Tuesdays (Watching Life Pass By)

On Tuesdays I drive Maddie to school. I never thought I'd be doing this again. When Chelsea turned sixteen it was one of the happiest days of my life. She could drive! She could drive herself to school. She could drive me to Athens on weekends for football games! It was great! I love each of my children for a lot of reasons but one is that they gave me about a decade-and-a-half without really having to drive anywhere. Jeremy tried to get out of it when he turned sixteen by claiming he couldn't drive a stick shift. I didn't care! I'd waited sixteen years for this moment and had driven him most everywhere for all of those years. Sticking his ass behind the wheel I said tough. And he did fine. He had perpetrated a fraud and did quite fine on the four hour drive to Athens. He did even better on the four hour drive back. Kristen would get me there in three hours. Chelsea drug it out to four-and-a-half. Then a sad day came when they all left home and I had to drive myself again. "It's a sad day when your children leave home," me mentor and friend Ben Barnes once told me, "but it's a hell-of-a-lot sadder if they ever come back." None of mine have come back ... mainly because I don't think they want to drive anymore. So this morning I was appreciating Maddie who just just turned eleven. In five more years, it'll be her ass sitting behind the wheel. About the time she leaves, Laurel will drive. The wonderful thing is that Cassidy comes next! I figure I've got another decade-and-a-half of not driving in front of me. Life is good! I'm looking forward to watching it pass by as I sit in the passenger seat.

Making Life

It's a different kind of Monday than it used to be. Throughout my life the day meant going to work. I'd drag myself out of bed, drive to the office and dive back into a job as Savior to those who struggled to save themselves. It was rewarding and uplifting for three decades but it took its toil. Those last years Monday were cursed full of dread. I couldn't do it anymore and the day began on Sunday night with saddness and tears. These days Monday leaves me feeling out of step. I should be dragging myself out of bed and going somewhere but the work is different now. I spend time in reflection which is damn hard work. There are prayers, wishes and dreams demanding my attention. It's not as solitary as it sounds because these activities force me to concentrate on others. It is true though that, for the most part, I am alone as I do them. That's not to say there's not a lot of activity taking place. Sarah's busy too. We're raising three girls and I'm learning how to parent again (crazy hard work when you thought you'd never do it again). There's writing and communications from people who keep up with it. There's a new endeavor being created which is taking ideas and intuition and putting them on paper. Of course, there are bills to pay, house chores and obligations I've made to others. The pay scale is different too. It used to be cash that I got but now its things ... less tangible but far more significant. This is hard too. I'm supposed to be making money; the more the better and I must admit that I wish I was making more. Payday now occurs in hourly increments ... or they don't. On the upside, I don't have to worry about job security. "How's retirement?" people ask though I'm much too young for that and certainly don't have the resources to make it happen now. "Do you take a nap every day?" is another that comes at me. I like naps and sometimes I do but most of the time I don't. There's too much to do. Making life is hard work and this one has no safety net. None do. Just when you think everything's perfect ... something happens. Jobs are lost. Marriages crumble. Kids wander astray. Sickness creeps in. Death happens. The hardest part about what I'm doing these days is accepting the gift of it. I am loved. I live in a beautiful place surrounded by people I love. Everyone's healthy. I've gone most everywhere I've ever wanted to, been recognized and find that a lot people remain interested in what I'm doing. This is the life that is given to me for now. My job is to accept it and hopefully make it better. Before it was a different life with different people, circumstances, challenges and benefits. I'm keenly aware of the things that I have to make life of these days. Every Monday I get up and start work again ... making my life.

A Family Tradition

"When did you start doing this?" Sarah asked as we sat on the sofa side by side. It started on November 2, 1968 though I didn't tell her that. The University of Georgia was playing Houston and my Dad and his friend James Tucker took my brother David, Kenny Tucker and me to Athens to see our first game. Mr Tucker was enthralled by the Coeds and stood up to take a photograph of Sanford Stadium but instead took pictures of girls in mini-skirts. I think my Mom still has the picture. And that was that! Though the game ended in a 10-10 tie, my red blood mixed with black and I've never looked back. Dad would regularly take David and I to games as we grew up. Upon graduating from High School, David tried to walk on the UGA football team and though he didn't make it ... nobody has more passion for the team. He would have "willed" the wins. My Uncle Buddy was the first person I knew to graduate from Georgia. He was a God to David and me and we went to many games with him. Before he died of cancer, Buddy wanted to go to Athens one more time so Dad, David and I took him. We didn't have tickets but David found some and two were in the shade which Buddy desperately needed. Georgia won that day and our beloved Uncle died shortly afterwards. David and I took his sons Bryon and Kevin to their first games trying to repay the debts we still owe their Dad. They are now as die-hard as we are. When I lived in Louisville, family visitations sometimes occurred in Athens. We'd hook up there, attend the game after eating fried chicken washed down with beer. By this time my son Jeremy was born and this is when he got started. When I returned to Savannah we became season ticket holders and would drive to Athens every Saturday morning ... with David and Mark Berry, my illegitimate brother ... for every game. When my daughters Kristen and Chelsea were born we all went together to the games. It's family, friends, food ... tradition as my dear friend Bill Shearouse says. It's hard to describe to someone who doesn't know ... it becomes something that you can't not do (which is a southern description that most of the world will never understand!). Jeremy and Chelsea are now UGA graduates. My son is back living full time in Athens. My sister Angi has lived there for years now with her sons Chandler and Gage and has passed it on to them. David takes his grandchildren. Mark takes his son Nolan and one day they'll all take their own kids. I missed yesterday's game. Sarah and I were flying in from Memphis and couldn't figure out a way to make it work so Jeremy had lots of extra tickets. Most would merely sell them but Jeremy gave them away to a Mom and Dad and their kids who were at their first game. He sat in the student section though our seats are much better. When he told me that, it warmed my heart and I hope those kids gain as much as I have when my Dad took his sons to Athens on November 2, 1968. And my Dad died a few years ago. I picture him and Uncle Buddy sitting in Heaven's shade yesterday, watching the game as they smile and drink beer, High-Fiving and yelling ... "Go Dawgs!"

Remembering the Dark Places

As soon we we turned the corner I saw the sign for the Lorraine Motel in downtown Memphis and my heart jumped. Where an American Saint was gunned down is brilliantly called out with the sign ... a flashing blue arrow pointing to the place sits above a yellow oval with black letters spelling which sits above five circles each with a red letter forming the word "Motel" and that sits above a Marquee. It is from the 1960s and immediately carries me back there. There were simular hotels on Highway 80 in Garden City, Georgia when I was growing up and I thought them to be exoctic then. One had a woman in a swim cap and a bathing suit diving into a hotel that flashed neon. It was across the street from a Trailer Park. I was a baby of Racial Integration, actually embracing it pretty quickly. In Junior High we had a dance and the black kids were having a blast. The white kids were wall flowers, stuck in their religion and other constraints. I loved to dance and thought this sucked so I strolled across the Gym floor and asked a black girl to dance. She grinned an embarrassed grin as she took my hand. Her friends all smiled and joined us the dance floor. The next day I was beaten up by a bunch of people I went to Church with. I never turned back and throughout my carrer and life have tried to be accepting of all of God's people but especially those who were oppressed or shunned. Half a century later, I'm standing in the Motel room shared by Martin Luther King and Ralph Abernathy. One of the beds is turned down where Dr. King had been laying. There are cups of coffee on the dresser and an ash trey full of cigarettes. The room is run down and threadbare. I stare out of the window at the site where he was shot. My friend Will D. Campbell was there that night. Will wrote the preface to my first book and we spent many hours together at his place in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee or at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. There is a picture of him from Life Magazine standing on the spot where Martin was shot, hours after it happened, staring off into the distance, wondering or praying. I stood across the street in the bathroom looking at the spot from the bathroom window where James Earl Ray killed Dr. King. I felt similar to when I walked Auschwitz, the Nazi Concentration Camp in Poland. Sarah and I walked out into the bright sunshine, holding hands but there were no words ... just emotions as we were started by the contrast of such a wonderful day after such dark moments. That's the way it is thought isn't it. "You can't have light without a dark to stick it in," says Arlo Guthrie. There is darkness in this world ... and darkness in our lives but I believe the light always wins. Sometimes though, you have to remember the dark places to appreciate the light.

A Beach Bum on Beale Street

Standing in W. C. Handy Park we were dancing to the blues sound of the band, all black with a white lead guitarist, killing the crowd. Holding a plate of food in one hand, a girl wearing a tee shirt cut off at mid-drift and blue jeans that must have been sprayed on, twirled and danced. A group of older men stood behind, watching her and wishing that they could shave years away. Children swirled and played and older folks occupied every bench in the park. Music explodes from everywhere on Beale Street! Bands or acoustic musicians are are in every restaurant and bar. The large crowd struts down the sidewalks more than walk. Rythms are everywhere, permeating the body, pumping music into your pours. The crowd is divided into those mesmerized by a particular group so they stand still and sway to the sounds or those who shuffle down the sidewalks feasting on one group after another. Beale Street is everything its thought to be, a constant celebration of American Blues, Elvis and B.B. King. Earlier we'd sat at a formal dinner in The Peabody Hotel, a luxurious testiment to everything Memphis might have been. Live ducks swim in the lobby fountain, underneath chandeliers, and sculptured cheribs holding a massive bouquet of live flowers. It is filled with southern charm and elegance. I'd been order to dress for the occasion. Wearing a Marlin Monroe Full Moon Party tee shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops, I hold Sarah's hand as we check in for the festivities. "You can't go in like that," Caroline Conlon told me. "You're going to be recognized tonight." So during the dinner I was dressed more appropriately ... collared shirt, kacki pants and flip-flops. I mean if Steve Jobs and Steve Zuckerman can get away with dressing this way at formal events then I should also be able to. I was given a plate with my name on it. It's a nice plate and they spelled my name right. It'll go into the boxes at my Mom's house with the other plates, plaques and framed pieces of paper acknowledging something I had something to do with. As soon as the dinner was over, we changed back into shorts and headed to Beale Street, further extending our honeymoon and our travels. "Seriously Mike," Sandy Lopacki asked this morning as I strolled to the coffee pot, "you're wearing flip-flops?" "Sure, why not?" I asked pouring myself a cup. "You really have become a beach bum," she smiled shaking her head. "After everything you've done ... and been though ... it suits you." Finding a quiet corner of the lobby, far away from the crowd that I'll spend the day with, I sip the coffee and ponder. In some ways this is the end of another part of the life that I've lived. I've got a red plate with my name on it to prove as much. Really though, it's a celebration of what my life is becoming ... the one Sarah and I are dancing into, where shirts and shoes are not required, plates are piled with seafood or things from the grill and where the music never stops.

Graceland

I remember when Paul Simon’s Graceland album came out with its South African influenced music and urban delta lyrics. We were in Seminary at Claude Drouet’s house because he had the latest musical everything. He had the first Compact Disc player I ever saw having special ordered it months before it hit stores. Of course he didn’t have a Compact Disc for it at first because none had been made yet. He was excited over the Graceland album and it soon became a favorite of mine. We sat in his music room listening to it over and over. In some ways I suppose that it, along with a lot of the music I’ve been exposed to led to my unique views, philosophies and religion. We’re flying to Memphis today. Touching down in the land of the Delta Blues is what Sarah quoted as her update. I’m looking forward to the music. There are meetings that will keep me kidnapped and people that I must see but we will have time to play and I want to play with the sounds of the place. Then there really is Graceland. I’ve never been … never really thought about going …. but we’re going to be so close so like Paul Simon all of those years ago we’ll make the Pilgrimage to the memories of Elvis. Sarah’s already asked if there will be a lot of Elvis impersonators running around and that she wants her picture taken with everyone. Then there’s Sun Studios where Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carol Perkins and Johnny Cash all got started together! B. B. King too and then all of the smaller blues player who have staked out places on street corners and in bars. This is a funny trip. The reason we’re going is that a group I’ve been associated with for the past decade is winding up their efforts. It’s a sort of swan song gathering as a great national program comes to an end. I’ve been every blessed to be associated with these folks and have certainly learned much more than I would have without them. They allowed me to travel across the country more than once. If that wasn’t enough, they gave me half-a-million once to start a new health care program in Savannah. But All Things Must Pass as another great musical genius taught us and sometimes you are lucky enough to recognize things are coming to an end as they are occurring. This is one of those times. Over the past few years I’ve been part of lots of endings … a career, marriage, kids moving away to start their own lives, friendships and things that I believed in. Most of these were harsh and difficult, never providing the chance for swan songs because its hard to appreciate the moment when the rugs being jerked out from under you. But each passing brought new things … opportunities, deeper friendships, truer love and new things to believe. Instead of swan songs, a Carnival of Friends threw one hell of a party to deal with all of the losses at once and to celebrate my survival. Now Sarah is with me on this pilgrimage which is the end of yet one more chapter in my life. While this last page turns on what used to be, she and I will dance to the music on Beale Street as we make our way to the future … and to Graceland.

Just Another Night At Our House

Just before Sarah and I go to bed, I have to take Winston, the little gay dog, out into the back yard. Unlike Goddess who knows how to take care of business by herself, Winston is a Diva of the highest order! I have to pick his tiny ass up and tote it down the back deck stairs and set him in the back yard. He likes an audience.I keep meaning to call my friend at Club One Jefferson so he can audition. "Hurry up!" I tell him while questioning his family lineage. Of course the little Son-of-bitch (and I mean this literally) takes his time, studies his nails, chases bar flies and finally wanders off into the darkness. Normally I sit on the third step from bottom sipping the last of my wine. This is what I was doing last night. "Psst! Mike is that you?" It was Laurel, girl number two, who had gone to bed an hour-and-a-half earlier. "What," I wearily asked. Her bedroom window is to my left and it is open to catch the cool ocean breeze. She pulls back the curtain which inexplicably has blankets hanging on it I see a fully lit bedroom filled with girls stuff meaning it's a mess. Wide awake, Laurel asks, "Can we talk?" Laurel is beautiful and impish. She has fun almost all of the time. She has somehow perfected balancing her 8 year old personality to equally reflect Venus the God of love and Aitilla the Hun. She can make you feel deeply loved while wrecking a room at the same time. The kids got talent. "What do you want?" I tenderly ask. "My sisters mean to me," she says. Laurel shares a room with Maddie who is the oldest. Once the two of them held July O'Neill captive in a bedroom refusing to let her go because they wanted to ... play. Judy was in tears, in desperate need of a drink and ready to go home when she finally broke free. Maddie had gone upstairs for the fifteenth time to say something to her Mom. Maddie is a Diva too. "What do you want me to do about it?" I ask Laurel. "I don't know," she says shrugging her shoulders. "She's crazy." I nod. "Where's Winston?" she asks. I shrug my shoulders. "Why is your sister mean?" I ask trying to remind myself of parenting skills. "Oh she's up telling Mom that I hit her in the knee but she really was jumping on her bed and fell off and then she blamed me so I'm probably going to get in trouble and ..." and the words all rush together because when Laurel talks and gets excited the words fly out as though shot from a high pitched machine gun. Our foreheads are almost touching with only the window screen separating us. Holding up my hand to stop her I lie, "I'll see what I can do." I'm not getting involved in this. I live with four girls, plus Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. I am woefully outnumbered. "Thanks Mike," Laurel says. "I love you." "Shit," I say to myself. "I hate when she does that. Now I'm going to have get involved." The curtains close as she jumps back into her bed while Maddie re-enters the room. Immediately they start yelling at each other. Winston, the little gay dog, emerges from the darkness looking like he desperately needs a cigarette. Refusing to pick him up, he scampers upstairs like he's on Meth. "Goodnight girls," I say standing up. Immediately all is quiet in their room. As I walk upstairs Maddie whispers, "Why didn't you tell me Mike was out there?" "You didn't ask me," Laure whispers back. "That's not right," Maddie says. "Not my problem," Laurel confidently proclaims. The little gay son-of-a-bitch is scratching the newly installed screen on the door as I walk up the stairs ready for bed. It's just another night at our house.

A Prayer for the Dear Ones

Frank Schuman died yesterday. He was on his boat and in the water which is where is always preferred to be anyway. I performed his and Jamie's wedding on the beach. Like everyone else on the island, we'd bump into one another in Doc's Bar, at Marlin Monroe's on in the water, which is where we were the last time that I saw Frank. There really are no words when it comes to death, only love. Out of the water we came and, if we're lucky, it's back into the water we go ... to Atlantis or Heaven or deeper into the hearts of those who held us dear as we lived. I have a habit of calling people I think to be special as my dear friend. Perhaps I romanticize things but then again ... I am a romantic .. so it is highly likely I do. A long time ago I wrote a book called Playing Hide and Seek: A non-Church-goers Guide in which I tried to explain that God is best experienced as the in-between that occurs as two or more people come together. "When two or more are gathered in my name, I am with them." Obviously, sometimes people come together for pretty shitty reasons and I'm pretty certain that God is nowhere around. There's nothing holy about drug deals or political conventions. Today a lot of people are sending love to Frank and his family ... holding them dear in death. There is a holiness in what they're doing and I'm pretty sure that, as bad as dying is, God is there. Somewhere in the in-between expressions of love from one to another is where God is found. After all ... God is love. I'm not looking forward to my own death. I've got too much to do. Sarah and I are doing as much in-between as we can possibly squeeze into a day. The kids are all doing fascinating things and I want to be here to see how their stuff turns out. The girls are finally becoming comfortable living at the beach, the smell of the Marsh and ... me! We're surrounded by an incredible and wonderful group of friends and we all support each other as best we can. Plus I'm itching to launch the next great thing and we're almost there! So I choose to hold people dear now rather than later. Besides, I'm not certain how much good I'll be to anyone later. It's not to say that some are not more special than others. That is obviously true. But everyone we have in our lives are gifts and I think they're from God. Sure ... some are better than others just like Christmas or birthday presents. A few go to the bottom of your heart and stay forever. Others dart through leaving memories that are ... dear. So I send prayers to Jamie and Frank, Jr. I toss them up for The Carnival of Friends. I give thanks for the wider community of believers and non-believers that I'm lucky enough to have in my life. Karma, love and Godspeed are for the kids as they choose their own lives. Petitions of safekeeping, inspiration and love are made for the girls. Deep gratitude and appreciation is reserved for Sarah who brings me joy. And I continue to stand in awe of this world. The majesty of the sea, Fran's thousand shades of green, salt air sticking to my skin, deep blue skies and wonders from the stars. Thank you. Amen.

Nervous Children

Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth I spent countless hours in the car driving the roads of Georgia to towns like Waycross, Valdosta, Columbus, Brunswick and other small towns with emergening problems. I was the outside expert from Savannah where'd made significant dents in our "social problems." Over the years I made lots of frieds and have fond memories of those days. Later the scope of my travels encompassed the nation so I flew everywhere and no longer drove to the small towns and cities of Georgia or South Carolina. So yesterday as Sarah and I made our way across Highway 82 into the western part of the state many memories came flooding back. Nothing seems to have changed and I took that as a metaphor for the way that Governments and Churches do things in Georgia. "What are we going to see?" Sarah asked at one point. "Abosulutely nothing," I answered. But the truth is that we are. My brilliiant daughter-in-law Marie is a professor at Valdosta State University. She has a rich history in the movie industry, having worked on several and has now pinned her first play! It's already been performed in three different cities and is now being staged at the college where she works! The local newspaper wrote a terrific story on her effort and she was the guest celebrity on radio shows yesterday. She is nervous about her work being showed to her peers and is planning on Bloody Marys prior to the performace. Sarah and I are exited to see her play and be there with her for the experience. It's funny. You never really know how your kids are going to turn out. You think you do but you don't. I thought Jeremy was going to be the world's first professional football player who was also a brain sugeon! Then he and Marie got married and he's settled on getting his Ph.D. in Sports Management. Kristen has stayed closer to home on Tybee Island while Chelsea graduated from the University of Georgia only to now reside on the Georgia Tech campus (irony of ironies). It's all good. I've been extremely blessed because my kids are all doing well but doubly blessed because we all like and enjoy each other. We laugh a lot when we're together which is increasingly rare. So today is a special day! We get to spend some time with my brilliant daughter-in-law and as she gets to strut her stuff! I couldn't be prouder.

Jeremy and I go to the Met

My son Jeremy and I stood in the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a glorious fall day in New York. We were there because of Melanie Finnachario. She and I had been at a meeting in a hotel by the Newark airport and took shuttles into the City. We'd attended a workshop hosted by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation hoping to find money for a health care clinic we planned to open in Savannah. The conference ended late Friday and we were flying out Sunday for we took Saturday to play in City. Jeremy was there because my son and I really have a good time when we're together. This was such an opportunity so I got him a cheap ticket to Newark and we stayed together. We got to the Met, had a hot dog on the corner out front, and then started our tour of some of the world's greatest art. There was only one problem. The University of Georgia was playing Kentucky at 1:00. Melanie had never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and I promised that she could spend the day there. Jeremy was cool with it and everything was going fine ... until 1:00. Then Jeremy and I got ... itchy. My first clue was when we stood in front of Van Gogh's Stary Stary Night and Jeremy yelled "Go Dawgs!" I understood though Melanie and several thousand other visitors seemed a bit confused. "We gotta go," I explained to Melanie. My son grabbed one of her hands and I grabbed the other as we sprinted out of the Met to a corner bar where they showing ... the Syracuse game. Who the hell watches Syracuse? The mothers of the players don't even follow that team! They wear orange for God's sake! Grabbing the bartender by the throat, I demanded to know where in New York City the Georgia game was being shown. He kindly explained there is a group of rabid people who gather at a bar near 44th Street. Grabbing Melanie we sprinted to the place and, sure enough, we found our people. Georgia won on a last second field goal. Jeremy and I grew closer as father and son. Melanie quit a couple of years later. I was explaining all of this to Sarah the other day. She's from New York and stared at me as though I'm an uneducated southern idiot. Sympathetically hugging her, I explained, "Honey, it's tradition. It's family. It's friends who share the same devotion. It ain't Florida or Auburn. I'm so glad we're married because now ... you'll learn all of these things. And thank God I'm here for the girls. I mean ... Shit! They could be Buffalo Bills fans! ... Say it with me baby. Go Dawgs!"

Birthday Thoughts (To Madison)

It is a drop dead gorgeous day as I speed on the causeway through the seven miles of marsh to arrive home on Tybee Island. The sky is a crystal clear blue, the marsh grass a deep green and the ocean is a flat greyish green. An American flag hangs limp and still in front of Fort Pulaski, just as impotent as Congress, and it strikes me as sad to see it this way. The top is down and the pungent smell of the marsh at low tide ... the swirling aromas of sex in the tropics ... fill my senses. It is a great start to a day. I'm returning from taking Madison to school. It's her birthday this weekend as she turns eleven ... a child in what is becoming an adult's body. I'm her personal chauffeur and we either have great conversation or there are just the sounds of really bad techno-pop (97.3) blaring on the radio ... depending on the status of her hormones. Her hair is perfect so the top is up on the way but as soon as she hauls out the School Board approved see through back pack so that Authority figures can she's not packing a gun, I change the station and put the top down. Maddie also has to put on her approved ID badge so aforementioned Authority figures know who she is at all times lest she successfully sneak a gun into school. (It makes me wonder if Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy ... came up with such rules.) "Bye Micheal," she says crawling out of the car. "Learn a lot," I reply. "Kiss a lot of boys." She rolls her eyes. "Fine," I say. "Kiss a lot of girls." Properly identified and definitely not packing ... well guns anyway though she drive the boys nuts as they discover their own hormones. (She's probably driving the girls nuts too.) Then there is my luscious drive home. By now I'm whimsical with a touch of melancholy. When I was eleven I got in trouble if my shirt hung out but nobody ever patted me down. They knew who me (because my shirt was never tucked in). I feel sorry for the American education system and what politicians have done to it. It's as limp as an American flag on a beautiful day driving through the marsh. My mind wanders and out of nowhere come thoughts from a thousand years ago. We raped the independent farmer just like the school system is now being ravished. These are sad thoughts on a birthday weekend that is drop dead gorgeous with the aroma of outdoor sex under a limp flag. This land fed a nation ... this land made me proud ... And Madison, on your birthday, I wonder what kind of legacy we're leaving you. Rain on the scarecrow. Blood on the plow.

Hard to Believe

I find it hard to believe how hard most people find it to believe. Growing up in the schizophrenic arms of the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth during the late 1960s and early 1970s when God was King of Kings and the Holy Host of others standing around me were the Beatles, I grew to really believe the things I was hearing. God is Love ... All you need is love ... Love your neighbor as yourself ... He ain't heavy, he's my brother ... Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in his sight ... C'mon people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together try to love one another right now ... The Kingdom shall come on earth as it is in heaven ... You say you want a Revolution? ... Jesus is raised ... One Tin Soldier rides away ... Love is patient. Love is Kind. Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things ... You may say I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one ... And the Lion shall lay down with the Lamb ... O Happy Day ... These things are engrained into my DNA. I really believe them all and do my best to live them. I get knocked around a lot for trusting people too much, being too quick to forgive someone who's done me wrong, and just being too nice. That's not to say I'm can't be difficult ... I'm often impatient, lightning quick to reach conclusions, and have no trouble saying what I think. I'm also perfectly content to let others have their say, just sitting there quietly as I feel their words. But I find it a dichotomy to be cautioned to put too much trust in others and still hold onto the things the church and the Love Generation taught me. It's funny because most who throw me caution are Church People where I think most pretend rather than believe. Sunday service is mostly a celebration of what could have been. I've spent my whole life trying to really get to me. I want to be the person I was created to be. Sure I've fucked up along the way ... all have sinned and fallen short of the glory ... that doesn't bother me much. It's just part of the process of becoming who we really are ... of being who God intended us to become. As I write this a swarm of yellow butterflies have descended upon the red orange Hibiscus blooms surrounded me on the Beloved Back Deck. One anoints my head flying under the umbrella where I sit writing. It gives me pause. I'll keep believing these things. They're too much of who I am ... and I would crumble without them anyway. I just don't find them so hard to believe. And it pains me that others do.

Embracing me (the many me's)

"I think it's good to have multiple personalities," I said. Bree immediately said that she has two. "It's sort of like having the arrows in the quiver to re-purpose yourself whenever you need," Nancee added. "Yeah," I agreed. "Re-tooling ourselves so we can cope with whatever situation we're in." "I just know that I'm frigging nuts," Denise chimed in, "because my parents are driving me crazy." "Whatever," Nancee dismissed her, "lets all change up now. Just for fun!" I took this to be my exit strategy. "Where are you going?" Nancee yelled. "I'm slipping into my reclusive personality," I called walking out the door. "Perfect!" she said. "I'll slip into my stalker-self. We'll play Hide-and-Seek!" This actual real life conversation occurred on my second visit of the morning to The Breakfast Club. I had to go back to return books that we'd borrowed and found myself standing with the wait staff, to whom I am close and occasionally party. Driving home with the top down, having foiled Nancee's prowling personality, I recall a business meeting in the Longhorn Steak House off Pooler Parkway yesterday. Meeting with a Wealth Management Specialist, she was asking for help in things she wishes to accomplish. I must pause and point out the hilarity of what was happening. A very successful Wealth Management Professional is willing to pay for my advice. My career's been spent ending homelessness, helping the uninsured, teaching people with AIDS they have a life to live and other exciting endeavors. Of course I was successful at these things and "success" attracts "success" ... so there we were. "You know," she said munching on the Seven Pepper Salad, "everything about work and business is changing. Just look at all of the empty office space that's available. They're no longer necessary. It's all about connecting with people ... not having them just come to buy what you're selling. People have got to change ... I've got to change the way I go about it all." Taking a bite from Flo's Filet and washing it down with water with Lemon, I stared at her and nodded trying to look professional. "That's why I like you," she said pointing a fork and knife at me, "you keep re-tooling yourself. You're staying ahead." "Except for when I fall behind," I thought to myself. Thinking these things as I made my way home to dive into another day of work, I couldn't help but see the truths in both conversations. Everyone of us is a complicated, God-inspired, individual. We have many layers. If we're ever going to become everything God created us to be then it's up to us to embrace every single personality, nuance, gift, quirk, fault and fallacy that makes us ... US. If we're smart about it then we're forever moving from one layer to the next ... having learned what we could about a piece of ourselves then going to the next ... but never forsaking pulling out an old layer when we need it ... Learning to embrace and use every part of what makes me and what makes you. I have to go and slide into my workaholic personality disorder mode now. There is lots of work to do. After that, I plan to reclaim my adolescent school boy self and chase Sarah around the house for naked pagan sacrifice ceremonies. Then I'll become my Beach Bum self, raising a glass to the ocean and smelling the salt in the air as it sticks to my skin.

Back to work ... Why Not?

"Look at me, I'm self-employed ... I love to work at nothing all day." It's partially true. I am self-employed and would absolutely love to work at nothing all day but it's back to work today. When I was at Union Mission I often ended staff meetings by challenging everyone to "Go create something!" And we did. It was an incredibly talented and committed group of people who believed we could make a difference. There was a culture of creativity where the only legitimate question was "Why not?" We had to take such an approach because it seemed the whole world was against us. Politicians said there wasn't money to help. Preachers said, "The poor will be with you always." Hospitals kept shelters full rather than admit patients without insurance. It just seemed as people just accepted homelessness, AIDS and poverty as facts of life. I often heard the words, "You just can't change it. It's always been that way." We dared to believe differently anyway. If we couldn't come up with answers to the question "Why not?" we went ahead and did it. As a result, thousands of people overcame homelessness, people learned to LIVE with AIDS, and a significant dent was made in the most visible segment of the poor (You could actually walk in the city's squares!). My friend Terry Ball is a lifelong employee of the state of Georgia. Some would call him a bureaucrat and he's a brilliant one! He took the approach that if something made sense he did it ... until someone above him on the org chart told him he couldn't. He made an entire state a better place taking such an approach. I wish there were more like him. For the past couple of years, I've contracted myself out helping others take the "Why Not?" approach to business. This enabled me to visit most of the country ... from Alaska to Santa Barbara ... Cleveland to San Juan and a bunch of places in-between. That's the good news! I traveled a lot. The bad news is I paid more taxes than I've ever paid leaving me with holes in my pockets. Therefore I'm re-tooling this whole self-employed business. Why Not? I mean if I'm doing nothing, I should diversify. So I'm heading to town again today for meetings. I view them as a bunch of tiny coming out parties and who doesn't like a party? I had a good time last week so I may as well do it again. Besides ... we've got a better idea and its time to start telling people about it. OK ... gotta go.

Night Swimming

The white trail of the moon glowed on the ocean while stars danced above. I was swimming in it while Sarah and the girls stood on the beach soaked in sweat from dancing on the Pier. I needed to cool down and it's been forever since I went night swimming so I tossed her my shirt and called out, "Let's join the sharks!" Laurel was with me all of the way ... until I said that about the sharks ... then she decided her Mom needed protection so she stayed on the beach. It was as beautiful as the opening scene from "JAWS". A Beautiful night. An almost full moon. No clouds. Bright stars. A calm ocean. And I was swimming out in warm water, doing the back stroke, and loving it all! The Swinging Medallions were still wailing from the Pier. We'd been dancing with Wen and the girls. Nights on Tybee just don't get any better that what we were having. So I floated in the ocean I love so dearly and thanked my lucky stars. Sometimes words fail you and you can't possibly describe what its like. This is one of those times. And if you've never done it ... then you haven't lived yet.

Acoustic Sunrise

Fran's thousand shades of green are on brilliant display as sunbeams dart in and out of the branches. A choir of cicada loudly sing. The sky is a brilliant blue with only wisps of white. The ocean throws a hint of breeze. There is a holiness to this outdoor sanctuary and I'm certain that God is pleased. It is good. Goddess is watching me carefully now, I suppose anticipating the community that worship is supposed to bring. Winston, the little gay dog, lay under my feet keeping an eye on Goddess. I sit alone on the beloved back deck in appreciation of these things. I think of all of the ways I've celebrated Sundays. Growing up we'd go to the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, home for pot roast and then for a family drive to go see how other people lived. Ed Sullivan concluded the service in those days. When I could drive, Sundays always concluded at the Drive-Inn where I'd hook up with my friends. Ginny and I would place the speakers in the window before ignoring the movie and making out. College was the annual gathering of believers returning to Statesboro after weekends at home. Meeting at the Western Sizzler for the 99 cent Burger Delux we'd tell stories and step back into a world where are our minds were molded. Our virginity was sacrificed on alters of exploration and education. Seminary meant real church where I'd be up early cooking breakfast for the hundred or so homeless people who would crowd into the basement of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. It would be the only meal most would get that day. Then I'd drive the church van around to pick up anyone who wanted to attend the Sunday service. At eleven I'd preach. Later we'd read the New York Times, watch football, and dread the Sunday evening service that no one wanted to attend. Securing home on Tybee Island, Sundays became a day at the beach, afternoon naps, cookouts on decks, and an appreciation for surf, sand and sea. Worship happened outside of walls. These days, Sunday mornings begin with acoustic sunrises. I have time alone. Sarah sleeps in. The kids are grown or gone. Music from the other side of the world streams on the laptop laid out before me. Sometimes we go to Bar Church and sometimes we don't. It is a time of contentment that I enjoy prayerfully. The choir of cicada grow louder in worship. The Holy Spirit blows and Fran's thousand shades of green dance. The Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven as I listen to the still small voice.

It's Saturday on Tybee

Sarah ran a 5K this morning at Fort Pulaski. I had a Screwdriver and cheered her on. She is beautiful ... wearing a white sports bra, tight blue shorts ... she may have been wearing shoes on ... I don't know. I had running shorts on too ... red ones with my black University of Georgia football shirt and flip-flops. "You don't look like you're taking this seriously," Pat Monahan yelled as he stretched. Pat is the Assistant County Manager, a serious runner, and we go way back ... decades back! We partnered on many different projects through the years and I admire the hell out of him. His only draw back is that he is a University of Florida fan. I raised my glass and explained that I was there to support my wife. "Hey Sarah," Dave Paddison said as he strolled up. We chatted for a while as the two of them got ready to run. David and I go back too though his Dad and I are closer. Bob Paddison is a Savannah icon ... a banker during the Civil Rights movement he did all of the right things at the right time in the right place. We helped started the Homeless Authority together. He went on to become a teacher of photography for kids in trouble. Bob's one of my heroes and even if David was unlikeable ... which he's not ... he'd be hard not to love because of his Dad. A cannon fired and the race was off. Finally, I had a few minutes to myself. Turning around a reporter from WTOC was standing in front of me. "How's retirement?" she asked. "It's a lie," I said, "started by a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous." "Jerry Rainy?" she asked. "How did you know?" "I read your blog," she said walking away to cover the Run for Jane. Finishing my drink, I positioned myself to cheer Sarah on when she finished the race. Sure enough, she burst through the woods at a fast clip ... being chased by seven men in full military gear including backpacks. Apparently they were on maneuvers but when Sarah ran by they got new orders and were trying to run her down. Kissing my sweaty wife, she collapsed in the grass to collect herself. After a few moments of sweet release ... with seven sweaty members of the Military hovering nearby, probably trying to figure out if they could take me out so they could take her ... we held hands and strolled to the car. It was 9:30 and the day has already been a full one as we drove back to Tybee Island. And we haven't even gotten to the beloved DAWGS of the University of Georgia yet! Does it get any better than this?

Tomorrow's Taken

Ben looked older than the last time I saw him ... which was the last time we'd had lunch together at Johnny Harris Restaurant, an old Savannah tradition. We were back because he'd called chastising me for not calling him and inviting him to lunch. So I did and there we were yesterday doing it again. I love Ben dearly. Now in his mid-90s, his mind remains as sharp as a tact though his body is giving up the struggle to keep up. His white hair was clombed neatly back, his glasses magnified the intensity of his blue eyes as he fired questions at as though from a machine gun. "What are doing?" "Tell me about Sarah." "When was the last time you talked to Herb?" What about Philip?" "What's going on at Union Mission?" "Why in the hell did they give half of it away?" "You seen the last newsletter? It's terrible." Fortunately, Craig Harney and the folks from WTOC were at the next table. He and I caught eyes and spoke. He's been at the station since he was a baby and now is the behind the scenes (mostly) manager of everything there. A million years ago he did a feature on me and a new approach to ending homelessness in Savannah. When it aired I was critical of it and he put me in my place by saying, "I gave you every chance to make it special and you didn't do anything." I learned a most important lesson about the press and have been grateful to him ever since. The last time I saw Craig was in The Farmer's Daughter's Junkyard in Athens, Georgia. It was right after we'd been to the University of Georgia football game. He's a Dawg. I'm a Dawg. We dawged around. "Who's that?" Ben demanded. I told him. "OK back to what I was asking," he commanded. At which point Cliff McCurry stopped by the table. Cliff is a former Union Mission Board member, runs Seacrest Partners and about half of the other things in Savannah (mostly behind the scenes). "Why are you still here?" I ask. "I'm practicing my packing," he explained while shaking Ben's hand and paying homage. "I thought you'd be in Athens by now," I said. "Leaving now," he said shaking my hand with a grin and leaving. Cliff is also a Dawg and was jumping in his car to head to Athens for tomorrow's kickoff. "He's a good boy," Ben says afterwards. I laugh because Cliff's in his 60s. Age is relative I suppose. "OK," Ben resumed the questioning only to be interrupted again by members of the restaurant staff who wanted to know how we were doing. Over the years we've been there a lot. Sighing, Ben looked at me and said, "We're going to have to get back together soon. I want to know Sarah better. You haven't told me anything." I laughed and asked if he wanted to come to Tybee. "I'll take you to all the honkey-tonks." Grinning, he said, "Maybe so." It won't be tomorrow thought. Ben's also a DAWG. I am too. Tomorrow's taken. Driving Maddie to school this morning she said, "Hey that car is a DAWG." Sure enough the car beside had a UGA sticker on the back windshield. It made me proud because the next generation is coming along nicely. GO DAWGS!

Believing in the Dead

Skip Eloge has his mostly empty Miller Lite Beer bottle hoisted to his lips when I stopped at the corner of the bar he was sitting at placing my hand on his shoulders and fondly calling his name. His entire body tensed and I thought he might shit his pants. It's been a long time since he's seen me so he may have been shocked by my appearance. I look ... happy. He'd never seen me this way. Plus I have an ear ring, shoulder length hair, a black wedding band and was wearing a Sex Wax tee shirt. We were also in Spankey's Southside which is his haunt, not mine ... it's too far from the beach. I'd just finished a boisterous lunch with a group of old time Savannah leadership. I'm just supposed to be dead as far as Skip's concerned. Jerry Rainey told him so therefore it must be true. But there I was as alive, connected and kicking just like always. Then again Skip is afraid of anything outside of his own skin. "Hello Micheal," I heard her say. Turning, I saw that Frances Carter was his lunch time drinking partner. She looked sad and dark as she reached to shake my hand ... like she always does when she has to shake my hand. I can see her thinking, "Dammit! He's still around? He's supposed to be dead? The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous just changed the words ... so that instead of "Jesus loves me this I know" ... it's now "Micheal's dead this I know because I'm the leader and I told you so." Unfortunately, Frances believed him though in fairness to her I know a lot of people who believe in things they shouldn't. Anyway, I have mostly fond memories of them. After Judy the previous CEO of Union Mission sold her soul to selfishness and misappropriated $1.3 Million in money to help the homeless, I hired Skip to replace her. Things were a mess and I was having a difficult time. Betrayal is bitch and I was earning a Ph.D. without having enrolled in the course. But we were fixing things and it was getting better. Frances was the last person I hired at Union Mission. When the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (aforementioned Jerry Rainey called me while I was on vacation to say he and I were just never going to get along) the last thing I fought for was that they keep Frances. He did though she and I never developed any kind of relationship. I did try when I got back from St. Martin but its much easier to believe in the dead. There have been a few times when she's been forced to acknowledge my existence and its never been pretty. I don't pay much attention to her as life as moved on. "How are things going?" I asked her at the bar. "Great!" she said unconvincenly. "Keep it up," I said turning and leaving them there. Walking out into the bright sunshine, I made my way to Sarah who was shopping nearby. Sarah was the last person Frances surprised with hatred. Sarah and I are married now, have really good tans and enjoy creating a new life. It all worked out the way that it's supposed to I guess (for Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous tell me so). We had to go anyway. We had a business meeting in the Corporate Headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises and our partners were waiting. On the agenda was a list of all of the people in Savannah that I need to meet with over the next several weeks and those have already begun taking place. They are just going to increase. I mean if you believe ... then the dead are not always neatly put away. Stones can be rolled away. People can come back from the dead. It's always shocking when it happens. See you all soon.

Cut Off

Sometimes things just go bump in the night. Last night was one of those nights. After getting home from school the girls were all in radically different moods so the Beef Brisket, Mac and Cheese and salad that I'd prepared for dinner was received in different ways. Madison covered her plate in ketchup and sour cream. Laurel fell asleep in her hers though Cassidy ate everything on the table. I needed an after dinner break so Goddess and I strolled along the Back River. Then Winston, the little dog of very suspicious lineage, needed a walk. Cassidy wanted to help so we made our way to the sad little holy dock and sat there talking. The tide was high, the marsh grass covered and we laughed and made plans. When it was time to leave, she grabbed Winston and sprinted for home. Goddess and I meandered. Back home I was reminded of how loud three girls can be so I went outside to trim the weeds that grow in a sub-tropical climate. As I did so, I promptly severed the Fiber Optic line that brings the phone and Internet High Speed connection to our house. It was hidden under weeds I tenderly care for every day. We are now disconnected from the world ... which really isn't all that bad when you are forced to stop and think about it. No emails, phone calls, Instant messages, Friend Requests or ability to go to ESPN, the Weather Channel or see what's happening at Landover Baptist Church in Freeport, Iowa. The sun's popped out this morning, the girls are school, and Sarah's wearing a really tight short cut dress. I am suddenly busy making plans. This may not be such a bad thing at all! "Business first," I tell myself and place the call to AT&T. It takes an hour and a half as I punch buttons for three different automated voices before talking to MS. WOODS (she was very loud), then Swaquenta (very nice) and finally Fransnetta (who was the most helpful of all and even left me her personal phone number should I need anything else). So you're probably asking yourself, "Mike, if you're cut off from the world, sitting on the beach, with Sarah wearing a tight short skirt ... how in the hell do I know this?" It's an excellent question. Ooops ... just lost the Internet service I was hacking.