Saturday, July 18, 2009
Saturday With Pictures And Words
Saturday morning and it's raining in Lloyd. No thunder or lightening, no dramatics, just a rain falling from a gray sky.
Mr. Moon has gone off for the day and night to fish at Lake Seminole with an old buddy of his. It just struck me that wouldn't it be funny if Mr. Moon actually had a girlfriend and was really and truly going off with her instead of up to Lake Seminole with Randy? Or RA-Andy as I call him? Because that's how Randy talks. He, like most southerners, likes words so much he gives them as many syllables as possible.
Well, I don't think Mr. Moon has a girlfriend although he is very partial to Elmira.
I'm thinking about Jessie a lot. She should be done with the rural clinic work portion of her journey and now in the all-inclusive beach resort part. She was looking forward to that- the all-you-can-eat, the all-you-can-drink part.
"Now don't you come home pregnant," I told her when we were discussing the food, the drinks, the very handsome Men of Jamaica whom I hear are like gods, walking the beach barefoot with glistening muscled bodies, their twinkling eyes, their Rasta talk, their dreads and spliffs.
I should definitely hear from her by tomorrow when she will arrive back in Miami. I can't wait to hear her voice, that giggle.
Tonight I'm going up to Thomasville, Georgia with Herb and Kathleen to see a production of Our Town that our friend, Rich is in. I'm looking forward to this. I played Emily (the star!) in a community theater production of Our Town when I was in high school. It was a beautiful play, a wonderful role. I remember being fitted for my costumes. I remember the gentle dialogue, the bare stage with only chairs and a ladder as props. Someday, before I'm too old, I'd love to play Emily's mother in a production.
"Am I pretty?" Emily asks her mother.
And I don't remember the mother's lines but they are something like this:
I miss acting right now. It's not the time for me to be in a play but I miss it. I'll go back to it soon enough, when my grandchild is safely born and no one needs me in any special way. I miss the Opera House and dream of it almost nightly.
But tonight I'll sit in the audience and I'll remember those characters, those lines. It'll be good.
The redheaded baby boy was released into foster care yesterday awaiting the end of the criminal investigation of his abandonment. Criminal. Well, I've already had my say about that. He weighed 7 lbs., 11 oz., which is a good weight for a baby boy. I still get so sad, thinking of his mother. Because he's white and healthy and a "cutie" as the paper reported, there will be people waiting in line to adopt him so that's good. Good for him, good for the people who adopt him. Sorrow for the woman who is still bleeding from his birth, whose breasts are full of milk, not knowing that the baby the milk is being produced for is being fed by someone else from a bottle.
I read something else in the paper yesterday that struck me as so weird. It was just a little puff piece on a local Catholic school written by a parent whose children attend it. She just happens to be Catholic herself but she was trying to reassure parents who might not be Catholic that they too, might want to consider sending their children to the school. She talked about how, when it came time for First Communion ceremonies, even the little girls who didn't receive the Holy Eucharist were able to participate in the fun, wearing their little white bride dresses, being excited. What's up with that? If the girls dress like brides, does that symbolize their marriage to Christ? What about the little boys? Who are they symbolically marrying? And do they all get excited to be able to cannibalize Christ? Hmmmm....
Does any seven or eight-year old understand what all this frufra means? Do any of us?
"Here. Eat of my body, drink of my blood."
We all love a good vampire story.
Poor little non-Catholic girls who only get the dress and veil, not the body and blood.
The writer made sure to stress that no nuns or priests were teachers at the school. Why did she feel the need to state that?
History, people. History.
Well, it's still raining. I have made no point. I have no point. I am pointless.
Here are some pictures of Lloyd and maybe, looking at them, you'll see where my ennui comes from, my lack of motivation for the day, my reflective mood, my contentment with all of that.
Rain on miniature roses, maidenhair fern, black elephant ears:
Baby chicks, racing to tear up and eat the collard greens:
Okra coming up:
Five-foot tall collard plants which I haven't ripped up because the chickens love the tough, buggy leaves:
Edamame beans, swelling in their pods:
The frogs are trilling in the swamp behind the railroad tracks, the birds are calling as if the rain was of no matter to them at all and there are two cardinals on the feeder right now.
The sky is giving rain. The earth is receiving it and so there is a sort of perfection and I am witness to all of it.