He's Home

All of yesterday was dash-dash-dash. Run, run, run. Race the clock, try to beat it.
I found new pants which are going to CHANGE MY LIFE at the T.J. Maxx after the house-signing and I am not kidding you. They are black jeans, corduroy and they fit me and they will look good with anything so that was worth the time.
But then I raced home and made the soup and finished the laundry and dealt with the chickens and took a shower and put on mascara and my new pants and got in the car and drove to town and dammit- traffic. I forgot traffic. Of course I got stuck behind everything including a fire truck who was obviously lost and I had to stop and get gas because I am one of those people who, if the needle is anywhere below half, freaks out. Yep. That's me.
And it was almost in the red!
Every second was ticking away and I could see Mr. Moon coming down the hallway and where was I? Where was his wife?
Stuck behind traffic.
I finally got to the airport, parked, flew into the building on legs, not wings, and yes, there he was. Walking down the hallway.
Ah. Sigh. Mr. Moon was home.

Of course the airline lost some part of his deer and we had to deal with that and then we drove to Lily and Jason's so Mr. Moon could see how big Owen is getting and there was some snuggling and smiling and fussing and snorgling and sniffing and hugging and kissing.

And then home. Finally home. With my sweetie.

I took him into the guest room and...
No. Not that.
"Gas!" I proclaimed.
He sniffed and said, "Well, to me it smells like something dead."
And just like that, I realized he was right. It IS gas, but the sort of gas which escapes from a dead critter (rat, possom, squirrel?) under the house and which seeps up into the room with noxious intent.
Well. You can't die from THAT smell. But I doubt anyone will be sleeping in there for a few days.

We ate soup, we went snuggled a bit. We went to bed. He said it was the coldest night he'd had in ten days- I like to sleep with the window open and many covers on top of me. Again- that's me.

And this morning he stayed in bed late for him and that was lovely and now we're up and there's a lot to do but he's home.
And suddenly, it all makes sense again on a different level and again I realize- where he is, that is my home, and it's been nice having time to myself but mostly because I share my life with this man who always comes home and I can count on that.

Buster's happy too. Can you tell?

And it's a beautiful day in Lloyd, Florida. Crisp and cool and the man is home. I have new black pants, I think I know what I can wear to the wedding events, I can kiss my man any time I want, there is no gas leak, my soul is at rest, my heart is at peace.

So okay. He just came in and said, "How about a picture with my horns?" And so I took a picture of him with his, I mean, the deer's horns.

Can I tell you how much I never once in my life had any thought that I'd marry a man who not only hunted but who would want me to take his picture with his deer horns?

Well, life is strange and frequently works out in ways you'd never imagine.

I should have gotten a picture of him snuggling Owen or cuddling Miss Betty which he also just did, but I didn't. Those, of course, would have been more of the style of Bless Our Hearts but by now he's part of whatever style it is I have and so there you have it- Mr. Moon holding his deer horns. My dear man with his deer horns.


He's home. He's safe. He's happy. He's well.
Me too.

Still Life With Lillies (Or, Fragments of Fragments)

Okay, okay, okay.

Today's the day Mr. Moon is coming home. And I have to go to town to sign on Lily and Jason's house deal. And of course I have to wash the sheets and do whatever laundry is to be done because my laundry room is going to look like Mt. Camo tomorrow and that's no lie.
And then there's the fact that day after tomorrow we head to Dothan, Alabama for The Wedding. And I am so far from ready that it's ridiculous.
Do I feel stressed?
Mmmm.
No. Because really, I'm still floating on a strong current with my eyes closed on that River of Denial.
I have no idea why I feel so (relatively) calm about all of this but I do.

Kathleen came over last night and we chilled. I made some supper and we ate on the porch and we finally got caught up on some things. Maybe that had something to do with my peace of mind. And I got to see Lis yesterday, briefly, but it was a delicious moment. And then, that afternoon with my Owen where he gave me smiles and made me laugh and slept on my shoulder.

*******************************

Boy. You can forget all that fucking tranquility I wrote about up there. Before I went to yoga. Why in hell do I go to this yoga class? My teacher- oh, bless her heart.
She is the exact opposite of someone you'd think would take up yoga. While we were in Savasana she read OUT LOUD the ways Savasana benefits the body and mind. Which made me want to scream, "Not if you're talking during it!" And then right after that she said, "Bring your attention back to the room," and well, let's just say my attention was very much already back in the room and I was not happy about it.
Oh Jesus. Just hit me with a Mack truck and call it an accident. Call it the comet. Whatever. NOW I am stressed.

So I just went out to the chickens because they're always soothing, right?
Well, not when you find that Sam has bloodied Miss Betty again. I should have gotten her in the nursery cage sooner this morning. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Did I spell that right? I am not Catholic, as you may have guessed.
But I did get six eggs and that definitely means my younger set of hens has begun to lay.

Kathleen and I were talking about roosters last night and how sometimes we just wish we didn't have any. We agreed that although we would never eat one of our hens, we might quite possibly put one of these mean old roosters in the stew pot. And I'd use Sam's feathers on a hat. Honestly, I know I can't kill him. I think things might start rocking in the coop though, as Elvis has grown taller than Sam and he's not done growing yet. As soon as he figures out that he's bigger and stronger, well, I don't know what'll happen but it may include the words Cock Fight. The other day Harley, my almost-four-year-old neighbor said to me, "Did you know that chickens are actually flying dinosaurs?"
"Yes," I said. "I did know that." And boy, all you have to do is look at a rooster's legs and talons and blow them up in your mind to the size of Tyrannosaurus Rex (is T. Rex still a dinosaur? I hate the way they keep taking our dinosaurs and changing them and their names- WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR GENTLE BRONTOSAURUS, HUH?) and you can definitely see the chicken/dinosaur connection. Phew. Glad they're smaller now. I'd hate to try and get the eggs from a Tyrannosaurus Rex nest. Wouldn't you? Gives me new respect for the Flintstones.

Well, I'm not accomplishing a damn thing here. The sheets are dry and need to be put back on the bed. The dishes need washing. I should come up with something to fix for Mr. Moon's dinner because I have a strong feeling he's not going to want to stop in town to eat. I should run to Target and get a few things for the wedding. I don't know what those things would be, but I'm sure I need them. I have to sign on that house. I have to call and give my regrets for the luncheon honoring the Bride and Bridesmaids. We won't be in town soon enough, plus- one less event for me to come up with an outfit for! So far, all I have come up with as to costumes, uh, I mean outfits, are Pagan Hippie ones. I feel fairly certain I'll never be asked back to Dothan whether I say cocksucker to the bride or not. But really- who cares? It's the bride's day (or weekend, in this case) and no one is going to give a shit what the wife of the groom's uncle is wearing. Not one shit.

Oh Lord. Mr. Moon's suit. His one and only suit. Does it need to be taken to the dry cleaners?

I gotta go, y'all.

Love and kisses from the scattered brain of Ms. Moon.

Oh shit. My guest room smells of gas. I REALLY have to go.

Because, Like Ms. Bastard, I CAN

So please. Indulge me.

I took some pictures today. They are of Owen and oh yes, Owen, and then a few of Owen.
Hey! I'm his grandmama. I have a camera. I have a blog.
You knew this day was coming.


He listens to chicken stories. He is happy the new hens are laying eggs now.


He's worried about Miss Betty.


He is dreaming of all the compliments I give him.

He is not dreaming at all. Just sleeping.

He has long fingers.

So he can hold my hand.


He likes to sleep on his grandmother's shoulder.
But not as much as she likes it.
I assure you.

Cages, Flying, Crazy, Frying Pans, Beds

Fuck! I just feel that way today. Fuck! Nothing is going right.

Nothing meaning I can't get damn picture to save my life and I've spent half an hour trying and it's not happening. I tried to get a picture of Miss Betty in her little cage and it looks like this:

Which is how I feel, caged and wounded and I don't know why. There is no cage around me except for the one I've placed myself in. This one, this beautiful one, this one that I have created lovingly. Sometimes I feel as if I have built my own asylum, brick-by-brick, all with my own two hands.

Since Mr. Moon's been gone here are the places I've been: The pediatrician's office twice. Lily's house several times. To lunch one day. To the recording studio to see Lis. To Publix maybe twice. To the Opera House many times. To yoga class. And I swear- I think that's it. Maybe that's a lot of places. I don't know.

Mostly I've been here where I go to the chicken coop, the clothesline, the garden and sometimes I walk down the road and into the woods.

I haven't shopped, I haven't gone to a movie or to the library.

What's wrong with me? What's wrong?

The lyrics to Joni Mitchell's My Old Man keep going through my head.

But when you're gone
Me and those lonesome blues collide.
The bed's too big.
The fying pan's too wide.

But really, I haven't been lonesome. I was a little bit last night but I started writing and it was all okay. Then I made my supper and I have a lot of frying pans of all sizes and the one I used was not too big. I cleaned up and got in my bed which, with all my pillows and books and Zeke in it, is not too big either. Not really.


Mr. Moon called last night around quarter to midnight. I was already so deep in sleep that the ringing of the phone didn't alarm me. I just reached for it and there he was on the other end and he realized that where he is is two hours behind us, instead of two hours ahead. He apologized but of course I was glad to hear his voice although it was like a voice from another lifetime. He's been gone almost a week and that's so many minutes stacked up, so many minutes of him not being here.

My old man. Back in hippie days, we referred to our significant others as my old man, my old lady. Ironic in that we were so young. But now, those words ring true. I am his old lady. He is my old man.

Tomorrow night I'll go to the airport and I'll wait for my old man to get off the airplane and walk down the hallway towards me. Will he look the same? Will he still love me? Will I be amazed, once again, how tall he is? Will he look at me and wonder how I got so old, so small, so dowdy? Will he have to reconcile the picture he has in his mind of me from twenty-six years ago when I was a glorious young woman with hair down my back?

Ah yah. I feel crazy today.

I need to eat, I need to go to town. I am taking care of Owen for Lily while she gets a tooth filled. I am so lucky to live so nearby my grandson that I can do things like that.

I am not Miss Betty. I am wounded, in a way, but I don't live in a cage. Unless I want to.
My rooster is not cruel to me. He is sweet to me.

Here I go. Let me try out my wings. Let me go hold my grandson. Let me help my daughter. Let me remember that it's not just me here in this little world where I live. My old man will be home tomorrow.

I will reach my face up for his kisses.

I will be glad he's home.

Holy Kisses

Have you ever seen a Springsteen concert live?
I've seen two and at both of them, Bruce and his massive horn player, Clarence Clemons have kissed each other on the lips. It's rather shocking the first time you see it because these are two obviously extremely, well, men who like women a LOT and yet, when they kiss it is with great passion and bravado, great energy and obvious love.

I sort of doubt there's any tongue involved but neither you nor I will ever know that.

There was an AP article in the paper today about Clarance and I won't copy the whole thing. I know my love for The Boss is a bit over the top. But if you do want to see it, you can go here and there it will be. In the article Mr. Clemons talks about his long-time career with the E Street Band (thirty-four years), his long-time love for Bruce, and his health, which is not good. He's had, among other things, two knee replacements and three hip replacements and has a pace maker. He's suffered a lot of pain. He's spent time in a wheel chair, done a lot of PT, worked hard to be able to stand on stage to play his sax again with the band he loves.

And man, reading all this just moved me.

He says, in one part of the article, that although Springsteen was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the E Street Band was not (and how the FUCK did that happen?), "When a fan says, `Man, you saved my life; I heard Jungleland ... and I cried ... and I felt joy in my life again,' that's my hall of fame."

And I was thinking about that. How music can save your life. I've written about this before and it's true. It might be Joni Mitchell that saved your life or it might have been Bach or it might have been Loudon Wainwright III singing a song about suicide that was so freaking great and made you laugh and cry that you decided not to kill yourself or may have been a song by his son. I think the Beatles have probably saved more lives than heart surgery. But no matter what music it is that finds its way to you when you need it the most, it's always music that was written (and usually played) from the heart, the balls, the ovaries, the gut, the unknowable muse of the mud of the blood of the bone of the soul.

At least that's what I think.

Clarence himself said, "The stage is a healing floor — no matter how bad you hurt."

And of course, of course- it all boils down to some sort of love.

And there you are- two big ol' men who love each other and what they do together on stage so much that they kiss. Here's another quote from the article:

"It's the most passion that you have without sex," says Clemons. "Two androgynous beings becoming one."

"It's love. It's two men — two strong, very virile men — finding that space in life where they can let go enough of their masculinity to feel the passion of love and respect and trust. Friendships are based on those things, and you seal it with a kiss."

So okay, for me, that's like a Holy Ritual. A Holy Ritual Of The Church Of The E Street Band, another religion which this particular branch of the Church Of The Batshit Crazy recognizes.

Wouldn't it be awesome if everyone had that much faith in a friendship, that little fear of being labeled? Wouldn't it be even more awesome if there weren't labels?

Part of this past weekend's performance called for the sound effect of a kiss and during one of the rehearsals, Kathleen and I just leaned over spontaneously and kissed each other. We kept it in and it cracked up the audience. But why? Women kiss each other all the time. I guess not onstage unless they're Madonna and Brittany who were so cutting edge with that kiss they shared a few years back.

But that kiss wasn't shit or original compared to what Clarence and Bruce have been doing for thirty-something years. And the funny thing about it is that it has never gotten THAT much attention- that kiss. Which tells me that it's so much a part of what they're already doing onstage with their music that it's just one more step in what all musicians are trying to do with their music- create something together which is so powerful that it can save lives, it can change worlds, it can put a healing on ya. The E Street Band is as known for their long-time relationship as they are for what they have done in that relationship. Like a good marriage, they can finish each other's sentences, they know what each other's strengths and weaknesses are, they prop each other up, they create a family, a life, something that is bigger than the sum of the members put together. And like in a marriage, they can kiss any damn time they want to.

The E Street Band has had several deaths in the last few years. I'm sure those deaths have rocked the band to its core. But the band is still rocking, still doing what they do.

And I hope that Clarence Clemons is around for a long time to come to rock with them. I hope he and Bruce have the opportunity to kiss each other on the lips for years and years to come with the joy and abandon they have always had, even if they are in their fifties, sixties, or seventies.

That's what I hope.
And I hope I get to see them at least one more time. Drag my sorry, agoraphobic ass up and out to go to an actual concert, feel the love and sweat and joy coming from that band. It would probably change my life.

Ah well. That's what I'm thinking about today.

That and men kissing.

I guess it's time for Mr. Moon to come home.

The Church On A Monday Morning In November

The light was so gorgeous this morning, shining through the trees which were steaming like smoke that I was almost late to yoga because I had to go out and take these pictures.



There's a lot more I could say but none of it as important as light. None of it could compare to the way the light made my yard look this morning.

Happy Monday.

I Am Not A Joiner

It's evening here in Lloyd and it's been a good day.

I got to hold Owen while he was in a good mood and I told him chicken stories and also a joke that Colin told us last night while we were waiting in the wings about elephants' assholes. Owen liked the chicken stories better and during one, while I was telling him how Sam is trying to KILL Miss Betty by pecking her head bloody, he cocked and arched an eyebrow and then smiled as big as the world. Ah yes. That boy.
I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love Owen, his smell, his fuzzy head in my palm, his sweetness when I change his diaper, his tiny butt, his plumping face, his bow-tied lips, his weight in my hands, his eyes on mine. No. I can't tell you because there are no words.
I not only cried when I left, I cried when I saw his papa a few minutes later in the grocery store where he works. I hugged him and said, "Thank-you so much for giving us this boy. I love you."
And then I picked up a can of Pringle's Light Chips because we were in front of the aisle where they are sold and that's life.

I went back to the Opera House after that to help clean up and collect all my stuff that we used for sound effects. The chains, the plates, the coffee cups, the martini shaker, the pool balls, the toy piano, my knitting, the cough drops, the flasks. Kathleen and Jack and I stored away tables, and mics and Caleb and Larry, our young dudes, helped us.

And then it was time to go to the annual meeting of the Opera House Stage Company of which I am a card-carrying member. Jan gave me my card today. So seriously, I am.

Now I am not a joiner. I don't get involved with anything with the name club in it. I just don't. I don't wear skirts that button down the front and I don't join clubs. But the Opera House Stage Company has no "club" in the name and it meets once a year so it's relatively safe. Or at least one would think.

I sat at a table with Larry and Caleb and Colin and Ron, our Methodist minister, and Kent, Jan's husband who isn't officially associated with the Opera House but who puts in about ten kazillion volunteer hours a year there. Wine was served but I don't drink wine. I could have gone and gotten a beer out of the refrigerator but it was too early for me. But I like the fact that wine WAS served and people were drinking it. And Kathleen had made hummus and cookies and there were chips and crackers so no one was going to starve at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon.

Now you'd think that an Opera House Stage Company meeting would be a meeting that even I could feel comfortable at. Especially one where Kathleen is the chairman and the cookie baker and all the people I love to play with are in attendance. And I felt comfortable. For a while. There is business that must be attended to and it was.
But. But. But.
Even at the Opera House politics get involved.
You see, we have this woman there.
Okay. How do I put this?
She annoys the living fuck out of me.
Now that's a true statement but so what? Sometimes you just get annoyed by people and you don't have to like everyone.
But this woman is someone I cheerfully refer to as my mortal enemy. And the reason I refer to her that way is because of an incident where she blatantly insulted me in print and had the gall to think I would not pick up on the insult because I am southern and therefore inbred and a cousin-lovin', retarded idiot who doesn't know shit.
She is not from the south and the only reason I can imagine that she has moved to our fair county is that she is somehow involved with the witness protection program.

Okay. Okay. Let me stop right here and say that I think this woman has talents which are HUGE and she has done some amazing things at the Opera House and I especially admire her ability to work with children. And that is the truth. She's got what it takes to do what it takes to put on a production and to deal with children and to dream big and make it happen. She works herself to the bone making it happen.
Honestly. She does.

And she's been an asset to the Opera House.
And again I must say: but, but, but.
I think she's trying to take the Opera House over. I think she wants to make it the Broadway of the South. I think she wants to put on productions with paid performers (and that's not just what I think- she's said as much) and I think she's trying to take our cozy little Opera House which does community theater and which IS a community and turn it into an extension of her ego.

All right. Having said all of that, I have to say that I am now so prejudiced against her that if she came up with the best idea ever in the entire universe I would vote against it. And I admit that I'm completely wrong and idiotic (although not inbred, I assure you!) when I say that.

And this leads me to the point of my discussion- I should not go to meetings. When she started talking this afternoon about her ideas, I got anxiety. She talks really fast and doesn't take a breath and she's sitting there with her table of supporters and I don't know- I just freak out.

I'm sort of freaking out just thinking about it.

Phew. Take a breath.

So anyway, the meeting ended and I came home and buried a dead squirrel that my semi-feral cats had killed and eaten the head off of and I did the chicken shuffle and collected a few more eggs and put Miss Betty back in the coop and let the others come in for the night and picked arugula for the salad I plan to make tonight and put away all my sound effects stuff and washed the dishes and now I feel okay. I realize I would much rather bury a decapitated squirrel than attend a meeting- even a meeting made up of at least 60% of people I love.

I used to feel guilty because I didn't want to be the damn secretary of the PTA. I don't anymore. I realize that people who do those sorts of things may bitch about it, but they love doing it or they wouldn't be there doing it.

Me? I just want to show up and audition for plays and help clean up after the production is over and help in the kitchen for dinner performances I'm not in and then come home and wash the dishes and go out to the garden and water my porch plants and then take pictures of my piano from the stairway and have time to go to town and hold my grandson's head in my hand and tell him stories about chickens.

And I'm fifty-five years old and I know that that's okay. I don't want to run the world or a company or even a meeting. Maybe especially not a meeting.

I don't talk fast enough. I don't want to work that hard. I don't want to have to be diplomatic.

I just want to love the people I love and cook a supper and sit on the porch and once in a while, get up on a stage and be someone I'm not.

But I have to say that I was a tiny bit Schadenfreuded when that woman did not get elected to a seat on the board.
And boy, do I feel guilty about that?

Nah.

I just hope I don't get sued for slander for writing this.
And I hope that I've not become one of those old people who can't stand change.

Well. It is what it is and I am what I am.

I told Ron tonight that I have my own church now- the Church of the Batshit Crazy. He seemed to approve of that and wanted (as any good pastor would) to know how big my congregation was. I told him I had no idea. Larry and Caleb wanted to know what our rituals were. I said, "Oh, you know- eating, sleeping. Collecting the eggs. Whatever it is that people do."

I'll tell you this though- we don't have meetings.

Amen and Hallelujah.

I'm going to wash my greens now.

And Kathleen- those cookies were awesome. Thanks. I wish I had some for my dessert tonight. And I am in complete awe of the way you can run a meeting. Someone has to be good at these things and you certainly are.

I'm not and I know it. But I promise you that next year, I will make the cookies.

Sweet Morning Wherein Everyone Is Fed

Ms. Jessie ended up spending the night last night after attending the performance. And by the way, no one was injured in that one. No broken feet or fingers and the cabbage flew like coleslaw as we beat the heads with our sticks and we added silly bits all through the thing that we came up with in the most impromptu manner and I do think the audience enjoyed it. They appeared to be a drinking crowd, which is always the best crowd to play for.

Anyway, we got home late and I slept crazy late, having dreams that were silly and slightly disturbing with absolutely no need to put a call in to Dr. Freud to figure out (I needed a new wallet badly- mine had busted through everywhere and all the money was falling out) although Jessie, who is a good and virtuous soul, got up early to study. This is how I found her this morning:

She'd already fed the cats so I fed the dogs and then the chickens and then us. I made pancakes with wheat and flax and leftover smoothie and Greek yogurt and two very fresh eggs and blueberries and bananas and pecans.



When I set the table for us, I put the honey down and before one second had elapsed, there was a bee on it, licking the stickiness off the side of the bottle:


Now how did that happen? I took his picture and then picked up the honey and took it outside and flicked him free into the pretty fall day.

"Harrumph!" he probably said, flying off to find less-easy nectar in the firespike, the marigolds, the zinnias, the loquat blossoms.

It's Sunday at the Church Of The Batshit Crazy. We lick the honey off our fingers, the bee licks the honey off his legs, the dog licks the pan the sausage was cooked in and I'm licking the sweetness off the day.

Kathleen Figured It Out

It was probably a bird feeder!

I Gave A Gift, I Got A Gift

Some days you sort of need a reason to go take that walk and today mine was that I was going to stop off at Ms. Liola's house on Main Street and give her some cuttings of firespike to root. So I cut the beautiful blooming things and put them in a quart jar and took off down the road to her house and knocked on her door and handed them over. She was happy with them. I told her to let them root all winter in a not-very bright area and then to plant them in the spring.

We talked about our families and so forth and then I went on my way down the road on my usual path and at one point I needed to pee.

This is not unusual for me on a walk which lasts more than half an hour. I'm old. I've had four babies. Etc. So I stepped off the path and into the woods and found a secluded spot and squatted, got up, pulled myself together and was walking back to the path when I came upon this:


What the fucking fuck? It's about the size of a cigar box, has a screen bottom and is, yes, a box of some sort. It's so fragile that I barely made it home intact. The letters are made of bent metal. It was on a pile of wood, sitting right there on top, and it has to have been sitting there for quite some time because as soon as I picked it up, it started to fall apart. The wood is so rotten that the little brackets which hold the letters in place are falling out. In fact, I had to carry the C home in my pocket.

Anyway, I brought it home and took it's picture and now it's sitting on the old typewriter on my front porch. It's beautiful to me and I have no idea what its purpose was or what sort of place it adorned. A home? What was the screen in the bottom for? Was there a top? Who took the time to make those letters and put them there on the front?

Any ideas?

I feel like the woods gave me a present today and it's nice to be reminded that stepping off the path occasionally, whether to pee or for some other purpose, can lead to things you never could have imagined.

Inside And Out

There is a certain freedom about posting on weekends. Not so many people come by here on weekends and I don't feel a need to get a post up by a certain time and today is exceedingly free because I don't have anywhere I have to be until tonight at seven when I need to be back at the Opera House.
Last night went very, very well. Kathleen and I hit all our licks, the avalanches were under control. Okay, there were a few paper-bag explosions that didn't really make the grade but come on- it's all Fake Believe.
This is what I looked like before I left the house. I wish you could really see that hat. It is a thing of beauty. I look old, don't I? Well- fuck it- I am.

The best part about last night's performance was the fact that our playmate who had gone to Pennsylvania to have his eye removed on Wednesday and who didn't get back to Tallahassee until four o'clock in the afternoon yesterday, was sitting in his seat with his costume on when the lights went up.
It was like magic. We had a Plan B ready in case he didn't make it- and who in their right mind would have surgery to remove a cancerous eye and the surrounding tissue on one day and then be onstage the next night?
Well, thankfully our dear man is not in his right mind and he claimed not to be in pain and had taken a TYLENOL before the performance, just in case he got a headache. A Tylenol. Not even an Ibuprofen.
Let me tell you how many hugs he got that night- oh wait- I can't count that high.

The only real misadventure came when Kathleen whacked the FUCK out of her little finger when she was hitting a cabbage head with a big stick. It reminded me of last year when I injured my foot during a performance. Read about that here (with a picture and everything) if you want to.
Anyway, after the cabbage whacking, Kathleen whispered to me, "I think I broke my finger," and there it was, already swelling up, but what can you do? Go on with the play. And she did.
What a trooper!

So that was last night and I got a phone message from Mr. Moon who sounded very happy. He's gotten a large buck and so I'm sure his joy is abounding and that in a year or two, there will be a new deer head on the wall in his den. It takes a very long time for those taxidermists to do their work. I don't know why, but it does. And I'm proud of him. I can't wait to hear the stories.

And this morning I slept in and it's another perfect fall day and so I took my camera around and snapped whatever took my fancy. I was inspired by Maggie May (and when aren't we inspired by Maggie May?) who did this post which was inspired by this blog.
Are you keeping all of this straight, oh you faithful and steadfast weekend readers? You ones and ones of my loves?

So here they are. The pictures I took this morning. Click to make big.

My porch and some of my ferns and sago palms.

A very small green lizard who fell on the tiny porch behind my office when I opened the screen door. He's okay. I promise.

From the mantel in my bedroom. May made the the beautiful Spanish lady doll. She even has underwear. I meant the doll, but May has underwear too. And Lily made me the tiny sock monkey doll a long, long time ago.


On the wall in the mud room. Nice colors, eh?


The loquats are blooming. The bees are in a frenzy.


Woven okra.

The top of the kitchen hutch.

Treasures from Goodwill, treasures from El Marcado in Cozumel, old hand bags.


What I can see when I raise my eyes right now.

Okay. That's it. Run along. Go play. What did you have for breakfast? What are you eating for lunch? Have you kissed a baby? A chicken? Picked a flower, dreamed a dream, touched a lover, smoothed a pillow, drunk your coffee, checked the sky for cloud castles, yawned and stretched, washed the dishes in warm soapy water and then wrung the dishcloth out and hung it over the faucet? Been grateful for two eyes, two hands, two feet, ten fingers, ten toes, and a sweet, sweet heart?

Good.

Happy Saturday.

That Boy Is Fine

Back when my kids were babies and small children, I took them to a pediatrician who is now Owen's pediatrician. He and I differed on opinion when it came to certain things but over the years, I came to fall a bit in love with him.
Thankfully, he never had to save one of my children's lives or anything as dramatic as that. They mostly suffered from the usual childhood illnesses and never too seriously. But what I came to love about him was how he treated me and the children with respect.
He knew I was a nurse and he respected my opinion on what was wrong with the children. He always listened carefully and attentively and asked me questions that he knew as a mother and a nurse I could answer. He certainly disagreed on my decision to birth at home but he respectfully disagreed and when I would bring in my newborn the day after birth, he would smile and congratulate me. And he respected the children and it showed in the way he touched them during exams and listened to them as they got older.
And now he's Owen's doctor.
When we saw him on Tuesday he very strongly said that he did NOT want Lily to quit breastfeeding but that he thought that Owen truly needed to be taking in more calories. His first suggestion was that we contact a lactation consultant whom we already know. He said, "She knows all the stuff I don't." And yes, a pediatrician should probably know all that stuff, but dammit, he admits he doesn't and he wants you to see someone who does.
I respect that.
When we took Owen back today, he had gained a whopping nine ounces which is great for three days. The doctor was pleased and asked Lily all about what she was doing and if her milk production seems to have increased which he said it does sometimes just because the pressure is off. He asked if we'd seen the lactation consultant.
And we were all very, very happy.
Lily has done everything she knows to do. She's researched the subject thoroughly. She takes the supplements, she co-sleeps, she gets rest and plenty of water. She eats well. She is doing everything any one could do and she is going to the breast feeding support group next Wednesday. I think she is predictably upset that her milk doesn't seem to be enough for Owen but he also has a bit of a tongue-tie problem which makes nursing harder than drinking from a bottle and that may be the problem right there. They're going to get that fixed.
And so I feel better about things. I keep telling Lily that she's doing everything just right. And that the important thing is that Owen is getting breast milk, it's still the main part of his diet, he still loves the nurnies, and now he's growing.
There's so much to worry about when you're a young mother. I so well remember.
When we were leaving today, the doctor, who is now a grandfather himself said to me, "Now you stay out of trouble." I looked at him as if...what? What trouble could I get into?
And I realized he was saying, "Don't worry so much."
"Just enjoy that baby," he said. "You've paid your dues with yours. Just enjoy."
Once again, I felt respected. He knew how I was feeling and he wanted me to know that it's now time for me to just enjoy the fruits of my labors. Or my daughter's labor, as it were.
I appreciated that. I needed to hear it. Because Owen is everything to all of us who love him. But Lily is his mother and she is doing a great, great job.
In fact, at one point, the doctor looked at Lily and said, "You're doing great, Lady."
And it seemed like it was yesterday that I was the mama and Lily the little naked baby on the exam table and those same hands had palpated her tummy that were palpating Owen's and he was telling me I was doing a great job. I could have died for pride of Lily.

Yep. I still like that doctor.

And now it's time to get ready for tonight's performance and although I am nervous, I know I don't have to worry about my Owen. He is gaining weight and he is with his mama and his daddy who are giving him the best and most loving care that he could ever receive.

And he has a good pediatrician. Whose voice Owen seemed to be fascinated by. And who has comforted my fears for a good long time now- decades- and is doing a good job comforting Lily's.

I feel very lucky. Very lucky, indeed.

This Is Your Brain On Fish

I admit it. I'm an idiot. The camera has risen again (try that one, Lazarus!) but then today I bumped it. Gently. Okay, not so gently and now it's giving me this message. Card Setup. Reformat. Etc.
Sure, sure I could go read the damn manual but really- I DON'T WANT TO!
Shit.
I feel like my head is exploding. For no reason whatsoever. It's not like I have a boss breathing down my neck demanding that the Johnson contract be on his desk by four-thirty this afternoon.

We're doing the radio play tonight and I need to be quiet and focused. But like my camera, my brain seems to want me to reformat the card. I wish.
Reformat?
Please. I beg of you.

Okay, okay. I reformatted the card on the camera. Here's proof:


That's a picture in my dining room of a Frida Kahlo print which my friend Kerry gave me with a vase of rooting firespike and my grandfather's old dresser lamps. And the frame that the picture is vaguely in? Mr. Moon found it down at the dump. How cool is that? At the dump place (depot?) in Lloyd, people set things they think others might be able to use right next to where you throw your trash. Isn't that nice? We all do it. You never know what you might find.

Anyway, back to my head exploding. I think part of the problem is technology. I love technology. Well, I love my MacBook. But I fear it's going to just completely quit on me in about two months because that's when the Apple Care Protection Plan runs out. We all know how these things work. But get this- last night Ms. Sarcastic Bastard and I actually talked on the phone for about an hour and a half and it was so much fun. And I never would have met her if not for the blog world. Ever. She lives in Buttfuck, Ohio and I live in Buttfuck, Florida. Never our twains would have met! And listen- don't let her tough-guy, wool-fetish, motherfucking language fool you- she is a sweet, darling woman who sounds as if she is about twelve years old and besides that, she's a genius, but if you read her blog, you already know that.

Okay. So I love the blog world.

But I have eleven unread blogs in my google reader right now and I haven't answered all my comments and my floors need sweeping and I am going to town in a while to go with Lily to the pediatrician because Owen has not been gaining weight and she's been working on it and supplementing breast feeding with some formula because she's been nursing him about eighteen hours a day, with love and patience and that just hasn't been enough. So that's a worry because I want my grandson to be a fat little chunk and he's not. I'm sure he's going to be fine and I am now realizing that my ability to breast feed was just handed to me like a miracle and it's not that easy for everyone else. Phew! So there's all of that and I'm a tiny bit worried about Betty, though not in the same way. I painted her head again this morning and it looks better and she laid an egg, so I suppose she's not at death's door. If all else fails, I am going to give her to Kathleen to try to incorporate into one of her little chicken communities. I would hate to give her up but I really couldn't stand to see her die at the beak of Sam.

So I'm thinking of all of these things and the WEDDING next weekend and how I need panty hose for tonight (dang!) and I should paint my fingernails for the play and my head feels like it's full of those little minnows they use to bite the dead skin off ladies' feet in fancy spas in Japan. They're all just swimming around inside my head, biting off pieces of neurological pathways, busy, busy, busy and yoga did not help. My teacher obviously has those tiny fish in her head, too, and she was as scattered as I am. It didn't help that we discussed politics AND religion during class.

And here it is noon and the day is half over. And I haven't even posted this. And I should go on a walk and see if that helps to reformat my brain and look- if I don't comment on your blog today and if I don't answer your comments on MY blog, please forgive me. It's these fish. And the chickens. And the floors. And the grandson. And the panty hose. And the world-peace issue. I don't know. I don't know.

Nibble, nibble, nibble.

Happy Friday, y'all.
Love....Ms. (Batshit Crazy Brain-Fish) Moon

Update On The Perfect Day

Well. Hmmm.
It's been a GOOD day but not perfect.
And all was going exactly as planned until Miss Betty decided that she needed to go back out into the coop with all the chickens and Sam pecked her head bloody.
Jesus.
I sort of fixed up the old nursery coop and have her in there now so he cannot get to her. I feel sick. I mean the back of her head looks terrible. I put hydrogen peroxide on it and mixed up more antibiotic ointment and golden seal and thinned it with olive oil (I am going entirely by the seat of my pants here) and put that on her poor little head. I had to thin the mixture because her wound was so bloody, even after I blotted it, that the goop wouldn't stick.
I fed her some grapes, which she ate, gave her fresh hay to snuggle in and sugar water (she has to be in shock) and fresh food. I will put her in the hen house after all the rest of the chickens have settled down. I think it's too chilly for her to stay outside in the little coop.

I just don't know what to do. I mean, is Mr. Moon supposed to build an entire new coop and hen house for those chickens who cannot get along with the others?
I know Betty is lonely. Chickens are extremely social animals.
I wish she and the dogs would get along. I'd let her stay in the house with me. I swear. I would.
And I can't let her roam around outside because I have two cats. And they can't come in the house because (a) I don't want them there, and (b) The Dogs.

All of this is making me think about Noah's Ark and what a bullshit story that one is. I can't even get three different species of animals to get along peacefully. How in hell did Noah get every species on earth to settle down in that Ark? One wonders how many species never made it through the flood, either being eaten by another species or being tossed overboard by Mrs. Noah when Noah's back was turned.

Well. This ain't no Noah's Ark around here, it's The Church Of The Batshit Crazy and lions decidedly do not lay down with lambs and I suppose chickens cannot live in the house.

Dammit.

And The World She Is My Oyster

I have no where to be today and nothing I have to do. Do you know how happy this makes me? And it's gorgeous. Cool but not cold, and the sun is out.

So far I have spoken to two of my children, taken the trash and the recycle (and there is something really funky going on down there at the dump place), been to the Post Office, dropped soup off at Petit Fleur's (I did end up making just the soup I described last night), been out to the chicken coop, given Miss Betty her special grapes and feed and put golden seal goop on her head where it has been pecked, patted and loved her, stopped myself from kissing her because...she's a chicken! (okay, I didn't stop myself- I kissed her- but not on the beak and there was no tongue involved!), half-tidied up my bedroom, found a book I was missing, and started a load of laundry.

And I am so happy!

I'm going to take a walk, clean the chicken coop, and write. I am actually in my office right now where it is beautiful and peaceful.

To me, this is all the perfect day. Isn't that crazy? The only way it could be more perfect is if Owen suddenly magically appeared in my arms, smiling that goofy gorgeous Owen smile at me.

And look what I found last night in the nesting box. A giant, beautiful green egg, left like a gift, like a good omen, like a promise of the richness of life:

The brown egg is the size of what the grocery store would sell as a large egg. The green egg is so much bigger that it's ridiculous. When I put it in the Extra Large Egg Carton I keep my eggs in, the lid would not shut! I'm saving it to show to Mr. Moon. I have no idea who laid this egg or why it's so big. But there you have it- a mystery, a surprise, a calcium-enclosed feast of goodness.

So now you know what my perfect day consists of: no where to be, nothing that has to be done, sunshine, lovely chickens, cleaning their house, and one giant egg.
Yes. I am crazy.

Now. What is your idea of a perfect day? Tell me. Please. I'd love to know.

Playing With Friends

It's windy, chilly and dark out. If Mr. Moon were not in Canada, I would have soup simmering on the stove. Maybe something like mixed bean with collards and chunks of sweet potato with a little bit of deer sausage in it. I'd have bread rising and the kitchen would smell good and the dogs would be waiting at the door, knowing that he is coming soon.

Somehow they know that he's not coming home tonight. I don't know how dogs know such things, but they do. Even stupid dogs, like my own.

And so it doesn't seem as cozy here tonight. And my kitchen is chaos because I left in a huge hurry this morning after finishing up the food I was making for Billy and Shayla. I have a special post-partum meal that I make for new mothers. It goes like this: A huge salad made with spinach and Chinese cabbage and snow peas and sliced steak and red onions and mushrooms and boiled eggs and sesame seeds and cherry tomatoes. I got this recipe years and years ago from a Southern Living magazine and the dressing has a CUP of oil in it as well as chili sauce and vinegar and soy sauce. It's a completely sinful salad but has iron in the form of greens and animal protein and is just what a woman who has given birth needs. Or at least that's how I rationalize it and it's a tradition with me now. I also make a loaf of bread and a prune cake which is a heavy, dense spice cake with a caramel icing on it and as we all know, prunes are good for a newly-made mother.

Anyway, the kitchen is a mess. I've been gone all day and just got home from Monticello where we had our last rehearsal before this weekend's Live Radio Theater as the Opera House calls what we do onstage for these radio shows. They're a hoot and I do enjoy them. Since all scripts are read instead of memorized, the stress level is pretty nil. This is the third year I've gotten to work Foley, which is sound effects, with Kathleen. We've got our act down fairly well although my skills suck as a sound effects person. I don't make the door open with enough squeakiness and I forget to do things because I sit there and go off into Owen-Zone or who-knows-where and Kathleen has to hiss at me.

"Door! Knock on the door!" Etc.

We have a huge wind machine, a miniature door, a new miniature screen door which Colin made (whenever we need anything we just say, "Oh, Colin can make it and he does) which slaps nicely, just the way a screen door should. We have pots and pans to rattle and twigs to snap and a phone bell to ring and heads of cabbages to beat with sticks to replicate the sound of someone getting beat up and water to pour and chimes to ring and chains to rattle and paper bags to blow up and pop for explosions and wheelbarrows full of rocks to dump over the side of the stage for avalanches. I was told tonight that my avalanche was not so good. I don't care about good so much as funny but I understand that I need to do it better. I think it's going to be a hoot, though, to see a woman dressed in heels and a hat dumping a wheelbarrow full of rocks over the edge of the stage. Actually, Kathleen and I both get to do an avalanche this year. Her's are better than mine. I admit it.

Actually, I can't believe they keep letting me keep coming back to do this. I think it's because they think that if I got fired, Kathleen might not come back and she's wonderful and they need her. But honestly, the Opera House is so open and loving and friendly that they probably just let me come back because I want to. Plus, I amuse them sometimes.

Tonight when we were practicing our bows, our director said, "And now acknowledge the girls," meaning me and Kathleen and I grabbed my breasts and pushed them up and everyone laughed.
Let's face it- we do this to amuse ourselves as much as we do it for any other reason.

As I have said so many times I am a hermit at heart and it takes a lot to get me out of the house. Going to the Opera House is definitely worth leaving home for. I love the people there so much. We range from a sixteen-year old home-schooled girl who is a tremendous actor, to two boys who are like 19 and 21 who show up to audition for shows and I'm not sure why, but we sure do love them and they're great and I think we amuse them, to a Methodist minister and his beautiful, funny wife to other folks who do I know not what but who just love being in that old theater.

And as I have also said so many times before, there is something magical about that place. Some say it's haunted. I don't know. I just know the costume/prop room is a place I avoid going alone and I also know that the Opera House is my happy place.

I go there and I feel welcome and I feel as if I fit in. I don't know why. I just do and am grateful.
So very, very grateful.

And now I better clean the kitchen, try to create order out of chaos which is a never-ending job and not as creative as what I do in the Opera House but it's satisfying in its own way. I will find something to eat. It's just me so who cares? I'm sure I'll make myself something wonderful that I love to eat before Mr. Moon gets home but tonight is not that night. It's been a long, busy day and I got to see all of my children, my grandson, and a lot of people I love. I got to play at the Opera House and now I'm home in my own beloved house and even though Mr. Moon is not here to be cozy with, it's still a fine place to be.

I hope that you, too, are cozy and that you have a place you can play sometimes with people you love. There is a time to be serious and there is a time to be silly and both are important.
Don't forget that.
Gather your toys, whatever they may be, and play with them. And by all means- share with your friends.

That's the advice I have tonight from Lloyd, Florida.

Go play. And remember to get enough iron. And do not forget your prunes.

Prideful And Prejudiced

Last night May and I were on the phone discussing Pride and Prejudice which I had just finished listening to on tape. To be quite honest, I don't think I'd ever read it before and I'm not sure how that happened.
I told May that at first, I was not impressed with the book. I just did not CARE about those people and their silly crazy eighteenth century white English people problems. But I kept listening and before I knew it, I was suddenly quite involved in their lives and had put aside my OWN prejudice about how those people's society was run and cared very much as to whether Elizabeth would end up with Mr. Darcy. Mostly because I wanted her to live in his house but still....
Anyway, in the midst of this discussion, a fight broke out in my library. The young dogs had ganged up on old Pearl and I had to throw the phone down and break the fight up, tossing poodles and a Yorkie through the air to get them off Pearl who stood, shaking and confused.
After I got everyone settled down and checked Pearl for injury, I called May back and we talked about how animals just go crazy sometimes and it's so hard to understand what's going on in their minds. Look at Sam and Miss Betty- I don't understand why all of a sudden he has to prove his dominance over her. It's just so CRUEL, as cruel as the small dogs attacking Pearl.
But just as I can no more go back and live in the eighteenth century and truly understand the way their society worked, I cannot live in the mind of a dog or a chicken and understand how their society works.



The rules and opinions and culture of Jane Austen's time may seem silly and ridiculous to me and the rules and culture of dog packs and chicken flocks do too. And I have no more right to judge English society two centuries ago than I have the right to look at what my animals do and label it cruel.
It is what it is. Or, it was what it was.

And so it goes. I live in my world with my rules and my prejudices and my pride and I can't change the way the chickens perceive the pecking order in their world or go about establishing it. It breaks my heart to see Miss Betty hiding in the hen house day after day and it makes me furious and sad that Pearl gets attacked.

But it's the way of their worlds for animals to act this way.

The weak and the small and the old are not perceived as being worthy of food and attention, I suppose, and the way to deal with that is to kill the weak, the small or the old. It makes perfect sense to them and it has evolved this way for a reason, even if it disturbs my human sensibilities.
I wonder how humans evolved the way we have done- to care about the weak and the needy. There are stories always coming out about animals who do this too- mother lions who adopt puppies or chimps who act in what we would see as compassionate ways but these stories enchant us because not only do they remind us of US, but precisely because they are so rare.

I don't really have a point here except to say that just because we see things a certain way, it does not mean that is the way things are. Just because we would want the world to hold hands and be at peace, it doesn't mean it will ever happen.

Cultures and countries and societies and religions and social rules and our animal instincts and our human brains all contribute to differences between us that no matter how much we want to believe we are all, under the skin, the same, ensure that they are not.

And so it goes. It is interesting to read words written hundreds of years ago, to get involved with the characters, to hope they end up in happiness. It is human to want the animals we live with to all get along and act "civilized."

But what is "civilized"?

Hens being attacked in the chicken coop, dogs being attacked in the library.
These events occur in the societies of animals, civil or not.
I may not like these things but it certainly is interesting to observe them.
I may not feel completely at home in Jane Austen's world but it was a pleasure to visit there.

Meanwhile, the chicken house is very smelly and I need to attend to that problem, there is food to be made and taken to people I love, there is a rehearsal this afternoon and I should be icing a cake, writing my silly bio notes for the program for this weekend's performance and I haven't taken a shower or mixed up the salad and I am running behind.

But I'll leave you with this- I think it is a good and illuminating thing to observe other cultures, whether human or not, whether current or not, with an open mind. To cast aside our own prejudices and pride and observe and learn, thereby enlarging our own worlds.

Oh, Love

Here is a picture of Owen and Lis upon their first meeting which took place today in a recording studio where Lis's CD is being mixed. This is a CD of her own songs and one I have been waiting for her to record forever.

I got to listen to two of the tracks while I was there and all I can say is- don't be wearing your mascara when you hear this recording. And if you're smart you WILL hear this recording when it comes out and I WILL have a link to the website where you can order it. Shameless promotion- that is going to be what I am all about when the CD is ready for release which is scheduled for December 31.

Lis sings like an angel and when she's singing her songs that she has written from the depths of her soul and heart and experience and love, well- I described the songs I heard today to May this way: Like kisses from God.
And the CD has been recorded with so much love and respect and such great musicians. One moment you're soaring to the heavens with your eyes closed and the next you're in a cabaret and you want to be dancing in the arms of someone you love, you want to throw back your head and laugh with the joy of it.

Too much? Shit. Just wait 'til you hear it.
You are going to love it. I promise.

And there she is, holding my grandson and I feel so full of love right now that I can hardly stand it.

Lis and I don't live close enough to each other to see each other as much as we want to and sometimes I think I have to close the door on the part of my heart she lives in because I could not bear it otherwise. And then, when I see her, that door gets ripped off the hinges and I am so happy. Lon, her husband, makes me feel that way too. They are good as gold right down to their souls.

And today I heard Lis's songs and she got to meet Owen.
A special day for me.

A very, very special day. And really, that's all I have to say. That and start saving your pennies to buy the CD. I'd buy a thousand of them and give them away if I could. I promise. But I can't.

I really feel that if you like what you find here at blessourhearts, you will love what you hear on that CD because it comes from the same place my writing does. Different words, different form, different women.
Same heart, though. Somehow it's the same heart.

Plus. You can dance to what Lis does.

And when you hear this CD, you will dance.

I've Got Nothing To Say But It's Okay

Good morning.

There is ALWAYS a line from a Beatles song that will say it all, isn't there?

So I got three hours sleep last night, got up at an ungodly hour this morning and took Mr. Moon to the airport. Tropical Storm Ida has brought us nothing but a bit of rain and so there were no flight delays or cancellations but they say we will get more rain today. Fine with me. The sky has a crazy color and texture to it. I know I posted a picture of branches yesterday but I like this one I just took even better.


I listened to a bit of what our preternaturally tanned governor had to say about the storm yesterday which was something along the lines of that the main things we should be concerned with about this storm are heavy rains, winds, high tides and the possibility of tornadoes.

Yep, Guv, that about sums it up.

The only thing I liked about Jeb Bush was how he'd do his hurricane speeches in both English and Spanish. His brother, our former president, could barely speak English so it was highly surprising and refreshing to hear Jeb speaking the Espanol although he was married to a Mexican woman so I suppose I shouldn't have been too impressed. I doubt G.W. could have learned Spanish if he'd been put in jail in Tijuana for ten years. But perhaps he, too, can speak Spanish. I'll bet if he can, it's not very good Spanish.

Anyway, here I am. My first morning alone and I feel fine. I'm about to go back to bed, to tell you the truth. I just had to get over the worst (best?) of my coffee buzz before I could attempt sleep. When Mr. Moon woke me up at four-thirty I immediately drank a cup of coffee as inky as the sky. Then I had another. It must have worked because I drove home without incident.

I'm a bit excited about having eight days to myself. I wish I could wiggle my nose like Samantha and my entire house would be clean and sparkly. Why did that crazy witch continually try to prove she could live like a regular mortal? That was insane. If I had witchy powers, I'd be twitching my nose all day long and my house would be pristine and so would my chicken coop. As it is, the spiders have taken over again and there is dust everywhere and the floors need mopping. Which reminds me that before I had that first cup of coffee I realized Zeke had peed in my bathroom so I better go clean that up before I go back to bed.

Which I better do now because I might get to see Lis today who is in town to mix her CD and yes, I do have rehearsal tonight. We had rehearsal last night, too, and it was fun. Kathleen and I are a good team as the sound effects gals and besides that, when our pianist was playing and singing "Sentimental Journey," Colin said to me, "Let's dance," and we did, poorly and awkwardly but sweetly, nonetheless, across the stage as the poor musician tried to ignore us.

"They will not be dancing during the performance," said Jan, our director, when the song ended.

"Maybe," I said. And we all laughed. I love the Opera House. I do.

So. Good morning. Good morning, good morning.

I am hoping my husband gets to Canada safely. When he was leaving I said, "Come home to me." He promised he would. He called the house to make sure I'd gotten home safely before his plane boarded.
I'm going to miss him but I'm going to be happy, knowing he's doing something he loves so much.

And there's a rose for you. It's a crap picture but we all deserve flowers.

Good morning.