A Day in the Life

It was another birthday morning, and perhaps because it was a special day, I woke to the feeling that things were about to take a turn for the better.

If you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, then you know that a regular day for me is just one damned thing after another. But this morning, with the calming of the recent rain storm and a promise of sunshine in the forecast, I had the familiar conviction that life was starting all over again.

Did I mention that Charlie was with me? Although he was actually at home in Carolina Beach at the moment, I felt his spirit strong in the force, so I decided he would be with me this morning. 

You remember Charlie, I'm sure. He's one of those pint-sized little guys, who seems to be filled to bursting with joy and wants nothing so much as to share that joy with anyone wearing a kind face. He makes the day just a little better for everyone he meets.

Fantasy, as we all know, is pure escapism, and that's where it gets its magic. I rely on fantasy to make sense of a world that makes no sense, and I invite you to suspend disbelief and accept that Charlie was with me. He was in my heart.

The drive to Brunswick was quite enjoyable. Wynd Horse was cruising smoothly down Grandiflora Drive while Linda Ronstadt sang "Blue Bayou" and Charlie enjoyed the wind in his face from the open window. 

We drove past the coffee shop and stopped at the Brunswick Forest Welcome Center. The walk through the park would do us a bit good I thought.

While Wynd Horse chose a parking space, I recognized Ms. Thistle in the savannah underneath the pines. She held a large pair of binoculars, which told me she was braving the threat of rain in her attempt to take the lead in the Great Year competition.

Thistle is the President of the local chapter of the Wilma Squirrel Watchers Society. Veterans of this blog will know that society members compete annually to log the largest number of squirrel sightings.

"Hello, Ms. Thistle," I said. "Good morning to you."

Charlie was fish-tailing at the end of the leash, no doubt he hoped to get within licking distance of Thistle's ankles.

"You think it’s a good morning, do you?" she said.

"A little rain is nothing," I said guessing that it was the rain that dampened her spirit.

"Not concerned about the rain," she said. "I left my Peterson’s Squirrel Handbook at home and Spring left me here while she goes to Native Grounds for coffee."

"Do you really need a handbook?" I said. "There are only two species of squirrel here. Gray and Red."

"Don't care about their color. I'm just counting them."

"But you don't need a…," I began but then gave it a miss, because, I mean what do you say really?

"Don't tell me what I need, young man," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "Good morning," I said again and if memory serves I tipped my hat. Not sure why. Just seemed the thing to do at the moment.

"We're headed to Native Grounds," I said, "and if I see Spring, I’ll tell her about the guidebook. Maybe she can get it for you."

"What do I need the guidebook for? I’m only counting the damn things. What I need is coffee. And I'm glad you're getting Eddy away from here. He doesn't like squirrels and they don't like him."

"Actually," I said. "He loves squirrels. Can't get enough of their company. In fact, he's applied for membership in your society. And his name, as everyone in Waterford and half of Brunswick is aware, is Charlie, but you knew that, didn't you?"

She "harumphed" if that's the word. I'm pretty sure about it because I've heard that same word used in similar contexts and the word she used had a sort of harmonic residence. Is that the word, residence? On second thought maybe it's resonance.

"I'm not denying his posturing when he first encounters the squirrels," I said to Thistle. "They surely get the idea that he plans to convert them into a light snack, but it's only grand-standing."

She gave me a look implying that my words weren't gaining traction. 

"He has to throw his weight around when the opportunity arises," I said, "because his human admirers always resort to baby talk when addressing him. His self-respect demands it. But it's all, oh, what do you call it?"

"Sound and fury signifying nothing?"

I admit it! I was impressed! I'd never heard her say anything that gave so much evidence of culture. "Ms. Thistle," I said, "you do know your Shelly."

"I know I am," she said, "but what are you?"

Truth, dear reader! That's what she said. I was amazed again but for an entirely different reason. One second she's up on the top floor among the linens, and the next she's in the basement with the foundations. Pure drivel.

Charlie gave Thistle a look resembling a Scottish Presbyterian minister rebuking sin in the congregation. He growled and dug his rear feet into the ground as if to say, Don't get uppity, sister. It reminded me of that old gag about the warhorse starting at the sound of the trumpet.

And so we agreed, Charlie and I, that it was time to be getting on. I tipped my hat once more and smiled. Our job is to spread sweetness and light wherever we go. We share our courtesies, with the just and the unjust equally. We adhere to a dictum attributed to Louis Untermeyer. It goes something like this... 

"Humor is warmly sympathetic, playful, sometimes high-hearted, sometimes hilarious. Unlike the poisoned barb of satire, and the killing point of wit, humor is healing."

That's it. We attempt to heal some of the wounds with humor. After all, nothing is more contagious than a smile.

We walked on toward the coffee shop and I immediately noticed that Charlie, with his head held high, and stepping smartly, carried a small stick in his mouth and it suited him well. 

I doubted that I could pull it off with the same style and grace but, seeing him marching so proudly, I was reminded of the words of Frank Zappa...

"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible."

And with those words echoing in my head, I broke a twig from a passing rhodendron and placed it in my hat. And if you think the name Plantagenet floated into my mind, then you're spot on, my friend.

Charlie and I will see you in the next post, which biographers tell me will be titled, A Day In The Life, Episode 2. Until then, spread a little sweetness and light of your own.

Happy Birthday Genome

Today is my birthday, August 8, to put a fine point on it. Here we are then, knee-deep in my birthday month when I can write about anything I want for the next three weeks. I'll bet you thought I chose any topic I wanted but it just isn't so.

Princess Amy decides what I write on days of the months in which I wasn't born. But she graciously allows me to write my life story on August days. I sometimes accuse her of working against my best interests, but I suppose she's not totally rotten, the little muggle-meister.

Mornings in August usually find me sitting comfortably on the lanai with a steaming mug of brew-ha-ha in hand. There I was this particular morning listening to the Barefoot Man singing about Tortuga Rum Cake. My mind was clear and my gaze rested softly on the pen and paper lying on the bench in front of me. I waited for inspiration.

What happened next isn't necessarily guaranteed on these occasions but neither are they rare. I don't know if you've had a similar experience, but if so, then you're aware that anxiety sometimes gets uppity when we're preparing to put ourselves out there in the marketplace. Things can get a little weird.

It happened just that way this morning as I silently contemplated the task before me. What would I say in my birthday post I asked myself.

I gradually became aware of a strange sensation. It was the feeling that something about the nature of reality had changed. I didn't like it. Made me uncomfortable. I felt like the main character of a sci-fi movie who has entered a different dimension, a parallel universe.

For a few brief moments, nothing happened. It was as though all of Nature waited breathlessly for Zarathustra to speak. Not sure what that means exactly but I know it's not good.

Then, suddenly, as though Gabriel had sounded the last trump and Judgement Day had set in, a great wind began to blow in my mind, if it is a mind. The ears began to ring, much louder than normal. And next, as someone once said, "the eyeballs, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven." I assume it's from Shakespeare. He seems to have had a way with the language.

In short, I was visited by a master's level anxiety attack.

I was beginning to wonder if I should text my lawyer and ask for an emergency appointment to get my affairs in order when Ms. Wonder intervened. God bless her. I've said it before and I'll go on saying it, There's a girl if you want one.

She sat next to me. Patted my hand and gave me a little buss on the check. I looked at her, she looked at me, and we both smiled. Not a big smile. Not a chuckle. Just that little smile that says, 'Don't worry bout a thing. Every little thing gonna be alright."

No matter what action the woman takes, no matter what wisdom she imparts, it makes all the difference every time.

In a matter of moments, my mind grew still, birds began to sing, and I became conscious of a great peace. I don't suppose I've come closer to singing tra, la, la.

Even the tropical storm Debby held no concerns for me and that's saying a lot. Forty days of the rain we've gotten in the last week will have us asking the whereabouts of Noah.

But thankfully, I have no need of Noah. I have one who works wonders right here in the home. Happy birthday to me.

Genome In The Summertime

Are you a fan of P. G. Wodehouse? Most people are it seems. I'm certainly fond of his work. Inspiring is the word I'd use to describe it. 

Wodehouse lived through some of the more difficult times of the 20th Century. World War I, social unrest in Europe, World War II, and worldwide financial woes. It wasn't pretty.

What could one man do to cope with all that madness? How to stay sane in an insane world? Words. Words are all he had to give him hope and keep him on the sunny side of the street. 

And so he wrote a light-style comedy to brighten things up and to find a happy spot in a darkening world. Me too. I haven't lived through times as difficult as his but I've lived through the most difficult times of my life. And my writing, the writing I do in The Circular Journey, is my happy spot. Surely that’s enough I'd think.

And since we're on the subject of happy spots, let's not overlook the fact that we're up to our chins in summer, a season that holds many happy spots for me. Summer and I share a lot in common. I'll bet you didn't know that the sun-filled season is the key to my eternal youth. The secret lies in the total freedom found in long summer days.

But to truly appreciate the season, one must learn the language of birdsong and attend a squirrel circus when it puts on a show. I attend to these requirements as often as possible.

Every ray of sunshine holds the promise of infinite possibilities, or so I believe, and summer rain showers cleanse the mind and spirit, just as they cleanse the air. That's my story.

My philosophy, which I'm sure you're anxious to hear, is that we arrive at life’s ultimate destination too soon and besides, life is chock full of absurdities and chaos. Might as well embrace all that nonsense and find ways to enjoy the trip. I apologize if your interest is more in lifestyle updates than philosophy.

Let's get out of the rough and back on the fairway, shall we? The dog days of summer are upon us and those days are nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!’ I like to party with a leisurely stroll through Brunswick Forest. Not exactly a disco party but it works for me.

There's a touch of magic in the blue skies reflecting from the lagoons and every ocean breeze sweeps the dark thoughts from the mind, if I only allow it.

A great stress reliever for me is forgetting about people for a while, dancing with butterflies, and expressing gratitude to the trees for simply being there. I do it every morning.

Oh, I mustn't forget the ducks in the lagoon. There's always something restful about a duck. No matter what problems may be afflicting the general public, ducks remain aloof from them and simply go on being ducks.

Eureka! I'm not sure the expression belongs here. It seems more appropriate for a post I published some time ago. But still, I feel like expressing it, so Eureka! 

And who do I have to thank for this feeling of euphoria? Mr. P.G. Wodehouse that's who. By writing to find his happy spot, he created a happy spot for me in his books, and he taught me to create a happy spot for myself. A place that I can inhabit no matter what's happening around me. 

In my own way, with my humble skills, I try to bring a smile to the faces of my public with a little light night music here on The Circular Journey. And so I wish you a bright, cheerful day and a wonderful summer free from the limitations of past days.

The Exceptional List

You and I haven't discussed it here on The Circular Journey but Island Irv, who is one of the more popular guests and a friend of the blog, has been struggling with the employment situation since moving to Wilma. 

He's reached the stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time. 

"I'm done with corporate America," he said to me at our coffee klatch last Sunday.

"Will you look for a job at a local fish hatchery?" I said.

He gave me a look that said... well, I'm not exactly sure what it said but it said a lot and I got the message.

"I'm going to take a few days off and think about it," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no," I said. "It sounds good but it's a mug's game if you ask me. What you should do is put an ad in the personals."

"I don't know," he said. "Does anyone do that anymore? I doubt it would be more than a waste of time."

"Not those personals," I said. "You're no doubt thinking of the publications common in the last century. I'm talking about the modern personal ads. Social media."

His expression changed and I realized I'd said something that found traction in his mental machinery.

"You mean, like LinkedIn?" he said.

"Not just LinkedIn," I said. "Shoot the moon!"

"What are you talking about? Give me details."

"Ms. Wonder tells me that people ask for help in finding a job on the NextDoor app. And I know that people sell everything, up to and including themselves, on TikTok and Instagram."

I paused to see if he was still listening. He was.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I said. "I'll help you build a few social media sites with your bio and CV, and then we'll build your personal brand."

"I like it," he said. "You put together a plan for building the web presence and I'll put together a description of the perfect job."

"Great!" I said. "Do it today and we'll meet again tomorrow morning to discuss the kickoff."

The next morning at Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar we were both vibrating at maximum frequency--he was thinking about his new career and I was anxious to spread goodness and light heaped up, pressed down, and spilling over.

"Did you finish the job description?" I asked.

"Even better," he said. "I learned that the Brunswick Weekly has a personal want-ad section; I finished my ad and sent it to them in time for today's edition."

"You mean that edition?" I asked pointing to the publication someone had left on the counter.

"Do you suppose...?" he said as he picked the paper up and began flipping pages.

"Here it is!" he said and his lips moved silently as he read the thing. 

"Damn auto-correct to hell!" he cried.

"Ssup?" I said. He handed me the paper and pointed at his ad. 

"Read it for yourself," he said. "There's a typo in the ad. It should read 'exceptions list' but actually says 'exceptional list'. 

I read the dreadful thing and understood why one little typo had dashed the cup of joy from his lips. The ad read as follows:

Leave it to Irv

Need someone to manage your affairs?

Run your errands? Drive you to appointments?

I'm willing to do whatever you need done.

You name it, I'll do it.

The exceptional list includes doing anything

immoral, illegal, or unethical.

Schedule a callback: text IRVIRV to 910910.

"Yes, I see what you mean," I said. "The exceptions list, not the exceptional list. But cheer up, Irv, I'll bet no one notices the ad. I'll bet you don't get any texts at all. Is that your phone buzzing?"

He held the phone up for me to see a thread of text messages scrolling continuously up the screen. 

Eventually, he lifted his head from the table and said, "I've got to do something about this now. What am I going to do?"

"My way of dealing with this kind of problem is to deny everything," I said.

"Deny it?" he said.

"Stout denial," I said. "Eventually, everyone will lose interest and it will all go away."

"I seriously doubt that this will go away anytime soon."

"Remember," I said. "It's an election year."

"Do you really think it will simply blow over," he said.

"Just make sure your wife doesn't see it," I said. From the look on his face, I doubt the suggestion was helpful. 

And so, my friends, this post brings you up-to-date on current events in the old metrop. Thanks for joining us here at The Circular Journey. 

Enjoy your day, and keep in mind that no matter how joyous the morning begins, the Fate sisters have ways to leave you in a heap on the floor before lunch.

A Day in Paradise

Chatsford Hall slept in the gentle sunshine of late afternoon. A recent rain shower left us surrounded by moist early summer scents. From the fences surrounding our little spot of Eden came the soothing coos of mourning doves. It was that most gracious hour midway between lunch and afternoon coffee when Nature takes off her shoes and puts her feet up.

In the shade of the lanai outside the back premises of our cottage, Ms. Wonder and I sat sipping the contents of long, tinkling glasses and reading a weekly paper devoted to the antics of society and stage in our hometown of Wilma, NC.

I put down the paper and shook the tall glass because I enjoy the sound of tinkling ice as much or perhaps even more than the fizzy mouth joy. I glanced at my partner sitting beside me.

"Well, here we are, Wonder," I said.

"Another day in paradise," she said.

Her words took me by surprise. Laughter escaped with the force of an exploding paper bag. You probably had the same experience. I mean, the woman is constantly amazing us with her unique insight and wisdom, but she's not a standup comic.

"Wonder!" I said as I attempted to catch my breath, "Don't spring things like that on me without warning. I might have injured myself."

She didn't respond right away but seemed intently interested in a group of doves that wandered the lawn in search of bird seed left by the flocks of cardinals and chickadees that had breakfasted there earlier in the day.

"I think doves are related to chickens," she said.

Again, I was fascinated by her words and the thoughts they expressed. I felt an indescribable thrill to be present and to share this magical moment with her.

"Bobbing heads?" I said.

I know, it wasn't much of a comeback but I gave no thought to enriching the vocabulary when I was so overcome with the richness of the shared experience.

"Bobbleheads," she said.

Laughter poured out of me again. I was near hypomanic. After all, this premier wonder worker is a woman who has access to the combined wisdom of the ancients, and probably the complete annotated edition of the Akashic records, and who knows, maybe the Hall of Records, that library hidden below the Great Sphinx? But she reads historical novels not humorous ones.

"Common ancestors," I offered, "dinosaurs?"

"Have you ever seen a flamboyance of flamingos walking in formation?" she asked.

"Flamboyance?" I asked. "Well, yes I suppose you might think of them as flamboyant with those glorious pink bodies and all that elegance."

"That's the official term," she said. "flamboyance."

"Do they bob heads?" I asked.

"In unison," she said, "synchronized walking and bobbing."

"Synchronized," I said. "It's new to me but strangely fascinating."

We became quiet while flamingos marched and bobbed in the movies playing in our minds. At least they bobbed in mine, I can't say what was happening in her head. We continued to sit in silence listening to the doves cooing to each other in the fading light of early evening.

The doves' serenade was backed up by an evening chorus of cardinals and chickadees. As if it were their queue, the squirrel circus began their final performance for the day. 

My thoughts were of summers past spent with the woman who was sitting here by my side and presently, those thoughts were replaced with possibilities for the summer about to begin.

That soft, quiet moment continued through the evening until, at last, the doves lined up on the rooftop to watch the sunset.

It was another day in paradise, just as she'd said earlier, and I felt a simple but profound joy just knowing that there would be many more days like these spent in the company of the love of my life, Ms. Wonder.