This can be such a hard time of day, especially in winter when it comes so early, having to bear the weight of so much darkness.
I spent some hours today writing two hundred words. A former Florida drug czar had written an editorial for today's Tallahassee Democrat arguing against the legalization of medical marijuana in Florida. So of course I had to come up with a letter to the editor, even though I've long since given that sort of futile activity up. But this editorial was so filled with ignorance and half-truths and well...there's Sophie and the many thousands of children like her and the potential for so much good if we just quit with the superstition and closed-mindedness about weed. At this point, I feel that anyone who is against even the legalization of recreational marijuana use must be in the penal industry. Is that the right word? Penal? Yes. I checked. Penile is the word followed by "implant."
Yeah, well. I sent the sucker in and there you go. I've done my job, at least as how I define it today.
My dogs are so nicely groomed. They were sent home wearing jaunty little handkerchiefs whose colors reflect those of their blind, milky eyes.
Poor old dogs.
Yet they seem to be in no way suffering. They even take their falls down the back steps with good grace. They do not break any bones. They just keep on with it. Gibson does love old Buster. He hugs him and pats him and croons, "Kitta, kitta." He still thinks that Buster and Dolly are just variations on a cat. If you define a cat as a creature who sleeps twenty-three hours a day, he is not far wrong.
I'm about to make a salad for our supper. Mr. Moon will be home soon and he is never hungry after his long day and drive from the auction. A salad would be good. And I'm going to go ahead and make the cranberry orange relish for our Thanksgiving. It's best if it sits awhile. I am a little excited about Thanksgiving. I talked to Jessie and she and Vergil will be here from Monday until Friday. We'll be having the pre-Thanksgiving party on Tuesday night this year due to certain musician friends taking a gig on the traditional night for the party, which is the night before Thanksgiving. I have let a few people know that. I suppose I should let more people in on the secret. I told Hank that I was really hoping to keep it small this year.
He almost fell over laughing.
And this may work out better anyway. I won't be partying until all hours and then be expected to get up the next morning early, early to make the dinner. I'll have a day to recover and to do more cooking in preparation. To pick up the trash and rewash the tablecloths.
This is the theory, at least.
I haven't really consulted anyone as to conflicting other-family plans. Mmmm...
Perhaps I should do that.
You can see how prepared I am for all of this.
But I can make the cranberry orange relish. I can do that.
And so I shall.
The sky is black now, the last silver bled into darkness. Black as...Hank's cat, Humberto-Humberto, whom I realize I have not posted a picture of lately, if at all, and this would be as appropriate a time as ever. I stole this picture off of Facebook, this picture of Hank's sweet, darling, little Humberto.
Now THAT'S a kitta, y'all.