Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.
But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o
The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.
Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."
The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.
When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.
"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.
"Oh, you startled me," she said.
"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."
"You came to bed late," she said.
"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.
"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."
"That's your view, is it?"
"And the stars," she said.
"What about the stars?"
"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."
I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.
"Poopsie," I said.
"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."
"Poopsie."
Such harmony is in immortal souls..."
"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.
"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.
"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"
"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"
"I've been loonier," I said.
"I'll say," she said.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.
"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."
"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"
"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."
"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."
"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."
"Over it then?" she said.
"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.
"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."
"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.
But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o
The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.
Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."
The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.
When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.
"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.
"Oh, you startled me," she said.
"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."
"You came to bed late," she said.
"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.
"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."
"That's your view, is it?"
"And the stars," she said.
"What about the stars?"
"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."
I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.
"Poopsie," I said.
"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."
"Poopsie."
Such harmony is in immortal souls..."
"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.
"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.
"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"
"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"
"I've been loonier," I said.
"I'll say," she said.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.
"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."
"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"
"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."
"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."
"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."
"Over it then?" she said.
"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.
"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."
"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.