The White Chip

No premonitions of impending doom cast clouds on my serenity as I gazed from the bedroom window out onto the grounds behind Chadsford Hall. The last of the blossoms brought color to the cheeks of the gardens. Yesterday afternoon, as I removed the dead heads of rudbeckia, I saw butterflies flitting about.

I know! Butterflies!

As I say, nothing to warn of disaster to come. Just the honeyed sunshine oozing over the gardens and the terraced hillsides. Just goes to show that Auntie Mabd, the youngest of the Fate Sisters, has a nasty sense of humor. A practical joker with no restrictions and no sense of decency.

You're probably thinking that it's a good thing I was paying attention so as to not be caught off guard. Forewarned is forearmed--is that the term? You are right, as far as it goes, but when Ms. Wonder entered the salon with a sheaf of travel brochures in her hand, I naturally expected the ongoing discussion of the Caribbean cruise to be the source of danger.

I'm amazed at the persistence of this Ms. Wonder in pressing the matter of cruises. You will remember from past postings our discussions of Viking river cruises through Europe. Now her fascination is with excursions to Belize, Honduras, and resorts on the coast of Mexico.

The problem is that once you get started on these cruises, you find that you can't stop. You think you can quit any time you like but then the next thing you know, you're throwing a toothbrush and passport into a plastic bag and heading for the sea. First, it's a ship to Ixtapa Zihuatanejo, then it's a river barge down the Rhein, and the next thing you know, you're on a ferry down the Yangtze from Nanjing to Shangai.

In the matter of cruises, I should be firm, I thought. If I wobble, she will be encouraged and continue to drag in these brightly colored tracts, much like Lucy, the cat brings dead mice to the doorstep even though I make it clear in word and deed that the market for dead mice is sluggish if any.

"Poopsie," I said, assuming the home-field advantage, "do you know what today is?"

"Friday," she said.

"Today is the day Sagi gets his 90-day chip."

"Wow," she said and with this one exclamation, I knew that I had sidestepped the talk of ships and ports-of-call. "Has he been clean for three months?"

"That's right," I said, "our top-ranked caramel-colored tabby has not shredded a single roll of toilet paper since July 18th."

"Oh, that boy!" she said. "Where is he? I'm going to give him a big hug."

It was with her, the work of an instant to be down the stairs and looking for the cat, probably on his favorite cushion in the living room window. He was not there, although I didn't realize it at the time. Not that it would have made a difference. I was bubbling over with joie de vivre resulting from my nimble avoidance of you know what.

I didn't actually utter the words, "Tra-la-la!", but I came about as close as ever. I did a little dance and when I noticed the new roll of the aforementioned paper left on the dresser by Ms. Wonder in her hasty departure, I grabbed the end tissue and gave it a professional yank, like one of those magicians you see in a Myrtle Beach dinner theatre. The sheet should have torn along the perforations and left the roll sitting unmoved on the dresser. But it didn't.

That roll of paper came to life as though I were a switch-throwing Dr. Frankenstein and it was a slab of something dug up the night before. It rose into the air before my eyes, arched over my head, waffled through the doorway, and fell to the floor where it careened off the walls and raced rapidly to the other end of the hallway. It didn't stop until it touched the front paws of Sagi who had been sitting quietly, basking in the morning sun.

Auntie Mabd! The younger of the Fate Sisters. Look at the trouble she causes. Benevolent universe, my left foot. And you can quote me! Not all aunts are bad, of course. My Aunt Mary Magdalene and Aunt Arvazine come to mind as the good deserving type. Still, behind every poor schmuck going down for the third time is an aunt who shoved him into it and it's amazing how often the aunt in question is one of the big three--Mabd, Nemain, or Macha.

It's the same for cats.

There was Sagi, spirit floating gayly along, 90 days clean and sober. Sitting in the hallway, minding his own business. Not a care in the world. Then, out of the blue, blanketing the hallway like a freak snowstorm in hell, and rolling up in his face all cocky and whatnot, comes this tube of maniacal paper.

Sagi looked at it in disbelief, then raised his countenance to me. The look in his eyes seemed to say. You promised me no more than I could bear. But this!

The situation strongly resembled some great moment in Greek tragedy. Not like the thorn in the lion's paw but more like, well, you know those plays where the hero is stepping high, wide and handsome--as I believe the saying goes--completely unaware that Nemesis is following close behind looking for an opportunity to drop a banana peel. This was that.

I could clearly see, looking into Sagi's eyes, that he would be picking up another white chip soon.

You Talking To Me?

"Do you have a moment? I'd like to run something by you."

"You mean now? I'm pretty busy."

This was not the kind of response I expected from a thick-or-thin team member, of which Ms. Wonder was decidedly the number 1 member, and I told her so.

"Lucy," I said.

"Don't call me Lucy."

"I'm not talking about you, I'm talking to you and if you think she would prefer it, I'll say Lupe then."

"Don't call me Lupe either," she said with a grin that told me she didn't pay attention to my opening remarks.

I was beginning to feel abandoned in my time of need and I didn't like it. Here I was, calling for the old rally-round-the-flag spirit and all I was getting was that patented look of hers. 

"Ms. Wonder, I said, "here I am over my head in the soup, in need of sane and sober council, with no one else to turn to..."

"Ok, ok, I'm listening," she said.

Still not the attitude to give aid and comfort but sometimes we must settle for what's at hand, and this seemed to be one of those times. So I got down to it.

"You're aware that I've been struggling with the writing."

"Oh no," she said, not the writing thing again. Can't you just start writing any old thing to get beyond the block? I'm sure I've heard that somewhere."

"Ah, you mean to follow the Shakespeare method? Let me answer that question by saying, just take a look at what it got him."

"Well, yes," she said. "Just take a look."

"My point exactly," I said. 

"No it isn't," she said but I decided to ignore that too. We'd been over this subject repeatedly and I wasn't going to allow her to divert me. I forged ahead (it is 'forged' isn't it?).

"Wonder," I said, "when one is up to the neck in quicksand, struggling seems indicated but, as we've seen in all those jungle movies, struggling never ends well. No, what one needs is a new tactic."

"You have one?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm going to finish those reminiscences of mine." 

"That's not a new tactic," she said. "I thought you were working on that now."

"Yes, but this time, I'm going to write them in the form of blog posts. You see? I enjoy blogging. Especially when I'm writing about myself. Napoleon used to..."

"Wait," she said. "If I'm going to listen to this when I should be upstairs doing what I'm paid to do, then I don't want to hear about Napoleon."

"But, Wonder, it paints and adorns..."

"And nothing about Catherine the Great and nothing about Cocker Spaniels. Somehow you always find a way to include one or more of those three things and I've had enough of them."

"But, Poopsie, consider for just one moment that your carefully laid plans seem to have worked perfectly and you're patting yourself on the back for excellent work. Then consider that you suddenly discover that all your hard work has been scuttled by a surprise act of catastrophic proportions. Naturally, you can't continue with the normal routine. You call the camel drivers and..."

"You're talking about Napoleon in Cairo," she said.

"Well," I said, "he had to have taken it big. Don't you think?"

"I'm going back to work," she said.

Oyster Constitution

'Wonder!' I said. 'It's so good to see you.'

She gave me that look of hers that says, You saw me about an hour ago.

'I know that we had breakfast together; it's just that I seldom see you at this hour of the morning.'

This time her response was to engage in one of those eye-rolling frenzies that I've mentioned so many times before. I considered nicking her for diverting from an appropriate response but decided to let it go. There were more important concerns.

'Wonder,' said, 'My friends seem to agree that I talk too much and it's disturbing because I'm sure I've heard it from reliable sources that listening, not talking, is the way to win friends and influence people.'

'And influencing people is what makes you happy?' she said.

'Why do you think I talk so much if not to influence people?'

'Splain, s'il vous plait,' she said because she's cosmopolitan like that.

'Simple,' I said, 'when I see a situation that demands strong action, I exhort others to take that action and rectify the situation. That requires a lot of speech. Is rectify the correct word?'

'As in to convert alternating current to direct current?' she said and now it was my turn to give her a look.

'Wonder!' I said for the second time that morning.

'Oh, all right,' she said. 'Just a little joke; yes, rectify is the word.' 

'Good,' I said, more than a little pleased with myself because rectify was the word of the day.'

'Why is it important that someone else take action? Why not you?' she said and I almost scoffed; she knows full well that taking action is dangerous for me and innocent bystanders if there are any. But I bottled the scoff just in time. After all, she was only trying to be helpful.

'You know why,' I said, 'but it's nice of you to pretend that you think I'm normal.'

I took a breath and steeled myself to speak of Princess Amy for the first time that day. 

'You will agree that it's dangerous for me to take action in circumstances that I find troubling. You are aware that my limbic system creeps up on me like a favorite cousin, builds my confidence to the sticking point, and then gives me a little shove toward the fray with a sic 'em boy or two. The next thing I know I'm standing in front of the judge who fines me $50.00 and orders me to make restitution for damages.'

'You do remind me of a tank rolling through a minefield,' she said.

'Wonder!' I said. 'You're supposed to be on my side. And besides,' I said becoming a little philosophical, 'Rank is but a penny stamp and a man is a man for all that.'

'Wow! I'm impressed,' she said, with a look that reflected something like pride in her man.

'Not one of mine,' I admitted. 'Just something I heard somewhere and liked so much that I throw it into the conversation now and then. Probably Shakespeare.'

'Burns,' she said.

'Do you think so?' I said, 'My apologies then, Poopsie, I didn't mean to be abrasive.'

'No,' she said, 'the poet, Robert Burns.'

'Oh good lord!' I said. 'Poetry! Thank you for pointing it out. In that case, I'll remove it from the script.'

'I'm sorry if my words were critical before,' she said.

'Not at all, Wonder, I said. 'It's the Genome way, of course, when offered a piece of grit, his oyster constitution goes to work and builds it into a pearl richer than all his tribe.'

'Well put!' she said.

'Fierce Qigong!' I said. 

Do The Bright Thing

Crystal Cove was drowsing in the warmth of a summer afternoon. Heat mist danced across the lawns. The lulling drone of insect wings filled the air. The gracious hour had arrived when all of Nature found a quiet spot in the shade and began daydreaming of something refreshingly cool in an ice-filled tumbler.

Several residents were scattered underneath the sheltering branches of a giant magnolia. My god-niece, Lupe, was among them and she was just the god-niece I was hoping to find.

"This seat taken?" I asked.

"Nope," she said.

A small procession made its way out of the Inn and across the sun-bathed lawn to a spot underneath the big tree. It was led by an aunt carrying a tray of small sandwiches. Following her was another aunt with a small folding table. The third and final aunt carried a tray with a pitcher and several tumblers.

From somewhere far away thunder rolled softly along the horizon. A dark cloud lingered there but it seemed too far away to cause concern.

"What a day," I said. "Seems like a weekend to me."

"Not me," she said.

"Funny how days come with their own unique atmosphere," I said.

"Except for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday," she said. "They all feel the same."

I don't know if you've noticed it, but the attitude of this young geezer seemed to lack the usual sparkle. Lackluster is the way I'd describe it. It troubled me a little. I don't like to see this mood in anyone else but me.

Aunt Cynthia was pouring iced tea into the tumblers and passing them around.

"I hope this rain shower doesn't last too long," said the aunt. 

"Oh," I said, "it is raining, isn't it. But it feels like one of those little showers that only last for a minute or two."

Aunt Cynthia nodded and walked to the next table. One or two of the inmates left their seats and walked toward the Inn at a fast clip.

"I've never much liked the way Sunday feels," Lupe said.

"What a coincidence," I said, "neither have I."

"I'd gladly trade all my Sundays, for fewer but better Mondays," she said.

"Hmmm, that's an interesting idea," I said. "I wonder if there's a blog post in that."

"I got a blog post for you," said Lupe. "I rescued a turtle this morning. At least I think I can count it as a rescue."

At that moment the sun seemed to have fallen asleep at the wheel. The sky darkened and Nature seemed to have let her majesty go to her head. Thunder growled overhead, a jagged lightning bolt flashed somewhere near old man Johnson's store, and large raindrops beat down on the magnolia.

The tea-taking crowd left their chairs and raced en masse across the lawn and into the Inn. With only one brief turn of the head to see what all the excitement was about, Lupe and I returned to our conversation. We're on friendly terms with summer afternoon thunderstorms and get bent out of shape with a slight drizzle.

"Good for you," I said, and I was genuinely bucked because this young imp and I have made a thing of helping turtles cross the roads for the last three years. "But what do you mean when you say if you can count it a rescue?"

"Well, it's like this," she said. "I was walking along Waterford Lake and noticed something moving underneath the pines at the edge of the clearing. It was a big turtle with her leg tangled in a vine. I broke the vine and pulled it away from her."

"And then she went on her way," I said. "That's a turtle rescue for sure."

"Well, she didn't go on her way immediately. She retreated into her shell but when I came back 20 minutes later she was gone. But the issue is that she'd only just snagged the vine with her hind leg and would surely have gotten herself free sooner or later without my help."

Her last remark was made without any chirpiness and I realized why her mood lacked the requisite luster.

The storm was at its height now. Thunder boomed. Lightning flashed. Rivulets of rain streamed down the trunk of the magnolia and several of the raindrops made their way through the mass of leaves above our heads and plopped on the ground, on our table, and on our heads.

"Ah, I see," I said. "I understand the question now. Was it truly a rescue or simply an act of kindness?"

"Yeah," she said. And she said it with resignation.

"If you want my opinion," I said.

"Yes, please," she said.

"Rescue," I said with a defining nod of the coconut.

"Really?" she said with a slight improvement in the aperture of her eye.

"Of course," I said. "If you hadn't freed her and allowed her to reach the safety of the lake, she would have experienced much more frustration and anxiety in her failed attempts to move forward. I'm certain that your act of kindness prevented a good deal of stress and saved her many years of therapy."

"Rescue!" she said with a bright smile and offered a high five. I accepted it with a happy heart. It always feels good to do the right thing and lift someone up above the clouds.

The storm was fading now. The thunder was now moving off toward Main Street. Carolina blue was spreading across the sky behind us and there was a hint that the sun was waking and preparing to take its rightful place.

Smoke Testing

Every time I drive by the corner of Grandiflora and Waterford, I see a sign that announces: 

Sewer Smoke Testing

Tuesday, August 17

Today is August 28 and I'm seriously worried about those workers who've been testing the sewer smoke for the last 11 days. After all, smoking sewers must be a bigger health risk than smoking tobacco. Don't you think? 

Surely someone has reported this to the city by now. We need to get those people out of the sewers. They're probably lying around, in some chemical-induced stupor like the people in opium dens we used to hear so much about. 

Is sewer smoke testing ever sanitary?

My first thought when learning about this sewer smoking was that another silly study or test was underway that would tell us what we already knew. Or if not something we already knew for certain, then something we strongly suspected.

I remember working as a laboratory assistant for a certain chemistry professor at my alma mater when he was studying the effects on laboratory rats of drinking whiskey. The study required a case of Jack Daniels, Black Label, Tennessee sipping whisky, and several crates of white rats. 

You're probably thinking that I don't need to tell you the results of the study. You're probably thinking that the rats became intoxicated and then adopted silly if not downright irresponsible behavior. That happened, of course, but it was a secondary result.

The seminal finding was that the consumption of Jack Black resulted in silly, irresponsible behavior in student laboratory assistants. But even if that specific result wasn't on your immediate radar, you must still agree that we didn't need a study to know it would happen. But that's not the thing that interests me today.

After a bit of reflection on these unnecessary studies and their findings, I found myself plunged into deep thought. As you well know, too often when a man of my mental powers is deep in thought, nothing comes of it. The machinery whirs for a while and that's the end of it. But on this occasion, voila! I know; it's something the French say. I don't know why they say it but it sounds good so I say it too. Voila!

You see, it occurred to me that I might be onto something that would make Ms. Wonder happy and also be a bit of goose for yours truly. Not actually goose, of course; a figure of speech. I'm actually a big supporter of geese rights.

In this case, the goose is money. You see, surprising as it may be to you, I'm aware that some of these controlled studies result in a flight to Oslo and the awarding of Nobel Prizes. And those prizes come with a substantial bit of goose.

I decided to look into the matter a little further. First, I reviewed some recent studies to get an idea of the current trends.  Here are a few actual research projects that I found: 

• The American Heart Association is responsible for a study showing that patients recovering from a heart attack can reduce chest pain and improve quality of life if they stop smoking cigarretes.  

• According to a study reported in the Journal of Applied Psychology, older workers bring valuable knowledge to the workplace. 

• A recent study reported in the Journal of Health Psychology shows that being homeless is bad for physical and mental health. 

• Statistical analysis reported in The American Statistician proved that the Mexican drug war increased homicide rates.

Now if, like me, you see an opportunity in all this to do a little Google research, write a paper, and then board a plane to Oslo, let me suggest a few ideas that I'm kicking around. Run these up your flagpole to see if any of them inspire you:

• Does a traumatic head injury leave the victim with headaches?
• Does daily jogging increase the likelihood of knee surgery? Or better yet, does knee surgery intefere with jogging?
• Does drinking alcohol cause people to feel more relaxed at parties? (Assuming that everyone has been vaccinated.)
• Does advancing age increase the probablity of accidental injury?  

Those are just a few ideas that've come to me since sewer smoke testing. I hope these thoughts are not a direct result of smoking the sewers. I'd love to hear your ideas. Perhaps we can share that Nobel Prize.