Almost Dog Days

The heat of August seems to be steady and unmoderated all over the United States. I’ve talked to people from all over the country lately, and I can’t recall a single exception to the “It’s very hot, and even worse, it’s very humid” remark when I ask about the weather in someone’s locale. Mrs. Orr was talking to the kids and grandkids in Texas last night, and I spoke briefly to Numbah One Grandson. I asked him, “Is it hot there?” And he replied, with eyes cast up at the ceiling fan, propellering above his head, “Oh, it’s real hot.” This from a Texan. ‘Nuff said.

Yesterday was a two-shower day, in part because I decided to do a bit of grilling in early afternoon. I’m very seasonal in my tastes — music, movies, books, food — and right now I’m in my Japanese phase. This is probably because I re-watched Scorcese’s Silence recently, and began craving the food. But, I must point out, never the music. A bit of samisen is okay if I’m visiting a temple or a dojo or someone’s home, but to sit and listen to it for the sake of listening would be like sitting and listening to a sitar album. It would be to die. Literally.

We had some beef in the freezer, which is akin to saying that we had some gold bullion in the freezer, and I had the idea to make some yakitori. So I marinated the thinly-sliced beef overnight and threaded it onto skewers, and we had it with Japanese rice and some non-Japanese egg rolls (purists, please sit down) and had quite the feast. Getting the charcoal ready was quite the steamy adventure, even under the shade of the maple out back. So. Two-shower day.

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Bluebelle spent much of today whimpering at me as I worked. She was very needy, very clingy for some reason. The other two K9s were their usual calm, napping selves, but Bluebelle seemed convinced that it was Take Your Daughter To Work Day, so she spent much of the day at my feet. Never let me more than two feet from her. She seems okay now, ate a good supper, and is currently locked up in a battle royale with her brother. I’m thinking something must have frightened her this morning. The question is…what was it?

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One of the few productive things I did this weekend was to erect an ornamental border fence around some of my wife’s shrubs. We had looked at the little fence sections (18″ high), faux black wrought iron, back in the spring, and were appalled at the $8.95 per section. So, we did the thrifty hold-out and the sections were knocked down to $2.00 each by this weekend. Looks like no one was willing to pay that kind of price for something the size of a tv tray. We bought ’em, and I installed ’em, and I think they look pretty fair. But I feel guilty, because the border fencing reminded me that I never did plant Mrs. Orr’s zinnias this year. We loved the ones we had last year, and specifically bought lots of seeds for this year. But there is not a zinnia to be found at Possum Cough Farm. A prodding of the memory towards all the things I forgot or neglected or failed to do this summer, all the postponements and procrastinations and mind-slips that make up my daily life. Will I complete the pre-fall and fall list? Some wag once noted, “The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.” So, then. We shall see. But we shall not load too much hope on the “yes” side of the scale.

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The sly encroachment of age has made itself known most recently with a notable heaviness in my legs. It’s like walking underwater with growing-pains cramps whenever I spend any time on my feet. I say this not to whine or complain, but to marvel. I marvel quite a bit at the changes in my body and brain as I age. It’s as if I finally realized, “This stuff applies to me. I’m not going to be exempt. I’m going to experience all those things I’ve been warned about by every codger since I was a boy.” And so here it is. But the life I have is a very, very good one. So a couple of heavy, aching legs is not a major issue. It’s merely something for me to write about here, in this place of timeless literature, of peerless observations.

That last sentence wasn’t even difficult to write. Now THAT is a physical change!

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Mrs. Orr informed me today that the singer Olivia Newton-John died from cancer. This is one of those rare celebrity deaths that truly saddens me. Olivia was one of the first serious crushes I had on an entertainer. My aunt took me to see Olivia Newton-John in, I think, 1974. She was touring and happened to come through town. Paul Williams was the opening act, and I remember being so impressed with someone with whom I was thoroughly prepared to be unimpressed. I remain a fan of Mr. Williams’ to this day.

But Olivia. Ah, what a pure beauty and what a delightful voice. I will leave you with one of her early hits, which has since been eclipsed by all the pop stuff she recorded later in her career.  This isn’t my favorite ONJ track, but I like this one because it’s so UN-2022. Love the denim country-girl look, too, of course. I can almost smell the Herbal Essence Shampoo and Charly perfume.

Olivia, rest in peace, you mesmerizing little lady, you.

~ S.K. Orr