Good morning. Here are my chickens, waiting to come outside. Every one of my tiny flock. Here- let me tell you their names. From the left: Daffodil, Miss Bob, Shalayla, Elvis, Miss Dolly, Miss Mable. I have no idea why some of the chickens have a "Miss" before their names but they do. This is the south. We are weird. I haven't got much to say this morning. If I said anything, it would be all blah-blah-blah. Stuff you've heard before a million times.
I walk to the kitchen and my flip-flops say slap, slap, slap.
See what I'm saying?
And pictures- you've seen pictures of everything in and around my house. Almost. But here you go- here's a picture of my side porch where Owen used to let me rock him to sleep.
Not any more. He refuses to nap at my house. If I hold him on the porch swing, he pushes off and gets down and runs around and rearranges the shells and pretends to water the plants and brings me fistfuls of spider webs.
Then I have to give him a bath.
Which isn't so bad, really. In fact, it's fun. Why nap when you can get really dirty and then take a bath in Grandmother's big tub?
I have cuter pictures but this is the only one that doesn't show his pee-pee. I am a respectful Grandmother! I don't want him to hate me when he is fourteen and the idea that his pee-pee was on the internet when he was a baby makes him cringe.
(It's a really cute pee-pee.)
It was almost twenty-six years ago today that Mr. Moon and I decided to get married. Not quite. Our anniversary is a week from today and four days before the day we got married, we were on our way to the plumbing supply store and I was drunk on ovulation hormones, DRUNK, I tell you, and he was building me a bathroom! and we were going to go buy plumbing supplies and I said, "Let's get married!"
We were already engaged.
"When?" he asked me. I wonder what he was wearing. Maybe jeans and that flannel shirt.
"Thursday!" I said. We were leaving on Thursday afternoon to go to Chattanooga, Tennessee for some business and also, perhaps for me to meet my old drunk daddy (who was not yet dead then) for the first time since I was five years old. That would make a perfect honeymoon, right?
And so it was.
In four days we planned a tiny wedding and it was perfect and we left that evening to go to Tennessee and we met my daddy and his crazy wife and we stayed in a beautiful place on Lookout Mountain called the Chanticleer Inn and I had great dizzying moments of awareness that I had made the right decision in marrying Mr. Moon.
A week from today he and I will be in Roseland to celebrate that event and I am looking forward to that with all my heart. We will watch the sunset every night from a dock that flows over the river that I loved as a child and love still.
It will look just like this:
We will have adventures! I am excited.
But before then, it's going to be a week. Kathleen is getting tests and scans to see what the chemo and radiation have done and on Wednesday she and Judy and I will go sit in the doctor's depressing-ass office and hear what he has to say.
And Friday is Kathleen's birthday and we are having a party here to celebrate her.
I need to run errands in town to get ready. I need to do all the things I do here which you have all heard about a million times.
Slap, slap, slap.
Well, here's a picture of my kitchen porch. With Mermaid. The kitchen door is the door everyone comes in. Of course. Well, politicians knock on the front door. Even the Jehovah's Witnesses know to come in the kitchen door. Not that I let them in.
That's for the best because if I did let them in and made them sit down in my kitchen and told them what I thought they would not like it one bit. Not one.
Slap, slap, slap.
All right. One more picture.
That is the place where I dump my weeds that I've pulled up. They have taken root without so much as a kind thought from me and tower over my head now.
This could be a metaphor.
Happy Monday, y'all.