I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
The Singletons Go To The Library
Dear Livy,
For years and years, it has been our routine to get up, begin the day together.
Some days I wake to find you already up and at it.
Clattering around in the kitchen.
Hopefully making something that's not a Fiesta Omelet.
And those mornings are always welcome, enjoyed.
Equally as appreciated and glorious, are the mornings when I wake up with you asleep still by my side.
My beautiful angel.
And I find myself in awe that you are here.
With me.
And happy.
Until the day she had unexpectedly gone on to her reward, Ray Singleton had woken up to the sounds and smells of his mother cooking breakfast in the kitchen.
Eggs, bacon. Sausage.
Oatmeal, Cream of Wheat.
Coffee.
Depending on what they had, what was available.
His sister, Martha, would be there.
His father.
His brother.
Morning was quiet time and they ate in near silence.
Still, there was a warmth there.
A family feeling.
Something he had always lived in, contentedly accepted as being there.
He had been alone by himself since they'd found Mama in her garden that late spring afternoon.
And now, the first morning he woke up as a married man, . . .
Well, I guess she is awful tired.
. . . everything is just as it has been the day before.
He wakes up alone, just before five-thirty.
In his childhood bed.
Attends his toiletries.
Goes downstairs.
And turns on the light in an empty, still kitchen.
Makes toast.
Fries himself an egg.
Drinks a cup of coffee.
Cleans up.
And quietly goes outside into the quiet, still morning air.
Feeds the animals.
Milks the cow.
And gets on . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . with his morning.
Instead of working on the crops, he goes into Wilson.
And buys some pantry staples.
Eggs he can get from the chickens.
Milk from the cow.
They have some new potatoes already, lettuce and onions.
Collards.
Tomatoes. Turnips.
Martha always makes sure to provide some extra canning for him.
He can get a watermelon from a farmer up the road if she wants that.
So the tentative list in his head isn't too big.
He picks up flour. Sugar. Baking soda.
Coffee.
Tea, as he isn't sure what Denver ladies drink.
Bread.
Canned chipped beef.
Spam.
Reasonably confident that if she can't cook with them, he can.
She hadn't suggested anything last night, they had been derailed and not in the way one might assume.
So he has to guess for himself what they might need.
And he's determined to give her the chance she needs, give them, time, patience.
Be the husband he wants to be, chooses to be.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
"I can't believe I slept so late."
"You needed your rest."
And he thinks he might be doing alright.
"Franklin! No! Hey!"
The dog, on the other hand, . . .
"Come here!"
. . . is not.
"He won't hurt you."
Mama would have hushed Franklin down herself.
Olivia, Livy . . .
"Um, I . . ."
. . . wipes down her arms and her skirt, seeming anxious of potential dirt and mud.
Something prevalent out here on the farm.
". . . I thought I might go into La Junta today."
And throws what the baseball announcer on the radio would call 'a curveball' at him.
Mama and Martha would have taken the groceries he'd brought.
Started in some supper preparation. Maybe a cake for coffee after.
Though they have quite enough of that, thank you.
Livy, apparently . . .
Any reason not to stay here, I guess.
. . . is not . . .
"Maybe look around town."
. . . of the mind.
"Let the family know I'm here."
The family that threw you out? Didn't care enough to escort you here?
Sum up the complete stranger you traveled miles and miles away from home to marry?
But he had promised himself he would be supportive, a kind husband.
Give her time to get settled.
Which apparently means . . .
"Can I borrow the truck?"
. . . running away again.
As soon as possible.
And unfortunately . . .
"Well, the Beet Box has a mind of its own."
. . . he isn't comfortable just letting her do that all by herse-
"Beat box?"
"I use that truck to haul my beets."
Daniel named it. He was the funny one.
"It's best if I drive you over-"
"Oh, I'm sure you have things you need to do here."
I'm a good husband, Livy.
"No bother. I'm glad to do it."
Let me show you.
You'll see.
"I'll just get my library card."
And put down these groceries you might want. Later.
"In case you might want to check out some cookbooks."
If not, we still have casserole.
And P&P's cake.
It was ten o'clock now.
An hour there and an hour back.
Maybe an hour in town.
That might be about one or so when they got back.
And he supposes there shouldn't be any problem to it.
And it's technically . . .
Our honeymoon after all.
And my wife wants to go into town.
He had overheard Martha telling a friend a honeymoon meant hardly leaving the bedroom for the first week.
But . . .
Maybe we'll get there.
One day.
. . . everyone had a different experience.
With a miracle.
The drive up there isn't too bad.
She doesn't talk much.
But he's gotten used to the quiet.
And he likes just having her there.
So . . .
"Are those tomatoes?"
. . . it's alright.
When she does speak, however, . . .
"Potatoes."
. . . it makes him smile.
Interesting, city folks don't know where their food comes from.
And then she goes ahead and actually takes an interest in the farming itself.
". . . help?"
Oh that's funny. Daniel would like you.
"Oh I doubt it."
Because it's obvious she's never worked a day in her life.
No cooking, probably no cleaning either.
". . . anything about farming."
Which is obvious.
Farming is hard work.
Puts blisters on the hands, callouses.
Breaks the back.
It isn't woman's work. Not unless it has to be.
Besides . . .
"You've got the house to take care of."
Properly done, is a job all in itself.
That's what Mama always said anyways.
But it is nice of her to offer nevertheless.
And so he smiles to himself for the remainder of the trip.
Until they get into . . .
Well, that wasn't too bad at all.
. . . Wilson.
He would have opened the door for her, gentleman to lady.
Husband to wife.
But she jumps out so quick the second he turns off the engine . . .
"Do you need any change?"
"No. I have it. Thank you."
. . . that's clear she wants to be left to her own devices.
Denver ladies sure are independent.
"I'll be in the library."
So he lets her go.
And goes in the building alone.
Truth be told, he always did like going to the library.
Once he grew up a little bit from being a dirt-and-mud kid, that was.
Looking at all the rows and rows of them.
Wondering what words were written in them, what stories they told.
What words were in them he hadn't read yet.
And he doesn't mind having a few minutes to himself to find what he's looking for.
Let's see . . . where would I find . . .
"Are you expecting a little one?"
Little one.
"Yes, ma'am, we are."
"How wonderful."
I sure hope so.
But he isn't too sure at the moment.
Glancing out the window, he can see Livy at the telephone box.
The back of her, anyway.
He doesn't know who she's speaking to.
Her hunched shoulders don't look very happy.
But he thinks he might be able to find what might be considered a sort of sneaky way . . .
"Do you have any books on Heinrich Schliemann?"
. . . to reach out to his new wife.
"Is that 'sh' or 'sc'?"
"Your guess is better than mine."
Perhaps let her know he really does care about her interests.
"I think he was an archaeologist."
Who she is. As a person.
"Let me look."
And then they'll have something more to talk about.
"Thank you."
Than nothing at all.
In the before time, little more than two weeks ago, he would have been more nervous talking to the pretty librarian.
Wondering what her name was, what she thought of him.
Wondering if she might be someone he'd like to talk to.
Who'd like to talk to him.
Now, though, he's a married man and . . .
"Are you interested in archaeology?"
"Oh, uh, my wife is."
. . . it hardly crosses his mind.
"Your wife?"
"Yeah. She's interested in it so I'm interested in it too."
Except to put into context how much things have changed in two weeks.
"Well, she's a very lucky woman. Most husbands wouldn't care."
"Thank you."
And how much he hopes they change . . .
"Well, here's your book. Have a good day."
"Have a good day."
. . . in the future.
He hides the books from her.
The Troy book.
The baby book.
He doesn't really know why.
Except he doesn't want her to know how uneducated he is.
Especially compared to her.
And he doesn't know if she even wants him to be involved with the baby at all.
Some women, he's heard tell, find it was an invasion of their privacy for a man to ask about 'woman' things.
He also supposes it's a way to protect himself.
Against that look of hers . . .
It'll be okay.
We both just need time.
. . . he has already begun to dread.
I hope.
"Would you like to go in? I don't mind waiting."
And she's suddenly brushing it off, a casual wave of her hand, bright red lips smiling.
"No. That's alright. We can just go."
Yet not exactly smiling.
And he feels a little puzzled.
You wanted to come here so badly this morning.
Still . . .
"There's a, uh, a picture movie theater over there. If you're intere-"
"I'd really like to just go home, if you don't mind."
You do?
"Alright. If that's what you want."
And then, just to prove how much he is willing to give them both the chance they need.
"Would you like to try driving the Beet Box?"
That he respects her, views her as an equal, a thinking, intelligent individual.
And . . .
"Really?"
"Yes, I mean, if you want to drive the truck to town yourself, you have to learn, right?"
. . . trusts her.
"Y-yes, thank you, Ray!"
And wants her to be happy.
"You're welcome, Livy."