Bean Snorting

Sometimes things just don't work out the way we expect and when that happens we're thrown into the lurch, in much the same way riding the bicycle without hands for the first time brings us face to face with denizens of the roadside ditch.

Reminds me of the time I rode my bike down the ridge road without braking and wound up in the blackberry patch, but that's a story for another time. Today, I'd like to explore the way Life tempts us, with perfectly reasonable thinking, into doing something that causes the mood to collapse into a heap on the floor.

And please don't try to convince me that these trials are intended to enrich our lives by broadening the soul and imroving the action of the skin. I'm not buy it.

Here's an example from my childhood: the best friend of my formative years, when we were about eight years old, was no doubt enjoying a mindful morning in the kitchen when he noticed some uncooked beans lying on the counter. The beans were probably escapees from his mother's dinner plans.

It seems that one bean in particular appealed to him. If you've ever taken the beginners class in mindful meditation, then you understand the appeal. Think of the raison experiment. If you haven't had the pleasure of mindful instruction, then nevermind. 

This particular bean, as I mentioned, interested him strangely. As he noticed the smoothness of the surface, the quiet luster of the shell, and all the other physical characteristics--I'm guessing, of course--I haven't had the pleasue of being introduced to beans on an intimate level. No matter what appealed to my friend, this bean tempted him in strange ways.

Taking a line from the Buddha himself, he began to wonder how else he might experience the true nature of the bean. And so, as is often the case with these metaphorical searches for the holy grail, he decided to find out by following his own path.

First he picked up the bean between thumb and forefinger, is it forefinger? The correct names of the metatarsils elude me right now. At any rate, he rolled the bean in his fingers to appreciate its small size and light weight. Then he squeezed it to feel it's hardness. He pressed his tongue to the bean to accertain its taste.

Having exhausted almost everything he could think of to fully experience the bean, he did what any one of us might do in the circumstances. He inserted the bean into his nose.

What he found was that it wasn't an unpleasant experience at all. It made him feel the way Christopher Columbus must have felt when he finally reached land after sailing across the Atlantic, which is to say thankful that his hairbrained scheme had turned out OK after all.

What happened next is where the concept of a practical joking Universe comes into play. What may have prompted the action is open for debate but I think I know. You see, I'm familiar with the logic that concludes that if one alcoholic drink makes us feel better, then two will make us feel twice as good, and so on. Whether it was that logic or one similar, we may never know, but the next step for him was to push a second bean up the nostril.

You see where this is leading? When he remarked to his mother that he was breathing through one nostril only, she suddenly took on the role of the mother hen, clucking loudly, dancing from one foot to the other, and waving her wings about in a frantic display.

Before my little friend knew what was happening, he was in the emergency room of the local hospital with men in white coats pushing stainless steel tools up his nostrils. This was far from what he had expected, if he had expected anything at all, and it left him feeling that he could never trust the Universe to guide him again.

I know the feeling. Been there many times. You've probably been there too even if you don't want to admit it. It's not unusual for me to get angry when I find the Universe is toying with my emotions. And I can't afford to be angry. When I lose my temper, Princess Amy goes berserk. Have you seen the Will Smith movie, Wild Wild West? Amy is like that crazed villain at the controls of the gigantic mechanical spider and I'm the mechanical spider.

It's hard to get away from Amy's control. She points out every negative thing in life with a mind to ruin my serenity. I have to ignore the people and events around me. I can't watch critically acclaimed movies--too much bad behavior. Forget the news, in all its manifestations. And politics? Politics is the worst.

Being the target of a practical joke of universal scale is a recurring scenario for me. I try to change my life and I know that the only way to do that is by changing my attitude. Easier said than done. I heard recently that we can change everything about our life, the people, the playground, the playthings, but we can't change the most important thing--Fate.

I suppose that's true but I'm not one to accept things that I think are wrong and I think that human civilization has taken a wrong turn. Instead of a better world, we're creating a worse. I know it's not what anyone wants to hear and it's not something that I want to experience. And so I've decided that the only option I have is to live in a fantasy world of my own choosing. Will that work? Probably not but what have I got to lose? Despite my best thinking and best plans, I'll eventually end up in the emergency room with beans up my nose anyway.

Joy To All

There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway

A song that they sing when they take to the sea

-- James Taylor, Sweet Baby James

"Perfect timing," I said to the barista at the drive-through window of Port City Java. What I meant to imply with that short perfectly worded statement was that mine was the only car waiting for a cup of the hot and steaming.

"If you were here a few minutes ago, the line was backed up to the street," she said and I began to think that this might be my day after all. No waiting for coffee and that wonderful story that Mumps told me this morning had warmed the cockles of my heart--is it cockles? I was thinking, my oh my, what a wonderful day!

That was my first mistake. Not fierce qigong thinking at all. You see, it's that kind of magical thinking that sets us up for the big bang that the Universe always has in store for us. We lower our guard. We become complacent. We think we're on top of the world with a rainbow round our shoulders and then when we're not looking, the Universe jumps out from the alleyway, rips off the ginger whiskers, and in the blink of an eye all flesh is as grass, as the man said. 

I assume it was a man who said it since it comes from that part of the bible we borrowed from the Hebrews.

But let's not get into Isaiah 40:6 right now. It's not germane to our story and not nearly as exciting either. At least I think so and I hope you do too. So let's get back to it.

The coffee from this premier coffee brewer would have been worth the wait in a long line of cars, of course. Jah's Mercy I call it. And, as I noted, I didn't have to wait. Or did I? 

It just occurred to me that if I'd arrived earlier and waited in line to order, I'd still have gotten my coffee at a time before I actually got it. You get the idea. If I'd waited in line, I would have had my cup of steaming around Isaiah 40:7 but instead, I arrived after all the other customers were gone and my coffee was ready at Isaiah 40:10.

It's conundrums like this that make me question if we can ever really know anything for sure. We run around thinking that we know so very much and we're absolutely sure of what we know, aren't we? But studies have shown that what we think we know is really an illusion, and very often a delusion.

It's an alternate dimension that we live in for most of our waking hours. Understandable of course. You see, we've been taught by well-meaning parents, school teachers, our peers, social media, et. al., that what everyone else accepts as real, is in fact reality, and so we should accept it too. However, what someone else thinks is that particular someone's reality (maybe) but it certainly isn't yours or mine.

Reality can often be an uncompromising and sometimes harsh truth. Reality isn't for the faint of heart, which may be why human beings developed the idea of an eternal reward waiting for us after we escape this uncompromising, harsh reality.

[There's] a song that they sing of their home in the sky

--J. Taylor

Still, it felt nice to know that I'd missed the long lines. And it actually was my day because it contained more good than bad--at that very moment. Just to be in this very moment is cause for joy when you examine it closely. 

What else are we sure of other than our life on this planet. It's life uncompromising or it's nothing. And no matter what your age, you're fortunate to be here today. I've known the very young to go to sleep with the stars.

Does this thought make you uncomfortable? It should. But it should make you only uncomfortable enough to examine the mystery and majesty of being alive in this marvelous world.

[There's] A song that they sing of their home in the sky

Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep

But singing works just fine for me.

-- J.T.

And I'm happy with my lot--my share of the uncompromising--because I'm happy to be here and I've got Jah's mercy steaming in a paper cup. I'd like to have a little more sunshine and warmer temps--it is December after all. But I've got the words of Merle Haggard to shed a little light and keep me a little warmer...

I got plans of bein' in a warmer town come summertime...

If we make it through December, we'll be fine.

--Merle Haggard, Make it Through December

Zombie Apocalypse

Here I am in my favorite walking spot. I like it here because it's at the edge of a pine forest and, if you're one of my loyal readers, you know that the Genome has pine tar in his veins, a little something left over from the early days of childhood when my Grandfather lived in the middle of a small forest of pine trees, and that forest became my special getaway place. I learned to meditate there at the age of 7. Of course, I didn't realize it was meditation until I became 37, but that's another story.

The particular forest I visit these days has really beautiful pine cones. I know! Beautiful pine cones, who'd of thought it?

I know that many people think of pine cones as a nuisance or even a pest, but I like them because of their playful, funny, sometimes hilarious antics in the trees in my backyard. I like to think of them as furry, little monkeys.

No, just a sec, I think I've gone into the ditch again with that one. No, it's not pine cones that I like so much, it's squirrels. I was thinking of squirrels. But no matter because here I am walking in one of my favorite spots and it's in a pine forest and it has beautiful pine cones. But you knew that already.

Now that's out of the way, and I apologize for that little bit of ADS, let's get right down to it. Apocalypse, that's the topic. Oh sure, I know it's not a fun topic and you visit this blog because the Genome can always be counted on to provide the uplifting and inspiring. But, apocalypse? What can be uplifting about it? Just stick with me. It takes a little explanation.

I don't know about you but for me, the United States has become a looney bin. Looney to the eyebrows. If I need to explain why I think that, then this post is not for you, my friend. Consider, if you will, the conspiracy theories. What about QAnon and John Kennedy Jr. isn't really dead but hiding somewhere and will be Donnie Trump's vice presidential candidate in 2024. How about, Bill Gates is inserting little monitoring devices in the COVID vaccinations.

Those are just a couple of examples of the lunacy that's rampant in our citizens today. And those people vote for our leaders, and those leaders fan the flames of the resident lunacy to win elections. 

That, my friend, spells apocalypse. I know! You're asking yourself what's become of the non-political Genome. I'm not sure that I have an answer but I promise, for your sake, to look into it further and get back to you.

I admit that there are many days when the bleak prospect of the future is too much to bear and I collapse into a heap on the floor. I've tried everything to get above the clouds brought on by this unfortunate attitude, but it's a bust. But now, my friend, I've finally decided to face it head-on. That's why I'm writing this particular post--to slog through the swamp and get to solid ground on the other side.

My only hope is that there is a little truth hidden in the idiocy of conspiracy. In fact, I'm counting on it. You're familiar with the old saw about smoke and fire--where there's a little of one, there must also be a little of the other. Well, that's the tree root that I'm grasping to keep from falling over the cliff.

It's like this. Follow me closely here. If there is any danger at all in the COVID vaccines, then I'm hoping that it's the zombie apocalypse. You remember the Z-apoc of course. It was THE most popular bit of lunacy for decades. Now, consider this; if the vaccine carries a virus that causes us to come back from the grave hungry for living brains, then it will be a better future than we'll get from the "JFK Jr didn't die" voting public; same for the "We didn't land on the moon" crowd; or the "Black lives don't matter enough to admit that black lives are important" dingos.

I'd rather face the zombie apocalypse than another 4 years of Don Trumper. There, I've said it. If you don't agree with that position, then bye-bye. For those of you who stay with me, I hope I've gotten it out of my system and can return to posts of Lupe, Princess Amy, Napoleon, Catherine the Great, and the rest of the crew.

And so, be safe, be well, keep smiling, and I'll see you soon. Thanks for taking the time to visit with me.

Yellow Brick Road

You mean a great deal to me because you've given me reason to get out of bed in the morning. So I'd like you to come along with me as I search for something that has eluded me all my life. I hope that whatever I learn on the journey will be helpful to you too. Come on, let's step out on that yellow brick road together...

If you follow this blog you know that I have a spoiled brat for a limbic system. I've written about it a lot and still I get questions about it, especially when I refer to mine as Princess Amy.

What's a limbic system? It's that little area deep inside our brains that we inherited from the ancient ancestors that tell us to run when we face the unknown. Run from the saber-toothed tiger, sure, but run from a rustle in the grass too, just in case. Better to be safe than eaten, right?

The limbic system is also responsible for telling us to fear the stranger coming toward us--the guy who doesn't dress like us, or has a different hairstyle, or votes for the other party. It's easy to think that it will be far safer to hit him in the head with a brick than offer to share our fire.

That's the background and I hope I don't have to repeat that mine is more than a little precocious--she's off her rocker. She's much like the red queen in Alice, you remember Alice--the little nit that fell down a rabbit hole. But I've gotten off track. Back to the real subject...

There we were, Ms. Wonder and I, vacationing in Sedona, Arizona, with a precocious Princess Amy gumming up the works. Uh oh, not again--I feel some disturbance in the Force. People are asking what Ms. Wonder, why Ms. Wonder? Alright, I'm taking a deep breath, and I'll tell you why...

First of all, it's difficult enough to know where to begin a story. I mean, repeat all the background and the loyal followers will get bored and start looking for the remote with a mind to changing channels. But leave out the background and the newcomers are lost and begin feeling like they've walked into the twilight zone. See what I mean?

But because I love everyone who takes the time to read these missives of mine I want to please everyone--those who hang onto my every word and those who just stumbled into the room by mistake.

So who and why Ms. Wonder--it's like this. Wonder is the woman who shares my life and who rescues me from one ranygazoo after another. She does so in mysterious ways that leave one and all, including the innocent bystanders, scratching the head. You might say she moves in mysterious ways her wonders to perform.

Now, back at the ranch, Ms. Wonder suggested I might visit the native shaman and, as always, I followed her suggestion. As soon as I entered the kiva, she smoked me. I mean the shaman lit a sage stick and waved the smoke over me with an eagle's feather. She also rattled me. She had a turtle shell with seeds inside and she waved it around with flailing arms and dancing feet.

She told me that I was living in a black and white world, like Dorothy before she opened the gate and stepped out onto the yellow brick road. She said that I was standing at the gate with my hand on the latch but something keeps me from opening it. She said that if I only opened the gate and stepped out, the road would lead me to the Emerald City where I would find the answers to all my questions and change my life for the better. 

I've been working on that--working on opening the gate I mean. I've been working on it for years. You see, the thing is, I'm not exactly sure what it means to open the gate. I've tried this and that. I've asked the gurus for help. Even Ms. Wonder hasn't been able to help beyond telling me that only I can find the answer.

I may be looking at the problem the wrong way. You know before you can solve a problem, you have to understand exactly what the problem is. One thing I've learned is that I have to open that gate every day. That's what I do each morning when I go for my constitutional. 

I go for a walk as soon as I have my feline chores completed. I don't mean that I perform feline chores. What I mean is that I perform chores for our cats, Sagi and Uma. Out in the open, with Nature surrounding me, and a Carolina blue dome overhead stretching from horizon to horizon, I walk in beauty, like the Navaho--beauty above me, beauty below me, beauty surrounds me.

And yet, even though I open the gate every day and step out onto that road, I never seem to get where I'm going. I seem to be missing something. And so that brings us to the point. I'm going to make one last effort to open the gate and walk the yellow brick road to Emerald City. And I want you to come along with me. I need your support to keep me motivated. Just by showing up here occasionally and reading my blog post, you will have opened the gate and started the walk with me.

Please join me. Let's open that gate together...

Best Day To Be Alive

Those who know me best are not surprised to learn that I went for my morning constitutional through Waterford Estates. I like the canals and palm trees. I also like to see the dogs being walked in the morning sunlight. Those dogs look happy. They know that this morning, right now, is the best time to be alive. These are the good old days they think in their doggy way of thinking.

The people walking them sometimes enjoy the walk too, if they aren't engaged with their phones. They smile. They revel in the warmth of the sun on their skin. They love the aroma of pine in the air and they smile at the ducks navigating the water lilies and other nymphoids. 

I should probably stop here to explain to the uninitiated that nymphoids are a class of aquatic plants with submerged roots and floating leaves with small flowers that bloom above the surface of the water. Don't confuse them with nymphs, which are minor female nature deities in Greek mythology. Those little Greek goddesses are simply personifications of nature. Delightful to be sure but meeting one doesn't alter your life the way meeting the Morrigan might.

Well, now that I think about it, I suppose nymphoids like water lilies, can be considered nymphs because, for me at least, they do personify nature. Nymphs they are then. But not nymphos, please! Nymphos are merely and purely mythical. My word-correction software may think nymphos to be real things but no right-thinking person should.

Excuse me. I've jumped the rails again, haven't I? This little missive isn't about water plants. It is about dogs and the way they and all of Nature's children, except humans, realize that today is the best day ever to be alive.

To get back to it then, I was strolling the paths that line the banks of the canals when I spied an older gentleman walking the path on the opposite side. He looked to be ninety, if a day, and he was tall, thin, and withered. I imagined him to have been quite a striking-looking man in his day. 

There go I, was the thought that entered my head because I'm tall, thin, and go for morning walks to enjoy the benefit of sunshine and fresh air. But more than that, the thoughts in my head were actually about getting old and that I would gradually decline from my current tallish, thinnish, and moderately withered state until, placed side by side, you wouldn't be able to tell me from the gentleman walking toward me.

I don't have to tell you that these thoughts took some of the warmth from the sunshine and some of the freshness from the air. I didn't like it. My thoughts were in a darker place and forgotten were the happy, smiling dogs.

I don't know how much time passed, probably very little, when I looked up from the path to see that the old man had turned the corner and was coming my way. I prepared myself to give him an uplifting greeting. He probably needed it I reasoned. Perhaps I could make his day.

As we neared each other on the path, I put a smile on my face and opened my mouth to speak. Before I could decide on the most cheerful greeting, he spoke.

'Morning,' he said and he stopped in a socially distanced way.

'Good morning,' I said, 'how are you?'

'Never better,' he said. 'And you?'

'I'm good,' I said, 'thank you.'

'Let me ask you something,' he said, and without waiting for a reply he said, 'How old are you?'

I admit that I didn't expect this question at all and it brought me up short a bit. So I simply told him my age.

'I'll bet you have some aches and pains and think that you're getting old,' he said.

'You're right,' I said.

'Well, let me tell you something,' he said. 'I'm 89 and when I look at you I think if only I could be that young again. That's right,' he continued, 'you're a young man. I know you don't think of yourself that way, but it's true. You have a lot of life ahead of you and you can do anything you want with it. My advice is just to enjoy it--every day--enjoy it while you can. Today is a good day to be alive.'

At this point, I realized that the conversation had arrived at that spot where both parties know that all that needs to be said had been said. So I thanked him, wished him a good day, and we both moved on in our separate ways.

As I walked along the path, I reveled in the warmth of the sun on my skin. I enjoyed the aroma of pine in the air. I smiled at the dogs, I smiled at the ducks, and I smiled at the nymphs. I smiled because I realized that I'm living the best of days. Today is indeed the best day to be alive.

Water Everywhere

"How do you rate the new hygienist?" she said when I phoned home to report my whereabouts.

You will remember that we moved to the coast a while back and we're still interviewing the local healthcare providers; doctors, dentists, palm readers, and such. I have a few funny stories about them but this story isn't one of them.

"First," I said, "let me say that she really knows how to use that wand."

"You mean the ultrasonic scaler," she said.

"Do I?" I said. "The thing that vibrates and sends a stream of water into the mouth? Well, she's good with it. Doesn't sting the gums as much as my previous hygienist."

"But it still stings," she said. 

"It does a little," I said, "but the point at issues is not the sting but the flood."

"Too much water," she said.

"Let me be clear," I said. "It's not like one of those named storms that frequent the gulf coast. More like the ancient Great Flood that we hear so much about in those YouTube videos."

"It's biblical," she said.

"That's one of looking at it," I said and I immediately returned to the main subject. This wonder woman, as I'm sure you're aware, will get off onto the subjects of wide-eyed cherubims [cherubins] at the wink of an eye."

"When she began working," I said just to get back to it. "it reminded me of the time that Johnny and the rest of the Maple Hollow crew ambushed me with spray-soakers at the water park. 

I was about 12 and more immune to the unexpected in those younger years. Still, getting about 4 or 5 soakers in the face will get your attention. I remember gasping and gulping and swallowing about twice the recommended amount of water. And yet, for some reason, I laughed. Can't imagine why now."

"I don't like the sound of that," she said.

"Tolerable," I said, "but then the thing progressed if that's the term, and when she put the vacuum tube in my mouth, I thought of the regulator that scuba divers use."

She opened her mouth as if to say something but I closed my eyes and persevered.

"You remember when we became NAUI-certified as divers we had to learn to clear our mask of water while still under the surface. Every time I tried to exhale into my mask to force the water out, I felt like I was going to drown."

"Just to be clear," she said, "we're still talking about the teeth cleaning and not getting scuba certifications?"

"Teeth cleaning to be sure," I said.

"Sounds horrible."

"Close to the end of the procedure, there was so much water in my mouth, I felt that I couldn't breathe. Suddenly, I remembered the time when, as part of a rite of passage at age 13, I was compelled to dive to the bottom of the lake underneath Armstrong Bridge."

Again, she made an effort to say something but I raised a hand to indicate that there was more to come and then let her have it.

"My mistake was spending too much time on the bottom looking for just the right pebble to prove I'd made it all the way down. Coming back up, I felt an urgent need to breathe, so much so that I thought I wasn't going to make it. I remember thinking, This is it, and that thought was followed by, Is this really all there is?

"Oh no! Then what happened?"

"The short answer is panic! I began pumping my legs and flailing my arms in an attempt to get to the surface as quickly as possible. I remember being aware of nothing other than the pain in my lungs and the bright orb hanging above me that seemed to call to me and keep me struggling toward the surface."

"Was there no one around to help you?"

"Oh, sure, the hygienist and dentist were there doing all they could and several assistants came running to see what all the fuss was about."

"You are!" she cried. "You are talking about teeth cleaning! You didn't really do all that in the dentist chair, did you?"

"Ms. Wonder! I'm surprised that you even question me. You know that I never mislead my public. You have every right to be skeptical, and I'll defend your right to do so, but yes, I did all that and more.

 Just you wait until it's your turn in that chair."

"I'm finding another dental office," she said.

Here Comes the Rain

It was what I expected, of course. Sure, the early morning temps were mild for August on the Carolina coast and cats were napping on the screened porch and I'd joined them for morning meditation, but the wet, gray sky was thunder-booming and lightning skittered about in the murk.

"There was a lightning strike nearby," said a familiar voice from somewhere in the kitchen.

As if on queue, big, fat raindrops began falling and the cats awoke and rocketed inside. 

"You startled me," I said. "I didn't know you were there."

"Not as much as a lightning bolt will startle you," she said. I knew this Ms. Wonder spoke soothe in all situations, so I gathered up my one-day-at-a-time paraphernalia and came inside.

"By the way," she said, "if you're out this morning, my meds are ready at the pharmacy."

Just as she finished that sentence, the sky became darker. It was as though the sun had given up the ghost and we were living in a wet, wild, and windblown world. 

"But I'd wait until the storm passes if I were you," she said.

Now, first of all, I didn't have a lot invested in this storm. In fact, I'd been watching these weather shenanigans with the same quiet air of a drama critic waiting for the curtain to go up.

Secondly, and if you're a regular supporter of this blog you already know, that I can't get enough of this woman's bouquet. I'm in awe of her glamor. I'm enamored. And when she expresses a wish, it's as though her dainty foot is pressed on the accelerator of my heart. When she becomes a damsel in need, I become her parfait knight.

It won't surprise you to know that when she said, 'Please pick up meds', I heard Princess Amy yell, "Run faster!" And so I replied, "I'll go now."

In an instant, I found myself behind the controls of Wind Horse and out on Ocean Highway, prepared to face any obstacle. Before actually crossing the river, I thought it best to have a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy and so I headed straight to Port City Java.

PCJ was a bust. The drive-through window displayed a sign reading, Closed due to shipping delays. No problem, I thought, Starbucks is a few blocks away but again, nothing doing; the line at Starbucks was backed up to Texas.

You'd think that Amy would have the upper hand now, telling me that failure was written in my stars, but I still smiled and sang along with Stevie Nicks on the radio. You see, the thunder was rolling away and the lightning had lost much of its pizzaz. The Niagra-inspired rainfall had become a light mist and the sky had recovered much of its Carolina blue. 

I was sure that the morning was going to be topping after all because I was running an errand for the Wonder waiting for me at home. I pointed Wind Horse toward the Brunswick River bridge and rode into the open mouth of the dragon that is Wilmington.

For several minutes as I headed toward the bridge, my thoughts were submerged in the movie playing out in my mind. Princess Amy had staged one of her coming disaster stories but halfway across the bridge, despite Amy's dramatics, I became dimly aware that something rummy was going on outside the car in my peripheral vision. 

I turned to look downriver and was surprised to see a solid-looking black wall of a monster storm heading my way. It was whipping up a substantial wake and threatening everything in its path with frequent lightning. The earlier storm outside the screened porch had been nothing more than a messenger, sent to prepare the way for this baby. 

By the time I parked outside the pharmacy, the storm was at its nastiest. Princess Amy, who'd been watching the storm developing, had mixed feelings about the whole thing. As a spectacle, she enjoyed it immensely. She liked thunderstorms a lot. The only thing to spoil the event, in her opinion, was that I wasn't out in it.

"Go, go, go!" she screeched and I immediately went out into the rain wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, with no umbrella.

I returned to the car, squelching as I walked, and I was disappointed not a little. You see the news about Wonder's meds being ready had been vastly overrated. They weren't ready. Still, I knew that a bookstore with a coffee cafe was only a few blocks away and that gave me hope. 

I've heard it said, and perhaps you've heard it too, that you can't buy love, you can't buy happiness, but you can buy coffee. It speaks volumes, doesn't it? I felt that all I needed was to zip into the bookstore and the day would be transformed. Feeling absolutely bucked, I zipped, and much like Lucifer, I fell from heaven to hell when I found the cafe closed due to shipping delays.

Now, if I know you at all, by this time you're thinking that the Universe has a sore spot when it comes to yours truly. And if that's what you think, then who am I to disagree. But you can't really blame the Universe for feeling that way. After all, I've been nothing but stubborn trouble since I was so high. With the exception of taking care of a few needy cats, I've done scratch to justify my existence.

I decided to phone Wonder before heading home. I got her voicemail. I told her that I was heading back toward the Shire and might possibly stop at the Belville Port City Java. Text me if you want coffee I told her. She phoned back right away.

"Yes," she said when I answered the call. "Please bring me a latte and you'll be happy to know that the sun is shining here."

"Ah, Wonder," I said. "The sun always shines on you. I can't wait to be there and I will be there as soon as I can find a way out of the dragon's bowels." 

I was pretty full of myself when I heard that metaphor come out of my mouth. Not bad on the spur of the moment I thought. My mood was lifted substantially. You might say that I was catapulted into a higher dimension just thinking about being back home with Poopsie, cats, sunshine, birdsong, and the rest of the amenities. To think that I'd turned a little summer shower into an end-of-the-world threat made me laugh.

I remember thinking, in a light-hearted sort of way, that here was another case of just one damned thing after another. Nothing to be done, of course, other than taking life as it comes, and life was currently still raining in heavy traffic on Oleander Boulevard. Sunshine would have to wait.

No Good Way to Tell You

You probably think there's never been a spot for happily ever-after-ing than here on the Carolina coast. And who could blame you? It seems exactly the spot. Until it isn't, of course. Take yesterday for instance.

"If self-improvement were easy," said Ms. Wonder, "then we'd all be perfect, wouldn't we?" She said it between sips of lemon-ginger tea while sitting near the rhododendron, on the southern side of the screened porch.

"Despite all indications to the contrary, I'm constantly working to become the best me that I can be," I said. "And it's not so simple as Deepak and Oprah would have you believe."

"I know," she said. "But I think you sabotage your efforts with worry about problems that may or may not happen." 

 "Let me tell you something," I said. "I may worry but I don't quit. I keep plugging away at it. Hoping to store up enough points to come back as a cat in my next life."

"But you seem to look for problems that don't exist."

"Well, isn't the anticipation of possible downsides a good thing? It helps to be prepared, doesn't it? Consider Napoleon in Cairo."

"I don't want to consider Napoleon," she said, not in Cairo or anywhere else. You consider Napoleon on your own time."

"I just wanted to point out that Napoleon didn't have to contend with sewer harpies. Harpies aren't Greek pebbles and you can take my word for that."

"Sewer harpies?" she said.

"Sewer harpies," I said.

"Creek pebbles?" she said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I said. "You know the reference. I'm talking about that ancient Greek life coach with the stutter."

"Demosthenes?" she said.

"If you insist," I said. 

"He cured his speech impediment by talking with pebbles in his mouth," she said. "And he wasn't a life coach. He was an orator."

"I don't care if he was an orator or a computer programmer," I said. "Bet me that he didn't swallow some of those pebbles from time to time and then think about giving up his dream and becoming a shepherd instead." 

She stared at me in silence for a few and I reckoned that I'd found a talking point.

She said, "As long as people have been trying to improve themselves..."

"How long is that?" I said.

"Never mind how long," she said. "The point is that everyone meets setbacks and failure. The key is to learn from our mistakes and move on."

"Learning from mistakes is like trying to explain a Zen koan," I said, and I was feeling pretty full of myself because it seemed that I was on a roll. You would have thought the same if you were there.

"Alright," she said. "Look... journaling is said to help by forcing us to arrange random events into a coherent story that explains the lesson. Doesn't your writing do that?"

"Have you read my blog?" I said. "My stories aren't coherent. The harpies throw so many detours my way that writing never gets me to where I intended. Most of the time I end up in the ditch"

"Just don't give up," she said. "Do it for me." And she placed her hand on my shoulder to indicate something. I'm not sure what she intended, but it made me feel better because it reminded me that we're on the same team.

"It just never seems to get better," I said. "No matter what I do. It's depressing. It's demoralizing."

"Just keep trying," she said. "And whatever you do, don't stop writing."

"What?" I said. "Do you mean I should forget about becoming a shepherd?"

Mom's Book of Death

'Poopsie,' I said. 'You remember Mom's Big Book of Death, right?'

Apparently, she didn't because instead of a nod or some verbal reply she simply raised the right eyebrow and looked at me with a stoic expression. Is that the phrase I want; stoic expression I mean? Meaning that she doesn't show what she's feeling.

'Oh, you know,' I said. 'It's a notebook where she wrote the names and dates of the recently departed.'

'But it was also an address book,' she said. 'She kept phone numbers and mailing addresses there too. If I remember correctly, she also kept stuff like her medical appointments, verses of scripture, and other notes. I wouldn't call it a book of death. Maybe a personal organizer.'

'Why do you take these things away from me?' I asked. 'I come in here with something interesting to talk about and you turn the unique into the mundane. Maybe you'd like to hear about my latest flea bite. I've been bitten so many times I may develop superpowers.'

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Did I take something away? I didn't mean to and I assure you that I don't want to hear about flea bites. Do remember to spray yourself when you rescue stray dogs, I don't want you to bring fleas back into our house for the cats to deal with.'

'I'm being lectured now,' I said. 'I think I'll forget the Book of Death for now and go for a drive along the seaside.' 

'Yes, do,' she said. 'Do go for a drive. That will make you feel better but first, tell me all about the death book. I want to hear from start to finish. Don't leave out any details, no matter how small. I'll bet you hold me spellbound.'

'That's better,' I said. 'The right tone and attitude. I can imagine Josephine saying something similar to Napoleon. But first, it's not the death book, it's the Big Book of Death. It's important to get these things right.' 

'Of course,' she said.

But wait. It occurs to me that you may not have read the blog post entitled, Work in Progress, so let me provide a little background. My mom was the keeper of the Big Book of Death until her own passing a few years ago. 

As soon as Mom learned of the passing of a friend, a family member, or a celebrity, she wrote the person's name and the date in the book. I put the book in a safe place after Mom's passing. Click on the link below if you want to read the first post, but not now for heaven's sake. Read this one first.

'I wondered what happened to that book,' she said. 'I haven't seen it in a while.' 

'I haven't even thought of it for a long while,' I said, 'but April is the birthday month of Mom and my sister, Delores. It's the month my sister died too. I suppose my thinking of the book is related to all that. Just guessing of course. There's really no way to explain the workings of my brain.'

'At any rate, the thought that came to me was that I should write my mom's name and date of death on the last page of the book. Sort of making the whole thing complete, if you see what I mean.'

'Good idea,' she said.

I thought it a good idea to so when I got back home that day, I took the book down from its shelf and turned to the last page. Imagine my surprise when I found a note that my mom had written for me on that page. She must have expected me to do exactly what I had decided to do and then find the message.

She wrote, 'Won't it be wonderful over there, having no burdens to bear, and especially when Genome and family get there.' 

So there you have it. My mom's last message to me. I suppose it can be summed up in, Hurry up and get over here. And that makes me think of that previous post where I record my conversation with Death, himself. Click here to read it: Work in Progress

Back to the Island

Something there is that calls us back to the island of Ocean Isle repeatedly. I've loved her from the first time I saw her. I don't know what set her apart from all the others. It may have been her name; the words Ocean Isle conjures images of a tropical paradise. It may have been the sound of the surf rolling in as the sun sinks into the sea, or it may have been the soft whispers of the evening breezes.

And why shouldn’t this coastal paradise call to us? The island has everything we need for a day trip or extended vacation. There are lots of sun, sand, and surfable waves, and the boardwalks allow me to cross the dunes without disturbing them. I especially like that.

The thing I like most about the island is that everything I want or need is never too far from the sea—things like icy drinks and shrimp burgers and coffee—especially coffee because no matter how much sand I have in my shoes, nor how much salt I have in my t-shirt, I can’t pass up a cup of the steaming.

As satisfying as it is to have the best things of life right across the street from the Atlantic, it gets even better than that here at OIB. The multicolored sunshine logo on the Sunset Slush pushcarts comes out onto the beach every day bringing Italian ices in a wide variety of flavors. That’s right—they bring the stuff to you, my friend, and they are as dependable as caffeine.

The town of Ocean Isle is big enough to offer outstanding summertime diversions too—like the free outdoor movies on Wednesday evenings and the free outdoor concerts in the park on Fridays. Large enough to provide all that and yet small enough that it doesn’t get in the way—plenty of room for everybody.

Considering everything Ocean Isle offers, I have to wonder why it's routinely overlooked by the big media outlets when they rank the best Carolina beaches. I rate it the number one beach in Carolina—North and South.

But regardless of what draws us here, we are drawn, and the time comes when we simply must go back. We came back this time to search for photographic opportunities to illustrate a travel piece destined for publication in Carolina Roads Magazine.

It was an early August morning and we'd stopped at Lowe's Foods on the mainland for some reason that I've forgotten now. I'd never noticed it before but there at the end of the sidewalk was an inviting little spot named OIB Surf & Java Cafe. I know! Surfing and coffee as if they belonged together.  

Oh sure, I’d seen these little coffee shops everywhere along the Carolina coast. Some of them were pleasant surprises but most were just another bean grinder—good for a cup of the needful but one was as good as another. I wasn’t expecting much from a bean trader located in a strip center. Still, it was early morning and I felt in need of the medium dose for an average adult.

I opened the front door and the instant I stepped inside, my low-level expectations were replaced by a completely satisfying sight that seemed to drop softly through the air like the gentle rain from heaven.

I stared in amazement, speech taken from my lips by a sharp intake of breath. It may not have been the perfect coffee shop, because none of my friends were there waiting for me, but it was close enough to perfect to be getting on with. 

"Good morning," called the barista, "What can I get started for you?"

Whatever it was that she might start for me was destined to remain a mystery for the moment, because this pleasant surprise had taken me by storm, and my system needed time to adjust.

I looked around the room cautiously, expecting at any moment for the place to revert to what I’d expected before opening the door. What I saw were stylish, yet comfortable chairs surrounded by potted palms. I saw surfboards, and wet suits, and a year’s worth of The Surfers Journal. I even saw ukuleles. Yes, that’s right.

Ms. Wonder and I wandered around the place, taking it all in, and making a few photos as we went. Eventually, we found ourselves back at the starting point. We ordered coffee but I couldn't stop looking at the muffins. I don't eat muffins but I ate those muffins.

Eventually, the time was past for living in a dream world and it was time to go back to the island. As we left the cafe, I remember thinking that this place was too good to be true and I wondered if it would still be here when we came this way again. Like Brigadoon, perhaps it appears once in a while and can’t be found except on one special day of the year.

You remember Brigadoon, don't you? It's a musical about a village in Scotland that appears for only 1 day every 100 years. Tommy, the American tourist falls in love with Fiona who lives in the village. Everyone knows that story. You may have performed the role of Tommy or Fiona in your high school production. 

At the end of the day, we sat alone on the beach near the pier, where we enjoyed a Sunset Slush while we watched the sun go down, and listened to the sea roll in, and heard the night birds cry. 

Eventually, the time came to say goodbye and as we drove across the bridge back to the mainland, I thought of OIB Surf & Java. Was it still there I wondered? Or had it disappeared like Brigadoon? As we neared Lowe’s Foods, I fought the urge to turn into the center. I lost the fight.

Surprisingly the coffee shop was still there. Still, I reasoned, several hours remained in the day and it might yet disappear under cover of night. I'll update you with the latest when we come back to the island.

Charleston Memories

 I woke up in Charleston this morning! Yes, I know, it surprised me too--not a little. But then I don't have to tell you. You'd be surprised too if you opened your morning window and, instead of seeing Curtis pulling weeds from his front lawn, you saw instead the Ashley River pouring 100,000 gallons of water into Charleston harbor every damned minute.

Once I got over the shock and realized that the sky was Carolina blue, the sun was on the job, and the bluebird was doing business at the usual stand, I decided to phone Ms Wonder, just to let her know what had happened. After all, I thought, it's the preux chevalier thing to do. I refer, of course, to the gallant knight and not the racing horse that won so much acclaim on the track in Australia in the mid-1980s. I may be in mid-season form but I'm not up to that.

After receiving Wonder's blessing, I spent the morning sauntering around the historic district, and you know what? It wasn't all bad.

I walked down narrow little streets that look like they're from an earlier era, and I think it's not too far out to think that they are. Cobblestone alleyways lay hidden until I almost stepped on them, then they threw off the whiskers and pounced. I couldn't escape them! They led into alluring interiors, embowered, if that's the word, on both sides by large, potted tropical plants. I wanted to go there and often did.

Many of them led to beautiful old doors and windows in the most unlikely places. One set of beautiful d's and w's led to a little sandwich shop. Of course, I didn't go in. Sorry. If I'd known you'd be interested, I would have entered and sampled the wares. I did go into the Night Lights coffee emporium. I recommend it. Nice art in the privy but no hand towels, just really nice art. Seems a waste now that I think about it. It was really a nice cut-paper representation of Picasso's Guernica! Shame really but best not to think about it I suppose. I mean I had to wash and dry, didn't I?

On this day in Charleston, I've learned a valuable life lesson. I've learned that cobblestones are not level, not ordered, and not boring. Cobblestones can't be walked without paying attention to what you're doing and where you're going, and that's a good thing. Keeps you in the moment. If I lived here I'd walk them every morning as a mindful exercise right after qigong. And if Wonder has her way, I may be waking up here often in the near future.

If I wake up here tomorrow... but no, best not to think of the future. It's enough just to make a shadow on King Street today.

What To Do?

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'écureuils performances put me in a happy mood on most days. Today was not one of them.

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 Wilmawood from Durham. The news has surely lost its savor by now. 

When I say "we" moved, I'm talking about Ms. Wonder, three cats, and me. Sorry, I can't leave it at three cats, I must tell you who 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, it's also common. Too much pie, too much alcohol, too much sun, shall I go on? I didn't think so.

But too much of what I hear you asking. Wilma 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 now? I have work to do and I can't be traipsing around every day having fun in the sun but how, I ask you, how can I resign myself to working at home and missing out on all the exploring. 

Now you're asking yourself a different question--why, you're wondering haven't I 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. They do much good in the world and they try hard. They really do. We must value that hard work.

Now, 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 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. Turns out the squirrels have gotten a second wind and they're quite entertaining. Enjoy the day.

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!