Labor Day Weekend

It was another typically beautiful morning in Waterford on the eve of Labor Day weekend, the weekend that marks the unofficial end of summer and drives people who didn't get their fill to go all out and make up for lost time.

I had just parked the eleven-forty-five express to Waterford Center, otherwise known as Wynd Horse, my sporting personal vehicle, in a shady spot outside Fresh Islands Mexican Grill. This center is a popular spot lying beside U.S. Highway 17, otherwise known as Ocean Highway and the main artery to the Brunswick Beaches.

People were enjoying lunch and spirits in places with names like Brunswick Beer & Cider and Aw, Shucks! Patrons hearing the commotion outdoors carried their drinks outside to watch the routine mess on the highway. It's a popular pastime in an otherwise quiet community.

The road was snarled to the horizon in both directions. It was all standard procedure: holiday weekend traffic congestion, then a chain reaction of driver distraction and running red lights. The road looked more like a parking lot than a highway.

I looked in the direction of sirens, curious to know what now. “Someone needs to do something about that road," I said.

Anyone unsure of the difference in attitude between a trained martial artist and a spoiled royal brat could have picked up a few pointers listening to the conversation between yours truly and the little gargoyle known as Princess Amy, that little cluster of gray cells that pretends to regulate my emotions.

"Loaded grocery carts are lined up all the way out the doors of Harris Teeter!" she whined. "The checkout lines must be miles long."

"No, Amy," I said in a reassuring tone, "what you see are only a few shoppers waiting to get inside the store."

"They're backed up to the UPS Store," she said but I didn't respond. Leading by example was what I hoped to do. Besides, the spectacle was as bad as I've seen. I'm sure if you'd been a shopper inside the store trying to choose a lane to pay for your foodstuffs, you might have agreed with Amy.

We looked up at the sound of rotors coming over the roof of Fresh Mex to see a chopper clear the roof and land in the parking lot outside the Hallmark Store. Customers wandered out of Wok and Roll, the Chinese takeout place to see what it was all about.

The engines stopped and when the rotors slowed, the pilot got out and took off her helmet. A patron from the Wok approached her and I could hear them over the noise of the rotating blades. "What's going on?" he said.

"Car fire caught the brush on Highway 87. We just sat down here to let the engines cool."

"Oh, my God," said Amy. "From bad to ridiculous. Feels like we're about to go over Niagra Falls in a barrel."

"Amy," I said. "It's a holiday weekend here in paradise but I don't believe you're enjoying yourself. Do try to get into the holiday spirit. Don't you enjoy spreading goodness and light?"

"I'll tell you what you can do with your goodness and light," she said. And she did too. Explicitly. But the Genome code doesn't allow for the spreading of negative energy.

I much prefer, in the interest of goodness and light, to wish you a happy and joyous Labor Day Weekend.

Trouble in the Hood

Sunshine called to me, this morning when I opened the curtains to the lanai. It poured in through the screens in droves. The natural cheerfulness was doubled by the sight of Molly, the young rabbit, nibbling grass shoots along the base of the fence.

It was an early hour, early to me at least. Ms. Wonder assures me that the day begins far in advance of my waking. In fact, she often tells me little stories about the people she sees out and about when she's breakfasting.

Suffice it to say the stories often involve neighbors, who walk braces of dogs every morning at the same time. When they meet up, there's a conflagration, if that's the right word, of laughing, woofing, wagging, and sniffing, among all parties.

It all makes for pleasant stories but let's not go there right now. It's a story for another time. 

I hesitated to enter the lanai and frighten Molly. She usually doesn't stay long because seeing her in the yard means she's sneaked out of her bedroom, at an early hour just as I mentioned, and her mother will be calling her soon.

Just as I wrote that last sentence, Molly bolted for the hole in the fence and darted through on her way home. I took the opportunity to enter the lanai and prepare the fruit and nuts for the neighborhood wildlife.

That's when I saw Mutter. He's one of the squirrels living in the nearby forest. His apartment faces our lanai and his day begins with a view that looks through a leafy curtain onto the sunshine that I'm watching spread across our mutual yard. Each morning, about the time I'm looking out, he's on the fence looking in.

He's a curious little guy and seems utterly fascinated with me and my activities. He often spends hours staring at me, openly and sometimes in hiding. I think he watches me anytime I'm on the lanai or in the yard. No matter what I do, every step I take, every move I make, he'll be watching me.

Mutter has seen more than a few summers but he's still a lithe, athletic, and distinguished little guy. He sports a jaunty mustache and has a mischievous gleam in his eye. He and his wife, Buffy, are the senior members of the wild neighbors. Buffy is the sister of Squeaky, who is paired with Breezer. 

Mutter and I stood unmoving giving each other the eye both hoping the other would be the first to look away. I won. But only because Mutter's brother-in-law, Breezer, popped his head above the fence and began chatting excitedly. Mutter ignored him at first but when Breezer joined him atop the fence, Mutter relented and gave him full attention.

Breezer was clearly agitated about something. Probably something having to do with his wife, Squeaky. It's a common occurrence and it usually leads to conversations between brothers-in-law. After some pleading, the two of them lept into the tree branches and disappeared.

I quickly moved to distribute the feast. The mourning doves from the local convent, The Order of Sisters of Brunswick, lined the fencerow, reading from left to right in order of diminishing size. The Cardinal family sat side by side in the middle range of the fence. Dad, Mom, and the three little tykes waited patiently for me to distribute the seeds. 

The woodpecker, Mr. Woodrow, was busy drilling for insects on a tree trunk standing a little deeper in the forest. Mr. Woodrow is a bit of a loner, somewhat standoffish, and a little critical. He usually ignores the goings-on in the yard, which he considers so much foolishness.

After sprinkling nuts and berries along the fence railing, and then scattering peanuts around the lawn, I re-entered the lanai. No sooner had the screen door closed behind me than the crow gang from Magnolia Green flooded the yard.

I call them a gang because they like to throw their weight around when free food is available and scarf down more than their fare share. They claim to be good, proper socialists but when it comes to putting their words into action, they are weighed in the scales and found wanting.

The crows began swallowing whole peanuts while they had them all to themselves. They sometimes tried swallowing two at a go. Futile of course. The regulation crow beak is designed to swallow one at a time.

It required mere seconds, for the cause of the crows' frenzied eating behavior to appear. Namely, Spinner, Twizler, and Ziggy, the three youngsters who belong to Mutter and Buffy began their routine.

These three juveniles are without effective parental guidance. Buffy tries. Oh, how she tries, but to no avail. Of course, Mutter might make a difference if he were to make an effort. But there it is.

This trio loves to snatch peanuts away just as a crow's beak is about to close on it. They don't intend to eat the nut. They just want to annoy the crows. Eventually, they turn from snatching peanuts to chasing each other's tails. They race around in wild circles, their faces hidden in wide-open laughter. 

At some point, the two older brothers will chase each other up the fence and into the shrubbery. Ziggy, on the other hand, gets so carried away that he forgets everything else and is often the one who gets caught in the act after his two brothers go into hiding.

The Cardinal family watched all the ranygazoo with calm interest and patience. They knew that eventually calm would be restored and they could eat in peace.

The dove sisters, observing the chaos from their elevated positions atop the fence, looked on with worried expressions. No doubt their concern was that someone would be hurt. Their expression seemed to say, 'Can't we all get along? There's plenty for everyone.'

 

Mr. Woodrow, the woodpecker, had watched the commotion from his breakfast spot on the tree. His expression was one of derision. I imagined his lip curled in scorn but it was a pointless exercise of course. I could sense his attitude as one that rated the entire affair as, 'much ado about nothing'.

I am so often amazed that the works of William Shakespeare are so widely known even among those you might least expect to be familiar with his plays. It just goes to show you.

No Sweeter Spot

Survival instinct drives a cat to seek safety in the high places far above the vague perils that lie hidden in lower levels. Abbie Hoffman, for example, often views the world from a place of safety atop the kitchen cabinets, knowing that any hullabaloo arising below can't touch him.

For those who're new to The Circular Journey, let me explain that Abbie Hoffman in this story is not one of the Chicago Seven. This Abbie, known on the street as Abracadabra, is a stylish cat, always dressed in black and white formal wear. Now, back to the story.

It must have been an instinct shared with Abbie that sent me up into the Brooklyn Arts District this morning. Downtown Wilma rises several feet as it climbs away from the River Walk and up into the middle of the Arts District. 

From Egret Café, the elevated view looks out over the shops and restaurants lining the Cape Fear River and continues out past Memorial Bridge until it reaches the cypress forest surrounding the battleship, North Carolina.

The change in elevation did nothing to lighten my mood. It was a sultry, overcast morning. The drought that plagued the countryside in recent weeks was washed from memory by the current week-long string of thunderstorms that had rushed in from the Atlantic and now refused to leave.

The city was shrouded by a sullen sky and had taken on a brooding atmosphere. The river was a silver-gray smudge. The cypress trees along the river seemed menacing.

Pointless, it seems, to try lifting the spirit on a day destined to end in frustration and anxiety. Might as well save the energy for battles giving better odds.  I stepped into Egret Café, hoping the atmosphere inside was better than on the street. I ordered a double capp and played Jimmy Buffett on Spotify.

I was the only customer in the cafe and the barista seemed bored. She decided to take steps, the steps that generate diverting conversation. But she was not a buzzer, bless her, and lacked the skill to start something. As I was in the third half of the bipolar sketch, her attempt seemed futile. 

"Out for a walk this morning," she said.

It wasn't a promising beginning. Still, we Genomes never surrender and I decided to give it my best.

"Yes," I said. I know it was weak but I was trying to avoid anxiety by warming up slowly.

"It's muggy out there, isn't it?" she said and her words stirred my anxiety to look around and ask, 'What's going on here?' For my part, I was silently praying, 'Oh no! Please, God, let it not be about the weather.'

"I try to get a good walk in every morning," I said hoping to steer the conversation in another direction than the one it had taken.

"Do you like exercise?" she said and I remember thinking at the time, 'Where the hell is this conversation going?'

But I remained confident enough to continue.

"Me?" I said. "Are you kidding? I don't know when to stop."

"Are you a runner then?" she said. And if I was a little confused before, I was astounded now. What was this young geezer thinking?

"Run?" I said. "Did you ask if I'm a runner?"

"Yeah," she said. "My exercise of choice is running. What do you do for exercise?"

"Oh," I said and I was truly surprised by her explanation. "Exercise!" I said. "That explains it then. I'm sorry I thought you asked me if I liked extra fries."

Her face took on an expression one might expect to see on someone who felt strongly and had much to say. She tried to hide her thoughts but her face betrayed her. That's all it took. Everything changed in that moment.

I couldn't hold in the laughter. I came close to slapping my knee and shouting 'Huzzah!' This hard-working tiller of roasted coffee beans may not be a buzzer but she'd started something anyway.

"I can see why you were confused," said a voice behind me.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in," I said.

"I overheard the conversation," she said. "And I'm like you. I run too but I run like a herd of turtles is chasing me."

This comic relief appealed to the barista and she burst into laughter like a paper bag exploding.

When she caught her breath, she asked the newcomer, "So you only run when you're being chased?"

"Let me put it this way," she said. "If you see me running, you better start running too because whatever is chasing me is nothing you want to be introduced to."

We all laughed great rolling waves of laughter. It was magical. Suddenly it mattered little that a storm was brewing outside. Inside it was sunny and set fair.

"I think I love you," said the barista.

"I know," said the newcomer.

In all of the Carolinas, there is no sweeter spot than the districts of Wilma overlooking the riverfront. From my vantage point looking out on the world through the windows of Egret Café, I felt as safe and cozy as viewing the world with Abbie Hoffman from atop the kitchen cabinets.

A Day in the Life

It was another birthday morning, and perhaps because it was a special day, I woke to the feeling that things were about to take a turn for the better.

If you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, then you know that a regular day for me is just one damned thing after another. But this morning, with the calming of the recent rain storm and a promise of sunshine in the forecast, I had the familiar conviction that life was starting all over again.

Did I mention that Charlie was with me? Although he was actually at home in Carolina Beach at the moment, I felt his spirit strong in the force, so I decided he would be with me this morning. 

You remember Charlie, I'm sure. He's one of those pint-sized little guys, who seems to be filled to bursting with joy and wants nothing so much as to share that joy with anyone wearing a kind face. He makes the day just a little better for everyone he meets.

Fantasy, as we all know, is pure escapism, and that's where it gets its magic. I rely on fantasy to make sense of a world that makes no sense, and I invite you to suspend disbelief and accept that Charlie was with me. He was in my heart.

The drive to Brunswick was quite enjoyable. Wynd Horse was cruising smoothly down Grandiflora Drive while Linda Ronstadt sang "Blue Bayou" and Charlie enjoyed the wind in his face from the open window. 

We drove past the coffee shop and stopped at the Brunswick Forest Welcome Center. The walk through the park would do us a bit good I thought.

While Wynd Horse chose a parking space, I recognized Ms. Thistle in the savannah underneath the pines. She held a large pair of binoculars, which told me she was braving the threat of rain in her attempt to take the lead in the Great Year competition.

Thistle is the President of the local chapter of the Wilma Squirrel Watchers Society. Veterans of this blog will know that society members compete annually to log the largest number of squirrel sightings.

"Hello, Ms. Thistle," I said. "Good morning to you."

Charlie was fish-tailing at the end of the leash, no doubt he hoped to get within licking distance of Thistle's ankles.

"You think it’s a good morning, do you?" she said.

"A little rain is nothing," I said guessing that it was the rain that dampened her spirit.

"Not concerned about the rain," she said. "I left my Peterson’s Squirrel Handbook at home and Spring left me here while she goes to Native Grounds for coffee."

"Do you really need a handbook?" I said. "There are only two species of squirrel here. Gray and Red."

"Don't care about their color. I'm just counting them."

"But you don't need a…," I began but then gave it a miss, because, I mean what do you say really?

"Don't tell me what I need, young man," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "Good morning," I said again and if memory serves I tipped my hat. Not sure why. Just seemed the thing to do at the moment.

"We're headed to Native Grounds," I said, "and if I see Spring, I’ll tell her about the guidebook. Maybe she can get it for you."

"What do I need the guidebook for? I’m only counting the damn things. What I need is coffee. And I'm glad you're getting Eddy away from here. He doesn't like squirrels and they don't like him."

"Actually," I said. "He loves squirrels. Can't get enough of their company. In fact, he's applied for membership in your society. And his name, as everyone in Waterford and half of Brunswick is aware, is Charlie, but you knew that, didn't you?"

She "harumphed" if that's the word. I'm pretty sure about it because I've heard that same word used in similar contexts and the word she used had a sort of harmonic residence. Is that the word, residence? On second thought maybe it's resonance.

"I'm not denying his posturing when he first encounters the squirrels," I said to Thistle. "They surely get the idea that he plans to convert them into a light snack, but it's only grand-standing."

She gave me a look implying that my words weren't gaining traction. 

"He has to throw his weight around when the opportunity arises," I said, "because his human admirers always resort to baby talk when addressing him. His self-respect demands it. But it's all, oh, what do you call it?"

"Sound and fury signifying nothing?"

I admit it! I was impressed! I'd never heard her say anything that gave so much evidence of culture. "Ms. Thistle," I said, "you do know your Shelly."

"I know I am," she said, "but what are you?"

Truth, dear reader! That's what she said. I was amazed again but for an entirely different reason. One second she's up on the top floor among the linens, and the next she's in the basement with the foundations. Pure drivel.

Charlie gave Thistle a look resembling a Scottish Presbyterian minister rebuking sin in the congregation. He growled and dug his rear feet into the ground as if to say, Don't get uppity, sister. It reminded me of that old gag about the warhorse starting at the sound of the trumpet.

And so we agreed, Charlie and I, that it was time to be getting on. I tipped my hat once more and smiled. Our job is to spread sweetness and light wherever we go. We share our courtesies, with the just and the unjust equally. We adhere to a dictum attributed to Louis Untermeyer. It goes something like this... 

"Humor is warmly sympathetic, playful, sometimes high-hearted, sometimes hilarious. Unlike the poisoned barb of satire, and the killing point of wit, humor is healing."

That's it. We attempt to heal some of the wounds with humor. After all, nothing is more contagious than a smile.

We walked on toward the coffee shop and I immediately noticed that Charlie, with his head held high, and stepping smartly, carried a small stick in his mouth and it suited him well. 

I doubted that I could pull it off with the same style and grace but, seeing him marching so proudly, I was reminded of the words of Frank Zappa...

"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible."

And with those words echoing in my head, I broke a twig from a passing rhodendron and placed it in my hat. And if you think the name Plantagenet floated into my mind, then you're spot on, my friend.

Charlie and I will see you in the next post, which biographers tell me will be titled, A Day In The Life, Episode 2. Until then, spread a little sweetness and light of your own.

Squirrel Neighbors

We have a squirrel living with us at 2222 Forest Lane. When I say 'living with us,' I mean that he resides in the trees overshadowing our fence row. You could say he lives in the guest house if a tree can be a guest house.

I know that Mutter, that's the name I gave him, Mutter doesn't consider his home a guest house. He probably sees me as an intruder. I’m sure when our house was built, he must have watched the construction and complained to his spouse about the intrusion.

Every time I step outside to feed the birds—and, yes, the squirrels too, and I use the plural form because there are several living close to us. As I was about to say, I see him perched on the fence, or gliding through the branches, or scolding me from somewhere in the foliage. He makes it clear that he doesn't approve of my nearness to his home. And who can blame him, really?

One evening I saw him sitting on the fencerow that separates my backyard from his bit of woodland. He seemed to be watching me watching him. He wore a look that expressed his dissatisfaction, or perhaps his suspicion that I was up to no good. I know that he suspects me, much like the efficient Baxter, Lord Emsworth's secretary, suspects everyone.

If the previous paragraph got past you like a fastball, don't worry because just as the man wrote in his letter, now we see through a glass, darkly, but then all will be revealed. Not a direct quote but you get the gist I think.

 

Watching him through the French windows of the lanai, I didn't immediately realize that his friend and cohort in mischief was climbing the screen of the lanai. That's right! I don't exaggerate when I say that Breezer, the friend, was clinging to the screen about eight feet off the ground.

This was simply over the line. Too much! I'm completely sympathetic to the disappointment and perhaps even chagrin of the original inhabitants of 2222 Forest Lane, Waterford, but the present behavior was a hair short of breaking and entering. I couldn't have it.

I mean consider the birds. They live here too and that's a documented fact that can be proven in court. They don't hold a grudge. We all live in harmony. I feed them twice daily and in return, they sing and fly about bringing sweetness and light. In fact, several birds were feeding along the fence even as I watched Breezer climb the screen.

I waved my arms in the air to let the miscreant know that his behavior was unacceptable. Nothing, he simply looked at me as if to say, Yeah, what're you going to do about it? I realized then that steps would have to be taken. I moved close to the French windows and said, "Don't make me open this door...do not make me. I will open this door."

Still nothing. Probably because the door was closed and he couldn't hear me. Still, I repeated it with increased volume, cadence, rhythm, and inflection to make sure it was recognized as a dire warning. You know, like my parents used to do. 

"Don't make me open this door."

Nothing. Not an iota of change in the goings-on.

There was nothing else to do. I opened the door. It was like Gabriel had sounded the coming of Judgement Day. The crows launched themselves into the air in all directions. The doves and songbirds seemed unsure about what action they should take, if any, but it was a different matter altogether with the squirrels.

The crow evacuation was a noisy one and at the sound, the squirrels froze in place, like the sassy little peasant children you read about in fairy tales who get uppity with a wizard and then find themselves unable to move. They stared at each other as if to say, What now?

I stepped onto the lanai. Breezer dropped onto the ground and scampered toward the fence. Mutter launched himself into the foliage and began cruising through the branches.

In hindsight, the whole thing was like the behavior you might expect from those workers of iniquity made famous in that New York Times best-selling book.

From the lanai, I scanned the yard and saw that Mutter had stopped on a branch that gave him a clear view of me and the backyard. Breezer had climbed to the top of the fence where he stopped to look my way again.

Realizing that they were a safe distance from me and had succeeded in annoying me more than a little, they couldn't resist self-satisfied flicks of tails and expressions that told me they were full of themselves. 

"Mission accomplished," they seemed to say.

I suppose this means we may never be friends. Not real friends. Because making friends takes time and effort on both sides. But I'll keep trying. Maybe one day.