Cats Figure Into It

Summer is past they say, but Chatsford Hall is still basking in the afterglow of golden, summer-like evenings. Birdsong fills the sunsets that are now the color of opal and amethyst. The air is fresh and sweet and the damp earth exhales a soothing fragrance. The stars seem younger somehow as though the world has been reborn.

It was on an early autumn evening exactly like these when drainpipes and cats in the bedroom became forever linked with the Genome. I was about 11 years old and staying with my great-uncle and family at their farmhouse near the river. 

My older cousin Doyle was visiting with us. He'd been called by God to make my life a long sequence of events that could easily be described as just one damned thing after another. He took his calling seriously. No doubt he was motivated by the story of Jonah and didn’t want to be found wanting in his duty. No one wants to be swallowed by a whale.

Doyle was visiting the farm to be near the pretty daughter of a neighboring farmer. He was smitten with the girl. You might say that she’d gotten right up his nose. She had a great fondness for kittens it seems and my uncle's farm was overflowing with them. Doyle planned to exploit this surplus of cats to entice his girlfriend to drop by.

He requested access to my upstairs bedroom for a couple of hours and it was singularly important that I not be there when the young lady arrived. I was unclear on the particulars of why but imagined it had something to do with his divine calling. To prepare for her visit, we selected 13 of the kittens with just the right level of playfulness. Then I was told to disappear.

Well, it’s possible for a boy, aged 11, to entertain himself for a couple of hours on a dairy farm. Time passes in a flash—as long as you aren’t counting. I rode my bicycle into the cattle’s watering tank. I jumped out of the hay loft into a pile of hay. Still, after about an hour, I was bored. 

Even the company of my uncle’s prize-wining sow, a favorite of mine, wasn’t doing the trick. Watching this incredible creature tuck into her evening meal usually brought me to a blissful, meditative state but not on this evening. Bouncing a tennis ball usually helped to pass the time and I had one in my pocket. It bounced with a satisfying ‘pong’ on the back of the sow and she seemed not to notice.

I did it again and found the sound to be soothing. I don’t know how long I leaned against the fence of her enclosure listening to that sound--you know how you lose track of time when engaged in something you enjoy.

“Hey!” a loud voice called to me from somewhere nearby. It was the voice of my great uncle. Turning toward the voice, I saw that he was approaching at full speed and brandishing a wooden yard stick. He was quite fond of this pig and he had warned me about bouncing tennis balls off her back on more than one occasion. 

In the flash of leaving the premises, I heard a raspy grunt come from my uncle not unlike the sound made by a tiger when the goat on the menu disappears into the jungle just before the dinner gong sounds. 

I had no definite destination but I didn’t need one. I was lean and wiry, built for speed and my uncle was neither. And yet, where would my uncle not think to look for me? I was pondering this question when I rounded the corner and came face to face with the tile downspout that emptied into the rain barrels. This particular water pipe ran by the open window of my bedroom. To climb to the second floor and slip over the edge of the window sill into my room was with me the work of an instant.

I remember the feeling of a job well done as I rolled onto my back and lay catching my breath on the bedroom floor. But it was short lived. I quickly became aware of the sound of tires on gravel made by my father’s Oldsmobile. He was here to take me back home—an unforeseen complication. What to do now? Remain in hiding or meet him downstairs and risk running into my uncle again?

With all the excitement, I’d forgotten about my cousin and his plans for the room. I heard a low groaning coming from somewhere behind me. I saw that the covers on the bed were moving about, indicating that the kittens were under there, but not a single cousin, with or without girlfriend was in view. It seemed only prudent to release the cats. I approached the bed.

The expression on the map of my cousin when I pulled back the duvet outdid the look I’d seen on my uncle when he found me bouncing tennis balls on the back of the pig.

“Hey!” he shouted and began disentangling himself either from the sheets or from the girl. Hard to distinguish which.

You may have chosen a different course of action had you been in similar circumstances but I’m convinced any great military strategist—Napoleon for example—would have nodded in approval. Without as much as a glance to tell me the ground below was clear of bicycles and wheel barrows, I bunged myself out the second-floor window. 

Snakes in the grass couldn't have moved more smoothly. I bounced when I hit the ground but was pleased to learn that no damage was done. Then I heard it again for the third time. “Hey!”

It was my father’s voice this time. Like many people who make a defiant and dramatic gesture and then looking back realize they've gone beyond the limit, I was filled with regret. But too late. I was pinched and I knew it. Sampson must have felt the same when he heard the first pillar crack.

Dad rolled his eyes and I knew that he was making a silent but passionate appeal to the gods for support in a trying hour. My father followed the dictum that everything is figureoutable and so he knew that although it may seem puzzling that sons fall to earth like the gentle rain from heaven, he knew there was a reason for it. He knew that to ask, Why, would get a response like, “Oh, I dunno, I just thought I would.” 

“Mad as a coot,” said a voice from above and I remember thinking that a higher power had spoken. I looked up to see my cousin leaning out the bedroom window. “Type of a duck,” he said.

“Did you have something to do with this?” my father asked.

“Absolutely not,” said Doyle. “I do my best to take care of the boy.”

Without another word, my dad marched me inside and up the stairs to my room. It wasn’t until we were standing outside the closed door that I remembered the kittens. I had no way of knowing for sure but I surmised that finding them would not improve my dad’s mood. My hand hovered above the doorknob like a butterfly above a flower.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Dad and then he flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats rushing past us. I laughed. It was the another gesture that, upon reflection, proved to be over the line. My dad didn’t see the humor in it.

And that’s the story. It proves once again that rumor and innuendo are often less exciting that the actual truth. Still, the story is meaningful to me because even though my life has proven to be a  disappointment to many people, I've gotten a lot of stories out of it.

Stand Back

The hibiscus on my porch is a beautiful plant. Dark green leaves and compact habit, if that's the term. Means it grows in a dense and uniform shape. It is a bit unusual if blooming in two different colors is unusual for a hibiscus. I don't mean the blooms are bi-colored. Some of them are red and some of them are, well.... the color of the tassels on my uncle Floyd's huaraches, if that helps.

It wasn't the colors of the flowers but the sheer number of them that struck me with one of those life lessons that do sometimes trip you up when you're not looking. The thing is blooming with the exuberance of a house on fire. Happens every year about this time. Not just the hibiscus on the porch but all the flowering plants in the gardens, in the fields, and along the tree lines from Chatsford Hall to Blowing Rock.

The reason for all the showy decadence is that the End is Near. That's right. Just look around you and you'll see that we/re up to our necks in Autumn. Ms Wonder calls it the season of mists and fruitful mellowness. I'm not sure why but thought I'd better mention it in case it means something to you.

Autumn brings the end of the growing season and the end of the blooming one as well. Every flowering plant knows that the gig is up. Playtime is over. Time to get serious about enriching those seeds so that someone or something is around in the springtime to remember summers past.

It's the same with the Genome. When I turn off the movies that play in my mind, I realize that not only has the autumn of the year arrived, but so has the Autumn of my Years. If I'm going to leave something behind to remind people of the summers spent with me, then I'd best get blooming, and not just a blossom here and there but a great profusion of blossoms, and I need to do it with the exuberance of a Bulldog puppy.

I'm fortunate to have robust health far in excess of what I deserve, considering my youthful revels. In addition, I'm blessed with an out-of-control amygdala, my own Princess Amy, who, taking a line through the Red Queen, exhorts me to accomplish more and more with her cry of, "Run faster!"

Years ago when apprenticed to Wen the Eternally Surprised--stop me if you've heard this one--I was sweeping the steps of the dojo and he, staring pensively into the western sky, said to me, "Sweeper..." (We didn't use reals names in the dojo.)

"Sweeper," he said, "it's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through and we have to keep moving forward or the clouds will swallow us up and summers past will be like tear drops in the rain."

I'm happy to say that I've found my purpose. I only found it last Thursday at Carolina Beach when a huge wave came up from the deep--out of the blue as it were, and knocked me down and then rolled me around the sandy bottom for a while. And after the initial feeling that I was drowning and would die in about 5 seconds, I laughed at the thought that the sea had given me a pat on the back and "Attaboy!" When I stepped back onto the dry sand, I knew my purpose and I'm now prepared for that showy finale. Watch me bloom! Fierce Qigong!

To the Moon and Back

"You seem a little depressed this afternoon," said a voice from somewhere on the screened porch.

I had abandoned the attempt to tidy-up a travel piece I'd written for Carolina Roads Magazine and I'd gone downstairs to raid the fridge. I was looking for a turmeric-ginger kombucha when I heard those words. 

From where I stood, I couldn't see the owner of that musical voice, but I knew it belonged to the wonder-worker that I sometimes call, Poopsie, but who's formally known as Ms Wonder.

I remember thinking that she couldn't possibly see me from where she sat behind the fishnets and so I wondered how she'd guessed my mood. "What makes you say that?" I asked. 

"I can tell by the sound of your footsteps," she said.

I marveled at hearing this. Could she really know my day was in the recycle bin by the way I walked? Or was this one of those stage tricks done with mirrors? 

This mystery, if I can call it that, made me think of my Great-aunt, Arvazine, but for heaven's sake, let's not get into that now. It's a story for another day, and it's a story you don't want to miss so pay close attention to future posts.

"Low spirited?" she said.

I did a quick check-in with self to see if she was getting warm and found, to my surprise, that she was. And not merely warm but hot! I was low spirited! Damn, she's good! I wonder if she's ever considered a career on the stage?

I carried my glass of tissue restorer onto the porch where Wonder sat holding Olivia, who isn't a real octopus, of course. Once in her sight, the curtain raised on my own stage act and I went into my performance.

"One of these days, Alice!" I said making a fist and pushing it skyward. "One of these days, Pow! To the moon, Alice, to the moon!"

"That bad?" she said.

I considered the question. "Oh, I don't know," I said. "About average, I'd call it. Nothing on the level of wheat fields and profane love."

"I'm sorry," she said, "you've lost me. What do I know of wheat fields and profane love?"

"Ah, yes, there is that," I said. "Let me put it another way. Except for the names and a few other changes, my story's the same one."

There passed a few moments of silence while she directed a look my way that left me with that feeling you get when you're standing in the surf and the waves pull the sand from under your heels. 

"You dream of being a king?" she said at last.

"No, not that story," I said. "The story I refer to is the one that goes, Pow! To the moon, Alice. That story."

"Alice in Wonderland?" she said.

"The Honeymooners," I said.

She shook her head the way she does sometimes after swimming. "I'm afraid I haven't had that pleasure. You confuse me."

"Did you say, You complete me?"

"Confuse me," she said. 

"Ah!" I said with a nod.

I realize as I write this that you too may not be familiar with the reference. Don't feel bad. You aren't expected to recognize everything. Your head is full of other stuff. 

The Honeymooners is something with no meaning for you because you weren't born in that period of television history. And I didn't really expect you to make the connection between wheat fields and profane love. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that you think profane love refers to phone sex. 

Don't let it bother you. I'm just happy that you found me. I enjoy your company. In fact, in many ways, you complete me. And I'm happy to know that you helped make Coastal Camelot the all-time favorite post on this blog. I enjoy that one too. 

If you haven't read it yet, you should do so now. You can come back to this post later. Find it in the Favorites column on the right-hand side of this webpage. 

Now back to the regularly scheduled...

"You know the story, Wonder," I said. "It's the old one about  the spoiled princess and  the occasions that repeatedly bring one damned thing after another. Those occasions always stir up thoughts of, Pow! To the moon, Alice!"

"Of course it isn't really Alice in those day-to-day circumstances," I said. "It's the guy who ran me off the road as he checked his text messages. Or the person next to me who thought he had to yell into his mobile phone to be heard all the way to Greensboro."

"And so," I said, "except for the names and a few other changes, the story is still Pow! To the moon!"

She was giving me a different look now. It included what may have been the hint of a smile creasing the corners. 

"You wear it well," she said.

"Thank you, Poopsie. I had a good teacher."

"I'm guessing that teacher would be Life, the Universe, and Everything," she said.

"That's right."

"Served you well, has it?" she said.

It was becoming a big day for exchanging looks. I gave her one now that consisted of a little smile and a couple of raised eyebrows. Looks say so much, don't you agree?

"Then keep on that path until your ribs squeak, is my advice," she said.

I laughed. She was quoting my stuff back to me and it suited her well I thought.

"You complete me, Wonder," I said.

"I know," she said.

So there you have it. Wonder completes me and, in your own quiet way, you complete me too. It feels good.

Last Fling of Summer

"The creature of the lake is proving to be one heckofa challenging assignment," I said to Ms Wonder as we prepared for a new Thursday morning.

"Creature?" she said. "You mean lake monster?"

"It's a monster no longer," I said. "Lupe objected to calling it that. Her argument and I think it's a good one, is that we know so little about it that calling it a monster may give the public a prejudiced point of view."

"Ah," she said with a nod of the head, "and as we know too well, the public is already prejudiced to the tonsils."

"Rem acu tetigisti," I said and I felt pretty good about it too. I don't know what it means, perhaps you do, but I see it in all the best books.

"By the way," she said, "I'm curious. What do we know about this lake creature?"

"Creature of the Lake," I said.

"Whatever," she said. "What do we know for sure."

"No more than scientists know about the number of galaxies in the Milky Way," I said. "We know only that it's mathematically proven."

"What mathematically proven?" she said.

"Well, you remember that Lupe is one of those delinquent whizzes in math and she's developed the formula that proves the creature has to be there."

"You meant to say, juvenile, not delinquent," she said.

"Did I?" I said. "She's a juvenile who's not delinquent in math then."

She looked at her hands--I don't know why--and shook her head. She is prone to headaches so maybe she felt one coming on.

"I'm going to have to doubt that Lupe proved the existence of a lake monster with a mathematical formula."

"But it's true," I said. "It was her special project at the School of Science and Math in Durham. She took into consideration all sorts of stuff, like water temperature, the average depth of the lake, food supply, and stuff like that. I think the nuclear power plant figured heavily into the equation."

"I'll bet it did," she said.

"I have a copy of the equation somewhere," I said. "Was planning to use it in my article when we get a photo of the creature."

"You're going to photograph it?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "That's why I spend so much time at the lake. But we don't want people to know which lake. We don't want anyone messing about on the water and causing the creature a lot of anxiety and whatnot. Lupe thinks the creature may be a mother taking care of her young."

"Mathematically proven, of course," said the Wonder. Then she added in a thoughtful way, "A lake full of radioactive, mutant monsters."

"Yeah, creatures," I said. "Exciting hunh?"

"So how're you going to get a photo if you've spent all summer out there and haven't seen it yet?"

"Ah, that's my latest inspiration," I said. "When Lupe demanded that we not cause the creature unnecessary stress, it made me think of Happy Cats Wellness."

"I don't follow," she said.

"On our website, we teach people how they can enrich the lives of their cats to keep them curious, engaged, and happy."

"Yes?" she said.

"One of those suggestions is that the cat must get plenty of hunting play, right? Playing games that mimic hunting--something the cat is driven to do anyway."

"Wait a second," she said. "You're not telling me that you plan to coax this creature into hunting mode so that you can get a photo?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," I said. "Cats need to hunt because they've been conditioned through the millennia to stalk, pounce, kill and devour prey. I'm betting the creature is the same."

"One way to improve the lives  of cats is to dangle a feather on a string in front of them to get them to stalk and pounce."

"Please tell me," she said, "that you don't plan to use a fishing rod to cast bait into the lair and tempt a monster to attack. With you at the other end of the fishing pole and probably up to your waist in the lake?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said. "do give me some credit. Of course, I won't do something that silly. No, I've a much better way and it's absolutely certain to work. And it's a creature, not a monster."

"Do tell," she said.

"I have the perfect spot in mind where I will draw her out of hiding with hunting play, but not by dangling a feather."

"Although you admit that you know nothing about this creature," she said.

"I don't have to know anything," I said. "My plan requires no information other than knowing of something that no creature can ignore."

"You're going to have a mutant, radioactive monster chase a red dot across the surface of the lake?"

"Yes, I know, it's genius, isn't it?" I said and I felt pretty good about it too.

What the Cat Dragged In

The following post was written deep in the COVID-19 pandemic. When I re-read it now it makes me a bit uncomfortable remembering those days. I've considered removing it but it seems that we, all of us, are quick to forget what those days in the pandemic were like. I get it. The memories and not pleasant and the thought of facing more such events is scary. Maybe that's why I leave it here; to keep me--us--from forgetting.

 

Well, here we are again. Another bright, beautiful day in the Bull City. That's not to say that nothing's changed. The virus is here, of course, and it seems that everything has changed. Would you have believed, just a few weeks ago, that life could change so quickly? 

Here in Durham, as in most cities around the country, people my age are asked to stay indoors and not take up valuable public space that could be better used for other purposes. A couple weeks ago, if asked how I'd react to that, I would have replied, 

"You'll not see the Genome lying around the house when there's opportunity to be had underneath the wide, wild, wind-blown blue."

My ancestors got the hell out of Tuscany after Florence burned but we haven't forgotten the good life--nope, not a bit. And yet... here I am watching videos of Arnold Schwarzenegger telling everyone to stay inside. And he isn't simply recommending that we stay in for our best health. He's saying our former life is gone. He says, "That's over. No more. No more restaurants, no more coffee shops. No more. It's over."

Oh, my sainted aunt! 

Maybe for you, Arnold, but not for this Viking. I have the blood of the Florentine Gherardinis running through these veins. I have the genes of the Jarls of Denmark encoded in this DNA. I have the heart of Rhys ap Tewdwr of Wales burning in this breast and the spirit of the Rain Crows of North Carolina sustaining me. I'll never be defeated. 

That attitude helped me defeat drug addiction. That attitude keeps me grounded through the emotional quakes and tsunamis of manic depression. And that attitude will keep me safe and sane through the current trial or tribulation or whatever it is. I get those two confused. 

Yes, I will survive and life will go on and it will go on for you too if you know what's good for you. You have your own set of ancestral gifts. Now, I realize that you may have some anxiety and whatnot. Understandable, of course. Quite natural. But you don't need to let it get the better of you.

I have the solution.

Get yourself a cat. If you already have one, get another. They work their magic best in pairs. If you already have two, get another. I once had six cats and I was immensely better for it. I have three now and they make it enjoyable to stay home even when I'm home for more than the recommended dose for the average adult. 

Of course, they sleep until 2:00 in the afternoon and I'm forced to find other ways to be entertained, like writing blog posts for example. I haven't posted anything on this blog in months and the cats have just about had it with me. They inspire me! 

Now, I know what you're thinking, and you can't be blamed for that, but consider this...it could be a lot worse.