The Beauty that surrounds

In High School I worked at the Airport Quality Inn. My job was to do whatever the manager told me so I did laundry, carting towels and sheets to the Maids, helped stock the bar, cut the grass and drive the van to the Travis Field Airport to pick up guests staying with us. My friend Steve Brantley worked there too and we mostly had a good time. The best part of the job was driving the van … you’d be surprised how long a mile long ride can take. There were several important perks to my position. The pilots and stewardess tipped a quarter each for the ride. There was nothing better than a packed van! We got to eat for free and as anyone growing up knows, eating out is always better than eating in! They would cook us whatever we asked. They didn’t care if we stole beer. We never stole a lot but always just the right amount. We had a set of keys that we could use at night when we were off meaning that I could always say to my date, “Hey baby, I can get us a hotel room if you want.” The Maids, all African American, had a terrific sense of humor and Steve and I mostly hung around with them. They sang Gospel songs and cracked dirty jokes as they raked the shag carpet of each room. We loved them and they loved us. So I have a strong affinity for people who work at hotels. I’ve witnessed how unthankful people can be for a clean room, a nice atmosphere and good food while traveling or vacationing. I’ve seen the aftermath of how people trash rooms and just leave stuff anywhere because they know someone else has to clean it up. I travel a lot and stay in a lot of places always leaving my rooms as clean as I found them. I hang towels up and don’t leave them on the floor. I say “Thank you” to everybody who contributes to making it a good stay. Over the years, I’ve become good friends with Maids who work at these places … Martina and Angela in St. Martin. Carlos who runs the restaurant there is one of my best friends. I’m on a cruise ship today watching people eat breakfast. It’s like a war has broken out as people fight for food. Discarded napkins dance across the deck in the wind. Plates of uneaten food are stacked on tables for someone else to clean up. I no longer have an appetite. Turning my back on all of this, I watch the ocean roll by … vast, clean, majestic and perfect … just the way God created it. The sun is shining over my shoulder and I feel my skin tan. Clipping my I-pod to my ears, I tune them all out to focus on the beauty that surrounds me while whispering prayers for forgiveness for those who don’t give a damn.

Sailing

In my life there are several constant places that are holy to me and I find myself going to them again and again. Athens, Georgia is where my Dad took me to football games and where I took my children. My son now lives there. My sister does too. Its hard not to love a place filled with memories, tradition and friends. I don't know how many times I've been to Athens but its in the hundreds. St. Martin of course is my home away from home. I've been to the island 21 times in the past several years. While I know my way around the place ... where to find the best croissants, lobster cooked over fire in a drum, even where the boats are sunk near the reef ... I have a tendency to stay at one end of Orient Beach. It became a sactuary for me through bad times and the site of many wonderful celebrations. It's also crowned with a wonderful set of friends! Tybee Island is home and remains the ultimate place of refuge for my soul. It's beauty continues to take my breath away daily on walks with Sarah, Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. It's fun watching the girls discover the island and listen to them make plans to have their friends visit. I still enjoy watching friends visit and witness their excitment to be back on the island. I have a Carnival of Friends, countless opportunitites to celebrate, dolphins to run with and a wonderful home that keeps me anchored. It strikes me this morning that the Crowne Plaza hotel in Jacksonville, Florida is another. It used to be a Holiday Inn and I've been coming here for as long as I can remember, first for football games and then later to stay before jumping on an airplane to take me to the Caribbean. It's a jumping off place and a place to return to. It has a pool that is both indoor and outdoor, meaning you can swim through a wall to get in or out, a nice bar overlooking it, and a lot of glass that allos me to stare at Palm and Pine Trees. It's a big place though it rarely seems crowded. I've stayed here with my children, accompanied Bruce, Jodee and Ryan from the Breakfast Club here for a "Boy's Trip" and held Sarah's hand as we walked through the door for our first stay. And I've come here alone when I was sad, depressed and lonely because I needed to get away from the reminders of painful things. I don't know how many times I've been here but I have enough points that this stay is free. It was the last time Sarah and I stayed here too. There are enough award points for several more visits in the future. We are blessed with the gift of time right now. As a result, we've done a lot of traveling over the past few months. A cruise with The Carnival of Friends, a Honeymoon in Belize, Daytona Beach, St. Martin, and San Juan Island in Washington State. Today we're jumping on a cruise ship which is the last of the trips of this gift of time. Nothing else is planned for the year, though we'll make it back to Athens soon. The girls are excited as this is the first time they've ever done anything like this. They have no idea how large the ships are or the expanse of the ocean when you're on it. It is hard to not catch part of their enthusiasm. It keeps me young. Today there are no big plans, no deep thoughts and no funny stories. It is a time to count my blessings and I have many. My struggles and fears have been set aside for the moment. My love and best friend are building our mountain of memories. And today we sail to celebrate beginning with a silent prayer of Thanksgiving.

Endless Summer

It is pouring rain so I am inside rather than sitting on the Beloved Back Deck. Laurel is sitting across from me staring at her laptop as I write on mine. It looks like we're playing Battleship but we're not. The glare from the computer screens are the only lights in the room. There is movement downstairs from Maddie and Micah ... son of my comrade Bill Berry, not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me and then everywhere else. Micah and his beautiful wife Mary-Catherine are watching Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, while we're gone. Which begs a question: If its raining on the island where you live ... what do you do? We're going to the Bahamas. It is strictly for the girls and their education so I think its tax deductible. They've never been anywhere. I think this is because they had the incredible misfortune of God choosing Houghton, New York for them to live. It's the western part of the state and nobody lives there except Christians who mostly keep to themselves. The biggest hobby there is talking about each other. So we've made a firm commitment to show them the ways of the world. We started by taking them to the Den of Iniquity known as Daytona Beach. They liked it so much we took them back so they could sin some more. Now they need to progress to advance sinning so we're off to the Bahamas. I mean most kids learn about sinning at school. That's where they pick up cussing, exposing body parts, smoking in the bathroom and kissing on the playground. After school they learn about playing Doctor and such. I'd rather the girls learn these things under parental supervision like Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea did. They all turned out good so I figure it'll work for Mad, Laurel and Cass too. Now that I think about it, I also learned about sinning at Church. I did ... making out in an empty Baptismal Pool at the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church and the best place for parking in Garden City, Georgia was between the sanctuary and the educational buildings of the Methodist Church. I make myself a note to take them to Bar Church when we return which is the weekly gathering of really good sinners on Tybee. Good times! Anyway ... I hate the rain on a summer day. I want an endless summer. It's been a freaking good one so far. Just like last summer was ... one party after another with the Carnival of Friends. But this summer ... I'm a parent of young children again. I have responsibilities and need to get to work raising those babies. "Surf's Up!" I yell at Laurel. She shakes her head and continues watching The Brady Bunch.

Me and St. Jude

When I wore a Toga the other day for the first time in my life, my friend Kenny Hill quipped, "There are so many comments ready to roll off the tip of my tongue." As Sarah wrapped me in a fitted sheet, holding a pair of scissors, I asked that she make me not look like a member of the Klan. Then I told her a story. Back in the early 80s as AIDS exploded gripping the nation in hysterical fear, I was the 24 year old Pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. I know, I know ... God works in mysterious ways and obviously has a sense of humor, hence my stint as a "Professional Christian." At Jeff Street we'd turned Sunday School rooms into apartments to house the homeless and the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub complete with candles and a boombox. Word on the street was it was a place to could go if you were in trouble and needed help. As people were diagnosed with HIV, frightened landlords immediately evicted them, not wanting their apartments and houses defiled by the unclean and dying. Uncertain of what else to do they sought out the church for help. Most clergy responded by locking the doors and for the most part the Church turned its back on people with AIDS. I'm proud to say that we didn't ... though honestly I was just as scared as anybody else. My friend Father Vernon Robertson called inviting me to a meeting at the St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church. When I arrived there were eight of us sitting in his Rectory ... four clergy, three prominent members of the gay community and the Mother of a son with AIDS. "We have to do something," Vernon explained the purpose of the gathering. "Why should we trust you," shot Paul, the owner of several successful restaurants? Over the next several hours we worked through lots of things and eventually hatched a plan to open a residential facility so people would have a place to live. "We need a name," Vernon pronounced as we were leaving that first night. "I propose The St. Jude's Guild." "Who the hell is St. Jude," I asked? "The Patron Saint of Lost Causes," he explained. Jack Kersy and I looked at each other. "Huh, Vernon," we both said at the same time, "we ain't losing anybody else." A scant three months later, Glade House opened, the nation's second program for people with AIDS. The celebratory gathering of the St. Jude's Guild took place at Paul's mansion. I'd never seen anything like it. Statues of Toga clad Greek boys spewing water out of their mouths, marble floors, candles hanging from the walls and a golden chandelier suspended above. I swear to God our dinner was served by two beautiful young men in Togas. Wine was poured in golden goblets and Paul toasted, "To hell with lost causes!" We all laughed except for Vernon who raised his glass and said, "To St. Jude." Sarah snipped the fitted sheet, jerked it tight and my Toga was complete, sans the underwear. Glade House is still there though now run by Catholic Nuns. It's a part of my past which is largely forgotten ... except by me. Later at the party, which was fabulous by the way, I raised my glass to an almost full moon and for a second thirty years melted away as I toasted the heavens ... "To hell with lost causes. And to you St. Jude."

A Visit from Union Mission

"Rev. Elliott," he asked. I don't get called that much anymore. Back in my professional life at Union Mission I did but not so much on the beach. That's where he knew me from through and that is where we were standing. His face looked familiar though I couldn't place him as he jumped from his beach chair and made his way to me with a smile. I'd just stumbled in from the ocean and was dripping wet as we shook hands. Sarah looked up from reading her book taking notice of the invasion into personal space. "Jimmy Kicklighter," he said with a million dollar smile and a handsome boyish face. The name was familiar though I still couldn't remember who he is. It's a curse. I'm good with faces but not names. Leading a public life, I had all of these tricks to people to tell me who they were cause I sure as hell couldn't remember. It's not a public life anymore so I was rusty on the tricks. Sarah couldn't jump up and help because she didn't know. "You gave Danny and me our first contract to build the J. C. Lewis Health Center," he beamed as a flood of memories rushed through me. Danny is Daniel Pinyan, Jr. who runs a successful construction company in Savannah. I heard about them before I ever met them because of my friend Dan Sheehan called me one day in my office. "Micheal," he said in his southern Irish brogue. "I understand that you're taking bids on building another building and I want you to look at Danny and Jimmy. They're good boys." I've accomplished many things in my life. Telling Dan Sheehan no was never one of them. The "boys" got their first big construction contract, built a million dollar building which was also the first of its kind, did it under budget and managed all of my design changes throughout the process. Jimmy introduced me to his wife who is just as beautiful as he is. I introduced them to Sarah who's more beautiful than both. (I try to not be as competitive as I used to but I seem to fail at that too.) "Are you still at Union Mission," he asked. After telling him no he asked me what I do now. Spreading my arms I reply, "This." His beautiful wife says, "We always seem to see you when we're here." Jimmy added, "That's great! We want to do this too." Through smiles, handshakes and hugs we departed making our way to our own realities. Toating our chairs and cooler back to the house Sarah asked, "How'd that make you feel?" I took a long time before saying anything. What it made me feel was proud. In addition to ending homelessness for thousands, caring for the sick and dying and either influencing or redesigning the County's health systems, we did a lot of other things when I was at Union Mission. We gave first contracts to start-up companies that continue to thrive (OK, in this economy they're still in business which is the same thing!). For 22 consecutive years we created jobs and eventually eclipsed 300 employees. I was appointed to the Board of Directors of the Chamber of Commerce and became a member of the CEO Council. A charity burst through the glass ceilings of the business world. At the end of my time there, Business Magazines were giving us awards and writing articles on our accomplishments. I didn't say these things to Sarah yesterday. Instead we talked about how sad it is that Union Mission is now a simple charity again ... what it feels like to see children you conceived be raped by people you trusted ... how pitiful it is that she's no longer there merely because we're together (oh the things that were said about us, according to our friends still working there). Homelessness is on the rise, the Health Center has a waiting list that is months long and nothing new is occurring as they struggle to maintain the past. At home we shower and lay on the couch. Sarah reads as I lay my head in her lap, we talk about tomorrow. "It'll never be the same again," she says. "I'd just need two years," I reply before falling asleep.

A Visit from Union Mission

"Rev. Elliott," he asked. I don't get called that much anymore. Back in my professional life at Union Mission I did but not so much on the beach. That's where he knew me from through and that is where we were standing. His face looked familiar though I couldn't place him as he jumped from his beach chair and made his way to me with a smile. I'd just stumbled in from the ocean and was dripping wet as we shook hands. Sarah looked up from reading her book taking notice of the invasion into personal space. "Jimmy Kicklighter," he said with a million dollar smile and a handsome boyish face. The name was familiar though I still couldn't remember who he is. It's a curse. I'm good with faces but not names. Leading a public life, I had all of these tricks to people to tell me who they were cause I sure as hell couldn't remember. It's not a public life anymore so I was rusty on the tricks. Sarah couldn't jump up and help because she didn't know. "You gave Danny and me our first contract to build the J. C. Lewis Health Center," he beamed as a flood of memories rushed through me. Danny is Daniel Pinyan, Jr. who runs a successful construction company in Savannah. I heard about them before I ever met them because of my friend Dan Sheehan called me one day in my office. "Micheal," he said in his southern Irish brogue. "I understand that you're taking bids on building another building and I want you to look at Danny and Jimmy. They're good boys." I've accomplished many things in my life. Telling Dan Sheehan no was never one of them. The "boys" got their first big construction contract, built a million dollar building which was also the first of its kind, did it under budget and managed all of my design changes throughout the process. Jimmy introduced me to his wife who is just as beautiful as he is. I introduced them to Sarah who's more beautiful than both. (I try to not be as competitive as I used to but I seem to fail at that too.) "Are you still at Union Mission," he asked. After telling him no he asked me what I do now. Spreading my arms I reply, "This." His beautiful wife says, "We always seem to see you when we're here." Jimmy added, "That's great! We want to do this too." Through smiles, handshakes and hugs we departed making our way to our own realities. Toating our chairs and cooler back to the house Sarah asked, "How'd that make you feel?" I took a long time before saying anything. What it made me feel was proud. In addition to ending homelessness for thousands, caring for the sick and dying and either influencing or redesigning the County's health systems, we did a lot of other things when I was at Union Mission. We gave first contracts to start-up companies that continue to thrive (OK, in this economy they're still in business which is the same thing!). For 22 consecutive years we created jobs and eventually eclipsed 300 employees. I was appointed to the Board of Directors of the Chamber of Commerce and became a member of the CEO Council. A charity burst through the glass ceilings of the business world. At the end of my time there, Business Magazines were giving us awards and writing articles on our accomplishments. I didn't say these things to Sarah yesterday. Instead we talked about how sad it is that Union Mission is now a simple charity again ... what it feels like to see children you conceived be raped by people you trusted ... how pitiful it is that she's no longer there merely because we're together (oh the things that were said about us, according to our friends still working there). Homelessness is on the rise, the Health Center has a waiting list that is months long and nothing new is occurring as they struggle to maintain the past. At home we shower and lay on the couch. Sarah reads as I lay my head in her lap, we talk about tomorrow. "It'll never be the same again," she says. "I'd just need two years," I reply before falling asleep.

Toga Party

"I can't believe a bunch of old farts would show up wearing sheets but they did," she exclaimed as the only non-sheet wearing woman at our Toga party last night. It was Sarah's idea. "Let's have a Toga party," she said a couple of weeks ago. "OK," I replied shrugging my shoulders. Then the anticipation started building. The Carnival of Friends take their Togas very seriously! Who knew? I should have. We've partied over "Whine and Cheese", naked swimming, birthdays, elections, the burgeoning clothing optional movement on Tybee Island (we think the beach between 12th and 14th Streets should be roped off for nude sunbathing and water frolicing for those who choose to do so) and we often laugh at funerals. Last night it was Togas. We were fabulous! Everyone took their swaddling clothing very seriously. Judy O wore a table cloth with pearls. Jodee wore Pharaoh eye shadow and wieided a sword. Johnny O looked gay. Cheryl looked laced. Dedra was dressed in drapes from Wall Mart. Todd looked tall. Art looked like Yasser Arafat. And Sarah was freaking hot! Then Paul and Lamy showed up looking ... normal. Uncomfortable and embarrassed at their Togaless covered asses they tried to overcompensate with personality and good taste ... which are, of course, foreign concepts on the island of Tybee. I don't know what you did last night but we hosted a gathering of Greek Goddesses and Gods ... and two very ordinary looking people trying to fit in. Which brings me to the points of this. What do you suppose heaven looks like after a party? Does it look like hell with empty bottles, cigarette butts, spill stains, and someone sleeping in a bed that you had no idea was here? "How in the hell did she get in," St. Peter asks. "Awww, let her sleep," God says. I mean a party's a party and if its a good one it leaves an aftermath ... even in heaven. Second, people who are not willing to wear a Toga out in public on short notice are very boring people ... think Obama, that Morman Mitch guy, Eric Johnson and Buddy Carter, Mother Mary and most people who are getting ready for Church right now. In fact, Jesus wore a Toga so doesn't it make sense that people who go to Church wear them too? Just Saying.

My Confession

If confession is good for the soul, then this is going to suck. I like the BeeGees. I know ... I know. I shouldn't but I do. Aside from that Saturday Night Fever crap, they did some pretty good stuff. Except they really sucked in that film version of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. I mean how much cocaine could they have snorted to convince them that was a good idea? Then there was Andy Gibb, their little brother, who was stupid enough to choose cocaine over his wife Victoria Principal who starred on the television show Dallas and was hot! And sure you have lead singer Barry Gibb standing there with a full beard, Jesus looking hair, an open shirt with chest hair implants and sings like girl. Standing beside him was Robin Gibb, who was a girl who looked like a boy. The other brother Maurice, pretty much kept quiet standing several steps away from the other two. But their last album was "One Night Only" is a live concert full of really good stuff! The acoustic version of "Nights on Broadway" is killer! Why am I confessing such a thing? My wife's nickname in High School was Fannie. I'm uncertain how this nickname was derived from her last name "Stafanski" but it was. She told us this last night at dinner ... everybody choked on their chicken a little. Which, of course, brings up one of my favorite BeeGee songs ... Fannie be tender with my love. I asked her if she'd ever heard it and when she understood it was by the BeeGees she threatened to leave me immediately so I shut up. Today, while she's asleep, I've been listening to BeeGee's. If you don't look at them, they're pretty damn good. Usually I try to make a point in these writings. Today I'm just making a confession. I love my wife. And there's normally not any point in confessing anything.

The Tybee Island Majority

The island of Tybee is easily divided into three categories of people. (1) Those of us who refuse to grow up. Channel your Bob Dylan ... "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now." (2) Grown Ups who spend their time volunteering on the Planning Commission, passing rules and trying to get those of us who refuse to grow up to grow up. Channel some Beatles ... "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?" The answer's no. (3) Grown ups in other places who need a vacation from being a grown up so they get a place on Tybee for several days and really blow it out. Channel your Rolling Stones ... "You can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes you get what you need." Therefore, two-thirds of the people on this clump of sand at any one time are those of us wanting to enjoy the sun, sand, sea, music, food, marshes and have a real good time without rules, religion or regulations. Channel your Country Joe and the Fish ... "Give me an F! Gimmie a U! Gimmie a C! ..." Many people have summer homes here who live in Savannah or thereabouts. They are grown ups at home who try to bring their homes here. For the most part these people keep to themselves and their own kind. They are isolationists and two-thirds of the people on the island of Tybee have no use for such people. Channel your Popeye ... "I Yam what I Yam ... and if you don't like it to hell with you! But the island is a democracy! Majority rules! There is amble evidence to prove it! For example there are twenty-three places that serve alcohol as opposed to four churches where they don't ... well, the Catholics do but they don't serve everybody ... which is a discrimation most on the island do not appreciate so most do not attend. Channel your Billy Joel ... "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun." Tybee has a long history of mistrust of political officals. This is because they want the rest of us to buy their drinks whenever they are out in the bars looking for votes. Obviously this pisses us us off. The most popular thing on the ballot on the island is the "Write In" box that doesn't have a candidate. It is the overwhelming winner in every election. And people on Tybee vote! We have a higher percentage than the rest of the state. We just just leave our drinks on our bicycles while we vote. Channel your Rolling Stones again ... "Sympathy for the Devil." Besides, it is a celebratory weekend. We kicked the elected offical's asses in the T-SPLOST vote! We all toasted one another in the parking lot of the Gym right after we voted. Then we got on our bicycles and cruised the island looking for a good time. Channel your Jimmy Buffett. "There's this one particular harbor."

Loving God Now ... to hell with "then"!

"I get up and meditate, pray, offer thanks for this day and try to help others," the Dalai Lama explained. "Will it do you any good?" the searcher asked. The Dalai Lama shrugged his shoulders. "We won't know until I die." That's a pretty good answer. I think it's half-right. There's a lot we won't know for sure about God, our religion, beliefs and whether eating a Chick-Fill-A yesterday did anything other reinforce capitalism until we die. Say what you want ... profess what you believe ... but the fact of matter is your won't really know until you die. The great religions of the world teach that you express love for God by loving others. "Beloved, if God so loved us we should love one another" (Christian) ... "You cannot love God until you completely love another person" (Buddhist) ... "The world shall be saved one neighbor at a time" (Judaism) ... and so on. There's no question that loving someone now makes a difference ... NOW! A cup of cold water for the thirsty, shelter for the homeless, sitting with the dying are all basic expressions of love. So is coaching a kids baseball team trying to teach the self-worth and the rules of the game of life. As is making just yourself available because someone asks when you'd really rather be doing something else. Each of these things makes a difference in someone's life NOW ... and you know it does ... way before you die. I suppose the trick is how many people can you love at one time? There are other ways too, I think. The last several nights we've taken the girls to watch turtles hatching on the Beach. A crowd gathers around a small group of volunteers so awed by nature and the beauty of life they do everything possible to help the turtles make it to the ocean ... where they still have just a small chance of survival. This loving attention certainly means a lot to those turtles who do and will return to Tybee Island several years of now to lay their own eggs. Each of these are expression of one's love of God. Each make a difference now! The validity of others won't be known until we die and God rewards us ... or not. I cast my lot with the difference makers now. I've never really been sure about then. As a matter of fact, to hell with "then".

A Life being restored

I am full of introspection today. That's a funny thing to say given all of the days and nights that I've sat on this Beloved Back Deck ... alone ... pondering ... reflecting on things I'd done right and those things that had gone horribly wrong. I had long talks with God but She was mostly silent in response. Day in and day out, I would contemplate, pray, cry and wonder. The truth is I've spent several years immersed in introspection. This was tough because mine had been such an active, demanding life with never ceasing demands on my time. It seems as though all of these things stropped suddenly throwing me into this new world of exploring my consciousness, thoughts and feelings. Occasionally, people would come by and join me but it was mostly Goddess and me. Somewhere deep inside of me, I knew this was the time to invest in myself. So I did. I had equity in the house, savings in the bank and a decent portfolio for the future. To the chagrin of advisers, I bought myself time and a place. In today's world, people aren't suppose to such things ... time is money and you're expected to go where the demands are. I did the opposite. Accounts were diminished but "He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His names sake," to quote one of the sixteen versions of the King James Bible. The Hebrew is much more to the point ... God causes my life to return. That's not to say I'm done. I am not. I'm living a pretty full life right now, surrounded by people who love me, sun rises and sunsets, ocean breezes and a calmness that is hard to get used to. I'm still fighting demons from the past ... unresolved conflicts and hurts and the damaging ways in which I got through them ... and the things I must to do continue this path are becoming clearer. This morning I had to drive into Savannah. The High Tide and Marsh grass were adorned with diamonds sprinkled by the sun. I had the top down and sucked in the salt air. I hit the traffic when I hit the city. Red lights managed stop and go, hocking horns tried to change the flow, cars fought for parking places, lines were formed and people either seemed incredibly bored or very angry. I passed through these things as a shadow ... no longer a part of that world. Besides, I've got lots to do ... A few more demons to exorcise ... a couple of more unresolved things to bury ... a love to celebrate ... a future to continue building ... smiles to have ... life to live. Mine's being restored.

Post Doctorate Skipping

I have a long, rich history of skipping ... not like down the road but ... like school. Gene Prevatt and I were sick of the stuff the Board of Education was passing off as food at Groves High School so we skipped out and went Joe's Drive Inn. If you've ever seen American Grafitti or Happy Days then you've seen Joe's Drive Inn except it was called something else. Anyway ... Gene and I pull up and happily order cheeseburgers and fries through the advanced speaker system ... when my Mom pulls in across from us. We hit the floor, figuring we'd wait her out. After about ten minutes being curled up in the floor board, Gene finally said, "I'll handle this." He got out of the car and strolled to my Mom's car. "Shouldn't you be at work Mrs. Elliott?" "Shouldn't you be at school Mr. Prevatt?" Always snappy with a quick comeback, Gene replied, "Mike made me do it." I got put on restriction for a week or so but it did nothing to prevent me from moving onto "Advanced Skipping." Guy Sayles and I were sitting beside each other in Greek class in Seminary. It was a warm day and the windows were open on the second floor classroom. Dr. Omanson was reading from the Greek textbook when I raised my hand and asked some brilliant question. "It's in the book," was Dr. Omanson's scholarly reply. Barely missing Guy's nose, I threw my text book out of the window. The entire class looked at me while Dr. Omanson continued reading from the text book failing to have noticed anything. I took this as my cue to leave. From that moment on, if I was sitting in a lecture that was particuarly boring, I'd just get up and walk out. It was purely capitalistic thinking ... which is not necessarily theological in nature. I was putting myself through Seminary and saw it as a return-on-investment calculation. I wasn't going to pay to be bored. I also skipped work a lot in my career. The great thing about having graduated from Seminary ... or being thrown out ... is that I have the "REV." in front of my name. This often comes in handy so when I didn't show up at something I was supposed to be at ... or lead ... I simply explained, "God called me to do something else." It always worked ... except when Sarah called me one day demanding to know where in the hell I was. In fact, God had called me to chew tobacco and drink a beer in the parking lot of a Food Lion while listening to Alice Cooper. Apparently I was supposed to be leading a staff meeting and the Governor was touring Union Mission ... or something. For the last couple of years, I've skipped out on most everything, staying at home being a full time Beach Bum. I am now beyond advanced. I'm blazing Post Doctorate skipping. There are others who have gone this far but ... not many. So in planning today, I've decided to skip my doctors appointment, not water the plants, vote against everything, and take the girls into the complex with the "NO TRESSPASSING" sign on the door. I'm going to continue to not get a hair cut, wear underwear, or shoes. I'm not going to go to Church, sing in a choir or listen to a sermon (though I do read Guy Sayles stuff out of guilt for almost hitting him with the Greek text book). I refuse to watch the news, answer the door if somebody's running for office though ... I will open the door if it's Jehovah Witnesses because they're so fun to screw with. I just hope my Mom doesn't pull up ... though Sarah's probably going to get on to me.

No longer at a crossroads

Thunder rolls in the distance ... to the west ... and the sun refuses to pull the blanket of clouds away, obviously still recovering from yesterday which is his day anyway ... but the sky is blue in the east and it's going to be a beach day here ... whether or not it rains. Listening to the casualties booming in Savannah and the rest of the world, I sit here understanding that is no longer my world. "I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?" Yeah ... way to much of it. I used to dance in depravity ... sing in sadness ... comfort the uncomfortable ... polarize the political ... rebell at the righteous ... manipulate the masses ... and lead the blind. The sun throws off the blanket of clouds, baptizing me in golden light. The thunder continues to roll in the distance, in worlds that I am no longer a part of ... striking me of the contrast of where I now reside ... half way from then and almost to now ... no longer at a crossroads because I've definetely left "then" ... throwing myself wholeheartedly into the now. A bird sings a lovely solo ... the ocean breeze blows the smell of salt marsh (which is pungent aromoa of sex in the Tropics) ... the wind chimes dance ... the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt suddenly believes she is a Hula dancer and that makes me laugh. While the thunder continues to roll ... I see skies of blue, clouds of white ... bright blessed days ... dark sacred nights ... and I think to myself ... I no longer live under dark clouds, thunder and lightning, or warning of the end times. Those times have already ended ... Jesus has already returned ...there's just enough oil in the candles ... ramadan is over. For some reason that I cannot explain, each morning as I stumble into the door marked "Exit Only" into The Breakfast Club, I grab a copy of the Savannah Morning News, spread it out in front of me and review ... what used to be. I'm quite detached and it's like reading an old book that you used to love but can't quite figure out why you did. The sun pulls the blankets back over its head ... then kicks them off again. The gift of this day has begun. It's nice to be out of what used to be.

Tybee Market

IGA ... pronounced as a single word as it sounds ...used to be the Tybee Market and is the islands only grocery store. After the original Tybee Market burned down, it became an IGA ... a member of the Independent Grocery Alliance ... now we just call it IGA ... pronounced "iga". It's got most everything a normal IGA ... has except parking. It does have fresh shrimp though ... and the steaks are really good and fresh ... and the frozen French Fries are usually frozen ... and if you're looking for things that your Mom used to make but Publix or Kroger doesn't sell the ingrediants anymore, then Tybee Market likely has them ... you just have to look. Most days they also have bags of ice. Mike Hosti, the owner, is an island character, very benevolent and serves as the island's "Food Bank." I think he should be granted "Non-Profit" and "Tax-Exempt" Status for these efforts but he will be the first to ask, "What profit?" I'm a regular customer either riding my bike or driving the car six blocks to IGA. Sarah and I did that last night ... at 6:00 P.M. ... which is stupid ... because Saturday is check in/check out day on the island ... and I mean that in so many different ways. Everybody renting a place for a week checks out Saturday morning and everyone checking in arrives around 4:00. After dropping off their shit in the rental unit, they go to Tybee Market ... which happened to be at the same time Sarah and I strolled inside. Have you ever seen the footage of the crash of the Hindenburgh? Shopping at Tybee Market is like standing under it as it comes down in flames. "Oh the humanity!" To his credit, Mike has tried to fix the parking and the number of spaces actually doubled but ... there is no longer a clearly marked "IN" and a clearly marked "EXIT" ... like at THE BREAKFAST CLUB ... so it's mostly a traffic jam. For locals ... there's a back gate which you're never supposed to exit but we do all of the time ... Don't tell Mike. So we fought through the immpossible crowds of tourisst checking in, buying groceries and then we stood in the check out line. Now aside from Nancy ... each and every cashier at IGA lives in an alternative universe. They have no sense of time ... or change. An hour later, Sarah and I arrived home with our purchases ... a can of Cambell's soup and a chicken pot pie. They were out of everything else. But we feasted on our meal, holding hands and washing them down with drinks without ice. I love island life! Shit! I'm out of Orange Juice!

The Problem with the Olympics

I'm still bummed that THE SPICE GIRLS were left out of the Olympic Opening Ceremony. Its a gross injustice to one of Britain's national treasures. Everybody else was there ... The Beatles, Stones and the Who ... James Bond and the Queen ... some chick who lost her phone and some dude who found it ... an Army of Mary Poppins ... unemployed Nurses ... kids that kept getting out of bed ... a bunch of Harry Potter impersonators ... the R.A.F. But no SPICE GIRLS! It sucked. Like the rest of the world we watched the opening ceremony but the sound was sound was turned off. We were actually in a bar ... listening to a really good band "The Accomplices" ... they rocked at Socials where we'd ridden our bikes on a steamy summer beach night when I was dreaming of Gennie. We could see the opening ceremony but couldn't hear it so everyone at the bar made up what was happening. But when I said, "WHAT? NO SPICE GIRLS?" ... everyone in the packed place immediately understood the horror of it all. The room grew quiet. The Accomplices stopped playing in mid-cord. A lot of people cried. I hugged Sarah as we both tried to get through the moment. It was tough. I like the Olympics. It's hard for me not too because there is an Olympic Torch hanging on the wall inside of our house. It's there because I carried it during the 1996 Olympics down Broughton Street in Savannah, in front of city and a gallery of thousands. It was pretty cool. Then The Accomplishes regained their composure and Colleen started this fiddle Irish jig which morphed into "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and then turned into this killer version of John Lennon's "Dear Prudence." We all cummed a little. I was standing on my chair clapping. The place was going wild. We were all living in the moment. Who needs the Olympics when we have ... this? If only the SPICE GIRLS would have been there ...

Godly Mornings

It's another Tequila sunrise. Well ... not really but the song fits the morning. The sunrise was nice and he's resting now in the branches of the Palm Trees. An ocean breeze keeps it cool reminding me of the Trade Winds in St. Martin. Go off-island and its hotter than hell! On island ... it's a different story. This clump of sand is packed with people. All of the hotels are full and the The Breakfast Club looked like a bombed out Beirut the moment it opened ... so I left. Early morning runners are running, walkers are walking and I coast by them on my bicycle making my way to the quietness of the Beloved Back Deck. It's my new routine. For decades, I got up and rushed. After gulping down coffee, I ran five miles, showered without ever really cooling down and drove the 17 miles to work, where it never stopped. When I got there people were lined up to see me. Many days, as soon as I opened the car door, people were asking me for stuff. Many evenings when I left, they escorted me to the car and talked until I slammed the door. I learned how to live intensely. I'd come home and be so exhausted, I'd make my way outside and just sit on the Back Deck, staring into space ... completely spent. "Why does he do that?" Chelsea blurted out what everyone else was thinking one night. Everybody else shrugged their shoulders. The sad fact was that I nothing more to give. I'd given it all away that day. Over three decades of daily being such a good Christian, I crashed and burned. It wasn't pretty. At the end, I was sitting at the head table of a Chamber of Commerce political event and my friend Robin Wheeler sat at a table right in front. On Face Book, she'd made me laugh that morning and we'd exchanged a miscommunication which made it funnier. So it must have been shocking to see how bad I looked and I remember her looking at me with concern in her eyes. It meant a lot and I've never thanked her. I need to do that. That was two years ago. Now my Puritan tan climbs on a bicycle that doesn't get drunk like it used to and we make our way to a happy home. All of the girls are asleep most mornings so Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and I make our way to the Beloved Back Deck, now bathed in sunshine that has driven the darkness away. And I have a couple of hours just for me. This time of year, the Jimmy Buffett station streams on Pandora as I think, pray, write, text, or very occasionally talk. I'm pretty phobic about checking on Sarah to make certain she's alright so I jump and down a lot. Sometimes one of the girls wanders out ... sleepy eyed with skewed pillow hair ... wanting something. Most of the time though ... it's the song of an ocean breeze, choirs of birds, blooming Hibiscus, smiling Palm Trees, Fran's thousand shades of green ... and I swear most mornings ... it's as though God Herself sits in one of the deck chairs next to me ... propping her feet on the rail ... having a shot of something while She appreciates everything that She created ... and we talk. She actually doesn't say much so I do most of the talking. But She's a good listener. Unless I'm traveling, that's every morning now. I feel blessed though I've lived through hell. It's a good way to start a day. And I have no plans to leave it. As I told God this morning.

Dark Things on a Sunny Day

Sitting in bright sunshine I'm dealing with dark things. Wearing my black clerical running shorts, sitting under a Palm Tree, feeling salt stick to my skin ... a Neil Young song is running through my brain ... and the siren wails while the system fails in the steaming heat people walk on the street people can't run and hide if you want to feel good you gotta be inside ... Hot weather is as bad for people as cold weather will ever be. Sure, people freeze to death sleeping outside but more die from heat strokes. At one point yesterday I was frustrated and fired off an email to a group working to do something about it. They are all wonderful , caring people doing amazing things but my Caribbean soul still has a corporate heart so I gave my critique of our progress. It was ... of course ... unsolicited. And ... of course ... I haven't heard back from anybody. The ocean and age have taught me patience. I can wait. The tide will evenutally come in. And there's my friend Kat. She and I go way back. She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met and when I was going through hell, she parked herself in the lobby of Union Mission, refusing to not be seen until she could see me. I was tired and sad and heartbroken when she was ushered in. She smiled, told me she loved me, and gave me gifts. In other words, she stuck her hand straight inside my heart and massaged it while it ached. Then she quoted the Major Prophet Bob Marley ... Everything's gonna be alright." I remember crying then and it brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Kat works trying to organize efforts to help homeless people throughout Georgia. Every year she fights for money because bureaucrates can't find the application which is burried under stacks of paper of a recently retired Government employee. To keep things going, she used her credit card and borrowed money off her house to pay the folks helping her. The Government promises that it's going to be taken care of but nothings happened. In the meantime, her house of 27 years is in foreclosure and she's seriously contemplating working at Wall Mart. It all pisses me off and leaves me in a dark mood on a sunny day. So I'm talking to God. "This is bullshit you know," I pray. She says nothing in response which further darkens my mood. In the silence I wonder if I'm talking to the wrong person. It's those shitheads we've elected and the people they've hired I should be talking to. It's the people who run health care in America. I should talk to them too ... again ... dammit. I buy my drugs from Canada because they're so much cheaper ... seriously an 80% savings and they deliver it to my door without me having to drive to CVS ... it saves gas. Homeless people stalk me out at The Breakfast Club because their appointment at the J.C. Lewis Health Center is three months away for ... an emergency! They still believe I can do something about it. The sun tops the Palm Tree beathing me in light. I think God broke back into the conversation. "Alright," I sigh. "I know, I got shit to do." So I go to work.

A Random Sort of Day

It's a random sort of day. My problem with focus is that there are simply too many things that I want to concentrate on ... to hell with focus! Besides, "Sweet Home Alabama" is playing and I hate that song! I much prefer Lynerd Skynryd's "That Smell" and I love the way the band came up with their name, after a gym coach they hated in High School. And of course there's always "Freebird." Then I finished the "Steve Jobs" biography yesterday. I can't decide if he was brilliant or he was shit (if you read the book you know what I'm talking about). I fell in love with "Steve Wozniak" who has talent, values, ethics and humor that that I admire the hell out of. Jobs was fascinating ... a driven, tortured soul with a work ethic forged in Hades who could charm your pants off or slit your throat ... depending on what he wanted. But he was a spiritual man too ... who changed the world ... so go figure. Besides that, this morning The Breakfast Club was more like Cheers with all of these people coming in at one time who normally don't come on a Wednesday or together. Whitley, who misses most everything, left right before this happened. First Newt Gringrich and her husband came in (if you work at The Breakfast Club you know who I'm talking about), followed by Neil who only comes in on Sundays and then Sam stumbling in from the night. In no time at all we laughing our asses off. Yesterday, we were in town to meet with Bill Shearouse who is also my attorney to talk about of stuff. It was good, productive and fun but at the end, as he stood from the conference table, he said, "Mike, as you build this new life don't forget about your old friends" which is one of those stop you dead in your tracks things that only the best of friends can get away with. We hugged as we left but his words still ring in my ears this morning. I've got these notes for contracts and proposals spread out on the kitchen table demanding my attention. Each has a deadline and the thing about deadlines and Beach Bums is they really struggle with each other. Manyana keeps popping in my head. There's always tomorrow ... which of course makes me think of the Bible verse "Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14) ... which, of course, makes me think about George Harrison's "What is Life?" I got a lot on my mind. And now I find myself seduced by the sunrise. It's a beautiful summer mroning with an ocean breeze like God's air conditioner is blowing kisses. The choir of birds are hitting every note dead on and Fran's thousand shades of green are doing a Hula Dance which is hard to not watch ... which makes me miss Fran and her bicycle-built-for-two though she couldn't peddle it for the life of her because of her M.S. though that never stopped her ... and Sarah's still sleeping so I'm on guard duty that nothing distrurbs her cause she's more than earned it. I think what I need to do is get a time clock and put it in the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back deck and managed by a Palm Tree with an oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. I'm pretty sure once I clock in, I'll get to work. At least that's the way it used to be.

Night Moves on the Beach

One of the things that I don't do enough is go to the beach at dusk. It's wonderful this time of year and I enjoy seeing the families on vacation trying to squeeze every drop of sunshine out of the day before they return to the rented house or hotel room... where they either have cocktails and throw something on the grill or dress for dinner at one Tybee Island's many choices. Or, they sit in the swings and wait for a moon to rise from the ocean or sit with their feet in the sea. A few make their way into the sand dunes as darkness falls to make out or make loave. It's a wonderful time of day. It's a shame that I rarely make it the six blocks it takes me to get there. Most nights, we're taking Goddess to the Back River, only one block away, to the Sad little Holy dock with views of the lush marsh and High Tides, sunsets and choirs of mussels. Marsh Rabbits and Marsh Hens make special appearances and I just never know who I'm going to sun into. Not too long ago it was Michael Stipe of R.E.M. though I never did see Milly Cyrus. Last night turtles were hatching and Sarah wanted to go. The island is having a bumper crop of large Loggerhead Turtles making there way into the sand dunes to lay eggs (well ... except for one in front of the Ocean Plaza Hotel). On the way I told the story of one morning on Hilton Head ... back when it was an island and not a traffic jam with Outlet Malls ... my Dad jerked me out of bed and drug me in my pajamas (Yes, my parents tried to raise me as a traditional southern boy wearing pajamas but I rebelled). On the other side of a sand dune, a massive Loggerhead was laying eggs ... hundreds of them ... then using her flippers to bury them ... it was beautiful ... and amazing. The moon was throwing a trail of white light on the ocean. Salt hung in the air.The breeze stood still as witness to the miracle of birth. My Dad was so excited. "Who gets to see this?" he asked again and again with his arm around my shoulder. When we arrived, there was a crowd surrounding the nest in the foot of the dunes. A bragade of Fire Ants had dug deep and eaten the eggs. There would be no tiny turtles making a mad dash to the ocean. It was disappointing and sad ... but it was a wonderful crowd ... on a glorious night ... with the moon throwing white light on the ocean ... and my Dad raised himself from the dead to say "Hi" ... Sarah and I holding hands talking to friends ... while Laurel sat in the eddy to make sure sure we have sand to bring home. Making our way back, there are hugs and laughter and stories and ... home ... here ... on a beautiful night ... standing beside a beautiful woman holding my hand ... with a moon doing a dance ... and a choir of cicadias singing Hymns of Praise.

A Beach Bum's Monday

The thing about being a full time "Professional" Beach Bum is I really struggle with Mondays. For decades I was conditioned to hate them with everything in me. After a great weekend I'd go back to work when that was the last place I wanted to be. I loved what I did, I was quite passionate about it, but I was living a schrizophrenic life ... corporate homelessness during the week and Beach Bum on the weekends. I no longer have that problem. This isn't to say I don't work. I do. In fact I think I work too much. Creating something out of nothing is hard work. It took God six days. It's taking me a lot longer. Nevertheless, things have now been created that demand my attention. There's a new contract I have to develop today for a deal that was consumated last week ... another opportunity to expand must be finalized this week ... people from California are in town wanting me to leave the island for lunch ... another group is trying to nail me down to commit to attend a meeting in Salt Lake City ... a mountain of paper sits inside needing re-writes so they can eventually become a book or two. On the up side I deal with most of this from the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back Deck overlooking a Palm Tree wearing a grass skirt while Fran's thousand shades of green overlook me. The dress code is very lax and the Jimmy Buffett station is streaming on Pandora. Plus I instituted a policy that it's always 5 O'Clock at Micheal Elliott Enterprises to compensate THE employee for lack of actual profit. But it's Monday ... so I got up and stumbled to the office ... then I went to the outdoor shower to think because my head was foggy from the weekend ... afterwards I went to The Breakfast Club where all of these homeless people were there waiting on me claiming that services in Savannah had gone to shit and they needed advice. "HEY," I yelled, "I haven't had freaking coffee yet! How do you expect me to solve the world's problems without coffee first?" They all sat down without speaking. "Hey Rev," Nancee asked. "Can these guys pay?" Charlie pulls out a credit card slapping it on the counter. Rolling my eyes, I don't ask whose name is on the card. "So you'll have your people call our people and set something up," Charlie asked. "Yep," I laugh. Riding my bicycle back to the office, I scribble a note to meet with them soon. I mean I have too. They hitchhiked all the way to Tybee Island to see me ... at least I think they hitchhiked ... they could have stolen a car or purposely gotten themselves arrested by the Tybee Island Police Department so they could see me (Believe me, this is how it really happens! They as scupulous as elected officals and clergy!). The sun rises above the Palm Tree so I put on sun tan lotion. Another perk of working here is that you can tan all day long. Lost in thought, I find myself staring at the grill. "Steaks would be good tonight," I say to Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. Micheal Elliott Enterprises is extremely pet friendly. Just as I hit the first key on Netbook, Cassidy the five year old, walks out adhering to the company dress code. "Hey Mike, will you make Cinnamon Rolls?" "Great!" I sigh. My days already been wrecked! So I make Cinnamon Rolls and she tells me that our dog is not gay. "What do you have against blended families," I ask her. "He's adorable," she says cuddling him on the floor. "Yep," I say. I hope I get something done today. If I don't though ... it's Monday ... who cares?