Fly Flanagan has settled down nicely, thank you, beside me in the big green chair by the fire. I put some hemlock in the fireplace, unfortunately at an awkward angle. The smell is wonderful. The smoke is not. But that soon shall dissipate. Fly is a wild affectionate creature when he first, "Fly. Come", rushes into the living room, evenings, and then, "chair", leaps over the armrest into the chair. He wiggles and wags and tries to lick my face, which I don't like, and does lick my sweater which always seems to have milk replacer on the cuffs. He continues to wiggle and wag until he assumes the right attitude and position, and, with a sigh, settles down in one swooping motion. There is enough room for us both these days. Barely. I've always wanted to be able to write with him next to me. Tonight is the first time he's let me. The hemlock board has begun to snap and in a shower of sparks, disintegrate. The little lamb who is also glued to me has moved away from the fire. The cat, Peabody, sits curled in the pale green silk chair I've only sat in once or twice. My dog Samantha is curled in the wine velvet chair I sit in, summers.
I do know the right way to live this life. And don't do it. This unforgiving, unrelenting winter has nearly broken my resolve. It has not, as yet, released its stranglehold on the farm. A lamb died today from the cold and wet of the relentless rain and snow we've had the past few days. While this farm was not touched by the severe flooding some of my friends have experienced, the sheep have suffered from the contrast between warm days then turned wet and cold.
There are joys, unexpected and perfect that defy logic and challenge interpretation. Take a cup of coffee, for example. That in itself is rarely perfect, and even more rarely, warrants more than casual promise. Oh, flavor means something. And, to me, correct temperature means even more. I am fussy about the cup containing it, as well. A round bowl in the morning. With blue on white writing on it. A garnet colored one, in the studio. And a lusterware cup, cream with pink and green, or this little pink and white Camilla Spode in the living room. But this mornings coffee was the best. It was housed in the blue and white bowl. Hot enough for that matter. I had taken it out on the porch and sat down on a step to enjoy it. Samantha stretched out at my feet. The little pet lamb belonging to Cecily Bowser stood to my right. Fly Flanagan was glued to my left. Ears up. Eyes on the donk. The four of us were a picture from central casting. I couldn't have set it up so well if I tried.
The air was April. Damp. Raw. Heavy, and just beginning to be sweet. The coffee was perfect. Until the lamb stepped in it. But no matter. We were perfect in that moment. That is all that matters.
April is sweet. And hungry. It is the hungriest month of all. Hungry for the snow to be gone, gone, gone. For a room to be warm. For plants to begin to emerge from the ground. And for moments of joy to mend the broken branches of winter. April.
Garden seeds I ordered a week or so ago arrived yesterday. Neat white packets in a thin brown cardboard envelope. So much type in such a small package. I opened it. And almost all of what I ordered had arrived. I had not thought out a plan for the gardens when I ordered the seeds, and so, it was something of a surprise to me to realize I had created a winter garden. It should provide, if it is all, indeed, planted, a joy next winter. There are seeds for little orange squashes that are said to store well. And good to cook with soy in garlic and olive oil. And sorrel for soup. And leeks. Lots of leeks. Bright Lights chard. Arugula. Broccoli Raab. Radicchio. Autumn and winter food.
Some seeds were not included nor were they to become available. And so I went today to still another catalogue. And rashly ordered even more seeds. Some for the missing Savoy cabbages. Some for the midline Moulin Rouge Sunflowers. To my dismay, I then ordered four or five more things. And then, I even wrote a check and mailed the order. Oh will I plant it all? How I do hope I shall. Some other flower seeds found their way onto the order as well. The rose colored foxglove I've always wanted. Oh, and some sage, because my daughter introduced me to cooking it in white beans or in garlic soup. The garlic soup recipe is also from Provence, and in its original form says it is a shepherd's soup, assured to keep away illnesses. I've made it. Two heads of peeled garlic. Two sprigs of sage. One quarter of chicken broth. It hasn't helped my poor injured leg but may have kept the flu at bay this year. I love the taste of it. It has the mysterious power to make me think (ha!) its doing something, if only to keep me within an ancient tradition.
I've seeds left from last year from the great unplanted garden. Mostly bean seeds for beans today. More dreams for winter. Were I really wise I'd paint the shelves these beans shall be stored on. Wash the glass jars to a gleaming finish in which to keep them and find, right now nice wooden boxes in which to store the squash, and buy some freezer bags in which to store the kale. Were I really wise, I'd get ready today, this snow caused April day for next winter. Perhaps that would actually encourage me to plant the garden. This winter has been the worst in seventeen years of farming. I've never known it to be this disheartening. There must be something I can do to redeem it. Even if it is only to paint the border.