Woden’s Day
This morning, I had just settled in at my desk to begin work when the power went out. Mrs. Orr received a text notification from the power company that they were working to fix the problem and provided an estimated time for service restoration. I sat and listened to the silence of the house — one forgets how much noise even passive appliances make, like the hum of the refrigerator, etc. — and then went outside on the back porch to sit with the dogs.
The hummingbirds are busier than ever, loading up the precious nectar to strengthen their taut little bodies in preparation for the upcoming journey down to the land where neither ice nor snow will trouble them. The butterflies are more visible, too, and the milkweed in the pastures and at the side of the house see a regular winged convocation as the colors of the living creatures ebb and flow like a tide, or like someone shaking out a vast, diaphanous curtain.
The large owls are now calling regularly in the evening and just before daybreak, their basso pofundo questions ringing off the hillsides and the trunks of wise, listening trees. I am waiting to hear my screech owls up in the woods and down in the holler, their calls reminding me of the whinnies of tiny ghost horses.
A new (to me, anyway) invasive species is now in this area, and ag reports are warning of them. They are a grotesque bug known as a spotted lantern flies, and they are apparently very destructive to a number of trees and plants. I was interested to read that the agriculture people are firmly suggesting that people kill these things whenever they see them. I don’t recall such virile language from a government agency even when discussing rattlesnakes. Or peaceful protesters.
While waiting for the electricity to return, I lost myself in thought, watching the woods, listening to the hiss of wind in the tops of the pines, and I thought of what an interesting life I’ve lived. I haven’t accomplished anything at all in worldly terms, but if I had the discipline and the physical energy, or if I had a machine that could tap into my brain and memories, I could unspool enough tales and anecdotes and observations to fill a barn with Orr Books.
They say that you can tell a lot about a man by examining what he thinks of when he is free to think of anything at all. My habit is to think of things eternal. Not necessarily theological or doctrinal, though these are sometimes the fabric of my reveries, but eternal, transcendent, goddish. And when my mind finally wearies of the heavy lifting, it retreats to mere experience, to the Christian and churchy things I have seen and done and heard and slammed up against.
This morning, I was thinking of tobacco and alcohol.
More specifically, I was remembering how, a couple of decades back, it became The Thing for certain stripes of Protestant clergy and their lieutenants (elders, deacons, seminary professors, etc.) to indulge in spirits and cigars, in craft beers and pipes. I’ve enjoyed John Barleycorn’s output all of my adult life, and I’ve dabbled with tobacco in short bursts, mostly for curiosity, but I have never really and truly understood the pose, the act of being a cosmopolitan churchman who loves him some single malt whisky and enjoys waving around a Honduran road flare with the label intact. It just seems like…like something a nancyboy would do.
And I’ve noticed that these guys — pastors, mostly — really are slaves to labels. They drink only the raspberry-infused lambic ale with the Senegalese hoppy finish, or the three hundred dollar a bottle single malt from the one distillery on that one little Hebridian rock that’s tended by an insane retired cartographer who killed a man over a hermenutics dispute. They never drink Schlitz or Pabst Blue Ribbon or Bud Lite. They never smoke Camels or Marlboros, nor do they dip Skoal or Red Man, nor do they bite off a chaw of Bull of the Woods.
I wonder why that is?
I mean, let’s be honest here. Alcohol and tobacco are acquired tastes. That is to say, a man must force himself to progressively and regularly indulge in these things in order to wear down his initial, natural revulsion to them. And if you disagree, try touching your fingertip to a glass of Scotch and then touching a child’s tongue. Same with tobacco. The natural response is “Yecccch.” Now, I’m no puritanical vinegar-drinking scold. I enjoy a drink and I’ve enjoyed tobacco in the past, but whence the enjoyment? Why, it’s the effect. The buzz of the booze and the snap-firing of the synapses that tobacco brings. And that’s fine. Any honest man will say as much. But…if it’s the effect, then why spend the money for the huge Cohiba cigar or the imported Norwegian pipe tobacco? Why spring for the more-expensive-than-drugs whisky or the limited run craft beer that costs more than filling your gas tank with premium?
It’s the pose. It’s how it looks.
That’s my idea, anyway. Perhaps I have a tendency to sneer at things I don’t understand or want to understand. Perhaps I write these things down in order to clear my head for the important things, like hoot owls and shedding dogs and the fireworks of morning glories with the sun behind them. Perhaps.
I am grateful for the return of the electricity. Like Sev likes to say, as ugly as it is, I’m glad I live in this age, because of the three A’s: aspirin, antibiotics, and air conditioning.
I am also grateful for a little wife who is like unto a goddess, especially when she is fixing breakfast foods, for dogs that try to herd me through the house and who fill my home with tufts of hair and jarring, roynish barks, for the small and the great birds that call to each other, perhaps knowing that their calls and their flight patterns call to me, sing to me, rouse me, fill me with a purer electricity than ever hummed through any metal transformer.
First thing this morning, I said to my wife, “Well, wonder what this day will bring?”
And she replied, “There’s no telling.”
So true.
~ S.K. Orr
7 Comments
Craig Davis
So let me get this straight. Alcoholic beverages and tobacco products don’t taste good and are aquired tastes (I’m not disagreeing) but coffee doesn’t fall into that category? Sorry, but using your own test of giving a taste to a child dispells that as nonsense. As someone who never aquired a taste for the nasty ground beans, I’m calling B.S. 🙂
admin
“I’m calling B.S.”
Craig, if you enjoy visiting this blog, you need to clean up the potty mouf.
I actually hadn’t thought of coffee, since I was focusing on my memories of all the pastors and elders who spent all their free time either smoking and drinking expensive stuff, or talking about smoking and drinking expensive stuff. They reminded me very much of potheads in that way, as if they spent way too much time thinking about that stuff.
But that was a good catch. Coffee definitely falls into the same category. I will weasel around just a bit and state that I do enjoy the taste of coffee, especially with breakfast food or (for some reason I can’t yet trace) a cheeseburger. But I drink it for the effect. The stimulation effect in the morning is devoutly to be wished, which is why I avoid it after noon for the most part. When I was a kid, I always loved the smell of coffee perking in the percolator, but detested that bitter, medicinal taste. This all changed when I was in boot camp. We were in our infantry training phase, up in the cold, wintry desert of Camp Pendleton. One particularly frigid night, our Drill Instructors called us around the fire during personal time and announced that the company commander had provided tomato soup and coffee. “But,” warned the SDI, “you hogs only get one. So pick which one you want, and break out your canteen cups and muster over there.”
I thought about it, and it was a bit of a difficult decision. I never really liked tomato soup except with grilled cheese sandwiches, and we’d eaten our evening chow just a half hour before the coffee/soup announcement (C-rats), so I wasn’t hungry. I decided to get the coffee because, well, why not? I remember wrapping my numb hands around that thin canteen cup and enjoying the bliss of the warmth, and then sipping on the coffee, which wasn’t overly strong and was actually pretty good. I felt like a real Marine. Didn’t sleep very well that night, and had to get up out of the shelter half and stumble off into the darkness to relieve my bladder about an hour after taps. The experience was a positive one, and I slowly began drinking coffee regularly.
But…
I’ve never had a latte’ or a frappachino or any of those other buggered-up, overpriced brews. I’ve never been served by a barista (the very word annoys me…it conjures up images of some smelly criminal with bandoliers of ammunition strapped across his salt-encrusted chest). I’ve never paid Starbucks a penny of my money. I have an old-fashioned coffee maker that does one thing: makes a pot of black coffee.
Coffee IS an acquired taste, just like alcohol and tobacco. No baby likes coffee. And like the other two things I discussed, if you let yourself get too fond of it, you’ll play hell weaning yourself from it.
I’d never pay twenty bucks for a cup of coffee, nor would I waste my time on decaffinated coffee. That would be like smoking a Cuban cigar without the label on it, wuddinit?
Good stuff, Craig. And good to hear from you.
Bookslinger
Are you familiar with Texan Dale Watson?
Here is his paean to his wife’s breakfast-making skills:
“My Baby Makes me Gravy”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUi-bppYI30
“A little grease, a little flour, gives that woman a lot of power.”
If you like a twangy ‘lectric guitar and a Texas accent, you might enjoy it.
admin
Am I familiar with Dale Watson? Aw, son….does the guy pretending to be the Pope wear a tall hat?
When Watson lived in Marshall, TX, we lived about an hour from him. He speaks our language.
“Aw, fiddle…”
Thanks for the video link. Hope the other readers will watch and enjoy.
stef
Plenty of people are poseurs drinking above their palate, but you’re not correct in your idea that effect is the only or even primary motivation of those who don’t take to mass-produced swill.
admin
Yeah, well, you may be right, Stef. I’m willing to concede that I might be wrong. Like I said, it’s one of those things I probably just don’t understand. But if effect isn’t the primary motivation for drinking/smoking, then what is? Taste? Really? Sorry, I don’t get that. I acquired a taste for alkyhaul but if I wanted to drink something for the taste, it wouldn’t be anything alcoholic, not even my preferred brands. For taste, I’d go after homemade sweet tea, an ice cold Dr. Pepper, black unflavored coffee (and yes, I like instant coffee), or well water with ice in it. I’ve been drinking since I was 16, and I still can’t take a sip of something alcoholic without a little bit of a shiver. Because my body knows it’s not something a thirsty child or a thirsty animal would want. Yeah, maybe I’m weird. Maybe there are people out there who just looooooove the taste of fermented grains or dried plants that are either absorbed through the lip or set on fire and inhaled. Could be, could be. Not me, man. If I smoke something or chew on it, it’s to get the zip of the nicotine, not the mellow, ambient experience of a fine leaf that was hand-picked by Juan Epstein and his trusty goat and later rolled between the crimson-nailed hands of a temptress named Lupe. If I drink anything with alcohol in it, including Nyquil, it’s for the effect. It’s for the relaxing buzz, or the conversation-lubricating dampening of inhibitions, or maybe the mental prod to stroll down the ridge to that obnoxious neighbor’s place and tell him I’m sick of his cows on my land and his bullshit in my ears. It’s not for the taste. Sure, some beers or drinks taste better than others…Mexican beer tastes like I imagine armadillo piss would taste, and gin always makes me want to reach for a can of paint and a flat stirring stick. But I have never imbibed for the taste. A glass of ice water or sweet tea or a bottle of Dr. Pepper is vastly superior in that department. Cheaper, too. So maybe you’re right. But I doubt at my age I’ll ever get it.
stef
The problem here is simple — you cannot generalize your experience to the population.
Genetics influences what is tasted (salt, bitter, sour, sweet, umami) and to what degree. Some people are very sensitive, some oblivious. Taste changes with exposure. This is why people end up liking vegetables that they spit out as a child because of the bitterness.
As you probably know, sense of smell accounts for most of what we taste. This is also highly variable. People detect different things.
One example of this is the asparagus pee situation. Some people produce a compound after eating asparagus, others don’t. Some people smell it, others don’t. Sometimes people argue over this, confused by claims others are making.
Plenty of people like alcohol from day one. Same goes for animals. My little B would mug you for beer, whiskey, or even gin at 10 weeks old, but I can still chase Kara around the house by waving a glass of wine in her direction.
I have always loved bitter tastes and disliked sweet drinks or too cold drinks. I have disliked cold tea for as far back as I can remember, spitting out my dad’s unsweetened ice tea as a very small child, while at the same time loving hot tea. I consider sweet tea an abomination. I can’t drink that even to be polite.
Unlike you, I strongly dislike sweet drinks, I don’t put ice in drinks, and I’m actually a bit repulsed sitting here imagining intentionally taking a sip of Dr. Pepper. Now, a nice glass of tonic at 60 degrees on the other hand…