Ms. Wonder

I saw her standing there in the lobby on my first day working at 1120 NASA Road 1 in Houston, and the way she looked was way beyond compare. She looked my way and our eyes meet for just one moment. That's all it took. I knew that before too long I'd fall in love with her and she'd become Ms. Wonder.

Paris of Troy must have felt the same when he first saw Helen.

Before I got the nerve to ask her out, I spent several lonely nights behind the wheel of my automobile, cruising around town and listening to the radio with no particular place to go.

The day came when I walked into her office and walked across the room to ask her for a date. My heart went BOOM when she said yes. After that first dinner, I was anxious to tell her how I felt and my heart went BOOM again when she told me she felt the same way. 

Cleopatra must have felt the same when Marc Antony first came calling.

Eventually, we drove past the metroplex and realized that Moonstruck was playing on the big screen. We parked with a few minutes to spare before the movie began and it was then that I stole a kiss. At that moment I knew that my lonely nights were in the past and that I'd never dance with anyone else again.

Napoleon must have felt the same when Josephine first smiled at him.

The night was still young and the moon was gold so we decided to take a stroll before the show began. Imagine my surprise when I couldn't unfasten my safety belt. And so we spent that first evening together, she sitting next to me at the wheel, cruising around town and listening to the radio with no particular place to go. 

We've been to many places together and made many happy memories. I wouldn't have it any other way. Tomorrow we will visit the districts of Wilmington, cruising around and listening to the radio with no particular place to go. 

Life is good, especially with Wonder in it.

Just Whistle!

I found Ms. Wonder sitting at a table outside Port City Cafe and I noticed right away that she'd made a pleasing choice. The table was shaded from the heat of the already high morning sun and a cooling sea breeze seemed intent on proving that the Universe was looking out for our best interests. All things considered, every prospect was pleasing.

I'd hoped to surprise her because she'd said goodbye to me only a few minutes before and had expected me to be on my way to Crystal Cove. But I'd changed my mind about that. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.

"Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world and you have to walk into mine," she said. 

"Is it yours?" I said. "I didn't know you'd invested in the globally grown and Carolina roasted."

"Not mine in the sense that I own it, goofball; mine in the sense that it's the one I chose for the new blue wave smoothie. Delicious," she said, "Try it."

"Maybe later," I said. "Right now I need 16 ounces of steaming God's mercy."

"I see that you failed to leave for the Cove like you planned. Getting a late start?"

"Not going," I said.

She gave me one of her looks. It was the look she reserves for occasions when she's with someone who's just announced they've taken up raising Cocker Spaniels.

"Talking it out usually helps," she said. "Want to talk about it?"

"Thank you for the generous offer," I said, "but you've heard it before girlfriend; I feel that when I stopped to smell the roses, the number 14 bus moved on and left me behind. Now I'm living in the past and I feel that I don't belong here in this decade. Don't get me wrong; it's a beautiful world with all prospects pleasing--except man, of course. Humanity, Poopsie, that's one bad apple for you."

"I may be able to help with all that," she said. "May I offer a suggestion?"

"Please," Wonder, "that's why I sought you out. I knew you'd have something to make it all better. But if you're thinking of saying something along the lines of, don't worry be happy, just give it a miss for my sake."

 "The secret to living in the world you desire," she said, "is to give up fighting everything. Stop the negative criticism and sarcasm, and accept everything exactly as it comes to you."

"This I take it is the live life on life's terms strategy," I said and I meant for her to understand that I'd heard all this before and had no room left for more of it.

"Not exactly," she said. "It's like this: The organizing principle of the Universe is cause and effect. Your world, as it exists now is the result of your thoughts and beliefs. There's no point in trying to change the world or the people or the circumstances around you. The secret is to change your point of view and see the world differently. As soon as you do that, the world will automatically change. In quantum physics, it's called the observer effect."

"I know about the observer effect in q physics," I said, "and I'm sure that it doesn't apply to the principle of visualizing the world you want, and voila, there it is."

"Why not give it chance anyway? Many happy people use this technique every day. You've been struggling to change your life for quite a while now. It seems that Princess Amy has taken up long-term residence in your head even though she arrived without invitation."

She paused here and gave me a kind, encouraging look. That look worked wonders. The sunlight pierced the heavy fog inside my head and brightened up my outlook for the day. This is an example of those wonders that she mysteriously performs.

With the mood soaring somewhere above the clouds, I remembered something I'd read somewhere--something about people living in darkness. It went something like this, 'on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.' Probably Shakespeare or Billy Joel maybe.

I must have been lost in thought because I remember the feeling that I was floating to the surface and realized that Ms. Wonder was still speaking.

 "You have nothing to lose if it doesn't work for you. Try a little experiment and see what happens."

"A little experiment, hunh?" I said. "Why not? Like you say, I have nothing to lose. Alright, Wonder, I'll give it my best effort; six weeks sounds like a fair amount of time. Yes, I feel good about it. I'll do it. Thanks for the suggestion."

"I'm happy to bring satisfaction," she said. "If I can be of further help, just whistle and I'll be there."

She turned as if to leave me and I expected her to blow away like the breeze but it didn't happen. As if in afterthought, she turned back to me and I noticed a twinkle in her eye that wasn't there a moment before. She looked into my eyes and a smile played across her face as she said, 

"You do know how to whistle, don't you?"

Well, we Genomes are quick to spot an opportunity to impress and entertain, and it was with me the work of an instant to put my two pinkies in my mouth and blow. I've learned that this maneuver is guaranteed to impress all bystanders.

It was a whistle that impressed the heck out of me but she was unmoved and perhaps a little disappointed.

"No," she said, "that's not the whistle I'm expecting. What will make me happy will be for you to simply put your lips together and blow."

Having said that she demonstrated the technique and produced the sweetest, most exquisite little note I've ever heard. She then made her exit and left me feeling that I was sitting on top of the world with a bluebird on my shoulder. I don't suppose that I'd ever come closer to singing "Zip a Dee Do Dah!"

The Invitation

The door to the salle de bains opened, and she emerged like Venus rising from the sea, if Venus had also been mildly annoyed about something.

"Is it morning already?" I said, blinking at the world outside the bedroom window, not exactly sure of the time, the day, or even the decade.

"It's afternoon," she said, in the patient tone one might use with a cocker spaniel who has once again mistaken the mail carrier for a long-lost friend. "You were napping."

"Oh, yes, of course," I said, though I actually thought it was daybreak. "But why is it so gray outside? Has someone dialed down the sun?"

"There was a brief thunderstorm," she said. "It's hot outside, and the humidity is high. Summertime at the coast is a season of sultry mistiness."

"A season of sultry mistresses?"

"Sultry MISTINESS," she said, with the enunciation of a woman who has had this conversation before and fully expects to have it again.

"Well, we are at the coast, of course," I said, gesturing vaguely at the gray middle distance as though I personally understood it, "and I'm not yet attuned to the weather; much more theatrical than the weather of the steppes of the Carolina Triangle. In Durham, the weather simply happens, and everyone gets on with their day. Here, the weather requires narration."

She shrugged but made not a peep, which could mean many things at once, none of them entirely favorable to me.

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

I was referring to the caramel-colored tabby cat who is addicted to rolls of paper the way lesser creatures are addicted to catnip or, in my own case, the crossword. He is sometimes so tempted by a paper towel or toilet paper dispenser that he simply cannot resist them, approaching each roll with the single-minded devotion of a man storming a beach. He backslid again last night, and not for the first time. There is talk of an intervention.

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

Now, I've consumed many things in my life that I regretted almost immediately: oysters of questionable provenance, a fruitcake at Christmas 2019 that I'm fairly certain predated the invention of fruitcake, and on one memorable occasion, a smoothie a well-meaning aunt assured me was "mostly kale." But nothing quite prepares a man for one of Poopsie's pick-me-ups. 

After tossing the concoction down the hatch and surviving the momentary and entirely reasonable belief that my head was about to explode, I felt much better and ready for whatever the day might inflict. I've often wondered what she puts in those elixirs of hers, but she insists it's a secret family recipe. I'm sure one of the ingredients is Blenheim's ginger ale.

"Any recent developments to attend to?" I asked, once my vision cleared.

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

"She never does, Poopsie. She knows I'm allergic to the place. She doesn't send an engraved invitation to lure me into the trap. She only says 'come,' knowing I can't refuse family. The trap does all the work."

"You're allergic to Crystal Cove?" she said, with her patented form of skepticism.

"I am," I said, with the dignity of a man defending a diagnosis no doctor has ever confirmed. "The air there is saturated with some dark matter or other that clings to me until it reaches critical mass, at which point there's a loud pop, and bits of the fabric of reality drift through the air like confetti at a party. And for some mysterious reason, everyone always points the finger at me."

That remark earned me another of her patented looks, the one reserved for something that sounds like a metaphor but may, worryingly, be literal. I ignored her skepticism, because ignoring things has served me well in life, right up until the moment it hasn't. 

I suddenly felt a pressing need for a seltzer to counteract the effect of Poopsie's potion. These pick-me-ups of hers lift the mood to the absolute sticking point, leaving me with the firm impression that the impossible is merely a formality. I find it's best to dilute the overall effect before I do something rash, like agree to something I don't want to do.

When Reason was at last restored to her throne, I accepted the inevitable. As much as I wished to ignore the summons, it had come from my favorite denizen of Crystal Cove, my god-niece Lupe, and you know as well as I do that where Lupe is concerned, "no" has never once been a viable answer. She asks, and the universe rearranges itself accordingly.

"I'll leave tomorrow morning," I said, already resigned, "and contact you when I learn the reason for the invitation. Something to set hell's foundations shaking, I imagine, or at the very least, to ruin what would otherwise have been a perfectly pleasant week."

Are You Happy?

Ms. Wonder came downstairs for coffee after her early morning workout, as is her usual weekday practice. She gave me a look as she moved gracefully toward the aroma of espresso. I've seen that look before. It told me that she was aware of my need for human interaction but it would have to wait until she was caffeinated enough to endure it.

When she was finally seated at the table she took a deep relaxing breath and spoke. "You don't look very happy," she said. Not exactly the kind of remark I was hoping for but we take life as it comes.

"Why should I look happy?" I said. "It's early and I haven't yet walked under the pines of Brunswick."

"I know," she said, "but you'll be there very soon and that's something to look forward to, right?"

"Wonder," I said, "weekday mornings, I Walk. It's capitalized because it's a ritual. It's not a spiritual practice because my spirit deflated a long time ago and it lies in a heap on the floor of a closet at the back of my mind. But let's don't go there."

"Please," she said, and when she saw the look on my map in response to her 'please', she tried to correct her course, "Yes, let's don't," she said.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean by that," I said.

It was a lie, of course. You know as much as I, that the little whangee in my brain is bent and I often ramble on about anything and nothing. I'm sure this better half of mine considers it to be, less than the idle wind, which she respects not, to quote the Bard if it was the Bard. 

You probably share the feeling with her. Perfectly understandable, of course, and let me tell you that I appreciate you taking the time to visit this blog more than you can possibly imagine. I realize that you expect to hear a lot of rambling bilge and yet you visit anyway. I probably don't tell you often enough that I appreciate you being here with me.

"Around 9:00 am each morning," I realized that I'd gotten the advantage in the conversation and decided to capitalize on it, "I head to Brunswick Forest for my walk in the pines."

"Shinrin-yoku," she said and I was profoundly impressed!

"Poopsie!" I said, reverting to her pet name because I was so taken aback that she remembered the Japanese meditation technique that I teach in my classes at Straw Valley.

"Poopsie, I'm profoundly impressed! Is that the right word? I mean the adverb, 'profoundly.' Does it mean deeply, greatly impressed because that's what I am? And possibly a little bit flattered that you remembered."

"Well," she said and I knew right away, don't ask me how I knew, it's a gift possibly or a curse probably, but I knew that she was going to respond in the negative, and I felt that in the present situation, I sorely needed fewer and better negatives.

"Well," she said just as I mentioned above, "impressed is used as a present participle and that means..."

"Wup," I said, "thank you Poopsie for offering me the very best participle, whatever that is, in answer to my question but we're getting dangerously close to sentence conjugation, something that I got my fill of in Mr. Kier's advanced English class back in the day. What I should have said was, 'very impressed.'

She didn't say anything but performed a cute little shrug and a moue. Look it up. Those who know me best are aware that when faced with silence the Genome begins repeating whatever it is that Princess Amy is saying in his head. I did so now.

"My morning outing is more than a stroll, of course. Anytime I find myself underneath a leafy canopy, I qigong, and I qigong like the dickens if you want my opinion."

"I know," she said. "You do Fierce Qigong, the style you developed at the Qigong Wellness studio in Raleigh."

"Wonder!" I said, and I'm sure that I approached hypo-mania when I said, "I'm profoundly impressed!"

"Again?" she said.

I nodded vigorously and said, "I sometimes refer to my early morning practice as 'lost in let's remember' because I'm usually thinking about the good ole days--the way things used to be. 

Actually, it isn't so much the way things used to be as the people that used to be. I miss so many of the people I knew here on the planet who now sleep with the stars--and when I say people, I mean dogs and cats too." 

She chose not to reply once more and sipped her cappuccino instead. I interpreted this to mean that she'd granted me clearance for take0ff. 

"When the weather is clement my regalia includes my kung fu fighting cane, Qigong Wellness t-shirt, my taiji competition shoes, and a golf glove to keep the cane from slipping out of my hand and beaning someone who is in the park simply to air out the dog."

"Mmmm," she said. 

"Although I pretend to have some other purpose for being there, I'm actually there to spend a few minutes in meditation and to watch the dogs that are out for airing with their humans. The dogs always make me smile; the humans rarely."

"Are you happy when you're there, surrounded by the natural world and meditating on dogs?'

"I do not meditate on dogs, Poopsie. Meditation is not contemplation or rumination. Meditation is about nothing. But, the answer to your question is, Yes, watching the dogs cheers me up." 

"So you're happy there?" she said.

"That's a difficult question to answer," I said.

"No, it isn't," she said. "You're either happy or you're not."

I mused for a moment while contemplating her question. I was aware of a feeling of bright contentment as I thought about those dogs.

"Poopsie," I said. "My friend Doyle was there this morning walking his two dogs, Jake and Lily.  Lily found a stick somewhere on their outing and she carried it in her mouth as she moved with a step that was high, wide, and handsome if you get my meaning."

I paused once more in deep contemplation. It wasn't a planned pause. I suppose it's best described as being 'lost in let's remember.'

"Yes?" she said bringing me back to the surface.

"Lily looked so happy carrying that stick around. Poopsie, I don't think I've ever been that happy in my life."

"Maybe we should strive to be more like dogs," she said.

"Yes," I said, "I think we probably should. We could do much worse than being like dogs. And cats, of course. We mustn't forget the cats. Most of what I know I've learned from dogs and cats."

"Dogs and cats to be sure," she said.

The White Chip

No premonitions of impending doom cast clouds on my serenity as I gazed from the bedroom window out onto the grounds behind Chadsford Hall. The last of the blossoms brought color to the cheeks of the gardens. Yesterday afternoon, as I removed the dead heads of rudbeckia, I saw butterflies flitting about.

I know! Butterflies!

As I say, nothing to warn of disaster to come. Just the honeyed sunshine oozing over the gardens and the terraced hillsides. Just goes to show that Auntie Mabd, the youngest of the Fate Sisters, has a nasty sense of humor. A practical joker with no restrictions and no sense of decency.

You're probably thinking that it's a good thing I was paying attention so as to not be caught off guard. Forewarned is forearmed--is that the term? You are right, as far as it goes, but when Ms. Wonder entered the salon with a sheaf of travel brochures in her hand, I naturally expected the ongoing discussion of the Caribbean cruise to be the source of danger.

I'm amazed at the persistence of this Ms. Wonder in pressing the matter of cruises. You will remember from past postings our discussions of Viking river cruises through Europe. Now her fascination is with excursions to Belize, Honduras, and resorts on the coast of Mexico.

The problem is that once you get started on these cruises, you find that you can't stop. You think you can quit any time you like but then the next thing you know, you're throwing a toothbrush and passport into a plastic bag and heading for the sea. First, it's a ship to Ixtapa Zihuatanejo, then it's a river barge down the Rhein, and the next thing you know, you're on a ferry down the Yangtze from Nanjing to Shangai.

In the matter of cruises, I should be firm, I thought. If I wobble, she will be encouraged and continue to drag in these brightly colored tracts, much like Lucy, the cat brings dead mice to the doorstep even though I make it clear in word and deed that the market for dead mice is sluggish if any.

"Poopsie," I said, assuming the home-field advantage, "do you know what today is?"

"Friday," she said.

"Today is the day Sagi gets his 90-day chip."

"Wow," she said and with this one exclamation, I knew that I had sidestepped the talk of ships and ports-of-call. "Has he been clean for three months?"

"That's right," I said, "our top-ranked caramel-colored tabby has not shredded a single roll of toilet paper since July 18th."

"Oh, that boy!" she said. "Where is he? I'm going to give him a big hug."

It was with her, the work of an instant to be down the stairs and looking for the cat, probably on his favorite cushion in the living room window. He was not there, although I didn't realize it at the time. Not that it would have made a difference. I was bubbling over with joie de vivre resulting from my nimble avoidance of you know what.

I didn't actually utter the words, "Tra-la-la!", but I came about as close as ever. I did a little dance and when I noticed the new roll of the aforementioned paper left on the dresser by Ms. Wonder in her hasty departure, I grabbed the end tissue and gave it a professional yank, like one of those magicians you see in a Myrtle Beach dinner theatre. The sheet should have torn along the perforations and left the roll sitting unmoved on the dresser. But it didn't.

That roll of paper came to life as though I were a switch-throwing Dr. Frankenstein and it was a slab of something dug up the night before. It rose into the air before my eyes, arched over my head, waffled through the doorway, and fell to the floor where it careened off the walls and raced rapidly to the other end of the hallway. It didn't stop until it touched the front paws of Sagi who had been sitting quietly, basking in the morning sun.

Auntie Mabd! The younger of the Fate Sisters. Look at the trouble she causes. Benevolent universe, my left foot. And you can quote me! Not all aunts are bad, of course. My Aunt Mary Magdalene and Aunt Arvazine come to mind as the good deserving type. Still, behind every poor schmuck going down for the third time is an aunt who shoved him into it and it's amazing how often the aunt in question is one of the big three--Mabd, Nemain, or Macha.

It's the same for cats.

There was Sagi, spirit floating gayly along, 90 days clean and sober. Sitting in the hallway, minding his own business. Not a care in the world. Then, out of the blue, blanketing the hallway like a freak snowstorm in hell, and rolling up in his face all cocky and whatnot, comes this tube of maniacal paper.

Sagi looked at it in disbelief, then raised his countenance to me. The look in his eyes seemed to say. You promised me no more than I could bear. But this!

The situation strongly resembled some great moment in Greek tragedy. Not like the thorn in the lion's paw but more like, well, you know those plays where the hero is stepping high, wide and handsome--as I believe the saying goes--completely unaware that Nemesis is following close behind looking for an opportunity to drop a banana peel. This was that.

I could clearly see, looking into Sagi's eyes, that he would be picking up another white chip soon.