Blessings Of The Day

The day began with the spotted twins catching a possum in the backyard. When Mrs. Orr summoned me, the poor critter was doing his award-winning act, lying on his side, teeth exposed, still as a stone. I saw  his mouth flinch slightly when I picked him up by the tail, so I was pretty sure he was all right. I tossed him over the fence into the next pasture. Sure enough, when I checked on him after daybreak, he was gone. And we caught another mouse last night, this one a clean kill. The weather is getting ready to change, so the little things are seeking shelter in a warm house where a soft-hearted and soft-headed old man resides.

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May I just vent here for a moment? I am so weary of the word “iconic” being used in every news story or article that comes down the pike. I wonder how long it will be before someone points out to these “journalists” that the word iconic has ties to religious themes. Just as I wonder how long it will be before the word “holiday” is replaced in the lexicon, since it is derived from “holy day?” Because there are only a couple of “holy days” remaining in the country once known as America, and they’re not the ones I was raised to observe.

And the past tense of “lead” is led. I can’t recall the last time I saw this word used and spelled correctly. The rock band Led Zeppelin seems to have convinced people that the word “led” is merely a play on words for the word denoting the dull gray metal, and that the word “led” doesn’t really exist, as in “def/deaf.”

And when did everyone start using “myself” instead of “me?” For some time now, people have been misusing “I vs. me,” as in saying things like “What does this mean for you and I?” when “you and me” is the proper construction. I think it’s because people mistakenly believe “you and I” sounds more intelligent, since they were scolded (properly) not to say things like “me and him,” but they took it way off in the wrong direction. And now, people are yammering on about “They sent a gift certificate to my wife and myself.”

Q: Who wants cheesecake for dessert?

A: Myself!

See how stupid that sounds? And again, I think it’s a misguided attempt to sound intelligent. I still haven’t figured out why people start sentences with “so,” or why they do that infantile hiccup in their words (“ki-in” instead of “kitten,” or “mou-in” instead of “mountain”). I know that languages change over time, but lordy….I am wroth. All right…enough of my crankiness. And you kids get off my lawn.

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During the course of my workday today, I spoke to a lady in Texas. We got to chatting about different things, including Jack In The Box, the fast food joint. I mentioned that my wife and I love Jack In The Box tacos, and the lady said, “Oh, me, too! But you know, they’ve more than doubled in price in the last few months.” This saddened me. But it didn’t weaken my resolve to eat some of those tasty tacos the next time we are near a Jack In The Box. We always eat the center of them and leave the outer edges of the shell, because the way they fry the tacos up, the outer rim is tougher than leather. We ate out at our favorite local Mexican restaurant last week to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Good place. Always consistent in the quality of food and the fast, courteous service. I wish I could sneak out with one of their colorful, carved chairs…real folk art.

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I thought for a long time this afternoon – and not for the first time – about how different my life and my sister’s life would have been if our mother had died when we were children. I doubt that any of my sullen, petty relatives would have taken us in, which would have been just as well. But we would have been tossed into the foster care system, with its attendant hazards and horrors, and who can say how we would have turned out? Neither of us grew up to become world-shakers or anything important to anyone except our families who love us, but I am cognizant of how normal and settled and well-adjusted we both ended up. The thought of being sent somewhere outside of our poor little house give me a shivery kind of nausea even to this day, like the thought of a disaster narrowly averted. I thought of this today because I was in the process of literally counting my blessings, something I like to do when I feel melancholy nibbling at my cuffs. And it really is true that revisiting all the good things in one’s situation works marvelous things within.

This also reminded me of something Raold Dahl once wrote:

“If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it. A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”

Isn’t that the truth? It’s easy to find ugly people these days…just go out into a public place and you will see faces frozen into sneers and grimaces of such dark and poisonous expressions, it will chill your blood. But we also all know that person who is homely and plain and even what the Beautiful People would call “ugly,” but their inner spirit, that God-lit lamp in them, shines out and makes them absolutely beautiful. What’s in the heart truly is reflected in the countenance.

Hat tip to Dymphna’s Road for reminding me of this quote.

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We visited family in Caesar’s Head, NC many years ago, and while we were there, we toured the national park where parts of Michael Mann’s The Last of the Mohicans was filmed. Gorgeous country there, similar to where we live. While there, we saw a man in a khaki uniform craning his neck to watch the hawks gliding on the thermals above. He was jotting things down in a notebook, and curiosity won out, so I asked him about what he was doing. I assumed he was a hard-core birdwatcher. The man was very pleasant and told us that he was a park staff member and that his job was to count and monitor the hawks, eagles, and other raptors in the park area. My wife and I said to each other later, “That’s the job I want!”

Today I took our trash to the county waste station, a few miles from our farm. It’s a large parking lot ringed with dumpsters, and is the place where the feral cats sometimes hang out, hoping I’ll show up with a handout. There were none there today, probably because I saw a pickup parked by the gate, indicating that the fellow who manages the site was there. He was snuggled into his tiny shack with the heater going, a wise policy on such a raw day. I tossed our trash into a dumpster and waved to the fellow as I exited the parking lot. And as I made my way to the highway, I thought, That’s a job I would enjoy. Minimal public contact, sitting in a climate-controlled shed, reading and writing all day long. Plus, all the free feral cats I could carry in a bushel basket. I really would like a job like that. I’ve never been in the right place at the right time for such a gig. One must be patient, though.

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Old Mr. Arthur Itis has announced his intention to homestead with me this week. He is a most unwelcome guest, but he is predictable, I’ll give him that. Sometimes I laugh at myself when I stand up from my chair and begin walking across the room. I’m sure Mrs. Orr has to stifle a chuckle at such times. In a post the other day, I mentioned a sweet movie we watched called The Last Bus, starring Timothy Spall. Mr. Spall is in his mid-sixties, but he portrays a much older man, and does so in a most convincing way. He has the geriatric gait down to an art. And these days, I tell my wife that I’m in Spall Mode. She is hip to my jive.

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These dogs are way too smart for their own good. Per my employer’s policy, I take my lunch break and two 15-minute breaks at prescheduled times each day; the time for each is different every day. I set my phone to an alarm to remind me to take my breaks. The dogs have learned that when the little jingly alert goes off, I’m getting ready to stand up and go to the kitchen or the living room or the bathroom. When it sounds, they rush to the door separating me from them and begin to carry on like they haven’t had a potty break in days. Who trained whom?

Stay warm, dear readers. And meditate on your blessings. It is a worthwhile exercise.

~ S.K. Orr