Is Everything Amazing and Wonderful?

I've likely loudly thanked God, nearly every single day, for over 17 years for this gorgeously incredible piece of property, with plenty of areas for planting, acres of woodlands, and three sluggish creeks.

Daniel'd been telling another lieutenant at work, one who'd grown up in a large family by today's standards, that his childhood memories involved building stuff and being outside as much as possible. Me too, son. Even as a Preacher's kid, living in parsonages, I'd been blessed by an abundance of creeks and woods in which to roam and play, shaping who I'd become someday, still crazy in love with the land.

Somehow Georgia has been in a cool spot while the rest of the entire nation fried. Well, cool to us is still pretty hot, but acclimation is everything. I prefer to garden in the mornings and evenings, supervise pool time in the afternoon, and try to get everything else done in between.

Back to town yesterday to haggle over flooring, having changed my mind yet again, thinking through, yet ultimately dismissing Miss Kimberly's husband's offer, now what I want costs X numbers of dollars, and I'm gonna carry in a cash low-ball figure and take my chances. If I'm shot down, Sarah suggested I reach into another pocket and pull out crumpled one dollar bills, one by one pitifully, until we find a middle ground. Maybe I should take all the kids with me and poll each one indiviually there for their allowances? Put on a show?

Living secluded also allows my kids to act as playfully as they wanna act, last night's game involved all the boys, a war game, that eventually stirred up a neighbor's dog, a hard thing to do this far out, but loud is our middle name. JoJo'd had to carry Shatter back home, as her enthusiasm was over-bearing. She who springs into action the second I put on my garden hat each day, galumphing by my side, irritating the hens and more than half of my kids.

We've had so few incidents this summer as to render my blog not nearly as full of action as in the years past, and I wanna go out, not with a bang, but with a gradual slide into normalcy, with zero police involvement, no court dates, and very little drama. Please Lord, lemme attend graduations and recitals, not staffings and resource meetings.

I'd finished reading Coop; A Family, a Farm and the Pursuit of One Good Egg, so beautifully written as to hold me engrossed over the clamor from within. His parents had long ago fostered and adopted special needs children, later influencing and coloring his life. "I thought all kids barked at their macaroni," he dryly commented, as he held me spellbound and enthralled. My mind purring as I read his utmost command of the English language, a literary genius I thought to myself.

Really? Do I think all books are engrossing? All my friends are beautiful? My salads gorgeous and mongo? Am I totally given to either exaggeration or hyperbole? Overuse of italics? Pretty much. If I can't love stuff, what's the point? Can't I be enthusiastic? I'm not cool enough to pull off a disdainful, dismissive front. I'd stop reading a boring book, I'd find more interesting friends if need be, but I'm overall happy with my social situations, effusively so at times, and I'd blurt out a big ole, "so what?" in response. Maybe it makes me appear too gushingly excited over everything, but is that wrong? Can't eager be the new cool?