I’m not quite certain how to begin this blog post.

Hello, virtual world.

It’s nice to see you again.

I’ve been well, thank you. Your emails of concern re: the lack of blog posts truly touched my heart.

Christmas was lovely.


New Year’s was festive.


The American Honey Producers Association’s annual convention took place in San Diego over the 2nd week of January, during what was apparently the coldest week San Diego had seen in 30 years.  It was pretty toasty in the convention center and the Nordstrom shoe department, though.


After we got our learnin’ and networkin’ on, we got down to the business of preparing for the 2013 California almond pollination season.  Honeydew and Neil, along with the trucks and forklift, joined Keith and the bees near Redding on January 19.


I jetted off to The South with Maggie Rose for a last pre-baby-#2 pilmigrage.  The South knows how to punish its expatriates, and greeted us with an ice storm of the sort I’d forgotten existed.  An abiding image from I-85 N, near Greensboro, North Carolina, during the height of the storm, with 4 x 4 trucks and Mazda convertibles littering the ditches: a bleached blonde, pulled to the shoulder in her Ford Mustang drop top, sucking on a cigarette as if her life depended on it.  She mostly had the right idea.  It was mighty slick outside.

By the time we got to the Big Farm in Georgia, the South relented, and greeted us with blooming quince, buttercups, and camellia bushes nearly overwhelmed by their flowers.


We told Maggie Rose all about Pa Pa’s silos, threw our lines out for bass, and shoveled in perfectly fried shrimp and homemade peach ice cream at McKinney’s Pond.


View from Live Oaks Ridge, near Birdsville.


Admiring the cotton picker.

Then we went to Atlanta to see our gal pals, and experienced the wonders of civilization: the Dry Bar — not what you’re thinking — and the smoked Georgia shrimp’n’grits and rum-sopped-coconut-cake at JTC Kitchen.  Oh, my heavens.

And now I’m sitting on a hospital bed in Whitefish, Montana, receiving the first infusion of IVIG that we hope will protect Dos Ittles from his/her mama.  I’m on bottle 6 of 12, hour 6 of 15.  Until delivery — sometime in June — I will return once a week to be infused with this magical stuff that should keep my body too busy dealing with the IVIG to pester my fetus.

I alternate between boredom and gratitude.

In the hours of silence that I’ve rarely experienced since Maggie Rose’s arrival, my brain is jumping around, desperate to create cacophony to fill the quiet space.  Answer your emails!  Work on your Quickbooks!  Wasn’t Katy Perry’s Grammy dress the most unusual color?  Balance your checkbook!  Write a blog post!  Did you make that appointment?  Did you fill that order?  Don’t you need something pretty in emerald green?

And then I return to gratitude, as the IVIG drip-drip-drips into my arm, its silvery bubbles catching the light at the top of the bottle.  My mind wanders to all the parents who’ve come before Honeydew and I, whose babies never had enough platelets to make it into this world, and the grief those parents bore and bear, and I tell the cacophony to pipe down so I can reflect on our immense luck: diagnosis, treatment.  One beautifully healthy little girl, and a baby in the womb whose galloping heartbeat I am privileged to hear every hour during my infusions, as it carries my own heart away on its rhythms.


Lucky, indeed.


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