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Wilmington, North Carolina is a port city full of red necks and beach bums alike. Named one of the top 20 surf towns by National Geographic, this surf paradise loans itself to big waves and intimate surf shops. A seafood paradise with secrets just waiting to be discovered if you look closely enough. When in Wilmington do eat at Beach Bagels, do go to Port City Java and try their Frappa' Cappuccino, but mainly, do go to The Painted Lady. While driving down Market street those with a watchful eye will see bright banners fluttering, do make the turn on 23rd street. You are taken from the urban streets of Wilmington and transported to a secret patch of bug paradise. A white and green building sits behind an old garage, covered with moss and all things wild, it offers you the promise of Venus flytraps resting in their natural habitats and possibly a lizard or two. Next to this garage rests a small wooden shed with algae stained windows, to the unknowing eye, it appears to be out of use. This all sits at the gates of the largest Bonsai nursery North Carolina. Little did I know that with bonsais come mosquitos. Getting out of the Chevy, the mulch beneath me shadowed the feeling on my skin: damp, sticky, and unsettled. As soon as my flesh was out of the car, the bloodsuckers called for open season. I rang the bell and the door opened. Out walked a silver-haired southern gentleman. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that looked worn past its prime. You could tell his bones ached, but his heart was full of happiness. There was a glimmer in his eyes. The Sage motioned for me to follow him around the back of his house and began to ask Bonsai questions. How big? How old? What type? What temperament? Unable to answer three of his four questions, he walked deeper into his nursery. To either side, each tree looked like it was ready to cry for its creator. The crunch of the mulch mixed with the whispers of the leaves. Among the buzz of mosquitoes, I could feel the life around me, each miniature tree seeming to relay a tale of old. Either that or I was slowly going mad from the blood loss. Deciding that an indoor plant would be best, he led me to the shed. Dressed in more mosquitos than clothes, the itching led me near insanity. The Sage came up behind me and with a SMACK and took the life of the little bastard. I wondered if the spot of blood would just be advertising for the others still circling. In his North Carolina accent, he offered me the best three words I’ve heard to date: I got DEET. He revealed a minuscule black bottle that lacked a label, walking around me he sprayed me all four times finally freeing me from their feast. In the shed, among the Junipers and Banyan, sat a coiled tree that still to this day I don't know the species. In this age of instant information, some mysteries are necessary. With the decision made, he walked over to his potting station. He scooped each handful of dirt into the pot, creating a universe. “So eh, where ya from anyway?” he asked. “Colorado” I replied. “Oh. I love the West. Spent many years in Utah. Them roads are long as hell. Once saw a horse that I swear is the meanest lookin somnbitch I’ve seen to this day. Lord, to this day.” His passion was tangible. Having finished, he gave caretaking instructions. Every time he opened his mouth to talk about his beloved sprout the twinkle shone a little brighter, it felt as if I was taking part of his soul. As I intently looked him over, I again slowly became one with the mulch. It was time to return to the city for a seafood platter at Catch. I looked back, one hand on the tree, one on the Chevy. I studied the Sage, his universe and hopped up, thanking him as I slid into my seat. No, thank you for feeding my ‘skeeters.