You Can Call Me Grass

I live in Star's Hollow. But it's better...because it is rural. And it isn't fictitious.

Here are some other reasons why Tunica is the place to be:

We are people's people.
When I got home last week, one of the first images that I saw was Ms. Bettie Webb bent doubled in her northerly side-yard garden, big brimmed hat tied beneath her chin. I honked and she stuck her trowel hand up without even looking to see who it was. I got a letter from her yesterday thanking me for a little hare that I'd found in a book and snipped out for her...and to welcome me home. I appreciated it, but its that wave that welcomed me first.

Age is just a number.
I went to the library yesterday and while sitting at a table, flipping through a Sarah Simblett book, I got a strange feeling. I turned around and there was a little girl standing behind me. I said hello and she smiled. Then, she sat down next to me and started talking about grass. This three year old was telling me all about grass. It was magnificent. I gave her some paper and a graphite stick and asked her to draw me a picture. She handed it back with three rows of zig-zags and some specks. "What are the specks," I asked her. "Seeds," she said. I thought it appropriate to read her "The Tiny Seed" by Eric Carle. When we finished, her mother came over and said it was time for her to go. The little girl turned back and waved at me. Her mother asked her who her new friend was. She said, "grass".

We make our own music.
Mhoon's Landing was made symphonic by the multitude of frogs, dogs, and guitars that appeared last night. The muddy Mississippi rolled past and we heard the occasional belch of a barge foghorn. After a while, it came around the bend, lighting the night and sweeping up closer than usual. The water is up right now.

You can sleep safely outside....
when the mosquitoes are tolerable. At least, Wood and I did.

This place is definately real. And it smells like it.