Who Can Say?
A hundred and forty-six years ago today, the Indian warrior Crazy Horse fought his last battle before being taken by the U.S. Army. He would be stabbed and killed by a guard while in captivity some time later. I respect a man who ferociously fought those whom he believed had stolen his land and heritage.
He fought. Isn’t that shocking to your modern eyes? Oh, we shouldn’t resist evil. We shouldn’t fight. We should meekly submit to all authority. We wouldn’t want to get in trouble, would we?
When I was a boy, a common cliche’ about Indians was that they believed heaven was a “happy hunting ground.” Well, I hope Crazy Horse is riding a fast stallion across a vast grassy plain in a happy hunting ground. Because he fought.
***
It’s been raining here since last night, mist rising from the chilled earth and giving the farm the impression of sitting among the clouds. Mrs. Orr spent part of the morning trying to teach me how to make her exquisite milk gravy. I’ve tried many times over the years to master this, but with poor results. My mother also tried to teach me to make milk gravy, but she was very impatient with my questions.
Mother: “So put a little dab of your grease in the pan…”
Me: “How much is a little dab?”
Mother: “Well, I DON’T KNOW! JUST A DAB! PAY ATTENTION OR GO ON WITH YA!”
Me: [cowed silence]
Mrs. Orr is much more patient, methodical, and consistent. Maybe this time it will take.
The gravy she made today was perfect. And it was well used. I poured it all over a leftover chicken fried steak and a hefty portion of leftover mashed potatoes. Rainy day feast.
***
We were watching a movie this afternoon when I heard a soft noise. Almost sly. I looked around to confirm that all the hounds were in the room with us, and I listened again. My wife thought she heard it too.
I went out into the utility room, where the washer and dryer and pantry are, and I checked the mousetraps. The first one was empty. The next one was…missing.
Odd.
We were standing there, looking around and trying to determine where a mouse might have dragged one of the traps if it had snagged his tail or a foot. Just then, Mrs. Orr saw movement next to the washer, and there he was. A little field mouse, perched up on the bottom shelf of a wire utility shelf, the trap dangling between the wire struts, preventing him from being able to flee. I got my fireplace gloves and carefully extracted the mouse and the trap and looked him over. His right rear leg was worse for wear and tear, but he was very active, his front claws finding good purchase in my glove and trying to pull himself out of the trap and perhaps scamper up my sleeve. I took him to the front door, opened, it, and stood, deciding.
I knew that I should probably just kill him, since he was injured. If I released him, he would be at the mercy of anything looking for a lamed animal. But on this rainy winter day, I could not bring myself to do it, even though I knew I was releasing him into a merciless world where his injury would be evident to anything larger than him.
But I did it anyway. I just couldn’t kill him today. I bent forward and released the jaws of the trap, and he hit the wet ground and hobbled away quickly, disappearing around the corner of the house.
Be well, little friend, I whispered, and closed the door.
Who can say that our displays of tenderness don’t cause more problems than they solve? Ah, the hell with it. I am what I am, and I doubt I’ll ever change.
***
I’ve been thinking of our beloved Golden Retriever, Bonnie, who rests beneath the wet leaves up in the woods behind the house. She would have put Jinx in his place toot sweet. The kids in Texas have a gorgeous Retriever named Chief, and he has the standard-issue Golden Retriever personality: lively, loyal, fun, family-friendly, with a heavy dollop of goofiness. With his massive frame and thick coat, I suspect he suffers in the Texas heat. But he has a good life on a good piece of land and two rambunctious boys to occupy him, along with a little rat-sized dog with ears four times larger than her body and a holly personality. So I guess Chief’s doing pretty good.
***
We watched a very sad but lovely movie called The Last Bus, starring English actor Timothy Spall. I’ve enjoyed Mr. Spall’s work since I saw him years ago in Topsy-Turvy, and noticed him because of a deft, hilarious scene in which he offers another character a biscuit. The Last Bus is the story of an aging pensioner who, after his wife’s death, takes a bus trip retracing the journey he and his bride undertook when they were young and newly married. It’s one of those movies that many would dismiss as overly-sentimental, even maudlin, but I suppose I have a good appetite for maudlin. Mrs. Orr and I enjoyed it very much, and I recommend it if you want to watch a movie that doesn’t have monsters, serial killers, LGBTQwery superheroes, or hamhanded political/social justice themes slathered all over it. Timothy Spall is sad and triumphant and quiet in this role.
***
Mrs. Orr and I quietly celebrated our wedding anniversary last week. We still marvel at the decades of married life that have streamed past us, and we still marvel at how compatible we are. Truly, she is the greatest blessing in my life, and the finest human being I have ever known. In whatever time we have remaining together, I hope the years are as sweet as these have been. It’s been a banquet.
***
The dogs have eaten their supper, and Mrs. Orr is working on ours. The rain is still falling, the mist still curling upwards, and somewhere out there is a little mouse with a bad leg. I will be thinking of him this evening while I sit here warm and dry.
I will be hoping certain things, breathing out my quiet, disjointed prayers.
~ S. K. Orr