Bar Church Magic (Practice)

It is a warm and pleasant December evening. Stars blaze in the pitch black sky above the vast dark ocean with its waves singing in the night. We pull into the parking lot on Izlar Street which is just off the "Combat Zone" of Tybee Island. One block away, the highest concentration of bars and tee shirt shops lay in wait for party people but here on this little quiet lane there is a sanctuary from the craziness of night time beach living.

Reaching inside of the car I pull out my guitar. At one time I was pretty good. Then I took a thirty year vacation from it. When my friend Mitch Wesley showed up last year, he shammed me into retrieving it from the back of the closet where it rested. We played old songs and my fingers were so sore.

Then Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee along with Gordon Hill, insisted that God had told him to tell me to start playing at Bar Church. I think God talks to Sam more than She does the rest of us. She's forever telling him to not play that verse, add a solo where there hadn't been one before or invite me to say something on the spot. Of course, God doesn't tell the rest of us any of this, so ... we just try to follow Samuel.

This has been going on for weeks now. Ever since the beloved Dawgs of Georgia were slayed by the Philistines of Louisiana, we've been pretty steady in Bar Church. And we've been in the band! My fingers have now calloused over and every week they seem to remember things that they used to do.

God had told Sam to tell the rest of us to do something that we'd never done before ... practice.

So we all showed up at his house. God also told Sam to take a shower before we got there and he evidently enjoyed it so much he remained until the hot water ran out ... leaving us pounding on the door. He had sofas on his porch so I was pretty cool about it all. I sat on the couch and waited. You can't rush God ... or Sam.

Eventually he let us in. Dedra immediately disappeared into back to participate in some holy smoke. There's a lot of holy stuff in Sam's house. We tuned guitars and put music in order. Sarah searched for her notes. As soon as we started playing, Sean and Wren showed up with cupcakes. You can't have a religious service without the breaking of the bread.

God had told Sam to tell Sean to play bass in the band. Sean had no choice. {Mitch Wesley, on the other hand, doesn't listen to God since he retired.}

As soon as we started to play, Davy the drummer rushed in screaming and scaring the Holy Ghost right out of all of us. Nevertheless, the band was assembled for its first practice. Well ... except for Gordon ... and Joe ... and Jean-Marie who obviously opted out of listening to God.

Then we launched into the first song, which will be the last song at Bar Church tomorrow. As soon as we started, God started telling Sam stuff and Sam actually passed it on to the rest of us. "Start here. End there. Everybody sing this." So we listened and the first time we did it like God had told Sam for us to do it ... it was magic.

We recognized it as it was happening. I looked at Sean who was looking at me and smiled. Sarah and I exchanged winks. Davy pounded away. Nobody was certain what Dedra was doing. Sam was smiling as he played with his eyes closed apparently still in conversation with God about the order of the service.

God suddenly told Sam to tell us to take a break. So we did. Sam went to the computer and started transferring money. I told myself to bring Sam my stock investments so that God could tell him to tell me what to do to maximize those babies.

It was back to practice after the money-changers had finished. Though Davy either had spontaneously combusted playing the drums or been called to heaven. Either way, he wasn't there anymore. Then it was cupcake time which was followed by a carnivore's delight.

We came home happy, fully prepared and knowing what we're going to do in Bar Church tomorrow.

Well ... until God tells Sam to tell us what we're really going to do.

Graduation(s)

The small styrofoam cooler was between my legs under the black gown that matched my cap. It was awkward walking into the "Hanner Field House" but I had mastered it. Once I got to the chair in the right row where we were all seated in alphebetical order, I set it on the floor and took off the top. Reaching inside, I pulled out the six pack of beer, popped the top and handed one to the guy sitting next to me.

I didn't know him but I immediately liked him. He had writting in white letter on top of his cap "I NEED A JOB!" followed by his phone number. All of the parents, brothers, sisters and family members sitting up could see it. This guy was goning to go far.

I opened another beer for me and we toasted each other.

Then I settled back to enjoy my college graduation.

Eventually, my row stood and we walked across the stage. I was handed my diploma, walked off the stage, back to my row and while the graduates in front of me turned to resume their seats, I kept walking.

Those waiting to be called to the stage laughed and then started yelling "Boo!"

I walked straight to my car and the last I saw of college was in my rear view mirror.

I'd loved it all but it was time to move on.

The first time I graduated from Seminary the Baptist were confused about the spelling of my name. During the practice some professor kept saying that couldn't be right. I kept saying that it was. When I got the diploma the next day my name was spelled wrong. Baptist are always going to believe what they want to believe in spite of the facts.

The second time I graduated from Seminary my attorney had to attend. The Dean of the School of Social Work and I were having issues. During the final year I'd spent as much time in her office as I had in class. At the same time I'd already gained a reputation as speaker and had traveled the nation giving speeches. In fact, the Dean of the School of Social Work and I were on the same stage at the Southern Baptist Convention to give a speech. She went right after me. I got seven standing ovations. She didn't get any. Our relationship soured soon afterwards.

And that was the last time I graduated from anything.

Well ... unless you count church, marriages, jobs, the Breadfast Club softball team, the Tybee Island Beach Bums, and country music.

In a little while, I'm attending my daughter's graduation from the University of Georiga so I'm in a bit of a rush. I have to go to the store. Buy a Styrofoam cooler ... you know the rest.

Sometimes you Can always get what you want

On a beautiful island day I will climb into the car for the four hour drive to Athens. My baby girl graduates from college tomorrow. It all happened so quickly. She was just born yesterday. Or so it seems.

She is named after a line from the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get what you want." "I went down to the Chelsea drug store ..." Because she was born on Tybee Island the spelling had to have "SEA" in her name and we were very insistent on the birth certificate about this.

And there's no question she's beach girl! I've logged more time sitting in the sand with her than I have anybody else in the world (and that's saying a lot!). Before she could walk I'd sling her on my shoulders and we'd top the crosswalk on 10th Street and find our spot. She'd roll around in the sand as I sat there as we basked in the sunshine with the waves singing to us.

This continued until she went to the University of Georgia.

Before she did, we went diving in the Keys, called the Vatican one night while we were there, and ... became friends as adults.

I'd see her a lot during football season but then not so much throughout the rest of the year. Some in the summer, but she was off creating her own life. She's engaged and the funniest thing is that her fiancee Sam goes to Georgia Tech and she is moving there in a few weeks. I asked if she would be hanging UGA flags as curtains in windows but Sam had already anticipated such a move and told her no.

I think that she'll do it anyway.

Conventionality is not a family trait.

It's an interesting point of life when you understand that all of your children are grown. How did this happen? I am much too young to have grown children.

Nevertheless ...

She remains fun to watch. She always has been. I would sit late into the night watching her sleep in her crib with her entire head cradled in my hand. She served me a thousand cups of imaginary tea. Together we overcame Jellyfish (though she remains scared by the whole thing). The travel bug got passed on and she lived in Italy for a while and is feverishly planning a trip to Greece. And the girl can throw a football with a perfect spiral (just ask Ken Wade who she hit squarely in the face one day when he told her that girls can't thrown).

Tonight we'll gather for dinner in Athens and celebrate all of the things that have been.

Then tomorrow, I sit and watch her march across a stage and into her life.

I love you baby.

Keep doing it the way that you've been doing it.

Life's A Beach

I did a drive-by of Roma's 80th birthday party last night. After an especially blissful day and my first attendance at an elementary school band concert in years, I stopped at Marlin Monroe's to pay homage to the self-proclaimed Queen of the island. I've known her since before she assumed the throne. She is dear to me and we took walks together after I found myself "suddenly single" and she mostly listened to me let it all out.

Then I started letting it in.

"So let it out and let it in, hey Jude ... begin ..." the Beatles instructed.

That's what I did.

I was three hours late to the party so everybody was pretty much hammered when I got there. There were hugs and admonitions and a lot of laughter. I bowed before the Queen who sarcastically proclaimed that "it's nice of you to show up. Now get out!"

There was a lot of love in the room last night.

You gotta love her though. From Homerville, Georgia, the former school teacher found her way to an island and completely transformed who is. In her sixties she wore alter tops, shorts and a bandana. In her seventies she became a tourist attraction, sitting in her over-sized chair in front of Fannies-On-the-Beach. God only knows what her eighties hold!

Standing there at one point, I smiled and enjoyed the karma of the night. It was all good. Perfect strangers came up to introduce themselves and explain they think they've found a place ... to live.

Life's a Beach!

It's funny because the phrase originates from a previous phrase ... "Life's a bitch, then you die."

Some really optimistic person knew better. Life's a Beach ... or a mountain top ... or that certain part of the city ... or whatever. It's your life and you only have the one. What do you do with it?

Roma transformed herself from a country teacher in Homerville to the Queen of an island where crowds flocked to pay homage and hear her sing the worst version of "Purple Rain" ever sang.

A lot of my friends are transforming themselves right now. It is our tie that binds. Marriages end while new relationships begin. Jobs disappear while opportunities wait to be discovered. Children leave home and suddenly there is the chance to finally be yourself. Age happens and some choose to remain young until they die ... while others just die a little more every day.

Whatever the circumstances, we're left with a choice.

Either ... life's a bitch ... or life's a beach

I don't know about you, but when I die ... it's gonna be on a beach.

Excommunucation

"He's a real nowhere man, living in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans ... for nobody," points out the Major Prophet John Lennon.

Self absorption is an interesting thing.

This morning while I sipped coffee at the Breakfast Club, a man who has been trying to track me down for a while finally prevailed. He sat next to me and talked. Showing me pictures of his past, he lobbied for me to intervene on things he wanted done but are impossible to accomplish. He an ordered an omelet, cut it up, stuck the fork into it and then held the first bite in the air for minutes ... as he continued talking.

"You better eat," Ryan told him, "it's going to get cold."

So he looked confused for the briefest of seconds. He inspected the first bite and ... he kept talking to me.

Ryan shook his head with a smirk and looked at me. I winked and he shrugged his shoulders.

By now I was fascinated. How long will it take before he eats the food dripping from the fork in front of his face? Luckily, there is clock at the Breakfast Club and it was behind him so I could track this. Jodee was making faces at me as he ate breakfast sitting behind the person talking to me. With all of the preposterous stories I've heard in my career, I've learned to keep a straight face though Jodee tries his hardest.

Five-and-a-half minutes he shoved the fork in his mouth.

That was my litmus test. As soon as he did and couldn't talk anymore, I stood up and slapped his shoulder. "I have to go," I said.

And I did.

Ryan looked at me with a grin. Jodee laughed. Franklin, who is brown, looked at me with his thumb stuck to his ear and his pinky in front of his mouth as though it were a phone and mouthed the words, "Call me."

I came home.

It's funny. For decades my job was to fix things that people thought were wrong. Even now, as I write this, my table is covered with notes of people who've called imploring me to help them get into Union Mission, the J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Peter Brassler Dental Clinic. These are programs that I helped revive or start but no longer have anything to do with.

We excommunicated each other. I have nothing to do with them. They have nothing to do with me.

In my own self-absorbed way, I think the place has gone to shit since I left, though if you talk to the people running things now I'm sure they would say that everything's great!

When I walked into the house this morning, I grabbed a box and started opening drawers. There are all of these framed pictures that used to be meaningful but they're not anymore. So I filled one box and then got another one and filled it too. Then I flipped through pictures and made a pile of the ones that I thought my beautiful daughter Chelsea may want. And another for my beautiful daughter Kristen. Then I noticed there was nothing for Jeremy.

I felt bad.

Carrying the boxes downstairs to trash can, I tossed them in and walk back into the warmth of the house.

Then I looked at all of the newspaper clippings of things I used to do. I throw them away.

Afterwards, I search for notebooks full of things I've written. I throw them away too.

Cleaning the kitchen from the mess made last night, the sun pops up shinning through the sliding glass doors. Fixing myself something to drink, I walk outside on the beloved back deck and kick my shoes off. Warmth has returned. Sitting, I toast Fran's thousand shades of green. Goddess meanders out and lay beside me.

Today is future focused and not past driven. I have lots of things to do that I'm looking forward to. Some will be hard or awkward. Others will be liberating and my cup will overrunneth with joy.

"Hey God," I say out loud. "Thank you for all of that. Some of it really sucked but I'm not going to focus on those things. Most of it was great! But ... thank you most of all for now ... It is so much better."

Amen.

Ornaments

We collect them over the years and they're full of sentimental value reminding us of love and good times ... until they don't.

If you're lucky they always remind you of love but0 this is life and it occurs with more regularity than Coca-Cola versions of Christmas. Still ornaments for the tree are ... special.

Last year I threw the ornaments collected over the years. Actually my Mom and daughter did. I'd fled to St. Martin. When I got home ... early because of Homeland Security issues ... Mom had thrown the artificial tree away because she thought that my plans were in poor taste. I wanted to have a tree burning party in the back yard. Just take the whole damn thing into the back yard, invite my carnival of friends, set the tree on fire and toast the end of what used to be.

The year marched along and there were summer breezes, parties that kept trumping the previous party, new work, Bar Church, then being in the Bar Church band (if we only had a bass player ... Mitch!), travel to every corner of the United States, and a home that continues the evolution into a new home.

Suddenly Thanksgiving was here, the college football season was ending, the weather turned to shit and then ... people started demanding that I get a Christmas tree.

It's best to be honest. When I leave the island of Tybee, an increasingly rare occurrence, aside from the Christmas lights that God has thrown across the sky, there is this boat at the Bull River Marina. The mast is decorated with white lights. A stocking hangs from the mainsail. It reminds me of summer breezes. My kind of Christmas!

In Seminary I paid good money to learn that Jesus was probably born in April or March. Not December. The early Church chose the date to kidnap the perfectly acceptable Druid celebration of Winter Solstice so they would go away and Christianity could continue its worldwide domination campaign.

{I need to say that I love the Druids. They ran naked in the woods to celebrate the Winter Solstice. We're thinking about starting a Tybee chapter. Let me know if you have interest in becoming a charter member.}

So on a cold windy day, I got a Christmas tree, brought it to my Key West influenced house and put on the new colored lights that I'd purchased because my ass got drug to Wally World.

After it was decorated, I opened up the drawer to look at the ornaments that Mom had not thrown out. She tried to be thoughtful about it and she got it mostly right. There was Sarah's bringing of JOY. A large peace sign that Shirley gave me. One from my childhood. Another from Chelsea. A pair of purple thong underwear and another pair of black pair of panties with stars on them.

When I'd finished, less than a quarter of the tree had ornaments.

Then Cheryl made an epiphany carrying a brown paper bag. Inside were ornaments. A creation by Dani and Ryan when they were kids and we all lived together. Flip-flops. A picture of holiness in a frame. Then she disappeared as soon as she came ... but the tree reeked of love.

Then Dee blew in with sponge from the ocean and Beach themed depictions of laundry hanging on a line (lose the laundry at the beach).

Then Cass made me a paper machete coloring of a cat.

Like my life, the Christmas tree suddenly has little rhyme or reason.

But it grows fuller.

Like my life.

The ornaments that remain are the dearest of friends. They are far more than dangling pieces of pretty.

They are Christmas ... the reason there was oil in the Hanuka lights ... and the reason Druids danced naked in the woods on the first day of Winter.

Christmas Island

Perhaps it's because of the limited geography, islands have watery boarders, and it's easy to get from one end of Tybee Island to the other. The drive is only a few minutes. A bike ride from the south end to the north end takes less than fifteen. Depending on the shape you're in you can walk it in under an hour. I suppose you could swim around it but I have no idea how long that would take.

"Everybody who lives on an island is either running to ... or from ... something," Jane Fishman once explained to me.

The trick is knowing who is who.

While my house is nearer the south end it has been the epicenter of activity this weekend. Friday night we had party with my carnival of friends and were having a good time on the beloved back deck. Rocky strolled upstairs which was fine but then these other people followed her route and suddenly there were more of us. Then a friend of a friend who's not a friend at all broke in and silenced the entire party.

So the sign that has hung beside the front door "The Elliott's, Est. 1999" though in face we dissolved years ago, was finally replaced with a new sign welcoming warning.

"Friends of friends may not bring friends!"

Then we ended up at Doc's Bar which is easy to get to from my house. Doc's is Tybee's oldest bar. It's nickname is "The Geriatric Ward" because of the common age of most patrons. Nevertheless it is normally fun and it certainly was then. Johnny O introduced us to a real life "Pocahontas".

After later being questioned about this by his wife Judy O, he responded, "You just don't like the fact that ethic women are attracted to me."

To which Judy O said, "I don't like the fact that you're attracted to whores ... unless they're my whores."

She meant us.

The Carnival of friends.

Yesterday was a blur. We were entertaining as soon we were up. After orchestrating a brunch at the Breakfast Club, we went to Nicki's birthday party. Nicki is the Godfather of the Mafia on Tybee. He owns most of the businesses on the island so we had to go. He's also the bails bondsman on the island so ... we had to go. You never know when you're going to be one of those ... running from something.

Then it was back to the house where the Bar Church band had scheduled a practice for this year's Christmas cantata. Only three showed up and the choir director was missing-in-action. So we practiced without him until out-of-town quests arrived demanding dinner.

I wasn't cooking again so it was off to Jenny O's "Full Moon Party" at Marlin Monroe's. Platters of seafood, fresh grouper, grilled pineapple and ... two chicken fingers filled everyone. And intense coloring contest broke out. Lots of friends dropped by our table, some bearing gifts. The crowd grew into a frenzy. Dancing was fierce. The music was great.

And in the middle of a mosh pit, we looked at one another and knew it was time to go. So quick goodbyes were given and we escaped the eruption of good times and went back home.

A fresh Christmas tree had been put up for the first time in years. Old fashioned colored lights gave it a glow from my childhood. The handful of ornaments that were not thrown out hang on it. "Joy". A peace sign. Santa Claus swimming with a dolphin. And hand painted "Snoopy" sitting on a snow man that I'd done as kid in Port Wentworth where I grew up. On top is an angel that my beautiful daughter Chelsea made me when she was a kid.

So we sat underneath the tree in the quiet of the night, away from the hustle and bustle of city sidewalks, full moons and carnivals of friends.

The first Christmas has begun.

The Stable In My Heart

"Sad faces painted over with those magazine smiles ..." is a song line that I've always loved. It's especially pronounced during the holiday season. Try as we might to embody a Norman Rockwell version of Christmas, it often ends up being a different kind of painting.

We drag out the plastic Jesus, the inflatable Snowman, the electric icicles and the synthetic garland. It's either white lights, colored lights or lights out. The scent of a fresh tree slowly dies in the stand or a spray can seeks to achieve the same. The radio blast endless versions of the same songs to make the holiday bright or make you want to get a knife.

The stuff that happens in kitchens is amazing. Some of the greatest culinary achievements of all time occur. These are balanced with the worst culinary failures. Countless last minute trips to the grocery for things long forgotten take place. Of course the lines are long ... and the one ingredient we need will be the one item not on the shelf.

There are parties to attend, families to reunite, presents to purchase and return. Some of the greatest acting occurs as many of these presents are opened ... and some of the most heartfelt moments will also occur as the paper is ripped off the box.

Churches are gearing up for the big services. Choirs are practicing cantatas which will be sung once and then forgotten. Ministers are salivating at the annual chance to "be the center of the universe for twenty minutes" as my friend Guy Sayles once put it, in front of the largest audience of the year.

The poor are actually remembered during the days leading up to the birthday of Christ, then they're put away with the rest of the decorations. Nursing homes are decorated and the visitation traffic is up, but then it quickly is down again. Hospitals try to diagnose good cheer but most prescriptions will go unfilled.

It makes me mindful.

The beginning this was so different. Joe the construction worker was hauling his pregnant wife back to his hometown because the government had ordered everybody to that. Of course Joe's family had all moved so there was no place to stay. Hotels were jacking up their prices and if there was a place to call a room they rented it. Lobbies, Broom closets, laundry rooms and even Stables out back were all suddenly revenue generating. It was good for the economy.

But at the same time ... the stars shined brightly in the sky whenever the clouds recessed. Wise guys came and went. Choirs sang ... some heavenly and others straight from hell. Mangers will full or empty

I turn and look at the lone Christmas decoration in my house. It sits beside the flat screen television. It is an ornament of a house with snow on the roof and a Snowman holding a reef standing in the front door as to welcome everyone end. It is warm and fuzzy. Above the front door are the words "New Home 2011".

It is that.

It's all new.

Christmas and how I celebrate it is being created on a daily basis. The family I'm doing it with are not blood related though we've grown to love one another deeply. The old has been thrown away and the new is being ... created. It's like a baby being born.

It's funny. I'm very much caught up in the moment. Not the Spirit of Christmas so much, but the understanding of what I have, who loves me and who I love. I perceive the opportunities lying in front of me while continuing to chronicle the good and the bad of the things I've done. This Christmas is much different from the past several which were much different from the several before that. Next Christmas will be a cosmic shift from this one.

But I'll tell you something ... the smile on my face is not a painted one ... or one from a magazine ... and it's certainly not anything Norman Rockwell could ever comprehend ... because it was given birth in the Stable in my heart.

Edith Carver

I laid in the predawn darkness staring at the silhouettes of the Palm Trees outside of the window. I used to never do this ... just lay there in bed ... thinking ... wondering ... wishing. They are moments of contentment melded with apprehension. "I wonder what this day will bring?"

Forever, I'd wake, jump out of bed and dive into the day. Now I linger. Perhaps because I'm older, or tied, or mellow ... or don't have a clue, I lay there and my Grandmother rises from the dead to visit with me.

She told me once that when she couldn't sleep at night, she'd lay there and pray. She would do it out loud, softly talking to the God she loved so much. She would ask that nine children be alright. She would ask that the dead ones be looked after until she could join them. She'd pray for the 56 grandchildren calling each of us by name. Then she'd start on the great-grand-children. I wonder now if she ever had time to sleep anyway praying for us all like she did.

We were sitting at her kitchen table when she informed me of her nightly ritual. I visited her often. We all did. And we'd all sit there. She would pull out the latest pictures of everyone one to share them with us. Especially the far off ones like Becky and Fred or Curtis and Dee's children who were spread everywhere. After the pictures, we should just talk.

I was the oldest grandchild so I got the first blast of grandmotherly love. I was lucky because my cousins Rick, Ricky and Cindy found to get out of their wombs to be the first to get her love ... but I was the one.

We were close and did a lot together. I stayed with her once in my great-Aunt Bessie's cabin in the north Georgia mountains. She visited me in college and in Seminary. We often took golf cart rides by ourselves or long drives to just talk.

When I first went to college she missed me and decided to write me a letter. I still have it. I remember going to my box in the Landrum Center at Georgia Southern College and pulling it out. Her shaky scrawl writing had Edith Carver on the envelope so I knew it was from her. I opened it up and she had written on a single white piece of paper ... "Dear Mike , I love you" ... and that was it ... she wrote 'I love you' a hundred times ... all over the front and all over the back. Then she signed it ... "Love Grandma."

That's how she was.

Anyway, laying there this morning, with a full weekend agenda in front of me, she decided to visit. These memories rushed into my head all at once and I miss her as much now as I did when she died. She had a funny way of smiling and I could picture it just as clearly as I could feel her sitting on the bed.

She didn't say much. She never did. But I could hear singing old Gospel Hymns. Of course she told me she loved me. I think she got on to me a little for not praying enough but ... she never really got on to me. Even when I was doing outrageous stuff that she often couldn't comprehend she would just assume that I knew what I was doing. Then she would tell me that she believes in me and I could always to her.

Then she went back to heaven. Actually, she probably went to check on everybody else. I don't know. But I am sure happy that she made some time for me.

I sat on the side of the bed for a long time staring at the silhouettes of the Palm Trees ... with my hands folded in prayer.

God Morning

Probably intending to write 'Good Morning" she left out one of the letters so it came through as "God Morning" and it immediately sent my mind racing to the past. In front of the inner city church in downtown Louisville was a sign that read:

The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel

God is Love

Except someone had picked up a rock and thrown it so perfectly that the "O" was taken out of "God" leaving just the "G and the D" which made me laugh like crazy. Seriously? GD?

I showed up that morning to play guitar during the service because there was no one to play anything else. There was an organ and a piano but there was no one to play them. The congregation was comprised of five little old ladies who didn't know they needed a man to be a church in good standing with the Baptist. Some prisoners from the Transitional Center were also transported over by a guy with a gun. Completing the gathering of believers was a few Seminary students who believed that God loves the poor most of all (which is what the Bible says but God apparently has a poor way of showing it because the poor never go away. They just stay poor).

I sang "I Saw the Light", the old Hank Williams song. An old lady named Buna Wynn stood up when I finished, spit in the Maxwell House coffee can she held in one hand ... with a Scofield Reference Bible in the other ... and yelled "DO IT AGAIN!"

She also had a butcher knife stuck in the apron she was wearing.

When a woman spitting tobacco carrying a butcher knife requests an encore ... you damn well give her one.

So I did.

Eight years later I left that church and my career as a "Professional Christian" came to an end. The work with poor continued for decades longer. I did Christian things ... religious things ... I just wasn't paid for it anymore.

I always liked the story of Jesus spending forty days in the wilderness. First of all, in Hebrew forty days means ... a long time. It could be four minutes or forty years. Whatever it was it seemed like a long time to Jesus. Then he was tempted and decided wanted to be when he didn't want to be when he grew up. That led him to what he did want to be. Then everything else became ... Godly.

For the past year or so ... I've been in the wilderness. In Hebrew, one of the many things that the word can mean is ... "God's speaking place." So God and I have done a lot of talking. She's a really good listener.

It is a God morning.

I'm learning to trust and not have to be in charge. I'm learning to take my time and not rush ... for minutes or forty days or forty years ... it takes a long time.

I've done a lot in my life and I have more to do ... I just don't know what it is yet ... well ... some of it I do. Every day I seem to know a little more.

When this life of mine started ... I had no idea. Then I ended up in college with the right group of people at the right time. Afterwards it was Seminary and the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel with another group of right people at the right time. Then it was Union Mission for a longer run and for the most part the players remained the same. Then it was Wilderness time again until... there was this other group ... smaller ... but the right ones ... at the right time. And there is this one.

The wind blows outside and leaves dance. Goddess lay on the beloved back deck enjoying colder weather that I do not like. It is the time of Advent ... the coming of God. I can feel it though there is no tree in my house ... decorations or carols singing. Just on this morning ... God.

Listening to the Ocean

I dunno.

It's the letdown after knocking off all of the things that you're supposed to do. Yesterday was the culmination of a lot and there is no question it ended up successfully. Plus there is outstanding stuff but the timelines are not so short. I have time.

So I'm taking it.

Why rush?

I'm one to think things through anyway ... to feel my way.

In spite of a reputation for shooting from the hip, throwing caution to the wind, being spontaneous and defying other people's expectations ... I actually think most things through first. I am thoughtful of other people which made collaboration much easier to achieve. I could care less about who gets the credit so long as the task is completed.

I contemplate. I muse. I sit with my feet propped on the beloved back deck and stare at the stars for so long ... I hear what they are saying. The roar of the ocean brings me messages from the deepest parts. Songs written long ago bring me fresh messages. Things written by people long dead come back to life for me. Mentors who are long gone from my life speak to me daily.

So after the power meeting conference call with people scattered across the world ... I exhaled. I'd done things I hadn't done in a long time ... I raised a lot of money for some good things.

So I celebrated. I went off island to find my best friend and we ... had fun.

Then we collected with our other best friends and ... laughed and drank ... smoked and cussed ... and made plans.

Returning home, I found the beauty of the beloved back deck. The stars shined as they sang like a choir. The ocean roared. A warm December breeze kissed my skin. Love descended upon me.

Now I make my new list of things to do. Afterwards I must make a Christmas list. I have to get a tree because I bought lights for one that I don't have yet. I purchased my first present of the season yesterday and am quite proud of that accomplishment. There are likely Christmas cards in my Post Office Box though I haven't checked it in a week.

My phone buzzes ... Atlanta, Pittsburgh and New York all want something at the same time.

I sigh.

It reminds me of the past thirty years. There was always stuff to do. I let it intrude on things that were far more important. I don't ever want to do that again.

But the phone reminds me that there are things to do. Work to be continued. Water bills to be contested. Renovations to completed. Manuscripts to compile.

Ah ... to hell with it.

The ocean is telling me that my bare feet need sand.

I always listen to the ocean.

Baby's Got New Plans

Sitting this morning in the same place I sat last night, the sun burns through the fog that hangs over Fran's thousand shades of green making it too bright to look at. The roar of the ocean sings to me. The grill that burned brightly sits needing cleaning. The fire that threw us glows is now ashes that also need cleaning. My bare feet dangle and brush Goddess's now restored fur after her sickness lay under the table on the beloved back deck.

The deck was crowded last night. Live music was played as steaks were grilled. We toasted with wine and achieved communion. Wooden chairs were dragged outside from the kitchen as the carnival of friends grew. We so missed the ones who weren't there. An impromptu, thrown together excuse to cook steaks that had thawed had turned into ... magic.

At one point I sat back and appreciated it happening.

"What a gift!" I said to myself.

Then Simon, the dog that lives downstairs, escaped so a search party was formed. Then Samuel turned into "Meals on Wheels" and took plates to those not fortunate enough to have been with us. Those of us who didn't volunteer for the search party sat in the chairs beside the one that I'm sitting in now.

Sitting back, the fog descends to the ground as the sun assumes control of the day. Brightness reigns.

It reminds me of the conversation last night. "Baby's got new plans," goes the song. Everybody last night has new plans ... and if someone wasn't finished making them ... the rest of us were there to help. I gotta get a Christmas tree and paint the bedroom. I was pretty easy ... the others .... not so much.

But we all got each other.

Later ... I looked at picture of a half decorated Christmas tree. It reminded me of last year for a second ... when the tree was half empty.

Now it's half full and the sun is shining down on it.

I've done a lot of stuff, but Baby's got new plans.

After the bedroom is painted ... and I mean that allegorically ... the realism of it is so much better than the color ... then the rest of those new plans ... are coming.

Reinventing Christmas

It is deja vu. Leaving the house in the predawn of the morning, white Christmas lights are draped over Butler Avenue making me look up. While they seem quite ugly in the daytime, they are serene in the dark. Twinkling stars line the entire length of the street. No one is out as I make my way. The window is cracked and I hear the ocean sing. All is calm. All is bright as another silent night comes to an end.

I remember looking at the same thing last year making my way to the Breakfast Club. It was my first Christmas alone and I slept walked a lot. The lights were always captivating and I remember this morning how I felt then. I'd put up a tree but it was decorated with broken hearts and the only thing underneath it was loneliness. I don't remember much else about it ... there's not much worth remembering. As soon as the family dinner was over I was on a plane to St. Martin.

Stopping the car in the middle of Butler Avenue, I feel last Christmas again ... but just for a moment.

It's all different now. There isn't a tree in the house yet but the place is full of life and happiness. I'm starting all over having thrown away everything that was a decoration before. That was then. This is now.

On Friday night, I played guitar in one of the worst Christmas concerts ever performed in the history of the world. But we had fun and I was surrounded by people who love me and who I love. Afterwards we laughed at ourselves and toasted one another' with Christmas Cheer.


Then on Sunday morning at Bar Church we did the exact same songs and nailed every single one of them ... to perfection. An angel sang. Fingers hit all of the right notes. The vibe was holiness and the community of believers celebrated what we have ... which is just each other. Most were praying like hell to find enough money to cover another month's rent and buy Christmas stuff on top of that!

Last night I sat with dear friends. We had eaten and were just sitting there ... trying to figure out Christmas. Everybody will be scattered to and fro upon the face of the earth though we'd much rather just hang out together. If the weather's nice enough on Christmas, we'll go skinny dipping and baptize ourselves in the pools of Babylon.

Then we talked late into the night. Hearts were purposely opened and we walked inside. Reflections were shared. Encouragement given. There were radiant beams from thy holy face. All was calm ... all was bright.

The car stopped in front of the Breakfast Club and I stumbled into the glories that stream from heaven afar ... and had coffee. It was warm and cozy with the dawn of redeeming grace.

I have a lot to do today so I went to leave earlier than I normally do.

"Don't leave," Nancee protested and it was the nicest way to have start a Monday. We hugged and everyone shouted greetings of good tidings and cheer.

Back at the love of our house, I gave Goddess a treat and discovered that there was no hot water. Hmmm. Mondays can trump Christmas?

Now I'm staring at this long list of things to do. Each has an incredibly short deadline

But it was the best of weekends. Shepherds would quake at how good it was.

So if this is reinventing Christmas ... then so far, so good!

What Religion Is

I was driving Dedra's van which is really a closet on wheels ... packed with clothes, music, electric pianos, posted notes stuck over everything and other things that I cannot identify. In addition to most everything she owns, Dedra's van was packed with girls of all ages. Making our way to the Tybee Island nursing home, we ran in because we were late.

As though nursing homes aren't confusing enough, the Tybee one makes it especially challenging because there are two different buildings that sit on opposite sides of the street. I think that this is a "census control" measure. When the place starts getting too full, they make residents shuffle back and forth across the street so tourists looking for the Lighthouse can ... bring the census back into a manageable number.

Inside my dear friend Chuck Courtnay was set up to play live music. His keyboard was at the front of the room that smelled like antiseptic and shit. Crowded with all sorts of people ... black and white, rich and poor, loved and unloved, visited or permanently alone ... able to walk or forever seated in a wheelchair. The staff all wore bright colors. Everybody else wore grey. The sprinkler system sprayed sadness upon everyone.

Cheryl met us inside obviously glad that we'd actually showed up. Dedra, Sarah and three little girls mixed into the crowd with her. Chuck started playing good old fashioned rock-and-roll ... and the most amazing things happened.

The crippled rose out of wheelchairs and moved with smiles.

The blind saw things as the way they used to be.

The mute made noises of glee as they swayed back and forth.

The dead came back to life.

I danced with a little old lady with white hair. "Don't let me fall. Don't let me fall," she repeated throughout the song.

"Don't let go," I told her.

She smiled as I twirled her around.

When the song finished she looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Is there cake?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

I stopped and took it all in. Chuck had worked himself into a sweat but was giving these people everything inside of him. Sarah was beautifully doing the "Electric Slide." Maddie was hugging a person in a wheelchair and confused as to whether it was a man or a woman. Cheryl was dancing with someone. Dedra was dancing with herself inspiring everyone confined around her. Cass was smiling at people and making them melt. Laurel was watching me watch them.

This is what religion really is. Everything in Scripture ... pick your version of Scripture, it doesn't matter which ... the word was becoming flesh. People were dancing as David danced. The Red Sea of Sadness that permanently rained upon them was parted. Some cried. Others smiled. One kept asking for cake.

When it ended we were a pool of sweat in community with Chuck. The girls passed out Teddy Bears to everyone who wanted one.

"Thank you for the Teddy Bear," an old woman asked, "but can I have one of the little girls?"

And that's how it ended.

But before it did ... heaven had come on earth ... for just a little bit.

We were awlful

It's best to be honest about these things. We looked really good ... we sounded awful.

But we "looked marvelous." And in the words of Billy Crystal ... "it is more important to look good than it is to feel good."

We felt like shit.

The karma was bad from the git-go ... which is never a good thing at a Christmas show, though bad karma at Christmas is more the norm than not in most households.

Let's start with the positive. Johnny O looked marvelous ... Christmas sweater, scarf, Santa hat ... he was the epitome of Christmas.

Judy O was equally fabulous ... looking like a Christmas elf and sprinkling delight on the crowd.

Sarah was wonderful as she always is. Maddie looked killer and I'm sure got notes from the crowd asking for her phone number. Gordon was damper in his tie and harmonica The best part of the show was after the show when he and Dedra did a piano/harmonica duet while the rest of us walked away from it all.

The crowd had walked away a lot earlier.

OK, now the bad. While I looked great, it was too damn cold for my fingers to hit the right notes ... so I didn't. Dedra was permanently pissed and was regulated to the back row which just further complicated things. Davy seemed to have the right drum stick in the wrong hand and we were incredibly off beat. Samuel was irritated because we'd missed the sound check so he was trying to do it in the middle of the show. Lea was grunting frustration.

Other than that ... everything was perfect!

When world famous musician Chuck Courtenay looked at me with a smile and used his hand to do the slash my throat sign ... I knew.

But ... it's Christmas.

The three wise guys fled. Mary grabbed hold of the ass. Joseph shook his head wondering what in the hell he'd gotten himself into. The guiding star was covered with clouds.

But you know what?

We retreated to Bernie's and ordered food and drank. We laughed and celebrated. We'd tried. Though we may have failed we gave it our best on a bad night.

If we would have just had a bass player.

You know what else?

Watch us next time.

Wise guys will flock to us as groupies. Mary will kick ass. Joe will dance with delight. The stars will shine.

Just watch.

The Unreachable Star

Today is world AIDS Day. It used to mean something in Savannah ... now its a tiny collection of people who still believe.

Most don't care and that shows.

When we started ... it was something. Hundreds marched the streets of the city with store owners yelling at us ..."Go Home! This is killing my business!" We ended at Club One Jefferson and the famous Lady Chablis performed for everyone to say thanks. We moved to Forsyth Park and hundreds lit candles for hundreds who had died. Bubba Hope showed up one night dragging a six foot high cross and singing "Jesus Loves Me". My friend Robert Bush joined in and soon 300 people were singing it. Bubba drug his cross away right after we finished.

The last one I went to was at the J. C. Lewis Health Center and it was a tiny little collection of patients, parents and people paid to be there ... a pale comparison of what it used to be. What was once significant has become ... insignificant.

When there is no vision the people perish. When there is no leadership, there is no vision. Show me the leadership.

Back then ... we believed.

We believed we can change the world. AIDS can end. Homelessness doesn't have to be. The sick can be made well. The dead come back to life.

And we showed the world that we believed.

But the world didn't ... and beliefs can be co-opted ... politicians, clergy, used car salesmen and drug dealers are all working in collusion to co-opt dreams.

And they've won.

Except ...

There are some ...

who still ... dare to "Dream the Impossible Dream ... to fight the unbeatable foe ... to bear the unbearable sorrow ... to run where the brave dare not go ..."

I know a lot of them.

My favorite version of the old musical Man of LaMacha" is actually an adaptation by Graham Greene (one of the greatest writers of all time) in his book, "Monsignor Quixote". An alcoholic Priest ... still believes ... wrongs can be made right ... broken hearts can mend ... the world will be better ... though your arms are so weary ... and your body is scorned and covered with scars ... he still believes that we can reach the unreachable star.

In a deep conversation at my kitchen table the other night, I was saying how much Savannah has lost in the last several years. A decade ago it was cutting edge, leading the nation in so many things, and today a lot of federal and state policy is built upon what Savannah did then ... and Savannah doesn't take advantage of it now. So money is lost that should be here ... AIDS goes on ... homelessness has more than doubled ... the sick wander the streets ... the dead sholve themselves in our faces.

It makes me wistful.

While the world baptizes itself in mediocrity ... with politicians, clergy, used car salesmen and drug dealers shoving the heads so many under its waters ... willing to be submerged in ... accepted by the many because who really gives a shit about the few?

Though the few grow larger every day.

We gaze stars.

That furthermost one ... yeah ... that's the one.

Hey! Mediocrity! Members of the Elect! Clergy! Used Care Salesmen! Drug dealings!

Watch us ... touch this.

Then watch my finger.

Praying in the Rain

Driving home in the rain across the causeway that connects Wilmington Island to Tybee Island I hit every button on the radio because no one's wanting to play anything I want to hear.

I'd had dinner with a bunny with angel wings which is not something most can claim to have done. My invitation to dinner had been received with a gleeful yell, "HE'S COMING!" as she slammed the phone down. Once there I had secret plans to make so we lingered in the car while the others rushed inside the restaurant.

Afterwards there were hugs, questions and prayers that scary dreams stay from from everyone. There's enough scary stuff in life.

Hitting Tybee I saw that the Christmas decorations draped across the road though have yet to be lit. That's another excuse for a party. Earlier I saw what Tybee proposes as a Christmas Tree. It is at the end of Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and sits between 15th and 17th Streets but the Politicians decided a new name was better). Slightly off-center in the circle that is confusing for drivers, sits ... a bush. It's not really a tree. It's a bush ... decorated with beach balls. The Politicians idea of celebrating Christmas on the island is ... a bush with balls slapping against it in the wind.

The rain falls as I remember.

Then at the intersection of Jones and Butler, the light turns red and I coast to a stop.

And I see him.

He is carrying a laundry basket in the rain. It is stuffed full of neatly folded clothes ... so he cannot rush. He walks with a purpose so that the pile doesn't tip over ... in the rain ... as he makes his way from the laundry mat where he used every quarter he has ... to clean himself up for another go at life.

The light turns green but I sit there ... watching him. He shakes his head as if he's saying to himself ... or to God ... "Thanks. This is just great."

The light turns red again as he disappears into the darkness and rain. My eyes are full of ocean and salt water stings as I wipe them.

I know that laundry mat. I've spent every quarter that I had there. Sitting listening to the hum of the spin cycle or endlessly watching the dryer tumble around and around and around. Alone and in desperate need of clean clothes ... so that I could clean myself up from the messes I'd made ... and give life another go.

The light turns green again.

Instead of turning towards home, I drive around the Big Curve and take a left ... and stop at the ocean. The rain falls. The temperature has fallen 17 degrees since I left the bunny with the angel wings. White capped waves slam onto the shore. He is still walking in the rain with a laundry basket piled high with hopes for tomorrow getting wetter and wetter. Maybe at the bottom of the pile there will be something.

Opening the door, I get outside and the rain stings my face. Christmas music is playing on the radio. "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me."

"Hey God," I say out loud.

Angry waves slam the shore. Rain falls harder. The wind grows colder.

"That's just not right."

Nothing changes.

"Yeah, I got it," I say climbing back into the car and driving home.

Once there, I call everyone I know who's trying to clean things up in their lives ... so I can tell them that I love them.

Christmas Blessings (Ditto)

My uncle Tommy McDermmott posted a picture on Face Book that made laugh out lout. It is two houses sitting side by side. The first is elaborately decorated for Christmas with icicle lights hanging from the roof, every tree in the yard decorated in color lights, plastic Santa Claus and reindeer are prominently displayed and the entire yard literally glows in the spirit of the season.

Next door is the other house. It has one string of white lights but is otherwise dark. The lights spell, "Ditto."

I wonder if the neighbors were once competitors over who loved Christmas the most and one gave up? Or perhaps, one grew appalled at the never ending chase to capture holiness in plastic manager scenes and lights that remind us the reason for the season. Maybe one put up "Ditto" challenging his neighbor to come up with something good to mimic.

Last Christmas I put up a tree because my Mother shamed me into it. When I plugged it in only half the lights worked. It was my first Christmas alone so it seemed wickedly funny. I decorated only half the tree. Then my Mother got onto me again so I decorated the other half ... then I left it here and went to St. Martin.

Before I returned, Mom and my daughter Kristen had taken it all down and thrown it away. They did this because I wanted to have a tree burning when I got back. Inviting my dearest of friends over, we would carry the tree into the back yard, toast the things that used to be and set it on fire.

I thought it was a great idea!

This Christmas "it's just like starting over" sings the major Prophet John Lennon. "Happy Xmas (War is over if you want it)" he famously sings every holiday season on the radio.

The truth of the matter is the war is indeed over. She took the offense. I retreated. She conquered the other side of the country. I held on to a small clump of sand.

When war is over, it is quiet. You wildly celebrate victory but then the parties over. Most just marvel at survival. Then there are all of those to do after the war ... pick up the pieces ... restore the scar stained land or the mutilated soul ... rebuild the bombed out home or putt the heart back together.

This is what happened last year. I marveled at my survival. I did all of these other things. All of the verbs in my life had re- in front of them. Re-building. Re-storing. Re-everything. It was ... "just like starting over."

At fifty-five years of age ... starting over is the last thing I ever planned for. Though, it does seem that everyone around me is doing so. We are bound together by starting over. Some are older, others younger, but we are all share the starting over. The war is over ... or almost over in a couple of cases ... and Christmas time is coming.

I count my blessings today. I have many. New ones are dropping into my life. What's funny about surviving is that you remember the horrors and it makes you ... timid. My Dad lied about his age to get into the Marines so that he could march into Korea. Korea kicked his ass. He was wounded. He was Prisoner of War. He escaped when everyone else in his platoon was killed. By the time he 18, he was back home recovering ... marrying my Mom and having me.

This year I am determined. I've yet to get a tree, but have talked for weeks about decorating it with underwear ... because last year when I returned home a pair was hanging on my door. Then Dani Sadowski burst my bubble. She's already had a Christmas tree decorated in underwear. While I am very proud to have a part in Dani's upbringing, it kills me when she beats me to something.

So ... now I'm re-thinking.

I'm not going to St. Martin (sorry guys, I don't know who will cook breakfast on Boxing Day). I've got to get a new tree ... and everything that goes on one. It is the first Christmas and there are new traditions to discover ... a different family to live it with ... one that's being re-built from the other things that used to be.

It will be decorated with blessings. In spite of all of the things that I've lost, I seem to have just enough blessings to really enjoy this Christmas.

"Ditto" for you I hope.

I'm So Tired

"I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink ..." sings the Major Prophet John Lennon and the song is ringing in my head.

I went to bed early but it ended up being restless when all was said and done. I'm one of those people who falls asleep hard and quick ... then a bit later my eyes pop open and I stare at the ceiling feeling what's beside ... even if there's nothing beside me.

Over the past couple of years I've spent more time alone than I ever have in my life. Hours upon hours of ... just me. My dog Goddess went through it too so I had her. This wall of trees in the back yard reminded me of a long dead friend and I talked to her more than I talked to anyone else.

Over time, I got used to it.

It was funny because I've lived this very public life. I was always in demand, in the news, selling books, giving speeches, traveling here and there, dealing with groupies, politicians and other devils incarnate ... being everything to everybody.

It caught up with me.

So the life I was living exploded and I was left with the dog and the house. It's better than a lot of people I've known. Then this tiny group appeared ... I can count them on my hands. They brought love back to me. And there is this one ... well, I love her so.

The last few weeks, and especially the last few days, have been this wonderful, glorious celebration of life now. It was peaceful, serene, comforting and filled with joy.

Without any warning ... it exploded. Suddenly everybody wanted everything again. I was to be here, do that, give of myself completely to one after another ... all seemingly at the same time. I laughed at myself because I wanted it to be Thanksgiving again. I don't remember the last time that I thought that.

The thing about losing so many things is you never ... ever ... forget what it feels like to lose. It makes you tired ... weary ... fatigue.You can lose houses, things, kids or love. You can lose yourself.

You can be surrounded with family, friends, everything you've every wanted to possess ... and then you're reminded of what it was like to lose it all ... and you shut down ... hard as you may try to fight it ... and you naturally lapse back into ... exhaustion.

I was tired when I woke up this morning ... I had things to do. People I was supposed to see. Places I was to be. It reminded me of who I used to be.

I didn't like it at all.

I did not want to get out of bed. Lying next to me was love. Love was tired too. But I made myself ... and I went to the place ... I saw the people ...and I did what I was supposed to do.

But I wasn't there.

I was back home in my sanctuary.

Longing for the one.

Pining ... I love that word. It is so southern. I pine for for you. Mother Maybelle Carter knocks John Lennon out of my head. Will the Circle be unbroken?

Hell no!

The pony tail holder is warped around my finger. I stare at it as I listen to the waves crash the shore. No longer tired, I am determined. In clarity, I know what I need ...

And I go back to bed.

Hurricane Season

The waves are bringing the tide in this morning and Goddess and I listen to the sea sing its song. Fran's thousand shades of green have ceased her dance to listen too. The blooms of the Hibiscus plants explode around me on the Beloved Back deck. Brown leaves litter the wooden planks making it look like the fall but it's already seventy degrees and the sun has yet to craw out from under the blanket of clouds. The Palm Tree with the oyster shell smiling face, coconut bra and grass skirt looks happy and awake.

My bare feet dangle from the table underneath the colorful umbrella and Pandora throws "James Taylor" at me ... he's telling me about "Copperline" but the waves keep him from coming to close. Who wants to be in North Carolina when you can have this?

Now this is the way winter should be!

I know it won't last. Those bastards who work for the weather stations are already throwing their gloom and doom my way. Apparently next week it's going to get cold ... and they seem so damn happy about it.

Have you ever noticed that the Weather men and women of this world are the only ones who are gleefully happy when a Hurricane is coming? I mean they have Hurricane tracking maps printed to give to loyal viewers so they can plot the coordinates all the way from the Lesser Antilles to your house. I'm talking about you Pat Prokop.

Once I was running down the beach when an alleged Hurricane was coming our way. The Weather Channel had trucks set up. John Cantore was here so it must have been serious. He had a room at the Old Desoto beach club and was doing a live broadcast from the beach ... meaning he stood in the sand with a raincoat on while his cameraman filmed him with one hand and squirted him with a garden hose with the other.

I swear!

Though that is not my favorite Weather Channel story. The first time they arrived on Tybee Island to do a live broadcast they stood near the Pier. For those who don't know, the Pier is very close to Doc's Bar which has a television. The moment the live remote was seen by the patrons of Doc's, they knew what to do. Everybody left their Bar Stools, except Mrs. Sylvia, and went to the beach. When John Cantore did his next live remote, they all took their clothes off and went streaking behind him on live television.

I love this island!

The other thing about Doc's Bar is they have Hurricane Parties. While everybody else evacuates inland, "any excuse for a party!" is a lifestyle commitment. So a few dozen arrive at Doc's, nail themselves inside to keep the Hurricane and the Police Department out and ... a good time is had by all.

Still, I'll take Hurricanes over the other weather that people have to deal with. Tornadoes, snow storms, mudslides, Tsunamis, flash-floods and severe storm warnings show up so fast that the Weather People cannot predict them. So everybody's caught off guard and bad things happen.

Come to think of it, this is probably why the Weather People love Hurricanes so much. Hurricanes are slow moving and you have days to plan ... even if you live on an small island in the Caribbean.

A couple of years ago one hit my beloved St. Martin. My dear friend Verna went nuts. My dear friend Carlos told her to calm down. My other Chelsea ... the black one ... went to bed. The storm came and the winds were fierce. Verna was up all night crying and praying to God and stuff.

When Carlos woke, Verna was a pool of sweat and tears. Carlos shook his head and put his arm around her.

"Cum'here," he slurred in his French West Indies voice as he opened the front door.

"You see any fish in the yard?"

Verna shook her head.

"Exactly," Carlos said, slamming the door. "Let's go back to bed."

So they did.

These things make me smile this morning. The sun is now kicking behind the clouds. The waves are singing louder. Fran's thousand shades have draped themselves over my shoulder. Goddess is biting Hibiscus blooms. The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is doing a hula dance.

My bare feet hit the planks of the beloved back deck littered with brown leaves.

I look southeast and say out loud to my dear friend Carlos. "Thanks Buddy! See you soon I hope. Give my love to Verna and Chelsea."

Then ... like him ... I go back to bed.

It's Hurricane Season.