Rememberings

When Owen was here the other day he found my camera and put the strap over his head and said he wanted to take a picture. Since I am his grandmother, I let him.
I showed him how to turn it on, to look through the viewer, to push the button.
Here's one of the pictures he took:



 

I think he did a good job.

I hadn't remembered that Owen pictures were on the camera until I took a few myself this morning.

There was a redwinged blackbird on the feeder. If I go outside, the birds fly away but if I am very quiet and move slowly, they will let me take their picture from the porch.



 

Not the best, but it shows some of the amazing color on that wing.  A red and yellow swoop to make Nike swoon.

Here's a squirrel who was fussing. Squirrels are inveterate fussers.



I often wonder what in HELL they are talking about with that tail-flick, the squirrel version of the head-roll.

The blackbird left, a male cardinal flew in to take its place.


 

These are not good pictures. I apologize.

It is Sunday. Gray. Coolish. Breezy coming on to windy. Brenda is packing up her car, getting ready to head out for the next phase of her driving-journey. In a while I am going to the Opera House to take some pictures for the production that Judy is directing.  I haven't been to the Opera House since we closed Nobody's Perfect.
I really haven't been much of anywhere.
Lily's house mostly. The library. Publix. Where shopping is a pleasure.
Speaking of, remind me to go back to Publix before Thursday to buy more Eight O'Clock coffee. It is BOGO this week. I need about, uh, forty bags or so.

Mr. Moon and I keep saying to each other, "Remind me to..."
We never do remember to remind the other. It's gotten to the point where when he says, "What did I ask you to remind me to do?" I say, "You didn't ask me to remind you to do anything."
I am lying. I know he did. I just can't remember what and I don't want to admit that.
I'll tell you what he's learning to do though- he asks Siri to remind him of stuff.
Siri does not fail.
Mostly.

If Siri could cook and make love, there would be no need for me around here.

Well. Sort of. I know I do other things. Remind me of what they are?

Oh yeah. I take care of chickens.

Flopsy is still on that damn nest. She is now sitting on FIFTEEN EGGS! I was telling May about this yesterday and she laughed so hard she might have wet her pants. We were on the phone so I don't know. I doubt she wet her pants. That's just a saying. But seriously, that hen is spread out like a damn tortilla over those eggs. Sometimes when I pick her up to take her to the food and water, an egg gets stuck to the bottom of her and drops off. They never crack and I just sigh and pick them up and put them back on the nest.
This has got to end. That hen is going to die. When I sit her in front of the water she remains in the tortilla position until she snaps to. Sometimes she runs outside and starts frantically scratching. Elvis invariably comes flying over and makes like he wants to fuck her. "Get away from that hen!" I shout at him. Jesus. Like she hasn't been through enough recently.



Here. I just took this picture. I think this is how more eggs keep being added to the nest. Flopsy doesn't look too happy about the prospect, does she?

The wind seems to be blowing some of the clouds away. The light is coming through. It's sixty-seven degrees in my hallway. That's ridiculous.

It is Sunday. I am going to go to the Opera House. I charged my camera batteries. I'll get to see people I know and love. They'll be all wrapped up in this production, there will be inside jokes that I have no knowledge of. That's how it goes when you're doing a play. You become a community. I am not part of this one and that's fine with me. They'll let me in enough to welcome me. That is the way of the Opera House.

It was mighty good to have Mr. Moon back in the bed with me last night. It was a comfort and a joy. I woke up around one-something and got up and went and read most of a New Yorker magazine. A small amount of Chex Mix may have been involved. It was peaceful, sitting in a rocking chair in the library, reading the New Yorker magazine. Insomnia isn't so bad if you just get up and have good reading material.
And Chex Mix.
When I went back to bed, it felt so good. I was sleepy again and dropped right off.
I was glad to have that man in the bed next to me. I sometimes reach over and touch him as lightly as I can in order to reassure myself that he is there. Sometimes he snores a little but sometimes he is so quiet.
I snore. He always knows I'm in bed.

That's all. It's Sunday. I'm going to leave the house in awhile. Then I'll come back. Maybe we'll play some cards. We'll eat some more crab and shrimp and broccoli. There are plenty of leftovers. We'll be alone again. Which is fine. It's been good having Brenda here. I love listening to them tell stories of their childhood, their family. She told me this morning that she and her brother had talked about some of the places they had lived when they were little. Some of them not much more than sharecropper shacks and yet, how each place had had something about it that they remembered with fondness.

I said, "You all had loving parents who loved each other and you children. That's all kids really need."

I believe that's true. I don't need to be reminded of that.

But that coffee- please remember to remind me.

Love...Ms. Moon

We Have Had Rain

My fisherpeople ARE back from the island and it has rained here. The drops are falling off the leaves now, a sweet muted thud, and the birds are talking about it all (Did you hear? It has rained!) and Mr. Moon stopped on his way back and bought crab claws and some shrimps and I am going to cook those for our dinner with some broccoli and a lemony sauce and some brown rice.

I swear to you, the Confederate Jasmine (is there a Union Jasmine?) is so strong in its scent that it is almost too much, even though I am at least twenty feet away from the nearest blossoming of it.

There are worse problems to have.

I am quite aware of that.

I assure you.

I Don't Know

I think the fisherpeople will probably be home today. They had some beautiful luck on Thursday afternoon, not so much yesterday.

It is supposed to storm later.

I saw a bluebird on the feeder today. Bluer than Robert Johnson's tears. Bluer than Prince William's blood.

The stupid dogs peed on the floor and the floor, she tilts, and the rug got wet and so I am washing it again, again, this is my life, washing peed upon rugs, cleaning up dog shit/chicken shit.

I have taken it to the basics. There is no farther down to go than shit. I promise you.

Some days this is fine and dandy.

I'm not sure that today is one of them.

Jesus. Well, it's happened to me too. Blogger just gave me no choice and handed me the new whatever-you-call-it. Template?
Whatever.
I guess I'll survive.

Anyway, what I wanted to say, what I came here to say, is that I am so grateful for all of your comments today and I am too tired to respond.

I have to go get in my bed.

Thank you. I love you.

I hope this works.

This Is What Happened On One Day In This Life

It was an Owen day and it was a good day.
My boy is changing so much and so quickly and I am constantly amazed at what I see and hear and observe in him. He holds his hand out to me to hold and it is a boy's hand now, definitely not a baby's. It is bone and flesh and purpose and the cleverness of the primate, the human.

He immediately wanted to go see the baby chickens when he got here. I had made oatmeal cookies- I finally did my baking- and I thought he'd want one but no, he HAD to go see the chicks and since I had one last batch in the oven, his daddy took him outside to see them. One of them escaped and was running around the little coop and I went out and helped them scoop him up and put him back.
"Chicken running around!" Owen said. He was delighted by this. "Running around EVERYWHERE!"



We did everything together today. We fed the goats some bolted collards and we played Hai Yah! or however you might spell that. We pretend-fished off the porch and I showed him how to hold a stick in his toes. He observed this and then did it too. We were monkeys with our toes. We looked at books, he washed dishes, standing on the step stool that he dragged into place all by himself, he played with his toys, we took a nap with Big Bear. I took him for a wheelbarrow ride, bump, bump, bump. We fed bread to the chickens and Cheerios too. "Here, Elvis, here!" he said, and threw the food. He can say everything. He asked for his Bop and I told him he was off fishing with Aunt Brenda in the boat.
"Nice," he said.
He asked me whose car was in the yard. He knew it wasn't one of ours. I told him it was Brenda's.
"Oh sure," he said.

He knows so much already. He is learning and retaining and he is loving and he is funny and he loved being here. When it was time to take him home, I said, "Owen, your mama misses you. It's time to go home to your house."
"No!" he said. "I stay Mer-Mer's."
Finally I got him ready to leave. He took a bag of cookies with him and a bar of soap that he wanted in another bag. He talked about taking his horse home with him but then he said sadly, "Too big."

On the way home I said, "Owen, Mer-Mer loves you so much."
"Uh-huh," he agreed. He knows.

When we got to his house, he ran in and kissed his mother, his baby brother. Lily asked me to hold Gibson and said, "He needs changing..."
She knows how much I love to change that boy. I took him into the bedroom and Owen raced in. "I help," he said. He perched on the end of the changing table, overlooking the process. He keeps a good eye on his brother. Gibson watches the mobile overhead that his Aunt May made which he loves. It has hearts and birds and bells and it fascinates him. Owen watches Gibson.

When I left, I stuck my head back in one last time to say this:

"Lily, you are such a good mother."

She is. Her house smelled of lentil soup that she was cooking and the cookies she'd made earlier. She had one son at her breast and another by her side.

I came home and tidied up. I rewashed dishes and put away toys. I called Bop at the island. I took Flopsy off the nest and put her out with the food and the water. I do this twice a day. The sun's last rays have changed from gold to silver. It is quiet here in Lloyd.

Listen- there is deep imperfection in this world and doubtless in me as well.
But.
It was a good day filled with many moments of what I can only describe as perfection. They were so small and so prosaic that I wonder if anyone but me would even have noticed them, would have registered them as such.

I do. I did. I am.

It was a good day. It was an Owen day. And he soothed my soul and he made me laugh and you know, for the first time ever since I've been writing this blog, I honestly think about that and hope that one day when he is grown, he can come back and read this and know how much joy he gave his grandmother. How beautiful she saw him to be. How fine.

That's all.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

More Nonsense

My god. Morning just happens every day. Have you noticed that?
EVERY DAY!
So far.
One day it won't. For me, at least.
I wonder what happens when you die. I'm not obsessed with knowing but it's a curious thing to contemplate. Frankly, I'm hoping it's like sleep only unlike sleep, you don't have bad dreams or any dreams at all. I mean, I get pretty worn out and call me crazy but I think one unit of life is probably enough for me. I have no desire to wear any golden slippers OR meet god OR greet former loved ones. I mean, really? Why would I want to see my father?

I'm reading a book (with my ears) which is absolutely one of the most ambitious books I've ever read. It's called The Nineteenth Wife and it was written by David Ebershoff. It's got entwined narratives about polygamy and Mormonism in the old days and in the now-days. The nineteenth wife refers to one of Brigham Young's wives, a woman named Ann Eliza Young who was, in fact, a real historical person who actually lived and who married Brigham Young (she may have been his 19th wife or she may have been his 57th wife, it's impossible to tell) but she got sick and damn tired of polygamy and she left the church and she wrote a book and she went on a lecture tour across the US, ending up in Washington, DC where she spoke before Congress and helped get the anti-polygamy laws established. It was after these laws came into effect that the Mormon church got a new revelation from their god telling them that it was no longer cool to marry more than one woman.

Anyway, the funny thing to me is that Brigham convinced his followers that celestial marriage (which is what they called the polygamous marriage) was god's real true desire and unless you were part of one, you would not go to heaven. The celestial kingdom, as it were.

And yes, people believed this crap.

And cared about it too.

So there were men who had many, many wives and god knows how many children and of course, as we know, there are still fundamentalist groups practicing this celestial marriage stuff out in the desert and when the boys get old enough to start being a threat to the old men they toss them out on the street of St. George, Utah, or whatever the biggest nearby city is because the old men want ALL the women, especially the young pretty ones.
And women allow this to happen. They allow themselves to be taken into "marriage" with these old prophets and dudes and they allow their sons to be taken from them and quite literally thrown away.

Yeah.

See, this is the problem with religion to me. You do things that make no sense because of a vague promise of eternal...something.

And yes, I am aware that people do really fine, loving things in the name of religion too but if you do something for eternal reward, is that better than just doing it because it's the right thing to do?

But the book is interesting and the author does a good job of maintaining the story lines and characters and some of his characters are devout Mormons who are dedicated to service and truth (as they see it) and some are street-kids who got tossed out of a sect and some are non-believers and I'm enjoying listening to it as I clean and garden and walk and so forth.

I'll be sort of sad for it to end.

When I was a young'un, I had a Mormon friend. I knew nothing about Mormonism at all but someone told me that Mormons used to have lots of wives (the men, that is) and so I asked my friend about that and she told me that it had been necessary back in the olden days because so many of the men had been killed by Indians when they went west to establish their kingdom.
There just weren't enough men to go around and so they had to marry lots of women so they could take care of them. It was a sacrifice which they made in order to protect the women and ensure the population.

Right.

I didn't really buy that explanation then as a child but my friend seemed to. She didn't wear holy underwear. She just wore regular underpants and bras and half slips. I wonder how they got away with that. She also had a lavender bedroom. I mean everything in it was lavender. They were a nice family, though. I especially liked the daddy. He seemed gentle and funny and hardworking. He wasn't born a Mormon but had become one when he married his wife.
I wonder what happened to Linda Sue. I think she went to Brigham Young University and became a nurse and got married in the Temple and so forth. She's probably still a Mormon and has lovely grandchildren, just like me, and probably still believes quite fervently that she shall be entering the Celestial Kingdom when she dies.

Hey Linda Sue!

Well, good morning. Not sure what I'm doing today but the chickens need putting outside so I guess I'll go load up my shopping bag and take them out there and make sure they have water and food and shade and so forth. I need to go for a walk and then maybe I'll get my Owen boy.

It's a beautiful morning. I can't even really imagine a Celestial Kingdom being much better. Maybe I just don't have a good enough imagination.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Utter Nonsense

I feel...unsettled. I went out to the garden to weed but I did a thing to my wrist today and it's fucked up and doesn't want to do that twist/turn/pull that weeding requires. I worked for awhile with just my right hand but I couldn't settle down into it.

I thought to go through a closet and throw away hundreds of tiny bottles of paint that I got when another sister-in-law died. Brenda is going through her own house right now, getting rid of things, getting ready to move to Texas, and she brought a few things here and I feel her pain. Her last several moves were done professionally and the movers just came in and boxed everything up and moved it and her husband put almost everything away but he died a few years ago and now she is left with the task of going through all of it- much of it family stuff that she knows will mean nothing to the next generation and yet, she is loathe to get rid of it, as filled as it is with memory and meaning for her.
But anyway, it reminded me of how I have things that I am holding on to for NO reason. I will never use them. Ever. The hundreds of tiny bottles of paint, for example, and so I got a big black garbage bag and began to fill it up but then I thought about Hank and how he loves stuff like that and does things with paint and so I called him and said, "Do you want these things?" and he said, "Keep them, I'll come go through them."
Ah-lah.

I feel like a weak kitten. I have no energy. I left the paints and the bags and the stuff I'd pulled from the closet where it all sat.

I am unsettled.

I need to go get those baby chickens and bring them in. They are growing so fast. A few of them look to be likely candidates for roosters with bright red combs coming in. Miss Flopsy is still on the nest and by god, I wish I'd never let her start this mess. Her pile of eggs increases. There are thirteen there now and this can't be right. Some of those eggs must almost be ready to hatch and some are freshly laid.
Chickens are not THAT smart. Believe me.
Brenda told me that when she was a child, she had a teacher who would give her duck eggs to bring home and put under a setting hen and the hen would actually DIE because the gestation period for a duck is longer than for a chicken and those hens just sit on those nests without eating or drinking and eventually, yes, they die.
So if any of those eggs under Flopsy hatch, I am going to throw the rest away and let her GET ON WITH HER LIFE!

Someone needs to educate hens as to their reproductive choices.

Pfft. Blah, blah, blah.

I want to bake something but what? And there's no one here to eat whatever I bake but me. No one I know personally actually needs baked goods. Neither cake nor cookies nor pie nor anything at all. Recreational baking is not a sensible thing to do no matter how sensuously satisfying it is to mix butter and sugar and flour and eggs together. I have an entire bag of lemons. I could make a chess pie. I could make lemon bars. I could make lemon meringue pie. God knows I have the eggs. Why in hell did I buy a bag of lemons? They looked so lovely, so fresh, they smell so good.
Now what?

Now what indeed?

Put them in a damn vase and pretend I'm Martha Fucking Stewart?
Yeah, no. I don't think so.

HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

I have half of a whole pompano which Mr. Moon ordered last night for his supper. With corn relish and yams. I don't even have to make my supper. I am just going to put all of that deliciousness in foil and seal it up and put it in the oven and then eat it like an animal.

I am unsettled. The sun is going down. I need to go get those baby chickens. I have taken to transporting them in a canvas shopping bag. This pleases me. "Look!" I say. "I have a bag of chickens!" They don't care. I handle them gently and talk to them. All they care about is eating and drinking water. And growing and becoming big.

There is no one here to say, "Look! I have a bag of chickens!" to. Well, you. I just said it to you.

I suppose I better make it true.

I am NOT going to make a pie. Or a cake. I swear.
But I might put those lemons in a bowl. But then again, we are having a terrible problem with fruit flies right now.
Does Martha Stewart ever deal with fruit flies?

I have no idea.

I am unsettled. But here's the good thing- if I wake up tonight and can't sleep, I won't have to worry about waking Mr. Moon. I can just turn on the light and read. My insomnia is good in that I have read so many books lately. I just read and read and read.

I just looked up kohlrabi on google images. I realize I have two of them in my garden from when I planted my mixed mesclun lettuces. I thought it might be kohlrabi.

Goodness gracious. I lead such an exotic life.

Chickens. Bag of chickens.

Gotta go.

Love...Ms. Moon

Chicks in a bag.

They Meant More To Me Than You Can Know

Those boys. They were something. They sprang up seemingly fully formed and ancient and true. You heard them and you knew their music from somewhere, someplace before you were born, maybe.


Levon Helm died today.

Go on with you, then Levon. Thanks. You did your job and you did it well.

No more weight. Just pure light. That's you.

Busy Peace

Name all of the things in that picture. Find the hidden items, the hidden meanings, identify the metapahors, similes, sea creatures and crazy eyes. Count the number of Queens of Mexico. Please note the roses and jasmine. I grew them. Also the round shape of the vase they are in, which pleases me, roundness, whether in vases, turtle shells, or fatbaby knees.
Do you see the woman behind the curtain? Ignore her. She is not there now.

I have x-number of days by myself. Mr. Moon and his sister-in-law have taken off for the island with enough food for a month, enough fishing poles for a troop of fisherpeople, enough boat-length for ten more, and probably not enough bug repellent because there just isn't that much in the world.

They originally planned to go out today, return on Sunday but the weather doesn't bode well for such a long stay. One must be able to get back from the island which means that one has to keep a wary eye out for coming storms.
I had originally thought to go with them but I am staying here instead. I love my sister-in-law. She is a gentle, amazing soul who is stronger than just about anyone I know. I love to hear the laughter, easy, between sister and brother.
But.
You know.
Dog Island.

Plus, who would watch the baby chickens? Yesterday I discovered that no, they are not smart enough to get in out of the rain. They were outside when it began to rain and instead of huddling up together under the piece of tin which would provide complete dryness, they choose to stay in a wet corner and we had to bring them in and let them dry under the light and they stretched their wings out and turned on their sides to luxuriate in the warmth. We did this before we went out to eat our dinner and it was a wonderful dinner. I told the chefs when we were leaving how much we enjoyed it. How tremendous it was. They ducked their heads and said, "Oh, sometimes we get it right."
I also hugged my old friend, the dishwasher. He is deaf and has the most beautiful smile in the world.

There was no dancing. Except for that. That hug. It was a tiny, still dance and if there was music, it was inside of our heads.

And so now they've gone. We went to the grocery store this morning for them to buy their food and then went by Lily and Jason's to see the boys.
I got to change Gibson's clothes. I can't recall ever delighting in a naked baby quite the way I delight in Gibson. I wish he never had to wear anything. He is that perfect.
As are they all.

Gone. They're gone. Pulled out with that giant boat, gone and here I am and the house is clean enough but there's laundry to finish up and the garden. Oh my, the garden. I could spend every moment of the next few days in there and it wouldn't be enough.
Tomorrow I think that Owen is coming over to play for awhile. I miss him. He mostly ignores me if anyone else is around (meaning his grandfather) but if it's just the two of us, he will deign to play with me. When we were leaving, Lily said, "Owen, give everyone kisses good-bye."
He said, "I gave hug Mer-Mer already."

He had. He did.

It is quiet and peaceful and for a day or two I will have my own schedule to tend to whatever I feel like tending at whatever time I want to.
Or not.

But I will. I am a tender.

And I feel very tender, as a matter of fact.

There is a cardinal in the bird bath. There is a blue-tailed skink on the back steps. There is so much green, fresh-washed and shining. The doors and windows are open and there is not much of a delineation between inside and out.
Roses and jasmine are in both places.

For no one's pleasure but my own. I feel sort of guilty.

But not really.

She Puts On Her Silver

She does her very best.

Gifts

My sister-in-law will be here any moment and I laid down a while ago and read for a few pages and then I slept and I slept so deeply and when I woke up, it was raining.
It still is.
Such sweetness. Such a gift.

We are going out to eat tonight. I shall wash my hair and I shall go out with my husband and my sister-in-law whom I love and the rain is washing everything clean outside and you have all given me of yourself today in your words and those are gifts beyond measure.

Thank-you.

I Do These Things In Remembrance

A few days ago I was talking to my mother. She brought up a surgery she'd had a long, long time ago for a chronic condition which I shall not name here because it would be "indelicate" and when she mentions this surgery (which was not successful and she suffers mightily from the chronic condition to this day) she always says, "And that's when you were in the hospital and I had to spend all those hours sitting there in a chair beside your bed and it was torture. Do you remember that?"

I do, as a matter of fact, remember that. I almost died so yes, I remember.

And I never know what to say when Mother brings this up. Which she does. Frequently.

"Sorry, Mom. Sorry I was in the hospital because I was maybe dying? Sorry you had to sit by my bed?"

This is a part of our family history. These are the sorts of stories that are told.

They are...painful. Pain...full.

And I was thinking about this. About how I swear to you, I can't remember one time that we were ever together, my mother and me, or my brothers and me, for that matter, when we said, "Oh, do you remember the time we...?" and that the story was one about having fun.
I'm serious.

And when I wrack my brain to try and remember times that might have been fun that we had together as a family, I am stuck.
Every memory I have is tainted with some horrible sorrow.
And I'm not meaning to say, "Oh, poor me." I'm meaning to say, "Wow. That is so weird."

Every memory. Am I revising history?

Okay. Here's a memory I have that was fun:

It was when we were living in Roseland and for some reason, my mother and maybe another younger woman who lived in Roseland and I and some other kids were outside after dark and we were playing in the road. Let me explain- there was only one paved road in Roseland and there was literally no traffic after dark. Every one got home and stayed there. So we were playing in the moonlight and I don't even remember what we were playing but it was silly fun and I remember thinking, literally thinking, this is fun.

My mother was lighthearted that night. And I have no idea why.

But as to bad memories, oh, I have a million.

Fleeing my father, searching for my father with my mother in bars, my father leaving us in the car while he went into a bar. My father being too drunk to drive. My father screaming at my mother, my mother taking my brother and me to a neighbor's house so he could sober up or something. There being nothing in the house to eat but potatoes. You get the drift. I was only about four or five but I remember.

Then after we left my father, arriving in Roseland where my grandparents lived and Mother being so sick she had to go to the hospital leaving my brother and me with my grandparents whom we didn't know. My mother's crippling sadness. Her depressions. The time a child in her class at school (she taught at the local elementary school) got run over by a delivery truck when he ran out for recess. More and more desperate depression. Mother burning her wedding gown in a burn pit. Mother getting married again, then the abuse began, she got pregnant, she lost the baby, the gory details of all of that. I was nine.
The move to Winter Haven, the abuse continued. She got pregnant again. This one stuck but before she want to the hospital, she showed me the new pink sheets she wanted me to put on the bed before she got home...if the baby lived. That's what she told me. I remember standing in the bathroom in front of the closet where she had those new sheets.
If the baby lives.
I was twelve. Barely.
I don't know what the fuck I was supposed to do if the baby died.

The baby lived. That was joyous. That was.
Except the abuse continued. That house was the scariest place in the world.

She got pregnant again. I remember her being so tired. She was forty years old. I remember her lying on the couch, holding her hands as if in prayer, her eyes closed.

I remember my real father, kneeling in prayer beside a bed when I was a tiny thing, praying, pleading with god to take away his thirst for drink. Crying out to god.

I remember praying by my own bed for god to please make my family happy, to make my stepfather quit coming into my room. On TV, Billy Graham had promised that if I got on my knees and prayed, god would answer my prayers.
I remember reading the Bible straight through, forcing myself to read every begat so that maybe god would know I was serious, worthy of having prayers answered, also hoping that maybe the Bible would act as a shield against my stepfather.

Ha. On all counts.

I remember listening to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones in that same room on my radio. The Beach Boys. The Turtles.
That was the purest happiness I knew.
That music.

Saved my life. Over and over and over again.

Maybe god gave me rock and roll to save my life.

Anyway, I think of all of this. I think of all of the fear and the misery and the way each and every family gathering was somehow tainted/painted with blackness.

I think of how my mother talks about past events and says, "Do you remember?" and oh god, yes. I do.
Sometimes, on the other hand, I have asked her, "Do you remember?" and she has said, "Oh Mary. That never happened."

I had a therapist once, a very, very good one. She asked me why I am so attached to suffering.
I had no answer for her and I have been pondering that ever since.
Where did this need to suffer come from?

And finally I do realize. It was all I knew. It was all I saw.

Mothers suffer, fathers suffer, children suffer.

Life is suffering. Suffering is The Way.

And yet, I know it's not. I believe powerfully that as a species, we are no more meant to spend our lives suffering than the birds are. Or the magnolia trees.
Yes, suffering happens. Horrible things happen.
But why suffer if they are not?

Why do I continue to stew in a bath of suffering when there is no need? When I have everything that a human being can ask for?

Listen- I do know that suffering as a child gave me the ability to recognize suffering in others. To be quiet and listen to stories of suffering. To not be shocked.
Too much.
There are people who have suffered far worse than I did but that's neither here nor there and I refuse to believe that there is a scale of it, suffering, and that we should be able to pull ourselves out and be happy people if our suffering was only a seven on a scale of 0ne-to-ten.
Or something like that.

Plus, some of us are born with an innate sadness, I do believe. That's just the way of it. Depression runs in families.

And this is what I am thinking today, even as my roses bloom, even as there is plenty to eat in my refrigerator, even as I have those grandsons, even as I have this life.

"Do you remember, Mary?" my mother asks. "Do you remember my suffering?"

Oh yes, Mother. I remember.
The problem is, I can't remember anything else.

Sometimes. Sometimes I can't remember any...thing...else.

My Boys

Yes.

I'm still tired.

Tomorrow will be another day. I am sure of it.

I'm Tired

Nothing.

I have nothing this morning.
It's a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, don't-stop day.

It's a flat-mind day.

It's a day and I am already regretting the wasting of it in such flatness.

Life And What That Entails

Exhausted and the house is so far from clean. I am extremely uncoordinated in my cleaning efforts. I go from dusting to cleaning a window to throwing things away to cleaning out the chicken coop to starting bread to going out to the garage to get some venison out of the freezer to starting a pot of soup and then back to dusting and then to sweeping and sorting and oh, my.
And oh yes, I washed the dogs.

So anyway, I have one room which is ready to mop and a some cleaner windows and an almost poop-free chicken house and the baby chick cage is cleaned and they are snugly removed to the outside shelter and Mr. Moon has got a light ready to go over that cage to keep them warm at night.
I think they shall be fine.

And soup is simmering and bread is baking so at least there is all of that and two cleanish dogs and yes, I took a walk too and so although I feel as if I did nothing today, nothing at all, and although I moved as slowly as a woman can move and still be going in a forward-direction, I suppose I did get a few things done.

But that's not what I came here to talk about.

No. What I came here to talk about is this picture which Lily sent me today and oh, isn't he gorgeous?

My tiny boy. Our Gibson.

He'll be four weeks old tomorrow. This seems impossible. And yet. It is true.

I was thinking yesterday about how Gibson, like Owen, has the genes of his mama and his daddy and how that includes his grandparents and great-grandparents and even great-great grandparents and back to the people I have no clue about at all, and oh yes, I know- what could be more obvious- but still, I thought I saw a tiny bit of my grandmother in him the other day and it rocked me because well, it's not just a theory, these genes that make up our children and grandchildren.
It's so very real.

Mystifying and comforting and scary and funny and it's all right here in front of my eyes.

Fascinating. Yes.

And maybe that's why we fall in love so hard with our babies and our grand babies. Fall in love so true and immediately because even though we cannot really see it with our eyes, we sense all of it when we look into their eyes. All of the lives which have made up all of our lives and if there's anything more wondrous than that, I am not sure what it is.

Oh, if I had the power to pick and choose among the genes that I know about I would certainly do so. I would give my grandchildren the good ones and I would sweep the bad ones out the door but we can't do that. Not yet, at least. Maybe never, not really. And what would we lose if we could choose?
I suspect more than we know.

I just hope with all of my heart that that little boy has a preponderance of ones that will ensure his health and hopefully, his joy.

We'll just have to wait and see.
Until then, I know that there is no doubt that I am in love with him already. Fully and madly and deeply and that every day I will love him more.

His older brother has taught me that and I am learning that lesson anew with him.

I have always said that my children were my greatest teachers. I am learning now that grandchildren are my teachers, too. And so much of what I have learned from all of them is that it is all about love although when I say that, I am freely and fully admitting that we humans have no real conception of what that word means, but we do know a tiny shadow of the glory of it and we know it most strongly and surely and purely when we look into the eyes of a child and no, I don't know much, but I am quite, quite certain of that.

And Sometimes You Just Realize How Ridiculous It All Is

Monday morning and oh, hell.
I don't know.

I watched that Caine's Arcade video and that made me cry. And then Jessie called and that made me cry.
I have a feeling that anything that happens today is going going to make me cry. I got the weep disease or something.

It's just one of those days where I feel about as helpful and useful to the planet, as important and desirable to the world as the vestigial tail on a movie star.

An old dude that I know made fun of me for being friends with Yoko Ono on Facebook.
And it's MY fault. I made some comment on a mutual friend's posting of a Margaret Thatcher quote about socialism. Which came from Michele Bachmann's page. None of these people are FOR socialism, obviously. Duh. And why in hell did I have to say a thing? I didn't. We were talking about this on the boat yesterday. About why we do things like listen to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. Why we read right-wing bloggers. Okay, I don't really do either of those things but I do love to get all fired-up when someone says something that I regard as stupid or bigoted or...Republican.
We agreed, us folks on the boat, a motley crew of people who will never really fit in to polite society, that it feels good in a sick way to feel righteously angry. There's something so satisfying about it. Lily is scared to death that when we're together anywhere that someone is going to say something that I'm going to take offense to and NOT IGNORE.

There is precedent for this possibility.

Anyway, what I said on the Facebook in regards to this quote was so sensible and calm (believe me) that Old Rightwing Dude couldn't find anything to say to that so he went to my Facebook page and and discovered that just as he thought, I'm a crazy-whack woman who is friends with Yoko Ono! What a joke! Haha! and he made fun of me and I didn't even mention the fact when I commented on that quote we are talking about that it came from Michele Bachmann and if you look up CRAZY WHACK in the dictionary, there SHE is, but whatever. I just politely ignored that entire aspect of the deal.

Righteous anger is bullshit. Anger is bullshit. Well, sometimes it's not. I wish I'd gotten angrier a few times in my much-younger life. Maybe I wouldn't have to get so damn angry now.

But it's so safe to get angry at people like Michele Bachmann or Rush Limbaugh or even the Catholic Church and meanwhile, hold in whatever anger we have at something or someone we're not prepared to be angry with because it's too scary.

Please don't try to wrest any hidden meaning out of this. If there is a meaning, it's hidden even from me and probably for a good reason.

But as I get older, I do realize that we humans are devious little critters in our own souls. We hide things from ourselves which we don't want to know. Or admit.
We do.

Well. It's Monday. I am going to put the little chicks out and I think we are going to keep them out because they have feathers now and their poop is really starting to stink and by god, I have better things to do with my life than to clean up chicken poop in a cage. For instance: clean up chicken poop in the hen house which I really have to do today.

Among many other fantastically interesting and creatively satisfying things.

I better get to it.

I'm such an important cog in the wheel of this universe that if I don't attend to these matters, something dire might occur. The planet might stop spinning, the sun might not rise, the toilets may all cease to flush.

One never knows.

Good morning, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Sunday On The St. Marks River

Best part of the entire day for me? When we'd all gotten on the boat and Mr. Moon said, "Owen, trim the engine," and Owen sat down at the controls and trimmed the engine.
I don't even know what that MEANS but obviously, all that time that Owen's spent with his grandfather on the boat in the garage has paid off.

Here's the little sailor boy:


Here's another picture of him, later on in the day when we were on our way back and he was just relaxing, leaning on my leg.

Thinkin' 'bout stuff. Obviously.


He's a deep thinker.

Captain Bop and Gibson:


Gibson slept through his entire first boat ride. And yes, Dr. GradySister, he spent most of it tucked between someone's bosoms. Or at them. Or something having to do with bosoms. Or chests. Whatever.


Hank. Happy because...ARGGGHHH!


Togi. Because...one time he got so sunburned that he writhed in hell for four days afterwards. He ain't taking no chances. Let me just say that Togi jumped in the water. Togi swam. Togi is brave. That water was cold. Rudy, who is also brave, jumped in too. I didn't get a picture. Sorry. He looked pretty fine in those Santa boxers. "I need to do laundry," he said.
I thought they were pretty awesome.


Does anyone know what this flower is? I took it from a long ways a way and didn't even see the bug until I put the pictures on the computer. It's so lovely. The flower, not the bug. Although the bug is interesting.


Yellow flowers. Again- I have no idea what they are. But there were a lot of them.

The new header picture was taken today of course. A palm tree reaching out over the water. I am grateful to live in such a beautiful place. North Florida is pretty awesome if you get out of town and down to the water.

It was a very mellow, sweet day. We had lunch after the boat ride. Owen was so sleepy that he did something I have never seen anyone do before in my life. He ate his shrimp while he was asleep. He literally chewed his shrimp up with his eyes closed. He loved that shrimp. He finished it all. In his sleep. And most of his french fries.

It was a good day. It was a real good day.

Moving Slow

Ah-yah. I can't get moving here today. The kids (some of the kids, the grandkids too) are coming out and we're all going to drive down to St. Marks and put the boat in and ride down the river.
Just for a short ride.
We're not even sure if it's legal to take a month-old (almost) infant in a boat. Do they make infant life-jackets?
Mr. Moon is looking that up right now on the internet.
"I'll save him if we do down," he said the other day when we were first talking about this jaunt.
I'm pretty sure he would.

Sundays and boats are a volatile mixture for me sometimes. Sundays were the days my stepfather often abused me and THEN we'd go to church and THEN we'd go out on the boat.
A perfect family!
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!

But this won't be like that at all. Not one bit. Now I'm an old MeeMaw or, Mer-Mer, as we say around here and the company on the boat shall be my own dear children and a few dear friends of theirs and ours and I'll get to smooch on the baby and Mr. Moon will let Owen help him steer the boat and Lily will crack me up and so will Hank and truly, the St. Marks is as pretty a river as you can imagine and it'll be easy-peasy, up the river past the marina, the restaurant. We'll see birds, maybe, and lots of gorgeous trees and the paths from docks up to houses hidden in those trees and fantasize about what it would be like to live on the river and we'll pass other boats and they will pass us and we'll wave.

Howdy, river neighbor!

I remember one time we took a mother and a daughter from UP NORTH out on the river and we stopped at Ouzt's which is an oyster/biker bar and we walked into the bar after we'd tied up at their dock and the daughter saw the giant Confederate flag on the wall with Hank Williams, Jr.'s face centered right in the middle of it and she walked back out and went back to the boat.

Well. Culture shock. What are you going to do?

I was proud of the mama. She drank beer and ate smoked mullet and oysters and tapped her foot to the music of the guys who were playing their guitars and I'm sure she had a story to take back with her. The daughter probably did too. She was a protest singer and she may have even written a song about it.
If so, I sure hope I never hear it.

Life is different on the river. Life is different in the south. Life is different when you're a grown-up.

Nothing is perfect.

Well, the river itself.

Ouzt's burned down and they rebuilt it. I don't think they still have a Confederate flag, with or without Hank Williams Jr.'s face on it. They still have music on Sundays though. And bikers. And beer. And smoked mullet and raw oysters.

We won't be stopping there today. We'll just keep on going. Floating down the river. The perfect, in and of itself river.

I better get moving. It's Sunday and I don't want to contemplate anything any deeper than that river. The sweet pleasure of being out on the water on a Sunday, untormented by anything at all beyond the mosquitoes, which hopefully, will leave us alone.

I'm Back Home

I have settled back down into my body. All is back to regular-crazy, not-so-damn-fucked-up-crazy.

And I am so grateful.

The jasmine is perfuming the air, I have sweet potatoes in the oven, we have well water to water the garden all night long. I held my sleeping baby grandson on my chest as he slept for so long this afternoon that I think my blood pressure might not even have registered had anyone taken it.

My husband and I just played cards on the porch and listened to Prairie Home Companion. We kissed some. We told each other how much we love our lives. We meant it.

Shit. I am the luckiest woman in the world and I have the sanity to feel it.

Not to KNOW it. I always know it.
But to feel it.

I'm going to go make apple and oat bran muffins. With raisins and cinnamon.

As Tearful might say, Fuck me. I am lucky.

Who knew that life could spill out in such a way?

Not me.

But I'm sure grateful it has.

It's A Good Morning

Well, good morning from Lloyd, Florida. It's another beautiful day here in paradise and once again, it's the time of year when I wish we could offer click-on-this-to-smell-the-picture because the Confederate Jasmine is blooming and the air smells like what I imagine French courtesans might smell like and honey, that's a real nice thing.

Such a tiny flower but there are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. I don't know. Tiny white pinwheels of fragrance.

I made us some eggs and grits this morning and some of the venison sausage that Jason made from a deer he shot last year. It was tasty.
I talk about food a lot, don't I?
Yes. Yes I do.
Well, as a default topic, food has a lot to offer and is generally more interesting than the weather and yes, I talk about the weather a lot too.

Speaking of weather, it's pretty perfect here lately. Warm during the day, cool at night. Breezy and lovely and the humidity isn't bad. This will not last for long so we're soaking up every drop of it we can. The doors and windows are open and this sweet goodness pours in.
Now- could we use some rain?
You bet.

Okay. On to the garden. Here's a squash blossom:

I know. You've seen squash blossoms before. There is nothing special about this one. You can see a baby squash growing behind it if you look. The other day, Owen and I were in the garden grazing on raw collards and mustards as we do


and I showed him the baby squash. "I want to eat it!" he said but I told him we had to let it grow. He agreed. He picked up the hoe and I showed him how to use it. He hoed for awhile and then said what I knew he'd say which was, "Phew. Hard work!"

In this case, he's right.

Anyway, like I said, it's a beautiful morning and the skink was sunning on the back steps.

That's a skink. There are actually two of them who live under those steps and I didn't realize that until I saw them both together the other day. All skinks look alike to me but I'm sure if I were a skink, I would easily be able to tell the difference.
They're sort of odd, aren't they? Sort of snake-lizards. A bit off-putting. Not cute.
Okay. You get my drift.
I think that "skink" is a good name for them. Mr. and Mrs. Skink. They have my full permission to live under my back steps.

We've put the baby chickens out.

They love it outside. They run around and flap their wings and they can already actually fly. I think that banty chickens may have better powers of flight than your regular-sized domestic chicken. They take little short hop-flights and they could already get out of that pen if they knew they could but we put the screened lid down so they can't.

I picked them some sour flowers as the kids call them. Oxalis is their real name. They liked them.

If there anything cuter than baby chickens eating flowers?
I don't know.
Maybe not in Lloyd today.

A good friend of Lily's is throwing her a meet-the-baby-shower today and I need to get into town and play with Owen and Gibson so their mother can do a little tidying in preparation. I'm glad this lady is throwing the shower because we're all so lame that we'd never do it. I myself had four babies and one shower. Well, party shower. You know what I mean. I'm sure I took hundreds of showers during those four pregnancies. Or thousands. I don't know.
Like the Confederate Jasmine blossoms, who would bother to count?

Well, it's easy to count the number of aloe blossoms. One per plant.
But they're big.

Impressive, isn't it?

So that's pretty much it around here today. Mr. Moon is working on the boat now and I think we might take it out on the river tomorrow. Gibson can have his first boat ride. We'll drink cold soda and lay back and let Bop and Owen steer the boat slowly down the St. Marks river which is about as pretty a river as you can imagine. We might even get lunch afterwards.
Sounds good to me. I hope the swamp magnolias are blooming and I hope y'all are having a nice weekend.

The Punch Brothers are going to be on Prairie Home Companion tonight.

They're so damn cute.





Jessie- that's for you.

So anyway, I'll be listening and drinking beer and dancing around my kitchen cooking our supper tonight.

Good plan, eh?

Maybe I'll put a sprig of jasmine behind my ear.

Let's all dance on.

Love...Ms. Moon

It's Okay

Friday night and Mr. Moon asked me out on a date and Lon and Lis are playing in town and here I am, in my overalls and making our supper and glad to be.

I got to see Lon and Lis on their way into town. They stopped for coffee and hugs as they sometimes do and it was a joy to see them, as always but I just need to be home right now. Going out in public is hard and that's part of the process this little bit of a spate of going-crazy creates.

I spent all day long cleaning bathrooms and if that sounds absurd, let me tell you that my bathroom, the one that Oprah built (long story) has every sort of cleaning involved. Furniture polish, shower-cleaning, tub-cleaning, tile-cleaning. Add in to that all of my stuff and clothes spread around and it took...all day.
You want to dance, you have to pay the piper.

And then the washing machine sprung a leak.

And yet, it's been okay.

I'm going through the process of this little bit of crazy and I swear to you- it's okay.

It's okay. I'm making pineapple chicken and poached pears with blue cheese and pecans and it's going to be good.

I took Miss Flopsy out of the nest today and put her by the waterer. She drank and drank and drank and then she ate and ate and ate. And she's back on the nest now.

There's a lesson to be learned here. I'll let you know what it is when I figure it out.

Happy Friday night, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

For Lily And Jason

When Jason and Lily left yesterday I said to Mr. Moon, "They are the sweetest little family," and they are. There they went, Jason in the back seat between his two buckled-in sons, giving Gibson a little bottle and Owen yelling out the window, "I love you!" and Lily driving them all home, their groceries in the car.

The sweetest little family.

You know what today is? Their fourth anniversary. Yep. Four years ago Lily and Jason stood together on a beautiful spring day and Hank said the words and they were married.

And in the ensuing four years they have taken that bond they made and done beautiful things with it.
They've worked so hard. They've been so responsible. They are so loving.
And really, they are so young.
But here they are with their own little house with their own yard and garden and a sleepy, mellow cat and two fine boys. And they're such naturals at being parents that it knocks me out.

I'm going to tell you something: Lily and Jason both had a LOT of ya-ya's to get out before they settled down. Uh-huh. They did. Both before they met each other and after.
There were some, uh, rough patches in their beginnings. There were some, uh, difficulties. But they found their way.

And here they are.

When I talked yesterday about how well Owen is adapting to being a big brother I should have said more about that. About how it's going so well because Owen has no doubt that he is loved and cherished and part of a loving family. Because that's what makes it so much easier for him to accept a new brother. He has a mama and a daddy who take such good care of him and who love him and consider his well-being with every breath they take. And it shows.

Four years. But they've been together a lot longer than that. Since they were kids, really. And now they have kids and in that, they have given me more joy than they'll ever know until those kids grow up and give them some grandchildren. But it's not just the grandsons they've given me. It's the incredible peace of mind I have about them and their future. I know that Lily and Jason's love and bond and their shared sense of responsibility are all so strong that I don't have to lay awake at night and worry.

You can't buy that for a million dollars.
Or even a billion.

It's luck and it's love and it's what it's all about.

Did I post this already?

If I did, it bears repeating.

That was three weeks and three days ago.

And that? Four years ago.

Happy anniversary, Lily and Jason.

We are so proud of you. We love you so much.

Thank-you for loving each other and thank-you for letting us all be a part of your life and your love. Life isn't always easy and marriage sure as hell isn't either. Neither is being parents. But you two have proven that taking the love and the luck and doing the work to keep it all rolling and make it all multiply is what it's all about.

Keep loving. Keep working. Keep dancing. Keep laughing.


Always...Mama

Don't Worry. No Be Afraid

Better. Much, much better.
Those babies ARE a tonic for me.

Gibson is growing and he is just the most calm baby. He wants what he wants- his nursies- and when he gets them and is satisfied, he is happy.


Our fears that Owen might feel displaced by Gibson have been unfounded. He is as sweet as pie to that baby and kisses him all the time. Gibson, of course, is already fascinated by his big brother. I think this fascination will last a lifetime. I think Owen will be worthy of that.

He is getting to be so verbal and so funny. We have been watching this video together and it's silly and it's simple and we like it.



If you don't want to watch it, that's fine. But it's about a duck who keeps going to a lemonade stand and asking for grapes. "Got any grapes?" he asks. Which frustrates the lemonade dude tremendously. And all afternoon Owen would look at me slyly and say, "Got any grapes?" and then he'd laugh.

He played hard and got dirty and so I let him get in the tub, which he loves.

His hair is short but he is still so beautiful. Those eyes. Oh my lord. I love those eyes. After his bath I wrapped him up in a towel and he laughed and laughed and I put his clothes on him and made him a ham and cheese sandwich and all day he kept saying, "Don't worry." And to the baby chickens, "No be afraid."

Every time he said those things, I took them into my heart. I did.

His Bop got home and didn't even get in the house. We were on the front porch when he got here and Bop and Owen immediately broke off sticks from the Confederate Rose that we never trimmed this spring and proceeded to fish together.

"We should go real fishing again, Owen," said Bop.
"Nice," said Owen.
And he told me to go away.
Which I did. I know he loves me. I'm sort of like tap water. Turn on the faucet- there it is. Turn around and there's Mer-Mer. I like that. I'm not jealous.


My little short-haired growing-boy.
My new little bundle of sweet joy.


Yeah. I feel better.

Don't worry. No be afraid.

Love you, Owen says when we kiss him good-bye. Love you! he shouts as they drive away.

My heart. Be still.

Side Boob And Other Important Observations

(This is Miley Cyrus. I honestly do not know why she's a celebrity and yet, she appears to be one.)

The entertainment and celebrity sections of the internet seem to have a new obsession which is "side-boob." Seriously? Now all the celeb women are wearing tops that show side-boob? So what? It does indicate a beautiful bra-less trend which I love. Of course, celebrity boobs are perky and so their side-boob view is fine and paparazzi-worthy. Mine would require that someone notify security.

Why are we so obsessed with bosoms? I don't know. But we are. Okay, wait. I do understand. I love bosoms. You love bosoms. We ALL love bosoms. But why are we so wink-wink about them? Why do we all feel that if you get a peek at more bosom than is usually displayed it's such a big, huge deal? Do we all have the mental and emotional age of a thirteen-year old boy?

Maybe.

And when I say "we" I suppose I should point out that maybe that doesn't include you. Or me. Just...everyone who writes about celebrities right now. Although honestly, I do love bosoms.

Well, good morning. Let me just say this: Folgers coffee sucks. Publix hasn't had their Eight O'Clock brand coffee on BOGO for a very long time.

I've resorted to trying other coffees. Unhappily so. Well, I like the Yuban Dark Roast pretty well.

Plus, it's Rainforest Alliance Certified whatever the fuck that means.
Really, it's not bad. Also it comes in a can. Coffee cans are handy for all sorts of things.

Folgers isn't getting its picture here. No way.

I feel like I'm writing a kindergarten blog post here today.
I feel like maybe I'm a kindergartener today.
A kindergartener who looks at side-boob online and drinks coffee. Cheap coffee. I don't like Starbucks coffee. It tastes like they sent it through the roaster about five times too often. I don't put anything in my coffee so I don't like it too bitter unless I'm in a bitter-coffee mood and that doesn't happen when I wake up and get my coffee and sit on the porch with it. I think they make it that bitter so that you'll get one of those Latte Mocha Chumichanga coffees. Whatever. Every time I go to Starbucks and order, I always pronounce "venti" in as ironic a tone of voice as possible. I don't get their cookies. Their cookies are the size of hubcaps. I don't think that people think they're ingesting actual calories if they get "coffee" at the Starbucks. Or even the cookies. It's like the presence of all that bitter caffeine wipes out any calories which may be lurking in the whipped cream and baked goods.
I wish.
The truth of it is, you might as well go to Burger King and get a Whopper, fries, and a milkshake if you're talking caloric value. I saw a thing the other day about Burger King and how they've changed their menu. One of the spokespersons for Burger King said something like, "People love Burger King. They've just been waiting for a reason to come back."
Right.
That's twisted logic there. No. Actually, logic doesn't come into that statement at all.

Well. There are no Burger Kings or Starbucks in Lloyd. We do have a truck stop here AND a Subway. I haven't eaten at the truck stop in about six years nor the Subway either. I bet if I went into either of those places I might see some side-boob because they get a lot of interstate traffic. It probably wouldn't be celebrity side-boob though.

I pass the truck stop on my walk. I frequently see the sartorial gentleman who walks in Lloyd with a cane. He always looks very spiffy. We say, "Good morning," when we pass each other. I think his day requires a visit to the truck stop. I don't know why. He certainly doesn't have a truck. Sometimes he remarks on how fast I walk. Sometimes he remarks on the weather. I have no idea what his name is or where he lives. Sometimes, he is carrying a tall-boy in a paper bag. I have heard a paper bag wrapped around a beer referred to as a "redneck coozy." I guess coozies are, in and of themselves, fairly rednecky. This guy is not a redneck though. He is an African American gentleman and he always looks very put-together, as I said. He is always polite. I don't know why he carries a cane in that he walks very well. Maybe he is like my grandfather who used to carry a cane when he walked in order to poke things with it. Especially on the beach where there are always many things which beg to be poked.

Do I have a point here? No. I do not. I am waiting for Lily to call me to tell me that they are up. I am going to go and get my grandson today. The older one. Before I bring him out to Lloyd to play, though, I am going to hold Gibson. The younger one. I HAVE TO HOLD THAT BABY.

Owen got his hair buzzed off yesterday. Lily sent a picture. Mr. Moon and I almost wept. His hair is beautiful. Was beautiful. Every time he gets his hair cut, he looks older. Oh well. Maybe the new do will make his cheekbones stand out.
I will post pictures.
Owen can help me put the baby chicks in their outdoor coop. It's too cold to do that right now. Even with the heat on in that room and a light bulb over their cage they are huddled together in a pile. They look like a baby-chick rug. This has been the strangest spring ever.

A train is coming. I need to get dressed. With a bra. I'm going to the store before I get to Lily's. No side-boob here. I am getting coffee. I don't care how much it costs, I am going to get Eight O'Clock brand.

I think I may be feeling better. I don't know.

I wish I could tell all of you who wrote and made me feel loved yesterday how much I appreciate it. I'd give you coffee and side-boob if you wanted it.

Good morning.

Untitled

I'm struggling, y'all. And I feel so stupid talking about any of it. There is absolutely nothing going on in my life that isn't as sweet as a breeze coming through the white lace curtains in the window over the bed.
Not one damn thing.

Hell. I wish I COULD point to something and say, "There, that's it. That's why I feel this way."

But if there is, it's so far back and so far deep that it's not even visible from here.

But I'm here and I plan to be here tomorrow, too.

Fuck crazy. Fuck crazy and the black dog it rode in on.

Stay tuned. Our regularly scheduled programming will return as soon as possible.

I promise.

Not Much

I really don't have anything of any importance, interest or of humorous value to say today but there's some pictures of the young chicks in their new day-time coop. They're getting to that funny teenager stage wherein they are getting real feathers to the detriment of their baby-fuzz appearance.
Puberty is not always graceful, no matter the species.
But I will say that the chicks have such pretty faces, don't you think?
And as Owen said the other day when he was holding Curly Sue, "Curly Sue, I so proud of you!"

We hatched five, five are still alive.

I guess that's something.

Y'all Have All Seen This, Right?

Click on it to get there if you haven't.

Late Afternoon

Mr. Moon is back from his travels and he is working on the baby chicken coop. I have been working in the garden most of the afternoon, weeding and listening to another James Lee Burke book on CD. The sun is pouring out its last gold and the sprinkler is on in the garden, I can hear its gentle spray, the birds' evening calls, the cars on the highway, heading to wherever it is they are going.

I have leftovers to heat up and I am going to cook field peas from last summer's garden which are in the freezer. This year's peas are about to bloom and there will be fresh soon.

It is all serene and shining in this late afternoon light and it has been a day of quiet and mostly solitude for me. Two cardinals are at the feeder, a male and a female and I can hear the crunch of the seeds in their beaks as they eat and the rusty sound of magnolia leaves as they drop. They are being pushed off by the new leaves growing in. I have not driven in traffic or had to deal with strangers on any level today. I should be at perfect peace.

And I am fine but there is this well of something inside of me which is still uneasy. It is probably all nothing more than a matter of the rush of anxiety I was flooded with last night, still making its way through my bloodstream with its potent and unneeded chemicals.

This is when it is best to simply do the simple things. To wash dishes, to cook supper, to put away the laundry, to listen to the birds and the water on the garden and the different voices of the wind chimes as they ring and tinkle, according to their size, in the breeze.
To accept that which has been given me and to let the feelings pass through me as they will.

I feel selfish and self-absorbed, writing this now but this is my life, this is the way a woman feels sometimes as she is pulled and pushed by forces as simple and mysterious as the tide, the moon, the heated rush of left-over adrenalin, perhaps even the lack of holding a baby for an entire day, the lack of a child calling out for his grandmother for an entire day.

Those thick, waxy leaves tremble on the ends of their branches, the breeze catches them and they fall.

I ascribe no meaning to any of this beyond exactly what it is.

There. That.
This.

Enough.

This Is A Special Announcement

Today is the birthday of our beloved Ms. Sarcastic Bastard.

No, she has not been able to blog regularly recently and I am sure I speak for all of us when I say that our world is a far less shimmering place of wonder for that.
But I can also state quite firmly that our world is a better one because she was born.

You can go over to her blog site here and wish her a happy birthday. Or, you can e-mail her directly at ugadawg1@woh.rr.com and I feel certain that it's okay to put that address here as it's up on her blog, too.

We love you, Ms. Bastard-Beloved.

Thanks for getting born.