Slept late this morning after reading "just one more" of Bailey White's stories in a book I got in Mobile, Nothing With Strings until way too late. I love Ms. White's stories. If you've never read any, get you one of her books. She writes so plainly, so simply, she paints the picture and lets you fill in the details, or at least FEEL like you're putting in the details. She lives right up the road and her little books are like potato chips to me.
One more. Oh, just one more.
If you google Bailey White's stories, you might find one or two online.
She plays banjo, Ms. White does. Claw-hammer style, I think. She taught elementary school for twenty years. She married her father's best friend and after eleven years with him in California, came back home to Thomasville, Georgia. She sounds like she's eighty years old on the radio but she is not.
Read Mama Makes Up Her Mind.
Then you'll know what the south is like.
So I finally shut the book and slept so hard and this morning when I woke up I kept trying to make myself get out of bed and trying equally hard to make myself stay in it. "The chickens," I would think. "The chickens need me to get up."
Fuck the chickens, I would think. They are fine.
Last night it took me hours to get them all in their proper places. Flopsy goes up into her little shelter and clucks for her babies but they get confused and can't figure out how to get up there too. I have to help them. This involves lying on my stomach under the shelter and reaching for them and they are too fast for me.
The teenaged chickens seemed to want to go into the big hen house. They were clustered up right by the door into it but they have their own little sleeping place. Again, on my belly, grabbing chickens.
Lord. This is ridiculous.
So this morning I was inclined to just let them all stay in their various places which I did for quite awhile but then I got up and because we are out of cat food, I opened a can of salmon for Luna and her Feral Boyfriend, Ballsy, and of course I got salmon juice on me and I smell like a cat's best dream. You can't wash that stuff off.
Anyway, the big chickens are having their time in the coop and now I need to go and let them out and then I'm thinking I might let the teenaged chickens out today too. I don't know. I am already tired of worrying about these juvenile chickens and have decided never, ever to take on the raising of chickens again. Give me grown-up chickens. Of course, if a hawk gets one of the teenagers, Mr. Moon will blame me and he'd be right to but I don't think I'd care as much he does.
So I'm running late on my imaginary schedule of taking the trash, taking a walk, doing the laundry, going to the grocery store (we are out of EVERYTHING, not just chocolate) and coming back here to clean some. I want to mop the floors. Don't ask me why. I guess because they need it. Maybe also because I'd rather smell like white vinegar and Fabuloso than salmon juice.
I did indeed survive both the rat and lack of chocolate. It was, in a way, reassuring that the damn rat took off for the outside rather than for a closet. I mean- rats are wild animals. They belong outside. I don't like the fact that one was on my porch but I'd rather think he only visits there and has a nice cozy home somewhere out in the yard. Dear god, he was big. I mean, BIG!
So that's me this morning. I survived and slept just fine but I still don't have a gay-man best friend. Well, put that one on the agenda.
Good morning, y'all. Good morning.
P.S. Maurice Sendak died. That makes me sad. What joy he brought to this world. What joy.