My dreams follow me wherever I go, no matter what bed I sleep in. This seems unfair to me, having to worry about children and chickens and everything else in the world that my mind wants to fret over when it is left untended, even when I am on vacation. 

I decided last night that I don't like people so very much. We were eating our supper and while it was good enough and fancy, too (the things that chef did with chicken and collared greens was nothing short of saucy abomination) I couldn't relax into the pleasure of it with the server being so damn transparently fake-nice that I could hardly bear it and the couple sitting across from us- she young enough to be his daughter- he so solitious and puffy proud to be with this beautiful blonde GIRL and when he touched her, my skin crawled.

I know. I should not have looked. 

None of my business anyway. 

This is, I suppose, why I mostly stay home. 

But here we are on the Gibson Inn porch and it is cool and the birds are twittering and we're going to get breakfast and walk on the beach and it will be lovely  and yesterday I bought a new book and some beautiful silk and wool yarn at the bookstore I love here which is owned and attended by a woman that I do like so much that I feel like an unworthy and silly, babbling teenager around her. 

As our Lon says, "I like people. OUR people."

And I love my people and right now and especially this husband of mine. 

That's the report. 

Love...Ms. Moon.