Time To Make The Grits

Freddy put this picture up on Facebook and wrote: Your face. Everywhere. This is in Chicago.

I have no idea what that cryptic little genius is doing in Chicago and no idea why my face is everywhere but it's sort of cool, eh? I remember the day we filmed that. It was my fifty-sixth birthday and it was my second day ever of being filmed by Freddy. Or anyone, for that matter.

It's Sunday morning and cold again. Cold like bite-my-ass-this-is-Florida COLD! Mr. Moon and Jason just pulled back into the yard after hunting. I stuck my head out and said, "Did you catch a deer?" This is what I always say. Perhaps in my mind, instead of shooting deer, they run after them and gently scoop them into their arms and kiss them to death.
Haha!

They didn't bring a deer home and so no, they did not catch one. Or shoot one for that matter.

"Want some breakfast?" Mr. Moon just asked me. This means...oh you know what it means.
"What do you boys want?" I asked him.
"Uh, eggs and sausage and grits?"
"Go get me some sausage," I said. And out to the garage he'll go to get some sausage and I guess I better get to cooking.

Glad I bought grits.

Amazed at this life. More amazed at the fact that it is a Sunday morning and I am happy to be living it, happy to be awake, daunted but not flattened by all I need to do. All I GET to do. This afternoon Mr. Moon and Billy will be working on the old Model T in the garage that belongs to Billy and which was his grandpa's and Shayla and Lily and Owen and Waylon will be here too. Baby boys and big boys doing boy things, and daughter and girlfriend.

A bright, shiny day laying before me and my face is in Chicago and my heart is here and in Mexico and there with you, wherever you are. I swear.

There's Mr. Moon with the sausage. Time to cook.

Sunday morning at the Church of the Batshit Crazy And all is well. All is very well.