"Scattered And Smothered" Would Make A Great Band Name

I have a doctor's appointment with my adorable and kind and attentive GP next Tuesday so of course I've been freaking the FUCK out because going to any sort of doctor appointment feels to me like I'm about to go into surgery for a heart transplant. Or something worse. I don't know.
And of course I was supposed to get blood work done a week before the appointment. This, too, I've been dreading. No, not because I have any problem with needles but because it's MEDICAL and because they will be taking something from inside of my own body which will reveal things so secret and hidden that even I am not aware of them and even if I were, I wouldn't want anyone else knowing about them.
Seriously, that's one of the things that freaks me out the most.
Like Tom Robbins, I prefer to think of bodies being filled with pure, white light and nothing else and if one can just stay away from...oh, science...one can continue on with this beautiful belief. Four years of nursing school did nothing to assuage my denial or fear and in fact, made them even worse.
So. Monday I did not go get my blood drawn because it wasn't yet a week away and also, I didn't feel well.
Tuesday, I again did not feel well.
Wednesday I convinced myself it was Tuesday again, despite the fact that I knew damn well it was Wednesday and even discussed that fact with Jessie.
So. Today there was no getting around it. I had to get up, get dressed, and get to town.
Which I did. I sure hope they process and analyze that precious blood before Tuesday. And it wasn't bad at all. The waiting room was not packed and it wasn't long before they called my name and I went back and met my own personal phlebotomist and she and I were cackling like hens before it was over and that was that.
And THEN, because I am a suicidal crazy-woman, I took myself to Waffle House.

Oh, Waffle House! How I love thee!
That's a picture of the breakfast I got up at the top of the page. Scrambled eggs, hashbrowns scattered and smothered (with onions) and raisin toast. With apple butter. A true work of art on a plate. A delight for the eye.
Was it good?
You bet your ass it was. I left my server a three dollar tip on a seven dollar breakfast because she was just so darn sweet.

Then I came on home and Jessie brought the boys out so that they could all get out of the house. August said he needed to come and tell me he was sick, which I already knew of course, and he told me again when he got here along with the fact that because he was sick, he could watch TV. He'd had some Ibuprofen before they left home and he started feeling better pretty quick. First we decided to read some books on my bed. Levon was asleep in his little carrier/car seat so Jessie and August and I all crawled up on the bed and covered up with The Duck and August had picked out a Richard Scarry storybook which had about thirty stories in it.
"That's a long book," I said.
"I need a long book when I sick," he told me.
"I understand," I told him.
We read some Richard Scarry and then he wanted to watch TV so we let him watch The Land Before Time. Levon had woken up by then and was busy crawling on his mama and asking for milk in sign language which is like squeezing an udder and it's ridiculously funny to watch him on the breast, making that sign. When he'd had enough he started playing with the toys and Jessie and I got in the kitchen and tried to come up with things that August might eat because he hasn't been eating much since he got sick. Jessie made him a peanut butter banana but he didn't want that. I found a can of Campbell's chicken and stars soup and I have no idea who bought it or when. Jessie said that she felt like grandmothers just had to have a can of that in cupboard and she may be right. I showed it to August and he said that he'd eat some of that and so I heated it up and put it in a mug and spoon fed him some of the star noodles while he watched the dinosaurs on TV but he wouldn't drink the soup part.
Oh well.
Then it was a cut-up orange. And crackers with goat cheese. Like two.
Jessie found some leftover chicken wings her daddy had bought for a basketball game watching he'd had with two friends on Sunday and she heated those up and ate them. All of my kids seem to need to open the refrigerator and check it out when they're here and I understand that perfectly. When I babysit at Lily's, I look for crackers she might have stashed away. I turn into a sixteen-year old in someone else's house, looking for the good snacks.
Levon ate a little bit of everything. I don't think he's ever met a food he doesn't like. That includes cat food but then again, all little kids seem to love cat food. And dog food.
We went outside for a little while. It's been chilly but it was warm in the sun.

The boys immediately headed toward the goat and chicken pens next door. Here's Levon and a very handsome and large rooster checking each other out. 

August started coming down from his Ibuprofen high and wanted to go back into the house soon and so we did. And then it was time to leave and he tried to talk his mother into leaving him here and picking him up later but she wasn't having that. I promised he could come back soon. 

After they left I found myself fairly exhausted. I never did get this cold or flu or whatever it is the way Mr. Moon did. He's finally feeling better but he sounds like an eighty-year old man which is rather interesting. When he's talking the contrast between my beloved and familiar husband and this deep, croaky voice is disconcerting. I've just felt a little less energetic and have had some drainage and today I've started coughing a bit but I think it caught up with me this afternoon and I laid down and slept for a little while. I'm quite sure that that tiny amount of blood which was taken from my body had nothing to do with it. 

Mr. Moon is at one of Owen's basketball games and then he's going to bring the boy back here to spend the night and tomorrow they're going to leave for Georgia as I have mentioned before. I'll have Maggie and Gibson over tomorrow night so that the acid of jealousy will not consume them and also, to give their mama and daddy a small break. Lily just sent me this picture. 

Mags and her Boppy, chillin' at the gym. 

And so it goes. 

As always, life in Lloyd. I better go start supper for those men who are going to show up pretty soon. I wonder if Owen will want me to read him The Little Red Hen Makes A Pizza or not. I hope he does. I hate to think that he's outgrown it although I'm sure that if he does let me read it to him, it will be because of ritual. I can see myself old and crooked and tiny and white-haired sitting in a nursing home, holding the life-like baby doll that my children have given me to keep me content, insisting to a six-foot, seven-inch Owen or Gibson that I must read them The Little Red Hen. 

You know this could happen. 

"Has anyone fed the chickens?" I will quaver in my little-old-lady voice. 

"Yes, Mer," they will say. "The chickens are fine." 

"How many eggs did we get today?"

And they will close their eyes in saint-like patience and say, "Four. We got four."

"Damn hens!" I'll say with vehemence. "You know they're not all laying in the nest!"

Until then things will continue as usual. 

If I am very, very lucky. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Domesticity

Last night as I finished cooking the soup and the bread that I had made for our supper, I felt a great sense of contentment and peace. Also, huge waves of love for my husband washed over me again and again. It occurred to me as I kissed him and stirred soup and knocked on the bottom of the bread to test for doneness that domesticity is one of the ways I have found to comfort me and give my life meaning.
Tara Westover found her saving grace in education, as the title of her book would indicate. She started at BYU so absolutely UN-educated that she had no idea what the Holocaust was. When she took the ACT test, she did not know how to fill in the bubbles on the answer sheet. She had never taken an exam in her life. And now? She has a PhD from Cambridge. She was like a dry sponge plunged into water when she began her education, soaking it all up as quickly and as intensely as she could after a childhood spent in a home where science and history were ignored and made fun of.
Me?
I have wallowed in home and family, always trying to create the family which I had always wanted and never had. A family in which a mother and a father truly did love each other and their children and where that which appeared on the surface was not that far from what was lying underneath unlike my childhood home which looked from the outside as Beaver Cleaver as any house in America but which, in reality, was a dark and twisted place filled with fear and pain. I did not want either that sort of family or the one which it tried to disguise itself as. With all of my hippie heart, I wanted room for the crazy, the good crazy, right along with the homemade bread and the garden in the backyard. I wanted laughing and I wanted dancing and I wanted music to dance to. I wanted love in all directions, backwards and forwards. I wanted to have my babies at home so that they never had to spend one minute in a plastic box, separated from me. I wanted smooching and lots of books, and chaos would be okay but underlying that would be a certain and sure foundation of trust.
And by god, I got that.
We weren't perfect. We still aren't. We had and have problems just like any family and I made a lot of mistakes. It certainly wasn't always easy or smooth.
But somehow, we mostly were a fairly joyous family. So much music, a lot of dancing, a lot of smooching. Many books. For a long time when we were raising the children we lived in a big brick house that had windows all along the back. Big, tall windows so that if you stood outside, especially at night, you could look into what was going on almost like a doll house. I loved that. We had our privacy when we needed it but there was no need to shut from view the regular goings-on in that house. I look back upon that time almost in wonder.
And you know what?  I would not have been able to do any of this without the love of my husband who stepped in and stepped up and loved me and all of the children the way he had been loved by his parents which was powerfully and unconditionally. He worked like a demon to support us. He was there when we needed him. We often took quick little weekend family trips to the beach and stayed in funky old places that smelled of cedar and time and salt.
Despite the mistakes I made I would not do anything radically different if I had to do it all again.

And here I am now, keeping house for just the two of us. I always knew, deep in my heart, that the children would grow up and leave one day and that if Glen and I had worn out our love and respect and caring for each other, we would be miserable. And I am glad we tended to our relationship throughout the years, often in what seemed like selfish ways.
Going to Cozumel was one of those ways but I swear to you- we would not be the couple we are now if we had not taken those trips so I regret nothing about them.
And I love that man more than I ever imagined I could have. We treat each other tenderly and yes, with respect. And we can still have a very good time, given the chance.

Domesticity. I cherish it. This house which I love and which shelters us is such a gift. The little bit of land where I can grow a few things and keep my chickens and where ancient oak trees spread their branches in another sort of sheltering.
Perhaps I love chickens so much because they themselves are so very domestic in their way. They have their own family and their own family rules. They have their rituals and their customs. They stay close, their bonded unit is their protection.

There they are. Eighteen of them, at least. Little Miss Violet is off somewhere else doing her banty wild thing which is the way she is and I love her for that. Every family has at least one. 

I went over to Jessie's today. She and Vergil seem to be coming down with the nasty hoopacoodis, as my mother would have called it and August has it full on. He was sleeping when I got there with the soup and bread I'd brought them. I hung out with Jessie and the merry little Levon for awhile and then we went to check on August who had taken himself back to bed for the first time in his life. He was sleeping but I just had to lay my hand on his forehead to check his temperature. His little cheeks were rosy and his lips were too. He stirred in the bed and opened his eyes and for a moment I did not know if he was going to fall back into sleep or not but then suddenly he said, "I sick." 

"I know," I said. "I'm so sorry. How do you feel?"

"Pretty good," he said. 

Bless him. 

Families. 

They can wreck you and they can save you. Sometimes they do both. Sometimes you pass on love and laughter, sometimes you pass on nasty viruses. And then they take care of you while you recover.

I know what my family has done. It has saved me. Over and over and over again. And it still does. Every day of my life. 

Love...Ms. Moon 

The Grace And Goodness In Sharing (Possible Trigger Warning Needed, I Guess)

I'm pretty sure I've got what Mr. Moon has, but it's just in the beginning phase and so I've felt under the weather, as we say, but not horrible and so one of the things I have done is to get out in that poor excuse of a garden in this perfect weather to do some weeding if for no other reason than to create the illusion that the carrots and the greens are larger than the weeds.
And of course while I weed, I have to be listening to something and I've been listening to Barbara Kingsolver's Unsheltered which I am enjoying although not captivated by. But while I was weeding, I decided to listen to the Mormon Stories podcast of two interviews with Tara Westover, the author of Educated which is truly one of the best books I've read in forever. It's a book that makes a strong argument for the incredible resilience and strength of the human spirit under crushing circumstances (and that's a bit of a pun for anyone who has read the book) and it's one of those books that captures you enough so that you really do want more. More of the story, more of the author.
So. The podcast interviews.
And as I was listening, I heard her say something that completely blew away a great many of the clouds which fog my mind about the abuse I suffered as a child and how I still suffer, despite years of therapy and self-examination and way too much thinking and reading and more thinking.

A lot of what fucks with my mind is how I feel about my mother who was not my abuser. At least in the sexual abuse. It is eight days away from the six-year anniversary of her death and I have been thinking of her far more than normal. I have also been having dream after dream of my stepfather and in those dreams, I have been left alone with him and I am terrified and of course this speaks to my feelings about my mother because there is part of me which is never going to get over the fact that she did not protect me, just as she did not protect my brothers from terrible things her husband said and did to them.

In Westover's story, it was her brother who mostly abused her and not sexually, but physically although there was most definitely a sexual element to it which one could argue amounted to sexual abuse, but she was also abused by her father who was probably bi-polar and by her mother, too, who always stuck up for and defended her brother along with her husband. And although Westover does spend many, many words on both her father and her mother, it is her father and his mental illness which she credits with allowing what happened to happen in her childhood.
But I keep wondering why she doesn't ask the question of why her mother, who does not have bi-polar (or so it would seem) was (and still is) so intent on defending and supporting her husband? She did, once, apologize to Westover for not protecting her.
"You were my child," she wrote her. "I should have protected you."
These words gave Westover a great deal of peace and even now, long after her mother has denied that what happened was abuse and gone back to the family story that Westover is possessed or crazy or whatever, those words still comfort her.

My mother never said those words. The closest she got was saying, "I'm sorry this happened to you."
Although in my heart of hearts, I am not sure at all she ever believed me. Not really. And if she did she was completely adament in her position that she had never, ever suspected a thing and therefore, was absolved of any guilt in the situation.
There is a lot more I could say about this and I have and this isn't the time to say more.
But it has certainly contributed to the massive amount of guilt and confusion and anger and hurt that I still feel.

My thoughts about her swing from knowing that she had her own problems which were not being addressed and as such, she truly did the best she could and that yes, she did really love me, to wondering if perhaps she wasn't a classic narcissist and not really able to love me.
And just about everything in between.
These thoughts can be torturous. No one wants to believe that their mother did not love them. Everyone wants to know from the very first moment of birth that their mother is someone who will love them no matter what. Who will always be there for them. Who thinks they are special and wonderful and important and worthy of love and attention. This is just basic human nature.
And so when I feel anger or pain about my mother I feel tremendous guilt because surely, I have made up the behaviors I attribute to her. Right? Of course she loved me. She was my mother.

My brother tells me that our mother was nothing like the woman I remember her as. His anger when I have spoken about these things is towering and frightening. He will defend her unto death and I am quite aware that the mother one child has in a family is not necessarily the same mother another sibling had at all.
This too is human nature.

And Tara Westover went through years and years of doubting herself and feeling guilty about separating herself from her family which she finally had to do but she said something in one of these podcasts that gave me another place to stand upon from which to view all of these things.
What she said was that when she finally took the focus off her father and put it on herself, her feelings of guilt were so eased, her thinking became more clear. No longer did she have to make internal lists of all of the ways her father had mistreated her in order to rationalize her separation from him because it wasn't about him.
It was about her.
And for her own sanity, her own well-being, she simply had to separate from him and the family who supports him and denies her version of events, even though they witnessed most of it themselves. One sister, who was also abused by the same brother who abused Westover and who admitted that to her and confronted her mother and father, later came back and denied it all and accepted her father's blessing in order to be a part of the family again.

So. That's what I'm thinking about right now and I'm also thinking about how much I appreciate the honesty and courage of each and every person who tells his or her own story because even though each of those stories is vastly different in some ways, there are elements which are true to all of them. And sometimes, we can help each other by offering our own stories, not just of the abuse but of the ways we have coped and not coped, of the ways the abuse has affected us or not affected us, how tangled and seemingly endless our thoughts can get and remain even after years and years of trying in so many ways to unpick the knots to get at the very core of it all, the truth of it all.

The fact is, there may be no way. There may come a time when we have unraveled all that we can and it is time to just put that tangled web away. Not to deny it's there or to try and ignore the confusion and pain and problems it has caused. These things are undeniable. But to admit that we cannot know the what's and the why's of another person's actions or thoughts. Not really. Not ever.
And it isn't about them anyway, as Westover said so casually, a cough drop in her mouth as she spoke. It is about us and it has to be about us because we cannot go back and fix things and make it all right and straight and true the way we wish it had been.
And so we have do what we have to do to save ourselves.
And if that means we have to finally admit that a rift was created for whatever reason and that trying to build a bridge across it always has been and always will be fruitless, then so be it.

I think it is natural that as I get older and my children have grown into adults, I often feel horrified at the fact that none of Mother's children wanted to take her into our own homes when she could not take care of herself. That none of us even visited her the way we should have. And if you don't think that makes me feel guilty then you don't know me.

But. It was the way it was for whatever reasons and it is not my job to try and figure it out. There is no reason to anyway. That time has passed.

All I can do is to try to live my life in such a way that my children know that I love them, to know that I respect and cherish them, each as they are in their own unique and beautiful differences. I have tried to do that their entire lives, not because I have been worried about whether or not they'll pick out a good nursing home for me, but because I wanted them, I WANT them, to never have one doubt that they have been the blessings of my life and that for as long as I am able, I am there for them.
Wondering why my relationship with my mother was the way it was serves no purpose in my life anymore. Neither does torturing myself with thoughts of my own responsibility in all of that.
It happened. It is done.

I am still here and so are my children and my grandchildren and my husband and as I get older, I would wish that the flame of love I have inside of me only burns brighter, unhindered by anything at all.

That's what I want to think about and I am grateful for Tara Westover for helping me to define this.
She is an amazing human being and the flame within her burns so true and strong that it can illuminate the most inner heart of other humans.
I wish her well in her journey forward as I wish all of us.

Love...Ms. Moon

She Says She's Four

Well, Magnolia June is well and truly three now although she says she is four.
"No, Maggie, you're three," her mother told her.
"No I am not!" said Magnolia June. Her mama made her a unicorn cake and it was gorgeous.

There was salad and pizza and two uncles, two aunts, an almost-aunt Rachel, two grandmas, three cousins, a mama, a daddy, and two brothers.

Just about perfect for a three-year old birthday.
There were presents, of course. When I left, Maggie was trying to put together an ice cream cart that Uncle Hank and Rachel had gotten her. She was doing better with it than I would have.
Trust me.
I took it upon myself today to fold up and put away the Pack'n'Play that all of my grands except for Levon have outgrown and I couldn't figure the damn thing out and now it's laying there in a tangled angled mess on the floor.

Anyway, it was just a very sweet birthday and if you want to read about the day Maggie was born, you can find that post HERE.

A sweet picture from that day three years ago.

Being able to be at the births of my grandchildren has truly been the greatest honor of my life. Our whole family has felt connected and bonded from that first moment of life and I truly think that's one of the reasons we're all so close.

Mr. Moon couldn't make it to the party. That man is sick. Some sort of cold or sinus infection but he feels terrible and of course he worked all day long. You know how people joke about "man colds," insinuating that men are wussies when it comes to being sick? I wish my husband were a little more like that because when I get sick I feel guilty if I just stay in bed and sleep because he never does. I suppose he either picked it up in Mexico or far more likely, on a plane or in an airport.
Gah.

Steve Reed said that he'd love to see a picture of all of the chickens if that was even possible.
It may be possible, theoretically, but I couldn't do it this morning. I did get this one.

That's most of them. 

So it's been a good day and I got a few things done and this morning it really hit me that no, I was not going to get up and drink coffee and look at the Caribbean in worship and in wonder. 

There may have been a tear. 

But I was here to see Maggie turn three and I am glad of that. 

Among so many other things. 

Love...Ms. Moon

A Boy Spent The Night

August and I picked camellias today and he carried some in. We put them in vases and he loved the fact that one of the bushes bears the name Peppermint Stick. Or at least I think that's what it's called.
Okay. I just looked it up and it's actually called La Peppermint.
Close enough.

You can see how it got its name. 

We had such a good time with that boy. He leapt up at 7:30 this morning, stripped of his pajamas which I hear is what he always does. I have no idea when or how he unzipped them and took them off but he did and he does. He looked at our bed, saw his grandfather wasn't there and raced off to find him without a word to me. 

I turned over and went back to sleep. And when I got up his grandfather had dressed him and given him juice and they were waiting patiently for pancakes. 

The requisite pancake picture.

When he finally sat down to eat he grabbed up his fork and said, "I'm  a hungry boy!" and he gobbled them down along with some bacon. 

Of course. 

It charms me tremendously that he still wants to sit in the high chair and eat off the princess plate. Ritual is scrupulously observed here at the Moon house. 

He helped his Boppy clean a car and do other Boppy-related things and then I asked him if he'd like to go to the dump place with me to take the trash and this, too, is another cherished ritual, believe it or not. It's very special because instead of sitting in his car seat, he gets to sit on Gibson's old booster seat for the entire block-and-a-half journey. 

I was putting the bags of trash and recycle in the car and said, "Where are you going to sit, August?"

"The booster seat," he said. "Did you forget?"

He truly thought perhaps I had. 

The floor of the back seat of my car is filled with kid books. He wanted The Grinch and I gave it to him. We safely navigated our way to the dump place and back without incident, I am happy to say. 

I will absolutely admit that August much prefers the company of his grandfather to that of mine. This doesn't upset me in the least and I think it's beautiful. He is absolutely fascinated by Boppy who has all of the tools, like his daddy does, and fishing stuff and machines and a tractor and also, the big comfy chair in front of the TV. I know there's more to it than that. He simply adores Glen. He follows him around like a puppy. But he will hang out with me too. We read a lot of books this afternoon. He always wants the same ones over and over again and they seem to be the same ones that Owen and Gibson always wanted and in fact, still do if only for the nostalgia and ritual factors. And the ones they like are ones that I rarely tire of reading out loud, so that is good. 

He is still asking WHY? about forty-two times an hour. He has definitely not grown out of this phase. And he wants to know what every character in every book is saying. 

"What he say?"

"He says, "Hello, Jack."

"Why?"

I DON'T KNOW! HE JUST DOES! 

Etc. 

We also played the Dr. Seuss matching game which all of the kids have also loved. You're supposed to play it with the little cardboard tiles facing down so that you have to remember where they are on the table but frankly, I'm not up to that sort of memory game and truthfully, never have been. We play a simplified version which makes us all happy and there are bite marks on some of the tiles from Gibson who used to chew on them when he was a baby when Owen and I played. 

Again- ritual. 

Jessie and Levon showed up in the afternoon to pick the boy up. He had said steadfastly all morning and early afternoon that he did not want to go home but he seemed pretty happy to see his mama. He hugged Levon and asked Jessie, "What Levon say about me while I was here?"

Which I thought was a fairly advanced concept to wonder about. 

Levon is talking some and his walking has gotten to the expert level.
He's also cute as hell. 

He wants to do what his brother does and here they are, knocking on the screen door from the inside for some reason I cannot fathom. 

I gave him a celery stick and he kept offering me bites. He is generous. He is also a good kisser. When I went to kiss him good-bye, he offered me his sweet little baby lips. Levon is pretty much just the perfect one-year old. A little shy but a jolly fellow when he gets comfortable. 

After a short visit, Jessie collected August's backpack and the stuffed sloth he'd brought and buckled the boys into their seats and Glen and I kissed them good-bye and off they went to go pick up Owen and Gibson who are spending the night at Jessie and Vergil's house. 

August was powerfully excited about that. He worships his big boy cousins. 

I have finally finished unpacking. I think I have finally finished the laundry. Well, almost. I have clean sheets on the bed and I am cooking black-eyed peas for our supper because we did not eat any on New Year's Day which is yet another ritual that southerners observe here in the U.S. We did eat about a tablespoon apiece of refried black beans on New Year's Day at Playa Corona with our shrimp quesadillas and so I don't feel as if we missed the good luck window for 2019. Still, black-eyed peas are delicious and there's no reason not to eat them, whether for luck or just plain old gustatory satisfaction. 

So I better get to it. Gotta cook the rice and broccoli. You're supposed to have greens with the black-eyed peas but my garden is still in a strangely stunted place of growth and I don't have enough to cook and I refuse to buy them this time of year. My mother always said that you eat the peas for peace and rice for riches but who knows?

Not me. 

I'm also going to cook some cornbread (for contentment?) and I need to get on with that too. 

Tomorrow is Magnolia June's birthday. She will be three years old. Can you believe it? 

Dang these children. They just keep growing up and it happens faster and faster with each subsequent child. 

Do you suppose that perception has anything to do with my age?

Yeah. It does. But it's my reality and that's just the way it is. 

Can't change it. Gotta go with it and try to cherish each moment as it happens. 

Love...Ms. Moon

The Fullness Thereof

Here are just a few of the chickens. I swear, I was hanging clothes when I saw almost all of them running from one part of the yard to another and I thought, "Oh my god! It's a herd of chickens!"
Actually, a flock. But still, so many.

So yes, I hung clothes, I washed more clothes. I dried some of them in the dryer. The clothes I hung outside are still outside because I went to Publix and Costco and didn't get home until almost six and August was already here and I had to unload all of the groceries and make the supper. Right now there are more clothes in the dryer and another load in the washer and one more load to be done.
Good grief!
But supper is almost ready and here's my two handsome fellas enjoying beverages and watching TV.

I will get August's attention after we have eaten and he's had a bath which he will undoubtably want his grandfather to help him with. At that point he will let me put his pajamas on him and read him some books. I have made up his bed right beside ours and Old Monkey Zippy is already under the cover, waiting to be slept with. 

I feel like I've hit the ground running and that's not so bad. I still haven't entirely finished unpacking but my goal for tomorrow is to finally get that done. 

It's been another good day. May we all sleep well and peacefully tonight. 

Love...Ms. Moon

It's A Wrap

I think before I completely forget what I did and where we went in Cozumel, I will go ahead right now and post some of the pictures I took which I want to remember. It's a chilly morning in Lloyd and the chickens are busy scratching in the yard looking for bugs because they went through fifty pounds of food in two weeks and we're out. I gave them their corn scratch this morning which they devoured like the little dinosaurs they are. Do you realize that I have nineteen chickens now? This is crazy! And eight of them are growing teenagers! Mr. Moon has gone to town to try and contact a few customers and come to think of it, I'm alone for the first time in forever. I have not finished unpacking yet and there is still a small mountain of laundry waiting to be done but all of that will wait. I had thought it was going to be sunny today and that I would be able to hang clothes outside but instead, it's as gray as the inside of a pewter bowl.
So. Here we go.

Mr. Moon from New Year's Eve. We ate at a little restaurant which was on the second story of a building downtown and we could watch the people passing by below us. 

Perhaps these people were divers lined up in front of a dive shop. Or...who knows?

They made their own pasta at this restaurant. It was delicious. 

Such a pretty restaurant. 

The decorations downtown.

One of the gardener's little rooting places. Even those were pretty. 

One of his hibiscus.

And a tiny-petaled orchid. 

On our last full day we finally made it to the cemetery. Here are just a few of the shots I took. I love this place. It is like a small village of the dead. Mr. Moon never feels quite comfortable here but I do. It seems to me such a lovely thing to have this place to come to if your family is interned here. Keeping the mausoleum clean and tidy and painted seems like such a nice way to feel close to those who have gone on. To still tend to them and their needs. Or perceived needs, at least. 

Here's a smaller family place, but pretty.

Some of the altars are simple.

Some a great deal more complex. 

Here is one I always visit and reread what is written on it. The stonework is very typical of Cozumel. 

It is the resting place of a woman named Mary who lived and died in Cozumel back some time ago although she was born in the US. I always cry when I read the words her family chose to put here. They are about loving her as a mother, as a wife, as a grandmother and about how much she loved the island which she had chosen to call home. Her husband rests there with her. 

A darling baby girl who was eating beside us that day. I asked for permission to take her picture. "Of course!" said her mother and great-grandmother who later proudly told me that the little girl's grandmother (her daughter) was a police officer! Which reminds me of another thing I love about Cozumel- the way the women carry themselves there. They are so strong in their bearing and sure of themselves, too. When you see a mother and a father and children, the father is as apt to be carrying the youngest as the mother is. Perhaps more so.

Ixchel. They have moved her statue and somehow she has lost some fingers. Statues get moved all the time. I have no idea why. I love her, even without those fingers.

In a fight between Mr. Clean and Mr. Musculo, who do you think would win? 

Our last visit to Playa Corona. 

The last sunset we watched. 

And finally, Bagheera letting Mr. Moon give her some love. She only lets a few people even touch her so this is rather huge. She lets me (the one who feeds her!) scratch her head and belly but she never once sat in my lap. 

And well, I guess that's about it. It is time to wrap up our journey, as sad as it makes me. 

I have my own little world here and it needs tending more than my memories. I've been to the post office and picked up all the mail that accumulated while we were gone. I HAVE to go to the grocery store. And I'm picking August up to spend the night. Next weekend Mr. Moon is taking Owen up to Georgia for a weekend doing man things at the hunting camp and I believe that I'll have Maggie and Gibson over one night while they're off galavanting in the wilds. 

I kissed my husband good-bye when he left this morning and we looked at each other and both of us knew what the other was thinking- how different it is to be going off on our different ways now when for the past two weeks we had been together almost every moment, with neither one of us responsible for anything beyond each other. 

And that was good. 

But this is too. 

Balance, I suppose. Life can't be a continual holiday. 

Supposedly. And it all makes everything sweeter, the going away together and the coming back to this life we lead in Lloyd.

Ah. Looks like the sun may be coming out. I think I'll risk hanging some clothes out. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Back To It

Oh my goodness! Such a busy day and I have to admit that I am actually exhausted.
This reality shit is tiring as fuck.
But, also good.

Jessie got here with the boys this morning and August was so excited he was literally vibrating, the way he does, in his car seat. We loved on that child and grabbed him up and he was happy to see me and told me he'd missed me but it was his Big Boppy, of course, whom he followed around and wanted to be with. It was beautiful. And Levon let me hold him and I kissed him up and squished him with my love and kissed and hugged his mama too.
And then, in between playing and hallway dancing to the Rolling Stones and rescuing a one-year old from the stairs, I made a very late breakfast because we were being slow, slow and I was trying to figure out where I was and who I was and that is not an easy thing to do sometimes.
But that's how Levon eats sausage. And here's how August eats toast.

Jessie jumped in and started cleaning. That girl! She got out the vacuum cleaner she'd given us and went at it. And there was sweeping and wiping and soon the house smelled of coffee and sausage and Fabuloso and I felt as if I was back in Mexico where if there were a national scent, it would be that of Fabuloso which is a cleaning product, for those of you who are not familiar with it and its wonders. 

I stopped in the middle of everything and read August a book. 

Oh my GOD! If you've never read this beautiful, beautiful book, you should. August loves it as much as I do. And it's got an abuela and a little boy who wants to be a mermaid with all of his heart. It made MY heart swoon. 

And then came Lily and her contingent of my grands. It was so good to see them all. So many kisses! And suddenly, there were snacks and cocktail glass mermaids and bowls of water for beaches and toys and Christmas presents opened. Lily and Jessie hadn't given the children each other's presents yet because Jessie had been in North Carolina so we even got a taste of that chaos. 

Maggie adored this present although she was not very happy about having to pose. Believe it or not, she was actually saying "cheese" when I took this picture. 

Owen was having one of those days. I can see the teenager in him about to come forth and it's hard and I remember how it felt, despite it being a million years since I was his age. So many emotions and very few of them pleasant but Levon gave him solace. He loves that baby. And Levon loves him. 

Gibson loves him too. "He's so ADORABLE!" he says.

And he is. He's talking a lot and walking really well and can climb a stairway halfway to heaven before you can blink your eyes.

August wanted to hold "old monkey" and of course I let him. He loves that Zippy. He can't wait to spend the night again so that he can sleep with him. When I wanted to put Zippy back up on the mantel where he lives, August said, "Let me give him one more hug."

And I did. 

Then we went out and found eggs and fed the goats next door which never gets old. And Maggie wanted to hold two eggs and then she did not want me to take her picture so I got this one which I love. 

My curly-headed granddaughter. You should see her buckle herself into her car seat. Properly. She also picked a bathroom door lock at her house today using her own tiny screw driver. She is a clever little child. 

And then everyone packed up to go home and I tried out the washing machine again and it worked fine. I think it was the huge quilt I put in it last night that caused the problem. One should probably not attempt to do laundry at 2:00 a.m.

And unpacking commenced and more tidying and somehow, it's now after six and I've got bread rising and greens picked for supper and yes, I still remember how to cook, I think. I'm starting to feel like my house is mine again. It's always a process, isn't it? I call it "peeing in the corners" which of course I do not literally do but there are rituals which must be observed to make the house aware that I am home. 

The chickens seem to be fine. The little ones are almost as big as their small mother and the dark ones are looking just like her. Liberace almost led his entire harem into the hallway from the porch today but I dissuaded him from the idea that this was acceptable. I will take pictures tomorrow. 

We have a wasp infestation in the house. They are coming from somewhere in the library but appear to be stunned and the only sting was received by Mr. Moon who wrapped some up in a napkin to take outside and one got him through the napkin. I hope they're not in the walls but this is a real possibility. It rained until early afternoon and it is now getting cooler. I can hear the frogs singing in the swamp beyond the railroad track. 

I did not go snorkeling today and am not getting ready to go out to eat. I do not hear the sound of mopeds and people talking about the dives they took and where they'll be going tonight for supper or the clank of scuba tanks or the deep, low blasts of the cruise ships as they leave port. My love is not stretched out on the bed, waiting for me to finish my make-up. 

But I can use the water from the tap for cooking and drinking and hey! The internet is pretty darn good here. 

And I got to see my grandchildren. There is singing at the church next door. I smell of garlic and soy sauce rather than perfume which is not such a bad thing. The sunset over the trees to the west of us was quite pink and lovely tonight but we did not sit and watch it and blow it a kiss when it went down. 

I'm still getting adjusted to throwing the toilet paper INTO THE TOILET! 

Here I am and south of me there is a little island where I always leave a part of my heart and life goes on without me. 

I can still feel it there, though. It's a powerful thing. 

So is home. 

Love...Ms. Moon

And, We Are Home

That was taken yesterday morning before we left for the airport.
And then, after a mere 12 hours of flights, customs, "check points," miles of airport walking, horrible airport food except for the lunch we got in the Cozumel airport which looked like this:

and yes, it was delicious, we finally got home around one a.m.
And this is what it looks like in my back yard this morning.

Well, still. It is good to be home and I do believe I have grandchildren on the way over with some of their parents and although Jack and Maurice seem to have escalated their war to a horrible degree and my house rather reeks of cat piss and of course there is everything to be unpacked and days worth of laundry AND the washing machine appears to be, uh, broken, I am glad to be here.

The camellias are blooming their pretty little heads off.
And Maurice slept with us all night long. Thank god she has no idea that I spent two weeks feeding shrimp and pork and chicken to a cat in Mexico. She would literally shred my face into bloody ribbons.

It's like it was all a dream of a dream of being in Cozumel.
But. Here's proof I was there.

That was me on New Year's Eve. 

You would not want to see what I look like right now. 

Love you all so much. I'll be getting around to blogs eventually and I've mostly kept up reading them. 

Thanks for coming along with me to my own paradise. 

Ms. Moon

To Be Fair...

It's our last full day here and we've just had our breakfast. I was in a nothing-sort of mood. Just feeling flat. And the Sergio came over and asked if we were leaving tomorrow. I told him we were and he said that he'll be off tomorrow so...

And I started crying and I couldn't eat my breakfast and as always as our time grows so short, I'm just a damn mess. 

Still can't upload pictures here. I suppose when I get home I'll post a million of them. 

I know you can't wait. 

I keep thinking that reading these posts, people might think that Cozumel is perfect beyond all expectations but of course it isn't and I'd hate for anyone to come here just on my words only to find that it is not entirely Edenic. Let's see. What might people find annoying? 

You have to put your toilet paper in a trash can. 

That's right. You cannot flush it. 

Well, you could but they sure don't want you to. 

There is a lot of trash in places. 

Just like Lloyd. 

When the cruise ships are in port the areas near the docks and downtown are a freaking crowded mess. A bazillion tourists walking about day-drinking and heading towards the Starbucks and Victoria's Secret across from the port and every little and big shop trying to get their share of cruiser dollars. Of course, if you get off the streets that the cruise companies deem as "safe" it's not a problem. 

The traffic is crazy. Every time you get on a scooter you are taking your life in your hands. That's just the way it is. And people do have accidents. Every day. However, no one forces you to rent a scooter and if you take taxis, the thrill is still there but the danger factor is lessened. 

All right- here's a huge complaint I have- many places seem to have almost eliminated the peppers in the pico de gallo to make it more palatable to the gringo tastebud, I guess. This does truly suck. 

And...well, you know- it's Mexico. Meaning that things can be pretty random. And different from where you live. Unless you live in Mexico. Blessedly, this does not bother me in the least. I cherish the differences and think that we would be smart to adopt some of them. But let me say that if you get bacon with your breakfast one day and don't the next, that is just the way it is. Eat your eggs and get on with it. 

I've discussed endlessly the beautiful things about Cozumel and I am sure I do not know a tenth of them. The water, the sky, the laid-back atmosphere. But the best part for me is always the people. They are beautiful and exceptionally hard-working and friendly and kind and funny and creative and adaptive and they love their children and each other. It is not uncommon at all to see older couples strolling about holding hands. And never once, not ONCE, even when I was a young and pretty thing, have I ever felt the slightest vibe of inappropriate sexual behavior. 

There is no denying the sensuality but it is so sweet. 

I have no doubt that horrible things happen here. The Cozumelenos are human. There must be crimes of passion. There is alcoholism. There is poverty. 

But I have never seen two local people arguing, much less fighting. 

I have seen two instances of a man hitting a woman here- both time American tourists. 

Well. Time to get on with this day. I am not sure what we're doing. A little shopping perhaps. Here is what I've bought to bring home so far: a few spices from the grocery store and two kitchen towels and a candle. 

The end. 

I may buy Maggie a dress because it is almost her birthday. 

Or maybe not. 

I am a terrible grandmother. 

Anyway, I just wanted to give a more fair and balanced view of this place I love so much but since I do love it so much, I'm not even sure that's possible. But I've tried. 

Love...Ms. Moon