feel happy. The mountains in western Europe seemed to me to be too often dominated by rich Russians who come to ski because it is to many a mark of personal success if you ski the Alps. Perhaps freezing their assets helped keep them home. Or they don't like places that have only small chalets and no glitzy trappings (Morzine) but they can still be found in the Zermatts and St Moritzs and the more posh places. You cannot equate every Russian with Putin's politics, just like you couldn't equate Poles with Poland's politics or Americans with American politics. Nonetheless, given the degree of support Putin appears to have for his craziness in his own country, I'm feeling a little furious at any and all who stand by this total antihero.

So lunch. I ordered a tartine chevre (so, a grilled open faced toasted sandwich with goat cheese; the cheese is sprinkled with sun dried tomatoes and walnuts and drizzled with a generous spoonful of local honey). And a glass of Savoyard wine. [I love Savoyard white wine and can only get two types back home because it's rather obscure, so you will see me drinking only that on this trip; last night I had a beautiful bottle called Les Alpes. Can it be more evocative?! And yes, at the hotel they let you open a bottle and carry it through to other nights you're here, which I love, because ordering by the glass interrupts the flow of the meal.] And a fizzy water of course. I was darn thirsty by now. And here are two pieces of magnificence: they had a home made wild blueberry tart. And I found a chair and I pulled it up so that I could face the sun and look at Mt Blanc. 

It is a lunch I'm not likely to ever forget.

A small child came up to me -- oh, maybe two years old. Probably a boy but at this age who can tell. He looked at me. And looked at me. And said nothing. So I spoke to him. I tried French. He did not respond. I tried several other languages. Nothing. It was this little one:

I couldn't imagine what he wanted. Maybe the whipped cream at the side of the tart! I would have shared, but he had a crusty nose. Probably from skiing, but still. In the end his parents called him back (in French). But his steady gaze stayed with me. Maybe he's conveying a French hello to my grandkids. It was very spiritual! Eh, too much sun and perhaps the impact of that Savoyard wine (which I could not finish, but not because it wasn't heavenly).

This then was my serendipitous moment. By chance, perfection.

I should mention children in another context: skiing. I happen to walk along what is a bunny hill. Kids go up on a moving sidewalk and they learn to ski on a very gentle incline. Little children.

I mean some were really little. French families will leave their little ones with a ski school and go off to ski with other adults. I'm sure this happens in the US as well, but I found it really enchanting how many young people there are on the slopes. Very very young people.

Skiing is, though, in France, like in the United States, a "white" sport, which means that it remains one reserved for the privileged. I do feel a little unsettled in these places where mountains are ripped bare and machines spray them with snow as needed and engines chug people up so they can ski down in their expensive gear, in outrageously beautiful ski clothing (that's especially true in France), flashing expensive ski passes, all in the company of others doing the same. It's one reason that I hesitate before each ski trip that I take. Bad enough that I go to Europe as often as I do. Worse, every once in a while I come here to ski. But, I'm getting old, and these kinds of trips to mountains I have loved since childhood will be rare, and Europe is that home that I can't get out of my blood completely. Nonetheless, I have to say this -- I wish more people had access to winter sports. Not only a select few.

And now, down to Morzine for a short break.

 

 

In the afternoon, I went up the gondola again. 

In life, often when you make a mistake, you tend to compound your errors rather than retreating and doing better. I feel I compounded my errors with that afternoon escapade.

It began with my decision to try my rented downhill skis. Today. Because what, I didn't do a full amount of skiing in the morning?! I suppose I felt I got my ski legs back and I could push myself to the challenge of downhill. Besides, the weather is gorgeous. Seize it!

We keep all our ski equipment in the ski room downstairs and I began there: I tried to get the boots on. They weren't easy to put on in the store. They were impossible to put on today. Maybe my feet swelled. Maybe they stiffened up over night. I really struggled. Only my pig headedness made me continue.

Walking in boots and carrying your downhill boards is not easy. I'm used to light cross country skis. These downhill guys are heavy! On the upside, the gondolas were running almost empty. It was 4 p.m. Everyone who wanted to be up there to reach some lifts and runs higher up was already up there skiing. 

There is one blue run (easiest) going all the way down the mountain back to Morzine and I chose that one. (So basically I'm skiing down from where the sun first touched the little summit out my window this morning.) Perhaps that was the dumbest of all my dumb things. It runs through a forest, so it's shaded (goodbye pretty sunshine) and in the afternoon, the light isn't superb. You can barely see the icy patches. And there were icy patches!

Not to be completely down on this downhill adventure -- I mean, the views were very pretty! 

But halfway through it, I knew I was skiing on man-made snow. Brittle, icy, slick. I only fell once, but I am old enough that getting up from a twisted position and with skis still attached can be a challenge. Especially since I have a pretty useless knee for getting up purposes (on the upside, the knee brace is working very well! I can ski without issues!).  

It took me nearly 90 minutes to get down, though I did pause to do a selfie (timed release)!

But skiing down, I realized that the joy was pretty much gone. I'll try it again, in one of those sunny spots up the range, but these are my last days of down-hilling. I just like Nordic skiing so much better! The quiet, the pace, which can be gentle if you are in a gentle mood, the beauty of it all -- it beats downhill on all counts.

 

I stomped back to the store where I rented the downhills and the very genial guy there, Bastian, said he would work on my boots so I suppose I will pick them up maybe later in the week and maybe use them again. But I can almost promise you that my runs here over Nordic trails will be far far more beautiful and exhilarating than anything I may do on the downhill pistes. 

 

Evening. I chat with Ed and pick up farmette gossip. A skunk attacked the coop. Coop withstood the aggressor's shenanigans. We're thinking of adding another chicken to the bunch. There's one available that we like. Should he pick it up? Easy for me to say yes. I wont be there to work on the integration of the newbie. He baked cookies for himself. That kind of stuff.

And then it was time for dinner and predictably it was delicious. Tartare this and duck that and the cheeses and dessert.

Such a full day! Wonderfully full, with stellar moments and, too, some necessary reckoning about what I still love (Nordic) and what I'm nearly ready to abandon (down hill). 

Sleep in the mountains is always special. Particularly in the winter, when you look out and you can't tell if that's a twinkling mountain light or perhaps a star. Somewhere up there you'll find the chamois (sort of a cross between a goat and an antelope), mouflon (wild sheep), lynx, wild boar -- the French Alps are full of all of them, waiting for the first signs of spring. And at lower elevations, cows and goats are giving us their special milk for the incredible cheeses from the region: Reblechon, Tomme de Savoie, Chevre. Mountain cheeses, all of them.

For now, good night, sleep well, with fewer worries and a good amount of hope for a brilliant tomorrow.

Morzine!

I am in Morzine, France. You haven't heard of it? I'm not surprised.

Morzine is a village of less than 3000. It's located in the Haute Savoie department of France. If you speak French you'll notice the "haute." That means high. I am, in fact, in the French Alps.

Why oh why would anyone travel this long and this far to visit Morzine? Oh my goodness, why wouldn't you? Morzine is a traditional French market town, spreading over a river gorge at an altitude of 1000 m (3300 ft).  It is surrounded by forested mountains, flanked by the jagged peaks of France's highest Alps. I'll point out Mont Blanc when I next have a chance. And Morzine attracts skiers.

It's not that I wanted necessarily to downhill ski. I have with me my Nordic skis and boots because they do have cross country trails here. It's the first thing that made me perk up and look more closely at this place. But there were other considerations: it's not a modern place in that it doesn't have concrete slabs standing in for hotels, it's not crazily overrun by daredevil skiers (though it doesn't lack skiers -- of mixed abilities I'm told), and here's something important for me: it's not too far from a major airport. Geneva International is 90 minutes by car.

Ohhhh, let's roll back then to my travels. I left you in Madison on Friday. I had just picked up Snowdrop at school, taken her home and then headed out for the airport. I did all that. No problem. On time departure to Detroit. (I must note that it was possibly the only on time departure on Delta today so I am grateful.)

Next, a rather long flight to Paris, but not too long. The winds are strong and favorable for us: they turn what is normally an eight hour flight into one that's just six and a half. 

 (no Paris this time - except from the air)

And then there's the rather short flight to Geneva. Just fifty minutes! 

 (landing...)

 

 

So now I know that Geneva is to Paris, as Detroit is to Madison (as the crow flies). You never can tell when that useless piece of information might come in handy! I took a taxi from Geneva to Morzine. Now that was a bit of a nightmare.

Geneva International was packed. People climbing over people to retrieve luggage, to find their ride, probably to get to their Alpine destination. My driver said the British flights were all delayed and everyone came at once and the drivers were all going nuts trying to find their people. And now he decides to bypass the exodus and go through Geneva proper. That was a mistake! Geneva proper was hosting an anti-Russian invasion demonstration and so traffic crawled. 

It was nearly evening when I arrived in Morzine.

I'm staying at a family run hotel that's typical of the area -- le Samoyede (by the way, that name also belongs to a white furred Siberian herding dog), a chalet, not too large, not too small. I wanted it to be in the center of the village and it is that. I couldn't count on great skiing weather so walking around the sprawling village had to be an attractive option as well. It is definitely in the center of the Morzine universe. 

(every French town has a.... merry-go-round)

There isn't a lot of snow at this level, but we are in a basin of the high Alps and so if you go up in one of the many gondolas or lifts, you'll get to snow that's many feet deep. But it isn't an easy ski in - ski out situation. That kind of snow disappeared early in February. Like in southern Wisconsin!

I dumped my bag and skis at the hotel and went out to talk to the Tourist Office people about... well, everything! Cross country skiing, down hill skiing, walking, bla bla bla. Since this is Saturday and many, many people come for a week-long stay on Saturdays and of those, many come to the Tourist Office to buy lift tickets and passes, you could say that I held up the line. I did my research ahead of time, but you still need more on the spot information!

And I bought a lift pass. It seems ridiculous to buy a lift pass just to go cross country skiing. I mean, the beauty of Nordic trails is that they don't require such nonsense. Go out, put on skis, move. I suppose for that I should have gone to northern Norway and followed the trails of all those cross country skiing giants, but one must never look back and say "I should maybe have gone there, or there, or there." In travel, you must take each place as you find it and learn its greatest charms and quirky characteristics. 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, once I had the lift pass, I decided there's no way I'm going going to spend money on a pass and not ski from top to bottom, so I borrowed some downhill skis and boots as well. Yes daughters, I also borrowed a helmet. Size large, cause big heads run in the family.

My cozy room is wonderfully knotty pine and it has a super puffy quilt and is all together very agreeable. The staff is wonderful -- all as described, all as expected. What I did not expect was for the food to be this good. I know it's France, but still. I booked the half board rate on the theory that it's at least going to be fresh and honest. It's more than that. So I will eat a lot. (Today's dinner had veggi veloutee, gravlox and fennel salad, a beautiful tenderloin with bernaise and rosti potatoes, and cheeses...

And a three prong dessert, because one just wont do.

The dining crowd here is 90% French and 10% pale British.The waiter was shocked that I traveled this far... How little he knows me!

I'm here for a week. As almost always these days, I'm traveling alone. There is so much to see, to do, to photograph. You'll hear from me soon. Right now, it's time to exhale and try hard to sleep through some part of the night. I'm used to this. First nights in Europe are never restful. How do airline people do it?!!

Outside, the stars are out, the moon shines brightly over a landscape covered with snow. Up above me. I cannot wait to explore tomorrow.

Bonne nuit!

I'm off

I read this just recently. Words from Paul Theroux. He said: travel is optimism in action.

I find it apt.

It's time for me to pack up and go. I've been mentioning my great desire to squeeze in a winter get-away, especially since winters during the pandemic have been long and of course stressful. Somewhere in January, I calculated that by the end of this week, Omicron rates should be low enough that I would once again feel safe out there in the greater world. Sure, travel always brings some risk, but in fact, the pandemic numbers have gone down and so what I put in place in January is going to stay in place. I bought insurance then, just in case. Looks like I wont be cashing in on it.

It's an exceptionally busy morning for me. Yes yes, the animals and breakfast -- those take a good hour. 

(2 inches of new snow... pretty!)

(I'll miss you...)

But, too, I have to pack. Normally I would do this slowly, all week long, laying aside things I will need. But I was so immersed in my work that I could not touch even the idea of packing. So it all has to be done this morning. 

And it's tricky. I think I am going skiing. That was the idea. I picked a spot that has a reputation for good Nordic trails. But am I really going to venture out on them? The lower elevation ones may not have snow. The higher? Well, there remains in the area a risk of avalanche. My Polish friends urged me to grab someone to ski with me, but they dont really understand Nordic skiing. They're all avid down-hillers. Nordic is a great solitary sport and the risks are, well, different. I'm not likely to break my leg or crash into a tree (though it's possible...). Still, I am mindful of avalanche warnings and I'll have to see what risks are there right now. Besides, maybe I should give downhill a try one last time. Half of my friends continue to ski, half have stopped. Where do I fit in here? Again, I have a wait an see attitude toward it all.

I do have the idea that for a week, I will go about the day as my mood (and energy levels) dictates. If I only take a walk and do nothing more, I will not mind. If I take a ride to some mountain top and do no skiing or hiking at all -- this wont disturb me either. I am looking for that refresh button that needs a click after the pandemic (if indeed we are after the pandemic). This is what next week will be all about.

I pick up Snowdrop at school as usual, but I take her straight home.

And then I go to the airport and I catch a flight. Three flights actually. I'm posting before I get on my first one. We'll see how the connections work for me. 

The weather looks promising, my spirits are ready for the challenge of a trip to a place that is a first for me. I'll let you know tomorrow how the travel part went and whether I arrived without hiccups.

In the meantime, a bientot, with so much love...

we have a deal!

To remind you: I am scrambling to meet a deadline and so my efforts are directed elsewhere yesterday and today and perhaps even tomorrow.

Were I to be posting my usual reflections on farmette life, as experienced by me here in the south central corner of Wisconsin, I would certainly write about the pain of seeing what is happening to Poland's friend and neighbor -- the Ukraine. My grandmother was born in that region. She was Polish, but Poland wasn't on the map in the years of her childhood and the place where she lived is now part of the Ukrainian nation. I would write about how horrible it is to live under the threat of invasion from your neighbor, the aggressor seeking control over your people and territory (I speak from experience). Ocean looks for good things in a day, but I would not be able to not write about the Ukraine.

You would also be reading here about today's Tlusty Czwartek -- the Polish equivalent of Mardi Gras. It's when we eat paczki (Polish doughnuts) by the dozen. My friends in Warsaw discussed the virtue of one bakery over another. My daughter in Chicago texted me a photo of paczki that may make it to her table at home. I miss a good paczek (that's the singular for paczki). I'd write that here.

And I would probably mention the weather. So often, I mention the weather. It normally sets the day for us, but honestly, when you are reading and writing all day long, you hardly notice it. So, in an usual move, I offer no weather report.

Surely I would throw out a note about our breakfast flowers...

And most certainly I would tell you about my bringing little Snowdrop here after school. 

 

(picking up anything in sight)

 

 

She was playful alright... But mostly we read. Together. For hours. She would not, could not let go of the story (Graphic novels: Click then Camp). Even though I found out afterwards that she had read the book before.

And finally, I'd tell you that Sandpiper was his usual happy, happy self, moving now through the house like a little rocket. One minute out of sight and you'll catch him munching on a shoe. Sandpiperr!!

So, again, with apologies I'm going to sign off quickly and get back to my manuscript. Remember, you promised to be patient!

With thanks, from your hunkered down friend here at the farmhouse while the winds howl and the icy snow swirls wickedly around us.

 

let's make a deal!

Could I interest you in the following bargain: starting Saturday, I will write posts that are, if not inspired, then at least unusual for this time and this age. They will be illustrated, coddled and packed with new material. In exchange -- let me off easy today, and in fact, maybe the next two days. 

Here's what's happening (in addition to the fact that the skies are blue and life is looking remarkably okay, though perhaps only on this side of the ocean... not so good  if you pay attention to what's happening at my home country's eastern border): I am on a deadline. My Great Writing Project is at long last moving toward completion and I need to send out the file, with what I consider to be my final copy, to the butcher shop for a final edit before it rolls off to the publisher. Indeed, after feeding the animals...

(it is so pretty out there today!)

... and eating breakfast...

... I sit down and read through the damn thing. This is my hundredth read-through but it is also the most important one. There are many pages. It takes time. Lots of time.

So, stay with me, okay? I tell you, Saturday is going to be magnificent here, on Ocean. Today? Well, there's just this tiny post begging for your patience.

Thank you! I knew you would understand.

ice

Have I ever really complained here about the weather? What? I have? Oh fine: at the edges. About the absence of snow. About an absence of rain for my gardens. About a frost that comes in mid May and kills off fruit flowers and delicate annuals. About a tornado that swept through here and made a mess of the farmette lands just a handful of days before my daughter's wedding was to take place here. But for the most part I do accept what comes our way. In the winter it's cold and in the summer it's hot and in between we get a little bit of everything.

But today -- oh my. I do not have anything good to say about our weather. Indeed, I dislike every aspect of it intensely. 

It's cold. Fine. No problem. It's February. It's going to be cold. (We will reach a high of 22F, or -6C.) It's windy. Fine. I understand. With the cold comes the wind sometimes. But it's the third point that puts this into the category of awful: we have a morning-long ice storm. All the schools are closed for the day as well they should be. Most roads are impassable. Everything is crusted over with a layer of ice and the stuff just keeps on falling. 

An ice storm is never safe, but it can be pretty. Trees with a shimmering clear layer of ice can look rather enchanting (even though ice can damage the limbs and knock down healthy growth). But this ice storm doesn't even have visual appeal. The ice pellets fall to the ground and make it impossible to move around outside with any degree of safety.

The day's schedule is a mess. Parents need help with childcare, but I don't feel confident in being out on the roads. Their dad, who has actually taken special courses on how to race a car on ice, drives them over and I cross my fingers that 1. we wont lose electricity and 2. that I will be able to drive them back home. This mess is supposed to end. At some point.

(Can I give you some eye candy amidst all these weather complaints? How about this bunch of tulips at our breakfast table?)

Even before the two older kids come, I have a Zoom call with my Polish friends. When we planned for this call, I had thought we'd be entering a period of calm and stability. And we are, in terms of Covid, in a period of relative calm. But of course there is now suddenly (except really not so suddenly at all! just ask any Pole) the problem of the Ukraine.

There is nothing good to be said about this crisis. As one of my Zoom friends said -- the joke goes that no one knows what's in Putin's head, including Putin himself.

 

Okay, let's go back to the reliably sweet topic of grandkids. Today, it's all about these guys:

When I move so quickly from one set of kids (in Chicago!)  to the next (in Madison), I am always astonished how there can be so many different variations on a good theme. As I've said before, all my grandkids are wonderful, at the same time that they are wonderful in different ways.

 

(there's a story in that girl's head)

(she tells him - Sparrow, make your sweet guy face; he does it)

(pretending to be a cat)

(man on the go)

(loves books... in his own way!)

And outside, the ice grips our corner of south central Wisconsin and the air feels so very cold -- a high of 22F -- and you just have to shrug it off -- what can you expect, it's February. (As my grandgirl will say -- the day of the many twos on Tuesday!)

I hope you had a good 2 22 22. And that you found reason to smile at the ridiculousness of it all.

With love.

my kids

I know that everyone assumes a grandparent has unbounded and unconditional love for a grandkid. It's just the way it is. But is it possible that we also love our kids, our adult kids more and more as the years progress and we all get (much) older? I'm going to say yes. I love my two grown girls more with each day, each year, even as I stand back a little, and watch them work out their own lives, plan their own family life, develop their own adult interests. Much of childhood moves forward with reserves of untapped potential festering within, waiting for a breakout moment. And then it explodes and you see not the bud but the full bloom and it is magnificent, and you are in awe of what has become of those squirts who fussed about too much tomato sauce on their spaghetti. 

Today, I tracked another day in the lives of my Chicago daughter and her family. Magnificent blooms, all of them!

Primrose is off to school in the morning and she asks me to walk her over.

 

It's maybe a 10-15 minute walk and she wants me to continue the story I plunged into at lunchtime yesterday. A never ending story about a grandma and a bird who ate chocolate cake and a little girl who never told lies.

(Snowdrop has her own never ending story request in the car -- in her case it's about a penguin family with a baby penguin who has never been to a fair before. She has a little outgrowing it these days, but sometimes she'll still ask for it.)

I meet Primrose's teachers who say exactly the right thing ("you look just like your daughter!"). Primrose runs in with great spirit, turning back for one last affectionate word, because that's the way she is.

Back at home, Juniper is about to have her first tub bath.

You know,  the kind where you put the little tub in the kitchen sink. Many babies are dumbfounded and upset by this abrupt encounter with an endless stream of water, but Juniper appears to me to be a rather fearless baby. She's fine with every aspect of this new experience. Of course, the best part is the towel snuggle after.

All dressed and ready for life!

Well, at two months the choices are rather limited. Still, she's ready!

But first -- a nap. And in that time I go and get a haircut. I feel a little ridiculous getting that done in Chicago, but the thing is, if you follow my girl's lead in such stuff as haircut places, lunch takeout and good shoes for your feet, you wont ever go wrong. So I go to her haircut place and it feels oh so fine to be sitting in this chair and gossiping with this very very talented hair cut person about my daughter's awesomeness. Honestly, a morning doesn't get any better than that!

(Back at her home, for lunch and a bunch of last snuggles with Juniper.)

(Lunch is take out from Little Goat Diner. If you follow the food scene in Chicago, you'll know the Little Goat Diner.)

And now comes the tough part: saying good bye.

Here's the thing: my girls are so nice to me that it's always hard to pull away. I notice that in the evenings when I drop off Snowdrop at my older girl's home: I linger. And I linger.  And I surely noticed that today as I lingered at my Chicago girl's home. Jacket on and still I linger...  One last story, one last exchange,  one last reflection...

Such good people. I know there are many many wonderful adult kids in this world and I'm not the first to feel this, but still I'm always so awed by my girls, their husbands, their families. Such really good people!

With infinite amounts of love...