The Noticer Returns Read online

  Christy was constantly on the lookout for luncheons or classes or gatherings of one kind or another. Those events were great for meeting potential clients, and, in fact, it had been a client who had mentioned the class for which she was waiting. That client was Kelli Porter.

  Kelli had been in awe of the portraits Christy had produced of her children, and because (for the first time in their lives) the kids had enjoyed the session, she determined to keep up with this particular photographer. Kelli had already recommended her to several friends, and when she called Christy to tell her, Kelli also mentioned the class she and Bart were attending.

  When Christy had asked about the class and its teacher, Kelli had been unsure how to answer. She mentioned parenting and life skills and something about a plan for “when our kids are grown.” Kelli also mentioned that the teacher was an expert, but she had to get off the phone before Christy could find out more.

  In reality, it hadn’t really mattered to Christy what the class was about or who taught it. She was chiefly interested in the access she would have to all the people in the class. There would probably be several hundred there, she knew. After all, the class was being held at the Grand Hotel.

  When Christy asked the old man if he was a guest at the hotel, she was somewhat surprised to hear that he was the expert who taught the class she had come to attend. He certainly didn’t seem like a typical teacher to Christy. The old man told her that everyone would gather at seven on the end of the pier. At least that made sense. What a great location, Christy thought, for a time to get to know a few others in the class before it began.

  “I’m a little different in my approach to life,” she had said to the old man as an answer to one of the several questions he had asked. It was true. Christy had grown up in an environment where everyone was expected to be and act and think the same. She wasn’t a contrarian, but friends and family had always described her with an old cliché. “Christy,” they would say, “marches to the beat of her own drum,” and that is precisely why she was excited when the old man told her that “being a bit different” was a requirement in order to accelerate personal and professional growth.

  When asked to explain, Jones said simply, “Everybody wants to make a difference, but nobody wants to be different. And you simply cannot have one without the other.”

  Christy laughed out loud.

  When the old man had revealed himself as the teacher of the class, Christy asked about the subject matter. “What would you like to learn?” the old man responded.

  “Oh, my!” Christy said and threw her arms in the air. “There’s so much I want to learn. We don’t have much money, but we have three great kids. I want to be a better mom, a better person, better wife, photographer, businessperson . . .” She paused and said, “I can list everything if you want.”

  Jones chuckled and told her about the importance of process, principles, and results. They discussed how each had its place and why each was necessary. Before pointing her to the pier and assuring her that he would be along in a bit, the old man said, “You are one of a kind, and that is a very good thing. You should remember that and act like you know it. Operate at the very edge of becoming every part of everything you are supposed to be.”

  At my wife’s insistence we arrived early for the second parenting class. Polly and I ate dinner in the Saltwater Grill and kept an eye out for Jones. After our meal we had thirty minutes to kill before the class was scheduled to begin. Remembering that we would again convene on the pier, I suggested a quick stroll around the Grand Hotel property that would meander in that general direction. We crossed by the charming lake with its fountains and waterfalls and soon passed one of the conspicuous No Fishing signs. The sign caused us to laugh as we thought about our boys who, during every visit to the hotel, would threaten to sneak out at night and “catch those monsters” they could plainly see from the bank. I did my Austin/Adam impression for Polly. Please, Mama. Nobody will know. Please. Only once, okay? Okay? Did you see the fish? Mama, please. Please . . .

  “I’m still looking for Jones to maybe arrive early,” Polly said as we walked away from the pond. She reached over to take my hand and squeezed it. “You know?” she added and wiggled her eyebrows at me when I looked to see if she was serious. She was.

  Dramatically rolling my eyes in response, I stopped and declared, “Dear. In all the years I have known this man, yes, I have seen him show up unexpectedly many times. However . . . and this is a big, five-hundred-pound ‘however’—listen to me now—every single occasion upon which he has ever stated a time to meet or to arrive or whatever . . . Jones did not vary fifteen seconds from the exact time he set. I’m telling you, dear, the man’s gonna walk onto the pier at seven o’clock and not a minute earlier or later.”

  I knew she would not be able to help herself. She could not. “But if it were somehow possible—”

  “Walk,” I interrupted. “Dear. Please. Please. Just walk.”

  Polly gritted her teeth and theatrically squeezed my hand with both of hers, hard, as if she were so aggravated she might just pinch my hand in two. We both laughed, and I asked, “Are you through?”

  “Yes,” she said sweetly and patted my hand before giving it back to me.

  “Okay,” I said, now taking her hand in mine. “Walk.” We eased through the trees by the Spa Building, heading for the brick pathway that would take us along the water and around the point to the pier.

  As we matched steps, Polly said, “On.”

  I glanced at her. “What?”

  “On,” she said again.

  “On what?”

  “You said ‘walk.’ I said, ‘on.’”

  “Oh,” I responded with a nod. “I got you.”

  “Isn’t that what you told me Jones would say?”

  “Yep.” I smiled. “I haven’t thought about that in a while. I mean, I have the principle tucked firmly into my everyday life, but the way he would say it . . .” I chuckled at the memory.

  “Tell me,” Polly demanded. “While we’re walking. Can you?”

  “Well . . .” I thought for a minute.

  When I had first met the old man years before, one of his most consistent lessons was what, to me, outwardly appeared to be an incredibly ordinary message: walk on. He’d say, “Son, the biggest part of wherever you end up in life is gonna be determined by the choices you make when things get tough. And trust me,” he’d say, cocking his head and peering through his bushy, white eyebrows, “when everybody’s crying and saying, ‘What do we do now?’ you’ll be halfway home just by answering the question correctly. The answer, son, is ‘walk on.’”

  That simple thought, that direction about what to do even when things are falling apart, eventually became the crucial Seventh Decision in my first novel, The Traveler’s Gift. “Walk on!” Or as the Seventh Decision states: “I Will Persist Without Exception!”

  Back then—now, too, as far as I know—Jones actually did walk everywhere he went. Therefore, sensing that I was receiving life-altering information, I joined the old man whenever I could. As I trotted beside him on the beach or on a road, he would often make me laugh by saying those two words over and over again, matching his voice to the beat of his steps. Walk. On. Walk. On. Walk on, brother. Walk on, sister. Walk. On. Walk. On.

  Polly glanced at her watch. “Still ten minutes away . . .”

  For lack of anywhere else to go right then, we stayed in the same spot. Keeping our eyes on the time and the pier, I pointed out our classmates, the Porters, when they arrived and told her what little I knew about them. Bart and Kelli were the only ones on the wooden structure at the time, and we were in a beautiful location between two oaks. I was in no hurry to join them and was in fact intending to “pull a Jones” myself and walk onto the pier at seven o’clock on the dot.

  Polly looked away from the pier and to the west, toward the water’s edge past the marina. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she said, “Wouldn’t you give anything to see a jubilee?”<
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  “Yes,” I said, now shading my eyes and looking in the same direction. “Well, almost anything. I’ve heard about them all my life. And remember? A long time ago I talked to that guy who found one and was right in the middle of it for over an hour? What made you think of a jubilee?”

  Polly turned away from the sun and shrugged. “I don’t know. I think about jubilees every time we come over here, don’t you?”

  Nodding slowly, I considered the question and agreed. “You know, it never really occurred to me that I did, but now that you mention it, I guess I do. Yeah,” I said, nodding again. “I do. I give at least a passing thought to the possibility of a jubilee every time I’m on the Eastern Shore.”

  Polly and I aren’t the only ones who think about it. In the Baldwin County area of Alabama, one needs only to toss the topic of a jubilee into any conversation in order to spend the next several hours listening to stories about the phenomenon. A typical jubilee—there might be two, sometimes three, occurrences per year—will deliver flounder, shrimp, and crab by the tons to some random segment of a small but precise piece of coastline on the Eastern Shore. The entire expanse in which every one of these events have occurred for hundreds of years is bounded by Point Clear at the southern edge and just above Daphne to the north. Totaling a mere fifteen miles, it is the only place in the world where this happens regularly. A jubilee materializes unannounced, usually between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m., and without warning of any kind.

  After centuries of these annual events, jubilees are now known to be a result of salinity stratification—a layering effect of the heavier, saltier water from the Gulf of Mexico to the south overlain by the lighter, fresh water swept into the bay by rivers from the north. This causes an upwelling of oxygen-poor water that pushes crustaceans and bottom fish to the shore by the tens of thousands.

  The sea creatures are seemingly stunned and unable to swim. They lie quietly in the shallowest of water surrounded by vast numbers of their own kind until, at last, the tide shifts, and the jubilee is over. At that time they “wake up,” no worse for the experience, and swim back into deep water. But there is a window—maybe an hour or ninety minutes—when all the shrimp, crab, and flounder that can be hauled away are easily gathered by anyone lucky enough to be there at that perfect point in time.

  Luck. It does seem to be the only common denominator between those relatively few people who have been fortunate enough to witness what is surely one of nature’s most puzzling and utterly obscure spectacles. Consider the odd fact that in the entire world, there is no other natural display that can be compared to this bizarre, recurring, but irregular event.

  While today we exist in an era when nothing seems inconceivable, when every material experience appears to be obtainable, even now, no one can reserve the opportunity to see a jubilee. There is no ticket one can buy, no favor that can gain admission. Neither wealth nor fame, scientific research nor mathematical equation, physical sacrifice nor the intervention of federal government can produce a single shred of hope that one might be able to schedule the date or hour and plan to attend an upcoming jubilee, for they have proven impossible to predict and always take place in the dead of night.

  Tales and records of jubilees have been passed along for generations as a colorful part of the Eastern Shore’s history that predates the region’s European settlement. First identified and mapped by Spanish explorers, this natural harbor, known for its unusual bounty, was originally called Bahia del Espiritu Santo—the Bay of the Holy Spirit. It is still an apt name for a body of water that regularly produces miracles.

  We were standing at the base of one of the oaks, facing the water and the pier, far enough away not to have been noticed by Bart or Kelli, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned to find Jones practically in between us. His other hand was on the shoulder of my wife. “Hello, you two,” he said. “Polly, it’s so good to see you.”

  We hugged him and expressed our appreciation for his time and for the opportunity to experience the parenting class.

  “It’s different, isn’t it? The class?” Jones asked. At least I supposed he was asking. I figured he surely had to know that, yes, anything in which he was involved was, by definition, different.

  “I know I’m a little early,” Jones said, “but I thought we would talk for a few moments before we join the others.” When he mentioned the others, Jones had stepped forward and looked out at the end of the pier. Polly used that precise instant to duck behind the old man and stick out her tongue at me. Being the adult in the situation, however, I kept quiet and did not say anything in front of Jones about her conduct.

  I stood by as Jones asked Polly about the boys, about the house, local news, and friends in Orange Beach. Watching my wife, who smiled a bit too delightfully at me several times while they talked, one would have thought that Jones’s premature arrival allowed hours and hours of extra conversation. But no, they talked for about five minutes, and very soon I noted out loud for their benefit that it was time to head to the pier.

  Jones offered Polly his arm, she took it, and I followed along behind as they walked toward the water. “I hope you enjoy this tonight,” I heard him say.

  “I’m sure I will,” Polly answered before glancing mischievously at me and adding a question for the old man. “Jones, along with the parenting material, might you include some instruction for husbands?”

  “Yes,” Jones said as he stepped onto the pier. “It will be difficult to do, but I promise to make the attempt.” Stopping, he leaned toward her and spoke softly but so that I could hear as well. “Maybe I shouldn’t promise, though. We only have an hour, and as you know, husbands can be a dim lot.” Jones looked at me and smiled.

  Then he laughed loudly and turned, striding purposefully toward the end of the pier, leaving me to make that long walk with my beautiful and overly amused wife.

  Ten

  Jones was already greeting Bart and Kelli by the time Polly and I made it to the end of the pier. At a glance I saw that five chairs had been arranged in a semicircle. I assumed one was for Jones, but as I was introducing Polly to the Porters, a young woman arrived and was greeted enthusiastically by the old man.

  “Christy!” Kelli exclaimed and hurried over to give the newcomer a hug. Within seconds Kelli was back with her friend. Introductions were made, and when the ladies began talking, Bart and I drifted out of the group at the same time and moved to the rail together.

  “Polly seems great,” Bart said without looking my way. “She’s very nice.” He was closely watching the three women.

  “Thanks,” I answered. “So is Kelli.” My eyes never left the same scene.

  “Thank you,” Bart said. “Kelli is awesome.” He paused. We watched. They talked. “I’m sure Polly is awesome,” Bart said.

  “Yes,” I answered as if on remote control, “she certainly is.”

  After another moment of silence between us, Bart asked, “How do they do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, “but wouldn’t you like to be able to do it?”

  “Mm-hm,” Bart responded as he nodded. “I would be president of the United States with that talent. Or at least the richest man in Texas.”

  “You guys moving to Texas?” I asked.

  “Only if I can figure out how women do that,” he said, still watching intently. “Then I could probably buy Texas.”

  “Congratulations, then,” I said, chuckling. “Fairhope is a charming place, and you’ve cemented yourself as a lifetime resident.”

  Husbands around the world rarely talk openly about a conclusion to which most of them have come. It is simply that men—especially married men—are in awe of a woman’s ability to size up a person in seconds. Incredibly, females of our species are able to decide instantly and accurately whether or not the person they have just met is worthy of more than a handshake.

  Most men quietly believe that complicated trials would be over in minutes if the legal system would simply ban men from jur
y duty. With women in charge, men assert, court dockets around the world could be cleared in a matter of days. If twelve ladies were positioned in the jury box, the bailiff could trot out the accused for a few handshakes, a bit of small talk, and not five minutes would pass before the women would know with certainty whether to free the unjustly accused or send that dirtbag to jail. Either way, justice would be swift and true.

  Men envy the gift of discernment their wives possess, but they are often confused by their conclusions. For the uninitiated (a new husband), the presentation of a conclusion by his wife can be maddening.

  “What did you think?” the man might ask after having introduced his wife that evening to their new investment counselor. “Chuck’s a great guy, isn’t he?”

  “No,” the woman replies. “He is not a great guy, and there is no way in the world you are letting him anywhere near our money.”

  The husband, having known Chuck for weeks or months, is flabbergasted and moves immediately into what most men consider a logical line of questions. “Why do you say Chuck is not a great guy? You only drank coffee with the man. You’ve known him for all of ten minutes. How could you possibly know anything about him? Specifically, what is it that you don’t like about Chuck?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, adding only, “but I am absolutely sure about this.” The conversation is always over at this point, occasionally because the man has run away screaming, in search of the nearest cliff from which he can jump.