We awoke to one of those days that couldn’t be more perfect for the Orr temperament if we’d sat down with a Weather & Scenery Catalogue and ticked off all the boxes for the Saturday we were ordering. A muted, witchy glow of cloud-shrouded afterthought of a sun, leaves layered like the scales of Jonah’s fish across the slippery skin of the mountain earth, the rain as fine as the mist at the produce section in the grocery store, the stillness and sacredness that churches and even libraries once had but will never have again. When I swung my legs over the bed and touched the floor, the Spotted Southern…