Bless Our Hearts

Tiny Bits While Tiny Boy Is Sleeping

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 17:04:00 +0000

I know I say this all the time but Owen changes from day to day. Not just in his looks but in the things he does. He is sleeping with his arms over his head today, which I've never seen before. Lily says his daddy does that too. DNA is a powerful thing, isn't it?

And he's started to notice the dogs. Up until now, he's just sort of ignored them, even when they tried to lick his face. But now, they catch his attention and he studies them.
Here he is looking at Pearl. It's not a great picture but you can tell what it is.

I swear. It's almost as hard to take pictures of babies and dogs as it is chickens. They all move too fast.

All right. Moving on to stuff that has nothing to do with Owen:

I think I've probably lost most of my porch plants and it's only going to get colder. This hurts my heart. Those plants are like babies to me. I mean, not entirely. I thought I'd scratched Owen's face with my ring today (shit- I said this wasn't going to be about Owen and I've lied again) and I almost called his mother and confessed. The mark is gone now so I guess it wasn't so bad. But I wouldn't have called anyone in the world if I'd scratched a porch plant. Wouldn't have thought of it. But I have had some of those plants for decades.
Sigh.

I've said this before but it bears repeating: Why has the menu ALWAYS changed? WHY? "Please listen carefully as our menu has changed." Bite me. Since when? Since yesterday? Last year? Why do you keep changing the menu? It's not like your options are seasonal like different greens or fruits.

Even though it's a play, I still feel incredibly discombobulated to find myself lying under Colin when we're rehearsing. It's amusing and funny but it's still strange.
But I sort of like it. He makes me laugh so hard. This is going to be a very, very amusing play.
And I couldn't help it the other night. I squeezed his right chestular area. He announced to everyone: "She's playing with my breast here!" in his English accent, very indignantly.
And I probably shouldn't have done that and if he'd done it to me, it would have been highly inappropriate. But hell- there I was squashed up beneath him on a very small love seat. It seemed the thing to do.

Speaking of Colin, having an eye removed has done nothing to deter him from living his own amazing and unique life. He's taken on the role of Bud The Stud for this play and this week he's flying to Washington State (I think) to pick up and trailer back a kit to build an airplane. A real airplane. Not one of those lighter-than-air things. No. This one is bigger than the airplane he has now. With an engine and everything. And he's going to put it together in his hanger. I asked him if he was going to have help.
"Oh God no," he replied. "No one's as fastidious as I am."
He's right. The man makes a spread sheet for everything including his exercise and his line memorization. There is no one like Colin.

Why, when you're checking out at the grocery store, do they always ask you if you found everything you were looking for? If you answered "No, I did not," what would they do? Call the manager to report it?

Isn't it wonderful to get real things in the real mail? (Thanks Maggie May.)

Watching daytime TV is an alien experience for me but I must admit that when I'm giving Owen his bottle, I do it. I can see how easy it would be to get hooked on that thing. There's so much delicious nothingness going on. AND, today I saw a commercial for a product I MUST buy immediately- Kaboom! Foam. Oh yes. You should see the way that stuff cuts through soap scum, hard water stains and and calcium build-up! It was on TV. It must be true, right?

Why do they still sell Chia Pets? Do people still buy them? And what ARE they?

What's the deal with Detox Diets? If you want to detox, why don't you just buy some of that stuff you have to drink before you get a colonoscopy? That shit works in hours. Easy peasy. Save you tons of trouble.

And what's the deal with raw foods? Really? Fake bread you didn't cook? I mean, if you're going to eat raw food, why don't you just eat raw food? Why do you have to go through all that trouble to try and make raw food taste like cooked food? I don't get it. I. Do. Not. Get. It. And why do they have all these people spouting facts about foods and enzymes that just are not true? Take a damn chemistry class, people! How about microbiology? Try a course in that at a university. Then you can tell me that cooked food is dead and does nothing to nourish the body. Okay? Or maybe a physiology class. Yeah, take a physiology class and then we'll discuss the pounds of fecal matter lining your colon.
Oh wait- you read it in a book? Or online? Or in a magazine?
Yeah. Shut up.

Why is it a always an investment when Mr. Moon wants to buy something but it's never an investment when I want to buy something? I don't get that. Boats, cars- those are INVESTMENTS. Get it?
Lipstick, furniture, and new clothes are not.
Even jewelry, according to Mr. Moon, is not much of an investment.
Hmmm....

And why am I sitting here asking these silly questions and making silly pronouncements when I could be cleaning the bathrooms? Well. Because. I haven't bought my Kaboom! Foam yet. That's why. Sure. I have regular Kaboom! But it's not as good as Kaboom! Foam now, is it?
There you go.

And there you are. That's about where my intellect is today. Floating somewhere barely above the I'm-smarter-than-a-fruit-fly-level and far below the I'm-as-smart-as-a-fruit-bat-level.
And guess what?
Owen's here and I don't care.

Oh! Oh! One more thing! I saw it on TV! That movie? Crazy Heart with Jeff Bridges? Guess who else is in it?

ROBERT DUVALL!

Oh my God. This is going to be the best movie ever.

I'll think of more stuff later but for now, that's all I can remember that I wanted to talk about.
Have a good day, y'all. Stay warm and kiss a baby if you can. I highly recommend it and it works better for depression than anything I've discovered.
And I'll bet nine out of ten doctors would agree. On television. If you paid them. And here I am giving it out for free.

What?! Am I crazy?
You bet.

Love...Ms. Moon

Me Today

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 14:03:00 +0000

For Nicol

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 01:58:00 +0000

Remember these, sweetie?

It's All Right, Mama

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 16:19:00 +0000

Just a few hours later and see- the darkness has passed. I promise. I knew it would. I'm about to trot off to town to do data entry, go to the library. It'll be warm in those places. I found another egg this morning, I fed Betty grapes. The sheets are in the wash and they will feel so good tonight. Kathleen is coming over this afternoon and I am making eggrolls for dinner.
You see? You see?

Yes. It's cold as hell but the sun is shining so very brightly.

Is it for you?

Oh. I hope so.

And here's a picture from yesterday of Pearl and Dolly just because it's sweet:

It's All In Our Minds

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 03:19:00 +0000

My eyes are watering. No. That's a lie. They are seeping sadness. I am at a place that is not a good place. Aren't you tired of hearing about all of this?

I'm tired. For no reason. I slept very well last night burrowed down in weights of covers, cold air slipping through the cracked window to cool me when I had a hot flash so that they did not last so long. But I'm just weary. Weary of myself and this mind that tells me repeatedly that there is really no sense to any of it. I open the paper and a German woman has killed her grandchild on St. George Island, a place I went to for healing several summers. Killed her grandchild? I close the paper. Perhaps the doctor visit wore me out, even though it took approximately ten minutes and there was nothing at all for the doctor to be suspicious about. He took his little can of freezy stuff and left after he looked at me while lecturing the entire time on the ABCDE's of skin cancer.
It's good that he gets this information across but I swear to God I want to smack the holy living shit out of him after he says the same thing for about the fifteenth time, me standing there, clutching the gown around me to preserve some semblance of modesty although the bull done left the barn on that one after all the places he'd looked. He did tell me I have a fine head of hair. At my age, I'll take that as a compliment.

When he left, I asked his assistant if she doesn't go insane, listening to this speech over and over and over again, all day long, five days a week.
"I just zone it out," she said. "I have to."

So the doctor and the holidays which, although they were not so bad this year, really, they weren't, they have worn me out too. Even my house, which is my place of peace, is not giving me solice. I look around and see dirt and clutter. I open a drawer, a cabinet and I think, I should clean this up, but I don't have the energy, I shut it back but can still feel the chaos in there, even though I cannot see it.

Outside, everything is brown and dead and dying. Even the camellias are dying on the bushes. Their bright colors turning brown, brown, brown. I hate brown. Anyone who paints a house brown is suspect in my book.

Winter. It's just winter. The season of no-hope. I know, intellectually, that things will change. That buds will open, the azaleas will blossom, the tiny violets will cover the yard with white and purple, the dogwoods will make snow of the flowers in their limbs. I know all of that.
I know that Miss Allegra will get through her chemo and will find her strength and health and joy again. But today, she is in hell and that makes me sad, so sad. I think of all the suffering in this world and it bears down upon my chest like a heavy weight.

Well. Owen is coming tomorrow. He is everything- promise and reality of joy now. Life can be hard. It usually is, truthfully. We keep traveling. What else can we do? My chickens cluck and bawk and lay me eggs, still, even when it is so cold. They, too, are promise.

And so I write myself into hope. Words can promise, fingers type out the ones that tell the story of now and of tomorrow. Perhaps.

I suppose this is why people who have religion are, at heart, happier than those who do not. They can put their focus on the glories which have been promised, or at least believe there is a reason for suffering.

Not for me. No, not for me. I can only hold the thought of my grandson in front of my heart like a carrot on a stick, also the azaleas and the dogwoods and the tiny perfect violets and go collect the eggs and look up into the clear winter sky and see the remnants of the blue moon we celebrated, knowing it will fill and fatten again, that moon.

And tomorrow will be different. Hell, in an hour things will be different. Change is inevitable.

It's okay to leak the heart's sadness through tears. It's okay to be sad for someone we know is suffering. It's okay to close the paper. It's okay to think of eggs and sassy chickens.

It's okay to go on. It's what we do. We humans.

Bless our hearts. Yours, mine, bless us all on this cold winter morning when we have to remember that yes, there is suffering but joy can be found if we turn our mind to that. That's what my fingers have typed. I must believe it.

This Is Not The Kind Of Attention I Crave

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 13:24:00 +0000

Pussy? Me?
Not just about the cold.
No, I am a pussy about so many things that it's pathetic.

I have a 9:40 appointment this morning at the dermatologist. Just an annual scan. You know- where the doctor goes over your entire body from your scalp to your toes looking for signs of skin cancer. And it's a miracle I haven't had any thus far- I've spent my life in the Florida sun and when I was a kid, there was nothing but Copper Tone, Sea'n' Ski and zinc oxide which I now hear is the standard of choice for preventing skin cancer. Who knew?
Anyway, I'm showered to within an inch of my life and even shaved my legs and I'm ready to go, panic attack hovering around the door asking, "Is it time yet? Can I unleash the dogs yet? Ready to pass out? Come on! It'll be fun!"

All I want to do is hang out here in Lloyd in my new soft Target pants and my new soft Target slippers which are "fur" lined. I really, really do not want that doctor to see me in all my glowing, blobby nakedness. No. I do not. He chants all the signs of skin cancer: borders, colors, growth rate, size, etc., etc. as he looks at me.

One year he talked me into trying an evil, evil drug called Effudex (or something like that) which peeled every bit of skin from my face and left me bleeding on my pillow before I ended that little experiment. Children ran from the sight of me. Adults politely turned their eyes away from my face. And the skin on my face has never been the same since. Damn him.

Another year he tried to talk me into Retin A.

Look. I am an aging woman. The sun and time and gravity have had their way with me. This is why I wear clothing. My face is my face.

Ah well. My panic level tells me it's time to go. Let's get this over with for the year. It's really not a big deal. Not like, oh, a colonoscopy, which I did get a notice about a few weeks ago. The Gods of The Colon have determined that it's time for me to undergo that procedure AGAIN.

Right.

Well. Off I go, panic barely in check. I have to see a doctor. Actually, he has to see me. Every square inch.

ARGGGHHHH!

She Was Trying To Protect Her Head By Jumping On Mine

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 23:58:00 +0000

Well, I had a new experience tonight. Miss Betty flew up and landed on my head. Damn- where IS the camera when you need it?

I had gone out to let her into the hen house which is our routine. I let her out in the morning and back in in the evening so that Sam doesn't attack her. It's been working well. Her head is almost healed and usually, at least a few of the other hens want to go out with her so she's not a complete outcast. I don't put her back in the hen house until the other chickens have gone to roost because when they go to bed, they become almost comatose and Sam lets her settle in unmolested.

Tonight she didn't want to go in and it was cold and I had to go turn on all the outdoor spigots and sprinklers and I grew a bit impatient and urged her in the door before she wanted to go. I closed the door and sure enough, I heard a shriek and a ruckus. I opened the door back up again and Sam was off the roost and chasing her. She took wing and landed right on top of my head.

What could I do but laugh? It didn't hurt a bit. In fact, it was oddly pleasurable, having Miss Betty on top of my head like a very soft, warm hat.

But I knew we couldn't stay that way- me with a chicken on my head- and so I went to lift her off and she flew up to the roost and I shoved her to the back of one of the nesting boxes where several other nice fat hens were already settled in so that Sam couldn't get her and she could be warm. I gave him the evil eye and said, "You leave Miss Betty alone," and he gave me the evil eye back but he settled down.

I closed the door and waited for a bit, but all was quiet and I went on to turn on the sprinklers and spigots to let the water run so it won't all freeze up and bust our pipes as we say around here.

I know I've been talking way too much here about how cold it is but golly! We're not Yankees and our blood is thin. And we're not supposed to have a night with temperatures reaching as high as the thirties for a week! A WEEK I TELL YOU! This really is abnormal for us. We get those dipping-down nights but usually, after a day or two, the temperature rises back into the more humane regions and we all breathe a sigh of relief and get on with our lives. We don't even have the wardrobes for this sort of weather. It's like when the temperatures get into the nineties up in Connecticut and no one has air-conditioning and people start dropping like flies.

I just have to say I am eternally grateful for the lovely central air and heat unit we have. As old and drafty as this house is, it gets pretty toasty. And so here I sit wearing my Goodwill cashmere feeling cozy and fine, knowing that even though Mr. Moon is out of town tonight I will sleep well with little Zeke cuddled up in the bed next to me. He's small but warm. And I'll think of Lily and Owen and Jason in their bed tonight, all asleep under the covers together, Mr. Baby nursing when he takes the notion, Lily holding him close. If there is anything cozier than sleeping with a nursling, I do not know what it is.

We had such a good time with him today. We took him to lunch and he wore real shoes like a real human and then we went to Target and I took him into the garden center briefly and told him that he better get used to the smell of fertilizer because he's going to be visiting lots of nurseries with his Grandmama and that when he grows up and I'm gone, whenever he smells fertilizer he will think of me. May was a bit appalled when I said this, but it's true. I hope.

It's cold tonight but spring will come some day and Owen and I will stroll around the plant nurseries together and he will smell dirt and green things and fertilizer and then I'll bring him out here and he'll smell more. I'll teach him to plant seeds in the ground and every time he comes over he'll be excited to see how much they've grown. And I just realized that we're going to have to let one of the hens hatch us some eggs so that Owen can watch them grow up, too because I want him to know all about chickens and where they come from. He's already seen them having sex but I don't think he really knew what he was seeing. He will one of these days, though. He'll watch Sam or Elvis jump on one of the hens and he'll say, "Grandma, why's Sam on top of Daffodil?"
And I'll say, "Ask your mama."

Who knows, maybe someday a chicken will even fly onto his head. And I hope he'll laugh because he'll know the chickens so well that they won't scare him one bit. That he'll find the idea of a chicken on his head to be completely delightful.

Stay cozy y'all. I know it's cold where most of us are tonight. But I know that most of us have heat and blankets and warm food for our tummies and some of us have babies or dogs or lovers to cuddle up with and isn't that the definition of riches?

I think it is.

Stay warm. And if you ever have the opportunity to have a chicken jump onto your head, I'd say go for it.

It's Cold

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 13:06:00 +0000

This is what Pearl, my fourteen-year-old boxer dog does all day long. She sticks her head under things. She has her stations of the cross, as it were, in every room and she follows me around and sticks her head under whatever she can find in that room. This is the dining room and as you can see, she is sticking her head under some dried palm fronds. In the kitchen, she lets the hand towel on the oven door touch her head.
I don't know why she does this but she does.
The palm fronds, the kitchen towel, a tablecloth.
While the Christmas tree was up she broke half the ornaments by standing with her head under the branches and the tree skirt. She stands quietly for awhile and then she either gets an itch and must scratch or else she just goes into some sort of spasm and whoops! there went another ornament.
Bless her old doggie heart, my Pearl.
We all get old and weird. I know I am getting weirder, the older I get. I don't stick my head under palm fronds, but I do want to keep my head under this roof. Especially right now. It's freezing outside. I think I need to go heat some water to pour in the chicken's water so they can drink. Really- it's that cold here in North Florida today and supposed to get colder tonight.
We're not wired for this here. We are all big pussies about the cold and we wander around with as many clothes and coats on as we can get and we look at each other in bewilderment like, "How'd this happen?" much like Pearl looks when she suddenly loses her grip on gravity and all of her legs come out from under her.

All right. I better go take care of those chickens. I hear Sam out there, crowing for his hens to get UP! I am sure they are mostly still in the hen house, fluffed up and fine where they are but the man, oh, the man! He wants his morning fucking and he needs the hens for that.

Life in Lloyd where it's cold as a frozen bone outside and we are none of us prepared and don't want to get our head out from under the palm fronds, our funny little chicken asses off of the roost.

How To Make It Through A Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 23:50:00 +0000

"What?" He's saying. I'm just playing with my stuff here. You mind?
Oh. My Owen. I walked into the kitchen and he began to grin at me.
"Your grandmama's here," said Lily. She was holding that boy. Or maybe she said, "The Crazy Chicken Grandma's here."
Whatever. Didn't matter to me.
In the little over an hour that I was there we played on the blanket, doing patty cake and touch-the-toes-to-the-nose and he talked to me. He's so serious when he talks. He forms his words carefully and lets them out in a string of sounds which sound very, very serious. He waits for me to reply.
"What?" I ask him. "What are you telling me?"

He looks off into the distance as if to say, Oh Lord. These Bigs are so retarded.

His first tooth is almost through. He chews on his hands and my hands and a clean diaper and anything he can get in that mouth of his. He doesn't seem too upset by the whole process, as if he were just going through it and knew it was going to happen and whatever.
I changed his diaper twice and blew on his belly. He loves being naked. Loves it. As all children do.
And we danced. I took Lily her copy of Lis's CD and she put it on and we danced, me and the O-Boy. The last song on the album is called Time and it's my very favorite.
"This is the sound life makes," sings Lis, "Like the first breath a baby takes. When it's born."
And I cried, holding that boy in my arms while Lis sang.
I called her on my way to Monticello and left a message on her answering machine. "I danced with Owen to your album and it was one of the highlights of my life and I cried."
She left an message on my answering machine.
"You made ME cry."

Yeah. We crone-ish women. We cry all the fucking time. You know why? Because we know how precious each precious moment is. We don't have time to waste on panty-waist emotions. Dancing with your grandchild to the album your heart-friend made? Reason to cry.

Which brings me to the play we're doing now. Our first real rehearsal went really well. Kathleen has got this director shit DOWN! She's thought about it. She knows where she wants us to be when we say our lines. She is ready. I am so impressed but not in the least surprised.
And it's going to be funny. But in a way, it's not that funny because part of the humor comes from men accidentally taking a drug which causes them to experience menopausal symptoms including crying for no apparent reason. But we women don't cry for no reason at all. The reasons may not be readily apparent, but they are real. Things TOUCH us. They make us cry. But what the hell? It'll be funny in the play and there is nothing in the world I love more than making people laugh. It also occurred to me as we were blocking the first act and Colin was lying on top of me that I haven't had another man lay on top of me since Mr. Moon and I got together in 1983!
But I do have to say that if I MUST have another man laying on top of me, even in service of The Theatre! I am glad it is Colin.

I remember back when I was going to that therapist last year and she said, "Oh my! You are a writer- the way you speak! You need an outlet for that!"
And I said, "Oh well. I do. I have this blog..."
And then she said, "And you are an actress! Your voice! You need an outlet for that!"
And I said, "Well, I do. I act in plays in Monticello."
And she said, "And you need to nurture!" and I said, "Well, I have chickens and I'm about to get a grandchild."

And that was the last time I needed to see HER.

Anyway. That's what my Sunday turned into. The trifecta of what-I-need.
Not to mention the little organic chicken in the oven (oh Lord- I can't believe I can still eat chicken) stuffed with a dressing I made of homemade bread, homemade cornbread, onions and celery, and a cozy house and a sweet husband.

Phew. Made it through another Sunday.
Did you?

Got To Go

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 15:49:00 +0000

It's Sunday and the blues are in my pocket and I haven't seen Owen since last week and I have rehearsal this afternoon so I am going to rocket into town to see that boy. Mr. Moon is going to babysit him this afternoon for a few hours while Lily and Jason are at work and I'm at the Opera House so I have to take this time to go get my fix, my sense of peace, my sugar, my heart, my joy.

I woke up cold, both feet and soul and the chicken water keeps refreezing. Betty and Carol are hanging out together and we ate some of our hen's eggs for breakfast with grits and bagels and let me admit it here- bacon. One piece. I had one piece. I swear. Breakfast warmed me up but not enough. I have to go see my grandson. I had dreams of long-dead friends and that shit freaks me out and so I want (need) to go see my boy who is very much alive and remind him of who I am. The chickens are fine, Mr. Moon is fine, the dogs are fine, I am sure that Owen is fine but I can hold him while his mama does some laundry or whatever it is she needs to do. I am sick of making soup and it isn't helping and I cleaned out the refrigerator and so what? and we took the tree down and put the stockings and Bad Santa away but none of that fed me, not even the bacon, but I know what will.

And after I get his sugar I'll go to Monticello where I'll play with Jack and Jan and Colin and Marcie and Pat, and Kathleen will get to be the boss of us and that, too, will feed me.
Hey! When you're hungry, you have to feed yourself.
And sometimes soup won't do it.

I'm off.

Be good. Feed yourself if you're hungry. That's all I have to say.

Call Me

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 22:40:00 +0000

As I said in an earlier post, I have lost my address book. It is gone. I lost it when Lily was in labor. It probably slipped out of my bag where I had it in order to have all the phone numbers of the people I would need to call when the baby came.

It turned out that by the time Owen was born, I was too exhausted to call more than a few people and their numbers were in my cell phone and so I did not realize the loss of the little pink book that had the names and addresses and numbers in it of all the people I know. I went back to check at the hospital the next day to see if anyone had found it but no, there was no trace of it. I feel sure that when the room was cleaned, it was picked up with all the bio-hazard trash and burned in some giant incinerator, it's little picture of the Virgin on the front turning first blue, then black, then disappearing entirely with all that information collected over so many years that meant nothing to anyone in the entire world but me.

And here's the thing- there are a few people in my real life whom I do not e-mail. Seriously. This is true. For whatever reason. And there is one in particular with whom I am fairly desperate to get in touch with. Her name is Mary Lane and we became friends in the sixth grade and she was the one who patiently sat outside the stall of a campground bathroom when we were on a Girl Scout camping trip the night I learned to use a tampon. You know what kind of a friend I am talking about.

The last time I talked to Mary Lane was right before my birthday in July. She was expecting her second grandchild and her father was about to die. And I haven't heard from her since and I haven't been able to call her and it is just now I am panicking because I realize that yes, really and truly, my address book is lost. And worst of all- I tried to google her today and discovered that her daddy died right after we spoke.

If, as my wise counselor of old once told me, we go to relationship school in our parent's house, we can also attend classes occasionally at the houses of our childhood friends. This was certainly true for me. Do you remember going to a friend's house and realizing that things which were done and said at your house were definitely not done or said at your friend's house? That the relationship between parents and children varied wildly? That this friend's parents barely spoke to each other while this other friend's parents seemed to have a secret which they shared sweetly between themselves and no one else? It was like traveling in a foreign country, just to visit someone else's home where the rules and customs were mysterious and curious and where the kitchen smelled completely different and the foods cooked there were not the foods cooked in your own mother's kitchen.

Mary Lane and I were best friends for years. We spent a lot of time in each other's houses although I think we spent a lot more time at her house than we did at mine. There were probably a lot of reasons, the main one being that at my house, everyone was certifiably insane, the vibe was terrible and the food was not as good.

Mary Lane's mother, like mine, was a housewife but she was a different sort of housewife. She dressed better, she didn't try to get away with substituting powdered milk for real milk and she had her own subscription to the Wall Street Journal. She was smart and not afraid to show it. She was a doctor's wife, long-suffering but tolerant, and she definitely had a social life. Their family ate with a tablecloth on the long table and it was at that table I ate boiled shrimp for the first time. I had no idea how to eat it, how to slip the little cellophane jackets off the shrimp along with the legs. But Mary Lane's brother, Jeff, whom I carried the hugest torch for for years and years showed me how to do it. I paid attention. And I have never, ever, in my life, cooked boiled shrimp without adding slices of lime or lemon to the cooking water the way Mary Lane's mother did and I never pull off a shrimp shell without thinking of that night, the tablecloth, Jeff sitting next to me, showing me how to eat the shrimp, the Mother at one end of the table, the Father at the other.

Mary Lane's family and house intimidated me a bit. They lived on a lake, which almost everyone in Winter Haven did (it billed itself as the City of One Hundred Lakes) but they lived right across from Cypress Gardens, right on the lake, not across the road from it, as we lived across the road from our more prosaic lake. They had one whole room that no one ever went into except to practice piano. It had white furniture and a white carpet. But they also had an entire room just for kids to hang out in. They encouraged Jeff's desire to be in a rock band. They bought him a keyboard, and paisley pants on Carnaby Street when they went to London in 1968 or thereabouts. Those pants got him sent home from school and so did the length of his hair but their mama defended him and she had clout. Now look- I'm not saying she was perfect. She was no doubt a Republican. But. She loved her kids. She didn't freak out and go into la-la-land the way my mother did when some teen-aged problem arose. Perhaps the fact that their youngest daughter had had cancer at an early age informed this attitude. She knew what was important. She knew what wasn't.

And Mary Lane's father was certainly a mysterious figure to me. He was never on time for dinner and the family generally waited (and not always patiently) for him to get home to eat. His work was more important than anything, of course! Not only was he a doctor, he was a cardiologist! He and his wife drove Lincoln Continentals, bigger than boats, and I remember going on trips with the family, listening to Three Dog Night and Abby Road on the tape player in the car, sitting near enough to Jeff to get hot and bothered and not knowing one damn thing about what to do about that. I remember on one trip, the doctor telling us how when he'd been in the Navy, they'd worn bell-bottom trousers. Oh yes! I bet he'd been a handsome sailor, Mary Lane's daddy. He scared me a little and he and I probably never had what you'd call a real conversation. Why would we? I was only his daughter's friend, I was at their house a lot, I went to church with them sometimes, I went on trips with them, he knew who I was, there was no need to get to know me. Adults didn't have that need then- to get into their kids' relationships. Not the dads, anyway. Certainly not the dads. They hardly bothered to have relationships with their own kids.

But I observed. And I saw that the doctor and his wife, although they certainly didn't sit around holding hands and I doubt I ever saw them kiss, had a room off to themselves which was regularly redecorated and the few times I ever entered it, I was impressed with the furniture, the thick carpets, the satiny drapes and bedspread, the wealth of well-dressed pillows piled up on that big bed. It all hinted at something that was certainly not going on in my own house.

Mary Lane and I stayed friends all through high school. We got into trouble together and we got out of it together. We fell in love with boys. We discussed boys endlessly on the phone, as well as so many secrets of our hearts. We suffered through Trig together. We went to Cotillion together, wearing our white gloves and our hose, nervously hoping our dance cards would be filled in. I got kissed for the very first time, leaning up against Mary Lane's mama's Lincoln in the parking lot of Cotillion by a bad boy nicknamed Mafia who had the goofiest grin this side of babyhood and who wore sunglasses all the time and Mary Lane was the first to know.

Of course.

And there were things we did not share, Mary Lane and I. We did not share the fact that my stepfather abused me. We did not share the fact that Mary Lane, in the throes of early-seventies worship of thinness starved herself. There were things even we could not talk about but the things we could talk about, we did.

She went to Emory, where her father had gotten his degree in medicine at the age of 21. And there she met her first real boyfriend- a premed student- even though she had sworn to me that she would never, EVER marry a doctor. They got married, she supported him through his residency while he became a neurosurgeon. I couldn't attend the wedding because I was overdue with my first baby, having gotten pregnant and married the guitar player father. She lived in Maryland, I lived in Tallahassee. But we always stayed in touch. Always.

And she came to visit me a few summers when I was renting a tiny cement hovel on St. George Island. I will never forget the night we went down to the ocean on a full moon and stripped naked and floated in the warm, salty Gulf under the stars and we told each other so many of the secrets we'd never shared before, grown women by then, married and mamas ourselves.

You know what kind of friend I'm talking about.

And now her daddy has died and we both have grandsons named Owen and I don't know how she's doing. If she reads my blog, I don't know about it. I think that some people who know me in real life do read the blog and are embarrassed to tell me, as if they are peeking into a window unbidden. But I hope she does. I hope she reads this because I really want to talk to her. I really want to be in touch with her. I want to tell her how sorry I am her daddy died. I want to hear how her mama is doing. I want to hear how the rest of her family is doing. I want to hear how she is doing.

So Mary Lane- if you, by some chance are reading this, please call me. Or e-mail me. Whatever. I miss you so much and we've been through almost an entire lifetime together and I need to still know you're there. I need to tell you that you're right- there is nothing in this entire world like holding your grandchild, like watching your child hold her own baby. I need to compare aches and pains and memory losses. I need to tell you that I learned a lot at your growing-up house. I need to say thank-you for sitting outside of that bathroom stall while I tried to figure out where my vagina was and how to put a tampon in it. I need to thank-you for being my friend when my life was at its hardest.

You didn't know it was, but it was. I didn't know what your secrets were but I know that if you had told them to me, I would have still loved you. I hope you would have still loved me if you had known what mine were. I think you would have.

I want to tell you that I still think of that rum and Jimmy Buffett-fueled night we floated naked under the moonlight and stars on St. George.

So call me, honey, if you get this.

And Happy New Year.

I'm thinking about you and your whole family. I'm thinking about your daddy and Raggedy Anns in velvet dresses and big blue jars full of lemon drops, and I'm thinking of mushrooms and crushes and Jimmy, Jimmy, Jeff, John, Jeff. I'm thinking of you, honey. I am thinking of you.

And I hope you're good. I hope you're handling everything the way you always have- with wisdom and humor and persistence. I remember in the eighth grade when we had to do the flexed arm hang for the fucking Presidential Fitness Test and how you struggled your way up there and held your body, shaking, by your own skinny arms and I thought right then that if I ever needed someone to depend my life on, you would be that person.

Call me baby. I've lost your number. But you're still in my heart.

And I need to know you're there.

Love...Mary

Just This

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 14:58:00 +0000

It's cold here today. Now when I say cold, I'm not even going to mention a temperature because it doesn't sound that impressive but let me say that people visiting here from "Up North" where the temperatures are impressive say that this cold is different.

I don't know. Why do we always need to be the best, the worst, the coldest, the hottest, the strongest, the sweetest, the oddest, the quirkiest, the funkiest, the craziest, the sanest?
Why do we need, this time of year to make lists of the best, the worst? Movies, TV shows, books, political moments?

I don't know.

Join my tribe. Or, alternatively, you don't look like me, act like me, think like me so get away and stay away. You are NOT my tribe and I don't recognize you.

Humans are weird but not quite as much if you know anything about the great apes or even chickens or ants, for that matter. We are all, and you can damn well take my word for this, animals. We may be able to invent and operate iPhones and genetically alter plants but plants have been doing a good job of genetically altering themselves for eons, thank-you very much. They don't need an app for that. We humans like to think we are all that but when you think about it, we're just walking-around-life with swollen brains and swollen egos and souls that can hate, that can love, that can come up with stories and music and poetry and paintings and for this we are different, but at the very bottom of it all, we are here trying to hold on to life, to make more of us, to keep our young safe and fed and warm.

***********

It's been so long since I started this post that I've forgotten where I was going with it. I should just toss it. There's nothing here I haven't said before. Probably repeatedly.
I guess what I wanted to say is that none of us is the best. None of us is the worst. We try to hold ourselves up to impossible standards. I am never going to be either Garrison Keillor or Susan Sarandon (WHY did she and Tim Robbins break-up? WHY?) and neither are you. We are not going to be Stephen Hawking or Richard Dawkins, thank-you, Jesus. We are not despots or saints. We are imperfect and we are glorious just as we are in that imperfection. I do not recommend that we wallow in our imperfections and call them glorious perfections of ourselves but I also do not recommend that we wallow in our self-conceived sins and self-hatred.
In fact, I think I would do far better for myself, my world, and my family if I could get out of that fiery, messy pit of self-hatred and find some rhinestone rose-colored glasses to view myself in a bit more often.

And you?

Okay. This writing is muddy and far from pristine. Don't go looking through the depths for pure glowing jewels of meaning. There aren't any.

But look- that camellia? I grew that. Or, to put it another way- I bought a plant, I planted it in my yard. I kept it alive. It rewarded me this morning, this cold winter morning, with that jewel of a flower. If there is anything I am slightly good at, it is merely keeping things alive that eventually reward me royally. Kids, plants, chickens.
Bread dough.
You know.

Not a gift in any way or a talent, either. Just life. I'm just a woman. I struggle every day of my life with wondering why I'm still here. I talk out loud about that struggle. I celebrate the moments when I know why I'm still here. I despair in the moments when I forget the reasons.

That's me. Are you in my tribe? Am I in yours? We don't wear certain colored hats and we don't have team colors so we must recognize each other in more subtle ways. We celebrate and despair together.

I'm struggling today. The camellia gives me at least something to pause and wonder at, to give me the least feeling that yes, I have done something. I kept that plant alive. I don't need rose-colored glasses to see that pink glory in that.

And now I'll go make soup.

The Church of the Batshit Crazy is in session. 2010 and we're still worshipping and we're still swaying in tears.

Same as it ever was. Dinner on the grounds. The music is good. The flowers are not on the altar, they're in the yard. So are the chickens. So are the greens and Mr. Moon and Jessie have just gone out to pick some to put in the soup. Greens, not chickens.

One day at a time. One moment at a time. Let us try to remember that. Neither the worst or the best. Just...this.

Good enough.
Close enough to heaven to glimpse the light, far enough away to make the journey interesting and daunting.

One step at a time. One breath at a time. Don't borrow trouble, the sky is not falling, we cannot know what tomorrow brings.

Rubies and tears, joys and fears.

We are the tribe of people who understand that.
Peace unto you as you work through all of that for yourself, as you share it with your tribe.

That's all. Just that. Just this.

It Was All Of That And More

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 01:29:00 +0000

Well, that baby of Lis's was born last night and with all the attendants of magic and powerful good wishes you'd expect to find in a fairy-tale.

And you know what? I forgot to take my damn camera. I have had several people promise me that they will send me some pictures and I hope they do. I will be smacking my forehead for the rest of my life over that mistake because there were so many beautiful images I wish I'd caught to share and keep. People dressed up! Women in velvet and hats with feathers and men in suits and ties and even tuxes and there was glittering jewelry and high heels and everyone looked perfectly suited to usher in not only the new year but the new CD. Everyone had one theme and one theme only as we all smiled and hugged and that theme was, "Isn't this wonderful? Our Lis...Oh! Our Lis!"

And she was so beautiful in a cut-velvet dress and her antique beaded sweater and vintage jewelry and she did indeed sing like an angel and Lon smiled the entire evening.

Everyone did.

People danced! I have never seen people dance in St. Augustine but they danced last night, gently waltzing under the trees to the sweet music.

The food was delicious, the drinks flowed, there were blue twinkle lights and shimmering beaded curtains behind the stage. The weather was warm and only about fourteen raindrops fell and most people were under tents anyway.

I don't think it could have been more perfect.

And now we're home and I just wanted to tell you that. It's going to get cold here tonight, I think. The new year has well and truly started. I hope it's a good one. I just pray it's a good one, although I am kicking tradition and superstition to the curb and have made a tuna casserole for our supper instead of black-eyed peas.

I am tired and I want to try and get the Christmas tree down before I go to bed. I swear to God, I have never in my life left a Christmas tree up this long. But I've just had so much to do this year. The parties! The glamor! The GRANDSON! whom I miss so much I can barely restrain myself from getting back in the car and driving to town to hold and smell and kiss, even if only for a few moments.

But no, I need to get that tree down so that tomorrow I can start life holiday-free. Time to put the make-up away until the performances of Sex Please! We're Sixty at the end of February. Time to put away the velvet and the jewels. Time to change the calender and write in all the birthdays and annivesaries for 2010. Time to start learning my lines. Time to stop eating sugar and white flour and cheese and bacon. Time to stop thinking of chocolate as a daily-necessary food-group and time to stop thinking of martinis as a reward for getting through another day.

Sigh.

And yet, won't that be glorious? To have time to take care of things including myself?

The house we stayed in last night belongs to a very dear friend of Lis's and of mine, also, and it's the most amazingly perfect house I've ever personally been in. Lorie's house. She has an eye for color and design and everywhere you look in her house and her yard there is something shining, lightfilled and lovely. And it's so clean that I think she must paint it every other week. Honestly, I can't think of any other way it could always look the way it does. Her cabinets are more orderly and arranged than mine were the day I moved in here. I had to take a few pictures this morning and I've used one of them for my new masthead. It makes me feel serene and peaceful just to look at it. I hope it does you, too. And being in that house inspired me to want to do better with my own home, which I do love so very much.

Lorie is one of those people- like Lis- who makes you feel as if your presence in her home is exactly what she has been looking forward to forever. Her boyfriend, John, is the same way. They define loving graciousness. They make you feel cherished and cared for in more ways than I can describe and they do it so gently, so heart-fully. They've inspired me too.

In a short while, you'll be able to order Lis's new CD at her new website. In the meanwhile, I'm thinking I'd like to do a giveaway with one of the ones I brought back. I'm not sure how I'll do it. I'll think about it tonight. As I have said before, I wish I could send one to every one of you because every one of you has in some way inspired me this year, or encouraged me or lifted me up when I needed it, or made me laugh or made me cry or made me THINK and if there is any way in this world I could begin to repay you all, it would be with the gift of these beautiful songs by Lis.

Happy New Year's. Let's get that tree down. Let's put on our walking shoes. Let's go change the baby. Let's all dance in the hallway. Let's drink more water and remember to eat food, mostly plants, not too much. Let's be in wonder at what light does with blue glass. Let's be gracious and loving.

Let's get on with it.

See you tomorrow.

And It Will Be Splendid

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 14:17:00 +0000

Well it's New Year's Eve day and I just have to say that I'm so ready for all this holiday celebrating to be done with. Hell, after the week I've just had, I'd have to add about fifty new things to my resolutions list if I had one, which I do not.

It's been pretty overwhelming for this old agoraphobic woman and I think I've done as best a job as I could but it's starting to really all get to me and this morning it was hard to get out of bed. Not that I felt bad but just that I couldn't imagine getting up and starting another day. I wondered what would happen if I just didn't do it. Just didn't get up and announced to anyone who cared to eventually check to see if I was still alive that no, getting up is not on the agenda today. Nope. Sorry.

But that's not an option. Although usually New Year's Eve for the Moons is spent right here in Lloyd within the safety and confines of our own house, we're going to go celebrate tonight with some very, very lovely folks in St. Augustine. What we're celebrating is the release of Lis Williamson's first CD of her very own songs which she's written and I wouldn't miss that for the world. Not for the very world, I tell you.

I've spent more than one night on this back porch with Lis, shaking my finger in her face saying, "When are you going to do your OWN album? It's time, Lis. It is time."
And her agreeing and saying she was going to when this and this and this were done and accomplished and finally, she has and I couldn't be prouder of her. And tonight is the night that so many friends and musicians will gather at the Creekside Restaurant in St. Augustine where Lis and Lon play on a stage outside under magnolia trees and twinkling lights and there will be music and food and drink and great, great joy. Lis will be shining like a star because she IS a star. As Pam would say, she is a child of light and her songs are a pure pouring out of light and when I think of tonight, that's what I'm thinking about- light in the darkness.

And how can I miss that?
Well, I can't.
So Mr. Moon and I will pack up the car and head over to the East Coast for one last good night of celebration. I will stuff my fat old body into some vaguely appropriate costume and try to find a pair of shoes in the closet that won't hurt my foot and won't look ridiculous with whatever I wear but really- it won't matter. It's all about my Lizzie tonight.

She was talking about the dress she'd gotten for tonight and she said she'd paid a bit more for it than she'd wanted to and I said, "No honey. This is YOUR night and a once in a lifetime event. It's not like a mother-of-the-bride dress. Kids can get married and divorced but you will NEVER have a first CD release album party again. Ever."

It's like having your first baby in a way. She's gestated this CD for years. Years and years and decades of years and tonight, it is born.

So I'm not going to write a New Year's post. No matter what's gone on in the world this year, good and bad, I got my first grandchild which makes it the most special year for me since I had my own babies. And that's what I have to say about THAT. The rest of it has had its ups and its downs and Lord knows I've talked about all of them here. Or most of them. We all keep things tucked away in our hearts.

But today my heart is just filled with thinking about Lis Williamson and her husband Lon who has supported her efforts to bring this album to fruition every step of the way. He is her husband of thirty years, her one and only lifetime sweetheart, her work-mate, her best friend, her man and her muse. So it's his night, too.

And we'll be there. Mr. Moon and I will be there amidst all the sweet people who love Lis and Lon and believe me- that number is legion. I always feel a bit shy when I'm in a situation like tonight's will be. I remember once I was following Lis around with her lipstick in my pocket and a guy asked me, "What are you? Her handmaiden?" And I wanted to slap him and I wanted to also say, "Fuck yes. And don't you wish you were, you jealous son of a bitch?"

So I hope she wants me to carry her lipstick around in my pocket tonight. That would make me very happy. And when she's onstage, I'll be there, my eyes closed and probably crying because the combination of her and her songs is too much for my heart to bear. And when she comes offstage, I'll be right there with her lipstick if she needs it.

I have no idea what 2010 is going to bring to any of us. None whatsoever.
But I'm pretty sure I'll be right here, telling you about what it is happening in Lloyd. That's a given.
Chickens and children, gardens and groceries and trees and skies and dreams and hopes and fears and all that stuff. All that stuff.

But tonight is about light and a voice in the night and songs newly birthed and all will be right. For a moment in time as the earth balances its checkbook in the account of the universe and time as we know it, we will celebrate and will kiss. I love you, I love you, I love you, we'll say.

Happy New Years and here's a warm kiss on a cold cheek in the night and hearts full of music and song and eyes full of light in the darkness and we'll glimmer and sparkle and shimmy our way into the New Year with Lis singing, her voice rising all the way up to the full blue moon and I hope your New Years is a good one, too.

Real Short. Like A Post-It Note.

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 20:53:00 +0000

Michelle over at Just Eat It wrote a post today about how she and her husband text each other throughout the day and how different their texts to each other are and how that represents the different sort of people they are.
This reminded me that I've been wanting to post a picture of a Post-It Note that Mr. Moon left me a few weeks ago. Here it is:

Now if that don't say it all, what does?

Here We Are

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 13:39:00 +0000

For the dead days, I sure am busy.
Last night we had a party here. You had another party you say?
And yes, I answer, we did.

Kathleen and her best friend since childhood, Vicki, who is visiting from Indiana, decided they wanted to have a champagne, caviar and Godiva chocolate party and since Kathleen knows how hard it is to get me out of my house and since she knew I don't drink and drive, she decided we should have the party here and we did and it was awesome.
They brought the caviar and chocolate and champagne and other ladies brought champagne and I made a Brazilian seafood stew and bread. A few neighbor ladies came over including the famous Ms. Petit Fleur, and also my brother, the token male, and also Jan, the director of the Opera House and my dear friend Liz of the West.

We feasted and some drank champagne and some of had beer and/or vodka and it was a cozy evening with eight of us around the old oak table that I've had since May was two and which was the very same table my nursing school buddies and I sat around and ate on and studied on in 1983, '84, and '85 and which I served Mr. Moon the first meal I ever served him (turkey flautas, by the way) and we stuffed our faces and we laughed and had a good time.
And then some of the ladies spent the night but now they're all gone and Jessie's asleep upstairs and I'm going to town to see OWEN because I haven't seen him for three days and I'm missing him like crazy.
And there's another party tonight, believe it or not! But not here.
And then tomorrow we go to St. Augustine for Lis's CD release party, the Blue Moon New Year's Eve and oh, honeys, that is going to be a big time. A huge, big, good time.

And then...the new year. I am not going to talk about resolutions or even resolve.
But I will say that the New Year is a good place to put a bookmark in a life.

Mostly, I want to keep living here with the people I love and my chickens and this old oak table where I have spent so many hours. Mostly I want everything the same, only for me to be better. Better at a lot of things.

And that's vague but isn't that what we all want in the end? To be the best one of us we can?

Well, this isn't much of a post. I am itching to go see that boy. But I just wanted to say good-morning, how's it with you? I'm thinking of so many of you who are going through big changes and small ones that add to big ones. Moves and babies and a divorce (give her her two dollars!) and maybe you have resolutions and maybe you are just resolved to hold on to what you have and be happy with it.

Which, as Garrison Keillor said, is enough.
This life. Mine is enough for me.

I'm thinking about you and I'm hoping we all get through these last two days of 2009 healthy and well, looking forward to the next chapter of this book of life we're all writing daily, moment by moment, choice by choice, word by word, sunrise to sunrise, breath to breath.

Good morning. It sure is here. I hope it is there, too, wherever you are, however you got here, whatever sort of table you sit at.

Now go eat some fruit. Or chocolate.

Love....Ms. Moon

Yeah, Yeah. I'm Over-Blogging. Again.

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 17:27:00 +0000

Just wanted to say that I put in that Feedjit gadget that allows you to see who's on the blog in real time and how they got there.
Now don't freak out. I don't plan to sit here and watch it, unlike Ms. Sarcastic Bastard. Haha! I know she doesn't really do that. She was just joking.
I merely like the concept of seeing who stops by from where. You know?
And here's what I've discovered in the last few minutes:
People are still hitting my blog from doing a google search on Jennifer Lopez's ass.
Like- a lot.
So I thought my blog was getting read by people who, oh, I don't know- liked to read my blog- BUT IN FACT, it is just being hit by people who want to know how to get an ass like the one on Jennifer Lopez.
Shit. They must be so disappointed when they find out you have to fall on it. Your ass, that is.

Well, really, that's all I wanted to say about that. And if the live feed thing makes you uncomfortable, just let me know. I'll scrap it. As we all know, I aim to please.

And don't make me post that picture again. You know the one I'm talking about.
This one.

And now. Seriously. I AM OUTTA HERE!

Until I come back.

Dammit

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 17:25:00 +0000

I KNEW I wasn't spelling icicles right.
Sorry.
But really? That's how you spell that word?
Obviously I have so little experience with them.
But still. That's weird.

The Pipes Didn't Freeze And The Chickens Are Alive

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 14:59:00 +0000

It occurs to me that I have posted pictures of every damn thing in this house and yard. I mean really. Are y'all bored with it all yet? I'm not but I live here because I love it and I'm old and it's all new to me every day. And each of my chickens is unique and pretty to me whereas I'm fairly sure that a chicken is a chicken to most of you.

Well, it's not like I'm going to be cruising to Greece and sending back fabulous shots of hillsides of white buildings against a backdrop of the Mediterranean anytime soon so this is what you get.

Lloyd. Where it froze last night. Seriously! Stop laughing all you people up north. It's a big deal when it freezes here. We are not prepared! I didn't remember until eleven o'clock last night that I needed to go out and turn on all the faucets so they wouldn't freeze and burst. And of course Mr. Moon was out of town. So I put on my coat and got my little blue flashlight and went out and set ten faucets and garden sprinklers to drip and boy, was I glad to get back in the house and get in bed with my toasty little doggie! Yes! I was!
Here's where the water froze (it froze!) on the garden fence, making what we would call ice sickles.

Stop laughing!

I had to break up the chicken's water this morning. But they didn't seem too bothered by the cold. I suppose that's because they are all wearing down coats. Fluffy down coats. I spread some corn scratch over by the GarageMahal for Carol the Feral Chicken. She came running over and began to eat quite industriously. I took her picture:

Now see. I am sure to you see looks just like any of my red chickens but no, she doesn't. She looks completely different to me and I have to tell you that I have a great respect for this bird. She gives me a giant brown egg every other day. Biggest eggs I get. Huge. So I figured she deserved some corn. Next thing you know, I'll be cutting up grapes for her too.
I'm a fool for chickens.
Ms. Pam liked my chickens yesterday and I offered to help her set up some of her own but she said she lives in a neighborhood with a homeowners' association. I sighed and felt great sorrow for her but actually, I doubt she really wants chickens. She doesn't even really eat eggs. Eggs are just about beside the point with me and my chickens. But isn't it odd that we live in a world where it's okay for there to be giant evil chicken farms to supply us with our eggs but that it's against neighborhood regulations to have a few sweet hens in our back yards?
Man. We have some strange priorities in this world of ours.

So anyway, I took a few more pictures.
Here's the loquat blossoms:

They smell like baby powder. Really.

And an aloe vera blossom, standing up bravely in the morning sunshine:

And some narcissus lilies which are darling but I do not pick to bring inside because they smell like cat pee. I have enough pee odor problems in my house already. I do not need to add to it.

And so there you go. Pictures from Lloyd on a cold morning at the end of December, 2009.

And here I'll give you a little lagniappe, as they say in New Orleans.

It's the Caribbean at sunset. Remember when I went to Mexico last summer? Do you? I hardly do. It's all a dream to me now. But a sweet one.

Ah yah. Let's get on with it.

Stay warm and quit laughing at us Florida people and our clearly inferior ice sickles. We're proud of our frozen water, our chickens, our flowers that smell like cat pee.
We are aware that we do not have the fortitude to live where snow falls in great piles and drifts and mountains. We like our frozen water in cubes in our iced tea.
And at least none of us are going to be killed trying to get out of our driveway to get to the store to buy gruel and eggs or from having a giant, clearly superior ice sickle fall on us and pierce our skulls.

Uh-huh. Not us.

For which we are eternally grateful.

When Women Sing, When Camellias Bloom

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 00:51:00 +0000

If there is one thing about winter here in North Florida which is most amazing, it is the camellia. Look at that- is that perfection or what?

I picked that one today in preparation for Ms. Pam's visit. She had told me how her mama used to pick camellias and float them in crystal bowls. I have no crystal bowls but that's a bowl my Lynn gave me and it was made in France and it is simple and doesn't distract one bit from the pure construct of the flower within it.

Clear glass, clear water, perfect flower of white with two green leaves.

Sometimes that is all we need in life.
In fact, I don't think that we need much more than that to answer our heart's need for beauty.

Today I sat for hours, watching my friend's face as we talked. Her skin is perfect and her eyes show every bit of whatever it is that her heart is leaking. She is beautiful and she smells so good. I can still smell the scent of her on myself from hugging her as I type this. I remember this scent from years ago when we knew each other before. I don't know what all it is made up of and it doesn't matter because no matter how hard I tried to replicate it, it wouldn't work. It is made up of the molecules of Pam and whatever it is that she washes in, puts on her face, her hair, her clothes. But mostly, it is made up of the molecules of Pam.

Right now I am listening to one of the CD's she brought me. It's called Let It Shine. Look- I'm over not naming this woman. Her gift is meant for the world. Her name is Pam Laws. Look her up and order something she's done. She has sung all over the world and with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. And hell- you know me- Mormons? And yet, somehow when Pam sings, it all makes sense. Her vision of God is so personal and it all adds up to this: God Is Love.

We here at the Church of the Batshit Crazy can believe in that. In fact, that is exactly what we do believe in.

She sings worship, she sings prayer, she sings perfection.

Right now she is singing in my hallway via the magic of modern recording. She is singing Amazing Grace. I remember when Joan Baez came to Tallahassee and sang that song and I'm not taking anything away from Joan but I remember thinking as Joan announced the words of each verse to the audience before she sang it, "Honey, you're in the south. We know the damn words."

Amazing grace.

Thank-you, Pam.

I am so grateful to live in a place where I can walk outside on a winter day and find amazing grace on a camellia bush. Where I can put my hands on the sides of the face of a woman who can sing like an angel and say, "Do you think that the knowledge you get might come from here?" and then place my hand on her breast over her heart and she lets me.

Yes, her voice is amazing and a gift but it is all of her which makes that true.
I hope she knows that. That she is a child of light.

What am I saying? Of course she does. Otherwise she couldn't sing the way she does.

God is Love. I may not know shit but I know that. And Pam makes that audible. And visible. And tactile. My hands are still remembering the way her face felt as I put my hands on them.

Take my hand, precious love, lead me home she sings.

Okay. I can do that.

This little love of mine, let it shine, she sings now.

Oh honey. You do.

Thank you for letting it shine on me today.

A Little More About Light

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 13:47:00 +0000

Monday morning and here we are. The light is just damn ethereal this morning. It's the week between Christmas and New Years and we need all the light we can get. Didn't the Mayans have a few days every so many years which were the dead days, needed in order to set the calender they used perfectly accurate? Those Mayans. They had three calenders, every damn one of them more accurate than the one we use. One of them was based on the cycles of Venus and who knows why except that they were curious and observant and brilliant and oh yes, maybe had been visited by aliens.
Who knows?
Mr. Moon took that picture of the observatory at Chichen Itza in 2003 from the lobby of the hotel we were staying in.
I can barely type those words for the disbelief that still rings in my soul- we saw that! That we saw those old stones, gathered and crafted so carefully to watch the stars from, the planets as they whooped and whirled in the cosmos from the Yucatan Peninsula.
I have always found the present day Mayans to be the most humorous and kind people I've ever met. Is it because their ancient priests settled the matters of the heavens so long ago that they can feel comfortable here on earth?
Again.
I do not know.

Here's what I do know:
A very old friend is coming out today. She and I have not visited in each other's homes for at least a decade. She is driving all the way out here to see me and she said if I start cleaning, she's not coming. Well, how would she know? I look around and see with the eyes of someone just entering my yard, my house, and it looks like post-Christmas meltdown chaos. I spent all day Saturday joyfully in the yard, trimming and hauling and tidying although it still looks like winter's brown finger has pointed everywhere. I spent yesterday holding and playing with my grandson. Again, joyfully.

But my house. My shabby, dusty house.
As Petit Fleur so accurately points out- it photographs better than it looks in reality. That's not exactly what she said but it's the truth. I can choose the shots. The pretty stairway, the aprons on the kitchen wall. I can avoid that corners of chaos, the places on the furniture the dogs have peed upon so many times they've taken the finish off.

Well.

Pam swears she won't care. And I know, at heart, she won't. I'm going to make some split-pea soup and a loaf of bread and I'll put a clean tablecloth on the table.
But what is it that makes us want to show our homes in the best light possible? After all these years of women's liberation and knowing that dust will not kill us, why do we still yearn to have those perfectly clean corners, those shining porcelain bathroom fixtures, those stretched-tight bedspreads, those dust-free pianos?

Were the Mayan women house-proud? Did the native-American women who lived here (yes! right here! long before this house was built) despair of every keeping the sandy dirt out of whatever shelter they lived in? Or was it built directly upon the dirt? May told me that in the part of Africa where she stayed once, everyone just threw their trash onto the dirt but that every morning, the women swept their yards and gathered the trash and burned it. People laugh when I talk about sweeping the yard but honey- people here still do that. If we don't have grass, we sweep the yard.

Women and our genes. Why is it that the men were the priests and felt free to study the stars while women, I suspect, always worried about the house and the food and the children?
And thus it still is, as loathe as we are to admit it.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas, the woman who brought attention to the Everglades and their importance and who wrote about them passionately her entire life said in her autobiography that she had sex once and it was not that great and that because she spent her life without a man or without having children, she had been free to pursue her passion.

Well, good for Marjory and good for our planet that she was free because she did more for our planet than most.

But here I am, a woman with a man and children and dogs and chickens and it's the dead week between Christmas and New Years and my friend is coming out and I am going to tidy a bit and make soup. I hope Pam sees my house with light in her heart and I hope the soup is good and that two old friends can reconnect and let the dust lie where it lies.
I will show her my camellias and the ancient oak trees and my pretty hens who lay me warm eggs of brown and green and blue that nestle in my palm as I carry them from the hen house to the kitchen.

I hope we see each other's eyes and the light coming from our hearts, leaked and channeled from the universe and we, each of us, are priests and priestesses, observing that light from our own vantage point, dust flying up everywhere, but not so much it obscures the starshine, the holy golden and silver molecules which our eyes register but which are hearts understand, take in, give back.

While This Boy Was Sleeping...

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 17:22:00 +0000

I updated my blog list on the site. Now please- for the love of God- if I have missed you, point that out to me.
Please? Please? Please?

(And can you believe that big boy? CAN YOU?!)

Follow-Up

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 13:42:00 +0000

I just want to say that I had no idea how people would respond to that little post I wrote last night but I am honored and amazed at how each of you has written about the things you do not generally discuss. You took that question seriously and you let a little of your heart out here.

Thank-you. And bless all our hearts. As always.

So Let Me Ask You A Question

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 00:18:00 +0000

How do you censor yourself? Are there things that you really, really REALLY wish you could blog about but don't dare?
What holds you back? Your children? Your mama? Your in-laws? Your out-laws? Your conscience?
And what is it that you would love to blog about but can't bring yourself to put out there? Sex? Your doubts, your beliefs, your corniest loves? Do you really want to talk about romance novels? Your breasts?
Your vagina?
Your penis?
What you really think about God? Obama? Arugula? The raw foods movement? (It sucks. Why are people disrespecting our fire-discovering ancestors?) Bob Dylan's Christmas album? Bruce Springsteen's hair? The way your children can make you crazy?
The way your mama makes you insane by always wanting to know everything you have going on in your life, your soul, your heart and who tells you to be careful with that knife and to drive carefully?
Your secret crushes?
The mildew between the tiles of your bathroom?
Your eyebrows, teeth, cellulite? How much you love your lips, your hips, Gladys Knight and the Pipps?
Tell me, babies.
What do you wish you could blog about but can't?
What stops you?
And no. This does not mean I'll be blogging about my secrets. No way.
Because there are my children. My husband. My relatives. My husband's relatives. My mother who sent me this e-mail today:
hello isn't this fun? you can now e mail me. ruth
Ah yah. What fun.
What? Tell me.
I want to know.

Just Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Ms. Moon) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 18:19:00 +0000

Owen in his new Erin hat. Not great pictures (phone camera) technically but darn cute. Just darn cute. I might have to order Mr. Moon a hat with ears.

Thanks again, Erin. You are one major sweetie pie!