Shady Grove Chronicles

It has come to my attention, with a jolt like that of a rogue tennis ball striking me squarely between the eyes, that I've committed a rather significant oversight. My sincere thanks go to Ms. Wonder for gently (more or less) reminding me that I'd all but forgotten the second reason for embarking on this "circular journey."

If you're a regular here, you're undoubtedly familiar with the disarray of my brain's internal wiring, which often leads to neurotransmitter imbalances and, eventually, to this blog. Finding humor in the absurdities of my daily existence is, of course, the bedrock of The Circular Journey.

What you might not realize, however, is that when I first put fingers to keyboard, I hoped to unravel the winding path from my origins in Shady Grove—a world now shrouded in the mists of time—into the wider, often wonderful, world I inhabit today.

A Glimpse of Shady Grove

Shady Grove was (and probably still is) a sliver of rural paradise, nestled comfortably between the gentle curves of a freshwater lake and the majestic Tennessee River. One might be tempted to call it idyllic, if one were loose with the facts, a habit I strive to avoid.

This tiny community boasted one long, flat country road with a stop sign at one end that should have included one of those warnings you see on old maps, "Beware of Dragons." The road was bookended by churches with such strict tenets that even the local squirrels observed an unnatural civility on Sundays.

It was here, amid the dappled sunlight filtering through ancient oaks, that young Genome first encountered the rich tapestry of human eccentricity that would forever shape his worldview.

While the events described will be drawn from the actual experiences of my youth, I will employ what I like to think of as "creative non-fiction," and what my Great Aunt Cynthia would term "stretching the truth until its ribs squeak." I'll be recounting true events, but I'll highlight certain aspects to capture the inherent humor and absurdity that my younger self, bless his heart, was too busy living through to fully appreciate.

Unless you're new here, you know that I draw inspiration from that master chronicler of English country life, P.G. Wodehouse, whose Blandings Castle stories remain the pinnacle of literary comedy. I make no claims to approaching his genius, but will do my utmost to capture something of his spirit in describing the inhabitants of the Grove.

And what inhabitants they were! Allow me to provide a brief introduction for two of the main characters you'll encounter in the coming days:

Great Aunt Cynthia, who operated as a sort of alternate mother, dispensing wisdom and peach cobblers with equal generosity. Her kitchen was a realm of culinary magic, where recipes existed not in written form but in the mystical measurement system of "pinches," "dashes," and "just enough."

You may remember Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Paul from an earlier post. It was Aunt Cynthia, who was awakened by an early morning car crash outside her bedroom window, and shouted, "Wake up, Paul, and get your pants on, Jesus has come back." Uncle Paul, always the practical one in the family, woke and replied, "If Jesus is here, I don't think he'll mind that I'm in my pajamas."

Aunt Cynthia loved to sit on the front porch on Sunday afternoons and regale the neighborhood with songs made famous by George Beverly Shea, the primary soloist for the Billy Graham crusades. The song for which he is most famously known, "How Great Thou Art," was a favorite of Aunt Cynthia.

She had one of those Ethel Merman* voices, and the lyrics echoed down the holler, across the lake, and beyond. I'm certain that once we develop instruments sensitive enough to pick up ancient sound waves, I'll hear her voice once again, singing "O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder..."

Aunt Cynthia loved to ride the lawn mower--it was the only motorized vehicle she could drive. She even used it to visit neighbors in the Grove. It was she who kept the lawn neat, and her husband, Uncle Paul, once told my father that he couldn't bear watching her mowing the grass in the midday heat of summer, so he moved his hammock from the front yard to the back where he wouldn't have to see her.

Our other next-door neighbor was Great Aunt Maggie, the family's unofficial guidance counselor. She approached problems with the analytical precision of a chess grandmaster and the vocabulary of a sailor on shore leave. Her advice, while invariably sound, was delivered with such bracing directness that one often needed to lie down afterward.

Aunt Maggie was known around Shady Grove as the resident "witch." Anywhere else, she'd simply have been called the herbalist, possessing all that wonderfully arcane knowledge about wild plants and their surprising ability to soothe the human condition. I always fancied myself her favorite, though it dawns on me now that I was probably just conveniently located next door.

She taught me how to identify the plants she needed for her elixirs and salves and sent me into the surrounding forests to collect what she needed. She cured all the usual suspects--headaches, colds, sore throats, tummy trouble, bruises, cuts. She even put together a poultice* that pulled a tiny piece of glass out of my heel.

The backdrop to these characters and their exploits was a community bound together by tradition, hard work, and weekend gatherings where bluegrass jam sessions would materialize on front porches as naturally as morning dew. The residents—descendants of Welsh, Irish, and Scottish settlers—carried in their blood a certain stubborn self-reliance mingled with an appreciation for music, storytelling, and occasional bouts of good-natured feuding.

It was a place where time moved according to its own particular rhythm—marked not by the ticking of clocks but by the changing of seasons, the ripening of crops, and the rotation of Sunday sermon topics. The outside world, with its politics and progress, seemed to maintain a respectful distance, as though recognizing that Shady Grove operated according to its own immutable laws.

In the coming installments of what I shall grandly term "The Shady Grove Chronicles," I hope to transport you to this singular place and time. You will witness young Genome's navigation of the complexities of rural life, his encounters with the profound wisdom and magnificent peculiarities of his elders, and his gradual realization that the seemingly simple community of his youth contained universes of complexity.

So, I invite you to join me on this circular journey back to where it all began. Just be sure to pack a willingness to laugh, a fondness for the absurd, and perhaps a pinch (or a dash, or just the right amount) of forgiveness for the follies of youth. I'll do my very best to make the trip worth your while.

Bell Detective Agency

Agent Walter Bell and I met every morning at SoDu Cafe in South Durham to discuss the criminal landscape of the North Carolina Triangle—a region where crime, as we liked to dramatically declare, was "always rampant." 

Truth be told, we didn't concern ourselves with ordinary crime—the garden-variety misdemeanors that kept the Triangle's finest police officers occupied. No, we specialized in the fringe elements that often slipped through the cracks of conventional law enforcement, the cases that raised eyebrows and occasionally defied explanation.

Walter was a joyful and genuinely friendly man, and the world's number one supporter of his beloved alma mater, Clemson University. A retired FBI agent with a treasure trove of stories—each one more hilarious than the last, not just because of their bizarre subject matter but because of Walter's unmatched gift for storytelling—he had me in stitches daily. 

After wiping away tears of laughter one morning, I suggested we formalize our coffee meetups into something more official. Thus was born the Bell Detective Agency, with Walter as our senior investigator and me serving as the computer forensic specialist (which meant I knew how to Google answers that Walter couldn't get from Siri).

We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."

Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits. 

With such a large group sharing the same lifestyle came an inevitable subculture, and where culture blooms, crime inevitably follows. In this case, it primarily involved black market protein shakes and scalping tickets to movies in the city's extra-wide seat theaters. 

Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.

The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).

In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.

Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).

Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).

Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.

Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.

The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office. 

I haven't heard his voice in some time, but I can still hear his distinctive laughter in my mind. And I know with absolute certainty that on college football game days, he can be heard throughout the celestial realm, shouting with characteristic enthusiasm, "Go Tigers!"

The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.

Sleepy Hollow Revisited

"There is a little valley, or rather a lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility." 

--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." On page 105 is the artist's depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.

(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)

Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."

By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.

Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.

Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk," and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.

We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?

We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.

Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.

Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.

In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.

The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.

This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.

The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.

Mr. Irving concluded his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words: "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.

Day's Unveiling

The predawn hour lulls you into thinking the world is still asleep, wrapped in a blanket of quiet. But if you listen closely, you hear the rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of a bird who didn’t get the memo about sleeping in. It’s nature’s way of a good stretch and a big yawn, getting ready to throw back the covers and greet the day.

The Unveiling of Morning

On this particular morning, the air had that crisp, new feel, like a freshly minted hundred-dollar bill. There was a faint scent of possibility wafting on the breeze coming uptown from the Atlantic.

The ancient oaks lining Third Street, usually so stoic, seemed to shiver with excitement, their branches reaching greedily for the sliver of light just peeking over the horizon. In my mind, I could hear them say, "Kvncvpketv [Gun-jup-ghee-duh" in the language of my ancestors, meaning "Don't get too cocky."

I parked in front of the Circular Journey Cafe, and when I stepped out of Wind Horse, a solitary bird let out a tentative trill. Then another joined in, and another, until the whole neighborhood seemed to hum with a quiet, growing chorus. It 
wasn't the full-blown orchestral performance of mid-morning, but more like tuning up before the main event.

A Daybreak Melody

It reminded me of those early Manilow tracks, the ones where the piano gently introduces the melody before the full brass section kicks in. "Daybreak," I thought, "it's always the gentle beginning, the quiet promise of what's to come."

And sometimes, what's to come is just another day of trying to convince the sewer harpies to leave Princess Amy alone so we can get some work done on the media empire we're quietly building to bring some sanity back to the world.

Haven't you heard about that project yet? Oh, I thought I'd mentioned it. Hmm, maybe there's a good reason I haven't brought it up. I'll give it more thought. There's no rush; I was interested in getting your opinion, but we can talk about it later.

Until then, I'll leave you with a bit of public service: Keep smiling and be assured that good things are coming. Until next time, be happy, be healthy. As simple as they are, even those words seem filled with grand possibilities on a morning like this.

Not Just Ships

We were back at our regular table at the Circular Journey Café—window seat with a view of the street that offered just the right amount of distraction for deep creative thinking and a guy like me with an attention deficit personality to keep occupied.

Ms. Wonder sipped her espresso and adjusted her scarf in that casual, effortless way that seems to be her birthright. I can't quite figure out how she manages it, but I have a feeling it's in her DNA—perhaps something her ancestors learned while in service to Catherine the Great.

“I’ve been looking for a new venue for the Ships of the Cape Fear series,” she said, eyes lighting up with that now-familiar spark of visionary momentum.

I nodded slowly, trying to look like someone who knows things about cargo ships. I'd try pretending to know something about abstract expressionism, but it's never worked before, so I gave it a miss.

“Ah, yes," I nodded. "The floating rectangles of industry.”

She ignored me sweetly. “Not just ships--they're abstract compositions. I’m fascinated by their structure—the precision, the engineering, the sheer audacity of them.”

I glanced out the window where a pit bull had stopped to stare at me through the window, as if to ask if I was going to pretend I could connect "audacity" to cargo ships.

"Audacity?" I asked. "That’s the word you’re going with?”

I asked the question after realizing that if a pit bull knew I was clueless, it could easily be proven against me in court, so why pretend? Would you have done the same?

She smiled. “Absolutely. These vessels are not just ocean-going machines. They’re like... mechanical poetry.”

“Of course,” I said, flipping my notebook to a blank page, in case inspiration struck me for a new blog post. “Mechanical poetry," I said to hide the fact that what I'd actually written was 'Help me!' 

She sipped her latte and then, with a wistful look in her eyes, she said, “My grandfather was a structural engineer. He designed government buildings in Santa Fe. They were admired for their efficient design and functional utility, but they are also beautiful in their symmetry and purpose. That’s where it started for me. I appreciated how form serves function.”

I nodded, possibly too eagerly. “So, cargo ships are designed specifically to efficiently carry cargo across a great expanse of ocean, and yet, even though their design has nothing to do with beauty, it somehow creates an awesome, inspiring structure."

Ms. Wonder paused. “How did you do that?" she said with wide, admiring eyes. Her look gave me a jolt of feel-good in a way that old me I could coast through the rest of the conversation. I don't mind telling you, I was on top of the world.

"They're like colossal timepieces, in a way," she said. "Each gear, lever, and bolt work together at a level of harmony and scale that's beautiful. It’s abstract art born of industry.”

I took a thoughtful bite of my croissant, reminding myself that the less I said, the better. “I see,” I said, which was mostly untrue, but seemed safe. I looked back out the window at the pit bull and raised an eyebrow and waggling my head in a self-satisfied way. The dog looked at the human following on the leash behind him and then walked on.

“They’re not just ships,” Wonder continued. “They’re monuments to human ingenuity.”

“Hmmm,” I said strategically.

She laughed. “I know it may sound strange to you. But when the afternoon light is glancing off a curved hull, and the steel is marred by the action of wind and waves," her eyes took on that faraway look again, as if she were out on the river, the water calm and the sunlight reflecting from the water to light up the superstructure of a container ship.

"And I get the angle just right for the photo," she continued, "It's an emotionally moving moment. Almost tender.”

I squinted at my coffee. “It doesn't sound strange. I think Michael Jackson said it best: That's why you've got to be there.”

She blinked. “Who are you? And what have you done with the real Genome?”

“Okay," I said, gesturing vaguely while she laughed. “But tell me something, If someone thinks a cargo ship is a big metal box floating on the river, how do you help them see what you see?”

“My photography introduces abstract elements like contour, shadow, and color before the mind has a chance to categorize what they're seeing. Once someone realizes they're seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar way, their perception shifts.”

I blinked twice. “Like when I saw Beignet, that magnificent ragamuffin, on top of the fridge and mistook him for a loaf of sourdough?”

“Exactly,” she said, without missing a beat. “It’s all about perception. It's something cats understand naturally.”

I leaned back, pretending to reflect on her words, but I was really thinking about Beignet. “You know,” I finally said, “I think I get it now. Ships are like... huge kinetic sculptures.”

She looked amused. “Close enough.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, letting the idea settle—or we may have been thinking about once and future cats. 

“Well,” I said, finishing my cappuccino, “I think this calls for a new exhibit. Big, bold prints. Maybe include a soundscape—distant foghorns, I think, don't you?"

Ms. Wonder’s eyes twinkled. "Obviously,” she said. “I’ll start contacting museum and gallery curators.”

"Great!" I said. "I think we’re on to something."

"I think I'm on to something," she said with a grin, "I think you're on something."