Well, I have made a veggie tray leftovers soup with venison today and I was so happy to have it bubbling away on the stove. In a little while I'll cut up the rest of the pot roast and vegetables I cooked a few days ago to add to it all. I think it will be very, very good. And there will be way too much.
Turning leftovers into more leftovers! You know that's what I'm best at. I would say it's my "souper power" but I hate puns with a passion.
It's been a very calm and peaceful day here in Lloyd. I only left the property to take the trash and the only speaking I've done is to Jack and Maurice and to Mr. Moon and that was on the phone. They had a long day of fishing and still have to clean the boat and the fish and do all of the things that good fisherpeople do when they return to shore and he said he may just spend the night there and get up early and come home. I would like it if he did because I hate the thought of him driving home in the dark when I know he had a very full day that started before dawn. And the soup will be better tomorrow anyway.
So I've just noodled around here all day, doing a little of this and a little of that and it's cool enough that the rackety air conditioner hasn't even turned itself on once, I think. The house cools down so much at night now that if I keep the doors shut it stays cool most of the day.
I planned on getting some work done in the yard and I somehow busied myself until after three but I did get out there and do a little bit. The area that's been calling me the hardest is out front by the sidewalk where an ugly jungle of invasive plants has taken over including the crocosmia and border grass. I cannot believe that people buy these plants in nurseries while I am constantly pulling and burning them.
Here's the area I am talking about.
And it is not easy to dig up that stuff. I have talked about this so many times. The crocosmia makes hundreds of bulbs per square foot. And they have roots. You can pull the plants easily but that leaves the bulbs and roots in the ground. The border grass has a root system like netting. Strong netting. I have to get in there with my fingers and pull like hell. I'm sure you could shovel it but that is not in the least bit pleasant for me. There are other plants involved in this hellhound landscape but those two are the most prevalent.
Now it could just be that Harvey does not like me. I've considered that possibility too and it makes sense. What reason would he have to like me? We don't really talk much, if ever. When I see him on his property where he is so exposed to everyone going down the road because he doesn't have a real house, he may give me his signature greeting which is to throw his arms up in the air or he may completely ignore me. I respect that. He is a man of many moods, I think. Last week when Jessie and I were going to Monticello with the boys and she had pulled up to the road from the driveway to see if anyone was coming, Harvey had just passed the house and suddenly, he began to dance.
"Why is he dancing?" asked August.
"Because that's what he does sometimes," I said. And that is true.
So. When I was walking and he was coming towards me and veered off the sidewalk with the lawn mower, I said, "You don't have to do that."
He mumbled something and then I asked him if he had just been mowing that big field and the church yard just down the way.
"I been helping," he said. "A few of us did that."
"Well it looks great!" I told him. And it did. "That was so good of you to do that. I appreciate that."
I was knocked back. I think I said, "Thank you."
I did say something along the lines of, "Well, you don't have to move off the sidewalk for me. I won't hurt you."
Which now that I think about it was probably not the thing I should have said because I am a white woman and history has shown that one white woman, even an old one, can indeed hurt a Black man.
There was a woman, probably in her forties, speaking to the post mistress through the little window that was originally the ticket-seller's window when the building was a train station. Now it's where you buy your stamps or give the post mistress a package to send or whatever.
The first thing I heard was the customer and she said, "Now. I know that some people have said that he had an affair."
Okay. Okay. This is so good. I am assuming that she's speaking of a church leader and that by saying "he feeds me" she means spiritually. I continue to pretend to sort my four pieces of mail.
"But I have to say," she contined, "And I ask god all the time, God, help me not to judge! and I really don't but his wife! I mean, she gets up there and she is praying and singing and speaking in tongues and the way she looks..."
"And she was a mess for awhile but she's been saved and is back in the church." (I think she was referring to the daughter and all I could think was, "Girl, run! It's not too late!")
And I had sorted those four pieces of mail five times at least and it would have been weird for me to stay any longer so I had to leave but my GOD, I wanted to hear more. I desperately wanted to hear more.
I haven't stopped thinking about that all week.
I wish I at least knew what church she was talking about because maybe I would like to visit there one Sunday, knowing what I do from that short little bit of eavesdropping, about the pastor, his wife, and their daughter.
I live for shit like that.
And am I judging?
I'm judging this to be fascinating.