It is a beautiful day with near a puff of white in a deep blue sky, choirs of birds happily sing Hymns of Praise, the vegetation is lush and green as the slightest of Ocean Breezes hinders the yellow sun from heating the salt air any quicker.
Tanned bare feet dangle from the high top table table on the Beloved Back Deck I sit at wearing black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt.
It's a perfect Beach day at the end of October except for the damn pile driver connecting a dock from a spit of land to deep water on the Back River.
"It's progress," I mutter to no one. "Our little island continues to become exclusive."
In October Tybee celebrates Pirates but the truth is they were run off decades ago, but for a boatload of money you can dress up and act like one so long as you buy the wrist band allowing debauchery and other things freebooters love.
I don't linger on such things like I don't participate in Pirate Fest.
It's all become too much.
Parades most every month celebrate something, followed by the endless booming of fireworks, countless tickets written for expired time in extremely limited parking and Cops itching for any reason at all to ... protect us? ... generate revenue? ... stop terrorism? ... whatever the reason they're excellent at scratching until there's nothing left.
Don't get me wrong, Tybee's much better in lots of way than before. The plumbing works regularly ... the power comes on before the other islands after storms ... trash is gone almost as soon as it's dropped ... special fundraisers are executed with a surgeon's skill for anyone in need ... the bars are wonderful ... you can still walk to the Beach with a beer in your hand ... and a handful of Pirates hold on to the past in healthy ways ... and we have the best Butcher running a Meat Department in the entire East Coast.
"Thank God," I say as the pile driver takes a break.
Che whimpers so I kneel beside her crib caressing her sun bleached hair until she falls back asleep.
Outside again, Sarah sends a text saying, "I love you."
A "bing" sounds from my computer and I open the email from my Lawyer.
The pile driver may as well resume.
Things are better ... things are worse ... It was the worst of times ... it was the best of times ... the duality of living is what you make of it and how it's viewed now.
I'm a Christian by profession but a Druid at heart holding all things in common and loving those suspended in the middle ... like fog which is neither night or day ... and free of dogma or any set of fixed beliefs.
The pike driver resumes and I mutter, "Son-of-a-bitch!" and the birds stop singing.
Fridays are a big day at our house because all the girls are home and I love the "nuclear-ness" of it all, wish my grown up kids were here too, especially Ethan the grandson and only "little man" in the family.
Unless you count Winston, the little gay dog (TLGD) ... which I don't.
It was cold yesterday.
The False "Profits" on television and on-line prophesy it's gonna be cold on Sunday.
I hate that.
But I do love now.
And I truly wish whoever's building that Goddamned dock enjoys the Hell out of it ... and that Pirates bury a little hidden treasure underneath.
