Sunday, Fall cometh...

It rained, it stormed, I slept anyway.

You probably think I'm incapable of having a slow moving day, that something within me -- a restless gene maybe, an surplus of adrenaline, pushes me to weird and unnecessary excesses each and every day. Today will prove you wrong!

My morning walk is damp, smelling of wet leaves and muddied pathways. The bucket shows more than an inch of rainwater. Nice!

(last of the lilies)

("why is it so wet out here?")

And then what do I do?  I pour myself a bowl of granola, and make that steamy milky coffee that I love, and I get working on a jigsaw puzzle.

There was a moment when my doing a jigsaw puzzle drove Ed nuts, because I'd spread it out over the table for days on end. It was during the Christmas season and there was the usual stuff that accompanies that holiday, all strewn around the house. The tree, the unopened Amazon boxes, all of it. The puzzle (a holiday one no less) was the last straw. He said something to the effect of "let me know when you're done with all this" and retreated to the sheep shed to stew. 

Since that time, he has relaxed somewhat about the holidays. And I know to keep things in another room so there aren't piles right under his nose. And, too, not to start in on jigsaw puzzles at this time of the year. But, he has been away for the weekend and so I had opened up a puzzle, and of course, because I killed myself doing farmette chores yesterday, I did not get beyond the construction of the perimeter. And then Ed calls late last night and tells me -- guess what, I'm coming home around noon tomorrow. And so I forget about everything else and sit down to do the puzzle.

 

The cat is not helping. At all.

As Ed comes in, I'm about half done, but it's only a 500 piece one and so I tell him -- I promise to have it done and out of here by evening.

 He grins and dives right in to help, only to admonish me -- hey, you're cheating! 

How so??

You're looking at the picture!

Is this not allowed? 

You bet it's not!

 

 

We get it done by 2. It would have been earlier, had I not felt compelled to put down the image and work without that "insider information."

From that point onward? Couch time all the way! I have now ten books queued up for reading (I went on a kindle binge) and I am so in love with the idea of an autumn with books that it will be hard to get me to do much of anything else. Perhaps I exaggerate, but not by much. 

In the evening we watch a sailing movie. He talked me into it. Sailing, albeit of the armchair kind at the moment, is very much on his mind. What can I say, we love our everyday life here, at the farmette, but our ideas of what makes for a good vacation? Could not be more different. You know how the country is thought to be divided right now? Well, that division is nothing compared to the travel chasm between the two of us. I love that guy, but as far as trip ideas go -- he thinks mine are excruciatingly boring and I think his are nuts, especially for me, at my age, and with my sensibilities. Wildly different!

Still, it's so very nice to have him home again. 

with so much love...

 

Saturday

Morning walk photos are getting to be a challenge. After a season of radiant flowers, the drying flower fields seem limp and brittle. I am facing the six month long quest (from October through the end of March) for interesting farmette images: what's out there for you to see, for me to admire? You really have to look hard and sometimes nothing seems good enough.

If I seem cranky, it's because I had the same reaction to my vaccination that I experienced after the very first one: a spiky fever and sore everything. That pretty much describes my night. In addition, some machine in the basement started to beep intermittently and I had no idea which one nor what I should do about it. The farmhouse is full of stuff like that: machines and gadgets that only Ed could possibly deal with. This particular annoying beeper would go into silent mode the minute I entered the basement. A few hours later, it would start again. Cats watched me hobble up and down, shivering from the fever, frustrated with my own incompetence. Is it the humidifier? The flooding monitor? Couldn't be that -- there's no water anywhere. Back to bed, huddle under ten blankets, wait until dawn.

By sunrise, those vaccination side effects had mostly receded and the beeping had stopped. So yes, I'm fine, great, fantastic. Just awfully tired.

Breakfast, alone. This could well be my last one on the porch. The cool-down will start tomorrow. I take my time today.

The cats are in their fall hunting mode. They regularly bring in mice, sometimes alive, sometimes dead, sometimes already half processed through the digestive system. This morning I heard a rickety sound on the porch and found a huge frog again. Mice I do not rescue. Frogs? Yes. And as I usher the beautiful big guy into a box then out the door, I think about how farm-like this place feels right now. The animals. The fields of grasses, the orchards. True, there are no sheep, cows, goats, crops for the market. But there is nothing city-like or suburban about this place. It feels like a page right out of the Farmers Almanac. 

The morning moves quickly. I didn't go to the downtown market today and still, by the time I clear the breakfast dishes it's 11. And I have a whole bunch of mowing and weeding to do. So much for reading a book and doing nothing. 

I start in on the chores from the top: I want to clean up the glass porch roof. I used to do this several times a year but now I'm down to just once -- now.  Typically I take this on with Ed nearby, in case I slip off the roof and break my neck, but the cold, possibly wet weather is coming and I do not want to put it off any longer. 

Getting the hose up there is challenging enough. Scrubbing down the panes with a bristle broom? A workout!

And as you can see -- I did not break my neck because here I am writing to tell you about it.

From the roof to the fields. I get on the tractor mower and go after the overgrown farmette lands, concentrating first on the meadows. If you read about meadows and prairies, you'll get a lot of worthless, or at least mixed and inconsistent advice on how to manage these so that they produce flowers and grasses rather than weeds and thistles in future seasons. Yes, ideally, from the point of view of flower stimulation, I would have poisoned the earth, eliminated most of the shallow rooted weeds and started a fresh. But that's not us. Too much work, too many chemicals and frankly, too many weeds left behind. Instead, I sow seeds, I mow in the fall, and I pull out the most visible obnoxious weeds. A futile effort, to be sure, because so much gets left behind, but it's good enough! 

And let me just say that mowing down meadows as well as some of the land that we otherwise leave to grow whatever horror takes root, is just about my least favorite farmette chore. The land is rough and uneven and the tractor mower bounces crazily in every direction and you know how much I dislike things that bounce, spin or otherwise make my stomach heave. This time, after mowing down the meadows, I attacked just a wee portion of the land to the west of the barn, taking down ragweed that had grown to a size seen only in sci fi movies. Those plants were more than six feet tall! I plunged in with crossed fingers, getting stuck only once (and who is going to bail me out if I cannot manipulate the machine and get it home before the rains come down?).

Afterwards, I note that the vaccination is still putting me in the land of the "very fatigued." The farmette chores, added to it, put me in the land of the "very very fatigued." I sit down on the couch to rest and promptly fall asleep.

This is when the storms come. Out of nowhere! We were to have a hot and sunny day and boom! Thunder strikes and it's all wet and suddenly quite cool.

Dinner is going to be around the kitchen table. Why is this even significant? When Ed isn't here, dinner is often on my lap! But we're having Sunday family dinner today -- the young couple has other plans for tomorrow. Kitchen table it is.

And it is honestly, exceptionally delightful to have them here, given that Ed's away and it's too quiet in the farmhouse! 

Well, it was too quiet! The kids play, the grownups sit back, chat, exhale. Eventually I go out to put away the chickens for the night. Yes, all three are interested in helping me, though only one is bold enough to actually try holding a flapping chicken. Those birds are strong!

Oh, and eat. We do of course eat!

However did I think that today would have been a good day to sit back, with a book and a cold drink? It would have been such a waste. Much better to put off a restful day for when the rains come down hard. Maybe tomorrow? Never know...

Friday

Well, it rained. Not quite an inch, but heck, I'll take even that modest amount. It's been a challenging growing season -- constant rains in spring, leading to a proliferation of weeds the likes of which we'd never seen before and then, in the second half of the summer -- a drought. No rain at all. Here's how that works: the weeds grow with the help of all that mositure, pushing and shoving their way to the top and then, when the rains stop, they suck up the much needed water reserves from your flowers, trees, grasses. So yes, I'm glad I spent the early summer months making an effort to stay on top of the weed situation, but in August I let things go and as a result the flower beds are dry as a rock that had been sunning itself out in the dessert far too long.

Well, there's some life left in some flowers. And many of them appreciated the overnight shower.

(a sweet pea climbing a crab apple...)

(another sunny and warm day...)

Breakfast, on the porch, with Ed! Can you believe it, we are actually eating a meal together on the porch again! 

Okay, he's not eating, but at least he's keeping me company. His schedule is right now completely wacko and even my long history with him does not equip me to understand when exactly he might want to reach for his granola or last night's salad. But at least he keeps me company!

Which is a good thing because this afternoon he heads up north to help his friend clean up and winterize his boat. This can take several hours or a couple of days. Given his strange maladies this week, I'm glad he has something out of the ordinary to distract him. At the farmhouse, he is still either reading or sleeping. Worn out from medicines and terribly unnerved by the constant focus on taking care of himself. 

Me, I have the remnants of mom care for the first half of the day. Oh, and a Covid vaccination, even though it's just short of three months since I've had my famous July 4th surprise (Covid!). 

As for mom care -- well, there are her finances that need cleaning up. She pretty much had exhausted her resources, which was lucky for her since it gave her the eligibility for care at one of Madison's best Retirement Communities (Oakwood), with Medicaid picking up most of the tab. There isn't, therefore, that much to "clean up," but you still need to do it: make sure Social Security doesn't send a check (because they will ask for it back!), make sure her credit card bill (for newspaper delivery) is paid, make sure the nursing care payments are stopped, make sure, make sure, make sure. 

And then I have to pick up her ashes. Nothing about the funeral parlor is pleasant (what a surprise). It feels cheap and overpriced all at the same time. They give me a copy of her fingerprint and it, too, is at once enlarged and not really large enough to reveal some interesting pattern. It's just plain weird. The forced solemnity feels artificial to me and the woman who helped me before is there now, darting in and out with more and more papers to sing all the way until the final one where she tells me I still owe her $102, even though I prepaid for everything. You don't argue over your mom's ashes, so I hand her my credit card and wait again for more papers to sign. The container of ashes is heavy, but then I knew it would be. Ed and I did the calculation -- it's 3.5 times the person's weight and she clocked in at 160 at her death (she had a voracious appetite all the way until the end when she went blind and stopped eating). So, somewhere between 5 and 6 pounds. 

As I stand there, I think about all the things she liked in life. When you live to be 100, that list can be very long. Here's what I came up with, just in the time I stood there waiting to sign away everything: 

Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, my ex, my daughter's friend who occasionally stopped by and listened to her stories when she lived in Berkeley, Ed who taught her computer stuff, and George, the guy in assisted living whom she claimed as a friend. He was from UW and she liked university people. Hathaway, who had been married to a professor and who, amazingly, survived her. Hathaway is 102. Chocolate covered almonds, chrysanthemums, Nivea cream. Tooth brushes (each time I moved her, I saw and disposed of a dozen or more used toothbrushes in the bathroom). The color magenta. Sun-bathing. Valium. Mozart. Earthing -- something you plug in and lie on and it connects you to the earth in some fashion that I dont fully understand. She swore by it. Letter writing to CEOs. I just found one she wrote recently to Mr. Bezos explaining her ideas on how to employ a certain class of people over another class. She wrote a lot of letters proposing her own fixes to societal problems, addressing her letters to important people all over the world. She liked water aerobics. Shirley Temple movies and I Love Lucy episodes. Politics. Gossip. Encounters with famous people in her U.N. days. She also liked pearls, and very bright red lipstick, sewing, reading, and the New York Times. Soup for lunch and dinner, and Kitkats throughout the day.

When I was still adding to this list in my head, the woman with the trail of papers gave me the final one to sign and after that I left.

At home, Ed left in a flurry of movement, forgetting half the things he should take. Clearly the guy doesn't travel often. I tidied up and then went to get the kids.

They were, um... lively!

In the evening, I plucked a few weeds, fighting off guilt for not being thorough. And I fed and put away the animals -- typically an Ed chore, but not this week, and not this weekend. 

Covid vaccinations make me tired. Or maybe the weeding zapped my strength, or the kids' cavorts. Cat messes to clean up, dishes to wash. groceries to put away. My, it's been a full week! Tomorrow is the last day of summer and coincidentally, it will wrap up our incredibly warm, dry spell. Maybe I should celebrate the end of the season with a long walk. Or, in the alternative, with a book outside. Feet up, cool drink in hand. Sounds good, don't you think?

Thursday

And again I am out at Steffi's House with a hose, running water on its weird U-Shaped lawn because I promised that the one thing I'd do would be to take care of the plantings and it struck me later that plantings does include lawn -- that awful thing that defines and encircles single family homes in much of America. And I do this right around noon because that is the only spare block of time that I have today. So, wasted water on top of everything else. To add to the ridiculousness of it all, I only manage to get through half of the U shape, it would be a shame -- because the damn thing is all dry and probably half dead, except I then go home and look at the weather forecast and sure enough! There is a storm system slated to come at us tonight. I marvel at this: every time I break down and go there to water, we have rain a few hours later. 

Well, no matter. It was a good day anyway, because:

1. The walk to feed the animals was pretty. Some of the phloxes gave out a second bloom and they looked really lovely this morning.

 

2. I did not eat breakfast at home (well, except for the fruit)...

 

 

 

... but I did eat it with my friend, at Madison Sourdough.

This was especially grand today because what I really really needed was time over a beverage with a friend.  When you have drama in your life, nothing takes the place of that and it was handed to me on a platter as my good friend "just happened" to be in town when the need arose. 

3. When I did stand there with that hose, I contemplated the ridiculousness of it all. Of what, you ask? Well, all of it -- the decisions we make, the directions we choose, the seriousness we bestow to trivial events -- so uniquely human to proceed in the way we do! Here I was, watering a lawn in a house that is not even one I'm inhabiting, instead of, say, reading or writing a book, and yet I am not unhappy. Quite the contrary. I put my phone in my pocket and put on my "travel" playlist and the sun is warm (thus sucking up most of the water I'm spraying but oh well) and maybe I should be giving some thought to the "scattering ceremony" next week that we're holding for my mom, but I'm not doing that at all. Just standing there with water and music and sun with a feeling of utter peace. Weird, no?

4. In the afternoon I get the kids and we go to the local market. They now demand this (in a polite fashion, of course). Something about this wee market really strikes their fancy. And today we hit gold. They have horse wagon rides. And kid art project tables. And ice cream. In addition to all the other favorite baked items and of course, cheese curds and Natalie's tomatoes. Here you go, market photos!

5. And in the evening, I do not return to finish the other half of the U shaped lawn because I know now that it will rain, so I'm back at the farmhouse, reheating chili and sitting next to Ed who is still under the weather, but, too, he is learning how to read and interpret MyChart information from his ER visit (so much new information to google and learn about!). We are happy.

That's it: a ridiculously uneventful and peaceful and thus happy day.

 

 

with love...

Wednesday

In the middle of the night Ed, who has been scrunched somewhere under a quilt on the couch downstairs comes up and tells me -- I guess I better go to the doctor. Within five minutes, I'm driving him to the Emergency Room of our local hospital.

The thing is, I have been with Ed for nearly 19 years and he has never had to go to the doctor. Fine, he did go to an eye doctor for cataract removal, and he did have to get a primary physician because the eye surgeon mandated that he list one, but he can't remember her name. Check ups? Nope, never. I have two thoughts now: it must be serious for him to ask to go get medical help, and secondly -- what on earth will they unlock in that cavernous body of his once they start lookin' around? I mean, he's not been checked for anything. He could be a heap of deteriorating flesh and I wouldn't know it. Indeed he wouldn't know it either, until pain struck. And yesterday, pain struck.

My third thought is: this is not going to be a normal day.

There's a big fat beautifully round moon out when we drive the empty roads to town. Oh, it's the harvest full moon, and it's a supermoon tonight! There was a partial lunar eclipse as well, just a couple of hours earlier. Did the werewolves come out and howl? I consider pulling off the road and taking a picture, but that seems totally unsympathetic to the guy next to me who is, after all, in pain.

We have three hospitals in Madison and they are all very good. Which one? -- I ask Ed, knowing fully well that he has no idea. I explain -- door no. 1 is the closest. You go there if every second counts. Door number 2 is the fastest turnaround. (It's where I go 95% of the time.) Easy to get to and unless you're really ill, you're out within a few hours. Door number 3 is where you go if you think you have an incurable disease and you want the docs to come up with one last remote strategy to keep you alive. (It's our research hospital.) 

He picks door no. 2 and I am relieved. It means he's not especially worried. But then, does that guy ever worry, about anything?

 

By sunrise we know the verdict: kidney stones. More than one actually. We drive home as the sun rises to the east and the now faint moon moves closer to the horizon to the west. 

I have several satisfying thoughts now: first of all -- yay. The man's not hugely sick and certainly not near death's door. Secondly -- I taught him how to use the health care system and he is turning out to be quite the fan! He makes the requisite appointments going forward, pops a pill for pain (wow, these things work! -- he tells me, as if surprised), marvels at how smooth the whole process was for him (and gripes endlessly about how insufferable it is to fill out paperwork for meds, given our complicated insurance system). And thirdly -- I could not help but throw in a big I told you so. I have been telling him for years that he doesn't drink enough during the day. The doc's words? Drink more and cut back on protein such as nuts, beans, eggs.... Ha! You have just described Ed's preferred diet!

As I come back from the morning animal walk and get my solo breakfast ready once again...

 

 

...I do mumble something about it being one big mess of medical issues and chores for me and wouldn't it be nice if we did something special together.

Gorgeous, we do stuff together all the time!

No, I mean something special...

But it's the small stuff that's important. You know how I am most grateful for the everyday things we have going. Like indoor plumbing. You know I always express gratitude for indoor plumbing...

Yes, I know, but I dont want to be just like the toilet for you!

Why do you need all these extras? 

I dont need extras. Maybe just a little something out of our routine. With you.

But honestly, I can't think of what that would be. Our routines define my days and make them shine. They're brilliant in their ordinariness. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

I think about all this as I water the pots and tubs and a few of the younger plants. It is soooo dry out there! We may finally get a few showers next week. No one will be upset with cloudy wet skies. Least of all me.

I pick up the kids. 

 

 

 

We eat ice cream, because it is, yet again, a very warm and sunny day.

(many spirited games of tic tac toe)

(then on to the farmhouse)

 Toward evening, I take them to the meetup point. Sandpiper's school. It's always good to see him for a few minutes at the end of the day.

(both bros trying to get her off the bike rack)

And now I am home. Ed is popping Motrin and riding his bike again, I'm cooking chili. With beans, but hey, no one's giving up entirely on protein. And the sun sets and I am plenty tired, so goodnight! Until a more calm and normal tomorrow!

Tuesday

Ah well, I suppose in life, there's no such thing as a normal day. Usually that's a good thing. Every day brings something new, unique, refreshingly original to the table. That kind of oscillation between unpredictable events, encounters, moments, is fantastic, right? If the days would all just repeat themselves you'd go nuts. Nonetheless, I would have enjoyed just a few boring, repetitive ones, given that the first couple of weeks in September were on the extreme side of unusual. After all, your mother dies only once in your lifetime, unless it's one of those episodes where the person dies and then miraculously revives and writes a book about what death felt like. Hey, Anne Strainchamps, who often does stories about bizarre events, recently interviewed such a person on National Public Radio! It was a very weird interview. 

So, as you may guess from the above, I did not have a boring old normal day. Instead, I woke up to a sick Ed.

Now, given our age, and given the fact that we're walking breathing humans, sickness is going to make an appearance here, like it or not. But Ed is rarely sick and when he is, there immediately arises for me the Problem of the Unknown Malady. He always tunes out completely, sleeps through the day and night, looks like death itself, hates to be questioned about his ailments, and refuses to go to see a doctor to identify what exactly is wrong with him. Today, I do not think he is contagious, but really, who can tell. He is just plain sick and out of it and very very quiet, because, well, this is how he has survived for 73 years and this is the way he will continue until life totally drains out of him. Which, we're hoping, will not happen in the immediate future. Believe me, a dying Ed would be Trauma Supreme for me. We're not going there!

I walk to take care of the animals...

I eat breakfast, alone of course...

And then I sit in the farmhouse and watch him feel miserable from whatever Unknown Malady has struck.

[Alright, I do engage in time-killing  activities during these hours. For example, I read David Lebovitz' monthly piece on life -- and food -- in France. This is always entertaining. This time he described some of the bad meals he had on his vacation in the south of France. People are always surprised that the French should tolerate and keep in business places that serve awful food, but the fact is, restaurants, especially those in small towns, aren't just there to show off the talents of local chefs. For one thing, talented local chefs dont typically stay put in small villages. These eateries are, as David reminds you, places for people to gather and spend time together. Food is secondary, if you can believe it, to conviviality. As I am so often the ONLY solo diner in a French restaurant, I often wonder what happens to the introverts who have the misfortune to be born in France or Italy or Spain? Do they never go out to eat? I rarely see them. Never in these small town eateries. The push to socialize in these countries is strong. Not sure I could take a steady diet of dining with friends, family, colleagues, dogs even! I like the occasional quiet meal.]

Eventually I can't stand the sickly farmhouse quiet anymore and go outside to weed. You know how desperate I am to leave the room if I am out weeding in September. (Typically gardening is not what I think about this month.)

By afternoon I insist that he disappear from the living room, I air the place out and go get the kids.

 

("hurry up, gaga, I want to beat her to the farmhouse!")

(clearly the message "life is not a race" has not sunk in...)

Happy twosome. Nice distraction from the NEW elephant in the room! Well, out of the room actually. Remember -- I chased him over to the sheep shed.

Evening quiet -- too quiet! You know how when you are well and content you can hear the presence of someone in the room even when they're not talking, but when one of you is ill, suddenly the noise around you changes? Now, Ed does say he is feeling better and he can actually move, which is fantastic. But since I dont know what hit him, I have a bit of a wait and see attitude about all of it. I'm definitely hoping that tomorrow I'll wake up to a boring Wednesday. Would be nice....

a new week

And wouldn't you know it -- our school district is starting in on just the third week of classes, only to have a day off for the kids today. My help with this is needed but on a somewhat different schedule and with a different list of assignments. 

But first, the morning walk, which shows off those red crab apples -- such a beautiful image of fall!

 

(I coaxed this new Clematis all spring and summer long... so it decided to take this moment to throw out a bloom... Clematis vines are like that...)

We have one more warm and sunny week before us and I am so going to ignore the drying garden and take in the last warmth of the year. It's shorts weather! 

And breakfast on the porch weather.

Now comes the schedule change. I have a doc appointment in the late morning, and it happens to be in the vicinity of the young family's home. I dont want to drive back and forth many times and so I take my laptop and go to a coffee shop afterwards and sit and wait there until it's time for me to claim a child who is my responsibility for a big chunk of the day.

I will always love cafe moments. With a book, or my computer, my milky coffee. With an eye out to who else is there, puzzling over what might be the story behind their own coffee moment, what brought them here, alone or with a compadre, to share space in this way.

Five days ago, I came to this same coffee shop in need of quiet time, in need of relief. Today, I realized I need absolutely nothing. Not a rest, not an escape, not a vacation, not alone time, not more time, not less time. Nothing. I remember when my grandpa died, my mom was so distressed by his final days (in a Polish hospital) that after his death, she checked herself into a sanatorium for a month. In Poland, sanatoria were the way to luxuriate and regain a balance, a physical or mental acuity. Europe had plenty of sanatoria, mineral soaks and therapies, and vacation rest homes that offered healing remedies to traumatized souls and bodies. I believe my dad went to one as well when his mom or dad (or both?) died. And here I am, not needing anything at all -- just more of life as usual, the same old Ed, kids, grandkids, friends, mornings on the porch, evenings on the couch.

Speaking of kids, I am charged with taking Snowdrop to the mall on a shopping errand (something she needs for school) today. But when I pick her up, she wants a rewrite of the day: can we shop on line and go instead to the farmhouse?

 

 

I love how everyone loves the farmhouse. How no one minds that the stove top could use a good wipe-down and the flowers are already dry and the playroom isn't exactly in ship shape order and Ed's pile of who knows what is forever there, by the couch and yet, the farmhouse is heaven. Maybe because it imposes no burdens or expectations, no work, really nothing at all. Here's where you come to do whatever it is that you want to do, and you can be quiet or loud (though not too loud!), by yourself or with others and no one will care. 

With Snowdrop, I read of course. We finish Number the Stars and that just chokes me up. The courage of a nation under siege. Children taken from parents, losing family members left and right. What do we, most of us, know of courage here, in our comfy homes with warm water and internet access? I have always remembered this, growing up when I did in Poland: I was born after that war. An incredible piece of good fortune. 

We finish the book, she eats lunch, goofs around with Ed. She never laughs with me as much as she does with him. She provokes him, he fights back, just enough to let her understand her own limitations. (Sometimes, but not very often, I have to remind him to go easy on her, but she never minds when he is full steam ahead Ed. All the kids know that he would never hurt a fly, certainly not a spider or a cat or a tree or them.)

It's almost time for me to return her home, but she asks for one more thing. She thinks I wont say yes, so she puts it out there for me -- can we go to Eugsters Farm?

Whatever for? We'd have like literally 25 minutes there!

For the goats, the kittens, the flowers...

I just manage to get her home at the appointed time. 

How did the day go by so quickly? I need to grocery shop -- the kids have cleaned out the fruits, we have no salad fixings -- things are pretty dire! And yet, I dont immediately head to the store. I come back to the same coffee shop (Barriques) and get a full milky cup, and I finish the scone I started in on this morning and I take out my laptop and it feels soooo good!

The goal is to write, but I lose myself for a good many minutes in reading an essay from the New Yorker. It's about Monet and if you know Ocean even modestly well, you'll know that I am drawn to a Monet canvas like any young person is drawn to her smart phone. The article is a review of the soon to come out book on him -- Monet, the Restless Vision. It's one of those reviews that is a total treasure, because it explains myself to me! It brings me closer to understanding why I love Monet's paintings so damn much. I should read the book it reviews. I will read the book it reviews, but this afternoon, I am just lost in this piece of exceptional New Yorker writing and if you yourself have wondered why looking at a Monet isn't at all like looking at any other canvas in a museum, you, too, should read it. Perhaps this link will lead you to it.

Groceries, home, supper, Ed. One leads to the next, leads to the next, leads to the next, until the day just has to end because I am soooo spent. 

with love...