Thursday, November 19, 2015
What Color Is Your Sky Today?
It's gray as fuck this morning and rumbling thunder to the south and raining off and on.
The chickens, bless their hearts, do not seem to care a bit.
Yesterday Mick jumped on Mabel right on the back porch steps and Owen, who'd been sitting at the table with me, got up and opened the door to view the deed and said, "Mick! Stop that!" He even tried to gently bat Mick off the hen and I said, "Oh honey, he's just doing what roosters do. Let him be."
"Do you think it hurts the hen?" he asked me.
"No," I said. Then I thought about it. "Well, maybe a little but it doesn't last long."
Life on the farm. Or, farm-lite.
Mr. Moon reported that later on Mick was hanging around them in the back yard and he asked the rooster, "What do you want, Mick?"
And Owen said, "Probably to fertilize another hen."
Oh boy.
A friend has asked me to lunch and so I'll be going to town for that in a while. I can't believe I still have a friend who would ask me for lunch but I'm glad I do. My phone camera has finally arrived so I'll go drop my phone off. I sure hope that solves the problem. I have a few other errands to run and will do those too. Lily is having Thanksgiving at her house this year but I am doing some of the cooking and need to get ingredients.
God, I'm boring.
Drip, drip, drip says the rain.
Sigh, sigh, sigh, says my soul.
Bawk, bawk, bawk, say the hens.
I will fuck you! says the rooster.
I will sleep, says the cat.
And she does.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
More Videos, A Recipe, A Confession, And A Medical Fact
I believe I may go into the Meyer's Lemon meringue pie business. Last night Vergil and Jessie brought over three lemons from their tree and I've now made two pies. Big pies. These lemons are the size of a baby's head. I make the pies the same way I make key lime pie.
Thusly:
I make a graham cracker crust and bake that a little bit and then I beat three egg yolks and add a can of sweetened condensed milk. I mix that all up and then add about a half to three-quarters of a cup of the lemon juice. I mix that up, pour it into the crust and make the meringue with the egg whites and about a third of a cup of sugar. Maybe a half. I put that on the pie and bake all of it for about ten minutes at 425 degrees.
You can't beat it. No pun intended because actually, beating is involved. The whole darn thing doesn't take more than half an hour to make, especially if you have a lemon the size of a Volkswagen so you only have to squeeze one.
The one I made last night was for us and the one I made just now is for Mr. Moon to take to work tomorrow for the bank's potluck Thanksgiving dinner.
Anyway, I am feeling better now and once again, who knows why? not me, etc.
Maybe it was the sweetness of having the baby in the house again last night and feeling slightly or at least adequately competent at making a supper from leftovers and garden greens and giant lemons. That August is the best baby. He is not cranky at all and when he's awake he likes to look around, talk, smile, and nurse. If his diaper needs changing he does let the world know about it and when he's hungry, he doesn't hide it. But hey- he's a baby.
Also, it was a wonder, as it always is, to be able to talk to my daughter woman-to-woman, mother-to-mother, and yes, still mother-to-daughter. I mean, it's just a joy.
I had a wonderful text conversation with May today wherein she reminded me of the time that we heard an old recording of Helen Keller on NPR and how we couldn't stop laughing because we are SO mean. I should be ashamed of this but fuck it. May said I laughed the hardest. And that we said things like people telling her, "No, Helen Keller! Seriously! You sound good!"
Oh god. I really should be ashamed to tell you this. But it's sort of like that thing where you get into these totally inappropriate laughing jags like in church or at funerals or Catholic weddings or...well, wherever you get into them and you KNOW it's so wrong and if you so much as take a breath, the laughter is going to come out of you in great whoops and cries, and tears start falling from your eyes and usually, someone else is there and since this is a contagious thing, they're about to die too and you can't look at each other because seriously, you'll laugh so hard you'll crack a rib and the priest will throw you out.
So that was a different sort of mother-daughter conversation which was also mean-woman-to-mean-woman conversation and I am proud of the fact that May is as evil as I am. She got that from me.
And please let me say that Helen Keller was one of my main childhood heros and I still can do the alphabet of the deaf or whatever you call that thing. This.
My grandma was deaf and I memorized it so that maybe I could speak to her more easily but somehow, that never happened. Maybe she didn't know it. But that chart was in the back of my beloved biography of Helen Keller that I bought in the fourth grade from the Scholastic book fair so see- I wasn't always so mean.
Anyway, here's the funny thing Owen said to me today. We were talking about school and he said that he'd gotten a stomach ache when they went to Special Area. I asked him if he didn't like Special Area or something but he said no, he loved it but maybe he was getting a tummy bug.
"You know," he said. "When the tummy bug moves into your stomach, it takes four or five days for it to unpack."
And actually? This is medically sound.
So then we got to talking about music and singing and I told him I still remembered some of the songs I sang in elementary school and he asked me to sing some although usually, my singing also causes him to have a stomach ache and so I sang several songs I remembered from childhood ranging from a sea chanty (Cape Cod Boys) to a cowboy song (Streets of Laredo) and then, since he encouraged me to sing more, that famous elementary school round of Zulu Warrior and finished up with a rousing rendition of Mares Eat Oats.
"That one was old when I was a child," I told him.
"Wow!" he said. I can only imagine that he was envisioning me as a small child in a one-room classroom with dinosaurs grazing outside the windows.
Okay. God love youtube.
They call it Cape Cod Girls but whatever.
And unbelievably, this.
Oh my goodness.
It is raining a little bit and supper must be made.
Love...Ms. Moon
Thusly:
I make a graham cracker crust and bake that a little bit and then I beat three egg yolks and add a can of sweetened condensed milk. I mix that all up and then add about a half to three-quarters of a cup of the lemon juice. I mix that up, pour it into the crust and make the meringue with the egg whites and about a third of a cup of sugar. Maybe a half. I put that on the pie and bake all of it for about ten minutes at 425 degrees.
You can't beat it. No pun intended because actually, beating is involved. The whole darn thing doesn't take more than half an hour to make, especially if you have a lemon the size of a Volkswagen so you only have to squeeze one.
The one I made last night was for us and the one I made just now is for Mr. Moon to take to work tomorrow for the bank's potluck Thanksgiving dinner.
Anyway, I am feeling better now and once again, who knows why? not me, etc.
Maybe it was the sweetness of having the baby in the house again last night and feeling slightly or at least adequately competent at making a supper from leftovers and garden greens and giant lemons. That August is the best baby. He is not cranky at all and when he's awake he likes to look around, talk, smile, and nurse. If his diaper needs changing he does let the world know about it and when he's hungry, he doesn't hide it. But hey- he's a baby.
Also, it was a wonder, as it always is, to be able to talk to my daughter woman-to-woman, mother-to-mother, and yes, still mother-to-daughter. I mean, it's just a joy.
I had a wonderful text conversation with May today wherein she reminded me of the time that we heard an old recording of Helen Keller on NPR and how we couldn't stop laughing because we are SO mean. I should be ashamed of this but fuck it. May said I laughed the hardest. And that we said things like people telling her, "No, Helen Keller! Seriously! You sound good!"
Oh god. I really should be ashamed to tell you this. But it's sort of like that thing where you get into these totally inappropriate laughing jags like in church or at funerals or Catholic weddings or...well, wherever you get into them and you KNOW it's so wrong and if you so much as take a breath, the laughter is going to come out of you in great whoops and cries, and tears start falling from your eyes and usually, someone else is there and since this is a contagious thing, they're about to die too and you can't look at each other because seriously, you'll laugh so hard you'll crack a rib and the priest will throw you out.
So that was a different sort of mother-daughter conversation which was also mean-woman-to-mean-woman conversation and I am proud of the fact that May is as evil as I am. She got that from me.
And please let me say that Helen Keller was one of my main childhood heros and I still can do the alphabet of the deaf or whatever you call that thing. This.
Anyway, here's the funny thing Owen said to me today. We were talking about school and he said that he'd gotten a stomach ache when they went to Special Area. I asked him if he didn't like Special Area or something but he said no, he loved it but maybe he was getting a tummy bug.
"You know," he said. "When the tummy bug moves into your stomach, it takes four or five days for it to unpack."
And actually? This is medically sound.
So then we got to talking about music and singing and I told him I still remembered some of the songs I sang in elementary school and he asked me to sing some although usually, my singing also causes him to have a stomach ache and so I sang several songs I remembered from childhood ranging from a sea chanty (Cape Cod Boys) to a cowboy song (Streets of Laredo) and then, since he encouraged me to sing more, that famous elementary school round of Zulu Warrior and finished up with a rousing rendition of Mares Eat Oats.
"That one was old when I was a child," I told him.
"Wow!" he said. I can only imagine that he was envisioning me as a small child in a one-room classroom with dinosaurs grazing outside the windows.
Okay. God love youtube.
They call it Cape Cod Girls but whatever.
And unbelievably, this.
Oh my goodness.
It is raining a little bit and supper must be made.
Love...Ms. Moon
It's National Let Elvis Costello Say It Day
Everyday I Write The Book
Don't tell me you don't know what love is
When you're old enough to know better
When you find strange hands in your sweater
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions
And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
Chapter One we didn't really get along
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three
But you were up to your old tricks in Chapters Four, Five and Six
The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel
When you're old enough to know better
When you find strange hands in your sweater
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions
And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
Chapter One we didn't really get along
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three
But you were up to your old tricks in Chapters Four, Five and Six
The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Piercing Light In Semi-Darkness
The moon has been a sight to see lately; a few days ago it was the crescent of a fingernail from a baby. Tonight it is noticeably sturdier, rising up in the southwest above the naked branches of the pecan.
The Bradford pears still haven't started turning, their leaves a weary yet determined green.
I went to Lily's midwife appointment today and by now I feel as if Diana is a part of our family. A treasured part. I adore her. She is down to earth, feet on the ground, but it's your birth and whatever you want- that's what she'll try to give you. She feels like Mama Knows Best, I think, and I love that. I also love that she tells her mamas to remember "no nookie November." She likes to take August off. Lily and her woman baby are fine. All measurements perfect, all signs good. Heartbeat lovely.
Shoosh-shoosh-shoosh.
We all went to lunch again and passed August around. He is smiling so much now, that goofy toothless baby grin that makes you want to die from the cute. He also is starting to talk in the way that babies do, imitating whoever is talking to him, saying soft little words, his expression so serious, his brown eyes so huge. Gibson sat between me and his Boppy and he kept leaning over to me, memory-foaming his way onto my body, his big-boy head with his thick hair nestled into whatever part of me he could fit it into. My Hank hugged me so good and I laid my head down on his shoulder and just let him hold me and it felt like heaven.
It is truly amazing that sometimes, when things feel darkest, the sharp pierce of light, when it does come, is so bright. I notice it. I register it. I take it in and breathe it. There is nothing on this earth like touch to let the light leak in. Nothing.
I still don't know why I'm feeling this way. Maybe it's all just too much, all this goodness and this aging and the holidays coming and the way the fears and the joys get mixed up and mushed together and it's like when we used to play pinball and the older boys would shove those machines around with their bodies, their fingers working the flippers like kung-fu-fighting and suddenly there would be TILT! TILT! TILT!
Back off. Slow down, cowboy.
Jessie and Vergil are bringing that little boy out in just a few moments to eat supper and watch the Duke game. I had to ask Mr. Moon which sport Duke was playing. Basketball. They're getting leftover tuna casserole and I think they'll like it. It's a good tuna casserole, even though there's no potato chips on top.
Ah yah. They're here.
See you tomorrow. Okay? I hope so.
Love...Ms. Moon
P.S. I couldn't choose so here you go.
The Bradford pears still haven't started turning, their leaves a weary yet determined green.
I went to Lily's midwife appointment today and by now I feel as if Diana is a part of our family. A treasured part. I adore her. She is down to earth, feet on the ground, but it's your birth and whatever you want- that's what she'll try to give you. She feels like Mama Knows Best, I think, and I love that. I also love that she tells her mamas to remember "no nookie November." She likes to take August off. Lily and her woman baby are fine. All measurements perfect, all signs good. Heartbeat lovely.
Shoosh-shoosh-shoosh.
We all went to lunch again and passed August around. He is smiling so much now, that goofy toothless baby grin that makes you want to die from the cute. He also is starting to talk in the way that babies do, imitating whoever is talking to him, saying soft little words, his expression so serious, his brown eyes so huge. Gibson sat between me and his Boppy and he kept leaning over to me, memory-foaming his way onto my body, his big-boy head with his thick hair nestled into whatever part of me he could fit it into. My Hank hugged me so good and I laid my head down on his shoulder and just let him hold me and it felt like heaven.
It is truly amazing that sometimes, when things feel darkest, the sharp pierce of light, when it does come, is so bright. I notice it. I register it. I take it in and breathe it. There is nothing on this earth like touch to let the light leak in. Nothing.
I still don't know why I'm feeling this way. Maybe it's all just too much, all this goodness and this aging and the holidays coming and the way the fears and the joys get mixed up and mushed together and it's like when we used to play pinball and the older boys would shove those machines around with their bodies, their fingers working the flippers like kung-fu-fighting and suddenly there would be TILT! TILT! TILT!
Back off. Slow down, cowboy.
Jessie and Vergil are bringing that little boy out in just a few moments to eat supper and watch the Duke game. I had to ask Mr. Moon which sport Duke was playing. Basketball. They're getting leftover tuna casserole and I think they'll like it. It's a good tuna casserole, even though there's no potato chips on top.
Ah yah. They're here.
See you tomorrow. Okay? I hope so.
Love...Ms. Moon
P.S. I couldn't choose so here you go.
Monday, November 16, 2015
I've Been In Better Moods
A quiet day in all regards, toilets scrubbed and hen house cleaned.
I will make no claims about it being a poopy day.
Draw your own conclusions.
Because I could not force myself to get into the car and drive to town, I am going to make a tuna casserole for our supper tonight. Comfort food? Oh, it truly would be if I had some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in the blue box. But I do not and so I will have to make my own with onions and celery and noodles and cheese, etc.
I also do not have any potato chips to crunch up and put on top.
The mood I'm in, I'd cut up hotdogs and cook them with a can of baked beans but I do have a shred of decency left in me. Please don't ask me why I have hotdogs in the house.
Whoa, come to think of it, I don't have any Campbell's Cream Of anything soup.
Will this even qualify as a tuna casserole?
Yes. Yes it will because I have some baby peas.
My husband is a lucky man, right?
(He hates peas.)
Why does the gray feral cat want me to pet her? Why is she still alive?
These and many more questions are floating to the top of the dregs of this thing I call a consciousness tonight.
Tomorrow will be better. It fucking better be.
Love...Ms. Moon
I will make no claims about it being a poopy day.
Draw your own conclusions.
Because I could not force myself to get into the car and drive to town, I am going to make a tuna casserole for our supper tonight. Comfort food? Oh, it truly would be if I had some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in the blue box. But I do not and so I will have to make my own with onions and celery and noodles and cheese, etc.
I also do not have any potato chips to crunch up and put on top.
The mood I'm in, I'd cut up hotdogs and cook them with a can of baked beans but I do have a shred of decency left in me. Please don't ask me why I have hotdogs in the house.
Whoa, come to think of it, I don't have any Campbell's Cream Of anything soup.
Will this even qualify as a tuna casserole?
Yes. Yes it will because I have some baby peas.
My husband is a lucky man, right?
(He hates peas.)
Why does the gray feral cat want me to pet her? Why is she still alive?
These and many more questions are floating to the top of the dregs of this thing I call a consciousness tonight.
Tomorrow will be better. It fucking better be.
Love...Ms. Moon
Monday
A cloudless day, with light as sharp as a cut gem, the air still. I took a walk, almost three miles, not fast, just a plodding walk, this step, that step, the ground gets covered. Once again I see that I can do it, and there are hunting clothes hanging on the line and more to be hung and why hasn't the Computer Doctor emailed me and I suppose I shall have to email them.
Or call them.
Okay. I just did. They called the distribution place this morning to see what's going on. I thanked the guy on the phone and he said, "That's not a problem," and I wonder why people get so upset when they thank someone and they reply "no problem." Seems fine to me.
So many things to get our panties in a wad about. Especially these days. Or probably all days.
Humans are humans and as much as we opine about how much better it was in the old days, that is never the truth. Sure, things get better and things get worse but if we were worrying about the plague in the next town over, we probably wouldn't be so apt to take offense when someone says, "no problem" rather than "you're welcome."
And so forth.
So much to do around here and I just don't seem to have the heart for it today.
It's one of those days. I'll do what truly needs to be done and let the rest slide between my fingers and just try to be mindful of the blooming sasanqua, the red passion flower, the way the light travels across the yard, the changing of the shadows, the smell of the air, the rustle of the fallen pecan leaves as the hens scratch through them, the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the shade, the bizarre and mysterious magic of the feeling of stasis when actually, we are hurling and whirling and spinning and dancing and plodding and speeding and dying and being born/reborn/born/reborn with all of it every instant and second, part of it all, no matter how it feels.
Or call them.
Okay. I just did. They called the distribution place this morning to see what's going on. I thanked the guy on the phone and he said, "That's not a problem," and I wonder why people get so upset when they thank someone and they reply "no problem." Seems fine to me.
So many things to get our panties in a wad about. Especially these days. Or probably all days.
Humans are humans and as much as we opine about how much better it was in the old days, that is never the truth. Sure, things get better and things get worse but if we were worrying about the plague in the next town over, we probably wouldn't be so apt to take offense when someone says, "no problem" rather than "you're welcome."
And so forth.
So much to do around here and I just don't seem to have the heart for it today.
It's one of those days. I'll do what truly needs to be done and let the rest slide between my fingers and just try to be mindful of the blooming sasanqua, the red passion flower, the way the light travels across the yard, the changing of the shadows, the smell of the air, the rustle of the fallen pecan leaves as the hens scratch through them, the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the shade, the bizarre and mysterious magic of the feeling of stasis when actually, we are hurling and whirling and spinning and dancing and plodding and speeding and dying and being born/reborn/born/reborn with all of it every instant and second, part of it all, no matter how it feels.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
For My Crone Self
This is the Mayan goddess Ixchel and pretty much illustrates how I feel tonight. The Crone. That old Crone who is supposedly the goddess whose home was Cozumel although there's a guy now who has written a book which refutes that theory, stating that all of the early reports of this being the case were based on misinterpretation of the early Spanish explorers and that there is no basis in fact for the claim which pisses me off so bad because if there's anything I truly believe in, it is that Cozumel is sacred and by golly, I want those ruins on the island to be the temple of Ixchel, that goddess of the moon and childbirth and weaving because I've felt that when I'm there. As if there is a spirit of great importance and personal significance on the island which calls to me and has since my first visit there in 1987.
I've tried to read the guy's book but it's one paragraph in Spanish after another, each one translated into the English and fuck it- I'm going to believe that Ixchel lives there and that my journeys there are pilgrimages to visit her. The spirit to me is as real as anything and who gives a shit as to what a bunch of old Spanish explorers claimed or even what a bunch of Mayan priests claimed? Real is quite subjective and tonight I feel like the crone, snakes upon my head, the rabbit of fertility my totem, my name being (coincidence?) Moon and there you fucking go.
No matter how much a failure I feel at times, no matter how inadequate to life, I do know that in the biological sense, I have done what I have been evolutionarily programmed to do and although I have made as many mistakes as any mother on this earth, I have passed my genes on to future generations and have done the work of which I am capable of to ensure their preservation.
Meaning, I suppose, that I KEPT THOSE BOYS ALIVE THIS WEEKEND! and so, as Roseanne Barr said so many years ago, I have done my job.
After they left today, I tidied and swept and straightened and washed sheets and remade the bed. I made chili before they left, to sit on the back of the stove on the simmer mat. It is made of ground venison and the pinto beans I cooked earlier last week and onions and garlic and tomatoes and peppers and spices and yes...a big cheat...salsa. I made this while Owen was sitting at the kitchen island, playing on the iPad, first some super hero game and then a game where he dressed princesses and fed them and they would say things like, "I am so lucky to have a friend like you who feeds me all of my favorite foods!"
Oh Jesus.
Still. Kind of sweet.
I quizzed him about what all I'd put into the chili and of course, he had no idea so I listed ingredients and I'm sure the words sounded like the adult words in the Peanuts movies which is blahblahblahblahblahwonkwonkwonk.
Too bad, little man. Some part of your brain has tucked this information away and someday, you will use it and have no idea where it came from.
I wonder where my intense and visceral love of Cozumel comes from. My feelings of familiarity of all of the Yucatan. Of Mexican culture. I was born in El Paso but we moved away from there soon after I was born but can it be that even in those few months we were there I inhaled the hot breath of peppers and lime and garlic and the culture and color which blew across the border to my very cradle where I inhaled it and it became a part of my very bones?
Oh well. Who knows? Not me.
But I am going back to Cozumel in May and I am already there tonight, the membrane between this "real" life and that real life stretched so thin that I can step right through it to this.
Photo taken by Diego Ulises
And that feels more real to me than this place on my porch and everything and anything else which is happening on this earth.
May we all have a place we can go to which is sacred to us. May our gods and our goddesses, whatever and whoever they are, bring us comfort as the world around us falls apart.
I am going to go make cornbread now.
Love...Ms. Moon
Weekend Report
I'm not even going to try and kid you. I am exhausted. Yeah, I went to sleep at 10:30 and didn't get up until 9:00 but let me point out that an extremely snuggly child and a cat both slept on me all night, the child insisting about every hour that he needed more snuggling and also, water. And where was I and that he needed me.
Yes. This is so sweet. Of course it is. And I have never in my life met a child who can snuggle the way Gibson can. He is Prince Snuggles. He can contort that little body into the perfect shape to fit right into your body. He's like memory foam. He's a 43 pound child made from memory foam. He wants both of your arms around him and he wants his head on your shoulder.
Which is so lovely.
Unless you're trying to, you know, sleep.
Maurice spent the night leaned up against my legs and that was no problem but when we got up this morning, I realized that I was sleeping on about six inches of bed. There were two yards of bed on the other side of Gibson.
Anyway, we all got up and had waffles again. Why not? Waffles are tasty and easy to make.
And now Boppy and the boys are outside, burning the great and mighty pile of branches and logs that have fallen and which we have collected over the past few months. It's sort of damp so I feel certain that propellent, as Mr. Moon calls it, is being used. I don't even want to know.
I'd go take a picture but that would take too much energy.
The Mama and the Daddy will be here in a few hours to pick them up and I hope that they had the very best time. It is a firm belief of mine that one of the best things for a family is that the adults in it take time for themselves and to renew themselves as a couple. In short- to take a break from all of the work and the routine and the demands to remember why they got together in the first place.
And I have come to understand that it is also good for the grandparents to step in and be the ones to take over those demands and routine long enough to be reminded of what all they did when they were young. All of the hard work and lack of sleep and yes, the snuggles and incredibly funny things children say and the rewards of it.
Speaking of rewards, once again, I stole a picture off Facebook.
There's our August, smiling at his mama this morning. Look at those eyes!
All right. Here's another.
Well, I hear fire crackling and wood snapping and I feel certain that I'll soon feel the heat from here.
Oh god. The flames.
This is so much more exciting than making cookies and playing the matching game could ever be.
Thank god for grandfathers. And fathers. And mothers. And children.
And yes, grandmothers, who do their best.
Love...Ms. Moon
Yes. This is so sweet. Of course it is. And I have never in my life met a child who can snuggle the way Gibson can. He is Prince Snuggles. He can contort that little body into the perfect shape to fit right into your body. He's like memory foam. He's a 43 pound child made from memory foam. He wants both of your arms around him and he wants his head on your shoulder.
Which is so lovely.
Unless you're trying to, you know, sleep.
Maurice spent the night leaned up against my legs and that was no problem but when we got up this morning, I realized that I was sleeping on about six inches of bed. There were two yards of bed on the other side of Gibson.
Anyway, we all got up and had waffles again. Why not? Waffles are tasty and easy to make.
And now Boppy and the boys are outside, burning the great and mighty pile of branches and logs that have fallen and which we have collected over the past few months. It's sort of damp so I feel certain that propellent, as Mr. Moon calls it, is being used. I don't even want to know.
I'd go take a picture but that would take too much energy.
The Mama and the Daddy will be here in a few hours to pick them up and I hope that they had the very best time. It is a firm belief of mine that one of the best things for a family is that the adults in it take time for themselves and to renew themselves as a couple. In short- to take a break from all of the work and the routine and the demands to remember why they got together in the first place.
And I have come to understand that it is also good for the grandparents to step in and be the ones to take over those demands and routine long enough to be reminded of what all they did when they were young. All of the hard work and lack of sleep and yes, the snuggles and incredibly funny things children say and the rewards of it.
Speaking of rewards, once again, I stole a picture off Facebook.
All right. Here's another.
Oh god. The flames.
This is so much more exciting than making cookies and playing the matching game could ever be.
Thank god for grandfathers. And fathers. And mothers. And children.
And yes, grandmothers, who do their best.
Love...Ms. Moon
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Buh-Buh-Buh-Buh
Dear Holy Goddess of Grandmothers,
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you maxima ultra maxima super maxima, etc.
The grandfather shot a buck, and thus, has come home.
Thank you also for the gas guy who was as surly as ever but who took my check for ten million dollars and drove off into the sunset, having filled my tank with gas.
Thank you for the great gift of heat (it's supposed to get down to 45 degrees tonight) and also, the great gift of cooking.
But honestly and truly, thank you most of all for the Boppy who is, as we speak, sitting on the couch with those beloved grandsons of mine, eating edamame beans after having made me a martini.
And thank you for allowing me to have had my children when I was young and spry.
All love and gratitude...Ms. Moon
P.S.
This movie has come to my mind countless times today. If you've never seen it, well, I am sorry for you. I remember once going to see my therapist and she told me that her advice for everyone that week was just to go and see "Overboard."
It still works for me.
Now where the hell is my caviar?
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you maxima ultra maxima super maxima, etc.
The grandfather shot a buck, and thus, has come home.
Thank you also for the gas guy who was as surly as ever but who took my check for ten million dollars and drove off into the sunset, having filled my tank with gas.
Thank you for the great gift of heat (it's supposed to get down to 45 degrees tonight) and also, the great gift of cooking.
But honestly and truly, thank you most of all for the Boppy who is, as we speak, sitting on the couch with those beloved grandsons of mine, eating edamame beans after having made me a martini.
And thank you for allowing me to have had my children when I was young and spry.
All love and gratitude...Ms. Moon
P.S.
This movie has come to my mind countless times today. If you've never seen it, well, I am sorry for you. I remember once going to see my therapist and she told me that her advice for everyone that week was just to go and see "Overboard."
It still works for me.
Now where the hell is my caviar?
Waiting On The Gas Guy
Gibson wakes up at least once an hour to cry out in panic, "Mer! Where are you? I need you!"
Of course I am a foot away, if that.
It's okay. We go right back to sleep.
This morning Owen came and got in bed with us and they giggled and wiggled until I finally said, "Okay, okay. I'll get up."
Got up to note that the heat wasn't on. Nope. Heater not on. Not at all. Nor would it come on.
Sigh.
Checked the gas on the stove. That worked. Started making breakfast. Realized that bacon was not cooking. Checked flame under it. Barely there.
Sigh.
Called Mr. Moon in Georgia. He called the gas guy. Gas guy called. He never sounds happy. He sounded even less happy today. But he's coming over.
Changed breakfast plan to waffles instead of pancakes. Miraculously found waffle maker. Transferred bacon to microwave. Waffles now Owen's favorite food. He ate five.
Gibson cried enough to convince me to let him get back in the bed with my phone to watch videos.
I feel like the best/worst grandmother in the world.
Story of my life.
Of course I am a foot away, if that.
It's okay. We go right back to sleep.
This morning Owen came and got in bed with us and they giggled and wiggled until I finally said, "Okay, okay. I'll get up."
Got up to note that the heat wasn't on. Nope. Heater not on. Not at all. Nor would it come on.
Sigh.
Checked the gas on the stove. That worked. Started making breakfast. Realized that bacon was not cooking. Checked flame under it. Barely there.
Sigh.
Called Mr. Moon in Georgia. He called the gas guy. Gas guy called. He never sounds happy. He sounded even less happy today. But he's coming over.
Changed breakfast plan to waffles instead of pancakes. Miraculously found waffle maker. Transferred bacon to microwave. Waffles now Owen's favorite food. He ate five.
Gibson cried enough to convince me to let him get back in the bed with my phone to watch videos.
I feel like the best/worst grandmother in the world.
Story of my life.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Really Humans?
Really?
Why?
And which religion gets to take credit for this one?
I am so tired of this.
Why?
And which religion gets to take credit for this one?
I am so tired of this.
A Grandmother's Prayer
Dear Grandmother Goddess,
Please pray for me now and at the hour of their bedtime. Let them sleep deeply and well and please don't let the little one keep me up half the night because you know if he does, I won't be worth shit tomorrow and also, I will be cranky and NOT A GOOD GRANDMOTHER AND IT'LL BE YOUR FAULT.
Love...MerMer
Please pray for me now and at the hour of their bedtime. Let them sleep deeply and well and please don't let the little one keep me up half the night because you know if he does, I won't be worth shit tomorrow and also, I will be cranky and NOT A GOOD GRANDMOTHER AND IT'LL BE YOUR FAULT.
Love...MerMer
The Grand Weekend Has Begun
In the book I'm listening to by Ann Tyler, she speaks of the way children "hurtle themselves into the day."
Yes. They do.
Yes. They do.
And now, ten minutes later he's eating one of the eggs we found in the nest.
Yes. I cooked it.
Big weekend. Big boys. Big fun.
Let's just hope I survive.
Happy Friday, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Suffer The Little Children To Come Unto Me
I keep thinking about this new ruling or revelation or addition to the handbook or whatever the fuck they call it that the Mormon leadership came out with this week. In case you've been under a rock, what it says is basically that any Mormon children who live even part time in the house of a gay couple cannot be blessed or baptized in the church until they turn 18 and denounce their parents' sin. Also, that any practicing homosexual (what is it with homosexuals that they are always considered to be practicing? can't they ever perfect that thing?) will be considered an apostate which means they're excommunicated from the church.
Here's a website from the church which explains it all, should you be interested.
And a video, as well!
The dude on it is Elder D. Todd Christofferson who looks like this.
Here's a website from the church which explains it all, should you be interested.
And a video, as well!
The dude on it is Elder D. Todd Christofferson who looks like this.
Sweet little old grandpa. Who said, and I quote:
"We regard same-sex marriage as a particularly grievous or significant, serious kind of sin that requires Church discipline. It means the discipline is mandatory — doesn’t dictate outcomes but it dictates that discipline is needed in those cases. It’s a statement to remove any question or doubt that may exist. We recognize that same-sex marriages are now legal in the United States and some other countries and that people have the right, if they choose, to enter into those, and we understand that. But that is not a right that exists in the Church. That’s the clarification."
So this ruling on the grievous sin of homosexuality is going to set children against parents, parents against children, friends against friends, family against family. And will make gay members feel shamed and dirty and most definitely unable to get their own private planet after they die.
To be honest- at the very core of it, there will be absolutely no member of the Church of Latter Day Saints who will remain completely unaffected by this. EVERYONE knows a gay person. Every family in history has had gay people in it, whether they knew it or not.
When the ruling became public, I read it and did what I always do when some major religion comes out with some new crap and just disregarded it. But for some reason, I can't let this one go. I have at least two friends (in real life and on FB) who are former members of the LDS church who are gay. They voluntarily gave up their membership years ago but in their hearts, they, like all of us, long to be accepted by the people they love. And they are in pain because quite frankly, if their loved ones come out in support of them, they are disregarding and disobeying the teachings of their church. And it's a powerful church. They have, according to their own website, fifteen million, three hundred and seventy-two thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven members. The income that the church reaps from its many, many businesses is in the billions of dollars. They are, in fact, the largest private land-owner in Florida. Some estimates say that the LDS church owns 2% of Florida's lands.
An article from Bloomberg online explains how the church has become so very profitable.
Here's one quote:
"To understand DMC’s place in the church’s financial structure, it’s important to start at the very top: The Mormon Church is owned and run by what is called the Corporation of the President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This entity is a “corporation sole,” which is an obscure legal body owned entirely by one person. In the case of the Mormon Church, that person is Monson, the prophet."
Here's a picture of the prophet.
Another sweet old grandpa.
And of course, because it's a church, all the revenue is tax-free.
So fine. They can scam the system any way they want. They can bilk and bully and seduce and fear-monger all the gullible people they can convince that they will live in eternity if they follow the rules and tithe 10% of their income and I'm like- whatever. As Kathleen used to say, humans are not descended from the apes but from the sheep. They can convince women that they aren't worthy of holding the priesthood and they can wear all the magical underwear they want.
But listen- when they start claiming that homosexuality is a grievous sin which requires church discipline, I become enraged.
The one thing I always thought that the Mormons got right was family.
Well, they just destroyed that notion.
And again, it would all be fine if the members of the church hadn't been indoctrinated since birth about the importance of the church and all of its rulings to the point where all that bullshit, hocus-pocus, motherfucking CRAP didn't take precedence over the most natural and elemental feelings of all which is love for one's family and friends, to the point where children and parents must renounce each other to remain in the good graces of the community.
It makes me sick.
I will never in my life understand why people believe in the pie-in-the-sky, faith-'til-you-die rules of religions. But the fact is, that they do.
And in the name of their own cherished gods, they deny their very human existence and purpose. Not to mention their children.
How do they sleep?
Not very well, I am hoping, but frankly, I think that they sleep just fine, wrapped in the holy magical underwear of their belief, not even wondering how many suicides are going to result from this ruling, how many families are going to be split apart, how many innocent children are going to suffer.
Religion. Yeah.
No.
Yours truly but not in Christ...Ms. Moon
No Complaints
Sun shining awful pretty and I took a walk and it felt good. I ran into Ms. Shelly who once again told me the story of how she had to take care of babies and cook food and pick every sort of crop from the time she was five years old and she never even learned to ride a bike because she was too busy being a grown-up. She even had to be in the room with her mama when she had her babies (twelve in all) until the midwife got there, at least.
She is bitter and I understand why.
Jesus.
My life was a fucking picnic compared to that.
I wonder if Ms. Shelly ever got to go on a picnic in her entire life.
Anyway, yes, a beautiful day and I'm going to the store to buy things to make pizza and purple cows for the boys, the boys, the Owen and Gibson boys and what am I going to do with them all weekend? I was thinking of bribing them to help me in the yard a little by promising to take them to the Farm Supply store in Monticello because they have wonders there, they do, at the Farm Supply store.
Oh, we shall see.
And I have them this afternoon, too, before the Great Weekend and perhaps we shall make a plan.
It is a beautiful day, clear blue and the birds are tweeting and everything is fine.
She is bitter and I understand why.
Jesus.
My life was a fucking picnic compared to that.
I wonder if Ms. Shelly ever got to go on a picnic in her entire life.
Anyway, yes, a beautiful day and I'm going to the store to buy things to make pizza and purple cows for the boys, the boys, the Owen and Gibson boys and what am I going to do with them all weekend? I was thinking of bribing them to help me in the yard a little by promising to take them to the Farm Supply store in Monticello because they have wonders there, they do, at the Farm Supply store.
Oh, we shall see.
And I have them this afternoon, too, before the Great Weekend and perhaps we shall make a plan.
It is a beautiful day, clear blue and the birds are tweeting and everything is fine.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Tender Mercies
What I want especially to remember today:
Lying on the couch at Lily's house, Gibson at the other end. The TV was on, Sponge Bob was making us laugh, I was reading short stories by Jill McCorkle, Owen was sitting on the floor in front of the couch working on making a pot holder with the loom his mama bought him a few days ago and taught him how to use. I set my book down and drowsed a little and woke up to find Owen putting the afghan over me. He turned out the light over my head and went and fetched a small reading lamp and plugged it in and put it on the end table so that if I wanted to read, I would have a more comfortable lighting situation. I thanked him so and he settled back down to his pot holder, choosing colors and working carefully.
I think I felt as peaceful and cared for as any child whose parent is watching over her, tenderly, and with love.
Yes. It was a backwards moment, in a way.
But my god. The sweetness of that child. I can't even find the words to express how I felt.
And I never want to forget that.
Here. Pictures from my yard just now as the sun goes down.
Light through magnolia leaves. Stained glass every afternoon.
Some of the chickens. Nicey, Camellia, Chi-Chi, Cha-Cha, Mick, Butterscotch, Lucille.
A close-up of my poor plucked-looking Camellia. Her feathers are coming back in.
Looking up to the Spanish Moss in the front yard oak.
Cats And Beans, Thoughts On War
Still gray and one wonders if the sun is still up there at all or just a dying myth. I'm not taking a walk AGAIN and I have no excuse except that I have to be in town at noon and decided to just do some chores around here instead and I am going to go to hell and die a fat, unexercised old woman.
So be it.
For today at least.
Maurice did come home and she spent a lot of the night with me because it's chilly and that's when she sleeps in the bed, forsaking her woodland activities for cuddles. My ancient, used-to-be-feral cat Luna has decided to be a porch cat, if not a house cat, and last night I gave up and folded an old towel to make her a bed of sorts on the table where she sleeps for approximately twenty-three and one-half hours a day now. Persistence pays off, I suppose.
I am bringing some pinto beans to a boil and will then turn them off and let them soak and swell until I get back later this afternoon to cook. I do want to eat some in one of my new bowls which I now realize were made in China rather than in Portugal but I don't care. They are pretty no matter where they came from.
I have rugs in the washer and have done some sweeping and putting away of laundry and will soon put on something to wear to town and I'll put in the earrings that Owen picked out for my birthday because he notices things like that. He has no school today because it is Veterans Day which I am sure you realize. I never know what to say about Veterans Day except that I wish that no one ever had to go to war because I don't believe in war and the whole thing just makes me sad.
The generals and leaders decide, the soldiers get sent and die or are injured and none of them comes back the same.
If we were still having to kill the wooly mammoth, the saber-toothed tiger, war would probably not be such an issue although who knows? The people in the north-side caves would probably want the caves on the south-side and the old men would tell the young men to go and kill those heathen south-side cave dwellers in the name of ORK or some other godname and then the women would be stuck with the dead and dying once again, their pantries empty of mammoth, their children crying, their tears falling.
Well. So much for that.
I don't have any mammoth either but I have plenty of other food and beautiful rooster bowls to eat it out of. I am lucky.
And so it goes.
Love...Ms. Moon
So be it.
For today at least.
Maurice did come home and she spent a lot of the night with me because it's chilly and that's when she sleeps in the bed, forsaking her woodland activities for cuddles. My ancient, used-to-be-feral cat Luna has decided to be a porch cat, if not a house cat, and last night I gave up and folded an old towel to make her a bed of sorts on the table where she sleeps for approximately twenty-three and one-half hours a day now. Persistence pays off, I suppose.
I am bringing some pinto beans to a boil and will then turn them off and let them soak and swell until I get back later this afternoon to cook. I do want to eat some in one of my new bowls which I now realize were made in China rather than in Portugal but I don't care. They are pretty no matter where they came from.
I have rugs in the washer and have done some sweeping and putting away of laundry and will soon put on something to wear to town and I'll put in the earrings that Owen picked out for my birthday because he notices things like that. He has no school today because it is Veterans Day which I am sure you realize. I never know what to say about Veterans Day except that I wish that no one ever had to go to war because I don't believe in war and the whole thing just makes me sad.
The generals and leaders decide, the soldiers get sent and die or are injured and none of them comes back the same.
If we were still having to kill the wooly mammoth, the saber-toothed tiger, war would probably not be such an issue although who knows? The people in the north-side caves would probably want the caves on the south-side and the old men would tell the young men to go and kill those heathen south-side cave dwellers in the name of ORK or some other godname and then the women would be stuck with the dead and dying once again, their pantries empty of mammoth, their children crying, their tears falling.
Well. So much for that.
I don't have any mammoth either but I have plenty of other food and beautiful rooster bowls to eat it out of. I am lucky.
And so it goes.
Love...Ms. Moon
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Rooster Bowls And Boy Toys
Lunch was just pure pleasure and once again, we lingered long although today we were at the Mexican restaurant where all of the lunch specials are $5.79 and hell, we ate enough chips and salsa to cost that much. August being there helps us to just relax and eat slowly and kick back while he's nursing, and Gibson was a good boy, playing with two plastic super heroes or villains or whatever they were, creating scenarios for them and when he'd dropped one he would make the little plastic guy say, "I'm okay! Don't worry!"
Recently he's learned how good it feels to have his back scratched and I love to scratch it for him. He does that thing that we all do when someone scratches our back, which is to bend our shoulders forward to make as much scratching surface as possible. I've always said that we have no idea how itchy our backs are until someone scratches them for us. Sometimes I wish we were still more like our ape-cousins, spending hours each day bent over each other, grooming and picking and scratching. Of course we are far too civilized for that but who of us does not love the feel of having our hair washed when we go to get it cut, the warm water, the fingers of the person attending us as they rub in the shampoo and massage our heads, or having our legs and feet rubbed at the nail salon when we get a pedicure?
I give you this, although I believe I have given it to you before. It is well worth watching more than once.
A sort of quiet ecstasy.
We passed August around and even Gibson asked to hold him and I helped him to do that. I keep thinking of Vergil saying, "This family sure does love babies."
Oh. We really do.
Jessie and I went and did a little shopping after we finally left the restaurant. We went to Tuesday Morning which is just a treasure box of everything a person might want from luxurious towels to pillows to quilts to chocolates to toys to lamps to rugs to pots and pans and napkins and wrapping paper and dishes and shower curtains and candles and silly useless shit that no one needs. Jessie bought a rug and a baby toy and I bought some puzzles and science experiment kits and activity books for the boys' stay with me this weekend. Also, four new bowls, made in Portugal.
It had occurred to me the other day that I am dissatisfied with my soup bowls which I use many times a week for beans and soups and stews and fuck it- I am sixty-one years old and as a wise friend told me years ago, when it comes to the things we use every day, it is well worth buying that which pleases us. And these bowls do please me and did not require taking out a loan to buy them. I paid less for all four of them than I'll probably pay for the ingredients to fill them for one meal.
Such a good deal.
So here I am and I'm going to make some sort of fresh tomato sauce for pasta with kale from the garden and I haven't seen Maurice which worries the hell out of me. I know. I KNOW. She always comes back. But I have to worry about something. It's as if I am afraid that the gods will hear me if I talk too much about my blessings and then curse me with their jealous powers. I will never forget reading "The Good Earth" by Pearl S. Buck when I was young and being struck by her description of how, after a baby was born, people would say derogatory things about the baby so that the gods would not smote the baby.
Smite?
Whatever.
May there be no smoting or smiting for any of us.
Love...Ms. Moon
Recently he's learned how good it feels to have his back scratched and I love to scratch it for him. He does that thing that we all do when someone scratches our back, which is to bend our shoulders forward to make as much scratching surface as possible. I've always said that we have no idea how itchy our backs are until someone scratches them for us. Sometimes I wish we were still more like our ape-cousins, spending hours each day bent over each other, grooming and picking and scratching. Of course we are far too civilized for that but who of us does not love the feel of having our hair washed when we go to get it cut, the warm water, the fingers of the person attending us as they rub in the shampoo and massage our heads, or having our legs and feet rubbed at the nail salon when we get a pedicure?
I give you this, although I believe I have given it to you before. It is well worth watching more than once.
A sort of quiet ecstasy.
We passed August around and even Gibson asked to hold him and I helped him to do that. I keep thinking of Vergil saying, "This family sure does love babies."
Oh. We really do.
Jessie and I went and did a little shopping after we finally left the restaurant. We went to Tuesday Morning which is just a treasure box of everything a person might want from luxurious towels to pillows to quilts to chocolates to toys to lamps to rugs to pots and pans and napkins and wrapping paper and dishes and shower curtains and candles and silly useless shit that no one needs. Jessie bought a rug and a baby toy and I bought some puzzles and science experiment kits and activity books for the boys' stay with me this weekend. Also, four new bowls, made in Portugal.
Such a good deal.
So here I am and I'm going to make some sort of fresh tomato sauce for pasta with kale from the garden and I haven't seen Maurice which worries the hell out of me. I know. I KNOW. She always comes back. But I have to worry about something. It's as if I am afraid that the gods will hear me if I talk too much about my blessings and then curse me with their jealous powers. I will never forget reading "The Good Earth" by Pearl S. Buck when I was young and being struck by her description of how, after a baby was born, people would say derogatory things about the baby so that the gods would not smote the baby.
Smite?
Whatever.
May there be no smoting or smiting for any of us.
Love...Ms. Moon
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