Bad Wedding Story

Charlie Sherrill and I are performing a wedding ceremony together at a farm in the country.

Charlie is an extremely talented saxophone player and entertainer who blows magic. He's a soft soul, incredibly charismatic and generates love even in the seediest of bars ... or churches.

Dressed cool and beach like, he wears purple floral shirt, white cargo shorts and sandals.

I wear the black minister's robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business.

We're conducting a service together at a farm off a dirt road in Bulloch County, Georgia ... far from the beach both of us call home.

It's also our first "Butterfly" service.

The assembly has been given small boxes, each containing a yellow Butterfly which is to be released when I pronounce them husband and wife.

Do you know that Butterflies don't like to be confined to boxes?

Charlie and I didn't.

Neither do the gathering of family and friends.

When Charlie softly blows his sax ... we can't hear a damn thing for the sound of a hundred Butterflies wildly ramming themselves against the tiny cardboard boxes.

He plays louder which seem to infuriate the already pissed off Butterflies so they try harder to escape drowning him out.

With his sweet countenance, Charlie looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

I scream wedding vows to the top of my lungs.

"WHAT?" the Bride asks.

I scream louder.

Charlie shrugs his shoulders sympathetically and pretends to clean his Sax.

I scream louder and the couple say they "do".

Holding my hands up, I yell with everything in me "I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!"

Over a hundred people cheer ... open up the little white containers ... and over a hundred Butterflies drop dead on the ground.

There's dead silence.

Two yellow Butterflies survive the horrific ordeal, floating together to get the Hell away from the wedding as quickly as possible.

Everyone looks at me to bring an end to the service.

I look at Charlie ... who shrugs his shoulders.

"You may kiss your Bride," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

Dead yellow Butterflies are everywhere as he kisses her.

Charlie sweetly blows his Sax as I rip off the robe and rush to my car.

He looks at me as he plays with eyes asking ... "Where the Hell are you going?"

I shrug my shoulders, get behind the wheel and leave a cloud of dust on that country dirt road.

A few days later Charlie and I are in Doc's Bar where he's the main draw and we burst out laughing when we see each other.

"Think they're gonna make it," I ask?

Charlie shrugs his shoulders and I laugh.

Grabbing me, he says, "Those poor Butterflies."

"Damn poor couple," I say as we hug.

Happy Day of the Dead!

Happy Day of the Dead!

I'm not really certain if that's the appropriate greeting but I like the Day of the Dead.

Originating with the Aztec Indians in Mexico, it's a day for family and friends to gather and remember friends and family members who have died.

In Christianity, it's called All Saint's Day to remember and celebrate all of those who are in Heaven, which is a better way of saying, "They're not dead, they're in Heaven!"

* There is no mention of remembering anybody who went to Hell instead of Heaven on All Saints Day who are also dead which is merely the Christian way of saying "Aw, to hell with them!"

I like the "Day of the Dead" better.

It says it like it is.

People I love died.

I'm not big fan of death but I understand and accept the fact that it happens.

Given my druthers, I like to have all friends and family back but that's simply not the way life works.

The Day of the Dead makes time to remember them and to celebrate the fact they lived. This is done by cooking the person's favorite food, having a picnic at the grave and celebrating their lives.

I think that's a good way to do it.

It would take me a month or so to get the celebrations done. Granddad and Grandma Carver, Dad, Uncle Fred, Ricky, Rick, Sheri, Uncle Bud, Granddad and Grandma Elliott, Aunt Regis, Uncle Ruben ... Hell that's two weeks worth of celebrating right there!

And that's just my family!

Bubba, Fran, Chicago Bob, Trolley Joe, Georgia, Bruce Barns, Chester Fawbush, Joe Bridges, Rodger Pack, Sidney Daniels, Dan Sheehan ... SHIT! Naming all of my friends who have died is going to take a long time so that's just going to make the celebration last longer.

Like I said, the Day of the Dead celebration is going to take a month or so in my case!

Though, the truth is hardly a day goes by that I don't think about them.

They're still alive in my heart where I keep them safe and hold them dear. My Dad and I still have beers together, Bubba still makes me laugh, Fran's still teaching me green, Chicago Bob feeds me his great lines when I need them, and Grandma Carver says prayers with me in the middle of the night.

I don't know how I would get through a day without them.

I celebrate them every day so I suppose, for me at least, every day is the Day of the Dead.

It's not morose, macabre or weird that I can still feel Trolley Joe's arm around my shoulders when I'm having a shitty day or Dan Sheehan's always there when I'm having to do something I really don't want or Uncle Fred reminds me when I need to exhibit grace.

As time passes my friends and family who have died become more precious to me and I find myself interacting with them more some days than when they were alive. I delight in them and am increasingly thankful they graced my life. I don't focus much on the fact that they're gone but concentrate intensely that they were here. I would never have become me without them.

It's a good Day of the Dead!

I'm already celebrating!

How are you going to celebrate it?
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Ready for a good read? My new book "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" is now available at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Life outside of the box

Is the money I make worth the price that I pay? asked Graham Nash.

I vividly remember sitting in the floor in front of the television when The Beatles were on Ed Sullivan with my Dad complaining, "They'll never be Elvis.

"And in the end ..." they were more than Elvis.

Of course there would be no Beatles without Elvis.

He came first.

The only people to come close to them since are Michael Jackson and Bob Marley.

Each were incredible trailblazers leaving massive imprints on the world. Each doing what they wanted, achieving unimagined success, becoming imprisoned by it and killing four of the six before their time.

Their music remains and annually they outsell the newest stars making today's best sounds.

It makes me wonder.

All of them stepped outside of the box, forfeiting societal norms and the expectations of others to do their own thing.

And they did their own things magnificently!

So I wonder why the rest of us aren't doing our own thing?

We spend our days and nights doing other peoples things.

Going to work, taking care of parents, fulfilling the demands of religion, living in a certain place because the schools are better for the kids, working the allotted number of years before retirement ... we become indentured servants waiting on our happiness and freedom to arrive later.

When do happiness and freedom arrive?  We can all tell stories of those who do all the right things, meet each demand, fulfill every obligation, make the sacrifices to retire ... only to die soon afterwards.

I've done my time, gave others everything, met the demands, raised the kids, fulfilled expectations and ... jumped ship.

Sarah jumped too.

We washed up on a beach, tattered, torn, hurting and alone so we did what creatively, desperate people do ... shared sandy kisses. We had Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts!

We've made a life outside of the box since then.

We're making a career outside of the box too.

And we're doing it all wrong.

We're too young.

We're investing in us now instead of later.

We're having fun.

Elvis died too young. So did John and George. The King of Pop too. Certainly Bob Marley did.

Who knows how much time we have left?

I just know I not giving mine away anymore except to the things most important to me! Not to anyone else!

Life's better outside of the box.
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The Phantom

"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," Robin says as I make my way to The Breakfast Club.

White teeth flash in the predawn darkness as she stops in front of me. Shaking her head, she explains, "Georgia's going to kill you."

"Whatever," I shrug opening the door marked "Exit Only."

Taking my seat at the counter, I sip coffee peacefully until a rolled up newspaper slams on the counter. I jump and spill coffee everywhere.

"I'm going to kill you," Georgia says leaning into me.

"Pffssss," I hiss grabbing napkins. "No you won't. I made you famous."


"You busted me out," she snaps, again slapping the rolled up newspaper on the counter.

"Sit down. Let's split breakfast," and we order hash browns stuffed with broccoli, mushrooms and jack cheese.

"I don't care about that other shit," she says leaning into me again, "but you told everybody I'm the Phantom. It's a secret dammit."

Putting my arm around the large woman with leather skin, short cropped grey hair and clothes stained the colors of  the rainbow, I say, "Georgia everybody already knows you're the Phantom. I just put it in a book."

"They do not," she shoots back.

Rolling my eyes, I pick up Running with the Dolphins and sign it for her.

A book about Tybee Island, where I live and love, is impossible to write without including Georgia. Singlehandedly, she coached every kid on the island in sports, grew a Girl Scout Troup out of nothing and delivered the newspaper to every home with a Ninja precision from a car speeding down side lanes at 35 miles an hour.

The cops were scared of her.

And she was the Phantom. If anyone was sick, in need, hurting or had died, Georgia would "mysteriously" leave cards, toys, food, even medicine on the door stoop. The morning of a funeral she'd have The Breakfast Club prepare a full breakfast for the family and "secretly" take it to them.

She pretended she was tough and pissed off but hers was a heart of pure gold. Mother Teresa on steroids. An Angel with an attitude.

Sadly she died this week.

It's with joy there's a new story about her. Writing about the island a decade later, she's still too much part of the place, I had to include Georgia in Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts.

The last time I saw her, Robin again cornered me at The Breakfast Club asking I visit her mother. I drive to St. Joseph's Hospital, find her room, open the door and Georgia screams"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"I understand you're dying," I answer strolling to her bed.

"BULLSHIT!" she screams.

It's just very hard to not love her.

That's the beginning of the story and it pleases me Georgia has another testimony to her incredible legacy.

A celebration of her life will take place on the ball field where she taught so many kids so many things. Though I'm certain I'll cry like a baby, I'm proud to officiate.

I love you Georgia.

Now you're really the Phantom that you always wanted to be.

Kick some Holy ass like I know you will.
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You can purchase a copy of "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/ 

A Prayer of thanks

A friend of mine passed away yesterday.

We weren't close friends, rarely spending time alone though we did have several heartfelt conversations over the past decade. He was constantly there while my life went through seismic shifts and I was there in his too from time to time.

I'd stumble off the beach and he'd be sitting at one of the large yellow and blue picnic tables in his restaurant. "Andy and Cheryl's Baywatch" is a fixture on Orient Beach in St. Martin. In the West French West Indies he served up incredible American food with a flair!

His Margarita Shrimp is to die for!

Now he's died.

He was an ornery man, a sloppy dresser and a wonderful chef. I don't think its a coincidence that he died on Friday the 13th. He could be funny as hell or mean as a snake.

You never knew what you were going to get.

Just like the specials in the open air restaurant with sand on the floor.

"Come here Andy," my friend Hugh once said, "let me see what today's special is."

And Hugh stared at the stains on Andy's tee shirt concluding, "Ah! Lasagna!"

Andy expatriated from New Jersey and the United States for life in the Caribbean, built a very popular eatery with an incredibly loyal customer base. And he did it surrounded by exquisite French restaurants by sticking out like a sore thumb.

1960s rock-n-roll blasted from the speakers in Baywatch, a funny staff of islanders made up for his poor management styles while his ex-wife served as hostess. It was such an American contrast to the subtle ways of the French.

Sarah, Conner, Hania and I were there a few months ago and we could tell the place was losing its steam. It was still beautiful and the food was constantly great but the soul of the place was disappearing. It happens ... All Things Must Pass.

But I'm left with mostly fond memories. It was a good place for a long time. Andy was more good than bad and on rare occasions he could be magical. I liked him.

I say a prayer of thanks today for Andy. My mind drifts to the wonderful collection of people who salt my life making it better than what it would have been without them. I check on Sarah to make sure she's still breathing as she sleeps. Goddess lays at my feet and sighs while my heart explodes with love.

______________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words.

Order it now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Watching Friends Die

I learned yesterday Michael Sullivan died.

That sucks!

We liked each other. He managed the news and I often gave him some.

I'd show up at the TV station for "Live at 6" and we'd sit in his tiny little office and crack jokes or wax crazy philosophy like that in  A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy ... which makes perfect sense if you've been drinking ... which we did on occasion ... on Tybee Island where we both lived ... making it worse was Chicago Bob and Johnny O were part of this circle meaning we were never quite sure which Galaxy we were actually hitchhiking to or from.

We also serious stuff together and he was always supportive of anything I was doing.

Mostly though, I'd stroll to the Pier when Dean still ran it for The Bored Meeting with Johnny O, Chicago Bob, Whitely Reynolds, Trolley Joe, O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) and Michael Sullivan.

Sitting on the beloved back deck, I can't help but think to myself and say to God. "Holy Shit! Another friend has died."

Chicago Bob went first. Trolley Joe second. Some have claimed that Whitley died but nobody ever told him so he keeps doing the same stuff.

I get to thinking about it and it starts adding up. My Dad died a few years ago. My sweet cousin Sheri Baker died last year. Rick Donnelly, also my cousin, was the same age as me, left two years ago. Dean who ran the Pier and made us our own VIP section at the bar one night while the Tams played.

It sucks.

But I'm a minister and am supposed to make sense of it somehow. All I know is that life's a gift that none of us asked for yet each of us share. None of us know how long we got it ... or how much we have one another in our lives ... all we know is this is what we got or this is who we've had.

A lot of people are glass-half-empty people (like politicians, preachers and news reporters). They look at the dying that goes on around us and lament, "Well, this just sucks and it's going to happen to me one day too ... AND THAT SUCKS MORE!"

Like Michael, Chicago Bob, Johnny O, O Johnny but most definitely Trolley Joe, I look at it all a little differently.

It's great to be alive today!

It's wonderful having the people I have in my life right now!

It was incredible having the people I've had in my life because I don't know what I would have done without them!

So Michael, the party goes on, just as I know you would have insisted. It's a little different than what it would be if were still here but you're not.

But your spirit is. Your influence remains. Some of the laughter sounds like yours. Some of the crying does too.

Or to put it in the words of the Major Prophets John, Paul, George and Ringo ... "O-blah-dee, O-blah-dah, life goes on! BRAH!"
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Hell No I Ain't Dying

"What the hell are you doing here?" she bellows as I walk into her hospital room.

"Your daughter told me that you're dying and I should come see you," I reply strolling up to the bedside.

"BULLSHIT!" she screams.

"You look pretty good," I say. "Your voice sounds good too."

At that she laughs and puts her snarly, leathery hand on top of mine.

"Hell no I ain't dying," she says. "It would make too many people happy."

She looks thinner than last time I saw her but otherwise it was the same Georgia who once tried to kill me with a rolled up newspaper. That was bad enough but seeing her now in a hospital gown was even worse!

"So you don't need me?" I asked.

"Now what in the hell would I need you for?" she said jerking her hand away.

"Ummm, because I'm the only minister who'll talk to you?" I mockingly said.

That made her laugh again.

Back in the day, we'd have coffee together every morning. She'd have just finished delivering the newspapers on the island and I'd show up at the Breakfast Club for coffee before heading to work. Jake Jacobs, Blind Mike, Mrs. Tommy, Jesse the racist and Johnny O were the other regulars. We were a wonderful, crazy and completely dysfunctional group who loved each other dearly.

"Damn," Georgia mumbled one morning," I can't wait to get home and take this bra off."

"You take your bra off every morning when you leave here?" Jake asked.

"Yep," she said as she slapped my hand as I stole a piece of her bacon.

"Well that explains that," Jake announced.

"What?" she said looking at him.

"Those two thuds I hear every morning at 8:30."

Georgia hit Jake with a rolled up newspaper. She was really good at it making it Ninja like. Ninjas throw little silver stars with incredible precision. Georgia does the same thing with rolled up newspapers.

"Well," she exclaims in the hospital room, "I don't need no damn minister now."

"Fine," I say turning to leave.

"Come back when I'm dead," she says picking up the phone on the institutional bedside table. "I may need you then."

"OK," I reply opening the door. "Later then."

She doesn't answer because she's already talking on the phone.

"I want to see the little Son-of-a-bitch doctor who told my daughter I'm dying. I'm going to kick his little ass."

It's hard not to love Georgia.