Gradual Chill

It was a bringdown to return to work after a four-day weekend, but there were a few pleasant moments, one of which was talking to a woman in her nineties who lives in Van Lear, KY. I mentioned the Van Lear coal mines that the late Loretta Lynn sang about, and the lady volunteered that at this time of year, when the trees and hillsides are bare, she can see Loretta’s old home place from her back porch. She mentioned that Loretta’s brother’s nearby store is still in operation. Mrs. Lynn came from a time that has completely vanished now, and we will never see a world like hers again. This present age is so ugly it defies description. Coddled and soft as we are, I wonder if many Americans wouldn’t trade the soft mod-cons for the purity of what those old coal miners and their families lived.

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I am rewatching, in installments (because my attention span erodes almost daily), an old Western, “Ulzana’s Raid.” The teeth-gritting Burt Lancaster was the star, with a post-Willard Bruce Davidson as a green lieutenant. . As the movie was starting, the screen told me that the movie contained “adult content, adult language, violence, and outdated cultural depiction.” Outdated cultural depiction. I had to chuckle. That’s a label that the soft little boys who are running the current show could justifiably slap onto me. A normal white man who tries to live and behave the way men from my region have long behaved. How very outdated. I suspect the dinosaurs, nearing the end of their time here, thought to themselves in their pensive thunderlizard way, “It’s about time. I’m tired of all this.” At least they didn’t live to see other living creatures destroying and rewriting their history. The mind fairly reels at the thought of what sort of scare-words they’ll paste on the screen the next time the Duke’s “The Searchers” is aired. Outdated cultural depiction. I supposed I am somewhat grateful that the Apaches are no longer riding around and cutting the hearts out of white men and playing catch with them, or shooting a smallholder’s dog full of arrows for fun. But I’d rather face that than any government whore’s edicts in today’s world.

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Something that has annoyed me for years has been on the uptick. As Thanksgiving and Christmas come up over the horizon and roll towards us, I hear lots of people say ” Oh, we don’t do traditional Thanksgiving food. We’re going to do crab imperial and key lime pie!” Or Thai fusion. Or Jamaican jerk street squab. Or vegan tofu diarrhea surprise. Or some such nonsense. I am sick as I can be of hearing this crap. Am I to understand that these overburdened souls are forced to eat turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and pecan pie at least once fortnightly? Why would anyone deliberately eschew the traditional foods of a traditional time unless they were trying to subvert that tradition? The very twits who go out of their way to scorn turkey & dressing are the same ones who mindlessly guzzle margaritas and Coronas every fifth of May. You know, because Cinco De Mayo is so dear to the average American’s cultural heritage? You come to MY house at this time of year, you’re going to get the traditional stuff, just like you’ll get hot dogs and hamburgers on the 4th of July, and cabbage and black eyed peas on New Years, and rice and beans on the Feast of Saint Joan of Arc, and pickled groundhog tongue sandwiches on National Backstabber’s Day. If you want something nontraditional, better stop off at Sonic on the way over, or pick up some Apu’s Sushi and a chutney Squishee at the Quik E Mart. Questions?

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The weather is still mild for this time of year, and we’re grateful. But the gradual cool-down is coming, and we accept this, as it is the law of nature and nature’s God. It’s rough on the bones, but the variety is nice, like a pageant, a parade of temperatures and greenery and creatures and food, and even taste in music and books. The chill will be gradual, and it will come. I not only feel it, but I see it as well, in the angle of light across the mountains in the morningtime and at eventide. The birds toll the call to prayer, and the call cannot be ignored, even if the prayer is unspoken and secret. My best, my most profitable prayers are secret ones, those that never leave my lips, Only the One Who paints the evening air with such chilly colors could know these prayers. And if He answers them, this is good. If He does not, this is the way of things.

~ S.K. Orr