The After Party

I don't do funerals. I don't like mourning and crying and reciting lives in ticker tape in front of crowds.

And so I didn't go. To the Last Night. The buy-one-get-three unexpected lemondrops-for free night. The night they stood the barstools upside down on the counter and threw them in the dumpster the next day. The night they said good~bye.

I couldn't. I had a cold, an old broken foot that came back to haunt me, a lover that deja-vued me, a crick in my neck, nothing to wear, no money to tip the bartender excessively. I had an excuse.

It was a lousy excuse, but I wore it well.

As Big Dad-O would say, "thats my story, and I'm sticking to it".....



Rest in peace little corner bar...

Overflow......

It's an old house and I'm an old woman. Things are bound to fall apart. And so it goes....

I turn the blue and silver cap slowly, a delicate twist of my wrist, less the bottle neck shatter into a thousand pieces.....
And then, I chug good and hard....

It's beer time, baby.....

The shower gurgles up into the toilet and the toilet runs until the pump gets hot. When the pump gets hot the cold water stops flowing and I've scalded myself silly three 5 minute showers in a row. It's OK. I don't need to rinse off, the wayward boys took off with the soap and the shampoo and I swim with tadpoles, remember?

They disconnected my internet for non payment and I promptly took care of the problem and they politely turned me back on Thirty minutesbefore lightening struck the telephone pole, scampered down the cable and knocked the whole system out. There's a post~it note on the screen now,
It says "don't you dare".....

My broken foot is broken,
and tomorrow I'm wearing combat boots to work,
My key got stuck in the broken kitchen door and I had to break the plywood to crawl through the already broken glass to let Georgia out the broken back door.....
and there's a post-it note there too....
it says "Lock the broken door or the cats will get out"......

I pulled my clothes from the washer and hung them on the line and it rained. Thank God the sky is broken. The rust from the washer was smeared all over my new "I am free" T-shirt and I'm hoping the heavens will rinse it out.

The house is 3 inches deep in cat hair and dog hair and the confetti of my life. The vacuum makes loud noises and spits at my shins.

It's dark here, every 1000 hour light bulb blew out at once and I used all my candles for the hurricanes 3 years ago. I have to keep typing or the screen saver comes on and I can't see a damn thing in the living room.....



Everything is broken,
but the circle.....

"Happy, Happy Week-end" said the Hippie to the sky...

"Hey, I've got an idea! Let's pretend we're at the beach......."

And so we did. Twenty four hours of "feel the love, save the seawall"....All in make~believe.

The little round river grew and grew and grew until it was bottomless and the waves tumbled madly, splashing us, dunking us, pulling us out to sea.....

Blue dolphins circled, an up and down parade of laughter, and we joined them, riding without saddles until we were dizzy, and I was the first one off, falling face first to kiss the ocean. Eyes wide open, the water was champagne, bubbly and delicious and I was tipsy by the time I came up for air, mermaid tail swishing......this way, that way, this way to Treasure Island....

To the Tiki Bar....

To the Sunset.....

To a week at the beach....

At midnight we played SeaCinderella, barefooted and silly....swirling and twirling, paisley shadows under the moon.....

The handsome Prince with the beer moustache laughing, drinking from glass slippers....thirsty for more....

It's Sunday now. And it's quiet. All that's left behind is a blue vinyl pool and sun on my nose....

When Pixies Party.....

Sometimes, Sunday's are perfect. The sun rises and smiles, hovers low in the sky, a wild helium balloon in swirls of pink and red....The oak trees dance, dripping in silver jewels, whistling in the wind. Yup, sometimes Sunday's are perfect.

This one was.....

And so we danced at the river.....

Ballet, Bellies, and Disco in the Kitchen. We belted out Ray, crooned to Janis, and swooned to Johnny Cash. We clinked! Tinked! and tattle~telled! We traipsed barefoot through the crunchy, "Oh My god, is that poisen ivey?" underbrush and went exploring. We barbequed ribs and ribs and ribs and ribs, and feasted on tons of southern love.

We cinched the circle in a little tighter....

Feel the love.....

Happy "It's not my Birthday" birthday Kimbies, Don, and Dale!

The Circle....

I don't know where we got it from or how it started. The peace~love thing. I don't remember a beginning and I hope I don't live long enough to know an end. There are 12 long years, a borrowed make-shift umbilical cord stretched to the max, between us. My brothers and sisters and Me.

The five of us...straight from the pages of The Glass Castle....digging for peace in the damndest of places.....

Chanty boy, my charge from early on.....riding the hump of Million's green van (Long before car seat laws, my friend), rocking out to Deep Purple and Led on the eight track.....unable to speak the King's English then or even now...."How old are you, Chanty?" and at five or six or seven, he would splay two chubby fingers and cheer! ......and we would chorus "Yes! Two! You are peace, sweet Baby!" His china doll face fixed forever in a crooked smile, drooling, sometimes croaking.....His mere presence in a society that still held hospitals for babies of his like, startling. And the beginning of change.

Skinny with her flowers....knocking on doors....."The little angel" they used to call her....the neighborhood shut-ins, the eccentrics, and ghosts..... She'd borrow from the best groomed lawns and the roadway median....bundles of finely pruned roses and wild catch~me~if~you~can's....and pass them out like summer showers.....sudden and welcome. Love. Full of spit and fire.

Kimbies, with her open arms....always, anything, everything. Tadpoles and Mama Frogs, hermit crabs and puppies with patches, conch shells and bait fish. She'd fetch them all home, scooch them into the circle.....Love them until their wings were mended. Or until we buried them rightly in the backyard, popsicle stick tombstones and all.....At thirteen, she started fetching home people.....
And the door is still open.....
Screen door banging in the wind....Crabcakes and cupcakes on the barbeque grill......
Willie Nelson and the Beatles on the hi-fi, blowing in the breeze....

Curty Boy with his big brown eyes, humming. Smiling. Toting luggage ten times his size. Teaching us, if not the world, that "it is what it is". And sometimes you just have to live with it. Be brave. And strong. And fearless. "Peace~love for you" .....his only salutation, his signature devotion.


Peace~love

Everything in between is just a roadtrip......