... the last of the flowers

My overnight guest this time around was a little more demanding of my attention than my previous one! Dinner last night was late, we watched our favorites on TV even later, and eventually went to sleep, way past midnight. Up around 6, because Ed does not live by the clock, but by an internal mechanism that allows him to pick and choose at any moment whatever task pulls at him then and there. He is a person that aligns well with the premise of the book I am currently reading -- Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. In case you've never heard of Burkeman, he currently writes for the Guardian and he says this about himself: "Twice monthly I publish The Imperfectionist, an email on productivity, mortality, the power of limits, and building a meaningful life in an age of bewilderment." If that still leaves you somewhat mystified, just scroll down the list of his recent posts. They bear such titles as "The three or four hours rule for getting creative work done" and "What if you never sort your life out?" and "Treat your to-read pile like a river not a bucket." That last one would be apt for me, as I am currently in the middle of three books and counting. 

 

The morning is sunny and beautiful. We eat breakfast sort of together.

I tell him he doesn't have to pull up a chair next to me, given that he is just a few feet away anyway (lately he hasn't been especially hungry in the mornings), but eventually he does join me, because he thinks (correctly) that this would please me.

We are somewhat limited in what we can do together today as he has the animals waiting for him to shake some food out into their various dishes, but he does readily agree to come along to the Westside Community Farmers Market -- about a ten minute drive from the Edge.

This is pure nostalgia for me. When Ed and I first came together to form this most imperfect and yet perfectly sublime union, I had just moved to an apartment in downtown Madison, having abandoned the suburbs for good (so I thought). But I didn't like my chosen place nor its location and besides, I thought I should invest in property that would carry me through my retirement, so I purchased a condo on the west side of town. Ed famously hated that condo. High rise, and steps away from a mall, and surrounded by concrete. Still, he dutifully traveled to it every day after work and spent the evening, night and morning there with me until it was time for us to go to our respective jobs. On Saturdays, we would cross the street and shop at the Westside Community Farmers Market, which had and still has a bit of a cult following in Madison. Eventually the market got kicked out of its parking lot, and in any case I moved in with Ed at the farmhouse, and the trips to the market were wiped from out weekend repertoire.

And now here we are, me in an apartment again, with the Westside Community Farmers Market in a new parking lot, still on the west side, and Ed has come up to spend time with me in a place that isn't his cup of tea, and on Saturday morning we are at the market. We are nothing but caricatures of our old selves.

The market is even bigger and better now, but in fact, I'm not a total fan of late fall markets. Fresh produce is slowly replaced by root vegetables -- the kind you'd store in your cellar if you had a cellar. And though Ed always finds cheeses and apples to purchase, I'm just as happy with the ones I pick up at the grocery store. Nonetheless, I am delighted to see that Madison Sourdough has a stand here! Ed purchase a pain au chocolat for me, while I look for flowers. And I find some! The last week for these:

And believe it or not, there is still corn to be found. We get that as well.

After we cart the stuff home, well, to my home, he stuffs his share in a backpack and I give him half of the leftover chili and he rides his motorbike to his home and I seriously think I need a nap.

 

Lunch? I sheepishly eat the pain au chocolat. And I look at this last bouquet of flowers that will, of course, remind me of this morning's outing all week long.

Later, in the afternoon, I meet up with my daughter and the kids and Goose for a walk to downtown Middleton. 

The dog is so affectionate and kind with humans that we all want a piece of him, his heart, his indiscriminate love. (He spent his first night sprawled out on the bed with my daughter and her husband, which, considering his size, must have been interesting.)

So far, only Sandpiper was (initially) scared of this big animal that likes to get very close to his humans. As one parent says -- it is the first and only animal that hasn't run like mad away from the little boy. (All the other pets have been rightly terrified of Sandpiper's rather fast movements and tugs and unpredictable tumbles.)

(pause for a treat for the kids at Hubbard Avenue Diner; Goose and I wait outside)

 

 

 (he is so happy to see them, and they him)

 

 

I'm back at the Edge now, reading and thinking. I let go of two novels (for the time being) to pursue some of the themes pulled out by Burkeman. They are so obviously ones that were written with me in mind! Me, the one who thinks resolutions for self-improvement in all of life's domains are a good thing, even as they are impossible to really implement. Me, who just the other day bemoaned here on Ocean, the fact that I suddenly am left without the safety (held onto for 14 farmette years) of having "tons to do" in and around the farmhouse, feeling now naked and exposed to my own choices and priorities (what are they, anyway?). Me, who thinks the end result is enough to justify devoting a life to achieving it, even if you dont much like the tasks required to get there. I click on his essay titled No Such Thing as a Fresh Start (!!) and follow his link from there to Joan Tollifson's book with the engaging title of Death: the End of Self-Improvement, from which he pulled out the Zen quote "What makes it unbearable is your mistaken belief that it can be cured."

And yet, here I am, at the Edge, away from my life at the farmhouse with Ed, thinking just that: it can be cured, improved, a fresh start is possible. 

Evening: a quiet one, with my music, my books, my leftover chili, my bits of chocolate, my thoughts.

with lots of love... 

 

sleepover2

My overnight guest wakes early. This is a good thing. She's of an age where grabbing extra wakeful minutes in bed is a splendid luxury. And so she rests while I get myself and the day off to a good start. 

I fix breakfast just for her. I remind myself of my own Babcia (grandmother), who never once ate breakfast with us. She hovered, we ate.

Snowdrop eats three of my blueberry muffins and many chunks of pineapple. And of course, there's her beloved honey straw, to end on a sweet note. 

Again I think back to my own childhood -- I never cared for breakfast when I was young. But at my grandmother's I ate as if it were to be my last meal. Everything she fixed was awesome! I'm sure it wasn't just the food that made the difference. It was the beauty of the moment: at the table, with my favorite fruit bowl with the dainty flowers, and of course, my Babcia, hovering. Making sure the honey jar was open and ready. Encouraging, tempting, with a satisfied tight lipped smile as I ate.

And even after this rather large for her breakfast, Snowdrop is still left with about half hour to kill. So I tell her about Chopin and the Chopin Competition taking place in Warsaw right now. We study the 40 stage 2 finalists. We listen to some of them. And suddenly I have this gift of a partner in my month of Chopin music. 

 

(packing up her lunch, ready to go)

 

 

School is a five minute drive for us. I drop her off a couple of blocks away from the entrance. Not for a middle schooler the hovering grandmother at school time. She wants to walk in on her own.

 

I return to the Edge and sit down to my own breakfast. With Chopin.

A walk! I need a walk! Mustn't get lazy! Once again I do a neighborhood loop. It's better on a weekday -- not so deserted. I actually pass not one but two other walkers, probably on their lunch hour, racking up the steps. And so am I. Once again we have plenty of sunshine we have gotten a tiny fraction of the rain we usually get in September in October. I'm glad I'm no longer worried about the flower fields. (Am I no longer worried about the flower fields?)

 

And now it's back to the routine of picking up Sparrow...

Then Snowdrop.

A brief stay at the Edge, and I hustle them back to their home, in time for the arrival of Goose, the great big abandoned mutt of a dog. The new member of their household.

(one of the cats is hiding under the bed, the other is up there on the mantle)

 

 

 

 

Me, I have my own date, for another sleepover at the Edge, this one with Ed. And it is equally special -- I make our old chili for dinner and we catch up with our favorite streaming shows -- wonderful moments of pure exhale!

with so much love... 

sleepover

I cannot even recall the number of times Snowdrop has asked me if she can sleepover. Since moving closer to her family, the requests have multiplied. Maybe it's that I now live close enough to take her to school the next morning. Or maybe it's the absence of spiders - the girl loves the farmhouse, but she is not a fan of the many spiders that shared the place with us. A total case of arachnophobia. Or maybe it's that the new bedroom at the Edge has a tempting freshness to it. In the end I could stall no more -- her brother is not coming home from his trip until late tonight. I have no reason to turn her away. And yes, it will be so very nice to have her as my first overnight guest!

The day is, therefore, preset for me. Breakfast...

Dentist ('til my last day on this planet, I will always have another dental appointment scheduled, such is my fate). Then bake muffins so that I can offer a breakfast that Snowdrop will actually eat. She's one of those: no appetite until she's out the door in the morning. 

The oven at the farmhouse under-bakes. This one at the Edge over-bakes.  Which error would you prefer? (I'm happier with "too hot." A "too cold" oven is not very reassuring when you're trying to roast a turkey for Thanksgiving, or baking a cake that should have had a clean toothpick ages ago.) 

And then it's back to Chopin and a discussion with Bee, my awesome Warsaw friend, of the aspects of the Competition that only a Pole could understand. The enormity of the enterprise. The city is abuzz with Chopin, his music coming at you everywhere. Buses, trams, decorated to meet the moment. Tickets? Absolutely impossible to obtain. Sold out before they went on sale! And of course, the unique pressure this puts on Polish competitors. The running joke this year is that in another 20 years, the Competition will have moved to China and our Polish pianists will be heading there anyway to study with the Chinese masters who will have produced this generation of incredible pianists. 

There is yet another event that defines this day for me -- the arrival of a gift from Dan DeRyckere, the Michigan artist I met through... Ocean! It's a woodcut print and it's titled Nina's Garden. (See more of his work, for example, here.) I placed it on the wall facing the couch. I'm sure you'll understand why it is so extraordinarily meaningful for me.

Time to pick up the girl!

I had asked what she'd like for dinner. Spaghetti and asparagus! -- she tells me. Okay, so be it.

We read, and then she reads, the entire time she is here.  She's the type of house guest you dream of: noodles and a few good books and she is in heaven.

 

(in the new small bean bag chair) 

 

 

Bedtime is... almost at a decent hour. Now, let's see if I can get her to school on time tomorrow morning!

with so much love... 

music and sex (so yes, for mature audiences only)

Four Poles and two Americans are among the forty picked to proceed to the second stage of the International Chopin Competition taking place in Warsaw right now (see previous post on this if you're new to the topic). Jan Widlarz, with that Chopinesque face that I admired, did not make it and so of course I feel bad for him, but oh, there is talent among the group of pianists! And the hard work! Let's just focus on two of the Poles selected to continue: Piotr Pawlak, 27, has won numerous awards for his piano interpretations and has played all over the world, with everyone -- that's my reading of his bio! Moreover, he is great at the pipe organ (winning competitions in this as well), and he is currently pursuing his PhD in mathematics. Your head swims when you read his bio (here). And how about Yehuda Prokopowicz? He is just 19 years old, one of the babies in the second stage group (the supremely talented and according to my Warsaw friend, the creme de la creme of the group Yanyan Bao from China is actually just 18, for another month anyway, but we're not on China at the moment). Born in Israel, Yehuda moved to Krakow Poland as an 8 year old. His older sister opened his eyes to piano music and now here he is, pushing the boundaries (read about him here). [The other two of the four Poles are Piotr Alexewicz and Adam Kaldunski.]

And the two Americans? Anthony Ratinov, William Yang. Anthony was born in Moscow and first studied piano with his grandmother. (His bio is here.) Now he is both a master of the instrument, a graduate of Julliard and Yale (chemical engineering!), a soloist as well as a renowned chamber music performer, and probably a very nice person, though I'm just guessing on that. And William? A Midwesterner! Hails from the Twin Cities and I'd say he has had a lot of practice performing, having appeared at age 9 with the Minnesota Orchestra. He won this year's U.S. National Chopin Competition, which allowed him to head on to the international one in Warsaw. (Bio here.) Okay, this guy has a light side to him (being a Midwesterner). Asked about his interests outside of piano music he volunteered that he really likes playing table tennis.

I should mention that the country that is absolutely dominating this competition is China. Fourteen made it to the top 40.  It attests to the strength of music training in that country. Notable too is the paucity of women in this next group. Eight out of 40 (and I had to do some legwork to figure out the gender of many names!). Is there gender bias in piano competition? The short answer is yes, but the long answer is that it's complicated. You can find a more detailed explanation of it here.

Oh, wait, have I forgotten that it's Wednesday and that I have a full day before me? Starting with breakfast, on the couch because frankly it's a better place from which to listen to Chopin. I'm back to Bircher Muesli!

 

 

And now, here comes the x-rated part of the post:

I was thinking last night how lucky I was to have found this apartment. The sunshine, the fabulous management, the care they put into the building, the cleanliness and yes, the quiet. Great noise control. I never hear music or TV noise or any of the other bothersome to me aspects of living in an apartment building of recent construction.

Except...

Well, I live on the 4th floor. There is one more floor above me. And I do hear the occasional clomp of footsteps as the resident(s) walk(s) around their unit. That's really not a huge deal for me because we are a sedentary lot and we actually walk very little in the post-work hours of the day. We sit and stream and eat and go to bed.

Therein lies the problem. I have no idea how the unit above me is configured, but I can tell you this much: their bedroom is right above my bedroom, and though we all have bedroom carpets, somehow, in an engineering feat that totally befuddles me, their bed groans and squeaks and clacks with movement. Last night at around 10 p.m. I waited patiently for the copulation activity to cease and it did, but it lead me to wonder -- how bothersome is this? Would you mind if you lived in a lovely and quiet space that only came alive for the brief period when those above you had sex? (It's not as if I can complain about this. I mean, it's not really their fault that their bed makes noise loud enough for it to reach my unit below. Ed thinks I should slip an anonymous note underneath their door. But with what message? Quit having sex? Switch to the floor?) It's happened on previous nights, only last night it was especially... rhythmic and pronounced. I suppose every place comes with a price tag. Perfection is elusive and not something you want to chase too hard (no pun intended). Still, I am glad that they seem to be rather routine about it. And it doesn't take them that long!

And now on with the day.

I had jotted down a market for this Wednesday. I need flowers while the going is good. Meaning before frost wipes them all out for the year. (And we're getting close -- last night we dipped into the 30sF, so just a little above 2C.)

The downtown market is no longer a draw: I'm not looking for produce. So long as there is a vendor with flowers, I'll be satisfied with the closer markets, even though they're one tenth the size.

And there is a vendor with flowers.

 

And I'm satisfied. 

I'm close to the grocery store so it's a good opportunity for me to stock up a bit. From there -- to home...

("we're checking out your new neighborhood!")

 

 

Then to the farmette.

For the nature that surrounds it, for the walk, for the quiet time with Ed. Too, I dont want to drive here for the next couple of days, because those days are pretty full. Wednesdays, on the other hand, are leisurely and open-ended. I have no kid duty. And the weather is nippy today, but golden! Lots of sunshine.

Ed is once again baking pies. If you think that doesn't fit the image, I have to say, it actually does. He harvested a small crate-ful of apples from the ancient apple tree in the old orchard. (And soon after, the tree up and died! Seriously!) I think they taste awful. Or at least, when you're spoiled with honeycrisp, these start to taste like cardboard versions of a lesser fruit. And maybe he finally concluded that I was right and that eating them was a chore, so he decided to bake pies to use them up. Not for him the wasteful toss into the compost pile. So, pies he shall have. 

I watch, enjoying the smell of pie in the oven. He will offer me some of course, but pies don't tempt me anymore. When you no longer eat big portions of anything, you save your treat allotment for stuff you love. A piece (or two or three) of good chocolate. A croissant with jam and coffee. Pies can't compare.

In the late afternoon I return to my Chopin and my books. And my flowers from the market.

And leftovers for supper. I have to wonder -- why are there always so many leftovers in the fridge? Even on days I take food to Ed, there are still leftovers. Remarkably convenient for a person who feels like cooking maybe twice a week!

with so much love... 

call me after October 23rd

My sister sent me an email in what was the middle of the night in Wisconsin, and I woke up to it first thing this morning. A simple few sentences, with a link to a YouTube clip. With that, she changed the course of the month for me.

A little background here: we all have had transformative events in our adolescence. That's what happens when your faculties push you toward adulthood while your heart and soul cling to something purer, stirring within you emotions you were just barely aware of. Quite suddenly, you find yourself doing an about face, neglecting all reason, indulging in a fantasy-land of emotion: joy, sorrow, pain, love.  And it's powerful. And then it passes and you grow up and only the memories remain.

For me, one such pivotal moment came in October of 1970. I was in my second year of studies at the University of Warsaw. I knew I did not like my chosen field (Econometrics). At all. Not one bit. I don't know how things work now, but back then, once you enrolled in a program of study, you were stuck with it. I was accepted in the field of Econometrics. That's what I had to stay with. And maybe for this reason, or maybe for no reason at all, one fall day, on my walk home from the university, I paused at the Philharmonic Hall (it was on the way), and I noticed that the Chopin Competition had begun.

The Competition is an every-five-years event and it is hugely important to any Pole with even the slightest interest in classical music. As a student, I could attend many of the Competition's performances for free. These concerts filled my days. Sometimes I went alone, sometimes with my sister, sometimes with friends. Nothing else mattered that month. I barely made it to the compulsory university classes. I'm sure I skipped some. I lived in the world of Chopin's music. And I rooted for the person who was, in the end, the winner -- to this day, the only American to ever claim first place in the Chopin Competition -- the then 22 year old Garrick Ohlsson. 

It was a heady time of life for me! A year later I would leave Poland to work and go to school in New York, but I did not know any of that in the Fall of 1970. Chopin held my soul. I could not tear myself away.

So my sister wrote to remind me that a couple of days ago, the 19th Chopin Competition began. And by the way you can hear it online. And here's another thing -- the chair of the jury this time is Garrick Ohlsson (now 77 year old).

She writes that at this point, the favorite appears to be Polish -- Jan Widlarz. Take a look at his profile here. He has a face structure that has "I live to play Chopin" written all over it! If you want to listen to/watch  him play, you can go to the Competition's website here. They have videos of all contestants, playing all their chosen pieces here. But don't go there if you're Polish or a music lover. You'll lose the month to Chopin, I swear you will.

 

For this special (to me) morning, I forsake the mushy Bircher Muesli and open a bag of Hudson Granola and I take it all to the comfort of the couch. Such a satisfying crunch!

And I listen. And read about the contestants. We have had the first elimination round and are at the First Round of the competition. 84 remain! Out of those, 28 are from China, 13 from Poland, 13 from Japan, 5 from Canada,  5 from the U.S., the one or two each from a variety of other countries. But pinning nationalities onto the competitors is only a first step in understanding a talented musician's evolution. In the world of music, you find that a nation's borders are permeable and movement is constant. You chase musical depth, and the broader your reach, the finer your own musicianship. Just take a look at the Jury's bios from this year's Competition (found here). They have played, competed, taught, studied, performed the world over. A lesson to those who still think growth and development can take place within just one country's borders. It takes more than a village to nurture talent.

 

I go the farmhouse. The weather is fine. I seek out nature. It's so dry this month! I water the tubs.

And I  trim some of the spent stalks. A good winter garden requires a careful balance of some stuff left behind, and some removed for compost. I dont strive for a careful balance. I just take out the egregious stuff that seems really in the way. Garden clutter. Because I still walk this way and I still see what's happening in the flower fields.

 

 

 

 (the very happy front farmette meadow)

 

 

Ed has me try some of the tomato sauce he made this morning. 

 

 

 

You've become domesticated! Impressive. Well, I have to eat. I have to smile as I hand him the next batch of leftovers from yesterday's supper. Next time, leave out the butter. And add some fresh basil when you eat it. But, overall, well done!

He and I go for a walk. Just in the neighborhood of the new development. I tell Ed -- it may be boring there, but it's less boring than my current neighborhood.

 

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. Her brother is living it up in New York City (that boy has an urban streak in him for sure!) so it's just her today.

And she has evening Girl Scouts, so it's not even a long visit. 

There is a social event at the Edge tonight and I pop in just to say I did it. Not a recluse! I'm engaged! 

And then I return to my Chopin. And I think to myself -- I could not have come across this at a better time. It beats binge watching sitcoms. And of course, it is fitting that I should listen non-stop to Chopin in this period of greater solitude. I never thought of his music as joyful. Not even the polonaises or mazurkas. But I'm not searching for joy at the moment. More like mindful pensiveness or soulful processing or any other terms you may want to use to describe a time of sifting and sorting, of pausing, listening, watching. And waiting.

with so much love... 

questionable Monday

My kids and Ed laugh at me for always wanting to have all my pegs in place in advance. It's not that I am inflexible. Changes are inevitable. But let's start with some semblance of a plan and take it from there! I've kept an events and appointment calendar ever since I was a kid and had no appointments to speak of. In travel, I have my flights booked and seats selected through March and I'm seriously thinking of making a commitment for June's trip. Yes I change my mind and rebook and cancel. But roughly, I know where I'm heading and when.

You could analyze this to death and conclude that surely my life of many draconian shifts and movements has pushed me to always want to have a plan. Fine, I can accept that. I'll add, too that in postwar Poland everyone lived in a state of permanent uncertainty and it wasn't cool, it was a "one day at a time" mentality that was foisted on us because planning was so... pointless. Now I'm overcompensating.

One reason why Ed and I are currently living in separate spaces (for the time being?) is because for many years he ignored this fear of uncertainty that is deeply ingrained in me. My "I need to know what's ahead" was mostly amusing to him (as it is to others) and he mostly paid little attention to it. Until I couldn't take it anymore and moved out to my own place where I could fashion my own future. (Which of course is likely to be dismantled shortly, as we are now figuring out a better path for us together. In some form.) 

So what stands out to me this morning is that I wake up completely confused as to where I should be at what time and for what purpose. I'm trying very hard not to mind, but of course, I'm fighting strong rip currents here. The urge to call/text/email others to get some clarity is very strong. There are two elements at play: Snowdrop is still sick (I think) and so my childcare is (probably) suspended. Then, too, I had told Ed I'd bring him some leftovers and muffins this morning, but there was no family dinner last night and so there are no leftovers, and Snowdrop (probably) is not here today so there are no muffins. Besides, I'm falling into a pattern of too many trips to the farmette. Which amuses Ed ("you move out and then you spend the day here"), which in turn exasperates me.

 

It's a pretty morning. Cooler, at last. Having a southern exposure in the darker season is pure heaven. I see sunrise skies to the left and sunset skies to the right. So, this morning there's this:

Breakfast -- well, I have to work through the Muesli. Here's my final take on this: I realize that when I travel, say, to Switzerland, I don't just have Bircher Muesli. I add a croissant or if I'm craving more healthy options -- a slice of dark bread perhaps. Something with a crunch! Something that is a great accompaniment to those last sips of milky coffee. Bircher Muesli is, by definition, soggy. I think my experiment with Swiss living will push me right back to the land of granola and the occasional croissant. Crunch! Yum! I'm missing it today.

By mid-morning the uncertainty drives me nuts so I get in the car and go to Owen Woods Conservancy. An 8 minute drive from the Edge. It's a park I know well from years of living nearby.

 

 

 

And it's at its best in the Fall. True, the more radiant fall colors are not with us yet. Still, the Sumac bushes are a splash of ruby red and the prairie grasses and blooms add a texture that is magnificent. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early autumn, at its finest.

(And a bluebird, spotted coming out of its bluebird hut! I know, I know, barely visible here, but still, I felt the elation of seeing something rare and beautiful.)

 

 

Right about then I find out that Snowdrop is indeed still home with a fever and so I'm off duty this afternoon. I let Ed know that a visit later in the week makes more sense. In one fell swoop I wiped clean my calendar for this Monday. 

There is some joy in allowing yourself time to read (I'm alternating between two novels at once), time to do a stand up yoga routine, time to put on joyful classical music, time to wipe down with almond oil the wood furniture in the apartment. At the same time, I realize that this isn't me. This sudden urge to take a nap? Not me. Going back to my French practice? Nope, not me. This closing of the door to everyone and everything, in the middle of the day no less, certainly not me. 

Someone recently said that retirement is the time to really challenge yourself to be the author of your story. Well, maybe I was the one who said that. In any case, you are responsible for creating something out of whatever resources are left to you. But of course, it's easier to let go of this responsibility and simply to keep on truckin' in the same way you always have done it. To check in with your kids and see what they need. To apply your cooking skills to the demanding eater(s) at your table. To clean up other people's messes (broadly speaking), including nature's messes (because nature is not neat and tidy, not by a long shot). You don't then have to be an author at all. More like an editor who watches over and facilitates the creative work of others. Taking the responsibility for your own text, your own day is hard, especially if you feel that doing things for yourself is tantamount to being a slacker. Self-indulgent, privileged, and maybe a little empty. Who is made better by the fact that I'll speak French just a little more fluently next time I'm in France? 

Ed has said (most recently) that I spend too much time doing stuff for others. You'd think that's a compliment, but in my mind, it's not that at all. There's an intellectual laziness to it: if I fill my days snipping daylilies, digging up weeds, chasing cats and chickens, fixing snacks for the kids, picking out books for them, and cleaning up Ed's messes, then I can check the day off as productive, without having to think much at all about what else I might be doing. 

So I struggle with these thoughts today. Thankfully, tomorrow I return to a day with imperatives: muffins to bake, foods to deliver, a child to care for. No decisions, no guilt, no worry!

with love... 

speaking of Switzerland and other unrelated stuff...

Hot, yet again. 

Before going to bed last night, I finally reached for my old fashioned oats, and two apples, and yogurt, and milk, and a jar of honey and I made Bircher Muesli. With added dried cherries and a few walnut bits. It keeps for up to a week in your fridge. The important bit is that it needs a rest of a minimum of six hours.

This morning, I finally have Bircher Muesli for breakfast.

And immediately I am reminded not of my rambles in Switzerland (where a morning with Bircher Muesli was de rigeur), but of the fact that a dish, transported from its place of origin to your kitchen table, does not bring with it the wealth of cultural provenance, does not put you right back in the milieu of where you first ate it, does not taste as sublime as it did then and there. On the up side, the Muesli is healthy and good enough. Just not with the depth and power of, say, a croissant with homemade jam.

In mid-morning, I drive over to the farmhouse. If this is to be a fine day, at the very tail end of a warm weather system, with gusty winds to lessen the impact of the unseasonable highs, then I want to be in nature. The farmette is a good jumping off point.

I still have pockets of stuff to clear out at the farmhouse, and today's task is to finish up the kid room closet (easy -- there's hardly anything left there) and the liquor cabinet. That last is hard. For many years my most favorite alcoholic beverage was the aperitif. If I could have only one solid one in a day, then the predinner drink is the drink of choice for me. Whether an Aperol or a Campari or a Prosecco with a splash of cassis -- I had the ingredients for them all. But of course, I stopped drinking last April. My aperitif these days is a non-alcoholic beer. (And yes, I will be very mad if they tell me in a few years that wine is actually just fine for your health and that sleeping better without it is just a psychological thing.)

So what to do with all those bottles of opened and unopened alcohol? I took some with me to the Edge for special occasions. I imagine I'll break down when the whole family visits for the holidays and crack open a bottle of (leftover) champagne.  But the rest? We lined the bottles up and took pictures and send it around to local friends. You want it? It's yours!

And then Ed and I head out for a walk to our favorite park along our favorite trail and as always, it's beautiful.

Ed brings along the kite I had kept in the basement for years (ever since the day we tried it out with toddler Snowdrop and found that she hadn't the patience nor interest in watching it fail again and again). The wind is gusty, Perfect for kite flying! 

Except that the darn thing refuses to climb the skies, way up high, where birds do fly... We try again, and again. He runs with it, I run with it, and then I run some more. It never went up. Not once. 

On the upside, it was good exercise.

I am just about to head home to start in on dinner for the young family when I get a text telling me that one of the kids is sick. I suppose that's not altogether surprising -- both the mom and Sparrow were down with a bug last week. But the timing is awkward. The mom and Sparrow are headed out to the east coast tomorrow for a conference, leaving the dad and the two other kids (one of them now sick) at home. The one drawback of having a grandmother babysit your kids is that she backs out when they come down with something. Their short-lived virus can be a 72-year old's nightmare. So, no dinner tonight and who knows how the week will play out.

But now I am not in a hurry to head home. Nature and Ed are a powerful draw! 

I pull weeds in the lily field. 

 

(an October beauty) 

 

He cuts me slices of watermelon, I make myself a coffee and munch on a granola bar. And again I have this weird feeling of being here, and not being here. Of being of the farmette lands and of being far from this place. Present but not present. Watching the changing season and being removed from it all. But not really removed at all. Not one bit.

 

And then comes another twist to my day: I ask a friend if she'd like my booze loot. She and her husband entertain a lot. Surely guests would like to try a Swiss pine liqueur served as a Spritz maybe? With Italian Prosecco?  Perhaps out of compassion for my plight, she agrees to take the bottles. And here's the odd coincidence: she and her husband are in fact having a dinner party tonight -- for a couple I've known for a long time -- my daughters' pediatrician and his wife. And the doc happens to be Swiss. 

I'm tempted to stay, really I am. I love everyone in that gathering. It's the perfect chance to become socially engaged once again. And yet... 

I stay just for a wee bit. 

One step at a time. I've been a recluse for too long to plunge. (And haven't I done enough plunging of late?)

As I get in the car to head back to my neighborhood, I text my daughter -- I'll be stopping by your place to drop over Snowdrop's backpack. (She'd left it in the car.) She texts back -- stop by Capital Brewery if you want to meet the dog we just adopted!

Seriously?! Seriously.

It appears she's been scouring listings of rescues. And she found one that may well fit into her large and active household. Three kids, two cats and a partridge in a pear tree.

So, meet Goose, a new member of the young family. 

(He's an abandoned mutt with obviously some black lab in him. Seems to love people. And a babe at barely a year and a half. About. They're not quite sure of his age.) 

 

At home now, I take stock. I wish I'd still adhere to my drink before dinner habit. I'd pour a good one tonight. Instead, I open a pilfered from Ed Heineken 0, open a box of buckwheat crackers and try to remember what lead me down this path. Broadly speaking. 

Life can be very unpredictable!
 

with so much love... `

 

the last of the hot days...

And yes, it really has been hot. Today we'll hit a record breaking 89F/32C. Sweaty hot. With a brittle landscape of fading colors. By early afternoon, I will have to turn the loathsome AC on and pull down the shades against the brilliant sunshine -- that says it all. 

But the early morning is lovely. I'm up at my usual time, sitting down now at my new usual place, eating my usual granola (determined to make bircher muesli soon!). And waiting for Ed.

He's signed us up to do seed collecting at Pheasant Branch Conservancy -- that vast strip of land that is at one end an 8 minute drive from the Edge, and at the other -- well, slightly more. At this further end, volunteers have been working to restore a prairie. That's a multi step (and multi-year) project. In the early stages, the invasive weeds have to be eradicated. In their place, you want to encourage prairie plants -- rye grasses, black eyed susans, cone flowers etc. So you keep spreading seeds. But first, you have to collect them. That was our job for this morning.

It was wise to do this in the earlier hours, when you didn't feel the heat yet.

We spend two hours among the prairie plants. He picks a bagful of rye seeds, my task is to harvest black eyed susans.  I tell Ed that I feel like I am snipping lilies, only without the mosquitoes. 

A morning well spent. 

Afterwards, we hang out at the Edge. Ed is trying hard not to put the total burden on me (in terms of traveling), even though I know he'd prefer to have the run of the farmette, especially on a good weather day, when he can get small jobs done. I know that push to work there well! I may miss our farmette days, but I don't miss the constancy of waiting work. Though I do realize that I can lapse into the more sedentary lifestyle here, at the Edge, where there is no job waiting for me outside. Tradeoffs. Always the tradeoffs. 

He leaves, I do some apartment cleaning. Amazing how a vacuum can pick up so much in just two weeks! Of course, at the farmhouse, a vacuum could pick up nearly a container-ful in just one swoop through the house. And it took time. At the Edge, vacuuming takes ten minutes.

 

Mindful of the lure of the couch, I take a neighborhood walk. Funny to call the blocks around me a "neighborhood." I do a loop to the south and I pass corporate offices and hotels (or are they modern versions of motels, or is that not a thing anymore?), and day care centers, presumably for the people who work in the corporate offices. Not one residence, not one person out walking on an early Saturday evening. On the upside, there is a commendable amount of greenery. All professionally landscaped. Mature trees, shrubs, and the occasional flower for balance.

What I'm also grateful for are the sidewalks. It's a good place to fit in a half hour jaunt just out the door. But interesting it is not. Up there with having leftover soup for supper. The last of the hot days ends on the cool side of the excitement spectrum!

with love... 

 

from the mixed up files...

Did you ever read that book as a kid? From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil Frankweiler? I've always loved the title (as I recall, the book's good too). Now, I wonder why it sprung to mind this morning, as I considered the day before me! A day that is one big heap of mixed up everything. No logic, no symmetry, no great order to it. A leap here, a dart there, a wiggle elsewhere. 

Some days are like that!

It was a very decent beginning. Another one of those very warm days, but shades of autumn are showing up everywhere. I look out my balcony, across at the corn field, and I think -- it really is October.

Breakfast, with Natalie's sunflowers and joyful classical music.

And then it's onto my disorganized day of confusing errands and annoying appointments, capped with a visit to the farmhouse and an afternoon with just Snowdrop, since Sparrow is still gathering his strength at home after whatever bug he had yesterday.

I mean, how pleasant would you find the carting of yet another Amazon return to the UPS? Followed by a long wait at Walgreens (because my Medicare number wasn't working for them), for a pre-booked flu shot? Worse -- after that, I went for an interview with an insurance rep to discuss long term care insurance plans. (You see? I'm really attending to my senior needs!) I don't want to discourage all you prudent ones who have such plans. They may be fabulous. They may save you a lot if you become incapacitated. But basically, for people my age, the overhead is large and the payback is small. You're better off saving your money and crossing your fingers on stock market returns. So, a wasted two hours there.

 

(At the farmette: just about all the blooms now are from the flowers planted in the pots and tubs...)

 

At the farmhouse, I have to smile at the "improvements" Ed made with my leftover pieces. Yes, the art table is in the former kid room now. As are the plants. A toy truck is digging up the Christmas cactus and I see some toy planes have crashed into it...

 

Ed also brought in the black chair from the sheep shed -- purchased nearly twenty years ago to entice me then to spend more time in the sheep shed. Once again, it's positioned so as to make me more comfortable during a farmette visit, only we've graduated now to the farmhouse -- significantly more appealing than the sheep shed.

 Unfortunately, Friendly the cat claimed it immediately for himself.

So long as I am out here, so close to nature, I suggest a walk. Or better yet -- a bike/hike. We pedal over to the Nature Conservancy lands -- maybe a couple of miles up the road from us. 

From there, we take the path up past the grazing cattle to the woodsy area that abuts the sprawling wetlands that eventually feed Lake Waubesa.

This isn't a demanding hike. More of a quiet one, to get myself aligned with that part of the world that I cut off so suddenly.

And then it's time for me to go back to my new neighborhood. With a stop at the grocery store, where I pick up a few necessities, and, too, a few items off of Ed's grocery list which I swear, he's never otherwise going to fill. He can get them from the Edge tomorrow. Is that a weird way to grocery shop or what?! 

 

I pick up the girl at school and bring her to the Edge. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

She is tired. The kids are often tired on Fridays. It's as if the week's early wake up hours and long days catch up with them right about now. No problem: at the Edge, we read. And today she gives a loving few minutes to her small mice collection.

And she asks -- if you do Gaga summer camp (for the older grandkids) next summer, can it be at the farmhouse? There are no toys there anymore, I tell her (the toy excavator by the Christmas cactus notwithstanding). But maybe it can be close to the farmhouse... Or here. 

Next summer seems so far away.

with love...