And The Rain Still Falls Down

It is still raining, but softly, gently, sweet rain silver and gray. I just walked slowly, slowly, out to the hen house to shut up my darling chickens and they seemed so cozy with the gentle patter on the tin roof above them. I do not mind at all the smell of the henhouse. It is the smell of hay and the chicken's feathers and yes, of their poop but I do not find that odor to be offensive, especially if it is relatively fresh. Chickens DO poop a lot but it is easily taken to the garden where it becomes fertilizer. There is actually nothing about my chickens which does not charm me. As I say, I think that the raising of chickens has become embedded in our DNA. I certainly feel that it is in mine.

Mr. Moon is out of town, gone down to auction. That man never ceases to amaze me with the grace he displays in the everyday grind of life. I don't know what I would do without him. He not only takes care of our entire family in so many ways, he takes care of me which is not always an easy thing to do. He puts up with my crazy which, although it does not make an appearance as often as it used to, still shows up sometimes and does a little tap dance and takes a little bow.
I admit it.
And there, too, he displays grace. And he sticks around.
He is my saving grace, that man. And as a girlfriend said on Saturday night, he is also easy on the eyes. How in hell did I get so lucky?

I am so much better than I was even twenty-four hours ago but I am still glad to be going to see this...uh, I'm not quite sure what he is...tomorrow. I have made an appointment for ten a.m. He is a doctor, but the PhD kind. Mostly I would like to see if he can tell what it was that popped, what happened and how to prevent it from happening again and what to do and what NOT to do to make the healing go as quickly as possible. And while I am there, I am going to at least start a dialogue about this wrist which has pained me for so long. See if he has any suggestions as to exercises I can do with it to help. As much as it bothers me, I loathe the idea of surgery. I hate the thought of someone mucking about in my tendons and muscles and ligaments and all of those deep, bloody parts of me that my skin so thoughtfully keeps covered. I know. I'm a bit over-the-top with this anxiety about such things but I can't help it. It's who I am. I spoke to a friend on Saturday night, right before my body betrayed me so callously who has had several surgeries on his wrist and has been treated by the local orthopedic clinic practice. He is not happy with them and doesn't have good use of his wrist and the doctors he's been seeing seem to have no further alternatives for improvement.
Well, anyway, I will go see this guy tomorrow. It will be interesting, at least. I am basing that on the phone conversation I had with him today. Whatever happens, I'm sure I'll be writing about it. You can count on that.

And so it goes. The rain continues to fall and the night has closed in and I am going to go make something for my supper that doesn't require much time on my feet and then I'm going to get back into my little nest with my pillows, my books and my remotes and my iPhone. I started a biography of Bruce Springsteen today that I got from the library last week but I am afraid that it is so wretchedly written that I cannot read it. The word "matriculated" appeared on Page 3 and that is just about enough for me. Fifty dollar words used in a twenty-five cent sentence are like diamonds on a possum. What's the point? The diamonds are going to get dirty and the possum is still going to be a possum. No one is going to be fooled.

Speaking of which, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is on tonight.

How's that for a segue?

Let's all sleep well tonight, okay?

See you tomorrow.

Love...Ms. Moon