Genome Journalist

A crisis of sorts has emerged in Wilmawood journalism. I'm scheduled to be away for the next few days, exploring New Bern, which will keep me too busy to update The Circular Journey.

Most patrons of downtown districts won't notice my absence. Life in the Port City will carry on as usual. Trolleys will zip happily through the central districts. Police cruisers will continue to demonstrate their authority by disregarding the ordinary matters of this world. Furrowed brows will remain scarce in coffee shops and bakeries along Castle Street. In short, little visible evidence of the crisis at hand will exist.

Princess Amy has agreed to monitor comments and reply appropriately should any reader express concern over a missing post. Messages of a congratulatory or complimentary nature will receive a hearty thank-you. Everything in between will be ignored.

The average Wilmawood citizen is constantly seeks the latest updates about happenings in their fair city. You see them everywhere, reading their favorite print and digital periodicals while indulging in their preferred stimulant—caffeine, sugar, doggie treats. 

Every class of society is accounted for in the periodicals of our fair city, and The Circular Journey is highly regarded by its audience. After all, it serves as home base for the lightest and brightest.

The Journey presents a different way of living—a more enlightened approach to engaging with those who have evolved a higher level of consciousness. It is, essentially, a guide to leaving the dream life here in paradise.

Writing it is an essential part of my day, helping me combat the melancholy that hovers around my head like a persistent storm cloud. However, I must admit that, up to now, melancholy has maintained a commendable success rate.

Nevertheless, The Circular Journey thrives. It has an ever-growing audience, and its contents are mildly interesting—if you enjoy that sort of thing. Regular features include updates from Crystal Cove, reminiscences of Happy Cats, and the ongoing sagas of Princess Amy. Motion Picture Masterpieces appear from time to time, and of course, Fierce Qigong pops up intermittently—like the demon king of a Thai water opera.

Whether it’s the strain of diving into classic literature every week, or the effort of editing my soon-to-be-published book The Cat Healthcare Advocate, or the relentless arrival of early pollen season, my energy has been utterly drained. My fitness trainer, Ms. Wonder, ordered one week of complete rest in the mountains.

I could have endured this exile from blogging if that were all there was to consider. There are worse places to be stranded than the Carolina mountains in early spring. But fate had another twist in store.

At the last moment, it became painfully clear that pollen would be even more formidable in the hills. Thus, a new plan emerged: we would journey east to the coastal town of New Bern, the colonial capital of Carolina. On a clear day, the pink sands of Bermuda may be seen on the horizon, or so I'm told.

"You must not so much as glance at the blog for one week," declared The Wonder. "Forget it exists. Dismiss it from your mind. Get out in the open and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air."

With tears in my eyes and a tremor in my voice, I entrusted my final instructions to Princess Amy.

"Well, I think that’s everything, Amy," I said. "You understand what I mean about monitoring the comments?"

Amy nodded. She is, of course, an almond-shaped cluster of brain cells, but she's well acquainted with the peculiar way my brain operates.

"Just one more thing," I continued. "Ms. Solveigh Bensen Petersen has a slight tendency—I may have mentioned this before—"

"You did," said Amy.

"And one other thing. You may want to give special attention to my humor. Not that it’s risky exactly, but perhaps a tad… pointed."

"If I notice any humor, I'll know what to do," she said.

"My sense of humor," I explained, "occasionally strays slightly beyond the bounds. So, if anyone complains, you might consider being—well—apologetic."

"Duly noted," she said.

At the door, I paused with the air of a migrating sunbird bidding farewell to its favorite stretch of coastline. I sighed deeply and closed the door.

And so, dear readers, I embark on this journey of enforced relaxation, leaving The Circular Journey in capable hands. I expect to return rejuvenated, brimming with newfound wisdom, and free of pollen-induced despair.

Either that, or I will be found frantically scribbling notes on the back of a New Bern café napkin, unable to resist the siren call of the written word. Only time will tell and we'll find out soon enough—if Princess Amy hasn’t deleted all my drafts in a fit of artistic rebellion.

Coffee Shop Chronicles

Jack invited me to meet him for coffee at Circular Journey Cafe this morning. He promised to share some exciting news about the local movie scene to make up for the fiasco at Barbary Coast Bar, which I wrote about in a previous post—where the arrival of a cask of Jamaican rum led to some unreliable gossip.

When I entered the coffee shop, I spotted Jack seated at a corner table with a man I recognized as Harvey, a featured columnist for the Wilmawood Gazette.

"Genome, my friend!" Jack greeted me with a boisterous enthusiasm that made me question his sincerity. "I hope you came ready to be impressed."

"Oh, I came ready to impress," I countered with a playful arching of my eyebrows. "I'm sure you know about Jonas Pate's new movie, Driver's Ed, being filmed in town. Jonas recently described it as 'The Breakfast Club in a car.' Captures the imagination, don't you think?"

Jack smirked and exchanged a knowing glance with Harvey, sending a familiar twinge of social anxiety up my spine. I'd need to elevate my game up a few notches to be seen by Harvey as a peer and a colleague.

"The big news," I said, adjusting my sleeves, "is that Pate's latest Prime Video series—The Runarounds, the story of some high school seniors who ditch college plans and start a rock band instead—wrapped its first season and is expected to premier soon." I paused for effect. "But, get this, Amazon has green-lit a second season without waiting for audience response."

"That's rare," said Jack. "Good snooping, Genome."

"Almost unheard of," Harvey said. "And they're keeping the filming local—New Hanover High, The Eagle's Dare, Cinespace Studios. They're keeping the local film community thriving by bringing jobs to Wilmington."

While their reaction was acceptable, it fell short of what I'd hoped for. I marshaled my thoughts to find another way to establish myself as Harvey's equal. I sipped my coffee, wincing slightly at the temperature and wondering if they'd used filtered water.

"It's no wonder," I began, "that Moviemaker magazine named Wilmington one of the best small cities in the country for filmmakers to live and work." 

"Tell him, Harvey," Jack said, tilting his head in my direction.

Harvey chuckled. "That's last week's headlines, Genome. The real story is that Jonas and his wife, Jennifer, have started their own production company—and they're planning a series of projects to be filmed here."

"A series?" I asked, my voice rising to a pitch that even I found embarrassing. I cleared my throat and continued more composedly. "They've got plans for more than one project to be filmed here in Wilmington?"

Jack nodded. "That's right. Driver's Ed is just the opening scene. The've hinted about shooting three to five movies a year in Wilmington. It ain't called Hollywood East for nothing."

"What?" I exclaimed, nearly knocking over my coffee before catching it with reflexes that surprised even me. "Three to five movies? That's enough cinematic activity to require a new datebook!"

"Exactly," Harvey confirmed. "And they're sticking with the young-adult theme."

"Yep," Jack said. "According to Jonas, they're taking inspiration from John Hughes' films, quote: ...trying to bring back that timeless magic."

Harvey leaned in, glanced around the room with the air of a conspirator, and with a lowered voice said, "But that's not the real scoop we have for you."

"There's more?" I asked, hardly believing it to be true.

Still leaning in, he waved me closer. "The real scoop is Kildare."

"What's a Kildare?" I asked, now genuinely curious despite my general aversion to leaning into someone's face. I have strict rules about personal space.

"It's a sort of prequel to Outer Banks," Harvey said, savoring the moment. "It'll dive into the origins of the Pogues and Kooks, the class divide, and all that drama—but with a whole new cast. And it'll be filmed right here in the old metropolis."

I sat back, impressed. "So, the Pates are doubling down on Wilmington." I couldn't help adding, "I hope they upgrade the craft services. The last set I visited didn't offer custom coffees. I had to run back and forth from the set to Port City Cafe and back again."

"Did you say, doubling? Tripling is more like it," said Jack. "Keeping Wilmington safely ensconced in the role of Hollywood East."

"Jonas has deep roots here," Harvey added. "He and his brother filmed their indie movie, The Grave, in Wilmington back in the '90s. That movie premiered at Sundance and launched their careers."

I whistled softly. "Yes, I know, but three to five projects are a lot of projects—and a lot of opportunity for the local industry." I cleared my throat; the coffee bean dust seemed to be getting think in the air. Or was I just getting fidgety? 

Jack raised his coffee mug. "Here's to the Pates. Keeping Hollywood East on the map, one film at a time."

"To the Pates," Harvey echoed.

"Yes, and to the local film community," I said, raising my cup with a slightly trembling hand. "Opportunities for entertainment writers are just beginning, and there will be plenty more to talk and to write about."

"Speaking of plenty of work," said Jack, "did you get good footage of the first two days of filming Driver's Ed?"

"No," I admitted, my voice suddenly small. "Rained out."

"Rained out?" he said. "Genome, I drove by the South Street location on the first day and saw them working."

"I didn't mean the filming was rained out," I explained, fidgeting with my napkin. "I meant I didn't want to hang out in the rain. The humidity affects my sinuses."

"But you got some good stuff on the second day, right? It seemed like an easy find for you, especially since you were at Circular Journey Café every day.”

 

“I'm not there every day,” I protested, feeling my face flush. “And no, I missed that too—I thought filming was scheduled for the following week. I recently started using a color-coded calendar system, and I’m still getting the hang of it.”

"The boys at Barbary Coast Bar are going to be disappointed to hear it," Jack sighed. "They think you can put something readable together even though you have nothing but crumbs from the shoot to write about."

I'm sure you can imagine how I felt after that. The silence became awkward.

"I'll text you the night before the next scheduled shoot," Jack said. Harvey only smiled.

"Oh, almost forgot," I said suddenly perking up and feeling like the gods had bestowed a last-minute gift. "You're aware, I'm sure, that the Wilmington Regional Film Commission recently announced a new initiative providing training workshops for aspiring filmmakers. That should go a long way to further solidifying the city's commitment to ensuring the sustainability of its thriving film industry."

Silence followed my announcement. The two of them looked like Republicans who just realized the man they voted for had taken away their Social Security check. 

"Why didn't you know about this?" Harvey demanded of Jack. 

"Me?" said Jack. "You should have known before me."

Their argument escalated to the point that they were unaware of my leaving. I'm not proud of the fact, but I left the cafe with a smiling. Some days, life comes hard and fast. That's why God created music, coffee, and individually wrapped sanitizing wipes.

It's All About Attitude

She sprang it on me during our morning walk. I'd only recently awakened and was still fumbling for the mental light switch when, turning the final corner and coming into the home stretch, Ms. Wonder asked if I had plans for the day.

I sensed trouble. You know how it is when you have your day planned and someone casually asks for what seems like a simple favor? Somewhere between the thought of it and the actual doing of the thing, something goes terribly wrong. I imagine that’s what Shakespeare experienced right before running errands for his wife.

“You bet," I said with pretend confidence. "I'm booked solid until 5:00 PM.”

"Can you make time to run an errand for me this morning?" She asked.

"Well, I suppose I could shuffle out to Port City for an espresso. Can I get a coffee for you?" I offered this as a peace treaty, hoping to escape with minimal commitment.

"Nope, but you can pick up a few things for me at HT’s while you're out."

"I'll try to fit it in," I said cautiously, "but I'll need to check my calendar first to see if it's possible." 

"Oh, good, you have nothing important to do," she said, seeing through my charade with characteristic ease. "I'll make a list for you.”

This is going to be awesome…

I gathered my shoulder bag and other essentials for a visit to the caffeine dens of Ocean Isle, then walked out to where Wynd Horse was parked in the driveway, patiently waiting for another day of adventure.

Amy was waiting on the sidewalk and climbed into Wynd Horse alongside me. I placed my water bottle in the cup holder and slung my shoulder bag over the back of the passenger seat. Mom's checkbook took its ceremonial position on the passenger seat. I performed my pre-journey ritual, part superstition and part performance art, and we were set to go.

Amy greeted me with a smile and turned to look at me with sparkling eyes. She said, "This is going to be awesome. I love road trips." Her enthusiasm seemed genuine, which is rare for her—like a solar eclipse.

"I brought some snacks and games we can play in the car. And I left a note for Grendel telling him to stay out of our bedroom and go haunt someone else."

"First, just to get things straight between us," I said, feeling the need to establish boundaries with my own imagination. "The snacks are mine; I want nothing to do with those so-called games to play in the car; and Grendel isn't real. He's someone you made up trying to get a rise out of me, and that's not happening. Are you buckled up?"

"Ha!" she exclaimed with the smug satisfaction of a figment of imagination who's bamboozled her host. "Gotcha! I don't buckle up, remember? I'm...let me see, how do you write in your blog? I'm just a pea-sized cluster of gray cells in the middle of your brain.”

On the road to find out…

I pretended to ignore her while plugging the addresses into the navigation app and then backed out of the drive. 

"We're on our way to find out," I said aloud as we drove through Magnolia Gardens. My navigational decisions have always had that improvisational jazz quality to them.

"Siri, send a message," I said. "To Poopsie Wonder. Tell her we're headed to HT's to pick up her goodies."

Minutes later, a message came in from Wonder: "You're going the wrong way," she said. She either put a tracking device in my car, or she's developed a sixth sense about my whereabouts.

I messaged back, "Waterford Coffee Cafe is the first stop. I need one for the road." A perfectly reasonable detour—no expedition should begin without proper caffeination. I imagined Wonder trying hard not to laugh. 

"Stay in touch," she finally replied, which translates as, "Try not to end up in South Carolina."

Sailing down Ocean Highway, we passed a road crew asphalting the entrance to a new convenience store, and traffic on that side of the road was backed up to the Middle Ages.

Soon, a message from Wonder asked, "How's it going?"

"Siri," I said, "Message Wonder. Tell her traffic is forcing us to bypass the recycling center and go to Shallotte for the shopping." 

The change of plans wasn't entirely necessary, but why waste a perfectly good excuse to rearrange the journey? Flexibility is the essence of adventure, after all.

Always look on the bright side...

“Twenty-two more miles," Amy said. "Is this trip ever going to end? My legs are asleep, and I'm hungry, too. I need an egg and feta sandwich from PCJ Cafe. Please tell me we’re almost there."

 

"We're almost there," I replied cheerfully, even though I was lying. "We've set a course for Southport. I think it's a better option than Shallotte—there’s too much traffic on Ocean Highway this morning."

 

"Omigod," Amy groaned dramatically, as if she were Pauline tied to the railroad tracks. "Southport? There's road construction on 211 where the bridge washed out. I can't feel my legs anymore, Genome. Please, make this misery end!

"You don't have legs," I pointed out, hoping that one logical comment would encourage her to stop complaining. I know that logic seldom wins against imagination, but hope springs eternal.

"I wasn't meant to be trapped in a car," Amy continued. "I'm one of those women who's got to be out and about. I'm a mover. Let me out here. I'll walk the rest of the way."

"Look on the bright side, Amy,” I said. "When we get home, you can apply for a disabled parking sticker.”

"I've always wanted one of those," she said, and by her tone, I knew she was cheered by the thought. The imaginary are easily distracted by imaginary perks.

"Ha!" I exclaimed with the smug satisfaction of a host who's bamboozled a figment of his own imagination. "Gotcha! You can't apply for a sticker of any kind, remember? You're just a...let me see, what did you say before? You're just a pea-sized cluster of gray cells in the middle of my brain."

It's all about attitude...

It was nearly 2:00 PM when we finally completed our errands and arrived home. Amy had fallen asleep, so I was careful not to wake her. She had a challenging day dealing with heavy traffic, roadwork, and the roundabout route we took to get everything done.

 

Despite the challenges, I had a great day. It may surprise you to hear that Amy can be fun as long as I maintain the right attitude. I especially enjoy her company on days when I manage to catch her off guard with something she didn’t see coming. 

I’ve recently come to realize that Amy is an essential part of my life. If I were to lose her, I would truly miss her, just like I miss many other things I’ve lost over the years. I value having Amy around; she brings her own sweetness and light to every situation.

I appreciate having you around, too. Please come back often and leave a comment to let me know I haven't lost you.

Write For The Birds

The mockingbirds, those feathered Frank Sinatras of our backyard jungle, were giving a morning concert, their repertoire exclusively 'My Way' and other such classics.

And the squirrels, naturally, were busy with their daily routine of figuring out how many peanuts they can bury before the crows steal them. It's a scene filled with frantic, nutty energy that rivals a stock exchange floor on a volatile day.

My iPhone was on the lanai, capturing the morning birdsong through the Merlin app. However, my mind was far from the melodious warblings and consumed by the recent, frankly appalling lack of response to my job applications.

 With the optimism of a goldfish in a small bowl, I posted my resume on FlexJobs, hoping for a part-time freelance writing gig. The results were as barren as a politician's promise. Sorry for the criticisms; I'm stuck in the third dimension this morning. 

You're probably asking yourself, What's up with Genome, and what's this about the third dimension? But pay no attention; it's a hangover from the Dark Defender post. Search for the post if you must.

Entering the lanai, I glanced at the Merlin app's life list, expecting a new addition to the tally, perhaps a rare warbler or a visiting finch. Instead, I was greeted with the digital equivalent of a polite cough and a blank screen. 

Just as I was about to resign myself to a morning of existential dread, a notification from Cornell University Ornithology Labs popped up, like a life raft in a sea of despair: open employment positions! My heart, placid as a millpond seconds ago, began dancing a jig. 

From childhood, I'd been fascinated by birds, considering myself an amateur ornithologist—or, as my Aunt Agatha would say, 'a boy who spends too much time peering through binoculars.' I quickly scanned the job descriptions; nothing for me.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I muttered, with the air of a general surveying a battlefield and resigned to commit the reserve troops.

“Are you talking to me?” Amy inquired, her voice laced with the hope that I wasn't talking to her. 

“Yes, I am," I said. "Do you see anyone else around here, or have the squirrels convinced you their antics are signs of intelligence?"

“Don’t get uppity,” she said, her eyebrows arching like a pair of startled caterpillars. “Do you often talk to yourself, or is this a special occasion?”

"What's up with you?" I asked, but I answered the question myself before she could respond. "I know what you're doing, using subterfuge and misdirection to confuse me. Well, it won't work. I'll take my concerns to a higher power."

“Leave it to Wonder,” I said, stepping into the kitchen, where I knew I'd find coffee and solutions to life's problems. “Poopsie!” I called, hoping she wasn’t engaged in some arcane telephonic discourse.

One of Wonder's many bewildering talents is her uncanny ability to materialize without warning, like a conjurer's rabbit or a well-trained ghost. She shimmered in, and I felt like a lost explorer stumbling upon a hidden oasis. 

“Wonder, I need your advice,” I declared.

“How can I help?” she asked.

I succinctly explained my job search woes, omitting, of course, the more embarrassing details.

“So you see my predicament?” I concluded with a heavy sigh.

“Perfectly,” she replied, with the confidence of her Orlov ancestors.

“Well, try to think of something,” I implored.

“I already have,” she said. “I think you should leverage your love of birds and your writing skills,” she said, her voice as steady as a lighthouse beam in the dark Atlantic night.

She recommended sending my resume with a cover letter to Cornell Ornithology Labs, suggesting a writing position even though the ad didn't mention one.

“Do you think it will work, Wonder? How often does a company hire someone for a role not advertised?”

“You once told me about a woman who impressed DaveCo by posing as their media rep, even though the company had no such position,” she countered, with the logic of a seasoned barrister. "You said her performance convinced the owners they needed a media rep."

“Do you think I can impress Cornell?” I asked.

“What do you have to lose?” she replied.

“You always have the right words, Wonder,” I said.

“Not really,” she demurred, with the modesty of a saint.

“Oh, yes, you do. You’re unique,” I insisted. "If I had half your brain, I'd be Prime Minister of Canada by now."

“I’ve made reservations for Savannah on the 10th,” she announced, with the casualness of someone mentioning the weather.

“I can’t go that week, Wonder. I’m covering the first day of filming for the new movie downtown.” 

“We have reservations for Savannah to photograph ships in the harbor,” she clarified.

“Wonder,” I said. “The movie production will be filming in downtown Wilma.”

She gave me a look that could have frozen a tropical fish.

“Alright,” I said. “The ships in Savannah harbor on the 10th.”

A Life Worth Writing About

“Genome," said Bobby Gene, that much-enduring man, helping himself to my cigarettes and slipping the pack absently into his pocket, "listen to me, you son of Belial."

"What?" I said, retrieving the cigarettes before they became another casualty of Bobby's casual acquisition skills.

"You think I've lived such a fascinating life that I should write a book, do you? Well, I don't know nothing 'bout writing no book. But you do. You should write my biography. I'll tell you the stories, and you bung it all down on paper like that Shakespeare guy. We'll split the proceeds fifty-fifty."

"I'd love to do just that," I said. "But I'm too busy right now with other stuff. I'd never get the book finished."

"I've been making a pretty close study of your stuff lately," Bobby said, "and it's all wrong. The trouble with you is that you don't plumb the wellsprings of human nature and whatnot.

"You just think up some rotten yarn about some-dam-thing-or-other and shovel it into that blog of yours. But if you tackled my life, you'd have something worth writing about."

His suggestion was pretty much on point. I was indeed the man to write his biography. Our lives have been bound tightly together since our early days. Bobby Gene and his mother were living with our grandfather when Bobby was knee-high to a grasshopper. One day his mom walked to the little country store, caught a bus for Michigan, and vanished like morning dew in July. She left a note for Bobby and his grandfather but nothing else. 

Bobby was too much for my grandfather to handle—like trying to wrangle a tornado with a butterfly net—so my mother brought him to live with us.

He was a huge influence on my life, being close family and my only friend in our tiny community of older folks with no small children. I was the well-behaved one who never bucked authority. Bobby was different; he loved getting me into trouble, not out of malice but because deep in his heart he knew rebellion was good for me.

I admired him for his spunk and his style. He wore a leather jacket with the collar turned up, jeans with 4-inch cuffs (making it look like he was wading through invisible water), and his hair was styled in a pompadour Elvis would have envied. He carried a comb in his hip-pocket to keep the hair perfect. I'd follow him anywhere. I often did. It usually got us into some sort of trouble that made for great stories decades later.

The best example of his contribution to molding my character involves his teenage scheme to train performing cats for movies and television. He brought kittens to my bedroom one afternoon because the girl next door loved kittens, and Bobby loved her. The story has been re-told many times over the years, and the number of kittens has miraculously multiplied like biblical loaves and fishes—from the actual three to as many as thirteen in some tellings.

When his best-laid plans went awry (as they do when felines are involved), the girl next door was discovered in my bedroom with Bobby. I attempted to escape by jumping from my bedroom window and falling like a hailstorm into my great-aunt's prized petunias. My father witnessed the whole rigamaroll. The expression on Dad's face that day suggested he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to that moment.

In due time, Bobby's insistence on following the example of Frank Sinatra and doing it his way turned on him. He'd tried to avoid spending days in school by disguising his identity and sneaking out. Unfortunately for him, flaunting his cleverness and boasting of his escapades neutralized his 'secret identity.'

He was taken to reform school the next day, which was regretted by all who knew him, but no one missed him more than I did. The house felt emptier than a church on Super Bowl Sunday.

When he was released, he surprised everyone by going straight to Michigan to be with his mother. Being a reformed juvenile brought him to realize he needed his mother's guiding hand. Either that or having a stepfather who worked for Chrysler and drove a new Imperial every year was too tempting for him to stay away. Some principles bend easily when they're parked next to luxury.

Bobby himself found employment with a Detroit contractor and was soon wooing the owner's daughter with the same charm that had gotten us into—and occasionally out of—so much trouble back home. He brought the girl to Crystal Cove to show her off to old friends and family. It was an impulsive decision, and the two of them didn't tell anyone they were leaving Michigan.

It wasn't intended to be a kidnapping; he simply brought an underage girl from Michigan to Tennessee without telling anyone and without getting permission—the kind of minor detail Bobby considered optional in life's instruction manual. Still, the father forgave him; no charges were brought, and Bobby continued to work for the man. It's a testament to Bobby's ability to be loved and accepted even though he was delinquent and wore that fact like a badge of honor.

Bobby soon fathered a baba daughter. He didn’t spend much time with her, leaving while she was still an infant. Apparently, he was unable to stay in one place for an extended length of time, his feet as restless as his spirit. Still, the girl's mother told her daughter so many engaging tales about Bobby that she grew up to love him and as a young woman, went to the trouble of tracking him down. She didn't consider herself abandoned; she thought of him as a wild bird that needed to fly to live.

Eventually, Bobby settled down, married a woman who could match his spirit adventure for adventure, and moved into a house next door to his mother. They were all back in the hills of Crystal Cove where the saga began. It was clear to everyone that the boy who'd been left by his mother so long ago needed to be near her to be truly happy. Bobby, his wife, and his mother all lived happily ever after and celebrated life by regularly attending the bingo games in Murray, NC, where Bobby's excited shouts of "BINGO!" could probably be heard three counties over.

I once asked what kept him going and where he got the confidence to attempt his exploits, he told me, "Life is stern and life is earnest, and if you want to make the most of it, you must blaze your own trail. Follow your own path."

"Something in that," I said, recognizing the wisdom in his words despite his mangling of Longfellow.

Despite everything that Bobby did, hiding none of it and boasting about it all, my mother accepted and loved him too. Was it because she took the little tyke in and loved him like her own? I'm sure of it. Mom never needed to forgive Bobby for anything he did because she never blamed him; never considered him at fault for anything. I received the same verdict in her eyes—acquitted of all charges before they were even filed.

I'm happy that my mom, my aunt, and Bobby Gene were together for those several years. It provided a happy ending to their sojourn here on Earth. I can only hope that my ending here will be as happy as theirs. I loved them all, and I miss them every day. 

They made me who I am—Bobby teaching me to take risks, Mom showing me how to love unconditionally, and the whole bunch demonstrating that family is what you make it, not just what you're born into.

What gave me that impression I don’t know—probably the big, broad, flexible outlook that comes from knowing someone like Bobby Gene.