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."

Picture's Up! Rolling!

A Cinematic Confession

Despite my boundless enthusiasm and love for the chase, my documentation of Wilmington's cinematic landscape has proven to be as successful as trying to thread a needle while riding a mechanical bull. (I know this from personal experience—not because I’ve actually ridden a mechanical bull, but because I watched many such riders at Gilley's in Pasadena during the 80s.)

Remember my quest to find the "Driver's Ed" set? The one where I ended up at Flaming Amy's on its closed day, engaged in mortal combat with cross-traffic on busy streets, and returned with precisely zero footage? 

"You've been fumbling around like a toddler in a Toys-R-Us," Princess Amy observed this morning over coffee at Circular Journey Cafe. She was particularly smug today, her imaginary tiara gleaming cheekily in the morning sunlight.

"I've been documenting the process," I said, stirring my latte with what I hoped was a level of dignity that served me well.

"You've been documenting your ability to get lost, park illegally, and eat craft services food you weren't offered," she replied, examining her royal nails. "Remember when you tried to coach Beau with his lines and he got fired?"

I winced. "Not lines," I said. "He had only one line. And take the tiara off, it's reflecting sunlight around the room and getting everyone's attention."

"No one can see it but you," she said. "And the film industry is off to a slow start this year. You might as well relax and find something else to do with your time."

She was right, of course. My cinematic adventures have been more "America's Funniest Home Videos" than "Behind the Scenes with Scorsese." 

Ms. Wonder suggested yesterday, in her gentle but firm way, that I might benefit from a more structured approach.

"Genome," she said, her voice warm with the patience of a saint, "perhaps a map would help? Or possibly writing down the actual addresses instead of just driving around hoping to bump into Molly Shannon?"

"I do not just drive around," I said with a good deal of topspin. "I use my GPS; I use two. Which may be part of the problem because Mildred on my phone GPS often disagrees with Maggie on Wynd Horse."

So here I am this morning, writing to you from the podium of my personal TED-X show--The Circular Journey Cafe, admitting my shortcomings as your cinematic correspondent. I've been as reliable as a Magic 8-Ball in a magnetic field when it comes to finding and documenting film productions.

But that's about to change! I've acquired an actual map of Wilmington (yes, paper—and this bit of vintage technology feels comforting to someone out of the past century). I've programmed Wynd Horse's navigation system with the address of the Cinespace production office, and I've subscribed to all the local media for tracking filming schedules.

Princess Amy insists my new plan will fail, but I reminded her, "That's what they said about the lunar landing."

"No one said that about the lunar landing," was her reply, but I assured her that wasn't true.

"Statistically speaking, someone must have said it would never work," I said. And I thought it was a pretty good comeback considering I had no time to prepare.

My point, dear readers, is this: The next time you read about my adventures chasing film crews around the Carolina coast, you can expect fewer wrong turns and hopefully, although I can't promise, fewer instances of me being kicked off set before lunch.

My previous documentation efforts may have been a blooper reel, but my inner director just called "action" on the 2025 filming year, and this time, I'm determined to nail my lines.

As the First Camera Operator would say, "Rolling!"