Make It So!

Wind Horse rocketed across the Holmes Bridge and straight into the mouth of downtown if mouth is the word I'm looking for. And before anyone asks, and I'm sure that someone is thinking about it even now, the bridge referred to is not the Holmes Street Bridge in Shakopee, Minnesota. 

I realize that bridge is a noteworthy one because it's the state's only example of a deck truss bridge. But for God's sake, let's not get sidetracked by another diversion.

The bridge I refer to features a 250-foot double-leaf bascule structure over the Cape Fear River and empties into 3rd Street leading to downtown Wilmington, NC. So please no more questions.

As I was saying, Wind Horse charged straight into the road leading to downtown and I was reminded of a poem we memorized and recited back in Shady Grove Elementary School. You may remember the poem unless you came along after poetry was banned from public education.

The poem is called, The Charge of The Light Brigade, and begins with "Half a league, de dum, de dum, de dum, and then delivers the punchline...

"someone had blundered"

That summed up my feelings perfectly. Someone had blundered and it wasn't me. I had done everything humanly possible to sort out a life worth waking up for but the higher power, if any, had slept in, apparently.

If you're a regular visitor to the blog, you won't be surprised when I say that because of the emotional turmoil in my head, I soon found myself parked in front of Native Grounds, my favorite downtown caffeine den, and looking forward to meeting up with my favorite members of Team Genome, that being my god-niece, Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, and her BFF, Claudia Solviegh Bensen. 

Stage direction: Genome enters Native Grounds. 

"Genome!" said the pair. "What's going on? What's the emergency?"

Sit down and tell us everything, said Lupe. "You look like someone who drank from the cup of life and found a worm at the bottom."

"What's the matter?" I said. "You want to know what's the matter? I'll tell you. I've had it! I'm tired of reading about all the other bipolar bozos who've become rich and famous and yet, where's mine? That's the question I ask the Universe."

I paused long enough to order a double cappuccino with oat milk and a sprinkle of nutmeg. I know! Nutmeg! Don't get hung up over it; I sometimes like to stir things up a bit.

"I too suffer the slings and arrows of mental illness," I continued, "with none of the up-side. I've paid my dues, and all I get is treasons, stratagems, and spoiled."

"I understand exactly what you mean, dear old ancestor," said Lupe, "even though you've bungled another quote. I might suggest that you would feel better if you got a haircut. You look a little like a chrysanthemum."

"And I know you're only trying to help me feel better by lightening the mood," I said, "but I'm on a mission here. I've asked you to meet me so that I can express my revised evil plan for world domination. And, of course, I'm asking for help from my minions."

"Wait, wait, wait," cried Claudia. "You're getting far ahead of me. First, are you really Lupe's ancestor and do you actually have an evil plan?"

Lupe placed a hand on Claudia's arm and shook the coconut--she shook her own personal coconut, not Claudia's. I was not to be diverted by any off-stage action so I refused to give up the floor and I continued with my plea.

"We Genomes do not lightly forget," I said. "Well, we do forget some things like appointments, people's birthdays, and mailing letters, but we don't forget abject suffering.

I don't know if you're aware but yesterday I experienced what your grandparents' day was called a nervous breakdown. I lost all structural support and collapsed into a heap on the floor."

"We heard," said Lupe. "And we want you to know that we're here for you even when we don't appear to be."

"Yeah," said Claudia. "We'll be your structural support."

"I spend all day, every day," I said, "looking for the silver lining, a little light music, a bit of cheerfulness. And what do I find? Grief! That's what I find. Loads of unrequited grief. I've had enough!"

Lupe patted my right hand and Claudia patted my left. I expected them to pat my head next and I suppose if I had two instead of one, the pats would have happened.

"Whenever I get that depressed," said Lupe, "the feeling turns into anger and I go out into the street and start knocking peoples' hats off. That usually helps."

"Oh," said Claudia, "I think Genome would never do something like that. You wouldn't would you?"

"I'm not always good and noble, Claudia," I said. "I am the hero of this story but I do have my off moments. Remember, the hypothalamus takes orders only from Princess Amy and the behavior that results is not always under my control."

"Is it really as bad as all that?" she said.

"Let me put it this way," I said. "It's never difficult to distinguish between the hypothalamus with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."

"C'est le vie!" said Lupe. "Just one long string of mistaken identities and rash acts and whatnot."

"But that's all done," I said. "From now on, it's going to be a different story. Today I finally open that gate and step out onto the yellow brick road."

Claudia gave Lupe a quizzical look. Is that a word, quizzical? Lupe explained, "It's a mixed reference to the Wizard of Oz and to a session with a shaman in Sedona, Arizona."

"What will you do differently?" she asked me.

"To start, I will inventory all those items in Mom's boxes and remove their power over me. They've become an anchor holding me back. Then I will review my success as a published travel writer and that will bolster my confidence and put me back on solid ground. From there, I will move forward one step and one day at a time."

"By Jove, I think you've got it!" said Lupe, and I recognized the gag from some musical or other but the exact source eludes me. Maybe one you're familiar with. Leave a comment below.

"And there's no better time like the present," she continued. "Shakespeare says, if you're going to do something, you might as well pop right at it and get it over with."

"Somehow, I feel that in the present circs, Shakespeare isn't the bimbo I care to follow. Someone like Napoleon perhaps."

"Forget Napoleon," said Lupe. "He's a bum. Listen to Jean Luc Piquard instead:

Make it so, Data! Engage!"

With her words of encouragement, I shot out of my chair as though I'd sat on a tack. I practically flew out the door and into the wide, blue, open. 

And here I still am today, engaged like the dickens! Buckle up is my advice and make sure the safety bars are in place.

It's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through, Billy Bob!

My Secret Mission

Some days begin with a bang, which is the way I like to think the Universe will end or, if not the Universe itself, then the end of the Genome. Banging, I mean, not whimpering. Give me a bang over a whimper any day. This particular morning got off to a banging start. It happened like this:

South Durham Renaissance District 

I was on my way to Dulce Cafe, looking forward to a caffe Americano and possibly an apple-walnut muffin. The morning was cool and refreshing and the windows of Wind Horse were down, the music was up, and Billy Squire assured me that everybody wants me. 

One can never be in a dark mood knowing that everyone wants you, of course. The song isn't one of those uplifting tunes that assure you that everything's going to be alright, but somehow, someway, just those words--everybody needs you, everybody wants you, make me feel good. There may be a moral in there somewhere but let's skip it for now.

For no reason in particular, I was thinking of a time, years past, when I'd just completed my duty to keep the western world safe from the Red Menace. We did our duty in those days. It was a way to repay just a little part of the benefits of living in a free world. Not like today when everyone is a hero in uniform. But that's another bit of derailment, what I want to talk about is Rome. I know. You didn't expect that.

My NATO assignment was completed in Stuttgart. If you happen to be American and have never served in the armed forces, let me explain that Stuttgart is a city in Germany. When my assignment was done, I was surprised to hear that I'd been reassigned to Rome. I speak now of the city in Italy, not the one in Georgia. And when I say, Georgia, I mean the one in...oh, never mind. 

I was feeling pretty good about Rome and when my Top Sargent told me that the mission was classified, I was pumped! Can you say, secret mission?

Now, I think I should point out that Master Sergeant Bones--not his real name--didn't actually say the mission was classified. His exact words were that he didn't know what the mission was about. But isn't that how these secret missions are discussed? No one comes right out with the goods. Loose lips and all that.

When I arrived in Rome, the lieutenant there told me that I was the first team member to arrive and that I should hang out somewhere nearby and report in each day. And so, that's how I came to live in Rome, about four blocks from the Spanish Steps, in a day and time when people were allowed to sit right down on the steps without fear of being fined.

Those were my thoughts this morning as I listened to Billy Squire and drew near the intersection where I would turn left. But before I could get into the turning lane, a maniac in a white pickup truck passed me in the turning lane and rocketed through the intersection.

Yes, I'm pretty sure that rocketed is just the word to describe it. As soon as he was past the intersection,  he suddenly made a sharp u-turn, as though remembering an errand and careening up onto two wheels, he came back toward that same intersection.

By that time I was halfway through my turn, which put us on a collision course. Well, you know how it is when two virile men confront each other, one fueled by testosterone, and one driven by a spoiled little brat of a limbic system. Someone's going to be unstoppable and someone's going to be taught a lesson. 

But I've been taught that lesson before, so I told Princess Amy to calm down and I slowed to allow the truck to make the turn.

Now we were driving down Fayetteville Street in single file. I was marshaling my insults and arranging what I hoped would be a withering, if not blistering, verbal attack on the fool. But before I finished the composition, this white-trucking, tattooed, bearded, MAGA-man turned into the Duke Fertility Clinic. 

Apparently, he'd been on his way to Chapel Hill, passed me at the intersection, and then realized at the last moment that the sperm was hot and couldn't be kept waiting. Knowing all that, how could I hold a resentment?

By the time I arrived at Dulce Cafe, I was cool, calm, and ready for my espresso, and besides, everybody wanted me. 

If you aren't familiar with the Market Place district of South Durham, let me explain that it's filled with what passes, in this part of Carolina, for Italian architecture. It's not actually Italian, of course, but it's pleasant enough and it brought Rome back to mind. 

It's not Italian but it's pleasant enough 

At the counter, Delores asked for my order. "Americano," I said. "I know you are," she said. She laughed and immediately, my memories returned to Sant'Eustachio il Caffe in Rome when I would walk up to the counter and say, "americano" and the barista would say, "I know," and all the guys behind the counter would laugh. It happened that way every morning. It never got old. 

Sant'Eustachio il Caffe

The secret NATO mission turned out to be not so secret and not really a mission. I spent several weeks in Italy waiting to hear something but it was a bust. A bust for the army but not for me. That mission turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

Dulce was quiet this morning and I became bored halfway through the coffee. As I drove back past the fertility clinic, I looked for the white truck, but it wasn't there. I guessed that the driver had gone through the drive-thru to make his deposit. 

For some reason, as I considered the fertility clinic, I thought of how I used to sit in Vatican Square and look for nuns wearing unusual habits--unusual to me. Some of them are quite amazing and amusing. 

I don't know why the fertility clinic made me think of the Vatican but it did. Maybe it had something to do with conception. What goes on in that clinic may not be immaculate but at least it's in sterile surroundings. That must count for something.

It was quite a morning--lots of banging--and of course, that's what we prefer, right?

Magic Happens

I don't know if you're familiar with the story of Mrs Lot and her rather fantastic finish? If so, you may want to skip to the next paragraph. However, if the name doesn't ring a bell, then here's the gist:

The unfortunate woman was the victim of history's worst practical joke. We must assume it was a practical joke because the story, as it's recorded leaves room for doubt. We do know that when told by her companions, 'Don't look now...', what do you think she did? Of course, she did look. Don't we all when told not to? 

The courtyard of Straw Valley

That much of the story isn't so fantastical but now we come to the punchline. When she looked, by some odd coincidence, according to my sources, (you aren't going to believe it), she turned into a pillar of salt! I know! Who'd have guessed? Salt!

The reason I mention it here is that a very similar thing happened to me this morning when Ms Wonder told me to let the Straw Valley thing go. You remember that I hoped to teach public qigong classes at that jewel of venues until I bobbled a reply to the event planner.

At any rate, while revisiting some old emails, I found an unopened missive from that same organizer. Reading from left to right, it said, 'I'd like to set up a day and time to talk.' 

Well, if you've been following along, you know how much I wanted this gig so it should not surprise you that I sat frozen with the smartphone in my hands like one of those peasants, who talk back to a wizard and--presto!--they turn into a pillar of salt, or something. Forgive me if I misalign some of the details.

And so this very morning I found myself walking into the courtyard of Straw Valley with an appointment to review the space with the planner. At the very moment I entered the coffee bar, I saw her walking my way and, I thought it very auspicious that she wore a smile.

It's moments like this that you find the Genome at his best--ice cold brain working like a Swiss army knife. Nothing creates so unfortunate a first impression as the hesitant utterance and the shifting from one foot to another like a south-side Fred Astaire. But I was up for it. I'd found the middle way. I'm sure, considering this and that, it must have been not unlike the Buddha.

As soon as she began to speak, I realized that this young woman created her own future, making things happen by sheer force of will. I quickly gave up control and simply allowed it all to happen. We agreed to begin with Sunday morning classes as soon as the new year could get here. I hoped it wouldn't be delayed by some unforeseen solstice nonsense.

I was deep into the moment, allowing the Universe to work its magic, and as I slowly emerged from the void, I heard her say something about making the deadline for the Indy newspaper and then she was gone with the wind. A sharp cry of joy escaped my lips. 

The sun, once hidden behind a gray veil, came shooting out like a startled rabbit, rolled up his sleeves, and got down to some serious shining. Birds in the shrubbery sang in four-part harmony, five probably, and I saw the world through a pink mist.

I knew it would be a perfect day when the barista swirled a heart into the foam of my morning latte. 

More Banging Less Grousing

"When I was a kid, we used to wait until dark and then build a big bonfire in Mr. Davis's front yard," I said to Ms. Wonder as she traipsed around the kitchen working up some new culinary delight.

"In the front yard?" she said with a touch of incredulity.

"We had big front yards in Shady Grove," I said. "The band was always located on the front porch, 'making music,' as the saying had it, and we didn't want the fire too near the band so we put it far out in the front yard, close to the road."

"Why build a bonfire at all?"

"Ah, it's one of those holdovers from the early days when my ancestors came over from Wales and were isolated in Appalachia. I didn't know that when I was a kid, but I didn't need to know. It was simply fun to have a bonfire in the night and that was reason enough. Much later, I learned that we were following a remnant of the old Celtic customs of our ancestors."

She glanced at me and I saw a sort of whatsit expression on her face. An expression that could easily have been followed by her excusing herself to attend to something she'd forgotten. I see that expression often when I begin one of the stories my childhood.

"You see, in Northern Europe, the Celts would build bonfires on the hilltops to help warm up the earth and add a little more light to the night. Moral support for the sun, I think it was. They would then beat drums to raise a ruckus and frighten the Spirit of Winter away. 

That was the whole point of May Day Eve--to push Winter back and encourage the new sun king to roll up his sleeves, spit on his hands, and get down to the business of summer."

"That's interesting," she said but her tone wasn't convincing.

"Well, the reason I bring it up..."

"Why do you bring it up?"

"Because I'm sick of winter and I'm sick of this virus thing. I don't like it. I know that members of our audience who operate from a base in New England or from the steppes of Russia are probably rolling their eyes right now at the thought of winter in North Carolina, but I'm sure we're all aligned in our disapproval of the virus. I think Providence has jumped the rails again, Poopsie. This is certainly not the stuff to give the troops if you want my opinion."

"Which troops," she said.

"Don't worry about which troops," I said. "We've had some warm days recently and I've seen the bluebird around the neighborhood and I do hope that she sets up shop on the corner and gets down to business soon. Bringing a little sweetness and light to the situation I mean. So I've decided to do my little part and start banging away and push this virus thing away with the winter."

"Banging?"

"That's right, I've built a bonfire in my heart and I'm going to start banging on anything that I can bang, which at present is Happy Cats Wellness, that online fount of information to keep cats and their caretakers healthy and happy."

"What do you plan to do with Happy Cats?" she said with a lot more enthusiasm than I'd noticed earlier in the conversation. "I thought you'd given it up, shut down the website, and closed the door."

"That's true," I said. "But Uma Maya has inspired me to crank it back up. I plan to stir up the Happy Cats website and launch a full-frontal social media attack."

"A little more of the Beltane analogy and a little less of the militarism," she said.

"Sorry, it's that old Napoleon line that runs through my soul," I said.

"Right," she said.

And so there you are dear reader. You've been apprised of the entire affair. You should now consider yourself banged to the fullest and you should feel much better for it. I'll keep you updated as the story progresses.

Turtles All the Way Down

Remember that story about a Great Flood that's featured in so many episodes on the History channel? If I remember correctly, 40 days and 40 nights of rain figure into it. Well, it's rained without stopping for 18 months in North Carolina and although the mountains are still above above water, all the rivers, lakes, and many of the roads are overflowing.

I was feeling particularly peevish on this dark, rainy morning, and so I thought a little outing with the radio tuned to just the right channel would help soothe my irritable mood. And so Ms Wonder and I climbed into the Volvo and began cruising the roads, doing our best to avoid low areas and high water.

I began to feel a little better as I listened to Supertramp performing Goodbye Stranger. The decision to get out of the house was a good one I thought. It just goes to show that, once again, the Universe proved to be a foul practical joker.

We made a right turn onto Farm-to-Market Road, remembering it to be elevated above the surrounding terrain but the sheet of water washing over the road where it crossed Sutter's Creek told us that it simply wasn't so. We slowed to a stop a few feet from the torrent.

There was no other traffic on the road, so it would be easy to turn around but I sat there for a few moments, not really thinking of anything in particular. I do that sometimes. It's nothing for you to worry about. It passes quickly. But it didn't pass quickly enough this time.

"Look!" said the Wonder pointing into the water.

Her tone of voice made it clear that something worth noting was there in the water but, try as I might, I couldn't see it. Not at first anyway. But then I did see something. I wasn't sure what it was. A dark shape in the water that was doing an impressive imitation of Nessie.

The head and about 4 inches of the neck were above water. For those of you living in the Federated Malay States, the 4 inches would be about 10 centimeters. Behind the head, there was a curved back with ridges running down the spine. Ridges similar to those on an alligator's back, but this was no alligator. It was a snapping turtle.

"Do something!" wailed the Wonder.

"What?" I asked. "Do what?"

"It's heading for the storm drain," she said. "We can't let it go down the storm drain."

Well, you're fully aware by now that we Genomes are quick-witted, and as soon as she said storm drain I understood her concern. The sewer is certainly no place for a snapping or any other turtle. No argument from me on that point but what I wanted to know was who she meant when she said, we.

"Please," she said. "It's moving fast. It will be too late if you don't hurry."

Now, if you frequent these pages with any regularity, you know that when this woman of wonder pleads for my help, her wish becomes my command. 

I was out of the car even before I finished the mental inventory of the things I didn't have to help move a snapping turtle. But although I was short of snapping turtle moving tools, my timing in exiting the car was perfect for the prank planned for me by the Fate sisters. I was drenched in a cold down-pour in about three seconds.

My clothes were soaked and I was cold and shivering.  The rain in my eyes made it difficult to see clearly. My shoes were in ankle-deep water making squelching noises as I walked. "Mama!" about summed up my attitude.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh....

The turtle was moving fast. Snappers do move quickly, unlike their cousins, and the water flowing into the drain was helping with his breaststroke, which wasn't bad without the help. He was dangerously close to the drain.

A glance toward the car told me that the anguish still darkened  Ms. Wonder's face. It was her pleading look that spurred me on. I would be her knight and I would slay this dragon. Not an appropriate metaphor, you're probably thinking, and you're right but still, I think you know what I mean.

As it sometimes happens, a solution came to me at the last instant. Like a bolt out of the blue--another bad metaphor--I suddenly recalled a poster I'd seen about rescuing turtles from the roadway. 

That poster included the how-to for holding a turtle in a way that prevents the rescuer from needing rescue. I was certain that I could do it. Not totally certain but close enough to be getting on with.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I moved quickly behind him with a low, stooping approach like a professional bowler approaching the lane. Where do these mental images come from?

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I grabbed his shell with my right hand at about 5 o'clock and picked him up out of the water. I was surprised by how heavy he was. He was surprised too, judging by the expression on his face. Probably not a frequent flyer.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I grabbed him with my other hand at about 7 o'clock. But he was wet and I was off balance due to his unexpected heaviness. I was struggling to hold on to him and remain upright. It forced me to move faster than I'd planned.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I was too far into the forward fall to recover but I would still save this turtle and win the favor of the Lady Wonder. Giving it my all to keep balanced, I lifted the turtle up as high as I could to get him above the guard rail. He seemed to be enjoying the bird's eye view; his eyes were opened wide and he had a sort of smile on his face.

At this precise moment, the turtle was able to scratch my hand with a rear foot. Now, this clawing did no damage to my hand. It did however add a great deal of excitement to the experience. 

You remember Princess Amy, of course. She decided that the scratch could be serious and that another scratch was probably coming. The drive to win the favor of Lady Wonder combined with Amy's cries of Run for your life! proved too much. I took it big!

Yes, I panicked. Not something the Genome often does. Let there be no doubt about that. But on this occasion, I caved. Not only was I off balance but I was fully extended and falling toward the stream below me. 

I released the turtle and he flew up and up, then he seemed to pause at the top of the arc before turning down, down. All my post-release English did nothing to improve his azimuth. In short, he went straight into the storm drain. And I went straight into about 8 inches of water on the roadway.

Nothing is so bitter as disappointment in the eyes of your lady. Nothing that is except realizing, when it's too late to be meaningful, that it was all unnecessary anyway. You see when I tell you that the turtle went into the drain, it's assumed that he ended up in the storm sewer. But that's not what happened.

This particular storm drain emptied not into a sewer, but into Sutter's Creek that runs underneath the road at this point. All the effort I'd put into getting the turtle into the creek was pointless because that's where he was going anyway.

How will I turn this into a positive experience for the Genome, I wondered. The answer came right away. It wasn't going to happen. My only option was to throw myself at the mercy of the Universe.

By the time I squelched my way back to the car, the laughter coming from inside told me that the Universe had ruled against me.