Another Holy Party

Most of the civilized world spend Sunday evenings at Church ... at home watching 60 Minutes or football ... eating leftovers ... getting ready to start a new week at work. Not on Tybee Island! We have parties. I'm uncertain if we're celebrating the end of a week or the beginning of another but the focus is definitely on merriment. The island's population really turns out for a party. So while the Baptists were having Sunday night service, the rest of us went to Huc-a-Poos, a mostly outdoor pizza place with a really good bar, flat screen televisions, a Hippie ambiance complete with swirling smoke, and yep ... where everybody knows your name ... unless they're trying to remember it at the moment. The place is a perpetual party ... a moveable feast that never moves ... where someone wakes up every morning wondering why they're still there. A couple of weeks ago, Frank Shuman died while he was on the water which is where he liked to be anyway. Deaths are not really all that great and Frank's left his wife Jamie and son here on the island while he swam down to Atlantis. Frank was a fixture on the island so Tybee did what it does best ... threw a hell of a party for Jamie! Tybee is a place where everyone is running to ... or from ... something. Half the island can afford to live here while the other half struggles, somehow managing in ways that make you believe in God, even if you don't. Most of the parties on the island have fund raising associated with them. Lots of folks don't have insurance, retirement or a savings account. Along with the sand and the salt air is a concern for others that continuously manifests itself. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you is how somebody said it. At The Poo we concocted our own version of Tybee Idol. Lots of alcohol and swirling smoke was involved. Pizza was also consumed. Tons of people were present dressed, or not, in every manner of clothing ... including saran wrap. Contestants stood and sang while the audience stood or stumbled to throw dollars at them. Jamie was the recipient of all of the dollars. The competitors were all fabulous! Most dressed for the song ... or not. The magnificent Joanie Woodcock won and apparently received a midget kitten as her prize. I'm not sure what she sang but it was great! Our friend Sean got it all on film so Joanie will be more viral than she already is soon. Sarah and I were sitting in the back with Wen, watching Jodee and Cheryl who were ... really enjoying themselves! Al ... who had combed his hair for the first time in a couple of years was also sitting with us. Roma and Essie were commandeering the microphone from time to time. At one point, all of the children were asked to leave the audience. Somewhere in all of this, I took a moment. Staring at what was happening around me, on a Sunday night when the holy ones were in church, I wondered who the sanctified really are? Is it those praying in behind their stained glass or those doing unto others? It was a wonderful instant and a line from a Billy Joel song popped into my head. I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. The sinners are much more fun. So while we had a holy party, the Baptist continued doing what they do best ... praying for everybody who weren't with them.

Family Fun and Football

Having slept in a million hotel rooms, I'm used to the idiosyncrasies of the major chains. If you're on the road a lot you develop preferences for where you want to stay. I'm partial to Courtyard by Marriott and most of the higher end places. I prefer places with restaurants, bars and lots of common places. I like the newspaper delivered at the door and a coffee shop to read it in. I want windows with a view and interesting places to walk nearby. I've stayed in some hotells so often ... in Atlanta, Pittsburgh, and Washington D.C. ... where the staff knows me on site. For the most part, I've traveled to these places alone. This time I am with three little girls whose hotel activities are much different. Immdiately upon entering the room, they start jumping on the beds until I tell them to stop. They steal all of the shampoo, conditioner and body lotion in the bathroom. The television is LOUDLY set on the Disney Channel where inexpecibly "The Nanny" is on. (I thought they stonned that woman in a New York City park a few years ago!) They stand on their head, do cartwheels across the floor and get in fights over who has which pillow. All of this occurs within four minutes of opening the door. We go out for dinner because I'm afriad if we stayed the room would be utterly destroyed and I would be held personally liable. Today I rise early to make my way to the coffee shop and to read the news. It is still dark and everyone is asleep. As soon as I open the bathroom door, Laurel is standing in front of me holding her blanket. "Can I go with you?" I have to stand in the dark while she takes fifteen minutes to get ready. Apparently she is having a difficult time making up her mind on what to wear because she turns the light on and off repeatedly. Of course this wakes her sister who screams, "STOP IT! I'm trying to sleep!" which in turn wakes her other sister. Sarah appears to sleep through it all. We leave the room and make our way downstairs. I get coffee. She gets hot chocolate. I turn on the computer and find the sports page to read about today's game. "I'm bored," she says. "What are we going to do?" "I'm going to drink coffee. You're going to drink Hot Chocolate." "I want to get on the treadmill," she exclaims. And she does ... with her Hot Chocolate. As a previous survivor of parenthood, I ignore her and sip my coffee. In no time at all she's bored again and tells me she wants to go back to the room. I tell her no. She tells me yes. This repeats itself for a couple of hundred times until I open the door to the dark room and unleash her on her sleeping sisters and Mom. I decide this is a good time to take a walk. It's a beautiful morning in Athens, Georgia. In just a bit we'll make our way towards the Stadium and tailgate at my son's place. It is one of those rare occassions when all of my children and I will be together. Chelsea arrived last night and is already at Jeremy's. Kristen arrives later today. Other friends are already here or will be arriving shortly. It's a night game so its a day full of fun, food, drink and football. "Does Jeremy have Sponge Bob?" I was asked. "Hell no," I lovingly reply. It's going to be a great day. Everybody's up and excited. In another ten hours, there will be a football game. I tell myself to go check on Sarah. She's probably up by now.

The Total Pagan Entertainment Package

Sitting mostly naked at my desk in the corporate conference room on the top floor of Micheal Elliott Enterprises, the phone rings. This is not something that I'm accustomed to anymore.I wonder where the phone is? I have no idea. Last night Pete Kuntz called from Mexico but I never made it to the phone in time so I just heard his voice mail. I am intensely involved in research at the moment and don't need the distractions. Laurel is having Greek celebration day at school and is wearing a Laurel on her head which cracks me up. She also is wearing a toga! In her head wish I'd worn more togas when I was in school. Laurel with the laurel on her head asked me to cook her a Greek breakfast this morning and I don't have a clue what the ancient Greeks ate for breakfast so I've Googled it. It turns out they had barley bread dipped in wine with a garnish of fig. I've always liked the ancient Greeks, much more than the Romans. The Romans wanted to conquer everything and invented military uniforms, structured Government and pax Romana, which is formation of the legal profession. It's easy to not like the Romans. The Greeks invented the Olympics and in the original games all of the competitions occurred in the nude. Now that was a sight to see! I think the Olympics have gone to hell since the Greeks ran them and Nike took over. The phone keeps ringing so I get out of my chair and stare at it. It's Sarah so I answer. "You didn't answer your cell phone so I called you on this one," she explains. "I don't know where my cell phone is," I tell her. "It's on the desk," she says. "Oh," I reply. That was pretty much the conversation. Returning my mostly nude self to my chair at the conference room table in the penthouse of corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises, I resume my research. "The original Olympics," says the article, "was the total pagan entertainment package." "There where sacrifices and rituals would take up as much time as the sports. And there were all these peripheral things that came with the festival: the artistic happenings, new writers, new painters, new sculptors. There were fire-eaters, palm readers, and prostitutes" (see http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/08/0809_040809_nakedolympics.html). Getting up again, I go find the phone again and call Direct TV". After pressing seven buttons I'm finally connected to Rashtonia who seems very nice. "Yes," I explain. "I would to upgrade my subscription to include the total pagan entertainment package." Laurel with the laurel and I can watch it tonight.

Stalled off shore

Wet clouds hang low as a storm is stalled off shore. It was churning over the sea, throwing rain and wind haphazardly until it hit the beach and, like a lot of us, decided to stop. The misty haze is swirling and the sun playfully darts in and out of them. It is a good day for melancholy. All of the windows are now open so the inside feels like the outside which is a pretty good description of melancholy. Transparency happens. A detached objectivity is achieved so that you see things as though you're floating above, like those stories of people who die and hover over their bodies. It's not that I'm unhappy or don't have a full life. I do. It's quite enjoyable and I'm loving the many gifts I have. Last night, after dinner, I'm sitting in the Life Guard stand with sandy bare feet dangling. Cassidy plays in the sand laughing. Maddie's lusting after a surfer. The ocean is glass though there's enough waves for the dude to stand upright on his board which delighted Maddie so she jerks out her cell phone to tell her friends. "Oh my God," she squeals. "He is so cute." The sun just sits on billows of clouds shooting brilliant red lights into the sky. Sitting there, I raise my glass and toasts God. "You do really good work most of the time," I said out loud as both girls ignore me as they were in their own worlds. "There are some things I wonder about but tonight ... it just doesn't get any better than this." God didn't say anything back but the brilliant display of lights made me think about ... Joey Finch. Joey and I grew up together and he lives in Key West. He's forever taking pictures of the rock in the Gulf Stream where he lives and posting them on line. I love Key West and had I found it earlier in my life, I would still be living there. Sarah and I are desperately planning a trip to visit Joey and the island. I'm dying to go and show the girls islands really are the best way to live. The sun decides to wake up and throws the clouds off. The brightness is blinding. I snap pictures of the happiness around me and the gifts that God drips down. The moon is brilliant sliver standing off to the side admiring God's red glow. This morning I still have one foot stuck in last night. Sometimes you just can't appreciate all that you've got enough.

Linkendin and me

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with the small roar of the waves in the distance, the sun has covered itself with a blanket of purple clouds. The Indigo Girls strum guitars and harmonize in the background. For the first time in months, I wear a tee-shirt because Fran’s thousand shades of green are playfully throwing the ocean breeze on me. Winston, the little gay dog, plays at my bare feet dangling from the High Top chair as Goddess snores underneath the Hibiscus plants. I am intensely working on my Linkedin account. Actually I have two and I’m trying to figure out how to eliminate one. Years ago I started one when I was still at Union Mission. I’d always in front of the curve ball of the digital age having bought the www.unionmission.org domain way before we had any idea what web pages would become. When Linkendin came, I immediately jumped on board. Then I left Union Mission and the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey …had all my passwords changed and I no longer have access to my accounts. So there is Linkendin profile showing me as President & CEO of Union Mission which I haven’t been for almost three years now and I can’t do anything about it. Of course, I created a current one which is true testimony to what I’m doing these days. “Why in the hell should anybody care about Linkendin anyway?” I asked Liz Wu at a meeting in Memphis last week. Liz was with her boss Mac Prichard and Prichard Communicaiton Portland, Oregon managing social media for companies in several states. Pretty with long black hair and of Asian descent, Liz looked at me as if I were an idiot. This is understandable as I was wearing flip flops, faded blue jeans and the same tee shirt I’m wearing now (Blue Moon Party at Marlin Monroe’s made by our friends from Latitude 32. Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary once a month at Marlin’s under a full moon because that’s when we got married.). Nevertheless, she and Mac had to take me serious because I was introducing them. “Well,” she said as she admired my tee shirt, “Linkendin is important because the business community wants its own social media platform to be professionally segregated from the mass media drive engines of Face Book, Twitter, Google Community and other such venues because business communication is different from personal communication.” I make a mental note to send Liz a Marlin Monroe tee shirt. Mac too! He went to Harvard and isn’t the snappiest dresser in the world so he probably needs a couple. After being educated … and chastised … by Liz and Mac, I’m now paying serious attention to Lindenin collecting a couple of hundred contacts. It’s always interesting to see who accepts you and who isn’t in a hurry or doesn’t at all. It reminds me when I was in elementary school and slipped Beth Morgan, who played Dell Evans to my Roy Rogers, a note. “Do you like me? Check one: Yes? No? Maybe?” (She did but I digress.) “Hey,” Mike Hosti yelling out as I entered Tybee Market to get some things for dinner, “I got your Lindendin request but I don’t know what the hell to do with it. I’m still trying to figure all of that stuff out. It just strikes me as funny. We live two blocks from each other and we’re going to talk on Lindendin?” “Yeah,” I replied shrugging my shoulders while throwing green beans, fried French onions and Campbell’s Cream of Mushoom soup on the belt. “It sucks,” he says. “Why can’t we just get together?” “Its business,” I reply, swiping the credit card across the digital transaction. “I know,” he says while shrugging his own shoulders. “Alright, let’s go to work,” he concludes walking away. “Yep,” I say. These days you need every edge you can get. The economy is in the tank and apparently not going anywhere soon. So I’m back into Linkendin and Mike and I are going to communicate … even though we’re only two blocks away from one another.

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.