55 Going on 17

I haven't hung out in many Tattoo Parlors in my life but we strolled into one last night. Tybrissa Street (formerly 16th Street and located between 15th and 17th Streets but inexplicably named Tybrissa) was packed with tourists and locals having a good time on a pleasant summer evening. After dinner and listening to the Sam Adams Band, who play damn good live music, we were making our way back home when we passed it. "You going to do it?" Sarah asked. Pausing, I looked inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dedra looking at me. "Let's do," I said grabbing Sarah's hand and we went inside. The first thing we saw was a guy having his tongue pierced. I thought Dedra was going to pass out. My son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have tongue rings so I'm used to the way they roll their mouth bling around when they're thinking. It was interesting to see a needle five miles long go through the guy's tongue, but ... he likes it I'm OK with it too. I'm open that way. My daughter Chelsea has a nose ring but she doesn't wear it much anymore. It's probably because she's being held captive on the campus of the Georgia Institute of Technology by her fiancee Sam. But she used to wear it when she was at the much cooler University of Georgia. Sarah has three ear rings in one ear and one in the other. She used to have a belly button ring but I've yet to see her wear any bling in it and believe you me ... I like her belly button and spend a lot of time around it. Regardless, I don't know why I never got my ear pierced. I always intended to. Once Johnny O bought us fake ear rings ... the clip on kind and we wore them around the island. Whitley was the only one who thought we'd actually done it. "With all of the rules you've broken," Sarah said, "I can't believe you haven't done this yet. What do you think your Mother will say?" "Oh she'll be mad," I quickly replied without hesitation. "I know my Mom." Then I thought of my friend Trolly Joe who died a couple of years ago. Before he did, he got his ear pierced AND ... he started having Pedicures (which is one of life's great pleasures. I like walking in with a cooler full of beer, make them change the television to ESPN and have a woman play with my feet. It's great! And if any of you macho men haven't done this yet ... well Trolly Joe and I sure celebrate this ... I'm talking to you Mark Wood and Mitch Wesley!). So I sat in the chair, had some alcohol splashed on my ear lobe and felt a pin prick. "You're done," Aaron said. Aaron had one piercing and two Tattoos. He didn't have an ass so I'm uncertain how his jeans didn't fall down. I assume he hocked it to pay for either the piercing or the Tattoos. So that was it. At fifty-five years of age, I finally got around to doing something that I meant to doing in High School. It's never too late to do something that you've always wanted to do. Besides ... Sarah thinks it's hot. O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) has already written wanting to plan his piercing upon (a) his retirement or (b) his birthday. Either way it's a party! Plus I like it. Fifty-five going on seventeen.

Music Rains

Music rains down on this island. Most every night you can find it somewhere. Sunday night we went to North Beach Grill to hear The Velvet Caravan then moved on to Doc's Bar to hear Jefferson Owens. It was grand, vastly different, and wonderfully celebratory (except for the house wine at Doc's, which sucks. So I walked across the street to Bernie's to get some and brought it back to Doc's). We learned that night, there is no such thing as Ordinary People ... and C. S. Lewis says so. Tuesday night we returned to Doc's Bar for the Acoustic Jam, which is held in the back room away from the bar. I ended up with a guitar in my lap, Dedra breezed in and she and Sarah sang. Chip and I played. Dave banged the bongos. We didn't have a bass player but we did have fun. Wednesday night we went to The Rock House to hear Samuel Adams and Davy play damn good live music. Sitting there, a party broke out as a bunch of friends joined us. Last night, Sarah and I rode our bicycles to Social's to listen to Bottles and Cans, a very excellent blues band. We nibbled on food and had a nice visit with Roy Swindel who is the lead musician at Doc's Bar. It's funny that all of the players on the island are friends who support one another. Roy often shows up to listen to Samuel Adams and Samuel often gives electric cords to Roy when his break. I must point out that Roy is the only musician on the island with his own bobble-head doll. It's pretty cool actually and can be purchased to sit on your mantle back home. Now it's the weekend and music is everywhere. Fannies-on-the-Beach or Marlin Monroe's will have Liquid Ginger or Savannah Steve. Roy will be playing. Samuel will too. I'm think American Honey Band is at the Rock House tonight. Sunday at Bar Church the service is built around music. It's mostly "Happy Jack" stuff, but it's fun. Then it starts all over again next week. "I miss the birds singing in the morning," I said to Sarah yesterday. "Well lets open the windows again," she replied. So we did. It had been raining a lot so they had been shut. This morning, I lay in her arms, listening to the birds sing me awake. Palm Trees danced in the ocean breeze. The sun was lazy, slowly dragging the blanket of clouds off his shinny face. Stumbling downstairs for the morning baptism in the outdoor shower, our neighbor Scott is listening to Rolling Stones. "Wild Horses" couldn't drag him away. Me either. I love this place.

The Road (so far)

Standing in Lafayette Square across from the White House, I'm surrounded by white tents with small signs in front of each. Each bears the name of a homeless person who died on the streets. Each tent is unoccupied. A handful of people are in President's Park though this is Mitch Snyder's show. He's got long black hair, a droopy mustache, wears a green Army shirt and white jeans. He looks tired staring at the White House in defiance of President Reagan. This protest has been going on for months. We'd met in Atlanta though mutual friends, Jim and Anita Beaty, back in the days when we all got along. He'd been wearing the same thing that day while I was in a suit. Our approaches to helping the homeless were very different. I remember Jim also showing up wearing a green Army jacket and Anita showed up looking like herself ... angry. In Washington D.C. for meetings, I'd joined Mitch in Lafayette Square and it was my first Presidential Protest. As far as rallies go, it was pretty sedate. Empty tents don't make a lot of noise. "Thanks for coming," Mitch said with his hands stuffed in his pockets on a cold night. "Yeah sure," I replied ... freezing. "How long you going to do this?" He looked at me with his tired eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Long as it takes," he signed. In the end, before he killed himself, Mitch won. President Regan caved into the public pressure of empty tents with dead people's names on them. A piece of prime Capitol real estate was given to Mitch along with hundreds of thousands of dollars so homeless people would have a place to go. The President was seen as a compassionate man though he believed people living on sidewalks on freezing nights should just get a job and move. He had no understanding of self-medicated mental illness. After the victory, Mitch hung himself in the shelter that he'd opened. It is still there. Last time that I was in Washington D.C., I walked by it. It's a filthy dump of a place surrounded by filthy people. I'd been inside many times and had no inclination to return so I kept walking. Stopping in Lafayette Square, I stared at the White House. The tents were long gone and the park was immaculate. There were two protesters demonstrating though for the life of me I can't recall what made them outraged. This time it was my eyes that were tired and sad. My shoulders drooped like Mitch's had all of those years ago. I cried with my hands stuffed in my pockets on a cold winter's night. After thirty years, I couldn't do anymore. I self-destructed like Mitch did but ... I kept my life. Winston, the little gay dog, plays under my feet, as I remember these things. Goddess is intensely watching him on the Beloved Back Deck. Sarah is sleeping and I'm determined they do not bother her. The sun shines through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt. Hibiscus blooms surround me. I hear waves breaking in the distance. The long and winding road ... In the beauty of a summer morning, wearing next to nothing, I remember the wild and windy nights. Mitch is long dead. President Reagan is too. Others have taken their places. The problems remain the same. Someone is standing in Lafayette Square staring at the White House and somebody else is protesting the President. And I'm still here. I'm not sure how ... or why ... but I am. I am deeply in love. I adore all of my kids. I'm blessed with friends who celebrate me. I live in Paradise. But ... there is something else left inside of me to do. I reflect on all of the places that I've been ... which are many. My gaze is ahead though ... wondering what's around the bend.

My Poor Wife

Sarah is a northern girl. There are things that she simply does not understand. She is stunningly beautiful, a terrific conversationalist, is well read, has done fascinating things and often draws a crowd. Last night at dinner, I tried to explain the wonderful things about being born and bred in the South. She stared at me with a blank expression on her face. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. A few things need to be said before I get started. She gloated last night when the highest paid team of thugs to play baseball, the Yankees, beat the Braves which proves that Satan does indeed exist. She has a dark side. Second, she is under some illusion that professional football is anywhere near same level of accomplishment, entertainment or devotion as college football. She did intern with the Buffalo Bills and dated several of the players. Let's be honest ... the mothers of the players of the Buffalo Bills don't even bother to watch them play. Now a confession ... "I don't hate Yankees," Lewis Grizzard once said. "I have a friend who hates them. His hobby is reading the obituary section of the New York Times." Having said all of that ... I adore my wife but ... She does not understand that college football is a religion that is far more significant than any church service which is why it has it's own day ... Saturday ... dedicated to it (Thursday nights too thanks to ESPN!). She does not comprehend why I have almost one hundred VHR tapes of Larry Munson's Greatest Calls that I refuse to part with because ... it's freaking Larry Munson. Munson talked God how to speak! Then there are the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia, God's chosen team. Sure God's making them wander around in the wilderness for a while but it's just a matter of time before they reclaim their appointed position on the heavenly throne. Sarah doesn't know that Philistines attend the University of Florida, heathens go to Tennessee, and Sodomites occupy South Carolina. I don't know why she doesn't know these things but ... she doesn't. She has no appreciation for Bar-B-Que. This left me speechless. She makes no distinction between Bar-B-Q beef and Pork ... knows that pigs are smarter than dogs ... that charcoal is the only thing you use on a grill or that Johnny Harris Bar-B-Que sauce is the nectar of the Gods. She has never been graced with a Bar-B-Que sandwich from the Georgia Pig in Brunswick or supper at Sprayberry's in Cowetta County. Seafood is not on her diet. This is completely foreign to me. How does one survive without fried shrimp, oysters, fish, hushpuppies, french fries and Cole Slaw? She has no idea that Mahi-Mahi is just a name that we made up to sell Dolphin fish to northerners because they though they were eating Flipper. I couldn't eat by the time I tried to explain all of these things. I'll give her this though ... she drinks sweet tea. As anyone who listens to good music knows ... on the eighth day, God made sweet tea. And she is stunningly beautiful. So ... I grabbed her hand and we walked outside into a Tybee night where the salt from the water stuck to our skin, the music from Doc's Bar called us in, and the moon danced above the clouds.

Off Island

"You have to get up!" the Mother screamed from the bottom of the staircase. Her son covered his head with his pillow and shifted his body to ignore her bellows. "Get up now!" she screamed again. "You're going to be late for Church." Grabbing a second pillow, he stuffed it against his ear and tightened the covers around his body. "Do not make me come up there!" she screeched. Exasperated, he sat up and yelled, "Give me one good reason why I have to get up!" "You're the Priest," was her answer. "Shit," he muttered as his head returned to the pillow. This was a favorite story of my long departed friend Father Vernon Robertson. He was an impish man, bordering on being a Hobbit, with short grey hair and a Devil's smile. Ordained by Pope Paul VI, Vernon loved Mother Church with everything within him. Me? Not so much. Though I did love Vernon with everything in me. I have to go Off Island today which is rarely a pleasant experience. Vernon's story popped into my head while I was having coffee at the Breakfast Club so I suppose he's up there somewhere making fun of the fact that I have meetings in Savannah. Tybeities is the dreaded fear of crossing the Lazaretto Bridge. I have a particularly bad case. "My life's goal is to figure out a way to finance this lifestyle," I once explained to someone who asked what I do for a living. This lifestyle is being a Beach Bum. "I love living on an island and vacationing on another island," I describe myself on Face Book. The other island is St. Martin. But today there are obligations to meet. Meetings that may lead to money, a visit with the Tax Man, and we may as well stop at Wall Mart while we're off island because God knows The Three Wise Men stopped there on their way to buy something for the Baby Jesus. It sucks though. I suppose I should count my blessings. I have to leave the island so that I can come back on it. My Dad once said, "When you hit the Tybee road and cross the Bull River Bridge, it's like this giant door slams shut on the rest of the world. When you get to Tybee you're in a completely different universe." Dad taught me a lot about living right and he was certainly right about this clump of sand. I can hear he and Vernon arguing in heaven now. They'd be laughing like they always did whenever they were together ... at my expense. Anyway ... I gearing up and taking preventive medicine for the trip across the bridge ... a screwdriver. Almost time to go ... dammit.

The Velvet Caravan

It used to be 60 Minutes that defined Sundays for me. The culmination of the weekend was watching the show. When I was a "Professional Christian" inexplicably in charge of a Baptist Church I set time records for the evening service ending so that I would be home in time for Andy Rooney. I think several of the little old ladies who were the core of the congregation got whip-lash because as soon as they arrived for church ... it was over. Homeless guys just shrugged their shoulders and split another bottle of communal wine. After the Baptists left me ... or I left the Baptists, I'd spend Sundays on the beach looking at girls in Bikinis. It was great! Towards the end of the day, I'd lumber home, throw something on the grill, uncork a bottle, and settle in with 60 Minutes. I'm not certain what the draw was. Initially perhaps it was intellectual curiosity. In those days I walked around reading four books at once while chancing Jeremy and Kristen's diapers. Later, Chelsea and I would log hours on the beach together while I read novels about Travis McGee and I suppose 60 Minutes had become an addiction. Besides, I've always thought Lesley Stall was hot. Those days are over. It was a cloudy, rainy day at the beach yesterday so Sarah and I sat on the porch that we conducted a hostile takeover of from Rocky. The Braves game was on the television though I was napping. Sarah was speed reading a Grisham novel (a page a minute!). The rain fell harder. "There is music with no words tonight that I want to hear," she said though whatever fog I was in. "Then there is music with words that we can go to for you." Sarah often speaks in tongues. I had no idea what she was talking about. But at six o'clock we wandered onto the decks of North Beach Grill where I was immediately accosted by their hoodlum waiter Sean, the lovely bartender Amanda and the other not-so-lovely bartender Travis. Sarah stood in horror while these people attacked me. After I fought them off, we found a table. Dedra ... known on the island as D-Luv ... as opposed to Jeremy who is know as J-Luv ... joined us ... walking like an Egyptian. We ordered crab cakes, meat loaf, red beans and rice as the band occupied the deck next to us. Our friend Al joined us. Laughter erupted. The band consisted of a violin, classic guitar, upright base and an electric piano ... The Velvet Caravan. They were freakin' great! A little blond haired girl with blazing blue eyes danced in front of them. Grayson, who apparently forget to pay his Al Qaeda dues, stood clean shaving and smiling. The congregation of listeners all seemed happy and content. "You ever been been to Splash Mountain?" Sean the hoodlum waiter asked in my ear. "This is the band." We cracked up. Then it was off to Doc's Bar for "Singer/Songwriter" night. Commandeering stools at the bar, Jefferson Owens told us that there is no such thing as "Ordinary People" and that C. S. Lewis told him so. It was wonderful news. While all of this was happening, 60 Minutes was on television. I have no idea what they talked about. But I do wonder ... is Leslie Stall still hot? Ah, it doesn't matter. Sarah and I came home together. There are kids. Sarah is hot and got on the velvet caravan.

Today's Party

Parties break out on Tybee Island like spontaneous combustion. You can be doing anything ... paying bills, praying, cutting the grass, going to a funeral ... and a party will break out. I am not certain why this is, but it is. The Euchee Indians discovered Tybee Island. They were a sun worshiping people who would build mounds to get closer to the sun until they discovered this clump of sand. They stood in amazement at the sand dunes already there. Who needed to build mounds? So they had a party to celebrate this fact. The Spirit continues. Later, Robert E. Lee helped build Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island which is next to Tybee. It's a nice place. It's famous for two things: (1) They played baseball in the middle of the Fort using a log for a bat; and (2) They invented Military Punch, which is basically mixing every kind of alcohol ever invented into one drink! Now this is how military service should be performed! When the Civil War broke out, the Union forces set up on Tybee and proceeded to bomb Fort Pulaski. The soldiers of the Fort were already bombed from the Military Punch. A couple of hours later, they grabbed the log they'd been using as a baseball bat, stuck a white flag on it and surrendered. "Thanks God that's over," General Olmstead reportedly said. "Let's have a party to celebrate that nobody was hurt in the battle." So it should come as no surprise that at 4:30 yesterday afternoon, Cruise Director Cheryl Sadowski, though recovering from surgery, decided we needed a party. And so it came to pass. Then Sean and Wen wanted another party. And so it came to pass. When Sarah and I got home ... we had another one. And so it came to pass. Then we passed out. This is a crazy island. Salt, Sand, water, sun ... mixed with testosterone, hormones, bikinis and alcohol are key ingredients to a successful party. "There is a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning," explained the major prophet Jimmy Buffett. Sarah and I were still partying when we crossed that line. This morning I'm throwing up prayers for forgiveness and watching where they land. Sarah's still asleep. Everybody else ... is planning today's party.

My Life in Rehab

The whole world is glued to cable TV It looks so real on the big LCD Murder and violence are rated PG, too bad for children they are what they see The words from Joe Walsh's new album leap out at me. It's true! For more than thirty years I danced in the world of murder and violence. I saw children of homeless women grow up to be homeless themselves. I had a friend who was beaten to death over a bottle of wine. I was submerged in the reality that drugs really are far more prevalent than anyone wishes to recognize. It far outstrips the income generated by tourism in Savannah where I live. Once I showed up to work sick at Union Mission. Apparently I looked and sounded far worse than I thought. Homeless guys love me because I love them. They rushed up all concerned. "Hey Rev," Ken exclaimed through the long red hair that covered his eyes, "tell us your symptoms. We got a drug for whatever's ailing you." Of course, Union Mission had a Zero Tolerance policy. Then I'd go into the world of those who understand the world from what they see on television, at the movies, from the Pulpit or from the Wall Street Journal. Many lived in Gated Communities. Most had gates around their hearts and locks on their minds. They are nice people. They care. They want to help. So they send money to causes they see on television without ever leaving home. They try to understand why the world is the way it is at the Movies. Churches organize annual field trips to help the poor ... rich Churches go to exotic places in other countries while poorer churches travel to another state. Those reading the Wall Street Journal mostly ... read the Wall Street Journal. Of course there are exceptions to each of these but for the most part, it's all still true. Today I still dabble in both worlds. Mostly though, I am in recovery from them. A thirty year addiction to trying to bring both worlds together in the belief that "for the Bible told me so" ended up costing a lot. "Red and yellow, back and white, they are precious in his sight." Maybe in His. Not in ours. It's hard to be not be cynical. I still hold onto heavily beliefs but have been crucified by earthy realities. So I'm staying in rehab a while longer. I still have the drunken dream that the Kingdom can come on earth as it is in heaven. For now, I need gentle Palm Trees ... the sea and the sky ... I'll know where I stand. Sounds just the angels up in heaven when they sing Welcome Home, Welcome Home Instead of some sad Salvation Army Sister Singer 'Nearer my God to Thee' (James Taylor)

Island Transitions

I never thought of life as being breezy I never thought of time as time to play I never thought that I could take it easy But all those feelings changed for me today So says Norman Paperman in Jimmy Buffett's excellent musical adaptation of Herman Wouk's "Don't Stop the Carnival." It's the story of a New York newspaper critic of Broadway plays has a mild heart attack and decides life is too short. Packs it all in, he heads to the islands to run a hotel. It's an adventure of culture shock, Palm Trees, affairs, corruption, beauty and finally coming to terms with the fact that he is who he really is. In the end he goes back to who he was ... though it's the adventure that defined who he really is. That remains the question doesn't it? Is this who I really am? The core of my soul is being a banker? My life's purpose is to get company's to buy adds for the newspaper? I really do love spending each day trying to make a sell? It's all about the money and in a few years I'll almost have enough? If it wasn't for the children I'd travel the world but I can't because "good mothers" don't do things like that? The Preacher told me that God told him that life is supposed to be lived one way only? I can't afford to be me? If I don"t take care of her, she'll die? For thirty years I was a pretty relentless person. Life was a series of never ending accomplishments, each besting the last. Time was deadlines and pressures with occasional lapses into moments of peace or love. Easy would come later because there was too much to do. Everybody needed me to do define myself in these ways or ... the entire world would go to hell, clocks would stop, children would starve, and God would personally hand me a first class ticket to hell. It's all bullshit. We're made to be who we really are. Maybe for those thirty years that was who I was really made to be, but it's not now. There isn't much I'd change about the way its all working out. But I've already did that. I don't want to do it again. I'll do something else. For the past while we were in St. Martin which is an island I love. It's freedom, Trade Winds, Palm Trees, aqua-blue water, good friends and contentment. Yesterday we got home and it was unplanned meetings, deadlines, expectations, failed deliveries, people talking too loud and collapsing into bed too exhausted to sleep. I was noticing a change in myself through yesterday. I no longer have to be in charge. I don't have to fix it. I can sit back and let others do the things they need to do for themselves because ... God knows the world would end if they didn't get what they want. I can slide into the calmness of a Bay protected by a reef. God really can be in charge if She wants to because ... I'm not going to fight about that anymore. This morning there are remnants of a Tropical Storm off of Tybee Island, which is home. Clouds thickly roll over the sun trying to prevent it from sending light, but there is light ... enough to see anyway. I water the plants and flip the laundry. Strolling to the Beloved Back Deck, I brush Goddess' hair. There are things to do and places to be in a little bit. It's all good. In the past twenty-four hours, I've transitioned islands. In the past few years, I've transitioned life. I'm keenly aware of so many people ... a lot I love deeply ... who are navigating their own transitions. Or panning the beginning of one. Or cussing the fact that they're too trapped to change anything. It's all alright. Do the best you can. Tomorrow ... try to do a little bit better. That's pretty much what Jesus had to say about it all. But in the end ... try to be as close to the person that you were really meant to be. Otherwise, worlds go to hell ... clocks stop ... children starve ... and tickets to hell are abundant.

Thanks Joe

Joe Bridges has died. He was an important character in my life and my career would never have achieved the things it did without him. I owe him a lot. A chain smoking, coffee drinking alcoholic, he could build or fix anything. As loyal a friend as I have ever had, we would spend hours sitting lone talking about how to get things done.  A resident of Potter's Place, a twelve bed rooming house for people in recovery, he was one of the first people I met when I returned to Savannah. Potter's was the one program Union Mission had then. Along with Roger Pack, Robert Watkins, Joe rounded out the core support system that made the place so successful.  At a book signing, I looked up and found Joe standing with a copy for me to sign. "Lookie here," he said followed by a loud sniff of his nose, "I keep up." and even though it had been a couple of years since he had moved from Potters, he proceeded to recount everything I'd done of that time. From 1987 through 1990' we'd opened four new housing programs for the city's homeless. Grace House, the Magdalene Project, Phoenix Place And The Hacienda.   Joe showed up at my office when the last one opened. "Lookie here," he explained followed with the loud nose sniff, "You need a maintenance man." "I can't afford one," I told him. "You can with all of the money I'm going to save you," he shot back. And he did. For the next decade Joe took care of everything. His house also became an overflow shelter for alcoholics when the shelters were full. He was the banker for addicts who needed to quit shaking, the counselor for them when they did, and their sponsor in AA meetings. He allowed the children of active addicts to move into his house and served as their father until they could be reunited.  He oversaw the expansion of Phoenix Place, the building of the Daniel-Flag Villas, and the construction of the J.C. Lewis Health Center.  Then he got into high speed Go Kart racing. I was in Florida when I heard that Joe had crashed into a wall at 60 mile per hour. I rushed back to Savannah to check on him and it was not good. Eventually he lost his leg. For a while I didn't think it would matter. One morning I looked up from my stool at "The Breakfast Club" to see him climbing off his motorcycle and hobbling in to have coffee with me. But then he slowly started losing his health. I visited him and did my best to talk him into coming back to work. We'd find a way to make it work. But his mind moved on to other things. He moved into a tiny trailer outside of Midway and our conversations were reduced to occasional phone calls. He didn't like that we'd sold Potters Place or was building Dutchtown on the south side. He thought that I spent too much time in other cities expanding the work. The last time I saw him he came to me. Hobbling in my office, he viewed it with disdain. I was no longer located in Grace house but in a larger more expansive and plush setting. "Are you a freaking banker nowadays." We talked about the old days and caught each other up on our kids. He asked me if I ever saw Roger or Robert. He hobbled out to a van that he drove and said with a sniff, "It sure as hell ain't what it used to be." And it sure as hell ain't.  Life is a gift that each of us share but none of us asked for. If we're lucky we get to share it with others. I was fortunate to have had so much of Joe in mine. So were thousands of others. It is amazing to see the difference that someone can make when they want to. Joe Bridges did as much for hurting, hungry and lost people as anybody I've ever met. He did it from the "Been there and done that" perspective. He believed that smaller is more beautiful than big. He taught me a lot about how to  appreciate everything that I've got. He reminded me that if he could survive hell then I could too. So Joe, Lookie here ... Sniff ... I love you man.

Celebrating the Moments

The full moon was so bright that the Palm Trees couldn't sleep as they towered over us. Not that they would want to as we sat on a patio listening to Noah and Levi play the blues with our friend Marty wailing on the mouth harp. The music was really good and the beauty of the night was spectacular. Giant green Geckos darted on the ground in perfect rhythm with sand crabs. The waves breaking on the reef hummed quietly in the background. Flags on top of sails boats slapped in the Trade Winds keeping beat to the songs. Sarah leaned against me sitting on the bench of the picnic table. Denise sat across and Hugh was swaying to the tunes beside me. Perhaps thirty of us sat there listening enjoying the majestic beauty of such simplicity. Everybody was smiling.  I sat watching them for a while and the music became a background noise. It was one of those moments where everything muted, blending into one seamless experience. No one thing dominated another. Everything was one. Th e feel of Sarah's skin on mine, the music, the smiles, the dancing, the Palm Trees and Geckos under the full moon were all one joyous celebration of life. Detached objectivity is what I call it. It's a moment when you leave yourself ... like those stories of dying people who leave their bodies and float over themselves  taking it all in before flying away. Or when you find yourself sitting there staring off into some other universe and when you recognize it, twenty minutes have passed. It's when you are so connected to everything around you, and everything within you, that you become a spiritual person. Then the filters came back on. Several people had disappeared. A Song fizzled out just as it had started. A cloud covered the moon. Sarah shifted her body causing me to shift mine.  The moment was over. Most everything that had caused it was still present but suddenly it wasn't as simple or as joyous as it had just been a second ago. What happened to the gift of the moment? Spirituality is a funny thing. It is a fleeting moment of pure participation of the life that God gave us. It is worship. It is holy.  It's community with people and creation at the same time. It doesn't last long ... though I wished it did. Whispering in Sarah's ear I said, "Let's go." She seemed surprised. She knows how important music is to my life ... and the beach ... and these people ... and the full moon. Hugh was surprised as we stood. "You're leaving?" Nodding,  I smiled. He smiled back and returned to his moment. Sarah and I held hands and walked to the Chalet that home for one more day. And we celebrated our moments.

Dream Investments

Standing with my feet in the aqua blue waters of Orient Bay, I'm listening to Matthew Sweet and Suzanne Hoffs sing covers, when out of the corner of my eye I see him coming He is much taller than I am, deeply tanned and has a broad smile on his face. "Mike!" he exclaims and gives me a hug. It had been a year since I had seen him but you wouldn't know it by the way we immediately fell into conversation. His name is also Mike and I met he and Shannon several years ago here in St. Martin. "We did it," he told me with an even broader grin. "We sold the house, sold the kids, quit the jobs, cashed in everything we have and moved here in March. We love it!" Mike and I had shared the same dream of doing this and, while I came close but didn't follow through, he had. What I remember is that they were struggling anyway. Mike had gotten a job with a bank after spending several long months unemployed. He hated it. Shannon did free lance work and they were struggling. They had come down anyway because they needed to get away from it all even though they really couldn't afford it. At the time that is what I wanted too. I asked him if it was scary. "Naw," he replied. " The sucked and were just using me for a while. The kids were old enough. We weren't happy and there was enough equity in the house. We cashed in what retirement we had and ?... Here we are." He waved his long brown arms in the air. "What are you doing?" he asked. I introduced him to Sarah and explained that we are also in the process of reinventing everything about the way that we live our lives. We told Mike about leaving Union Mission, the investment of what we own into ourselves,  and the search for passionate things. "Ah, y'all should just come down here," he told me. Conner and Hania joined us for a few moments. Mike invited us to come check out his place, explained how cheaper the Dutch side of the island is than the French side, and went on and on about how much they love it. " We'll go back to see the kids or the kids can come and see us," he concluded. "The law is that we have to leave the island for 48 hours once every four months, even if it means just catching the Ferry to Anguilla," he laughed. Leaving, I watched him dance down the beach and I couldn't help but admire him. Life in the U.S. had become a slow erosion process in their lives and rather than just wait for something else bad to happen, Mike and Shannon took charge and made a dream come true.  I think that dreams are always risky and investments are never safe when you follow one. Mine for for and happiness took me down crazy paths and through some very dark places. Some things about the future still frighten me. I don't think about money the way I used to because it was more abundant then. We continue to clean out the closets of old priorities and downsize to happiness. The trade Winds pick up a bit as Mike disappears on the horizon. Turning I go and sit in the chair besides Sarah. We hold hands. We smile. Who knows?

The News from Home

I do wish "The Carnival of Friends" were here. They would enjoy it beyond belief. I have no doubt they are holding there own back on Tybee Island but they would fit right in with this crazy collection of a escape artists.  Plus the scenery is always good here. Yesterday we got all of this news from home. Normally that never happens when I am in St. Martin. The news here is extremely local ... what is the special at dinner, where's the party, or "what do you mean you can't find the car key?" But we are current on the news from the States now.  Kristen's car overheated and she has no idea how she is going to get to work. Cassidy completed a gymnastics competition without finishing a routine. Jeremy has one assignment left before finishing school for the summer. "Fifteen pages in five hours," he said. "I got this." Chelsea was going out to her favorite Greek restaurant with Sam to celebrate the fact that she found a swimming pool in Atlanta that she can lay beside. Madison reported that Winston is still not house broken and she saw the evidence. On the up side, Goddess doesn't seem to care. Laurel didn't want to report on anything. Dedra finally made it back to Tybee which is crowded beyond belief. Cheryl celebrated this fact by uncorking a bottle of wine.  Johnny O and Judy O hosted another successful "Whine and Cheese" party on the porch. Whitley's bicycle got drunk. My Mom's mad at me because she thought I was already home and I'm not. So ... to celebrate or to coresomate these things, we went naked dancing. If you've never done "The Electric Slide" under a Tropical Moon with a bunch of naked people, you need to revise your Bucket List. It is a new day and I hope that things work themselves out back home. We'll be back soon enough to help or to hinder the progress. In the meantime, tonight's a full moon. Crazy things happen when the moon is full. I can't wait to see what they will be. Celebrate your day!  Do the Electric Slide.

Days in Paradise

The umbrellas are up early today. TheTrade Winds have all but died so the yellow canvases stand at attention above the chairs that we will soon occupy. All is still and quiet. Most are still asleep. It's hard to blame them. Last night there was a party and we danced, laughed and reunited with friends. Sarah and I were actually the first to leave. Grabbing her hand we made our way into the darkness with our feet touching the white sand road. A canopy of tall long leaf Palm Trees hung above our heads. We talked as we made our way back to the Chalet that is home for now. It is a different universe here. A Caribbean island filled with the hopes and dreams of escape. There is a crazy collection of people who share the simple goals of relaxing, tanning, and having fun.  Whatever serious conversations take place on the beach are quick. That's not to say there isn't time for reflection.  I find myself with my feet in the aqua blue waters of Orient Bay, staring at the islands on the horizon completely lost in thought, wondering about things or people that I love. I make plans for Sarah and I, the kids, and all of the things that are going to happen next ... whatever next is. I've been here over twenty times now and it still hasn't lost any of it's luster. Fantasies of staying here continue to dance in the recesses of my mind. It is Sarah's first time and I am enjoying watching her enjoying it ... and we are enjoying each other at the same time too. Some of my best friends blew in yesterday and the joys of reconnecting exploded as we saw each other. Sarah's met so many new friends and is doing just fine enjoying them. Today will be a celebration of just getting through whatever we all had to get through to get here again. The Trade Winds pick up and the Palm Trees begin to dance. The Chalet quickly cools as I sip coffee remembering Sarah and my conversation before we slept. She writes me notes too and I ponder them. The sun is already blazing and it is going to be hot today. Thank God for the Trade Winds. They are the oceans air conditioner and it is always fascinating to me that I can bake in the sun and never get too hot. Yesterday I swam to the reef that protects this Bay. It is a long swim against the current to get there but it is worth it. Fish of every color dart around and their beauty often makes me stop breathing. I love the sound of their teeth scrapping against the coral that feeds them. The coral itself is alive with splendor and the waves breaking above it is like crown of God's creation. Turning to make my way back to Sarah on the beach, I am now with the current. It carries me swiftly and I feel like I am flying. A large spotted Sting Ray darts beneath me. I search for conch shells. Reaching the sandy bottom just off the beach, the fish lose their color and are as white as the sand. Standing in the surf, I take my mask and fins off. There are miles and miles of clear blue skies. There is rum on ice. It really is another day in Paradise. Sarah stands to greet me and Paradise just got better. I find  myself whispering prayers of Thanksgiving. "On this day you will be with me in Paradise," Jesus said to the man hanging beside him another cross. It's true I guess that you have to go through so much to get there, but me tell you something ... Jesus knew what he was talking about. Any day in Paradise is blessing. And today I have another one. 

Exploding Celebrations

Jerked chicken wings, pasta, green beens and a baguette fill the table. Verna had made it all because she knows how much I love her cooking. Carlos was sitting at the head of the table and we were laughing and telling stories as good friends do. "Are you crazy?" he said loudly to Sarah after she said how she is looking forward to Conner arriving. "Have you seen them together? They're insane! Team Mike!" "Wha?"I innocently ask, Knowing full well that Conner and I have a long rich history of ... doing stuff. We once duct taped a masseuse and her customer inside of her parlor. That was fun. We also threw an alternative Wine and Cheese party because the Managers here thought that he and I were acting too big for our britches. The fact is that we didn't have any britches. Our friend Jacob from Norway helped and we had over 50people show up. We had a bigger draw than the actual Wine and Cheese party. Conner also got the very beautiful first mate on the Tiko Tiko to put sun tan lotion on his butt in front of a crowd. That was a sight to see.  Carlos tells all of these stories to Sarah in his exaggerated French Caribbean voice. "Beach Patrol'" he finally concludes. "Hugh, Mike and Conner .... Ai- yii-yii" "Denise too," I add. "she broke the sex barrier." Then I am struck by something. Over the past few years, these are the people who have loved me the most. Every time that I've been in St. Martin, Carlos and Verna fretted over me ... worrying if I was going to make it. Conner and Hania would show and we are inseparable. Hugh calls just to make sure. Martina the maid would take two hour breaks just to sit in my room and talk to me when I was alone. Angela would too. In that moment, sitting in the tiny home of dear friends, I am suddenly humbled. These realizations overwhelm me. I think of my "Carnival of Friends"too and how they broke into my life when I no longer gave a damn about it. "You love everybody," Sarah said at some point. I don't know if that's true. When I love, I love deeply and passionately. I know that I can get very zoned over the things I care about. At this moment though, I am more aware of the people whom have loved me through the bad and are now enjoying the good. There is a Caribbean festival tonight that Carlos is hosting. Hugh and Patty will be here in time to join Sarah and I. Conner and Hania will blow in later. I can already feel the celebration that is about explode.  After several years of struggle that I wouldn't wish upon anybody, it feels good  for so many to say how good I look. Cornelia, another maid here saw me yesterday. She placed her black hand on my belly and exclaimed, " Oh Mike, you are so happy? Where is Sarah? I want to meet her." And the celebration continues to explode.

Naked Gardening

I am watching naked gardening. I don't think I ever have before but I am right now. Sipping coffee, it is a fascinating start of the day. She is blond with a piercing in her belly button. He has a shaved head and is wearing sunglasses. Other than that, they're tanned. They are also bent over in their garden digging up weeds.  It's a nice garden full of red, yellow and purple flowers. There are Palm Trees and Elephant Ears all surrounded by rocks of Coral. It's pretty impressive. She is standing now adjusting her piercing.  He stands to watch her.  Neither of them see me watching them. She bends back over so he does too. I pour a second cup of coffee.  They are working hard. I am tired. We went to Bikini Beach Bar with Marty and Denise, Joe and Pam and this really drunk girl. After that we went dancing. I'm not certain who drove me home. I did wake up in Sarah's arms so she got home safely too. She is still sleeping and is missing the naked gardening. I am tempted to wake her up because watching naked gardening is ... Fascinating! She stands again and says something to the man. He scratches himself. She walks away and returns with a shovel. At first I think that she is going to hit him, but she digs up a plant. I spill coffee on myself and curse. Both of the naked gardeners stand and look at me. "Morning," I cheerfully say. "Morning," they cheerfully reply before bending back over. I do love it here.

The Hands of Change

Mike, you be pimping man," Carlos said after bursting through the door of our Chalet and bear hugging me. His black hand flipped my hair which now touches my shoulders. He laughed. "You look like Jesus," Baruke told me at the restaurant. Baruke is Muslim so I'm not too certain if he really knows what Jesus looks like. But he is my friend and I made the sign of the cross with my fingers over his olive skin balding head. "Mike!" Martina exclaimed when we woke her up from her nap, taking a break from cleaning studios. Then she placed her black hand on my stomach. "You have a belly! You are happy!" I introduced her to Sarah. "Comos Deaaz," Angela laughed when she saw it was me. She'e tries to teach me Spanish when she's not cleaning and fails miserably. "You have belly," placing her black hand on my stomach like Martina had. "You are happy!". Then she hugged me and I introduced her to Sarah. At lunch yesterday, my friend Jan remarked, "It's so good to see you happy." At dinner last night, Denise flew down from heaven and gave me a hug and introduced herself to Sarah. It has been a full year since I've seen the people, though most of us keep up with one another. Obviously I've changed. Everyone seems to agree on this. And that makes me happier. Then at the Managers Wine and Cheese Party last night, Carlos pours Sarah and I cups of wine in a plastic cups After hugging Linda, the manager, and introducing her to Sarah, I pour the wine into a wine glass. I get Carlos' attention in the crowd and toast him. Busting out in laughter, he tells me, "You are the same Mike." and he hugs me. Then he gets all serious and asks, "When does Conner and Hugh arrive?" Grabbing my hair and putting it into a pony tail, I laugh. "Soon. Very soon." "Ai-yii-yii," he says slapping his forehead and walking away. The. Sarah and I dance under the stars. I am much different yet the same. At least everybody seems to think so. But I'll tell you something. This is as much fun as I've ever had.

A Caribbean Christening

The sun rises at 5:35 here and a pitch black night explodes with brilliant beams shinning through the window. Climbing out of bed, I stumble across a lush Tropical landscape of Palm Trees with coconuts, Papaya and flowers of every color. They dance in the ocean breeze. My feet hit the powder white sand of the beach and I wade into the Bay up to my knees. I fall straight forward into the acqua blue water and just float face down. This is how I wake up every morning when I'm here. It's a glorious start to the day! After making my way back, I pour a cup of coffee and sit outside marveling at the beauty of a Caribbean morning. Pouring my second cup, I flip on the radio that I brought down here years ago to OASIS 96.3. It's a campy station that plays a little bit of everything. Each morning there is an editional, "Good Morning Mr. Governor" that tries to persade the elected here to do something or another. Most often it is a plea to bring in more cruise ships. The fact is there are far fewer arriving this year than there were last year or the year before. One is in today and they're always exciting. Signs will be placed on Orient Beach proclaiming "Beads for clothes" or "Free Beer for Clothes" in attempts to persuade tourists to strip. A lot do. Yesterday Sarah and I were recruited to participate in a Beach Ball competition. After blowing up our Beach Ball we had to name it. Then we'd line up and throw them into the ocean. Last one in was the winner. The winner got beads. Being here is kind of like Adult Day Camp. I stumble back to the beach with our towels and lay them in our chairs. We will be surrounded by people we now know on a first name basis. I couldn't tell you their last names if my life depended on it but by the time this trip ends we will all have exchanged names and emails to stay in touch. That's the way it is here. Over the years, I've collected dear friends who live scattered around the world. The best of them are arriving in a few days. There's also friends here who I haven't seen in a while. Later today we're having lunch with Jan and Dick in a beach front French restaurant. We keep up with each other's life's on Face Book which is one of God's greatest gifts. It sure beats email in terms of keeping up with those you love. Tonight there is a Manager's Wine and Cheese party and most everyone staying here will attend. My friend Carlos, the manager of Papagayo, the restaurant, will pour wine will the Managers pretend to host. Everyone else will drink as much free wine as they can in a hour. Most will hang around for dinner and dancing. It also gets darker here earlier than on the eastern shore of the United States. Nights are brilliant displays where the Milky Way puts on a show for free. I love walking the beach back to the Chalet we're staying in. There are mountains that surround Orient Bay, thick and green, and the lights from the houses sprinkled on them look like a blanket of stars at night. There are no television here and the phone only connects you to the other rooms. While a lot of people don't like that, I do. The campy songs of the radio are enough. There is Internet connection so those dying to keep up with the news, or the baseball scores, can do so. Not me. I've spent a career doing that. This is the christening of a new life. Sarah and I were baptized in the Caribbean Sea yesterday. Today the sun will shine on us and the Trade Winds will blow us cool kisses. Tonight we'll toast it all and celebrate with old friends and new ones. Then we'll dance under the stars. Afterwards, we'll stumble home and ... tomorrow, we'll do it all again.

Stuck in the airport with you

Growing up and working in Georgia for most of my life it’s always been Delta. It’s hard to fly anywhere in Georgia without using Delta and I am a Platinum flyer, Crown Room member, often bumped to first class snob. It was never my intention to turn out this way, but I did. I am extremely loyal to Delta and have earned a gazillion Frequent Flyer miles. That’s the good news. The bad news is Delta has reduced its flights to St. Martin. They only do it on Saturdays now. What is up with that? That’s like couples who only choose to have sex on Saturdays, eating dessert sporadically or saving the stuff in your nose for a monthly picking. Regardless, we wanted to travel to St. Martin and leaving on a Saturday was fine but the return options where incredibly limited. So we flew American Airlines. I also have a lot of AA miles because of a credit card I use, trips I’ve taken and plans to join the “Mile High Club” with Sarah. So we flew American Airlines ... from Jacksonville to Miami. It’s always a bad sign when the guy is putting gas in the plane, pumping it in on top of the wing and … you sit there watching it pour out of the bottom of the wing. What does one say? American Airlines doesn’t say anything. They do keep you sitting on the plane while the guy on top of the wing continues pumping gas into the tank until eventually a maintenance guy wanders under the wing and notices that something is not right. Two hours later, because of FFA regulations, we are told to get off the plane but to not leave the gate … even if you do have to pee. So we get off the plane. Sarah sits at the gate. I go get a beer in the bar. After another hour, we’re told to move to another gate where another American Airlines plane will take us to St. Martin. The only problem is that there is no plane at the gate we are told to rush to. Then we learn that it will be another four hours before the plane does arrive, lets its passengers off, gets clean, lets us board and …. We take off. But American Airlines does reward us with Food Vouchers totaling $12 per passenger. You cannot use your American Airlines issued Food Voucher on alcohol. We learn this sitting in the bar where each American Airline passenger on the plane for St. Martin is trying to pay for our drinks with American Airlines issued Food Vouchers. By this time, we are, of course, all on a first name basis. We know intimate details about each other’s lives. Several openly pick their noses in front of their new best friends. One couple has sex. My I-phone vibrates. It is Carlos in St. Martin. “Where R U?” Carlos is way hip on the language of texting. Sarah buys twenty-seven cookies from a bakery with our American Airlines issued Food Voucher. She will snack on them the entire time that we are in St. Martin. We will pass them out as gifts. I will give one to Carlos. Now we are sitting outside of the bar at our gate getting ready to board. I think that it may be problematic. Half of the American Airlines passengers are passed out from drinking all day. The other half are on a sugar high from spending their American Airlines issued Food Voucher buying cookies at the Bakery. My I-phone buzzes and it is my fellow Beach Patrol partner Hugh. “What in the hell is going on?” he demands. Beach Patrol members always have one another’s back. I tell him. “Oh no,” he sighs. “You flying American Airlines?” I ask. “Yep,” he says. “Well relax and enjoy the food,” I tell him and hang up.

A New Journey

The last time that I was in St. Martin, I swore that when I returned it would not be alone. I'd spent two years going there by myself in a tiny little studio just off Orient Bay. Lots of friends who live on the island, and many from around the world visiting, kept me company. Conner and Hania were my most constant companions. It became a place of healing and I came very close to just throwing everything in America away and moving there. But I didn't. A Carnival of Friends came together and fun at home took on a new intensity. And Sarah had returned to Savannah. Our relationship grew, love blossomed and today she is driving with me to Jacksonville where the vacation begins. Tomorrow we'll be in St. Martin. It has been a year since I was there, which strikes me as crazy. I traveled more during the past year than I ever have, crisscrossing the country several times, but I never made it back to the beloved island. I feel like a child on Christmas Eve. Conner's already called. Hugh has too. Verna wants to know if I want her to make me chicken wings. Carlos wants to go to Boo Boo Jams. And we're hooking up with our friends Dick and Jane for lunch on Monday. Denise and Marty are supposed to be there too. I wish the Carnival of Friends could go. It would be like ... adult day camp. What I'm looking forward to the most though is sharing a place and some people I love with everything in me with Sarah. The aqua blue of the Caribbean Sea, the cool of the Trade winds, the brightness of the stars at night and holding her hand as we stroll the beach to touch the rocks ... these are the things I anticipate. The place of healing is now a place of celebration. I've been through a lot in my life. Yesterday I was looking through boxes of things representing the things I've done. Plaques, awards, newspaper clippings, books, and gifts fill ten boxes in my Mother's garage. It's a past that holds little interest for me. I've gladly traded it all for now. Today's going to be great! And tomorrow! Well, it's gonna be even better.