The sun came out, it warmed up, my boys and I had a beautiful time and almost everything Owen asked me if I wanted to do with him I could honestly answer, "Absolutely!" to instead of internally thinking, "Oh god. Really?"
My spirits...oh. They have been good.
Should I begin to wonder if increasing my hormones for two nights could have done this? Should I just give credit to the sun, the warmth? To the fact that it's Friday and I know I'm going to get a martini tonight?
I have no idea and I have no interest in analyzing it.
The boys came late because Gibson with his hivey self presented with a rash-ring that I thought (upon close examination of a picture sent via text) should be checked out by the doctor. Alarmist Mer Mer that I am. Of course by the time Lily got him there after calling into work that she'd be late, the rash was gone almost entirely and Gibson was his merry little self. But I had those hours before they got here to get pinto beans (my favorite) simmering and greens picked and washed and when they came in, I was making bread dough and Owen helped me pound it, as he calls it.
He wanted to play with his Beatles that Jessie and Vergil gave him and so he set them all up in the hallway with the "house" I'd made yesterday out of a Blue Moon beer box and I said, "Would you like to listen to the Beatles while you play with them?" He did.
There was something so magical about that. Listening to old, old Beatles on the record player singing "Love Me Do" and "Eight Days A Week," songs I sang to as a child, and seeing my grandson, my grandson! playing with those dolls, listening to that music as the sun poured into the hallway to light the floor like silver. He knows them all by name. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. He knows the names of all the Rolling Stones as well. One day when he is grown, it may be pointed out to him that he knew all of this information before he knew how to count or his ABC's. And of course he knows more about Power Rangers than the law allows. He knows exactly what he wants to know. The rest will come and in fact, is coming. He and I played cards today too, a matching game that we invented ourselves and he is learning his numbers. He also started learning clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds today. I remember playing cards with my own grandmother. I remember that every blessed time I shuffle a deck. I think about that and I am happy.
Boppy came home to get ready to go hunt and Gibson helped him.
The love affair continues, unabated.
We fed the 33-year old mule next door. Hilary, is her name. When she sees us, she shuffles slowly our way, knowing there will be carrots or an apple. The boys are in awe of her giant teeth, her ability to crunch an entire apple before their eyes in a minute. But they love her. "Hey mule," Gibson says, and throws his carrot to her. They are afraid of letting her eat from the flat of their hands as I show them but they love to stroke her soft forehead, her ears, which she allows them like a benevolent goddess. "You the best pet in the entire whole universe!" Owen said today.
They played in the bamboo jungle, hitting the bamboo and trees with sticks. It is an adventure every time.
They work at this job with great attention and effort. Boys and sticks. No toy company in the world will ever be able to patent that particular joyous combination.
And Owen helped me make the loaves from the risen dough and the TV never even got mentioned and we fed the chickens and found two eggs and when they left they were happy and smiling. And I was smiling too because I knew I was about to go take a nap, which I did, and when I got up, I had a cup of Lady Grey tea (and what is the difference between Earl Grey and Lady Grey and this is a rhetorical question- I don't really care- they are both delicious) and tidied up the house and cut up the greens and put them on the stove and now the bread is baking, oatmeal bread, three loaves, one made by Owen which I have promised to take to him. I am waiting for my husband to get home and he sent me a text earlier saying, "Battery's about to die. No charger. Don't worry about me." And I won't. If he is late coming in, I will assume he got a deer and I hope he did because we are almost out of sausage and a year without venison sausage is a horrible thing to contemplate. We are spoiled.
The frogs are chorusing and the sun has set and the chickens are in the nest. Here is Elvis and if you look closely, you can see Miss Trixie to the left of him. They have been sleeping together lately and I have to say, she is looking fine these days, her comb red and perky, her feathers smooth and sleek.
I found out yesterday that Elvis fathered a baby next door. "Elvis is a daddy," my next door neighbor told me. He obviously cheated on the sister-wives with one of the little banties next door and there is a lovely growing-up hen with his distinct markings. I will try to get a picture. I will not tell Trixie.
For this moment, for this one moment in time, all is well and I can feel that in my very bones and that is the miracle. I feel, for this moment, reborn.