Horribilis Septimana
A truly unpleasant week is behind me now, and I am grateful for the passage of time. A rabbit came by the front door a while ago to nibble some buttercups, and he seemed at peace with his dangerous little world, so I suppose I can try to be at peace as well.
First of all, a belated Happy Mother’s Day to all of you mothers among my regular readers. I’d also like to say Happy Mother’s Day to all the divorce-raped single fathers who do both jobs with love and devotion. See, that’s why it’s a good thing that I don’t have a Facebook account….I’d post something like that and the resulting squeeeeeeee would be enough to strip the paint off these walls.
Also, a happy birthday to Gwendolyn, and a happy belated anniversary to K & A…may their marriage thrive and prosper and deepen.
I took Mrs. Orr out for brunch yesterday at a little greasy spoon about an hour away, in a secluded mountain hamlet. The way there was a twisty rope of a route through several little moribund coal-mining communities, and the scenery and the weather coalesced into a trip of some great beauty. While driving through one little village at about 15 mph (such places are renowned for speed traps), we noticed a couple walking hand in hand across a parking lot towards a shabby little church. The woman was cadaverously thin, tottering along on high boot-heels, clad in what looked like an attempt to emulate Steve Nicks, with purple danger-hair on top and of course a full compliment of tattoos that probably cost more than some people have in their savings accounts. The man was very obese and very black. And I was struck with the thought, When I was a boy, the one place an interracial couple would avoid at all costs would have been an Appalachian mountain village fundamentalist church. And now, a mere half-century later, a small conservative church is the one place such a couple would be guaranteed an unquestioningly enthusiastic welcome. As Dwight Yoakam observed — baby, things change. It’s difficult to walk the razor’s edge between trying to live a purer, holy (as in “set apart”) life while sincerely desiring the destruction of those who are working without a lunch break to destroy my people, my bloodline, and my culture.
***
When we arrived at the restaurant and went inside, we noticed a couple of things that should have caused us to turn around and drive somewhere else. There were only about four customers. The rest of the tables were unbussed, laden with half-eaten breakfasts and untouched green-dollar tips. There was one very tired-looking woman behind the counter. And one equally-tired-looking cook at the grill. But…we sat down anyway. The woman was fiddling with the cash register and a stack of receipts, and her quiet greeting was all we got. The cook disappeared into the back room and was gone for quite a while.
“You think we maybe oughta leave?” I whispered to Mrs. Orr. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s working but the two of them.”
My wife looked around, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe people called in sick. Or called in because it’s Mother’s Day.”
The cook came back into the grill area and began working on an order that the hostess tacked up on the grill hood. We were on the verge of asking the hostess if the cook had started working on our order yet — we were fairly certain that he had not, as there were at least two tables of people who had been there when we arrived, and none of them had any food on their tables. If the cook hadn’t started cooking our country breakfasts yet, we thought we’d just tell the hostess to cancel the order and we’d be on our way. But then we heard a lady at one of the other tables ask the hostess if she were working alone that day, and the hostess’s weary reply indicated that being short-staffed was a daily burden at this place, and she asked them to please be patient.
Since were were in no hurry, we decided to wait for our meal and to be good sports about it. So we waited. And it really wasn’t that long considering the circumstances, and we got our food, and it was very good, and the hostess chatted with us for a bit when we asked about the personnel woes. She confided that the management never had enough staff on hand at the right times, and that she was used to it by now. I said to her, “I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything, but if I need a refill on my coffee, would it be all right if I just duck behind the counter and pour my own, so you don’t have to make an extra trip while you’re in the middle of working this room by yourself?” The woman smiled a kindly, washed-out smile and whispered, “I won’t get in no trouble.” So I winked at her, and that’s what I did when it was refill time. I also got one of those little trays with an assortment of jellies and jams for Mrs. Orr so that she could enjoy her toast. We were grateful that we had enough cash to pay without causing a bottleneck at the clearly-malfunctioning credit card machine, and when we left, we handed the hostess the tab with a generous tip and wished her a happy Mother’s Day. She smiled her sweet smile and thanked us and asked us to come back.
When we went outside, we looked over to the left and noticed a largeish store that looked like a feed/hardware place and decided to go over and browse around. Once inside, we realized that the place was just a big version of a Dollar General, but it was clean and well-stocked, so we looked around and got a few things on impulse. I came close to buying a carton of ramen noodles that had some rap guy on the label, and I think the brand was Rap Noodles, but I’m not 100% sure. The label model looked like one of those individuals with the word “ice” in his name. Ice Pick. Ice Tray. Ice Crystals. Ice Pee. Something like that.
While standing in line, a brittle little biddy cut in front of us, just as big as you please, inserting herself into the queue without so much as a “By your leave, sir” or “Kiss my foot” or anything else. Birdlike, baptisty, eyes dancing everywhere as if watching for predators…or scandals. Mrs. Orr and I looked at each other and shrugged. Ah, well. And when the woman checked out, she had a four dollar step-stool. And paid for it with a hundred dollar bill. On a Sunday. We were hoping the patient cashier would say, “Sorry, honey, but I can’t break a hundred.” But the transaction was done, and we were shed of her.
While we were waiting, a fortyish man swaggered in carrying a baby piglet against his chest. When he passed us, I remarked on what a cute little rat the piglet was. “I’m lookin’ fer a baby bottle so’s I kin bottle-feed ‘er. Her mama killed her entire litter and only left this ‘un. I named her Fatback.” I scratched the little thing, which had her snout under the man’s chin and was rooting around with what looked like affection. I liked the rough feel of her bristles under my fingers. And I became acquainted with the beers and the cigarettes the gentleman had enjoyed for his Mother’s Day breakfast.
When we were outside and putting our purchases into the car, I saw the man and Fatback over near the entrance, chatting with an older woman. I asked my wife to wait a sec and limped over to them. The man looked up with his customized grin.
“Would you mind if I took Fatback’s picture? My grandkids’ll love this.”
He was delighted, and held her up so I could take the photo. The woman he’d been talking to said, “She’s gonna make quite a pet.”
The man looked shocked. “Oh, no, ma’am. She aint’ gonna be no pet. I’m gonna raise ‘er fer bacon.” The woman gasped, shook her head, frowned, muttered.
I reported this exchange to Mrs. Orr, who arched her Texas eyebrow and said, “Yeah. Gonna bottle-feed it and already named it, but he’s gonna slaughter it. I believe that. Suuuure I do.”
And I concurred.
***
This whole knee business has been, well, a pain. I’m way behind in my chores, including planting and fencing the garden plot that we so carefully prepared some time back. The lawn tractor breaking its deck belt last week was a real fun thing, too. What should have taken me about an hour to accomplish ended up taking about six hours, spread over two days, with me wallering around on the floor and banging my knee into various things while I tried to find a comfortable way to sprawl, cussing the damn cotter-pins/butterfly clips securing the deck to the machine, writhing around like a burnt snake, sweating and grumbling and shoving myself off the floor countless times, yanking myself into a sitting position, hoisting the deck, letting the deck crush my fingers, daring Crom to help me, cursing him because he didn’t, keeping an eye on the red wasps who seemed terribly fascinated and terribly amused by my zany vaudevillian antics. When I finally got the belt replaced and the deck re-mounted on Friday, I clambered aboard and took hold of the key, realizing that if I’d missed something or mis-mounted something, an explosion of screeching metal and ruined parts would fill the air in the next second. So….deep breath….prayer to Saint Joan of Arc…..hit the choke…turn the key….and VROOM. She started right up. Then I put my hand on the PTO drive to engage the blades, making sure I had the deck elevated high enough not to cause any problems down there. And in that moment before I pushed the level forward, I felt — and probably looked — exactly like Clark Griswold just as he was bringing the two plug ends together to try once again to power up the 25,000+ lights on his Christmastime house. I’m fairly certain that I let out an “Arrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh,” and I am equally certain that my face was contorted in the lunatic/ecstatic rictus that Mr. Griswold displayed at that moment of male plug meeting female plug.
And the PTO engaged, and the blades spun and hummed, and I sat there and breathed deep. And thought. And thought. And whispered some things. And probably made some promises.
***
The flowers are in full vigor here now, with the peonies in the front yard already heavy-headed and bowing towards the earth, and the snapdragons showing their stuff, and the young, newly-planted Texas bluebonnets making their overtures up out of the brown soil, and all the woods are full, and all the birds are cavorting. The hummingbirds seem to have disappeared for some reason, temporarily, I hope, but a Carolina wren and her mate have been taking up the avian slack with their nest building activities under the back porch eaves. He is generally quiet except for low burbles while sitting on the porch railing, but the female astounds us with the sheer volume she can produce, louder than any bird the size of a salt shaker should be able to muster. I caught her the other day robbing the foam filler from a rent in the cover on the dog bed on the porch. I started calling her Roberta, as in the feminine version of the Dread Pirate Roberts. I’m not sure what to call the male. Butter Athletic Cup? Inigo Montoya? As You Wishhhh? Six-Fingered Wren? I’m at a loss.
Rest well, dear ones, and may the spring weather be soft and kind to you, and may you hear the trees as they try to speak to you. They’re more aware of you than you are of them.
~ S.K. Orr
