The Golden Hour Club

There is an hour in the backyard that belongs to everyone. It arrives quietly, slipping in between the late-afternoon feeding frenzy and the approach of dusk. The light changes first—that honey-gold glow that softens the edges of fence posts and turns ordinary oak leaves into stained glass. The air itself seems to exhale, releasing the urgency that drove the day's dramas.

This is when the Golden Hour Society Club convenes.

I've witnessed their gathering many times, though I doubt the members themselves know they belong to any such organization. There are no meetings called, no agendas set. Yet somehow, in that liminal space between day and night, the backyard transforms from a feeding frenzy to a tranquil sanctuary.

Breezer sits motionless atop the fence, his usual mischief set aside like a coat he's temporarily outgrown. His tail, which spends most daylight hours flagging provocations and territorial claims, drapes behind him in gentle curves. He seems to be staring into empty space, his dark eyes reflecting the amber light. There's a stillness to him I rarely see, as if he's trying to hold onto the moment before it slips away.

Below him, the dove sisters have settled near the feeder, their soft cooing reduced to occasional murmurs. They're not eating, not really. One or two might peck halfheartedly at scattered seed, but mostly they simply occupy the space with their gentle presence. Their usual nervous energy has dissolved into something approaching peace.

Even Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, has gone quiet. His silhouette against the golden sky looks almost contemplative, his proud red chest softened by the forgiving light.

From somewhere beyond the back fence, the sound of children playing floats on the evening air like dandelion seeds, punctuated by the excited barking of dogs who've been invited into the game. But the sounds are distant, muffled by the space between us. It's auditory soft focus; present but dreamlike.

A Carolina wren makes one last appearance at the feeder, taking a few seeds with unhurried deliberateness. She doesn't sing her usual proclamation. She simply eats, pauses, looks around with what I can only describe as satisfaction, and disappears into the jasmine.

What strikes me most about the Golden Hour Society is the complete absence of competition. For these few precious minutes, no one is defending territory or staging raids. The peanut wars are suspended. Even Ziggy, who spends most of his waking hours perfecting new ways to create chaos, sits quietly in the crape myrtle, his energy on hold, waiting for morning.

"They're all so peaceful," Ms. Wonder said, and there was something in her voice, a kind of reverence, that acknowledged something sacred for all creatures.

I think about their lives, these backyard citizens of ours. They wake to urgency: food to find, rivals to outmaneuver, threats to avoid, territories to defend. Their days are measured in survival, avoiding predators, defending nests, and securing a meal. The hours between sunrise and this very moment are filled with the exhausting business of staying alive.

But here, in this golden hour, they're released from that urgency. The light itself grants permission to simply exist without purpose, to be present without agenda.

The children's laughter rises again, closer this time, then fades as they run in a different direction. A dog barks—not in alarm, but in pure joy. Somewhere, a screen door closes with a gentle thump. The sounds of evening domesticity weave through the golden light like threads in a tapestry we're all part of, whether we have feathers, fur, or opposable thumbs.

The sun drops lower, and I can feel the society's adjournment approaching. Soon the squirrels will retreat to their dreys, the doves will settle into their roosts, and the songbirds will tuck themselves into protective branches. 

But for now, for these last few minutes of golden light, the backyard holds its breath.

The Golden Hour Society has adjourned without a word, as it does every evening, to reconvene tomorrow when the light turns honey, and the air exhales and the world, for just a moment, remembers how to be still.

And I'm left with the feeling I always have at this hour—a gentle melancholy mixed with gratitude, the bittersweetness of beauty that can't be held, only witnessed and released.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'

"Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the cafe door and wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any."

Those words opened a post I wrote several months ago, illustrating what P. G. Wodehouse (yes, him again) calls “buzzing.” I’ve always felt a kinship with one of his characters, a certain Ronald Eustace Psmith, known as Rupert in many of the novels. He explains that the ‘P’ in Psmith is silent, as in Psummer and Pshrimp. Wodehouse calls Psmith a “buzzer,” a label that fits me, too.

“You talk too much,” my business partner once told me—ironically proving my point. I never imagined then that I’d use his words in a blog post.

“Yes, I know,” I said, and I meant it. Why deny something that could so easily be proven against me in court?

It wasn't one of my best replies, but I’m sure you’ve noticed how difficult it is to come up with just the right comeback when you're put on the spot. Planning is of the essence in tight social situations.

Some people think I buzz just to be the center of attention. And really, who doesn’t? But that’s not the full story. I buzz to spark amusing conversations and liven things up.

After all, you always “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” as Michael Jackson made perfectly clear in 1983.

Buzzing doesn’t require planning—just loud, non-stop talk. Throwing words and metaphors together in odd smashups will reliably stir people up, no matter the circumstance.

Adding humor to the buzz can be a powerful way to blow your boring life sky-high on those occasions when you've had all you can take. And yet, it’s perfectly harmless, inconveniencing no one, and doesn't leave a mess for you to clean up later.

Brian Green, the author of Until the End of Time, is convinced that all human behavior is driven by our realization that life comes to an end. That's simply not true for the Genomes.

Although I experience the full spectrum of emotions ranging from depression to high anxiety to hypo-mania, it's not because I know I'm going to die one day. It's really because I know that life can become boring, and it often happens without warning.

The most important practice I've adopted to keep life interesting is to talk early and often. Sometimes I assume facial expressions and adopt body language that augments my speech, but there are times, like writing The Circular Journey, when I only have words.

In these blog posts, I resort to jumbling words and mixing myths and metaphors. I mangle common expressions and misquote authors, poets, and songwriters. Anything to get people's attention.

Another example of the buzz in my writing comes from that same post referenced in the first paragraph of this one. It reads like this:

“It was Princess Amy who loves to arrive in a whirlwind of drama. Amy wasn’t literally driving a van. An almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas. You know that.” 

It may seem to those who don't know me well that my verbal slips are the result of not paying attention in class, but regular visitors know that, in truth, it's all intentional.

Some writers stick to the facts and dig deep into life, unearthing hard truths and not giving a damn. Not me. I approach writing the same way I approach life: as a musical comedy, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether.

What I write is always true, if not strictly factual. My words carry meaning, although you may have to hunt for it. I write to make people smile, and even my occasional drivel (yes, it happens) is chosen to lighten the mood.

"Genome always gets lost in public when we're on business trips," my manager explained to our client host. 

"We usually find him talking to a complete stranger in the hotel lobby, in a coffee shop, out on the street; you never know where he'll be, but it's guaranteed he'll be talking to someone.”

So there you have it. The 'P' in my approach to life is silent, and like Psummer, life arrives whether you're ready for it or not. And so, I’ll continue to say far too much to people I've never met, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether. After all, you Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

Trickster On The Fence

Every culture has its trickster, a clever, mischievous figure who delights in chaos and pranks, often just for a laugh. They're exceptionally bright, mischiefiously playful, and they refuse to take the world too seriously. In French folklore, it’s Reynard the fox. West African tales celebrate Anansi the spider. Native American traditions honor Coyote. In the American South, Brer Rabbit has the title. 

Here in Brunswick, the mantel is worn by Breezer, the trickster squirrel.

The morning sun had barely cleared the roofline when I spotted him atop our back fence. It wasn’t his usual casual surveillance. He was up to something. He crouched low against the weathered wood, body flattened as if to disappear, eyes locked on the neighbor’s yard with the intensity of Ms. Wonder studying her abstract photographs.

Near the fence, the neighbor’s dog, Wyatt, was methodically tracking a scent, nose pressed to the grass as he followed a zigzagging, invisible trail. Breezer held perfectly still for several minutes. Eventually, the scent trail pulled Wyatt away from the fence, his back turned to the squirrel. Instantly, Breezer darted along the fence top, closing in on the unsuspecting dog. This wasn’t his routine patrol. This was deliberate, strategic, and intentional.

When Wyatt finally turned back toward the fence, Breezer’s tail began to twitch, slowly at first, and then, rising like a flag and sweeping in clear, calculated arcs.

Wyatt spotted the motion and exploded toward the fence in a storm of high-pitched yaps, hurling himself across the yard with all the ferocity he could muster.

Breezer fidgeted and twitched, tail whipping, but he held his ground. He waited until Wyatt was leaping uselessly at the fence before he casually sprang into the nearby oak, pausing on a low branch to survey the chaos below.

It was unmistakably calculated mischief: provoke, incite, escape.

I'm not merely humanizing a squirrel. Research shows squirrels are far more intelligent than you might imagine. They possess an impressive spatial memory, remembering thousands of nut caches. If they suspect they’re watched, they fake burying food in one spot while hiding it in another.

Urban squirrels go further. Within a few generations, they’ve learned traffic patterns, mastered bird feeders, and, it seems, discovered the entertainment value of teasing neighborhood dogs.

Their communication is more than chatter. Tail positions, posture, and varied calls all carry meaning. When Mutter and Breezer talk along the fence, they’re exchanging information, not just chattering to announce themselves.

Yesterday, Ziggy discovered he could rocket through the gutter downspouts, producing a thunderous rattle that sent the crows into comic confusion. It wasn’t useful or necessary in the evolutionary sense, but he kept at it for half an hour, refining his technique, obviously pleased with the racket.

That’s not instinctual behavior; that’s planned strategy and play.

Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, does the same in his way, drumming complex rhythms on the metal drainpipe. It’s not required for territory marking. Maybe he likes the sound. Maybe he’s experimenting with composition. Either way, it’s more than survival.

The animals in our yard aren’t cartoonish nut-gatherers. They’re problem-solvers and strategists, communicators and small-scale agents of chaos. They remember, learn, adapt—and they play.

Breezer knew Wyatt would chase him. He chose his position, revealed himself at just the right moment, and timed his escape perfectly. He staged the entire event.

Was he laughing on that oak branch while Wyatt barked himself hoarse? I can’t say. But I’d bet he’ll repeat the stunt tomorrow.

The sun is higher now; the morning feeding is over. The dove sisters have retreated to their leafy convent. The crows have flown off with their ill-gotten loot.

And Breezer? He’s back on the fence, crouched low, watching the neighbor’s yard with familiar intensity.

Wyatt is being let out for his afternoon constitutional.

Here we go again.

The Calabash Cappuccino

"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Egret Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.

"Sure," I said. "It's the capital of Tunisia, on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot—or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."

He seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and nothing more followed from him on the subject of geography. Before he could think of another topic, someone else, someone else took center stage.

"Double cappuccino, half-caf, oat milk, caramel drizzle, a touch of cinnamon. Foam—just enough to look nice, no more," Spoke ordered.

I call him Spode because he reminds me of a character of that name in the P.G. Wodehouse novels. He's nothing like Spode, really, except that he's the sort who can turn ordering coffee into a Shakespearean tragedy.

This local version of Spod is a bit of a celebrity. He writes a column for Port City Arts and Entertainment, reviewing local hot spots and the arts scene, keeping us informed of the cultural goings-on in the city.

After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area and immediately came to a standstill. He resembled a man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home.

Minutes later, the barista approached him with his order.

"Your double capp," said the barista who arrived at just that moment.

"I haven't found a table. I can't stand and have my coffee," he said.

"There are tables near the window," said the barista, "and several along the far wall."

She made a delicate sweep with her arm, as though revealing tables that had been invisible until this very moment. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I decided to call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just a whim, I think.

"Oh, that won't do at all," said Spode. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room. The light is too bright near the windows, and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."

As Desdemona walked past our table, I caught her eye. "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?" I whispered.

"That's alright," she said. Then, turning to glance back at Spode, she added in a low, menacing tone, "I can go dark too."

Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room, giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.

"Excuse me," he said, moving to the front of the line. "I need to make a small change in my order," he said to the barista at the counter. "I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino."

The order taker gave Spode a look that clearly communicated: I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra with no speaking parts. This intrepid extra demonstrated professional-level improvisation by looking at the barista to his left, who nodded knowingly and moved away, presumably to handle the modification.

Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. Desdemona soon returned with his order.

"I'm sorry," said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"

She took the coffee away without a word.

Presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to Spode's table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in a gentle summer rain, but it wasn't to be.

"Excuse me," Spode called after the retreating Desdemona. "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon, and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."

Desdemona gave him a long, slow, expressionless look.

"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."

The expression on the barista's face remained unchanged.

"Please," Spode whined.

Still silent, she took the coffee away again.

Several minutes passed without noticeable barista activity. Spode appeared anxious and eventually gestured for attention.

"Am I ever going to get my coffee?" he asked when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."

“Hang tight,” said Desdemona, calm in that Zen-like state of not caring. “Don’t lose your cool and disappoint your readers with an anxious article. We’re bringing in a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee.”

Unfortunately, I had to leave before the Calabash specialist arrived, which disappointed me; I’d been eager to talk with this legendary craftsman. I’ve long wondered about the fuss over blonde espresso. That mystery, it seems, will have to wait for another Sunday morning.

As for Island Irv’s geography lesson, that mystery will have to wait. Some questions—like some cappuccinos—are destined to remain unfinished.

E2 Hidden Canvases: The Stars of the Show

The photographs were everywhere.

Spread across our dining room table, propped against bookshelves, laid out in neat rows on the floor, Ms. Wonder had transformed our home into a gallery of industrial maritime poetry. 

Each image showed a different aspect of her vision: the geometric patterns formed by shipping containers, the abstract beauty of weathered hull plates, the unexpected colors that saltwater and time had painted onto steel.

And somehow, from this sea of images, we had to choose twenty-three.

"It's like Sophie's Choice," I said, immediately regretting the dramatic comparison.

"It's nothing like Sophie's Choice," Ms. Wonder corrected, though I detected a hint of shared anxiety in her voice. "It's more like... having to choose which of your children gets to go to the good school."

"That's not actually better," I pointed out.

She sighed and picked up a photograph of a cargo ship's stern, where rust and paint had created what looked like a Rothko painting. "I know. But how do I choose? Each one represents hours of waiting for the right light, the right tide, the right moment when the industrial becomes transcendent."

Princess Amy, who had been surprisingly quiet during breakfast, chose this moment to offer her perspective.

" What if you choose the wrong ones?" she asked, thinking she was being helpful. What if the photographs you leave out were actually the masterpieces, and the ones you select are just... adequate? What if you regret this decision for the rest of your life?

"Amy says hello," I told Ms. Wonder.

"Of course she does." Ms. Wonder set down the photograph and moved to the window, where morning light was doing interesting things to the sky. "Dr. Castellanos wants 'Fading Queen' as the centerpiece. That's non-negotiable. It's the first thing visitors will see when they enter the gallery."

"As it should be," I said. The massive photograph of the SS United States—the one she'd traveled to Mobile, Alabama, to capture—was undeniably the crown jewel of her "Hidden Canvases" series. 

"So that's one down, only twenty-two to go," I said, but Wonder didn't look relieved.

For the next hour, she talked me through her favorites, and each photograph came with a story. The container ship she'd photographed at dawn in Charleston, where she'd waited three hours for the light to hit the hull at exactly the right angle. The oil tanker in Wilmington, whose weathered paint had created an accidental landscape. The freighter in Southport, where she'd discovered that rust could look like brushstrokes.

"Georgia O'Keeffe said that nobody sees a flower, really—it's so small, we haven't time," Ms. Wonder explained, holding up a close-up of a ship's hull that looked nothing like a ship and everything like abstract art. "She painted them large so people would be surprised into taking time to look. That's what I'm trying to do with these vessels. Make people actually see them."

"I want to take the viewers on a journey," she continued. "Start with 'Fading Queen,' that monumental first impression, and then move them through smaller studies that show the evolution of my vision."

"Like chapters in a book," I said, and I could see her mind already organizing the photographs into a narrative.

For the next forty-five minutes, she discussed aesthetic details,  like grouping photographs by color palette, then by subject matter, creating visual conversations between images.

I watched Wonder's face as she talked, saw the moment when anxiety transformed into excitement. This wasn't just about selecting photographs anymore; it was about crafting an experience.

"I've made my decision," she said quietly.

"You have?"

"Well, not about everything, but I know the ones that matter. The ones that show what I'm really trying to say." She picked up a photograph I'd always loved—a close-up of a ship's hull where industrial patina had created something that looked like a seascape. "I want the theme to be transformation. About how time and elements can turn utility into beauty."

We worked through the afternoon and into the evening, Ms. Wonder selecting images while I offered occasional commentary. She chose photographs that showed her range—some massive and imposing, others intimate and delicate. Some from her early work, when she was still learning to see, and others from recent months, showing how far she'd come.

By dinner time, we had identified twenty-three photographs. "These are the ones," she said, and there was certainty in her voice now. "These tell the story I want to tell."

"They're perfect," I said. "Every single one."

The most experienced art-shipping company is in Charlotte," she said. We'll need to rent a van to get the photos there, but it'll be fine."

"Of course it will," I agreed, setting the Magic 8-Ball aside and making a mental note to consult it less frequently.

Five weeks to get twenty-three photographs boxed and delivered to the shipper, and then shipped from North Carolina to New York. Five weeks to ensure that Ms. Wonder's vision—captured in hundreds of hours of patient observation and refined through years of developing her artistic eye—arrived safely at Fort Schuyler.

To be continued next week in Post 3: "Shipping the Fleet."