October, Enter Stage Right

The hummingbirds are gone for the year, I think. We saw a couple yesterday, and heard them as they were droning around in the trees, but that was earlier in the day. By early evening, they were not to be seen.

This morning, no hum nor squeak greeted me when I opened the back door. We watched all morning for them but no hummingbirds. I took down all the feeders and replaced the nectar except in one, which was mostly being used by wasps, anyway. All the day long while we were outside, we strained our ears and eyes, but never heard nor saw any of the beautiful little paint drops that adorn our acres during the warm months. My calendar notations tell me that last year, they migrated on the 28th of September. This year they waited until the cusp of October to zoom down to the warm, exotic lands where they will overwinter. Bless you all, my little friends. Thrive and play and feed and gambol. I hope to see you again in the spring.

But rest assured, there will be fresh, full feeders swinging in the front and back of our farmhouse in case there are any stragglers. I am mindful of Dwight Yoakam’s collaboration with the late Ralph Stanley and will keep the traveler’s lantern out for my tiny amigos.

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I received a letter recently that reminded me that some of us endure deep suffering without most people around them knowing what they are undergoing. I am neither a good nor a consistent pray-er, but for those who are being pulled across the rack of suffering and sorrow, I want you to know that I do pray for you, that your burdens will be eased and lifted, and that your eyes will fill again with light.

One of my favorite Charles Dickens quotes comes from the novel Nicholas Nickleby. This seems an appropriate place to share it.

In every life, no matter how full or empty one’s purse, there is tragedy. It is the one promise life always fulfills. Thus, happiness is a gift and the trick is not to expect it but to delight in it when it comes. And to add to other people’s store of it.

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The waterfall near our home is not yet visible, but its presence is always felt when we pass by it, and it is coming on like a jove, that first glimpse of the spilling silver ribbon peeking from behind the green clothing of those maples and those oaks.

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I am achey and sore of foot and creaky of hip from the morning’s labors, during which Mrs. Orr helped me cut back the limelight hydrangeas. Their growth and fulness are always alarming, and no matter how I prune them back in the spring, they always overtake the windows near my desk and block the sun. Two plants = two wheelbarrow loads of stems and lamblike blossoms. We cut then almost to the ground, and unless I kill them off before spring, they will be seven feet tall by this time next year.

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We’ve seen a few interesting movies lately, two true stories and an enjoyable character study. The character study was Hateship Loveship, which is a dramatic change-of-pace for the comedienne Kristin Wiig, she of the skits and sketches that can make me howl with laughter and cringe with discomfort simultaneously. The movie is about a guileless girl from Iowa who is the victim of a cruel trick by two teenage girls. Their sadistic prank upends Wiig’s character’s life, but the stream of her life leads her eventually into a calm pool of great happiness and contentment. We enjoyed it quite a bit.

One of the true story movies was Trial By Fire, which was the account of a murder trial in Texas in the closing years of the 20th century. The man accused and convicted was a father who allegedly let his three children burn to death in a house fire because he was some sort of satanic loser. The pace and writing were crisp and natural, and the actors gave solid performances.

The other true story was the film Covenant, directed by the Englishman named Guy Ritchie, mostly known for his violent-but-hilarious British gangster movies. It’s the story of an American Special Forces soldier who bonds with a middle Easterner during the late combative unpleasantness over in that bleak region of the planet. Well worth a look-see.

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I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately, because I seem to be drawn to just sitting and listening and brooding over the tones and the lyrics. Speaking of music, today marks the 51st anniversary of the release of Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Back To Front lp. I wore that thing slap-dab OUT, friends. Though I had it on 8-track, and had to put up with the annoying channel changes in the middle of tracks.

My current favorite, whom I’ve listened to and admired for many years, is Emmylou Harris. I can’t think of a song she’s performed that I haven’t enjoyed fully. And I can’t think of a song she’s covered that isn’t better than the original version.

For your listening enjoyment, here is Emmylou’s duet with Dan Fogelberg, and her moving live rendition of Red Dirt Girl with Mark Knopfler, and finally a non-Emmylou song which is ABOUT Emmylou and her torrid relationship with Graham Parker, sung by a pair of young Swedish gals who are clearly big fans of Miz Harris. Hope you like these songs. Listen carefully to the lyrics on all three.

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We’ve been puttering in the garden, watching it slowly ebb into nonproductivity and dreaming of what we’ll do next year. We like to read gardening books and articles and watch some gardening programs. We’ve enjoyed Monty Don ever since our youngest son mentioned him to us, and have learned a lot. But we recently found another fellow whom we enjoy just as much, if not more. His name is Alan Titchmarsh, and he’s simply delightful. We found his tv show on Roku, called “How To Be A Gardener” and have been immersed in his basic, no-fluff, but very witty presentation of essential gardening skills.

We’re tentatively planning a larger vegetable garden next year — actually, several linked garden plots for various vegetables (black-eyed peas, cucumbers, squash, tomatoes, okra, and a few varieties of corn), but right now we’re really interested in turning a lot of our front and back yards into flower/shrub gardens, mostly English-style but with a couple of pockets of Japanese-influenced horticulture.

That is, IF we don’t end up returning to Texas. The pull is strong. This is a beautiful area, lyrical and mountainous, witchy in its beauty, safe in its demographics and makeup, and varied in the terrain and seasonal changes, but simply put, it just ain’t Texas. We’re unable to articulate this adequately except to other Texas expats. The people who endure the long summers understand. They understand. To walk into a grocery store and stand in line behind some rangy cowpoke wearing Wranglers and pointed-toe boots and a snap-button shirt and a Resistol hat and not to even notice his attire or his quiet courtliness….this is a snapshot of beauty, and it is found only one place on the brindled hide of the country in which we grew up.

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I mentioned movies and music I’ve enjoyed recently, but the one thing I have not enjoyed is reading, and this, my friends, is a true tragedy. I have been an avid reader since I learned the alphabet at my mother’s knee, but of late — and I know not why — I have fallen into a literary slough of despond. I simply cannot focus on reading a book right now. I do okay with articles and blog entries and short essays. But every time I pick up a book (and I have several in progress currently), I feel my gears lock up and start smoking, and then I find myself staring at the same page for twenty minutes without knowing what I’m looking at, and then I put the book down, and then I spend an hour trying to suss out what is wrong with me.

I do hope I can slog my way out of this mire soon; reading is one of the few unalloyed joys that has been with me my entire life. I never want to lose it.

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A friend sent me this photo earlier today. It shows the actor Matthew Modine in the 80s starring in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. the only movie I’ve ever seen that captures the genuine flavor of pre-woke Marine Corps bootcamp (thanks to R. Lee Ermy, who played the unforgettable Drill Instructor with fierce elan). The photo on the left is from the scene where Modine and his partner go to Da Nang to do a bit of I&I (that’s intercourse and intoxication to you civilians) and get approached by a Vietnamese prostitute, who propositions them with the unforgettable “Hey, baybee…you wan’ girlfriend? Me love you long time. Me so horny….” The pic on the right is, of course,  a current photo of Modine and the actress who played the tubercular whore in that scene. The winds of time, my friends. The winds of time.

Modine’s name always reminds me of Martin Short’s hilariously annoying alter-ego, celebrity interviewer Jiminy Glick. Glick was infamous for talking over celebrities and waxing philosophical about his wife Dixie and his three sons: Mason, Matthew, and Modine.

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Oh, and I forgot to mention something while I was griping about reading. My penfriend Genie is back at the keyboard on her blog. I enjoy her posts and her take on things. And I really like her paintings. Anyone who can paint has my unfeigned admiration. It’s a chromosome I did not inherit. Check out Genie’s musings here.

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How did this happen? How did October roll into town like a refrigerated carnival truck driven by sneering little tricksters who enjoy surprising the townies? They promise beauty and fun and adventure, and they do deliver, but then the fun turns into swollen knuckles on fire, and hips filled with ground glass, and every old injury showing up dressed in white tie and tails, bearing a ticket to the annual Reunion of Regrets gala, featuring an NSAID buffet and the regular house band, known as Why Did I Think That Was a Wise Course of Action?

Sleep well, my friends, and enjoy the wizardry of the month, and the magic of your own life, and the incantations that sift through the cooling air over your head, and the very breath with which you are entrusted for now. All things change and end….and I hope they go on.

~ S.K. Orr