Make It So

The day began in the usual way. Up early with words to write, as if words could make right the muddle of the heart. Oh, sorry. I've jumped the rails. Came close to writing poetry there for a second. 

Good thing I caught myself in time. I sometimes think I can get away with it just one last time but then it always snags me. One is all it takes as the man said.

As I was saying, nothing unusual about the start of the morning. But that's a recurring theme with me, isn't it? There's never a warning about things to come. 

What I should have said at the beginning of this post is that I'd just gotten off the phone when Ms. Wonder came into my little corner of the world.

"Was that you're agent on the phone just now?" she said.

"It was," I said still in wonder of it all.

"Well, what's the news?" she said. "I can tell by that look on your face that something's up? You look like, the heroine of Israel? What's her name?"

"You're thinking of Jael," I said. "the wife of Heber. Do I look that happy?"

"You do," she said, "but I don't remember what she did exactly."

"She hammered a tent stake into the head of Israel's enemy while he was sleeping on her couch," I explained.

Hearing my words, her brow wrinkled and her eyes looked just a little worried.

"Let's pass over all that," she said. "Just tell me what your agent said."

"You're not going to believe it," I said.

"Don't tell me they're still talking about adapting your blog for the stage," she said.

"Nothing to do with that old gag," I said. "You see it's like this."

And then I told her the whole story about the Baptist deacon in Charlotte who found his daughter reading my blog and decided to read a few random posts to make sure it was up to snuff. He didn't like it. He spoke to his pastor who phoned the Wilma News. 

"Oh no!" she said.

"Apparently the religion columnist reviewed my blog in the current edition. He described my work using adjectives that I find harsh and reactionary and Fox News worthy.”

"Genome!" she said. "This is terrible. What will you do?"

"I suppose an honorable man like myself should write the columnist and thank him. You see since the article came out, The Circular Journey has received more followers than the previous all-time total."

"Ohhhhh," she said.

"Yes," I said. "My agent called to let me know that a couple of studios are considering bringing the blog to a larger audience."

"Larger audience?"

"That's right," I said. "A Wilmawood production."

"Genome?" she said.

"Yes?" I said.

“You’ll lose your anonymity.”

“You mean people will know my true identity. Yes I see. Something to consider for sure. Still, it’s not like I’m in the witness protection program.”

“Aren’t you? But never mind that. My question is can we do the same for my art?"

"All things are possible for those who believe," I said and I thought it pretty cool. Still do. Quotable I think.

“Let’s generate some scandalous scuttlebutt about your art.”

“Data,” she said, “engage!”

The Summer Wind

Waterford was basking in the comforting warmth of a late summer morning. The skies were uniformly blue and the sunshine uniformly cheery. V-shaped depressions might be throwing their weight around in other areas along the coast but here the barometer enjoyed a zen-like repose.

Along the canals, bluebirds were singing some of the classic tunes from the 40's and 50's. The fruit of palmetto palms flashed in the sun like orange pearls. The late azaleas shone in the early morning sun like jewels. The lagoons shimmered like liquid silver. And the ducks. Well, the ducks were like ducks. 

Cooling summer breezes came drifting in from across the sea and the entire world seemed new underneath the blue umbrella sky. It was a good day to be alive and I felt it.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway in the direction of the sanctum that I'm sure you know well by now. "Poopsie, I feel good." There was no answer. Probably on an international call. That's where I usually find her.

I got upholstered in the outerwear of a coastal gentleman because today was the day I was to meet my new dermatologist. Before you go off the deep end, let me explain. It wasn't a doctor's appointment that had me bucked. It was an opportunity to explore an unfamiliar district of Wilma. Always a pleasure.

It was the work of an instant for me to crank the self-starter in Wynd Horse and virtually fly down Grandiflora and across the Cape Fear River to Wrightsville Beach. I refer to the town and not to the boardwalk. The boardwalk I'm familiar with already. Who isn't?

The derma office was a pleasant enough place. There was a passing annoyance of the urge to cough too much in the waiting room but I fought it down with a swig of organic, refined guava syrup. I know! Guava syrup! Who'd have guessed it was the coffee sweetener provided for clients?

The coughing fit was alleviated somewhat when my attention was captured by the office terrier, who insisted on getting scratched behind the ears. That's right! A dog in the office. This place was beginning to be as entertaining as the boardwalk. And it was just the beginning.

In minutes, I was escorted to the examing room where the doctor introduced herself and her office attire was the biggest surprise of the day. Instead of the usual lab smock or scrubs that one usually sees in healthcare services, she was dressed like a golfer on her way to an early tee time. Come to think of it, no reason why she shouldn't have a date with girlfriends to get in a quick nine or even eighteen before lunch.

The doctor was very efficient but personable and after a few comments about the top of the scalp, the right ear, and the left shoulder, she wrote a script and I was on my way. The day had begun perfectly and I was ready to enjoy a beautiful afternoon. I toyed with the idea of motoring down to Ocean Isle.

Back on the road listening to Frank Sinatra singing Summer Wind, my attention was again diverted. This time it was a voice in my head.

"Genome," said the voice, and I'm sure it's one as familiar to you as to me. 

"Genome, that spot on your ear," she said.

"What about it?" I said and I put a lot of topspin on it because I wanted it to sting. The very idea, I thought, of my own limbic system working against me when I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

"What if it's cancer?" she said. "It could be cancer."

"It's not cancer," I said. "It's nothing."

"It might be," she said, "and she's going to remove that spot on your scalp when you come back in October. What's that going to be like? You'll probably need to wear a hat for who knows how long."

"No big deal," I said. "My mom had those things removed all the time."

"Yeah, and the healing process was ugly. You don't need any more unpleasant-looking spots."

"Go away," I said. The conversation was bringing me down and I resented her messing with my head.

"At least she'll freeze the top of your head," she said. "That'll be a good thing."

"Why do you say it will be good?"

"Well, having your head frozen can only improve things for you," she said.

That was the last straw. I refused to respond to any more of her comments even though the comments kept coming until I got home.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway. "Something terrible has happened."

"What's wrong?" she said coming down the stairs to console me if consoling was needed.

"What did the doctor say?" she said. "Did she find something wrong?"

"It's not the doctor," I said. "It's Princess Amy. She's back."

Squirrel Neighbors

We have a squirrel living with us at 2222 Forest Lane. When I say 'living with us,' I mean that he resides in the trees overshadowing our fence row. You could say he lives in the guest house if a tree can be a guest house.

I know that Mutter, that's the name I gave him, Mutter doesn't consider his home a guest house. He probably sees me as an intruder. I’m sure when our house was built, he must have watched the construction and complained to his spouse about the intrusion.

Every time I step outside to feed the birds—and, yes, the squirrels too, and I use the plural form because there are several living close to us. As I was about to say, I see him perched on the fence, or gliding through the branches, or scolding me from somewhere in the foliage. He makes it clear that he doesn't approve of my nearness to his home. And who can blame him, really?

One evening I saw him sitting on the fencerow that separates my backyard from his bit of woodland. He seemed to be watching me watching him. He wore a look that expressed his dissatisfaction, or perhaps his suspicion that I was up to no good. I know that he suspects me, much like the efficient Baxter, Lord Emsworth's secretary, suspects everyone.

If the previous paragraph got past you like a fastball, don't worry because just as the man wrote in his letter, now we see through a glass, darkly, but then all will be revealed. Not a direct quote but you get the gist I think.

 

Watching him through the French windows of the lanai, I didn't immediately realize that his friend and cohort in mischief was climbing the screen of the lanai. That's right! I don't exaggerate when I say that Breezer, the friend, was clinging to the screen about eight feet off the ground.

This was simply over the line. Too much! I'm completely sympathetic to the disappointment and perhaps even chagrin of the original inhabitants of 2222 Forest Lane, Waterford, but the present behavior was a hair short of breaking and entering. I couldn't have it.

I mean consider the birds. They live here too and that's a documented fact that can be proven in court. They don't hold a grudge. We all live in harmony. I feed them twice daily and in return, they sing and fly about bringing sweetness and light. In fact, several birds were feeding along the fence even as I watched Breezer climb the screen.

I waved my arms in the air to let the miscreant know that his behavior was unacceptable. Nothing, he simply looked at me as if to say, Yeah, what're you going to do about it? I realized then that steps would have to be taken. I moved close to the French windows and said, "Don't make me open this door...do not make me. I will open this door."

Still nothing. Probably because the door was closed and he couldn't hear me. Still, I repeated it with increased volume, cadence, rhythm, and inflection to make sure it was recognized as a dire warning. You know, like my parents used to do. 

"Don't make me open this door."

Nothing. Not an iota of change in the goings-on.

There was nothing else to do. I opened the door. It was like Gabriel had sounded the coming of Judgement Day. The crows launched themselves into the air in all directions. The doves and songbirds seemed unsure about what action they should take, if any, but it was a different matter altogether with the squirrels.

The crow evacuation was a noisy one and at the sound, the squirrels froze in place, like the sassy little peasant children you read about in fairy tales who get uppity with a wizard and then find themselves unable to move. They stared at each other as if to say, What now?

I stepped onto the lanai. Breezer dropped onto the ground and scampered toward the fence. Mutter launched himself into the foliage and began cruising through the branches.

In hindsight, the whole thing was like the behavior you might expect from those workers of iniquity made famous in that New York Times best-selling book.

From the lanai, I scanned the yard and saw that Mutter had stopped on a branch that gave him a clear view of me and the backyard. Breezer had climbed to the top of the fence where he stopped to look my way again.

Realizing that they were a safe distance from me and had succeeded in annoying me more than a little, they couldn't resist self-satisfied flicks of tails and expressions that told me they were full of themselves. 

"Mission accomplished," they seemed to say.

I suppose this means we may never be friends. Not real friends. Because making friends takes time and effort on both sides. But I'll keep trying. Maybe one day.

Moonlighting

To get to Chatsford Hall from the grand old metropolis of Wilma, 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 had begun with all that hustle and bustle on Ocean Highway, a leisured peace prevailed this evening within the walls of Chatsford. It's always so 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 but his reputation is known far and wide as a tamer of the sun. The moonlight is merely practicing discretion as the better part of valor in pausing before entering his presence. 

If you aren't familiar with the story already, you may want to refer to the post titled, When Morning Comes in The Circular Journey archives. But for serenity's sake, don't do it now. Finish this post first. You have plenty of time. It's a holiday weekend.

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.