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.
"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?
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