Sleepy Hollow Revisited

"There is a little valley, or rather a lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility." 

--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." On page 105 is the artist's depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.

(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)

Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."

By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.

Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.

Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk," and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.

We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?

We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.

Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.

Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.

In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.

The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.

This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.

The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.

Mr. Irving concluded his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words: "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.

Day's Unveiling

The predawn hour lulls you into thinking the world is still asleep, wrapped in a blanket of quiet. But if you listen closely, you hear the rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of a bird who didn’t get the memo about sleeping in. It’s nature’s way of a good stretch and a big yawn, getting ready to throw back the covers and greet the day.

The Unveiling of Morning

On this particular morning, the air had that crisp, new feel, like a freshly minted hundred-dollar bill. There was a faint scent of possibility wafting on the breeze coming uptown from the Atlantic.

The ancient oaks lining Third Street, usually so stoic, seemed to shiver with excitement, their branches reaching greedily for the sliver of light just peeking over the horizon. In my mind, I could hear them say, "Kvncvpketv [Gun-jup-ghee-duh" in the language of my ancestors, meaning "Don't get too cocky."

I parked in front of the Circular Journey Cafe, and when I stepped out of Wind Horse, a solitary bird let out a tentative trill. Then another joined in, and another, until the whole neighborhood seemed to hum with a quiet, growing chorus. It 
wasn't the full-blown orchestral performance of mid-morning, but more like tuning up before the main event.

A Daybreak Melody

It reminded me of those early Manilow tracks, the ones where the piano gently introduces the melody before the full brass section kicks in. "Daybreak," I thought, "it's always the gentle beginning, the quiet promise of what's to come."

And sometimes, what's to come is just another day of trying to convince the sewer harpies to leave Princess Amy alone so we can get some work done on the media empire we're quietly building to bring some sanity back to the world.

Haven't you heard about that project yet? Oh, I thought I'd mentioned it. Hmm, maybe there's a good reason I haven't brought it up. I'll give it more thought. There's no rush; I was interested in getting your opinion, but we can talk about it later.

Until then, I'll leave you with a bit of public service: Keep smiling and be assured that good things are coming. Until next time, be happy, be healthy. As simple as they are, even those words seem filled with grand possibilities on a morning like this.

Not Just Ships

We were back at our regular table at the Circular Journey Café—window seat with a view of the street that offered just the right amount of distraction for deep creative thinking and a guy like me with an attention deficit personality to keep occupied.

Ms. Wonder sipped her espresso and adjusted her scarf in that casual, effortless way that seems to be her birthright. I can't quite figure out how she manages it, but I have a feeling it's in her DNA—perhaps something her ancestors learned while in service to Catherine the Great.

“I’ve been looking for a new venue for the Ships of the Cape Fear series,” she said, eyes lighting up with that now-familiar spark of visionary momentum.

I nodded slowly, trying to look like someone who knows things about cargo ships. I'd try pretending to know something about abstract expressionism, but it's never worked before, so I gave it a miss.

“Ah, yes," I nodded. "The floating rectangles of industry.”

She ignored me sweetly. “Not just ships--they're abstract compositions. I’m fascinated by their structure—the precision, the engineering, the sheer audacity of them.”

I glanced out the window where a pit bull had stopped to stare at me through the window, as if to ask if I was going to pretend I could connect "audacity" to cargo ships.

"Audacity?" I asked. "That’s the word you’re going with?”

I asked the question after realizing that if a pit bull knew I was clueless, it could easily be proven against me in court, so why pretend? Would you have done the same?

She smiled. “Absolutely. These vessels are not just ocean-going machines. They’re like... mechanical poetry.”

“Of course,” I said, flipping my notebook to a blank page, in case inspiration struck me for a new blog post. “Mechanical poetry," I said to hide the fact that what I'd actually written was 'Help me!' 

She sipped her latte and then, with a wistful look in her eyes, she said, “My grandfather was a structural engineer. He designed government buildings in Santa Fe. They were admired for their efficient design and functional utility, but they are also beautiful in their symmetry and purpose. That’s where it started for me. I appreciated how form serves function.”

I nodded, possibly too eagerly. “So, cargo ships are designed specifically to efficiently carry cargo across a great expanse of ocean, and yet, even though their design has nothing to do with beauty, it somehow creates an awesome, inspiring structure."

Ms. Wonder paused. “How did you do that?" she said with wide, admiring eyes. Her look gave me a jolt of feel-good in a way that old me I could coast through the rest of the conversation. I don't mind telling you, I was on top of the world.

"They're like colossal timepieces, in a way," she said. "Each gear, lever, and bolt work together at a level of harmony and scale that's beautiful. It’s abstract art born of industry.”

I took a thoughtful bite of my croissant, reminding myself that the less I said, the better. “I see,” I said, which was mostly untrue, but seemed safe. I looked back out the window at the pit bull and raised an eyebrow and waggling my head in a self-satisfied way. The dog looked at the human following on the leash behind him and then walked on.

“They’re not just ships,” Wonder continued. “They’re monuments to human ingenuity.”

“Hmmm,” I said strategically.

She laughed. “I know it may sound strange to you. But when the afternoon light is glancing off a curved hull, and the steel is marred by the action of wind and waves," her eyes took on that faraway look again, as if she were out on the river, the water calm and the sunlight reflecting from the water to light up the superstructure of a container ship.

"And I get the angle just right for the photo," she continued, "It's an emotionally moving moment. Almost tender.”

I squinted at my coffee. “It doesn't sound strange. I think Michael Jackson said it best: That's why you've got to be there.”

She blinked. “Who are you? And what have you done with the real Genome?”

“Okay," I said, gesturing vaguely while she laughed. “But tell me something, If someone thinks a cargo ship is a big metal box floating on the river, how do you help them see what you see?”

“My photography introduces abstract elements like contour, shadow, and color before the mind has a chance to categorize what they're seeing. Once someone realizes they're seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar way, their perception shifts.”

I blinked twice. “Like when I saw Beignet, that magnificent ragamuffin, on top of the fridge and mistook him for a loaf of sourdough?”

“Exactly,” she said, without missing a beat. “It’s all about perception. It's something cats understand naturally.”

I leaned back, pretending to reflect on her words, but I was really thinking about Beignet. “You know,” I finally said, “I think I get it now. Ships are like... huge kinetic sculptures.”

She looked amused. “Close enough.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, letting the idea settle—or we may have been thinking about once and future cats. 

“Well,” I said, finishing my cappuccino, “I think this calls for a new exhibit. Big, bold prints. Maybe include a soundscape—distant foghorns, I think, don't you?"

Ms. Wonder’s eyes twinkled. "Obviously,” she said. “I’ll start contacting museum and gallery curators.”

"Great!" I said. "I think we’re on to something."

"I think I'm on to something," she said with a grin, "I think you're on something."

Raspberry Beret of Happiness

The key to happiness is found in fantasy. I'm not saying it's the only key to happiness. I'm sure there are others. I just haven't found them.

Life is chaotic and messy, and it never unfolds the way we expect. Fantasy, on the other hand, can be anything we want it to be. Fantasy is predictable, and that makes it immensely satisfying.

The kind of fantasy I'm talking about is the kind you create for yourself. It's a fact of human psychology that we all tell ourselves stories about our lives. The stories we tell become the lives we live. That idea is the reality behind the notion that we create our future. 

You see, we don't always clearly see the situations we're involved in. We make mistakes in that regard and see circumstances in ways different than any other sane person would. But it doesn't matter in the long run because whatever we choose to believe becomes our reality.

Intentional, meaningful fantasy can make the world a happier place by simply changing our view. That's why I write The Circular Journey. I create a fantasy that explains and overcomes the nonsense in my life. I accept the fantasy because it makes more sense to me and seems more real than so-called physical reality.

If you aren't quite convinced of the truth of my argument, consider the following:

For decades, I've loved the song, Raspberry Beret by Prince. I could never be unhappy hearing it. The curious thing is that I didn't know the lyrics, only a few words and short phrases. I decided to learn the lyrics so I could sing along.

What a surprise! I didn't like the lyrics; they disagreed with my moral compass. I stopped listening to the song. I felt like a man chasing rainbows with wild abandon until the rainbow turned around and bit me on the leg. My spirit was broken, as broken as the Ten Commandments.

Then one day, during my routine physical therapy, the song began playing on Spotify. I was so focused on the therapy, that I began singing and feeling joyful before I realized what I was listening to.

From that day forward, I was able to enjoy the song again by simply choosing to ignore the lyrics.

Eureka! The principle of displacement! 

Not the displacement that Archimedes was so fond of, but Eureka just the same. Displacing one value with another made me as happy as damn it! I don't know what that means either, I just like saying it.

What's it all about? Well, I've heard it said, and I believe it, that if you don't like the way your day is going, you can change it. You can start your day over as many times as you like.

Happiness doesn't just happen to us. We must choose to be happy and demand nothing less. Then we must keep on choosing it every day.

Whenever life isn't going your way, simply put on your raspberry beret, get on your metaphorical Vespa, and set out on the open road to blue skies and better days. Works for me.

Hamlet All Over Again

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the window of my bedroom office, wearing a mood designed to spread goodness and light, had there been anyone around to receive it. Rather like a lighthouse beaming its cheerful rays into an empty sea.

Morning had recently stolen upon me as I sat writing a letter addressed to me in the future. I was unaware of the passing of time since waking at 5:00 am. It was the same morning the mystery voice had said, "Hello, I'm Claudia from Sweden." You surely remember my telling you about that in a previous post.

Something about that voice and the image that accompanied it had kept me from getting back to sleep, and there I was, unaware that dawn had swept the stars from the sky and that the sun had poured a rather generous cupful of sunshine onto Wonder Hall. The birds were likely singing their morning repertoire, though I hadn't noticed them either.

I may have continued to sit at that desk watching the movies playing out in my mind had Ms. Wonder not glided into the office like Catherine the Great leading her troops into the palace to get Peter's attention.

I was happy to see her, of course--couldn't have been more pleased. I told her so.

"Poopsie," I said, "So good to see you."

"Have you been up all night?" she asked with a hint of concern in her voice, the sort of concern one might show for a child who has been caught coloring on the wallpaper.

"Don't be silly," I said, "Only since 5:00."

"Have you been working on the book?"

"Not the book," I said. "I wrote a letter addressed to my future self."

"Hmmm," she said in the way she might if she'd found me building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.

"You know how it is," I said, "when you have an important decision to make and you think you've made it, but instead of acting on it immediately, you must wait until it's time to commit."

"I follow you so far." Her eyebrow arched a little higher than my comfort level.

"When it comes time to act, you question the soundness of the reasoning that led to that specific decision." I said, hoping the explanation might bring the eyebrow back to Earth.

"Sure, I see what you're getting at," she said. "Prior to the time to act, you felt no pressure, and the cingulate cortex was in charge, making reasonable, logical decisions."

"Maybe," I said. "Could be." My grasp of brain parts is much less comprehensive than my collection of vintage rock concert t-shirts.

"Then, when the time to act arrives," she continued, "the limbic system generates anxiety and indecision results. It's like the poor cat in the adage."

"Cat in the what?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed my stop on her train of thought.

"Hamlet compared his hesitation to act as being like the poor cat in the adage, who let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"

"Well, I don't know about the cat, but I know about indecision. Someone put it well when he said, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I understand that perfectly."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder, please!" I said. "Language! You may dump your garbage into the Winter Canal and pollute the Neva River, but don't dump garbage into my ears."

"I have a suggestion that may bring satisfaction," she said.

"I was hoping you would," I said, and I thought it was admirably diplomatic.

"Write a letter to yourself explaining the decision you've made and why. Then, when you get cold feet, refer to the letter and you will know the decision you made is sound."

"Write a letter to my future self?"

"Precisely," she said.

"I did that just now," I said, holding up the pages before me with the pride of a fisherman displaying his world-record catch.

"Then I don't understand," she said. "What's the problem?"

"Problem solved," I said, beaming.

"I'm happy I could help," she said, with a smile that suggested she was accustomed to these circular journeys.

"Thank you, Poopsie."

"Not at all," she said, gliding out of the room with the same imperial grace that brought her in, leaving me to wonder if I'd only in that instant woken up.

Hurricane Season

The morning sun streamed through my bedroom window, as optimistic as a weather report promising parade-perfect skies. Outside, birds chirped and darted about without a worry in the world—blissfully ignorant of anything beyond their next snack.

"It’s coming," Princess Amy declared, her voice echoing through my thoughts with theatrical flair.

"What’s coming?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Hurricane season." Amy’s grin was positively sinister. "June 1st. Practically tomorrow."

"It’s mid-May—and gorgeous outside," I objected.

"Exactly how they lull you into a false sense of security," she insisted, omitting any details on who “they” might be. "Then—WHAM! A Category 5 churning up the Cape Fear River."

I sat up with a start. "Do you really think we could get a major hurricane this year?"

Saved By the Wonder

Ms. Wonder appeared in the doorway before Amy answered. She was dressed in a sensible outfit that somehow managed to look both efficient and elegant. She extended a cup of coffee toward me like a reward for waking.

"Another conference with Princess Amy?" she asked.

"She's convinced we're in for the hurricane of the century," I explained, accepting the coffee with gratitude. "Says we're overdue."

"It has been rather quiet these past few years," Poopsie acknowledged, sitting at the edge of the bed with the poise of someone who has never once panicked about barometric pressure. "But that doesn't mean we need worry about it in May."

"Not worrying," I clarified. "Planning. There's a difference."

"There's really not," Poopsie said with a smile. "At least not when it comes to you and weather systems."

With my anxiety simmering just below the surface, I slipped out of bed and steered Wind Horse toward the Circular Journey Café for Sunday coffee with Island Irv. I was confident that a family man like Irv would be a more receptive audience for my hurricane concerns.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

The Cape Fear River calmly stretched into the distance,  its surface deceptively calm under the morning sun. The Memorial Bridge arched over the water, giving me an unobstructed view of a dredging barge lit up like an emergency warning sign. Not what I needed in my current mental state.

"You know," Princess Amy said, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence, "they say during the Storm of 1913, the water reached this very bridge."

"This bridge wasn't built until decades later," I pointed out.

"Don't interrupt," Amy scolded. "I'm creating ambiance. Anyway, the storm surge came rushing up the river like a liquid locomotive, swallowing everything in its path."

Despite knowing better, I found myself gripping the steering wheel more tightly as I turned onto Third Avenue and then into the Castle Street Arts District.

Inside the café, I felt a sense of calm from the soft, gentle atmosphere. Island Irv was already seated at our usual corner table by the windows, but away from the door. He looked casual and relaxed in a Yankees sweatshirt that had definitely seen better decades.

Serious But Easily Solved

"Genome, my man!" he called out, raising a mug of something that looked like coffee from home. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"For now," I replied ominously, settling into the chair across from him. "But hurricane season is coming."

Irv's expression remained unchanged, like a man who had long ago made peace with whatever the universe might throw at him. "Aren't hurricanes just big windy storms, after all? Besides, they give you plenty of warning, not like earthquakes that show up unannounced."

"Just big—" I sputtered, nearly knocking over the cappuccino, freshly delivered by Awet, our favorite barista. 

"Irv, they're devastating forces of nature!" countered Awet.

I felt Princess Amy stirring deep in my brain, in the vicinity of the hippocampus. "Why do you drag me down here every Sunday to deal with this duffus?" she asked.

"What concerns me," I said, leaning forward into Irv's personal space to show I meant business. "We're overdue. It's been years since Wilmington took a direct hit."

"So?" Irv asked, taking a sip from his mystery mug. Awet gave him an open-mouthed look of disbelief.

"So?" said Amy with considerably more topspin than Irv put on the word. "Did he just say, 'So?' What a cabbage head."

"So, we need to prepare!" I insisted. "Evacuation routes, emergency supplies, communication plans. We need to decide whether we'll evacuate or shelter in place. And if we evacuate, where do we go? And what about Zwiggy? She hates car rides."

"Zwiggy is a squirrel," Irv reminded me.

"She's family," I corrected.

Irv leaned back in his chair, the very picture of unbothered existence. "Look, Genome, I've lived through more hurricanes than I can count—"

"That's not saying much," Amy interjected inside my head. "He can barely count to ten without using his toes."

"That's your hurricane preparedness advice?" I said. "Just don't think about it."

"That and buy plenty of beer," Irv added. "Power goes out, beer stays cold for at least a day if you keep the fridge closed."

"Genius!" Awet snorted. "Typical man. World ending, better have cold beer."

I had to admit, she had a point. "Yeah," I said in solidarity, "My anxiety disorder called him a cabbage head."

"On point," said the Awet, offering me a high five. I didn't leave her hanging.

"Hey!" said the Islander. "I'm right here and I don't appreciate being the object of derision."

"Oh, it's all in fun," said Awet. "Don't get your knickers in a twist." She offered me another high five.

"Yeah, relax, Irv," I said. "Maybe if we ignore you, we won't even notice your head."

"I'm serious," warned Irv. "Call me cabbage head just one more time and I'll cosh you cross-eyed."

"Ok, ok," said Awet. "Yes, it's serious, but not a difficult problem. I think a different hairstyle would provide a solution."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Just a little closer trim would make it clear to even the most casual passerby that his head looks more like a pumpkin than a cabbage."

There's Nowhere Like Home

Later that evening, as the setting sun cast a golden glow over our garden, my anxiety about the hurricane faded to a manageable level. Ms. Wonder had rightly pointed out that we had weathered storms before, and we would do so again. If the big one were to hit Wilmington this year, we'd be prepared.

My thoughts drifted to the idea that regardless of circumstances, we'd always have each other, and that alone would improve any situation. 

"And you'll have me," Amy reminded me. "You're stuck with me through fair weather and foul."

On that somewhat comforting thought, I leaned back in my chair and allowed myself to enjoy the perfect May evening, while reminding myself to check prices on hurricane shutters before June 1st.

Discovering Wonder

When I stumbled upon a weathered diary in a Pinehurst thrift store, I could never have imagined how its contents would parallel my own life. The journal belonged to one Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder (1887-1962), an eccentric American inventor, socialite, and philanthropist whose unconventional approach to everyday opportunities captivated my imagination.

As I read her whimsical entries, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance this historical Poopsie bore—in spirit, creativity, and outlook—to someone very dear to me. That someone is my very own “Poopsie,” affectionately known to followers of The Circular Journey blog as Ms. Wonder.

At first, the connection was amusing. But the more I read, the more I felt I was looking through a mirror—one side reflecting a woman from the past, the other revealing the woman I love today. Let me introduce these two Poopsies, whose lives, separated by a century, dance to the rhythm of a song only they can hear.

Unique Creative Spirits

Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder's personal journey was as colorful as her public persona. Born to shipping magnate Harrison Wainwright and his wife Eleanor, a suffragette activist, young Penelope showed early signs of both brilliance and nonconformity. She was headstrong, imaginative, and determined to forge her own path.

My Poopsie grew up in an equally vibrant setting—as the daughter of insurance magnate John Olewine and his globe-trotting wife, Barbara. From an early age, she showed the same sparkle of brilliance and individuality, a trait that still sparkles today. 

By the age of sixteen, she had moved into her own apartment and was working as a beauty consultant in Houston's Galleria.

A Life Mirrored in Art

In the 1930s, Penelope W. Wonder’s photography was regularly featured in American society magazines. Her portraits and street scenes, often taken from odd angles or composed with theatrical flair, earned her a cult following.

My Poopsie's journey through photography eventually led to Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies, where she crafted a powerful photo-documentary titled Last Generation—a collaboration with a tobacco-farming family near Durham. Its honesty and quiet dignity captured public attention, culminating in its selection for the Southern Arts Federation’s tour and a gala opening at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta.

Eventually, the documentary was acquired by the North Carolina Office of Archives and History and is now on permanent display at Duke Homestead Historical Site.

Both Poopsies had a lens into the soul of their times—and knew how to use it.

Inventions with Heart

In the early 1900s, the historical Poopsie made headlines with her “Self-Propelled Umbrella Hat,” a delightful oddity meant to free the hands during rainstorms. While not a financial success, it cemented her reputation as a cheerful innovator.

Modern Poopsie’s inventions grew from love and necessity. After our beloved cat, Eddy Peebody, faced medical challenges, she designed a suite of veterinary aids—post-surgical garments, allergy-free bedding, comforting blankets to reduce anxiety—tools that have since helped many pets and their caretakers. Like her historical namesake, her creativity is always paired with compassion.

A Mission to Serve

During the Great Depression, the original Ms. Wonder established the Wonder Foundation, which supported community kitchens and adult literacy programs throughout New England. Her whimsical motto: “Practicality with a dash of absurdity.”

The modern Ms. Wonder channeled her compassion and nurturing instincts into our feline family. Over the years, that specialized care evolved into Happy Cats Wellness, our preventive-health initiative for cats. Though our methods differ from Penelope's, the impulse is the same: to create meaningful, tangible good in the world.

 My primary role in the family is to promote Poopsie's visionary ideas. I suspect Harold Wonder, Poopsie’s husband, played the same role a century ago.

Eccentricity as a Feature

Penelope "Poopsie" Wonder was widely celebrated for showing up at formal dinners with her pet ferret, Bartholomew, dressed in matching outfits. She believed life should be lived joyfully, without apology.

In our house, joy takes different forms: whimsical tchoke-themed arrangements, poetic arguments about seafoam, and cat furniture as home accessories.

The Art of Documentation

Where the historical Poopsie captured a changing America with her camera, contemporary Ms. Wonder and I spent nearly two decades as travel photojournalists. She framed the world through her lens; I wrote the words. Together, we created a living document of our journeys in more than eighty travel articles, illustrated with over 600 of Wonder's photographic images. Regional magazines and newspapers published our work, and our memories still hum with the places we saw.

Solitude and Reinvention

After Harold Wonder died of pneumonia in 1939, Penelope withdrew from public life, only to reemerge with a sharper philanthropic vision. Her diaries describe a new focus on community and contemplation.

We retreated from public life too during the pandemic of 2020 - 2022. For almost three years, life went quiet, and when Poopsie returned to her art, it had changed dramatically. Her new photographic series—abstract images of ocean-going marine vessels—aims to expand human awareness by altering how we perceive shape and light. A different medium, perhaps, but similar transformations.

Tea and the Thinking Brain

Legend has it that the historical Poopsie advised President Roosevelt using what she called her “Beverage-Enhanced Decision Protocol”—important matters discussed only over carefully chosen tea blends.

In our home, tea plays a similar role. Custom blends are selected with purpose, and big decisions—from exhibit themes to cat adoptions—are steeped in quiet ceremony. Good tea, apparently, transcends generations.

The Thursday Transformation

Every Thursday, the historical Ms. Wonder redecorated her dining room according to a theme—Egyptian pyramids one week, a Viennese café the next. It was how she kept the world fresh.

Cathryn’s version is equally inspired: our living room sometimes becomes a gallery of shifting obsessions. Lately, it’s a study in color and refracted light. Previously, an homage to Vietnam's Ha Long Bay in photographic images made during her trip to Southeast Asia.

The Wonder of It All

Finding the diary of Penelope “Poopsie” Wainwright Wonder didn’t just reveal a fascinating piece of forgotten history. It offered something more—a surprising and heartfelt recognition of the extraordinary woman I share my life with. 

Though their inventions and expressions differ, both Poopsies are united by a shared thread: creativity rooted in kindness, eccentricity worn with pride, and a refusal to live an unexamined life.

If time is a loop and not a line, maybe some spirits truly do travel together—reinventing themselves in each generation, reminding us how much joy there is in being unapologetically, eccentrically alive. What a joy! What a wonder!

It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I've never known a sharper one. This morning, however, was much different. The sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, it was scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

The source of the attack was the foster kitten, Eddy, who has been perfecting his stalking skills to match his killer instinct. He's been seen hanging in the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat in formal dress known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who once got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. It's not an easy feat starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms. Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please chorral your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by in thick and thin. Could it get any thicker?

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

At that moment, I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right. It could get thicker after all.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"I remember the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

{rompt steps through the proper channels were called for, but it's never as easy as it sounds, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments came next and was followed by:), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect. You may remember the exact quote.

Although I didn't remember the wording, I knew the feeling well. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I just remembered another gag that may better explain my situation: The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. That's the baby.

I'd have preferred to go back to sleep. But after those early moments of hesitation, I took action. I threw the coverlets back to get out of bed but the unintended result was that it began to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

The heavier elements, Beignet and Sagi, were only rolled inches from their sleeping spots. Lucy was hidden by the duvet. Eddy flew through the air like the daring young man on the trapeze. He came to earth--I should say to rest--at the far corner of the bed. I caught him as he turned to flee, and decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can care of ourselves but consider what might happen if Eddy discovered a housemaid napping. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and seconds later the sound of running water, similar to Looking Glass Falls filled the silence.

Uma Maya, the brindled little Empress of Chatsford, was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, Breakfast time? 

Abbie was absent, but I expected he could be found in his usual spot atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet, I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." I didn't need to say it, but I wanted to say it for reasons that words fail to describe--we were a tribe. Wonder, the cats, and I were the Chatsford Hall Tribe.

And the tribe has provided just what I needed, in the fullness of time.

Paradise Found

I woke up this morning with an intense wave of joy that struck me in the solar plexus with inexplicable power, like I'd mainlined pure sunshine!

After some self-reflection, I recognized the feeling was likely hypomania and not a valid reason to buy a new car and run away to Savannah, although I did thoroughly debate the pros and cons of coastal Georgia with my first caramel truffle latte.

Some mornings, I wake up knowing the day is going to be one of those worth remembering; a day you want to take home to meet your mother. Today was undeniably one of those days.

"Ms. Wonder," I announced as I entered the kitchen and found her watching the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: today, I plan to celebrate our little slice of paradise. Today is Coastal Carolina Day!"

Her face lit up like Christmas lights on the Riverwalk, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle in those emerald green eyes of hers. It took my breath away—what a woman!

"Is that what we're calling the southern coast these days? Paradise?" she asked, taking a delicate bite of what looked suspiciously like a chocolate eclair.

"Poopsie, just look outside. The skies are brilliantly blue, and the sunshine is wonderfully cheerful. I'm not denying there might be some V-shaped depressions causing trouble elsewhere along the coast, but here in Waterford, the forecast calls for nothing but zen-like calm."

"It is a beautiful morning," she admitted, "though I suspect your enthusiasm has less to do with the weather and more to do with that third cup of coffee."

"Speaking of which," I said. "What exactly is a caramel truffle latte anyway?" She had the eclair in her mouth once again and offered only a shrug in response to my question.

"Hmm," I said with a knowing nod—the nod was knowing, but I still didn't have a clue. "I don't know what it is either, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with French pigs mucking about in the forests."

The current discussion being at a stalemate, I decided to change the subject. You may find it an abrupt change considering the circumstances, but we Genomes adhere to Shakespeare's philosophy:

'If you're going to do a thing, do it quickly and get it over with.' It's not a direct quote; it's the English Revised translation of the King James edition.

"Well then," she said, "If you've got to go, you'd better go now."

I was astounded. It wasn't surprising; this worker of wonders often does surprise me. "Wonder!" I exclaimed. "I was just thinking of that very quote. One of the Bard's best. Yours is a different translation, but still... It must be all the wild-caught Chinook salmon you eat—omega 3 oils and whatnot."

"It's not Shakespeare," she said. "It's the Moody Blues."

I wasn't totally convinced, but then this remarkable woman is much like Jael from the Book of Judges—the wife of Heber and heroine of Israel. With one well-placed comment, she can nail down a quote and silence all questions just as decisively as she silenced Sisera.

"Join me for a drive to Southport," I suggested. "Travel Magazine calls it 'the friendliest coastal town in America."

"I know. You've mentioned it approximately seventeen times this month alone. So what are we waiting for? You've really got me going."

I couldn't argue with that sentiment from The Kinks' greatest hit, so I didn't. Instead, I cranked the self-starter in Wynd Horse (my trusty vehicle, for those new to these pages) and virtually flew down Grandiflora. Before you could say, 'You really got me now,' I zipped past Old Brunswick Towne heading toward Southport with Ms. Wonder by my side.

The drive was as pleasant as a day ever was. Bus drivers courteously eased into traffic when pulling away from the curb. Police officers whistled cheerful tunes as they patrolled their beats. Dogs pranced ahead of their humans, greeting all passersby with friendly tail wags, and the bluebirds sang classic tunes from the '40s and '50s.

"I think I just saw a squirrel helping an elderly chipmunk cross the street," I said.

"Now you're just being ridiculous," Ms. Wonder replied, but I caught the smile she tried to hide behind her hand.

Southport basked in the glow of a golden spring morning. There remained no trace of the spring shower that had passed through earlier. The air was cool and sweet, and the damp earth released a healing fragrance.

We strolled along the waterfront, where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean. Palmetto palms flashed their fruits in a gaudy but joyful display. The harbor shimmered like liquid silver. And the ducks—well, they were embarrassingly duck-like.

"Another day in paradise," Ms. Wonder said softly.

"Indeed," I agreed. "And there's nowhere I'd rather spend it than with you."

We lunched at Fishy Fishy Cafe, near the Yacht Basin where "The Waterfront" TV series was filmed, and later strolled along the riverfront near the original homes of colonial ship captains. 

Near Chandler's Wharf, we marveled once again at how the production crew of "The Summer I Turned Pretty" had magically transformed that little strip of sand into what appeared on screen as an expansive beach.

As the afternoon faded, we made our way back home to Chatsford Hall, where our little spot of Eden basked in the gentle sunshine of late afternoon. It was that most gracious hour, the time between dinner and bedtime, when Nature takes off her shoes and puts her feet up.

Ms. Wonder and I settled onto the porch, serenaded by the soothing coos of doves calling to us from our backyard. I reflected on the days I had spent with this extraordinary woman by my side, and those thoughts shifted to the possibilities of the upcoming summer.

"You know," I said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I think I've finally opened that gate and stepped out onto the yellow brick road. I'm on my way to the Emerald City. Nothing can stop me now."

"Watch out for flying monkeys," she said.

"Pay no attention to monkeys," I replied, "nor torpedoes for that matter. It's full speed ahead for me."

The soft, quiet moments lingered through the evening until, at last, the doves lined up on the rooftop to watch the sunset with us.

I felt a simple yet profound joy, knowing that many more days like this would be spent in the company of the love of my life, Ms. Wonder. In this moment, in this place, and with my Number One by my side, I have found my paradise.

I invite you to look around yourself today. Perhaps your own paradise is hiding in plain sight, just waiting for you to notice it.

A Maritime Adventure

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble reviewing my promotional letters was self-sabotage."

"What do you mean, self-sabotage?" I said with a good bit of theatrical indignation.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, "I've walked away from a business deal before. I once left a hunting party in South Texas because my client sat with a tub of popcorn between his legs and, when not feeding his face, pointed and laughed at the members of the hunting party every time they missed a shot. But that's another story. Did they have everything I asked for?"

If the above spot of dialogue seems confusing, you can imagine how my brain was performing Olympic gymnastics trying to follow along. I felt certain the otherwise brilliant woman had forgotten several pages of script somewhere between her thoughts and her mouth. Then suddenly, in that strange way it sometimes happens, I remembered something that allowed me to catch up with her runaway train of thought.

The previous day, Ms. Wonder asked me to review letters she'd written to six different maritime museums. The letters proposed an exhibit of her abstract photography--mesmerizing images that transform marine cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. The letters are part of a plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.

"They had everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with this junk."

"First," she said with the confidence of someone explaining how to breathe, "you write the proposal letter for my new photography exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and stuff the pieces into an envelope. When museum curators open them, they wonder if they've gotten a message from a psycho, but when they see my name and credentials on the envelope, they put the puzzle together, realize the proposal is coming from an unusually creative artist."

"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."

"That's why it works. It makes them feel they're back in high school, receiving a Valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers, so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."

"Hey!"

"Just kidding," she said with a smile that suggested she wasn't entirely kidding. "Oh, I thought of another good idea."

"I can't wait," I said, managing to contain my enthusiasm to homeopathic levels.

"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"

"I don't use business cards," I said.

"You'll use these business cards. Order a box with nothing but my standard postcard on them in matte finish. Then when you hand out the cards..."

"Me! Why me? I'm not planning on running around the East Coast handing out business cards. I have a full-time job, disappointing you right here in Carolina."

"I know you weren't planning it, but I also know that you'll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won't you, sweetie?" She gave my hand a pat before continuing. "Your prospective museum curator will say, 'But your contact information isn't on here.' Then you write my number and website address on the card. That lets her know you don't do business with just anyone. Only certain people meet your standards, and she's one of them."

"A lot of people prefer to tweet," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.

"Too chatty," she said, "Stay low-tech and it will set you apart."

"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but I don't know where you're coming from with this. I can't picture someone from Houston, Texas handing out understated business cards."

"You're right about that," she said. "Most people in Houston introduce themselves by honking the horns of their pickup trucks. But I've spent a lot of time in Charleston, South Carolina, and let me tell you they have some slick..."

I can't repeat the rest of her statement, but it left me strangely intrigued. I began to wonder if I'd slipped into an alternate dimension where her marketing strategies made sense.

"So what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?" I asked, pointing to the plastic orb she'd placed on my desk alongside the puzzle pieces and postcards.

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought we should probably have one."

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Your agent phoned a moment ago."

"Oh, what did she want?" 

"She asked about our progress on the promotions project."

"Yes, but it's not a project. It's simply a few letters."

"She thought we might sell the rights to dramatize the promotional effort to a theatrical consortium in New York."

"She thinks we should turn the letters into a play?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of material that becomes a play. '

"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of the letters to make them sound more like musical theater..."

"Despite my better judgment, I've got to hear more of this hairbrained scheme."

"Her suggestion was that we write something to catch the curator's attention, like, "Dear Maritime Museum," and I imagined it would use a bold font, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! By abstract art, that is!"

"Oh, yes?" said the Wonder but not with any real zip.

"Yeah, and she thought the heading could be followed by a promotional ad that could be sung to the tune of a popular show tune."

"Can you imagine a musical comedy about abstract marine photography making the rounds off-Broadway?" Wonder asked?

"Not really," I said.

"Neither can I, though, in fairness, the subject of house cats is responsible for half of internet traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next. So who knows?"

We were quiet for the next few moments. I was unsure of what I should say, and she seemed deep in contemplation, forehead wrinkled and chewing the lower lip. Finally, she spoke.

"I recently received a comment from a patron who suggested my photography should have a recognizable theme," she said, making it clear she was entertaining some doubt. "Without one, he said, it feels like 'a random collection of images about nothing in particular.'"

I don't know how I did it with so little notice, but I had one of those surprising ideas that make the Genomes the kind of men we are.

"Yes, Poopsie," I said, "the Cape Fear River photography collection may be about nothing in particular, but it is to abstract marine art what Tiger Woods was to golf, and what Taylor Swift is to pop music, and what your favorite sandals are to a day at Holden Beach looking for sea biscuits: unnecessary, but absolutely essential."

She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.

Clearly, wooing maritime museum curators will be more complicated than I'd imagined. Obviously, I would need to learn to use a Magic 8-Ball to say, "Please display my partner's art photos of ocean-going freighters in your museum," all the while avoiding a Broadway adaptation of "Cape Fear River Vessels: The Musical."

Picture's Up! Rolling!

A Cinematic Confession

Despite my boundless enthusiasm and love for the chase, my documentation of Wilmington's cinematic landscape has proven to be as successful as trying to thread a needle while riding a mechanical bull. (I know this from personal experience—not because I’ve actually ridden a mechanical bull, but because I watched many such riders at Gilley's in Pasadena during the 80s.)

Remember my quest to find the "Driver's Ed" set? The one where I ended up at Flaming Amy's on its closed day, engaged in mortal combat with cross-traffic on busy streets, and returned with precisely zero footage? 

"You've been fumbling around like a toddler in a Toys-R-Us," Princess Amy observed this morning over coffee at Circular Journey Cafe. She was particularly smug today, her imaginary tiara gleaming cheekily in the morning sunlight.

"I've been documenting the process," I said, stirring my latte with what I hoped was a level of dignity that served me well.

"You've been documenting your ability to get lost, park illegally, and eat craft services food you weren't offered," she replied, examining her royal nails. "Remember when you tried to coach Beau with his lines and he got fired?"

I winced. "Not lines," I said. "He had only one line. And take the tiara off, it's reflecting sunlight around the room and getting everyone's attention."

"No one can see it but you," she said. "And the film industry is off to a slow start this year. You might as well relax and find something else to do with your time."

She was right, of course. My cinematic adventures have been more "America's Funniest Home Videos" than "Behind the Scenes with Scorsese." 

Ms. Wonder suggested yesterday, in her gentle but firm way, that I might benefit from a more structured approach.

"Genome," she said, her voice warm with the patience of a saint, "perhaps a map would help? Or possibly writing down the actual addresses instead of just driving around hoping to bump into Molly Shannon?"

"I do not just drive around," I said with a good deal of topspin. "I use my GPS; I use two. Which may be part of the problem because Mildred on my phone GPS often disagrees with Maggie on Wynd Horse."

So here I am this morning, writing to you from the podium of my personal TED-X show--The Circular Journey Cafe, admitting my shortcomings as your cinematic correspondent. I've been as reliable as a Magic 8-Ball in a magnetic field when it comes to finding and documenting film productions.

But that's about to change! I've acquired an actual map of Wilmington (yes, paper—and this bit of vintage technology feels comforting to someone out of the past century). I've programmed Wynd Horse's navigation system with the address of the Cinespace production office, and I've subscribed to all the local media for tracking filming schedules.

Princess Amy insists my new plan will fail, but I reminded her, "That's what they said about the lunar landing."

"No one said that about the lunar landing," was her reply, but I assured her that wasn't true.

"Statistically speaking, someone must have said it would never work," I said. And I thought it was a pretty good comeback considering I had no time to prepare.

My point, dear readers, is this: The next time you read about my adventures chasing film crews around the Carolina coast, you can expect fewer wrong turns and hopefully, although I can't promise, fewer instances of me being kicked off set before lunch.

My previous documentation efforts may have been a blooper reel, but my inner director just called "action" on the 2025 filming year, and this time, I'm determined to nail my lines.

As the First Camera Operator would say, "Rolling!"