Do The Bright Thing

Crystal Cove was drowsing in the warmth of a summer afternoon. Heat mist danced across the lawns. The lulling drone of insect wings filled the air. The gracious hour had arrived when all of Nature found a quiet spot in the shade and began daydreaming of something refreshingly cool in an ice-filled tumbler.

Several residents were scattered underneath the sheltering branches of a giant magnolia. My god-niece, Lupe, was among them and she was just the god-niece I was hoping to find.

"This seat taken?" I asked.

"Nope," she said.

A small procession made its way out of the Inn and across the sun-bathed lawn to a spot underneath the big tree. It was led by an aunt carrying a tray of small sandwiches. Following her was another aunt with a small folding table. The third and final aunt carried a tray with a pitcher and several tumblers.

From somewhere far away thunder rolled softly along the horizon. A dark cloud lingered there but it seemed too far away to cause concern.

"What a day," I said. "Seems like a weekend to me."

"Not me," she said.

"Funny how days come with their own unique atmosphere," I said.

"Except for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday," she said. "They all feel the same."

I don't know if you've noticed it, but the attitude of this young geezer seemed to lack the usual sparkle. Lackluster is the way I'd describe it. It troubled me a little. I don't like to see this mood in anyone else but me.

Aunt Cynthia was pouring iced tea into the tumblers and passing them around.

"I hope this rain shower doesn't last too long," said the aunt. 

"Oh," I said, "it is raining, isn't it. But it feels like one of those little showers that only last for a minute or two."

Aunt Cynthia nodded and walked to the next table. One or two of the inmates left their seats and walked toward the Inn at a fast clip.

"I've never much liked the way Sunday feels," Lupe said.

"What a coincidence," I said, "neither have I."

"I'd gladly trade all my Sundays, for fewer but better Mondays," she said.

"Hmmm, that's an interesting idea," I said. "I wonder if there's a blog post in that."

"I got a blog post for you," said Lupe. "I rescued a turtle this morning. At least I think I can count it as a rescue."

At that moment the sun seemed to have fallen asleep at the wheel. The sky darkened and Nature seemed to have let her majesty go to her head. Thunder growled overhead, a jagged lightning bolt flashed somewhere near old man Johnson's store, and large raindrops beat down on the magnolia.

The tea-taking crowd left their chairs and raced en masse across the lawn and into the Inn. With only one brief turn of the head to see what all the excitement was about, Lupe and I returned to our conversation. We're on friendly terms with summer afternoon thunderstorms and get bent out of shape with a slight drizzle.

"Good for you," I said, and I was genuinely bucked because this young imp and I have made a thing of helping turtles cross the roads for the last three years. "But what do you mean when you say if you can count it a rescue?"

"Well, it's like this," she said. "I was walking along Waterford Lake and noticed something moving underneath the pines at the edge of the clearing. It was a big turtle with her leg tangled in a vine. I broke the vine and pulled it away from her."

"And then she went on her way," I said. "That's a turtle rescue for sure."

"Well, she didn't go on her way immediately. She retreated into her shell but when I came back 20 minutes later she was gone. But the issue is that she'd only just snagged the vine with her hind leg and would surely have gotten herself free sooner or later without my help."

Her last remark was made without any chirpiness and I realized why her mood lacked the requisite luster.

The storm was at its height now. Thunder boomed. Lightning flashed. Rivulets of rain streamed down the trunk of the magnolia and several of the raindrops made their way through the mass of leaves above our heads and plopped on the ground, on our table, and on our heads.

"Ah, I see," I said. "I understand the question now. Was it truly a rescue or simply an act of kindness?"

"Yeah," she said. And she said it with resignation.

"If you want my opinion," I said.

"Yes, please," she said.

"Rescue," I said with a defining nod of the coconut.

"Really?" she said with a slight improvement in the aperture of her eye.

"Of course," I said. "If you hadn't freed her and allowed her to reach the safety of the lake, she would have experienced much more frustration and anxiety in her failed attempts to move forward. I'm certain that your act of kindness prevented a good deal of stress and saved her many years of therapy."

"Rescue!" she said with a bright smile and offered a high five. I accepted it with a happy heart. It always feels good to do the right thing and lift someone up above the clouds.

The storm was fading now. The thunder was now moving off toward Main Street. Carolina blue was spreading across the sky behind us and there was a hint that the sun was waking and preparing to take its rightful place.

Smoke Testing

Every time I drive by the corner of Grandiflora and Waterford, I see a sign that announces: 

Sewer Smoke Testing

Tuesday, August 17

Today is August 28 and I'm seriously worried about those workers who've been testing the sewer smoke for the last 11 days. After all, smoking sewers must be a bigger health risk than smoking tobacco. Don't you think? 

Surely someone has reported this to the city by now. We need to get those people out of the sewers. They're probably lying around, in some chemical-induced stupor like the people in opium dens we used to hear so much about. 

Is sewer smoke testing ever sanitary?

My first thought when learning about this sewer smoking was that another silly study or test was underway that would tell us what we already knew. Or if not something we already knew for certain, then something we strongly suspected.

I remember working as a laboratory assistant for a certain chemistry professor at my alma mater when he was studying the effects on laboratory rats of drinking whiskey. The study required a case of Jack Daniels, Black Label, Tennessee sipping whisky, and several crates of white rats. 

You're probably thinking that I don't need to tell you the results of the study. You're probably thinking that the rats became intoxicated and then adopted silly if not downright irresponsible behavior. That happened, of course, but it was a secondary result.

The seminal finding was that the consumption of Jack Black resulted in silly, irresponsible behavior in student laboratory assistants. But even if that specific result wasn't on your immediate radar, you must still agree that we didn't need a study to know it would happen. But that's not the thing that interests me today.

After a bit of reflection on these unnecessary studies and their findings, I found myself plunged into deep thought. As you well know, too often when a man of my mental powers is deep in thought, nothing comes of it. The machinery whirs for a while and that's the end of it. But on this occasion, voila! I know; it's something the French say. I don't know why they say it but it sounds good so I say it too. Voila!

You see, it occurred to me that I might be onto something that would make Ms. Wonder happy and also be a bit of goose for yours truly. Not actually goose, of course; a figure of speech. I'm actually a big supporter of geese rights.

In this case, the goose is money. You see, surprising as it may be to you, I'm aware that some of these controlled studies result in a flight to Oslo and the awarding of Nobel Prizes. And those prizes come with a substantial bit of goose.

I decided to look into the matter a little further. First, I reviewed some recent studies to get an idea of the current trends.  Here are a few actual research projects that I found: 

• The American Heart Association is responsible for a study showing that patients recovering from a heart attack can reduce chest pain and improve quality of life if they stop smoking cigarretes.  

• According to a study reported in the Journal of Applied Psychology, older workers bring valuable knowledge to the workplace. 

• A recent study reported in the Journal of Health Psychology shows that being homeless is bad for physical and mental health. 

• Statistical analysis reported in The American Statistician proved that the Mexican drug war increased homicide rates.

Now if, like me, you see an opportunity in all this to do a little Google research, write a paper, and then board a plane to Oslo, let me suggest a few ideas that I'm kicking around. Run these up your flagpole to see if any of them inspire you:

• Does a traumatic head injury leave the victim with headaches?
• Does daily jogging increase the likelihood of knee surgery? Or better yet, does knee surgery intefere with jogging?
• Does drinking alcohol cause people to feel more relaxed at parties? (Assuming that everyone has been vaccinated.)
• Does advancing age increase the probablity of accidental injury?  

Those are just a few ideas that've come to me since sewer smoke testing. I hope these thoughts are not a direct result of smoking the sewers. I'd love to hear your ideas. Perhaps we can share that Nobel Prize. 

So It Goes

Well, here we are again. You're probably tired of hearing it--Ms. Wonder's undoubtedly fed up. I know this because her reaction, when the subject comes up, is something like Shakespeare described as the poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, glancing from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven. Not a direct quote but you get the idea.

I apologize if you're bored with the subject, but it's not like I enjoy it either. It reminds me of the time Niles asked Frazier what he thought of the tassels on Nile's new loafers. Frazier said he never cared much for tassels and Nile's said:

"Never have I and yet there they are."

But enough of the preamble. Here's the thing that's bugging me. I've described Amy as the red queen in Alice but it occurs to me that sometimes she takes a line through Captain Bligh of the Bounty. After her practical jokes leave me in a heap on the floor, she has her minions put me in a small rowboat with nothing but a loaf of bread and a bottle of water and then set me adrift off some remote island.

Not literally, of course. But the result is the same; I feel helpless and hopeless.

That's where I am today--adrift and alone. At least alone emotionally. I mean to say that Uma Maya, the feline Empress of Chatsford, and Sagi M'Tesi, the caramel-colored tabby, are here with me to comfort and console. And Ms. Wonder is with me, despite her frenzied eye-rolling.

I want to make it clear that I don't blame Princess Amy. Not her fault. She was born before she got her fair share of self-control. She simply cannot resist pushing red buttons. It's just unfortunate that her curiosity often leads to the Universe getting her knickers in a wad. Unfortunate, yes, and yet, to paraphrase Niles, there they are... wadded knickers.

In another Frasier episode, he told one of his callers (paraphrasing): You're mourning a loss, but it isn't for what you think. What you really mourn is the loss of the life you thought you'd have. 

Bruce Springsteen's song, Glory Days, puts it into context for me and makes me realize that when I'm mourning the life I thought I'd have, instead of creating a new life that works, what I'm actually doing is trying to relive the glory days. 

In other words, I'm trying to recapture a little of that past glory but it never works out. Instead, I'm left with the realization that time slips away quickly and leaves me with nothing. That's why the only solution is to follow Frasier's advice and create a new life with new memories, memories that are closer to home and much more real than the glory days.

And so, that's what I'm doing--starting life over. Not for the first time, mind you. I've done it before, several times, which is why you and a few others are tired of hearing it. But I'm not giving up.

Billy Joel says in his song, And So It Goes, In every heart, there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong, to heal the wounds from [our past life] until a new one comes along. And so this time, in my quest for a new life, I'm taking refuge, not in the glory days, but in the strong, safe sanctuary in my heart.

Don't fret for me. I'll not abandon my loyal readers. I'll be here and I'll do my best to keep it upbeat. Be safe and well, my friends. And don't forget to leave comments. They help more than you can imagine.

The Wild Side

The morning had opened warm and moist and my stroll around the gardens had left me glistening but now I was seated in the cooling shade of the forest canopy and refreshing the tissues with the contents of an icy cup. 

Despite my poor choice in upholstery for the morning walk--I should have chosen more lightweight cotton and something with shorter sleeves--I nonetheless had achieved a Nirvana-like repose.

Thunderstorms might be troubling the coast elsewhere, but here in Airlie Gardens, just east of Wilmington, I enjoyed a peaceful calm that comes only to those who have done nothing to deserve it.

The air was redolent with birdsong and ocean breezes rustled the leaves of camellia and azalea. I was restoring the soul while  Ms. Wonder wandered the garden's interior, camera in hand, producing something she called a pictorial essay, whatever that is.

A young man who'd parked his noisy pickup in a space near the picnic area gave me a look as he passed by on his way to join his waiting family. It was one of those looks that if translated into the common tongue would have included phrases like 'silly old coot.'

I recognized it as a look of envy, of course. Although, what actually sparked the green-eyed monster in this young geezer, I cannot say. But I didn't blame him for it. On a morning this warm and humid, a table in the shade with cooling sea breezes and icy refreshments is highly desired, if not downright coveted.

After all, who could be offended or cast blame on others when surrounded by the garden paradise known as Airlie Gardens, especially in the middle of the celebration known as the North Carolina Azalea Festival? The answer, of course, is no one.

Enjoy the NC Azalea Festival, enjoy the newly arrived spring, and Fierce Qigong!

Click here for Wonder's photo essay.

Smith and Rock

Only minutes before the whole thing began I was seated at a table near the cafe door and wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any. It wasn't my usual morning brood. No, this was deeper angst brought on by Ms. Wonder's insistence that I make those phone calls today.

Nothing is more unpleasant than interviewing health-care providers and making appointments by phone. Yes, I know that it sounds perfectly simple to you but you haven't tried it, have you?

I'd finished two double espressos and still, the outlook was dark. Even wearing my new beret hadn't helped as much as I'd hoped. Don't get me wrong, the latest choice in head joy did make me feel slightly better than otherwise but the mood remained in the cellar. I'd become convinced that the Universe was taking advantage of me and not in a good way.

Into my awareness, there slowly crept sounds of commotion coming from the alley behind Port City Cafe. I could hear a dog barking and crows raising a ruckus. I decided to check it out and walked around the building to the delivery dock.

As soon as I rounded the corner, a cargo van came screeching into the alley. The turn was so sharp that the van tilted up on two wheels and plowed through a row of garbage cans before coming to a stop.

You surely recognize the MO. It was Princess Amy who loves to arrive in a whirlwind of drama. Amy wasn't literally driving a van. An almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas. You know that.

"Well, you certainly don't see that every day," I said to her as she crawled out of the wreckage. I had to say something complimentary after she'd gone to so much trouble to impress me.

"Thanks," she said. "Kind of you to say so. I feel much better now," she said as she brushed her blouse and jeans. 

"I'm sure you do," I said.

"Now," she said with a deep breath, "what's all this nonsense about you not having a purpose?"

I admit the question took me by surprise. I recoiled slightly and searched the data banks for the appropriate response.

"Well...," I said.

"Save it," she said. "And now you listen to me. You are the chosen dark minion just like I told you in the dream."

"I am?"

"Just not of revolution and wholesale social change," she said.

"Uh...," I said.

"It's more like redirection and subterfuge," she said. "And so from now on, you must listen to me and do exactly as I say and everything will go fine."

Well, I knew this was nonsense and pure piffle, I mean I may be the lead squirrel in the race to the nut tree but I'm not stupid.

"But what about?" I said.

"You let me handle that," she said.

"What if?" I said.

"I'll take care of it," she said.

I stared at her in silence much like Chris Rock stared at Will Smith at the Academy Awards.

Amy climbed back into the driver's seat in the van, started the engine, and as she drove away she said, "Next time you see me I'll be driving a semi. Have a good morning. " And with that, she was gone.

"What about the sewer harpies?" I yelled but she was too far away to hear me.