Don't Forget to Duck

Here we are in the month of August and the beginning of the last month of summer. But what are we going to do about it is the question I ask myself? 

This morning was one of those that so often call to me, in a loud voice, to get the hell out of the house as though there's a fire in the boiler room. Do you have those mornings? A morning when you know that if you don't do as directed, the Universe will deny all responsibility? This morning was that morning.

A trip to the shores of the Atlantic is always my first choice, of course. But it's a weekday and Ms Wonder is busy performing her patented wonders in mysterious ways and she wouldn't like it if I were to interfere. I'll wait for the 7th day when she takes a break from all that to suggest a beach frolic.

"I'm out," I called as I ankled my way down the hallway.

"I'll be a while longer," said the Wonder.

"I'll text you about coffee," I said. It's code, of course. Don't expect you to follow that one. In less time than it takes a make a mistake, I was in Wind Horse, with Quinn on the dashboard, and on my way out of the neighborhood.

I slowed to look both ways at the intersection and was cheered to see so many neighbors out and about. As I entered the thoroughfare, I waved to the dog-walkers and tootled the horn to wish a good morning to them and to the runners enjoying the morning pick-me-up. 

Even when all the world seems just right, with the lark on the wing and the snail on the thorn (I'm told it's a thing with snails) and God in his heaven, still Princess Amy can find something to raise hell about. And she wasted no time this morning.

I won't bother you with all the details. I'll just say that visions of panel trucks careening around corners and knocking garbage pails every which way figured into it. I was at the point of buying into it when Mark Goodman, one of the original MTV VJ's, announced that beginning at noon, Chanel 30 would become Prince Radio. 

Yes, the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, that Prince. I immediately smashed the channel 30 button. In little time I was out on the boulevard and racing into the open wind. Windows down, radio cranked up to 11 with lots of bass, heavy mid-tones, and just the right amount of treble. (It's all about the treble). The Artist was playing live at Syracuse. Not actually live, you understand, but a recording of the live concert. 

With the Prince in residence, Princess Amy was forgotten. Sometimes all it takes is turning the volume up on any music that brings out the cartwheels in you. As I headed back home, I pretended for about 10 minutes that I was heading south toward ocean breezes, salt air, and sand in my shoes. Ahhhhh! 

Take it from me. Life comes hard and it comes fast. It will punch you right in the nose if you don't duck. So don't forget to do just that. Makes no sense to try to change the situation. Simply accept it for what it is and get on with it. All roads lead to the same destination. Some simply take a little longer to get there.

Happy August! Happy Summer!

The Toby Reaction

"You had a reaction to the vaccination?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," I said. 

"Was it serious?" he said.

"Was it serious! Let me tell you how serious it was and still is," I said.

"Do tell," he said, "I'll bet you hold me spellbound."

"OK, then," I said. "It had been that kind of day when everything's not what it should be. You know, when your head's not making sense and you feel like you're not where you're supposed to be?"

"No," he said.

"What?" I said.

"Don't drivel. I have an appointment and don't have time for the color comments. Just the facts please."

"Well, if that's the way you want it but it'll be far less interesting without the supernatural elements. Here goes then; but pay very close attention because I'll move quickly through the salient points."

"Not quickly enough," he said. I thought it set a tone that was low on my list of preferred tones but, after considering this and that, I decided to give it a pass.

"After the vaccination, I walked through the hardware store toward the exit and you'll never guess what I saw."

"You got a COVID vaccination in a hardware store? Are you sure you're OK? Have you been out in the sun recently?"

I held up a hand to indicate that I'd take no more interruptions. "Mumps," I said. Not his name of course but that's what I've called him for so long I've forgotten his real name. "I am perfectly fine," I said, "so put a sock in it and let me finish this story."

"Fine," he said but he didn't say it with any chirpiness.

"As I said, I walked out of the room and the first thing that caught my eye was a gnome."

He held up a hand and shook his head. "Just as I thought. You have been out in the sun and without a hat, I'll bet."

"I told you the kind of day it was," I said.

"This is what comes of too much pills and liquor," he said.

"At any rate, there it was."

"A gnome?"

"Yes, a gnome, and in fact, there were two of them left from what was once a three-gnome garden set."

"You're talking about a yard-gnome," he said.

"What did you think?" I said.

"Never mind," he said, "go on."

"So I bought Toby. I named him Toby; I don't know why--just a whim I guess--and brought him home but Ms. Wonder didn't approve. She said he'd need to stay outside. I had little choice, of course, so I put him in the front garden underneath a mushroom. I thought he'd like that."

"I'm lost," Mumps said. "I don't know why we're talking about this."

"I'll tell you why," I said. "Because he was so unhappy with being left outdoors that he ran away and now he's traveling across the country running up charges on my credit card."

"And your reaction to the COVID vaccination is buying a garden gnome?"

"Well, it isn't normal," I said.

He nodded but it did little good because we were on the phone at the time.

Too Much!

This morning, after the initial 12-point inspection and servicing of the feline members of the household, I sat on the screened porch and watched the squirrel circus performing acrobatics on the bird feeders. These cirque d'écureuil performances put me in a happy mood on most days. Today was not one of those days.

Is it possible to get too much of a good thing? As illogical as it sounds, I'm convinced that it's true. In fact, that's the situation I find myself in. You don't need to be reminded that we recently moved to Wilmington from Durham. When I say "we" I mean Ms. Wonder, three cats, and me. Sorry, I can't leave it at three cats, I must tell you that they are, reading from left to right, Beignet, Sagi, and Uma Maya.

So what's the problem, you probably wonder. It's too much of a good thing; that's the problem. Don't roll your eyes like that. Too much of a good thing is not only possible, but it's also common. Too much pie, too much alcohol, too much sun, shall I go on? I didn't think so.

Wilmington has 12 different districts to explore and each of them is filled with delights that demand attention. Then there's the seaside. The port city alone has 3 beaches and within a 30-minute drive, there are 3 more to the east and another 3 to the west. See the problem? I have work to do and I can't be traipsing around every day having fun in the sun.

And yet I can't resign myself to working at home and missing out on all the exploring. You're probably wondering why I haven't taken up the issue with Ms. Wonder, the go-to gal for all perplexing problems. She knows everything, of course, and always has a ready solution.

Well, I did take it up with her and she wasn't helpful. I don't mean that she was stumped. No, she was up to her neck in a soup cooked up by her employer, which I will not name but I'll give you a hint: It's a nonprofit human development organization dedicated to improving lives in lasting ways by advancing integrated, locally driven solutions. I'm sure you can guess the name.

When Wonder isn't available, I usually find inspiration in the lives of historical figures of great renown. Napoleon would have done whatever he wanted, of course, but that sounds more than a little self-centered and quite risky. Now that I think about it, considering Moscow and Cairo and whatnot, perhaps it's time to take Napoleon off the list of historical F's of great R.

Catherine the Great would have chosen a path that would benefit the most people. Women always seem to have a more balanced and sensible approach to life's moments, don't they? Now let me think; benefits the most people. What could that be?

So you see my point. What to do? I'd phone you and ask for your opinion but I'm sure that you're quite busy this Wednesday afternoon. Let me give it a bit more thought and I'll get back to you. I'll give you an update on that Napoleon question too. In the meantime, enjoy the day.

Know Your Limits

It is true that I once pitched the idea of an online Qigong for Seniors class to my followers on Instagram, and the suggestion was received warmly. But I didn't do the pitching with any real chirpiness. 

So when Ms. Wonder suggested revisiting the idea as a palliative for losing the Straw Valley opportunity, I opened the door and invited the idea to make itself at home. It's a technique I learned from the Sufi poet, Rumi. No, it's more accurate to say that I learned it from Wonder and she learned it from Rumi.   

The lack of chirpiness continues to hold me back, and it will come as no surprise that it's affecting my sleep. I'm up late, avoiding the thoughts that will fill my mind as soon as I place my head on the pillow. Then I'm up with the dawn and I seem to repeat the day that ended the night before. It's like that movie, Groundhog Day.

When day broke this morning I bunged a half-dozen cats off the bed and entered the master bath to find the tub occupied with a female form covered in bubbles with what seemed like another dozen or so feline accomplices. The female proved to be Ms. Wonder. (Wonder assures me that the house isn't chock-a-block with cats--more or less the normal allotment according to her--but I'm not buying it. You can't find a comfy spot near any window that isn't running over with cats.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said. "The top of my head nearly came off. I mistook you for Gina Lollobrigida."

"Who?"

"Never mind," I said. "Probably before you discovered your toes. What I came here to announce is," I paused here for effect, if that's the word, and then I let it go, "I do what I like now." 

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"I just don't have enough time to do everything."

"You came to bed late," she said, changing the subject abruptly. I thought of making an issue of it, and I'm sure I'm right on this point, that Napoleon would have made an issue of it. But after second thoughts, I gave it a miss.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is at its nicest late in the evening. Soothing."

"That's your view, is it?" I said, meaning it to sting.

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said. "Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid..."

I waved a hand, realizing that we were dangerously close to poetry and a heightened risk of hearing about young-eyed cherubims and the kind of harmony that exists in immortal souls, and I felt that something must be done quickly to prevent it.

"Ms. Wonder," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, although I knew it wasn't really a question. She continued without pausing, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Wonder Woman!"

"Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" 

"What?"

"You couldn't possibly put it aside, could you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Not in the mood for poetry then?"

"Is anyone ever?" I said. "And before we move on, let me point out that here again is another example of Shakespeare simply slapping down any old thing that comes into his head. Cherubims! The man was looney to the eyebrows!'

"It's not Shakespeare," she said.

"Well, I'm surprised it isn't. I'll bet that someone had to get up pretty early in the morning to come up with something that Shakespeare hadn't already written."

"You get up pretty early in the morning," she said.

"What of it?" I said. 

"Just saying," she said. "Have you made any progress on how you hope to spend the next chapter of your life?"

"Yes, I have," I said. "I've ruled out a number of things." And with that, I made a masterful dash for the door.  One thing about the Genomes is that we may be men of cold steel but we know when we're in over our heads, and I may not have the quickest mind in the village but I could tell that Wonder was about to make another of her suggestions that cause the earth to tremble and grown me to cry.

Writing Lesson

I woke this morning with that feeling you sometimes have that in just about 7 seconds the universe is going to come unraveled and someone's going to have to pay for all the excess we enjoyed in the 1980s. I hate that feeling and the reason I hate it is because I missed out on much of the fun provided by that decade of RAD.

I got out of bed and hurried downstairs for a cup of Jah's mercy.  I walked to the cupboard, opened the door, and stood staring at the coffee selection. 

"What's wrong," said Ms. Wonder. "You look like..."

"I look like what?"

"Nothing," she said.

I thought her style to be a bit harsh considering the subject matter and I thought about telling her so but, hoping to keep the spotlight on me, I decided to let it go.

"You know that I'm still downsizing," I said. "Trying to fit 20 years in Durham into 5 months in Brunswick."

"Or something like that," she said.

"So last night when rummaging through the next box in line, I found that unfinished collection."

"You mean that collection of story ideas?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "I need fresh material for the blog and fresh material is just what I don't have a lot of these days. I blame COVID."

I waited for her to respond but she seemed distracted by Sagi who was surfing the countertops.

I had an idea that seemed promising but it wasn't really something that happened to me and as you well know, The Circular Journey demands large doses of truth, and by that I mean, my actual life. 

"What's your idea?" she said.

"Well, all aspiring authors must face a barrage of rejections. At least that's the prevailing thought in writing circles. Steven King tells a story about spiking his rejection letters on a nail driven into his office wall."

"But we didn't get a lot of rejection letters," she said. 

"Right," I said, "but my idea is that a writer decides to give all the rejections a positive twist."

I didn't reply. I just gave her a look that was meant to say, Go easy, Wonder. These are slippery slopes.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You don't really look like...." She swallowed big. "Never mind."

This may be a good time to explain that when I began writing for periodicals, I received rejection letters, just as everyone else getting started. It was painful, of course. You work hard on a story and are so proud of it when you submit it, thinking that it will win awards and make your name familiar to all. But then the rejection notice comes and you're deflated. It's all you can do to stay away from alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and chocolate candy.

But one day, by accident really, I realized that I'd received rejection letters from the major newspapers in twelve of the original thirteen states. Getting one more rejection from that last state would make a complete collection. It would allow me to put a positive spin on something that's normally disappointing, hurtful, and an obstacle to overcome.

The newspaper to target was obvious--the Atlanta Constitution. I wasted no time in choosing a subject that would be of little interest to the newspaper's subscribers and consequently of no interest to the editors. I submitted a piece on kayaking the Intracoastal Waterway out of McClellanville, South Carolina. The piece had been popular with the readers in Myrtle Beach but would interest few people living in Atlanta.

I sent the piece off in the mail and waited expectantly for the rejection. To my dismay, the piece was not only published in the Sunday travel section but the editor received several letters from subscribers declaring how much they enjoyed reading it. She asked me to submit more like it.

It was a big disappointment, of course, but the editor's specific request gave me the inside track I needed to win a rejection. All I had to do was write something so different, something totally unlike that little adventure piece, that it would be rejected out-of-hand.

I wrote about the two little churches in the North Carolina mountains where Ben Long painted his first public frescoes. I was so certain of a rejection that I started planning the celebration. 

Nothing doing. It was published. How I wondered could the editors of such a prestigious newspaper have such lackadaisical standards? 

I was getting more than a little concerned. Newspapers were already feeling the bite of a downturn in the general economy and many of them were abandoning regional contributors and printing more free articles from the UPI and AP. Time was running out. But I had one more ace in the hole if that's the term.

Christmas was on its way and that provided an idea that I considered foolproof. No self-respecting editor of any newspaper based in the southern United States would print an article during the holidays with a deviant theme and I had an idea that was deviant as a drug addict.

I wrote a piece on the origins of traditional Christmas customs. I associated the Christmas tree, the custom of gift-giving, and even Santa himself to pre-Christian, pagan Europe. Hallelujah! It's raining rejection notices. Don't you think?

Weeks later a large envelope arrived and I could tell before opening it that it contained my manuscript and the DVD with Ms. Wonder's original photography. It could mean nothing other than standard rejection notice.  I called Wonder to join me for sparkling grape juice and celebrate the final piece of the collection. But when we opened the envelope, it contained only the disc. The message was clear enough. The article had been rejected but there was no rejection letter to complete my collection.

I was crushed. After the appropriate period of mourning, I picked myself up, as we Genomes are want to do, and I submitted no more articles to newspapers. From that day forward, I wrote for magazines only. The story is a good reminder of the Fierce Living motto, Life comes hard and fast. Be ready for anything.