January 6th: Day of Import

This day is for me significant for several reasons.

The weather grows more wintery each day, and this afternoon is supposed to usher in some snow. More significantly, this will begin a stretch of brutally cold nights. But I am warmed inside today, which is the Feast of the Epiphany. Christmastide ended last night with Twelfth Night, and now Ephiphanytide begins. A joyous season and well worth meditating upon.

But Epiphany is not my spiritual focus today.  Today also marks the anniversary of the birth of the Maid, Saint Joan of Arc, who is my patron saint. The little French girl’s birth was not officially recorded in the records of the village of her birth. But the local people did remember that she was born on Epiphany, which is January 6. So today I pay tribute to the Maid of Orleans.

My love for and devotion to the Maid is something I cannot and will not attempt to explain here. I can only say that I am blessed to have her interceding for me, and for all those who call upon her to do so. Sometimes when the gloom of life overtakes me, I pray myself to sleep by asking her to remember me, and to look for me when I cross the river of death into the next life. There are so many things I want to ask her.

So while other people in this country dissect yet again the phony “insurrection” that occurred a year ago and which has sparked enough lies and false narratives to make Bill Clinton and Barack Hussein Obama clutch each other in embarrassment, I will ignore the foolish filth and sing the hymn to the Maid composed by William James Tychonievich, and I will contemplate truth and beauty.

I will also ask the Maid to pray for those who are being held in wretched captivity, in solitary confinement, being tormented and perhaps tortured — without having even been charged with a crime — for allegedly being present at the US Capitol building a year ago today. I ask her to pray for them and for their families. If we do not remember them and intercede for them, they will be as forgotten and as obliterated as any Russian zek in any Siberian gulag.

But I will also contemplate truth and beauty.

***

Truth and beauty. Ah, yes.

Today is also the anniversary of the day, decades ago, when a sweet and clement blue-eyed Texas girl became my wife. I remember the soft breeze that swirled around us as we stood with family and said our vows, next to a pond on the grounds of an ancient Catholic mission in the rolling Texas countryside.  I will never be able to express how much I love her, how much she means to me, or how in awe I am of how she has lived her entire life. She is a most remarkable woman and I will love her forever. Mrs. Orr, you are truth and beauty in my life, and I still ache when I am forced to be away from your gentle, steady presence.

You still have the bluest eyes of any daughter of Texas.

***

The one sour note to our anniversary sounded when I went to purchase a Happy Anniversary card for my wife. I saw something for the first time in my life, something that reminded me that I am a stranger and a sojourner here.

There in the racks of anniversary cards were sections marked “Anniversary — Husband to Husband” and “Anniversary — Wife to Wife.” 

Perhaps by next year, they will have added “Anniversary — Husband to Preschooler” or “Anniversary — Wife to Labrador Retriever.” 

The Feast of Epiphany. Feast. Oh, my….I think I’ve forgotten to mention another feast. I’ve forgotten to mention yesterday’s Feast of Twelfth Night.

The feast that Jinx and Bluebelle enjoyed, that is.

Mrs. Orr went out to run some errands. When she returned, she stood and stared, uncomprehending, at the mess on the floor. Then she realized what had happened.

Back around Christmas, someone gave me a box of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which neither Mrs. Orr nor I like. I had placed them on the bottom shelf of a small table and intended to take them to work to give to the always-gluttonous staff. But I had kept forgetting them.

We strongly suspect the main instigator was Bluebelle. She is forever on the prowl for her next snack, purloined or not. At any rate, the heavy plastic box was shattered to bits. Every single piece of candy (I think there were 36 of them) was torn open and eaten.

Needless to say, my wife panicked. Chocolate is supposed to be quite toxic to dogs, and she was also worried about shards of the very hard plastic being swallowed by one or both of the heeler twins. She notified me of what had happened, and I did a low-grade freakout of my own.

Mrs. Orr took the heelers outside, dosed them with hydrogen peroxide, and kept an eye on them. All they did was wash each other’s faces. Now some eighteen hours later (way past when any bad effects would have manifested themselves), and after a sound night’s sleep, the dogs are as rambunctious as ever. My wife’s research indicates that milk chocolate is not nearly as bad as the dark stuff when consumed by dogs, and that the amount they would have to ingest to cause real problems is far higher than what they managed to get ahold of. We’re very relieved. But we’re still being very stern with the pair.

My wife took a photo of Bluebelle at one point that afternoon, telling me that the little spotted girl wouldn’t leave her side, but insisted on sitting and staring up at her with the contrite gaze of a criminal in front of the parole board.

Dixee insists that she repeatedly warned the twins, but that they laffed and laffed and waved her away with contempt. We continue to shake our heads in wonder at how they  not only gnawed that box open, but how they stripped the candy from the foil wrappers but didn’t just eat candy, wrapper, and all. These are epicurean dogs, folks. And now our thoughts turn to the pantry, to any easily-reachable foodstuffs that might entice their malign energies.

We are taking countermeasures, friends.

A happy and blessed Feast of the Epiphany. And please say a prayer of gratitude for the continued long health and strength of Mrs. Orr’s and my marriage. You might also ask the Maid to pray thusly for us.

And now to the day ahead, and the snow…

~ S.K. Orr