I went out to the garden, lifted one bag of leaves and found an entire universe of ants and dropped the bag and said, "No!" I have no idea how this is going to be dealt with. The man says he will figure it out. We shall see.
Here's a funny thing- black plastic lawn bags do in fact disintegrate. Faster than you would think. You know what doesn't? Those fucking little labels they put on fruits and vegetables.
You can make compost and spread it on the garden and although the original fruit and vegetable peels have become crumbly bits of goodness and fertilizer, those little stickers will be as pristine as the day they were slapped on the fruit. It's sad. I love finding things in this yard that are relics from days of old- bits of glass and pottery and even entire bottles and a DENTAL TOOL! and old marbles and pieces of farm equipment but the people who live here a hundred years from now are not going to find a damn thing we left behind except those labels. Which will still proudly proclaim whatever information they relate today and still in vivid shiny color.
What the hell do they make those things out of?
Ah well. Such a small thing to bitch about.
Mr. Moon is still off in the woods and I have venison and potatoes and carrots and apples and mushrooms and onions and garlic simmering ever-so-gently on the stove. I have asparagus to cook. I've done laundry galore and worked in the yard some, pulling and trimming and I don't even know what else. Not much. And I am completely happy with that.
I guess I've sort of kept my Sabbath day holy although my definition for "holy" may be different from the Bible's. For me it means watching the cardinals flock at the feeder and admiring my little plot of garden with its greens and onions and carrots and pulling brier weeds and calling an old friend and cooking onions and folding clothes and feeding chickens and hugging and kissing and laughing with my husband.
One of the things we laughed about was the story I told him about something Gibson did the other day. He and I were in the garden and I was picking greens and he was digging in the dirt with my weeding trowel when suddenly old Luna started making her bitchy cry outside the garden fence.
She sounds so plaintive when she vocalizes. She always has. But Gibson immediately popped up from his crouch in the dirt and said, "That cat need me!" and went out the gate to go pick old Luna up and I tried to get a picture but she kept escaping from his arms where she dangled full-length down to the ground. I am not sure what Gibson thought he could do for the cat but "need" for him means holding. "I need you!" he says when he wants to be picked up and I love the fact that the cat's cries meant to him meant that she needed holding. And he tried. He did. He did his best.
It's getting cold. I have the heat on. I am wearing socks and my new slippers and my old faux-shearling-lined Gap hoodie. The other day when Lily and Jessie and I were in the Big Lots with the boys, we were oohing and ah-ing about some giant sectional furniture pieces and the guy working there said they were made of "fox" leather. I chuckled to myself, not AT him but with him. How many words have I mispronounced because I have only read them and not heard them? I just in the past few days realized that Moleskine journals are not pronounced "Mole-skin" but "Mol-is-skine." Although, I just googled, "Moleskin journals- how to pronounce" and here you go:
Good Lord! What DID we do before the internet?
Walked around mispronooncing everything, writing our deepest thoughts in our Moleskines.
The man is home. No deers were killed in the enjoyment of his evening.
Look, y'all. Enjoy every moment that you can. That's all I have to say tonight.
Well, that and kiss and hug and laugh and cry as much as you want to. As much as you possibly can.
And just throw those fucking labels in the trash or else burn them. If they do, indeed, burn. I'm not sure if they do.
Going to go cook some asparagus now. And remember- I NEED you.