The kale doesn’t care about our five-year plan. Neither do the chickens.
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OCTOBER 2, 2026
Just two ladies having a private conversation.
Soggy Pause
It’s been feeling a little like spring around here lately — perpetually wet, rainy, or threatening to rain. The leaves are justttt starting to turn, and the light is changing noticeably by the day.
It’s a strange little exhale before we start breaking down the fields. We may have harvested our final tomatoes and peppers this week.
Or maybe not.
We’re not quite ready to commit to that yet.
First frost is expected next week, so we’re taking the hint and enjoying these last few days before the real field cleanup begins.
Until then, we’re in the soggy pause. “Soggy” really does sound exactly like soggy feels...
The maple flirting with fall
Still a little summer left in the zinnia & the dahlia
Sloan & Ovi tag team an employee morale initiative
For Beth
Since moving to Ithaca, I’ve started noticing the trees differently.
There’s the steady oak tree outside the living room window, the first to show signs of life when spring begins to stir.
There’s the weeping willow to the south, soft and unruly, its long branches trailing and dancing in even the slightest breeze.
And then there are the Black Walnuts, tall and weathered, standing like old sentries in a crooked row.
I’ve grown especially fond of these older trees.
The ones that were already here before we arrived.
I don’t know exactly how many seasons they’ve seen, or what storms they’ve weathered, but there’s something about them that makes me wonder. Who stood beneath their branches before me? What did this place look like then?
Today, my MomMom - Beth Pareti - turns 92 years old.
And lately, I’ve been thinking about her a little bit like like that.
Because it is easy to forget that our grandparents were once young.
They had dreams. They went to parties. They fell in love.
They made questionable decisions and probably have a few stories they conveniently leave out.
In 1952, Beth left her life in Connecticut and moved to New York City by herself, with a dream of becoming a professional ballerina. She was eighteen years old.
Eighteen.
She moved into an all-girls residence across from Grace Church, between Broadway and 10th Street. She studied at the School of American Ballet and auditioned at Radio City. This was postwar New York, a city changing alongside a country beginning to confront segregation and the fight for civil rights. Broadway was glowing. Jazz clubs were spilling music onto the sidewalks.
She saw Frank Sinatra.
Houston Person.
The Oscar Peterson Trio.
She was at the opening night of Broadway performances for shows like West Side Story and Guys and Dolls. New York was loud and glamorous and a little rough around the edges, and somehow my very sweet grandmother was right in the middle of it.
I wish I could see her then.
I know a different version of Beth than that 18-year-old girl.
I know the grandmother who answered the phone every week when I called. For most of those conversations, Drew and I were exploring the country, starting new jobs, trying to figure out what came next.
I was in my 20s, out there trying to build a life, and she was back home, listening to me figure it out one phone call at a time.
She never made me feel like I was getting it wrong.
She’d laugh with me, encourage me, and tell me some of the stories I never got tired of hearing - like the time she met my PopPop.
“Well,” she’d start, “We were both working for Air Canada at the time, and we were invited to the same party at a friend’s apartment in the Upper West Side, between 82nd and Riverside Drive.” She’d pause with a low laugh. “PopPop always said it was my legs he noticed first.”
Which feels like a very 1960s way for a love story to begin...
They went on to travel the world together, visiting countries like France, Turkey, Austria, Spain, and spending years exploring Canada's national parks. Eventually they settled in New Jersey and built a life in a small town where they raised their three children.
Three children became seven grandchildren, and seven grandchildren became thirteen great-grandchildren.
So this is for Beth.
For the girl who got on a train and chased a dream to New York City.
For my MomMom.
And for all the lives a person can live in one lifetime.
For her 92nd birthday, I’ll sit beneath the oak outside our living room window with a book in my lap. I’ll let the afternoon slip by without much to show for it. I’ll hear the chickens somewhere in the yard. Maybe a cardinal will make a fuss somewhere nearby. I’ll read a few pages and then look up, distracted by the tree again.
I’ll wonder how many springs it has seen. Who sat beneath it before me. What storms it remembers.
And I’ll think about Beth.
Not as a list of accomplishments. Not as a grandmother, or a mother, or a ballerina, or a librarian.
But as Beth.
Her 92 seasons.
And I’ll marvel at her.
Happy birthday, Beth
Before we let you go — it’s been a strange week here in Ithaca. Some things worth celebrating: the Yankees are moving on after the Wild Card series.
Some things are much harder to hold.
We haven’t stopped thinking about Jane Doe, or the violence she survived on Cornell’s campus.
We can’t fix it all today. But we can pay attention.
We can look out for each other. We can believe women. We can protect what is vulnerable — our neighbors, our communities, the land beneath our feet.
That all feels like a good place to start. Until next time ~
Love always,
Ris, Drew & Sloan (who is here to share extra love, strength, and care for anyone who needs it)
