Where Did I Get Mango Salsa? And Why Haven't I Eaten It?

Nothing makes me feel as if I'm speeding down the highway of senility faster than not being able to find things I know I have. Or, alternately, buying things and bringing them home, only to discover that I have five other jars of the same thing. Or boxes. Whatever.

I've been trying to just keep moving today. Not that I ever really spend a great deal of time sitting around but still, trying to move more than usual. I hung laundry, three loads, brought it in, folded it, put it away, pulled a few weeds, picked greens and carrots for a salad, made bread, cooked soybeans, cleaned my old office up a bit, threw away some shit in there including bank records that go back to the early 2000's. Then I moved on to the cabinet in the kitchen where I keep most of my packaged foods, although not the canned goods. They're in another place. I don't have very many of those but they're next on the list. I threw away things whose sell-by dates have long since expired and things like opened-but-not-used-up packages of the seaweed you roll sushi in. I have no idea when the last time we made sushi was but I think my mother may have been alive. I found the Tamari I knew I had as well as the box of lasagna noodles I was absolutely certain I'd purchased just last week but could not find when it came time to make the lasagna. Luckily, I did find a box of partly used noodles from when I made tuna lasagna for Kathleen some months ago and there were just the right number to make my casserole. I was astounded to find jars of delicious pickled things to put in martinis: green baby tomatoes, green beans, okra, and jalapeno-stuffed olives. I threw out honey bears with approximately one teaspoon of honey in them, some home-canned peppers that I don't have the slightest clue as to age (they look like they might have been here since the house was built in 1859), a jar of grape leaves meant for stuffing that I bought at Publix on the discontinued display about three years ago, a small container of open butter-flavored Crisco which smelled rancid, and a teeny jar of orange marmalade with a rusty lid and I'm pissed that I never ate it. I love orange marmalade.

Anyway, that all added up to two bags of garbage that I'll definitely be glad to take to the dump facility. It's certainly not in any way representative of the complete purging I need to do but it's a start. It must be spring because today I actually thought about washing our pillows. I've read those articles about how pillows, after a time, are about 90% dust mites and although that should make me feel skeevy, all it does is make me think, "Dust mites are so cozy and comfy!"
But still.
It does definitely feel like spring, as I have pointed out, but it's supposed to get down to near freezing again Friday night with a high temperature during the day of fifty. This is going to twist our tails into tangles. I've been wearing a tank top and shorts all day long and glad for it although the fact that I need to shave my legs is painfully obvious.

Mr. Moon and Bug are doing something manly out in the garage which seems to involve motors and I need to put the rice on. It occurs to me that I may lead one of the most boring lives in the world.
Oh well.
La-di-dah.

It is my life and I feel quite certain that most people have lives that are similar in some ways. We all buy things we do not need and forget, we all need to check our sell-by dates occasionally, we all (eventually- trust me) worry that we've all taken the fucking exit which leads to I've-Lost-My-Mindville entirely by accident and it's too late to turn this beast around. So we do what we can.

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Love...Ms. Moon

There Can Be Calm In The Storm

On my walk this morning I took a little trail into the woods to pee and when I was walking back to the road, I looked down to see this feather and I think it is a hawk feather although it could easily be a wild turkey feather. The picture does it no justice. The colors of the bands are iridescent and change in the light. I am no good at this sort of identification and I followed the tracks of what looked to be a large dog for a long way down the dirt road although I never see dogs out on the loose. Too big to be fox and definitely not raccoon tracks or the paw print of a large cat. Coyote?
I do not know.
I do not know shit today.

Well, I know the wind is blowing on and off, great gusts which slam a door shut here or there in the house, making me sit up straight, take a breath. I walk into the kitchen to find my love notes from Mr. Moon scattered across the floor. Although the sun is out, I am hanging clothes on the line because it is not raining and this wind will take the wetness away and it is warm, too.

I have had three walks this week so far. I have reached the point where I cannot stand to put on clothes. Where nothing fits except for a few gargantuan garments, too ugly to wear anywhere but in my backyard, and stretchy skirts, etc. Bag dresses. And it's time to clean up the diet which of course is the hardest part.
To begin to eat all healthy and shit once more. Aw, but it is so easy to get lazy. To welcome cheese back into the diet like an old lover, to not quibble over a few crackers here and there.
Oh god. How boring to contemplate. How boring to read about.

This wind. It seems to be blowing things my way and all across my world. News of a mother's death, news of an upcoming, possibly life-altering journey. Changes in attitude. Changes everywhere.

The little black sugar ants are back already. Two days of warmth and they have crawled out of wherever they were to take up residence in the honey bear, the laundry basket where a tiny crumb of food had fallen. Another harbinger of spring, not as pleasant as the robins, the blackbirds, the buds, but just as surely so. Changes in lives, changes in thinking, changes in habit, changes in landscape, changes in season.

May we not be tempest-tossed and yet, not tied too tightly to the moorings to float over the waves that come.

It is a delicate dance, is it not?

Love...Ms. Moon

Genealogy As A Living Thing

I talked to Lily this morning and we agreed that it was such a beautiful day that we should take the boys to the Junior Museum and so we did. We stopped at Publix and got things for a picnic lunch and we ate that and the boys played on the little playground and then we walked around and saw the bear and the panther and the bobcat and the eagles and the rain forest animals and then the snakes and the baby alligator and also white squirrels and I'm sure I'm missing something. We also visited the old farm, my favorite part of the entire place, I think. I feel a sense of deja vu there and always have a small yearning to move in to the wooden cabin with the quilting frame set up, the cradle, the separate cabin for the kitchen with its huge old woodstove and fireplace. There are goats and chickens and turkeys and a cow and horses, a garden, outbuildings. And two geese and trust me- I do not now nor possibly in any other lifetime want geese. They are horrible bad noisy. And mean, too.

So it was a good day and those boys should sleep good tonight. I think I will too.
Mr. Moon has just gotten home and is out looking at his peas in the garden and I'm about to make eggrolls.

I have felt old today, my body aching, new gnarls appearing seemingly overnight in fingers and toes. I caught sight of my legs, once so firm and strong and they shocked me with the changes I saw there. I don't spend much time in front of the mirror. I would just rather not. But sometimes you can't help but see.
Owen was jumping off high things and I told him, "When you're my age, you'll wish you hadn't done that, my boy."
"When I'm your age, you'll be dead," he said thoughtfully.
"I most certainly will be," I told him.
"I won't let you die, Mer."
"We all die, love. It's okay."
He thought for a second and then said something that blew my mind.
"Maybe you exist for me," he said.
"I think you may be right," I told him. "For you and Gibson and all the rest of the grandbabies."
This satisfied him and we began to talk about whether Jessie will be having a boy or  a girl. He thinks it's a boy and he wants her to have a boy.
"But I thought you wanted a girl," I said.
"I want a girl for us!" he said. "I want a sister!"

And so it goes. Maybe someday he will get a sister. And Jessie will most certainly have a boy or a girl. A human, as I like to say. That we can be sure of.

And thus, I will exist, not perhaps for them, these human children of the future, but in them, at least.

And that is good enough for me. It brings me peace to think of it.

Fairy Tale

Well. It's like someone tapped Spring on the shoulder and said, "Uh, didn't you have a job to do here?"
And Spring was like, "Oh yeah! Sorry! I got distracted by a Polar Vortex," and she quickly changed her gown and waved her magick hawthorne stick and the clouds parted and the sun came out and shone with a warm and mellow glow and all the buds remembered they were supposed to be swelling and the peas popped up out of the ground and the birds all began to mate in midair and talk about it and Spring smiled benevolently over all.

Which is to say it's gorgeous and I need to take the trash and go for a walk and for no reason whatsoever I am feeling grouchy and a little anxious and the hog dogs are barking without cease and I wish I was at the beach.

I'm just never satisfied, am I?

Love...Ms. Moon

Open Doors, Open Heart

That's the new little welcome sign on the door at Papa Jay's Country Store which has not opened yet, but I expect it will, any day now. I am thinking of the shelves of precisely stacked goods, just awaiting purchase. I'm not sure why I'm so excited about this, but I am. Perhaps simply because it will be a good thing for our community if the prices aren't jacked too high. We do have a convenience store up next to the truck stop and then there's the truck stop itself which is an interesting place but they are both owned by one guy whom no one likes around here and the women who seem to be the only cashiers at the stores look as if they are possibly chained to the back of the counters and both stores are dreary and sad and neglected and I, for one, would like a choice when I run out of milk. Papa Jay seems so very happy about the prospect of his store. So proud of it.
Well, time will tell.

It's been a very, very good day for me. I took a walk and if my walks do nothing else, they remind me that I still CAN, and make me feel as if I have accomplished something. I stopped at the Post Office and found two things sent from blog-related people in real, true life and that just always makes my day. When I got home, the phone rang and it was a woman from the dermatologist's office who told me that the biopsy of the places on my shoulder were completely benign. Just old-skin barnacles. No worries. Good-bye.
Hurray!
And I think I know why these places have not really settled into their usual crusty forms and that's because my overall straps AND my purse strap rub right on that area.
Overall-related skin disorder!
Jesus. Who knew?
So that was a sweet relief.

And then there was the fact that the day looked like this.

And this.

And so I did this.

Oh, how I love to hang sheets on the line! How I appreciate a day sunny enough, dry enough to do so. 

I spent the rest of the day mostly outside, just picking up fallen branches and sticks, tidying this and that, cleaning out the hen house and replacing the poopy hay with fresh. I watered plants and did more laundry and used my new broom and all the while I have been listening to Robert Heinlein's "The Door Into Summer," which I have not read in forever. I am enjoying it immensely. Heinlein got so much right about the future and yes, quite a bit wrong. But he was a genius of sorts and he loved cats and I am very glad that I enjoy Science Fiction and was introduced to it at an early age. When I was growing up, it was mostly the boys who read that genre but I fell in love with it and reading "Stranger In A Strange Land" absolutely blew my mind and changed my life. 

Reading his books now, I have to remind myself of how sexist the times were when he wrote and take that into account. I imagine that writing for the Sci Fi audience required a certain amount of titillation (what a wonderful word!) and so I forgive him his cultural sins. 

Mr. Moon has gone to auction and I am tired but feeling better in my soul than I've felt in a very long time. As in...normal. For me, at least. It will feel good to take a shower and better yet to stretch out on the bed with its clean sheets, the window open wide to let in the good, sweet air. I've had the hallway doors open at both ends all day, the kitchen door and the door to the porch outside my bedroom open too and it feels good to walk through the house and feel as if I am both inside and out at the same time, the borders between them merely screens. Sometimes I wonder if I would be able to live in an apartment far above the street in a big city and I truly do not think I could. I have to be able to walk out a door and feel dirt beneath my feet, to sit on a porch and watch birds and chickens, to have a cat who can come and go as she pleases. City life is fine for some and maybe in another lifetime I'll be able to enjoy that but in this lifetime, I'll gladly trade what is sometimes admittedly way too much nature for the joys and majesties and blooming of the trees, and clothes hanging on the line and the sight of the first-blooming purple violets in the yard by the burn pile, by the feel of warm, fresh eggs in my hand, the snap of greens as I employ my thumbnail to pluck just enough to make my supper's salad. 

The voices of the frog chorus are dancing up and down in a very definite rhythm. Du-du-DUHT, du-du-DUHT, du-du-DUHT! And then the soloists weave in and out and then they all pause (to take a breath?) and begin again in a song which is as intricate and interwoven as anything Dave Brubeck ever participated in. 

The rhythms of the universe. I think we all need to be connected to them and not in some new-age way but in the old-age way of blooms and the arrival of birds and the hiss of the tide and the turn and turn again of the planet and the life and the death of it all. If I have no other purpose on earth than to observe and record that, then so be it. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Want To Waste Some Time?

I snagged that picture from the tumblr site, Awesome People Hanging Out Together and don't go there unless you have a few hours to spare. You'd be surprised how many people get to hang out with the Dalai Lama. Mick shows up in a lot of pictures. Andy Warhol was in every picture taken in the seventies. James Brown got around. Bill Murray is ubiquitous.
Does anyone really illustrate the joy of life better than Bill Murray? I do not think so.

That's him with Hunter Thompson. Of course. 

And some people in these photos together you might imagine hanging out. Indeed. You'd expect them to.

Keith Richards, Tina Turner, David Bowie. For instance. 

But then this?

Colonial Sanders and Alice Cooper? What was the story there?

Well, anyway, it's looking to be a nice day here, warm and with a little bit of sun and I think I'm going to take a walk and spend time outside, tidying up the yard a bit. Doing laundry. Being a domestic goddess and eating bon-bons and watching soap operas. 

Here's one more picture though, before I go.

Cher, k.d. Lang, Madonna and Joni Mitchell.

Swoon. 

Oh wait.

Bob and Bruce. I really have no words. 

All right. Time to come back to earth. Off to deal with poop and fallen branches and trash and laundry. 

Yours in wonder at the miraculous going's on in this universe at all times...Ms. Moon

From This To That And It Was Good

Golly. Golly, golly. It's been a real good day.
Boppy and the boys collected some worms and put them in an old Folger's coffee can with dirt and we packed up a banana and some water and a fishing pole and drove down to Bug's so the gentlemen could go fishing. For whatever reason the fish just weren't biting much. They got two that were almost keeper-sized and then the boys lost interest and Boppy wanted to get to a deer stand for the last night of the season and so we came home after releasing the two pretty little bream back to their families in their watery world.
Before we left, Gibson slipped and fell right into some mud. He didn't care a bit but he was a mess. When we got home, I stripped his pants and shoes and socks off and washed and dried them and he got cozy under the covers of my bed and watched some horrendous kid videos on my phone.
"You lay down with me?" he asked.
Well. If you put it like that...
Of course I did.

They played outside when Gibson's clothes were dry and Owen did two alphabet puzzles in the hallway and they had sherbet and orange juice (an orange cow) and pickles and crackers and everything that makes for a bad, bad diet.
I had a pickle too. It was awesome. Dill. Crunchy. Large.

While we were doing the puzzles, I put some Rolling Stones on. We haven't listened to those boys for quite awhile and it was a treat and when the puzzles were done, Owen got the stick out of the old butter churn and stood in the hallway and began to dance like Mick Jagger and play air-guitar like Keith Richards. He was WILD! He was beautiful! Gibson and I danced and it was such a good party.
"More rock and roll!" he kept saying. And he kept sneaking behind my back to turn it up.
Oh. That boy.

Well. I think my work here on earth is done.
Okay. Maybe not until I've had a little influence on Jessie and Vergil's baby.
And eaten supper.
I've got greens cooking and sweet potatoes in the oven and we're having our monthly (at least) pork chops tonight.
All praise the pig and bless it's flesh.
When I went to put the chickens up, I noticed that Mick and Elvis were sharing a nesting box to sleep in.
WHAT???!!!
Are they going to wake up in the morning and freak out? I don't think so.

Peace in the flock. Rock and roll in the hallway. Husband on his way home. Boys with their daddy. Rain falling gently from the sky again.

In short:
Peace, love, and rock and roll. And good food and all the love you can hold in one heart. Which is far more than we know until life happens to us.
And then Glory Hallelujah and pass the greens.

Love...Ms. Moon

Sunday Report So Far

Oh, did we have pancakes! Yes, yes we did.
Lily and the boys didn't end up coming out which was sad but made for better conversational opportunities. Julia and I got to talk while everyone else cleaned up. We really do have so much in common. And now we are about to have even more.
I thanked her today for raising such a good, fine man who grew up to love my daughter. And she surely did.
It was just pure sweet.

Besides pancakes, I made a fruit salad and cashew cream. Have you made this stuff? It's sort of awesome and butt easy. You just soak some cashews and then drain them and rinse them and put 'em in a blender or a food processor with a little water and turn them into cream. You can do a savory one or a sweet one. Whatever you need. I hear it's a good substitute for ricotta if you're looking for vegan options. I added honey and vanilla and almond extract and a tiny bit of salt and lime juice to mine this morning. Too much vanilla but it was still pretty good.
Look it up on the internet where you'll find more specific instructions as to measurements if you're interested.
I'd done a similar thing with cashews before in a curried soup thing and that was amazing. I'll do that again soon.

So it was a good visit and we showed Julia around the yard and the garden and the house. She liked our trees, the greens, the chickens. She has chickens too. And grandkids that live nearby her. Okay, she IS the sort of woman who's going to ride her bike down to the coast and back this afternoon which I definitely am NOT but still- we share a lot. And we sure do love our babies. And their babies.

Still very gray here but not raining. Not as cold. Here's a picture.

Maurice pretending not to watch Mick and Camellia. Made me laugh a little. They're still out there although now Maurice is watching the wild birds and is no longer pretending not to. The ducks and some more of the chickens have joined them and they're all discussing something. The red-wing blackbirds have joined the robins in huge flocks and are chittering and singing in all the trees. The very air is alive with life right now. It's a beautiful thing.

Well, I better go gird my loins before those grandsons of mine arrive and the adventures begin. I am feeling pretty good today in all ways and cheerful despite the gloomy sky.

Yep. I'll take it. And all the hugs and kisses that go with.

Love...Ms. Moon

Ace Is The Place

Mr. Moon had activities which promised to keep him away all day and I looked at my options which were stay here and wallow in the dreary day and dreary feelings or go to town and run some errands.
I chose Option #2 and my first stop was the Ace Hardware. I wanted a new broom, dammit, one that worked and one that was sturdy and wouldn't be worn out in six months. I found three choices at the Ace (not counting those plastic, fake brooms which I will not even consider) and with the helpful advice of Jessie via text, I chose the Warehouse model and it is a very fine broom. Heavy with a good wooden handle and plenty of snap and strength. And when it is finally worn out, I can use that handle as a sturdy walking stick for the rest of my life. I've been craving a good walking stick since I saw an episode of Genealogy Roadshow where a guy brought in his great, great grandmother's own walking stick and I thought, "Yeah. I need one of those."

Done!

Eventually.

I ended up meeting Mr. Moon at the Costco. He had some time between the T-Ball meeting (he is going to help Jason coach Owen's team) and his dinner meeting about some sort of hunting thing. We walked the aisles and blocked the aisles which were full of people on a miserable Saturday, buying huge amounts of stuff and eating so many samples that they were lined UP at the pimento cheese sampler place and employees were frantically scrambling to get more food out for the hoards to sample. There was plenty of organic trail mix, however.
I did not try it. I'm sure it was absolutely delicious.
We bought bird seed and beer and blueberries. When we checked out, the guy behind the cash register made some comment about our selection and Mr. Moon said, "You need a lot of beer to wash down those seeds," which I thought was hysterical. I do love my husband.
After we checked out, we kissed and parted and I went to Publix and bought a few things I need for tomorrow when Jessie and Vergil and Vergil's mama, who is visiting, are going to come out for pancakes. Lily and the boys are coming too and then the boys are staying when their mama goes to work. So it will be another busy day. I am so sorry that the weather has been so vile for Julia's visit. She brought her bike with plans to explore a bit around here but I don't know if she's done that or not. I think she helped Vergil with the kitchen project today. She is a very fine carpenter, as well as being a professional musician and potter and fabric artist and gardener and, oh, take my word for this- the woman is extremely talented.
And nice. I am honored to have her as a sister-mother. And soon, sister-grandmother.

I'm glad I got out and I'm glad to be home. I'm glad people are coming over tomorrow morning and it will be fun to make great platters of pancakes and maybe some fruit salad and bacon, of course. I wish it were going to be pretty and we could eat outside but I fear it will not be. Oh well. The house will be cozy and warm and smell of bacon and coffee and pancakes and the boys will be running around, happy to be back at Mer and Bop's where there is always something to do, somewhere to hide, some adult to coerce into doing their bidding.
Me, usually.
And perhaps the rain will back off and it will be warm enough for Boppy to take them down to Bug's house to fish for bream in the pond.

The sun has set, I suppose. I never saw it all day long but it is darker than it was before.
And the chickens have taken themselves to bed and the frogs are starting to call. The wind rattles the bones of the bare pecan trees and I can hear raindrops falling from the leaves of the magnolias, drip, drip, drip. Maurice has just gone out and I can hear her bell tinkling, even though I cannot see her. She is no doubt waiting for me to come and shut the chickens up. She accompanies me on this task, as she does when I let them out in the morning.
I am so grateful for that cat. I cannot really sleep these days unless she is cuddled next to me. She does not ask for much- indeed! she does not tolerate much, but when she lets me stroke her soft fur at night when it is darkest, I so appreciate it. My fingers sink into the softness of her winter coat and although she does not really purr, I know she likes it because when she no longer likes it, she grabs my hand and bites it and then I stop and we both settle down and go to sleep. She is not subtle and I appreciate that.

Good night, y'all. Be well.

I am SO glad you are here.

Love...Ms. Moon

Today's Script Plus Menu

Gray, chilly, raining.
This is what depression looks like.
Throw in a side-order of anxiety and you've got the perfect meal.

To eat in hell.

Sigh.

I'm such a whiner.

Hey! The sun'll come up tomorrow!

Unless it doesn't.

(Little redheaded optimist slinks off-stage, left.)

Riding Alligators And So Very Much More

It's been some day. It's had its up and its downs. Boppy and Lily and Gibson and I went to Owen's school for the Fairy Tale Ball. I dressed up! Okay, I put on make-up. And a bra-like garment under my dress. Shall I tell you about how my slip almost fell off now or later? Okay, now. It is old. The elastic suddenly lost its grip and I noticed that it was hanging about eight inches below my dress.
Ah well. At least they were both black. Who cares?

Owen did NOT enjoy the ball. In fact, I doubt he will ever truly get over the trauma of it. He absolutely hates people watching him do things that he does not feel comfortable doing. Especially people he does not know and there were a lot of people. You can see by the expression on his face in that picture that if, given a choice, he would probably have chosen to have his face drenched in ashes water again rather than participate in the Fairy Tale Ball.
He did dance although, well...here you go. He's the one with his back to the camera at the very beginning.

But hey! At least he wasn't the poor boy who, as soon as he took his position with his princess, immediately needed to barf. Nope. Owen did not barf. He did not cry. He did what he was supposed to for three songs but his face was a rictus of agony the entire time. I wanted to grab him and run away with him. And bring him home to dance to the Rolling Stones in the hallway where we could twirl and whirl with no one watching at all.

When it was over the children were invited to dance with a parent and Owen ran to his mama and she held him and he cried and cried. I told him that he had been the bravest one because he had been afraid and done it anyway. And that I was so proud of him. We all were. And we told him over and over.

By the time the juice and cookies part of the event was over, he was pretty much okay and we let him choose where to go to lunch and as you can imagine, we ended up at Japanica! for more miso soup and sushi and so forth. He was in a good humor by then but refused to discuss any part of the Fairy Tale Ball. 

Right before we got to lunch, I talked to Hank and he told me that a woman we know, a very good friend of his for over twenty years and someone I have felt a connection with for almost as long, killed herself on Wednesday night. 

Such shock. Such sadness.

No one seems to know any details and really- none of it matters now. She had to have been in unbearable pain. She left five children. Our community is stunned. How could we not have known she was so close to the edge? Well, we didn't. And she had moved to a town south of here and so she was not surrounded by her community. Not in the real world way. 

There are no answers to something like this. None. We can only grieve and reach out to each other. 

It's not enough. But it has to be. 

She was unique, that one. I'll tell you that. She was like no other.

And then of course Leonard Nimoy died and he was not part of our community but he was part of the universal consciousness, wasn't he? A different sort of sadness, but still. 

And I found out that a woman whom I have admired for many years, Eugenie Clark, also died. She was a marine biologist who loved sharks and I'll never forget a show on TV I saw about her years and years ago and she was diving with an absolutely immense whale shark to such a depth that when she came up, she said that she had had to force herself to leave the shark and surface because she knew she was reaching that point of euphoria caused by nitrogen narcosis. She was so beautiful, so amazing. She was ninety-two when she died. Leonard Nimoy was eighty-three. 

I'm not sure how old Megan was. Way too young, I'll tell you that. 

Nimoy was famous for playing Spock who adventured into deep space.

Clark was famous for adventuring into the deep seas.

Megan was not famous. She adventured right here on earth in ways that I can't even begin to describe. She was one of the bravest people I ever personally knew. 

Well. We are still here now and despite all, I had a good day with my boys and their mama and we even went by to see Hank and take him lunch from Japanica! Here is his cat, Humbert, on his leash. 

Yes. Humbert goes outside with a leash. Humbert is a very special cat. He may be the most be-here-now of all creatures on earth. And he is so lucky to have Hank and Hank is lucky to have him. 

And we went to the library where Gibson cried and cried to ride on the alligator. 

Which, of course, means elevator. 

He got to ride on TWO alligators.

And Owen hugged me so tightly and so long that I cried a little bit, feeling as if I have never in my life been loved quite like I am loved by that child. 

Life is fucking short, y'all. Even if you live to be 93. Some of us live long and prosper. Some of us dive with sharks and experience that sort of euphoria. Some of us do the best we fucking can until we can't. So let's ride all the alligators we can while we're here. Let's love with as much of our hearts as is humanly possible and show it in every way we can. 

Let us please reach out for help before the pain gets so bad we cannot. 

Let us be brave enough to dance. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Beautiful

A gorgeous essay is up on the New York Times website, written by Betsy MacWhinney who writes one of my most favorite blogs ever here.

The essay, entitled "Bringing A Daughter Back From The Brink With Poems," can (and should be) read here. 

Thank you, Betsy.

Once again I am reminded how much richer my own life is through the community I have found in this ethereal and so very real world of ours.

Correspondance

Dear Elizabeth,
Here is a bush hog:

That device in back cuts through anything. Bushes, small trees, garbage. 

Dear Mick "Spare Parts" Jagger, 

I am sorry that Elvis makes you a pariah. Hang in there, boy. Your day will come. 

Dear Owen, 

I am coming to see you dance in the Fairy Tale Ball. I will wear my leopard stockings. I am very excited. Don't be nervous. 

Dear Everyone Else, 

Happy Friday.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. I just saw Mick have his way with Miss Mabel. I guess his day is here. 

Oh, How Grand We Are And Made In God's Image, Too!

The tuna lasagna is in the oven and I did nothing special at all today and when I walked I discovered that a lot of my woods path has been bush-hogged and trimmed and instead of picking up the garbage people have dumped, they simply bush-hogged right through it and right now I bloody well think that humans are about the least deserving creatures on this planet.

I may feel differently tomorrow.

We shall see.

Musing

Cold and gray again today and last night it stormed up a witch's brew of wind and pouring rain, lightening and thunder. The power flickered on and off as I made cookies for Mr. Moon and Vergil to take hunting this morning and for Vergil to take home to his pregnant bride. Pregnant ladies need cookies as much as hunters, you know.
Anyway, yes, the storm and today's gray and I've been texting a friend this morning and we've discussed it all from genealogy to cooking and on from there and it's nice to have a friend like that.
Mr. Moon and I have taken to watching "Genealogy Roadshow" on the PBS and it is fascinating. Those people can find anyone's history! When we were watching the other night, my husband said, "I'd like to know your family history."
"Well, I would too," I said. "But I think everyone's family history is probably pretty fascinating at some points. Boring as hell in others."
I don't know. I just don't seem to have a great need to really know all the details about my family history. I think it's interesting but it doesn't change who I am or what I am. Might explain more of it. But isn't it all just a sort of crazy crap shoot? All the millions of sperm that get get sent out and the relatively few who hit the target and and then the resulting human babies who grow up to live their human lives? Some live lives of great adventure and are maybe even famous or infamous and some live lives of possibly quiet desperation or perhaps contentment, raising their own babies, feeding chickens, taking joy in the every day.
And really, those are the stories on the show that make me cry. The people born to former slaves who managed to grow up and raise huge families and support them and even buy property by sheer hard work and determination and who hopefully, passed on those hardworking, determined genes to their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren along with the houses, the land.

As to my history? Well.
I know that my mother said that my father was in the KKK at one time. Or maybe it was his father. I know that my many-times great grandfather was a plantation owner, i.e., slave owner. Can I be proud of that? Of course not. But they were who they were and their sex lives led to me being here. I have their genes and I am not a racist any more than I am a musician the way one of them was or a genius investor the way a few of them were or a brilliant lawyer the way some of them were.
And as to the women who I am just as related to- who knows about them? I feel certain that if I went back to census records and found their names they would be listed as "Housewife," because most of them were.
So am I.

Ah well.

The hog dogs are at it, barking fiercely. Luna, the outdoor cat is especially vocal in her bitchiness this morning, the chickens and ducks are doing what they always do. Here I am, my children are alive on this earth, my grandchildren too, one more coming. The lines continue, I think of Mr. Moon's own grandmother who was widowed early and supported her three children and doctored those of her community too poor to go see a real doctor, who wallpapered her house and collected beautiful china and made quilts to pass on, and Christmas cakes for so many that the batter had to be mixed in buckets. I am glad that her genes are part of some of my children's too. And that her son, my husband's father, was a part of all of my children's lives because it's not just the genes that influence the coming-up generations but the love and the examples set as well.

It's not just the pirates and the rogues and the kings and the queens and the rich and the famous who determine the future. It is all of us in a myriad of ways, some involving genes, some not.

At least that's what I think. I could be wrong.

Good morning.

Ms. Moon