My Valentine today is a silly one. He is never still for a moment and nor was he ever. We just had a nap and he started out in his bed but woke up and I pulled him into the guest bed with me and snuggled with him and that is sweetness beyond sweetness, lying next to that boy, his entire self cradled in my arms and when he wakes up, he smiles the biggest smile you ever saw- such a joke to be in bed with Grandmother- how did this happen? It doesn't matter, it just is and now he is sharing crackers and a bottle with Pearl. No, I really shouldn't let him do that.
He is amazed at my tea cup because it has a rooster on it and he pointed to it and said, "Hot," which it is and he learns something new every day. Every day. And he wants to do all the new things and the old ones, too and this makes for extreme motion.
My house is a wreck, I haven't done the breakfast dishes, the floor needs sweeping and I think we're going to go on a walk.
Such a beautiful day. We shall do the right thing and go out in it.
I had forgotten I had Owen today and he is, to say the least, rambunctious today. So, here I am, running after him and saving him from death-defying leaps and now he wants to smell the spices so... Happy Valentine's. Lord. He's discovered the silverware drawer. I love you. Ms. Moon
Okay. So I'm watching the Grammy's and Bob Dylan was on. You remember how disappointed I was when I saw him last year? He just made up for everything and I touched my forehead to the wood floor and said, "That was fucking Bob Dylan."
And after writing what I wrote this morning, I went to rehearsal and shed no grace at all and certainly did not accept it from anyone else. Lord, Lord. Why can't I follow my own advice?
It's crunch time for Steel Magnolias and I feel like we're not there. We're...vague. One of our cast was not there as she had another project and it feels so wrong not to have everyone there this close to our opening. We need all of us, all of the energy and the whole damn shebang to make it work and dress rehearsals are famous for making everyone freak the fuck out and rise up out of sleep to scream, "We're not ready!" and today's dress rehearsal was no exception.
I'm just having such a hard time inhabiting Truvy. Her shoes are there, her hair is there, her costumes and jewelry are there but her soul...it's trembling somewhere close and I can feel her but Mary is the one having problems with the rollers, the hair style, the reactions. Mary. Mary needs to get the fuck out of the way and let Truvy step forth. Mary needs to fucking focus.
I've never been in a play where there's no backstage time. There is one scene where a few pages of dialogue go on before I come in but that's the one and only time I'm not onstage. Which, in a way, is good. I don't have to sit backstage and fret but it also makes for nerve-wracking constancy. Any time I have offstage I have to be stripping like a whore on dollar night and getting redressed as quickly as possible. And there are four completely different changes from clothes to hair to jewelry. And I have to do it myself and honeys, I get spaced OUT! Jack told us tonight that yes, this is our first dress rehearsal, but if we take this long to change, the audience is going to go out for sandwiches.
ARGGGGHHHH!
Can you tell I'm freaking a bit?
Okay. Breathe. Ommmmmmmm....
Right.
This is the part of the whole thing where I have thoughts like, oh, I'M TOO OLD FOR THIS, I SUCK, I'M GOING TO FUCK UP THE WHOLE PLAY, JAN AND JACK TRUSTED ME TO PLAY THIS ROLE AND I AM LETTING THEM DOWN! Etc.
Well. It is what it is. And there are some parts which I feel good about and there are some that I don't. This is normal, this is how it goes, this is COMMUNITY THEATER!
Ah lah. The show will go on. We shall do the best we can. And we shall pray the prayer of the community theater actor:
Let the audience be drunk and happy. Lord, let it be so.
We went out last night, Mr. Moon and I, to the Mockingbird Cafe where Lon and Lis were playing and it was a quieter night than the last time we were there. We sat at a table together and we had the most wonderful dinner and the music was...well, more on that later.
Our server was May, my daughter, and she had been at the restaurant working since 9:30 a.m. and was there when we left after ten at night. I knew she was exhausted, yet she walked with dancer's posture, not a hair out of place, her body slim and wrapped in her server blacks and she bent and she lifted and she carried and she smiled and she was so beautiful and as always when I am in the restaurant when she is working, I wanted to get up and help her. I wanted to say, "Go home, let me do this," but of course that's not how it works and I don't know beans about being a server any more, especially with computerized this and that and my god, how does she do it? She's back there now, right now, for Sunday brunch, back in her server blacks, dancing to tables and to kitchen and to register, smoothing out this problem, taking orders, making all right in that world of those tables. How does she do it? She usually has Mondays and Tuesdays off but this week is Valentines and she's working tomorrow night too and I swear- she is so strong. She is grace, she is beauty, she is hard-back, strong-legs, beauty.
I remember when she was sixteen and was hit by a car on her way to school and I still, sixteen years later, can hardly bear to talk about that. Or even think. The call. The rush to the hospital and what would we find? My baby. My girl. My dancing girl. It was more than I could bear and I wished I'd never had children, I was that afraid.
Surgeries and healing and and she's gone through so much pain and I know she lives in pain. She dances in pain in her work. You'd never know it. She may dance in pain but what you see is the light she dances in and everywhere she moves, there is joy. That's what you see.
It's been one hell of a week you know. So much going on and a lot of pain and change, some of it chosen, some of it thrust upon us most unwelcome. But such is life. And the last set that Lon and Lis did, I sat with my eyes closed, my back to the wall and I let Lis's voice wash over me and then find its way into my body and I could feel it to my bones, my heart. I let it in. The songs she herself has written and that she and Lon sing and I chose to let that holy music inside of me and knit up whatever was broken and tattered and you know, it did. I can still feel it this morning. I am in no pain myself, even my knees, my legs, they feel fine and my heart feels fine or as fine as it can feel, four days before our first rehearsal, worry about this and that fluttering past me, I try to let it go, I try not to fight it, I try to focus on that sweetness that I felt last night. It was like angel voices but strong. It was light and it was love. Forgive me, but it was, and I took it with grace and I am carrying it right now.
I don't know where May gets her strength and grace. I doubt she had a second last night that she could stop and let that music wash through her. She was too busy bringing all of us whatever we wanted, food and drink and that light. That joy. Not a hair out of place. She may be in pain but she dances through it. She delivers it to the table along with your salad. She clears away what is no longer of use. She knows what you want before you want it.
It was a night that I was reminded so very strongly of all the grace in my life. My children, living their lives, my husband whom I am so deeply in love with. His hand was right there last night whenever I wanted it. We danced one dance and sometimes he would gesture across the table and I would come and sit on his lap for a moment, put my head on his chest, be held. My two dear friends singing and playing, giving so freely of the gifts they have been given to those of us who are thirsty for what they bring. Such miracles.
And here- another Sunday morning and I am not in pain of any kind. The sky is without clouds, the rooster joys the air with his crow of I-Am-Rooster, the washing machine chugs, the Opera House waits for our first dress rehearsal, the birds come to the feeder, dip their heads to the seeds, throw their heads up to swallow them, the redheaded woodpecker's head a cap of scarlet, the blackbirds' wings a tribal tattoo of red and yellow slash. I have made my husband a breakfast with the dark yellow eggs our hens lay, and I have lines to go over, I have things to do, I am re-newed by last night and the friendship, the love, the service of others, my daughter and her arms around me, that music, especially the song they played last, the one they do in that video above. I just listened to it again and there is nothing about it which is not perfect and there is my Lizzie and my Lon and the incomparable Gabe Valla.
The song is called "Time." It is haunting and it is healing. I give it to you.
That's today's sermon. That's today's blessing. That and everything. You'll find your own as you go through your day if you pay attention to the light shed by others as they go about their work, dancing through pain, perhaps, even so, with a smile. Take the time to note the grace that others have to offer and take it into yourself if it is offered to you and return it with the grace and light you have.
That's all we can do, you know, which is fine because there is nothing more holy than that.
I am back from the Opera House. We painted and went to lunch too. I had a fried green tomato salad and it had shrimp and feta on it as well as FGTs. Man. It was good.
Truvy's beauty salon is going to be mint chiffon with salmon-pink trim. Salmon-pink because we had some rusty-red and mixed it with white and it looks fine.
There's no one here at the house because Mr. Moon has gone to a basketball game and there's a sink full of dishes but I'm going to go take a nap because we're going out tonight to see Lon and Lis and I didn't sleep for shit last night, waking every hour and sometimes more and despairing of life in general as you do when you wake up from sleep so often. I kept picking up in my mind where I had left off going over my lines during my last wakening and no, it was not restful.
So. A nap.
And I haven't answered comments in a day or so but what can I say? I need sleep. I am old. So consider them answered by me saying, "I love you all, thanks for saying you like my hair." And Lucy- you can say my hair was gray. It's okay. It's the truth. And I'm going back to it eventually, you can bet on that.
Redheads look in the mirror and gasp, oh no, who is that? Redheads see Mrs. Ferger when they look in the mirror, the mother of my best friend, Lucille Ferger, when I was a child because she had red hair about this color and she dyed it herself and she sat at a table and slapped the reds on the blacks over and over and she could stew a rooster too and had five kids. They were good Catholics with no money, Mr. Ferger was a barber in Wabasso and for snacks we got soda crackers with peanut butter at that house and when I gave the same snack to my kids, I called them Ferger Snacks. They are delicious and cheap and does this red hair make me look cheap?
Redheads may have a gimpy knee which hurts in a different place than the blond had and how did that happen? Redheads have to go to the Opera House and paint the set this morning, gimp, gimp, gimp up the steps to the theater and I think that a redhead will love the smooth wood banister as much as the blond did, her hand sliding up it as she ascends to the theater and oh, shit, the redhead has not sent her bio into Jan for the program. Okay. Here it is:
Mary Moon is a wife, mother and grandmother who lives in Lloyd and who dyed her hair red to play the part of Truvy. It is the first time ever in her life she has been a redhead although she has a redheaded son. She has played roles at the Opera House before and has been honored to have participated in plays with Colin Rolfe whose death has left a great hole in the family of the Stage Company and who is sorely missed. She has especially loved playing a Foley Artist as part of the famous (in their own minds) Miller Sisters Foley Company. The friends she has made through this production and others at the Opera House are beyond compare. Thanks to Jan and Jack for allowing me to again play on these old boards in this fine theater.
There. Two birds with one stone. Time to go paint. I think I will wear some green eyeshadow just for the hell of it. Redheads do things like that, you know.
They do other things too but we shall not discuss them here. Happy Saturday, y'all.
I slept nine hours of un-medicated sleep last night. I woke up and the sun was shining.
This is such a cliche but Lord, it's true- I feel like a new woman.
Can I get an amen?
Last night's rehearsal was awful for me. Just awful. I felt and acted like someone had removed all of my brain matter and replaced it with dull, gray cement. I kept rubbing my forehead, trying, I suppose, to get some blood flowing in there or something. People kept saying, "Are you okay?" I skipped lines, I glitched lines, I stepped on lines, I forgot lines. Anything bad you can do to a line, I did it. I apologized to everyone including cute Caleb who was at rehearsal to learn sound effects. "It's okay," he said. Caleb is so sweet. "Are you okay?"
Well, none of us are okay. We've all been knocked on our asses by Colin's death but the show will go on. It must. That's what they say.
So here it is, Friday morning and I'm about to go get my hair done. This is pretty earth shaking. Ms. Moon is not a frequenter of the hair salon. But here I go. God, I hope I don't hate it. I'm tempted to chicken out and just get it dyed blond. But as May pointed out the other day, this will probably be the last time in my life I'd try being a redhead and why not? Hank says to go for it. Of course Hank just got a tattoo on his arm that's bigger than my head so consider that source. But he's probably right and so is May. I am not a fashionably courageous woman but I think Truvy is.
It is Friday morning. The sun is shining like glory on a skillet. It's getting warmer. The trees are budding up. The camellias are blooming, the birds are singing, the dogs are happy, the play starts in six days, I got good sleep, and my heart feels tender but the edges of the broken places are not so sharp that when I run my fingers across them they cut and bleed.
Owen is at a stage where he loves to help. He can carry that laundry basket the approximate mile from the laundry room to Bop's closet where it lives. The dogs trail behind him or get in his way, his entourage and he says, "Beep-beep!" He helps me wash dishes by picking things up out of the dish drainer and insisting I put them back in the bubbles. He can say "bubbles" quite well. He helps me feed the birds and the chickens. We gave them grapes today and Elvis was so gentlemanly, taking them from our fingers and giving them to the hens from his beak. He helps by cleaning walls and floors with a rag. He is especially good at this.
But this is how he really helps me: He makes me feel as if I am important in a child's life, his life, and that. Well. That.
I pulled up the step stool so he could help me make the bread. I let him taste salt and I let him taste sugar. He liked the salt okay but he said "More," for the sugar. I showed him the flour and then I realized he was confused. He knows what flowers are and they are not white and powdery. I got a pansy from the bowl of them I have and showed it to him and I said, "This is a flower," and then I showed him the flour in the canister and I said, "And this is another sort of flour. Isn't that silly?" And he laughed. And we broke an egg into the bowl with the flour and the yeast and the oatmeal and the salt and the warm water and we put the dough hook on and watched it all come together and form dough. I let him poke it with his little finger and he did that, over and over and then we put oil in the bottom of a bowl and put the dough in and made sure it was all oily and we put a towel over it and I told him it was like the dough had to take a nap now and that the towel was like its cover.
I am important in the life of a child. We smell the spices and we learn about watering plants. We pat the dogs and he smiles so much that I do too. We lay down for a nap and I kiss him one thousand times, his hair so soft under my lips.
Owen helps me without ceasing. There can be no falling-under when he is here. There can be no lack of joy when he laughs.
His Bop just asked him the milk he was drinking makes him drunk.
"Oh no," Owen said, quite clearly. "No" is his new favorite word but he says it with as much positivity as if he was saying "yes."
He helps. More than I can ever say.
I teach him things but he teaches me every thing. Over and over again, new every time. I am important in the life of this child but he, well, his importance in my life can never be measured.
Swamp. I am a swamp today. I am swamped today. I've lived here for seven years and I can't remember whether the dump place closes at ten or ten-thirty. Come on.
Y'all are pretty tired of this, right? I can see people (tens and tens of them!) in Bloglandia, saying, "Come on, ya old bitch! Lighten the fuck up! Life goes on!"
One of Colin's sons, (the apple doesn't fall far from the tree) told us that Colin would look around and say, "Pull yourself together, people!" And he would have.
He would sit right here across the table from me right this second and say, "Pull yourself together for Christ's sake." Or something like that.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Every death brings back every death. And I can go on and on and on about energy and about spring-will-come and I can take walks (theoretically because it's NASTY out there today) and I can get on the exercycle and I can sweep some floors and I can plan the spring garden and I can feed the chickens and I can make the bed and do the laundry and start a soup and get ready for Owen to come and I can think about tomorrow when I'm going to a real hair-dresser person who is going to perhaps make me a redhead and I can count my blessings and I can be ever-so-grateful for everything I have and I can do all of that and yet, the world is torn a bit, there is a hole here and I feel myself being pulled to it, like a rip in the skin of an air craft and no, I'm not holding on with my fingertips but I can feel the weight of it all, pulling me mostly to sit and watch something stupid on television which is something I never do unless I'm sick or mourning or on the exercycle. Okay. Better get on the exercycle. Start a soup.
Mr. Moon just called and he sounds better and that cheers me more than anything. My god, I love that man. And when I went out to free the chickens and throw them their corn, I caught Elvis on top of Miss Dolly (the chicken Miss Dolly, not the dog- please!) and he got off her and she shook her feathers out and stood up and went about the business of eating and life IS going on whether or not I am fully participating in it. And I talked to Lily and she said that when she got ready to go to work, Owen said, "Mer-Mer?" because he thought she'd be bringing him now and that cheers me too. He does love his Mer-Mer. I think that many kisses will be in order today. Owen flirted yesterday with the tiny princess doll of a granddaughter of Colin's at the service. "Baby," he called her, although she is two months older than he is. She was dressed so pretty in a gorgeous little dress and white crocheted sweater and little ballet flats pinned to her tights because they were a little too big and there was Owen in his khakis and his plaid button-down shirt and wouldn't Colin have laughed at that?
Oh yes. He would have.
Time to drain the swamp, time to get over it or at least move through the swamp, snake boots on, making my way slowly as I need to to get to dry land, to find my footing, to carry on.
Yes. Stories. Tears. Laughter. Yes, cleansed and I had forgotten how wearying that can be. We took the bear with us to the service because it was memorablia. He was buckled in next to Owen.
People who had been Colin's friends since the sixties. Sixties. How many of you were alive then?
Oldest man to speak: "So Colin told us his doctor said, 'Colin, it's cancer. I can give you a prescription for medical marijuana.' Colin said, 'I'm way ahead of you, Doc.'"
There was a theme. It was...joy. And women. And not trying to hide who you are. Okay. That's more than one theme.
Enough.
I'm so tired you can't believe it. I made Mr. Moon and me comfort food tonight- baked egg rolls and hot and sour soup. We cried a lot. We held each other.
Done. The dishes are done. So am I.
Owen can "potato." He says, "Bi-day."
Why potato? Who knows?
I have to sleep now. I might take an Ativan because I don't have the energy to deal with dreams.
When I met Colin's daughter she said, "Oh, you're the crotch woman!" And she pointed with both hands to her crotch. "My father loved you."
The apple, each of his children said, doesn't fall far from the tree.
I sometimes wonder if we weave magical spells with our words. Anyone who has written fiction knows that it is not unusual to have happen in real life what one has written as fiction beforehand. Sometimes the spells are good ones, sometimes not so much.
Mr. Moon woke up this morning from sad dreams. He was still sad when he left for work and I hate it when that man is not happy. It not only tilts my world in a sickening way, it stabs me in the throat with anxiety. He is my rock, my GPS, the very horizon which allows me to keep moving forward.
And that's too much responsibility to put on one person, even a six-foot-nine-inch-tall husband with extremely strong arms. And yet- that's how it's always been. My job is to keep the laundry clean and put supper on the table and his job is everything else, including keeping me mentally stable.
Talk about Sisyphus.
Well. We shall get through this memorial service. I am quite certain I am going to hear stories about Colin that will make me laugh until I cry and cry until I laugh. It's inevitable. And as Truvy does say, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." I guess so, Truvy. I suppose you're right.
Well, the sun, quite thankfully, is shining. The day is unfolding. The dogs are barking, the rooster crowing, the grandson is on his way.
If life is a string of beads we collect, one at a time, there are days whose stones are bright, sparkling blues and reds and greens, always to stand out and be there as a reminder of a special time, whether sweet or sad or profound or magical or all of these together.
I think today may be one of those days.
Here we go, here we go, here we go.
I will not be wearing mascara this afternoon, I can tell you that. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but I am pretty sure that "waterproof" only goes so far and it won't be far enough for today's events.
Ah, yah, Colin. We are gathering to celebrate you, stuck here on the ground while you're flying around the universe. Or whatever it is that dead people do. I don't know and neither do you but Colin does. Or doesn't, as the case may be. But I do know that we here who are left behind are stuck firmly on this ground but that today we may be lifted, a little at least, by our sharing, our stories, our love for this man who has left us and hopefully, our tears and laughter will wash some of the sadness from our hearts.
It's almost time for sleep again and Mr. Moon is home and we had a decent rehearsal tonight. Kathleen is coming to rehearsals now to be our sound effects person and she is going to help with lights. I know she was so tired tonight and she worked all day and I worry about her and end up doing what I should not do and vow not to do which is to tell her that she should be in bed, she shouldn't be stressing herself so much, she should do this, she should not do that.... And then I apologize and tell her I'm sorry. She is a grown woman and can do what she wants. And she accepts my apology and hugs me and I just want the best for her but who knows what that is better than she?
It is so hard sometimes not to try to rule the world.
We are getting there with Steel. We are. We are not quite there yet. I glitched on some lines, went completely blank and I have got to stop doing that. My mind just falls out of itself and I KNOW it's my line but for the life of me, I have no idea what it is. Arggghhh. I know them so well at home. I swear. I do.
Well. It will come together, the magic will happen. It always does.
And it's cold tonight and I am hoping so hard that tomorrow is clear for Colin's memorial gathering. I don't think I could bear it if it's gray like it's been up until today when the sun came out and pushed all the clouds away. My walk was wonderful and it helped my spirits tremendously. Walking is another sort of magic, I think. It is for me, anyway.
So there it is, this day gone by and tomorrow Owen will be here in the morning and I have missed him so. Lily told me that at her Super Bowl party he got a purse off the floor, put it over his shoulder and walked out of the room saying, "Bye-bye." Lily said, "Where are you going, Owen? Are you going to work?" "Uh-huh," he said. Then a few minutes later he walked back into the room with the purse still over his shoulder and said, "Hey!" A new game to play with him. Going to work and coming home. There are certainly plenty of purses here for him to play with.
He'll be coming with Mr. Moon and Jessie and me to the Opera House for the memorial and I hope he's a good boy. Mr. Moon has promised to walk him if he gets antsy. It'll be okay. It's going to be very informal. There will be food and memories and I wonder how many people will be there. A lot, I think.
Here's a picture of Vergil and Jessie and Colin last year at Kathleen's birthday party. Colin spent half the evening sitting at the table, cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. And he already knew. He knew.
I love this picture because it so obviously shows how much Jessie adored him. She was adoring him in that picture. And he adored her.
So. Time for sleep. I am so glad to have my man home. I am grateful for the gift of him beyond words. And for my children who keep calling to check on me and for my grandson who makes my heart light, no matter how heavy I think it is, and for friends and the magic of the stage and for this life, this life, this life that I have somehow miraculously fallen into, filled with these people and this love.
All of it is woven together into a cloth which keeps me warm, keeps me safe, touches every part of me and brings me comfort.
All right. Enough of my going on and on. Sleep. Another miracle, another bit of magic where we sometimes dream of those we love, both the ones still here and the ones gone on before us and maybe even the ones we've never met or have yet to meet.
Our power went out last night at 11:45 and I should have been fast asleep and never noticed but I was awake and I did notice and I called the outage in and the woman who answered the phone was very polite and informed me that yes, they were aware and that about eighty households had lost their power and crews were working on it. That sounds so reassuring, doesn't it? Crews. She asked if I'd like a call when the power was restored but I respectfully declined since she said the estimated time of restoration would be from 2-3 a.m. Of course I woke up anyway when the power came back on. I got up and turned off the lights left on in the house and set a few clocks and reset the coffee. It was not a restful night and I stayed up too late anyway, reading with my little reader light, that one beam in the darkness trained on the words of a book I'm not really enjoying that much. I seem to have recently fallen out of love with fiction which for me is like saying I've fallen out of love with water or air. Ah well. In six months time I will have forgotten most of Keith's autobiography and I will read it again and enjoy it just as much. I have that to look forward to. See? Getting older has its benefits.
I want to thank all of you who commented on my post last night. I swear to you- it took you telling me to realize that I am grieving. You'd think I'd know by now what grieving feels like but I guess I just thought I was depressed and yes, because my friend had died but it's not really depression. It's a natural process and we have to go through it and tears are involved and so is disbelief and so is a sense of heaviness. I spoke to Colin one week ago. One week. The candle I lit for him that day just finished burning sometime last night. A year ago we were doing Sex Please and he was as alive as ten thousand men and was burning with the joy and pleasure of playing Bud The Stud so brightly that we barely needed stage lights.
So yes. I am grieving. So it is.
One thing in Eat, Pray, Love that I did think about a lot was the part where the Balinese medicine man told Liz that he had been to heaven and to hell and that they were the same. All love. And they were the same because everything is a circle. The only difference being was the direction of the seven steps you have to take to get to that place. To get to heaven, you go up in the steps, to get to hell, you go down. Meaning that you can live joyfully and playfully and with love and then die and get to that place of love or you can live in darkness and fear and sadness before you die and get to it. Your choice.
I'm still pondering this. I wish someone had told this when I was a child. I wish I knew why I seem to have such a proclivity towards misery because I think it might well be a learned behavior and unlearning something is so much harder than just learning the right thing in the beginning and it's easier to unlearn something if you know how and why you learned it.
Well. The sun has come out. I think I will go for a walk. I will take my grief for a walk and see what some sunshine does for it. Tomorrow is the memorial service for Colin and I am not looking forward to that at all. I think because I know the enormity of the reality of his death will be impossible to ignore at that point. Even if I did talk to him last week.
But I will try to help the process along today by going out into the light, by taking one step after another through the woods and down the road and back again. It is tempting to want to stay here in the house and huddle down with the grief but I'm not sure that is the thing to do. It's not like I'm going to lose it if I take a walk. I will just feel less like I am drowning in it if I am moving my body forward, if I am seeing the birds and the water and the trees and the beginning buds which were not there last week.
Things can change very quickly. It is good to remember that this can happen in both up and down directions. And that in the end, it is all, as I believe, about love whether it is our love for a friend or a child or a husband or the love of a tree for spring, or the love of a palm for the weight of an egg, the love of the eye for a flower.
I am so anxious tonight. I wrote a long post, posted it, then deleted it. Gone. Done. Who cares about costumes? Who cares about Goodwill? Who cares about the secret life of Truvy?
Mr. Moon is out of town and I have grown too accustomed in the last few days of having him right here to hold me. His absence reminds me of how completely incapable I am of the simplest things in life. I can plant a garden but god help me if I have to pay a bill. I can cook a fish but I would starve before I was able to catch and clean one.
The dishes are waiting for me to wash them and I want to fling them into the yard. I want to let the rain wash them or rust them as it will and let the chickens have at what's in them. But no, I am a good girl. I will put the leftovers away and wash the damn dishes and put up the laundry and go to bed.
The dogs have noticed my agitation and taken it in to themselves. They are all pacing and prancing, and that is not helping. Each one has different sized toenails to clip and click along the floor with. It sounds like a tank full of snapping beetles in my house.
Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up and be calm. I will go out and pick the white camellias and place them in a sacred and pleasing arrangement in a vase. Perhaps there will be peace in my heart.
Rainy, gray, chilly. Patter, patter, patter. Colin's obit in the paper. Simple words, facts, might have come from one of his spread sheets, but the one titled, "A Life With Laughs And Love." Check, check, check.
The words are blocked in my throat this morning. Does that happen to you? What compels me to sit here every day and force myself to put words down, to stream them from brain and heart and soul? Nothing. The joy of it. That's all. All rivers flow to the sea, this is mine. This is my river, mine alone, and some days it is a pure, flowing creek in the woods, some days it is a wide, great shining thing, some days it is a muddy ditch but always, it is mine.
I just keep wondering about Colin's Levis. Isn't that silly? He almost always wore a pair of very clean, very faded Levis. I imagine he had a closet full, all perfectly faded and washed and folded and that he wore them in strict rotation. He could make a pair of Levis look grand. He moved with a lot of grace. He smiled all the time. He laughed like the joke was only between us, deep and throaty and somewhat insinuating and it was so beautiful and I got to hear it less than a week ago, that laugh. I'm so damn glad.
Should I quit writing about Colin? No. Not if that's what I want to write about. But even as I paddle around here in the salty tears water of today's river, I know there is so much sweetness. I know there is so much life, even if the day is gray, even if the rain patters down. There is so much to do and part of that is getting ready for Steel Magnolias. Today is Clothes-Half-Price Day at the Goodwill which would be a good day to go get my costumes ready. I remember Colin and how the show must go on and how the program for Steel will say that this play is dedicated to him. I think about the night he showed up onstage, two days after his eye was removed, wearing his white shirt, his bow tie. He'd taken a Tylenol, just in case his eye began to hurt. No. His eye was gone, as he pointed out. It could not hurt. A Tylenol.
The show must go on, so must life. And when a dear one leaves us behind, we hold on to each other more tightly. We remember how precious this whole thing is, how incredibly blessed we are to walk on this stage, to throw our lines back and forth, to laugh with real joy, and yes, to cry together too. Tears are part of the river which flows to the sea.
We can cry and not drown. We can laugh and not be disrespectful. We can reach out and say, Ilove you, come hold me close. Let us float together down this river, let us walk together on the boards of this old stage, let us make up our lines as we go but let us always remember to fill them with truth and to remember that truth can be joyful as well as cruel.
That's what I'm thinking about this morning. This is my river-flowing-to-the-sea, the great blue sea which is, on the very best days, the color of faded Levis, the color of Colin's twinkling blue eye.
We were on our way home from Apalachicola this afternoon and I got a call from Marcy, the lady in the chair in that picture above. She'd gotten an e-mail and knew that I hadn't gotten it yet and she didn't want me to get to rehearsal this afternoon without knowing that our Colin had died.
This was part of the e-mail that was waiting for me when I got home and I am glad that I heard the words from Marcy before I got it:
We are writing to notify you that yesterday evening, our friend,father, uncle, and brother Colin Thomas Rolfe died peacefully amidstloving family members. He kept saying to us amidst laughter, smiles,and tears “how lucky I am”. And as we all know, we were incrediblylucky as well to have known and loved him."How lucky I am." That is our Colin. He did the very hard work of dying, saying how lucky he was. And he died the way he lived- on his own terms.
I somehow can't believe it. It just doesn't seem possible. And I know I keep saying this but it's true. Colin? Dead? No way. What right does death have to come and take our Colin? Ah well. Death has its right to take us all, no matter what we think.
But BEFORE the Super Bowl? Really? Colin did not plan this well. That man loved his football. And his golf. And his cat. And spread sheets. He made spread sheets for everything including his exercise. When he knew he was going on vacation, he would do extra exercise beforehand so that he could check his spreadsheet off before he went with a clear conscience. It made perfect sense to him. And his women. All the women he'd ever loved. And making lasagna and beef stew and bread by hand. He made the best pound cake. And he loved his plane and flying. Oh- Colin flying. I am SO grateful I got to go up in a plane with Colin Rolfe at the helm. He was so happy. One would think that one would have the tiniest bit of trepidation, going up into the air in a tiny plane with a one-eyed man at the controls.
But oh hell no. And as I recall, I was anxious about everything that day, the day we went out to the house Colin built, for a party and we all took turns going up with Colin in his plane but I was not in the least anxious about getting in that plane with that man. Colin was one of those people with whom you would trust your life in any situation. And so, I did. And we flew.
We flew.
He showed us his house that day. The house he had designed and worked on. The house that had its own hanger and landing strip. The house that had a hot tub where he would soak and look at the stars and be happy, especially if he had a beautiful woman in there with him.
Well. I hope there is a hot tub in heaven, even though I don’t believe in heaven. I remember back last year sometime and we had a party and Colin was here and he sat in the library with me and he wanted to talk about what happens after we die.
“Nothing,” I think I told him. “That’s what I think, anyway. I think that we all join again in the energy of the universe and that makes me happy enough. That's enough for me.”
He wanted more than that, though. And thinking about that now, I feel certain that he already knew then.
Well. Colin.
I love how in the e-mail it said that Colin died. He didn’t pass on or cross over or go to meet the Lord. He died. I betcha he told them to say that. There was no mention of “a long battle.” There was no battle. When they told him that the cancer had spread and that there was no hope, he accepted, he did what needed to be done, and then he died.
We should all have a death like that. On our own terms.
Well, Colin may be dead but Bud The Stud will live forever. That mugging, prat-falling, under shorts-showing, crotch diving, weeping,
crazy man who had a bouquet of flowers waiting in the dressing room for all of his Sex Please, We’re Sixty lady co-stars. With a note for all of us.
That was Colin. That joyful man for whom death came and so callously and casually collected last night.
I don’t know what happens when we die but I do know that energy is neither created nor destroyed and boy oh boy. If Colin energy is floating around right now, free of worry and human-body gravity, there’s going to be some good floating around. Some real good. Some joyful, bungi-jumping, show-stealing, best-manners-in-the-world, gracious, incredibly intelligent, hysterically funny good energy floating around.
Say amen. Say God Bless. Say get on wit’ your bad self.
There’s going to be a memorial service at the Opera House on Wednesday afternoon and of course I’ll be there. I’ll be thinking of the afternoon that there was a memorial service there for Jan’s daddy and how Colin was dressed in a suit and tie because that’s what you do if you're a man and raised right and how I was a little bit late and when I got there, I went right up to Colin and he put his arm around me and I thought about how lucky I was to know such a man.You have no idea how many kindnesses I've seen that man perform. You have no idea how many dirty jokes he told me.
Lucky.
So very lucky.
So bless your heart, Colin Rolfe. Fly on free. You already know how to fly so you’ve probably already gone through the short line, probably already taken off, spirit free and joyful. It always was and I bet ever it shall be.
I love you, Colin. Me and about ten thousand others. Thanks for the good energy. Thanks for the light. Thanks for the joy. Thanks for the many times you made me laugh. Thanks for it all. Thanks for being Colin.
It's a miracle, y'all! The wireless in this place has been funkafied for sure and I couldn't get online for shit until now but here I am, uploading and downloading pictures and everything.
This is a very nice place. I do have to say it. But it's just a bit too unfunkafied for me. Why am I even saying that? It's lovely. It's right on the river. It's too big?Too clean? They built this place as condos when the boom was still going on. Before the last big hurricane crashed into the coast here, before the economy crashed all over the damn place. So they're trying to make it work as a hotel and it's lovely. Honestly. It is.
Okay. Pictures.
It was so foggy last night. Here's what it looked like right outside our room, the side not facing the river:
It was still misty this morning,
but when it cleared, I realized we were looking at this:
Mr. Moon and I could have bought that house a very, very long time ago. It's a pre-civil war house, about the same age as ours, and obviously much grander. It's now part of the park system and we've been in it and it's beautiful. Someone tried to turn it into a B&B awhile ago but it didn't work. I'm not sure why. I think they had too many rules. Too many rules don't work when people are on vacation. People on vacation don't want to be hit with No This and Do Not Do That.
That sign is here at the hotel down by the dock. Hell- what good is a damn river in Florida if you can't (a) swim in it and (b) feed the damn alligators? Do both if you want to! Cut down on the surplus human population! Win a Darwin award! It's your ass. That's what I think.
Anyway, here's a very fine pelican. I took his picture this morning too.
After breakfast this morning (where we ate some of the very best bacon I've ever had in my life) we did a little shopping. There's a bookstore/knitting supply store here which is just about perfect. They have everything from books by local artists to...KEITH RICHARD'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY! Also the most beautiful yarns you'd ever want to see. Or feel. Here's Mr. Cutie Pie in front of the store. He bought a book by a boat builder. He's already started reading it and keeps laughing out loud. I think I'm going to have to read this book too.
Ain't he darling? Yes. He is.
So there you are and here we are. There's supposed to be an FSU basketball game on the TV but Mr. Moon can't find it and so we're just hanging out in the beautiful suite here. It's chilly outside, and gray but inside it's warm and cozy.
We'll venture out this evening for another martini at the Gibson Inn. It was White Trash Mardi Gras there last night. That was...interesting. And then we'll go get our supper.
Last night it stormed like crazy, thunder and lightening cracking bright and bringing the night to its knees and the rain poured down.
I hope that happens again tonight. It was beautiful. And we slept fine.
Here we are and it is fine here. Gray and foggy, mysterious on the estuary and the river, the old town of Apalachicola rising up through the mist, the pelicans sitting like statuary on the dock posts.
This hotel is a bit...off...somehow but we're in a suite bigger than many houses I've lived in and I wander around wondering where I left my coffee cup. Which is nice. I don't have to clean it.
And mostly it's about us and we're having a wonderful time. We always do when we travel. We travel well together. I am so grateful for that.
Anyway, we're going to see if anyone in town will give two late-rising sluggards some bacon. I think someone will.
Just reporting in. Just saying here we are. Just saying all is very, very well.
So Hank-my-son is coming out to stay here at the Farmette to take care of the critters and the house while we are gone.
The critters he is officially responsible for are these:
1. Four dogs. Pearl, Buster, Dolly and Zeke.
2. Six chickens. Elvis, Shalayla, Mabel, Daffodil, Miss Bob and Miss Dolly. (Yes, I have two animals with the same name. It's confusing except that one is a chicken and one is a dog, which is not really that confusing when you think about it and I named Miss Dolly the Chicken that because she has a very large chicken-breast and Dolly Parton has a very large human-breast. Get it?)
3. One cat. Luna. Sometimes there is another cat who comes along to eat too. His name, according to Mr. Moon is Ballsy. I thought I heard him say "Baldy" which made no sense since the animal has a lot of hair but believe me- "Ballsy" is an accurate physical description.
The unofficial creatures which Hank will be taking care of (should he choose to do so) are the wild birds. There have been so many of them this year and even Owen enjoys watching them. "Bird!" he announces cheerfully as he stands on the chair in the dining room in front of the window which looks out to the feeder. So Hank- don't be afraid to take out some seeds for the birds. You will be richly rewarded. If you like to look at birds.
When Hank comes over he usually brings a carful of washing to do. This is fine with me. And I have the giant, family-sized container of detergent but I am running low on fabric softener. Just saying, Hank...
So while Mr. Moon and I are down in Apalachicola, watching the river to make sure it flows correctly, eating oysters and drinking beer and coffee and perhaps doing a little bit of shopping and whatever, Hank will be here, playing with the Wii, feeding the animals, doing the laundry and for all I know, having every one of his gozillion friends over for a party. And as long as they clean up I don't care at all. This house is a pretty fine party house, I have to admit. When we were all in the kitchen the other night I announced that my kitchen is now the official Opera House Stage Company Community Kitchen and that I want a plaque! The only problem with the party-house thing is that although this house has countless rooms, people seem to gravitate to either the kitchen or the back porch. This is the way it goes.
So Hank- bring fabric softener. There is venison in the freezer and there are greens and onions in the garden. There are plenty of farm-fresh eggs in the refrigerator. Throw the chickens some corn when you let them out in the morning but give the cat(s) time to eat her food before you do that because as you know, the chickens will run like hell to the catfood and scarf it all up and the cat will stand there and whine and be hungry all day long if you don't. Give her some more food when you close the chickens up at night. The spray bottle of Fabuloso is on the counter for cleaning up after dog pees and poops and there are extra paper towels in the cabinet in the laundry room. You know- the one the door fell off of? Make sure to close both doors into the chicken house at night. They are going to roost a little after six these days. Shalayla will let you hug and pet her before you close the doors.
If you get a keg, please put it outside or on the porch.
What I don't know won't hurt me.
Don't let anyone fall of the top of the stairs. I MEAN IT! Same with burning the house down. That would not be a good idea.
See you on Sunday. I have to be back around two to make it to rehearsal.
Have fun. Feed the birds.
Don't drink the gin. That is Kathleen's.
Collect the eggs in the chicken house. I have been getting about three a day.
I love you. Thanks. And remember- the mop is hanging over the clothesline.
The Mister and I are heading out of town tomorrow. We're going to spend two nights Apalachicola and I am looking forward to that so much. It is, as I have pointed out, time for us to take time away.
We're staying at a place we've never stayed before, a relatively new place, and it's on the river and every room has a balcony and if all we do is hunker down watch the river, I'll be happy. I am not going to cook, wash, clean, or do anything which resembles my normal life. Any tending I do will be to the sweet man I am married to. The man who makes my life a safe and beautiful place. Two whole nights and days to keep him as close as arm's length, to hold him close, to delight in his company.
My life is so incredibly full and the fullness is as sweet and sticky as honey and as real as rain and it's hard to admit that sometimes I need to step away from all of it but I do. And Mr. Moon and I have always done this- taken time to just be together. It's been a life-saver at some points and a marriage-saver too. To have times when the biggest question of the day is where shall we eat supper? and the sweetest moment of the day is whichever one we are living in at that particular moment. I guess it's one little honeymoon after another. Like that. And there is nothing in this world wrong with going away to be in love with the one you love.
It's going to be cold but as Mr. Moon said tonight, "We know how to snuggle." Oh yes, we do. But all skills must be practiced now and then to keep them sharp.
I am looking forward to practicing our skills at love. And being together. And watching the river flow, with no need whatsoever to direct it in any way. Just to let...it...flow.
Sitting in the doctor's office with my mother yesterday I was reminded of one of the reasons I hate going to the doctor with my mother. She's developed this...thing...she does which is so unlike her. She gets a running commentary going on the other people in the waiting room and talks about them in a normal tone of voice as if we are in the sacred bubble of silence and no one can hear her but me.
She comments on weight, mostly. "Now see- if I were that big, I'd understand why my knees hurt so much. See that black woman?"
And my mother has never been a racist. Ever. So why she feels the need to point out not only someone's weight but also their race is beyond me. It's so odd. She even said that her doctor, whom she hasn't met yet, is probably a "little Chinese man" because his name is Wong. Okay. Chinese I get. But little? I finally turned to her yesterday and put my finger in front of my lips in the shh way and she did, in fact shush but, Lord.
So after about an hour and a half of waiting to see the doctor's PA, we were finally ushered back to the room and the PA came in and he was one of those agitato people. He bounced his legs a lot and so forth. My mother asked me, thankfully after he left the room, if he could perhaps have that disease that that movie star has. She was talking about Michael J. Fox and Parkinson's. I assured her that no, I did not think he had Parkinson's, but that he was just a jumpy sort of guy.
The PA looked at her X-Rays and pronounced them fine. "I hope my knees look like this when I'm 83," he said. But of course, she really is in pain and so they have to figure out why. She's going to get an MRI of her knees and perhaps there's some torn cartilage they can repair with orthoscopic surgery which is far less invasive than knee replacements. And although she's a tiny bit relieved that she doesn't have to go through the whole replacement surgery and rehab process, she also mentioned several times that she's a little bit embarrassed that she's told everyone that she's getting two knee replacements and now she's not. Sort of like she'd told everyone she was getting a new car but now she's not.
Well, I tell you, getting old doesn't look like one damn bit of fun to me. It looks painful and somewhat bizarre. It was, in fact, a bizarre and somewhat painful three hours just observing it. When we were leaving the office, there was one of those hi-tech walkers on wheels with brakes and everything and I said, "Mom, you need one of these." There was a man standing there in scrubs and I don't know what the hell his job was. Probably to help lift people or something and he said, "M'am, as long as your mother has her mobility, don't try to encourage her to use something that will limit it."
I thought about this for a second.
"The problem is," I told him, "Her mobility is limited and if she had a walker, she could get around more easily and do more outside of her house."
She's constantly afraid of falling, needs an arm to help balance her, and a walker would fucking well help and this dude had no idea what he was talking about and he realized that and apologized. He said that his mother insists on being in a wheelchair and so her muscles are going to atrophy.
"How old is your mother?" my mother asked him. "Seventy-four," he said. "Well I'm eight-three!" she told him and we toddled on down the hall to the check-out window.
Thankfully, she did not ask if his mother was fat. Also, she did not ask him if she was black. I was waiting for that, but it didn't happen.
I drove her home and helped her into the house and reminded her to turn off the security system. She thanked me and pointed out that she is parking her car nose-out now so that the sun will beat down on the side that is not faded in hopes that it will now fade into a more even shade all over.
"Good idea!" I said and got back in my car and drove off, feeling as if I'd been released from school for the summer and call me a bad daughter, it's okay. I am.
I can't wait for the MRI appointment. They have a really big waiting room and there will be lots of people with all sorts of obvious physical characteristics for her to comment on.
Our Colin. For those of you who have not been with me that long, our Colin is a man whom I have always written about with the most respect. Our Colin. He was in a production with me and Marcy and Jan and Pat last year, directed by Kathleen with Judy as stage manager and Denise as prop master and he was Bud The Stud. It was a play called Sex Please, We're Sixty, and Colin was the star of the show, he shamelessly stole the whole thing, he dived face first into my crotch every night and before every curtain opening he was backstage, jumping up and down and saying, "I can't believe I get to do this AGAIN!" in his British accent and I almost wanted to slap him and say, Calm the fuck DOWN, Colin! but of course I never did. Colin. There was nothing Colin could not do. Nothing Colin would not do. Need the ceiling in the auditorium of the Opera House painted? Colin could do it. He was a pilot, a builder, a man who could make lasagna and his own beef stew and who could charm the ladies out of their... Well. Colin. A year and a half ago, Colin informed us that he had a melanoma in his eye and was going to Pennsylvania to have it removed. He came home with one eye and the surrounding tissue removed. He came home and was onstage that night. He came home and continued his life with such joy, such enthusiasm, such vigor and SAY YESNESS! that none of us could believe it, much less keep up. And all was well. He was Bud The Stud. He was his own self in his Levi's and denim shirts, slim like a snake and I gotta tell you that for a man in his seventies he had an ass on him... Okay. Stop it. I am done. No I'm not. He could not stop joking about his surgery. "How's your eye, Colin?" "I have no idea. It's in Philadelphia." Etc.
And then last summer I would look at him and I would think, "Something is not right." I would say, "Colin, how are you?" And he would say, "Terrific! Never better!" And then he'd go visit his kids up north. And then he wouldn't show up for stuff at the Opera House. And then if I called and said, "What's up? Why aren't you doing this or that?" he'd say, "Oh, this shoulder. It's still bothering me."
I knew.
But I didn't want to know.
Turns out his cancer made itself known to him again last August. The doctor said, "You've got three to nine months. Nothing to be done."
He didn't tell any of us. He tied up loose ends. He did what needed to be done. He came by here for Kathleen's party to make sure that Vergil was good enough for Jessie whom he has always adored. He sent his cat to his sister's house.
And two nights ago he told Pat and Ron and asked them to tell us and Pat told us after rehearsal last night and we wept. All of us. I came home and told Mr. Moon. He held me. He loves Colin too. Everyone loves Colin. God damn. That's why I couldn't sleep last night.
And it's been a day of thinking about him every moment. And crying. Fuck.
I called him this afternoon and he actually picked up. "I love you," I told him. "That's really all I need to say." "I have NO regrets," he told me. "I had a hell of a ride." He gave me that Colin laugh, even though he was having a hard time breathing. I said, "That laughs reminds me of every time I've heard it. All the times you've made me laugh." "No regrets." "God damn. I love you."
I offered help or whatever but he's the way he is. Stiff upper life. Chin up. Survived the Blitz and the eighties, too.
"Well, look. We're getting together tonight to celebrate Kathleen's good news and you. Just wanted to tell you." "Thank-you." "Love you." "God bless." "God bless."
We gathered tonight. We ate pizza. We drank martinis and wine and beer and we toasted. We cried. I said a blessing. I don't remember what I said. Something probably like, "Goddam. Here we are. Thank-you."
It's raining. A lot. I have to leave the house in an hour and I got about four and a half hours of sleep and when I was asleep I was dreaming dreams that would scare the children and upset the balance of the universe as we know it.
I'm so exhausted that I can really only see out of one eye and that one seems half blind. This has been the longest week and it's only Wednesday. And barely begun Wednesday at that. My brain is laughing at my coffee.
"HahahahahahahahahaHA! Try amphetamines, then get back to me," it is saying.
Judy asked me yesterday how much I sleep. "As much as possible? Is that wrong?"
I would give approximately one thousand dollars not to have to take my mother to the doctor this morning. I would give another thousand for someone to come and clean my house. And yet another thousand I do not have to be able to go back to bed to float away on some other dream, even if it was not a peaceful one.
That's me. Wasting money as usual.
The rain has settled down. The dog beneath my feet is emitting some foul gas. I should go outside and feed the cat, gather the paper, drink my breakfast of healthy stuff, open the chickens to their run.
At least it is not freezing here. At least the land is not covered in ice. At least I have a bed to lay in, and not least of all, that man who holds me tight before we drift away.
That's my message tonight. The one I am getting, the one I am giving. Just fucking love each other. And laugh all you can.
Long day with great gifts, and I am going to bed so that I can get up tomorrow and try to be a good daughter, or at least a decent one, and I am so grateful for family of all kinds, both blood and heart-chosen.
Our darling Dr. Antonio Bandaras told us today that Kathleen's scan showed that the nodes are smaller and the pleural fluid is almost gone. This is progress. This shows that the chemo and treatment he is giving her are doing their jobs.
We are so happy and would be celebrating with martinis and pizza tonight but we have rehearsal.... Maybe tomorrow. We shall see.
Her platelets are still very low though and so they gave her some today and she is not getting chemo for two weeks. That's okay. The doctor isn't worried about that. And now her body can rest and heal some.
In this case, I would like to say that thing which I hate when people say, which is: It's all good.
Good morning and it's still dark outside and it was so hard to drag my body out of the bed. I won't lie to you. I suppose that they do make doctor appointments in the afternoon but none of the people I go to the doctor with get any of those appointments. Kathleen's is at 8:45 this morning and my mother has one at 9:00 tomorrow.
Kathleen is going to talk to the doctor today, I think, about the results of her last scan and to get her bloodwork for tomorrow's chemo. We hope she'll be getting chemo tomorrow. She will if the bloodwork comes back with all signs good.
Mother is going to meet with the PA of the surgeon who is going to replace her knees. Mother seems to think that this surgery is going to be a piece of cake and then she's going to rehab for a few weeks and then she'll be spry and not in pain any more. I hope this is true, I fear that the process is going to be far more difficult than that but maybe not. She's in a lot of pain and her mobility is limited so the surgery is something she is really looking forward to and I don't blame her. Pain sucks and no one wants to have to sit around and think about how to get up out of a chair. Anyway, she needs someone to take her. The parking itself is a daunting proposition and she gets details confused so... I'll be getting up early tomorrow too.
Well. Early appointments mean that a nap time is possible and I got out of bed promising myself I'd get one today. I have rehearsal tonight (we're getting mighty, scarily close to opening night) and I'm getting nervous as hell about that.
So. Morning anxiety, la-di-dah. Here we go. And in an hour I'll be headed to Kathleen's and Judy is coming today too so it will be the three of us, on our way up north to Georgia and the fields will be beautiful, the bare pecans like great, brown fingers against the sky and tiny houses and large ones, the old Florida Welcome place where they used to sell liquor because Thomas County was dry but abandoned now, the old picnic tables falling onto the ground, the sun coming up to take charge of the earth, warming as it rises, and I shall be with two women I love and we always have a good time and as Judy says, "We shall celebrate life," and damn, that's worth getting out of bed for.
Elvis crows and wants out, the day begins, and I am up, not fully awake but getting there, thank god for coffee, thank-you Jesus, for coffee, thank whoever grew this coffee and picked it and shipped it here for me to buy and brew and drink, such miracles, tiny and perfect, a cup of coffee, a road to Georgia, friends and celebration of life.
