November

I'd say the first half of November is right up there for me with the first half of March.  If you lived in Wisconsin, you would understand. So I extend my welcome to this month with a sigh. I mean, November! It tests your patience, really it does. (In case you do not live here, let me just summarize it this way: it turns dark and cold and it has no redeeming virtue.) Nonetheless, we are having exceptionally good weather right now. Perhaps record breaking good weather. A high of 70F (21C) today, tomorrow. Weird and wonderful, all at the same time.

Out at sea, Ed is less lucky. Dodging storms (so far as I can tell). I am looking forward to the retelling of how this all unfolded for him. (Right now he did a sharp east swing into the ocean, to cross the Gulf Stream. Once that's done, he'll be picking up some pretty hefty winds. Which, of course, is a good thing for a sailor!)

Let's get back to our lovely morning, here at the farmette.

We have an automatic gizmo on the coop that opens the door for the chickens just after sunrise. It broke on the first day back for me. This simply means that if I want to stay in bed past dawn, I do so knowing that I am torturing the chickens who want to be out. Sigh... Up with the sun then!

A lovely walk to the barn...

And back...

Breakfast: I was all set to eat alone, in the company of my computer actually, when guess who showed up!

Okay, fine, Dance. But you're stuck with me, the one who does not like to share the table with walking beasts at mealtime. I'll be patient. Until Ed comes back. Then I'll go back to pushing you over to his side of the table.

In the late morning, I sow seeds. We're trying out ginseng under the huge maples out front. Myself, I have little hope for this project. I know ginseng needs shade and it will get that, but I think the soil there is lousy and dry and I have doubts about anything taking root. Even hostas have give up. Still, my ever-wanting-to-try-new-cultivars guy wants to give it a go, so I sow. After brushing away the canopy of gold that right now covers the entire front yard.

And then I sow some more, in the bed of hostas by the barn. They say if a weed will grow, so will ginseng.  Oh, do we have the weeds by the barn! Maybe we'll have better luck there. Wait, chickens! Please do not follow me and scratch out the seeds! Please! Hmmm... maybe we wont have better luck there! Shush!

My walk today is in the Arboretum. Just for a change. None of the wildlife areas within a short drive are attractive for me in November. It's hunting season and it just pops the bubble of pleasure to run into men with guns during a hike. So, Arboretum it is.

It's actually very pretty. Most of the trees have shed their leaves, but this just adds to the enchanting blend of gold with bare limbs. Really lovely.

And then Snowdrop is here and we have our brief time before I have to get her ready for ballet.

She is a tired girl! Hmmm... I wonder why? Could it be that every trick-or-treater is having a subdued day-after? Still, she is ready on time and indeed, we are early today! Impressive cooperation and coordination!

And now I am home. Chasing chickens who balk at going into the coop, feeding cats, reheating leftovers yet again for myself.

Good night to all, on dry lands and sailing across turbulent seas. 

With so much love...

Boo!

What incredible Halloween weather the kids will be having! Here, at the farmette we do not get trick-or-treaters, but if we did, we surely would have to stack up on candy. No child will want to end the door-to-door collection when it feels more like an early September day rather than the night before November 1st!

People who know how to track weather systems are telling me that the weather out where Ed is sailing is giving him good winds. That's the upside. My own reading of the maps tells me that he's in the thick of storms right now. Let's hope he reenters a good weather bubble. I know they never last, as ours wont either, but we'll take and be grateful for all the beneficial winds and grand Halloween skies, thank you very much! And now, if you'll excuse me, I have chickens to feed.

 

I bake muffins this morning. Here's my logic: Snowdrop will be here after school. Snowdrop loves my muffins. Maybe if I pile in some healthy yogurt and berry muffins into her before she goes off seeking her candy fortunes with her friend, she'll have the energy that this night will require.

Breakfast is with my friend. True, Diane is in Florida and I am in Wisconsin, but I have her right there at the table with me!

And then I take a walk. A longer one, to take in this wonderful day with the gentle light that only November and February provide. Light blue skies and golden-bronze landscapes. Normally, at this time of the year, we're slushing through mud and turning on the lights inside even at midday. Not so on this Halloween. 

Back at the farmette, the crab apple has lost its leaves. The birds, especially the robins hit on its red apples all day long.

And then I pick up Snowdrop.

We spend a few minutes just enjoying the awesomeness of this day!

I feed her and turn around to take her back to her neighborhood.

(on her way out! to be costumed and made ready at her friend's house)

This is the first year where I'm not seeing them all head out for trick-or-treating. The kids are spread out: the oldest one is going with a her friends, Sparrow, too, is going with a school buddy, and Sandpiper is tagging along with his former nanny's family. (The kids in Chicago are out with friends as well.)  I am happy that all five grandkids are reveling in the specialness of this day. Thinking about all of them in the quiet of my little space in the farmhouse is a lot easier than following along as they make their rounds.  I say this after years of experience!

Happy Halloween to all you costumed little bandits!

with love...

farmette life

Being pseudo farmers, or maybe call us farmette caretakers, or just plain two people living in the country with nine chickens and six cats is serious business. I was up before 6 in the morning and I did not sit down to breakfast until 9:30. In between there was the tidying, unpacking, clearing, watering, trashing, feeding, oh, a million things that required my care. And I'm not done yet: I just paused to finally have a good cup of coffee.

Ed did put in some effort to get this place into good working order before he left. And the mechanicals are all chugging along well. But there is still a lot to do, whether or not he is home. A shocking amount of work in fact. Even as I did wake up to a beautiful morning and that in itself is wonderful. Three years ago, when he left for a similar sailing trip, it, too was the end of October. The day after he left, we had a snowstorm. It was the year the kids trick-or-treated on icy snowy roads. At the farmette, I had a lot of shoveling to do! Moreover, I got what the doc thought was pneumonia. And we had baby kittens (Dance's kids before we neutered every single cat that showed up here) and they required training so that they would go into the sheep shed when the weather got rough. One of them chose to rest under my car, unbeknownst to me of course,  and as I backed out, he got tangled and I saw in horror a little cat fly into the air and then collapse in a dead heap of flesh behind me. That was all three years ago.

Today, the weather could not be more lovely (for the end of October). Less warm than in Paris, but beautiful nonetheless. 

And it will be thus through the first half of November. We did not turn the water off outside because there will be no frost in the immediate future! This is remarkable and a little frightening. But so so beautiful!

(sunrise...)

The chickens messed up the sunny bed I planted just before leaving (grrrr!), so I spent a bit of time covering holes. They proceeded to dig them up afresh. They teach you to be patient, that's for sure.

The cats are all mad at us for shutting them out for two days. Most of them disappeared. Even the most loyal cuddlers left the farmette to seek adventure elsewhere.  Don't tell me cats don't hold grudges! By afternoon the three wanderers came back and meowed their heads off, saying, I'm sure -- are you sorry for leaving us? Are you?? 

(We called this one "Unfriendly" a long time ago. Talk about a wrong call!)

(Dance, the queen...)

Breakfast was of course alone, but with flowers. I had ordered groceries somewhere between 4 and 5 in the morning and they were delivered promptly at 7. There was a flower sale and I thought this particular bunch with lovely roses stuck in it would remind me of the bouquet I kept in Paris, so I clicked them right into the shopping basket. Small reminders of trips recently taken are important in the transition from travel to being home.

I did also want to go out for a bag of croissants: that is an addictive breakfast and I can never have enough of it. A croissant would have been a very fitting accompaniment to my solo breakfast, possibly with book in hand (still on that policeman who himself eats croissants every morning at his favorite cafe-bar), but I held back. A twelve minute drive to the bakery is bad enough, but, too, one must remember that there are virtues to oatmeal, so I sighed deeply and transitioned to my non-croissant meal today.

After breakfast I returned to farmette business. Tulip bulbs came in my absence. Thirty of them. In they go. And afterwards, I took a walk. Nowhere remarkable, but I had been walking so much the past ten days that I want that habit to continue a while longer. Besides, this weather wont last. Seize the day!

(farmhouse, up front)

And speaking of weather, Ed called, to check in, yes that, but also to tell me that they are leaving early. Like, tonight. The sail date was set for November 1st, but there are bothersome weather systems and they want to beat trouble before it has a chance to beat them. This of course sounds terrifying to people who never head out to sea, but to Ed it is just one more thing to consider when you're preparing for an ocean run. He is by far the most experienced person on that boat but he tells me the rest are fast learners, so he feels they're ready to go. Again, I would have liked to hear that he is the least experienced person on the boat, but on the other hand, Ed is a safe sailor and so I know no one on that boat will be doing anything foolish if he can help it.

Happy and safe travels, my love!

In the afternoon I prep the house some more and I start in on dinner for the young family. Their other grandmother is visiting so we are a table of seven,  even though there is no Ed. Of course, it is wonderful to see everyone again!

(she's got him climbing trees, and that's a good thing for this very cautious little guy!)

(dinner..)

(his first macaron...)

I'm on a Paris internal clock still and so I feel dozy early, but I fight the great desire to fall asleep as soon as everyone leaves. I read, I write, I think about Ed's trip, about our insatiable desire to discover something new. Hoping for great (but safe!) adventures for all of us...

With so much love...

returning home

It will be a record high of 76F (24.5C) in Paris today. I'm not sure but that we didn't hit an equally ridiculously warm temperature yesterday. The outside eating tables, of which there are possibly a million, will be filled. The restauranteurs and cafe waitstaff will be pleased. Between the school vacation and the fantastic weather, time outside over a meal or a drink will have exploded into what you'd typically expect in a beach town at the height of summer.

I did not go to bed until significantly past midnight. A phone chat, photos to repair, stories to write -- this stuff takes time. And I do have to leave the hotel at 9:45 this morning. By cab. Though I have resumed life in Paris to almost pre-pandemic levels and activities, I am still not comfortable getting on a packed train (or metro or bus). It's my last holdout here. And I know the train for the airport can initially be very very crowded. So, I spend the money and book a cab.

The sun will rise at 8:32 a.m. Tomorrow it will rise an hour earlier here, but today the morning is dark, which is both good and not so good for putting into place the plan I made up in those wee hours of the night: I want to get up and greet the morning sun. So, I don't have to get up that early! And then I will stop for a croissant and grande creme, somewhere on the town.

I get up, get ready, zip up the suitcase (which is now fat and too heavy to take on board, so I will send it through) and go downstairs. Outside, the last of the night light is still gripping Paris. My hotel looks like a sweet little beacon of light on the otherwise still dark street.

I give it a good long look. The warm-hearted, well tended beloved Hotel Baume. In my chosen neighborhood, where it feels more like a village than a chunk of a great big city. Yesterday, I had stopped by the little shop around the corner to see if there was any small pendant that I could love (and buy). I almost always peek  into that shop. Once I bought a pair of little Parisian espresso cups, another time a bee pin, which immediately transformed my indifferent jacket into something fitting for Paris. Madame remembers me. She is chatty and she speaks remarkably easy French. I always understand her completely. Each time she forgets that I'm American (you're German, right? shush!) and this time is no different. She tries to interest me in a little pendant with a small strawberry on it. I love it, I do, despite the fact that she then tells me it's done by an American artist whom she personally knows and who lives in upstate New York.  (I could tell you how they met but that runs beyond the scope of any reader's tolerance for my digressions.)

She is the one who first draws the analogy to a village for our set of blocks: I know everyone here and they all greet me and talk to me. We are a small village.

This morning, the store is of course closed (though with a light glowing on the baubles and trinkets in the window).

She keeps quaint hours so it's often closed, but a morning fermerature is the norm here. At 8:15, the time I am out and about today, everything is closed! This is the quietest time in Paris. And on a weekend, a French vacation weekend no less! Utter silence! Well, except for the delivery trucks. Parked by the restaurants, which will be doing a monumental business today, I guarantee it.

(the quiet along the River Seine)

I walk to the Pont des Arts. The Bridge of Arts. A pedestrian bridge over the Seine. Those of us who care about such stuff, know that this is just about the best place to catch a Parisian sunrise. 

At this time of the year, the sun comes up over the northern section of the Pont Neuf. There is a patchy cloud cover today, but still, it is a calm and beautiful moment. We, the photographers, the lovers, the artists, the handful who have come here for this, all smile at one another. 

(first burst of light)

(looking at the entire Pont Neuf)

(a minute later, another pop of sunshine from behind a low cloud cover)

(looking toward the west)

And then we all disperse.

I walk back slowly, taking in as much as I can. And in doing this, I notice things I have never seen before. Like this small statue. With a lovely name. 

(I always notice the bread... A man on an errand. Do you suppose this is just for the family breakfast?)

I pass this cafe ("La Palette") and I almost stop, because it's so pretty, but the street is too empty, too quiet. (I ate lunch here with Snowdrop once and I knocked over a glass and it shattered. I felt so badly, because I'm sure that despite my explanation -- c'etait moi,  it was me! --  I'm certain the waiter still thought that it was the child. She was only two then.)

(the weekend morning stillness...)

I walk further, toward Les Editeurs. (This photo was taken on my way out; you can tell by the predawn shadows.)

At the end of the day (or more accurately at the beginning of the day), this place is the most comfortable for me and it has the best people watching in my neighborhood. So many sidewalks, so many possibilities!

(looking out...)

I sit down, order my coffee and croissant and I give a great big sigh, the kind that would make a meditation guru proud. 

I feel like I am in a story, unfolding before me. Here with my croissant, loving it with the milky brew, catching myself in any number of the narrow mirrors they have scattered throughout the cafe-restaurant, in between the books, because of course, there are a lot of books at Les Editeurs. (All three photos taken with the help of all those mirrors.)

I can't stay too long. These kinds of morning pleasures have to be fleeting because of course there is a day before you and you must get on with it. Me, I have a taxi to catch.

(My last photo from Paris just happens to be of baguettes. Still from Les Editeurs.)

The drive to CDG airport is unusually traffic free. I spend the ride first studying the receding city, then staring at my driver who is multitasking - steer with one hand, engage in WhatsApp conversations on his phone with the other. I tell myself that I will not tip him, but in the end I cave and hand over the extra five Euro. He got me to the airport safely. I'm not the police here.

At the airport, I have another coffee. Why? Is it because it's free? (A perk of being a frequent flyer.) No, because I want to relive that sweet combination of a morning pastry (an apple chausson this time) with a milky brew.

I purchase some Laduree macarons. 

Like croissants, you can get these anywhere in the world these days, but some are better than others and these are for sure great. Laduree was the first to hit on the artful combo of meringue and a thin dab of something to send your tastebuds soaring. Buying macarons is, to me, a sign that I am starting to think about what awaits me on my return: a family dinner, coming up. Kids at the farmhouse. An otherwise quiet farmhouse. Ed will have left for his Atlantic voyage.

I have a bit of a weird routing. First stop is Amsterdam. It was cheaper this way. At another time, I wouldn't have minded. I like listening to airport announcements in Dutch. I speak none of it and so it makes me feel like I am really traveling far. But the trip on the way to Toulouse was so full of Amsterdam airport that I take no great pleasure in being here again. Luckily, my layover is not long. 

By 3:30 p.m. I am on my (a little delayed but who cares) Delta flight to Detroit.

Another short layover, another short flight, this one to Madison. From there, I find my car and drive home.

Ed and I are certainly not tied at the hip. I travel a lot without him. (He's welcome to tag along, but he doesn't want to.) I go constantly for overnights to Chicago. Without him. A farmhouse without Nina in it is not at all strange. But a farmhouse without Ed is indeed weird simply because it is such a rare thing. I get out of the car and do a quick farmette walk through, to make sure no wild beast has shattered the calm in the coop (the cheepers had to be locked up all day because Ed left last night and I was coming in too late today to tend to the task of locking them up at dusk), and to feed the ever hungry cats.

I don't unpack fully. There's just no point in it. I'll return to all the chores, the cleanups, the plantings, the cooking tomorrow. Tonight I sink down on the couch and smile. I am home. Paris is just one more memory in the plethora of memories that I have stored, learned from, kept close to me, even after a return.

With so much love...