My Secret Mission

Some days begin with a bang, which is the way I like to think the Universe will end or, if not the Universe itself, then the end of the Genome. Banging, I mean, not whimpering. Give me a bang over a whimper any day. This particular morning got off to a banging start. It happened like this:

South Durham Renaissance District 

I was on my way to Dulce Cafe, looking forward to a caffe Americano and possibly an apple-walnut muffin. The morning was cool and refreshing and the windows of Wind Horse were down, the music was up, and Billy Squire assured me that everybody wants me. 

One can never be in a dark mood knowing that everyone wants you, of course. The song isn't one of those uplifting tunes that assure you that everything's going to be alright, but somehow, someway, just those words--everybody needs you, everybody wants you, make me feel good. There may be a moral in there somewhere but let's skip it for now.

For no reason in particular, I was thinking of a time, years past, when I'd just completed my duty to keep the western world safe from the Red Menace. We did our duty in those days. It was a way to repay just a little part of the benefits of living in a free world. Not like today when everyone is a hero in uniform. But that's another bit of derailment, what I want to talk about is Rome. I know. You didn't expect that.

My NATO assignment was completed in Stuttgart. If you happen to be American and have never served in the armed forces, let me explain that Stuttgart is a city in Germany. When my assignment was done, I was surprised to hear that I'd been reassigned to Rome. I speak now of the city in Italy, not the one in Georgia. And when I say, Georgia, I mean the one in...oh, never mind. 

I was feeling pretty good about Rome and when my Top Sargent told me that the mission was classified, I was pumped! Can you say, secret mission?

Now, I think I should point out that Master Sergeant Bones--not his real name--didn't actually say the mission was classified. His exact words were that he didn't know what the mission was about. But isn't that how these secret missions are discussed? No one comes right out with the goods. Loose lips and all that.

When I arrived in Rome, the lieutenant there told me that I was the first team member to arrive and that I should hang out somewhere nearby and report in each day. And so, that's how I came to live in Rome, about four blocks from the Spanish Steps, in a day and time when people were allowed to sit right down on the steps without fear of being fined.

Those were my thoughts this morning as I listened to Billy Squire and drew near the intersection where I would turn left. But before I could get into the turning lane, a maniac in a white pickup truck passed me in the turning lane and rocketed through the intersection.

Yes, I'm pretty sure that rocketed is just the word to describe it. As soon as he was past the intersection,  he suddenly made a sharp u-turn, as though remembering an errand and careening up onto two wheels, he came back toward that same intersection.

By that time I was halfway through my turn, which put us on a collision course. Well, you know how it is when two virile men confront each other, one fueled by testosterone, and one driven by a spoiled little brat of a limbic system. Someone's going to be unstoppable and someone's going to be taught a lesson. 

But I've been taught that lesson before, so I told Princess Amy to calm down and I slowed to allow the truck to make the turn.

Now we were driving down Fayetteville Street in single file. I was marshaling my insults and arranging what I hoped would be a withering, if not blistering, verbal attack on the fool. But before I finished the composition, this white-trucking, tattooed, bearded, MAGA-man turned into the Duke Fertility Clinic. 

Apparently, he'd been on his way to Chapel Hill, passed me at the intersection, and then realized at the last moment that the sperm was hot and couldn't be kept waiting. Knowing all that, how could I hold a resentment?

By the time I arrived at Dulce Cafe, I was cool, calm, and ready for my espresso, and besides, everybody wanted me. 

If you aren't familiar with the Market Place district of South Durham, let me explain that it's filled with what passes, in this part of Carolina, for Italian architecture. It's not actually Italian, of course, but it's pleasant enough and it brought Rome back to mind. 

It's not Italian but it's pleasant enough 

At the counter, Delores asked for my order. "Americano," I said. "I know you are," she said. She laughed and immediately, my memories returned to Sant'Eustachio il Caffe in Rome when I would walk up to the counter and say, "americano" and the barista would say, "I know," and all the guys behind the counter would laugh. It happened that way every morning. It never got old. 

Sant'Eustachio il Caffe

The secret NATO mission turned out to be not so secret and not really a mission. I spent several weeks in Italy waiting to hear something but it was a bust. A bust for the army but not for me. That mission turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

Dulce was quiet this morning and I became bored halfway through the coffee. As I drove back past the fertility clinic, I looked for the white truck, but it wasn't there. I guessed that the driver had gone through the drive-thru to make his deposit. 

For some reason, as I considered the fertility clinic, I thought of how I used to sit in Vatican Square and look for nuns wearing unusual habits--unusual to me. Some of them are quite amazing and amusing. 

I don't know why the fertility clinic made me think of the Vatican but it did. Maybe it had something to do with conception. What goes on in that clinic may not be immaculate but at least it's in sterile surroundings. That must count for something.

It was quite a morning--lots of banging--and of course, that's what we prefer, right?

Dark Side is the Fun Side

"Where do you wanna celebrate tonight?" said the Smurfette in the passenger seat. If you haven't been following along, then I should tell you that this Smurfette is my 13-year-old, god-niece, Lupe. 

"Celebrate what?" I said.

"Your first night back in the Village after all that excitement last Christmas," she said.

I gave her one of my patented looks. Wasted on her, of course. She ignores all my looks. Knows me too well.

"First,  you young geezer, I've driven down from Durham today and I've got no energy left for celebrating. Second, I don't respond to references to last Yuletide. It's the dead past and I intend to let it stay dead."

She grew pensive if that's the word, and quiet. She looked down at her hands. I don't know why. A whim? Then her expression changed dramatically. It hotted up.

"What then?" she demanded. "You finally come back for a visit and I get my hopes up that something fun will finally happen in this moldy, old, village, and now you're going to bed. You've gotten old!" 

A moment of silence passed while she waited for the gravitas of her comment to sink in and I waited for... I'm not exactly sure what I waited for. I just waited.

"First, you little goober, you know that every time I come into this blotted village, the earth opens up and swallows me whole and I'm never heard from again."

More silence. She sighed and gazed out the window to keep from looking at me.

"Fine," she said. "But can't we do something tonight--anything?"

"Tales of the Dark Side is on television tonight," I said. "The feature is How to Kill a Vampire. It's a BBC production."

She mused on this morsel and I took it as a good sign. I decided it couldn't hurt to continue with it, "Did you know the best way to rid yourself of a bothersome vampire, is a stake through the heart? The vampire's heart preferably. You could do it the other way but it's a much bigger production." 

Without going into all the details, let me just summarize by saying that any movie with stakes through the heart is right up this little ninja's alley. She gave in without a struggle.

We met in the party room of the Inn of the Three Sisters to watch the movie on the big screen TV. I was relieved to know that my first day back in the village would wrap up neatly without incident.

Ha!

We know, you and I, that it's just when you think all is well and stop looking for it, that the Universe sneaks up behind you and lets you have it behind the ear with a sock full of wet sand. But one can hope.

Lupe and I sat on the floor in front of the TV, a bowl of popcorn between us. Midnight was only minutes away. The movie began at 11:30 so we'd already learned of the vampire, although we hadn't yet been introduced. And we'd learned that the townsfolk had resolved to rid themselves of the thing. Or rather, the local doctor was cajoled into doing it.

The doctor and one unfortunate villager had entered the old mansion on the hill and had descended into the cellar. It was a silly thing to do, of course, but they did it even though Lupe and I were telling them, No, no, you stupid twerps!

There was no light in the cellar, other than the single candle the accomplice carried. Now when I say cellar, I mean just that. This was no self-respecting basement with recessed lighting, a second fridge, and beanbag toss. This was a dark, damp, rat-infested, cellar. And it had a casket in the middle of the room with a vampire in it. 

We learned that the vampire's name was Daisy. Really? Daisy? It's true; I don't make these things up.

The two heroes crept up to the coffin. The doctor pulled a sharpened wooden stake from his coat with his left hand, and then a wooden mallet with his right. The other guy just held the candle. But it wasn't his only purpose; he also opened the lid of the casket.

Inside the coffin, illumined by the candle, lay Daisy, beautiful in her vampire sleep, except for the blood that trickled from the corners of her mouth. The doctor placed the tip of the stake on Daisy's left breast and raised the mallet. Just at that moment Daisy opened her eyes and saw the mallet about to fall. She took it big!

Daisy's mouth opened in what I knew would be a prolonged, unearthly shriek. But that didn't happen. No shriek from Daisy.

At the same instant Daisy opened her mouth, so did Lupe open hers, and although Daisy's scream was stopped short by the stake, Lupe actually did a passing imitation of a prolonged, unearthly shriek. 

Lupe's scream was inches from my ear and the sound of it electrified me. I was moved to action. But there was nothing for me to do except kick the popcorn bowl into the TV screen. I did it expertly.

The noise woke my Aunt Cynthia, whose bedroom was at the top of the stairs, and she shouted to her husband, although there was no reason to shout since he was sleeping next to her, "Paul, wake up and put your pants on! The Lord has come back and Judgement Day is here!"

Well, you can't expect the sleeping members of the household to remain calm with all that going on. And remaining calm is just what they didn't do. 

My grandfather, a veteran of the Great War, had told me the story of the Battle of the Bulge many times. His unit, in preparing for the German onslaught, referred to it as, Judgement Day.

When Grandpa Will, sleeping in a room down the hall from Aunt Cynthia, heard her shouting, he assumed the Nazis had begun the final push, and he immediately took steps to buy time for the allies. 

His service revolver, the one he brought home as a souvenir of the war, was quickly warmed up and he began firing out his bedroom window into the night. I'm not sure what he was shooting at but there you have it.

As you've probably guessed, the gun-play aroused the neighborhood to the man, and to the dog. They took it big too! Men and dogs alike. For their part, the dogs were inspired to create a rousing serenade to serve as a theme song for the on-screen action. 

The men, who were no less hotted up than the dogs, demonstrated their patriotism in this perceived hour of crisis by exercising their Second Amendment rights. The sound of gunfire and barking dogs could be heard as far away as Dallas Bay. 

It took some time for things to settle down. I could still hear sporadic gunfire as late as 2:00 AM. I don't know when it actually stopped. It may have just moved out of hearing and continued to move around the globe like daybreak.

Something resembling calm was eventually restored. Family and guests were returned to their beds. When peace and quiet reigned once again, Lupe and I were raiding the fridge in the main kitchen.

"Wow!" said the shrimp with a mouthful of butter-pecan ice cream. "That was exciting. I don't know when I've had more fun."

"It's certainly been the most eventful summer solstice I can remember," I said.

"Me too," she said. "We've had a few winter solstices that come close." With that comment, a wince creased my face, and a smile that simply could not be held back creased the corners of her mouth. 

I'd gotten a big kick out of the evening, and that's not a reference to the popcorn bowl. I especially enjoyed being interviewed by Constable on Call, Vickie Mason, in her vain attempt to pin the whole ranygazoo on me. It was a refreshing change to have nothing to hide and I was almost looking forward to the rest of my stay.

I decided to give the little Hobbit (Lupe) a pass for that reference to exciting winter solstices.

"We've had some exciting winter solstices," I said to her. "But this one wins the Oscar because it didn't require starting an unfortunate conflagration to burn down the fishing guides dormitory."

I'm Out There, Jerry!

I'm writing a book in which I describe precisely how I have managed to recover from the catastrophe of mood disorder without the use of mood-stabilizing drugs. I'm convinced that the techniques I use will work for anyone willing to use them.

I'm one of the almost 70% of people for whom the drugs just don't work. Through my own efforts to regain control of my life, I have learned that we just don't need drugs to live stable, productive lives.

The problem for me is that I don't know how to write a book. I'm not new to writing, however. I've had more than 80 non-fiction articles published in magazines and newspapers, none of them related to mood disorders. I know how to organize and present information--but only in the short format of magazine and newspaper articles. 

I've found that writing a book is very different. The book I'm writing is a short one but it's still much longer than the 2500 words I write for periodicals. I've been working, on and off, on this book for longer than I care to admit--years--and the draft still isn't complete.

I've learned from past experience to do what others do to overcome similar problems. Sticking with the winners I call it. I recently read Austin Kleon's book, Show Your Work. I highly recommend it to any creative type who struggles to get work noticed.

In that wonderful, little book, Mr. Kleon suggests that if we're in the middle of a project, it's helpful to share through social media about our methods or works in progress. He suggests that we share imperfect and unfinished work that we want feedback on.

"The act of sharing is one of generosity," he says, "you're putting something out there because you think it might be helpful or entertaining to someone on the other side of the screen."

He quotes Bobby Solomon, the man behind The Fox is Black, who said, "Put yourself, and your work, out there every day, and you'll start meeting some amazing people."

This idea frightens me a little. Still, Austin Kleon is someone that I consider a winner, so I've decided to follow his advice and start showing what I've got.

All this talk of "being out there" reminds me of a Seinfeld episode in which Kramer decides that jockey shorts are too confining and boxer shorts are too baggy. 

Well, that leaves only one option, of course, and Jerry, shocked at Kramer's decision says, "Oh no! Tell me it isn't so." 

Kramer responds by saying, "Oh, it's so. I'm out there, Jerry, and I'm loving every minute of it!"

So, with this blog post, I'm announcing that I'm out there!

Laugh It Off

I don't know if you've noticed but from time to time as we slog along in life, moments arise that make a lasting impression. 'There's one for the record books,' you say to yourself and you realize that the memory of it will come back to you at intervals down through the years. 

Sometimes, when your head is on the pillow and your thoughts are becoming soft and mellow, up pops the memory, banishing the Sandman, causing you to leap up with that familiar feeling that you're going to die in about two minutes.

One of those remembered moments occurred to me this morning. It was just as I was wakened by Beignet, the orange and white Ragamuffin, when he decided to lie on my face and all that fur clogging the respiratory system brought immediately to mind… well, on second thought, let's not dwell on it. Too morbid. The point is not the memory itself but the effect it has on the limbic system.

This summer has been one for the record books in its own way. The Genome is a sensitive fellow and, what with one thing and another, he's been filled to overflowing with the cortisols that cause depression. When I say overflowing, I mean that the stuff has been sloshing up against the tonsils like the incoming tide. I just don't have room for any more. Full up!

When the hippocampus retrieved the memory and displayed it on the big screen--I'm not so sure it wasn't in 3D--I leaped out of bed, crossed the room to stand in front of the window in what was for me the work of an instant. I was expecting the restorative of summer morning sunshine of course. No good. It's September 11--a cause for more dark memories but not the ones that were suffocating me at the moment. We are mid-month into autumn, the season of mists and fruitful mellowness, as Ms. Wonder puts it. The sunshine wouldn't reach the high hills behind Chadsford Hall for another 30 minutes.

What one needs in times like these, I don't need to tell you, is a higher power and I looked around for Ms. Wonder but the room, though well-equipped with the usual furnishings--one bed, two dressers, about a dozen cats, was noticeably absent of Wonders--Poopsie or otherwise.

What now? is what I asked myself.

Run faster! came the reply and it was delivered in a panicked tone of voice, if I can call it a voice. The words were made without the benefit of sound waves because it came from the almond-shaped little cluster of brain cells that you may know as the amygdala but I call Princess Amy. "You've got to get away from those memories!" she said.

"Peace, Princess," I said, "be still. There's nothing to be afraid of. I can handle this."

"You?" she said. "You can't deal with something as simple as cat fur. What do you think you're going to do about it?"

It was a good question and I had to admit that she had a talking point about the cat fur. I didn't have a ready answer so I asked her to excuse me while I paced the hallway in thought. It wasn't pleasant in the hallway. Confining for one thing. For another, each time I got a good stride going, I came to the end of the hall and had to turn round and do it all over. Then, as so often happens, an unaffiliated thought led to a serendipitous one and everything changed for the better. Here in a nutshell is what happened.

First, it occurred to me that the office window faces the east and if there is to be sunshine, that's the first place to look for it. I removed myself to the office. Once there, I was surrounded by mountains of thoughts affiliated with my book, Out of the Blue. I'm sure you know what happened next. With that book in mind, all the power principles that make up fierce living presented themselves to me like the fruit in Ms. Wonder's early autumn. There you are then--power principles to keep the blues away. I immediately chose one and put it into action.

"Ha, ha, ha," I said.

"What's wrong with you?" said the princess.

"Hee, hee, hee," I replied.

"Have you dropped off the deep end?" she said.

"Ho, ho, ho," I said and was reminded of good ole St. Nick and all those delightful lies we were told as children. Then I began to laugh in earnest.

"You sound like one of those mad scientists that live in the dungeons of upstate New York castles," said the amygdala. "You should get to a doctor."

By now I felt great. I began to toss about cat toys and laughed just because I felt like it. Beignet and Sagi were doing figure eights at my shins. Abbie was looking at me in saucer-eyed amazement. Uma was racing back and forth from one room to another and Eddy was marching around as though he were in charge of it all.

Now I've come to the reason for this story. You may consider it a warning. If you are enjoying a good bout of deep blue depression and you want to keep it going for a while longer--you may be in a particularly creative mood or perhaps you're preparing for an interview on local radio--for goodness sake don't start laughing. Laughing, even if you don't feel like laughing, will lift you right out of the depths whether you want to be rescued or not.

Flying With A Bent Whangee

"'Good Morning, Poopsie," I said as I entered the sal de ban. I didn't actually see her in all the billowing mist but Uma, the Empress of Chadsford Hall and Queen of Cats, was there on the side of the tub in all her tortoise-shelled glory, and I reasoned that if Uma is present, can Ms. Wonder be far behind.

"Good morning," said a disembodied voice from beyond the curtain of steam.

"What's it like out?" I said.

"Exceptionally clement," she said and I knew that it was going to be a good day if this Poopsie Wonder gave it a good review. A most amazing person, Ms. Wonder. So competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, having a partner like this P. Wonder makes a hell of a difference to a fellow's day.

"Your pilot friend…," she began.

"Bob?" I said.

"Right," she said. "Your pilot friend emailed some information about their flight around the world…"

"The Flight for Life," I said taking care to pronounce the capitals.

"Yes, Flight for Life," she said and I was impressed that she could not only pronounce capital letters but also did a passable job with the italics. "He said they've finished the second leg of the flight and are in Istanbul."

"Ah, Istanbul," I said. "You know Poopsie, I'm in love with the romance of Istanbul. I've never been there but have read so much about it that I feel if I were there, I wouldn't need a map to get around."

"We should go," she said.

"You know best," I said. "If they've arrived in Istanbul, that means they've left Amsterdam, of course. No way to get to Turkey without leaving Amsterdam. And I presume they've been through Paris, at least to stop at a drive-through or two, and then on to, well, on to wherever they've been--Athens, Milan, and Germany of course, although I don't have the exact itinerary in my head."

"They've had quite an exciting time of it," she said and something about the way she left it hanging assured me that there was more to the story.

"Do tell," I said.

"Well, for one thing, while flying to Normandy…" 

"Probably to buzz the bathers on the beaches," I interjected. "That would be a hoot wouldn't it?"

"I seriously doubt they are buzzing anybody," she said. "They strive, I'm sure, to remain focused on their objective."

"Spreading the good word about the work of St. Jude Children's Hospital you mean?"

"Of course," she said. "Members of the flight crew were interviewed on national television in Germany according to your friend..."

"Bob," I said. "Bob Bradley."

"And that kind of attention is paramount to increasing awareness world-wide of the services provided by St. Jude to children with cancer, regardless of a family's ability to pay. It's unheard of in most of the world," she said.

"Yes, you're right again, of course. Flying around the world may sound like a lot of fun on the surface but the Flight for Life crew is engaged in serious business. This isn't just one big adventure for them."

"Oh, they've had some adventure," she said. "They had to make an emergency landing because fuel was spilling from a wing tank."

"Poopsie," I said, "you must have gotten the facts mangled. I knew this was going to happen when you started eating so many salads. You've got to get back on a fish diet before the brain cells atrophy. Fuel doesn't just spill from tanks."

"They lost a fuel cap," she said. "And after landing, the only option they had was to empty the tank and move the fuel to another using a 25 litre jug."

"They didn't enjoy that," I said.

"No, but they expected to have a fuel cap waiting for them in Athens," she said.

"I'll keep my fingers crossed that the rest of the flight is uneventful, but you know how it is, Poopsie, one damned thing after another."

"Yeah, well Bob says that they have another problem now. One of the engines has a bent push rod."

I mused about this for a moment or two because it seemed to me that a bent rod of any sort, push or pull, deserves considerable attention."

"I suppose it's not such a big deal, since they have a spare engine, right?"

"Oh, it's still a problem."

I took a few moments to muse again. It seemed to me, considering this and that, and taking everything into account that these round-the-world flyers do live life to the fullest, if you get my meaning.

"Can't fly with a bent whangee, then?" I said.

"You can fly with one engine," she said, "but if the second engine freezes during takeoff, it could spell disaster."

"It could end up being a stinker you mean?" I said.

"If you're below a thousand feet or so," she said.

"Poopsie," I said, "you do know everything don't you? Admit it. Everything."

"You're sweet," she said, "but you know that's not true. Flying just happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I once took a course in aviation weather and one thing led to another. Remember the time I made aerial photographs of that corn maze from the open cockpit of a 1948 Piper Cub? That was a thrill."

"Say, Poopsie," I said, "I have a tip on a stock that's positioned for a 70% upside. Would you invest in a gold mine?"

"Can't advise it," she said. "The mining sector is not sanguine."

"Yes, I see what you mean. What was it my dad used to say--You can't roller skate with a bent whangee--us that what is was?  At any rate, keep the money in the old oak chest, then?"

"Why not make a donation," she said. "That way you would send some positive energy to the crew of Flight for Life and you would be helping children with cancer to hope for a better future."

"I see what you mean. Support Flight for Life and do some good for children who desperately need it."

"That's right," she said. "Your friend, Bob, says that spreading awareness of St. Jude and the work they do is as important as raising money to pay for the work--still, the money is needed. So, why not make a donation now."

I wasted no time. It was for me the work of an instant to log onto MRI Charitable Foundation and make a contribution. You can do the same.