A Day No Chests Would Swell
When I arose this morning, I tiptoed out onto the back porch and sat for a long time, listening to the mountains come awake, watching the woods and fields shake off the night’s humid blanket. I checked the dogs’ water dish and saw that some insects had perished there during the night. There were two daddy long legs, which have the habit of trying to drink from the dish at night and falling in and drowning, I lifted the little bodies with their curled-under legs and placed them in one of the flower boxes, where I knew the ants would soon find them and do their recycling job. Then I lifted out the other insect, which was a brown lacewing. When I lifted it free from the water, the tiny creature stirred and tried to secure its grip on my finger, so I took it to the porch railing and tapped it off onto the sun-warmed wood. The little thing lay there for a minute, moving just slightly side to side, lifting its wings, stretching them, flexing them. It looked to be praying, the way its forelegs stretched before its head. The lacewing turned its head to one side and rubbed its face with slow deliberate on the wood, then turned the other cheek, if lacewings can be said to have cheeks, and rubbed that side. In a minute, it was trying to stand, and so it did, and it stretched like a cat, and the wings lifted and waved with a delicate movement, then folded onto its back. I talked to the insect softly. Welcome back, I said. In another minute, it crawled over to the flowerpot nearest it and climbed the side and then up over into the soil inside, where I lost sight of it. I looked again at the daddy long legs in the window box, but they were still as twigs. I wondered if the insects can call out to each other, if they have an insectile language they can speak and be understood in. I wondered if the daddy long legs called for help while then sank to their individual dooms, and whether or not the lacewing splashed and cried out in fear in the unlit waters of the stainless steel bowl with the steep, slick sides. I do not know the answers to these questions, nor do I know if the lacewing is still alive or has been eaten by a bird. What I do know is that little living things are all around me, and they matter to me, and sometimes I can help them. This is a plank in the day, a plank on which I can stand and see just a bit farther down the road I’m on.
***
I wonder if I might take a poll among you, my beloved readers? Mrs. Orr and I have had cell phone service through Verizon for several years and we’re pretty sure we’re overpaying. The service is okay, I guess, but I wonder if any of you have any strong recommendations for a cellular plan you might care to offer? Any guidance would be appreciated as we prepare to launch out into the phone-shopping world.
***
In a recent post, I mentioned encountering a former fellow church member and my reaction to seeing him. One of the things that made the encounter disappointing was his reaction to something I said. He mentioned that his aged mother had died back in the winter, and I told him that I was sorry to hear of his loss.”
“It is what it is,” he muttered, with a shrug.
And I thought, How utterly ungracious. I have met with this sort of thing several times in the last few years, and I am always taken aback by the backhanded words of such people. What I attempted to communicate to the man by my words was I’m sorry to hear that the woman who gave birth to you and raised you and loved you and cared for you has passed from this life, and that you will never again in this world get to touch her hand or eat her cooking or hear her laugh. And his response? Like a sitcom comeback. Hell, I come from a dirt poor background, but I at least know how to respond with some measure of grace when someone says something to me in a conversation. I am wearied by the thoughtlessness of people in this age. There are so many examples of this sort of behavior, and this fact is what is truly wearisome. A simple thank you will do nicely.
***
I’m sure there’s a lot of chatter today about all of our freedoms, and about our brave men and women, and about independence, and about what America means. But I do not believe a single chest honestly swells in pride at what this land is, nor do I believe anyone is proud or optimistic about what’s coming around the bend. We’ve been asking for it for many, many years. And it’s approach is louder and more certain with every hour.
***
In a while, I will go outside and fire up the grill and I will put hamburgers and hot dogs on there to cook, and my wife will finish preparing her splendid potato salad, and we will eat and enjoy the food and the evening and each other’s company. And then we will pass into a sleeping state, and when we open our eyes, the American anniversary of Independence Day will have passed away, and who will look back on the day with anything except a sad and determined grimness? Do the chilled and stilled remainders of nations ever revive, shaking off the cold dampness of death? I do not know.
I do not think so.
~ S.K. Orr
