Where's Napoleon Now?

The morning was one of those sparkling ones like that effervescent orange juice they sell in the food courts in Union Station in the District of Columbia. You know the stuff I mean. They make you smile just to think of drinking one and that's the way the morning made me feel--like smiling. 

I must have been smiling when I entered the front door of Native Grounds. I don't know how long the smile continued because immediately I entered, I was met by the entire southside gang, sitting at a large table near the door.

You may remember me mentioning this gang in previous posts, possibly--possibly not, because I don't write of them often. I prefer to avoid this tattered group of young men if that's the correct technical term, a miss-matched assortment of everything South Durham society has to offer, and who hang together, I must imagine, because they all work the night shift at the Food Lion. 

My theory is that they bonded, the way young men do bond while spending the early morning hours drinking Red Bull--a sport they discovered one morning when Curtis, the born-again Christian, discovered that he could get quite a buzz going drinking something perfectly legal and without a stain on its character with the church.

A few of the more alert of the group looked up from their multi-syllabic caffeinated drinks and grinned at me, thinking no doubt of the last time we met. I was considering the appropriate greeting when a voice behind me said, "What up my ninja?"

It was Doob, a Yoda-sized expatriate of Cleveland, wearing an oversized Browns hoodie that looked like it would fit an NFL tackle. His fist was raised and leaning in my direction waiting for a bump. 

Just before I arrived, Derek, one of the coffee-jockeys, left his post behind the counter and walked out to the sidewalk, the better to straighten tables, and had followed Doob into the cafe.

"Are you alright with this?" I asked Derek as I inclined the bean toward Doob.

Derek shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. "What you gonna do?" he said. "Besides, Curtis says the apocalypse is upon us and it just don't seem right to get up in somebody's face about being politically incorrect when it's the end of the world."

I looked at the designated Curtis. "What end-of-world? There's no end of the world at any time soon. That's so Y2K," I said.

"No," said Curtis, not looking up from his red-letter King James, "I'm pretty sure it's the end. It's the vampire cats." All the others nodded in unison.

"Just as long as it's not the brain-eating zombie apocalypse," said Irv.

"Vampire cats!" I said, putting a lot of topspin on it, and why not? Justified it seemed to me. I'm sure you would have done the same had you been in my position. I wasn't having a manic moment if that's what you're thinking. I remember checking in with Princess Amy at the time and she was calm as dammit. 

"There are no vampire cats," I said to Curtis. "That's just one of Amy's stories. She got it from a Chris Moore novel."

"Unh, unh," said Chad, "we saw 'em. Last night at the Food Lion."

"What? You saw the vampire cat?"

"Lots of 'em--truckloads," he said.

Chad slid something down the table that looked like a large caramel, macchiato with lots of whipped cream in an oversized mug. Doob took a slurpy hit, held his breath, and passed it to Curtis.

"Want a rip, man?" said Curtis looking directly at me. I was incredulous, is that the word I want? I gave him one of my patented looks. "It's alright," he said, "it's medicinal."

"Medicinal? What medicinal? You have a medical condition?" I said.

"Show him the card," said Chad, and Curtis took a blue card out of his shirt pocket and flashed it my way.

"That's a Durham County library card," I said.

Chad nodded. "Yeah," he said, "that's our condition. Reading makes us anxious."

This somehow got to me. I was nonplussed if that's the word. Had no comeback. I looked back at Doob who was still standing there with his fist extended in my direction. I gave it a bump.

"Troot," said Doob.

"Truth," I said.

I can't explain why, but I knew as I walked to the order-here space that today would not be the day I had hoped when I left home. Where, I wondered, was Napoleon when he was really needed?

Write is Might

"Ms Wonder, I've just had the most marvelous revelation. I'm sure I don't need to explain the true nature of life to you, so let me get right down to the nub," I said as she emerged from the garage with her arms full of boxes. 

Wonder's Photography sold to benefit Independent Animal Rescue

"Here, hold this," she said as she shoved one of the larger ones in my direction. It was disconcerting, it was diverting, and it certainly wasn't the response I was looking for.

"You could probably teach me a thing or two about life," I said, I hoped it help me avoid her attempt to derail my thoughts with those cardboard containers.

"Hold this," she repeated and I realized that I hadn't avoided anything. This time I responded by taking the box from her arms, but not with any real chirpiness.

"This box is empty," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I just now came from the Lighting Gallery," she said.

This got right past me. I felt a chill all along the dorsal fin. I live in fear that one day her perfect brain will come unhinged and I will be back where I started--standing on the shoulder of the road in the rain. Could this be the day I wondered?

"What gallery is that?" I asked.  

"I delivered some of my art prints to that lighting gallery on Highway 70 in Raleigh. I told you about it," she said. 

"Ah," I said. Not my best retort but I take pride in the fact that I do not mislead my audience and 'Ah' is just what I said.

"Still," I continued, in an attempt to get back on track, "I feel compelled to remind you that the foolishness we know as daily life sometimes comes slowly, and when it does come slowly, its impact is soft and gentle like the easy dawning of a Sunday morning."

"Easy like Sunday morning," she said. I don't know why. She just did. Just a whim do you think? I thought about asking her what she meant but realized, in the nick of time, that she was attempting to cherry-bomb my fruit punch again. She's done it before. Enjoys it, if you want my opinion.

"But it's been my experience," I continued, "that more often than not, life comes fast and strikes us squarely between the eyes, like the baseball you didn't keep your eye on. It's coming hard and fast like that this morning."

She gave me a searching look, at least I think that's what it was--searching. You know that look where the eyes move to the right and then to the left, scanning the map as it were. Gave me the feeling that perhaps I'd finally gotten her attention and that something good was coming. I was right. She let the boxes in her arms drop to the floor. I liked that. It was time, I reasoned, to begin weaving my web around her.

"There is much to do when your passion is writing," I said, and you surely know how good it felt to be talking about writing and not about lighting galleries. And if you're concerned that Ms. Wonder missed her day in the sun with art prints and whatnot, don't worry. We got back to that as soon as I had satisfied Princess Amy that the sky wasn't falling. If you haven't met Amy,  you'll want to ask one of the regulars to tell you about her.

Having gotten Ms. Wonder back on the topic of writing, I continued. "Oh sure, it looks easy. You're probably asking yourself, What's so hard about it? Where's the difficulty in putting a bunch of words together to make sentences and then group them into a paragraph or two? After all, Shakespeare did it with one hand tied behind his back and look at the drivel he sold."

"What a minute," she said. "Do you actually think that Shakespeare slapped onto the page anything that popped into his mind?"

"Please," I said. "Have you really read his stuff?" I waved my hand in the air. "All silliness and nonsense, if you ask me," I said, "but then what do you expect from someone who roamed the countryside stealing ducks?"

"Stealing ducks?" Her brow furrowed and then she asked, "Are you thinking of the stories about Shakespeare poaching deer in the Charlecote Park?"

"Let's not heap more coals on Shakespeare," I said and I thought it a pretty good comeback. "The supporters of the Earl of Oxford and Sir Francis Bacon do enough coal-heaping. No, let's talk about life and the fiend hiding in the bushes that we call Fate. The one that smacks us upside the head when we're looking the other way."

"What about it?" she said.

"What about it? Wonder, you amaze me! Do you know that more than half the time, when we aren't paying attention, our minds are wandering from pillar to post? Thoughts just rise up from the deep at random. It could be something from a Lovecraft story. Something about Thul-hu perhaps."

"Cthulhu," she said, which shot far over my head, again. 

"Ka-thoo-loo?" I said.

"That's right. Not pronounced the way you'd think."

"Thank God," I said. "But are you sure of the pronunciation?"

"Positive," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I asked.

She waved her hand in the air far more vigorously than the effort I made with mine. "And besides, I don't see a problem with daydreaming", she said. "Some researchers think it's therapeutic. And besides,  I think you're delusional."

"Not daydreaming," I said. "I'm talking about idle fretting and worrying that we fall into when we're not paying attention." 

But, truth to tell, I was beginning to get her drift that somehow, somewhere between there and here, I'd lost my way. But you know how it is when you find yourself in such a predicament, you have no choice but to soldier on and try to make some sense of it.

"Half the time we worry about the future or replay uncomfortable memories of the past," I said. "Fair warning, Ms. Wonder, idle minds are the enemy."

I thought that last remark might grab her attention but she only gave me another of her patented looks. This one was more serious than the last. Her eyes weren't actually rolling from earth to heaven but they were in a fine frenzy to find a comfortable spot to rest.

"Not buying it?" I said.

"Nope," she said. 

"I'm out of practice," I said.

"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," she said.

"Would it help my argument if I brought in something about Napoleon? Perhaps found a way to introduce Catherine the Great?"

"I think not," she said.

"Cocker Spaniels?" I asked. She shook her head.

"How about something with elves and dragons?" I said.

"Possibly," she said. "Elves and dragons would make it more interesting but I'm not sure it would strengthen the argument."

"Well, you would know," I said. "I'll work on it and get back to you. But it may take some time. I feel as though I need to start all over again." 

Burning Down the House

I should mention to those who follow this blog regularly, that there will be no mention of Napoleon, Catherine the Great, or Cocker Spaniels in this post. I mention it for no particular reason other than my desire to never disappoint my fans. For newcomers, never mind.

Ms. Wonder, whom I'm sure you know moves in mysterious ways her wonders to perform, had refilled my supply of omega capsules. She's thoughtful like that. Unfortunately, she'd mistakenly gotten the brand with lots of omega 6. She didn't realize that the more evolved species of omega is not good for my arthritis and so after the morning visit to Native Grounds, I was off to Jerry's Vita-Rama to get the preferred brand.

When I entered the store, a familiar face greeted me from behind the counter.

"Are you sober?" I said.

"Are you crazy? Of course, I'm not sober.," he said. "That man broke my heart. Listen and I will tell you a tragic story. It's a story of deceit and lost love. It's a story of...."

"Yes, we've been through all that before," I said, not meaning to be callous, but hey! We all have our limits and I'm well acquainted with mine.

"Well, then you know the story," he said.

"I do."

"Then why did you ask me if I'm sober? You must be drunk?" he said.

"Not since January 1991," I said.

"Well, there you are then," he said and he gave me an appraising eye. For the first time I noticed that he wore a purple shirt with silver crescent moons. I remember thinking that only a fat, bald guy could pull it off so well. Then he said, "Why are you here anyway?"

"I brought back some Omega capsules. They're the wrong ones."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Well, I don't mean to say that something is wrong with them. I just mean they aren't right for me."

"Why not?"

"They have far more omega 6 than is good for innocent bystanders. The inflammation you see."

"Who said omega 6 is pro-inflammation?" he said with an eye that told me he didn't believe it.

"I don't have the sources on me but take my word for it, I can't use them."

"The claims on the bottle haven't been verified by the FDA anyway so what difference does it make?"

"Are you sure you work here?" I asked

"I'm just saying," he said.

"And I'm just saying that I'm going to return them and get the ones I want, which is omega 3 with 600 DHA and 240 EPA."

"You don't have to be snippy."

"Sorry," I said, "was I snippy?"

"Snippy is what I said. Why do you take them anyway?"

"Not for the reasons on the bottle," I said.

"Very wise," he said, "and if you want to keep it a secret, you can trust me to be silent as the tomb."

"Thank you," I said.

"Of course," he said.

The door tinkled behind me and the expression on his face told me that either the angel Gabriel had walked through the door to announce the onset of Judgement Day or else Lucy Lupe Mankiller, Dark Mistress of the Greater Durham Night, was with us. It turned out to be the latter. She wore the total package: the clothes, the hair, the makeup. She looked like a crazed clown in a horror film.

"Morning, Lucy," I said.

"Don't use that wimpy kid crap on me, you worm! You abandoned me at the coffee shop in mortal need of rocking some dark magic and not a single witch in the house." She brushed her blouse as though it had been contaminated with vampire-cat hair.

Then in a different tone of voice, she asked, "Do I look like a zombie on crack?"

"Not my first impression," I said, still having the deranged clown image in my head. It felt good to be honest for a change.

The purple-shirted one, who had been standing behind the counter opening and closing his mouth like a grouper in an aquarium, said in a breathless undertone, "You burn down the house, girl."

Lucy looked at him for the first time and her expression changed in a way that's hard to describe but I'm sure you've seen it before in young women when they meet someone they think may turn out to be special in some way such as having a lot of money or not living with their parents. Then she spoke in a voice that differed markedly from the one she'd just hammered me with.

"Most fly eyeliner," she said.

"Sweet of you to notice," he said.

Lucy stepped forward and offered her hand. He brushed the back of it with his fingers. "Enchante," she said and I'm not so sure she didn't curtsy just a little.

I grabbed hold of the counter to steady myself and looked through the window in the direction of the horizon, which I'm told is handy when the world seems to be spinning 'round. Some days you can't do any better than staying tethered and letting the wild winds blow.




I'm Listening, Seattle

"Life comes hard and fast, Ms Wonder," I said as I entered the salle de bains. A dozen or so cats brushed past my legs on their way out but I maintained my composure was not distracted. 

My mind was troubled with serious thoughts and I was focused like a laser pointer. The appearance of two or three strange cats held little interest for me, in much the same way that I was little interested in just where the hell Napoleon found that sleigh he used to escape Moscow.

"Inn of The Three Sisters" 

"Are you concerned about my driving to the cat hospital in the remnants of the Great Flood?" she said. She referred to the blustery winds and torrential rains that had recently rolled up their sleeves and begun throwing their weight about south Durham.

"No, no," I said. "Not the storm. I care not a whit for the storm. The storm is like the idle wind, which I respect not." 

That's what I said although I doubt I would say it again if the opportunity arose. I have a habit of quoting Shakespeare when I don't have anything better to say. It doesn't always get the job done but it could be worse.

"Not concerned about the storm? We have high winds and possibly flash flooding all day," she said.

I held up a hand. "I didn't come for a weather report," I said. "I have pressing matters that require your fish-fueled, size 10 brain."

"I'm listening," she said and for some reason I thought of Seattle and morning rush hour in the 80's. I don't know why. Just a whim I suppose.

"Well, it's the Village of course," I said. "I thought I could forget that hell hole until the solstice rolls around, but," and I emphasized that last word to set her up for the punchline, which was, "it's gone and reared its ugly head again."

"You mean Pittsboro?" she said.

"Please, Wonder Thing, let's be perfectly clear," I said, "Pittsboro is quality. Pittsboro is full of special little treats, like unique shops and even uniquer events. No it isn't Pittsboro that concerns me, it's what lies near there on the shores of Deep River--it's Cyrstal Cove village, for god's sake, and it's hovering again."

"Hovering?" she said.

"Hovering is what I said," I said, "and it's beckoning."

She put an arm around my shoulder. I should say she tried to put an arm around my shoulder but I'm a good deal taller and so she rather draped an arm from my shoulder.  Still, it was enough. I felt better immediately.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," she said. "I'm sure you're imagining something far worse than the future actually holds. Remember, the universe has your back."

And before you ask me, yes, it's what she said. I wouldn't mislead you, ever. You've stuck by me through thick and whatnot. She actually said the universe has your back.  I felt worse immediately.

"You wouldn't worry?" I said.

"Not at all," she said.

"Just one of those things, you think it to be?"

"Precisely."

"Then what the hell are those dozen text messages on my phone, all sent by denizens of the village, and most of them from inmates of the Three Sisters Inn?"

I thought that would get her attention and it did. She raised an eyebrow and I raised one back at her. She raised a second eyebrow. It seemed to be catching.

"Well," she said and I waited to hear what would come next.  But it was a bust. She said nothing and I realized that her finely tuned brain had finally come unglued. The Genome was now adrift on an angry sea and the blustery gale outside the window was nothing compared to what waited at the end of those text messages.

"Fraiser!" I exclaimed.

"What?" she said.

"Fraiser," I said. "It's what I was thinking about when thoughts of Seattle popped into my head."

 I couldn't actually see her as I turned and walked out the door but I have a feeling that she was watching me leave and shaking her head.

Strangers Offering Scones

It was a cool, damp, and windy evening with leaves blowing around and that peculiar electric feeling you get when magic is in the air. I wasted no time in moving the empty garbage can from the curb and toward the darkness of our backyard. That darkness gave me an uneasy feeling for some reason.

I paused halfway around the house to allow my eyes to adjust, the better to see the ghouls waiting for me behind a bush. Glancing overhead, I saw an almost full moon, making an appearance through edgy, fretted clouds. It may sound like a beautiful sight but it's beauty was lost on me. Didn't make me feel one tot better about the ghouls waiting for me in the darkness.

The deeper I crept into that darkness, the more I became like that little boy from Shady Grove that I once was. It was as though a grown man returning a barrel to it's storage bin had been transformed into a 10-year-old boy told by his father to go out into the night and move his bicycle from the front yard to the garage for the evening.

Exactly why my brain work this way is not fully understood. Some say it has something to do with serotonin reuptake inhibitors, but I expect it has more to do with a Creator who became bored with the usual routine of evolutionary improvement and decided to have a bit of fun for a change and, unfortunately, I was next in line.

It's on nights like these that I remember my Great-aunt Nanny McFarland teaching me to see fairies. That's the night she taught me about magic. According to her, it was magic that kept all my personal bits and all the bits making up the entire world from flying off into space. And who can say? The Egyptians believed that magic held the world together and kept everything working smoothly. Maybe Aunt Nanny was right.

One thing I do know about magic is that it gathers in the mountains in the western regions of North Carolina where it's stored in the quartz crystal that forms the foundations of the Blue Ridge. Geologists say that quartz granules wash down from the mountains and are carried by the rivers and waterways to the sea. That explains the whiteness of the Crystal Coast beaches. It follows then, that North Carolina is a magical place.

But I'm leading you away from the way in which you should go, as the expression has it. Back to the garbage can in the dark then. The cool, damp air was full of whispers, I remember thinking.

Looking in the direction of the whispers I thought I could see three stooped figures gathered around the embers of a small fire that gleamed like the madness in a weasel's eye. There was a far off rumble, as if a thunderstorm approached, and I thought I heard a voice say, "When shall we three meet again?" Could have been my imagination.

The point I'm trying to make is that now it's October and we're on our way to Halloween--that time of year when the curtain grows thin between the reality we make up in our head and the reality that's the actual basis of the world we live in. I love this time of year because it makes me feel really alive. Someone said that we never feel so alive as when we're close to death. I believe it.

One of my most memorable events occurred to me when I was completing a tour of duty to a country I once knew. It involved an accident that left me pinned underneath the vehicle that had been carrying me back to field headquarters. I was lying in a sort of hallow waterway and the vehicle was balanced on a small ridge and it was rocking back and forth, first in my direction and then away, and then toward me again.

Each time the truck rocked downward, it compressed my chest. I remember that I didn't like it very much. I also remember seeing a very large wooden door, with a brass ring large enough to fit a basketball. Somehow, I knew the door was the entrance to the Land of the Dead. A voice like the wrong end of a howitzer spoke, "WHO'S THERE?" And each time HE asked, I thought, "Never mind. I'm not opening that door."

The experience had a big impact on me. It made me intensely aware of what being alive actually feels like. It taught me never to open big doors. And it taught me that when someone speaks in all capital letters, I should never answer. And of course it taught me that life comes hard and fast and that I should be ready for anything.

But that's enough about me and my musings on magic, Halloween, the meaning of life and everything. What about you? That's the important question. Before you answer, let me offer, if you don't mind, this little piece of cautionary advice.

If you're walking the dog after dark between now and Halloween, especially if you live in Woodcroft, Parkwood, or anywhere there have been rumors of magic, do beware. If your dog whimpers at unseen things along the path, turn back home. If you see a reddish light in the wood along the trail, resist the urge to investigate.

And if you meet three stooped and hooded figures, who aren't wearing hip-hop fashion, and if they speak sweetly and compliment your dog, and especially if they offer you a scone, don't accept it. Take it from one who speaks from experience, that is not a scone!

Have a Happy Halloween!

Cats Figure Into It

Summer is past they say, but Chatsford Hall is still basking in the afterglow of golden, summer-like evenings. Birdsong fills the sunsets that are now the color of opal and amethyst. The air is fresh and sweet and the damp earth exhales a soothing fragrance. The stars seem younger somehow as though the world has been reborn.

It was on an early autumn evening exactly like these when drainpipes and cats in the bedroom became forever linked with the Genome. I was about 11 years old and staying with my great-uncle and family at their farmhouse near the river. 

My older cousin Doyle was visiting with us. He'd been called by God to make my life a long sequence of events that could easily be described as just one damned thing after another. He took his calling seriously. No doubt he was motivated by the story of Jonah and didn’t want to be found wanting in his duty. No one wants to be swallowed by a whale.

Doyle was visiting the farm to be near the pretty daughter of a neighboring farmer. He was smitten with the girl. You might say that she’d gotten right up his nose. She had a great fondness for kittens it seems and my uncle's farm was overflowing with them. Doyle planned to exploit this surplus of cats to entice his girlfriend to drop by.

He requested access to my upstairs bedroom for a couple of hours and it was singularly important that I not be there when the young lady arrived. I was unclear on the particulars of why but imagined it had something to do with his divine calling. To prepare for her visit, we selected 13 of the kittens with just the right level of playfulness. Then I was told to disappear.

Well, it’s possible for a boy, aged 11, to entertain himself for a couple of hours on a dairy farm. Time passes in a flash—as long as you aren’t counting. I rode my bicycle into the cattle’s watering tank. I jumped out of the hay loft into a pile of hay. Still, after about an hour, I was bored. 

Even the company of my uncle’s prize-wining sow, a favorite of mine, wasn’t doing the trick. Watching this incredible creature tuck into her evening meal usually brought me to a blissful, meditative state but not on this evening. Bouncing a tennis ball usually helped to pass the time and I had one in my pocket. It bounced with a satisfying ‘pong’ on the back of the sow and she seemed not to notice.

I did it again and found the sound to be soothing. I don’t know how long I leaned against the fence of her enclosure listening to that sound--you know how you lose track of time when engaged in something you enjoy.

“Hey!” a loud voice called to me from somewhere nearby. It was the voice of my great uncle. Turning toward the voice, I saw that he was approaching at full speed and brandishing a wooden yard stick. He was quite fond of this pig and he had warned me about bouncing tennis balls off her back on more than one occasion. 

In the flash of leaving the premises, I heard a raspy grunt come from my uncle not unlike the sound made by a tiger when the goat on the menu disappears into the jungle just before the dinner gong sounds. 

I had no definite destination but I didn’t need one. I was lean and wiry, built for speed and my uncle was neither. And yet, where would my uncle not think to look for me? I was pondering this question when I rounded the corner and came face to face with the tile downspout that emptied into the rain barrels. This particular water pipe ran by the open window of my bedroom. To climb to the second floor and slip over the edge of the window sill into my room was with me the work of an instant.

I remember the feeling of a job well done as I rolled onto my back and lay catching my breath on the bedroom floor. But it was short lived. I quickly became aware of the sound of tires on gravel made by my father’s Oldsmobile. He was here to take me back home—an unforeseen complication. What to do now? Remain in hiding or meet him downstairs and risk running into my uncle again?

With all the excitement, I’d forgotten about my cousin and his plans for the room. I heard a low groaning coming from somewhere behind me. I saw that the covers on the bed were moving about, indicating that the kittens were under there, but not a single cousin, with or without girlfriend was in view. It seemed only prudent to release the cats. I approached the bed.

The expression on the map of my cousin when I pulled back the duvet outdid the look I’d seen on my uncle when he found me bouncing tennis balls on the back of the pig.

“Hey!” he shouted and began disentangling himself either from the sheets or from the girl. Hard to distinguish which.

You may have chosen a different course of action had you been in similar circumstances but I’m convinced any great military strategist—Napoleon for example—would have nodded in approval. Without as much as a glance to tell me the ground below was clear of bicycles and wheel barrows, I bunged myself out the second-floor window. 

Snakes in the grass couldn't have moved more smoothly. I bounced when I hit the ground but was pleased to learn that no damage was done. Then I heard it again for the third time. “Hey!”

It was my father’s voice this time. Like many people who make a defiant and dramatic gesture and then looking back realize they've gone beyond the limit, I was filled with regret. But too late. I was pinched and I knew it. Sampson must have felt the same when he heard the first pillar crack.

Dad rolled his eyes and I knew that he was making a silent but passionate appeal to the gods for support in a trying hour. My father followed the dictum that everything is figureoutable and so he knew that although it may seem puzzling that sons fall to earth like the gentle rain from heaven, he knew there was a reason for it. He knew that to ask, Why, would get a response like, “Oh, I dunno, I just thought I would.” 

“Mad as a coot,” said a voice from above and I remember thinking that a higher power had spoken. I looked up to see my cousin leaning out the bedroom window. “Type of a duck,” he said.

“Did you have something to do with this?” my father asked.

“Absolutely not,” said Doyle. “I do my best to take care of the boy.”

Without another word, my dad marched me inside and up the stairs to my room. It wasn’t until we were standing outside the closed door that I remembered the kittens. I had no way of knowing for sure but I surmised that finding them would not improve my dad’s mood. My hand hovered above the doorknob like a butterfly above a flower.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Dad and then he flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats rushing past us. I laughed. It was the another gesture that, upon reflection, proved to be over the line. My dad didn’t see the humor in it.

And that’s the story. It proves once again that rumor and innuendo are often less exciting that the actual truth. Still, the story is meaningful to me because even though my life has proven to be a  disappointment to many people, I've gotten a lot of stories out of it.

Stand Back

The hibiscus on my porch is a beautiful plant. Dark green leaves and compact habit, if that's the term. Means it grows in a dense and uniform shape. It is a bit unusual if blooming in two different colors is unusual for a hibiscus. I don't mean the blooms are bi-colored. Some of them are red and some of them are, well.... the color of the tassels on my uncle Floyd's huaraches, if that helps.

It wasn't the colors of the flowers but the sheer number of them that struck me with one of those life lessons that do sometimes trip you up when you're not looking. The thing is blooming with the exuberance of a house on fire. Happens every year about this time. Not just the hibiscus on the porch but all the flowering plants in the gardens, in the fields, and along the tree lines from Chatsford Hall to Blowing Rock.

The reason for all the showy decadence is that the End is Near. That's right. Just look around you and you'll see that we/re up to our necks in Autumn. Ms Wonder calls it the season of mists and fruitful mellowness. I'm not sure why but thought I'd better mention it in case it means something to you.

Autumn brings the end of the growing season and the end of the blooming one as well. Every flowering plant knows that the gig is up. Playtime is over. Time to get serious about enriching those seeds so that someone or something is around in the springtime to remember summers past.

It's the same with the Genome. When I turn off the movies that play in my mind, I realize that not only has the autumn of the year arrived, but so has the Autumn of my Years. If I'm going to leave something behind to remind people of the summers spent with me, then I'd best get blooming, and not just a blossom here and there but a great profusion of blossoms, and I need to do it with the exuberance of a Bulldog puppy.

I'm fortunate to have robust health far in excess of what I deserve, considering my youthful revels. In addition, I'm blessed with an out-of-control amygdala, my own Princess Amy, who, taking a line through the Red Queen, exhorts me to accomplish more and more with her cry of, "Run faster!"

Years ago when apprenticed to Wen the Eternally Surprised--stop me if you've heard this one--I was sweeping the steps of the dojo and he, staring pensively into the western sky, said to me, "Sweeper..." (We didn't use reals names in the dojo.)

"Sweeper," he said, "it's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through and we have to keep moving forward or the clouds will swallow us up and summers past will be like tear drops in the rain."

I'm happy to say that I've found my purpose. I only found it last Thursday at Carolina Beach when a huge wave came up from the deep--out of the blue as it were, and knocked me down and then rolled me around the sandy bottom for a while. And after the initial feeling that I was drowning and would die in about 5 seconds, I laughed at the thought that the sea had given me a pat on the back and "Attaboy!" When I stepped back onto the dry sand, I knew my purpose and I'm now prepared for that showy finale. Watch me bloom! Fierce Qigong!

To the Moon and Back

"You seem a little depressed this afternoon," said a voice from somewhere on the screened porch.

I had abandoned the attempt to tidy-up a travel piece I'd written for Carolina Roads Magazine and I'd gone downstairs to raid the fridge. I was looking for a turmeric-ginger kombucha when I heard those words. 

From where I stood, I couldn't see the owner of that musical voice, but I knew it belonged to the wonder-worker that I sometimes call, Poopsie, but who's formally known as Ms Wonder.

I remember thinking that she couldn't possibly see me from where she sat behind the fishnets and so I wondered how she'd guessed my mood. "What makes you say that?" I asked. 

"I can tell by the sound of your footsteps," she said.

I marveled at hearing this. Could she really know my day was in the recycle bin by the way I walked? Or was this one of those stage tricks done with mirrors? 

This mystery, if I can call it that, made me think of my Great-aunt, Arvazine, but for heaven's sake, let's not get into that now. It's a story for another day, and it's a story you don't want to miss so pay close attention to future posts.

"Low spirited?" she said.

I did a quick check-in with self to see if she was getting warm and found, to my surprise, that she was. And not merely warm but hot! I was low spirited! Damn, she's good! I wonder if she's ever considered a career on the stage?

I carried my glass of tissue restorer onto the porch where Wonder sat holding Olivia, who isn't a real octopus, of course. Once in her sight, the curtain raised on my own stage act and I went into my performance.

"One of these days, Alice!" I said making a fist and pushing it skyward. "One of these days, Pow! To the moon, Alice, to the moon!"

"That bad?" she said.

I considered the question. "Oh, I don't know," I said. "About average, I'd call it. Nothing on the level of wheat fields and profane love."

"I'm sorry," she said, "you've lost me. What do I know of wheat fields and profane love?"

"Ah, yes, there is that," I said. "Let me put it another way. Except for the names and a few other changes, my story's the same one."

There passed a few moments of silence while she directed a look my way that left me with that feeling you get when you're standing in the surf and the waves pull the sand from under your heels. 

"You dream of being a king?" she said at last.

"No, not that story," I said. "The story I refer to is the one that goes, Pow! To the moon, Alice. That story."

"Alice in Wonderland?" she said.

"The Honeymooners," I said.

She shook her head the way she does sometimes after swimming. "I'm afraid I haven't had that pleasure. You confuse me."

"Did you say, You complete me?"

"Confuse me," she said. 

"Ah!" I said with a nod.

I realize as I write this that you too may not be familiar with the reference. Don't feel bad. You aren't expected to recognize everything. Your head is full of other stuff. 

The Honeymooners is something with no meaning for you because you weren't born in that period of television history. And I didn't really expect you to make the connection between wheat fields and profane love. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that you think profane love refers to phone sex. 

Don't let it bother you. I'm just happy that you found me. I enjoy your company. In fact, in many ways, you complete me. And I'm happy to know that you helped make Coastal Camelot the all-time favorite post on this blog. I enjoy that one too. 

If you haven't read it yet, you should do so now. You can come back to this post later. Find it in the Favorites column on the right-hand side of this webpage. 

Now back to the regularly scheduled...

"You know the story, Wonder," I said. "It's the old one about  the spoiled princess and  the occasions that repeatedly bring one damned thing after another. Those occasions always stir up thoughts of, Pow! To the moon, Alice!"

"Of course it isn't really Alice in those day-to-day circumstances," I said. "It's the guy who ran me off the road as he checked his text messages. Or the person next to me who thought he had to yell into his mobile phone to be heard all the way to Greensboro."

"And so," I said, "except for the names and a few other changes, the story is still Pow! To the moon!"

She was giving me a different look now. It included what may have been the hint of a smile creasing the corners. 

"You wear it well," she said.

"Thank you, Poopsie. I had a good teacher."

"I'm guessing that teacher would be Life, the Universe, and Everything," she said.

"That's right."

"Served you well, has it?" she said.

It was becoming a big day for exchanging looks. I gave her one now that consisted of a little smile and a couple of raised eyebrows. Looks say so much, don't you agree?

"Then keep on that path until your ribs squeak, is my advice," she said.

I laughed. She was quoting my stuff back to me and it suited her well I thought.

"You complete me, Wonder," I said.

"I know," she said.

So there you have it. Wonder completes me and, in your own quiet way, you complete me too. It feels good.

Last Fling of Summer

"The creature of the lake is proving to be one heckofa challenging assignment," I said to Ms Wonder as we prepared for a new Thursday morning.

"Creature?" she said. "You mean lake monster?"

"It's a monster no longer," I said. "Lupe objected to calling it that. Her argument and I think it's a good one, is that we know so little about it that calling it a monster may give the public a prejudiced point of view."

"Ah," she said with a nod of the head, "and as we know too well, the public is already prejudiced to the tonsils."

"Rem acu tetigisti," I said and I felt pretty good about it too. I don't know what it means, perhaps you do, but I see it in all the best books.

"By the way," she said, "I'm curious. What do we know about this lake creature?"

"Creature of the Lake," I said.

"Whatever," she said. "What do we know for sure."

"No more than scientists know about the number of galaxies in the Milky Way," I said. "We know only that it's mathematically proven."

"What mathematically proven?" she said.

"Well, you remember that Lupe is one of those delinquent whizzes in math and she's developed the formula that proves the creature has to be there."

"You meant to say, juvenile, not delinquent," she said.

"Did I?" I said. "She's a juvenile who's not delinquent in math then."

She looked at her hands--I don't know why--and shook her head. She is prone to headaches so maybe she felt one coming on.

"I'm going to have to doubt that Lupe proved the existence of a lake monster with a mathematical formula."

"But it's true," I said. "It was her special project at the School of Science and Math in Durham. She took into consideration all sorts of stuff, like water temperature, the average depth of the lake, food supply, and stuff like that. I think the nuclear power plant figured heavily into the equation."

"I'll bet it did," she said.

"I have a copy of the equation somewhere," I said. "Was planning to use it in my article when we get a photo of the creature."

"You're going to photograph it?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "That's why I spend so much time at the lake. But we don't want people to know which lake. We don't want anyone messing about on the water and causing the creature a lot of anxiety and whatnot. Lupe thinks the creature may be a mother taking care of her young."

"Mathematically proven, of course," said the Wonder. Then she added in a thoughtful way, "A lake full of radioactive, mutant monsters."

"Yeah, creatures," I said. "Exciting hunh?"

"So how're you going to get a photo if you've spent all summer out there and haven't seen it yet?"

"Ah, that's my latest inspiration," I said. "When Lupe demanded that we not cause the creature unnecessary stress, it made me think of Happy Cats Wellness."

"I don't follow," she said.

"On our website, we teach people how they can enrich the lives of their cats to keep them curious, engaged, and happy."

"Yes?" she said.

"One of those suggestions is that the cat must get plenty of hunting play, right? Playing games that mimic hunting--something the cat is driven to do anyway."

"Wait a second," she said. "You're not telling me that you plan to coax this creature into hunting mode so that you can get a photo?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," I said. "Cats need to hunt because they've been conditioned through the millennia to stalk, pounce, kill and devour prey. I'm betting the creature is the same."

"One way to improve the lives  of cats is to dangle a feather on a string in front of them to get them to stalk and pounce."

"Please tell me," she said, "that you don't plan to use a fishing rod to cast bait into the lair and tempt a monster to attack. With you at the other end of the fishing pole and probably up to your waist in the lake?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said. "do give me some credit. Of course, I won't do something that silly. No, I've a much better way and it's absolutely certain to work. And it's a creature, not a monster."

"Do tell," she said.

"I have the perfect spot in mind where I will draw her out of hiding with hunting play, but not by dangling a feather."

"Although you admit that you know nothing about this creature," she said.

"I don't have to know anything," I said. "My plan requires no information other than knowing of something that no creature can ignore."

"You're going to have a mutant, radioactive monster chase a red dot across the surface of the lake?"

"Yes, I know, it's genius, isn't it?" I said and I felt pretty good about it too.

What the Cat Dragged In

The following post was written deep in the COVID-19 pandemic. When I re-read it now it makes me a bit uncomfortable remembering those days. I've considered removing it but it seems that we, all of us, are quick to forget what those days in the pandemic were like. I get it. The memories and not pleasant and the thought of facing more such events is scary. Maybe that's why I leave it here; to keep me--us--from forgetting.

 

Well, here we are again. Another bright, beautiful day in the Bull City. That's not to say that nothing's changed. The virus is here, of course, and it seems that everything has changed. Would you have believed, just a few weeks ago, that life could change so quickly? 

Here in Durham, as in most cities around the country, people my age are asked to stay indoors and not take up valuable public space that could be better used for other purposes. A couple weeks ago, if asked how I'd react to that, I would have replied, 

"You'll not see the Genome lying around the house when there's opportunity to be had underneath the wide, wild, wind-blown blue."

My ancestors got the hell out of Tuscany after Florence burned but we haven't forgotten the good life--nope, not a bit. And yet... here I am watching videos of Arnold Schwarzenegger telling everyone to stay inside. And he isn't simply recommending that we stay in for our best health. He's saying our former life is gone. He says, "That's over. No more. No more restaurants, no more coffee shops. No more. It's over."

Oh, my sainted aunt! 

Maybe for you, Arnold, but not for this Viking. I have the blood of the Florentine Gherardinis running through these veins. I have the genes of the Jarls of Denmark encoded in this DNA. I have the heart of Rhys ap Tewdwr of Wales burning in this breast and the spirit of the Rain Crows of North Carolina sustaining me. I'll never be defeated. 

That attitude helped me defeat drug addiction. That attitude keeps me grounded through the emotional quakes and tsunamis of manic depression. And that attitude will keep me safe and sane through the current trial or tribulation or whatever it is. I get those two confused. 

Yes, I will survive and life will go on and it will go on for you too if you know what's good for you. You have your own set of ancestral gifts. Now, I realize that you may have some anxiety and whatnot. Understandable, of course. Quite natural. But you don't need to let it get the better of you.

I have the solution.

Get yourself a cat. If you already have one, get another. They work their magic best in pairs. If you already have two, get another. I once had six cats and I was immensely better for it. I have three now and they make it enjoyable to stay home even when I'm home for more than the recommended dose for the average adult. 

Of course, they sleep until 2:00 in the afternoon and I'm forced to find other ways to be entertained, like writing blog posts for example. I haven't posted anything on this blog in months and the cats have just about had it with me. They inspire me! 

Now, I know what you're thinking, and you can't be blamed for that, but consider this...it could be a lot worse.