Last Sunday of the Summer

We spent yesterday down in North Carolina, starting out at an apple orchard we’ve visited a couple of years back. At that time, we took some of the grandkids with us and had quite the tiring day, hiking the orchards and picking our own apples. Just the two of us this year, and we opted for a less strenuous agenda. When we arrived, we got in line for the bakery. Priorities, dontchaknow. The line was long, but from the time we joined the queue until we paid for our purchases, we spent only 30 minutes. The day was warm but pleasant, and it was an enjoyable half-hour. We were mindful of those who were standing in line in London for 20 hours, more or less, to pay respects to Her Majesty, the late Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom. Her funeral is slated tomorrow, and so will end more than a week of ceremony and goodbyes for the long-reigning monarch of the British Isles.

At the orchard, which is Granddad’s Apples in Hendersonville, NC, we bought a bag of honeycrisp apples, a gallon of fresh, unpasteurized cider, some fried apple pies, apple turnovers, and a bunch of the best donuts I have ever eaten in my life. No exaggeration — these donuts are the reason we make the trek down to North Cackillacky to stand in line with annoying Yankees. They are apple cider donuts, brown and moist and sweet and tangy and gritty with sugar. The donuts have the capability to make one lose one’s composure. A batch of them sits on our kitchen counter just now. There are not as many as there were when we arrived home last evening. The ones that remain are like opium: sticky, rare, wicked, hard to obtain, the fuel of dreams and avarice.

After the orchard, we went to the beautiful downtown area of Hendersonville and strolled the streets. Not long after we began our walk, we heard a bizarre noise up ahead. I quickly realized that it was some nutjob homeless guy, a middle aged black man who was sitting at one of the cafe tables and yelling what sounded like “Berr!” at irregular intervals in a tortured, gravelly voice. As we passed him, I began speaking to my wife.

“What’s that creature called, again? The big, brown furry one? The one that likes honey….?”

Mrs. Orr watched me, her brow furrowed and her eyes full of concern.

Just then, the man yelled out, “Berr!” And I said, “That’s it! A bear! Thank you, sir!”

It’s always a feeling of delicious triumph when I can make my lovely wife laugh. And she broke up laughing right then, right there on that pretty North Carolina street. The homeless man didn’t seem to hear me. Just as well.

On the way home, we stopped at an old-fashioned steakhouse Mrs. Orr happened to see while scanning the area. Binion’s Roadhouse. Neither of us has eaten a restaurant steak in quite some time, but we were very hungry and decided to damn the financial torpedoes. We had another half-hour wait, but it was certainly worth it. My wife ordered a sirloin, and I opted for a T-bone, medium rare, with steak fries. These steak fries were a potato cut lengthwise into four pieces. Mrs. Orr is skilled at figuring out how dishes are prepared simply by tasting them. She took a bite of the potato slab I offered and chewed with judicial care. She decided that the potatoes are baked, then quartered lengthwise, then pan-fried in butter. They were crisp on the outside, tender and buttery on the inside, and worthy of much quiet praise. My T-bone was so tender, I merely had to pull the knife across it in one direction and the meat divided itself. It required no more effort to chew than a piece of bologna or a hot dog. Truly fork tender, and if I had not been in a public place, I would have picked up the bone and gnawed it like one of our dogs. After we left, I regretted not taking the bone home with us. What a bone broth it would have made.

I spent today puttering around the place, doing chores and odd jobs that I’ve been meaning to get to for most of the summer. Late in the afternoon, I was finishing up a task with Bluebelle at my side. I was wearing sandals and daydreaming while shuffling around with my tools and equipment, the spotted little girl nosing along with me. All of a sudden, I realized that someone had fired a salvo of flaming needles at us, and I began slapping and running after spying a yellowjacket on top of my foot. I know very well what those blasted things can do if they swarm you. Bluebelle was running with me, whimpering and snapping at the base of her tail. Once we were away from the in-ground nest, I pulled my dog to me and brushed the bees from her tail and flanks, and rubbed my hands through my hair in case any were up there. We trotted up onto the back porch, and Mrs. Orr helped us treat our stings. Later, I got the Shop Vac and the long extension cord from the barn. I told Bluebelle to get some good sleep tonight, because at first light we’ll be getting some payback. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Orrs.

And Happy Birthday, Jocelyn. You are more loved than you could possibly know.

~ S.K. Orr