Don't Encourage Her

It was the sudden onset of a manic episode that caused me to miss the turn onto Hillsboro Road. But after a short diversion I finally crossed the covered bridge and arrived at the Inn of the Three Sisters in Pittsboro. Just as the threatening clouds decided to stop bluffing, roll up their sleeves and get down to it.

As we pulled into a parking space near the entrance, I gaged the volume of the downpour and having considered this and that, decided to wait it out. After what seemed like a couple of moments, the 11 year-old geezer in the passenger seat asked, "Why do you talk like that?"

I don't need to tell you that her remark wasn't the start of the conversation. I like that about you--that I don't need to explain every little thing. Now that I think of it, why don't you join us one morning at Native Grounds for coffee. It's in the Renaissance District, near Southpoint. The tribe would love to meet you.

I was taken back by the question she asked but I leaned into it. 

"And why, Lucy," I said, "do you continue to ask the same question that I've answered again and again?" 

And yes, I know you're thinking that I shouldn't call her by the name she doesn't like, but sometimes, well, sometimes you just..oh you know what I mean.

"No," she said, "I'm not talking about the stupid way you put sentences together. What I mean is that your manic fits don't have anything to do with thunderstorms."

Well! I mean! I gasped, and I'm sure you can guess why. I mean, just what the hell did she mean 'stupid way of putting sentences together,' and did she really use the term, manic fits? Manic fits! And did I really say out loud that I missed the turn because of a manic episode?

"For the last time, you ankle-biter, I don't have fits! I do experience emotional interruptions to the cognitive circuits, but much like electrical surges. Sometimes the mental clocks begin blinking and need resetting after such a surge but no real harm."

"Unless your mental phone is plugged into a mental outlet and gets mentally fried," she said.

"Lucy Lupe Mankiller!" I said and I meant every last word. I fully intended to stop this charging tween in her tracks and I knew those three words would do it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said, letting me know that she'd had enough of the subject for now.

I think this is a good place to stop and reassure you that there is no permanent rift between the Genome and his god-niece. We're forever teammates. We do get our feathers in twist from time to time but it never lasts.

Keep the faith, my friend. This sacred pilgrimage continues for its eighth year and the joy continues with it.

You Would Do the Same

It has been well said of the Genome, by those who know him best, that if there is one quality that distinguishes him more than any other, it is that he keeps the upper lip stiff and makes the best of things. It's living a life filled with Fierce Qigong that makes it possible I think, don't you?

 If you're new here, then you aren't familiar with the term. Fierce Qigong, in words of my own construction, is my lifetime aversion to eating pine needles. I suppose that needs some explanation too but it's a longish story and we don't have time to go into it now. We will one day soon. I promise.

For the nonce, let's get to the subject du jour. 

Waking this morning to another day, minus the lark and the snail, I wasted no time in brewing a cup of Jah's Blessing, dark roast. Having refreshed the tissues with that first cup, I was disappointed to find the heart still down.

Once again, for the newcomers, the lark and snail reference comes from Pipa's Song by Browning. I must make a note to write an introduction for the newcomer.  Otherwise, I'll never finish this post due to all the behind-the-curtain stage directions.

Down among the wines and spirits, as I've so often heard Ms Wonder describe it. And not only the heart but the head too. I was suffering from a distinct apprehension for an inclement future. And I'll tell you why I was suffering from a distinct A for an inclement F. 

Ms Wonder and I had left the old metropolis of Wilmington and traveled to Crystal Cove, near the spot where the Tennessee River merges with Lake Chickamauga not far from the Scenic City of the Mid-South, or as I've often heard it called, Chattanooga.

I've received numerous comments asking why I avoid the Cove. After all, as one follower describes it, "It's a picturesque village, surrounded by manicured fields, peach orchards, and with a willow-fringed river running through it."

And to that, I would add, it's the home of my favorite cousin, Gwyndolen, and my most amazing god-niece, Lucy Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, the company of both never tiring. 

And so you ask again, Why? It's the question Ms Wonder asked as we drove across Yaphank Bridge and passed the marina.

"Why do you avoid Crystal Cove so fervidly? It seems like a perfectly pleasing place to me."

"Perfectly pleasing?" I said. "You would call it perfectly pleasing?" 

You may notice a touch of annoyance, possibly some indignation, in my reply. I noticed it and having done so I thought better of it. This Wonder, who does so much to soften the pain of slings and arrows, making each day another one in paradise, deserves a softer touch and so I modified the tone.

"Yes," I said. "You no doubt look around the premises at all the luxuries--manicured landscaping, river frontage, a truck-load-full of inviting outdoor activities--and you might reasonably think that life is ideal in this quiet little village."

I paused for a few seconds. Not sure why. It may be that I'd forgotten where I was headed with that line of dialog. Or perhaps after mentioning a few items in the pro category, I was reluctant to begin listing the cons.

"However," I said, "Though every prospect pleases...."

"What about it?" she said. "Though every prospect pleases--what?"

"Well, you have me in deep waters there, Wonder. It's something I heard once and it made a big impression on me. I like to throw it into conversation every now and then to add a little whatsit."

"I wish you wouldn't," she said. "Every time you throw quotes around, I waste time trying to make sense of them."

"Are they supposed to make sense?" I asked. "Quotes I mean? Everyone quotes Shakespeare and his lines are mere nonsense. I'm sure they were nonsense even on the day he wrote them. Something to please the peasantry, nothing more."

"I can't believe you just said that. And you're supposed to be a writer too."

I was distracted for a second or two at this point in the conversation, having to twiddle the steering wheel a bit to avoid a passing logging truck heading for the pulpwood landing no doubt.

"I'm not just supposed to be a writer," I said after taking a deep breath, lifting my chin, and then gazing down with half-closed eyes. It's something I've seen David Niven do in those monochrome movies from the 40's. It always seems to give him the upper hand and I like to get the upper hand when engaged in tit-for-tats with the Wonder of the Russian steppes.

"I am a writer," I said and I said it with no little energy because I meant to put a stake in the sand to say that I would not back down from my position.

"And besides, you can't deny that Shakespeare was in the habit of shoving down just any old anything that came to mind in those plays of his."

She looked at me with large eyes and...what's the phrase? Begins with an 'I' doesn't it? Incredulous. That's it. She gave me an incredulous stare.

She opened her mouth as though to say something but nothing came out, so I continued to speak, not that I had anything more to add really, I just wanted to fill up the empty space.

"You might also consider the poet, Keats," I said. He speaks of stout Cortez first staring at the Pacific and all his men looking at each other with a wild surmise, blah, blah, blah."

"So?" she said.

"Well, it wasn't Cortez, was it? Balboa was the bird that first stared at the Pacific."

She fell silent. Her eyes softened. I could tell that she was musing over my words. It made me feel better immediately. It always makes me feel better to think that she's considering my words.

"Alright, you big jamoke," she said. "You're right about Balboa, But it's a big ocean and it's open to being stared at, so I see no reason why Cortez may not have given it a goggle too. Now, that's out of the way, answer my first question. Why do you avoid Crystal Cove?

"It's not the Cove that I avoid. It's the village nearby. And the reason is the local constable, one Vicky Mason, has sworn to sign me up for an extended stay in the Hamilton County caboose."

"Really? For what exactly?" she asked.

"It's something to do with an unfortunate accident that occurred just before last year's winter solstice. She suspects, without corroborating evidence mind you, and so she sneaks around watching everything I do with the hope of catching me bending."

"I can't imagine why she doesn't let the dead past rest in peace," I continued. "Just because I was in town when the fishing guides dormitory burned, what of it? It's not like I haven't explained to her on several occasions, that it was not my fault."

"What do you mean, not your fault?" asked the Wonder.

"More than once," I said, "I've pointed out that there was little time to consider options. I had no other choice, really. Burning the place down was the only way to hide the evidence." 

I waited for her response. I'm still waiting.

The Invitation

The door to the sal de bains opened and she emerged like Venus rising from the sea. 

"Is it morning already?" I said. 

"It's afternoon," she said. "You were napping, remember?"

"Oh, yes, of course," I said. "But why is it so gray outside?"

"There was a brief shower," she said, "but it's hot outside and there's a heavy mist. Summertime at the coast is a season of sultry mistiness."

"A season of what?"

"Sultry mistiness," she said.

"Well, we are at the coast, of course," I said, "and I'm not yet attuned to the weather patterns, which are much different from that of the steppes of the Carolina Triangle. But I'll have to take your word for the sultry mistiness."

She shrugged but made not a peep.

"I'm moving slowly this afternoon, Poopsie. Sagi kept me up 'till all hours last night."

I referred to the cat; the caramel-colored tabby who is addicted to rolls of paper and sometimes finds dispensers of paper towels or toilet tissue to be so tempting as to overpower his will. He backslid last night. Not the first time.

"Let me get you one of my pick-me-ups," she said. "I have one prepared in the fridge."

After tossing the concoction down the hatch and recovering from the momentary feeling that the head was going to explode, I felt much better and ready for whatever the day might bring.

"Any recent developments to attend to?" I said.

"Lupe texted to say that you're needed in the Cove. She didn't offer any details as to why."

"They never do, Poopsie. They know I avoid the place due to my allergic reaction to it."

"You're allergic to Crystal Cove? she said.

"I am," I said. "The air there seems to be filled with some dark matter or other that clings to me until reaching critical mass when there's a loud pop and bits of the fabric of reality fill the air like confetti. And somehow, everyone points the finger at me."

The remark earned me another of her patented looks but I chose to ignore it. I felt a strong need for a seltzer to equalize the effect of that elixir of hers. These things lift one's spirits to the sticking point making an impression on the willpower that suggests anything is possible. But they also suggest that one has experienced the impossible. I prefer to dilute them as soon as they've worked their wonders.

When Reason was restored to her throne, I realized that as much as I wanted to ignore the summons, it came from my favorite denizen of Crystal Cove, Lupe, my god-niece. She sent the request and you know as well as I that I have no choice but to comply.

I'll leave tonight and contact you tomorrow when I learn the reason for the invitation. Something to set hell's foundations shaking I imagine.

Back In the Village

Well, here I am again, back in the Village of Crystal Cove and staying at the Inn of the Three Sisters. I know what you're thinking. As determined as I am to avoid this place, how is it that I end up here so often? 

Well, I'd like nothing better than to explain but it's a long story and for God's sake, I can't into it now. Right now I want to tell you about the dream I had on my first night here.

In my dream, I was in a hotel restaurant in central Missouri. I know! Central Missouri! Dreams can be so weird. I was eating a bowl of wabi-sabi--I know, I know! The waitress, filling the tall, amber drinking glass with tissue restorer was Susan S. and she looked exactly the same as so many years ago when she was a doctoral candidate at Rice University.

Susan inclined her head, the way the best waitresses do, toward the sidebar and recommended the sauce in the bottle there over the sauce in the bottle on my table. Of course, I walked over to investigate but discovered that the indicated bottle was uncapped and that the mouth of the said bottle was all crusty! When I turned to protest her recommendation, Susan was gone. 

Guess what happened next. Right! I woke up. You will not be surprised to know that my immediate thoughts were of the nature of the dream. What the hell, I thought. 

Now I am well aware, just as I'm sure you are, that many great and wonderful breakthroughs come to people through dreams. I'm sure you remember the story about Albert Einstein unlocking the secrets to general relativity because of a dream in which he rode through space on a sunbeam. Or was it a comet? Don't quote me.

What you don't know is that this Susan S. is the person who taught me to decipher dreams. The technique requires that immediately upon waking, you use guided imagery meditation to put yourself mentally back in the scene of the dream and then you direct your questions to one of the characters in the dream. You can speak to a person, a rabbit, a zombie, it really doesn't matter. Ask a direct question concerning events in the dream and you will get a direct answer. It really works. Try it sometime. I tried it with this dream.

I soon was back at the same table in the restaurant in the middle of Mizzou but, as I'm sure you've guessed already, Susan wasn't there. The waitress was played this time by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater Durham Night and part-time barista at Native Ground. 

I considered the change of personnel to be irrelevant, a side issue, and one that I would not let distract me from unlocking the secrets of whatever my higher self was trying to tell me. I decided that this Amy, not to be confused with Princess Amy, although come to think of it they do have a lot in common, would be met with the same respect I show the idle wind, which as Poopsie Wonder tells me…oh forget it. Not important really and I'm in danger of getting derailed. Let's get back to the pertinent details.

I rolled up my sleeves and got into action. She--Amy Normal that is--raised an eyebrow and I saw immediately that she was going to play hardball. I decided to take the direct approach. Always best when the witness is hostile. I'm sure Napoleon would approve.

"Hey, Normal," I said. "What gives?"

She rested her elbow, the one connected to the arm holding the coffee pot, on her hip and gave me a look.

"Simple," she said. "You're wabi-sabi has got stems on."

This got right by me. Stems? As you well know, this Normal and I have our differences and she can often become a thorn in the side but I've always maintained that her IQ is of the highest and brightest. This comment however had me reeling. I was sure she had finally come undone. 

"Look in the bowl, douche-bag," she said.

"Bowl?"

She stomped her foot, just a little, like a horse stamping the ground prior to charging into the fray if fray is the word. She looked toward the ceiling and sighed and for some reason and it immediately dawned on me what she was driveling about. I looked into the wabi-sabi bowl and you will never guess what I found there.

Cherries! The wabi-sabi, whatever the hell that is, had become a bowl of cherries--with stems on.

It was at that precise moment, back in the waking world, that Uma, Empress of Chatsford, began licking the top of my head. I woke but lay motionless thinking about the dream. Uma put an end to the meditation when she began playing Dig-the-Mummy-Out-of-the-Sand. What the hell, I thought. You play the hand you're dealt. 

I rose, moved to the window to salute the sun, and then performed the morning ablutions. This day was going to be filled with more good than bad and I was ready for it. I may not know the meaning of the dream but I have the support of Poopsie, Uma, Susan, and yes, even Amy. And like icing on the cake, I have you, my 1000 real fans, to rely on to get me through the day. What's the worst that could happen?

Coastal Camelot

Morning comes early in Southport. You're probably thinking that it comes early where you live too but let me tell you, there is far more to the morning than you could possibly imagine. 

On a clear day in this small seaside village, the dawning begins with a rosy glow that quickly becomes a golden curtain hanging above the horizon. Then the curtain opens revealing that familiar old ball of gas in his most pleasing aspect of Monarch of the Heavens.

It's very much like something resembling perfection

Soon after sunrise, the morning clouds gather in the east, puffy and white, just as requested to soften the morning light. It's all so very much like Camelot in the way it resembles perfection.

This particular day's beginning was so grand and so majestic that I found myself questioning that story told by Mr. Priddy in sixth grade, about the turning of the earth on its axis being responsible for the sunrise. Surely I think, gazing at this glorious sunrise, that only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could pull off a show like this.

Come evening, just about the dinner hour, the clouds are on the horizon again but this time in the west. They diminish the heat and make the sea breeze more refreshing. The streets begin to fill with people strolling along the waterfront, some with children, some with dogs, and some with lovers.

The Southport mystique is irresistible

Those little streams of people begin to pool outside popular joints like Fishy Fishy Cafe, Southport Provision Company, and Port City Java. And of course, people gather wherever the daily filming of the current movie or television show is taking place. That's right, the Southport mystique is so alluring that there's always something being filmed here. It's not unusual for six to eight projects, a combination of movies and television shows, to be filmed concurrently in the greater Wilmington area and most of them include scenes shot in Southport.

Ms. Wonder and I came out to Port City Java early for our daily espresso fix, and to beat the crowds to the movie site du jour. We came hoping to catch a glimpse of the filming of The Problem With Providence, starring Lily James and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. 

The movie production company hired local vendors to serve as extras and they've been strewn around the lawn in front of the Southport Maritime Museum in what looks like a festival of sorts. 

Nothing was happening on the set yet so we moved to the edge of the crowd of sightseers to watch a freighter entering the Intracoastal Waterway where it headed upriver toward the Port of Wilmington. Ms. Wonder thinks she recognized a friend standing on the pier along with several other members of the Cape Fear River Watchers.

"Background!" yells the movie wrangler and we turn back in time to see the extras go into action. The customers walk through the set toward the vendors, who begin taking orders and serving Italian ice and hot dogs. 

"This is some serious acting," I heard someone say. "Hmmm," I said to Ms. Wonder and I emphasized the statement with a raised eyebrow. She raised a corresponding eyebrow if that's the term, and with a slight nod, she indicated that we shared the same opinion of the review.

I was looking for the stars of the movie or if not the main stars at least Jim Gaffigan or Himesh Patel, but the wrangler yells, "Scene cut!" before I locate them.  This little scenario repeats every few minutes and I soon give up trying to get a peek at the actors. 

"Cart's here," said Ms. Wonder and we hurried to the loading zone for Southport Fun Tours. We needed a few more photos for the travel piece we're doing for Carolina Roads Magazine. 

Time moves more slowly in Southport

In a world where everything is constantly changing, you can be sure to find a reassuring sameness in Southport. And there's no better way to get a taste of just how dependable the town can be than with Southport Fun Tours. 

Dan Guetschow, known locally as The Rev, conducts the tours and entertains us with stories ranging from local history to local gossip. Dan earned his nickname while playing guitar for Boz Skaggs. I know! Boz Skaggs! Little surprises like this one make Southport seem all that more magical. 

As Ms. Wonder and I stroll along the waterfront on our way to the yacht basin, a line dance of pelicans passes overhead playing follow the leader. The first bird slides to the right and each bird following does the same. The leader then slides back to the left and one by one they all follow. They continue with their dance, doing the Charlie Brown and wobble, wobble, wobble until they're out of sight.

The perfect spot for happily ever after-ing

As we near the marsh walk, we can hear a local entertainer singing Jimmy Buffet ballads at Fishy Fishy Cafe, and we meet a local resident who moves as though she raises Cocker Spaniels but she's actually taking a Scottie for a walk the river basin.

I nod to her when we pass. "Crabs are out," she says.

"Ah," I say, having searched the data banks for just the right response and coming up empty. My mind doesn't work with the speed of someone like Ms. Wonder but it follows the same processes. The subconscious continued working on the mystery until it finally found the solution.

She must have meant that the crabs were searching for their supper along the marsh walk and wanted to prevent us from stepping on one. But the realization came too late to comment and she, realizing that she'd non-plussed me, made another effort.

"Big blow coming," she said nodding over her shoulder toward the evening clouds. I smile to myself with the knowledge that it doesn't rain 'till after sundown in Camelot.

"Stay dry," I said.

"Didn't say rain," she said. "Wind."

"Ah," I say again and remind myself that there's not a more congenial spot for happily ever after-ing than the coastal Camelot that is Southport.

You'll Be the First

It has been well said of the Genome, by those who know him well--that if there is one quality that distinguishes him more than any other, it is that he keeps the upper lip stiff and makes the best of things. In words of my own construction--I don't eat pine needles. (It's a longish story and we don't have time to go into it now.)

Waking this morning to another day, minus the lark and the snail, I rushed out for the cup of dark roast. Having refreshed the tissues with that first cup of needful, and hit the road with the windows down and SiriusXM turned up to 11. Still, I was disappointed to find the heart still down.

Down among the wines and spirits, as I've so often heard Ms. Wonder describe it. And not only the heart but the head too. I was suffering from a distinct apprehension for an inclement future. And I'll tell you why I was suffering from a distinct A for an inclement F. Ms. Wonder and I had left the old metropolis of Durham and traveled to Crystal Cove, on the Crescent Coast near Wilmington.

I've received numerous tweets asking why, given the option, I avoid the Cove. After all, as one follower describes it, "It's a picturesque village, surrounded by manicured fields, apple orchards, and with a willow-fringed river running through it."

And to that I would add, it is the home of my favorite cousin, Gwendolen, and my most amazing god-niece, Lucy Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, the company of both never tiring. And so you ask again, Why? It's the question Ms. Wonder asked as we drove the bridge leading to the River Walk and our meeting with the Inner Circle.

"Why do you dislike the Crystal Cove? It seems a perfectly pleasing place to me."

"Perfectly pleasing?" I said. "Perfectly pleasing is it?" You may notice a touch of annoyance, possibly some indignation, in my reply. I noticed it and, having done so, I thought better of it. This Wonder, who has done so much for me, deserves the softer touch and so I modified the tone.

"Yes," I said. "You no doubt look around the premises at all the luxuries--manicured landscaping, river frontage, a plethora of inviting outdoor activities--and you might reasonably think that life is ideal in Crystal Cove."

I paused for a few seconds. Not sure why. It may be that I'd forgotten where I was headed with that line of dialog. Or perhaps after mentioning a few items in the pro category, I was reluctant to begin listing the cons.

"However," I said, "Though every prospect pleases...."

"What about it?" she said. "Though every prospect pleases--what?"

"Oh, well, I'm not sure. It's something I heard once and it impressed me considerably. I like to throw it into conversation every now and then to add a little whatsit."

"I wish you wouldn't," she said. "Every time you throw quotes around, I waste time trying to make sense of them, and it's annoying."

"Are they supposed to make sense?" I asked. "Quotes I mean? Everyone quotes Shakespeare and his lines were nonsense when he wrote them."

"What! I can't believe you just said that. And you're supposed to be a writer too."

"I'm not just supposed to be a writer. I am a writer," I said with no little energy. "And you can't deny that Shakespeare was in the habit of shoving anything that came to mind into those plays."

She looked at me with large eyes and...no. What is it? Incredulous. That's it. She gave me an incredulous stare.

She opened her mouth to say something but the words didn't come and so I continued, not that I had anything more to add really, I just wanted to fill up the empty space.

"You might also consider the poet, Keats," I said. He speaks of stout Cortez staring at the Pacific and all his men looking at each other with a wild surmise, blah, blah, blah."

"So?" she said.

"Well, it wasn't Cortez, was it? Balboa was the bird that first stared at the Pacific."

She immediately fell silent. Her eyes were soft. I could tell that she was musing over my words. It made me feel better immediately. It always makes me feel better to think that she's considering my words.

"Alright, you big stiff," she said. "You're right about Balboa, But it's a big ocean and it is open to being stared at, so I see no reason why Cortez may not have given it a goggle too. Now, that's out of the way, answer my first question. Why do you avoid Wilmington?

"It's not Wilmington that I avoid. It's the Cove. And the reason is the local gendarmerie, one Vicky Mason, who has sworn to sign me up for an extended stay in the Brunswick County caboose."

"Really? For what exactly?" she asked.

"It's something to do with an unfortunate accident that occurred just before last year's winter solstice. She has hard suspicions, but no matching evidence, and so she sneaks around watching everything I do with an eye to catching me bending."

"Why she can't let the dead past lie I can't imagine. Just because I was in town when the fishing guides dormitory burned, what of it? It's not like I haven't explained to her that it was not my fault. More than once, I've pointed out that I didn't have a lot of time to consider options. I simply had no other choice. Burning the place down was the only way I think for hiding the evidence. Get over it, Vickie!"

I waited to hear Ms Wonder's response. I'm still waiting. I'll let you know.

Free Fallin'

" I have seen it all now, Ms Wonder," I said with conviction as I entered the salle de bains.

"What now," she said.

"Just now, on my return trip from Native Ground, I saw a guy on a skateboard standing in the middle of the street, looking at his phone."

"Hmm," she said, "in the middle of the street?"

"In the turning lane, just gazing at his text messages," I said. "Cars whizzing all around."

"I've always been drawn to skateboard culture--Free Falling, and all that, but not in the middle of Highway 55 during morning rush hour.

"Free Falling isn't about skateboarding," she said," and besides Happy Cats Wellness needs you right now. You can't afford to break any bones."

You are aware, I'm sure, that she referred to our new digital enterprise, the authoritative source of all things that improve health and elevate the happiness of the household mouser.

"You and Island Irv," I said.

"What about me and Island Irv?"

"Irv tells me I'm too old to skateboard, but I say consider the facts. I've already exceeded all expectations for the Genome's demise and I'm not so certain that I don't have another decade of extravagance in me."

I paused here to give the words time to sink in and get the fullest effect. As I watched Ms. Wonder, busy with her eyebrows, I began to wonder if the words had any effect at all. I decided to press the point.

"It's like Galileo and the Jesuits all over again," And I meant it to sting a bit.

"What?" she said.

"You know what I mean, Kepler happened to notice one day that Mars circled the sun and he even mentioned it in one of his New York Times best-selling books."

I waited for her to nod or indicate in some other way that she was following me. It didn't happen. She shrugged instead.

"Well," I said, just a little disappointed, "Galileo ignored Kepler's observation even though he was, at the time, defending himself from Vatican censorship because his very own views suggested that the Earth was not the center of things. You see what I mean?"

"No," she said.

"Ms Wonder! Do put on your thinking cap. The Vatican was telling Galileo to stop spreading nonsense even though it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had made the same observations and that Copernicus had written extensively about them.

"You're driveling," she said, and I didn't like her attitude one bit. Neither did Princess Amy like it and don't make me have to stop here to explain Princess Amy.

"Galileo ignored Copernicus too," I said."

"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked, but once more I pressed on, refusing to be derailed by her questions.

"It's Olber's Paradox, Ekaterina," and you may notice that I used her formal name to emphasize that I was serious and had enough of her attempts to muddle my thoughts. "When you look into the night sky it seems full of stars because that's what you're focusing on. But look again and you see that it is essentially dark. It's a simple observation and yet it has so much meaning, missed by most observers."

I paused again, to look into those emerald-green eyes for a sign that my words were having the desired effect. Nope! Bust again! I didn't like the look in her eye either, and I didn't want to be like Galileo and ignore the evidence that had been placed before me like ripe fruit.

"Will you consider discussing a simple mood stabilizer with your doctor?" she said.

"No, Poopsie, not drugs. Too twentieth century. Gamma-ray bursts are the current thing."

"Gamma-rays is it?" she said.

"Looking into the center of most galaxies is a monster black hole," I said. I don't know why I said it. It may have been anxiety causing me to think that the time was right to say something. Then again, it may have been a whim. The look she now wore is one that I very familiar with. She was looking at me the way a mother might look at a child who just turned the cereal bowl upside down on the dog's head.

"We are doomed," I said, having decided that the time was right for closing remarks. "The end is right around the corner."

After several moments of uncomfortable quiet, she spoke.

"The universe is full of infinite prospects," she said. I mused for a moment or two and nodded in agreement. She went on to say, "And there is limitless time, is there not?"

I nodded again because when Ms. Wonder speaks in a certain tone of voice, one gets quiet and pays attention if one desires to stay out of the quarantine room. I once more mused on her observations and, in the twinkling of an eye, it struck me.

"Nothing to worry about?" I said.

"Nothing," she said. Then she patted me on the shoulder and walked into the other room. I looked into the mirror to see how Amy was taking it. I expected she would take it big and that's just the way she was taking it. She had collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"Everything is going to be alright, Amy," I said trying to reassure her. "You heard Ms Wonder, nothing to worry about."

"There's always something to worry about," Amy said.

"True," I said, "but there's infinite possibilities and limitless time. If only Napoleon had known, things might have turned out differently for him."

It's amazing isn't it, how things that seem to herald the end of the world may turn out to be just what the doctor ordered. I returned to work on Crystal Cove without a single care. Oh, but you probably haven't heard about Crystal Cove. I can't go into it now but it's my new book and you're going to love it. And yes, I know that Wonder suggested I should work on Happy Cats but let it go, dear reader. Put it completely out of your mind. I've got this. Really I do.

I'm Listening, Seattle

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

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

"Inn of The Three Sisters" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mean Pittsboro?" she said.

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

"Hovering?" she said.

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

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

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

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

"You wouldn't worry?" I said.

"Not at all," she said.

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

"Precisely."

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

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

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

"Fraiser!" I exclaimed.

"What?" she said.

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

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

Makes All the Difference

Do you remember that I spent all last week looking for signs of the monster of Jordan Lake? Well, I did, and you might want to pay a little more attention in the future. Just because you can't spend the middle of summer at the seashore is no reason to let the mind drift.

Lake Jordan looking west toward Crystal Cove

It was hot last week. And humid. I don't remember when I've experienced a hotter and humid-er. Even worse, after all the driving, hiking, and photographing, I was rewarded with nada. Nothing to support Lupe's claim of the monster. 

In all fairness to the young geezer, I should say that she doesn't like the word monster. She prefers to say creature and believes the animal to be a mother whose only concern is taking care of her offspring.

I did get a nice shot of the lake in the early morning. I'll post some pics for you to enjoy later. Where was I? Oh, Lupe's monster.

Please tell me that you haven't forgotten Lupe. Twelve years old. Short dark hair. Wears her clothes like a bench in a department store dressing room. Looks like a cross between a tall pixie and one of the Morrigan sisters. Oh, don't make that face. I'm not being harsh. It's the look she's going for.

As I was saying, she's proven the existence of the lake monster mathematically, so the thing's got to be hiding there somewhere. Lupe is seldom wrong when it comes to numbers.

I have pressing concerns in Crystal Cove this week and I arrived at the Inn of the Three Sisters yesterday afternoon. I thought I might as well check in with the aunts before meeting with the old ancestor, Uncle Gus.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived and there's no time like 2:00 to 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon to find nothing going on in Crystal Cove. I entered the front parlor to find Lupe practicing qigong. She was wearing the baggiest pants I've ever seen and a fedora. A fedora! What's that about?

"Good, lord," I said. "Where'd you get those pants?"

"Hello, sir," she said in the middle of the movement that she assures me is called White Swan Spreads Her Wings. And in case you're wondering if I'm having a go at you, let me assure you, she said those exact words. I know! I thought it strange too.

"Where'd you get those pants?" I said again.

"They're Thai fishermen's pants," she said. "Don't you like them?"

"Very becoming," I said. I'm sure you would have thought of something better but that's the best I could do on short notice.

"Did you find signs of the creature?" she said. I told you she doesn't like the term monster. She plans to make a pet of it, I'm certain.

"No, I did not. And I'm exhausted from the effort. I'm here to see Uncle Gus and have a good long rest. No drama, please. Don't start any of your stuff."

She stopped the qigong routine and gave me a look with cocked eyebrows and a pout.

"Have you seen Gwyn lately?" I said.

"Yes, sir. Lady Gwyn is out on the grounds looking for Constable Mason."

I'm sure you've noticed the formal bent in her conversation by now, and if not, then pay attention for heaven's sake. I'm not writing this for my own amusement. I noticed the formal motif right away and I didn't like it. I took a breath and prepared myself to pry under the lid even though something told me it would come to no good.

"Alright," I said. "Take five, you little racketeer. Since you insist on pressing the issue, just what is it with all this medieval stuff?"

"Sir?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said. "What's with the sirs and the Lady Gwyns and the Constable Masons. Why not just Genome, Gwyn, and Mason?"

"Oh, that," she said. "My mom, says I need to show more respect for my elders." She said it with a scowl and it all became clear to me in an instant.

"Oh, that's the story, is it?" I said. "Well, we Genomes have lightning-fast brains, Tinker Bell, and I can read between those lines. You've gotten your little blue coat with the brass buttons caught in Farmer McGregor's fence again, haven't you?"

"Have you been out in the sun without a hat?" she said.

She was pushing it, don't you think? I drew myself up to full height and looked down on her with a stern whatisit. I forgot the exact quote but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks. 

"None of that, thank you," I said. "The reference was Peter Rabbit. I'm sure you've heard of him at some point in your career. But that's not important," I said with a wave of the hand.

"I know why you've adopted the lingo. You've given someone some backchat, probably Aunt Maggie, and now you're paying the price. But you're not showing respect, you're being whats-the-word."

"Resistant," she said. "Obstinate," I said.

"Defiant," she said. "Seditious," I said.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I've missed our little chats."

Well, I melted of course. I mean she may be the spawn of Satan but she's my favorite inmate here at the Cove. And who among us can keep up the stern exterior when your god-niece is under the rule of three aunts and an uncle for the duration of the summer? It's enough to make the Pope kick a stained-glass window.

"Why is Gwyn looking for Mason anyway?" I said.

"Mason is trying to rehome some of my cats and Gwyn is doing me a favor by sweet-talking Mason, on account of I'm helping her with the high-summer festival."

"You have too many cats?" I said.

"No," she said. "But it's more than the homeowners association will allow."

"How many does the HOA allow?"

"Three."

"How many do you have?"

"Seven or eight," she said, "depending on your point of view."

"Ah," I said as a way of giving myself time to decide which direction I would take. The question I asked myself was, would I do my duty as god-uncle and point out the risk of taking the rebellious path? Or would I be the understanding and compassionate friend?

Then I remembered an incident from my childhood when I was discovered to have more than the allotted number of cats in my bedroom and the proper action became clear to me.

"One purr bucket just leads to another," I said, and then added, "Hemingway."

"We are rewarded in heaven according to the way we treat cats on earth," she said. "Heinlein."

"Don't call me Heinlein," I said. "Don't call me Hemingway," she said.

We laughed. "Enjoying the summer?" I said. "Now that you're here," she said. And that made all the difference.

No Place Like Home

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You probably know the feeling I mean. My first thought, as I lay there underneath the blanket, was that if fingers are ankling up the leg, then the hand doing the walking belongs to the ghost that resides on the third floor of the Inn of the Three Sisters in the Genome ancestral home in Pittsboro. 

If you're not familiar with Pittsboro, it's the village that lies beside the Haw River south of Chapel Hill and is not to be confused with Saxapahaw, which also lies beside the Haw River. Easy to tell them apart; they're spelled differently.

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2000 - 2024

But I've jumped the rails again. The topic is the ghost that's tickling my thigh. To face this ghost, as you may recall from an earlier post, requires a steel resolve if that's the term. But resolve isn't always abundant and it's been in short supply in recent days. I took a moment to breathe deeply and to muster the will. 

Be still, I said to Princess Amy, who you probably know as that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells sitting on her throne in the middle of my brain. She's fond of stamping her foot and yelling, Off with their heads! or alternatively, Run for your life! I believe Napoleon had the same temperament.

As I lay in bed, taking my moment, I happened to remember an old saw I heard somewhere--it may belong to Ms. Wonder. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Well, you know how we Genomes are; men of action! I took that tide at the flood and threw back the duvet ready to claim the pot of gold or whatever it was the man had in mind.

Well, imagine my surprise, to discover not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, walking up my leg and I was not in Pittsboro but back home in Durham! And Durham is a good place to be. All's well that ends well and all that.

Now, I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds have been singing out of tune and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in her chips and retiring to Miami. 

But today is different, which isn't surprising because nothing is permanent, as the man said.  Was it the Buddha or Shakespeare? I get them confused. But surely it was one of the other. They seem to be responsible for everything that's worth repeating. Have you noticed?

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that life comes hard and fast and that the prudent person is ready for anything. How to be ready he never said exactly but I gathered that it required acceptance rather than resistance.

Though things came that close to falling apart over the last few days, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin that is my limbic system without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though spring were just around the corner. It's a positive frame of mind and it's contagious. I share that positive outlook today and it's due in no small part to paying attention to those birds. Master Wen might say it's due to simply paying attention--period.

Whatever the cause of my new attitude. I'm not questioning it. I'm just happy that knotted sheets didn't enter into it. I must give Ms Wonder credit for helping to clean my mental windows so that I could see more clearly. That's all I'm going to say about it for now.

I will say that it's good to be home again. There's no place like it.