Teasing bitches of summer.
So oh, the chickens have fresh clean water and a fresh hay for their nests and their feeder is refilled with their feed. I have potted plants I've been rooting and repotted plants to make way for other plants and then repotted THOSE plants. I think this may be my own old lady method of nesting which I am doing for Jessie. I picked up fallen branches and hauled them to the burn pile and I had a happy few moments, feeding cut-up grapes to the chickens.
Mick will not take food from my hand. This is my fault. I did not hand train him the way I did Elvis. Well, he did take ONE piece of grape from me but it seemed that this one small action took all of his courage and although he came close again and stared at me with great intention, he would not take another.
Speaking of my darling chickens, I really do think I may have gotten an egg today from Lisa Marie.
So no, that it is not Nicey's egg.
I really think it is Lisa Marie's.
As I was sitting on my pack porch steps, handing out grapes, I thought about a day I came to the house before we'd moved in. I'd been cleaning and scrubbing and walking around thinking, "This is mine, this is mine," and loving it all so much, feeling amazed at the gift of this old beautiful house. I sat on those steps and it was March and the sun felt good on me and I closed my eyes at the wonder of it all, the pure pleasure of it. I felt as if I had finally come home.
Here I am now, over eleven years later, still amazed at the wonder of it. I could not have imagined all that would happen to me and my family and my friends in these eleven years. Grand babies were but gleams in their parent's eyes. Jessie and Lily were still in high school. I had no chickens and had not even met Kathleen who gifted me with my first ones. I had not acted in any plays at the Opera House nor had I planted my garden. The bed which now holds camellias and ferns was filled with thorns and ratty pyracantha and nandina and the yard was wild and untamed. The only palms in the yard were the sagos in the front yard.
I still thought my book was going to be published.
I had yet to turn fifty.
I had never cooked a meal in this house nor made love in it or changed a baby's diaper in it or danced in the hallway of it or heard musicians playing in it or washed a load of clothes in it or sat through a rain storm on the porch of it or drunk martinis with my lover in it or taken a bath in it or lived in it at all but I knew I wanted to do everything in it, maybe die in it, if that was part of it all.
And here I am now. And there have been weddings and parties and flowers and gardens and there are palms and camellias and babies and more babies to come and there have been joys and there have been sorrows and more meals than I can count, more love than I could have fathomed.
There is even a dishwasher. Which I have not grown sanguine about in the least.
I have chicken parmesan in the oven and a loaf of rosemary and olive bread. My husband is home and it has been a good day for him. I am dirty and I have sweat today and I am content.
You never know. You just never know.
But this I do know- I was right when I felt that I had come home.
In the true sense of the word.
And I have not grown sanguine about that either.
Thank you for coming to visit me in my home. It is raining, yes, a teeny-tiny bit. It is splendid indeed and the dirt and the air smell like life.
This life. Which I love.