Back to the Island

Something there is that calls us back to the island of Ocean Isle again and again. I've loved her from the first time I saw her. Not exactly sure what set her apart from all the others. It may have been her name; the words Ocean Isle conjure up images of a tropical paradise. It may have been the sound of the surf rolling in as the sun sinks into the sea, or it may have been the soft whispers of the evening breezes.

And why shouldn’t this tropical-like paradise call to us? The island has everything we need for a day trip or extended vacation. There’s lots of sun, lots of sand, surfable waves, and the boardwalks that traverse the dunes allow me to appreciate their interior without disturbing them. I especially like that.

The thing I like most about the island is that everything I want or need is never too far from the sea—things like icy drinks and shrimp burgers and coffee—especially coffee because no matter how much sand I have in my shoes, nor how much salt I have in my t-shirt, I can’t pass up a cup of the steaming.

As satisfying as it is to have the best things of life right across the street from the Atlantic, it gets even better than that here at OIB. The multicolored sunshine logo on the Sunset Slush pushcarts comes out onto the beach every day bringing Italian ices in a wide variety of flavors. That’s right—they bring the stuff to you, my friend, and they are as dependable as caffeine.

The town of Ocean Isle is just big enough to offer outstanding summertime diversions too—like the free outdoor movies on Wednesday evenings and the free outdoor concerts in the park on Fridays. Large enough to provide all that and yet small enough that it doesn’t get in the way—plenty of room for everybody.

Considering everything that Ocean Isle offers, I have to wonder why it's routinely overlooked by the big media outlets when they rank the best Carolina beaches. I recently finished compiling several of those rankings and OIB appeared in only one. No matter; I rate it the number one beach in Carolina—North and South.

But regardless of what draws us here, we are drawn, and the time comes when we just have to go back. We came back this time to search for photographic opportunities to illustrate a travel piece destined for publication in Carolina Roads Magazine.com.

It was an early August morning and we'd stopped at Lowe's Foods on the mainland for some reason that I've forgotten now. I'd never noticed it before but there at the end of the sidewalk was an inviting little spot named OIB Surf & Java Cafe. I know! Surfing and coffee as if they belonged together.  

Oh sure, I’d seen these little coffee shops everywhere along the Carolina coast. Some of them were pleasant surprises but most were just another bean grinder—good for a cup of the needful but one was as good as another. I wasn’t expecting much from a bean trader located in a strip center. Still, it was early morning and I felt in need of the medium dose for an average adult.

I opened the front door and the instant I stepped inside, my low-level expectations were replaced by a completely satisfying sight that seemed to drop softly through the air like the gentle rain from heaven.

I stared in amazement, speech taken from my lips by a sharp intake of breath. It may not have been the perfect coffee shop, because none of my friends were there waiting for me, but it was close enough to perfect to be getting on with. 

"Good morning," called the barista, "What can I get started for you?"

Whatever it was that she might start for me was destined to remain a mystery for the moment, because this pleasant surprise had taken me by storm, and my system needed time to adjust.

I looked around the room cautiously, expecting at any moment for the place to revert to what I’d expected before opening the door. What I saw were stylish, yet comfortable chairs surrounded by potted palms. I saw surfboards, and wet suits, and a year’s worth of The Surfers Journal. I even saw ukuleles. Yes, that’s right.

Ms. Wonder and I wandered around the place, taking it all in, and making a few photos as we went. Eventually, we found ourselves back at the starting point. We ordered coffee but I couldn't stop looking at the muffins. I don't eat muffins but I ate those muffins.

Eventually, the time was past for living in a dream world and it was time to go back to the island. As we left the cafe, I remember thinking that this place was too good to be true and I wondered if it would still be here when we came this way again. Like Brigadoon, perhaps it appears once in a while and can’t be found except on one special day of the year.

You remember Brigadoon, don't you? It's a musical about a village in Scotland that appears for only 1 day every 100 years. Tommy, the American tourist falls in love with Fiona who lives in the village. Everyone knows that story. You may have performed the role of Tommy or Fiona in your high school production. 

At the end of the day, we sat alone on the beach near the pier, where we enjoyed a Sunset Slush while we watched the sun go down, and listened to the sea roll in, and heard the night birds cry. 

Eventually, the time came to say goodbye and as we drove across the bridge back to the mainland, I thought of OIB Surf & Java. Was it still there I wondered? Or had it disappeared like Brigadoon? As we neared Lowe’s Foods, I fought the urge to turn into the center. I lost the fight.

Surprisingly the coffee shop was still there. Still, I reasoned, several hours remained in the day and it might yet disappear under cover of night. I'll update you with the latest when we come back to the island.

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.

Write is Might

"Ms Wonder, I've just had the most marvelous revelation. I'm sure I don't need to explain the true nature of life to you, so let me get right down to the nub," I said as she emerged from the garage with her arms full of boxes. 

Wonder's Photography sold to benefit Independent Animal Rescue

"Here, hold this," she said as she shoved one of the larger ones in my direction. It was disconcerting, it was diverting, and it certainly wasn't the response I was looking for.

"You could probably teach me a thing or two about life," I said, I hoped it help me avoid her attempt to derail my thoughts with those cardboard containers.

"Hold this," she repeated and I realized that I hadn't avoided anything. This time I responded by taking the box from her arms, but not with any real chirpiness.

"This box is empty," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I just now came from the Lighting Gallery," she said.

This got right past me. I felt a chill all along the dorsal fin. I live in fear that one day her perfect brain will come unhinged and I will be back where I started--standing on the shoulder of the road in the rain. Could this be the day I wondered?

"What gallery is that?" I asked.  

"I delivered some of my art prints to that lighting gallery on Highway 70 in Raleigh. I told you about it," she said. 

"Ah," I said. Not my best retort but I take pride in the fact that I do not mislead my audience and 'Ah' is just what I said.

"Still," I continued, in an attempt to get back on track, "I feel compelled to remind you that the foolishness we know as daily life sometimes comes slowly, and when it does come slowly, its impact is soft and gentle like the easy dawning of a Sunday morning."

"Easy like Sunday morning," she said. I don't know why. She just did. Just a whim do you think? I thought about asking her what she meant but realized, in the nick of time, that she was attempting to cherry-bomb my fruit punch again. She's done it before. Enjoys it, if you want my opinion.

"But it's been my experience," I continued, "that more often than not, life comes fast and strikes us squarely between the eyes, like the baseball you didn't keep your eye on. It's coming hard and fast like that this morning."

She gave me a searching look, at least I think that's what it was--searching. You know that look where the eyes move to the right and then to the left, scanning the map as it were. Gave me the feeling that perhaps I'd finally gotten her attention and that something good was coming. I was right. She let the boxes in her arms drop to the floor. I liked that. It was time, I reasoned, to begin weaving my web around her.

"There is much to do when your passion is writing," I said, and you surely know how good it felt to be talking about writing and not about lighting galleries. And if you're concerned that Ms. Wonder missed her day in the sun with art prints and whatnot, don't worry. We got back to that as soon as I had satisfied Princess Amy that the sky wasn't falling. If you haven't met Amy,  you'll want to ask one of the regulars to tell you about her.

Having gotten Ms. Wonder back on the topic of writing, I continued. "Oh sure, it looks easy. You're probably asking yourself, What's so hard about it? Where's the difficulty in putting a bunch of words together to make sentences and then group them into a paragraph or two? After all, Shakespeare did it with one hand tied behind his back and look at the drivel he sold."

"What a minute," she said. "Do you actually think that Shakespeare slapped onto the page anything that popped into his mind?"

"Please," I said. "Have you really read his stuff?" I waved my hand in the air. "All silliness and nonsense, if you ask me," I said, "but then what do you expect from someone who roamed the countryside stealing ducks?"

"Stealing ducks?" Her brow furrowed and then she asked, "Are you thinking of the stories about Shakespeare poaching deer in the Charlecote Park?"

"Let's not heap more coals on Shakespeare," I said and I thought it a pretty good comeback. "The supporters of the Earl of Oxford and Sir Francis Bacon do enough coal-heaping. No, let's talk about life and the fiend hiding in the bushes that we call Fate. The one that smacks us upside the head when we're looking the other way."

"What about it?" she said.

"What about it? Wonder, you amaze me! Do you know that more than half the time, when we aren't paying attention, our minds are wandering from pillar to post? Thoughts just rise up from the deep at random. It could be something from a Lovecraft story. Something about Thul-hu perhaps."

"Cthulhu," she said, which shot far over my head, again. 

"Ka-thoo-loo?" I said.

"That's right. Not pronounced the way you'd think."

"Thank God," I said. "But are you sure of the pronunciation?"

"Positive," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I asked.

She waved her hand in the air far more vigorously than the effort I made with mine. "And besides, I don't see a problem with daydreaming", she said. "Some researchers think it's therapeutic. And besides,  I think you're delusional."

"Not daydreaming," I said. "I'm talking about idle fretting and worrying that we fall into when we're not paying attention." 

But, truth to tell, I was beginning to get her drift that somehow, somewhere between there and here, I'd lost my way. But you know how it is when you find yourself in such a predicament, you have no choice but to soldier on and try to make some sense of it.

"Half the time we worry about the future or replay uncomfortable memories of the past," I said. "Fair warning, Ms. Wonder, idle minds are the enemy."

I thought that last remark might grab her attention but she only gave me another of her patented looks. This one was more serious than the last. Her eyes weren't actually rolling from earth to heaven but they were in a fine frenzy to find a comfortable spot to rest.

"Not buying it?" I said.

"Nope," she said. 

"I'm out of practice," I said.

"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," she said.

"Would it help my argument if I brought in something about Napoleon? Perhaps found a way to introduce Catherine the Great?"

"I think not," she said.

"Cocker Spaniels?" I asked. She shook her head.

"How about something with elves and dragons?" I said.

"Possibly," she said. "Elves and dragons would make it more interesting but I'm not sure it would strengthen the argument."

"Well, you would know," I said. "I'll work on it and get back to you. But it may take some time. I feel as though I need to start all over again." 

Can't Stop Us Now

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart, and I readily accept that you are smart, you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole, and then it oozed its way through the gates and onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how then you won't be surprised to learn that I too wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout.

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, Ms. Wonder and I, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I think I'm not exceeding the limit when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

The reason for our whatsit was waiting for us at Litchfield in our sister state to the south. It was twenty years ago this very month that the Wonder and I published our very first travel article in the Birmingham News. We were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may recall as, Brookgreen Gardens, Then and Now.

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was high. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing, then I must have hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said,"the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized that she was coming dangerously close to the blessed damozel leaned out from the gold bar of heaven and so I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels. This is the way of the Genomes and I'm sure it was the same with Napoleon. I'm sure you agree.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds. He gave me one of those looks that cats sometimes do give when not happy about the circs.

"What?" said the Blessed Damsel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. As it happened, she was not disappointed. "Then it's a good day for the low-country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being in the presence of the people who are on your side. If you don't have someone on your side, I suggest you give it a try. Try it now and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; you can can count on me.

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the book they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my old friend, let us call him Jody, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Jody thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose, stretched, and I remember thinking to myself, 'life is good', and if I anticipated a perfect day, why not? 

The day’s work was done and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was still flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. 

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga," she replied.

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. This was one of those days.

Let's Do It Again

"Ms Wonder," I said, "friends are like flowers."

"Very true," she said. "Georgia O'Keeffe said that to see a flower takes time, just as making friends takes time. She also said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," I said, "wonderful woman, and I'll bet you hold me spellbound telling me about all that she said, but later, please, when I have more time to pay close attention to every word." 

I risked losing her sympathy saying it but I had no other choice. As I'm sure you know, Ms Wonder's fine art photography is inspired by the work of Ms. O'K and she--Poopsie I mean, not O'Keefe--can go on for days about her.

"But are they worth risking eternal torment?" I said. "That is the question I ask myself."

"Pardon?" she said.

"Well, you know what I mean," I said. "That referral business."

"No," she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ms Wonder," I said. "You simply must start paying closer attention. Your life is slipping right by you. You remember the referral arrangement with Emerald City. Mention someone's name and they get $700.00 and then Mom gets flowers every month for the entire year."

"I follow you so far," she said.

"Well, no one really referred us, did they? We just said someone did so we could split the 700 green ones and get the flowers. That qualifies, unless I've forgotten the rules, as a blatant lie. Pardon me if that seems harsh but the truth will out, even if it doesn't set you free. Running afoul of one or more of the rules carved in stone, if they were carved, puts one in danger of eternal torment."

"Ah, I see now," she said. "You're wondering if $350.00 is worth eternal torment."

"I am not," I said somewhat indignantly. "You must take immediacy into account when considering eternal torment. The money comes now but no one knows when Judgement Day comes. No, it's not the money. What I'm wondering is whether fresh flowers for Mom is worth eternal torment."

"Of course," she said, "I understand now. That is a complex issue."

"I'm going to ask them what kind of flowers. Carnations, definitely not. Roses, certainly. Something in between, I'll have to think about it."

"Good plan," she said.

"Thank you, Ms Wonder."

"It's true what everyone says, that even though you have the mental prowess of a peahen, you do know how to get yours," she said.

As it happens, I've never met a peahen and so couldn't assess the quality of the compliment, but when in doubt, assume the best is my motto.

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

Qigong Ukelele

This morning even before the sun got up (that slacker) I was qigong-ing like the dickens, doing the crane and I don't mean to boast, playing the ukulele. I know!

You are, of course, aware of what the Zen Buddhists say about chopping wood--that you should just whack the stuff and don't make a Broadway production of it. Just pay attention to the chopping.

According to these Zen practitioners, we should never under any circumstances play the ukulele while performing qigong. And yet, there I was underneath a spreading magnolia, bending and swaying and strumming. You're anxious to hear all about it, I'm sure, but like so many of my stories, it's a long one and for God's sake I don't intend to go into it all now. Just the gist, if that's the word.

Arriving at Native Grounds in the bright and fair of yester-morn, I found the room full of the usual corpses staring into space and presumably waiting for something to stir them to life. Little hope, of course, because nothing ever happens in the morning. Every Durhamite knows that if you want something diverting and invigorating, you've got to have the magic hour that follows the purples and amethysts and golds of the evening sky. 

I eyed this rabble with disapproval, resenting the universal calm that enveloped the horde at a time when, thanks to that little almond-eyed Princess Amy, I felt like one of those heroes in a Greek tragedy pursued by the Furies.

Ankling toward the bar, I noticed the headlines on the Observer lamenting the latest abomination of the North Carolina legislature and I felt Princess Amy hotting up in the darkest recesses of my mind. She was getting rowdy. I hurried toward the bar hoping that a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy would restore my sangfroid. It was not to be.

"Where have you been?" said Amy Normal, part-time barista and Backup Mistress of the Greater South Durham Night, for it was she filling the space behind the Order Here sign. "I haven't seen you in days."

"Oh?" I said. The comeback, I am fully aware, was lacking the usual Genome flair but don't forget those Furies who, even now, were creeping ever closer like a gang of Aunts.

"It's no good saying, 'Oh' with that tone of voice as though you don't give a damn," she said. "Consider the stars." She embellished the last remark by lifting a hand upward, as though we could see stars from inside the coffee shop.

"The stars?" I said, ratcheting up the Genome spirit in an attempt to get the emotional feet back on solid ground. "Is that a reference to, Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold? Because if it is, I want no part of it."

"I do not mean whatever it was you said, and what the hell are patens anyway? Shakespeare?"

"You have me in deep waters there," I admitted, "I'll ask Ms. Wonder when I see her this evening and report back tomorrow morning." I hoped this diversionary tactic would steer us safely away from Shakespeare. This A. Normal is a quirky bird and loves to get knee-deep into the Bard.

"Oh no," she said, "you don't get out of it that easy. I know where you've been."

"Oh?" I said.

"Stop saying Oh! What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise in your youth and I wanted nothing more than your happiness. But what a waste you've turned out to be. You come in here giving me orders and expecting me to do just as you ask and then when the slightest temptation comes along, you cheat on our relationship and have coffee at some cheap, tawdry hole in the wall."

"Do we have a relationship?" I said.

"That's the question I ask myself," she said. "Looking up at the stars, I know quite well that, for all they care, I can go to hell, but on earth, indifference is the least we have to fear from man or beast. Auden."

Once more with the star motif and, to be honest, I had no clue as to why she called me Auden. Someone you may know, possibly, but I've never had the pleasure, I'm afraid. I began to worry for her sanity if any.

Fortunately for you and probably just as well for me, the rest of our conversation is a blur but when I regained consciousness, I was sitting at a table with the remnants of the Secret Nine. 

Sister Mary was saying something about a ukulele. When she placed the period at the end of the sentence, she gazed slowly around the table and each person, in turn, made some sort of reply to her statement. I searched the database for something meaningful but when her eyes came to rest on mine, I had only one thought.

"You don't mean a ukulele," I said hoping against hope because deep in my heart I knew I'd heard correctly. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.

"I do too," she said. "I loved that ukulele. Took it with me when I ran away from home at the age of five."

"Might it have been a cocker spaniel?" I said. "I loved a cocker spaniel when I was a kid and once took him with me when I ran away from home."

"No, I do not mean a cocker spaniel," she said. "Were you successful in running away? My parents found me on the neighbor's stoop by following the sound of my strumming."

"As I recall," I said, "my mother intervened when she found me packing a honey-cured ham for the trip."

"Too bad," she said. "Well, better luck next time. Anyway, Island Irv was just telling us about a ukulele video he saw on Youtube and his story reminded me of the Hawaiian music I heard in a hotel in St. Petersburg."

"IZ?" I said.

"Is what?" said Mary.

"No, I mean Israel," I said. I was about to add, 'Israel Kamakawiwo'ole,' but Mary interrupted again.

"Not Israel," said Mary, "Russia--we were in St. Petersburg."

"But why Hawaiian music in Russia?" I said.

"Why not?" said Mary, who is one of the more accepting and tolerant members of the Nine. If Russian hotels play Hawaiian music, let them do it until their eyes bubble, is her attitude.

And there, if your mind hasn't wandered, you have the story. It's the bare bones but I think it's enough to be getting on with and now you will understand why I thought of ukuleles while practicing the Five Animal Frolics in the dark this morning. 

I suppose one must give Amy her due because when it comes to selecting distracting thoughts, no one else comes close. I refer, of course, to Princess Amy, the Queen of the Limbic System, and not Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu.

Life is Good

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf star. 

I deduced from the bird song redolent in the crepe myrtle and from the cawing redolent in the crows and from the speed-demoning redolent in the parking lot that the weekend had refreshed the great and the small without prejudice. 

I'm confident that all hearts were filled with gratitude for the ancient Hebrew invention of taking a day off every now and then.

But no gratitude beat in the breast of the Genome for it had been just one damned hour after another all week long. The Auditor was taking inventory as I parked and decanted myself in front of Native Grounds in the Renaissance District. The talley was: tired--yes; irritable--yes; angry--just a simmer.

Approaching the door, I saw a man on the other side cleaning the glass. He stopped cleaning as I grasped the puller and pulled. I took in his face and found that his countenance was not friendly. Stern I would have described it as. It was clear that this beni adam was not happy to see the Genome. I remember thinking how strange it was. The visage worn by this son of toil was the one Genome reserved for the Amalekites, Jebusites and Philistines.

It was with me the work of an instant to conclude that in an earlier era this guardian of the gate would have challenged me with a 'Friend or foe!' 'You're either with us or against us,' he might have declared. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd barely stopped short of ascertaining the color of my insides.

Immediately, the limbic system went into overdrive. A mental image of my hands sinking into the soft flesh of his neck filled the mental projection screen. Vivid memories of the taichi back-roll with feet planted in his belly and his body cartwheeling into the street completed the image.

I took a deep breath.

'Not today, Amy,' I said silently to the little princess shouting battle cries in my mind. 'Chill, baby. Remember, we don't know everything. This man may have had a bad morning.'

'I'll teach him what a bad morning really feels like,' she said or at least she seemed to say it.

"Good morning," I said to the neanderthal with a friendly nod of the coconut but he said nothing and continued to glare and chew his Juicy Fruit, mouth open, or it might possibly have been his tongue he chewed. Hard to tell.

Princess Amy, the tyrant of the underworld in the Genome's brain, is half Celtic, one-quarter Viking, and one-quarter Muskogee Creek, and I'm not so sure it isn't red camp Creek. When she is in full battle trance, she impresses not unlike the impression that Boudicca must have made on the front ranks of the Romans. 

She impressed like this now. One eye was saucer-sized, the other squinted into a mere slit. The lips were pulled from the teeth and the molars were grinding. Steam escaped from the seams which were near to bursting.

'Easy, old girl, there is more good than bad here,' I reminded her in soothing tones.

I reached the service counter and asked for a large, hot beverage and then searched the pockets for money. None was forthcoming. Then I perused the wallet for Genome's coffee allowance. Not there. Loaned to the needy and deserving yestereve. 

The outer crust maintained a semblance of calm reserve but need I tell you that Amy was now completely manic? She stomped the earth like a drum and sliced the forearms with an obsidian blade in the manner of the priests of Ba'al. She was in full battle frenzy and I'm sure the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth.

"Oh, that's alright," said the hostess. "We know you. Enjoy your coffee on the house."

Amy stopped her rant, the eyes opened wide. She collapsed in a heap, eyes staring blankly into the empty space that makes up most of the Genome mind.

"Thank you," I said to the hostess.

"Not at all," she said with a warm, wonderful smile that made all the difference.

'Take a deep breath,' I said to Amy. 'Life is good.'

Morning Can Wait

"Are you all right? " asked Ms Wonder.

"I'm fine," I said without hesitation for the probability of being correct is one in two; not bad odds; and the Genome is a sporting man if he is a day.

It's my custom to rise at 5:30 each morning to feed the inside cats first and then the outside, to sluice the torso, fuel the mitochondria, and then hie for the open spaces of Dulce in the Sutton Station. 

To reach the morning, of course, you must practice the proven proverb of early to bed and continue there through the small hours, eventually arriving at the gates of a new dawn. But you probably knew that already.

The past evening found me continually awake with a song playing on the lips of the inner man. Does that happen to you? A song that you can't seem to shut off. If I remember correctly, it was a tune called, "I Have a Motorcar With a Horn That Goes Toot-toot." Couldn't get it out of my head.

I arose long before I arrived at the gates of dawn and by the time  I entered the salle de bain I observed in the mirror a man of my own age but not half as good looking. It was his eyes that arrested the attention. They were reddish in color and sagged beneath. The lazy eyelids were reminiscent of the Italian crooners of my youth.

The fact that I'd heard a young man driving an Audi refer to me the day before as a goggle-eyed turkey allowed me to recognize the man in the looking glass. Few turkeys have goggled as well as this specimen and any turkey would have been proud to do so.

"At least you're clean and sober," I said to the newcomer.

"Why shouldn't I be sober?" he said.

"I'm not complaining," I said, "I'm just saying."

"Having trouble sleeping is one of the textbook symptoms of overdone anxiety brought on by manic mental activity," he said. "Can you suggest anything that might account for it?"

"Well..."

"What? Say it!" he said.

"Is loopiness hereditary?" I said.

"It can be."

"Noses are," I said just to point out that some things are passed along from one to another generation.

"True," he said.

"This beezer of mine has come down through the ages," I said.

"Indeed?"

"My father had it; my grandfather had it; and my great grandfather had it. It accompanied my ancestors to Agincourt," I said.

"Were they at Agincourt?"

I nodded. "They came over with the Conqueror. My ancestor was a nephew."

"Would you say they were all dotty?" he said.

"Possibly," I said. "The Conqueror's sister's kid accepted a governing post in Hungary."

"I see," he said seeming to consider the pros and cons suggested by this fact. "How about your father? Did he have any structural weaknesses?"

"No, Dad was all right. He collected Zane Gray novels."

"He didn't think that he was Zane Gray?"

"No, certainly not," I said.

"That's all right then. Yes, I think I know the source of your problem."

"What?"

"It's the same fate that befalls many people who stand over six feet. You see, the heart has evolved over the millennia to pump blood and oxygen into a head that is five feet, eight inches off the floor. Stands to reason then that a brain so far away from the heart as yours can't possibly function properly."

I suddenly began to see this man in a different light. I didn't like the tone. All wrong as far as I was concerned.

"That's your opinion is it?" I said with more than a little topspin.

"The medical term is sublunary medulla oblongata diathesis."

"You made that up, you goggle-eyed turkey," I said.

"Very possibly," he said, "but I can't stand here arguing with you all day. I have writing to do."

I started visibly at these words. I realized that what he spoke was soothe and it was with me the work of an instant to gather the quills, refill the ink pot, roll up the sleeves and get straight to work. Maybe a nap in the afternoon you think?

Pirates of Penzance

I woke early, at least it had the appearance of early. The light filtering through the curtains was a pinkish hue and this is, I believe, a sign of early morning. I'm no an expert of course. 

Beignet was limbering up with a good long stretch, front legs thrust forward and butt high in the air. It felt really good I'm sure, although I don't practice the move myself. I tend to qigong rather than yoga.

Uma Maya was on duty high atop the cat tree surveying her domain and making sure that everyone was cued and ready for the day. Abbie Hoffman, I suppose, was high atop the kitchen cabinets to make sure he was no where near Uma. 

In short, all was as it should be. How any household can function without at least a dozen or so cats is beyond me. I'll bet Napoleon kept cats.

"Good morning, Ms Wonder," I said, and then after taking a quick glance out the open window, "It's a beautiful day."

"The bluebird?" she said.

"On my shoulder," I said.

"The sun?" she said.

"High in the sky," I said, "or fairly highish, and bright certainly."

"Clouds?" she asked.

"Puffy and cotton white," I said.

"Cumulus humilis," she said or something that sounded like it.

"You're joking," I said. "Do refer to the clouds and a newly discovered variety of early human?"

"The clouds," she said, "They take their name from the latin cumulo meaning heap or pile."

"Now I know you're putting me on. A pile of clouds? This is one of your practical jokes, isn't it? You're going to run me up and down the flagpole a few times this morning."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," she said, "I learned about clouds in my aviation weather class. Cumuli are part of a larger class of clouds know as cumuliform, which includes stratocumulus, cumulonimbus, cirrocumulus and altocumulus."

"My grandmother's name was Alta," I said.

"I misspoke," she said, "I meant to say alto. Alto-cumulus."

"Oh, sorry," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

A moment of silence passed. A moment not unlike the silence that reigns on stage when one of the actors in a community play forgets the next line.

"Poopsie?"

"Still here," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said.

"Well, then you have a sticky brain, much like the sticky brain that my friend Mumps has. By the way, did you say aviation weather? You actually took a class in aviation weather?"

"Hmmm," she said.

Another moment of silence passed, one much like the first.

"Poopsie, are you, or were you ever, a fighter pilot?"

"Beg your pardon," she said with a laugh, "did you say pirate?"

"I did not say pirate and you know it but that was the funniest part of the play wasn't it?"

I probably don't need to tell you that we had gone off-topic with this reference to the play but we had seen the Durham Savoyard's presentation of the Pirates of Penzance recently and it was still entertaining us two weeks later.

"I really enjoyed the sergeant major," she said.

"You mean the major general," I said.

"Are you sure? Didn't he sing 'I am the very model of a modern sergeant major?'"

I raised a hand. I yield to no one in my enjoyment of the works of Gilbert and Sullivan and I could easily discuss these Pirates all day, but we were on a hot topic and I didn't want it to cool.

"One moment, Poopsie," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Just one moment."

The third period of silence passed. It was beginning to look like a big morning for moments of silence.

"What were we talking about before we jumped the rails?" I said.

"You were saying that it's a beautiful day," she said.

"So it is," I said. "The snail is on the throne and all's right with the world."

"The snail is on the thorn," she said. "It's God who's sitting on the throne."

"Ah, yes, that's right," I said, "Sorry, honest mistake."

"Not at all," she said.

"Did you say, pilot or pirate?" I said. But she only winked and then another one of those silences filled the empty space.

Once and Future Spring

"In spring, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove," Ms Wonder said this morning as I struggled into the under armor underwear. I don't know how she comes up with this stuff but she certainly knows how to put things neatly, don't you think? 

I was still wondering how the dickens a dove goes about getting burnished when I entered the ring of ancient oaks on the grounds of Research Commons for morning qigong.

You are probably familiar with this ring of hoary trees if hoary is the word I want. It sits atop the hill that overlooks the post office on Alexander. I don't know how long this oaken ring has been here but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was here when Caesar drove the Nervii out of the Triangle. The trees are probably all that remains of a Druid grove or college. It has that look.

As I walked to the western end of the circle, the better to face the east and greet the rising sun, I noticed the open space was filled with ranunculi, and many of them buttercups, and I immediately time-traveled back to my college days and the spring semester that my old school chum, Mumps, and I were enrolled in BIOL 4120, the Botany of Flowering Plants.

This class was required for a degree in biology and it had been taught by Dr. Fowler for as long as that ring of oak trees had been in the Triangle. Fowler isn't his real name. I've changed his name because that's what people do when they write about other people. Not sure why. 

This doctor was one of those be-speckled and bedraggled birds featured in so many stories of arcadia. He eccentricated himself by wearing the same elbow-patched tweed sport coat every day, and the jacket was accessorized with the same tie. It was no ordinary traditional tie but a knitted species that stopped abruptly above the belt as though cut square with scissors.

One beautiful spring Tuesday this Mumps and I were canvassing the countryside looking for wildflowers to draw in our official sketchbooks, for accurate drawings were part of our final grade.

As I remember the sky was blue, the wind still, the sunshine warm and we had no sooner entered an open meadow when Mumps let out a "Eureka!" Turns out he had almost stepped on a flower that I called a shepherd's purse and he called a capsula bursa pastoris. He was like that--sticky mind. Anything he read or heard simply stuck. My mind--slippery. Still is.

If you were an innocent bystander, you would have marveled because it was the work of an instant for Mumps and I to sprawl on the grass and began sketching stamens and pistles like Billy Oh.

Now on these fine spring days the mind is calm and the spirit peaceful and the whole package is one perfectly suited to seeking enlightenment. And that is just what we were doing. The limbic systems worked overtime instructing the endocrine glands to decant this and that in good measure, heaped up, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. 

The result of all this chemical stimulation was consciousness elevated to that of rats with metal electrodes inserted into the nucleus accumbens and septal nuclei. And it was in this state of enlightenment that the striatum realized that it was time to leg it to lab or risk wearing the dunce cap for late arrival. We got a move on.

Now, this Dr. Folwer had a peculiar method of lecturing to lab students. He turned his back to us while scribbling on the chalkboard and babbling away on everything from dicotyledons to ovaries and just when you least expected it, he would dervish around and point a bony, arthritic finger at the victim and demand an answer to the question of the day.

So here we were, seated on lab stools and doing our best to take notes and not laugh out loud at what seemed to be the most trivial drivel we'd ever heard. You are aware, it goes without saying, that it wasn't really drivel but when one's consciousness has been elevated to a certain level, almost every subject seems not just drivel but absolute rot. It was this way with us.

Then, with the surprising immediacy of Judgement Day, the professor swirled around like a tornado and pointed the gnarled digit directly at Mumps, catching him right between the eyes, at point-blank range too. We never heard the question because the blow knocked James off his stool and onto the floor where he exploded with a guffaw that sounded like a steam boiler coming apart at the seams. It disrupted the class not a little.

I would love to remember how that situation was resolved because a story is never complete without a happy ending, and a happy ending is evident because we somehow got those degrees, but this particular story has no end. Bertie Wooster says that the difficult part about telling a story is knowing where to begin but for me, it's knowing where to end. Maybe that's because I don't really like endings. I like the kind of stories that go on forever.

I never enjoyed a college class as much as that taught by Dr. Fowler and I never enjoyed a college classmate as much as Mumps. Higher education comes in many forms and most of them are unexpected. That's life they say.

Strange Case of the Cat in the Night

On a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than, as Shakespeare said, "tired nature's sweet restorer--balmy sleep." 

It helps to have a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties, provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.

We can never really know why a cat does anything. Not really. We can only imagine and, more often than not, our imaginings interpret cat behavior in human terms, which I'm sure makes us look like priceless asses to the cats. 

Come to think of it, Sagi M'tesi, the caramel-colored target tabby, has only two expressions--one of them says, 'Please feed me,' and the other says, 'What a priceless ass you are.'

Now if Abbie Hoffman has ever resembled a specter, shimmering in and out of awareness, he achieved this resemblance in the wee hours this very morning. I could go so far as to say that he shimmered unceasingly and to the annoyance of all. 

Not only did he shimmer, but adding insult to injury, if that's the term I want, he yowled. He yowled in the Chang Mai room. He yowled in the hallway. He even yowled from atop the kitchen cabinets. Only during the few minutes that he lay motionless, cuddled in my arms, did he stop the nuisance.

I rose this morning much earlier than I would have chosen but you know how it is when you realize that you are wide awake with little chance of revisiting the sweet restorer. 

When I entered the dressing room, I discovered a clue to the cause of the incessant yowling. Abbie Hoffman had spent the wee hours of the morning in the closet trying on Ms. Wonder's scarves. 

This explains why, despite my earnest searching, I'd failed to locate him during the yowling episodes. He'd been in the closet trying to find the perfect scarf to accessorize his custom tuxedo.

Now Ms Wonder has done herself well in the matter of neck joy. Each time one of her colleagues travels to a foreign country, and they do travel often, each country being more foreign than the next, she puts in an order for a scarf of native handicraft. 

She has scarves from China and India, from Zimbabwe and South Africa, from Guatemala and Colombia. The actual number of countries represented in her closet by those colorful scarves is reminiscent of the parade of nations in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

The subject cat, A. Hoffman, tried on every one of the scarves, judging from the fact that all of them were lying on the floor. I deduced that he wore none of them to bed, that not a single scarf satisfied his longing.

No doubt this process was intended to be a palliative to dull a pain that gnawed at his heart, for little as anyone might suspect, he has a gnawing pain. I know this because I too have a gnawing pain of the heart and I am well acquainted with futile attempts to find something--anything--to medicate that pain. 

It's a common malady. I believe that Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and perhaps even Napoleon, suffered in much the same way.

Strange how we never cease to look for something in the external world to restore calm to the manic mind. Abbie tries on scarves. I write these missives in Circular Journey. Whatever works about sums it up for both of us. 

When the limbic system drifts off station, the resulting altered state of mind will have you behaving in all sorts of absurd ways, like searching for a non-existent mouse or perhaps writing for a non-existent audience.

Yes, despite the evidence to the contrary, I'm certain that Abbie H. was searching for a mouse. That's the only possible explanation for his behavior in that closet. 

You may wonder how I came to this conclusion. Well, as Shakespeare or someone once said, 'Elementary.' It may not have been Shakespeare but he's credited with almost everything else quotable, and I like to go with the odds. 

Cats are well known to be acutely interested in qigong, performing slow ritualized movements, interspersed with bursts of rapid activity, followed by formal meditation. I did mention that earlier, didn't I? Should have. Sorry if I didn't. 

Cats are also known to shun the accumulation of material possessions, such as scarves; however, and I have this on the finest authority, cats do search for mice.

I'm fairly certain that I once watched my Aunt Maggie's barn cat stalking a mouse for half a day. And on more than one occasion, a devoted cat has presented me with a gift of a mouse, even though I had expressed no interest in having one. 

So I ask you, put yourself in Abbie Hoffman's boots. Your hippocampus is lying down on the job, and the happy hormones are on the decline. You feel that you could face the coming day if only you could teach a mouse a lesson or two. 

You search the premises, upstairs and down, looking for the hiding place that you know must be there. Your frustration builds until you begin yowling. Yes, you do yowl and you yowl without restraint. 

Then you enter a closet and discover a rainbow of scarves, each one looking for all the world like curtains behind which little furry invaders may hide. You see where this leads?

As I said earlier, on a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than balmy sleep in a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties. Always provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.