Friday, April 30, 2010

Just A Song

Elizabeth gave us this beautiful post today with a video of one of my very favorite songs and she talked about being sad and I felt that tug of my heart because well, I've been so sad too lately. Sad and angry and afraid. Boxed in too tight by a cold, hard frame of fear but even last night I could feel my heart rise up out of it all.

It was a tiny miracle and I came home from the Opera House where this rising had occurred and I told Mr. Moon, "I feel better." And I kissed him and he knew I was his wife again, not some cornered trembling thing he had no idea what to do with, how to help.

I ate my supper, I watched some TV, I laughed at Tina Fey. I cleaned up the kitchen, made the coffee, made Mr. Moon's lunch and got this morning's smoothie ready and went to bed and I slept like I haven't slept in so long and when I woke up, I knew things were going to be better.
Instead of laying there, dreading to get up, dreading to take on the day, my life, I made plans.
Simple plans, but plans- go buy Kahlua for one of the cakes I'm making. Make the cakes (I'm going to make two and I'm doing that because I WANT to) and maybe go through my closet and put away the cashmere and get out the cotton and linen.

And I got up and took my camera and walked down the street and took a picture of the amazing roses blooming at a neighbor's house.

And then I went to Elizabeth's blog and I listened to Jimi Hendrix and I read her words and I was reminded of the night my friend David brought me the Jason Mraz CD and played me Beautiful Mess and how I sat in the hallway with him that night, that cold November night, and I cried because somehow, without knowing a thing, David had brought me the perfect song. I was just coming out of that horrible time when I'd gone completely insane, crossed the border of it, and was just able to see the light again and I cried like a child who thinks she has lost her mother but who has found her again and the relief along with the realization that mothers (and minds) can be lost washes together in a river of emotions and the child cries with it all.

So here. I am giving you this video. I think I've probably posted it before but it's worth seeing, listening to more than once. If you've got the time. If you know what it means to be a beautiful mess. If you've crossed that border and wandered around with absolutely no idea how to get back to where the light shines and you know it's there, that shining light but no path seems to lead you back and then suddenly, there it is- isn't it? Maybe? Yes. I think.

And the relief is so pure and the gratefulness is so profound and the box of fear you've been in loosens and lets your heart leap a bit again- if you know what this is like, listen to the song.
It might remind you that when you were wandering around that country of crazy you weren't alone there.

And that's all for now.

Happy Friday, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon

Thursday, April 29, 2010


Dear Children,
I think, at a conservative estimate, I have thrown over a hundred birthday parties for the four of you. Do the math.
I have also hosted almost every Christmas and Thanksgiving since 1976. This is a long time and a lot of dinners.
And no, don't thank me, I have been happy to do it. It has been my joy.
But your mother is tired. So is your father. I know you look at us and you think, "Poor Mom, poor Dad. They are getting so old."
But you know what? We are not that old. We are merely tired. No. We are exhausted.

Now don't get me wrong. We are not too exhausted to host these parties. We can go to the store and buy the food and grill it and cook it and bake it and we can tend the garden and pick and prepare the food we have grown and we can provide the linens and tableware and so forth. And condiments. Lots of condiments.
And we want to do that. Like I said, it is our joy.

But. There will be no more cleaning up after by your daddy or myself.
And this does not mean that we will be left with a dirty kitchen.
No. It does not.
It means that between the four of you, somehow, some way, the kitchen shall be put back in proper order before you leave or go to bed, depending on whether or not you are spending the night. And this does not mean that any one or two of you is stuck here cleaning while the others are off gallivanting at your next event.
We realize that your time is important and that you have social lives but you must realize that we are so very, very tired. Life has worn our asses out. We, too, used to have a social life but now we don't because...we don't have the energy. Especially by the time one of these party/feasts has been consumed. And you know I am not a sloppy cook. I wash up as I go and I figure that by the time the meal is ready for the table, I have, again estimating conservatively, washed approximately one thousand pots, bowls, plates, and utensils.

So that is it, dear children. I am more thrilled than you can know that you all still want to come out to party with the parents but I just can't take the whole clean-up situation any more.
And don't even bother saying things like, "But I always help clean up."
I know you do. You all help.
But from now on, you will be helping each other while your very tired daddy and your very tired mother make a drink and sit and bask in the glory of our golden years. Or at least, our bronze years. Okay?
Maybe we can watch Owen. Yes. I think we can do that.

Here's to a great birthday season! See you all (except for you, May and we will miss you with all of our hearts!) on Saturday. And we shall get our party on and it will be fabulous.

Especially for me.

Love....Your Mama

Knowing and Feeling Are a Million Miles Apart

I have to go to town today. I have to. I have to buy things there. I have to.
Unless I can figure out how to weave gifts and groceries from sunlight and leaves, fluffs of dog hair
And shreds of old hippie skirts.

I remember I used to buy myself a present on my children's birthdays.
A favorite gift to myself would be one of those hippie skirts.
I remember one, it was shot with blue and silver and had tiny bells on the drawstring in the waist
It was perfect to wear to dance in through a birth-day anniversary
Reminding myself of the joy of the re-birth of my own after I had birthed my babies
Made into someone new with each new life
Because I was now the mother of that perfect child
Born from my blood and my body.
Dance. Dance. Dance.
I used to dance.
I held those babies to my breast and I fed them with perfect food and I danced with them
In my arms
The one with shining hair of copper
The one with shining hair of brown
The one with shining hair of dark blond
The one with shining hair of gold
Each one with flashing eyes and grinning mouths as we danced
I was new every time.

Listen- no religion I ever heard of ever moved a mountain one centimeter
But every woman in labor moves a mountain from that existence to this one.
A journey unfathomable which is why we have religion, I suppose
To give words and explanation for that we will never understand.
My babies were my religion.
I had no need for any other.
And we danced in our rituals, we danced in our rites
We danced in our light
We did.

I have to go to town today to buy gifts and groceries because I cannot weave anything from anything.
All I seem to be able to do is to put things in the earth and let them sprout.
I have surrounded myself with flowers
Some blooming, some not.
I wish I could hand everyone a skirt made of the petals of the roses, of the dark yellow pansies,
Of the unbloomed phlox and the lemony giant petals of the magnolia,
Of the now-passed lurid azalas

I could sew tiny bells to the hems of those skirts
I could sew shining beads to the petals of the flowers
I could insert fist-sized pockets to hold my heart in
Just here
I would say
Put it on

And I wouldn't have to go to town.
No. I could make tea of the mint springing up in the kitchen garden
Make soup of the greens growing in the real garden
Make salad of the bright reds and yellows of the rainbow chard
Make bread of the meal of the bones of the ground of the
place here where I live
The ground that I would dance on if I still danced
Instead of plodding, always plodding
Each step a thousand-pound weight and
And I feel as if my pockets are filled with lead,
Not with hearts
Although I know that is not true.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

My Two Favorite Actor Gentlemen. Together. With Sissy Spacek

Robert Duvall and Bill Murray are going to be in a movie together? And Sissy Spacek is going to be in it too?
That just makes me happy as hell. Relatively speaking. It surely does.
I like to consider myself a brave woman, a tough one. Didn't I get through nursing school mainly as a single-mama? Didn't I survive childhood sexual abuse? Didn't I give birth to a ten pound, two ounce baby at home? Didn't I?
Yeah. I did.
But today I realized that being brave and being tough wasn't getting me anywhere and I cut a Lexapro tablet into fourths and I took one of those fourths and I will take two of the fourths tomorrow.
Because I can't live like this.
Well. I probably could if I had to but it would be the most miserable existence imaginable to me and it would be entirely unfair to my family and to my friends.
And I'm not mad at myself or feeling silly for trying to get off the drug. It was a valiant effort, an interesting experiment and for a few weeks, it was lovely.
I can't seem to stop crying. I could sleep twenty hours a day. I can't even make myself go to the grocery store. Okay. I CAN go and do things. I went to the pediatrician with Owen and Lily and to lunch after with them and Hank. I can go to rehearsal. But all I want to do when I'm out is to run home as quickly as possible. To hide away.
I can't hide away forever. I can't not be a part of society on some level. One cannot live on eggs and lettuce alone. Well, again, one probably could but it's nice to have a potato every now and then and ours just aren't ripe yet.

So. That is that.
I thank all of you who wrote in and told me to get back on the drug. To tell me that I needed it. Ultimately, of course, it had to be my own decision. But you all helped me make it.

And I know there are alternatives. I have tried many and none of them have done the job for me. Perhaps I should be more proactive about it but that is part of my "disease" if one can call it that- that inability to do, to try, to even pick up the phone and make an appointment.

Well. I shall try to quit talking about it all. I know that many of you have gone through the same thing and understand. It's an overwhelming and debilitating thing and it's hard not to talk about it when it is having so much influence on your life, while at the same time, it's very, very difficult TO talk about it.

I wish peace for us all. I do. And I guess that's what it all boils down to.

Let There Be Light

It's not quite six o'clock in the morning and the fat moon is setting and the sun not yet rising. The water pat-pat-pats off the leaves because we got more rain last night. It's obscenely cool for April 28th here. Down in the sixties, maybe fifties outside.

I'm waiting for Owen.

His daddy got an extra shift today and so did I and I'm glad of it. Things have been tough for me these past few days and I'm looking at having to make the decision to go back on the antidepressant and I need to not be a baby about it and just do it if that's what I need.

I know I've said this before but perhaps not only is my brain not evolved to live and function in the world we live in now, my expiration date is probably up anyway. Now by that I mean that I was always an incredibly fertile woman and if not for modern forms of birth control, I probably would have been one of those women who had a passel of babies and besides that, my uterus always bled more than was necessary or healthy after I gave birth and I imagine that I most likely would have died in childbirth having my seventh or eighth or fourteenth child if I'd lived even a hundred years ago. Maybe I'm like a disposable flashlight which somehow has managed to hang on for waaaay longer than I was built to last and look- the batteries- they are getting funky.
Or something like that.
Who knows? and you know what I say- NOT ME.

Anyway, out of politeness I really don't want to talk so much about me (really- can you believe that?) because it's getting old and tired and is reaching the point of discourtesy. I'd much rather talk about Owen who will be here soon in his pajamas, smiling and saying, Hey Grandmother! in his own Owen way, despite the early hour. How can a heart be sad with him around? How can a brain not do its very best when a grandchild is in your care?

I'd also like to give a shout-out to one of the city commissioners over there in Tallahassee who, in a forum discussing extending equal rights to all citizens of Leon County in employment and housing, (and they are focusing on the LGBT citizens here because their rights are not in place) made a statement about homosexual church people who were committing acts of child molestation and other acts."
Mr. Proctor- you have no idea what you're talking about and until you do you need to shut your ignorant hateful mouth.
And oh yes, Mr. Proctor is also an associate pastor at a local church.
The article in the paper this morning said that many of the people who spoke against the rights-change held Bibles in their hands and I'd like to say that I'm sick and tired of people using that book as a rationalization for their own completely irrational ignorance and hatred.
Read the damn thing, people. Jesus didn't say one thing about homosexuals.

Well, it's a crazy world and I'm a crazy woman in it. But things do change. They do. As Leonard Pitts pointed out in an excellent column this week, it is always PEOPLE who change things, and some of them do it with words and music and some of them do it with marching and protesting and some of them do it with quiet, sweet words and some of them do it with loud, booming voices and some of them do it with being exactly who they are.
We have to try.

And that exploded oil well in the Gulf of Mexico is pumping thousands of gallons of oil into the sweet, blue-green water as we speak and it's a fine time for a brain to go crazy, seems quite rational to me but I do have to live in this world and if I can't figure out how to do that au natural, bareback, so to speak, I'll have to take the drugs that rescramble my brains but for now, today, I'm just waiting for Owen and it's crazy cool and the sun will be coming up soon and we are all doing the very best we can.

And here he is, Owen, helping me type this, saying, Hurry up! Let's go play!

And so we shall.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

The House Where The Crazy Woman Lives

The woman who lives here today does not have writer's block. She has thinker's block.
Or perhaps, more accurately, thinker's diarrhea.

And in that spirit, I will just say that I have cleaned three toilets today and now I need to clean the shit out of the chicken house.

I have a lot of shit on my mind but shit is shit and who needs it?
Not you, I'm guessing.

The phrase, "Dance, Cowgirl, dance," keeps going through my head.

And so I will put on my boots and go do that. Dance. The music is a bit dizzying today and I can't for the life of me catch the rhythm so I'm going to look mighty funny doing it, but somedays, all you can do is try to keep up. Put those red boots on, twirl your petticoats and dance, Cowgirl, dance.

And if you fall down- get the hell back up and dance some more.

Now go read someone who has something to say.

Monday, April 26, 2010

So Sue Me. I'm His Grandmother. I Overpost About Him

Poor Owen. He was so happy in his car seat with his grandmother beside him. He thought we were going to go have Big Fun which is what we usually do when we all get in the car to go some place.

He was a happy boy in the doctor's office right up until the doctor started getting really close and personal. Now I just like this doctor a lot. He's a new guy in the practice and he knows how to charm a mama and a grandmama. He kept telling us how handsome Owen is, how advanced. "Really?" he asked. "He can pull up already? Wow!"

And when he asked what Owen was eating and Lily told him that Owen does not like baby food the doctor said, "I knew he was smart." And when he told us that Owen was probably about to go through the stranger-danger stage he said, "And people will tell you that he's crying because he's spoiled and that is B.S.!"
He said "B.S." He really did.
He highly approved of everything about the boy. Owen weighs twenty pounds on the mark and is twenty-eight inches long. This puts him in the 75th percentile for both measurements. However, his head circumference is in the 90th percentile. Because of his big brains, the doctor assured us.
Talk about B.S. But we loved it.

And then came the ear and nose exam and no, Owen was not happy about that. And when he got his shots he cried so hard that I cried too, which is ridiculous and I know it but what can I say? I can't stand to hear that boy cry and he cried so hard he quit breathing. We all know that sort of crying. He was just completely astounded and shocked that we would allow him to be handled in such a painful fashion. I mean SHOCKED!

But. He got over it. And fell asleep in the car right away but he woke up in the restaurant where Lily and I met Uncle Hank for some delicious Indian food. We mixed up a bit of the soup and some rice and I fed it to Owen. He liked it. He liked the naan, too.

And why not? None of it was baby food.
And we made a little bit of a mess. Just a little bit.
But then we got the rice pudding and oh boy, yeah, that shit is good. Owen and I agree totally on that.

By the time lunch was over, he'd recovered from all of his trauma. He cuddled with Uncle Hank for a bit in the parking lot before Uncle Hank had to go back to work.

He is mystified and delighted by his Uncle Hank. As well he should be.

And then when we got home, I had to take just a few more pictures because, well, FUCK! I'm his grandmother. And I can't help it.

Do you know how happy this picture makes me?
Ah lah.

So we all survived, we had Indian food, we liked the doctor, and now it's nap time.

Love...Ms. Moon

Another Bloggity Blog, Blog

Oh man. I need to go feed the chickens. Well, the ones who are in the coop. Mable, Shalayla and Carol have moved out into their own apartments, you know. Here's Miss Shalayla this morning, running to greet me as I went out to feed the cats and get the paper. She thought I might have treats. I did not. But I tossed her a few Friskies. Who knew that chickens love cat food? Who knew that cats and chickens could get along?
Maybe Elvis Costello did. What's so crazy, he might ask, about chicken-cat peace, love, and understanding?
I have that song on the brain this morning for no particular reason.

Anyway, yes, feed the chickens, jump in the shower, head to town, pick up Lily and the O-boy, go to the pediatrician's office where I took my own babies/kids/teens. Then maybe we'll get some lunch. Do some birthday shopping. On Saturday Jessie turns 21, my mother turns 83. Yes. I had a baby on my mother's birthday. They've shared cakes and parties Jessie's whole life.
My mother always says she doesn't need anything. This may be true. But one has to try.

Okay- I got an e-mail this morning from a lady who says her comments don't show up. She politely asked if I am blocking her. WHAT???!!!
I try to block the spam but beyond that, hell- I wouldn't block anyone. Not so far.
Do you have this problem? Have you had this problem? If so, did you figure it out? What worked?

I am thinking about Michelle's post here. She is inspiring me to think. If you haven't read it, please do. I might have to write something about that. I also think I have a picture on my phone that I took for her in New Orleans of a Ganesh. I need to check that out. See if I do.

There is a tiny dead, decapitated snake by my kitchen door. His tiny head has its fangs bared which is somehow frightening, even though the head is lying next to the body. Someone unfollowed me.
Mysteries, mysteries, mysteries everywhere.

And now- really- the clock is ticking. I must go! Sorry for these pathetic little meanderings. I'll try to do better later. After we find out how much Owen weighs! Before I go to rehearsal tonight. After birthday shopping.
Oh Lord. I have so much to do. I am overwhelmed.

Run, Ms. Moon, RUN!

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Tomorrow We Go For His Check-Up

From that to this

in approximately two seconds.
Oh, my boy. How you have grown in seven months.
I can hardly remember when you were that baby in your daddy's arms.

I am going with you tomorrow for your check-up. We will say, "He has seven teeth. He can crawl and pull himself up. He can say 'Ma-ma,' he can say, 'Hey!' He's never had so much as a snotty nose.''

We will say, "Isn't he the finest of fine, our little man?" And we will knock all the wood we can find.

And you, Owen, you will say, "Here I am. I weigh this, I am this long."
You will say, "Put my clothes back on! Let's go get lunch!"

You will say, "Give me something to eat. Hand me that bottle. Let me have a sweet potato."
You will say, "I am ready to fly. Get out of my way."

You will say, "I am the King of the World!"

And we will say, "Let me hold you. Slow down, our little love."
And we will sail through that doctor's office, holding the finest of the fine, the chunkiest of the chunky, the monkey-est of the monkey, the wiggliest of the worms, and we will be laughing, his mother and I. And he will be too, wrapped in our arms, our love, desperate to get down and MOVE.

That will be tomorrow.
I hope he sleeps well tonight.

Sunday And It's Lis's Birthday

I actually went upstairs to take that picture from a window. It's a rainy day and I was trying to get that perspective of how it looks here when the streets are wet and the trees are dripping and the sky is gray.
Well, whatever. If you look carefully in the lower right part you can see one of my Canary Island Date palms, all cut back to nothing because of this last winter's freeze. It will come back. There's green in the middle, new fronds coming out. No metaphors here today, folks. Just a botanical truth.

Not much of anything here today. I've got a case of the Sunday blues so thick you could cut 'em with a knife. I wish someone would cut 'em with a knife. I wish a lot of things today, most of them ending with "and then I got in the bed and pulled the covers over my head and everyone left me alone."

Yeah. Well.

I've already raised my voice to Mr. Moon several times. For no good reason. He talked to me. He asked me some questions. Questions having to do with things like, "Aren't we almost out of milk?" Yeah. Mean, mean man. What is he thinking, asking me questions on a day like today?
I've also kicked Elvis. Not very hard. But hard enough to get him off of Mable. Yes. That's right. I kicked the rooster off a hen.
And I am not ashamed at all.

What am I so mad about today? Because obviously, I am. Mad at something. Some one. Whatever.

Mostly me, I think. It's Lis's birthday and I could be over at Gatorbone, helping her with her house concert and helping celebrate her birthday. But am I? No. I am not. I am right here being crazy. I was there last year, and we had such a grand time.
Read about it here, if you want. I made her a sweet potato cake with caramel frosting. Is anyone going to make her a cake this year? Not me, it would appear.

So what's stopping me from getting in the car and going? God knows I could use a three-hour drive by myself.
Well. Nothing. Nothing is stopping me but the crazies. And I have a rehearsal today. And, and, and....

Forgive me, Lizzie. I love you so. I am more glad you were born than you can imagine. I called but no one answered the phone. I imagine you are so busy, trying to get things ready for the concert. Cleaning and cooking and making everything beautiful, the way you always do. Do you know how fully you walk in beauty, dear woman, dear friend? Well. You do. You walk in beauty and you sing in beauty and you live in beauty and you make beautiful things with your strong, beautiful hands. You write beautiful songs. You have a beautiful love with your beautiful husband. You are, to put it bluntly, beautiful in all ways.

I wish I was there to tell you this in person but really, you wouldn't want me there today. You know me well enough to just look at me and know that. I'd be the one hiding in the guest room. I'd be the one you'd have to worry about, and you have too much to take care of as it is. And I'll see you next weekend when we celebrate Jessie's birthday. I bet I'll be feeling better by then. I'll not be kicking roosters or raising my voice. I'll put a rose in my hair and bring one for you and for Jessie too. I'll be celebrating the birthdays of two of the women I love most on this earth. One I gave birth to, one I have had the honor and joy of loving as a friend.

Call me, honey, if you get the time. If you get the chance. I'll tell you how much I love you. I'll cry. You know I will. But that's okay. You've heard me cry before. I've heard you cry, too. We should carry hankies, you and me. You in the sleeve of your pretty crocheted sweater. Me in the pocket of my cargo pants.

I'm thinking of you. I'm remembering this:

Okay. I'm crying. And that's all right. The sun is coming out. I'm wishing you a beautiful day.

I love you....Mary

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Who Needs A Parrot When You Can Have Chickens?

So Mr. Moon and I were having our sunset martini, walking around our estate (ha!) and checking out the chickens and all of a sudden, Shalaya flew up onto Mr. Moon's shoulder.

Quick! I ran got the camera. And took these pictures.

Mr. Moon was the tallest thing around and she was afraid of Elvis and his damn bloody-back making talons.

She did not want to move. He made her feel protected.

I know exactly how she feels. I told her, "Miss Shalayla, he is MY rooster." And then I thought about it and said, "And I will share him. I will let you be my sister-hen-wife."

He tried to take her over to her nook where she lays her beautiful big brown eggs these days and hangs out. I have cushioned the space with hay. But she did not want to go there.

And so he took her to a tree and gave her to a branch.

She settled in.

When we went back to check on her later, she had moved to her nesting place.

I do not understand chickens that well but I understand how one could see Mr. Moon and say, "There is safety. There is the tallest thing around. I trust him."

Yeah. I get that.

Night-night, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Not A Cult

Listen- I speak of the whole "gratefulness" thing with disdain sometimes. Probably because Oprah can take a good thing and turn it into a cult.
But some days, when I have had a time of deep doubt and anxiousness, and I wake up and my heart and soul are so uncluttered that I can look around me and be completely and honestly grateful, I am not the tiniest bit disdainful.
Gratefulness is not a cult. It is not a religion. It is not a cure or something to sell products (gratefulness journal, anyone?) with.
It simply is.
Some days it simply is.
And here I am, on a Saturday morning and I am grateful. My heart and soul are good. I can look and see and feel...grateful.
For a husband who washes the dishes and plants the garden in very straight rows:

And oh, those potatoes are going to be good.

For the tiny peas

which come from blooms that look like this (should be rated R, don't you think?)

For the great, magnificent magnolia whose leaves are turning tattered and rusty-looking but who are making new candles from which will spring new leaves

and will then blossom forth with flowers appropriate to the size and grandness of the tree.

For the roses which are continuing to bloom and bud like I've never seen before

And for the crazy begonias I grow which come in such various sizes and shapes and colors in my yard.

And for the love of friends and my irreplaceable, amazing, lovely family.

And for opening up my e-mail to find notes from people I've met here. Such sweet, loving notes.

And even for my old dog Pearl who is gazing at that light but not ready to go off into it. Not while she has a beloved boy to take care of.

And for all of it. Just fucking all of it.

That's it.

For today.

That's it.

Quietly, completely grateful.

Friday, April 23, 2010


Got To Love The Google Images

Just for the hell of it, I google-imaged "purple house, Monticello, Florida."
Here you go:

And oh yes?
It's on Plum Street.
How can you not love that?

Up In The Air, Down On The Ground. All Around.

I'm a little worried.
The thing I'm worried about is that the anxiety may be coming back and if this is true, well, there will be nothing for it but to get back on the anti-depressant because I know I can't live like I was trying to live two years ago- every day nothing but a time-space I had to get through with bloodied fingernails until I could sleep again.
That is NOT a life. That is NOT a way to live.
And I'd go on and on about how I feel like a failure or some shit like that but honestly- well- it is what it is. Brain chemistry. The world today. Blah, blah, blah.
I don't know. I'm going to see how today goes, see how it unfolds.

I had a moment of pure delight yesterday evening. Kathleen and I got to Colin's house for the party and we were the first two to arrive. I had my stuffed grape leaves (thanks Costco!) and Kathleen had a ganache-covered cheesecake and although we'd never been to Colin's house, it looked exactly as I imagined it would- just like Colin himself- tall and angular with interesting twists here and there. And that's not a big surprise. He designed the house himself. It's way out in the boonies on an airstrip. Other pilots are his neighbors and they scoot around the air in their beloved planes the way some of us scoot around in our cars.
After Colin gave us a tour of the house and we chatted for a bit with his newly-arrived-from-France girlfriend, Catherine, he took us out to the hangar and Kathleen and I got in that little plane of his and off we went, down a long grass runway and took off into the sky as easily as I would maneuver my way out of my driveway.
It was exhilarating!
I acted a bit as if I was nervous but I actually wasn't. There's something about Colin (probably that damn Brit accent) that just inspires complete trust. Go up into a tiny plane with a one-eyed pilot? Sure! Why not? It's Colin!

I forgot to take my camera but when Ron and Pat went up for their turn I gave it to Pat who took these pictures for me:

Doesn't he look professional?

The runway from the air. It's a very long runway, which was very comforting.

A bit of Jefferson County, which, from the air shows itself to be quite green with a lot of water. And fields. And cows. Which look very much like tiny anteaters from the air, the way their still shadows make their down-turned noses look longer than they are.

Monticello itself. The one town in the entire county. You can see the courthouse there and then, to the left and up a bit, the Opera House itself. Red brick with a white roof. I wished we could have flown over my own house. I would love to see it from the air but there were more people to take up and Colin could not have a glass of wine until we'd all had our flights.

When we got back to the house (and what a very smooth landing we made) more guests had arrived and they took off into the air with Colin, and Kathleen and I sat and chatted. One of the men there was not one of "us" (Opera House person) but a friend and neighbor of Colin's and another pilot. I think I pissed him off.

Oh, Mary. Why do you do this?

He was talking about how Jefferson County needs code enforcement. Okay. I do not keep up with the local news and had no idea what he was talking about. Turns out there is NO code enforcement in Jefferson County. He mentioned old buildings that should be taken out and the very trailers here in Lloyd which I despair of, not for the way they make our eyes sore here but because people actually live in them and it just can't be safe. And I was with him up until he mentioned the purple house.
Okay. Monticello is a town of many, many old beautiful houses. Some of them mansions, some of them of the smaller, shot-gun variety. Some of them in the middle. All of them have charm and grace oozing out the old windows and are genteel old beauties and right down a road in the middle of the downtown area, someone bought one of these pretty little houses and painted it purple with even purpler trim. Every time I see it, it makes me smile and I wonder about the people who live there. They have to be brave, to say the least. The main color scheme for our old houses here is...white.
A red door is pretty jiggy.
And so this man mentioned the purple house and how they never should have gotten away with that and both Jack and I said, "Whoa now, wait a minute," and Jack pointed out that people should have the right to paint their houses whatever color they want and I agreed quite vehemently.
"But their neighbors have to look at that!" this man said.
"Well, unless you live in a community with those homeowner association rules, you just have to face the fact that your neighbor might paint her house purple," I said. Speaking as someone who once had a house painted pink in a very old and settled neighborhood in Tallahassee a long time ago.
"Besides," I went on, "I'd rather look at a purple house than a beige one."
This is true but I realize it's not "normal."
Jack and Jan were laughing by this time.
And the man left quite soon after. Probably to go home to his beige house. He also probably told Colin later that I was a nut job. Well, he's right. I am but not because purple houses do not offend me.

Anyway, it was a sweet party and Kathleen and I ended up staying for three entire hours which is sort of a record for us. Jon and Steph brought their baby whose name is also Colin (not named, so they claim, after big Colin) and he is just getting cuter every day. He's a sweet, round munchkin and every one adores him. Here's a picture of him and Jan:

I can't help but compare Little Colin to Owen who is one month older than LC. Colin is so mellow. He sits where he is put and he smiles beatifically in stark contrast to my grandson who will sit quietly for approximately one second and who then wants down, up, over, around...IN SHORT, EVERYWHERE! And wait- are you EATING something? GIVE IT TO ME! I WANT TO EAT IT TOO!
Here's a picture of that boy I took yesterday when he was wildly pissed off because he was at the wrong angle to pull up on the coffee table (which he does about fifty times a day).

He has scratched his nose and he bumps his head and I've told Lily that the child should probably be wearing a helmet 24/7 because he is intrepid and determined to master all the human functions at once, resulting in numerous crashes and bumps. She and Jason are taking the frame off their bed and putting the mattress directly on the floor because he's already tumbled off the bed (he's lightening quick) and the fall from a mattress on the floor is less apt to kill him than if it's up on the frame.

It's funny how delightfully different babies are. Some are thinkers, some are content, some are movers and doers and not content with much at all but Lord, how we love them all. And do our bests to keep them alive which in some cases is easier than in others.

Well, as is not unusual, I have segued to Owen and I need to get out and take a walk and quiet the anxious monsters and feed the chickens. Owen will be coming today at two and I'm sure we'll have some bamboo-kickin' adventures.

But to finish up here, it was a good party and entirely bra-worthy, but by the time we left, I was glad to go. I was starting to do that disassociation thing where I can feel myself float up into the air, leaving my body down there somewhere, and it is not a good feeling. As we took our leave, Jack hugged me and said, "I love Mary. She is special."

Well. That's another word for it, I suppose.

It's a beautiful day here in Lloyd. I hope it's beautiful where you are, too. And I hope you have a happy Friday, whether you are content or discontent, whether you sit and ponder or fly and soar. We all have our ways, unique only to ourselves. We all have our needs and we are all special in one way or another.

Which is as it should be.

Love...Ms. Moon