Yup

Especially at my friend F's house, where a few of her deceased husband's tulips still bloom

and where conversations about things that matter happen in a room whose windows reflect their garden. 

Holding

I
The way a bobby pin clips hair in place: that's the way my Bell Buckle friends F and TJ hold me -- gently, firmly.

II
The way the American Rubyspot holds to a leaf above water in strong wind: that's the way I hold to F and TJ -- gently, firmly.

A Long, Good Day

I
Another night of vomiting and diarrhea for little Cleo meant no sleep for all three of us. Another visit to the vet, this time with a fever, a bit of dehydration, and the mystery of Cleo's unbalanced gut.

When my vet came into the exam room, she said, "What happened? You got a dud?"

I laughed, just as she knew I would.

"Let her spend the day," the doctor said. "I'll have a chance to run some diagnostics and observe her."

So I did.

II
Then I drove up to Bell Buckle to see my friends F and TJ. 

Home now from hospital and rehab, TJ holds court in his "command center" (the kitchen): birds outside, Prince the semi-poodle at his feet, his wife F busy cooking or cleaning or arranging the next visit or opening mail and paying the bills, his phone in his hand. 

Desmond Tutu said, "You don't choose your family." Well, OK, your birth family, maybe, but I've spent a lifetime choosing my families and they me in the places I have lived.

These two come closest to blood relatives. Even when they're having a hard time, they make me laugh and they enjoy a dog with a ball, sun on skin, and the gift of friendship.

III
It seems that Cleo had a negative reaction to the antibiotic prescribed for last week's bout with iffy digestion. She will eat a special diet for a couple of days, laced with probiotic.

This evening, both she and her sister Doodlebug snuggled for a good long time, one on my lap, one slung over my shoulder, happy to have the Human home and each other.

IV
Love.

For better or worse.

Large Personalities

I
My friend J confessed that the worst part of rehab is the forced cheerfulness of the staff.

He and I agree: gossipy-southerny-chatty-condescendingly-cute women can make us want to eat nails or walk on glass or escape by any means necessary. 

These are large personalities without whom we can do.

Unfortunately, he must endure them, for now.

II
Driving to his home in Bell Buckle, his wife F and I, in our separate vehicles, encountered a fat orange moon rising over the village, like a beacon of hope and healing.

I wish he could have stood with me in his tree house, looking out at the distance.

This is a big personality in whose company we could both happily thrive.

Doing the Hustle from Shelbyville!

A kandy-kolored tangerine-flake streamline baby visit with friends (you go, F and TJ)! Bodacious new sweaters! Maraschino-topped-caramel milkshake! Corrugations of plowed fields boogying down a dance line to the horizon! Busybody starlings jerking on the grass! One hawk swooping!turning!keeling!riding the air! Dang, y'all, it's been a funkadelic day! Can you dig it?

Bulbs

Words are weirdly wonderful.

Here's one, for instance: bulb.

What's the first thing you think of?

The dim bulb over in the corner, never getting your jokes, hidden behind an empty gaze?

The light bulb that just blew out even though it's a new one that's supposed to last five years and for that reason cost a lot of money?

The old-fashioned pressure bulb on a big box camera?

Or the bulbs that my friends F and TJ planted by the dozens in their garden? The ones that bloom into cheerful yellow and orange and red explosive bursts of color, lined up in neat rows like lollipops, each flowering at a slightly different time?
I like these bulbs, and after seeing their cheerful profusion, F and TJ's garden will always leap to mind first when someone utters the word "bulb."

No dim ones, they!

Depth

F and TJ are master gardeners.



Their roast chicken satisfies my appetite, their flowers satisfy my eyes, and their conversation satisfies my need for acceptance.