Clear Sight Of This Moment, At Least

These are the frames I have ordered. As the guy who helped us said, "They match all the colors in your hair." Since there are about fifty colors in my hair, that would not be such a difficult thing to do. Jessie liked them fine. It was a bit stressful and sort of fun but after about forty-five minutes of that shit I just said, "I'm old. Who the fuck cares?" and I got those.
While we were sitting there, waiting for the nice guy to add up all the numbers for the GRAND TOTAL of what I was going to have to pay for one pair of regular glasses and one pair of sunglasses (free frames!) I went rummaging through my wallet and found this.

I must have pulled that out of my mother's stuff and stuck it in my wallet for some unknown reason. I think I was eleven or twelve in that picture and quite frankly, except for the whole hideous process of aging, I think I look about the damn same although hopefully, I do have better taste in clothing. And those glasses I was wearing? 

Totally back in style and all hipster and shit. 

Looking at that child, you'd never know she was being terrorized by her stepfather several nights a week, would you?

Yeah, well, not what I came here to talk about. Not this evening, anyway. 

So I ordered the glasses and was told they're going to take 7-10 business days to get here because of the complexity of my prescription and that's going to be pushing it before I leave for Mexico but the world won't end if they don't get here in time. This I do know.

One of the reasons I got stressed out at the glasses place was that I knew that Jessie had a timeframe and was supposed to meet Melissa for lunch and then a realtor to look at some houses and that Vergil was going to be joining us. As time dragged on and I couldn't make up my mind and then when I DID make up my mind and it took another forty-five minutes to do the actual ordering and measuring of my pupil distance and so forth, I got very anxious. 

"It'll be fine, Mama," Jessie kept saying, meanwhile texting and making calls to try and rearrange things and so forth. I love my children so much. They know me so well and in so many ways are much like I am. Jessie was stressing out that I was stressing out and we laughed about that as we drove to lunch.

We went to Fanny's because of course. Vergil and Greta were there and so was Melissa and May was our server and then Mr. Moon showed up to join us. We sat outside at first because it wasn't, for the moment, raining. 

It was lovely. Gray and soft and all the trees and the grass and the flowers showing up against that pewter. And those sweeties. 

And this sweetie. 

He had no idea his sleeve was tucked up but instead of pulling it down for him, I just left it where it was because I was enjoying the view. The man does go to the gym regularly. 

"Quit taking my picture," he said. "You have a million pictures of me."

"You're just so handsome," I told him.

And he said something dismissive and it sort of hurt my feelings because why wouldn't he believe me and then I thought of how I do the same thing to him when he compliments me and then I just cried a little because I love him so much and he is so handsome and I feel so old and wonder why he still loves me but mostly because I just love him and it's all so complex, it's all so tied up and yet, at the same time, so simple if I just concentrate on the moment which is that here we are and we love each other and I don't have to time-trip, either backwards or forwards; I don't have to do that. I don't have to rue what time has done to either of us and I don't have to fret about what may come because this moment is what we have. 

The kids had to take their food to go because they were late to their appointment with the realtor and it began to rain and so Mr. Moon and I moved to the porch of Fanny's and we ate our delicious food and from where I sat I could see him and the rain and the water falling into the little reflection pool and I could smell all of the blooming roses, wild and untrained and a glory this year, and I felt mesmerized and the rain fell as softly as the tap-taps of a baby kitten's velvet paw and I thought about how we don't really have to go out of town to find moments like this away from our home. Not really. 

As with roses, we should gather them while we may.

I'm at home now, waiting for him to get back from work and the rain is falling again, and again, softly. I still don't mind it and it is cooler than I can ever remember it being in May here. I have planted a coneflower that Liz brought me last night and stuck a piece of an ancient jade plant that Jessie brought me as well as a different succulent piece into pots to root and there is something so elemental and pleasurable to me about sticking plants into earth to root. The jade comes from a plant that was Vergil's grandmother's and when she moved into assisted living, she gave the plant to Jessie and Vergil which is a huge honor as well as a huge responsibility. I hope it roots. I would like to have that piece of Vergil's family history here in my house. 

I just have to tend it well. And succulents are notoriously hardy and tenacious.

As some of us are. As some loves can be. 

We can survive a lot more than one would think possible and still manage to hold on, to even thrive and grow. We may show our age, the results of the passing of years, we may become gnarled and bent but we can bloom. Especially with a little care. A little tending. 

I'm still pretty good at that and so is that man. 

I'm looking forward to getting my new glasses. I'll be able to see the things I love even better. The rain, the leaves, the birds, my children, my grandchildren, my husband. 

Have a good Friday night, y'all. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms

My boyfriend's back in town.

He pulled in just as Owen was about to leave with his daddy and I don't know who was more excited to see Bop-Bop, Owen or his grandmother.
Owen's been asking for Bop all day and the thing I've feared since his birth is starting to happen. Owen realizes that Bop is the one who owns all that beautiful, wonderful, amazing, manly stuff in the garage. The boats, the cars, the truck, the tools, the tires, the machines.

It's too much glory to bear!

And that Bop knows how to use all of those things. And he shows Owen.
What chance does a grandmother have? No wonder grandmothers make all those cookies. It's the only weapon we have in our arsenal which can begin to compete with trucks and boats and hammers and saws and....
Whatever that stuff is.

Did you know that Owen already has a truck?
Well. He does.
Bop better start fixing it up now because Owen'll be turning two in September and he was just born a second ago and in about four seconds he'll be sixteen.
(Be still my heart.)
By then he'll probably know how to tear an engine apart and put it back, fix brakes and change oil and oh, hell. I don't know. All the stuff his grandfather has taught him.

Cookies. Ha!

Owen cried when he left today but honestly, I don't think his grandfather could have carried him across the yard one more time. He's as tired as I've ever seen him. A weekend of spray-washing and painting and then up early this morning to go to the auto auction and then driving home all the way from Orlando.

He unpacked and took a shower and I grabbed him up and reminded him of how much I loved him and told him we'd have chicken and dumplings for dinner. Leftover from two nights ago and thus, better than ever.
His eyes were closing as I left the room.
Stretched out on the clean white sheets, all almost-seven-feet tall of man and he's back.

My boyfriend's back.

I laugh when I think about how when I met Mr. Moon and he was a bit shy because he'd never dated a mother before. "Well I ain't YOUR mother," I told him.
He got over it.

And now, I'm a grandmother. And he's a grandfather.
And we still like each other. A lot.
And the fact that he's the grandfather of my grandson just makes me love him more.
That man.
He's back.
Owen and I are both mighty happy.

We'll be layin' 'round the shack 'til the mail train gets back.
Rollin' in my sweet baby's arms.

Sweet, complete.
Uh-huh.

A Cautionary Tale About Love With Really Long Sentences

All right men, listen up. Follow this story closely and learn something.

If you and your woman spend a day in the yard and garden, working your asses off and getting filthy dirty and then, because you have a small party to attend you go in the house and get all showered and cleaned up and she showers and cleans up AND puts on make-up which she hardly ever does, AND she fits into her jeans which is a small miracle in that she's post-menopausal and fighting with every ounce of her being not to become a pot-bellied gnome of indeterminate sex and you go to the small party and you're leaving the party at eight-thirty at night and she says, "Bill's playing at the blues club," do NOT say, "Well, I'm just not up for that," and then proceed to drive her home thinking to yourself, "Oh boy, now I can get out of these clothes and eat leftover venison stew and watch boxing on TV."

No. Don't do that.

Because after awhile, you're going to wonder why your woman hasn't said a word to you in over an hour and when you ask her what's wrong she's going to say, "Nothing," but in a tone of voice that makes you more than slightly aware that actually something is indeed quite wrong, especially if she's washing a plate with far more vigor than it would seem to require and she won't look at you as you spoon leftover venison stew into a bowl.

Listen- women sometimes have a hard time asking for what they want, even after twenty-something years of marriage and you have to listen carefully to ascertain what a woman really wants and if she's put on eyeliner and gotten into her jeans she may actually not want to come right home and eat leftover venison stew for supper while you watch boxing on TV.
AND that after twenty-three years of marriage it is more important than ever that your woman feels that she is still attractive to you and that when she tries to look her best it is important to notice AND that if she hints she may want to go dancing you need to suck it up and take her.

Or, alternately, just go ahead and eat the leftover venison stew and watch boxing on TV because really, she does love you and she won't hold it against you forever.
She'll just wash the dishes and not talk to you and write a blog about it the next day while you're out in the garden, shredding leaves for mulch.

But even if you don't listen carefully to what she doesn't say and even if you don't pick up the hints she's dropping and even if you don't take her dancing, eventually she'll come outside and admire your mulching and then maybe she'll make you the very best sandwich in the entire world with bacon and ripe, sliced, salted tomatoes and lots of Miracle Whip, just the way you like it and she'll kiss you and tell you she loves you because really, she knows that you love her too, which is why you're mulching the garden and why you'd rather come home and eat some leftover stew that she made out of deer that you brought home than go to any restaurant in the world, and sitting there and eating it in the home you've made together is more satisfying and fun to you than going to a loud, smoky blues club, even if Bill Wharton is playing and she's wearing eye shadow.

If you're lucky.
And if she is too.
And you both know it.