The Heirloom’s Whisper

What a ride! Hang on tight! In this post, we're revisiting the "Jackson Synchronicity," a sequence of events so statistically improbable that even a "wild neural network" of squirrels would find it suspicious.

Between the voice of Nancy Sinatra on the radio and a woodpecker figurine with a resume from Jackson, Tennessee, I’ve become convinced that the universe has, in addition to a sense of humor, a particular, repetitive playlist.

I haven't been able to forget finding that figurine, and I can't shake the feeling that the story is unfinished. If you're thinking you must have arrived in the middle of the story, let me clarify that I'm talking about Woodrow, the carpenter woodpecker.

I apologize to the regulars, who read every post and have been with me since the beginning. If you will bear with me for a moment, I'll provide the backstory for newcomers.

I never know where to begin when revisiting a published story. I don't want to bore the regular followers and cause them to start looking for the channel selector, but if I jump right into the thick of the story, newcomers become cross-eyed.

Here’s the short of it: Woodrow is a hand-painted woodpecker in overalls who, by all indications, is “experiencing technical difficulties”—and whom I rescued from a thrift store shelf. He came from Jackson, Tennessee, the same Jackson that had been haunting my radio dial like a persistent hitchhiker for more than three hours. He wasn’t just a tchotchke; he was a cosmic souvenir. 

The reason I can’t let him go is that lately, Woodrow has been staring at me from my desk with a look that seems to whisper, "I’m not just here for the aesthetic, Cowboy." How he knows I was a 'space cowboy' in a former life is part of the mystery.

Here's the thing: I recently sat down to edit a podcast—a task that, as you know, is the digital equivalent of herding cats. I was struggling with a particularly stubborn audio glitch. Every time I tried to level the track, the software would freeze. I would then lean back, sigh a breath of pure, unadulterated "Why Bother?" and my gaze would immediately land on Woodrow.

There he was in all his glory, hammer in hand, his bill stuck in that piece of wood. The title on his base, "Experiencing Technical Difficulties," felt less like a whimsical label and more like a direct critique of my afternoon.

After the third locked screen, I reached out and tapped Woodrow's little ceramic head. "What do you know that I don't, Woodrow?"

Instantly, a notification appeared on my screen, telling me an automated update was being installed for the editing software. The version number?  J-206-FM-80.

Now, I’m not saying the "J" stands for Jackson. That would be leaning a bit too far into the Franklin & Bash side of my personality. But still, stranger things have happened. I read the software update notes, and the very first bug fix listed was for "syncing issues between disparate audio tracks."

Disparate tracks. Like a song by Nancy Sinatra, a log of turtles, a county sheriff’s SUV, and a woodpecker from Tennessee all suddenly playing the same tune at the same time.

It occurred to me then that Woodrow isn't just a soul vessel; he’s a reminder that the 'technical difficulties' of life are often the very things that lead us to the next chapter of the Circular Journey. We spend so much time trying to "optimize" our lives (sorry, A-5, I’m still the pilot here) that we miss the beauty of the glitch.

So, I’ve decided to take Woodrow’s advice. I stopped fighting the software, closed the laptop, got a refill of caffeine, and headed down Ocean Highway to Ocean Isle. Because if the universe is going to go through the trouble of alignment—using everything from satellite radio to ceramic birds—the least I can do is be present for the show.

I still haven’t found the Creature of the Brunswick Lagoons, but I have a feeling Woodrow knows exactly where it’s hiding. He’s probably just waiting for the right song to come on the radio before he lets me know where to look. And I'm OK with that. It's cold here today, and looking for cryptids requires warm weather.