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Maurice when I got out of bed this morning. She looked so serene and regal, didn't she? 

So you know how some people, when asked how they're doing say, "Well, any day I wake up and I'm still here is a good day"?
That answer has never really impressed me. It's like asking someone how they'd feel if their mother had had an abortion when she was pregnant with them. 
Wouldn't really be much of a worry, would it? Same thing for being dead. If I don't wake up and I'm not breathing, I doubt it's going to trouble me in the least. I'll just be a little ol' electron of energy or something and I won't be worrying about what to make for supper. 
These are rather depressing thoughts and my day has not really been bad enough to warrant such morbid thinking but, as the woman I used to work with might say, it has kindly sucked.
Only she would not have said "sucked" because like Auntie Em, she was a good Christian woman. But I did love the way she used the word "kindly" instead of "kind of" as I would say. Or, "sorta like."
But yes. Kindly sucky. 
For a few days now the kidney stone has been threatening me with bad behavior and I am almost embarrassed to say this because it always seems to happen when Glen's about to go out of town and I do admit that I could be having psychosomatic pain but I've been having other symptoms which I know well by now which would be fairly difficult to manifest with my mind although I think of people who have experienced the stigmata and I realize the human mind is capable of anything. Well, not bending spoons or stuff like that.

Back to my day. Due to the stone's activity I have just not felt well. When these fuckers move they create an insult to the body, as they say, and many different systems seem to want to get involved and play along. Urinary, of course, gastric, the internal lady parts, etc. And I just ache. And am tired. I'm fairly used to all of this by now but there is always the lingering PTSD of the pain I suffered (and that is the word) some years ago when a different stone got into the wrong place and had to be lasered into grit. This is just the way it is and today has been one of those days. 
And adding to that, Mr. Moon wanted to go up to the lake house to retrieve his truck which has been stuck there for at least a month due to its own ill health. He thought he'd figured out what was wrong with it and took two batteries and twenty fuses with him today. We drove up together and I was to drive the car back after the truck had been fixed. I really didn't want to go but he was dead set on getting up there and bringing his truck back home and if I hadn't done it, he was determined to get a friend of his to drive up with him but this friend has some sort of dementia and not just the kind where you can't remember what you came into a room for but the kind where maybe you're not sure what that room is for. 
I do not mean to make light of this. I fear dementia more than anything, I believe. I recognize signs of it in myself and my mother and my grandmother had it but our friend's situation is undeniable and I was NOT going to let him have any part in this operation. 
Thus- I agreed to go even though I feel like I have so much to do before I leave on Thursday to pick up my darling Ms. T. Joy at the airport and drive us to St. George island. 
Of course I'm probably way over-estimating what I think I need to do but I was not in the best mood on the drive up. I was not ugly in word or deed but I did not say much, just working on patching a pair of overalls. 

The long and the short of it (which now that I think about it would be a terrific title for a book about Glen and me) is that although he got the truck running beautifully, not more than fifteen minutes after we left the driveway, he in the truck, me in the car we'd driven up in, I saw two big puffs of black smoke coming from the truck's tailpipe and after pulling over and a little bit more effort on Glen's part to remedy the situation, it became apparent that the truck was going nowhere under its own speed and so it was left on the side of the road, a tow-truck called, a note put on the wind shield to explain it was being dealt with, and we drove home. 

Sigh.

Bless that man's heart. He does not give up until there really is no other option available to him. 

Here are two pictures I took in the cabin.

NO. That thing must go along with the duck key thingee and whatever that other thing on the wall is. The fire extinguisher should probably stay although not necessarily right there. The table and chairs which I did not get in the picture also will never ever have either a place in my heart or a place in any house I associated with.

Here's what the kitchen looks like right now. Do you dig the big wooden towel ring and the big carved fork on the wall by the sink? 
I don't. We shall not discuss the cabinets. I'm sure I have already. 

At least the horrible kitchen island is gone and there is that stove with the beautiful blue oven. And a very nice dishwasher in which to wash my beautiful set of differently colored Fiesta Ware. 

Obviously we are home now. I have field peas cooking. I am going to make a salad with greens I picked before dark. The tow truck has the situation in hand and shall be here soon. Mr. Moon, our our way home said, "It may be time for a new truck."

I kindly agree with him. 

Pottery tomorrow unless I'm writhing on a floor somewhere, begging for morphine. Which makes me think of a Rolling Stones' song entitled Sister Morphine which is rather appropriate considering my own personal stones. If you want to know how truly morbid I can be, I'll tell you that as I attended my mother as she died, this was the song in my head. 

Morphine eased her out as kindly and as painlessly as is possible. 

Also, I think it is an eerily beautiful song and a testament to two men who experienced what would be its evil power, managed to escape, and then wrote this song about it. 

Mick is 82 now, Keith will be 82 next month. 

The old boys. 

Love...Ms. Moon