A Saturday Which Has Served Saturday's Purpose

I decided to pickle a few carrots and onions with the beets and so when I went out to the garden to pull my beets, I grabbed a few carrots too. Those are the smaller beets, waiting to join their larger cousins in the simmering pan. I've never pickled beets before so I read a bunch of recipes and figured out how it should maybe go and went from there.
I couldn't find my canning kettle at first and so I texted Jessie whom I knew had borrowed it in the past, to ask if she had it. She that no, she didn't think so and I said, "Good! Then it must be here somewhere," and sure enough it was, just in a different closet than where it used to be kept. The kettle, the jar lifter, the canning funnel.

I cooked the beets and carrots until fork-tender and then peeled the beets. The skin came off easily enough after they were cooked and I sliced them up in a bowl along with the carrots I sliced and the onions I cut up too. I made a pickling solution with white and cider vinegar, pickling salt, sugar, a little of the cooking liquid, and a little water. And then, because so many recipes recommended them, a bit of cloves and cinnamon as well as some black pepper. I'm not sure I'm going go like that and in fact, I'm not sure I'm going to like this concoction at all, but I did it, at least, and there is great satisfaction in even a few jars of something preserved or pickled from the garden and not one beet has been wasted.
Here are the jars, filled and ready to be lidded and put into the canning kettle for their boiling-water bath.

And here they are, out of the water and waiting for the beautiful sound of success- the pop of the lid, indicating air tightness. 

I'll take some to Gibson's birthday party tomorrow and open a jar and if anyone likes them, they can take a jar home with them. If I kept them all they would never get eaten. Mr. Moon has a deep and profound aversion to both beets and cooked carrots (they taste like dirt) and I can only eat so many. 

And after ALL THAT WORK, putting up five entire pints and one half pint of beets and carrots and onions, I laid down on my bed and read for awhile and then, because I could and because no one in the world needed me and because my bed is so comfortable and my pillows so numerous and soft, my down blanket so perfect for the temperature, I put my book down and closed my eyes and slept for an hour. What heaven a nap is! Especially one where you know that you have no real waking-time. No matter how tired I am, if someone suggests I take a nap for oh, say- twenty minutes, I cannot fall asleep. I need to have the sweet knowledge that the world will go on as it will for as long as I need to truly rest, land-line unplugged and cell phone with the sound turned off, and today was that way and when I woke up I had a shot of espresso on ice and then got the laundry off the line and checked and found a Camellia egg in the nest and then I chopped up treats for my babies, the second time today.

I am really determined to make this particular tiny flock a bit more human-friendly so that the grandchildren can enjoy them more and as anyone who has done any sort of animal training knows, food is the key to all.

I chopped the grapes and lettuces and then knelt by the tub and, as I have been doing, made a special whistling call and let them cluster about and eat from my hand. 

This is not rocket science and they are already to the point that whenever I go in to talk to them, they run up and look at me with great expectation. I have always said that my chickens consider me to be a breathing food delivery service and that is fine with me. 

They get so excited about the exquisite deliciousness of grapes and lettuce that sometimes they jump onto my hand and eat from there. That's Trinky in my hand above. The other yellow one (and I think they will both be white when they mature) is Tronky. These names come from when Hank was a small lad and instead of saying that he was thirsty, he would announce that he was Trinky and Tronky. I have never forgotten this and cherish the memory and so, the yellow (for now, at least) chicks are Trinky and Tronky. The boys have named the all black one "Hawk" because she has amazing feathers when she stretches them out and of course the little orange one with the prominent wings is Nicey and the black one with the yellow cap is Dearie and the orange one without prominent wings is Nora. 

Nicey and Nora.

Trinky and Tronky.

Hawk and Dearie. 

And Violet is still sitting on her stinky eggs. I just did not have the heart today to go out and take them from her but tomorrow I'm going to have to. There is no alchemy as far as I know to make rotten eggs viable again. I wish there were. I would use it for that sweet and determined little hen. I remember when we got her last year from the Tractor Supply I felt almost certain that she would not live the night through and yet, here she is, the last one of that bunch still living, trying to be a mommy. 

All right. I need to stop anthropomorphizing and just do what needs to be done. The flies are already gathering. And right this second, looking out towards the coop, I see that Violet is off the nest and eating from this morning's scratch. Who knows but that she will be relieved and perhaps, after a period of rest and recovery, she may sit on another clutch? If not this year, then maybe next. 

This world is filled with so many tiny miracles and everyday marvels and mysteries. Certainly enough to keep me curious and observant and entertained. 

To say the least. 

And of course there are pickles. The definite and proven alchemy of seed to dirt and water and sun to jars of shining rubies. 

It's been a day of all of that. 

And I am grateful.

Love...Ms. Moon

Reporting In

The good news is that Lily does NOT have a blood clot or a deep-vein thrombosis, which is what we were worried about.
The bad news is that she does have cellulitis. Which they are going to treat with amoxicillin. I hope that works because she is, as we all know, pregnant. Gibson seems to keep a staph infection going in his nose which I hear is quite common and who knows?
I don't know.
I do know that the symptoms for DVT and cellulitis are much the same- swelling, redness, heat. So it was good that she went and got it looked at because cellulitis can be potentially dangerous if left untreated. She was in the ER for hours but it could have been worse. Her vascular doctor does not work on Fridays and her Primary had no extra slots. Which is why she ended up in the ER but at least they could do an ultra-sound there on the affected area so that is probably where she should have been anyway.

Gibson and I spent a pleasant day playing games which means everything from doing puzzles to coloring. We read a Thomas The Tank Engine book more than once. When I left, I hugged and kissed him and said, "I love you, Gibson!"
"I love you, baby!" he yelled back.
Another thing he said to me today was, "I want to tell you a question."
I can't even remember what it was but it made me laugh.

Boppy/Boppa (the name seems to be in transition) reports that Owen is being the best, sweetest boy imaginable. That he is getting along with all of the other kids very nicely. That he is being the best boy that any grandfather could ask for.
I asked him how Owen was doing with the oldest girl who is about his same age.
"Like bread-and-butter," Mr. Moon reported. "Like bread-and-butter."
I'm mighty proud of that boy. And Boppy. Who is the best grandfather any boy could ask for.

And so it goes. I didn't get home until after six-thirty. I stopped by the grocery store and picked up some fancy pasta and will make a "garden medley" sauce to go with it from these lovelies which I picked a few minutes ago.

Not the eggs. Just the vegetables.

I noted that the first zinnia which is not pink or lavender has bloomed.

Bright enough? It's so funny how every one of the volunteers, seeded from last year's plantings are of the pink and lavender variety. I can't wait to get more colors from this year's planting. A red one is about to open. Liz told me yesterday that her granny grew enough food in her garden to feed a family of five year-round. She had a canning shed. But she always planted a row of zinnias which she called, "my purties." And she cut them and took them to decorate the church on Sundays.
I have never decorated a church with my zinnias but I've been decorating my house with them for almost forty years.

Speaking of flowers, here's a picture I took on my walk this morning of a swamp mallow.

Related to the hibiscus, Rose of Sharon, okra, and Confederate rose.

It's been a day of ups and downs but all has turned out well. Last night little red chick did not show up and this morning when I let the chickens into the coop from the henhouse she was still nowhere to be found. I had given her up for dead. But when I let the birds out from the coop she suddenly was just there, out of nowhere, and I am so glad.

I keep thinking about the fact that I could have been in Orlando tonight. I bet the energy there is intense and I almost feel as if I can feel it from here. But...I had a job to do today. I needed to stay with that boy while his mama went to the Emergency Room and Jason got off work to go with her but if I hadn't been here, he would have had to have taken care of Gibson which would have left Lily all alone and NO ONE needs to be in the ER by themselves. You simply cannot take a three-year old to that place for the hours and hours it requires unless it is absolutely necessary.

I wrote Hank today and said, "Everything's gone to hell since you left. You need to come HOME!"

He will be home tomorrow as will my husband and Owen. I sort of hate the word "synergy" but perhaps there is something to the theory. Again- I don't know.

I'm going to go cook some vegetables. I know how to do that.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S.

Did you know about this?



One more reason to live. Thanks, Bill. And Bruce too, whom I have had a sweet and tender crush on since Moonlighting. 
I might actually have to go to the movies.

My Cup Runneth Over

My chickens make me feel rich. I believe, as I have said before, that humans and chickens have co-existed for so many years that we now have a place in our DNA dedicated entirely to the keeping of these birds and when we do, we feel a little bit more, well, fulfilled.
Chickens can be tended by the elderly as well as by children. They require so little, they give so much.
As I have also said before it is my belief that chickens have done more for the human race than Jesus ever did but maybe I'm prejudiced because not only do my chickens (and their eggs, their beautiful, delicious eggs) make me feel rich, but they delight me.

Here's Chi-Cha on the nest. (Thank you, Jill!)

Her sister has already given me an egg this morning, warm as toast, white as her feathers.

I love having flocks of mixed breeds. I love watching the way they all get along, both within the separate flocks and as the flocks mingle. I love the daily visits of chickens from next door, Elvis, Jr., Miss Honey and her sisters, the pretty little black banty rooster. I love watching Drogo come of age. It thrills me when one of his hens lays her egg and then bawks and calls and he comes running to bring her back to the flock of her sisters. I love watching them scratch and move about the yard as the day progresses. They make me laugh with the absurd postures they take when they nap in the dirt, their legs stretched out as they lay on their sides like pin-up models of old, their feathers ruffled to take in the sun.
Their poop does not disgust me in the least. They pull the weeds from my kitchen garden. They eat bugs. They patrol the yard, bringing life and noise as they scratch. I take a small amount of pride in that I have learned some of their language. The call the rooster makes as he finds a patch of particularly tasty bits which he wants to share with his ladies. The call he makes when he wants them to all show up so he can do head-count. The frantic bawking of the hen after she lays her egg. The contented squawks they make as they eat. I am never alone here with my chickens and when I shut them up at night, it is one more tiny bit of peace, knowing that all is well as I go to bed myself, a promise that they will be there in the morning to rise and scratch and lay and fuss and have sex again.
I admire their colorings and they way their feathers are iridescent in the sunlight making a bird that on first glance appears to be black or brown, prove to also be green and blue. I find their varying personalities to be fascinating. Some are bold enough to snatch a cracker from a baby's hand, to peck at my painted toenails. Others are so very shy and stand way back when treats are thrown their way.
They are so much like humans or perhaps, we are so much like them.
And...they are the closest living relative of the dinosaur and if that's not cool, I don't know what is.

Huh. A chicken essay. Didn't start out to write one of those today.
I feel better and slept well. We did have a nice evening of playing cards on our new table, of eating poached eggs on spinach and toast. I am still a bit achy but my energy is much better and I plan to move about a bit today doing a little housework, a little yard work. The wisteria needs trimming desperately. As I walked out to the henhouse this morning, a tendril literally grabbed me by the hair and bid me stop so that it could entwine itself around me. I had promised Mr. Moon on Friday night that I would trim up these palms in order to make the access to the front porch less jungle-fraught.

He has never quite forgiven me for planting them so close together but my idea is that as they grow tall, their fronds will not block anything and that they will be elegant native sentinels to the steps of our porch. And last night, we discussed the situation again and both of us agreed that those two fronds meeting in the middle in delicate arching are really quite beautiful and don't actually block the way at all.
So I believe I will leave them as they are.

Rich. I just feel so damn rich.

My porches, my chickens, my palm trees, my buzzing cicadas, my blooming wild gladiolas, my constantly shifting pools of light underneath the trees. The dragonflies as they fly in parabolas together in their mating dances. The butterflies that drift over the phlox. Some days (today) I feel as if I should wear a ruby or an emerald the size of one of Missy's eggs around my neck to represent it all, multiple gold hoops from my ears so that I am as dripping with wealth as my life. Velvet because I move about a kingdom as opulent as any ever seen before.
Or simply what I am wearing which is, of course, cargo shorts and a tank top, one small gold hoop in my left ear. Bare feet planted firmly on the old boards of my porch.
I will let Maurice wear the velvet for me, her soft orange velvet.
I will let the jewel colors in the chickens' feathers do for my rubies and emeralds.
I will let the puddles of light do for my gold.

It is all enough and I take it in and I glory in it, my heart within me a living wet ruby, pulsing in time to the cicadas, to all of life as I am part of it.

As are you.

Discourse On Naturally Occurring Events And Activities

The wild gladiola is blooming, small flares of flame around the yard. They grow up every year but I've never seen as many blooms as I've seen this year. I spend half my life pulling them out by the bulb and there are still thousands.

Verdant. Fecund. This old piece of dirt in Lloyd is full of life now. The good rains we had in spring, the not-yet overwhelming heat have come together to bring it all into deep green and blooming glory.

I think it is quite possible that I self-medicate my anxiety with all of this green, just as some self-medicate by a proximity to the water and it is no mystery why I love Cozumel so much, feeling so purely myself there in a way I never do elsewhere. All that water and all that sky, the colors of blue and green and teal and turquoise, purple and every hue and color in that palette. They pull a peacefulness, a joy from my soul and I revel in it. 

It's not just the flora which is so rich this year. The fauna abounds as well. I have fifteen female Golden Orb weavers on my swing porch alone. And the porch is small and the spiders large.

Many of them are accompanied in their webs with a small male. They have strung their webs on the front porch and between porches and trees and between trees and bushes too. I feel like I should put up a warning sign for any acrachnophobes who might inadvertently walk into their most dire nightmare upon entering my property. I do not mind them at all unless I carelessly walk into a web and then a curse or two may be uttered.

The chickens are delighting me right now. As we worked in the yard yesterday getting rid of those dogwoods, I kept a close eye on the hen house to see who was coming and going. Miss Chi-Chi (or was it Miss Cha-Cha?) sat on the nest for the second day in a row with no result. But Miss Butterscotch 

laid another egg and my mystery hen laid another egg and Mabel, Miss Bob, and Sharon all laid as well. This morning I believe that Miss Cha-Cha (or is it Chi-Chi?) did indeed fulfill her need to lay as I found one lovely small white egg in the nest. 

A white egg! 

I have had green and blue and brown and ivory eggs, but this is my first white one. 

Here are the white sisters, the Chi-Chi, the Cha-Cha.

And here is Missy, the diminutive black hen with the fluffy pantaloons. 

Yesterday evening I saw Elvis Junior from next door top Missy and not one sound was uttered by either. 

Here's El J, as I call him.

He's a handsome lad, isn't he? Not as dramatically marked as his father, but a fine looking rooster nonetheless. I believe that neither he nor Missy made any of the usual squawking that goes on during mating so as not to draw the attention of either Elvis or Drogo. I have seen Elvis try to dance his come-on-baby-you-know-you-want-me dance with several of the new hens but they have all, as far as I've seen, refused his charms successfully. Drogo gets laid regularly although I've certainly never seen him make a move on any of Elvis's hens. I swear to you though- it might be happening and I just don't know it. It's like Peyton Place around here with all the different roosters and their hens. There are times that Elvis, Drogo, El J, and the two beautiful banty roosters from next door are all in the yard with their various hens and I've never yet seen any of the roosters get into an altercation. But I do believe that all of the roosters recognize Elvis as the Alpha male and guard their actions accordingly.
It is vastly interesting to me, this society of chickens, their culture, their comings and goings and matings and laying of eggs. It's almost ridiculous, or maybe it is ridiculous, no modifiers needed. Each and every egg I get seems like a magical treasure I've discovered. I mean- perfect protein encased in such a beautiful shell! What could be better?

And so it is on this Sunday. Mr. Moon is on the porch with me, going over the contract for Jessie and Vergil's house. The man can tear a contract UP. Not literally. You know what I mean. His mind works in ways that mine does not. This is going to be the most analyzed and carefully scrutinized house contract in the history of the Universe because Vergil's mind works in much the same way as Glen's does. The house inspection is tomorrow and if that goes well, the purchase will proceed.

It is Sunday. Buster is lying on the porch floor, napping. Maurice is in the yard hunting. I just saved a tiny green lizard from her cruel play and she is pissed at me but she'll forgive me. Every time one of the hens goes into the nest or comes out, I notice and am keeping track. I just saw Butterscotch come off the nest and make her call and I am proud to report that Drogo did his rooster job and came rushing to escort her back to the flock.

One last picture.

Elvis and four of his five hens. Miss Ozzie was standing off to the side. I love the way they're lined up, eating scratch with Elvis behind, keeping a watchful eye.

I feel so lazy that my veins may well be flowing with molasses rather than blood.

And that is just fine with me.

Love...Ms. Moon

It Doesn't Take A Whole Lot To Delight Me

All right. You see that picture? You see that bird at the bird feeder? That is not a crow, folks. That is BABY! She flew right up there this morning and started eating the bird seed. That crazy chicken! I love her more every day. She's had a lot of excitement today and I'll discuss that here in a bit.

Lily and the boys came out and Gibson immediately perked up and wasn't fussy one darn bit

 and his fever was gone and Lily got to take a bath in my beautiful bathtub and I played with the boys and then she got out of the tub and we both played with the boys, or rather, let Owen entertain us which he is so very good at. His imagination is getting better than L Ron Hubbard's and let me just say that when you go on a plane ride with Owen to Marco's Pizza, he will give you a suitcase and he will tell you to fasten your seatbelt and put on your helmet and then, the plane will threaten to crash over and over again but Owen will save you by fixing the batteries and the holes in the plane and all will be well. It's a MIRACLE! I tell you.

And then Lily laid down for a nap on my bed and she slept for an hour and I got Gibson to sleep and took him in to sleep with her and they slept for two more hours and Owen and I had a very, very good time together. I got so many good hugs and kisses and I-love-you's.

Here is Owen making hot lava. I have no idea where he came up with this idea but it involves juice and water and at least three glasses to pour the mixture back and forth in. As you can see, it is a very serious enterprise.

I also have to say that there was quite a bit of hot lava spillage to the point where I took away all of the juice and water and then he did some painting, but mostly on his face.

Later on in the afternoon, I suddenly heard a falsetto crowing which was definitely NOT Elvis and we went out to investigate and there, lo and behold! was Fancy, the banty rooster we'd raised and who'd gone to live with the chickens next door. I think he was trying to recruit Baby or at least trying to fuck her and he did his Fancy fancy dance around her but she was having none of it.

He hung around and acted like he'd never left but when it came time to roost, Elvis chased him off a little way in a sternly authoritarian manner. I wonder if he'll be back tomorrow. We'll see. I was just telling Mr. Moon yesterday that I haven't seen Elvis top a hen in a long time and I don't know if that's because he's getting older or because it's winter or what, but for whatever reason, he's not getting much these days. That I'm seeing, anyway. But he's still a fabulous husband to the sister-wife hens and keeping an eye on each and every one and if we give him treats, he drops them and calls for the hens to come and get them. He is SUCH a good rooster.

And so that was my day which was filled with little boys and chickens and silliness and fun and cuddles and kisses and you can't beat that. Or at least I can't. Hillary Clinton probably got a lot more accomplished than I did today although I did do two loads of laundry and I seriously doubt Hillary did THAT. I've got chicken simmering on the stove with celery and carrots and garlic and onions and I'm going to make dumplings to go in there too and there's arugula for me to make salad from that I picked in the garden.

So I better get busy.

Yours truly...Mer Mer Moon

And A Hawk Just Tried To Get A Squirrel Five Feet Away From Where I'm Sitting

At some point in the wee, wee hours, I woke up and had a complete and perfect blog post in my mind and of course I have no idea now what it was.
Damn. It was good. That, I remember.

Mr. Moon and I seem to be able to sleep again, which is a blessing. We're not up at all hours, wandering around and cursing insomnia. I am so grateful. We did wake up last night when the electricity briefly went off then back on, then off, then back on. It was disconcerting and then I heard someone crying in the house and I freaked out and called out, "Baby!" thinking it was Mr. Moon because who else could it have been? But he was right there in the bed next to me and said, "What? What?"
It was Dolly, the dog, crying in her crate about seventeen rooms away. But it scared me so bad.
This morning Mr. Moon texted me. "Who's Buddy?"
Buddy?
He called me and I said, "Buddy?"
"That's who you were calling out to last night," he said.
"No! I was saying BABY!"

We're like the Two Stooges, me and Mr. Moon.

Anyway, good morning and I've had my walk and it was a good one although I saw this on the dirt road I walk on and yes, that was a bit disconcerting too.

Oddly enough, I found another knife in that exact same area a few years ago. That was more of a big old pocket knife, though. As with that one, I left this one where it lay. 

Lloyd can be a strange place. I feel like no one but me uses those roads but I know this is not true. There's the asshole who keeps dumping trash in the woods for one. At least I take my phone with me these days although why I think that would offer any protection is beyond me.

I sure wish I could think of what I wanted to write last night because I'm sort of floating here. The news is all sort of weird and floaty too. God Particles, Tom Cruise, Mitt Romney, Prick Scott, Jessica Alba's tight leather pants. 

Who is Jessica Alba?

I think I heard my young rooster Maizie try to crow this morning. That's big, right?

Well, Jessie's already texted me asking why I haven't posted yet this morning so I better get on with it. I think I'm going to try and get those continuing education units done for my nursing license. To be more specific and truthful, I guess I should say that I need to START working on them. At least. I did buy a pencil sharpener the other day.

It's a beautiful day, albeit a hot one and I've already had my walk and there's leftover okra and tomatoes and brown rice for my lunch and my overalls are clean and I haven't had one bite of that German Chocolate cake and quite frankly, I haven't really wanted it and for all of those favors, I am grateful.

I wonder if I have any pencils. That could derail my entire day.

I live a big life, don't I?

Love...Ms. Moon

Strange Day

Bad start to a strange day. The electricity went off right before we got up, right before the coffee got made  and it's that crazy sort of weather that makes you all itchy and sticky because Subtropical Storm Beryl is somewhere in the vicinity or at least in the state, playing havoc with the air pressure and sucking all of the energy out and away, leaving us flat and drained of all energy.

All of my tick bites and all of my chigger bites have come together in a strange concert of intense itching and the air is alternately completely still and then suddenly gathering itself and moving, swishing the leaves in an ominous dance.

I called the electric company and the nice lady apologized profusely, which they always do but at least she didn't ask me if there was anything else she could do because that always makes me want to yell something like, "Sure! Come on over and wash my windows!" I mean- what in hell CAN she do besides report the outage and of course they already know there's an outage. She told me they were looking for the source and apologized again.

But before I'd hardly gotten off the phone, the lights were back on and the percolator Mr. Moon had set on the gas stove had almost finished its burping and gurgling and so all of a sudden, all riches were restored, lights, fans, and best of all, coffee.

Still, the itchiness continues and yes, it is sticky but at least I can see in my kitchen. I cooked bacon and French toast out of bread I made yesterday which I let rise too long and so, after baking, resembled giant hot dog buns but is making nice French toast, golden yellow from our eggs.

Yesterday Mr. Moon spent hours putting up smaller wire around the bottom of the coop so that the babies can't get out and hopefully, we shall preserve one of Flopsy's chicks, at least. The teenagers, too, who are still six in number.

Last night was chaotic and both boys were not in the best of moods. For some reason Gibson decided to be a little bitchy and gritchy and we all took turns rocking him and trying to soothe him. Owen had had a five-minute nap in the car and was a demanding little man. When they got to the house and he woke up he informed me that it was a BIRTHDAY and that HANK was coming which cracked me up. But then he spent most of the night trying to force May to play with him and she did. Jessie came in from the festival and is here now and will be leaving in awhile to back to Asheville and my heart can hardly stand these comings-in and goings-out. But. It is the way.

Speaking of, Flopsy laid an egg this morning, first one in forever, and immediately demanded out of the coop. This is traumatic. Her baby chirped and chirped, sadly, pathetically, calling for her mother, and Flopsy went back and forth between the coop and the flock for awhile but then girded her loins and chose the flock. Does this mean she is done being a mother? Poor baby chick whose siblings are all gone and now she has been abandoned by her mother too.

Nature is cruel.

As we ate our breakfast, Jessie pointed out that maybe it would be easier for humans if the parents were the ones to move away, rather than the kids. The kid turns sixteen and the parents move to Boca. Or something like that.

I don't know. All I know is that it's a gray day and we might go to town to see Moonrise Kingdom with Hank and May and that thought cheers me some. I hardly ever go see a movie and this is one I've been wanting to see for ages and ages and ages.

And then we'll come out of the theater and see what the weather is doing, shaking our heads at the reality of the day after having spent a couple of hours in the conjured atmosphere of the movie theater and a damn yellow-fly bit my foot when we were eating our breakfast outside and those bites itch so much that the tick and chigger bites are no longer claiming my attention. In fact, my swollen foot is driving me mad and I can hardly write this. I sort of want to just overdose on Benadryl and go back to bed and sleep through this day but one doesn't really do things like that. Not for a few yellow-fly bites and a mean-skyed day.

Nope. Not even for that.

Jessie is loading her car.

We go on.

Mr. Moon got home safely from his travels and he got a car for a customer and so it's a good day.
I mean, it was already but that makes it better. Any time my husband gets home safely is a good day, no matter what else happens. He spends a lot of time on the road and of course that scares me.
But.
He is fine.

I opened the door to Ms. Flopsy's nursery cage this afternoon and next thing I know she's scratching around in the coop with the three babies dancing around her. Now this scares me. Anything could get in there and grab those tiny puff balls. We haven't even let the teenaged chickens out into the main coop yet because some of them are still small enough to get through the wire.
Not Curly Sue. That girl (I feel sure she's a hen) is a BIG girl (and she could be a rooster) and she looks like her daddy did when he was her age. The bantys vary in size from almost as big as she is to still-tiny but I know they're bored with that cage. I give them plenty to eat and fresh water and greens from the garden but they want to get out and scratch, as chickens do. I'm not a member of PETA or anything but it does make me sad to think of chickens in factory farms who never get to go out and scratch in the dirt, not once, not ever in their entire hormonally-shortened life. I love seeing my chickens scratch around the yard and making little dirt-baths and fluffing their feathers to get all the sifty dirt up into their bodies which must feel good to them. You can practically hear them sigh with the relief of it. The other day one of the hens was calling and calling for Elvis. She'd gotten separated from the flock and I finally went and hunted him down and he was under my office where it was cool, just hanging with some of his ladies and I said, "Elvis, don't you hear that hen yellin' for you?" and he looked at me like, "Gott DAMN! Can't a man get some rest around here?"
And then, as if he'd understood what I was saying came out and crowed and then went and found her and led her back to the others.
They're so funny, these birds we live with.

Hank's coming out this weekend to take over the chicken chores and Mr. Moon and I are going to take off for a small journey. We are not sure where. Just somewhere where, quite frankly, I will not be in charge of cleaning, cooking, or any other such mundane activity. Not that I don't love my mundane activities- you know I do- but every now and then a girl's gotta go be crazy and stay in a hotel room and use towels she doesn't wash and sheets, the same, and let all that mundane stuff space get filled up with other activities of the more romantic kind. Let her hair down. Be wild and crazy. Or at least, silly.
I am looking forward to that quite a lot.

I hope this is what we do. I seem to be breaking out with some poison ivy and why I thought I could avoid that shit when I spent all that time pulling it on Saturday is beyond me. I did wear gloves and washed up very well after but poison ivy is some strong and toxic stuff and if my hands and arms turn into purulent patches of itchy agony, I will not feel like going anywhere but will be walking around like a zombie on Benedryl and that is not the way to have fun on a road trip. No. It is not. Right now I feel sort of itchy all over my entire body but I am hoping that is merely my hypochondria and not anything based in reality.

Well, here are two more pictures of my boys from today.

 Owen being a monkey on the swing. "I am not a monkey," he told me. "I Owen." Yes, yes, he is Owen. Can you dig the slippers? He chose them himself to wear outside.

Gibson talking with his hands. He's such a goof sometimes, especially in the morning. If he hears and sees his mama, he breaks into huge smiles and he also smiles at shadows on the wall and flirts with them too and he cracks me up. He is wearing his new John Deere onesie that his Boppy got him for one dollar on the clearance rack at the tractor store. Lily says that they drove by there the other day and Owen said, "They have tractors!" and Lily and Jason said that yes, they did, and then Owen said, "I need tractor."

He is is grandfather's grandson.

He told me today that he is a big boy and I agreed that he is but I pointed out that he will be an even bigger boy when he learns to use the potty and doesn't need diapers any more. "Then you can go fishing with Bop on the boat!" I told him.
"No way," he said and he flounced off to go practice his Hai Ya's.

What a rich life I lead.

And now I will go wash the dishes.

Chickens, Children, Etc.

Today is chicken carpentry day. Mr. Moon is going to rebuild a chicken coop that will go inside of the big coop to put the young 'uns in because the little coopette they're in now is not adequate to their needs. It's not tall enough, for one thing. As I said, those birds can fly. Really fly like real birds, not like regular chickens who do hop-flights. The banty roosters next door roost up in the tree branches above their enclosure and their enclosure does not enclose them very well which is why we had eggs from them in our garage in the first place.

Are you with me?

We also need to put Miss Flopsy and her eggpile down on the ground in a protected place so that when (if) those babies hatch they won't tumble off the nest and down to the ground where snakes and coons can get at them.

Ah Jeez. As if I didn't have enough to worry about already.

We were discussing last night what we're going to do with all of the resultant roosters we may be getting. My theory is we let them be pets and see what happens. Seems to me that if Elvis doesn't kill them out of some fierce, biological urge then we can just let them be and we'll feed them and let them run around with the others. BUT, if they start getting mean as roosters sometimes do, I will have no qualms about asking Mr. Moon to cut their heads off.
That's just the way it is.
So- if they're sweet, they can hang out.
If they're mean and go after us and the kids, OFF WITH THEIR HEADS AND INTO THE STEWPOT! I myself could never cut a chicken's head off unless I was already weakened and yet strengthened by starvation but I don't mind letting Mr. Moon doing the dirty work.

Well, that's the theory and plan at this point.

And we all know how well plans go and how often theories prove out.

Today I am going to work on the theory that staying busy is staying sane. Syd was talking about this in a recent post. I don't know if it's really true but I do know that when I am feeling the way I am, which is anxious and low, it sure doesn't help to sit around. I need to either be moving or asleep. One or the other. If I try to sit for any length of time, I find myself jiggling my legs until whatever floor I'm sitting on is bouncing up and down and people are looking at me strangely.
Not that there's any people around here to speak of but you know what I mean.
I'm not much good as a carpenter but I am pretty okay at doing mindless gardening and branch-removal in the yard. I should go down Main Street and pick up trash because it is getting extremely nasty but I JUST DON'T CARE ANY MORE. Okay. I care a little bit but not enough do anything about it. Fucking trashy people are just fucking trashy people and short of cutting their arms off, I'm not sure what can be done as to a permanent resolution and even if you cut their arms off they'd probably spit their trash onto the side of the road with their mouths so there you go.

And right now, I just don't have the goodness-of-heart to be the one person in this whole damn community who cares enough to do anything about this situation. No. I do not. I can just see myself getting snake-bit in the overgrown roadside while reaching for a damn Ding-Dong wrapper. Fuck it.
And please do not suggest I go get one of those reacher-grabber things. Maybe Jefferson County could buy me one and an orange vest too. And maybe there will be snow tonight.

Here's a nice thing to report about our community though- the trailer that I used to bitch about regularly where EXTREMELY trashy people lived is now inhabited by non-trashy people who have cleaned up that yard and have giant tomatoes growing in pots and a little patio area and some nice little landscaping plants and I approve highly. Their neighbors, however, with the feral dogs in the yard are just as trashy as they ever were and their place is an eyesore. The chickens they used to keep have mostly disappeared and that hurts my heart. I feel quite sure that they ate chicken for a month.

Anyway, okay, the babies have now been put into their new facility. Mr. Moon did a few repairs to the old one and we moved it into the coop and the hardest part was catching the babies in their little coop and transporting them to the new one. That little one that escaped yesterday escaped again today and she ran into the woods but then ran back into the yard again and straight to some of my hens who did not know what to think. They stretched their feathers and turned a bit sideways as they do when confronted with something new.

Alien! Alien! yet...infant. 

We caught her and put her in with the others. My god, these chickens love to run. But for now, they are tucked up safely in the new coop.

 




I don't dare raise the lid up to take their picture because someone will fly out and they can get through the wire in the big coop without a thought or any effort at all and next thing I know, I'll be smashing through the cobwebs in the woods and chasing them down the railroad tracks.

Here's Elvis, trying to figure out what in hell is going on around here today.



Mr. Moon swears he's going to take Elvis to the fair next year. I say NO but he says he's going to do it anyway. Unless the desire to do so passes between then and now.
I hope it does. Elvis is not a display chicken. He is the Husband To The Sister-Wives, Protector Of All.

The mosquitoes are out like crazy, I need to add cleaning the chicken coop to my list of chores today which will involve rakes and the wheelbarrow and gloves and I might as well go put on my overalls, my big-girl pants, as it were, spray down with mosquito repellant and get started.

Lily just called and they're coming out later. Owen is about to die to come to see his Mer-Mer and his Bop. Or at least, to play at our house. Who wouldn't want to play at this house? It's like the damn zoo and the farm and the toy store and a restaurant all in one. And the jungle. So I need to get busy before they get here. I am very, very glad they're coming. I miss my boys and you know that's true.

Here are two pictures Lily sent me.

As you can see, Owen is taking a great interest in his younger brother and Gibson is rather fascinated with Owen. The other night when we were babysitting, if Gibson began to cry, Owen would immediately come to him and put his arms around him and say, "Don't cry, baby. Don't worry."

So. A chicken and children Saturday.
As the Great Blues Singer Eddie Kirkland (may he rest in peace) said to me one time when he was told that I was pregnant, "Ain't nuttin' wrong with dat."

Amen. 

Chickens And Eggs And Spiders

I have finally named all of the new hens. They have rewarded me by laying lovely eggs in greens, blues, and browns.

The picture above was today's haul. Seven eggs from eight hens. So far. Who knows? That lazy slacker who didn't lay one may get it together by day's end.

Elvis has done a very fine job of drawing the new girls into the flock. He watches over all of them and today he led them up onto the front porch and created a nest in the big fern again and I have gotten three eggs from there and four from the hen house nests. Owen found the ones in the fern. He was very, very excited and so was I. Elvis stood by as each hen sat on the nest as patient as a bird can be.

I love Elvis. Who wouldn't?

Okay. Now take one more look at the first picture. What is the thing you notice most distinctly?

Yeah. One of my hens has a sore butt. Damn, that's a big egg.

I don't know what I'd do without my chickens. And I don't even eat many eggs.

By the way, I ran into the spider web today. My head just bounced off of it. I sprayed Ms. Spider with the hose. She said, "Thanks for the drink. I was thirsty."

Change And Adaptation

So we did not go all the way to Gadsden County last night to get our new chickens but only as far as almost-Georgia down back roads in the dark, across to the west past the blues club we used to go to on Friday nights to dance and be bad under the pecan trees, on to the road that I lived on in 1975 which, at the time, was way, way, WAY out in the boonies and my ex-husband and I rented a shackish house from a woman named Willie May who lived right next door in comparative splendor in a new double-wide and her son lived across the street in a real brick house and he told me that I cooked like a black woman because when he came home at night he could smell the black-eyed peas and greens I was cooking, the cornbread.
That house was one fence away from the biggest, longest cow pasture in this area. Miles and miles and miles of pasture and yes, we treked those miles and we gathered mushrooms.
We were some of the only white people living in that area and were, I feel sure, a mystery to our neighbors, two hippies with a bulldog who ate like black folks. Not the bulldog. Us.

Anyway, that road now is not even nearly the same. One huge development after another has sprung up. There are traffic lights and businesses and gas stations. There's a Target a few miles down the road. The only store when we lived there was right there where the Target is now and it was run by mean white-folks who wouldn't let me or my ex write a check even though the sign above the cash register said, "Local checks only," and our checks were local.
Fuck them.
They were fat and ugly.
Well, I wonder where they are now.
But I don't really care.

So we drove down those roads in the dark and my old house is there although where Willie May's trailer was is now a house and Muzz's juke joint is closed and dark and Smittie's Club is a Mexican Restaurant.

The people who raised these new chickens live even farther out in the still-real boonies, a swampy wooded area, and the pen their chickens were living in was a cougar pen. I'm not kidding you. They were the nicest people and they loved those chickens. It was their first venture in chicken-raising and they were just like we were two years ago when we first got chickens. They hated to give them up but they're moving to a place where they can only keep a few hens and so they had to get rid of some of their flock of fifteen. We waited until the chickens were on the roost and Mr. Moon and I reached in and grabbed them, one by one, and chose our six and then helped them load up the rest that they were taking up to Thomasville today. They were shy of grabbing the chickens themselves, afraid they would hurt them.

We loaded up our new birds in two dog kennels and drove back through the night, back down the back roads to home where we carefully set them out on their new roost and told them all goodnight and closed the door and came inside.

Then Mr. Moon lost a tooth. Yes. He did. A front tooth. One of the ones he just got a root canal on. This is just a fucking terrible thing. Not a tragedy. But still. He'll have to get an implant and those do not come cheap and he's understandably upset, although I would have probably just gone in, gotten a gun and killed myself.
Well, that's a little dramatic. But still.

And then, just as we were getting used to the reality of that situation, the phone rang. It was a little after ten-thirty. It was Lily. Owen was throwing up. No diarrhea, not much fever, just throwing up and it was freaking him out and freaking out his parents. The child has never really been sick in his entire 22 months of life which is unheard of and so none of them had any experience with such goin's on. And it's scary to see your usually boisterous child so listless and sad. I remember it well. You want to DO something, to give him something to make it all better, to restore him to his natural, blooming, healthy self and yet, there is nothing to do but hold him and clean up when he vomits and comfort him and wait out the period of time it takes for the virus to run its course, which is probably what's going on. He didn't even want his nursies, he just wanted to be held.
I talked to Lily just now and he hasn't thrown up since 12:30 last night and although he is still tired, he's asking for food and so she's given him some PowerAde with water and some smoothie and toast and he's keeping things down. He's watching Barnie videos and that sounds like the road to recovery to this old grandma.

I cleaned up the kitchen after I talked to Lily last night and put away a few of the things we'd gotten from Mother's. I took the strangest things. All of the pictures, of course, two crystal jam dishes with lids and spoons, too beautiful to give away. A crystal relish tray which could well have been a wedding present when my mother married my father. I have no idea but it will look lovely on Thanksgiving. I also took some carved wooden animals from Africa, a giraffe, a rhino, a jaguar, a zebra, an elephant. I put these on a shelf where Owen can get to them because I think he will be entranced with them. They are simple things but they have a ju-ju to them which I think he will feel.

So here we are, on a Sunday morning, we've separated out the chickens so that our old ones are outside and have access to the hen house for laying and the new ones are in the coop, eating and drinking. Poor things. The train has gone by three times this morning already and they flap their wings and run around when it does but then they settle right back down to scratching in the dirt. We're trying to fit new/old things into the spaces we have and with the case of Mr. Moon's tooth, growing a little accustomed to something missing where there was something in that space and it will be fixed soon.

Elvis keeps coming back to the coop to stand and stare and I am sure that Mr. Moon's tongue keeps searching for that missing tooth and it's overcast and the crickets are chittering. I know there is much I should be doing and slowly, I will get to it.

Sunday in Lloyd. I guess if the Church of the Batshit Crazy has a message today it would just be that life is a constant adjustment to new realities. Some things, like tummy bugs, will resolve on their own and will be forgotten in a few day's time. Other things require patience to resolve, such as the joining of the flocks. Some things take reorganization. Some things take money to deal with because there can be no real adjustment if there is any possible alternative.
And some things take all three.

But life goes on and we do adjust because that's what humans do. As do chickens.

Here they are, my new lovelies. Of course, I hope they are all hens but I'm not bettin' the ranch on that one. Well, we shall what we shall see as things unfold and if nothing else, that unfolding is eternally constant.

Freshly Potted Chickens

Miss Dolly has been in the rose plant on the kitchen porch for most of the day. Elvis led her there and they cuddled up, as best as chickens can cuddle in a rose plant, for quite some time and then Elvis did his This Would Make A Good Nest dance with great crowing and spreading of wings and then he got out and Dolly got in and she's still there, hours later, and the other two hens are standing on the porch watching her.
I don't know if she's laying an egg or experiencing a Lamaze Birth. Whatever, they're all being very patient with her. El is standing guard in the little kitchen garden right beside the porch. I tell you- chickens are amazing creatures and I so love observing them.

It has finally rained some. Not a lot but enough to cool things off considerably. I have the house open and it is a joy to hear the drip, drip, drip of water onto wet ground.

I feel strange today. I went for a walk but it was really too late and way too hot. To the point where I experienced some dizziness when I got home but nothing bad and it passed and my back hurts a great deal, down in the low base of it. I honestly keep thinking that being active will help it and I know it will. But in the meantime, it's not so great. I kept moving for awhile, did some chores inside and out, but very, very slowly. I cleaned out the coop and put fresh smelling straw down for my babies and I potted some plants that needed transferring and I washed our bed sheets and blankets.

I guess I am in a bed-making mood today. New beds for chickens, for plants, for us.

Then I laid down on the couch with ice on my back and fell asleep and slept like the dead. Just down for the count and I would probably still be sleeping if Mr. Moon hadn't called to ask if I needed anything. I was so out of it that I couldn't figure it out- did I need anything? I didn't even exactly know where I was. And I swear- I only took Ibuprofen. Sometimes when I am injured I can feel those drug-like endorphins flooding my body and it is not unpleasant. It was that way for me today, whether from my back or from the walk, I do not know.
I honestly think that lifting that truck topper did something to my back and that it's just going to take a while to heal up. I am not a going-to-the-doctor sort of person if I can avoid it and generally, I do. Time and ice and sleep will heal most things, I have found.

We had discussed going out tonight. I really think it would be good for us. For me, too, to get dressed up a little, put on make-up, go out into the world. It's just so damn easy to say, "Oh honey. Let's just stay here and enjoy the coolness, have a martini on the porch." I can always come up with something to cook.

We'll see.

I'm pretty sure I have at least one fresh egg right outside the kitchen. Ha! And a garden full of lovelies. And the pattering down of leaf-shed droplets onto the wet ground.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Enjoy your Friday evening.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. It's an egg! I just went out and the chickens had gone off to roam and there in the dirt of the rosebush was a nice brown egg. I see that Elvis had picked leaves from the tropical gardenia next to the rose to make the nest a little nicer. He's such a thoughtful husband, isn't he?

Free At Last

Ten o'clock and the heat is building, the humidity must be in the thousands. A lone frog croaks and the first thing I did this morning when I got out of bed was to step in dog shit.

Another day in paradise.

And yet, it is.

I couldn't sleep last night for the hip twitches. I would fall asleep and then get woken up with one, that crazy not-painful-just-annoying twitch, an electrical switch, and finally I got up and ate cereal and read until late, late, and then finally slept and Mother called at seven-fifteen or so.
"When am I supposed to go to the doctor again?" she asked me.
"That's tomorrow," I told her.
"I need my book," she said.
Every Christmas I give her a Sierra Club date book and she lives and dies by that book, especially now that she can't remember shit. Somehow it did not make the move.
"Glen's bringing it to you today," I said. "Your appointment is already written down in it."
"Not my book," she said.
"Yes, Mother. It is."
"Well, another thing I wanted to talk to you about was that Glen wants me to give up my cell phone and I don't want to."
"He'll be by to see you today. You can talk to him about that then."
"Okay," she said. "Did I wake you up?"
"Yes, but that's okay."
"Can you go back to sleep?"
"I think I can."

And I did.

I am not sure why she wants to keep her cell phone. It's not like she's really going anywhere but perhaps it's a sign of coolness and hipness there in the home to have her Jitterbug as she galavants around the halls, doing Tai Chi and water aerobics. And if she wants to keep her cell phone, she certainly should be able to do that.

When I fell back asleep I dreamed of the chickens being out and of more hens joining the flock. When I got up I couldn't stand it. I let them out. I opened the door and sprinkled their corn on the ground outside. Elvis went out first and made his survey of the area and then called the hens with his "woot-woot-woots" and they paraded out the door and straight to the catfood and it felt so good to let them free again. They're scratching in the kitchen garden right now, two steps forward, scratch-scratch, two steps back, examine the dirt, repeat.
Ah. It is good.

There are hens from next door in my yard all the time. I do not know why Elvis hasn't used his manly wiles to attract them to his harem. Perhaps they are feminist hens, more inclined to risk being husband-free than to accept his protection and fucking. Ah well. All I know is that there is something that just settles me to see the chickens in the yard. The fox is gone and for now, I think they will be okay. They came up on the kitchen porch and I gave them some old corn muffins I'd found in the refrigerator last night. They were so happy.

It is hot and the crickets are singing a pulsing rhythm like the rush of blood through the arteries of the land. Yesterday's rest was the best thing I could have done for myself and I feel fine today. We ate those fresh peas last night with a salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, vidalia onions and sliced-thin steak that Mr. Moon brought home from the island which they'd grilled. It was a wonderful salad. The peas were tender and tasted of fresh green and I'd cooked them with brown rice and the leftover okra and tomatoes and onions and corn from the night before.
Perfection at the table.

After supper I laid on the couch and we watched Pawn Stars- my new addiction- and American Pickers and Zeke cuddled me and I called him my little boyfriend. He licked my face as if asking pre-forgiveness for the poop I would step in this morning.

And so it goes.

I haven't yet figured out how I am going to fill this day ahead of me but that's okay. I don't really need to. It is filled on its own and my activities within it are really of very little importance. The chickens will scratch, the crickets will sing, the trains will run, the heat will rise, the dirt will bake, the bees will make love to the phlox, the tiny finches will come to the feeder, the squirrels will chase each other through the trees, the airplanes will drone overhead, the tomatoes will ripen, the earth will turn, slowly, as it does, this day passing as it will, me in it, of it and not its master or director of anything at all of importance.

Which feels completely fine. And I am happy with that.

Life In The Slow Lane

Lace Cap Hydrangea.
Voodoo Lily
Close-up of the stem.


Okay. I guess I've finally learned my lesson.
I think that my favorite hen, Shalayla, is gone. I haven't found any feathers but she's not around. Owen and I were on the front porch this afternoon and I saw Elvis standing in the corner of the front yard. Something about the way he was standing- as still as a statue- gave me a little frisson of fear. The other three hens were standing back in the bamboo, hidden, and I told myself, "Aw, nah. She's fine. She's on the nest." I'd just seen her a few hours earlier on the front porch.
But she wasn't on the nest and I haven't seen her since and it's getting on towards sunset and she's not with the other sister-wives and usually, by this time of night they're all together, getting their last bits of bugs and sips of water and letting Elvis have his good-night sex with them before they go to roost.
Shit.
Mr. Moon told me not to let them out of the coop. And yet, I did.
Lord- how many times have I saved that hen's life? Our old rooster Sam couldn't get enough of her and he pecked an honest-to-god hole in her head and practically skinned her back when he fucked her and I treated her with a salve made of golden seal and antibiotic ointment and we killed Sam and ate him because he was mean and we couldn't tolerate that.
Oh Shaylala.

Life in the 'hood. What you gonna do? Keep those sweet hens and Elvis shut up, no matter how much they want out, no matter how much I love watching them scratch around the yard.

Besides that, it's been a good day. Owen kept me running, kept me busy.

Do you remember when Roseanne was Roseanne Barr and first started her career? Not unless you're of a certain age, but she did this bit where she talked about her husband coming home from work, looking around the house and saying, "What in hell do you DO all day?" and she said, "You get home and these kids are still alive, I've done my job."
I have to tell you, that line gave me a lot of comfort in the years when I had kids at home from the ages of thirteen-down-to-newborn. Four of them.
And with Owen, that's my job too. Keeping him alive. And every day he's learning things and doing things that are making that harder and harder.

Just today he learned to open the gate in the fence. He's been trying to figure this out for some time now and today, he did. He walked right through it and looked at me and raised his hands in the air in victory and jubilation and I just went, "Aw, Jeez."
I turned my back for one second when he was in the house and he was halfway up the stairs.
He handed me a knife that you could use to gut a pig. I don't even know how he got it.
And when I was fixing his lunch in the kitchen, which is about five feet away from the dining room, I said, "Go on in and get in your high chair."
He went in the dining room and slammed the door and I put his food on his plate and took it into the dining room and he wasn't there. The door into the Panther Room was shut. The dining room is not a big room, y'all. I wondered if he'd been transported, perhaps even Raptured.
"Owen, where ARE you?" I didn't panic but I was mystified and I know how fast he can get in trouble so yes, I was a bit worried. Finally I opened up the closet door, and there he was, giggling at having figured out how to add another dimension to Peek-A-Boo.
Again- Aw, Jeez.

And then this- we were in the garden and were picking green beans. He had one in each hand. "Two!" he announced.
Do you know how profound that is? He knows the concept of two. More than one. Two. We do count things around here. Mostly eggs. Now beans.
That boy.
He put on my red cowboy boots and was walking around with them on. They come up to his hips so he's all straight-legged and he's falling over and getting up and taking pigeon steps and he's laughing and I'm laughing so hard that I had to sit on the floor. We laughed and laughed.

That's all one day. One day. And I had him yesterday so it's not like it's been a month.

And so it goes. Hawks get hens and boys learn new things. We went for a walk today and there was a train stopped behind the post office. We wheeled over and checked it out. Two giant engines and Owen was entranced. Finally the engineer (or the guy who sits next to him), slid his window open and waved at us. We waved back and watched him drink his coke, watched him check his notebook. Finally, the airbrakes let off and the engines revved and the whistle blew and slowly, slowly, the train moved away, the heartbeat rhythm chug, chug, chug and we were entranced. We saw puppies on our walk. "More and more" as Owen said. Lots of puppies. More than two.

It's been a good day except that Shalayla is gone. I weeded cucumbers, I found one ready to eat. The tomatoes are really coming in. The yard-long beans are at least nine inches long. I killed two yellow flies. Smack. Done. I'm going to eat curried vegetables again tonight.
Mr. Moon may be home tomorrow. He's flying out of Las Vegas late tonight and I miss him so. Whether he needs to stay at his sister's and finish up some painting there will determine his arrival here. I've almost forgotten what it's like to have a husband.
Yeah. Probably not.
I still know how to ride a bicycle and it's been quite some time. Longer than a week.

It's been a good week in Lloyd. Except...
Shalayla.

I'm a bad chicken-mama, wanting to give them freedom and offering them death on the wing instead.

Well. I kept that boy alive.

I've done my job. For today at least, I've done my job.

Old Cracker Girl

I am wary of it truly being spring. I do not trust there to be no more frost until the pecans begin to leaf and they are far from that.
But...
I was compelled today to take a few of the porch plants back out and to pull to the front those I had huddled near the porch wall so that I could cover them during freezing weather.
It made me so happy, putting things to rights and trimming off winter's dead. Everything looks a bit sparse and weary but I know what will happen soon. There will be new growth, there will be regrowth. There will be green.
I watered everything and it just felt right.

The chickens who are curious creatures, decided to come and check out the rearranging and watering I was doing and for some reason, there is absolutely nothing to me as charming as a chicken on the front porch. My friend-from-childhood calls me an old Cracker Girl.
He seems amazed at this, and frankly, so am I.

And yet, here I am.

Completely and entirely happy to have my plants back on my porch and to see the chickens exploring there, their wet little tracks on the porch boards in the warm spring air.