Sunday, January 22, 2012
It's Okay. Plunder My Soul
Last night Mr. Moon and I played cards and I beat his ass soundly.
This never happens. Ever.
It sort of upset me. The way the luck has settled around here is something of a miracle and I want no portents that it may have changed in any way.
Silly. I know.
Very, very gray here today and wet, too. This makes for a different sort of sound-stage for this particular all-the-world's-a-stage.
I keep taking pictures of resurrection fern, hoping to impart the true beauty of it but it always just ends up looking like fern growing on log.
I guess that's what it is anyway, but this particular fern curls up and looks deader than your great, great, great grandmother when we haven't gotten any rain for awhile. And then...comes some wetness and it furls out and turns green again.
Obvious metaphor and beautiful on its own.
Can't beat that.
Especially on a Sunday morning.
I have a camellia opening up which is almost obscenely pink, if pink can be obscene. Especially against the brown and gray of today.
It is almost unbearably tender, too, with the droplets of water upon it.
One had opened fully, it's face bowed low, almost to the ground. I plucked it and brought it in, put it in a vase and gave it to the hallway altar table.
And you ask why I live in Florida. We are not all palm trees here in North Florida. Although we have a few of those as well.
When I moved here, almost eight years ago, there were no palm trees in the yard (excluding sago palms which are not actually palms) and one scraggly camellia. I remedied that in a hurry.
Well. Maybe not a hurry.
But pretty quick.
I brought over two camellias from my old yard and they are doing well. One fairly spectacularly well. I drove by that old yard the other day and saw that a tiny live-oak I'd planted has grown amazingly and looks for all the world like a teenaged boy, all height and gangle. When I die, that tree will still be there and hell, if no one interferes with it, when my children's children are having children, that tree will barely be mature.
At least I think it is.
My friend Tom brought me two small palms in pots and I planted those by the front porch and then I bought two Canary Island Date palms and planted them on either side of the front gate.
They are doing well. They'll look better when they get more height to them but I feel quite affectionate towards them, even as they are now.
Again, it is warm and so my thoughts turn to the earth and what grows in it and on it. We are still getting good greens from the garden, both cooking-kind and salad-kind. I gave Judy a little dish of collards and mustards I'd cooked on Friday with tomatoes and shallots. They are good. I ate them again last night myself. I can't wait to make a salad with that basil-infused Spanish olive oil that Ross brought over with some of Tom's green onions and garlic. He grows the best garlic.
I hadn't seen Ross in years. I've known him since Winter Haven, back when we were kids. He came over as did Tom and our across-the-street neighbor yesterday afternoon to watch a basketball game with Mr. Moon. I could barely walk in that room with all the testosterone crashing around. Even with the door closed, I could hear the yelling and screaming coming from in there all the way out here on the porch. It was funny. All the gals on the back porch, all the fellas in the Glen Den.
I told Ross we were doing lines, us girls.
He looked at me with that tilted look of "oh really?" and we laughed.
Ah, the old days are gone forever.
The years have pounded us out and mellowed us all.
We can still laugh about it all. Those of us still here.
There is something of great comfort in that. It was good to see Ross.
I wish I could see any damn thing today. These contacts- well- I'm not sure they're a very good experimental device. My eyes are so astigmatized that contacts have to find their float-point to work and it takes forever in the mornings. Honestly, I can't see shit here. I am writin' blind. They'll get better as the day passes.
Mr. Moon is out in the woods. It's the last day of hunting season. I think. For me this mostly means that I can start using Suavitel Fabric Softener again, which I like because it, like Fabuloso, reminds me of Mexico. Anyway, he'll be in soon and this day will truly begin. I might make him some breakfast.
I might even make some biscuits.
I can cook blind. Believe me.
Speaking of cooking, if you haven't visited Tearful's new cooking site, I advise that you do. Plate and Fork.
I especially like his header which has the words, eat what you want and die like a man.
There's no one like Tearful.
I don't know that I'll be making his recipes. They're far more gourmet than the hash I sling around here but I sure am entertained by the pictures and the words and who knows? I might get inspired.
Well, that's enough of that.
It's Sunday Here At The Church Of The Batshit Crazy and you know what that might mean.
Yeah. Time for a little hymn.
Here's a grainy old piece of film showing some boys before time had done its pounding work on them. Showing time DOING its pounding work on them.
Bless and amen.