The Only Day

Today marks the ninth anniversary of the day my mother departed this life and went on to the next one. My sister and I chatted about this last night, remembering some of the happy times and some of the not-so-happy times we shared with the stoic, flinty old woman who gave us life and fed us and sheltered us and tried to guide us. I miss you, Mother, and I love you. I hope to see you again when my own time comes to sail into the west.

***

It’s still hot here and will reach 90 today and for the remainder of the week, but the mornings have been downright chilly, with veils of mist across the acres. We have a mineral block and water situated near one of the fencelines because a small herd of deer have been feeding near the house for a couple of weeks now, two does and four or five fawns. A few days ago, the fawns were romping and playing like dogs, rearing up on their hind legs and boxing at each other, then play-bowing and racing in circles through the front meadow, then taunting each other with feints and kicks, while the does fed placidly along the fence. We’ve had more rabbits this year than we’ve seen in past years, and some of them are impressive in size and boldness. No sign of them messing with the garden. Yet.

We’ve spent a fair amount of time watching gardening shows lately, gleaning ideas and making notes about mistakes we’ve made in garden planning and maintenence. I have to say that when I see a woman gardening in pink Wellingtons, my sense, be it right or wrong, is that she is not serious about what she’s doing. That she doesn’t so much want to be a competent gardener as she wants to appear to be a good gardener. I find this to be true in so many human situations. The fellow who spends a lot of time lifting weights and practicing martial arts doesn’t usually really want to be a lethal badass — he wants to be seen as a badass.  In this world, the trappings and accoutrements seem to be more important than the reality. Witness for example the battalions of people who dutifully tote their bibles into church every Sunday. To my jaundiced eye, this seems either superfluous or superstitious. Is the bound volume of pages truly helping the person in the pew by being spread across his lap, or is it instead something like wearing a breast-cancer ribbon or a Ukraine flag pin?

We’ve spent as much time as possible on the porches, and the dogs have been happy to accompany us. Their favorite pastime is standing sentry duty for the rabbits, chipmunks, groundhogs, and possums. Oh, and the deer.

***

We ran some errands yesterday and ate at one of our favorite restaurants, a family-run joint nestled in a lovely valley, where some of the best fried catfish AND some of the best fried chicken livers can be had. We got our regular waitress, a cheerful and tireless lady names Pam, and we each got the fried catfish strips, Mrs. Orr opting for onion rings and a salad as her sides, and me taking the macaroni & cheese and the fried okra. The okra was so good, I mostly ignored it so that we could take it home later for a snack. Have you ever had cold fried okra? It’s like popcorn — tasty and handy and addictive. We (or I should say “I”) also took home an order of fried chicken livers. Like the okra, the livers are exquisite when cold and left-over.

***

We recently visited a newly opened business in the small downtown at the bottom of the mountain. It’s a book shop with a coffee shop attached. We wandered in, expecting the usual overstock of garish new titles by the right sort of diverse authors and a musty shelf or two of old Danielle Steele hardbacks. When we left, carrying three brown paper bags (with string handles) filled with used books, we were very happy to have been proven wrong. Among our purchases were an diary-cum-autobiography by the writer P.D. James, a biography of my childhood idol Johnny Unitas, a biography of George Washington (the first one I’ve read in thirty years, since I read Flexner’s The Indispensable Man), a memoir of a woman who took up farming late in life, and a massive paperback edition of Solzhenitsyn’s August 1914. These will be good in the cooler evenings, which are lengthening already by slow degrees. We’re thinking of purchasing one of those umbrella-looking propane-powered heaters for the porches, just to make the chillier air tolerable and so to be able to sit out in the fresh air and read, instead of hunkering down inside the house.

Speaking of reading, I think I’ll join Mrs. Orr and the wild dogs out on the front porch with a book. I can hear the goldfinches out there in the hedgerow, and the sun will be shifting around soon. This is the only day like this one. This is the only September 3rd 2023 that has ever been or that will ever be. I do not need a rare postage stamp or a limited edition print or a diamond. I have today, and it is the only day.

Enjoy your Labor Day weekend, my friends.

~ S.K. Orr