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?"

Mom's Book of Death

'Poopsie,' I said. 'You remember Mom's Big Book of Death, right?'

Apparently, she didn't because instead of a nod or some verbal reply she simply raised the right eyebrow and looked at me with a stoic expression. Is that the phrase I want; stoic expression I mean? Meaning that she doesn't show what she's feeling.

'Oh, you know,' I said. 'It's a notebook where she wrote the names and dates of the recently departed.'

'But it was also an address book,' she said. 'She kept phone numbers and mailing addresses there too. If I remember correctly, she also kept stuff like her medical appointments, verses of scripture, and other notes. I wouldn't call it a book of death. Maybe a personal organizer.'

'Why do you take these things away from me?' I asked. 'I come in here with something interesting to talk about and you turn the unique into the mundane. Maybe you'd like to hear about my latest flea bite. I've been bitten so many times I may develop superpowers.'

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Did I take something away? I didn't mean to and I assure you that I don't want to hear about flea bites. Do remember to spray yourself when you rescue stray dogs, I don't want you to bring fleas back into our house for the cats to deal with.'

'I'm being lectured now,' I said. 'I think I'll forget the Book of Death for now and go for a drive along the seaside.' 

'Yes, do,' she said. 'Do go for a drive. That will make you feel better but first, tell me all about the death book. I want to hear from start to finish. Don't leave out any details, no matter how small. I'll bet you hold me spellbound.'

'That's better,' I said. 'The right tone and attitude. I can imagine Josephine saying something similar to Napoleon. But first, it's not the death book, it's the Big Book of Death. It's important to get these things right.' 

'Of course,' she said.

But wait. It occurs to me that you may not have read the blog post entitled, Work in Progress, so let me provide a little background. My mom was the keeper of the Big Book of Death until her own passing a few years ago. 

As soon as Mom learned of the passing of a friend, a family member, or a celebrity, she wrote the person's name and the date in the book. I put the book in a safe place after Mom's passing. Click on the link below if you want to read the first post, but not now for heaven's sake. Read this one first.

'I wondered what happened to that book,' she said. 'I haven't seen it in a while.' 

'I haven't even thought of it for a long while,' I said, 'but April is the birthday month of Mom and my sister, Delores. It's the month my sister died too. I suppose my thinking of the book is related to all that. Just guessing of course. There's really no way to explain the workings of my brain.'

'At any rate, the thought that came to me was that I should write my mom's name and date of death on the last page of the book. Sort of making the whole thing complete, if you see what I mean.'

'Good idea,' she said.

I thought it a good idea to so when I got back home that day, I took the book down from its shelf and turned to the last page. Imagine my surprise when I found a note that my mom had written for me on that page. She must have expected me to do exactly what I had decided to do and then find the message.

She wrote, 'Won't it be wonderful over there, having no burdens to bear, and especially when Genome and family get there.' 

So there you have it. My mom's last message to me. I suppose it can be summed up in, Hurry up and get over here. And that makes me think of that previous post where I record my conversation with Death, himself. Click here to read it: Work in Progress

Back to the Island

Something there is that calls us back to the island of Ocean Isle repeatedly. I've loved her from the first time I saw her. I don't know what set her apart from all the others. It may have been her name; the words Ocean Isle conjures images of a tropical paradise. It may have been the sound of the surf rolling in as the sun sinks into the sea, or it may have been the soft whispers of the evening breezes.

And why shouldn’t this coastal paradise call to us? The island has everything we need for a day trip or extended vacation. There are lots of sun, sand, and surfable waves, and the boardwalks allow me to cross the dunes without disturbing them. I especially like that.

The thing I like most about the island is that everything I want or need is never too far from the sea—things like icy drinks and shrimp burgers and coffee—especially coffee because no matter how much sand I have in my shoes, nor how much salt I have in my t-shirt, I can’t pass up a cup of the steaming.

As satisfying as it is to have the best things of life right across the street from the Atlantic, it gets even better than that here at OIB. The multicolored sunshine logo on the Sunset Slush pushcarts comes out onto the beach every day bringing Italian ices in a wide variety of flavors. That’s right—they bring the stuff to you, my friend, and they are as dependable as caffeine.

The town of Ocean Isle is big enough to offer outstanding summertime diversions too—like the free outdoor movies on Wednesday evenings and the free outdoor concerts in the park on Fridays. Large enough to provide all that and yet small enough that it doesn’t get in the way—plenty of room for everybody.

Considering everything Ocean Isle offers, I have to wonder why it's routinely overlooked by the big media outlets when they rank the best Carolina beaches. I rate it the number one beach in Carolina—North and South.

But regardless of what draws us here, we are drawn, and the time comes when we simply must go back. We came back this time to search for photographic opportunities to illustrate a travel piece destined for publication in Carolina Roads Magazine.

It was an early August morning and we'd stopped at Lowe's Foods on the mainland for some reason that I've forgotten now. I'd never noticed it before but there at the end of the sidewalk was an inviting little spot named OIB Surf & Java Cafe. I know! Surfing and coffee as if they belonged together.  

Oh sure, I’d seen these little coffee shops everywhere along the Carolina coast. Some of them were pleasant surprises but most were just another bean grinder—good for a cup of the needful but one was as good as another. I wasn’t expecting much from a bean trader located in a strip center. Still, it was early morning and I felt in need of the medium dose for an average adult.

I opened the front door and the instant I stepped inside, my low-level expectations were replaced by a completely satisfying sight that seemed to drop softly through the air like the gentle rain from heaven.

I stared in amazement, speech taken from my lips by a sharp intake of breath. It may not have been the perfect coffee shop, because none of my friends were there waiting for me, but it was close enough to perfect to be getting on with. 

"Good morning," called the barista, "What can I get started for you?"

Whatever it was that she might start for me was destined to remain a mystery for the moment, because this pleasant surprise had taken me by storm, and my system needed time to adjust.

I looked around the room cautiously, expecting at any moment for the place to revert to what I’d expected before opening the door. What I saw were stylish, yet comfortable chairs surrounded by potted palms. I saw surfboards, and wet suits, and a year’s worth of The Surfers Journal. I even saw ukuleles. Yes, that’s right.

Ms. Wonder and I wandered around the place, taking it all in, and making a few photos as we went. Eventually, we found ourselves back at the starting point. We ordered coffee but I couldn't stop looking at the muffins. I don't eat muffins but I ate those muffins.

Eventually, the time was past for living in a dream world and it was time to go back to the island. As we left the cafe, I remember thinking that this place was too good to be true and I wondered if it would still be here when we came this way again. Like Brigadoon, perhaps it appears once in a while and can’t be found except on one special day of the year.

You remember Brigadoon, don't you? It's a musical about a village in Scotland that appears for only 1 day every 100 years. Tommy, the American tourist falls in love with Fiona who lives in the village. Everyone knows that story. You may have performed the role of Tommy or Fiona in your high school production. 

At the end of the day, we sat alone on the beach near the pier, where we enjoyed a Sunset Slush while we watched the sun go down, and listened to the sea roll in, and heard the night birds cry. 

Eventually, the time came to say goodbye and as we drove across the bridge back to the mainland, I thought of OIB Surf & Java. Was it still there I wondered? Or had it disappeared like Brigadoon? As we neared Lowe’s Foods, I fought the urge to turn into the center. I lost the fight.

Surprisingly the coffee shop was still there. Still, I reasoned, several hours remained in the day and it might yet disappear under cover of night. I'll update you with the latest when we come back to the island.

Charleston Memories

 I woke up in Charleston this morning! Yes, I know, it surprised me too--not a little. But then I don't have to tell you. You'd be surprised too if you opened your morning window and, instead of seeing Curtis pulling weeds from his front lawn, you saw instead the Ashley River pouring 100,000 gallons of water into Charleston harbor every damned minute.

Once I got over the shock and realized that the sky was Carolina blue, the sun was on the job, and the bluebird was doing business at the usual stand, I decided to phone Ms Wonder, just to let her know what had happened. After all, I thought, it's the preux chevalier thing to do. I refer, of course, to the gallant knight and not the racing horse that won so much acclaim on the track in Australia in the mid-1980s. I may be in mid-season form but I'm not up to that.

After receiving Wonder's blessing, I spent the morning sauntering around the historic district, and you know what? It wasn't all bad.

I walked down narrow little streets that look like they're from an earlier era, and I think it's not too far out to think that they are. Cobblestone alleyways lay hidden until I almost stepped on them, then they threw off the whiskers and pounced. I couldn't escape them! They led into alluring interiors, embowered, if that's the word, on both sides by large, potted tropical plants. I wanted to go there and often did.

Many of them led to beautiful old doors and windows in the most unlikely places. One set of beautiful d's and w's led to a little sandwich shop. Of course, I didn't go in. Sorry. If I'd known you'd be interested, I would have entered and sampled the wares. I did go into the Night Lights coffee emporium. I recommend it. Nice art in the privy but no hand towels, just really nice art. Seems a waste now that I think about it. It was really a nice cut-paper representation of Picasso's Guernica! Shame really but best not to think about it I suppose. I mean I had to wash and dry, didn't I?

On this day in Charleston, I've learned a valuable life lesson. I've learned that cobblestones are not level, not ordered, and not boring. Cobblestones can't be walked without paying attention to what you're doing and where you're going, and that's a good thing. Keeps you in the moment. If I lived here I'd walk them every morning as a mindful exercise right after qigong. And if Wonder has her way, I may be waking up here often in the near future.

If I wake up here tomorrow... but no, best not to think of the future. It's enough just to make a shadow on King Street today.

What To Do?

This morning, after the initial 12-point inspection and servicing of the feline members of the household, I sat on the screened porch and watched the squirrel circus performing acrobatics on the bird feeders. These cirque d'écureuils performances put me in a happy mood on most days. Today was not one of them.

Is it possible to get too much of a good thing? As illogical as it sounds, I'm convinced that it's true. In fact, that's the situation I find myself in. You don't need to be reminded that we recently moved to Wilmawood from Durham. The news has surely lost its savor by now. 

When I say "we" moved, I'm talking about Ms. Wonder, three cats, and me. Sorry, I can't leave it at three cats, I must tell you who they are, reading from left to right, Beignet, Sagi, and Uma Maya. 

So what's the problem, you probably wonder. It's too much of a good thing; that's the problem. Don't roll your eyes like that. Too much of a good thing is not only possible, it's also common. Too much pie, too much alcohol, too much sun, shall I go on? I didn't think so.

But too much of what I hear you asking. Wilma has 12 different districts to explore and each of them is filled with delights that demand attention. Then there's the seaside. The port city alone has 3 beaches and within a 30-minute drive, there are 3 more to the east and another 3 to the west. 

See the problem now? I have work to do and I can't be traipsing around every day having fun in the sun but how, I ask you, how can I resign myself to working at home and missing out on all the exploring. 

Now you're asking yourself a different question--why, you're wondering haven't I taken up the issue with Ms. Wonder, the go-to gal for all perplexing problems. She knows everything, of course, and always has a ready solution.

Well, I did take it up with her and she wasn't helpful. I don't mean that she was stumped. No, she was up to her neck in a soup cooked up by her employer, which I will not name. They do much good in the world and they try hard. They really do. We must value that hard work.

Now, when Wonder isn't available, I usually find inspiration in the lives of historical figures of great renown. Napoleon would have done whatever he wanted, of course, but that sounds more than a little self-centered and quite risky. Now I think about it, considering Moscow and Cairo and whatnot, perhaps it's time to take Napoleon off the list of historical F's of great R.

Catherine the Great would have chosen a path that would benefit the most people. Women always seem to have a more balanced and sensible approach to life's moments, don't they? Now let me think; benefits the most people. What could that be?

So you see my point. What to do? I'd phone you and ask for your opinion but I'm sure that you're quite busy this Wednesday afternoon. 

Let me give it a bit more thought and I'll get back to you. I'll give you an update on that Napoleon question too. Turns out the squirrels have gotten a second wind and they're quite entertaining. Enjoy the day.