Mountains.

Have decided to write a blog in light of the fact that I have grown tired of waiting for Scott to come up with a witty reply to my comment on facebook.

Could be waiting a while.

Actually, he does prove to be quite clever from time to time. Though he enjoys staring at me to see if he will succeed in making me giggle after he says one of his remarks. This results in lengthy staring competitions which end only when I decide to go back to reading my US Weekly.

It is thundering something fierce. Which is so very neat. If it doesn't start raining as well, I might sleep on the porch again.

I was forced to take a three hour nap today because Surprise was napping on top of me.

I really enjoy the cast of Summer of 42.

I have an aunt- well scratch that. I am pretty sure I recall her x about a year ago. HAD an aunt. Something with her kidneys. Had to drive all the way to Tennessee to check into the hospital because in Honaker, VA on the Big A mountain there are no kidney units. Her name was Roxy. I love that name. Might name my child that. My child will have no memory of this original Roxy. Roxy bore a chilling resemblance to Albert Einstein. Large bushy white hair. Constant blue housecoat. Bare, red, chapped skin. Wandering around in the paddocks by her tiny house on the side of the hill with her cows and chickens and yellow ponies. Occasional chicken in the house.

Last time I caught sight of her I was on my Aunt Julie's porch cross the holler and was being advised NOT to take the walk up the path by Roxy's porch because there was apparently now a very real risk that she would take the shotgun to anyone she saw pass, great niece or not.

Aunt Julie is amazing. Might top 4'5". Pistol. Fiesty. Married to Bernard since she was 15. Bernard recently x, and Julie carries the sadness, though she soldiers on, as you would expect any mountain raised woman to do. There is a picture of Julie and Bernard when they were just married. She looks like a beautiful woodland fairy. Long blond hair, fair skin, downcast blue eyes, tiny slip of a girl. And Bernard looking plaid and rough and sturdy. They look very happy.

Also among these pictures is a photo of my great-grandmother Rachel who I never met. She was GORGEOUS. Looked like one of those Gibson Girls. One of those people you find hard to believe existed in reality. She married my great-grandfather and he promptly sired 13 children and became completely inappropriate.

My grandmother Rassie ended up raising most of her siblings. Which accounts, I think, for her hardened expression in any picture of her from age 12 on. She honestly doesn't remember all of their names without considerable thought. And this has nothing to do with a deteriorating mental capacity. I think it just wasn't what was most important.

Ok. I want a pizza now.