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.

Serenity's Revenge

Earlier today at the Circular Journey Café, Island Irv and I had coffee with a friend named Elliott, although Irv and I call him Brambles for his insistence on wearing wild, unkempt hair, a wispy beard, and bare feet. 

The trouble began, as troubles often do, with excellent intentions and a sixteen-ounce flat white. "Gentlemen," Brambles announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had discovered a conspiracy of cosmic proportions, "I believe my coffee has been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I repeated, glancing at the cheerful café atmosphere around us. "How? Why?"

"My ex-girlfriend, Serenity, is operating the espresso machine today," he said. "I had no idea she worked here when I ordered."

Island Irv, who believes that all coffee-related drama stems from the Enlightenment, said as he looked deep into his own espresso, "So you think she put something in your coffee? Maybe she’s just genuinely committed to good customer service.”

Elliott was having none of it. He shook his wild, unkempt head. “She gave me that smile when she handed me my drink.”

“That’s standard protocol," I said.

“No,” he said. “It was the smile that says, ‘I hope you enjoy your little cup of regret for dumping me, Todd.’”

“Your name’s Elliott,” I reminded him.

“She used to call me Todd when she was mad at me. It was a thing. I'm sure she put something in it."

“What would she put in it that would be so terrible?” asked Irv, giving the cup a sniff.

“I don’t know. I'm convinced she's added something that will either make me projectile vomit on the nice couple at table three, or send me rushing to the restroom when someone else is occupying it."

I examined the coffee: it looked perfectly ordinary, though I reasoned that was the mark of a well-planned poisoning. “I think you’re being a little paranoid,” I offered.

"Why don't you simply order another coffee?" Irv suggested with the practical wisdom of a man who had never overthought a beverage.

"Can't," Elliot said. "She's watching me. Every time I think she's occupied somewhere else, she materializes like some sort of caffeinated apparition. It's as if she has radar."

He wasn't far from right. As if on cue, Serenity looked toward our table and waved with the enthusiasm of someone who is genuinely pleased to see her ex-boyfriend.

"Right," I said, rising with the determination of a man accepting a noble mission. "I'll get your coffee. I'm expected to order at least two every Sunday morning. She won't suspect anything."

She was waiting for me when I approached the counter. “Back already?” she asked sweetly.

"Sixteen ounces of the very best African bean, blended with oatmilk, and a dash of nutmeg," I said, avoiding eye contact like a spy delivering a password.

"Elliot takes his espresso with cinnamon, not nutmeg," she said, her tone as innocent as a cherub.

I froze. How could she possibly know? I tried to remain stoic, but she read my face like a TikTok meme.

"Lucky guess," she said, beginning to prepare the drink with movements that seemed almost too deliberate. "Tell him I said hello."

I returned to our table feeling I'd been outmaneuvered by a master.

"Well?" Ned asked anxiously.

"She knows," I reported. "Somehow--I don't know how--but somehow she knows."

Island Irv stood up, cracking his knuckles like a gunfighter preparing for a showdown. "I'll take care of this. I've got experience with difficult women."

"All women are difficult when it comes to you," I pointed out, but he was already striding toward the counter.

Five minutes later, he returned with an expression of bewildered defeat. "She asked if I wanted extra foam for Ned's latte before I even had a chance to order. Then she talked me into trying something she called a turmeric shot. I felt powerless. It went down hot."

In the next few minutes, Serenity disappeared into the back room, and Irv made another attempt only to see her re-materialize like caffeine-fueled mist just as he reached the register.

“Anything for you, sir?” I heard her ask Irv, and she wore that now-familiar smile—the one that apparently meant “Todd.”

After three more rounds of this game—each ending with one of us ordering unnecessary baked goods or, in Irv’s case, an alarming second turmeric shot—we decided to try honesty.

I approached her and said, “Serenity, did you put something in Elliot's drink?”

She looked me in the eye and said, “I put love and care in every beverage I make.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” I observed.

“I believe a little mystery enhances the flavor,” she replied," and we strive to exceed the expectations of every customer on every visit."

"Well, could you at least promise not to put anything unpleasant in his next order?" I asked.

Serenity paused in her cleaning, considering the request with the gravity of a judge weighing evidence. "I could," she said finally, "but I won't."

"But why not?"  I asked.

"Because," she said, her smile taking on a distinctly mischievous quality, "where's the fun in that?"

I retreated in tactical defeat, leaving Elliot to contemplate his potentially sabotaged beverage with the expression of a man facing his doom.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

Island Irv shrugged with his characteristic philosophical acceptance of life's absurdities. "Drink it or don't drink it. Either way, you'll know."

"That's your advice? Drink the potentially poisoned coffee?"

Without asking for permission, Irv took a tentative sip of the suspected latte, his face immediately contorting into an expression of profound confusion.

"Well?" Elliot asked.

"It's..." Irv said, taking another sip, "actually quite good. Excellent, even."

Elliot stared at him in astonishment.

"The best coffee I've had in months," Irv continued, draining the cup with apparent relish. "Rich, smooth, perfectly balanced. Whatever she put in it, it worked."

From behind the counter, Serenity's laughter chimed like silver bells, and I realized we'd witnessed something far more sophisticated than mere sabotage. It could only be described as the most elaborate hoax designed to mess with someone's mind in the history of café culture.

And so we left the cafe this morning with Elliot clutching a second cup of Serenity's mysterious brew, and Irv praising the consciousness-expanding powers of turmeric-induced enlightenment. 

I suspect Serenity's real revenge was in watching us spend half an hour convinced we were part of some evil conspiracy, when all along she was simply doing what any talented barista would do—making sure every cup was memorable. I'm beginning to believe that baristas wield more power than sorcerers.

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 Wynd 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.

Daybreak

There’s something about daybreak that feels like the universe’s way of apologizing for the night before. That’s how I described it to Island Irv this morning as we sat outside The Circular Journey Café, sipping our coffee and watching a jogger arguing with a Canada goose about sidewalk right of way.

“The goose is going to win,” Irv said, nodding toward the honking bird, which had assumed a power stance and refused to yield the path.

“The jogger might as well take the long way around,” I agreed. “It’s better to respect the wildlife hierarchy. They carry a grudge for a long time.”

We both leaned back, letting the morning light fall across our faces like a kindly grandmother’s shawl. This was daybreak as it should be—golden, a little smug, and just humid enough to remind you of your laundry situation.

That’s when Lupe appeared, wearing sunglasses that suggested she either hadn’t slept or had just come from a press conference.

“Good morning,” she said, drawing the phrase out like it owed her money. “Why are you two sitting here like you just solved world peace?”

“Because daybreak,” I said.

“Because goose standoff,” added Irv.

She took a long, suspicious look at our coffee mugs. “Are those egg sandwiches I smell?”

“Indeed,” said Irv. “I ordered the Signature Sunrise Delight. Genome here went for the Cheddar Nest.”

Lupe narrowed her eyes. “Brave choices. The new barista’s name is Serenity, but I wouldn’t count on her emotional availability.”

“I liked her,” I said. “She called me ‘chief’ and asked if I wanted my sandwich to feel cozy or adventurous.”

“She looked like someone who might have taken a weekend ayahuasca workshop,” Irv whispered. “The kind where they talk to raccoons about forgiveness.”

Just then, Serenity herself emerged from the café with a steaming mug and a single pastry balanced on a plate. She had the aura of someone who spoke fluent tarot and possibly knew what our credit scores were.

“I brought you a chai, Princess,” she said, setting the mug before Amy with the solemnity of a moon priestess. “And a lemon scone with rebellious energy.”

Lupe stared at it. “Is it safe?”

“It has the consciousness-expanding power of a shot of turmeric," Serenity explained.

We all paused.

“Well, alright then,” Lupe announced and eagerly set in on the scone.

“Signal if you need anything else,” Serenity said, before floating back inside.

“I miss the old barista,” Irv muttered. “He couldn’t steam milk to save his life, but he never asked about my birth chart before handing me a bagel.”

“You’re just cranky because you dropped egg yolk on your shoe,” I pointed out.

He looked down at his foot, sighed, and then muttered something about ‘being targeted by the sun.’

We lapsed into silence again, watching the goose chase a squirrel, abandoning the pursuit halfway through in what appeared to be a mutual agreement.

“I think this is what Barry Manilow meant,” I said eventually. “About the moment when the night is through. You know—that sparkle that insists, ‘things are actually okay, despite everything you dreamed about in the third REM cycle.’”

Lupe looked up from her scone. “Barry Manilow also said to get up and look around, so how about getting me a napkin?”

She said this in the tone of someone who would lead a rebellion if her lemon glaze started to flake.

So I stood and handed her a napkin with ceremonial reverence.

“You two are ridiculous,” she said, dabbing delicately.

“But it’s daybreak ridiculous,” Irv said. “The best kind.”

We all fell quiet again, watching the light climb the palms and listening to the bird gossip carried on the gentle breeze. 

The coffee warmed us. The scone, as it turned out, wasn’t cursed. And then, as if by magic, Vintage Vinyl, the record shop next door, turned up the outdoor speakers to play an old vinyl recording of Daybreak itself.

As Mr. Mannilow crooned, Lupe leaned back in a zen-like repose, Irv seemed lost in let's remember, and even the goose seemed to mellow out.

“Let’s stay here forever,” I said, "like Sugar Mountain." My two companions nodded in agreement because at daybreak, anything feels possible—even miracles.

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.

Flower Pot Pilgrimage

There exists a peculiar phenomenon in the gardener's universe—one that dictates the perfect flower pot will never be where you expect it to be. Princess Amy has a theory about this, something involving quantum mechanics and Murphy's Law having a botanical love child. I'm inclined to believe her.

This morning dawned with that particular golden light that makes even the most mundane desires seem touched by destiny. My mission was simple: acquire three terracotta pots for the citronella plants in the front garden. A simple goal, but just as the ancient Romans understood, the gods enjoy nothing more than watching humans make carefully detailed plans.

"We need to leave earlier than you think," Princess Amy announced, materializing in my imagination as I contemplated my third cup of coffee. She had adopted her Captain Kirk persona, sitting in the commander's chair on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, which is located not within the galactic system of the United Federation of Planets but deep inside my limbic system.

"It's Tuesday morning. The roads will be clear," I countered, confident in my knowledge of the traffic patterns in all of coastal Carolina.

Amy's eye roll was so profound, I wondered how she managed to avoid getting them stuck. "There's construction on Highway 17," she said. "Plus, tourist season has already started, and you haven't factored in the Shallotte Delay Zone."

"The what now?"

"The twenty-minute delay trying to get onto Main Street in Shallotte. It's a metaphysical conundrum that you don't understand--the math is too complicated for you."

I dismissed her insult with the cheerful arrogance that has preceded every disaster since the little tyrant entered my life. "We're just making a quick run to Home Depot for flower pots. Two hours, tops."

Ms. Wonder looked up from her Instagram feed. "Famous last words," she murmured. 

"Remember the Great Paint Sample Expedition of 2023? You left after breakfast and returned with the evening news."

"That was different," I protested. "For a photographer, you have a remarkable lack of appreciation for the treacherous mistress called the color wheel."

"Mmm," she replied, with that one-syllable sound that contains multitudes of meaning. "Text me when you're heading home so I know when to expect you. Sometime before tomorrow morning, I hope."

"What a ranygazoo this is turning out to be," I thought. "Is this the work of the sewer harpies? They've been suspiciously absent recently."

As predicted by my imaginary oracle, Highway 17 south resembled a parking lot more than a thoroughfare. Traffic congealed like day-old gravy around the turn to Shallotte, prompting an executive decision to take the Cousins Beach exit and navigate the back roads.

"Civietown Road will get us there faster," I said to myself.

I imagined Amy, sprawled in the passenger seat with the dramatic emo only teenagers can perfect. "Absolutely not," she said. "Stone Chimney Road is clearly superior."

"Based on what evidence?"

"Statistical analysis of traffic patterns I've been conducting mentally since we left Waterford."

"Civietown is more direct," I insisted.

"Stone Chimney has fewer tractors per mile. Also, did you know that Civietown Road was built on an ancient burial ground of disappointed shoppers?"

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" She launched into an elaborate conspiracy theory involving the Department of Transportation, alien technology, and the real reason certain roads seem to stretch longer when you're in a hurry.

Her argument was so absurdly compelling that I missed my turn, realizing too late that we'd sailed past Civietown Road. Amy's satisfied smirk told me everything.

"You did that on purpose," I said.

"I merely provided a conversational distraction. You're the one driving."

Instead of backtracking, Amy suggested an alternative strategy with the casual air of someone who'd planned this detour from the beginning. "You know, it's almost lunchtime, and Snarkies has those fish tacos you like. We could eat at Cousins Beach first, then swing back to Home Depot."

"That's completely out of the way, and I want to get back home in time to repot the citronella."

"Yeah, but consider the energy efficiency. Studies show that shopping on a full stomach improves decision-making by approximately seventy-three percent."

"You made that up."

"All statistics are made up at some point," she countered philosophically. "The question is, are they useful?"

My stomach growled in agreement with her plan. "We don't have time," I said. "I need to get back to plant the herbs before the afternoon heat."

"It's low tide," Amy observed, glancing at her phone. "Perfect for finding a few seashells for Ms. Wonder's collection. You know how she loves them."

I conjured up an image of Ms. Wonder's delighted face when presented with beach treasures. It was a powerful negotiation tool, and Amy took advantage of it. Somehow, like water following the path of least resistance, I turned toward Cousin's Beach rather than Shallotte.

The beach in late morning was a study in blues and golds, the ocean stretched like hammered silver under a cloudless sky. Despite my gardening agenda, I felt the familiar release of tension that always comes with the first breath of salt air. 

Amy grew quiet as we walked along the shoreline, her usual torrent of commentary silenced by the rhythm of the waves.

I lost track of time, hypnotized by the timeless ritual of beachcombing. A text message jolted me back to the present.

"Have you become one with the hardware store? Should I send provisions?" Ms. Wonder inquired.

Reality crashed in like a rogue wave. We hadn't even made it to Hadley's yet, and somehow two hours had evaporated.

"Slight detour," I texted back. "Acquired shells. Heading to Hadley's now. ETA thirty minutes."

Her response was immediate: "Perhaps consider the nursery on Village Road instead? Closer to home."

"But Hadley's has terracotta," I texted back.

"The plants don't care."

"It's about aesthetics," I insisted.

"It's about your peculiar fondness for quests," she replied, adding a winking emoji that somehow conveyed both affection and exasperation.

She wasn't wrong. Something in me enjoys the pilgrimage aspect of a good search—the idea that the perfect item must be properly sought, not merely bought. Amy calls it my "retail vision quest syndrome."

We finally arrived at Hadley's Hardware around 2 PM, having abandoned the beach lunch plan in favor of making at least some progress toward our original goal. Hadley's isn't just a store; it's an institution, presided over by Mr. Hadley, the founder, a man so ancient that locals believe he advised Noah on waterproofing techniques for the ark.

The store defies modern retail logic. There are no helpful signs indicating departments, and no logical arrangement of goods. Instead, merchandise is organized according to Mr. Hadley's personal Dewey Decimal System. Amy swears it's based on the phases of the moon or on Mr. Hadley's dreams from the night before.

"I bet flower pots are in the back left corner," I predicted, based on previous expeditions.

"Wrong," Amy declared. "They moved seasonal items to the center aisle last month."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I pay attention to things that don't matter until suddenly they do."

As we navigated the narrow aisles, I noticed the usual cast of Hadley's regulars, all of them looking like they woke up only moments ago in the Twilight Zone. 

"You know why they never have what you're looking for?" Amy whispered conspiratorially as we turned down an aisle containing everything from chimney brushes to citronella candles. "It's a psychological experiment. They're studying the human capacity for substitution and adaptation."

"Or maybe it's just a hardware store with limited inventory space."

"That's exactly what they want you to think. Notice how the lights are slightly dimmer in the middle of the store? That's to induce a mild disorientation so you'll buy more than you need."

"I'm pretty sure that's just a burned-out fluorescent tube."

We found the garden section—not in the back left corner or center aisle, but inexplicably next to automotive supplies. The terracotta pots, however, were nowhere to be seen.

Another text from Ms. Wonder: "Success?"

"Still searching. The quarry remains elusive."

"Perhaps this is the universe suggesting plastic pots are equally effective."

"Blasphemy," I replied.

After thirty minutes of fruitless searching, we approached the oracle himself. Mr. Hadley sat behind the counter on a stool that appeared to have grown around him over decades, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reviewed an actual paper ledger. He looked up with the unhurried air of a tortoise who has witnessed centuries pass.

"Terracotta pots," I said. "Ten-inch. The ones with the little ridge around the top."

He considered this request with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "Don't carry those anymore."

My gardening dreams withered like unwatered seedlings. "Since when?" I said. "I really had my heart set on those."

"Since the supplier in Mexico went out of business. 2018, I believe." He adjusted his glasses. "Or maybe 2019. Time is a construct."

Amy nodded sagely at this philosophical pronouncement.

"Do you have any other terracotta pots?" I asked, feeling the desperation of a man watching his simple Tuesday errand transform into an existential crisis.

"In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity," he offered. Did I mention that Mr. Hardly is a disciple of Sun Tzu?  "Ceramic, not terracotta, but clay nonetheless," he said.

"Oh, I don't know about ceramic for my plants."

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle." Conversation concluded, he returned to his ledger. There seemed to be only one thing to do. We found them exactly where he indicated.

A collection of ceramic pots in various sizes, glazed in colors ranging from earthy brown to cobalt blue. Not what I had envisioned, but as I examined them, I realized they possessed a certain charm missing from the terracotta I came for.

"These would look better anyway," Amy observed. "The blue ones match the kitchen window trim."

As I selected three medium-sized blue pots, something unexpected caught my eye on a lower shelf—a peculiar brass fixture that strikingly resembled the missing piece from Ms. Wonder's vintage lamp, the one in the guest bedroom that we had abandoned hope of finding months ago.

"Is that...?" I reached for it, hardly daring to believe.

"The missing Scallop shell finial," Amy confirmed. "What are the odds?"

What indeed? Serendipitous to the gills! The circular nature of the journey getting here and our detour to the beach to collect shells, and then being directed to something we weren't looking for, only to find the perfect conclusion! It all struck me as a perfect metaphor for... well, everything important.

Mr. Hadley rang up our purchases with deliberate keystrokes. "Found what you needed then?"

"Not what I came for," I admitted. "But perhaps what I needed to find."

He nodded as if this was the most natural conclusion in the world. "That's how The Rolling Stones expressed it. You don't find what you want, but you find what you need if you align yourself with nature. The wise warrior avoids the battle."

"That's surprisingly profound," I said. "I'm not sure what it all means, but profound just the same."

"Not surprising at all," he replied. "Hardware is fundamentally philosophical. Every repair is an act of defiance against entropy."

We left Hadley's as the afternoon sun began its descent, our expedition having consumed the entire day. I texted Wonder to let her know of the discover of the lamp finial.

"So the perfect ending to a chaotic day," she replied. "How very you."

And there you have it. Distractions and detours leading us to destinations we never imagined and yet desperately needed. As we turned onto our home street, Amy broke her contemplative silence. "You realize this happens every time, right? The simple errand that becomes an odyssey?"

"Are you suggesting I subconsciously complicate simple tasks to create narrative interest in my life?"

"I'm suggesting you might want to consider that the wise warrior avoids the battle." I saw her smirking in my mind's eye and didn't dignify her taunt with a reply. 

Ms. Wonder was in the garden when we arrived, a knowing smile playing at her lips as I proudly displayed both the blue ceramic pots and the miraculous lamp part.

As the evening settled around us, I arranged the blue pots on the kitchen windowsill, already planning tomorrow's herb planting. The journey had been a circular one, an accidental meandering trip leading to the destination we needed to find. Aren't they all?

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!