Before my second to last post before this post, someone followed my page. And then I stopped posting. Now, I could blame that word stoppage on remodeling the house, putting in new flooring, finally getting some drawers in the kitchen, and more and more substitute work. However, I secretly wonder if I am slightly worried about being followed.
When a woman walks down the street, being followed is not a good thing. I tend to duck into stores, step to the side of the way (if it is a busy place) and pretend to text or call someone while the follower passes me by. If I’m being followed in a high speed chase, I really, really hope that 1) the car behind me flies off a cliff before I do, and 2) that I wake up from the odd dream before the cops catch me. Still, in this whole net, or web, or whatever we are calling this thing we are on at the moment, it seems as if the idea is to indeed, be followed.
Let’s face it, both web and net are words all about catching things. True also that the things caught are usually either wrapped up and sucked dry in the case of a spider’s web (or a web of lies…but that is a different kind of sucking dry), or yanked from peaceful waters, murdered, gutted, and baked (or fried, or BBQed, or tartared…etc). So I’m not sure if the whole imagery of being followed or the idea that words are a web designed to lure unsuspecting victims in with the dazzling sparkle of the dew in the morning seemed like a form of pressure from which I needed to hide, or if I really was just busy as all get out and too tired after working and installing floors to think of words.
(Granted, I could have gone with a hair net, or butterfly net, or a number of other sorts of nets, but really…all such things are about trapping something that would rather be free. I mean, have you ever had to wear a hair net? My curls do not even know how to conform to such confinement!)
In any case, I should have typed something much earlier than now. Perhaps this whole reluctance to type relates to being followed. Perhaps it relates to the fact that mom’s last doctor’s appointment confirmed the news we knew was coming. I’m not sure I’m ready to face that news yet. The cancer blockers are failing. Her lungs are filling with fluids again. She’s had two years since the doctors in the hospital she was rushed to when her lungs collapsed gave her two months. (They didn’t know about the new cancer blocker-ibrance. You may know about it now. They have commercials with lovely ladies living longer. I hate commercials, but at least this one isn’t lying. At least not according to Mom’s results.). Her doctor is talking about low levels of chemo again.
Mom watched her uncle being kept alive for over a year in bed while his family suffered. She is not the sort who wants to go out that way. She has made sure her doctor knows this. Mom is not at all shy about making sure her thoughts are known.
This is not a guide to gratitude tonight. This is not a guide to anything other than how to write words one is really not ready to write. Actually, I am not going to write those words anyway. So this is not even a guide to that sort of thing. Nothing profound here. Nothing much worth following. But, my first follower, if you’re still out there. Thanks. I hope you stick around a while. (Not in a creepy sort of way which makes me feel like I should duck into a shop or walk faster, of course.)
As for those of you who stop by once in a while and hope for charming chicken stories, I hate to tell you that the chickens are pouting. Too much rain. The Americunas have stopped laying in the chicken coop again. They stopped for a month or so in the summer. Then they have been laying like serious champs since mid-September. Now, no green eggs for three days again. I’m pretty sure they are not fond of the baby peepers. The baby peepers are bold little things who are now getting big. Two nights I found them in the prime spot under the heat lamp. Yesterday they were leading the rest of the flock towards the gate in hopes of juicy bugs down the road. I had to lure them back to the porch downstairs with my famous chicken calling skills. Apparently, singing out “Chickerbockerpooppoops! is a sure way to get the chickens to come running. That, or it could be the seeds that accompany such a call. The little rooster does not approve of the baby peepers eating said seeds. He is always trying to chase them off. Which could be the start of his mating dance. Either way, his feathers were soaked today when he wandered down the hill in hopes of finding seeds scattered.
I’m feeling a bit drenched myself. Maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s the house, maybe it’s the rain and the wind.
I'm just someone trying to figure out how to juggle ten acres, work, a mama with stage four cancer, and a whole lot of grumpy. This blog started out as "Grumpy Gal's Guide to Gratitude," but since all I really keep typing about is the garden, I figured I might as well own it! So, thanks for joining me as I try and figure out how the heck to kick myself in the booty and get on with life.