The Best of South Durham

If you want a great cup of brew-haha in the South Durham district, you go to Bean Traders in Homestead Market. BT's is one of those places that help you remember the smell of coffee in the morning when you first learned to love coffee. 

Have you ever had the experience of wanting something so badly, that you got out of bed, got dressed, and drove through the night looking for that something? That's Bean Traders. Casual coffee imbibers beware. Once you've had Bean Traders Bijou or Bodhi blend, you will not condone anything else.

Bean Traders is so good that when Starbucks launched its assault on the SoDu coffee market, it lasted three years right across the street from Bean Traders--you could see the front door of each establishment from the front door of the other. In the end, Starbucks surrendered, closed its doors, and begged the Village at Bean Traders to forgive them for their inconsiderate behavior. They forgave. The Village is like that. Their loyalty is fierce and they show no mercy but they hold no grudges.

If you want the best cajun food and zydeco, blues, and Nawlen's jazz, you go to Papa Mojo's Roadhouse in Greenwood Commons. Have you ever sucked crawfish heads? You will if you frequent PM's Roadhouse. Have you ever eaten gator tail? You will do that too. Have you ever danced in the parking lot under a full moon and not cared who your dance partner was? You will if you attend the open mic night on Wednesday evenings. Laissez les bon temps rouler? Yeah, baby, heaped up, pressed down, and running over.

And where do you find hot, fierce, intentional living? Where do you find examples of people living fully as human beings, without restriction and limitation? That would be Native Grounds. Many have moved on to other chapters and they are sorely missed by the remnant but, on any given morning you will still find Island Irv, the Enforcer, the Duck Man, Inspector Rivera, the Genome, Amy Normal, and the rest of the cast, enjoying the good stuff and doing the best they can to ignore the bad.

Not everyone wants to ride the wild wind and dance with the devil on Saturday night. Some just want a little garden to bloom and fruit in season. That's cool. But for me, sometimes the best I can do is stay tethered and wait for the wind to settle. What would I do without the SoDu? I do hope it survives the current infestation of vampire kittens.

Witch of Woodcroft

The Native Grounds Cafe sits just off Fayetteville Road in the Southpoint District of Durham and I had just opened the door to enter when I heard a familiar voice say, "So kindly don't speak rot to me." I was amazed to hear this voice because I'd not enjoyed the company of the Emperor of South Durham since before the holiday apocalypse. He spotted me as I entered and waved a patronizing hand.

"Ah, Genome, so here your are," he said.

I thought about denying it but couldn't think of a substantial argument.

"Come in and have a crumpet," he said.

"Thanks," I said but then immediately shook the bean for the barista who is fairly new and probably not yet fully cognizant of the Emperor's style.

"Did you bring that bag?"

"No, sorry, I forgot," I said.

"Well of all the muddle-headed asses," he said adding something about 'Others abide our question, thou are free,' or something like that. Meant nothing to me but perhaps you are familiar with the gag. Then he dismissed me with a weary gesture and called for another Earl Grey before turning back to his waiting audience.

I sat at a table with the Enforcer and Island Irv, as is my custom, and enjoyed a cup of the hot and strengthening until the Duck Man came in strewing the flu like tattered remnants of a bad dream. I decided it was time to head for the horizon and was in the middle of see-you-latering when I heard that familiar voice again.

"Pushing off?"

"I thought I would," I said.

"Can I rely on you not to bungle that job?" he demanded and I nodded in reply. I'm sure you know how it is when the circs demand tactful surrender.

"Tell me in your own words what you're to do," he said.

"Go the the sporting goods store--"

"--on Chapel Hill Road," he said.

"Right, on Chapel Hill Road," I said.

"--and get the large duffle bag. Now buzz off. The door is behind you. Grasp the handle and push."

Weaker men, no doubt, would have been sickened by having their morning cut into like this but there is a tough, bulldog strain in the Genomes that has often caused comment. I stood firm, took three qigong breaths, and walked out into the morning with a light heart, happy to have it in me to perform this little act of duty. Then something buzzed in my pocket causing me to retrieve my personal communication device and look at the screen.

I don't know if you were one of the gang that followed the most recent tale of high suspense and international intrigue involving the adjacent kingdom of the United States but, if you were, then you may recall that the events began with a tsunami of text messages.

At first glance, my phone now had about two dozen of the things waiting for me but closer inspection revealed only three. They all bore the same signature--Gladys, Witch of Woodcroft.

The first read:
'Come at once. Serious rift in fabric of universe.'

The second:
'Received no reply to msg come at once. Come at once. Reply.'

The third:
'What the hell! Why no answer. Must I cast a spell? What is wrong with people these days? Have all the decent men been caught up in the Mayan Rapture? Come at once.'

Again, I remained calm. Three deep qigong breaths and I was centered and ready for all that life might send my way.

I typed a reply and hit the send button:
'Sorry. Static and whatnot. Did you say whiskey or whiskers? Reply.'

Work In Progress

My mother keeps the Big Book of Death. When I say she keeps it, I mean that she maintains it by entering the names of the recently departed and the dates of their death. The 49 days of Bardo begin with the date she enters in the book.

I was first introduced to Death in 1964 when my sister Delores died. I didn't realize then that I would come to have a personal relationship with him but our paths have crossed several times since then. The last time I saw Death was a little over three years ago when I was driving through the intersection of Woodcroft and Fayetteville and my car was struck full-on by a car rushing through a red traffic light.

"GOOD MORNING," he said, in a friendly enough though slightly raspy and very heavy voice, like a lead anchor, dragged across a cement driveway.

"Do you think this is funny?" I demanded and yes I meant it to sting. I have known this Death for many years but he is not a friend.

"IT'S MY JOB," he said, "AND IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME PURPOSE." Then in a slightly different tone, as though he were a next-door neighbor, he asked, "ARE YOU WELL?"

"Well? Am I well? I may have been well until a tenth of a second ago when that DART bus decided that 'twere well I was smacked into."

"YOU MEAN, IF 'TWERE DONE, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE DONE QUICKLY," he said as though he liked to get it right. And then, still seeming to look for the lighter side, he rephrased, "IF 'TWERE SMACKED INTO, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE SMACKED INTO WITH NOBS ON." He didn't laugh but he did grin, although he really doesn't have a choice about grinning.

"Not impressed," I said. "Not impressed with your knowledge of Shakespeare and not impressed with your humor." Remember, I was not shying away from stinging. When you're face to face with death, you have little to lose.

"IT WAS A FORD ECLIPSE," he said, "NOT AN AUTOBUS."

That's what he said. Autobus. I remember thinking how odd it was. I let it go because things were progressing rapidly and suddenly I was standing before a pair of very large, very solid-looking doors--I'm sure they were oaken, not oak, but oaken--with a pair of brass rings large enough for basketballs to fit through.

"What's that?" I said.

"I THINK YOU KNOW," he said.

"Death's doors," I said. "I'm not opening them," and I said it emphatically.

"BUT ONCE YOU ASKED TO ENTER," he protested.

"That was a long time ago. A lot has happened since then."

"IT'S INTERESTING," he said, "HOW HUMAN BEINGS HOLD ONTO THE SILLY IDEA OF OVERCOMING ADVERSITY WHEN THEY KNOW FULL WELL THAT THEY ARE SKIDDING DOWN A SLIPPERY SLOPE TOWARD AN OPEN MANHOLE. YET THEY CONTINUE TO LIVE THEIR LIVES LAUGHING AT THEIR OWN TRAGEDIES. IMMENSELY INTERESTING."

"That amuses you, does it?" I asked.

"I DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS," he said.

At that moment, my car stopped spinning and I began to slip back into consciousness.

"THE FUTURE HAS CHANGED FOR YOU AGAIN," Death said, "BUT WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON ENOUGH."

"Are you alright?" the Parkwood EMS guy asked and when my eyes focused he was looking into the broken window of my car.

It was a couple of days later that I remembered meeting Death in that second and a half that my car spun around the intersection. My life hasn't been the same by a long shot. Sometimes good and sometimes not. But always a welcome gift of Time and Place on the right side of the grass.

Life comes fast and hard. So does Death. Be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

The Return of Lupe

In a previous episode...

The text message I received was from my Great Aunt Maggie, the Supreme Mother of the Genome clan. She instructed me to ferry my god-niece Lupe from the old metrop of Durham, where she attends the School of Science and Math, to Shady Grove Village, my ancestral home and the domain of my mother's family.

Well, we can't allow aunts to order us around like they're our mothers. We'd never hear the last of it. One day it would be this and another day--well, I'm sure you get my meaning and, if I know anything about you after all the years, you agree with me in toto.

I responded to her text by saying that my calendar was full and that I couldn't get away just now. I promised to get back to her in a few days. She then replied with a great deal of claptrap about an aunt's curse that included many variations of, If you know what's good for you. 

As I considered my next move, I received a text from Lupe, the 11-year-old geezer mentioned in Aunt Maggie's text. Her text read, On my way up. Don't make me wait!!! Did I mention that she's 11?

The very next moment, my doorbell tootled, and when I opened the door, there on the threshold, was a half-pint version of the maximum recommended adult dose of young Twee. 

She wore spider-crushing combat boots in a sort of silvery-black color with red socks. A plaid shirt in red and black was tied around denim shorts and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.  A wide-brimmed black hat with a red band was pushed back from her face. It was a big morning for red and black.

"Don't make me wait?" I said in a light rebuff.

"I know how you can be," she said as she walked into the room.

"How I can be..." I said with more than a little topspin. "Is this the beginning of a beautiful conversation?"

"Ha!" she said. "You big jamoke!" She gave me a punch in the arm and asked, "How are you?" She threw her arms around my waist, and my mood was instantly elevated. She has that power with me. You see, this Lucy Lupe Mankiller and I go way back. Well, we go back 11 years.

"Jamoke?" I said. "I'm not familiar with the term."

She ignored the remark. Her attention seemed to have been arrested if that's the word. She was scrutinizing my face. She stepped back to get a better view.

"What happened to your caterpillar?"

"Oh, that little thing," I said. "I shaved it this morning. I thought it was time for a new look. You don't see many upper lips these days or chins for that matter. Adds a bit of the debonair to your old God-uncle, don't you think?"

"No," she said.

"No? That's disappointing. I was hoping for your approval. Why don't you like it?"

"Well," she said, "you don't have an upper lip."

"Oh, that does hurt," I said. "It may be thin, Miss Mankiller, but it's there. And we may still be looking for my chin, but I do have an upper lip, and right now, I'm struggling to keep it stiff."

She let that one slide and changed the subject. "I'm happy that you're going to the village with me."

"Don't get your hopes up, I don't plan to be there for long."

"How long will you be staying then? You'll be there through the Solstice?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "The last thing I want is to get stuck playing the part of the Fool in the Winter Festival."

"Too bad," she said. "Nothing exciting ever happens in the village," she said and then added the footnote, "unless you're there, of course. You have a special knack for adding interest."

"I know why you say that with that silly grin, young Lupe," I said. "And for the millionth time, it was not my fault."

"Burning down the outdoor guides' dormitory?" she said. "How's that not your fault?"

"I've explained repeatedly," I said, "that I had no choice in the matter. I was forced to make a decision on the spur of the moment. Do you know how difficult it can be to choose one course of action over another in a flash? I did my best. I considered this and that, and the best course of action seemed to be burn the place down to hide the evidence."

"Hmmm," she said with a meditative nod. She seemed to be assessing the logic behind my reasoning. Or should I say, the reasoning behind my logic? I'm never sure which way it should go. Leave a comment below with your suggestions.

"Stick with that story if it suits you," she said. Then, with a big grin, she added, "You're like the snake that slithered into Eden and caused all the trouble for Adam and Eve, aren't you? I can't wait to see what you do for an encore."

"Oh? I don't know," I said in a meditative state of my own, "so you think slithered is the right verb do you?"

Joy Cometh in the Morning

"You know, the longer I live, the more I feel that the great wheeze in life is to be jolly well sure of what you want."
                                                                       -- Bertie Wooster

I wonder if you are familiar with the works of the poet Browning. It is his words that I remember each morning in my attempt to put the proper English on the day. The lark is on the wing, the snail, the thorn; God is in his Heaven and the bluebird is strutting her stuff. Or words to that effect.

If you've no time for poets, Browning or otherwise, then you might string along with the psalmist who said, "Joy cometh in the morning." That about sums it up for me. No matter how active the slings, no matter how thick the air with arrows, when the new day arrives, it frees us from the limitations of yesterday.

But I confess this was not my mood as I upholstered the outer crust for meditation in the courtyard at Straw Valley this past weekend. It was a somber morning full of thoughts on what life was to be like without Lucy in the house. Somber yes but the Genome does not eat pine needles and he maintains zero tolerance for the activities of Princess Amy, as I'm sure I don't have to remind you.

I was more or less a thing of fire and steel as I drove through the streets of the Renaissance District and blew into the doors of Dulce Cafe. I don't suppose I've been this close in years to shouting the ancient battle cry of the Jarls but just as the the mouth opened to vent, I spotted a familiar form in the shadows.

"Morning, Vinnie," I cried to The Enforcer causing him to miss the lips and dribble coffee down the chin. His reaction was much like the warhorse upon hearing the bugles, not that I've seen them first hand mind you, but I'm told that they start, they quiver, they paw the field and rejoice in their strength saying, "Ha ha" among the trumpets. Well, give or take a "Ha" or two, that was pretty much Vinnie.

I took my seat with Ms Wonder on one side and The Enforcer on the other with the feeling that these two had been ordained from the beginning to be with me on this morning. As the storm raged in the soul, I was seated at a table with the civilian equivalent of the United States Marines. All would be well is the thought that filled the coconut.

After a few minutes talking of this and that, something caught my attention coming through the door.  "What's wrong?" asked the Wonder, looking at me with concern. "You look like a startled cat." Then she said something about it being very becoming on me. But I barely heard the words.

There are times, to be sure, when one with a burden of woe is happy to welcome any acquaintance to the table, even a disambiguated one with a marked resemblance to a barnyard fowl, but this morning wasn't one of them. What I found particularly irksome in the Duck Man was the look he wore of owning the world and having paid cash for it, avoiding finance charges.

When he took his seat, he opened a discourse on a subject of interest only to him and he refused to relinquish the floor even when vigorously opposed. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to offend. 

Even when Mary arrived--the good and deserving Mary who always has something of interest to say and who always leaves us feeling encouraged and optimistic, even this Mary was buffeted by the Duck Man's insistence on attention.

"Please join us," I said to Mary hoping against hope that we could turn the tide of avian impersonators and save the morning. "I'm sorry," she said, "I need to hurry home and get ready for church." As she walked away, Vinnie gave the Duck Man a quick glance and then called out to Mary, "Pray for us, Mary."

That having been accomplished, I pushed off and got on with meditation in the courtyard. Live comes hard and fast--accept any help that comes your way, no matter the source.