The Genome Project

It occurred to me recently, while standing in the cereal aisle contemplating the existential implications of choosing between Fiber One and Cheerios, that I am not unlike the human genome itself. How did that happen? Better to accept it and move on I think, don't you?

I'm not saying that I contain the biological blueprint for human existence—that would be rather presumptuous, even for me. Think of it this way: The human genome contains genes that determine everything from eye color to the unfortunate tendency to worry about hurricane season in May. In much the same way, I've been informed by various celebrity 'Genes' whose combined influence resulted in the peculiar specimen that stands before you today.

Gene Autry (The Dominant Gene)

The "Singing Cowboy" represents my most influential genetic component, responsible for what Ms. Wonder diplomatically refers to as my "moral compass that points True North even when it isn't." 

From Gene Autry comes my unwavering belief that one should never shoot first, always tell the truth, and help people in distress—even if that distress is bringing home a caffeinated latte when Ms. Wonder clearly asked for half-caf.

The Autry Gene accounts for my tendency to view the world in terms of good guys and bad guys, with very little gray area in between. It's the Gene Autry influence that genuinely surprises me when people don't follow the Cowboy Code, and it's probably why I still believe that most problems can be solved with a firm handshake and a willingness to do the right thing.

The singing aspect of this gene remained mercifully dormant, but that hasn't kept me from turning the volume up to eleven and belting like Bette.

Gene Roddenberry (The Optimistic Futurist Gene)

The creator of Star Trek contributed the part of my genetic makeup that makes me think every disagreement can be resolved through thoughtful dialogue, that diversity makes us stronger, and that the future will be significantly better than the present. This gene also accounts for my tendency to see profound meaning in everyday encounters and my belief that we're all part of a larger, more meaningful narrative.

The downside is that I occasionally sound like I'm delivering a captain's log entry when discussing relatively simple matters, such as whether to add caramel truffle flavoring to my oatmilk latte.

Gene Wilder (The Anxious Creativity Gene)

The brilliant comedian and actor contributed the genetic component responsible for my vivid imagination, my ability to see humor in stressful situations, and my tendency to worry creatively about potential disasters. 

The Gene Wilder influence manifests in my ability to find comedy in chaos, my appreciation for the absurd, and my talent for turning personal neuroses into entertainment. It's this gene that leads me to write The Circular Journey.

Gene Tierney (The Elegance Gene)

The classic Hollywood actress contributed the component responsible for my appreciation of sophistication, beauty, and the finer things in life. This gene is responsible for my preference for well-crafted sentences and accounts for my belief that presentation matters almost as much as substance.

Her influence manifests in my tendency to see ordinary moments as potentially cinematic, and my belief that grace and dignity are always in fashion. It's this gene that makes me think that what you say is less important than how you say it.

Gene Kelly (The Grace Gene)

Now, before you begin laughing, hear me out. The Gene Kelly influence doesn't manifest in the ability to dance. No, my behavior on the dance floor has a striking resemblance to a startled giraffe. Rather, Mr. Kelly is responsible for my appreciation of elegance and my belief that life should have a certain choreographed quality to it.

It's the Gene Kelly in me that insists on making a Broadway production out of mundane activities—like grocery shopping or checking the weather.

Unfortunately, this gene also contributes to my unrealistic expectations, which leads to considerable frustration when reality refuses to follow my internal choreography.

Gene Pitney (The Melodramatic Gene)

The singer known for emotionally intense ballads like "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" contributed the genetic component responsible for my tendency to find profound emotional significance in relatively minor events. It's the reason I turn a simple trip to the hardware store into an epic journey of self-discovery.

It's the Gene Pitney influence that makes me feel deeply about things that others might dismiss as trivial, that turns everyday disappointments into tragic ballads. 

This genetic component makes me genuinely empathetic and emotionally engaged with the world, but it also makes me sound like I'm narrating a soap opera when describing my day at the beach.

Gene Rayburn (The Conversational Gene)

The beloved game show host contributed the genetic component responsible for my love of wordplay, my ability to keep conversations flowing even when they're going nowhere in particular, and my genuine enjoyment of other people's company. 

This genetic component also accounts for my tendency to treat casual conversations as if they were game shows, complete with dramatic pauses and the expectation that someone will eventually provide a clever punchline.

The Synthesized Genome

Like the human genome, these various genetic influences sometimes work in harmony and sometimes create interesting tensions. But somehow, they combine to create the particular specimen known as the Genome—a being who approaches life with cowboy ethics, choreographed expectations, starship optimism, cinematic appreciation, ballad-worthy emotion, comedic anxiety, and game show enthusiasm.

I should mention that none of these celebrity Genes actually contributed to my biological makeup. That would be both impossible and quite disturbing. But in terms of cultural DNA, well, that's a different sort of genetics entirely.

And considerably more entertaining than the cereal aisle, I might add.

Shady Grove Chronicles

It has come to my attention, with a jolt like that of a rogue tennis ball striking me squarely between the eyes, that I've committed a rather significant oversight. My sincere thanks go to Ms. Wonder for gently (more or less) reminding me that I'd all but forgotten the second reason for embarking on this "circular journey."

If you're a regular here, you're undoubtedly familiar with the disarray of my brain's internal wiring, which often leads to neurotransmitter imbalances and, eventually, to this blog. Finding humor in the absurdities of my daily existence is, of course, the bedrock of The Circular Journey.

What you might not realize, however, is that when I first put fingers to keyboard, I hoped to unravel the winding path from my origins in Shady Grove—a world now shrouded in the mists of time—into the wider, often wonderful, world I inhabit today.

A Glimpse of Shady Grove

Shady Grove was (and probably still is) a sliver of rural paradise, nestled comfortably between the gentle curves of a freshwater lake and the majestic Tennessee River. One might be tempted to call it idyllic, if one were loose with the facts, a habit I strive to avoid.

This tiny community boasted one long, flat country road with a stop sign at one end that should have included one of those warnings you see on old maps, "Beware of Dragons." The road was bookended by churches with such strict tenets that even the local squirrels observed an unnatural civility on Sundays.

It was here, amid the dappled sunlight filtering through ancient oaks, that young Genome first encountered the rich tapestry of human eccentricity that would forever shape his worldview.

While the events described will be drawn from the actual experiences of my youth, I will employ what I like to think of as "creative non-fiction," and what my Great Aunt Cynthia would term "stretching the truth until its ribs squeak." I'll be recounting true events, but I'll highlight certain aspects to capture the inherent humor and absurdity that my younger self, bless his heart, was too busy living through to fully appreciate.

Unless you're new here, you know that I draw inspiration from that master chronicler of English country life, P.G. Wodehouse, whose Blandings Castle stories remain the pinnacle of literary comedy. I make no claims to approaching his genius, but will do my utmost to capture something of his spirit in describing the inhabitants of the Grove.

And what inhabitants they were! Allow me to provide a brief introduction for two of the main characters you'll encounter in the coming days:

Great Aunt Cynthia, who operated as a sort of alternate mother, dispensing wisdom and peach cobblers with equal generosity. Her kitchen was a realm of culinary magic, where recipes existed not in written form but in the mystical measurement system of "pinches," "dashes," and "just enough."

You may remember Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Paul from an earlier post. It was Aunt Cynthia, who was awakened by an early morning car crash outside her bedroom window, and shouted, "Wake up, Paul, and get your pants on, Jesus has come back." Uncle Paul, always the practical one in the family, woke and replied, "If Jesus is here, I don't think he'll mind that I'm in my pajamas."

Aunt Cynthia loved to sit on the front porch on Sunday afternoons and regale the neighborhood with songs made famous by George Beverly Shea, the primary soloist for the Billy Graham crusades. The song for which he is most famously known, "How Great Thou Art," was a favorite of Aunt Cynthia.

She had one of those Ethel Merman* voices, and the lyrics echoed down the holler, across the lake, and beyond. I'm certain that once we develop instruments sensitive enough to pick up ancient sound waves, I'll hear her voice once again, singing "O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder..."

Aunt Cynthia loved to ride the lawn mower--it was the only motorized vehicle she could drive. She even used it to visit neighbors in the Grove. It was she who kept the lawn neat, and her husband, Uncle Paul, once told my father that he couldn't bear watching her mowing the grass in the midday heat of summer, so he moved his hammock from the front yard to the back where he wouldn't have to see her.

Our other next-door neighbor was Great Aunt Maggie, the family's unofficial guidance counselor. She approached problems with the analytical precision of a chess grandmaster and the vocabulary of a sailor on shore leave. Her advice, while invariably sound, was delivered with such bracing directness that one often needed to lie down afterward.

Aunt Maggie was known around Shady Grove as the resident "witch." Anywhere else, she'd simply have been called the herbalist, possessing all that wonderfully arcane knowledge about wild plants and their surprising ability to soothe the human condition. I always fancied myself her favorite, though it dawns on me now that I was probably just conveniently located next door.

She taught me how to identify the plants she needed for her elixirs and salves and sent me into the surrounding forests to collect what she needed. She cured all the usual suspects--headaches, colds, sore throats, tummy trouble, bruises, cuts. She even put together a poultice* that pulled a tiny piece of glass out of my heel.

The backdrop to these characters and their exploits was a community bound together by tradition, hard work, and weekend gatherings where bluegrass jam sessions would materialize on front porches as naturally as morning dew. The residents—descendants of Welsh, Irish, and Scottish settlers—carried in their blood a certain stubborn self-reliance mingled with an appreciation for music, storytelling, and occasional bouts of good-natured feuding.

It was a place where time moved according to its own particular rhythm—marked not by the ticking of clocks but by the changing of seasons, the ripening of crops, and the rotation of Sunday sermon topics. The outside world, with its politics and progress, seemed to maintain a respectful distance, as though recognizing that Shady Grove operated according to its own immutable laws.

In the coming installments of what I shall grandly term "The Shady Grove Chronicles," I hope to transport you to this singular place and time. You will witness young Genome's navigation of the complexities of rural life, his encounters with the profound wisdom and magnificent peculiarities of his elders, and his gradual realization that the seemingly simple community of his youth contained universes of complexity.

So, I invite you to join me on this circular journey back to where it all began. Just be sure to pack a willingness to laugh, a fondness for the absurd, and perhaps a pinch (or a dash, or just the right amount) of forgiveness for the follies of youth. I'll do my very best to make the trip worth your while.

Bell Detective Agency

Agent Walter Bell and I met every morning at SoDu Cafe in South Durham to discuss the criminal landscape of the North Carolina Triangle—a region where crime, as we liked to dramatically declare, was "always rampant." 

Truth be told, we didn't concern ourselves with ordinary crime—the garden-variety misdemeanors that kept the Triangle's finest police officers occupied. No, we specialized in the fringe elements that often slipped through the cracks of conventional law enforcement, the cases that raised eyebrows and occasionally defied explanation.

Walter was a joyful and genuinely friendly man, and the world's number one supporter of his beloved alma mater, Clemson University. A retired FBI agent with a treasure trove of stories—each one more hilarious than the last, not just because of their bizarre subject matter but because of Walter's unmatched gift for storytelling—he had me in stitches daily. 

After wiping away tears of laughter one morning, I suggested we formalize our coffee meetups into something more official. Thus was born the Bell Detective Agency, with Walter as our senior investigator and me serving as the computer forensic specialist (which meant I knew how to Google answers that Walter couldn't get from Siri).

We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."

Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits. 

With such a large group sharing the same lifestyle came an inevitable subculture, and where culture blooms, crime inevitably follows. In this case, it primarily involved black market protein shakes and scalping tickets to movies in the city's extra-wide seat theaters. 

Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.

The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).

In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.

Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).

Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).

Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.

Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.

The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office. 

I haven't heard his voice in some time, but I can still hear his distinctive laughter in my mind. And I know with absolute certainty that on college football game days, he can be heard throughout the celestial realm, shouting with characteristic enthusiasm, "Go Tigers!"

The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.

Sleepy Hollow Revisited

"There is a little valley, or rather a lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility." 

--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." On page 105 is the artist's depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.

(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)

Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."

By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.

Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.

Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk," and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.

We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?

We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.

Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.

Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.

In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.

The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.

This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.

The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.

Mr. Irving concluded his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words: "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.

Serenity's Revenge

Earlier today at the Circular Journey Café, Island Irv and I had coffee with a friend named Elliott, although Irv and I call him Brambles for his insistence on wearing wild, unkempt hair, a wispy beard, and bare feet. 

The trouble began, as troubles often do, with excellent intentions and a sixteen-ounce flat white. "Gentlemen," Brambles announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had discovered a conspiracy of cosmic proportions, "I believe my coffee has been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I repeated, glancing at the cheerful café atmosphere around us. "How? Why?"

"My ex-girlfriend, Serenity, is operating the espresso machine today," he said. "I had no idea she worked here when I ordered."

Island Irv, who believes that all coffee-related drama stems from the Enlightenment, said as he looked deep into his own espresso, "So you think she put something in your coffee? Maybe she’s just genuinely committed to good customer service.”

Elliott was having none of it. He shook his wild, unkempt head. “She gave me that smile when she handed me my drink.”

“That’s standard protocol," I said.

“No,” he said. “It was the smile that says, ‘I hope you enjoy your little cup of regret for dumping me, Todd.’”

“Your name’s Elliott,” I reminded him.

“She used to call me Todd when she was mad at me. It was a thing. I'm sure she put something in it."

“What would she put in it that would be so terrible?” asked Irv, giving the cup a sniff.

“I don’t know. I'm convinced she's added something that will either make me projectile vomit on the nice couple at table three, or send me rushing to the restroom when someone else is occupying it."

I examined the coffee: it looked perfectly ordinary, though I reasoned that was the mark of a well-planned poisoning. “I think you’re being a little paranoid,” I offered.

"Why don't you simply order another coffee?" Irv suggested with the practical wisdom of a man who had never overthought a beverage.

"Can't," Elliot said. "She's watching me. Every time I think she's occupied somewhere else, she materializes like some sort of caffeinated apparition. It's as if she has radar."

He wasn't far from right. As if on cue, Serenity looked toward our table and waved with the enthusiasm of someone who is genuinely pleased to see her ex-boyfriend.

"Right," I said, rising with the determination of a man accepting a noble mission. "I'll get your coffee. I'm expected to order at least two every Sunday morning. She won't suspect anything."

She was waiting for me when I approached the counter. “Back already?” she asked sweetly.

"Sixteen ounces of the very best African bean, blended with oatmilk, and a dash of nutmeg," I said, avoiding eye contact like a spy delivering a password.

"Elliot takes his espresso with cinnamon, not nutmeg," she said, her tone as innocent as a cherub.

I froze. How could she possibly know? I tried to remain stoic, but she read my face like a TikTok meme.

"Lucky guess," she said, beginning to prepare the drink with movements that seemed almost too deliberate. "Tell him I said hello."

I returned to our table feeling I'd been outmaneuvered by a master.

"Well?" Ned asked anxiously.

"She knows," I reported. "Somehow--I don't know how--but somehow she knows."

Island Irv stood up, cracking his knuckles like a gunfighter preparing for a showdown. "I'll take care of this. I've got experience with difficult women."

"All women are difficult when it comes to you," I pointed out, but he was already striding toward the counter.

Five minutes later, he returned with an expression of bewildered defeat. "She asked if I wanted extra foam for Ned's latte before I even had a chance to order. Then she talked me into trying something she called a turmeric shot. I felt powerless. It went down hot."

In the next few minutes, Serenity disappeared into the back room, and Irv made another attempt only to see her re-materialize like caffeine-fueled mist just as he reached the register.

“Anything for you, sir?” I heard her ask Irv, and she wore that now-familiar smile—the one that apparently meant “Todd.”

After three more rounds of this game—each ending with one of us ordering unnecessary baked goods or, in Irv’s case, an alarming second turmeric shot—we decided to try honesty.

I approached her and said, “Serenity, did you put something in Elliot's drink?”

She looked me in the eye and said, “I put love and care in every beverage I make.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” I observed.

“I believe a little mystery enhances the flavor,” she replied," and we strive to exceed the expectations of every customer on every visit."

"Well, could you at least promise not to put anything unpleasant in his next order?" I asked.

Serenity paused in her cleaning, considering the request with the gravity of a judge weighing evidence. "I could," she said finally, "but I won't."

"But why not?"  I asked.

"Because," she said, her smile taking on a distinctly mischievous quality, "where's the fun in that?"

I retreated in tactical defeat, leaving Elliot to contemplate his potentially sabotaged beverage with the expression of a man facing his doom.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

Island Irv shrugged with his characteristic philosophical acceptance of life's absurdities. "Drink it or don't drink it. Either way, you'll know."

"That's your advice? Drink the potentially poisoned coffee?"

Without asking for permission, Irv took a tentative sip of the suspected latte, his face immediately contorting into an expression of profound confusion.

"Well?" Elliot asked.

"It's..." Irv said, taking another sip, "actually quite good. Excellent, even."

Elliot stared at him in astonishment.

"The best coffee I've had in months," Irv continued, draining the cup with apparent relish. "Rich, smooth, perfectly balanced. Whatever she put in it, it worked."

From behind the counter, Serenity's laughter chimed like silver bells, and I realized we'd witnessed something far more sophisticated than mere sabotage. It could only be described as the most elaborate hoax designed to mess with someone's mind in the history of café culture.

And so we left the cafe this morning with Elliot clutching a second cup of Serenity's mysterious brew, and Irv praising the consciousness-expanding powers of turmeric-induced enlightenment. 

I suspect Serenity's real revenge was in watching us spend half an hour convinced we were part of some evil conspiracy, when all along she was simply doing what any talented barista would do—making sure every cup was memorable. I'm beginning to believe that baristas wield more power than sorcerers.