Reflections
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Active Shooter!….or, Won’t Someone Please Think of the Children???
As I predicted, the local school shooter thing from yesterday turned out to be a hoax. I couldn’t resist tormenting my coworkers about it. As soon as the facts (if such things are remotely possible in today’s media) began to spill out, my coworkers were all in a rage about how the hoaxer, a high school kid, should be tarred and feathered, etc. etc. etc. During a lull in their clucking, I spoke up. “I don’t believe it was a hoax. In fact, I know it wasn’t a hoax.” They all looked at me. “Why would you say that?” asked one, who had been particularly hysterical yesterday while the news…
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The Tenth of August
Today marks the thirteenth anniversary of the day Bonnie came to live with us. Such a noble and big-hearted dog she was, and I miss her every day. This morning, Jinx and I walked up to her grave in the woods, and the place seemed to me to be in a holy hush, decked with dew and spider’s strands, with the quiet morning noises of the woods whispering all around us. A screech owl let loose her ghostly call, and Jinx was startled by the noise. We stood a moment at the grave, and then returned to the house, the spotted dog walking beside me with dignity and what seemed…
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Behold, The Sluggard
I wanted to post something tonight, but I am exhausted after today’s long work day and I know it won’t be long until I am wrapped in the sheets and comforters of our bed. So I’ll point you to a beautiful documentary Mrs. Orr and I watched this past weekend. It’s called “Older Than Ireland,” and profiles Ireland’s citizens who are at least a century old. It’s very interesting to be visually reminded that people are not necessarily nice, just because they’re elderly. It’s also good to be reminded how lonely the aged sometimes are. We think of them as invisible people who came out of the womb at their…
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Rest In Peace
Over to the left on my sidebar, you’ll see a link to the Monastery of the Infant Jesus in Lufkin, TX. This morning, Mrs. Orr received word that one of the nuns, Sister Mary Regina, has died. If you are so inclined, please say a prayer for the repose of Sister Mary Regina’s immortal soul. Also pray for the remaining nuns at the monastery, who will certainly miss the aged nun’s presence and influence. Requiescat in pace, Sister. ~ S.K. Orr
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It’s The Usual Question, Regina
It’s always a mistake when I think to myself, “I’ll just duck in here and pick up a few things. It’ll only take a few minutes.” So there we were, meee-eee-eee-eee and Mrs. — Mrs. Orr. (Mrs. Orr, Mrs. Orr, Mrs. Orr, Mrs. Orr, Mrs. Orr…) There we were, fresh out of a grocery store where we’d stocked up, and on the other side of the parking lot I noticed the Dollar Tree…those places where, yes, everything’s a dollar. They’re great for things like notepads, generic anti-inflammatory drugs and pain relievers like Ibuprofen and acetaminophen, for cheap kitchen matches and implements that can be used in gardening (like colanders for…
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Consider the Birds of the Air; Consider My Random Thoughts
The day was muggy and hazy, ushered in by rain and a good, belligerent breeze. Everything got a good watering, but by mid-afternoon, the sun pushed through the canopy of clouds and microwaved everything into a steamy glare. The breeze remained, though diminished from the morning hours, and made things tolerable. Jinx offered his opinion that the paucity of birds is due to the Coopers hawk who is still hanging around. Thinking on his approach, I realized that the non-seed eating birds like doves and robins have been as scarce as the feeder birds. About noon, I saw the hawk gliding through the back yard, about twenty feet off the…
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Kindness From a Distance
“My life itself, and the best heart of it, thanks you for this great care.” William Shakespeare — Henry VIII, Act I, Scene 2 I received a thing of beauty. A reader, whose name I will not disclose here, wrote me an email that I have read and reread several times. The care with which the letter was composed is palpable; the sweet spirit of the sender is unmistakable. Just when things are quiet and bruised, the light peeks over the heat-withered pastures and becomes again that source of beauty to which I have looked since my first day. This letter is light to me. ~ S.K. Orr Dear…
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Wondertimes
I wish I knew what was going on. We maintain several bird feeders on the farm, stocked with black oil sunflower seed. In the past week, I’ve noticed that the bird activity has dropped almost to zero. The hummingbirds are busier than ever, draining their feeders at a faster rate than usual. But the regular bird feeders have been deserted. One almost expects to see a swinging saloon door creaking in the wind while tumbleweeds bounce down the road in front of them. This is very unusual, as I can hear the cardinals and wrens and titmice and all the other songbirds calling from the trees ringing our farm. But…
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A Wanderer Forever in the Streets of Men
Ever since I discovered him by playing book roulette at the local library, Loren Eisley has been one of my favorite writers. An anthropologist and nature writer, Eisley was “discovered” by Ray Bradbury, who read one of Eisley’s essays in a science magazine and wrote him, saying, “You need to write a book.” Eisley took Bradbury’s advice, and I’m grateful he did. Eisley’s brooding prose saturates my mind every time I pick up one of his books. My favorite of his works is his guarded, haunting autobiography All The Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life (1975, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, NY). I want to share a portion of…
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The New Holomodor
Friends and family send me videos and podcasts all the time. I watch or listen to very few of them, simply because I’m not interested in most of the topics, or because I can see in advance where the topic is going, and I don’t have time to wade through something that’s not going to provide any genuine insights or epiphanies. I am confronted daily with the international scam known as Covid. I don’t mention it much on this blog because the topic is like evil in the world: it is pervasive and spending too much time thinking or talking about it tends to depress and defile the soul. But…