Discovering Wonder

When I stumbled upon a weathered diary in a Pinehurst thrift store, I could never have imagined how its contents would parallel my own life. The journal belonged to one Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder (1887-1962), an eccentric American inventor, socialite, and philanthropist whose unconventional approach to everyday opportunities captivated my imagination.

As I read her whimsical entries, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance this historical Poopsie bore—in spirit, creativity, and outlook—to someone very dear to me. That someone is my very own “Poopsie,” affectionately known to followers of The Circular Journey blog as Ms. Wonder.

At first, the connection was amusing. But the more I read, the more I felt I was looking through a mirror—one side reflecting a woman from the past, the other revealing the woman I love today. Let me introduce these two Poopsies, whose lives, separated by a century, dance to the rhythm of a song only they can hear.

Unique Creative Spirits

Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder's personal journey was as colorful as her public persona. Born to shipping magnate Harrison Wainwright and his wife Eleanor, a suffragette activist, young Penelope showed early signs of both brilliance and nonconformity. She was headstrong, imaginative, and determined to forge her own path.

My Poopsie grew up in an equally vibrant setting—as the daughter of insurance magnate John Olewine and his globe-trotting wife, Barbara. From an early age, she showed the same sparkle of brilliance and individuality, a trait that still sparkles today. 

By the age of sixteen, she had moved into her own apartment and was working as a beauty consultant in Houston's Galleria.

A Life Mirrored in Art

In the 1930s, Penelope W. Wonder’s photography was regularly featured in American society magazines. Her portraits and street scenes, often taken from odd angles or composed with theatrical flair, earned her a cult following.

My Poopsie's journey through photography eventually led to Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies, where she crafted a powerful photo-documentary titled Last Generation—a collaboration with a tobacco-farming family near Durham. Its honesty and quiet dignity captured public attention, culminating in its selection for the Southern Arts Federation’s tour and a gala opening at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta.

Eventually, the documentary was acquired by the North Carolina Office of Archives and History and is now on permanent display at Duke Homestead Historical Site.

Both Poopsies had a lens into the soul of their times—and knew how to use it.

Inventions with Heart

In the early 1900s, the historical Poopsie made headlines with her “Self-Propelled Umbrella Hat,” a delightful oddity meant to free the hands during rainstorms. While not a financial success, it cemented her reputation as a cheerful innovator.

Modern Poopsie’s inventions grew from love and necessity. After our beloved cat, Eddy Peebody, faced medical challenges, she designed a suite of veterinary aids—post-surgical garments, allergy-free bedding, comforting blankets to reduce anxiety—tools that have since helped many pets and their caretakers. Like her historical namesake, her creativity is always paired with compassion.

A Mission to Serve

During the Great Depression, the original Ms. Wonder established the Wonder Foundation, which supported community kitchens and adult literacy programs throughout New England. Her whimsical motto: “Practicality with a dash of absurdity.”

The modern Ms. Wonder channeled her compassion and nurturing instincts into our feline family. Over the years, that specialized care evolved into Happy Cats Wellness, our preventive-health initiative for cats. Though our methods differ from Penelope's, the impulse is the same: to create meaningful, tangible good in the world.

 My primary role in the family is to promote Poopsie's visionary ideas. I suspect Harold Wonder, Poopsie’s husband, played the same role a century ago.

Eccentricity as a Feature

Penelope "Poopsie" Wonder was widely celebrated for showing up at formal dinners with her pet ferret, Bartholomew, dressed in matching outfits. She believed life should be lived joyfully, without apology.

In our house, joy takes different forms: whimsical tchoke-themed arrangements, poetic arguments about seafoam, and cat furniture as home accessories.

The Art of Documentation

Where the historical Poopsie captured a changing America with her camera, contemporary Ms. Wonder and I spent nearly two decades as travel photojournalists. She framed the world through her lens; I wrote the words. Together, we created a living document of our journeys in more than eighty travel articles, illustrated with over 600 of Wonder's photographic images. Regional magazines and newspapers published our work, and our memories still hum with the places we saw.

Solitude and Reinvention

After Harold Wonder died of pneumonia in 1939, Penelope withdrew from public life, only to reemerge with a sharper philanthropic vision. Her diaries describe a new focus on community and contemplation.

We retreated from public life too during the pandemic of 2020 - 2022. For almost three years, life went quiet, and when Poopsie returned to her art, it had changed dramatically. Her new photographic series—abstract images of ocean-going marine vessels—aims to expand human awareness by altering how we perceive shape and light. A different medium, perhaps, but similar transformations.

Tea and the Thinking Brain

Legend has it that the historical Poopsie advised President Roosevelt using what she called her “Beverage-Enhanced Decision Protocol”—important matters discussed only over carefully chosen tea blends.

In our home, tea plays a similar role. Custom blends are selected with purpose, and big decisions—from exhibit themes to cat adoptions—are steeped in quiet ceremony. Good tea, apparently, transcends generations.

The Thursday Transformation

Every Thursday, the historical Ms. Wonder redecorated her dining room according to a theme—Egyptian pyramids one week, a Viennese café the next. It was how she kept the world fresh.

Cathryn’s version is equally inspired: our living room sometimes becomes a gallery of shifting obsessions. Lately, it’s a study in color and refracted light. Previously, an homage to Vietnam's Ha Long Bay in photographic images made during her trip to Southeast Asia.

The Wonder of It All

Finding the diary of Penelope “Poopsie” Wainwright Wonder didn’t just reveal a fascinating piece of forgotten history. It offered something more—a surprising and heartfelt recognition of the extraordinary woman I share my life with. 

Though their inventions and expressions differ, both Poopsies are united by a shared thread: creativity rooted in kindness, eccentricity worn with pride, and a refusal to live an unexamined life.

If time is a loop and not a line, maybe some spirits truly do travel together—reinventing themselves in each generation, reminding us how much joy there is in being unapologetically, eccentrically alive. What a joy! What a wonder!

It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I've never known a sharper one. This morning, however, was much different. The sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, it was scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

The source of the attack was the foster kitten, Eddy, who has been perfecting his stalking skills to match his killer instinct. He's been seen hanging in the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat in formal dress known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who once got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. It's not an easy feat starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms. Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please chorral your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by in thick and thin. Could it get any thicker?

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

At that moment, I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right. It could get thicker after all.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"I remember the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

{rompt steps through the proper channels were called for, but it's never as easy as it sounds, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments came next and was followed by:), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect. You may remember the exact quote.

Although I didn't remember the wording, I knew the feeling well. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I just remembered another gag that may better explain my situation: The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. That's the baby.

I'd have preferred to go back to sleep. But after those early moments of hesitation, I took action. I threw the coverlets back to get out of bed but the unintended result was that it began to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

The heavier elements, Beignet and Sagi, were only rolled inches from their sleeping spots. Lucy was hidden by the duvet. Eddy flew through the air like the daring young man on the trapeze. He came to earth--I should say to rest--at the far corner of the bed. I caught him as he turned to flee, and decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can care of ourselves but consider what might happen if Eddy discovered a housemaid napping. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and seconds later the sound of running water, similar to Looking Glass Falls filled the silence.

Uma Maya, the brindled little Empress of Chatsford, was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, Breakfast time? 

Abbie was absent, but I expected he could be found in his usual spot atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet, I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." I didn't need to say it, but I wanted to say it for reasons that words fail to describe--we were a tribe. Wonder, the cats, and I were the Chatsford Hall Tribe.

And the tribe has provided just what I needed, in the fullness of time.

A Wilmawood Morning

Daybreak settled over Wilmawood like a comforting spell. In the lively downtown corridor, its light fell pleasingly on both the just and the unjust—a biblical equity that only morning sunshine can truly deliver. 

A spring shower had swept through overnight, rinsing away the yellow fog of pine pollen that had held the city hostage for weeks. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation of breathing without a symphony of sneezes. The morning promised possibilities as endless as the blue Carolina sky above.

Wilmawood's topography rises gradually as one ventures from the riverbank promenade into the sanctuary of the arts quarter on Castle Street. The geography itself elevates the spirit along with the terrain.

From the sidewalk outside Circular Journey Café, one enjoys a panoramic vista: charming storefronts and eateries line the street that falls away to the river's edge. The majestic span of Memorial Bridge rises above downtown, and beyond the river, verdant cypress sentinels stand guard around our slumbering naval guardian, the battleship North Carolina.

As we entered the café's aromatic interior, I felt the stirrings of Princess Amy, my little imaginary life coach and social critic. Her critical gaze swept across the room with the practiced precision of a lighthouse beam.

Standing behind the counter was the newest barista, Lupe, the Castle Street oracle, chronologically young but with the wisdom that female humans mysteriously acquire around middle school, while men stumble toward similar insights only after decades of accumulated blunders and enough gray hairs to weave a wisdom rug.

"The clock says you're tardy," was Lupe's greeting.

"Time is relative," I replied, taking up a position at the order here station. "According to my internal clock and the quantum mechanics of café arrivals, we're precisely on time."

Lupe's eyes performed an Olympic-worthy roll. "It's not even nine o'clock and you're spouting physics already?"

"He's been insufferably chipper since sunrise," Ms. Wonder explained, signaling for coffee. "Bouncing around the house and making declarations about the magnificence of the day. I checked for a fever, but unfortunately, he seems medically sound."

"I have a revelation for you," I proclaimed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "After extensive research and spiritual contemplation, I've reached an incontrovertible conclusion: Wilmawood—our humble Wilmington—exists as an unacknowledged paradise on Earth."

"Is that your hypo-manic assessment?" Lupe inquired, her eyebrow arched with skepticism perfected through years of questioning adult logic.

"Indisputably! Consider the evidence," I insisted, counting on my fingers. "We have a magnificent river system, pristine oceanfront, a thriving creative community, and enough film production to earn our Hollywood-adjacent nickname..."

"And traffic congestion on College Road that rivals Los Angeles," Princess Amy interrupted from somewhere deep in my limbic system, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Without the celebrity sightings or the inconvenience of dealing with ten million people."

"Plus humidity levels in August that could qualify as a gentle rain shower in other states," Lupe added as she frothed my oatmilk cappuccino.

Ms. Wonder added, "And did you know we're getting a new retail outlet in Waterford that will include several eateries, national chains as well as independent diners. We're becoming an up-town suburb."

"More footnotes in paradise's ledger," I said with what I imagined to be a magisterial wave. "No other place along the Carolina coastline offers such a perfect synthesis of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy as our little sylvan community."

The barista delivered our beverages—an artistic cappuccino for me, herbal tea for Ms. Wonder, some bespoke concoction for Princess Amy that I would never eat, no matter how much she implored, because it looked structurally unsound enough to require an engineering permit.

Lupe contemplated her chocolate masterpiece before lifting thoughtful eyes to mine. "For someone who regularly quotes philosophical wanderers and road-trip anthems about finding oneself, you demonstrate remarkable geographical constancy. Your wanderlust seems suspiciously theoretical."

"Why embark on Odyssean voyages when Ithaca already surrounds you?" I challenged, sipping my cappuccino with deliberate satisfaction. Homer's hero spent ten years trying to return to his beloved homeland—I have the wisdom to stay put.

Princess Amy, ever the barometer of our conversational climate, began humming a familiar tune about seeing trees of green and skies of blue. I recognized her musical interjection as Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World"—the closest thing she would come to admitting she was in agreement with us.

"I'll concede that Wilmington possesses certain undeniable attractions," Lupe acknowledged, licking whipped cream from a plastic spoon. "But I maintain the downtown atmospheric moisture during summer months, defies both physics and human endurance."

"Nature's invitation to explore Wrightsville Beach more frequently," I countered.

Our conversation meandered like the Cape Fear itself, flowing from upcoming film productions to Lupe's philosophical musings on social media psychology. Outside, Wilmawood's morning symphony continued—artists setting up sidewalk displays, tour guides gesturing to clusters of visitors, and shopkeepers sweeping storefronts in preparation for the day's commerce.

From our elevated perch in Castle Street's artistic heart, the world below appeared manageable and comprehensible. I suddenly understood why Abbie Hoffman—our tuxedoed cat, not the 1960s counterculture activist—spent hours surveying his domain from high atop kitchen cabinets. Heights offer perspective, and perspective breeds contentment.

The morning light shifted as our drinks emptied, and conversations reached natural conclusions. The day's obligations began tugging at our collective consciousness, yet I lingered in the moment, suspended in the warm embrace of friendship, elevated by both geography and companionship.

Paradise, I realized, isn't merely a physical location but a way of living in the moment. With the right attitude, those moments seem to collect, like seashells after high tide. Maybe that explains why, despite my wanderlust anthems and philosophical road maps, I find myself returning to the same streets, the familiar faces, and this elevated view of the river that feels increasingly like home.

As we gathered our belongings and prepared to say goodbye, I caught Ms. Wonder's knowing smile. She understood before I did—some elevations aren't measured in feet above sea level, but in moments of clarity and connection

Paradise Found

I woke up this morning with an intense wave of joy that struck me in the solar plexus with inexplicable power, like I'd mainlined pure sunshine!

After some self-reflection, I recognized the feeling was likely hypomania and not a valid reason to buy a new car and run away to Savannah, although I did thoroughly debate the pros and cons of coastal Georgia with my first caramel truffle latte.

Some mornings, I wake up knowing the day is going to be one of those worth remembering; a day you want to take home to meet your mother. Today was undeniably one of those days.

"Ms. Wonder," I announced as I entered the kitchen and found her watching the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: today, I plan to celebrate our little slice of paradise. Today is Coastal Carolina Day!"

Her face lit up like Christmas lights on the Riverwalk, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle in those emerald green eyes of hers. It took my breath away—what a woman!

"Is that what we're calling the southern coast these days? Paradise?" she asked, taking a delicate bite of what looked suspiciously like a chocolate eclair.

"Poopsie, just look outside. The skies are brilliantly blue, and the sunshine is wonderfully cheerful. I'm not denying there might be some V-shaped depressions causing trouble elsewhere along the coast, but here in Waterford, the forecast calls for nothing but zen-like calm."

"It is a beautiful morning," she admitted, "though I suspect your enthusiasm has less to do with the weather and more to do with that third cup of coffee."

"Speaking of which," I said. "What exactly is a caramel truffle latte anyway?" She had the eclair in her mouth once again and offered only a shrug in response to my question.

"Hmm," I said with a knowing nod—the nod was knowing, but I still didn't have a clue. "I don't know what it is either, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with French pigs mucking about in the forests."

The current discussion being at a stalemate, I decided to change the subject. You may find it an abrupt change considering the circumstances, but we Genomes adhere to Shakespeare's philosophy:

'If you're going to do a thing, do it quickly and get it over with.' It's not a direct quote; it's the English Revised translation of the King James edition.

"Well then," she said, "If you've got to go, you'd better go now."

I was astounded. It wasn't surprising; this worker of wonders often does surprise me. "Wonder!" I exclaimed. "I was just thinking of that very quote. One of the Bar's best. Yours is a different translation, but still... It must be all the wild-caught Chinook salmon you eat—omega 3 oils and whatnot."

"It's not Shakespeare," she said. "It's the Moody Blues."

I wasn't totally convinced, but then this remarkable woman is much like Jael from the Book of Judges—the wife of Heber and heroine of Israel. With one well-placed comment, she can nail down a quote and silence all questions just as decisively as she silenced Sisera.

"Join me for a drive to Southport," I suggested. "Travel Magazine calls it 'the friendliest coastal town in America."

"I know. You've mentioned it approximately seventeen times this month alone. So what are we waiting for? You've really got me going."

I couldn't argue with that sentiment from The Kinks' greatest hit, so I didn't. Instead, I cranked the self-starter in Wynd Horse (my trusty vehicle, for those new to these pages) and virtually flew down Grandiflora. Before you could say, 'You really got me now,' I zipped past Old Brunswick Towne heading toward Southport with Ms. Wonder by my side.

The drive was as pleasant as a day ever was. Bus drivers courteously eased into traffic when pulling away from the curb. Police officers whistled cheerful tunes as they patrolled their beats. Dogs pranced ahead of their humans, greeting all passersby with friendly tail wags, and the bluebirds sang classic tunes from the '40s and '50s.

"I think I just saw a squirrel helping an elderly chipmunk cross the street," I said.

"Now you're just being ridiculous," Ms. Wonder replied, but I caught the smile she tried to hide behind her hand.

Southport basked in the glow of a golden spring morning. There remained no trace of the spring shower that had passed through earlier. The air was cool and sweet, and the damp earth released a healing fragrance.

We strolled along the waterfront, where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean. Palmetto palms flashed their fruits in a gaudy but joyful display. The harbor shimmered like liquid silver. And the ducks—well, they were embarrassingly duck-like.

"Another day in paradise," Ms. Wonder said softly.

"Indeed," I agreed. "And there's nowhere I'd rather spend it than with you."

We lunched at Fishy Fishy Cafe, near the Yacht Basin where "The Waterfront" TV series was filmed, and later strolled along the riverfront near the original homes of colonial ship captains. 

Near Chandler's Wharf, we marveled once again at how the production crew of "The Summer I Turned Pretty" had magically transformed that little strip of sand into what appeared on screen as an expansive beach.

As the afternoon faded, we made our way back home to Chatsford Hall, where our little spot of Eden basked in the gentle sunshine of late afternoon. It was that most gracious hour, the time between dinner and bedtime, when Nature takes off her shoes and puts her feet up.

Ms. Wonder and I settled onto the porch, serenaded by the soothing coos of doves calling to us from our backyard. I reflected on the days I had spent with this extraordinary woman by my side, and those thoughts shifted to the possibilities of the upcoming summer.

"You know," I said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I think I've finally opened that gate and stepped out onto the yellow brick road. I'm on my way to the Emerald City. Nothing can stop me now."

"Watch out for flying monkeys," she said.

"Pay no attention to monkeys," I replied, "nor torpedoes for that matter. It's full speed ahead for me."

The soft, quiet moments lingered through the evening until, at last, the doves lined up on the rooftop to watch the sunset with us.

I felt a simple yet profound joy, knowing that many more days like this would be spent in the company of the love of my life, Ms. Wonder. In this moment, in this place, and with my Number One by my side, I have found my paradise.

I invite you to look around yourself today. Perhaps your own paradise is hiding in plain sight, just waiting for you to notice it.

A Maritime Adventure

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble reviewing my promotional letters was self-sabotage."

"What do you mean, self-sabotage?" I said with a good bit of theatrical indignation.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, "I've walked away from a business deal before. I once left a hunting party in South Texas because my client sat with a tub of popcorn between his legs and, when not feeding his face, pointed and laughed at the members of the hunting party every time they missed a shot. But that's another story. Did they have everything I asked for?"

If the above spot of dialogue seems confusing, you can imagine how my brain was performing Olympic gymnastics trying to follow along. I felt certain the otherwise brilliant woman had forgotten several pages of script somewhere between her thoughts and her mouth. Then suddenly, in that strange way it sometimes happens, I remembered something that allowed me to catch up with her runaway train of thought.

The previous day, Ms. Wonder asked me to review letters she'd written to six different maritime museums. The letters proposed an exhibit of her abstract photography--mesmerizing images that transform marine cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. The letters are part of a plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.

"They had everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with this junk."

"First," she said with the confidence of someone explaining how to breathe, "you write the proposal letter for my new photography exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and stuff the pieces into an envelope. When museum curators open them, they wonder if they've gotten a message from a psycho, but when they see my name and credentials on the envelope, they put the puzzle together, realize the proposal is coming from an unusually creative artist."

"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."

"That's why it works. It makes them feel they're back in high school, receiving a Valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers, so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."

"Hey!"

"Just kidding," she said with a smile that suggested she wasn't entirely kidding. "Oh, I thought of another good idea."

"I can't wait," I said, managing to contain my enthusiasm to homeopathic levels.

"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"

"I don't use business cards," I said.

"You'll use these business cards. Order a box with nothing but my standard postcard on them in matte finish. Then when you hand out the cards..."

"Me! Why me? I'm not planning on running around the East Coast handing out business cards. I have a full-time job, disappointing you right here in Carolina."

"I know you weren't planning it, but I also know that you'll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won't you, sweetie?" She gave my hand a pat before continuing. "Your prospective museum curator will say, 'But your contact information isn't on here.' Then you write my number and website address on the card. That lets her know you don't do business with just anyone. Only certain people meet your standards, and she's one of them."

"A lot of people prefer to tweet," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.

"Too chatty," she said, "Stay low-tech and it will set you apart."

"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but I don't know where you're coming from with this. I can't picture someone from Houston, Texas handing out understated business cards."

"You're right about that," she said. "Most people in Houston introduce themselves by honking the horns of their pickup trucks. But I've spent a lot of time in Charleston, South Carolina, and let me tell you they have some slick..."

I can't repeat the rest of her statement, but it left me strangely intrigued. I began to wonder if I'd slipped into an alternate dimension where her marketing strategies made sense.

"So what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?" I asked, pointing to the plastic orb she'd placed on my desk alongside the puzzle pieces and postcards.

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought we should probably have one."

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Your agent phoned a moment ago."

"Oh, what did she want?" 

"She asked about our progress on the promotions project."

"Yes, but it's not a project. It's simply a few letters."

"She thought we might sell the rights to dramatize the promotional effort to a theatrical consortium in New York."

"She thinks we should turn the letters into a play?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of material that becomes a play. '

"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of the letters to make them sound more like musical theater..."

"Despite my better judgment, I've got to hear more of this hairbrained scheme."

"Her suggestion was that we write something to catch the curator's attention, like, "Dear Maritime Museum," and I imagined it would use a bold font, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! By abstract art, that is!"

"Oh, yes?" said the Wonder but not with any real zip.

"Yeah, and she thought the heading could be followed by a promotional ad that could be sung to the tune of a popular show tune."

"Can you imagine a musical comedy about abstract marine photography making the rounds off-Broadway?" Wonder asked?

"Not really," I said.

"Neither can I, though, in fairness, the subject of house cats is responsible for half of internet traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next. So who knows?"

We were quiet for the next few moments. I was unsure of what I should say, and she seemed deep in contemplation, forehead wrinkled and chewing the lower lip. Finally, she spoke.

"I recently received a comment from a patron who suggested my photography should have a recognizable theme," she said, making it clear she was entertaining some doubt. "Without one, he said, it feels like 'a random collection of images about nothing in particular.'"

I don't know how I did it with so little notice, but I had one of those surprising ideas that make the Genomes the kind of men we are.

"Yes, Poopsie," I said, "the Cape Fear River photography collection may be about nothing in particular, but it is to abstract marine art what Tiger Woods was to golf, and what Taylor Swift is to pop music, and what your favorite sandals are to a day at Holden Beach looking for sea biscuits: unnecessary, but absolutely essential."

She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.

Clearly, wooing maritime museum curators will be more complicated than I'd imagined. Obviously, I would need to learn to use a Magic 8-Ball to say, "Please display my partner's art photos of ocean-going freighters in your museum," all the while avoiding a Broadway adaptation of "Cape Fear River Vessels: The Musical."