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.

Don't Go Too Far

I was driving home from Wilmington, mind wandering like a toddler in a toy store.

I'd stopped at the Food Lion grocery store on Oleander because Ms. Wonder asked me to pick up Downy Dark Defender. No, it's not a Marvel superhero; it's merely laundry detergent that promises to defend dark colors from the villainous forces of fading.

I was having one of my interior conversations with Princess Amy, the sort that would have onlookers dialing the nearest mental health facility had I been conducting it aloud.

"Do I want to stop at Circular Journey Cafe for coffee on my way home?"

"No, it's out of the way, and besides, we were there yesterday. Why don't we blow off going home entirely? We have time to get to Ocean Isle Beach like proper delinquents."

I thought it best to ignore her comment; she was beginning to sound like trouble.

"Should I take Highway 74 to the Food Lion or Ocean Highway to Harris Teeter? Food Lion will have the Defender at a lower price, but Harris Teeter is a more direct route."

"Take 74!" Amy insisted with the confidence of a demanding GPS. "It has less traffic. And blow off Defender altogether. We don't need no stinkin' Defender."

"Oops, I missed the turn," I said. "The road forked, and I, like the man in the poem, took the turn no one else seemed interested in. "Oh well, Harris Teeter has easier parking, and I don't excel at spatial reasoning anyway."

I was suddenly inspired to change the subject altogether, the better to nudge Amy off-track.

"Amy, I miss the 1980s, don't you? I miss them every day."

"What do you miss about them?"

"I remember small jazz combos in the Montrose and tiny almost-hidden clubs in League City that booked unheard-of Depeche Mode cover bands—places where the cool factor was inversely proportional to the square footage."

"The good old days weren't always good," she said.

"I know," I said. "I remember the drugs, the barrio, the fights, the laughs, the crying, the screaming. I remember the bouncers at Gilley's playing rock-paper-scissors for the thrill of throwing me out."

"That's right," she said, "Every silver lining has a touch of grey."

"Yeah," I said. "It kinda suits me anyway." I shrugged twice with nothing else to say, like a man who'd rehearsed a clever retort only to find the moment had passed.

"I will get by," Amy said. "I will survive."

Her remark caused me to raise a few eyebrows questioningly. "Is that a Gloria Gayner reference?"

"Grateful Dead," she explained.

"I'm lucky I'm Alive," I countered, "—Jimmy Buffett." That made Amy raise a couple of eyebrows.

She didn't really, I hope you know. Amy doesn't have eyebrows; she's a small clump of gray cells in my brain. She's actually two clumps connected by a sort of electrical pathway, like a biological Ethernet cable. But I think of her as a real person.

That must be the ninety-ninth time I've tried to explain Princess Amy. I think I'll never explain her again. Some mysteries are best left mysterious, like how they get the caramel into the chocolate bars.

"I hear the music, and it changes my life," I said to her, waxing poetic in that way people do when they're avoiding decisions about laundry detergent.

"Without music, life would be a mistake," I added, though I really didn't know what I meant by it, other than it sounded profound in the way only borrowed wisdom can. "Music can change the world because it can change people."

"Music is the strongest form of magic," she said, then added, "Aug 27, 2023," though I don't know why she mentioned it.

I didn't ask her for an explanation because, somehow, our seemingly nonsensical banter felt meaningful, relevant, and wise all on its own, without any need for clarification—like discovering an ancient coin in your pocket and choosing to see it as an omen rather than just a laundry oversight.

We indeed have the freedom to choose how we see reality and, in that way, change reality to suit our needs. Sometimes. I mean, I don't want to get too deep into the woo-woo. I haven't forgotten Santiago's realization at the end of The Old Man and the Sea: 'I went too far out.' 

I understand Santiago's reasoning. I've done it myself—gone too far out. It's easy to do, and it seldom works out well.

As I pulled into the driveway, Defender in hand and memories of the 1980s swirling in my head, I was reminded again that life's journey is truly circular. We chase detergent, miss turns, reminisce about the past, and have philosophical debates with the Amys of our minds—all to the rhythm of a musical soundtrack. 

Perhaps that's the magic of The Circular Journey blog: no matter how far we wander, we always return home, slightly changed but somehow exactly the same, with or without the stinkin' Defender.

Transformation

Experience has taught me to never trust the Universe to follow through on her promises. Wasn't it Shakespeare who said, 'Just when we're feeling our best, Fate is sneaking up behind us with a party horn.' If he didn't say it, he should have.      

So when Wonder encouraged me to finish the book I started about 3 years ago—the one about feline preventive healthcare—I conceded. My agent tried to sell the thing before I was even halfway through it, first to a movie production company and then as a stage adaptation. Nothing came of it.

Can you imagine a musical comedy about feline preventive healthcare making the rounds off-Broadway? Neither can I, though, in fairness, cats are responsible for half the Internet’s traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next.

But let’s not get distracted. The important thing is that I finished the first draft of the manuscript yesterday. More importantly, it’s not just a book to Wonder and me—it’s a promise we made to Eddy Peebody back in 2019. If you’ve read the posts, you know the story. If not, let’s just say it involved a cat, a vow, and no small amount of dramatic flair.

And so, with the draft completed, I was on top of the world—floating, basking, celebrating the triumph. But as Shakespeare (or at least my version of him) warns: don’t hold your breath.

This morning, still reveling in my literary victory, I warmed up Wynd Horse and set sail down Blandings Highway toward the Port City. 

John Cougar was singing Pink Houses on the eighties channel, and I was singing along, belting out the line: 'There's a young man in a t-shirt listenin' to a rock-n-roll station.' The next song to come out of the dash was Come Dancing by the Kinks. If you know anything about Genome, you know what that song means to me.

We Genomes are tough stuff, tempered steel as it were, hardened by the slings and arrows. Stalwart. Unshakable. But we have our limits. Before they came to the end of the first line, 'They put a parking lot on a piece of land where the supermarket used to stand,' I was a blubbering wreck behind the steering wheel.

I cried so hard I was a hazard to myself and the road. I would have pulled over, had it not been for a sudden distraction: a man walking a dog, and that dog was a spaniel mix--and part Cocker Spaniel, I'm sure.

A Cocker Spaniel was my first dog. I was six years old, and he was 8 weeks when we first met. We became instant friends, and he was my best and only friend for the first several years of my life. The memory of him filled my heart and my head with love and light.

And just like that, the grief lifted. One moment, I was drowning in a sea of nostalgia; the next, I felt like an unseen hand had pulled me out of a dark hole into the light. I felt like I was on top of the world, sitting on a rainbow. It was as though I'd been rescued from a world where I didn't belong and restored to the world that was mine. In short, I was transformed. 

Is it permanent? Of course not. Nothing is. But the experience was so vivid that the memory will be more than just a mental construct—it will be an emotional landmark. Like the scent of cedar and peppermint at Christmas, the memory of this day will bring it all back.

And when I’m feeling down—when anxiety creeps in or melancholy sets up camp—I’ll read this post and remember. I’ll remember Pluto, my childhood dog. I’ll remember Eddy, my cat. I’ll remember my sister, Delores.

Their memories will restore the love and light that filled my world when they were here with me. It's not everything. It's not perfect. But it's enough, and isn't that all we need? 

 

Dream Hangover

"Guess whose hand you're going to shake today?" asked the voice in my head when I woke up this morning. If that sentence makes no sense to you, imagine how I felt when I heard it.

Some mornings begin with a smile; others start with a sneer. I may stumble into the loo only to discover I forgot to buy toothpaste. That's a bother. Other mornings, my search for espresso finds only empty boxes. That's disaster. 

I was awakened this morning by that taunting mystery voice. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Princess Amy was in a snit. Earth's foundations were crumbling.

Amy followed me to the kitchen, looking like she’d had a rough night. Her shoulders drooped, accentuating the downturn of her lower lip. To be fair, I hadn’t exactly waltzed out of bed refreshed either, but I was doing my best to shake it off—not an easy task with morning breath and no coffee.

"Cheer up, Amy, old girl. Why the long face?" I said, adopting my most cheerful, back-slapping tone. I refrained from any actual back-slapping—she’s not equipped with a dorsal side.

"Oh, I don’t know," she replied, her tone full of the kind of melodrama I’d rather avoid first thing in the morning. "Could it possibly have something to do with being bored as far as manic psychosis?"

My ears pricked up. Amy, when bored, is a dangerous thing. When her mind idles, she has a habit of engineering pranks so diabolical they border on intergalactic warfare. Death Stars come to mind. Immediate action was required.

"What would you like to do?" I asked, emotionally preparing for damage control.

She shrugged. "Got any ideas?"

"I'm going out to scatter peanuts for the squirrels. You can join me if you like."

Another shrug, but she followed me outside, where we scattered squirrels by scattering nuts. It’s impossible to stay glum when surrounded by a squirrel circus, and by the time we re-entered the kitchen, Amy’s mood seemed to have lifted.

"What I don’t understand," I said, "is how you woke up in a foul mood, and I didn’t."

"I had bad dreams," she said. "Several of them."

"Ah," I nodded sagely, like one of those world-weary detectives in an old black-and-white film. "A dream hangover."

"Describes it pretty well," she admitted. "I dreamed of the cats. Sad dreams."

"Oh, our cats?"

"Of course, our cats. I don’t have memories of any other cats."

At that moment, out of nowhere, I had a stroke of brilliance—the kind of idea that arrives unannounced and has nothing to do with the conversation at hand but is, nevertheless, an absolute winner. It's quite a common occurrence for the Genomes. I remember my great-uncle Carl did it often.

"I have just the thing!" I declared. "Wonder keeps one of her special elixirs in the fridge in case I get blue and need a pick-me-up. You should try it. It’s one of the wonders she’s known for."

Amy eyed me warily. "What’s in it? I’m not drinking anything with a raw egg in it."

"She keeps the ingredients secret," I admitted. "I’ve identified a few, but the rest remain a mystery."

I poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her.

"Don’t sip it," I warned. "Bottoms up!"

Now, when I drink the stuff, I often feel as if the top of my head has blown off, and my eyes seem to bulge like Slick Joe McWolf's. These effects are accompanied by the sound of the Flintstones' steam whistle signaling the end of a work shift. Judging by Amy’s expression, she was experiencing much the same effect.

"What is that?" she sputtered, shoving the glass back at me.

"Well, I know for certain there's cayenne," I said, "and I suspect turmeric, ginger, and lime juice. What else is in there remains a mystery."

"Yeah, well, it’s got Blenheim’s ginger ale in it, too. I’m sure of that."

"Feeling any better?" I asked.

She considered. "A bit, yeah. Give me another shot."

I questioned the wisdom of her drinking another glassful. She'd already had more than the recommended dose for anyone over the age of twelve. Still, I felt really bucked from the effect of spreading goodness and light. 

I poured a second tumbler and handed it to her, asking myself, What could possibly go wrong?

The Last Parking Space S2 E4

The filming location for the Driver's Ed movie is in downtown Wilmawood this week. Bobby Farrelly is directing another Netflix young adult film, and the entire area is a madhouse of production trucks, extras, and onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous. When I arrived this morning, the place looked like a monster truck rally.

I planned to report behind-the-scenes activities in a post on The Circular Journey. I stopped at the light on Fourth Street, trying to maintain a zen-like composure in stark contrast to the anxiety building in my chest. I was about to commend my soul to God and turn onto Orange Street to enter the quest for the elusive parking space.

"Breathe," I said to myself. "Just breathe."

"Look at them," whispered Amy, my internal play-by-play announcer, her voice dripping with sardonic glee. "The wild parking warriors in their natural habitat."

A massive grip truck swooped into a space I'd been eyeing as Wynd Horse  (my trusty vehicle) cruised up the street. 

"Vultures, I tell you. Production parking vultures," said Amy.

"That's the third space we've missed," she observed in a more reasonable tone. "Maybe we should park on Castle Street and walk."

"What?" I said, "Are you suggesting surrender? Not today, Amy." I could hear her giggling and realized she was playing both ends against the middle. Hedging her bets--hoping to get the best of me no matter what I did.

The area was a gladiatorial chess game of automotive positioning. Production assistants in headsets, crew members with coffee, actors in costume—all weaving through a labyrinth of vehicles. A location scout wearing a day-glow orange headset appeared to be practicing some form of parking meditation, waiting with impossible patience.

A minivan backed out near the catering trucks. Victory was within reach! But no—another vehicle, seemingly materializing from thin air, slid into the space with the precision of a stunt driver.

"Oh, come ON!" Amy screamed internally.

And then, something unexpected happened. The location scout in the headset was waving to me. She pointed to a space I hadn't seen, tucked behind a massive equipment trailer. A small gesture, a moment of unexpected kindness in the Wilmawood parking jungle.

I maneuvered Wynd Horse into the space. I was equally grateful for the help finding parking and embarrassed by my earlier parking lot aggression.

"See?" I could hear Ms. Wonder say as if she were in my head instead of being back home in Chatsford. "Persistence and patience are the keys," she seemed to say.

Princess Amy grumbled something about star parking and strategic positioning, which got way over my head. She began muttering something about an actor who refused to play his part--probably Shakespeare. She clearly wasn't speaking to me, so I ignored her. When she's in these moods, the best response is no response.

The parking area continued its manic dance as we navigated our way through the automotive maze. Trucks weaved in and out as drivers made their own rules; it was a mobile madhouse.

As I walked through the chaos of vehicles and film production assistants, it occurred to me that we're all just trying to find our own space in the parking lot of life. Keeping that in mind helps foster a little more patience and understanding, rather than forcing events to go our way.

The production buzzed with life. Cameras, lights, the hum of controlled creativity filled the air. And somewhere behind us, the parking lot warriors continued their gladiatorial quest for that most elusive of urban treasures—the perfect parking space.

Back at Chatsford Hall, near the end of the day, Wonder was packing her photography gear for an evening river tour. She boards the Henrietta from the River Walk downtown to capture abstract images of the ships in port.

"What's the parking situation like downtown?" she asked stuffing her tripod into a shoulder bag.

"I had no trouble parking on Orange Street," I said. "It's a little congested, but a little patience works wonders. She gave me a knowing look and a half smile. I think she got the hint. But she's a wonder worker; a little traffic won't get in her way.