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.

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- 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.

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?