Mother’s Day

First things first — a happy and blessed Mother’s Day to all of my dear readers who are mothers. May your day be peaceful and may your hearts find some happiness in thoughts of your children or of your own mother, even if you are in the midst of sadness today.

I remember Mother’s Day in churches in my younger years. Many of the Protestant churches had a tradition where all of the mothers would receive a red rose, and the non-mothers and the adult men would receive a small rose bud…red for those whose mothers were living, and white for those whose mothers had died. Several years ago, I entered the society of the white rose.

Mrs. Orr has had, I think, a peaceful day. She spent time with one son and his wife and grandchildren the other day, and spoke with younger son and his family last night. Jinx and Bluebelle and Dixee presented her with a bouquet of mountain wildflowers and I gave her my traditional handmade Mother’s Day card, which made her laugh as usual. Anyone who has ever seen my artwork usually dissolves into gales of derisive laughter.

It’s cloudy and cool here today, with a breeze stiff enough to make it almost chilly. I’m planning to do a bit of grilling later…just hamburgers and hot dogs, nothing fancy. Mrs. Orr prefers to avoid restaurants on Mother’s Day, because of the Hallmark holiday-induced crush of patrons, so we dine at home on such days. Suits me down to the ground…I enjoy grilling and I love to eat at home.

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Yesterday, we visited a local greenhouse nursery about 50 miles away, a family-run place where we buy the majority of our spring plants. It’s a sprawling affair, rows of bisqueen-covered greenhouses and sheds all tied to the main building, which is dark and cool inside, hung with Christmas lights year round and staffed with the friendliest, most knowledgeable folks you could imagine. There’s a small, family-run greenhouse much nearer our farm that I really like, but they come in second place in the nursery department because the owner’s Amazon teenage daughters, both of whom are taller than me, once humbled me by lifting and throwing bag after bag of mulch into the back of my truck before I could hoist one bag. Ahem.

Last night, I got our tomato plants planted, and we’re hoping to get a yield like we got last year. Have you ever had Sun Sugar yellow miniature tomatoes? In Dixieland, we’ve always called the little salad tomatoes “tommie toes” and these are the berry vest. They’re as sweet as grapes, delightful in a salad and scrumptious just popping into your mouth like candy. After last year, we vowed to plant them every spring.

On the way home from the nursery, we stopped at a favorite coffee shop where we’ve eaten several times. It’s a cozy little place located on a main street in what looks like was once a bank or clothing store. The wait staff are always very pleasant, but the main draw is the food. An elderly German lady is the cook, and she makes some of the best dishes available anywhere in the region. She was off duty yesterday, but we were still able to enjoy her signature German potato salad. Mrs. Orr asked me just a few minutes ago if I would like her to master German potato salad. Ja, mein Liebling.

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We watched an interesting movie, The Eyes of Tammy Faye, intriguing for anyone who was an adult during the televangelist scandals of the mid-Eighties.  We were both surprised by the strong performance of Jessica Chastain, a man-jawed Karen whose strident, leftist propaganda work I usually find completely unwatchable. Credit where credit is due, Chastain painted a sympathetic and moving portrait of the tragic, childlike Mrs. Bakker.

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Just started a new book, one I found for fifty cents at the recent library sale, called The Secrets of Mariko. Ever since I was in my teens and in the thrall of traditional martial arts, I have been in love with the country and culture of Japan, a love that was magnified during my on-and-off years living there while in the Corps and afterwards. Mrs. Orr and I were talking about Christianity and our respective beliefs yesterday while eating in the coffee shop, and I made the observation that almost all of the non-Western countries that have embraced or allowed some permutation of “Christianity” are still, well, shithole countries, while Japan, which has pretty much rejected the Faith right down the line, tiny pockets of missionary activity notwithstanding, is a strong, unified, homogenous nation. Not a country, but a nation.

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Speaking of nations, I know I’m not the first man to notice this, but it does interest me that this recent media hissy-fit about a possible overturn of Roe V. Wade has brought about a slew of threats of violence and desecration against the Roman Catholic Church. The local Baptist and Presbyterian and Methodist and Episcopal and Lutheran churches seem to have been spared these threats, as have the strip-mall storefront nondenommie worship centers. A less jaded fellow might conclude that the demonic forces actually fear the real Catholic church. As the man once said, they only try to tackle you if you’re the one actually carrying the ball.

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I’m still getting used to my new work-at-home job, and this adjustment is the main reason my blogging has been almost nonexistent lately. My work shift is from 1100 am to 730 pm, so the mornings are a sort of twilight world, while I try to get my body clock adjusted. And then the nights feel much earlier than they are…1030 pm feels like 630 pm to me, and I am sitting up later and later in the evenings. Some settling may occur during shipping. Terms and conditions apply.

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And to return to the greenhouse nursery situation….my wife selected three hanging baskets with which to adorn our porches. A Carolina wren has already begun building a nest in one, which will probably kill the plant. But the tender-hearted little Texas girl will not disturb Momma Bird and her Habitat for Chirpanity project.

Mother’s Day extends its own natural tendrils into this breathing world, no?

Again, a blessed Sunday and a blessed Mother’s Day to you all. And a Happy Mother’s Day to my sisters, and especially to my beautiful little wife. This is for you, MeeMaw.

~ S.K. Orr