Hey, My Darling Siestas! How’s your weekend been? You guys that keep up pretty well know that I blogged last on Wednesday while we were on our way six hours northwest to our acreage in the middle of nowhere. We are now heading back to Houston so once again I’m writing you from Keith’s truck. My man of 31 years is driving next to me, singing to 60’s music and our two dogs are snoozing in the back seat. (He just stopped me and held my hand for a minute because the song was so sweet that he felt romantic.) We got to be away for four nights. The perfect amount of time! I wish I could say it was vacation but I had to take a ton of work with me. That’s ok. At least it was from a different venue and that can help a lot.

(I just got a text from Travis with a picture on it of his youngest son who just lost two teeth. Just living a little life here. Had to stop and text back and tell Levi how cool he looks.)

My heart is full where you are concerned and full with the last four days of life out in the country with Keith. And that’s why I’m going to share a little of it with you: because I love you and love how we can share so many parts of our lives with one another. This is going to be one of those posts when the girls (Amanda or Melissa) might say, “Are you sure you want to share that? You might get hit by somebody for that.” We, the girls and I, provide checks and balances for one another. If we’ve written anything at all besides your garden variety kind of post, we usually run it by one another. Sometimes we talk each other out of an entire post because we’re afraid someone will get offended or out of sorts or just take the opportunity to be ugly or critical. It happens in the blog world which many of you know from your own blogs.

Other times we just talk each other out of a few sentences or a paragraph or two. Most of you should wish you’d seen Melissa’s original Song of Songs Valentine post before I talked her out of a whole chunk. (Yes, we did have a few little words over it. Not a fuss. Just a good, healthy discussion. All four of us are strong willed and opinionated. We just speak our minds back and forth, work through our differences, and, a whole lot of the time, end up making a private family joke out of it.) Those who wouldn’t have wished to see Melissa’s original post are the reason none of you did. (Laughing and with much love.) There was nothing wrong with it. It was just extra colorful – kind of PG13 – because the Scripts happen to be extra colorful – kind of PG14 – in that particular book.

I’m not complaining one iota. To tell you the truth, we get so little ugliness from our commenters. You guys really are so loving and encouraging and patient and understanding and leave ample room for several generations to express themselves here in very different ways. We think we have the most amazing community in bloggerville but we’re not immune, of course. Sometimes we just flat out ask for it and don’t even realize it. Other times we expect somebody may take exception but we just decide it’s worth the risk.

This is one of those times. I’m about to show you guys some pictures – poor quality ones just off my i-phone – to give you a small taste of Moore life out at the acreage our family has. I know in advance that I’m setting myself up for someone to say sarcastically “Must be nice” but I’ll just sigh when I get it and, if it doesn’t get too ugly from there, post the comment anyway and wish she hadn’t misunderstood. The thing is, I love biographies. Glimpses of people’s real lives. Parts of their stories. For instance, every time I talk to Georgia Jan, I wish I could see her surroundings so I could picture her better. Know her in her own world. Every time Mom of Eleven (actually has 12 now, we learned at the SSMT celebration) comments I wish I could see a picture of all of them. It’s one way we, scattered all over the place, take a virtual stroll through a mile or two of one another’s worlds.

Actually, the world I’m about to share with you really isn’t my world. It’s my man’s. But once a couple has been married over 25 years, you really can’t know the one without knowing the other. You can no longer tell for sure where one stops and the other starts. This isn’t land I would have chosen in a thousand years but it’s what my man chose and I chose him. SO, when I talk about us heading to what I call our cactus land, this is the kind of place I’m talking about. I’ll describe it a tad first then I’ll stroll with you through some shots.

It’s a place where your cell phone won’t work and your land line is likely not to.

It’s the kind of place where Keith and I use (or misuse) English in a way we’d never do it at home. We don’t do it to make fun. We, for those few days, say it like we mean it. Like that’s who we are. Like, for instance, just this morning on an early ride with Keith in the old jeep, I heard myself say, “We ain’t seen deer one.”

It’s a place where men are not limited to inside facilities…but I’ll not elaborate on that.

It’s a place where our favorite show is “The Duck Commander.” We laugh our heads off…and, perhaps most worrisome to some of you, totally get it.

It’s the kind of place with a VERY small town nearby that I have fallen head over heels in love with. It has one real grocery story, a “Super S,” and just yesterday while I was picking up a few items, as I live and breathe and without one hint of exaggeration, the woman at check-out got on the microphone for the store and said over the loud speaker, “Mr. Brown, your wife called and wants you to pick up a bag of potatoes.” Ain’t no doubt in my mind he got some. I was so happy I nearly got some, too.

It’s a place with a LOT of these, hence the name:

It’s a place where a woman (even a non-hunter like yours truly) sometimes dresses like this on an early morning ice-cold jeep ride (with no windows in it) with no make-up on:

It’s a place where, if the temperature’s right, a woman would be wise to wear snake boots like mine:

It’s a place where your man’s taller than usual and where manliness can sometimes be gaged by how old and beat up your vehicle is: (For those of you who can’t fathom it, that’s a corn feeder on the front of the jeep for feeding wild life. You guys just have no idea what my life is like at times. Or his, because of mine.)

It’s a place where your man’s favorite hot rod looks like this:

It’s a place where the gate might latch with a horse shoe:

It’s a place where that tiny one hundred year-old German farm house that I told you about in So Long Insecurity resides. My man went to great pains to restore this thing back to its original look. Every window and door in it is a century old.

It’s a place where the sunrise this morning from my little porch looked like this and this one’s not even an especially good one:

It’s a place with, I reckon, my favorite place of all tucked right in it. I swing here and think about all sorts of things and sing hymns and pet Star:

It’s a place where a woman can take her spirals and practice them loud without a single soul hearing or caring:

It’s a place I wish all of you who wish you had one, did. Maybe one day, when you’re older like Keith and me, you will. It’s a place others of you might be bored out of your mind. Maybe your wish list would be a tiny little bay house instead. It’s just all a matter of taste. Sometimes not your own.

It’s a place where my man seems to love me a lot.

So it’s a place I love to go.

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