Willie Page ... my son

It was one of those days when everything was going perfect.

Bright sunshine on a warm cloudless morning made Savannah especially lovely.

Wandering out of The Savannah Bank towards moss draped Johnson Square, I pause to notice the political rally taking place.

"ELLIOTT," Congressman Jack Kingston screams, "I NEED TO TALK TO YOU NOW!"

"Shit," I mutter but it's part of the job so I meander across the street.

All the Republicans in charge of everything are there and, after Jack greets me warmly, it seems as every one of them are glad I'm there, appreciative of something I'd done for them and needed something now.

Completely surrounded I'm the center of attention and enjoying every second of it!

"DADDY," I hear from the familiar voice. "DADDY!"

And Willie Page shuffles his uncooperative legs towards me.

The Republicans part like the Red Sea as the little black man with yellow teeth, flaky skin and a child's brown eyes strolls in and hugs me.

"HEY DADDY," he says in his raspy voice while keeping an arm around me.

"You're his Daddy?" Kingston asks.

"It's a long story," I reply ready to kill Willie on the one hand but absolutely loving him for coloring the rally something other than red on the other.

Then again, I love the red and black ... Go Dawgs!"

The Republicans are done with me though so Willie and I make our way to the Ice Cream shop beside the Barber Shop on Bull Street where he likes to hang out.

I buy him Ice Cream  and ask, "What do you want?"

"Daddy, can I come home?" he explains giving me his sad child face and licking the Ice Cream.

He means Grace House, the homeless shelter I ran. He'd lived there twice and loved it both times.

The first time he was a "success story" because we got him on disability and found him "permanent housing" in a boarding house but ... Willie missed us ... so he got himself kicked out and moved back into the shelter.

"Willie," I yell, "you cannot live in a frigging homeless shelter for the rest of you life!"

"I love you Daddy," he sheepishly replies.

"Listen," I fire back, "you get yourself kicked out of your next home then we're not going to be friends anymore. I'm not giving you any more birthday money either."

Horrified, Willie suddenly became the perfect client and a few weeks later we find him his new home.

A decade later he stumbles into the Republican Party and me.

I love him.

"Daddy, come see me play," he begs so one day I go to City Market and watch him play a string less guitar with Bucky and Barry, happy and in love with the people who love him.

It was the last time I saw my son.

He died today after a long stay at Hospice having stamped himself on the hearts of many.

So hey Willie, on behalf of a lot of us ... Thank you.

You were incredible making more lemonade out of the worst lemons ever!

And I can only imagine how long it's going to take the Angels to drag you from the Heavenly Banquet because ... God you love to eat!

Thank you most for teaching me by being you.

Because you were incredible!

Who Cares?

Most people get lost in thought.

I get lost in feelings.

It's easy for me to laugh, cry, joke or slide off into an alternative universe of emotions where there is no time.

It's very Monk-like in that I'll be thinking about something before I realize I'm staring at the sunlight shinning on green leaves dancing in the breeze.

How did 30 minutes just pass?

Where was I?

Did Scotty beam me up and back down again?

Was that prayer?

I'll give you an example.

Several years ago I was invited to the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin (a most beautiful college campus) and a really lovely town.

I was to share the stage with the head the Texas head of Public Health, the School's Dean of Public Policy and others ... it was a big deal.

I impressed upon the school that if they were going to pay for me to come all that way and if they anted the whole story, they should also invite Peter Doliber from Memorial Health University Medical Center.

We were doing great stuff at the time.

So they invited Peter too.

The Lyndon Baines Johnson (LBJ) School is a freaking cool place, especially the replica of his office when he was President!

I was mesmerized by the red phone on his desk with one button on it pressed only to use nuclear bombs to destroy the world.

Anyway, Peter and I killed them that day.

"Well," the Dean said after the session, "you certainly were ..." as he struggles to find the right word, "entertaining."

It was a great day!

It was also a long time ago and a lot's happened since.

Peter's back home in the Northeast being in charge of something and I'm a happily married beach bum coping with three little girls.

But I just spent 30 minutes in an alternative universe feeling those things again.

When Scotty beams me back down I'm full of emotion and wonder if Peter ever thinks about these things.

Isn't it funny how you do nice things for people in life and they don't remember?

Or care.

It's funny in a sad sort of way.

The next thing I know I'm staring at the sunlight illuminating the thousand shades of green dancing in the breeze with tear drops of purple Wisteria falling on them.

Suddenly I'm aware that Neil Young is reminding me that "Yes only love can break your heart."

"Hmmm," I mutter out loud and I wish Sarah was home.

The beauty of the earth

In the middle of an unstable air system the weather prophets proclaim gloomy days ahead... the sun pops out from a blanket of purple clouds in a blue sky.

Dew drips from blossoms trees while choirs of birds loudly sing hymns of praise.

Half of the plants on the Beloved Back Deck are blooming away, sprinkling purple and red flowers, around the naked sticks that may not have survived.

A Finch hovers over a petunia while Gypsy the cat wistfully stares through the screen door.

Puddles of pollen rest on the outdoor table which I'll clean shortly.

A sense of calm has settled in an unstable world full of gloomy economic forecasts, abdicated political leadership, egotistical religion, missing people and misplaced faith.

I'm feeling blessed.

The last several years saw seismic changes and virtually everything about the way I live has transformed.

A very unstable time is now comforting stable.

I don't worry about much though there's certainly much to worry about.

People I love are fighting cancers, economics, lost loves, dreams, hopes and faith.

Lately I've taken to prayerfully whispering their names at night when I can't sleep and they comfort me somehow because I'm lulled back into unconsciousness.

The unstable darkness becomes stable.

In the midst of a world gone crazy I watch flowers bloom, listen to birds sing, am baptized in sunshine and am kissed by an ocean breeze.

I find myself humming a tune and words raise themselves from the dead in my mind.

For the beauty of the earth
For the spacious of the skies
For the love which from our birth
over and around us lies ...

And this day starts with an Amen.  

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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A Million Little Things

Staring at a long leaf Palm Tree, taking a long drag off her cigarette, with a steaming cup of coffee on the heavy picnic table, she sits. Darkly tanned with short black hair, the old woman seems lost in thought on a warm Caribbean morning.

Bopping down the sandy road in bare feet, I recognize her from the picture on Travel Talk though we'd never met.

She and her husband had been coming to St. Martin for years. They planned big gatherings with friends they'd collected through the years.

"Sugarae?" I ask pausing in front of her tiny concrete patio.

I love her name.

Sugarae is southern as it gets though she was born and lives in Portland, Maine. Her name combines sugar with rays of sunshine,

Flashing a crooked grin, she nods and invites me to sit.

"It's nice to meet you," I say shaking her hand. "I read your stuff on Travel Talk."

Travel Talk is a web site for those who love the Caribbean and traveling there. Categories are divided into islands. Clink "St. Martin" and I'm suddenly a member of people who love the place like I do.

I don't remember anything else about meeting Sugarae though it was with sadness that I read on Travel Talk that she's died.

Clicking to the Conroy-Tully Crawford Funeral Home website, I find her obituary and read.

"I didn't attend the funeral," Mark Twain quipped, "but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it."

Sarah's girls asked, "How many famous people have you met?"

Looking for themselves reading Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts they've noticed I've met Presidents, Prophets, Priests, Philanders and other people.

I marvel at the people who have graced my life. I'm humbled by those who are part of it now.

"Friendship isn't a big thing. It's a million little things," goes an old saying.

I sit staring at three little girls who are staring at me.

"I dunno," I answer taking a sip of wine. "A lot."

"What were they like," Laurel asks.

"Just like you," I reply.

And I raise my glass to the sky thanking God for everyone of them and for sugar and sunshine.
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A Secret to Happiness

"Look," Allocia says firmly, "the truth of the matter is the sun's up. You're here. You feel like
somebody's kicked you in the stomach but today is yours to take or break."

Tim stares at his clasped hands resting on his knees. He hears the words, even manages a nod but his wife's left him and took his daughter too. He struggles to simply breath.


Sighing, Allocia grabs Tim by the arm commanding, "Get up!"

Limply he stands though his head remains bowed and he stairs at his feet.

Pulling him along she explains, "We're taking a walk. You can't just sit here."

"I don't know what to do," he mumbles.

"Were y'all happy?" Allocia asks guiding him into a park full of children playing on a merry-go-round and Monkey Bars.

Shaking his head from side to side, Tim admits he was not but the sense of loss is overwhelming and he's full of fear. Feelings that are really questions rumble in the pit of his stomach.

I don't want to live alone. How am I going to manage being by myself? We may have fought all the time but at least she was there. When will I see my daughter? I can't live without her. What are all my friends going to say? What am I going to tell my Mom? It took everything both of us make to live. How am I going to survive without her income too?

Allocia pulls Tim down on a bench and he hears the squeals of joy, music of laughter and playful challenges of children.

Realizing he's in a park, Tim stares at single mothers sitting on benches talking as they watch their kids. Fathers push swings with sons and daughters begging to go higher. The grass is green, birds sing, the sun hangs in a deep blue sky illuminating everyone in yellow light. Everything is ALIVE!

His sense of loss ignites and seems to grow. Tim sobs and Allocia puts her arm around his shoulders and they sit in silence together until shadows grow from the trees and the park thins out.

"You know what?" she asks. "Tomorrow the suns going to rise again and this park's going be full of children."

Allocia introduces Tim to me a few days later and they share what's been happening. Mostly I listen until he's got nothing else to say.

"Yeah, I've been there," I grin. "Resurrections are better than crucifixions. Life beats the hell out of the alternative. I'm testimony to that."

Tim asks me lots of "How did you?" questions and I answer each of them.

In the months that follow, we talk occasionally and I slowly observe Tim's rebirth. First he spends nights alone and explains why to everyone. Each time he does, it gets easier. There's less money but its cheaper to live alone. He loses friends but gains some he never realized were his.

One day he and Allocia hold hands and I'm introduced to Tim's smiling daughter. Happily they share plans to live together and I share their joy.

"The best lovers are friends first," I say and they nod.

It makes me wonder why so many get stuck staring at their hands and learn to live with loss, regretting things that might have been and filling time with superficial diversions. They live with people they don't love, do things they don't want and keep thinking things will get better by doing them over and over.

Everybody goes through these experiences but too many choose to remain on the darker side of their lives. I certainly did and you probably have too.

This is what I learned, change is inevitable and growth is hard but accepting both is a secret to happiness.
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You've got to have friends!

"Crawl inside and I'll take your picture," I said.

We were standing in front of the ovens at Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp outside of Munich, Germany.

 Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"You're sick," he replied and then shrugged his shoulders and added, "It would be a funny sick picture."

We'd already gotten in trouble with the keeper of Nazi things on this trip.

A few days earlier we'd been in Berchtsgarden where Hitler had a summer home on top of a mountain with sweeping and stunning views. A section was fenced off so, having come that far anyway, we jumped it and made our way to a bombed out bunker. It had been turned into shrine of sorts by people who still harbor anti-Semitic feelings.

We weren't able to stay long because of the guards who, as luck would have it, spoke no English so we played dumb and they ran us off.

If that wasn't enough, I was detained by Immigration in Amsterdam. I still don't know why but this very day blond, long legged Nordic security guard plucked me out of line. She wore a tight dress with a Pill Box hat right out of the 1950s. I wore a University of Georgia Sweatshirt, blue jeans and had a back pack which she went through.

When she started studying the picture on my passport and then staring at me, I burst out laughing.

On the other side of a glass wall, Bill hung his head, shaking it from side to side, which made me laugh even louder. Of course this infuriated my guard who was saying something to me in a language I did not understand.

Bill made his way to our side of the glass and explained to the guard that I was mentally ill and he was my caregiver. This made me stop laughing and the guard nodded sympathetically. She placed my hand in his and he led me to the plane.

"How did you ...?" I started as we were walking.

"Shut up," he said. "Just act mentally ill. It shouldn't be hard."

So, I tell you all of that to tell you this.

You got to have friends.

Goddess and me

Sometime next year Goddess and I will be the same age.

She is 7 now or 49 in dog years. I am 56 and on her birthday she will catch me ... and then in no time at all she will pass me by.

Siting there her eyes lock on me as I write, panting and laying on the coolness of the tile floor. After sleeping, I think her favorite thing is watching me. She sleeps in the floor on my side of the bed at night, welcomes me whenever I walk in the door, waits on me on the bottom step when I walk out of the door and follows me around.

She minds when I tell her to stop, likes to sit under my feet when I'm working and somehow knows what day I'm returning when traveling.

We've been through a lot together and sometimes we were the only things we had to get through. She was rescued from a box on the side of the road as a puppy, learned to trust by sitting in my lap every night, and I laid on every step when she took her tentative step when she first climbed them.

Initially I wanted to name her God. I thought it sent a great theological message that God is indeed a woman. It's dog spelled backwards. And I thought it would be funny to call her, "GOD! GOD! Dammit come inside right now! Divine intervention happened I suppose and she became Goddess.

When I was suddenly single, she never left my side, understanding somehow that she'd been left too. She'd lay with me when I cried, licking away tears and would sleep in the bedroom doorway protecting me from whatever might come after me in the night. We'd take long meandering walks together often ending together on Shirley's sad little holy dock.

My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie taught Goddess how to sit, shake, lay down and mostly roll over. My neighbor Art gives her treats every day on our afternoon walks. She loves company, greeting them enthusiastically before boring and falling asleep at their feet.

Now she plays with Winston, the little gay dog, and the two of them go crazy when Sarah's girls get home from school. They vie for Sarah's attention and she rewards them with food from the table. When we take them for walks together people ask, "Is that Winston, the little gay dog? Is that Goddess?"

Several years ago when my life was in upheaval, my friend Johnny O advised, "Get rid of the dog!" and I was horrified. A short while later he apologized, saying, "I was wrong." People on the island acknowledge that she is special.

I can't imagine my life without her. It would be like not having Sarah. It would be like losing Jeremy, Kristen or Chelsea. It would be like losing a part of me.

Though that day will come, I'm going to keep living in the moment. Besides she and I are going to be the same age for a little while and that's a hell of an excuse to celebrate! The only thing we can be sure of is this moment, the people who are in our lives and what we do with both.

My life is at the right place at the right time with the right people ... all of which has been overseen by the most perfect dog I could have ever loved.