Quietus, Hiatus, and Other Us’s

Since returning from our trip home to Texas, I’ve been poleaxed with a deep lethargy, augmented in no small part by the weather. The warmer climes of the Lone Star State were a lovely but too-brief respite from the chill we’ve had since we returned to the farm. This morning it was in the teens and neither of us really warmed up all day, even with the heat pump running constantly (a pox on the house of whatever maladroit conceived of the idea of a “heat” pump….probably an ancestor of whoever designed the modern cars, washing machines, etc.). I’ll observe yet again that the difference between the cold months and the warm months can be reduced to one simple statement: the cold months now hurt.

We definitely did enjoy our time down in the Republic of Texas. The kids kept us well fed with homemade Tex-Mex and Italian food, and during our rambles we gorged unapologetically on tacos, barbecue, kolaches, and Whattaburger. Didn’t even gain the weight I had expected, either. It was so good to spend time with family and to be around our kind of people. That is to say, courtly, mannerly, genuine folks who know how to converse like adults and who know how to wear cowboy  hats and boots properly. Meaning, with a pistol strapped somewhere on their person, seen or unseen.

Other than being with our family, the best parts of the visit were our trips to Waxahachie to to the Fort Worth Stockyards. Waxahachie is a gorgeous little town with a nice town square and one of the best courthouses in Texas. And that’s saying a lot, because Texas is renowned for grand, stately county courthouses, none of which bears any resemblance to the cold, brutalist, postmodern government buildings one sees in most cities and towns throughout this weary land we used to call a nation. Our one regret in Waxahachie was forgetting to return to the antique shop where we found two Dalhart Windberg prints for very reasonable prices. We have a small collection of his prints and enjoy just gazing at them at certain times. One can smell the bluebonnets and hear the longhorns while indulging in such appreciation.

And the Stockyards…the fact that we honeymooned in that area so many moons ago has cemented Fort Worth’s place in our heart forever. One amusing thing — we had the phone app on as we were approaching the area so we could find the best parking areas, and the voice on the thing advised us to “keep left to merge onto the lane leading to Eff Tee Worth, Texas…” Next time I go on the run from the law, I will change my name to Eff Tee Worth. We had great fun browsing in the shops there in Cowtown, and very much enjoyed seeing the twice-daily cattle drive of longhorn steers down the main street by cowboys sporting meticulously authentic clothes,  gear, and tack.

Everywhere we went was a delight, and we truly hated to leave and come back up north, but we were determined to be good sports about it and accept the fact that we made the decision to leave Texas and move up here, and that we have much to love in our life together in the mountains of Appalachia. So we were in good spirits when we left early that morning to come back here. In good spirits right up to the point where our little friend on the phone said, “Driver alert — road closed head —alternate route activated — your route has changed.” We’ve encountered this before and didn’t give it much thought. And then we slammed right into Interstate 30 East, which was the largest parking lot we’d ever seen. There were no alternate routes until we could crawl about two miles up the road to an exit where we could detour on another road. An oil tanker had overturned and shut down the entire interstate in both directions. It ended up taking us over three hours to creep two miles to the exit and then inch down the county road and along the way until we could re-enter the interstate. And no, there were no other options. Believe me, we checked and rechecked.

So what was supposed to take 15 hours took us over 19 hours to return home that night, just past midnight. By the time we were going through the mountain pass leading to the highway that takes us to our place, I was starting to hallucinate a bit. I thought there was an 18-wheeler just in front of us, swaying back and forth, even though we were the only car on the road. We got home, unloaded the car in record time, and fell asleep in the living room for three fitful hours until it was time to get up and go get the dogs from the boarding kennel — we wanted to get there first thing in order to avoid the crowd of other folks picking up their dogs. A joyful, raucous reunion and we were headed back to the farm, where we ALL fell into exhausted and relieved slumbers.

That return trip took more out of us than we realized and we’re still recovering to a certain degree. I hope this explains my lethargy and absence from this little blog. Perhaps we’ll be fully refreshed by AD 2024…

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We picked up some old Readers Digests at a secondhand shop some time back, and I have been enjoying reading them. Not only is the content so vastly superior to what one finds in the modern edition of that magazine, the ads are pure-D wondrous. And politically incorrect! Imagine…the NERVE of ads that are aimed at women as keepers at home, or at men as being self-disciplined and capable! The horror! If most of Generation Whatever were forced to read some of these back issues, they’d be in need of psychotherapy, shock therapy, and aromatherapy on demand.

One of the articles I enjoyed today was one about the tyranny of children over their parents. I’ve attached the screenshot of the pages of this little article here. And bear in mind, this was in February of 1955. Imagine what the author of the article would think if he could have seen into the future and glimpsed what children of AD 2023 would turn out to be like. He would have screeched and gouged out  his own eyes.

Anyway, here is the article:

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Our Christmas decorations are going to be later than usual and much more scaled-back. We decided that we need to drastically reduce any of the typical commercial crap. We are putting up one small (3′) fake tree, our collection of ceramic trees, a few candles and lots of real greenery (holly, etc. from our property) decking the hearth and mantle and the clock. With each passing year, we dread decorating more and more, and we especially dread taking the stuff down once Boxing Day arrives (we will NOT leave that shit up once Christmas Day has passed). I think our stripped-down approach will please us. We’re about halfway done putting everything up, and so far, so good. The Advent wreath and calendar are part of the decor, of course, and I may — MAY, mind you — put a few illuminated snowflakes out on the front porch. And that’s that, and that’ll be that, and that’s the end of that.

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I mentioned our lingering exhaustion and have decided to take a hiatus until sometime next month. If I get bitten by some energetic bug and feel like posting some new content, I’ll reserve the right to do that. But I doubt that I will. Ennui is a very intractable enemy.

In the meantime, here is a poem I’ve been tinkering with for some time. I feel the need to post something original before the year’s end, and this will have to do.

They Grow

by S.K. Orr

My eyes are tired, and they sweep the perimeter,
Grainy and red and rough as Nelson’s stubble,
Taking in the disappointments and

Missed chances. And what do I see? The tall
Ones that I could have managed before they stretched
Too far beyond my reach and power. They popped

Up in the warm months, the green times,
And I chose to ignore them, thinking
Them easily handled in the free time
That never appeared. Back when I could

Have toppled them alone, I gave them
Their leave and they took it, as growing things
Do, and now they block my vision, impair
My light, shadow my chances, and mock me with

Their extending stillness. I cannot undo
What I have allowed, nor can I see the cycle
Of what will come and go beneath their arms.

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If I don’t post again until Christmastime, please know that I wish each and every one of my dear readers and their families a blessed Advent season, a Merry Christmas, and a happy and joyous New Year. God’s blessings upon you all.

~ S. K. Orr