Castle Street basked in the glow of a golden spring morning. The storm that, two hours before, had raged through the parks, along the riverwalk, and into the downtown business district, was only a memory now. In the aftermath, the air was cool and sweet, and the damp earth released a healing fragrance.
The city, bathed in the clear light of an early summer morning, was an earthly paradise. The skies were blue, the river shone, squirrels raced about the parks with carefree abandon, and as far as the eye could see pedestrians tootled along behind happy, carefree dogs.
Fortunately for those pedestrians and their dogs, the ideal towards which the Wilmington city planners strive is to provide a public house for each individual archetype in the city. You can’t throw a half-brick in any direction downtown without hitting a pub, a cafe, a bodega, or a kiosk, and many of them are dog-friendly.
Scattered thunderstorms might be raging elsewhere, but inside Native Grounds Cafe, there was the peace that passeth all understanding, that perfect unruffled peace that comes only to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
I took a deep breath and leaned back against the cushions and the mingled voices around me began to quiet the sounds of the retreating storm. The sound of water coursing through downspouts had replaced the drone of soft gentle rain on the roof.
Island Irv, who was telling me all about his recent trip to the Sunshine State, is not the type to routinely leap from chairs, but suddenly and without warning, he managed a maneuver that almost made it look like a leap.
Let me make it perfectly clear for those of you who may be new to these pages that the mothers of Shady Grove train their sons well. Once we've grasped the fact that all exhibitions of emotion are nothing more than rannygazoo, without substance or staying power, we maintain our poise even in the presence of thunderstorms and earthquakes.
Although conscious of a certain uneasiness when Irv shot ceilingward, I was determined to remain calm. Intending to stay in full control, I took a deep breath and, unfortunately, I exhaled so sharply that a man at the next table who was eating a carrot-and-walnut muffin stabbed himself in the chin with his fork.
I didn’t like the look that crossed his face, but then I didn't care much for it even before his chin began bleeding. His hands were clenched in fists of rage, as I believe the old saying goes.
I doubt that he'd had a Shady Grove upbringing but even if he had, it was obvious that mother was forgotten for the nonce, and even great-aunts, those supreme enforcers of proper behavior, were not remembered.
I realized that a word in time might provide healing balm and I searched the memory banks for some gag or saw that would soothe the savage beast and prevent a total brannigan. No need for him to punch the weasel, I reasoned.
“How's the weather on your end of the coast?" I said. "Exceptionally clement I hope."
Not one of my better gags but I had precious little time to come up with something. We will never know if the words would have brought calm because the man left the cafe without finishing his cappuccino and was last seen heading up Castle Street toward 8th Avenue.
"What about you?" I said to Irv.
"Oh, me?" he said. "I didn't realize my coffee was so hot. I burned my tongue."
"Is that all?" I said. "I thought you'd forgotten to text your wife or something equally as rotten."
"It hurt," he said.
And I'm sure it did hurt. It just seemed to be so very much animation for so little cause. But that's life on the Carolina coast for you. One never knows when the next storm is going to pop up and come sashaying around to see what it can get into.
All in all, I suppose it's what's to be expected from another day in paradise.
Happy summer, my friends. Thank you for supporting The Circular Journey with your time and attention. Don't forget to leave a comment.
PS -- I borrowed that comment about throwing a half-brick from P.G. Wodehouse, who the author of Proverbs must have had in mind when he wrote "a word fitly spoken and in due season is like apples of gold in settings of silver."