Never Felt So Alive

"How was your massage?"

The words surprised me because I didn't realize that anyone else was in the house. It was Ms. Wonder, of course, but she's normally not home so early in the afternoon.

"Oh, you're here, are you?" I said. How often do we say things like that and then immediately wish that we'd thought of something better? One day I'm going to memorize a handful of zippy comebacks so that I can be a little more interesting when someone puts me on the spot.

"I take it the massage was unremarkable," she said.

"Not at all," I said. 'It was an incredible massage."

"Incredible? An incredible massage? Do tell, please."

"Oh, you're going to hear more," I said, "and you'll hear it now. It was life-changing."

"A massage? Life-changing!"

I walked to the doorway because I wanted to see her face when I told her about my transformation, and there's no other word for it, it was transformative.

"I am a new man, Poopsie," I said.

"You don't look different," she said.

"But I feel different," I said. "In fact, reborn!"

No reply from the Wonder but both eyebrows raised to full limit and the eyes...oh those green eyes.

"I walked into that massage studio like a man on a wire," I said.

"You mean a bird on a wire," she said.

"I mean like a man walking a high wire," I said. "A man who knows that one little mistake will land him in the soup, and not just any soup, onion soup."

"You hate onion soup," she said. "Got more than enough onion soup in the army."

"One of many things I had too much of while being all that I could be," I said. "But I strode out of that studio...is studio the word?"

"Massage studio or massage parlor," she said. "I believe that either is correct. But you strode out. You didn't walk out on a wire."

"I strode, Poopsie, like a man sure of himself."

"Not full of himself?" she said.

"Sure of himself," I said" And although I was aware of her testing the puppet strings, I decided to give it a miss. "I was the man who needs no safety net," I said. "I never felt so alive."

"You've got my attention," she said. "Enough build-up, let's have the goods."

"Well," I said, "It's like this...

Amber worked her magic beginning at the neck and shoulder," I said.

"Amber isn't her real name," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "These massage therapists never use their real names."

"Like pole dancers never use the name that could be used as proof against them in court," she said.

"I don't know what that means," I said, "but I'm not going to take the bait. Let's get back to the incredible massage."

"As she worked a particularly tight spot in the shoulder, I winced with the pain. It was a hot, searing pain. Then at the lower spine, I winced again. The pain was loud and exploding. At the back of my thigh, I winced so tightly, I thought my eyelids might be stuck permanently. It was a big day for wincing."

"But then we got to the left calf muscle. Oh, that left calf..."

"Not the fatted calf," she said.

"Once again, Wonder, I will not fall for your attempts at misdirection. The pain in that calf muscle was so intense that it served the same purpose as the sacrificial calf, offered up to guarantee the answer to my prayers."

"Did you breathe into the pain," she asked and I was happy to know that she remembered those meditation classes that I taught so many years ago.

"I breathed into it and I breathed through it," I said. "I redirected the focus of the mind to fill up some of the bandwidth and hopefully negate some of the pain."

"And did it help?"

"The pain increased," I said. "I broke out in a cold sweat. My fists were clenched and my knuckles were white. I saw exploding stars!"

"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "Did you make a wish?"

Right about now, dear reader, you're probably wondering how I was able to stay focused when my Number One was offering up these verbal roadblocks, but to my credit, and you would have been proud of me if you'd been there, I ignored her remark and continued with my story.

"Suddenly, I was in a dark tunnel, floating alone in the void. Then a blinding white light appeared in the distance."

"You had a near-death experience," she said. "Did you see the spirits of a dear departed loved one?"

"At that moment, I thought I was a dear departed loved one," I said.

"Did you cry out?" she said.

"A Genome never cries out," Wonder. "We are men of steel. Departed or not. But no, the pain left as suddenly as it came. But one millisecond more and I wouldn't be here to tell the story."

"Now I understand," she said. "You strode out a changed man--a man transformed--because we never feel so alive as when we are face-to-face with death. Incredible!"

"That's what I said. Do you remember the last time I came face to face with D?" I asked. Now it was her turn to ignore me.

"Will you make another appointment with Amber?" she said.

"Not in this life, Poopsie, not in this life; once is enough."

"Wise choice, I think," she said. "Nothing to gain. You've won that contest. Why risk it with a return visit? Thank you for sharing that with me."

"It was a reminder for us all if we choose to accept it, that life comes hard and fast," I said, " and we must always be ready for what comes our way."

"Ain't that the truth!" she said.

The Invitation

The door to the sal de bains opened and she emerged like Venus rising from the sea. 

"Is it morning already?" I said. 

"It's afternoon," she said. "You were napping, remember?"

"Oh, yes, of course," I said. "But why is it so gray outside?"

"There was a brief shower," she said, "but it's hot outside and there's a heavy mist. Summertime at the coast is a season of sultry mistiness."

"A season of what?"

"Sultry mistiness," she said.

"Well, we are at the coast, of course," I said, "and I'm not yet attuned to the weather patterns, which are much different from that of the steppes of the Carolina Triangle. But I'll have to take your word for the sultry mistiness."

She shrugged but made not a peep.

"I'm moving slowly this afternoon, Poopsie. Sagi kept me up 'till all hours last night."

I referred to the cat; the caramel-colored tabby who is addicted to rolls of paper and sometimes finds dispensers of paper towels or toilet tissue to be so tempting as to overpower his will. He backslid last night. Not the first time.

"Let me get you one of my pick-me-ups," she said. "I have one prepared in the fridge."

After tossing the concoction down the hatch and recovering from the momentary feeling that the head was going to explode, I felt much better and ready for whatever the day might bring.

"Any recent developments to attend to?" I said.

"Lupe texted to say that you're needed in the Cove. She didn't offer any details as to why."

"They never do, Poopsie. They know I avoid the place due to my allergic reaction to it."

"You're allergic to Crystal Cove? she said.

"I am," I said. "The air there seems to be filled with some dark matter or other that clings to me until reaching critical mass when there's a loud pop and bits of the fabric of reality fill the air like confetti. And somehow, everyone points the finger at me."

The remark earned me another of her patented looks but I chose to ignore it. I felt a strong need for a seltzer to equalize the effect of that elixir of hers. These things lift one's spirits to the sticking point making an impression on the willpower that suggests anything is possible. But they also suggest that one has experienced the impossible. I prefer to dilute them as soon as they've worked their wonders.

When Reason was restored to her throne, I realized that as much as I wanted to ignore the summons, it came from my favorite denizen of Crystal Cove, Lupe, my god-niece. She sent the request and you know as well as I that I have no choice but to comply.

I'll leave tonight and contact you tomorrow when I learn the reason for the invitation. Something to set hell's foundations shaking I imagine.

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?"

Coastal Camelot

Morning comes early in Southport, North Carolina. You're probably thinking that it comes early where you live too, but let me tell you, there is far more to the morning here than you can imagine.

On a clear day in this small seaside village on the edge of the Atlantic, the dawning begins with a rosy glow that gradually becomes a golden curtain draped over the horizon. Then, as if on cue, the curtain opens to reveal that familiar old ball of gas in his most pleasing aspect of Monarch of the Heavens.

Reminiscent of that perfect original garden.

Soon after sunrise, the morning clouds gather in the east, puffy and white, to soften the morning light. The day’s unfolding is reflected on the serene surface of the Atlantic Ocean—the surf calmed by numerous barrier islands. It's all very much like Camelot in the way it resembles perfection.

This morning opened with a show so grand and so majestic that I found myself questioning Mr. Priddy’s sixth-grade lesson about the earth’s rotation causing the sunrise. Surely, I thought, gazing at this glorious beginning of the day, only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could put on such a spectacle.

Each evening, just about the dinner hour, clouds gather on the western horizon, and the sea breeze grows even more refreshing. People gather to stroll along the waterfront—some playing with children, some walking with dogs, and some arm-in-arm with lovers.

The mystique is irresistible.

Little streams of people begin to pool outside popular spots like Fishy Fishy Cafe, Southport Provision Company, and Port City Java. And of course, people gather wherever the movie du jour is being filmed. 

The charm of Southport is so alluring that there's always a movie or television series being filmed here. It's not unusual for two or three projects to shoot concurrently in this charming community.

We arrived at the Yacht Basin early hoping to claim the best vantage point to watch the filming of “The Waterfront,” a new television series slated for release in 2025. 

While many visitors hope to catch a glimpse of the stars of the show, we came for the behind-the-scenes excitement—the flawlessly orchestrated hustle of the production crew is a spectacle in itself.

The docks of the Yacht Basin have been converted to serve as a film set but all was quiet when we got there. We soon discovered why. The action of the moment was taking place behind us. 

An ocean-going freighter had entered the Cape Fear River, and the harbor pilot was climbing a rope ladder to board the ship and guide it into the Port of Wilmington. Not even a movie production can compete for attention with a scene like that. 

“Picture’s up!" yelled the movie wrangler, calling our attention back to the set in time to see the extras go into action

“Rolling!” Called the principal cameraman, and men began loading crab crates onto fishing boats. An actor dressed in a deputy sheriff’s uniform strode through the maze of cameras and onto the set. 

Cut!" yelled the First Assistant Director, and the command echoed around the set. The fishermen began removing and restacking the crab crates for the next take. 

One of the visitors in the crowd said to his companion, “This is some serious acting.”

"Hmmm," I said to Ms. Wonder, and I emphasized the statement with a raised eyebrow. She raised an eyebrow of her own to indicate that she shared my opinion of the spurious review.

"Cart's here!” she suddenly exclaimed, and I didn’t need to ask what she meant. We hurried to the loading zone to board the touring cart for the next excursion through all of Southport’s most popular destinations.

Time moves more slowly in Southport.

In a world where everything is constantly changing, Southport offers a comforting sameness. And there's no better way to experience how dependable the town can be than by joining the one-of-a-kind tour that is Southport Fun Tours.

Dan Guetschow, affectionately known as “The Rev.” conducts the tours and regales his passengers with tales ranging from local history to local gossip. Dan earned his nickname while playing guitar with the Boz Skaggs band. I know—Boz Skaggs! It’s little surprises like this that make Southport feel even more magical. 

Later in the evening, Ms. Wonder and I strolled along the saltwater marsh on our way back from the yacht basin. A line dance of pelicans passed overhead, playing follow the leader. The first bird glided to the right, and one by one, the others followed. The leader moved back to the left, and the rest followed suit. The aerial waltz was repeated several times until the birds were out of sight.

The perfect spot for happily ever after-ing.

The music of Jimmy Buffett drifted up from Southport Provisions cafe while we searched for the best spot to photograph the sunset. We met a local native enjoying the evening in the company of her Scottish terrier. I nodded as we passed.

"Crabs are out," she said, and she said it with authority.

"Ah," I said after searching the data banks and failing to find an appropriate reply. My subconscious, working in the background, continued to puzzle over her words. Before I could think of a satisfactory response, she spoke again.

“Big blow coming,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the evening clouds.

I smiled to myself, knowing full well that it never rains ‘till after sundown in Camelot. This time I had the perfect comeback—bright, optimistic, and cheerful.

"Stay dry," I said to her in my friendliest tone, and I felt pretty full of myself too. 

"Didn't say rain," she corrected. "Wind!"

"Ah," I said again, and I consoled myself for that second blunder by reminding myself that, in short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for happily-ever-after than here in the coastal Camelot that is Southport.

The Remedy

I deftly rolled to the left and dislodged a pod of sleeping cats, making it possible to retrieve the phone from the bedside table. It was six o'clock.

"Good evening, Ms. Wonder," I said.

"Good morning," she said.

This surprised me. Thinking back, I was sure that I had taken a nap right after dinner.

"Are you sure," I said. "It seems dark outside."

"The skies are overcast this morning. It's supposed to rain all day."

This disappointed me. What's the point of the mild winters in the mid-Atlantic states if every day is dark and gray? How does one maintain a stiff upper lip and a calm mind when it's cloudy all the time?

"Poopsie, I think we've had enough cloud cover for one month, don't you? I don't like the way I feel when the sun refuses to shine. I think even the bluebird cries in her beer at Mattie B's."

"It may be seasonal affective disorder," she said. "Many people suffer from it in winter, especially now during the most depressing days of the year."

"I don't see what's more depressing about this time of year over any other," I said. "I keep a calendar of depressing days and I've found that I'm pretty much affectively disordered throughout the whole damn year."

"You may not be aware of the formula for determining the most depressing day of the year," she said. "It uses factors for weather plus the amount of debt you've accumulated and multiplies that by the days since Christmas raised to the power of the days since you've failed your first New Year resolution. "

"Poopsie," I said.

"That value is divided by the product of your motivational level multiplied by the critical level of your need to take action," she continued. "The result gives you the exact date of the most depressing day of the year."

Don't you find it annoying when someone is dumping more information than you can bear and then fails to abate the nuisance when you try to change the subject? Well, I do and it occurred to me that I don't have to allow it.

"Well, let me tell you something that you may not be aware of," I said. "I majored in math at MTSU and, although I did not excel in my studies, I know that anyone who works out a formula like that cannot help but experience a disordered seasonal affect."

"Effect is the correct word," she said, "meaning result or consequence. Affect conveys the idea of an influence or control over something."

"Thank you, Poopsie," I said. "Something you bumped up against in the last few days?"

"Yep," she said, "but you must admit the words are easily confused."

"It's just too much, Ms. Wonder," I said, getting back to the point, "too much to deal with this morning. You're sure it's morning are you?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to hit the reset button and go back to bed."

"I thought you might feel that way. You will find one of my pick-me-ups on the table in the insulated mug."

I looked and by a strange coincidence, she was right. "Ah, thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

I bunged the tissue restorer down the hatch and waited for the usual unpleasantness to pass. As expected, the top of the skull ricocheted off the ceiling, the eyeballs popped out and rolled around the floor, with Eddy and Abbie chasing after. 

Once retrieved and replaced properly, I felt that I could face the day. I'm not sure of the exact ingredients of her special concoction but I'm sure there's Blenheim's Ginger Ale in the mix.

I took a deep breath. "I am powerful," I said to no one in particular. I took a second breath. "Life is good." I took a third breath. "I am enough for today."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "life comes hard and fast but today I am ready for anything."

"That's great," she said, "I knew you'd feel better and that's why I don't hesitate to point out that you have 6 messages waiting for you on your phone. I heard the alerts."

Normally, this news would give me the bum's rush but with the recent tissue restorer doing its best, I felt that I could handle anything that Life cared to bung my way.

"Fierce Qi Gong, Poopsie!" I said.

"Fierce Qi Gong," she said.

Write is Might

"Ms Wonder, I've just had the most marvelous revelation. I'm sure I don't need to explain the true nature of life to you, so let me get right down to the nub," I said as she emerged from the garage with her arms full of boxes. 

Wonder's Photography sold to benefit Independent Animal Rescue

"Here, hold this," she said as she shoved one of the larger ones in my direction. It was disconcerting, it was diverting, and it certainly wasn't the response I was looking for.

"You could probably teach me a thing or two about life," I said, I hoped it help me avoid her attempt to derail my thoughts with those cardboard containers.

"Hold this," she repeated and I realized that I hadn't avoided anything. This time I responded by taking the box from her arms, but not with any real chirpiness.

"This box is empty," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I just now came from the Lighting Gallery," she said.

This got right past me. I felt a chill all along the dorsal fin. I live in fear that one day her perfect brain will come unhinged and I will be back where I started--standing on the shoulder of the road in the rain. Could this be the day I wondered?

"What gallery is that?" I asked.  

"I delivered some of my art prints to that lighting gallery on Highway 70 in Raleigh. I told you about it," she said. 

"Ah," I said. Not my best retort but I take pride in the fact that I do not mislead my audience and 'Ah' is just what I said.

"Still," I continued, in an attempt to get back on track, "I feel compelled to remind you that the foolishness we know as daily life sometimes comes slowly, and when it does come slowly, its impact is soft and gentle like the easy dawning of a Sunday morning."

"Easy like Sunday morning," she said. I don't know why. She just did. Just a whim do you think? I thought about asking her what she meant but realized, in the nick of time, that she was attempting to cherry-bomb my fruit punch again. She's done it before. Enjoys it, if you want my opinion.

"But it's been my experience," I continued, "that more often than not, life comes fast and strikes us squarely between the eyes, like the baseball you didn't keep your eye on. It's coming hard and fast like that this morning."

She gave me a searching look, at least I think that's what it was--searching. You know that look where the eyes move to the right and then to the left, scanning the map as it were. Gave me the feeling that perhaps I'd finally gotten her attention and that something good was coming. I was right. She let the boxes in her arms drop to the floor. I liked that. It was time, I reasoned, to begin weaving my web around her.

"There is much to do when your passion is writing," I said, and you surely know how good it felt to be talking about writing and not about lighting galleries. And if you're concerned that Ms. Wonder missed her day in the sun with art prints and whatnot, don't worry. We got back to that as soon as I had satisfied Princess Amy that the sky wasn't falling. If you haven't met Amy,  you'll want to ask one of the regulars to tell you about her.

Having gotten Ms. Wonder back on the topic of writing, I continued. "Oh sure, it looks easy. You're probably asking yourself, What's so hard about it? Where's the difficulty in putting a bunch of words together to make sentences and then group them into a paragraph or two? After all, Shakespeare did it with one hand tied behind his back and look at the drivel he sold."

"What a minute," she said. "Do you actually think that Shakespeare slapped onto the page anything that popped into his mind?"

"Please," I said. "Have you really read his stuff?" I waved my hand in the air. "All silliness and nonsense, if you ask me," I said, "but then what do you expect from someone who roamed the countryside stealing ducks?"

"Stealing ducks?" Her brow furrowed and then she asked, "Are you thinking of the stories about Shakespeare poaching deer in the Charlecote Park?"

"Let's not heap more coals on Shakespeare," I said and I thought it a pretty good comeback. "The supporters of the Earl of Oxford and Sir Francis Bacon do enough coal-heaping. No, let's talk about life and the fiend hiding in the bushes that we call Fate. The one that smacks us upside the head when we're looking the other way."

"What about it?" she said.

"What about it? Wonder, you amaze me! Do you know that more than half the time, when we aren't paying attention, our minds are wandering from pillar to post? Thoughts just rise up from the deep at random. It could be something from a Lovecraft story. Something about Thul-hu perhaps."

"Cthulhu," she said, which shot far over my head, again. 

"Ka-thoo-loo?" I said.

"That's right. Not pronounced the way you'd think."

"Thank God," I said. "But are you sure of the pronunciation?"

"Positive," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I asked.

She waved her hand in the air far more vigorously than the effort I made with mine. "And besides, I don't see a problem with daydreaming", she said. "Some researchers think it's therapeutic. And besides,  I think you're delusional."

"Not daydreaming," I said. "I'm talking about idle fretting and worrying that we fall into when we're not paying attention." 

But, truth to tell, I was beginning to get her drift that somehow, somewhere between there and here, I'd lost my way. But you know how it is when you find yourself in such a predicament, you have no choice but to soldier on and try to make some sense of it.

"Half the time we worry about the future or replay uncomfortable memories of the past," I said. "Fair warning, Ms. Wonder, idle minds are the enemy."

I thought that last remark might grab her attention but she only gave me another of her patented looks. This one was more serious than the last. Her eyes weren't actually rolling from earth to heaven but they were in a fine frenzy to find a comfortable spot to rest.

"Not buying it?" I said.

"Nope," she said. 

"I'm out of practice," I said.

"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," she said.

"Would it help my argument if I brought in something about Napoleon? Perhaps found a way to introduce Catherine the Great?"

"I think not," she said.

"Cocker Spaniels?" I asked. She shook her head.

"How about something with elves and dragons?" I said.

"Possibly," she said. "Elves and dragons would make it more interesting but I'm not sure it would strengthen the argument."

"Well, you would know," I said. "I'll work on it and get back to you. But it may take some time. I feel as though I need to start all over again." 

Go On Then!

I enjoy long road trips, as a general rule, but we all have our limit. Mine is a high threshold--perhaps higher than yours-- but still. Life can be enjoyable outside the front seat of a touring vehicle. You may have to look for it, but it can be found.

For those of us who crave the experience of hands on the wheel and the open road before us, the realization that we've had enough comes when we're usually about 20 miles or more from civilization.

So it was after many miles of driving from Natchez, Mississippi to Alexandria, Louisiana that I discovered I didn't like blue sky, green fields and puffy white clouds as much as when I started out. I'd had enough. I tried to apply the healing balm of music to the tired spirit and it did help for a while.

Now, when I'm listening to music in my car, I'm not simply singing along with the lead singer, I become the lead singer. First I was Mick Jaeger and after that George Harrison. I was getting into the role of Graham Nash when suddenly, out of the blue, I was struck with that feeling one sometimes gets that I was going to die in about five minutes if I didn't get out of that car.

It was at that very moment I saw him, or her, lying on his or her back by the side of the road, legs all wiggly and neck craning to make sense of an upside world. It was a familiar sight, one that makes you question intelligent design, if you follow my meaning. A home on your back is all well and good but if you can't right yourself when overturned, well, I'll risk getting wet in the rain thank you.

I whisked by at high speed and was at least a mile or two away when all the details fell into place in my mind, if any, and I turned round and drove back slowly. I found him again about 50 yards from a country church with empty parking lot. Serendipitous, if that's the word. I parked Wind Horse in the church parking lot and took a bottle of water out of my pack, for it was a hot day and no way to know how long this tortoise, if that's what he was, had been lying there viewing the world upside down. Or she.

When I arrived, she pulled his head in, which any turtle rescuer knows is a good sign. I turned him over and his head retreated completely into the recreational vehicle he/she wore. I picked him up carefully and crossed the highway, knowing that he was intent on moving in the direction that his head was pointing. If I hadn't helped her cross the road, she would have continued from where I found her, which meant she would end up like all the others of her kind that lay on the shoulders of the highway in a more or less smashed condition. I placed her, right side up, in a drainage ditch and gave her a dousing with the bottled water.

Having performed my spiritual duty, I headed down the shoulder of the road back to my car and I found that this Good Samaritan effort had energized me. The spirit soared. I am not allowed to actually run anymore due to a silly misunderstanding between my immune system and my spine, but I think it's fair to say that I jogged back to my car with head high and a tra la la on my lips.

It was at about that time, after commending my soul to God and preparing to slip back into the car and out onto the highway that I heard a voice coming from the vicinity of the church.

"Hey," said the voice and I turned to see a rather unfriendly looking man, about the tonnage of Willie Robertson and wearing a beaver on his face very much like the one Willie sports. He must be a member of the Duck community, I said to myself. I watched him scurry toward me from across the parking lot and realized, not without a little dread, that he was carrying, which I believe is the term for being armed with a lethal weapon.

His weapon, if that's what it was, wasn't concealed in the manner of the responsible family man, as I believe these gun-slingers like to phrase it, but revealed openly in a way that said this fellow chose to live and die by the second commandment. No, not commandment, I mean to say second amendment.

As it turned out, his concern was that I could possibly be the perpetrator of vandalism that visited the church a few days prior. I suppose it was my out-of-state license plates that stirred him up so. These rural inhabitants are distrustful of anyone of unknown parentage. It seems outsiders are always roving into the community and causing trouble. I'm sure you've noticed that yourself.

At any rate, even though the fellow questioned me while sucking on the muzzle of his pistol, it was just a slight distraction for the Genome and having shown him my ID to confirm that I was neither undocumented nor blacklisted, I proceeded on to Houston.

It was amazing how much bluer the sky and fluffier the clouds after that little encounter. Not because I'd been able to slip away without the need to talk to the local constabulary but because I knew that somewhere in the marsh a tortoise was telling his buddies about the good Samaritan that happened by at just the right time. And that made all the difference.

Saying Goodbye to Mom

"As-salamu alaykum," I said to the Music Man who stands at the corner of Highway 55 and Starbucks asking for money and orange juice.

"W'a alaykum assalaam," he replied giving me a big wave of the hand and a bigger grin. There is a good chance we actually used the common tongue in our greeting because someone in the car behind me was insistent on making a left-hand turn and the Music Man and I, as you well know, always strive to spread sweetness and light wherever we may. There was just no time for a miscommunication in Arabic, and as for the French language, as far as I am aware, it isn't on the Music Man's menu.

"How are you making it?" I asked. "Do you have enough water... coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee. What I need is a big orange juice," he said.

I know! Orange juice! But if you are one of the many who hang onto every word I write, which is the minimum requisite for membership in the Inner Circle, then you know all about this Music Man and his fondness for the muck they squeeze from oranges. My father used to say that it takes all kinds to make a world, and I'm thinking he wasn't so far wrong.

"Hang on," I said. "I'll come about." I set the sails on Wind Horse to tack sharply and tied up at the Starbucks in the same slip I'd just left. Taking advantage of the retail systems in place in the Kingdom of the United States, for I lived there many years and am familiar with the procedures, I was able in less than 15 minutes to be sharing the corner once more with the Music Man, and working out the logistics necessary to transfer the tissue restorer, if that orange sludge can be considered a t.r.

The Man, as I'm sure you know, has to bring sharp awareness to the legs to get them moving in the desired direction. He did this now. Then he hooked the walking cane over the arm and reached first for the water, and then for the juice. I pay close attention to his movements because I study the technique of this master of the cane, as I expect to need his skills in the coming years.

"Good move," I said in reference to choosing the water first and my cingulate cortex opened its mouth to say that fruit juice is not a healthy way to get energy. But I decided to give this discussion a miss. Probably not germane to the topic at hand.

"You got to know how to survive in this weather," he said with a great deal of certainty and authority. I nodded as I do each and every time he shares this wisdom with me. I'm grateful to know that he doesn't open up like this to everyone--only the initiated. 

"And the wind chill," I added, noticing that the breeze had gotten up since I left Chatsford Hall only a few minutes before. He nodded and then tilted his head back and poured the contents of the water bottle down the funnel.

"Rem acu tetigisti," he said, although memory tells me that he translated from the Latin in real time. He may actually have said, "You got that right." Then in answer to my unasked question, he said, "I'm doing good." We have the kind of understanding, this Music Man and I, that doesn't always require speech.

"Happy to hear it," I said.

"It takes more than a chilling mist to get me down," he said, "As long as I take my medicine, I can make it--heat, cold, rain, whatever. I came to Durham in 1981 and I worked for many years at Duke Hospital," he said to get things going for this Music Man is practiced at taking advantage of every opportunity to tell a story, "and then I worked in the food-service industry. I'm used to having to work hard. Never had it easy."

Then his face lit up a bit and he asked, "Hey, how's your mom?"

He sees my mom when we come this way to visit the Dollar Tree behind the coffee shop, and he regularly asks about her.

"Thanks for asking," I said and then gave up the bad news that she passed last December. He nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, and that twinkle brought a corresponding twinkle to mine. We began chuckling and then laughed out loud. It wasn't my mom's passing that got us going. It was her often heard lament, brought on by her feeling that she'd lived too long already, that she would, "probably live until Jesus comes back."

After the hearty laugh, we both became silent again. He gave my shoulder a whack, at least I think it was intended to be a whack. It was more of a robust pat, if you get my meaning. His instability, what with the shaky legs and braces and whatnot, prevent him getting in a really good slap.

"I miss my mom," he said. "I was good to her like you were to your mom. I was born Down East and don't know who my real parents were. I was adopted when I was just a baby by a good Christian couple who didn't care about what color a baby's skin was. In those days, most people wanted babies with light complexions. Didn't want babies with dark complexions," he said with a finger pointed toward his cheek."

"I'm glad they found you," I said. "I'd hate to think I'd come here every day without seeing you. Sometimes talking to you is the difference in having a sky filled with clouds or blue skies and sunlight."

He gave me a look and I realized I had not made my meaning clear. "Inside my head," I mean, "cloudy day or sunny day in my head." Then, as if it would clarify things even further, I said, "There's a crazy little princess living in my head and it's her day I'm talking about."

"You better go then," he said, "cause I got enough problems without dealing with no crazy little princess living in somebody's head. Besides, I got music to make."

Oh, Mom, if you're reading this, the Music Man said 'Hello,' and that he will miss seeing you at the Food Lion. I miss seeing you there too. I miss seeing you everywhere. I miss watching Hallmark Christmas movies with you. But just like I promised you, Ms Wonder and I are living happy, joyful and free.

I'm sure we'll be talking more later but right now I have places to go and things to do. In fact, I've got music to make.

Love you, Mom.