Giverny
Sibs
Early morning, with its absence of distractions, is ideal for putting the thoughts of the day in order.
It is in such quiet moments that salient meanings and experiences can be processed, held up, turned over in hand and put where they belong.
The holiday, for example, the purpose of which is to rest and rejuvenate, to spend time with family especially at a time of season when much of daily concern, is suspended for a week.
For some, the short days overshadow all else and usher in dark moods that may be a challenge to shake off.
It is as if an annual duty arises, the holiday parties, the gift giving and holiday decorations, the feasting and celebrating, and these accomplished, a new stage is set and a new outlook arrives.
With the onset of foul weather, chores at the farm change: it would be a mistake to think there is ever a time when all is accomplished and put in order. That’s not the nature of farms.
It is the great gift of farming, however, to grant a temporary sabbatical that begins when harvest is done and runs until enough icy days have passed to harden leafless vines for pruning. The canes of the last season are cut, leaving three or more nodes intact on the vine, bundled, wrapped in light-tight packing and stored in dark places for twelve weeks.
Come spring thaw, the canes are trimmed, dipped in rooting powder and stabbed into the soil of a nursery where a significant proportion will develop roots. In a year or two, the cuttings that survive are ready to plant among the mature vines.
It is good to think of other things for a few weeks, and the weather often discourages work outdoors.
* * *
“How is Sam?”
The connection was strong and I could hear my sister’s ebullient mood through the land line.
“He’s good: Alex lost her job but she’s got another one.”
“Is she in science, too?”
“No, she’s an artist.”
“Funny how all the girls in the family have gone to physics and chemistry…”
“She’s making more than Sam now.”
“Is Sam publishing anything?”
“I think so, but I’m not really sure.”
“What about Emmy: has she finished her degree yet?”
“No.”
“What year is she in?”
“She will finish her second year: her doctoral qualifying exams are in the spring.”
“Ugh: candidacy exams. That brings back some nasty memories. Is she publishing anything?”
“Yes, I think so…”
“And what about Nick, how is he doing.”
“Oh, it’s very exciting: he got into medical school.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Ummm, Boston University and Georgetown School of Medicine…”
“Oh, Georgetown. They must come to Georgetown…tell Emmy and Nick they have a room at the farm if they decide for Georgetown…with all the opportunities for postdoc work in biochemistry in D.C., Em would have no problem here…one thing, though…”
“Yes?”
“…Tell Nick to bring boots and a good pair of work gloves…”
She snickered, and the flow of conversation was tumbling and galloping into that old familiar brother-sister slapstick that he found such a delight. There was no other woman in the universe like this one, and whenever they spoke, the joy and laughter was infectious.
“And how are you doing? Are you taking time out for yourself? I always harp on it, but you need to keep an eye on your health the way you are working. I worry about you.”
“I know, Pete”. I could hear her sigh over the phone.
“…I am surprised: cousin Tracey’s daughter did a physics degree at Berkeley, then law at Stanford. I think she made partner this year. Math women, all of you.”
“Yes,” she sighed again. “I wish someone had made me go into science.”
“What did you want to be when you were a little girl?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t remember. It wasn’t until late at Oswego that I began to think about it.”
“Funny: I’ve had only three ambitions in life from the age of ten. To be a cowboy, a firefighter, or a scientist. Did I tell you about herding cows last year?”
This caught her fancy.
“No…”. The dead space, a moment’s expectancy bade me continue.
“Yes: the farm I was working summer before last had a herd of cattle next to the vineyard. A few calves managed to breach the fence. When we arrived in the morning, there was a cow with the most pathetic bleating that she was separated from her calves…”
“…it is not so easy to round them up. Imagine it: five amigos and me as the sun rose, running here and there waving arms toward an open gate in Spanish and English. The calf ambled down the fence line, ignored the gate we had opened for her, and continued down the fence...while we were chasing the calf in the woods nearby, the rest of the herd noticed the open gate…”
I wanted to go on, but let her speak. She was gasping for breath from laughing so hard.
“I should have been a social scientist,” she said ruefully. She had been a social services administrator at Albany Medical, and for the State and had risen to master’s level supervisory work without having the extra degree. I vaguely remembered she did something with AIDS patients.
“Well, it is curious the way the early ambitions linger. You never know when you will have the opportunity to be what you always wanted to be…”
“I know.”
“Well, what about the Little People?”
“You mean Rich?” she asked. Her husband was not that tall and always a convenient target of humor the way his wore his Sicilian ethnicity and walking patriarchy.
“Yeah, Rich…”
“He’ll be teaching twelfth grade next. He is used to ninth...”
“Special Ed?”
“Yes, Special Ed…”
“The seniors will be taller than him,” I teased.
My daughter had monopolized the phone before informing me it was my sister on the line, and my wife was listening in to our side of the conversation while stirring the gravy. By then, the house was filled with the aromas of roast turkey, and the table had been set.
“Well, Merry Christmas, Sis,” I concluded.
“You, too.”
“Love you.”
“Love you ,too.”
* * *
My sister and I were similar in eerie ways.
There was a particular large print I had framed of Monet’s water lilies beneath the blue arch of a Chinese bridge. It was painted at Giverny, Monet’s farm estate and he painted over two hundred fifty images of water lilies there.
It intrigued me when I last visited her, that she had chosen, framed and mounted the identical print as if we had been identical twins separated at birth, not separated by seven years.
* * *