The Thirteenth of August

Today would have been her 103rd birthday, and her absence these nine years has left a divot on my life’s surface. I miss her, and I am glad she isn’t here to see what has become of her country and her region. Seeing such ugliness would have grieved her tough, hidden old heart.

Her middle name was Viola, which she hated. I always loved it, thinking it had a Southern literary lilt to it, like Eudora or Flannary, and I would sometimes address her by it, which enraged her. “Viola,” I’d say, “Reckon what it would take to get you to make me some bacon for supper?”

And she would turn those agate eyes on me and remain silent, and I never knew which annoyed her more: using her middle name, or presuming to address her by anything other than “Mother.”

I have her eyes and I inherited many of her fears. She was my mother, and I love her and miss her.

***

And here we are, with half the sands of August having already run through the glass. The milkweed is fully bloomed now, and many butterflies move through the air. The sultriness of these days has been surprising, as the humidity in these mountains is usually much less than what we’ve experienced this year.

The garden is doing quite well, considering how late the seeds were laid in the earth. The only vegetables we didn’t start from seeds were the tomatoes, which have been spindly and sparse. I did nothing different this year, but have been disappointed in the yield. I will continue thinking on this, and perhaps epiphany will lend some assistance.

Mrs. Orr gathered the first-fruits of the cucumbers and we bit into the peeled, salted slices with gusto. Delicious. But within the half hour, they were coming back on me, as our people say. Pickling some of the sliced ones in Japanese rice wine vinegar usually helps with this side effect.

Seed to blossomed vine
Nubby verdant pencil stubs
Born for the stone crock.

We’ve so enjoyed the hummingbirds this year. There have been more females, and their presence has made for a more jocular, low-key atmosphere, without so much of the aggressive, territorial jockeying we usually see. I’m sure some would point to my observations as evidence of toxic masculinity. The only thing toxic, though, is the sort of mindset that comes up with such phrases.

As I write this, my wife is on a genealogy site, researching my father’s side of the family. I knew that most of his people came here from Scotland, but I was thrilled just now to learn of Mrs. Orr’s discovery that some of my paternal ancestors hailed from Germany and Austria. This explains a few facets of my personality and preferences.

***

A few mornings ago, we were out in the front garden, looking at flowers and plants, and I happened to look over my wife’s shoulder and noticed a gorgeous male fawn standing just behind her. She hadn’t noticed him and he hadn’t yet sensed her. Just then, the doe poked her head out of a tangle of shrubs directly in front of us. She froze at the sight of us, and we froze at the sight of her. The fawn watched his mama, who then snorted and stomped, and the two deer bounded and sailed across the meadow as if it were about five feet long instead of a hundred yards. And we watched after them, doubly blessed in the dewy silence.

We stood in the damp grass and watched a few meteors from the Perseids shower the other night, but the sky was partially clouded over, so the show was limited. Still, it lifted our hearts to see those incandescent streaks zipping across the black bowl above us.

And this little farm sings around us, reminding us of its many lives, of its numberless tenants, even as it seems to encroach on us each month, becoming steadily harder to manage and maintain, driving us to more and more frequent discussions about being able to discern if and when these remote acres will be too much for us to manage.

But for now, we are here and we revel in its green-carpeted and tree-pillared rolling expanse, like two butterflies in a field of milkweed. We are here.

~ S.K. Orr

Watercolor by the author