Bless Our Hearts

I'm So Vain. I Probably Think This Post Is About Me.

2009-12-05T15:36:00.003-05:00

I have the saddies today. I'm not sure why.
Maybe it started last night when I looked down at my legs while I was brushing my teeth. It was a horrifying moment. I've always had legs that are decent, if I do say so myself, from ankles on up but when I looked at them last night in the stark white light of the bathroom, it was as if someone had come and taken my very own legs and replaced them with the blobby white legs of some blobby old white woman and it was enough to make me want to fall down on the floor and cry.

Et tu, my legs? I wanted to sob.

But what can you do? Finish brushing your teeth, rinse, spit, get in bed. Go to sleep.

Today Mr. Moon and I brought all the tender potted plants in and it killed me that although I know I can still lift and carry some of the bigger ones, I should not. I'm already in pain all the fucking time and why make it worse? Do I want to permanently cripple myself? And so I flittered and fussed about Mr. Moon as he lifted some of these huge plants and brought them in and I made cuttings of the firespike to root for next year's planting and some cuttings of some of my favorite begonias and stuck them in pots in case something horrible should befall the mother plants. But I felt weak and pitiful and then I slipped on the mildewed back deck and fell and if there's anything that makes me feel older and more pathetic than falling, I don't know what it is.
Fuck. As if my foot didn't hurt enough already. And then I just started to cry. Not because I hurt myself badly, but because I am getting older and that's just the way it is.

I cut my last blooming zinnias and some African basil and a few other things still blooming because it might freeze tonight and if it does, all these things will be nothing but brown mush by tomorrow afternoon and that made me sad, too, although I made a bouquet of them which is beautiful and aromatic with the basil. And then I had to cut back my beloved mango tree. The one in the pot I started from a seed I got from a mango in Roseland, my childhood town, the same tree we ate from when I was a just a little river and jungle-rat there, running around brown and fat with mango fiber between my teeth and howling when I stepped on a cactus. And I know it's okay to cut my mango tree back. It has to be cut back in order to save it and for it to continue to live in a pot and it can't stay outside in the ground because it will freeze.

So I guess it's just all of this- it's winter, truly and time to face the fact that if I don't do something about my plants, they will die, and no matter what I do, I'm going to die one day, too. And it's not death I'm afraid of. It's this slow degeneration of the body which cannot be halted because it is part of life.

I cannot be made young again. There is no way. And look- it sucks. I'm not going to lie to you. I do think older women can be and are beautiful. I'm not saying that it's not possible, but I'm also saying that to lose my legs' fine form seems like more of a cruelty than I can bear somehow. I know it's not a big deal. It's not cancer. It's just time and gravity and age and life.

But I'm sad. Because it's not just how things look, it's how they feel and how they don't work like they used to. And somehow, some way, I didn't think it would happen with such rapidity. Just like every year I can't believe it's going to freeze, but it does.

I'll leave you with a memory. It's from when I was a stupid-butt-headed teenager and my mother, probably in her forties at the time, was doing some sort of exercise routine with those pulley ski ropes you attached to a door handle and all I could think was, "Why?" I mean, she was OLD and it wasn't like she was going to date again (although she did, years later) and it wasn't like anyone cared what she looked like.

What I didn't realize is that SHE did. She cared. That there is no off-button to the caring about how we look. We may not be as vain as we were when we were young, but dammit, we're always still vain. Even if we mostly live in overalls and we muck out chicken coops. We want those legs under the overalls to look good. And be strong and sturdy and capable of carrying us for a long, long time.

Not weak and with blobby flesh hanging around our bones.

We want to look as good as we can and for a long time, that's not so bad. It's good enough.
For a long time.
But not for an endless time, it would appear.

Winter. Fuck winter. Why do you think all the old people move south? It's not because they can't take the cold. It's because they hate the reminder of every year's passing, of everything dying. We know spring will return. To the earth, anyway.
But never, not the way it once did, to us.

And I'll try not to write about aging any more for awhile. I promise. At least until that beautiful bouquet passes on. Okay? Deal?

Okay.

Family

2009-12-05T09:07:00.003-05:00

When was it? Sometime back in the late winter of this year and we had taken the Opera House production of Later Life on the road to Milton, Florida and one of our actors and his wife were taking every opportunity to hold each other and whisper to each other and I knew something was cooking. Something being a baby. My mama instincts told me so.
"Jon," I said. "What's going on with you and Stephanie?"
"Nothing," he said, "Why do you ask?"
And Jon's a terrific actor but he couldn't fool me. No sirree. Not for one second. He talked to Steph for awhile, whispering into her ear, and then came back to me and said, "We're going to have a baby."
Well. I knew it and so did Kathleen and we tucked their secret into our hearts and smiled.
Jon and Steph were wanting a baby and had had one miscarriage and so the early days of this pregnancy were sweet but scary, too and that's why they were staying quiet about it all. But time passed and it became apparent that this budding life was going to stick around and everyone shared their joy. His parents and hers, their Opera House family- everyone was so happy for them.
And when the baby was born on October 24th, he was named Colin, just like our beloved Colin who makes us all laugh and who is our British stiff upper-lipper and swashbuckling, Levi-wearing, handsome boy who flies airplanes and makes lasagna and beef stew and who paints the ceiling of the Opera House and has a beautiful French girlfriend who adores him.

Jon is in the production of Mr. Spaceman and so is Colin and last night Steph came along and brought Baby Colin and when Big Colin held him, all the cameras and iPhones were whipped out and it was like a Paparazzi moment, right there in the Opera House. Big Colin and Little Colin and there you have them in the picture above, along with Mama Stephanie and oh yes, in the background you can see Famous Author at the table.

The readings went well. No big surprises and no big audience, either, but the one that was there was attentive and laughed at the funny parts. I was nervous, I admit. It was such a different situation than being in a play. We didn't have to memorize anything and we didn't have to move from here to there or remember to pick this up or set this down or bring this onstage. We just had to get up from our seat when the time came, stroll to the mic and say our piece. And it was fairly short so when it was over, my adrenalin hadn't really found its outlet, hadn't really had a purpose to be spent on.
Odd.

But it was sweet, sitting there in a row, the six of us, waiting for our parts. We are a sort of family there and I have to tell you that the people I read with last night are among my very favorite people on earth. It reminded me of the old days, before I was born, even, when there was no television, and people gathered in their homes to listen to readings and music after dinner and drinks and coffee. The Opera House is like my other home, to tell you the truth, and so there we were, intimate and doing this little thing together with an audience.
Yes. Another family.

Our Famous Author seemed pleased and not at all disappointed by the turn-out. It was a cold, drizzly, dreary night and we appreciated each and every person who showed up to listen to us. It wasn't a drinking crowd, it wasn't a rowdy crowd, but it was a listening crowd and made up of quite a few people who have acted at the Opera House in other productions.
I was proud to be part of it and I am looking forward to tonight so that we can do it again.

I'll be sitting next to Colin, trying not to laugh at the things he says to me and failing miserably.

Last night I looked down at myself to check to see if I had any strikingly large random bits of anything on my black shirt and he whispered, "Are you checking out your breasts?" in his most perfect British accent. "No," I whispered back. "I am not."
"Don't lie to me," he said.
And I giggled while trying to maintain my dignity.

And that's Colin and that's our Opera House and Little Colin is going to grow up there, such a different sort of baby than my Owen who is long and lean and like a wire, strong and pushing and always demanding to be held, to be entertained, to be loved while Little Colin is a peaceful Chunkamonk who curls up and relaxes into a smooshie ball of love, completely comfortable wherever he is, and is happy to meet new people, be held by anyone who wants to hold him and there you have it- The Opera House on a Friday night, Big Colin and Little Colin, a part of the family that makes it all up.

The magic of the Opera House. Which I am so lucky to be part of.

This Man Would Not Feel Comfortable At The Church Of The Batshit Crazy

2009-12-04T11:19:00.001-05:00

This cardinal can bite my ass.

So can St. Paul.

Celebrities I Love For No Apparent Reason

2009-12-04T10:09:00.005-05:00

Love.

Really, really, REALLY love. I mean it. (Thanks, Ms. Fleur. I owe you more soup for this one.)

Chickens Are Polygamists

2009-12-04T08:55:00.003-05:00

It's gray and chilly and damp. We had a storm two days ago that swept through with a vengeance, knocking down branches and dumping water and popping the transformer right outside my house.
Now it's going to get cold, I fear, and all my tender plants are outside and I hate that- hauling them in or deciding to let them go. Some of them weigh almost a hundred pounds in their heavy pots, with their bushels of dirt. I should be busy, cutting them back and putting the stems in new dirt to root over the winter in order to save them should I let the mother plants freeze.
Winter.
Bah.
I gave in and had martinis with Mr. Moon last night and I slept from ten to eight-thirty, waking only a few times for hot flashes. I slept with deep thirst for sleep, I slept with fierceness, like Owen does. I look back at the days when my fourth child was born and she was a nursling and I also had a most demanding three-year old and two teenagers and I thought I was dying, I was so tired all the time. I actually went to the doctor and demanded tests. I took care of the children and I nursed my baby and I kept the house and I cooked the meals and I volunteered in the classrooms and I tried to be a decent wife and I think I even worked some at the birth center and Lord have mercy, how did I do that? Taking care of Owen for six or seven hours wears me out in the sweetest sort of way and even after his father comes to get him and we go outside to talk to Mr. Moon I follow his face and try to make him smile at me because I can't get enough of him, no matter what.
And then I remember how back in those days when my own babies were young I got up at five thirty to walk the dark streets, to get my exercise in. I did that! I look back on all of that and I realize that I did something and I was far stronger than I believed I was.

And now when Owen is here, I have nothing I have to do but love him and I realize the worth of grandmothers and I know I am doing something again. Something important and if we spend half an hour on the porch swing, watching the sky and trees as I kick us back and forth and back and forth, doing nothing but that, it is enough and more than enough.

I had a test yesterday on who I love the most- Owen or the chickens and Owen won. I had inadvertently let Sam out and he was trying to get Miss Betty and I had Owen in my arms and I laid him down on a blanket in the grass to try and get her in the hen house and Owen began to scream in protest in being set down and I looked from Betty to Owen and I scooped him up and said, "Good luck, Betty," and we came into the house for a bottle.
Betty lived.

I learned something yesterday about chickens. I feel like a chicken anthropologist. I had Sam in the coop and his hens were outside yesterday for a good while and I could tell that Sam was a bit frantic to get to his ladies. When he got out and got back with them, they clustered around him with great relief and he scratched and found morsels and fed them to his hens who took them from his beak and after a few moments of that, he began to mount them, one after the other.
Ahah! Chickens are polygamists! Those hens and that rooster looked like nothing more than a group of women around their man, looking up to him for sustenance, and then for mating which, perhaps, is comforting to them as well as him. Hard to say, hard to tell. It doesn't look like much, that quick jump on their backs, the beak to the head, the quick flutter and fluff of feathers and then he jumps off and they settle themselves back together, like ladies after a quickie in the pantry, pulling their skirts straight, checking their hair before they go back out to company.

I don't know. I can't judge. The hens are perfectly capable of finding their own tender morsels in the dirt and they do but they seem to cherish those bits from Sam's mouth and it's all part of their society, their way of life. It's so interesting to observe this entire other culture living in my backyard. I feel like the Spaceman in this reading we're doing tonight, taking notes on the strange customs of another race.

I think about that, how there is so much other life going on around us all the time and we people, we humans, we hairless apes, think we're so complicated and cool with our big brains and big TV's and our big cars and our Big Gulps and even as we think all of this, the simplest things are doing what they do, down to the fungus growing in the old oak tree at the edge of the property, creating a something that looks like it should be formed under the sea out of nothing but a few cells, some rotting wood, some dampness.

I hold Owen in my arms and we walk around and we look at all of this. Me with my grown-up, semi-educated eyes and he with his brand new ones and I think about how much we are going to learn together, he and I. I think about how he makes me slow down and pay attention. I show him things and he tells me when he is ready to move on. We are learning about cultures and I am part of the human culture- a grandmother- and I realize I am, as a grandmother, important.

Well. It's gray and damp and chilly. I have to go to town today. I am, as we all know, loathe to leave my tiny place here on earth, but sometimes it must be done. Owen is with his mama today and on Saturday he'll be with his other grandmother and do you want to know a secret? I am bitterly jealous, which makes no more sense than the hens being so grateful to Sam for those bites of food from his mouth. No more sense than Sam's seeming unreasonable hatred for Betty.

We humans. We think we're something.
And we are.
I learn more about us every day as I walk through the yard with a baby in my arms, observing chickens and trees and fungus and the sky. I have gone back to school, it seems, even as my arms and body offer themselves up in such an old familiar way to this new boy. He offers me new eyes as I offer milk from a bottle and clean diapers and new sights for him to wonder at.
We wonder together and we are both learning.

And isn't that amazing? And isn't that important? And aren't I the luckiest woman on earth?

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Got The Whole World In My Arms

2009-12-03T11:29:00.002-05:00

Owen made friends with the sling today. I got him in it and we made our maiden voyage to the Post Office to introduce him to Ms. Joanne. The boy loves to be outside. You know, he will be ten weeks old on Saturday and he is already starting to look at the chickens. I mean, really focus on them and it would appear to me- wonder at them. They look at him too but they are probably thinking, "Could we eat him?"

NO! I say. You cannot eat Owen.

We are learning each other, this guy and I. Right now he is in his little bouncy seat, trying to figure out how to get the thingees hanging down from it. Because he isn't quite aware yet that his fingers belong to HIM, this is not an easy task. But it will happen so soon. So very soon.

He went for his regular check-up yesterday and he is gaining well but is still in the 25th percentile of weight. Now length? 93rd percentile. Is he just like his granddaddy or what? Long and skinny boy. And the doctor was amazed at his ability to hold himself upright. He is strong! Again, just like his grandfather.

Okay. He is starting to fuss. I just wanted to report in. I could have washed the dishes but oh hell.

Reporting off....Gramoon.

A Place, Not A State Of Being.

2009-12-03T08:08:00.004-05:00

Owen is coming and soon and I have just gotten up. I planned on getting up earlier because I have a few things in my life that do need to get done before that boy lands in my arms, this blog tending being one of them.

But my sleep has been put off every night by pains and aches (and no, they do not come from Owen but more from my foot and my twitching hips) and anyway, blah, blah, blah, all us old people will tell you about our pains. I certainly do. But when those pains and twitches assault me, I have to get up and get out of the cozy, warm bed with my two comforters on it (the duck, I call the bigger one, the duckling, the smaller one) and go out to the kitchen to read and apparently, to eat.

This is getting out of hand. Last night I ate granola and hell's bells, you might as well be eating Chex Mix, it's no better for you. Not the commercial sort, anyway. I only bought it right before Thanksgiving for the kids to eat for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning but they didn't and there it is, in my kitchen, just waiting for midnight plundering.

Last night, in reaching for the box, I knocked it over and so there I was, one-thirty in the morning, without my glasses, dressed in a sort of coat/duster thing I got at Goodwill which had probably originally come with a dress, having to sweep up granola, although the dogs helped. After I cleaned it all up, they continued to sniff around the kitchen, finding bits and pieces of sugary grains to snorfle down, much as I had been doing.

Really. This must end.

And I try to stay in bed. I stretch as carefully and slowly as I can under the covers, trying not to disturb Mr. Moon and I turn, carefully, and I stretch some more, carefully, and I fall back asleep and then another twitch wakes me and I start all over again.

It's maddening.

And there was that full moon.

Anyway, this all led to me waking late and in a bit of a panic.
Quick, down the coffee! Quick, let Miss Betty out! Quick, feed the cats and feed the dogs and pour more coffee and forget the newspaper, get the computer and try to write about something.

So here I am and I have written about nothing.

I wanted to say that I believe I go through my life thinking that after this passes or that, life will return to normal. Normal. Ms. Bastard said yesterday that one of her semi-regular readers lives in Normal, Illinois and may I say that Ms. Bastard reads her stats more closely than I generally do? I will say that it is funny to me that my readers in the US come mostly from Florida, New York and California which seems odd to me, as I write about chickens and I can see the Florida connection but New York? California? You guys are sophisticated. You have artists and movie stars and CULTAH! and I have, well, chicken shit. And dog shit. And now baby poop.

BUT, don't you do that thing, too, where you think, after this project, this holiday, this crisis, this whatever, things will return to NORMAL?

And do they ever? Because what the fuck is normal? Normal may happen about once in a blue moon, and the rest of the time we are scurrying around trying to fit our little routines into whatever it is that has temporarily taken over our lives and thrown us around like astronauts in outer space, trying to find footing and figure out which is up and which is down under the difficult circumstances of weightlessness, of non-normalcy.

That's what I do anyway. After this little Opera House production is over, after Christmas, after Owen grows up? What? When? How?
Never. Never. Never.

It's never going to be normal and it's so funny that we humans think it will be and fight so hard not to adapt but to just put off and do later when things become more...normal. I have a difficult time with this. I do. And you'd think by now, after having spent a lifetime planning my days and very life around four children and a husband and the occasional jaunt into something which requires me to be at certain places at certain times, that I would know this and be more able to achieve it.

But I am not.

And I am not normal. Neither are you. Neither is anyone else. At least, as far as I can see. I think of all the people I know and love and not one of them is anywhere near normal. Thank God!

Let us remember that Normal is a town in Illinois. It is not a state of being we can achieve.

Time to cut up the grapes. Miss Betty waits for no man and she waits for no woman to get back to normal. Sam is crowing and in his voice I can hear him say, "I know you swept up granola last night. Bring it to me!" Granola is not his normal food but he will eat it with gusto.

And normally I would have a nice ending to tie things up with but lately my normal has not been normal but maybe after the play is over and Owen is grown up and it's oh, spring again, and my hips don't twitch and my foot doesn't hurt, I can give you that nice, normal tie-up.

Until then, remember this: No matter what your circumstances are, don't wait for normal to come to you. It won't. You will have to go visit it. It's in Illinois.
They talk funny there, did you know that?

Now, go forth and do not be normal.

Love...Ms. Moon

Brown Paper Bag Day. Some People Call Them Fragments.

2009-12-02T09:13:00.007-05:00

Do you dream of your blog? I do. Last night I dreamed I wrote a post and the picture that accompanied it was a picture of Owen in his little seat in one of the seats of the Opera House. That sort of sums it up. And I don't have a picture like that but I do have pictures of Owen (that one was taken yesterday) and I do have pictures of the Opera House but I can't find them and I feel frantic today to get things done so there you go. You get Owen and if that's not enough, sue me and examine your heart.

So this is going to be what I call a brown paper bag day- I give you all a bunch of stuff and I throw it in a paper bag and hand it over. Think of it as the surprise bag you can buy at the Dollar Store marked "Girl" or "Boy" only this one is for everyone who wants it. Of course what it really means is that I am too scattered to sit down and write what I would call an essay and my mind is flittering about like a moth on the light bulb at night and I can feel the presence of a toad, just waiting for that moth to hit the light, sizzle, and fall into his mouth.
Yum. Cooked moth.

So the reason the Opera House is in my mind is that this weekend is the reading thing we're doing with Robert Olen Butler from his book Mr. Spaceman. Tickets are not flying and Jan is a bit panicky. I understand. This was her idea, she arranged it and people are not responding. Well, Jan- let me tell you this- it was and is a GREAT idea and even the author thought so and agreed to participate and it'll be what it'll be and it's going to be fun.
But for any of you living in this area, you might want to consider driving down Highway 90 on Friday or Saturday until you get to Monticello, pull over, park (anywhere) when you get to the Opera House- you will know it- it's right before you get to the County Courthouse on your right- and join us. Dinner? Available. Drinks? Always. Ghosts? Probably. Me? I'll be there.
Wearing make-up AND a bra!
Oh yeah, so will Mr. Butler. Be there, I mean. I don't think he wears a bra although I don't know about the make-up.

Okay. On to chickens. When I went out to the hen house this morning to take Betty outside so that she can spend the day without being pecked by Sam, her former Lover Man Rooster, she jumped right off the roost and ran outside. Bless her tiny chicken heart. It's raining right now so I made her a sort of shelter outside with a roof and some hay so that she'll have a place to get under. Poor baby. She is starting to try to follow me back to the house now. She thinks I'm her flock. Either that, or those grapes I cut up for her daily are making her fall in love with me. Either way, it was nice to see her so cheerfully head outside where she spends her day scratching and dirt-bathing and finding tasty bug and frog morsels.

Bobby Bowden has retired. Who the fuck is Bobby Bowden? Simply the God of Tallahassee, aka the FSU Seminole football coach. Well, he was the God until he started losing regularly whereupon everyone turned on him like mad dogs and let's face it- dude is about a hundred years old. Now I don't give one damn shit about football or Seminoles yet even I have not been able to ignore this situation. And when I got the paper this morning, the entire front page was dedicated to the fact that yes, he has finally decided to go to his palacial home, dandle his grandbabies on his knee and let someone else take over the job of coaching. And it wasn't just the front page. It was like THE ENTIRE PAPER!

Could we move past this?

Also Tiger Woods. Bless HIS heart. What? He's human? No fucking way. Do I need to know the details of that little incident? No. I do not. Could we shut up about it already?
Obviously, no.

I've recently reconnected with an old friend who is a much beloved figure in Tallahassee and actually, all over the world. She's a singer and because she is somewhat of a celebrity, I have always been shy around her. And it always seemed to me that people wanted something from her. Either to play this benefit or that, or to sing on their CD or to hang her name on their project, and me? I didn't want her to think I wanted her for any reason like that and so I sort of let her go. Besides singing she also taught English at the local community college for like fifty years and raised a son on her own and was one of the first black teachers hired at the college and her plate has been FULL. But now she's retired from the college and she's doing what she wants to do and she called me the other day and we talked for about an hour a a half and now she's reading the blog and let me tell you- The Church of the Batshit Crazy has Another Official Vocalist now. Lis, of course, is our first. (Ladies, is this okay with you?) When this woman opens her mouth to sing, the hairs raise up on the back of your head and your heart bursts into flames and the tears run down your face. And you know what? I'm not even going to mention her name because in a way, that would be using her too. So, Sweetie- you know who you are. I'm so glad you're back in my life.

Okay. What else?
Oh yes. In other music news, Lis's CD is almost completely done. I can't wait until I can sell it from here. Lon was in Tallahassee yesterday, mixing it, and he called me on his way home to see if he could stop by for coffee and a hug. I was about to take Owen to his mama so I didn't have the time, but when I talked to him, I told him how incredibly proud I am of him for supporting his wife in this project and for working so hard on it with her. I cried. I always cry when I talk to Lon and usually when I talk to Lis, too. Why is that? Because I love them so much. That's why. Anyway, he said it had been his glory to work on this CD and I said that of course it was, but a lot of men in this world do not support their wives the way he does and he said, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that."
And I cried some more.
God, I love those two people.

And Kathleen- my darling Kathleen! She hit an eight-point buck on her way home in the dark the other night and it tore up her car and hurt her already injured shoulder and no one in this entire world would be more apt to be upset about killing a deer. It's rutting season (What? there's a season? I thought rutting season was 365 days a year. Wait- that's just humans. And bonobos.) and the buck was crossing the road to get to the other side where the beautiful lady deer were bedded down in the field. It all came out okay, although Mr. Moon was not in town to come and take care of things, which had always been her plan if she hit a deer (Kathleen has plans in place for every contingency) so she had to call the sheriff and it was all okay. A man came by who wanted the deer for meat and she gave it to him and the sheriff said he would have taken it but he was on duty and couldn't. We do love our deer meat down here. Except for Kathleen who doesn't eat meat, of course, but she was happy that it would not go to waste. She went to the doctor yesterday and he gave her a fine panoply of muscle relaxers and pain medication (and here again, Kathleen is not a pill taker and really only wanted a prescription to get a massage) but she's taking some time off of work which she needed anyway and is resting. So bless HER heart. Mr. Moon was a little jealous when he heard about the accident. Kathleen's buck was bigger than the one he shot this year. Well, not bigger than the one in Canada, but in Florida. If has shot a buck. I get confused on that.

Speaking of which, I have a deer backstrap thawing that I need to get into the Crock Pot. Owen isn't here today and I miss him but I have a million things to catch up on and this has gone on way too long.

I feel like I should include a recipe here because all of this is so down-home and newsy but I don't have one springing to mind. I will remind you to eat your vegetables and get your fiber, drink your water and move your body.

I will also tell you that my children were and are my greatest teachers and have saved my life and soul and that my grandson is doing the same thing for me. I will say again that the Opera House has also been there and given me something I could not have gotten anywhere else and as nervous as I was to read in front of The Author last night, there is some part of me which has been made strong and confident in that old building by the people who have taken me in there and I am in amazement at every single element of that fact.

I will tell you that it's not how many friends you have, it is the love you have for the friends you have. Fuck Facebook and thousands of "friends." That ain't friendship and we all know it. Well, not for me, anyway.

I will tell you that the older I get, the more I know without any doubt that my marriage to Mr. Moon has been the greatest gift I could ever have received. His love and the love of my children has more than made up for whatever bad has happened in my life.

And I will tell you that this December day where it is not cold but is raining and where the frogs are croaking back in the swamp and the water drips off the tin roof into the azaleas beside the porch is a day I wish I could put in my memory forever. There is nothing at all special about it except for the fact that I am here in it, I am doing what I love which is to write about it all, and right now, a bird is singing his heart out in the wisteria, despite the rain.

So. Brown Paper Bag. Here it is. Take what you need, and you leave the rest.

Amen.

The Way Old People Dance

2009-12-01T07:56:00.002-05:00

I woke up this morning so stiff I could barely walk. I remember reading in a book that old people walk that way because...they hurt...and I now know what that means. When we are young, we use our bodies with such abandoned ignorance. We lift things we should not, we dance until dawn, we dig ditches and we carry a baby on each hip. We fall, we get up, we say, "Wow, that's gonna be a big bruise," and twenty years later we don't know why we hurt in that joint.

It's the stuff for jokes, the way old people walk and move and dance and bitterly complain and make that noise when they get out of a chair. But let me tell you something, Darlin's, it's not a joke. The human body does have an expiration date and as the years go on, the product loses its shine, its glide, its nimbleness, I don't care what vitamins you take, what exercise you do, how well you eat, how many carrots you juice and drink.
Okay, I haven't tried that one yet.

I've said many times before that I have looked at the way the skin lay on older people's bones, the way they shuffle across a room, the way they "let themselves go," and I have thought, "Thank God, that will not be me."
And of course, I have learned that short of premature death, that WILL be me.

And in taking care of Owen I realize how many of my aches and nerve problems (real actual nerves, not like you're-getting-on-my-last-nerve) come from holding and carrying and tending babies. Each way I curve my hand around his small butt, each way I cup his head, each way I jut out this hip or that, is part of the map of my very own muscular-skeletal architecture at this point. Now don't get me wrong- I can still do this. I am strong (for a fifty-five year old woman), and I can still hold and cup and support and jut as well as anyone. But I can feel the way these actions, having been done thousands and thousands of times from the age of twelve when my younger brother was born, have had their way with me. I think I have carpal EVERYTHING syndrome.

But it's okay. It is more than okay. They sell Ibuprofen by the gallon, the vat, the bushel. The stiffness loosens up as the day goes on and by the time I am rocking Owen to sleep later today, I won't even be thinking about it. What I will be thinking about is how my heart is as open and clear and actually, far more so! than it ever was. And that as unthinkable as it was to me as a new mother to imagine having a grandchild one day, it is now my reality and thus, my heart is that much bigger, that much more in wonder at this miracle of it all.

And that's what I wanted to say this morning. I don't have a good picture to go with these words. What picture would there be? A swollen knee? A face full of wrinkles? Well, yes, but so what? I'd rather it go without a picture because those of us who ARE this age know what I'm talking about and for those of you who are still young and who can get out of bed in the morning without feeling every movement you made the day before, it is not part of your reality.

But I would just say to remember once in a while not to take that for granted, that ease of movement, the way your body still feels like it could fly sometimes.
And also, not to laugh when you see old people dance. Okay? Could you do that for me?

Owen's here. I'm feeling fine. My heart is huge. It will allow me to dance through this day with him, albeit a bit stiffly, perhaps. I am so grateful for that.

And for Ibuprofen.

Spending The Day In The O-Zone

2009-11-30T19:10:00.005-05:00

Terrible picture but let me just say that being a caretaker is a lot busier than being merely a doting grandmother and there just wasn't time to grab a camera today. I'm serious! I held the boy almost all day long because...well, he likes to be held.

We had a bath and he loved that. We walked out to look at the chickens many times. We rocked. We had bottles. We went to Publix and he got to spend an hour with his mama and his daddy. We had more bottles. We changed lots of diapers. We played silly games. We had some grins. We hung out on every porch. We changed more diapers. We cried. We spit up. (You realize I am using the royal "we" here, right?) and we spent at least half an hour swinging in the porch swing on my little side-porch. He really liked that. I set him in my lap so he could look at the trees and we swung and swung. Mr. Moon came in while we were doing that and I said, "Here's what I have learned today. If you are doing something Owen likes, you need to keep doing it."
And that is the truth.

I didn't get the breakfast dishes washed until six o'clock tonight and I wouldn't have gotten ANYTHING done at all if Miss Petit Fleur hadn't come over with Harley and she held him and they sang him the ABC song until he fell asleep. Thanks, sweet neighbors!

But you know, it was wonderful. And he and I are going to learn each other and our ways and get our routine down and things will go easier. I feel so blessed to think that this little boy is going to know his grandmother and grandfather's house so well and will feel so comfortable with us.

So that's it. I'm just reporting in. He's coming back at eight tomorrow morning so I'm going to make a supper and maybe watch a movie and go to bed because I have another date with the boy and chickens to tend and, well, hell, that's about it if you want to get right down to it. I've mopped the kitchen floor tonight and so I feel like the world will be shiny and new tomorrow for our day together.

And I'll try to get a better picture tomorrow.

One more thing- all my chicken's names came back to me. Phew. That was weird.

This Boy Is Going To Be With Me Today

2009-11-30T08:23:00.002-05:00

I am so nervous that I can't remember all my chickens' names. Seriously. Like- am I having a stroke?
I don't think so. I think I am merely shifting internally like the ground before a volcano, an earthquake. All my baby-substitutes- my chickens, my dogs, my plants- suddenly seem like vaporous apparitions to me because I am going to be taking care of my grandson today. A real baby. A nine-week old baby. A baby I love who is related to me who will look to me all day long for care and love and food and holding. I am not planning on getting one thing done beside holding him.
And suddenly, I have begun to doubt my abilities. After raising four children and partly raising two brothers, I am not so sure of my ability to keep a baby happy. I don't plan on getting anything at all done today. Not one thing. Because I am going to be holding him all day long.
I'm as nervous as a cat.
I've fed the chickens (what are their names?) and I've talked to my Lizzie on the phone. And I have sheets in the washing machine.
And everything else will have to just go on without me because I am going to be holding my grandson.
Owen. My baby boyfriend. That's what I call him. Because he is my heart's love and I want more than anything in the world to take such good care of him for his mother and his father and mostly, for him.
I'm nervous as a cat. You'd think I'd never done this before.
But I can. I know I can.

He's here.
Wish us luck.

Miracles, Healing, Wholeness and Light

2009-11-29T09:32:00.004-05:00

My daughter May who posts over at Roll Up The Rugs is in a recovery program and last night Mr. Moon and I went to the meeting where she was celebrating two years of sobriety.
Now, if you read May's blog you know that she is quite open about this whole sobriety thing. And if you haven't read May's blog, get your ass over there RIGHT THIS SECOND AND DO IT! I am saying to you- DO IT! Her writing kicks my butt and kicks the butt of anyone I know who is writing on this whole damn internet and she's funny and she's honest and she's incredible.

But I digress. Sort of.

When we went to the celebration last year, I was nervous as a cat. What if there were people there I knew? Would May tell really personal stories about the times before she got sober? Would I be recruited in the the cult of sobriety?
Well, the answers were yes, no, and no.

But I learned a lot from that meeting and I wrote about what one man said which was that a feeling is just a feeling and I have remembered that for an entire year.

Last night I was not as nervous. Mr. Moon and I were a bit early so we swung by and picked up coffees for him and me and May and we went to where the meeting was and May came out to find us just as we walked up and led us to our seats in the dark-paneled room with the fluorescent lights and the place was packed. Black folks, white folks, gay folks, straight folks, old folks, young folks, young folks who looked old and old folks who had the merry dancing eyes of children. One woman came in crying, obviously hating "having" to be there and she was greeted and by the end of the meeting she had quit crying and had been hugged and held by another woman, and even if she wasn't happy, I could tell she was a little bit more at peace and I wondered about how all these people had felt, walking into this room the first time. Or another room like it somewhere else.

It was a birthday meeting and there were people celebrating one year of sobriety, two, four, thirteen, twenty-eight, and one, the man who had said the "feeling is just a feeling" thing last year was celebrating thirty years of sobriety. Thirty years! When he got up to speak, I was happy, thinking that I would get to see him again, wondering what he would give me this year to take home. And he talked about how he tries very, very hard to be "in the moment," which is very difficult for him. But then he said that really, you can't write the script, yesterday is done, and a few more things along that order, which are sort of cliches, albeit true. But then he said, "I start to worry and then I think, 'I have a roof over my head. I always have. And it's always been a nice roof. I've never lived in a dump and the only time I don't eat three meals a day is when I don't want to and really, what else is there?''

Well, of course there is more but basically, he's right. And he also said that this moment is perfect. Everyone who was supposed to be there was and I'm sure he was right and I thought about the crying lady. I thought about myself and how I needed to hear these words of serenity.
I was grateful to him for sharing his gratefulness, his experience of living thirty years meaningfully, thoughtfully, soberly, trying to be in the moment.

When May spoke, she was like a shining beacon and when she came back to her seat we held each other and I could not have been more proud of her if she'd hung the moon her very own self or gotten a job as the head of Green Peace or found a cure for cancer. I have watched the way she's changed in the last few years, facing problems head-on and dealing with them quietly and sensibly, not borrowing trouble, not going all drama-queen with them, but figuring things out.

Mr. Moon put his arm around me and her both, and I thought about this, too- how incredibly fortunate I am to have found and married this man who loves my children so much that there is nothing he would not do for them. I had thought perhaps to beg off going to that meeting last night. I had had a horrible day and was so low, so down. But he'd been the one to say, "We're going to support our girl," and he did and he wore a white shirt and jeans and his boots and I wore my silver and we all sat right there together, this girl who didn't become his girl until she was four or five and she calls him Daddy and he calls her our girl.

After the meeting quite a few people came up to tell us how wonderful our daughter is and we agreed. We've always known that. It was heartbreaking when we could see her losing her light, traveling down paths that were so dark they leached that light almost out of her, but never really could because that's how filled with it she is.
And here she is back again, glowing and luminous and she wanted us to be there and thank god (God?) we were.

There is much talk of God in that room where people go to get sober and stay that way and as we all know, I have such a problem with that God concept and in my heart, it is each and every one of those people's own powers, own strengths that they draw upon for what they need but they can call it whatever they want and besides that, they have the group and the powers and strengths and arms and smiles of each and every person there, which is God to me, if anything is.

What May said was that the people in the group had told her from the very beginning that they would love her until she learned to love herself. And that they had.

And I suppose in a perfect world, I, as her mother, could have done that but don't we all doubt the love of those of us who HAVE to love us? Our mothers, our fathers, our siblings, our spouses? I mean we don't doubt that love, exactly, but we think it's just there because of that family bond. And so sometimes we have to find a group of strangers who will love us only and exactly for who we are, as fucked up and imperfect as we may be because we all are. Each and every one of us and that's just the facts.

And I wanted to kiss and hold each one of those people in that room and say a thank-you to everyone of them who has loved May into loving herself. I guess that's what happens at the end when everyone circles up and holds hands. They say the Lord's Prayer but I was saying a different prayer, giving thanks for the people praying.
Giving thanks for them loving my May, which is not a hard job to do at all, believe me.
I wonder if by the time we go back for her fifth, tenth, whatever celebration of her sobriety, she will know how easy it to love her. For each moment in time that she lives, she is worthy of love and that she gives love by her very presence. A light-filled love that she gives to the entire planet as she merely walks from her house to the New Leaf, as she walks across the restaurant where she works to serve a table, where she sits on my porch on her birthday or on any day of her life.

Her one precious wonderful life which she is making full use of, every day.

Each day is a sort of anniversary of our lives. Each moment.

Some moments have so much meaning that they must be recognized and celebrated.
Last night was one of those and it was one of the best celebrations I've ever attended.

Happy Birthday, May. Two years of sober life. What an accomplishment! I am so grateful you are here with us, shining your light on us, that strong, holy light that comes from your eyes, your soul, your heart. That shoots off your fingertips and into our hearts when you hug us.

I love you, baby.
Thank-you for asking us to come celebrate again last night. Thank-you for giving us reason.
Thank-you for teaching me, being a conduit to knowledge.

The guy who introduced May last night to speak said that he first noticed her because she was "a pretty white girl who was friendly and who, when she walked into a room, everyone's eyes went to her."

Yep. He's right. And she's ours to love. And she is learning to love herself. And as all of this happens, she grows more beautiful, more light-filled.

And that was how my day ended yesterday. The one that started out so poorly. And again I understand that a feeling is just a feeling and that really, it is best to live in the moment, to try and accept the light and love that is always present, even when we can't see it, can't feel it.

That's what I went to sleep with last night, knowing that and holding it close to my heart, that man who loves my girl beside me.

And I woke today in light and the doors are open again, my heart is open again.

Thank-you, May. I love you. And I thank and love all those people in that room last night because they are the village that is helping to raise my child, not because they have to, but because they want to.
They have no idea but they are part of my blessings, my many, many blessings on this light-filled day in Lloyd, Florida, November 29th, 2009, which for so many reasons is a day of celebration, not the least of which is that I know it.

We Let Them Be Yard Chickens Today

2009-11-28T15:22:00.004-05:00

Dolly is trying to figure this situation out.

Stare-down with Daffodil.

I'm watching my chickens. Favorite pastime. Yes. My life is full and balanced and oh-so-exciting. Why do you ask?

See? Excitement. Sam is heading for Betty and I am leaping to the rescue. Those are my earbuds dangling there, just in case you're wondering. I had been listening to...hold on...bet you can guess!
NPR.
It's Saturday and time for Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.

Chickens and NPR. Cheaper than therapy. Probably almost as effective. I also went down to the creek and it was beautiful. Dug up a fern and a tiny palmetto to bring home. I suppose that was my Black Friday shopping event.

And the world continues to turn.

Some Days

2009-11-28T10:06:00.004-05:00

I made Mr. Moon bring in the giant begonia last night. It was supposed to get down in the low thirties and that is the one plant I could not bear to lose if we got a frost. It's sitting now in the hallway by the front door, it's huge leaves each as big as a child's head and I started it from one leaf not two years ago. It takes so much patience to start things from cuttings, from seeds, from scratch. When you do it, it seems important to protect the result.

I'm low today. I feel dry. I don't think I have words but for some reason I feel I have to send some out anyway. Why is that? What do people come here for? I would like to think they come here for some sort of relief from the world and its problems. Some days. Some days maybe they come here to get their righteous anger up. Some days they come to see pictures of sky and oak trees, to hear stories of a family that loves each other. Maybe just to hear that chickens can lay blue eggs.

Some days they get "I am crazy, I am crazy, I am crazy."

Today is one of those days.

The Church of the Batshit Crazy has its doors closed today, its font of holy water is dried up because the Church of the Batshit Crazy is in my heart.

Lily had to go back to work today. She's been crying for days. And I think I am so sorrowful for her that I can't bear it. I would have lost my mind if I had had to go back to work when one of my babies was only eight weeks old. I made Mr. Moon bring that plant in because I grew it from one leaf and I can't bear to lose it.
Lily can hardly bear to leave Owen in another room and today she had to get in a car and drive to work and leave him with his daddy. I am going to take care of him for a few days next week. And Owen will be fine. It's Lily that I am worried about.

So this is in my heart and other things too and I am either completely empty or else I am too full of the crazy to feel anything else. I don't know. Hard to say. Impossible to tell.

This is one of those days.

I can't tie it together, the begonia and the baby. I can't make it all be all right in the end.

I haven't forgotten my blessings. I am just too full of the crazy to feel I deserve them.

I think I need to walk down to the creek, see if the sweet running water of the holy woods can dilute a little of the crazy. See if I can get a few drops back into the font, cross myself, pray for sustenance, go on.

Home Place

2009-11-27T09:01:00.003-05:00

Last night after all the dishes were done and the food put away (and Jessie- I owe you a million dollars- remind me on payday) we sat down and watched a movie she'd brought with her. It was called Away We Go and starred that fatally cute but completely dorked-out John Krasinski and the ethereally beautiful Maya Rudolph.

If you've never seen the movie, it's about a couple who, finding themselves about to have a baby, decide to travel around and figure out where it is they need to live to make their own home with their child. They are not a typical couple. She is of mixed race, calm and deadly humorous, he is, well, as dorky as a man can be and she loves him for that and for his sweet, sweet soul.
And they travel and visit people they know who live in places they think they might like to live from Montreal to Phoenix and they end up in an old house she grew up in on a lake in Central Florida.
It's a delicious movie for people like me who can live without car crashes and unexpected violence and love good dialogue and the way an actor's face can tell a story in one silent second. There are heartbreaking moments and there are hilarious moments and there are moments that are sweet and there are moments that are ridiculous- sort of like life, you know. It's an actor's movie.
A small movie. One that is just big enough to find a nook in the heart.
And like most movies of this sort, it colors the thoughts for awhile. I know this one did mine.

What really ripped it in a good way for me was the house they ended up in. I had been told by my kids that the hallway in that house looked so much like ours that it was bizarre. And they were right.

And here's the funny thing- the house they used for that movie was in Leesburg, Florida which is not so far from where I grew up and when I saw the exteriors for the house, I knew it was an old grove house. And when I was a child and then a teenager, I always had a yearning to live in one of those old grove houses. They were solid built, not fancy, but looked more like something that had grown out of the orange groves and the oaks than had been built there.

But I moved away from that part of Florida and I moved up here to the north part of the state and I've lived in so many houses here I can't begin to count them all up and I feel like every one of those houses was a stepping stone to where I live now and there, in that movie, was my hallway in that grove house in Leesburg, Florida.

I swear to you- I can't come up with any explanation of how my hallway got into that movie, right down to the little spring bolts you have to step on to unlatch at the bottom of the doors, to the windows beside the doors and the shapes of the glass and then yes, the stairway, which is so very like ours.

I don't know. Maybe they were all built like that a hundred and fifty years ago. Maybe the same guy built the two houses.

But it was strange and a little wonderful to see those two darling people in the movie open their front door and come into the hallway that looked just like mine and to realize they were home. They walked to the end of the hallway and went out the matching double doors, the twins (quadruplets?) to mine and out back and sat down and well, okay, they had a lake where I have a chicken coop and a railroad track, but still.

Home. They were home.

And we re home, here. It's such a beautiful house to live in, this home of mine and when I moved here, I knew I was someplace I'd been looking for a long, long time. It's a house that holds more stories than I will ever know and here we are, my family and me, giving it more stories. A wedding, a wake, babies, countless family get-togethers, music, hurricanes, food grown, chickens raised, tears and anxieties and joys. Quiet sittings on the porch and raucous good-times.

This is my home for now and I am eternally grateful for it and when I watched that movie last night, I was happy for the characters that they had found their home, too.

And that's all. I just wanted to write about my house with its wide pine board floors and it's soaring staircase and its front and back doors with the arched glass windows. There's no stained glass, there is no carpet or heavy mahogany furniture, just comfortable stuff and aprons on the wall and food cooking in the kitchen and chickens laying eggs out back. We eat here, we sleep here, we dream here. The kids come here to celebrate and laugh together.

My dream house, my home. I did grow up and find an old grove house to live in. No grove, but the house is the same. My Florida home. I've planted the palm trees out of a yearning for them and the camellias, too. But the oak trees- oh yes, they were here already.

And when that movie crew packed up and went away, I'll bet that a few of the people, the actors and the crew, wished they could stay on to live in Leesburg in that house by the lake but they couldn't. They had to go home to their own houses.

But me? I watched the movie last night and I went to bed in this house and I woke up here too and I've gathered the eggs and fed the chickens and I'm about to feed the husband and we're here in this house, this home.

And it is good.

At Our House

2009-11-26T12:27:00.009-05:00

Camellias and friends and babies (would you look at that dimple?) and food and music and coffee and sunshine and deer liver for Pearl and happy chickens and collards out of the garden and kids laughing and Alice's Restaurant and cooking and cooking and cooking and oh, another mess to clean up and here, hug me because I love you, over and over again.

Happy Thanksgiving.

And happy birthday, Anna.

We'll Get There

2009-11-25T09:45:00.005-05:00

Gray and drizzly here today and I feel like perhaps I am coming down with a cold and so does Mr. Moon. This would not surprise me. We did everything but lick little Payton's face in Dothan when we were babysitting her. You just can't let rivers of snot deter you from kissing such a cute round face. Know what I mean? Seriously.

And today's the day of the party and no, I'm nowhere near ready. Yesterday I got the bathrooms done as done as they're going to get. And I've washed all the rugs and made one pie

and the best thing of all is the dogs found the dead stinky mouse in the guest room and I threw it out so that is that for the stink in there. I am so glad I was wrong and that it wasn't in the walls or under the house. Please don't judge me but there ARE critters living happily in my walls and they run and play games with nuts (I'm supposing) and I can hear their babies squeaking.
Look- I live in the country.

And I've got laundry going and Miss Maybelle just showed up in her cleaning clothes and Jessie has called and is coming out soon and Lily is going to come out at some point with Owen and Hank? Well, no doubt he's still in bed.
But they'll be out here at some point. I know they will.
Mr. Moon is off buying oysters and beer and rum and dog food. And ice. And charcoal.

The turkeys are thawing, I've made the cranberry orange relish and some cookies that look really weird but taste really good and the angel biscuit dough. That's all for tomorrow.

Oh. I have so much to do. Sheets to wash and floors to mop and candles to set out and flowers to pick and make arrangements with. Pecan pies to bake and bean salad, too. And I need to clean up the back yard where there is hopefully going to be a fire if the rain goes away.

It's okay. It'll all happen.

I was thinking yesterday that the perfect party for me would be if I got everything ready and set all the food out and then when people started coming I would put on some gorgeous silk nightgown and my diamond necklace and get in my bed and everyone could come and see me and sit on the bed and we'd chat and have rum drinks and I could hear the music but I would be in my bed and then somehow, magically, when the party was over it would all be cleaned up and I could just go to sleep.

Well, that sounds a little too much as if I were an invalid so I won't wish for that.

I wish you could all be here tonight. I do.

I'll be thinking of you, I really will. And there will be love in my heart.

Blue, Blue, This Egg Is Blue

2009-11-24T15:50:00.004-05:00

Up until today, my chickens have given me eggs of dark brown, light brown, gray-green and green.
Today, though, one of them gave me a blue egg.
Blue.

And Now, Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Reality

2009-11-24T14:02:00.006-05:00

I came home from the store after having bought and unloaded this:

And this:

To follow my nose to this:

Those are not peanuts on the rug, folks.

Help me, Jesus. Just help me.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-24T10:43:00.004-05:00

Notice anything strange about that egg?
Yes. It is sort of pointed at both ends. One of my chickens, and I do not know which one, is laying these giant suppository-shaped eggs. When I got the first one, I thought that it was an early attempt at egg-laying, a learning experience, which sometimes happens when the hen first begins to lay. But no, I have gotten several in the past few days so I suppose this is just the shape of egg this hen lays.

Interesting. But hardly earth-shaking.

And that's my life today, only without the interesting part.

Okay. There is one thing going on which is a bit out of the ordinary. I am going to take part in a small production at the Opera House on December 4th and 5th which is not quite like anything I've ever done or quite like anything the Opera House has ever done, as far as I know.
There is a writer who lives in Jefferson County who teaches at FSU who has won a Pulitzer Pulitzer Prize for one of his books. Robert Olen Butler is his name. And he also has a theater background and he does readings at the Opera House every year for charity.
Jan, the director of the Opera House, fell especially in love with one of his books, specifically one of the characters. The book is Mr. Spaceman and it's about yes, a spaceman, an alien, who hovers over the earth, bringing people up to his space ship to interview them. They tell him their stories. And Jan wanted to bring this to the stage in the form of narration and she talked to Mr. Butler about it and he liked the idea and so...here we go.

There are only two female characters who will be telling their stories in this production and I am reading one of those parts. This all just came about in the last few weeks and we have only had one read through and it was not complete because not everyone was there and Mr. Butler wasn't there and he's doing the narration- the Spaceman part.

But. In a week and a half, I am going to get up on stage and read six pages of the story of a woman named Viola Stackhouse and yes, I am nervous as hell. So add that to the whole holiday madness and perhaps you can see why I feel completely frozen in time, not unlike one of the Spaceman's humans, and here I sit, telling you my story while the world whirls on without me and I have only bought a part of my Thanksgiving Day needs and I have not cleaned and there are two turkeys as hard as bowling balls theoretically thawing in the refrigerator in the garage.
Let me just say that turkeys WILL NOT EVER, IN THIS LIFETIME, THAW IN A REFRIGERATOR and so I need to go get them out and find counter space somewhere so that on Thursday morning after the party while everyone else is still in bed, I will not frantically be trying to run hot water up a turkey's ass or down its gullet in order to free the giblets in their bloody white paper bag.

My foot hurts, I am overwhelmed to the point of paralysis, I wonder why when I call my mother to talk to her about Thanksgiving she says, "Am I invited?" when she has attended Thanksgiving at my house for approximately twenty-something years, I wish I could quit dreaming about trying to kill my stepfather, and I know why those rooms in my dream remain dream-rooms, waiting for me to enter them.

And yet, I know that in some ways, I have entered them many times. And for that I am grateful. Thankful.

I am thankful that I do not hate Thanksgiving the way I hate Christmas. I am thankful that I have such a beautiful house to clean and welcome friends and family to. I am thankful that there will be music ringing within it tomorrow night. Music played by people I have known and loved with all my heart and soul for over thirty years. I am grateful that it will be chilly and that people will go outside by the fire and eat oysters and drink beer and laugh.

I am grateful that we are so rich in so many ways that I don't even know how many people will be here tomorrow night or on Thursday, either one, but that there will be enough for all, no matter the numbers.

I am thankful that the Opera House lets me come sit on its stage and I am thankful that I have something inside of me that despite my fear, allows me (forces me?) to go onstage and open my mouth and let words come out and in this case, words that are literature and beautifully written.

I am grateful, I am thankful, of course- what a cliche!- that I have this family. We are all so different, so disparate, and yet so close. We love and accept each other as we are in all our shining ways, our faults, our needs, our gifts, our strengths, our weaknesses. We know that together we are something.
And we are beautiful.
I swear we are.

And I am so very thankful that we will all be together for the next few days, here in this house, and that the people we love the most, who are, if not blood-born kin, then love-born kin, will be here too.

And of course, there is this:

Owen. The fine, fat boy who has showered us all with such glitter and glue that we will never, ever be able to separate. None of us because he has knit our hearts together even tighter with stiches of finest silken love.

Look- you can think that all eggs are egg-shaped and are either white or brown. You can think that you know all the rooms in your house. You can think you can't do this or you don't have the courage to do that. You may think that there is no magic left on this blue and green planet. You may think that the turkeys will never thaw.

But you might be wrong.

You might look around and see there is magic everywhere if you let yourself see with your heart.

I'm talking to myself here. You realize that, right?
Because I don't think I'm shaped exactly right, not in any way. I feel my imperfections too much sometimes, I don't see them as what makes me special, what brings me my magic.

But if I let myself, I know I am wrong.
And for this, for ALL of this, I am so thankful.

And for you, too. Don't forget how thankful I am for you. I am so thankful because we, too, have become a sort of family here, sending words off to find their heart-targets on this planet. We may not sit down to eat together, but we sit down together, to pray, to laugh, to sing, to cry. We get nourishment from each other. We do.

So go on now, thaw your turkey. Make magic. Be in wonder. Open your mouth, let words out. Open your heart, let love out. Remember to be thankful for yourself and what it is you offer which no one else can.

I am.

Amen.

Dreams of Riches That I Already Own

2009-11-23T16:44:00.004-05:00

Michelle wrote about a dream this morning and I've been having the strangest dreams myself.
I am pretty sure that part of this comes from my antidepressants, which is scary when you think about it. That little pill fucks with my brain in ways which are both bad and good but it is fucking with it. Which is the point, I suppose.

But lately I've been having a version of the same dream over and over and over. Almost every night. And in it, I am living in a house which is very old, like this one, yet much bigger. I don't know much about the half we live in- I suppose it's just like any house you live in with a kitchen and furniture and so forth. But there's a complete other half and there are stairs that go up to other floors and this part of the house has not been touched for years. I have been in it but I have not explored it all and I keep thinking I want to so badly.

This half of the dream house remains, as I said, untouched, with furniture and beds and bed linens and all of the belongings of whoever lived in that part when it was abandoned. And I know that since I own the house, these things are mine to use as I want. The rooms are mine to use as I want. But something always stops me from really getting in there and checking things out- usually, my duties as a hostess, the more immediate needs of the people in my house. I know there is jewelry in those rooms and fine curtains and linens and fixtures and gleaming wood and lamps and deep, red rugs and many, many beautiful things and I believe, in my dream, that I know that this part of the house was abandoned suddenly with good reason and has been considered haunted- why else would it remain as it was? Unopened, unused, left completely as it was. But it's not spider-webbed or dirty or dusty. It looks fresh with lots of light coming in through the big windows. And there are so many rooms and one of them, the last room, somehow, perhaps the one highest up, is like a giant sun room.
And I have seen these rooms, or some of them, but have not taken/had the time to really go and touch, to see what all is there.

And usually, in these dreams, there are many, many people in my home and I know I should open those rooms and use them, let people stay in them, find things I could use myself. I know there are treasures there. Beautiful, sparkling treasures.

So- like Michelle- I am asking. What does this mean?

I have theories and my favorite is that although my life is so rich as it is, there are within me, more treasures which, if I just learned to access them, figured out how to get past whatever is stopping me from getting to them, I could use for a richer, happier life. I don't know whether these treasures are talents or spiritual insights or what- but I feel that even as the things in my dreaming house are mine to use if I will but use them, these things are too. Whatever they are. And however it is that I can get to them.
And that they will benefit the ones I love, the ones I already have in my home, my heart.

I don't know. But I can't help but think that if one has a dream over and over, it is carrying a message and that one needs to pay attention. I am not stressing out over this- just as in my dream where I do not feel an immediate compulsion to go explore what it is I have OR do I have any sort of fear when I think of doing it. It is more of an excited calmness. I enjoy these dreams. I look forward to them.
The treasures are there. They are mine.
But how do I get the time, how do I find the key? Where does that stairway lead? Why were the treasures abandoned? Why is it now time to explore them?

What do you think? I'd like to know if you have any ideas from your perspective. This is utterly and completely a selfish post and I admit that.
But I know that some of you are very wise in the ways of dreams and minds and life and treasures and duties and daring.
Which is why I love you.

Ms. Moon

Not Quite Freakin' Time

2009-11-23T08:41:00.012-05:00

So Mr. Moon went out and bought a new camera before he went to Canada. He took a lot of pictures there of dead deer. I won't be posting those.

But I spent some time this morning with the new toy, just walking around and trying out different settings. It's a fancy camera. One I never would have bought. I would have bought one of those cameras about as big as a credit card, you know. But Mr. Moon is a MAN and men like their toys to be impressive and have lots of features and so forth. So this new camera does. I really don't know shit about it. I read the "Getting started" booklet but to really learn about it, you have to watch a CD.

Right. I can't even watch an entire episode of Project Runway these days.

Well, anyway, it's three days before Thanksgiving and you know damn well I have plenty to do besides walking around taking pictures of things you've seen a million times. Besides the dinner, which I don't even know how many are attending, there is the Thanksgiving Eve gathering which seems to grow bigger every year and I don't know how many are attending that one either.
You know me. I stress out if the guy is coming to cut the grass so why aren't I in a straight jacket by now?

Oh well. I have no idea.
Not enough coffee, I guess.
And because it's just too overwhelming to really freak out about.

My house is filthy and that dead thing under the guest room is taking its own sweet time in returning to dust.
The library, where the dogs live, stinks to high heaven of dogs.
There is, speaking of dust, plenty of it. All three bathrooms need a good cleaning. To tell the truth, the entire house needs a good cleaning and this alone can take three days. Even if I clean the hell out of it, it's not going to do a thing for the smell.

And we haven't even mentioned the food.
Nor will we right this second. I might have a heart attack.

So I've got cleaning, shopping, cooking and whatever all else to do. Call Mr. Moon and remind him to buy chicken feed and oysters and beer.

And I have not seen Owen since Friday! FRIDAY! Here's what he looked like then:

I see that picture and all thoughts fly out of my head and are replaced with the need to fly to him immediately and hold him.

I better get busy, I suppose.
Here's some of the pictures I took this morning:

The latch on the chicken house door.

My stairway using the "indoors with life-like color tone" feature. Yeah. Sort of.

Camellia.

Guard flamingos.

Library. Which stinks to high heaven of dog.

Collards which will be in a pot by Thursday.

"Art." Haha. Shut up. I love that picture.

Elvis. The rooster-in-training. Boy, he is getting so big and his voice is so deep. He may turn out to the the manliest, macho-est, roostersaureous in the neighborhood. I'm keeping him on my good side. "Grape, Elvis? Here are you."

And I guess that's it for now. I need to have one more cup of coffee so that I can truly appreciate the impossible tasks I have before me.

And yeah, I've got to take the date thing off the camera's setting. This is not working for me.

I hope everyone is planning a lovely Thanksgiving. I know I would be if I could think about it. Luckily, I could probably cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner in my sleep and this year, unlike last, I have an oven that works! It will all unfold as it should.
Or as it will, at least.

Now I MUST go kiss my grandson who I have no doubt misses me with a yearning the size of the Himalayas. And then I guess I'll drop by the grocery store and pick up a few thousand dollars worth of food and cleaning supplies.

I love the holidays. Don't you?

When Tribes Combine

2009-11-22T15:49:00.017-05:00

Well, we are home.

I am the lame and the halt but I am home. It would appear that dancing like nobody is watching is good as a philosophy but not so good if you have a tendon problem that has almost but not entirely healed up. Usually it's my knee I wreck when I dance these days I guess my knee must be healthier than my foot because I am back limping and in pain again but what can you do? Dancing must be done at weddings and especially if martinis are involved and a good band (I was told that the lady-singer was one of Jimi Hendrix's back-up singers and I believe it) and your daughter and husband both dance and well, okay, that's that story. Also I slammed two of my fingers in the car door when we got home although they seem fine, just a little weird looking.
Here's a picture which Jessie will hate of us dancing with the groom who is just about the cutest fellow in the western hemisphere:

You can see that by this time my hair was DOWN. All those pins in it were sticking my head. What you can't see is that by that time my shoes were off.
Hair down, shoes off. Hmmmm....

This was definitely the most, uh, well, how do I put this? Overwhelming wedding reception I've ever attended. God it was beautiful. It was a bit rainy so there were huge giant tents and the first tent was the BAR TENT and it had clear plastic and was about the size of a cathedral. Here's a picture of Mr. Moon and me in it front of some of the drape decorations which had to have been made from silk. You could of made fifty gorgeous wedding dresses from those things.

I kept sidling up to them and just feeling them.
You can see that my hair was still UP at that point. My shoes were still on too.

There was so much food. And wait staff everywhere. And bars in every tent. And the porta potties were far more luxurious than most bathrooms. There were flowers and sinks and rugs in those things. I took pictures with my phone but you will be spared those today.

But you know, when it all comes down to it, it's all about family. So here's some family pictures:

Mr. Moon and his sister, the mother of the groom. She not only looks like Lily, she acts just like her too. Very methodical, calm, and serene about everything. I am in awe of her. Her husband died a few years ago and she is carrying on with a strength and acceptance I would never be able to manage. Ever.

Here's a beautiful picture of her and Jessie. Aren't they beautiful?

And this one, my favorite, of her and her son, the groom, dancing.

Yes, they're crying. Grant cries at the drop of the hat. He couldn't even give his little speech at the rehearsal dinner. He tried twice, but neither time was he able to pull it off. When he had to give the toast at his brother's wedding a few years ago, he cried so hard I thought he was going to simply melt and fall over. And he's like six-foot-eight. I mean, how cute is THAT? Pretty darn cute. And precious.

And the bride? Well, let's just say that I can't even THINK the word "cocksucker" in her presence. Could you? I feel sort of guilty just typing it out. She is so sweet and she works with the families of dying children in a hospital. Please. So no, I said nothing at all inappropriate around her. I'm pretty sure.

It was a late night. I hear the bride and groom got one hour of sleep this morning before having to be at the airport to head off for their honeymoon. It's going to take them the entire six days to get over the wedding, I feel fairly certain. I sure do wish them the best. They're so beautiful.

We got up early this morning to visit with Brenda as she was packing up and then Payton and her mommy and daddy came in and Jessie gave Payton her bottle and Payton gave us her smiles. Here's a picture of Payton, her daddy, and her great-uncle Mr. Moon. Mr. Moon is upset because he looks so much shorter than the daddy and I'm sure he would like you to know that he is not wearing shoes, while Greg is. Also, he is in his pajama bottoms and he's probably going to hate me for not cropping those out.
Too bad.

Plus, May made Mr. Moon those pants. And he loves them.

Here's one last picture of some of the beautiful family I married into:

Beautiful AND tall. My goodness. I am such a midget around them. I sort of get lost beneath them, like a scrub palmetto in a pine forest. But they are kind to me and let me hang there, beneath their mighty height and they cast me smiles and do not not forget to invite me to gatherings and they seem to appreciate how I take care of Mr. Moon and have created two very tall daughters who are obviously of their tribe.

And they are a grand and loving family and this girl who has just married into it, this obviously beloved daughter of an obviously well-off southern family, doesn't know it but that is probably the best stroke of luck of her life- becoming one of them too.

I know it was for me.

And here I am, home in Lloyd where it's November 22nd and it's seventy-something degrees and Mr. Moon is already out in the woods, hoping for a deer because he wants to put meat in the freezer and I'm going to make some venison spaghetti tonight and we're home. We survived. I never did feel as if I belonged in that setting of the society of Dothan but I did feel at home when we were watching Payton and when we were hanging out with the relatives.

I'm tired, but I feel far better than I probably should, having just yes, survived those social events. My foot may be painful but it's that way because I danced and there are worse ways to injure a foot. There are also worse ways to spend a weekend than in Dothan, Alabama with people whom you may feel shy around, but who are kind to you even if you are small, dance with too much abandon, talk about chickens and her grandchild endlessly, drink too many martinis and wear the wrong shoes.

When you actually have them on.

Bless their hearts. I love them so.

Not Attending The Wedding.

2009-11-21T17:46:00.003-05:00

Here are Mr. and Ms. Moon and our great-niece, Payton. Mr. Moon and I are not attending the wedding because we have volunteered to stay at the hotel with this darling girl so that her mother and father can be in the wedding. Yes, it makes us sad not to see The Nephew say his vows but we assume that taking care of the baby is more important, plus, it gives me another four hours sans bra.
Win-win.
She's a happy baby although I am sure that her mother is going to come back and say, "What have you done with my baby? I left a healthy child and in four hours she has acquired a snotty nose, a cough, watery eyes and pink cheeks." Well, let me just say it's not our fault. You can't give a child a cold in that amount of time. I'm a nurse. I know these things.
Payton loves Mr. Moon. She is enchanted with him. She likes me okay too. All of the aunts were considered for the baby-sitting honor and Payton like the Mr./Ms. Moon team best of all. So there you go.
She is six and a half months old and it's funny how quickly you remember what a baby of that age likes. Patty-cake, peek-a-boo, silver bracelets. Mr. Moon's lap with her blanket.
Okay. I need to go get ready to go to the wedding reception which we will attend when the wedding's over and Payton has gone back to her beautiful mama. I can't even imagine what that's going to be like- this reception. The jazz brunch this morning was about the most overwhelming thing I've ever attended and certainly the only one I've ever attended where a crowd of well over two-hundred people were all drinking alcohol.
But hey! It's a party.
And we're having a fine one here with a six month old child. Which says a lot about us.
Signing off. More tales to come.

Memory. The Regular Kind and The Foam Kind

2009-11-20T23:40:00.004-05:00

Here we are before the first event of the wedding we attended which was the rehearsal dinner. It was just lovely.

And let me say that the reason I hate social occasions is because I can't remember people. NOT AT ALL. There were people here tonight whom we met three years ago in California and they remember me and I have no clue in the universe who they are. I actually think this is a neurological disorder called prosopagnosia and I wrote about it some time ago here.

I'm already stressed because tomorrow the woman I sat next to at supper tonight will be wearing something other than the red dress she had on tonight and I won't have any idea who she is. She will think I was a drunken fool and I will completely embarrassed.

On the other hand, men kept coming up to Mr. Moon at the table and asking him if he played basketball at Auburn because they recognized him. This was thirty something years ago. Perhaps I married Mr. Moon because no matter what he is wearing, it is easy to pick out the tallest man in the room. Although actually, one of his nephews, the brother of the groom, is actually taller than Mr. Moon by an inch or two. I'm going to try and get a picture of the groom, his brother, and Mr. Moon because they are so damn cute together. I'll have to put a normal sized person in the picture though, to give it all perspective.

And now I'm sleepy as can be and the bed here at the Marriott Courtyard has MEMORY FOAM and I am really, really looking forward to this sleeping experience. Memory foam is the best invention since mixed nuts.

Maybe I could get some for my brain.

All right. Signing off until tomorrow.
Ms. Moon Who Is In Dothan, Alabama