Too Tired To Title

I have spent most of the day working outside, first in my little office yard and then in the camellia bed. What I have been mostly doing is pulling weeds and picking up fallen limbs, trimming a bit here and there, transplanting a fern or a phlox when needed.
I had to quit before I was done which frustrates my OCD'ish soul because my wrist and my knees were screaming at me and I found myself sitting on my butt behind some large lilies, pulling every weed within my reach and wondering, truly, if I was going to be able to get back up.
It's so odd. I love nothing more in this world than spending the day in the yard and yet, I would never even consider doing something like laying out in it in a hammock or in a comfortable chair to read or just doze. I have to be working or...what? The world will come to an end?
Perhaps. I finished listening to Neil Gaiman's "The Graveyard Book" and it was such a joy. If you ever take long trips and want a lovely thing to listen to while you travel, see if your library has it. And if you have any teenaged boys in your life, I think it might especially please them to read it with either their eyes or their ears.
I saw bluebirds today. They are nesting in the boxes back by the chicken coop and possibly in the martin houses we put up but which martins never nest in. It is always a bit of sky-blue glory to see the bluebirds. The chickens kept me company some as I pulled weeds and small seedlings, and some infernal thing which does have a nice big colorful bloom later in summer but which does not smell good and which is as invasive as anything I've ever come across. I do not know its name but I wish I did so that I could curse it more personally as I work. The place where I dump my weeds at the edge of some woods by the train track is covered in the things which, like Lazarus, have sprung forth from the dead and taken root and taken hold and I imagine them growing up and down the railroad tracks from Jacksonville to New Orleans, all because of me.
I'm sorry, beloved planet. I really am.
As I worked today I kept thinking about that fertilizer plant which exploded in West, Texas the other day, killing fourteen and injuring two hundred. The news is still full of the Boston Marathon explosions and there are people (including, I think, a senator) calling for the remaining suspect to be tortured without mercy until he comes forth with details and confession, I guess. Since he's been shot in the throat this is not going to be happening any time soon. And as awful and horrendous as that event was and as disturbing to us all, I don't understand why this little Texas town is being all but ignored in their tragedy. Homes and businesses were flattened by the explosion and quite simply, their community will never be the same and it would appear that no one from OSHA has inspected that place since 1985 although I think that most of us are aware that fertilizer can be as deadly as dynamite. Why is there not more in the media about that?
I guess that fertilizer plant explosions, no matter how dire and deadly the damage, are not very sexy, as they say.
Well, I don't know and I don't know shit, as we all know, but I do know that I'm exhausted.
I hung the laundry out on the line today too, and that brings me a great deal of pleasure. I have made up the bed with the sun-dried sheets and have picked collards and washed them and have them on the stove, simmering away to go with Friday night's leftovers of pork chops and sweet potatoes.
Yes. I am a southern girl. Or rather, a southern old lady now, who revels in being outside and tidying her yard on a sweet spring day with her laundry flapping in the breeze.

Lily called to tell me a funny story about Gibson which I feel I must relate because one day when he is a famous musician we shall look back and say, "Remember?"

She and Jason both opened this morning, which meant that they had to get up very early and get the boys to their other grandmother's house and be at work by some ungodly hour and Gibson WOULD NOT GO TO SLEEP last night so they brought him into their bed where the small boy began to quite recognizably sing with his baby words and sounds "Oppa Gangnam Style" which, for better or for worse, has been Gibson's favorite thing in the world for a few months now and if he hears so much as the opening notes, begins to rock and bounce and laugh. Lily said that it was completely recognizable and that as he sang, he did dance moves in the bed and kicked his parents in his baby-dancing delight so that despite their frustration and need for sleep, they couldn't help but laugh. And be slightly amazed.  Can one-year old children sing?
I guess they can.
And if Youtube is any indication, Gibson is not the only baby entranced with this song and the video.

Well, Mr. Moon left to run an errand a few hours ago and now I can't raise him by phone or text and so I must focus all my energy on worrying. I know he's fine. But it is my place on this earth, my duty, my GOD GIVEN TASK to worry so worry I will do.

Also, the chickens need putting up. They have pecked their last tasty bug and shrimp shell for the day and they are in the henhouse on their roost.

I wonder what Jessie and Vergil had for dinner tonight. I hope it was amazing. I hope that whatever you are having for supper makes you happy and that we all sleep well, whether your sheets are freshly clean or not.

Let us all be grateful for the great, small miracles of our lives and our appetites, for our beds and our abilities to do the tasks which make us happy. Sound good? I hope so.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. Mr. Moon just called. He is on his way home and so I can quit worrying now. And you can too. Ha!