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Winter’s Final Friday
When she began speaking, her voice was a low cello moan, Within a few minutes, she poured the tears of today’s life , sobbing out the the bitterness of an inhaled breath of misery. As she talked, her voice became a viola, then a violin, then a bass, then back to the cello, but always, always, the pulling of the dusty bow across the singing strings, the overeager squeak of the changed strokes, the whisper of her engraved finger-pads on the stretched strands of gut. The etude, the very composition itself set down in dots and flags of salty water on the staves for the sheer purpose of challenge and…
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First Sunday in Advent
How the winds howled today. We lost power briefly, and the little artificial Christmas tree on the front porch was knocked down, and the leaves hissed across the metal roof and over the beaten grass in their swirling and liquid patterns, but it seems to have calmed down now, after sunset. The weather was relatively warm, about 60F, for which we were grateful. Mrs. Orr finished decorating the interior of the house, so we’ll enjoy the coziness for a month, until Boxing Day, when the itch to pull it all down and store it all away will overtake us. I read some Catholic blogs and I know that traditional…
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All I’ve Got
I was working at my desk this afternoon when I heard Bluebelle whimper and fuss behind me. I looked back at her, followed her gaze, and saw a lovely young spike buck in the front yard, feeding on whatever caught his liquid brown eye. I watched him for a bit, took a few pictures, and then sat back down. When I looked up again, the buck was gone. He lives with a fully-grown six-pointer, two does, and a fawn in the woods behind our house. It is a never-fading wonder to watch such lithe, muscular beauty move through my world in such an unself-conscious way. And I am grateful. ***…
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Home In High Summer
We went down into town this morning for an outing, but we almost didn’t go. Mrs. Orr has been battling a sinus thing that has migrated down into her chest and she’s been very weak from all the coughing. But she wanted to get out of the house and so we did. We ended up forgetting to buy the one thing we really went for, but that was all right. There’s an oriental market (yes, I’m aware that I’m supposed to say “Asian,” but that’s just too bad, innit?) where we sometimes shop for staples like Japanese matcha green tea, soba noodles, miso paste, and the odd vegetable like immaculate…
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Almost A Lot of Things
The other morning I bent to get a watering can so I could give some of my wife’s porch flowers a drink. When I looked down at the can, I saw movement inside. A butterfly was marooned inside, flapping its wings with less-than-vigorous motion. I reached in and scooped the little fellow up, then held him before my face. I have no way to prove this, but I could tell that the butterfly was exhausted. I held him on my hand for a minute, then called to Mrs. Orr and asked her to hold him on her palm so I could have some perspective for a photo. She whispered to…
- Bluebelle, Daily Life, Holy Days, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Jinx, Prayers, Reflections
The Third Sunday of Advent
I travel these days between the bumpers that make a loud noise and then send me hurtling back across the board to slam into a wall or another bumper, lights flashing and the tote board rolling the digits higher, and I try so hard to keep moving so as not to drop between the flippers, and I know how to bump just enough, how to catch myself in the crook of the flipper and then slap that button and relaunch up to the top of the board. But sometimes I misjudge and I drop through that too-wide space and disappear, and then I have to use up one more of…
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Post-Valentine’s
At our age, my wife and I almost don’t notice Valentine’s Day. The only exception in our entire marriage when February 14th was a significant day was nine or ten years ago when my wife surprised me with an elegant dinner at a swanky little restaurant and then walked me across the street to a tiny venue where we enjoyed a wonderful concert with less than 50 other couples. The star of the show was one of my favorite singers, Mandy Barnett, and it was an evening I’ll never forget. But my strongest memory of Valentine’s Day stretches back to when I was seven years old. In Miss Stewart’s…
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Pages
It may be a cliche, but even cliches can be true. Each of my days is like a new page in the book I’m simultaneously reading and writing. I get to the bottom of one, my stub dull and whittled down, almost too short for my fingers to grip it, and then I blink my eyes, and in the quick space of that blink, a Hand has reached down and covered that page with a fresh one, and in the groove between the previous page and the new one sits a new, sharpened pencil. With the aroma of good coffee hanging in the air of the house where I think…
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Sweet Lorraine
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Important Things Come
The important things often come to us disguised. Don’t you think this is true? *** The other day, I talked with an elderly man who, unsolicited, told me, “I got the least education of any of my brothers. Went to work when I was ‘leven year old. Worked as a carpenter, buildin’ houses. I built the house I live in. Built houses for two of my brothers. Built one house before I retired that cost a half…uh…milyun….dollars. That was my last one. My brothers all had to ask me for help at least once. And I helped ’em. That’s what you do for fambly. I didn’t mind to help ’em…