Moonlighting

To get to Waterford Hall from the grand old metropolis of Wilmawood, assuming that you can tear yourself away from the most charming and entertaining city in Carolina, you follow the High Street through a flurry of seafood restaurants and jazz cafes, until coming to the broad highway that carries you over the Cape Fear River.

From there you cruise through a few miles of tidal marsh until you arrive at Waterford Village. If you want the most scenic route, and believe me you will want it, turn right onto Grandiflora and stay on it to the gates of Chatsford.

Whereas the morning began with the hustle and bustle of Ocean Highway, a leisured peace prevailed this evening within the walls of Chatsford. It's simply the way things are here, where the men and women are accustomed to mingling in the serene company of cats on the grounds of an estate in the county.

The refined moon that serves the surrounding district was nearly full, and Chatsford Hall had for some hours now been flooded by its silver rays. 

They shone on the gravel drive and the surrounding lawns. They peeped through the windows of the upper room where Uma Maya, the Empress of Chatsford, lay sleeping.

Seeping through the upper levels and floating down the staircase, the moon eventually found someone really worth looking at, the beautiful and enchanting worker of mysterious wonders, the one known as Ms. Wonder herself.

From Wonder's bedroom, the silver rays illumined the length of the hallway and slowly entered the great room with the kitchen in the far corner. Here the moonbeams slowed, respectfully, as if to ask permission to enter. 

The reason for hesitation is no mystery for the kitchen is known to be the domain of Abbie Hoffman, the gentleman ninja. Like all cats, Abbie prefers the heights of the kitchen cabinets for his zen-like evening repose. 

He is quite fond of the moon and welcomes its company. He has a special relationship with the full moon and can often be found staring at it like a lover.

It was with Abbie the work of a moment to leave the upper stories and move down to the kitchen floor where he began retracing the path of the moonlight, which led him to the sleeping place of Empress Uma Maya.

He approached slowly and stealthily, careful not to wake her until the time was perfect. He sniffled her fur. His paw reached out, oh so tentatively, in the direction of her head. His execution was flawless.

He gave her head three sharp taps and then hesitated, paw still raised, in case more work was called for. 

It wasn't necessary. Uma woke. After the few brief moments required for her to fully waken, the fur on her neck stood on end and she hissed the hiss of The Morrigan in Abbie's face.

He blinked but otherwise, for one brief moment seemed frozen in his tracks. Suddenly he turned and bolted out the door and down the hallway to make his report to me.

The knowledge that he had ruined his relative's beauty sleep filled his cup of cheer. It was piled up, pressed down, and running over. In other words, he was full of himself.

He leaped onto my bed and immediately made his way to my side, insisting that I move over to allow him access to his favorite spot. He settled himself, struck a sphinx-like pose, and lay staring wide-eyed at the moon through the open curtains of my window.  I smiled. His self-satisfied air left no doubt in my mind about his recent activities.

"You've come from Uma's boudoir, haven't you?" I said. "You've done something to raise her ire. Don't bother denying it. You can't fool me."

He gave me a look but it neither confirmed nor denied the charge. I give him a little neck massage to let him know that I wasn't cross with him.

"I know you woke her," I said. "I mean, there she was, sleeping so peacefully in the moonlight. You probably thought you could steal into her room, just this once, and resist temptation. Did she have anything to say when you woke her?"

He didn't actually reply but he did take his eyes off the moon just long enough to give me a look that said, 'She didn't have time to say anything. You know how it is. You see her asleep. You nudge her. She wakes and hisses at you, and you feel a sudden impulse to move on.'

"I understand," I said. "Had to be done. Good night, Abbie," I said.

In the master bedroom, Ms. Wonder turned over in her sleep. She was dreaming of ocean-going freighters slowly making the turn at Southport, where the river pilot boards the ship and guides it up the Intercoastal Waterway to the ILM Port.

In her upper room sanctum, Uma Maya gazed sleepily out the window and down on the moon-bathed gardens. She felt the satisfaction that comes only to those who have earned it by dishing out the wages of sin to a vexing housemate.

And I lay next to Abbie Hoffman, lovingly watching him as he lovingly watched the moon. It was a sight that I will continue to see for as long as the moon continues to shine. 

Chatsford Hall was in for the night. The moon beamed down on its occupants. It was not quite full yet but it would be in a few nights. 

And that's the news from Chatsford Hall. We wish sweet dreams to all and to all a good night.

Labor Day Weekend

It was another typically beautiful morning in Waterford on the eve of Labor Day weekend, the weekend that marks the unofficial end of summer and drives people who didn't get their fill to go all out and make up for lost time.

I had just parked the eleven-forty-five express to Waterford Center, otherwise known as Wynd Horse, my sporting personal vehicle, in a shady spot outside Fresh Islands Mexican Grill. This center is a popular spot lying beside U.S. Highway 17, otherwise known as Ocean Highway and the main artery to the Brunswick Beaches.

People were enjoying lunch and spirits in places with names like Brunswick Beer & Cider and Aw, Shucks! Patrons hearing the commotion outdoors carried their drinks outside to watch the routine mess on the highway. It's a popular pastime in an otherwise quiet community.

The road was snarled to the horizon in both directions. It was all standard procedure: holiday weekend traffic congestion, then a chain reaction of driver distraction and running red lights. The road looked more like a parking lot than a highway.

I looked in the direction of sirens, curious to know what now. “Someone needs to do something about that road," I said.

Anyone unsure of the difference in attitude between a trained martial artist and a spoiled royal brat could have picked up a few pointers listening to the conversation between yours truly and the little gargoyle known as Princess Amy, that little cluster of gray cells that pretends to regulate my emotions.

"Loaded grocery carts are lined up all the way out the doors of Harris Teeter!" she whined. "The checkout lines must be miles long."

"No, Amy," I said in a reassuring tone, "what you see are only a few shoppers waiting to get inside the store."

"They're backed up to the UPS Store," she said but I didn't respond. Leading by example was what I hoped to do. Besides, the spectacle was as bad as I've seen. I'm sure if you'd been a shopper inside the store trying to choose a lane to pay for your foodstuffs, you might have agreed with Amy.

We looked up at the sound of rotors coming over the roof of Fresh Mex to see a chopper clear the roof and land in the parking lot outside the Hallmark Store. Customers wandered out of Wok and Roll, the Chinese takeout place to see what it was all about.

The engines stopped and when the rotors slowed, the pilot got out and took off her helmet. A patron from the Wok approached her and I could hear them over the noise of the rotating blades. "What's going on?" he said.

"Car fire caught the brush on Highway 87. We just sat down here to let the engines cool."

"Oh, my God," said Amy. "From bad to ridiculous. Feels like we're about to go over Niagra Falls in a barrel."

"Amy," I said. "It's a holiday weekend here in paradise but I don't believe you're enjoying yourself. Do try to get into the holiday spirit. Don't you enjoy spreading goodness and light?"

"I'll tell you what you can do with your goodness and light," she said. And she did too. Explicitly. But the Genome code doesn't allow for the spreading of negative energy.

I much prefer, in the interest of goodness and light, to wish you a happy and joyous Labor Day Weekend.

Trouble in the Hood

Sunshine called to me, this morning when I opened the curtains to the lanai. It poured in through the screens in droves. The natural cheerfulness was doubled by the sight of Molly, the young rabbit, nibbling grass shoots along the base of the fence.

It was an early hour, early to me at least. Ms. Wonder assures me that the day begins far in advance of my waking. In fact, she often tells me little stories about the people she sees out and about when she's breakfasting.

Suffice it to say the stories often involve neighbors, who walk braces of dogs every morning at the same time. When they meet up, there's a conflagration, if that's the right word, of laughing, woofing, wagging, and sniffing, among all parties.

It all makes for pleasant stories but let's not go there right now. It's a story for another time. 

I hesitated to enter the lanai and frighten Molly. She usually doesn't stay long because seeing her in the yard means she's sneaked out of her bedroom, at an early hour just as I mentioned, and her mother will be calling her soon.

Just as I wrote that last sentence, Molly bolted for the hole in the fence and darted through on her way home. I took the opportunity to enter the lanai and prepare the fruit and nuts for the neighborhood wildlife.

That's when I saw Mutter. He's one of the squirrels living in the nearby forest. His apartment faces our lanai and his day begins with a view that looks through a leafy curtain onto the sunshine that I'm watching spread across our mutual yard. Each morning, about the time I'm looking out, he's on the fence looking in.

He's a curious little guy and seems utterly fascinated with me and my activities. He often spends hours staring at me, openly and sometimes in hiding. I think he watches me anytime I'm on the lanai or in the yard. No matter what I do, every step I take, every move I make, he'll be watching me.

Mutter has seen more than a few summers but he's still a lithe, athletic, and distinguished little guy. He sports a jaunty mustache and has a mischievous gleam in his eye. He and his wife, Buffy, are the senior members of the wild neighbors. Buffy is the sister of Squeaky, who is paired with Breezer. 

Mutter and I stood unmoving giving each other the eye both hoping the other would be the first to look away. I won. But only because Mutter's brother-in-law, Breezer, popped his head above the fence and began chatting excitedly. Mutter ignored him at first but when Breezer joined him atop the fence, Mutter relented and gave him full attention.

Breezer was clearly agitated about something. Probably something having to do with his wife, Squeaky. It's a common occurrence and it usually leads to conversations between brothers-in-law. After some pleading, the two of them lept into the tree branches and disappeared.

I quickly moved to distribute the feast. The mourning doves from the local convent, The Order of Sisters of Brunswick, lined the fencerow, reading from left to right in order of diminishing size. The Cardinal family sat side by side in the middle range of the fence. Dad, Mom, and the three little tykes waited patiently for me to distribute the seeds. 

The woodpecker, Mr. Woodrow, was busy drilling for insects on a tree trunk standing a little deeper in the forest. Mr. Woodrow is a bit of a loner, somewhat standoffish, and a little critical. He usually ignores the goings-on in the yard, which he considers so much foolishness.

After sprinkling nuts and berries along the fence railing, and then scattering peanuts around the lawn, I re-entered the lanai. No sooner had the screen door closed behind me than the crow gang from Magnolia Green flooded the yard.

I call them a gang because they like to throw their weight around when free food is available and scarf down more than their fare share. They claim to be good, proper socialists but when it comes to putting their words into action, they are weighed in the scales and found wanting.

The crows began swallowing whole peanuts while they had them all to themselves. They sometimes tried swallowing two at a go. Futile of course. The regulation crow beak is designed to swallow one at a time.

It required mere seconds, for the cause of the crows' frenzied eating behavior to appear. Namely, Spinner, Twizler, and Ziggy, the three youngsters who belong to Mutter and Buffy began their routine.

These three juveniles are without effective parental guidance. Buffy tries. Oh, how she tries, but to no avail. Of course, Mutter might make a difference if he were to make an effort. But there it is.

This trio loves to snatch peanuts away just as a crow's beak is about to close on it. They don't intend to eat the nut. They just want to annoy the crows. Eventually, they turn from snatching peanuts to chasing each other's tails. They race around in wild circles, their faces hidden in wide-open laughter. 

At some point, the two older brothers will chase each other up the fence and into the shrubbery. Ziggy, on the other hand, gets so carried away that he forgets everything else and is often the one who gets caught in the act after his two brothers go into hiding.

The Cardinal family watched all the ranygazoo with calm interest and patience. They knew that eventually calm would be restored and they could eat in peace.

The dove sisters, observing the chaos from their elevated positions atop the fence, looked on with worried expressions. No doubt their concern was that someone would be hurt. Their expression seemed to say, 'Can't we all get along? There's plenty for everyone.'

 

Mr. Woodrow, the woodpecker, had watched the commotion from his breakfast spot on the tree. His expression was one of derision. I imagined his lip curled in scorn but it was a pointless exercise of course. I could sense his attitude as one that rated the entire affair as, 'much ado about nothing'.

I am so often amazed that the works of William Shakespeare are so widely known even among those you might least expect to be familiar with his plays. It just goes to show you.

A Day in the Life Ep2

After our encounter with Ms. Thistle in Brunswick Park, Charlie and I continued on our way to Native Grounds Cafe. You remember Charlie, don't you? He appeared in a couple of previous posts. Small guy, very curious, cute in a Zach Galifianakis sort of way. He's a member of the Terrier Tribe of the Dog Nation.

Arriving at the cafe, I was disappointed to realize that the only outdoor table was occupied by a vendor waiting to harass customers. The vendor turned out to be Greg, one of many local people who find temp work promoting local home-made goods.

Greg wore an apron that read, Gourmet Wild Bird Food. You're expecting a joke at this point, no doubt, but no, those words were actually on the apron. In big letters.

He was standing underneath an oversized umbrella looking more than a little despondent, but his face lit up when he saw me. I didn't consider it a good sign.

"Genome," he called, a little too loud and with too much topspin.  "Just the man I wanted to see this morning. How are you, my friend."

Now, there's probably no need to tell you what I was thinking when I heard the words "my friend." It's just as well, I really shouldn't repeat what I thought. The Genome social code doesn't allow such excesses.

Charlie began to express second thoughts about this aproned, chef-hatted human right away. He dug in his heels, struggled against his leash, and growled in a low, menacing way that left no doubt that he didn't like the setup, and neither should I.

"Hello, Greg," I said. "Wow, the humidity is off the scale today, isn’t it?" In truth, the humidity was nothing to complain about but I was grasping for something to say. After all, why would anyone say, 'Wow', unless circumstances had put them in a spot with little time to prepare?

"Ha!" he said and there was something dismissive in the way he said it, as though he cared little for the moisture. "Not a soul has come by since I got here. But now you're here so everything's alright."

I didn't care for that 'Now you're here...' expression. And I was dismayed to notice for the first time that his chef’s hat was adorned with what I’m pretty certain were feathers. I'm not over-stating it when I say it was shocking

"What’s in the cart?" I said and immediately realized it was a mistake. Showing interest in the poison isn't the best strategy when addressing a member of the Borge family.

"Oh, my friend," he said and I cringed at the resurgence of the  'my friend' motif. He reached into the cart and with a theatrical flourish, produced a bag of what I took to be birdseed.

The moment the bag appeared, Charlie changed his attitude. Where once he was hesitant and suspicious, he suddenly became curious and excited. No doubt, it was thoughts of the dog biscuits waiting inside the shop that changed his attitude.

"Greg," I said. "What is that?"

Charlie, was alternately placing his front paws on Greg's leg and then dropping back down to all fours to pirouette, is that the word, meaning turning round and round in tight circles?

His dancing got Greg's attention, of course. Everyone pays attention to Charlie when he dances.

"You are about to enjoy the finest bird food known to man," said Greg, holding a handful of seed down for Charlie's inspection.

"Greg," I said, "there are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don't know where to begin."

"The secret ingredients in this special blend are crushed pretzels and quinoa," he said to no one in particular. "But that's just me. What do you think little guy?" apparently directed to Charlie.

Charlie was not falling for it. He looked at the seed but nothing more. Instead, he looked at me with another raised eyebrow meaning, "What the hey?"

Now a Genome isn't intentionally offensive to anyone, not even a salesman attempting a cheap trick on innocent passersby. But my obligations to Charlie, an ambassador of his tribe, are just as important.

I inclined my head to the little guy and raised both eyebrows. It was my way of saying, "Charlie, you know that stuff isn't for us. Give it a miss, is my advice." Charlie got the message and backed off.

"Thank you, Greg," I said. "But Charlie and I have an appointment inside. I think Spring is there and I have a message for her from Ms. Thistle."

"But surely you will sample the..."

"The what?" I said. "Pigeon food?"

"Not pigeon food!" he said with a hint of wounded pride. "This is the finest bird food available. It's a culinary delight. Not only a taste sensation but it has an energy kick that will lift the mood. Try it." 

"It's still bird food," I said and I felt great relief at finally being in the position of owning the talking point.

But no. Greg gasped and brought his hand to his chest in a gesture equally as dramatic as Jack's in that episode of Will & Grace. 

"This food is imported from Thailand," he said. "They make animal food of the highest quality. They follow the same standards we use for human food."

"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Charlie insists that we get inside." 

Charlie looked up as I extended a hand to open the door. His expression said, "It's about time. You spend too much time talking to people that I don't know."

I glanced back at Greg. I don't know why. I suppose I wanted to see how he was handling the disappointment. He threw his hands up in the air and loudly lamented, “I’ve dedicated my life to helping improve the lives of others, and you’re rejecting my offer like it’s yesterday’s news."

"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Can't be helped. Responsibilities and whatnot."

As soon as we entered the cafe, I knew I'd made the right decision. How did I know? Charlie of course.  His body language left no doubt. The baristas saw him as soon as he crossed the threshold and his mood brightened even more. I wouldn't have guessed it possible.

"Hello, Charlie," they called. "Who's a good boy then?"

It was enough. He began wagging and wigging and making it clear that he was happy to be here. Everything else was forgotten. It was enough to make me forget Greg and Thistle. I was happy just to be in the presence of so much joy.

When the doggie biscuits appeared on the countertop, Charlie was enthralled. The wonder and excitement in his eyes convinced me that magic was involved. Doggie magic. You know, the more people I meet, the more I like Charlie.

Day of Reckoning

Across the bridge and into the heart of Ocean Isle I charged, my kung fu fighting cane on the passenger seat beside me, my jaw set like a bayonet, my face, had there been anyone around to see it, was a study in fearsome intensity. 

Today would be a day of reckoning.

My trusty steed, Wynd Horse, flew valiantly into the off-shore breeze as we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway. Mighty Quinn, on the dashboard, led the charge. Beignet's banner urging us on. 

Half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, as the poem goes, into the Valley of Juice Bars, Beachwear, and Outlandish Hair Highlights I rode. 

I'd come to the dunes of Ocean Isle, on the edge of the Atlantic, where the veil separating this world and the next is thinnest because in recent weeks the Universe had messed with me at unprecedented levels of heinous anxiety and mental weasel-osity. I intended to kick some Universal ass.

There are no reasons to justify these emotional excesses. Mood disorders don't make sense. The limbic system is out of whack and acts out in ridiculous ways at the most inconvenient times.

I've done it before and I'll keep on doing it when I've had more than I can bear. And I've had enough! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.

Please don't start with the questioning comments. I'm aware that my AA sponsors wouldn't condone my behavior and my Buddhist teachers would urge me to return to the middle way.

Despite the AA sponsor's and Buddhist teacher's objections, I must take action. Sometimes a man must stand up and make his voice heard.

As we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, my eyes scanned the area near the pier for parking spaces. There were none. Perhaps an available space could be found near Drift Coffee Cafe. Nope, that was a bust too. 

It was the final week before school and we'd just finished with a month of thunderstorms. The entire population of three states must have decided to come to the beach. 

I stopped at Sharky's and found parking near a construction site. It was only a quarter-mile walk to board one of those 6-passenger golf carts that tour the island. The cart would get me to the fishing pier and the dunes were only half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward from there.

The golf cart charged into the thick of Ocean Isle at about 6 miles an hour. Not exactly supportive of the attack mode I'd planned. 

The slow ride was sapping my anger, so I imagined the cart to be a Viking longboat lined with war shields and with warriors hanging off the sides waving long swords while a booming drum drove us into a battle frenzy.

 The cart stopped at the play area to let a mom and two kids get off before continuing to the pier. The driver explained that Netflix was filming a family-oriented movie in the area and some of the attractions were closed to accommodate the production crew.

The ice cream shop was open. I bought a double-scoop of vanilla bean to soothe my disappointment. The ocean breeze melted the ice cream making my hands a sticky mess. I rinsed them in the sea. The day wasn't going as I'd planned.

Something had changed. My anger had dissipated. I came here to kick ass but now... I would have been satisfied to give someone a piece of my mind. But there's the rub, who would hear it?