I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

All The Things Ray Singleton Can't Do Right

Dear Livy,

I've never been very focused on the past.

Some of it hurt too much.

Some of it seemed to serve no purpose to my and our future.

I never really understood why it held such interest for you.

But the gleam in your eyes never failed to make me wish to try.

She's been gone for quite a while.

To Wilson to pick up some cloth some of the Japanese worker ladies were going to use to make her a dress.

To go 'look at the butterflies'.

And he had been beginning to worry.

That something might have happened to her.

That she might have forgotten how to check the fuel gauge, hadn't been able to lift the gas can though she has been able to before when he showed her the process.

That she might have been using it as ruse to run away back to Denver to be with her rich and fancy and clearly disapproving of him sister to have her baby.

But I don't know how I'll get the truck back.

He's finished his chores, decided to set some paperwork in order.

And pretend he isn't watching the clock with a hawkish eye . . .

- hour and I'll go looking for her.

. . . when she comes bursting into the house.

"I was getting worried."

He tries to say it casual and not accusatory.

Though excited as she is for some reason . . .

"Sorry I'm late. I found the dugout!"

. . . she wouldn't notice if he had.

"The dugout Martha was talking about!"

Oh yes. Grandfather's home when he'd come to this land way back in the 1800s, traveling west to escape the warring in the east.

He'd dug it out of the ground with his own two hands and a shovel.

He and Grandmother had lived in it, set the first seeds in this land, worked it with the sweat from their brows and the breaking of their backs.

It was good history, it was.

He was glad they had come, set their feet down so he and his father before him could continue to work it, keep it.

Pass it on.

One day.

But the dugout held nothing of value for them.

Nothing to use on the farm, nothing to maintain or improve their circumstances now.

So he didn't pay it any mind, had forgotten exactly where it was after playing in it with Martha and Daniel as children.

But Livy on the other hand, . . .

"Look, arrowheads!"

. . . feels somewhat differently about the old place . . .

"Someone in your family was a budding archaeologist."

. . . than he does.

And although it's an irritation to him that she's stayed out later than reassured, that he's been worried and she doesn't seem to have cared, that she's again found something, anything, to take her away from this place and now supper will be late and he'll have bubbles in his chest when he goes to bed tonight, that he's doing something important, providing for their livelihood, something she never seems to appreciate or notice or take interest in . . .

"Look at this one."

. . . he still finds himself smiling a little at her excitement, at her joy, at the light in her eyes.

Over little pieces of rock.

He's decided to clean the place up a little bit.

When the baby comes and if Livy stays, eventually the child will walk.

Play

Explore.

And if the place is a sty, it might not be the safest for the child.

And, as they are in-between work on the crops for a few days and his wife is any and otherwise busy and engaged, constantly outside the homestead it seems . . .

May as well start clearing out some of the old junk around here.

. . . Ray has busied himself as well.

"-o, no!"

"What, what's wrong?"

"My artifacts from the dugout!"

Which of course has been the wrong thing to do.

"- did you do with it?!"

Hell be damned, Livy, can't I even touch the things on my own land anymore?

And so he dashes the fire, digs out the damned burlap sack.

". . . bottom of the pile."

And takes it in to her.

"It hadn't caught fire."

And she's good and . . .

What'd Daddy do when Mama was mad at him?

I don't remember. I didn't pay attention.

. . . mad.

So he just decides to try to . . .

". . . is a working farm."

. . . and talk to her.

"If something doesn't have a use, I throw it out."

You don't want to live in a garbage dump, do you?

"I thought it was trash."

And to her credit, now that she's yelled outside, she talks inside.

"It's not trash, it's history. Your history."

It's in the way of our future, Livy.

If that's even a thing you're interested in.

"I'd do anything-"

Which it appeared she clearly isn't.

Tensing up and pulling a displeased face when he reaches out to touch her shoulder, just her shoulder-

What do you see me as, Livy?

-reassuringly, he might add.

What kind of mold under your feet do you think I am?

"I'd do anything to make you happy."

Why can't I make you happy?

"I know that."

And he sees regret on her face, regret for what he wonders.

For acting badly?

Or thinking badly?

And he doesn't know how . . .

What do I do, Livy?

Just tell me please.

. . . to make it any better.

And since he doesn't know how . . .

"I'll take this out onto the porch."

. . . he turns away.

"Let it air out tonight."

Picks up the smoke-smelling burlap sack full of her 'artifacts'.

"If that's okay with you."

And takes it outside to the porch.

"Yes. Thank you."

Where he stands for awhile.

"Ray? Supper's ready."

And watches . . .

"Alright, Livy."

. . . the setting sunset.

"Be right in."

And then he goes in.

"Creamed chipped beef on toast."

"Thank you."

And has supper.

Is there any pepper at all left in the cupboard?

With his silent, withdrawn . . .

"Would you like some more?"

"No, thank you. I'm all full."

. . . wife.

The next morning, restlessly rested and sore in his back, he writes her a note.

"Dear Livy,

If you like junk, you'll like the cellar.

Be careful, it's dusty down there.

Ray."

And that's how . . .

Well, isn't this something?

. . . she starts to spruce up the place.

I think Mama'd be proud.