Friday, December 5, 2014

Just Stuff

It is Friday and I feel unsettled and not sure of what I am going to do today although I know I have my boys this afternoon. It is densely gray here today and the air is not cold but it is wet and somehow finds its way into the bone to chill. I started out to take a walk but my heart and spirit were not in it and I went to the post office and got two pieces of mail and when I got home I realized one of them was not for us and so walked it back and that will do for today, as applies to walking.
Our new post mistress is a bit careless, I think, when putting the mail in the boxes. I get mail for other people in my box all the time now. My box number is 127 and I get mail for all the surrounding numbers. "126? Close enough!" I can hear her thinking.
I miss Miss Martha.

I'm going to town to run a few errands and then meet up with an indeterminate number of my children at Fanny's for lunch and then bring the boys back here for the afternoon. There are so many things I need to do but am not doing any of them, it would seem. The hen house is a stinky poopy mess and I need to deal with that and I have onions to plant and I haven't done that and I am suddenly yearning for us to move back into our old bedroom and that requires some getting-ready and I haven't shaved my legs in weeks but that's not really much of a concern today.

I just talked to Kathleen a little while ago and we were talking about the news and she said, "People should watch the news from my perspective. It's a lot more amusing."
I watched a bit of the protest coverage on CNN last night although not on purpose. I had thought to watch some Anthony Bourdain but the coverage canceled his show which I am not complaining about but I will say that seeing all of those people lying on the ground in NYC made me cry and as I was falling asleep last night I was thinking about the fact that my house, my own beloved house which I love so very, very much, was no doubt built with slave labor. The hand-hewn sills underneath, chopped from the very hearts of great pine trees with the axe marks still upon them were probably cut by men who were not free.
How does one live with such knowledge?
In my case, it makes me love and respect my house even more and vow to cherish it for as long as I can and that is a choice and I have made it. To honor those who built it with their sweat and their blood and their strength with my love and honor and care.

What does the Bible say? Yea, the sins of the father are visited even unto the seventh generation? or something like that.
I wish the sins of my fathers had persisted only unto the seventh generation.

Well, enough about the sins of the father and the sins of the mother too. For now.

I need to get the beans started for our supper. Someone gave Mr. Moon a beautiful bottle of cane syrup last night which means I want to make cornbread tonight and when I think cornbread, I think pinto beans and there you go. I want to cook greens to go with them. I not only live in the house that Africans most likely built but I eat the foods they helped introduce into our culture and they are my favorite foods.

Do you know what? Owen has never once remarked on anyone's skin color. To him, I believe that skin color is no more indicative of anything than eye or hair color are. Maybe eventually, things will change. His grandmother attended high school when desegregation occurred and here he is two generations later with what appears to be no notice of black or white. His teacher is black and she gives him love like water from a stream and tells me how sweet he is and she calls him "O-Dub" and he blushes under her praise and adores her.
May the good things of this world of the father (and the mother) persist not only for seven generations but for seventy times seventy into eternity. May change come, may we honor the struggles, the deaths, the sweat, the gifts, the kinship, the cultures, the hopes and the dreams and the pain and the joy, the very blood which has been spilt and which runs in the hearts of us all, which beat the same, the same, the same rhythm of this life on this one planet which we share where we all want basically the same things for ourselves and our children and our grandchildren and may we let the rest of the bullshit go. As Kathleen also said when we talked, at least these days if you're an asshole, you know it.

Happy Friday.

Love...Ms. Moon


  1. Oh, Mrs. Moon, I love these posts of yours. I'm so sad about our world and I know you are too, but somehow reading your thoughts gives me hope.

  2. I just cannot really figure out who decided white skin was superior anyway. How did they get that power?

    I love that your grandkids don't see skin colour as anything to notice. I think the newer generations are improving. I hope they are.

  3. I don't think it is a bad thing to notice different colours of skin or hair or eyes. It what makes us physically different from one another. There is a lot of beauty in that. When Owen does notice I don't expect it to be a problem.

    Actually, that reminds me when I first noticed that people looked different. It was from this Sesame Street clip.

    I remember being fascinated with the asian girls eyes. I thought she was beautiful. I liked her because she was just a silly little girl like me.

  4. Beautiful post, dear Mary. I love what Kathleen says. And when you start considering the world from the perspective of All Is One it gets more amusing still. Because everything we do to others we do to ourselves. I know. It's sort of twisty to contemplate. But it sure is an argument for being loving. Owen is a loving boy because he has been shown such love. Gibson too. You did that. You and yours. We are one. This is what I'm thinking on today. Big hugs, friend.

  5. Your Owen is a very wise child!
    Children are colourblind - and oh! beautifully so - if we let them. In fact, they are born colourblind and that should teach us a thing or to.

    And by colourblind I mean that of course, children recognise the different features but they do not see their own as being "other". I remember my 5 year old when we lived in a small African village and she was totally convinced that everybody thought she was exactly like all the other kids once she could speak their language. And so she was - apart from her blond hair.

  6. Mary, you are so blessed to have a friend as wise as Kathleen. I wish I knew her in person. Your a very lucky woman and I'm sure you realize this. I also wish I had you to visit with.take care Mary

  7. I love this post. It's a perfect complement to your other one. And Kathleen always says the most amazing things.

  8. My children never commented on a person's color either. There is hope but it's dim hope at present. I thought we were past this when Obama was elected. Boy was I wrong!

  9. Denise- As your posts give me hope, especially as concerns the human spirit. Thank you.

    jenny_o_ - Well, of course things always depend on what children are taught and modeled. But yes, I think that with each generation, the horrible illness of racism may be weakening. I have to believe that.
    (And I'm pretty sure white people decided that white people were superior.)

    Birdie- I have no doubt that Owen notices the differences in his school friends as to color and size but so forth but I don't think he makes any judgements upon them. Although yes, he does think that Clare is beautiful.
    I love that clip. I remember it. Thanks.

    Angella- We ARE one, aren't we? It's so damn true. I adore you. Thank you for being here.

    Sabine- Yes! Exactly! Different but the same. How wonderful that your daughter had that experience.

    Anonymous- You are so right about Kathleen. Thank you.

    Elizabeth- Doesn't she?

    LBags- Yes. We thought surely that hope and change was afoot. Well, here we are. Still, I believe.

  10. We watched Fruitdale Station today. And I have to say that it mirrors what has been happening with police and interactions with African Americans. It was powerful. I am ashamed that racial tensions seem worse than in the 60's. Horrific stuff going on.


Tell me, sweeties. Tell me what you think.