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The Crystal Coast Affair

After the thing was over and we were on our way safely back to Durham, I admitted to Ms Wonder that I had come that close to losing faith in my lucky star.

"It was a bit thick," she said and I realized that she was still not fully comfortable with what my biographers will probably call, The Crystal Coast Affair.




But hold on, you may not be in possession of the details. You're aware, I hope, that Ms Wonder and I spent a long weekend on the coast. Well, the first afternoon in our room on Atlantic Beach, I donned the knee-length footer bags and held two shirts in front of me, reflected in the mirror, first the one, then the other.

"Well, Wonder, you haven't told me what you think," I said.

"The blue one," she said.

I turned around to give her a sustained look and I meant it to sting. She knew I wasn't talking about shirts. During the walk through the sand dunes from the beach, I'd presented the facts concerning my Aunt Maggie's freshly laid bombshell. I did so hoping that she, Ms Wonder that is, would find the formula to prevent Hell's foundations cracking.

"I'm not talking about shirts, Wonder! It's bigger things--things of a life altering scale. Things like those dark storm clouds that have been stirred up by the latest goings-on."

The reference was to my aunt's recent disclosure of tigers living the lives of goats. You remember that episode. If not, then be aware that it apparently isn't good for tiger kittens to live like goats. Causes confusion and anxiety, and it really gives adult tigers a case of the hips!

"Not my problem," she said.

I groaned a hollow one and climbed into the shirt with difficulty, as though the limbs had been left overnight in the vegetable bin. Even though my guiding motto is "live life on life's terms," I wasn't ready to give up on Ms Wonder's practical magic.

"Poopsie."

"Still here."

"It could be that you don't have enough detail. I provided only the merest outline earlier, as we strolled through those remnants of Atlantis, and you were no doubt preoccupied with thoughts of sea oats or morning glory blossoms." 

Suddenly, as it sometimes happens, I was struck by a brilliant idea. "I know what," I said, "let's try the Hercule Peirot method of marshaling all the motives, opportunities and whatnot.

"Sure," she said.

"Number one," I began, "I've adopted the life style of Fierce Qigong and adopted it forcefully. Don't you agree?"

"Sure."

"And I've given up the food stuffs that promote the cortical steroids,  and fan the flames of inflammation. Not that I'm complaining about the food I eat. But now this! As if it isn't enough to ask a lover of baseball to give up hot dogs--now I'm faced with this tiger and goat scenario. Truly, Wonder, don't you see that I'm neck deep in the soup?"

"Disturbing," she said.

I stared at her. After all these years dealing with the inhabitants of that looney bin that I call the ancestral home in Deep River Village, did she not see the peril that loomed? Was it possible, I wondered, that this particular species of Lucille, was in fact, only the spectral body of Ms Wonder and not the real thing?

"Disturbing? You'd go that far would you?" I said.

She pushed out the lips, rolled the eyes toward the upper right hand corner, raised the eyebrows half an inch and shrugged. It wasn't a lot but I was prepared to take what I could get. My advisors tell me that when you have things going your way, it's best not to get greedy but let momentum build on its own. I waited to see what more she might say.

"That's an evening shirt," she said.

"Well, it is 4:00 in the afternoon," I pointed out, "and it will be evening when we get back to the room."

"But it's only 4:00 in the afternoon," she said, "and it will barely be evening when we get back."

I mused on this and had to admit she had a talking point. I shrugged off the shirt and slid into the blue one. Somehow the thoughts of having to change my life to measure up to duty, responsibility and whatnot began to fade in the background.

"Sometimes I wonder if shirts really matter, Poopsie."

"It's a temporary feeling," she said, "It will pass," she said.

"Don't they all," I said.

Turning Points

I don't know if you've had the same experience, but a thing I've found is that from time to time there occur moments that I recognize as turning points. The path takes a turn and something says that the winds have changed course forever. These moments come back at intervals. Just as I'm slipping sweetly into the dream world, they call to me as the sirens called to Ulysses, and they leave me flopping around in the sheets like a halibut in a dragnet.

One of these life-changing events took place in my teenage years when my best friend James Robert dared me to coast my bicycle down the Shady Grove road--a steep, S-curved, and a heavily banked strip of asphalt--from Clift's Grocery to the Baptist church, without braking the entire way. You will understand the extent to which I had gotten my self-confidence up my nose when I tell you that I took the first leg of the course, down to the first curve, riding with no hands.




It was a weekday morning and traffic was scarce to non-existent and so at the second curve, I moved to the deep inside so as to not be flung into the ditch by centrifugal force. This tight maneuver shot me into the final straightaway at maximum warp.

Now fully confident that the risks were behind me and that it was all peppermint from here to the finish line, I was standing on the pedals, flying through the wind. I wouldn't be surprised to remember that I was the living embodiment of personal mythology, the knight errant charging into the fray at Aix or Ghent or whatnot.

This is of course the point where drama enters the story, stage right. So keenly focused on the present moment was I that I completely missed the fact that since passing by Aunt Maggie's, I had been chivvied in the strong, earnest but silent manner of Pat's mixed-breed terrier, Snowball.

There I was inhaling the exhilaration of winning the dare, and there was the terrier, all whiskers and eyebrows, shagging hell-for-leather. Had there been an innocent bystander, the scene may have resembled one of those great moments in Greek tragedy, where the hero is stepping high, wide, and handsome, while Nemesis is aiming an arrow at his heel.

As everyone knows, when performing on a bicycle, concentration is of the essence. The mere suggestion of a terrier getting entangled in the wheels spells catastrophe and so it proved. It was as spectacular a stinker as I've been privileged to witness if privileged is the word I want.

One moment merry and bright. The next in the ditch, through the blackberry briers, with the bicycle resting on my back. The terrier stood on the shoulder of the road looking down at me with an expression of complete satisfaction.

As I picked my way through the brambles, the girl I had often admired but never found the courage to befriend, dismounted from her bicycle at the very spot where I had achieved escape velocity.

"What on Earth did you do that for?" she said, then remounted her bike and peddled away.



One Sweet Day

This morning I woke to feel that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest--sweet song, clear skies, and all the fixings. I was without question in mid-season form.

"Wonder," I said to the honest woman, "I feel in mid-season form."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she did not surprise me this morning. She didn't stop plucking her brows when she expressed her opinion but the opinion she expressed was that it was good. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.



The morning had taken on a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts were "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as Lupe sometimes puts it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. She is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about the  Great Web? How did it go? "If ought befall you," I think it began and then went on to say, "Know that it is all part of the Great Web."

That's how I see my depression. It's all part of the Great Web, although, in this case, it's a web of Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius, that's the perp! I knew I'd think of his name. 

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I have the magic sword of fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me from the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely the intention that the open road, Jordan Lake, and whatnot, would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," and that was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alla ka zam! The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared. If not actually proof of a Universe that works to my good, then a reasonable enough facsimile.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions to some extent, but still, I don't have to let them steal my song. I can ride above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. And so I say, "Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!"

Big Night for Surprises

At 2:00 AM this morning, I was awakened by the sound of someone in the hallway outside our hotel room in an altercation with a grandfather clock. 

Those who know me best describe me as a mild mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.

It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.


When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possible be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smart phone.

With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.

"Good morning," I said.

At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.

"Excuse me," I said and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.

I quickly calmed him with a few well chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it? 

"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.

Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and it's rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on his door. 

So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises. 

Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms and, presumably, were able to knit up those ravelled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?


An Aunt's Curse

In a previous episode...

The text message I received was from my Great Aunt Maggie, the Supreme Mother of the Genome clan, instructing me to ferry my god-niece Lupe from the old metrop of Durham, where she attends the School of Science and Math, to Shady Grove Village, my ancestral home and the domain of my mother's family.

The Village Outfitters as seen from the river.

I responded by saying that my calendar was full and that I couldn't get away just now. I promised to get back to her in a few days. She then replied with a great deal of claptrap about an aunt's curse that included many variations of, If you know what's good for you

Minutes later, I received a text from Lupe, the 11 year old geezer mentioned in Aunt Maggie's text. On my way up. Don't make me wait!!! Did I mention that she's 11?

I opened the door and there, standing on my threshold, was a half-pint version of the maximum adult dose of young hipster. She wore spider-crushing combat boots in a sort of silvery-black color with red socks. A plaid shirt in red and black was tied around denim shorts and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.  A wide-brimmed black hat with a red band was pushed back from her face. It was a big morning for red and black.

"Don't make me wait?" I said in a light rebuff.

"I know how you can be," she said as she walked into the room.

"How I can be..." I said with more than a little topspin. "Is this the beginning of a beautiful conversation?"

"Ha!" she said laughing now. "You big jamoke! How are you?" And with those words she threw her arms around my waist and my mood was instantly elevated. She has that power with me. You see, this Lucy Lupe Mankiller and I go way back. Well, we go back 11 years.

"Jamoke?" I said. "I'm not familiar with the term."

She ignored the remark. Her attention seemed to have been arrested, if that's the word. She was scrutinizing my face. She stepped back to get a better view.

"What happened to your caterpillar?"

"Oh, that little thing," I said. "I shaved it this morning. I thought it was time for a new look. You don't see many upper lips these days or chins for that matter. Adds a bit of the debonair don't you think?"

"No," she said.

"No? That's disappointing. I was hoping for your approval. Why don't you like it?"

"Well," she said, "you don't have an upper lip."

"Oh, that does hurt," I said. "It may be thin, Ms Mankiller, but it's there. And we may still be looking for my chin but I do have an upper lip and right now I'm struggling to keep it stiff."

She let that one slide and changed the subject. "I'm happy that you're going to the village with me."

"Don't get your hopes up, young Mankiller, I don't plan to be there for long."

"How long will you be staying then? You'll be there through mid-summer night?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "The last thing I want is to get stuck playing the part of the Fool in the Mid-summer Festival."

"Too bad," she said. "Nothing exciting ever happens in the village," she said and then added the footnote, "unless you're there, of course. You have a special knack for adding interest."

"I know why you say that with that silly grin, young Lupe," I said. "And for the millionth time, it was not my fault."

"Burning down the girl-guides' dormitory?" she said. "How's that not your fault?"

"I've explained repeatedly," I said, "that I had no choice in the matter. I was forced to make a decision on the spur of the moment, and burning the place down was all I could think of to hide the evidence."

"Hmmm," she said with a meditative nod, "Stick with that story if it suits you." And with another big grin she added, "You're like the snake that slithered into Eden and caused all the trouble for Adam and Eve. I can't wait to see what you do for an encore."

"Oh? I don't know," I said in a meditative state of my own, "so you think slithered is the right verb do you?"