Happy Journeys

I always wanted to be a writer, and if you think that sounds a bit strange, I assure you that it sounds a bit strange even to me. I mean why would anyone want to be a writer? It's not like authors are admired like firefighters, or idolized like rock stars, or envied like megalo-millionaires. 

When I ask myself that question, I think of something James Joyce once said. If you're a writer, you'll understand the sentiment. I remember the quote as something like this:

"Writing is the most ingenious torture ever devised as punishment for sins committed in a previous life." 

I feel his pain but I'm not ready to fully embrace the sentiment. Still, having a message that one feels the world is in desperate need of would be an excellent reason to entertain a dream of becoming a writer. It may be the only reason now I think of it. And we've already admitted that I have no messages.

When I think of how I came to be a published writer, I can easily think of a long list of possible causes. But there is one that stands out above the others. You see, I've always been more or less disappointed with the world I live in. I know! But let me explain and please, no comments.  

As a child I was bored. Nothing to do and no one to do nothing with. I had to entertain myself and I suppose I wasn't very inventive because, well, I was bored.

One summer my mother's sister came to visit. She lived in another part of the country and we didn't see her often. On the day she was leaving, my mom asked her... 

"Why don't you move back home? All your relatives are here and they'd love to see you more often. Everything you need is right here."

My aunt had the answer up front in her cerebral cortex. Without a moment's hesitation, she replied, "You're right. Everything I need is right here. But," she said with a grand, sweeping gesture of her arm, "there is so much more out there."

 

The scales immediately fell from my young eyes. It was as though an earthquake had shaken the foundations of the world. I realized the solution to boredom, loneliness, and the feeling of emptiness that plagued me.

I simply had to get out in the world where there was so much more.

Today, relatives and friends living in the community where I grew up, ask me the same question my mom asked her sister. Like my aunt, I have the answer ready because today I understand fully what I vaguely sensed in my younger heart. 

It's like this: when I choose to move on, it's not because something is lacking where I currently live. It's simply that there is so much more to experience out there.

That's why travel writing holds such a strong appeal for me. Those of you who regularly visit The Circular Journey are probably thinking, Genome, please! Aren't you forgetting the biggest reason you chose travel writing? 

You're right, of course. I'm not denying that Ms. Wonder played a significant role in my being a published author. You regulars can probably tell the story as well as I can but the gist is this. 

Wonder mailed a book from Houston to me in Carolina. She called to tell me to watch for it and expressed how excited she was for me to review the little volume. When I read it, I knew she'd done it again--is there another like her? I think not. She stands alone. The book was a life changer.

The name of the book is Travel Writing and Photography and the authors are Ann & Carl Purcell. We knew nothing about the subject but the book intrigued us. We followed the suggestions to the letter and in a short time, we were freelance journalists publishing articles and photos in numerous newspapers and magazines.

Some of the happiest days of our lives were spent running around the country, documenting our experiences. We'd still be doing it today if not for the shakeup brought to the publishing industry by the World Wide Web.

We had no messages for our readers but we did provide an important service. We helped people plan their next vacation; we introduced people to interesting places and events in their own communities; we brought vicarious travel experiences to people who were unable to travel.

Still, that's not where our work did the most good. Doing the research, writing the articles, and capturing our experiences in photos had a lasting effect on our lives. We've been able to experience so much more of the wonder that's out there in the world. And that has made our personal world a better place to live.

We've stayed close to home most recently, due to unavoidable circumstances. But we’ll be back on the road soon. Everywhere we go and everything we do will be available in our online travel magazine, Carolina Roads. I'll keep you updated here on The Circular Journey.

Until then, happy trails to you.

It's All Relative, Really

I woke to a morning coming down easy, just the way Lionel Richie said it would be. But it wasn't Lionel who woke me, it was Stevie Wonder singing "Overjoyed" on Spotify. I was happy to be up and about and happy to start my daily constitutional before the paying guests arrived. 

I entered the kitchen singing along with Stevie, "... though I doubt that they do, my dreams do come true." I walked to the French window and I threw back the curtains with a flourish. 

The morning sunlight sparkled on the dew-laden lawn like a sky full of stars. Or if you doubt it, then believe me when I say that it did move me to the brink of writing poetry. I confess that even though I haven't written verse since becoming a member of Poets Annonymous, I still sometimes consider it.

Mourning doves lined the fence row. Crows argued over a few tasty morsels. Rabbits frolicked in the grass. And squirrels busied themselves on the fenceposts. 

It may not have been a perfect utopia but it was a reasonable facsimile and close enough to be getting on with.

The squirrel's behavior interested me strangely. I recognized the two pint-sized delinquents as Twizzler and Ziggy. They seemed to be laughing, playing goosey, and pointing my way if it can be called pointing when done by a squirrel.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I realized, pointing or not, that I was not the object of interest. It was Mutter climbing the lanai screen. Again!

There he was hanging in space as it were, staring directly into my eyes with a look that said, "Uh oh, what do I do now?" It didn't require an Einstein to realize that Mutter had been entertaining his two young nephews, probably accepting a dare to climb the screen and allow me to catch him in the act. Typical of their shenanigans.

Now that he'd been caught, he seemed unsure of his next move. As usual, he hadn't thought it through. As soon as our eyes locked, he panicked. He was conflicted about whether to climb up to the roof or jump to the ground.  

In the meantime, Twizzler and Ziggy were enjoying Mutter's distress immensely. Did I say they were enjoying it? I should have said they were overjoyed. Twizzler got such a kick out of it that he fell off the fence.

Meanwhile, Mutter had regained his land legs just in time to see Twizzler laugh himself off the fence. The scales fell from Mutter's eyes and he saw all clearly. It was turning out to be a big day for falling.

Mutter raced across the lawn and up the fence with such intensity, that it left no doubt about his lack of appreciation for the practical joke. He laid into Twizzler like an all-in wrestler and in a split second the younger squirrel was scampering across the fence rail with Mutter inches behind him.

Ziggy seemed to think it was a game of catch-me-if-you-can and he began chasing Mutter. The three of them raced across the top of the fence, then turned the corner and continued to the garden gate. Down the face of the fence they flew and then across a section of lawn that brought them back to where it all started.

They continued to chase each other along that three-fold path. As I watched, it slowly dawned on me that from my vantage point, they were traversing all three dimensions that make up physical reality.  

As I watched their antics, the four of us were, in effect, proving over and over again, Einstein's theory of special relativity.

At this point, you may be asking yourself, 'Has Genome finally come unglued? What the heck does Einstein have to do with this post?'

You're justified in asking those questions, of course. But all I can say in reply is that these mindful quantum moments don't come along every day and when they do, I like to take advantage of them.

For some reason, and I don't know why, but for some reason the ranygazoo in my backyard this morning reminded me of a Carroll Bryant quote. I'd like to paraphrase it here: 

"Some of us make things happen. Some of us watch things happen. And then some of us wonder, What the hell just happened?"

Motion Picture Masterpiece

"Picture's up!"

The announcement got everyone's attention. I had no idea what it meant but it meant something to the film crew. They either returned to their workstations or found a comfortable out-of-the-way spot to spend the next few minutes waiting for someone to yell, 'Cut!'.

It was another beautiful day in Southport, slightly overcast to filter the light and make it better for photography. I was on my way to Fishy Fishy, a popular seafood restaurant located in the yacht basin.

Just for today, the restaurant was no longer Fishy Fishy. It was instead, the production site for the filming of The Waterfront, a new Netflix original television series.

But this post isn't about the television series at all. It's about my lifelong love of film and the people involved in making cene-magic, including actors, directors, screenwriters, and the hundreds of other people whose names may or may not be listed when the credits roll.

"Rolling!" called the production assistants and it suddenly became very quiet on the set. All activity ceased. If anyone spoke it was in whispers. 

From my vantage point near the docks, I could see extras loading crab crates onto a fishing boat. I wasn't able to see the named actors but the action I was watching on the docks was being monitored on laptops by production assistants in the dining area. 

"Cut!" someone yelled and the command was immediately echoed around the set. Activity resumed where it left off.

"Popsicle?" asked a young woman who had shimmered up to me unnoticed. She was handing out the frozen fruit concoctions to crew members enduring a hot and humid morning on location. And now she was offering one to me.

"Oh, no, thank you," I said. "But I appreciate the offer." 

"You're not a crew member are you?" she said.

I admitted that I was not. I'm sure you're surprised by my honesty. It's a blatant violation of my normal method of operation, which, as you well know, is stout denial. But consider this: she was obviously a member of the crew and she knew the answer to her question before asking. 

I've found that in cases where the charge can be proven in court against you, the judge may go easy on you if you enter a simple plea of guilty. I hoped it would prove true this time.

"I came here hoping to video some of the behind-the-scenes action," I said with the most ingratiating smile I could muster. "It's something I do," I said. "Southport is a busy spot for movie and television productions and I like to chase the film crews hoping for juicy tidbits to post on social media."

She nodded as though she'd heard it all before. 

"You don't plan to video any of the actors while they're performing their roles, do you?"

"I'd like to speak to my lawyer," I said. She nodded knowingly.

"Follow me," she said and my heart sank just a little because at that very moment Princess Amy began her rant. I knew you'd get caught, I knew it, I knew it. Now they'll take your name and a photo and you won't be allowed on a film location ever again. 

Amy simply can't get too much drama. She sometimes gets so animated that she becomes dizzy and starts spinning round and round. But you probably knew that about her already.

But hold on. I've crossed the white lines and run into the ditch again. I meant to explain how I came to be here in Southport in the first place.

Driving into Southport this morning I expected my plans for the day to encounter obstacles. I knew that roads were closed in the vicinity of the yacht basin and I knew the directors like to keep traffic and tourists far away from the action to prevent disruptions. 

But I was excited for the opportunity to video in an area so open as the fishing fleet. Film locations are usually closed off and difficult to watch but when located in a marina, half the site is wide open. I felt this would be my best chance to get clear shots of the film crew going about their jobs.  

As mentioned above, roads were closed in the vicinity of the production site, so I walked the last few blocks to the yacht basin. I was immediately disappointed. Two policemen were in front of the makeshift studio to prevent gawkers from loitering around the set. 

I realized that diversion, subterfuge, and misdirection were called for in situations like these. I decided to execute the end-around pattern. The first attempt, around the seafood restaurant, offered no options that didn't involve swimming. I reversed direction and went to the far end of the yacht basin.

Looking back toward the crew's location, I saw a tourist couple walking my way. "Did the policemen give you a hard time when you walked through?" I asked.

"They're keeping people moving," he said and then she said, "And they don't allow photos."

"Do they allow people on the deck where the crew are working?" I asked but I didn't get an answer. A production assistant materialized from a nearby doorway and said, "Can you move farther down the lane, please? Your conversation is disrupting our rehearsal. And, no, you can't take photos."

Well, what could I do? Sometimes the choice is easy only because it's the only choice. The last resort it's called in some circles. My last resort was something my graduate lab manager in college told me about getting into the lab to see the new electron microscope. 

"Just walk into the lab as though you belong there," he said.

I took a deep breath, shook out the willies, and walked straight across the parking lot behind the two policemen. I stepped up onto the deck with all the crew members. I nodded to the two production assistants guarding the entrance and strode into the crew area as though I were an associate producer. No one paid any attention.

I walked straight to the railing overlooking the yacht basin, near the spot where the extras were lined up waiting to be escorted to their on-camera positions.

"Picture's up!" someone yelled and that's where you came into this story. You will remember that a production assistant offered me a popsicle and after determining that I wasn't a member of the crew, she asked me to follow her.

What was I to do? I followed. I noticed that the wire in her ear led to a receiver on her belt. The name 'Vee' was written there. I assumed it was a name. A reasonable thing to assume you think? Leave a comment.

Vee stopped for a second to whisper to someone named Jeri--her name was on her receiver too. Jeri nodded after giving me a quick glance, and then, to my surprise, Vee didn't escort me off the site. Instead, she led me to an empty table near the one with all the laptops. 

"Here's the deal," she said. "You sit here. Everyone saw me bring you over here so no one's going to ask questions as long as you're quiet and don't call attention to yourself."

"Act as though I belong here," I said.

"That's right," she said. "You can take photos if you want but when you hear someone yell, 'picture's up', put the phone down. No more photos until you hear someone yell, 'cut'. Got it?"

"Got it."

She turned to walk away but stopped, turned around, and came back to my table.

"Here," she said giving me a bottle of water. "You'll need it if you're going to hang out in this heat."

"Thanks."

"When you hear PAs call, 'picture's up', you can call it too," she said. You'll also hear them say, 'rolling' and 'cut'. You can repeat those too but be sure to call it as soon as you hear it. If you're late, you'll get some strange looks. OK?"

"Absolutely," I said and before she could turn away I added, "Thank you for allowing me to hang out. This is going to be a day I'll always remember and it'll give me stories to tell for as long as anyone will listen." 

She smiled and as she walked away, she said, "I know. Enjoy!" 

"Rolling!" yelled a production assistant. 

"Rolling," I yelled along with everyone else. Life is good when the Universe is on your side.

Love A Good Mystery

This morning was another of those near perfect Camelot style mornings in late summer. I was particulary bucked having come off an evening in Southport mingling with the crew on the set of The Waterfront, the newest movie production to be set in that jewel of the Carolina coast.

 

When Irv arrived at Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club, I was reading a book Ms. Wonder had recommended.  She said it would 'do me good'. 

She was on a river tour getting photos for her next art show and I was to meet her at the docks in a couple of hours. I knew she'd expect me to have started the thing by then.

"What'cha reading?" asked the Islander.

"It's a little thing Wonder recommended," I said.

"Trying to improve you," he said. "You could use a little improvement."

I closed the book and was about to respond to that crack about needing improvement. But I gave it a second thought and decided that he was probably right.

Irv turned the book around to better see the cover. "Until the End of Time," he said. "A subject broad and deep. Any good?"

"Is it good?" I said "It's like this."

But I stopped in mid-sentence because I'd suddenly had one of those ideas that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, like the demon king in a Thai water opera.

"I can't give you a better example of what this book is like than by reading a random passage from the book. Listen to this," I said and I opened the book and began to read.

"An essential factor, too, is that there wasn't a single, isolated evolutionary flip-book. Every cell division in every organism occupying every nook and cranny of the planet contributed to the Darwinian narrative. Some of these storylines fizzled. Most added nothing new to the ongoing plot. But some provided unexpected twists that would develop into their own evolutionary flip-book."

I closed the book and sipped my coffee because I thought it might add a bit of gravitas to the occassion. You, of course, might have a different opinion and if you do, please leave a comment.

"I'm sure the author is perfect correct," I said, "but it's a bit heavy to spring on a guy with a morning head."

On hearing those words, his expression turned quizzical and I had the strange feeling that he'd given the next question a lot of thought and had wanted to ask it for a while. I don't know why I had that feeling. Just a passing fancy, you think?

"Why you?" he said. "I mean why does she try to mold you?"

"It's no mystery," I said. "She sees promise in me. She wants to bring me up to her level mentally. She does her best too, but I'm more of a physical operator than mental, if you follow me."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "I've always said that the difference in your mental and physical makeup is that  physically, you have substance."

"And you're wrong about it not being a mystery," he said. "Everyone agrees that trying to improve you is contrary to her normally astute and insightful manner."

"There is no mystery!" I said and I said it with feeling. "She believes in me because I try hard to please. And who the hell do you mean when you say everyone?"

His brow furrowed once more as though he were deep in thought but I didn't fall for it. He's never been more than ankle-deep in thought as long as I've known him.

"Hmmm," he said, "no I don't think it's because you try hard but I do love a good mystery and I'm going to analyze the thing further until I find the solution." 

"For the last time, there is no mystery!"

Irv opened his mouth to reply but what he actually said was, "Oh, here she is now."

And despite my doubts that even a woman with her powers could materialize on Castle Street when she was supposed to be on the Riverwalk, Irv was right. There she was.

I wanted to ask how she did it. She makes a habit of shimmering in and out of places. That's where the real mystery lies, if you ask me. But before I could ask, she glanced at the book and her face suddenly took on the look of a vegetarian who had just been served a leg of lamb.

"I read your manuscript on the boat," she said, "and you haven't even started the book I suggested for you."

"I don't understand you," I said. "How can you say I haven't started it. Here it is and you can see by the bookmark that I've read the first several chapters."

"What's the title of that book," she said.

"Until the End of Time," I said holding the book up for her to see.

"And which book did I recommend?" she said.

I looked at the book again as if I expected to find the answer to her question on the cover.

"Not Until the End of Time?" I said.

"I recommended, From Here to Eternity," she said.

Once more I looked at the book in my hands.

"They're close," I said. "A mistake anyone could have made."

"You see," said Irv, "an intriguing mystery. I'm going to enjoy working on this one but it's plain to see that if it's to be solved I'll need the help of all the others."

Something Fresh

The sunshine of a fair summer morning fell graciously on Wilmawood. All along the downtown business district its heartening warmth infused traffic and pedestrians alike with a live and let-live mood. A light, carefree morning.

Bus drivers courteously eased out into traffic when pulling away from the curb. Policemen whistled happy tunes as they patrolled their beats. Dogs pranced ahead of their humans greeting all the passersby with a friendly tail wag.

Of all the spots in Wilmawood, that rise from Riverwalk to the heights of mid-town, none are more deserving of being described as a downtown Camelot.

At precisely nine o'clock the door of 601 Castle Street opened and the Claudia and Lupe duo steeped into Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club. They were there to meet me.

"Lupe," I said getting right down to it without so much as one word of preamble, I've finally opened that gate and stepped out onto the yellow brick road. I'm on my way to the Emerald City. Nothing can stop me now."

"Watch out for flying monkeys," she said.

"Pay no attention to monkeys," I said, "nor torpedoes for that matter. It's full speed ahead for me."

There was a moment of silence when I expected a reply. I decided to fill it.

"My mom lived in the Emerald City for a while," I said.

"Don't get sidetracked," Lupe said. "Why are you so happy?"

I'm an optimist, Lupe," I said. "Always have been."

"Not really," she said.

"The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare about it always being darkest before the storm."

"The dawn," she said.

"I'm sorry," I said, "what did you say?"

"It's darkest before the dawn," she said. "And it wasn't Shakespeare."

"There's always a silver lining," I said. "and whatever you lose on the backswing, you make up on the followthrough."

"I couldn't say," she said.

"No matter, my friend," I said. "The point is that yesterday I was a mug expecting to get it in the neck and today I'm walking on the clouds and sitting on a rainbow and I'm singing while the sunbeams light up the sky."

"I have no idea what you're going on about," she said.

Did I mention that Claudia was with us? She was. I looked at her to get her thoughts.

"Don't look at me," she said.

"Doesn't matter," I said. "I've taken my problem to a higher power and that H.P. has come up with a plan."

"He's talking about Ms. Wonder," Lupe told Claudia.

"What a woman," I said. "What a brain. It must be all the fish she eats. Omega 3 oils and whatnot."

"Possibly," said Claudia.

"It's wild-caught Alaskan chinook," I said.

"I doubt it's the fish," said Lupe.

"You may be right," I said. "I remember her saying once that her mother thought she was a bright child. Perhaps she's just one of the gifted few."

"What about the Emerald City?" said Claudia.

"Yeah," said Lupe.

"Hang onto your hats, girls," I said. "I'm going to publish The Circular Journey in book form."

"Wait a sec," said Lupe. "I thought it was going to be adapted for the stage."

"And don't call us, girls," said Claudia.

"Is that it?" said Lupe. "A book."

"Yes, a book," I said. "And before we get our knickers in a wad, perhaps I should open the curtains and let you get a look of the man working the machinery."

"Not just any book. It's my book. The off-broadway boys want me to make changes and wholesale changes at that. But I'm not that kind of writer. I don't have any particular message that I'm trying to broadcast to the world.

"I just like creating a world where I feel safe and entertained. I'm still plugging away at it and haven't run into any messages yet. It looks as though unless I'm suddenly struck with a spiritual mission, humanity will remain a message short.

"Still, despite our ups and downs--I'm speaking of the two of you--we've somehow become pals. I see you as cute and funny, even though Lupe has a hot temper and a short fuse. And you two agree that I'm looney to the eyebrows. It all works out. Everything's nice and matey."

They looked at each other and then beamed a great big grin of agreement at me.

"Good," I said. "Let's keep it that way."

Make It So

The day began in the usual way. Up early with words to write, as if words could make right the muddle of the heart. Oh, sorry. I've jumped the rails. Came close to writing poetry there for a second. 

Good thing I caught myself in time. I sometimes think I can get away with it just one last time but then it always snags me. One is all it takes as the man said.

As I was saying, nothing unusual about the start of the morning. But that's a recurring theme with me, isn't it? There's never a warning about things to come. 

What I should have said at the beginning of this post is that I'd just gotten off the phone when Ms. Wonder came into my little corner of the world.

"Was that you're agent on the phone just now?" she said.

"It was," I said still in wonder of it all.

"Well, what's the news?" she said. "I can tell by that look on your face that something's up? You look like, the heroine of Israel? What's her name?"

"You're thinking of Jael," I said. "the wife of Heber. Do I look that happy?"

"You do," she said, "but I don't remember what she did exactly."

"She hammered a tent stake into the head of Israel's enemy while he was sleeping on her couch," I explained.

Hearing my words, her brow wrinkled and her eyes looked just a little worried.

"Let's pass over all that," she said. "Just tell me what your agent said."

"You're not going to believe it," I said.

"Don't tell me they're still talking about adapting your blog for the stage," she said.

"Nothing to do with that old gag," I said. "You see it's like this."

And then I told her the whole story about the Baptist deacon in Charlotte who found his daughter reading my blog and decided to read a few random posts to make sure it was up to snuff. He didn't like it. He spoke to his pastor who phoned the Wilma News. 

"Oh no!" she said.

"Apparently the religion columnist reviewed my blog in the current edition. He described my work using adjectives that I find harsh and reactionary and Fox News worthy.”

"Genome!" she said. "This is terrible. What will you do?"

"I suppose an honorable man like myself should write the columnist and thank him. You see since the article came out, The Circular Journey has received more followers than the previous all-time total."

"Ohhhhh," she said.

"Yes," I said. "My agent called to let me know that a couple of studios are considering bringing the blog to a larger audience."

"Larger audience?"

"That's right," I said. "A Wilmawood production."

"Genome?" she said.

"Yes?" I said.

“You’ll lose your anonymity.”

“You mean people will know my true identity. Yes I see. Something to consider for sure. Still, it’s not like I’m in the witness protection program.”

“Aren’t you? But never mind that. My question is can we do the same for my art?"

"All things are possible for those who believe," I said and I thought it pretty cool. Still do. Quotable I think.

“Let’s generate some scandalous scuttlebutt about your art.”

“Data,” she said, “engage!”

The Summer Wind

Waterford was basking in the comforting warmth of a late summer morning. The skies were uniformly blue and the sunshine uniformly cheery. V-shaped depressions might be throwing their weight around in other areas along the coast but here the barometer enjoyed a zen-like repose.

Along the canals, bluebirds were singing some of the classic tunes from the 40's and 50's. The fruit of palmetto palms flashed in the sun like orange pearls. The late azaleas shone in the early morning sun like jewels. The lagoons shimmered like liquid silver. And the ducks. Well, the ducks were like ducks. 

Cooling summer breezes came drifting in from across the sea and the entire world seemed new underneath the blue umbrella sky. It was a good day to be alive and I felt it.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway in the direction of the sanctum that I'm sure you know well by now. "Poopsie, I feel good." There was no answer. Probably on an international call. That's where I usually find her.

I got upholstered in the outerwear of a coastal gentleman because today was the day I was to meet my new dermatologist. Before you go off the deep end, let me explain. It wasn't a doctor's appointment that had me bucked. It was an opportunity to explore an unfamiliar district of Wilma. Always a pleasure.

It was the work of an instant for me to crank the self-starter in Wynd Horse and virtually fly down Grandiflora and across the Cape Fear River to Wrightsville Beach. I refer to the town and not to the boardwalk. The boardwalk I'm familiar with already. Who isn't?

The derma office was a pleasant enough place. There was a passing annoyance of the urge to cough too much in the waiting room but I fought it down with a swig of organic, refined guava syrup. I know! Guava syrup! Who'd have guessed it was the coffee sweetener provided for clients?

The coughing fit was alleviated somewhat when my attention was captured by the office terrier, who insisted on getting scratched behind the ears. That's right! A dog in the office. This place was beginning to be as entertaining as the boardwalk. And it was just the beginning.

In minutes, I was escorted to the examing room where the doctor introduced herself and her office attire was the biggest surprise of the day. Instead of the usual lab smock or scrubs that one usually sees in healthcare services, she was dressed like a golfer on her way to an early tee time. Come to think of it, no reason why she shouldn't have a date with girlfriends to get in a quick nine or even eighteen before lunch.

The doctor was very efficient but personable and after a few comments about the top of the scalp, the right ear, and the left shoulder, she wrote a script and I was on my way. The day had begun perfectly and I was ready to enjoy a beautiful afternoon. I toyed with the idea of motoring down to Ocean Isle.

Back on the road listening to Frank Sinatra singing Summer Wind, my attention was again diverted. This time it was a voice in my head.

"Genome," said the voice, and I'm sure it's one as familiar to you as to me. 

"Genome, that spot on your ear," she said.

"What about it?" I said and I put a lot of topspin on it because I wanted it to sting. The very idea, I thought, of my own limbic system working against me when I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

"What if it's cancer?" she said. "It could be cancer."

"It's not cancer," I said. "It's nothing."

"It might be," she said, "and she's going to remove that spot on your scalp when you come back in October. What's that going to be like? You'll probably need to wear a hat for who knows how long."

"No big deal," I said. "My mom had those things removed all the time."

"Yeah, and the healing process was ugly. You don't need any more unpleasant-looking spots."

"Go away," I said. The conversation was bringing me down and I resented her messing with my head.

"At least she'll freeze the top of your head," she said. "That'll be a good thing."

"Why do you say it will be good?"

"Well, having your head frozen can only improve things for you," she said.

That was the last straw. I refused to respond to any more of her comments even though the comments kept coming until I got home.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway. "Something terrible has happened.”

"What's wrong?" she said coming down the stairs to console me if consoling was needed.

"What did the doctor say?" she said. "Did she find something wrong?"

"It's not the doctor," I said. "It's Princess Amy. She's back."

Squirrel Neighbors

We have a squirrel living with us at 2222 Forest Lane. When I say 'living with us,' I mean that he resides in the trees overshadowing our fence row. You could say he lives in the guest house if a tree can be a guest house.

I know that Mutter, that's the name I gave him, Mutter doesn't consider his home a guest house. He probably sees me as an intruder. I’m sure when our house was built, he must have watched the construction and complained to his spouse about the intrusion.

Every time I step outside to feed the birds—and, yes, the squirrels too, and I use the plural form because there are several living close to us. As I was about to say, I see him perched on the fence, or gliding through the branches, or scolding me from somewhere in the foliage. He makes it clear that he doesn't approve of my nearness to his home. And who can blame him, really?

One evening I saw him sitting on the fencerow that separates my backyard from his bit of woodland. He seemed to be watching me watching him. He wore a look that expressed his dissatisfaction, or perhaps his suspicion that I was up to no good. I know that he suspects me, much like the efficient Baxter, Lord Emsworth's secretary, suspects everyone.

If the previous paragraph got past you like a fastball, don't worry because just as the man wrote in his letter, now we see through a glass, darkly, but then all will be revealed. Not a direct quote but you get the gist I think.

 

Watching him through the French windows of the lanai, I didn't immediately realize that his friend and cohort in mischief was climbing the screen of the lanai. That's right! I don't exaggerate when I say that Breezer, the friend, was clinging to the screen about eight feet off the ground.

This was simply over the line. Too much! I'm completely sympathetic to the disappointment and perhaps even chagrin of the original inhabitants of 2222 Forest Lane, Waterford, but the present behavior was a hair short of breaking and entering. I couldn't have it.

I mean consider the birds. They live here too and that's a documented fact that can be proven in court. They don't hold a grudge. We all live in harmony. I feed them twice daily and in return, they sing and fly about bringing sweetness and light. In fact, several birds were feeding along the fence even as I watched Breezer climb the screen.

I waved my arms in the air to let the miscreant know that his behavior was unacceptable. Nothing, he simply looked at me as if to say, Yeah, what're you going to do about it? I realized then that steps would have to be taken. I moved close to the French windows and said, "Don't make me open this door...do not make me. I will open this door."

Still nothing. Probably because the door was closed and he couldn't hear me. Still, I repeated it with increased volume, cadence, rhythm, and inflection to make sure it was recognized as a dire warning. You know, like my parents used to do. 

"Don't make me open this door."

Nothing. Not an iota of change in the goings-on.

There was nothing else to do. I opened the door. It was like Gabriel had sounded the coming of Judgement Day. The crows launched themselves into the air in all directions. The doves and songbirds seemed unsure about what action they should take, if any, but it was a different matter altogether with the squirrels.

The crow evacuation was a noisy one and at the sound, the squirrels froze in place, like the sassy little peasant children you read about in fairy tales who get uppity with a wizard and then find themselves unable to move. They stared at each other as if to say, What now?

I stepped onto the lanai. Breezer dropped onto the ground and scampered toward the fence. Mutter launched himself into the foliage and began cruising through the branches.

In hindsight, the whole thing was like the behavior you might expect from those workers of iniquity made famous in that New York Times best-selling book.

From the lanai, I scanned the yard and saw that Mutter had stopped on a branch that gave him a clear view of me and the backyard. Breezer had climbed to the top of the fence where he stopped to look my way again.

Realizing that they were a safe distance from me and had succeeded in annoying me more than a little, they couldn't resist self-satisfied flicks of tails and expressions that told me they were full of themselves. 

"Mission accomplished," they seemed to say.

I suppose this means we may never be friends. Not real friends. Because making friends takes time and effort on both sides. But I'll keep trying. Maybe one day.