Take a Line Through Napoleon

Uma enjoys nothing more than sneaking beneath the duvet in the early morning hours, but on this morning, inches away from her entrance to the underworld, she was confronted with the head of the youngest poppet, Lucy. 

It was not a welcome sight for Uma, who returned Lucy's gaze with the look that Amy Vanderbilt reserved for guests who used the fish fork with the salad.

I sympathized with her distress. The situation was her equivalent, all things being relative, to having an aunt arrive on the scene at the worst possible moment.

Napoleon by Ortizvlasich

Now, it is generally recognized by those who know me best, that I am a resilient sort of bimbo and where others fear to tread I can be found rising on stepping stones of my dead self to higher things. This is what I'm told and I see no reason to doubt it.

Look in on the regulars at Dulce Cafe and ask anyone if the Genome spirit can be crushed and they will tell you that no matter how dense the slings and arrows, the Genome will not eat pine needles. (There it is again. I must tell you the story one day soon. I promise.)

Take yesterday morning, after leaving those two young hearts in springtime, Jenny and Bill, I was tootling down the highway, with the daughter of the Russian steppes beside me, on my way to River's baseball game. 

You remember this River as the god-grandson, who achieved Near Earth Orbit on the occasion of his last birthday. River is now playing kid-pitch baseball in the Autumn League.

There we were, Wonder and I, basking in the love of good friends, the morning sunshine and the joy of Car Talk on the raido, and yet something unmistakable in the air spoke to me of the shape of things to come, and I didn't like it. 

Although the village was quiet with the normal Saturday morning doings--the farmer's market, the Jordan Lake wind surfers, the down-dogging yoga classes--the portent was dark. 

Suddenly, turning the metaphorical corner, I looked toward the horizon into a surging sea of aunts. There were tall aunts, short aunts, stout aunts, thin aunts, and one aunt who left a voicemail telling me that I was late to a business meeting--on a Saturday morning, of all things.

I immediately thought of Napoleon, having just captured Cairo, walking around town rubbing his hands together and thinking about tomorrow's headlines in the French newspapers that would compare him to Alexander. 

Then grabbing the extra edition of the Cairo Observer he learns that Nelson has sailed the British fleet into the harbor and burned all the French ships. I'm sure you don't need me to describe the aftermath. You could read those headlines from here.

Well, you can do worse than learn from Napoleon, of course. When faced with these unfavorable odds, he declared his work done, knotted the sheets together for a quick escape, and didn't take time to pack. 

Even though the lesson of the Cairo Campaign was clear, here we were in the stands urging the Red Hawks on to near victory in an exciting 11-9 game on a beautiful Autumn morning in South Durham.

I would be deceiving my public if I said that happy endings were flowing freely all round but the spirit was mildly effervescent. Go Red Hawks!