Sunday, November 10, 2013


Mr. Moon spent all day cutting what passes for grass in this yard and trimming and blowing the dust and leaves off of things. Yes, I know. Blowing. Well, he has a blower and he wants to use it and frankly, after he mowed, the dust was so bad on the porches that no amount of sweeping would have done the job. I have often spoken of the dust here. It is black and almost has a greasy quality to it. It sticks and does not come off easily. When we are dry, as we are now, it covers everything and today the mower kicked it up bad and after he took his shower, my husband said, "Could you do me a favor and go out and get a handful of dirt and rub it in my eyes because I just don't think they're damaged enough."
Like that.

Sometimes I wonder if the black dust comes from the century or so of the trains going by. I suppose it's possible. I used to live about eight miles down the road from here back in the seventies and the track wasn't near that house and the dirt there was red clay. Just a different vein of geography, I guess. I sure could grow cucumbers in that red clay. No clay here except for that which Mr. Moon washes off his truck after he gets back from the hunting camp in Georgia. I do not find the black dirt here to be that fertile although it sure as shit can grow some powerful big oak trees. We must be on top of easy access to the aquifer or something. What I know about geology could be stuck up an ant's butt and it wouldn't even know it was there.

I, too, worked in the yard today, trimming and cutting and pulling the spent stuff of summer. I trimmed the sago palms and the Canary Island date palms and the Sabal Palms. I pulled dead and leaning rooster lilies and the damn Mexican bluebells which I wish with all of my heart had never been started here. Same with the rooster lilies and the Canary Island date palms, if you want to know the truth and I myself planted those fuckers. The rooster lilies are a fine green plant but the bloom is insignificant and then they keel over and I have to pull them and once started, there is no getting rid of them. The Canary Island date palms are spiky instruments of torture and indeed, I ran one of the spines through my glove and into my finger today and I cursed it.

Anyway, the yard looks a tiny bit more civilized and working in it, I thought, as I always do, of what the it must have looked like over a hundred and fifty years ago when the house was built by this guy.

Walter Lloyd Bond was his name and I need to dig out the little booklet that Mrs. Miller gave me when I moved in here, almost ten years ago, which is a history of Lloyd which she wrote and self-published. I find myself more and more interested in my little village and endlessly fascinated by the story of it. Lloyd.
Mrs. Miller is dead now but she grew up in this house and raised her children here and then moved across the street in her later years with her husband and son and wife and their children.

We're a funny little village and I am glad to have contributed in some small way to it with my palms and my camellias and my love of this house which my grandsons love so very much. I hope with all of my heart that they remember it when they get grown. The chickens, the goats next door, the ancient oaks, the tilting floors of the house and the many hiding places it holds.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with it all. I tell Owen about how my office used to be the kitchen and how they cooked on wood stoves and we talk about how, if he was a boy who had lived here all of those years ago, he would have had to collect wood and bring it in to warm the house, to cook the food,  and how he would have been tasked to tend the animals. He doesn't really understand, but maybe someday he will.

I'm about to make some pesto pasta and I think we will sleep good tonight. We are both tired from tending boys and yard and house. It's a good tired.

We sat out on the porch and had a martini and talked about it all, me and the man who bought me this dream house. We talked about Lloyd and the black dust and we talked about our grandsons and all the funny and sweet things they did and said last night. Time stretched back and forth and we chewed on it as we rocked in our chairs on the porch. At our age it is the natural and good thing to do.

I better get to it.

May we all sleep well tonight.

Love...Ms. Moon


  1. You and mr moon with your martinis, rocking and talking in the porch, relishing your grandsons in that good tired way, gosh it's beautiful.

  2. What a beautiful summary of your day, and I loved reading every word.

  3. "What I know about geology could be stuck up an ant's butt and it wouldn't even know it was there." I started giggling right out loud at that, where I stand tending boiling eggs.

    We often say "red as alabama clay" around our family and I guess I never thought it'd be in Florida too. And Georgia. It's not in Kentucky, and it's sure as hell not here in DC.

    Sleep good. See you tomorrow.

  4. I was telling a friend at dinner all about you and your family and your chickens and your beautiful writing and how much I look forward to hearing about your days and here I am blessed with another grand recounting of a day in your life. From bacon and sweet boys to yard work and martinis with your love. It is all such a treat. Sweet Jo

  5. Honey, I know about the dust. Around here we get a lot of rain and when we don't, the plants get that disappointed look and I have to drag the garden hose around, surly not as good as a good soaking.

    Your sweet family that you built with your man and your bountiful love (and humor and grumpiness and cussedness and grace).

    I feel it all the way from here.

    XX Beth

  6. Down the street from me, there is a house with two big old rockers on the front porch. I NEVER see anyone rocking in them. I am always tempted to climb up there and rock in them. Maybe that's what I need for my deck.

  7. Angella- I think that one of the best things about having grandchildren is that it gives us old folks something to talk about. Seriously.

    Elizabeth- You're so sweet. I feel so boring. So thanks.

    SJ- Georgia has a LOT of red clay and actually, so does Florida. Just not my two acres.

    Sweet Jo- And I'm sure the friend you were having dinner with was like, "Uh. Yes. Well. Pass the salt."
    I'm so glad you come here. I'm so glad you like my stories.

    Beth- I love that you appreciate my grumpiness and cussedness because they sure are a part of me. And I'm not ashamed of that at all.

    Heartinhand- We were talking about that last night- how we are the only people in our little community who use our front porch. And we've lived here almost ten years so I don't think it's a passing fancy that we do it. I don't understand how people can not take some time to sit out if they have nice porches. But people these days so rarely do.

  8. I always love hearing about your home as it is extremely obvious how much love you hold for it. That is quite the history relating to an old house - I doubt many of your countrymen can boast the same about theirs!

  9. Great history of your house. So good that you have such great information and that photo is really neat.


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