Beginning the Day

Well, you must begin somewhere, of course. So each morning when the sun peeks over the horizon, Ms. Wonder wakes me for our walk. I never want to get up that early, always feeling the need for an extra bit of what I've heard described as nature's sweet restorer.

I know she gets me up early because it's good for me. And she always knows what's best in any situation. So when she says, get up, I untangle myself from the sheets and exchange pajamas for Arctic outerwear. 

When the walk is over, my head is filled with thoughts of steaming cups of bohea made just the way I like it. After feeding the animals, I navigate to that spot where everyone knows my name. The barista will deliver my coffee in a cup with "Have a great day, Genome!" written on the side.

I had no more than shoved my nose past the front door of the Renaissance Cafe and Bean Bar this morning when I was hailed by Vinnie, also known as The Enforcer. I changed course to shake hands, slap backs, and get the pourparlers out of the way when I was hailed again.

"On your left," said the Duck Man, who had sneaked in behind me, and I moved aside to give him free access to the smartphone scanner at the order here spot.

The Duck Man sometimes passes without attention due to an unfortunate hallucination that he is actually sane, but the duck that sits on his baseball cap gives him away. The duck is not a plush toy but an actual Merganser. It acts as a sort of GPS to guide him around innocent bystanders without attracting the police.

Those outside the Inner Circle consider Vinnie to be our group leader, possibly due to his size, vocality, and whatnot. But a true democracy exists in our gathering, with everyone providing opinions and suggestions, and no one paying attention.  

The Enforcer is one of three regulars who clump together in our corner of the cafe. He's most often found in the company of Island Irv and the Genome.  

Irv has the unusual habit of disappearing when he stops talking. Ms. Wonder assures me that he merely "seems" to vanish, but I've tested her theory and found it lacking. I'm not sure what it lacks, but it lacks something. I'm sure he uses false bottoms and mirrors to accomplish the feat, although he denies knowing anything about it.  

It's a diverse group united in a single accord between 7:00 and 8:30 AM. The tie that binds them has three knots: a shared social outlook that includes equal and compassionate treatment for all; a disdain for anything that can be defined as work; and a firm conviction that dogs really can talk and have something important to teach us.

I took a seat between the Duck Man and Island Irv. Duck Man was complaining about the barista telling him he couldn't bring the duck into the cafe, and he, for the hundredth time, explained that it's a companion duck.

"What a curse these social distractions are," said Irv. "They ought to be abolished."

"You think banishing ducks from cafes is a social distraction?" I asked.

"Well, I'm sure Karl Marx would have something to say about it," he said.

You may think it strange when I say that conversations like this are predictable for this group. And as incredible as it may sound, someone in the group usually falls victim to an attack of poetry. The poems often include the subject of sunsets and may describe emotions as virulent as a Greek tragedy. 

I once decided to speak out about it and was told my contributions to the morning tete-a-tete were no better. 

When I defended my choice of subjects, I was told something more exciting would be appreciated. The exact words were, maybe I could contribute contemporary news featuring someone like Taylor Swift, or Kyle Richards, or Courtney Stodden.

It happens that I don't keep up with celebrity news, but I did offer a quick little tale full of excitement intended to put them all in their place.

"Yes," said the Duck Man, "I see. Very different from the evenings at home with Morgan Freeman.

Find Bill

While I could not go so far as to describe the heart as leaden, it was definitely short of chirpiness. This can be expected when friends gather at a favorite oasis to browse and sluice, enjoying rain on the roof and warmth in their hearts, and then the time comes to say a biento. You just don't want the good times to end.

                                        Copyright Bill Rasor 2012

This describes perfectly the morning when Ms Wonder and I met Jenny at William's Gourmet Kitchen in the South End. We came together to exchange notes on the status of the upcoming wedding that will irrevocably link Jenny with the affianced Bill. 

You will understand the importance placed on these wedding plans when I tell you that this is not one of those light-weight, flit and sip, summer flirtations but the real forever-after thing. They love!

You may be saying to yourself if you are one of the more observant readers, that I am overlooking the elephant in the kitchen--the absence of any Bill in the proceedings. Where is Wild Bill Hillsborough you might be asking yourself but, if you are one of the Inner Circle, you know that the missing person is spending the weekend in Emerald Isle on the Crystal Coast, just down the Atlantic Ocean a bit from Beaufort, where Ms Wonder and I dealt with the aunts last weekend.

The aunts will not figure largely in Bill's stay because it's not the aunts themselves that matter so much as the courage one brings to them and this Wild B.H. takes a line through Napoleon.

It turns out that my lack of chirpiness was not due to the habit Bill has of materializing everywhere in the state of North Carolina where I am not. No, the disturbance that led to the v-shaped depressions, if disturbances do lead anywhere, was the appearance in the footlights of Princess Amy, that holdover from the Paleolithic who has the habit of making an ass of herself when she stops going to meetings and gets off her meds.

Not to worry, however, this Amy is not the menace she once was. Fierce QiGong has given me the necessary cosh for whacking her like a game of whack-a-mole every time she pops up for another go. And so I say, "Not today, Amy." Today I will be free from the limitations of yesterday.

That brunch was a good example of the principle that there is more good than bad in each moment. There was, in fact, more Wonder and Jenny present than there was absence of Bills. But he was still missed sorely! Hurry home, Bill.

Joy Reigns Supreme

Another morning that dawned bright and clear, at least I suppose it did, I wasn't actually among those present at the time. But when I did come to life all nature was smiling. 

Uma, Queen of Cats, who had been working on her twelve hours of shut-eye on the night table next to me, did a sitting high jump onto my lap so as to miss nothing that I might do. Her arrival caused me to sit upright in the bed, mindful of a profound serenity.

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm mindful of a profound serenity." The words were wasted because she was already in the salle de bains.

I remember thinking how odd it was that everything seemed so oojah-cum-spiff. Just this past weekend, we visited my favorite spot on the NC coast, where the wind-bent maritime forest comes right down to the sea, and the wild ponies run free, with absolutely nothing between you, as you stand in the breakers, and the Gold Coast of Africa. 

As I was saying, despite being in that perfect locale, I was deep in the soup and it was about to close over my head. It was that damned tiger/goat thing, and if you didn't happen to read that one, don't worry about it, these postings are not cumulative.

The short of it is that I visited my favorite place at the coast in order to build my confidence for the showdown with the aunts. Useless of course. It's pointless to argue with someone who was at your side all through your childhood because they know what a priceless ass you were then and will have no intention of listening to anything you may say.

Consequently, it was with heart bowed down with weight of woe that I drove back to Durham from Beaufort, that's bow-furt in North Carolina. Bew-furt lies in our southern sister state. 

I remember Ms Wonder saying to me once something about the heavy and the weary weight of this unintelligible world. It was some drivel written by a bird named Wordsworth, if that's his real name. Anyway, the quote seemed to me a good description of the depression I felt coming on.

When all else fails, I fall back on my luck star, or guardian angel if you prefer, or even totem spirit. I've lost count of the number of times I've been walking toward the tumbrel, like all those aristocrats in the French désagrément, when a governor's reprieve arrived, releasing me without a stain.

"Wonder!" I said, when she shimmered back into the room, "I'm mindful of a profound serenity."

"Joy reigns supreme?" she said.

"Very well put," I said, "but I don't understand how it could be. A few days ago, hell's foundations were doing the adagio and this morning--all bluebirds and rainbows."

"Fate's happenstance may oft win more than toil," she said.

"Oh, that's good," I said, "Shakespeare?"

"No," she said with a smile not unlike the one nature wore, "Bertie Wooster."

"Nunnh-uhh," I said, but it was uttered too late for she reentered the bath and left me alone with my tea and Uma the Queen of Cats. Given the circumstances, I decided my best course of action was to accept her word for it and get on with my day.

It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I don't remember a sharper. This morning, however, the sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

It was the foster kitten, Eddy, who had been working on his stalking skills and killer instinct. Unfortunately, he's hanging at the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat dressed in formal wear and known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. Not an easy feat when starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye while digging his front paws into the duvet with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please capture your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by and summon the U. S. Marines for aid and comfort in times of trial.

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

I thought about pointing out that technically she was not asleep but decided to give it a miss. At that moment I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, who is an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"It's just that I'm remembering the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

It occurred to me that prompt steps through the proper channels were called for. But it's never that easy, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect.

Well, that's where I found myself. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I wonder if the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak applies here? Quite possibly, but I'm jumping the rails again.

What I'm trying to say is that it wasn't easy to act. I'd rather go back to sleep. But after those moments of hesitation,  I threw the coverlets back, which I might mention caused it to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

I gathered Eddy as he turned to flee and I decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can take care of ourselves but consider what might happen if one of the cleaning crew, exhausted from working her two jobs each day, stretched out on the bed to shut her eyes for a spell. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Ms Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and soon after the sound of running water, similar to a waterfall filled the silence.

Uma Maya the brindled little Empress of Chatsford was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. 

Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, what next? Abbie was absent but I expected he could be found in his usual spot for this time of morning, atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." Fortunately for me, they have all provided just what I needed in the fullness of time.

The Crystal Coast Affair

After the thing was over and we were on our way safely back to Durham, I admitted to Ms Wonder that I had come that close to losing faith in my lucky star.

"It was a bit thick," she said and I realized that she was still not fully comfortable with what my biographers will probably call, The Crystal Coast Affair.

But hold on, you may not be in possession of the details. You're aware, I hope, that Ms Wonder and I spent a long weekend on the coast. Well, the first afternoon in our room on Atlantic Beach, I donned the knee-length footer bags and held two shirts in front of me, reflected in the mirror, first the one, then the other.

"Well, Wonder, you haven't told me what you think," I said.

"The blue one," she said.

I turned around to give her a sustained look and I meant it to sting. She knew I wasn't talking about shirts. During the walk through the sand dunes from the beach, I'd presented the facts concerning my Aunt Maggie's freshly laid bombshell. I did so hoping that she, Ms Wonder that is, would find the formula to prevent Hell's foundations cracking.

"I'm not talking about shirts, Wonder! It's bigger things--things of a life altering scale. Things like those dark storm clouds that have been stirred up by the latest goings-on."

The reference was to my aunt's recent disclosure of tigers living the lives of goats. You remember that episode. If not, then be aware that it apparently isn't good for tiger kittens to live like goats. Causes confusion and anxiety, and it really gives adult tigers a case of the hips!

"Not my problem," she said.

I groaned a hollow one and climbed into the shirt with difficulty, as though the limbs had been left overnight in the vegetable bin. Even though my guiding motto is "live life on life's terms," I wasn't ready to give up on Ms Wonder's practical magic.

"Poopsie."

"Still here."

"It could be that you don't have enough detail. I provided only the merest outline earlier, as we strolled through those remnants of Atlantis, and you were no doubt preoccupied with thoughts of sea oats or morning glory blossoms." 

Suddenly, as it sometimes happens, I was struck by a brilliant idea. "I know what," I said, "let's try the Hercule Peirot method of marshaling all the motives, opportunities and whatnot.

"Sure," she said.

"Number one," I began, "I've adopted the life style of Fierce Qigong and adopted it forcefully. Don't you agree?"

"Sure."

"And I've given up the food stuffs that promote the cortical steroids,  and fan the flames of inflammation. Not that I'm complaining about the food I eat. But now this! As if it isn't enough to ask a lover of baseball to give up hot dogs--now I'm faced with this tiger and goat scenario. Truly, Wonder, don't you see that I'm neck deep in the soup?"

"Disturbing," she said.

I stared at her. After all these years dealing with the inhabitants of that looney bin that I call the ancestral home in Deep River Village, did she not see the peril that loomed? Was it possible, I wondered, that this particular species of Lucille, was in fact, only the spectral body of Ms Wonder and not the real thing?

"Disturbing? You'd go that far would you?" I said.

She pushed out the lips, rolled the eyes toward the upper right hand corner, raised the eyebrows half an inch and shrugged. It wasn't a lot but I was prepared to take what I could get. My advisors tell me that when you have things going your way, it's best not to get greedy but let momentum build on its own. I waited to see what more she might say.

"That's an evening shirt," she said.

"Well, it is 4:00 in the afternoon," I pointed out, "and it will be evening when we get back to the room."

"But it's only 4:00 in the afternoon," she said, "and it will barely be evening when we get back."

I mused on this and had to admit she had a talking point. I shrugged off the shirt and slid into the blue one. Somehow the thoughts of having to change my life to measure up to duty, responsibility and whatnot began to fade in the background.

"Sometimes I wonder if shirts really matter, Poopsie."

"It's a temporary feeling," she said, "It will pass," she said.

"Don't they all," I said.