You're Never Too Old

"Sir, your Dad is missing from the Nursing Home," the caller explains.

"Oh?' Neil asks with a sigh.

"Yes Sir, it appears he left in his Golf Cart."

"Yeah," Neil explains, "he can't drive anymore so we got rid of his car. It almost killed him so I got him the Golf Cart."

"It seems he may be on a date in it."

"He's 89 years old," Neil exclaims.

"Another resident missed curfew. Mrs. Bodie is 67 resident in the main building."

"He's out with a younger woman?" Neil is smiling.

"Sir, this is serious. You need to find your father and Mrs. Bodie if she's with him. She has a medical condition that merits continued supervision."

"Okay," Neil sighs fishing for his truck keys and rushing outside on a chilly Wilmington Island night.

Two miles later he finds the Golf Cart abandoned in the parking lot of "Gilligan's Party Beverage Center" with no sign of his father or Mrs. Bodie.

"They can't be far," Neil says out loud and heads across the street towards the nearest bars.

They're not in Basils or Cancun's so Neil parks, heaves himself out of the pickup and meanders into "Molly McGuire's" where he discovers his father and Mrs. Bodie having drinks along with a good time.

It's almost midnight.

"Ummm Dad, we have to go."

"What's wrong with us kids having a good time every once in a while," the 89 year old snaps taking a puff from his cigar.

"Yeah," Mrs. Bodie slurs sipping her Cosmopolitan.

"Look," Neil explains with his hands in his pockets trying to not laugh, "they can get you for kidnapping. Mrs. Bodie's confined to campus."

"Bastards," he old man puffs.

"Here's what we're going to do," Neil presses. "You and your date finish your drinks, then I'm going to drive you to your Golf Cart and I'm going to tie it to the truck and pull you back to the Nursing Home. It's cold so Mrs. Bodie will sit in the cab with me. You'll have to sit in the Golf Cart to hit the breaks when I stop."

The old man blows smoke in his son's face.

But that's what happens.

When Neil told me this story, I laughed my ass off.

His Dad claims to have no recollection whatsoever of that night.

And Mrs. Bodie can't corroborate because she died peacefully two months later.

The point of the story is ... you're never too old to do what you're supposed to do ... no matter what they say.

The Principal's Office

I tired to stay focused on his nose.

It was a beak nose sitting in the middle of a long narrow face, with black hair greased back in the style of the older folks in those days ... lots of Brylcreem. His blue and black checkered suit was rumbled and hung on his six foot skinny frame.

Gene Prevatt and I were sitting on the other side of his desk in the Principal's office of Groves High School were we had made the grievous error of duct taping Mrs. Johnson's English class in her room.

The door opened to the inside so it was pretty funny when the tenth grade class rushed out as the bell rung while Mrs. Johnson screamed the homework assignments.

The fastest students ran right into the door of duct tape and bounced back into the second wave of slower students.

Principal Andrews was asking what we knew about the incident.

Gene locked guilty because he looked at the floor.

I remained zoned on Mr. Andrews beaked nose.

It would have been an immediate death sentence to look him in the eyes ... because one forever strayed to the right and the other to the left.

There was no way to look the man straight in the eyes.

Gene continued to stare at the floor and I was focusing so hard on his beaked nose I was starting to sweat which, of course, Mr. Andrews took as a sign of me cracking under pressure.

"Mr. Elliott," he said clearing his throat, "did either you or Mr. Prevatt bring duct tape to school with you today?"

It's hard to shake your head from side to side and remain focused on a nose when wild eyes are bouncing in every direction.

"He did," Gene announces now staring at his fingernails.

"What?" I exclaim.

"Mr. Prevatt," the Principal says. "Please proceed."

"We both had to bring duct tape for Shop Class," Gene explains. "But it was stolen from my locker."

Mr. Andrews shakes his head which is like trying to watch marbles bounce at the same time.

"It was," I offer remaining intensely focused on the beak nose. "I gave mine to Gene for safe keeping and it was stolen from his locker."

"And how do you know it was stolen?" Mr. Andrews presses looking somewhere pass Gene and it was at this point that he faltered.

Every so quickly Gene stole a glance at the Principal seeing the eyes looking at both his ears but not meeting his own eyes.

Gene busted out laughing.

Which of course made me bust out laughing.

Mr. Andrews found nothing funny in the room.

"Mr. Elliott," the Principal finally snaps, "do you have anything to add?"

"Yes sir," I say wiping tears from my eyes. "It wasn't me."

"Well it wasn't me," Gene quickly added.

"I see," Mr. Andrews concludes while staring off into another Universe.

We spent the rest of the day sitting there with Mr. Andrews until the 3:00 bell rang and he had to let us go.

Mrs. Johnson waited outside the office when we exited.

"You did it," she bellows, blond hair askew from frustration and the school's limited air conditioning system.

"Did what?" Gene says.

"It wasn't me," I add.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Faith Based Politics

T.D. Jakes ... Pat Roberson ... James Roberson ... W. A. Criswell ... Ernest Angley ... Kenneth Copeland ... Charles Stanley ... Joel Osteen ...

I've been in the same room with each of these ... "Professional Christians" who make ungodly amounts of money promoting God.

They all looked nice with perfect hair, really white teeth and their socks never ... EVER ... slipped below their calves when they sat in the pulpit.

Aside from W. A. Criswell, who I was forced to listen butcher the Bible at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, a once great institution which now regularly butchers the Bible, I saw or met the rest at President George W. Bush's "Faith Based Summit" which I was inexpiably invited.

Held in the Library of Congress, the food was really good though no alcohol was served, all of the famous preachers shook one another's hands exclaiming, "I think we finally have our boy in the White House," and Phil Driscoll played both "Amazing Grace" and "God Bless America" on the trumpet.

I had a hard time fitting in.

I wore blue jeans, a white shirt with a blue tie and a grey corduroy coat ... "The Kroger Bag Boy" look ... and had really long hair.

Congressman Jack Kingston invited me to "represent" his district and Natalie Jayroe was so pissed off she wasn't invited she launched a campaign with Jack's office which finally relented and got her a pass too.

She was as appalled as I was at the blatant ass kissing in which the Republicans and the Preachers were engaging.

"You're a volunteer," I told her. "Not a victim."

She rolls her eyes with no defense.

When it was finally over, I wandered out into the parking lot where James Robertson and T.D. Jakes stood between their Limos talking passionately about the President and how God's time is finally unveiling itself and how happy they are to be part of the Kingdom coming on earth as it is in Heaven.

Making my way to the Washington Hotel, I rode the elevator to the outdoor bar on top with it's incredible views of the Capitol and ordered a glass of wine.

"Religions in the hands of crazy ass people," I sang along with Jimmy Buffett in my head. "Television preachers with bad hair and dimples,  the God's honest truth is it's not that simple ..."

Yep.

I'm glad I got to go though.

It was fascinating and I wouldn't wish the pompousness on anybody.

When I went I'd already quit being a "Professional Christian", now a volunteer for love and the only thing I get in return is ... occasionally love's given back.

But that's all Jesus promised in the first place.

The Secret of Raising Girls

"Hey Mike," he says leaning over the counter at "The Breakfast Club." "Who was that girl with you the other day?"

Incredulously I stare at the young stud.

"She's really hot," he continues.

Franklin, who is brown, laughs behind the young stud watching how I am going to respond.

"Ummmm," I finally say grabbing his arm a little too tightly, "She's twelve. Stay away from her."

His eyes grow wide as he stammers apologies.

"No f-ing way," he starts poorly. "I mean I didn't know. Oh Jesus, I'm sorry."

Franklin is howling as the young stud runs to the back to distance himself as far from me as possible.

Whitley Reynolds, a fellow member of "Counter Intelligence", shakes his head and with a sad smile says, "You get to do all of this again don't you?"

Sighing, it strikes me for the first time that I do.

Sarah has three girls and it appears each will follow in her genetic footprints and be drop dead gorgeous ... meaning they will be hit on sooner rather than later and I'm going to have a front row seat ... which will force me to take occasional action.

I am a survivor of raising two beautiful girls already ... and it never occurred to me until young stud inquired about 12 year old Maddie that I'll be put in the middle of would be suitors and wanna-be suit-ees ... until now.

I'm frond of telling people I'm a "Kristen survivor" and my support group of one meets often.

My oldest daughter had lots of suitors.

Once she brought one over and started to introduce me.

"Ummm," I hold up my hand before she can tell me his name. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sure you're nice. But you won't be here next week so let's save me the trouble of acting like I'm going to remember your name."

"DAD!" Kristen shrieks.

"Am I wrong?" I say ignoring the boy and looking at my beautiful daughter who suddenly doesn't have a come back.

"Okay then, let's just enjoy dinner shall we?"

I never saw the boy again because Kristen replaced him for not making a positive impression on her father.

All that to say, I've been around the block raising beautiful girls.

Alas, I get to do it again when their mother's not around.

When Sarah's around I can kick back and enjoy the emerging raging hormones, the awkward behavior of emerging sexual awareness and the mixture of being desired while desiring but too dumb to know how to handle it.

That will be fun because Sarah will be in charge and I can simply enjoy all of the awkwardness.

But when she's not around, I'll be forced into damn-if-you-and damned-if-you-don't action.

If I don't do anything, leaving Maddie to her own devices, which will be fun as Hell to watch, I'll get in lots of trouble with Sarah for not protecting her from boys ... and herself.

While it would be a lot of fun immediately, in the end it would be unpleasant for me to not intervene.

Meaning Sarah will kick my ass.

So I'll intervene and cut it off before it can grow.

Maddie will introduce me to someone and I'll say, "It really doesn't matter who you are ... you'll be somebody else next week ... let's just enjoy dinner ... shall we?"

And that's the secret to raising beautiful girls.

An Angel's Got to do what an Angel's got to do

"Damn your legs are white," I say with my feet propped on the back rail.

Her robe is hiked all the way to her crotch and her legs are pasty.

"I'm working on it," she slurs after taking a long drawl from her Tall Boy Pabst Blue Ribbon with a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and a shot glass in her other hand.

"I figured Angels would be tan," I offer. "I mean you're closer to the sun and all. Plus it's a pretty sheer robe you wear ... don't you just tan through it?"

"Turn up the Buffett," she shoots so I hit the keyboard and Jimmy sings "Creola."

"Yes," she continues out of nowhere, "we can tan through our robes but not like your tan through Speedos."

"You mean you have limited wardrobe options in Heaven?"

"Why do you think Catholic girls wear uniforms?" she snaps. "It's an outdated dress code but the friggin' Apostles are a bunch of old white men and they like their tradition."

"So male Angels wear white shirts and ties?"

"Think Jehovah Witness," she replies , "or Ernest Angley."

"No Shit," I blurt.

"Shit," she says.

Buffett moves on to "Floridays" and she says, "I'm glad you're back ... it's good to be home. Did Sarah have a good time?"

"We did," I reply taking a sip of my own beer. "Ireland's a wonderful place. We had fun."

"Good," she says taking another drawl from her Tall Boy.

"You would have fit right in," I continue. "White people are whiter there than other places."

"Shut up," she snaps.

"Fine," I say reapplying suntan lotion.

Another cigarette magically appears in her mouth.

"Don't you have someone to save today?" I ask. "Sarah and I plan on taking her folks and the girls to the beach and it would be awkward to have my Guardian Angel with us."

"Nope," she says stretching her skinny pasty white legs.

"Jimmy Cochran?" I press.

"Do not bring him up," she fires. "Or his mother."

"Alright," I say standing up to go check on Sarah. "Well you can't go to the beach with us."

"I'll watch the dogs," she says taking another shot of bourbon.

"That'd be great," I smile.

"Goddess and I get along just fine," she says with a smile.

"Are you telling me that Angels do pot?"

"God lets us only fly so high," she sighs. "Sometimes an Angel's gotta do what an Angel's got to do."

"Hmmm," I humph with no idea how to respond.

The first thing Gail does after opening the south end convenient store is feed the cats.

They jump on the back of her red pick up truck or on the bench in front to eat and Gail sits with them, tenderly wishing the feral cats a good morning while scratching their backs.

Most mornings she opens early because she knows customers will be desperate for coffee, cigarettes or beer so they can face another day.

They stumble inside pouring themselves a cup or ordering at the counter before stumbling out to the bench or the plastic table and chairs set up on the sidewalk where she joins them to chat or sit in silence staring at cigarette smoke.

Most look as though they slept outside or haven't made it home yet though Michael Bart sits in the middle looking dapper and cheerful greeting all who join this fractured community.

Rick, the surfer dude, glides in on his skate board with his dog for orange juice as the sun bubbles out of the sea.

Tourists load up on Twinkies and powdered doughnuts to cart back to their hotel rooms.

Rosco rides his bike up the street for the morning newspaper before rushing to the ocean to snap a morning photograph to post on Facebook, his morning greeting from the Beach.

"Hey Rev," Gail mutters as I wander inside.

"Val and Ryno," I say in reply and she reaches up for two Salem Lights and a box of Parliaments.

"They busy yet," she asks.

"The Breakfast Club's always busy," I shrug.

"You been sick," she says.

"I was," I smile at her concern "but I'm better now."

"It can kill you," she says handing me the cigarettes and taping an index finger on my hand, "you sure you okay?"

"I'm good," I affirm and she nods without smiling.

"Morning Micheal," Michael Bart cheerfully wishes.

"Hey Mike," I smile as I make my way outside to make deliveries to the Breakfast Club hearing the others hack and spit as they sip coffee or beer.

It's very Church like, I think to myself. A rag tag collection of people trying to survive into another day and holding on to one another for dear life to get started.

And Gail's the High Priestess ... the Christ figure caring for cats and feral people ... and at least for a moment giving each of them a place to find their footing ...  as the sun climbs into the sky ... and the world will do what it will to us all.

Celebrating Patriots

I remain a lover of old bookstores.

To hell with electronic books that have no smell of fresh print, no crackling of the binding or the lavish ceremony of writing your name after you've made the purchase for your library.

These remain part of the experience of reading and to open a book without them is akin to losing your virginity with a mannequin.

Sarah and I are strolling down the quaint streets of Killarney, Ireland when we discover it's Bookshop and immediately lose ourselves in its sweet pleasures.

It's an ancient bookstore with rolling ladders to reach the top shelves, a bowtie clad clerk and the smell of wisdom, folly, secrets and hidden delights.

The aroma is a written incense that's intoxicating and erotic.

My wife loses herself in one section and I another.

There are only a handful of American titles ... no Grisham or David Baldacci or other glorifiers of death and bad government ... though Hemingway's here and England's great Graham Greene ... and Irish authors of whom I've never heard.

My interest naturally draws me to a section of Irish writers and the Holy Spirit leads me to pick up "Confessions of an Irish Rebel" by Brendan Behan and standing there in the aisle I read the forward.

A member of the Irish Republican Army when the British ruthlessly ruled the Emerald Island,
charging them rent to live on their own land, Brendan wrote plays, books, shot at the English Police and became famous before dying at the tender age of 41.

Immediately I like him and have to know more.

Instinctively I knew he is of my elk. Che Guevara, Leonardo Boff, Harvey Cox, Gandhi, Frederick Buechner and such are my favorites and Brendan Behan can obviously hang with such Rebels.

Now I'm sitting on the beloved back deck, basking in the sunshine, learning the life of a fascinating Rebel who dearly loved his country and fought the oppression of British Tyranny with the most marvelous sense of humor.

Opening the book I can smell Ireland, holding it close to my nose to inhale deeply the soul of a patriot who died before victory was his.

On this American Memorial Day, I raise a glass to the Patriots ... not just the American soldiers ... but everyone who believed and gave their all for freedom in whatever time and whatever country.

Some things transcend nationalism, something the United States struggles to understand, and freedom ... be of speech, worship, want or fear ... or above all the Free Will that God gave us all ... is the thing that should primarily be remembered today.      

My favorite time of year

It's great to be back  in my temperate zone.

Someone's said that you forever lo

ve the weather of the month you were born.

Sarah was born in May and in many ways reflects Spring; the dying of winter, the coming of new blooms, fresh air sweeping out the old and an emerging warming of things once cold.

I was born in July and everything about me shows it.

I love open windows, ceiling fans, lit grills, everything in full bloom at once, and the sun casting thousands of diamonds on the morning sea.

I love beach walks with Sarah, setting up camp in the sand for all the kids, body surfing, searching for shark's teeth and taking one last look from the crosswalk as we make our way home from a day on the beach.

I love music from the Pier at night, sitting on the back deck talking or listening, Palm Trees dancing in the breeze, seagulls squawking and the splash Pelicans make when they hit the water.

I love boat drinks, beer and wine, a constant stream of beach music, live bands, crowds with good vibes and I love to dance with Sarah.

I love watching kids play in the surf, families fish in the waves, boys look at girls and girls look at boys as they troll the beach,

I love Sarah's girls drawing with chalk on the drive way, water fights in the yard, the fact they always miss a spot with the sunscreen and using every single towel in the house when we get home from the beach.

I love shooting stars, the roar of the waves at High Tide, hot dogs with mustard and onion, grilled shrimp and potato chips.

I love Sarah in her bikini.

And I love that tomorrow's a holiday and we get to do it all again because it's summer.

Summer time's here.

My favorite time of year.

Winston's Politics

Winston, the Little Gay Dog, is wearing a black wife beater tee shirt with pink letters reading, "Homo-Land Security: Keeping America safe from Politicians, Preachers, and other Poachers."

He and I are sunning on the back porch.

Goddess is passed out inside somewhere with Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat.

Sarah's off running a race and the girls are lounging around inside so Winston, TLGD, and I are just enjoying the quiet morning sunshine.

All three of them went Ape shit crazy when we returned from Ireland but everything's settled into our normal routine.

Winston, TLGD, is pretty vain and likes working on his tan with me in the mornings which is cool.

He's taken an intense interest in politics lately and likes to discuss the various humorous escapades and acts of idiocy by our elected officials.

He's started a scrap book of his favorite politicians running for office time around and Winston, TLGD, is showing it to me.

"Lawless for Judge" is the first and I smirk.

"Young Boozer for Treasurer," is the next.

"Are these real names" I ask?

"Young Boozer's from Alabama," Winston, TLGD, explains.

"Of course," I nod.

Flipping the page, the next campaign sigh reads, "Krystal Ball for Congress."

"You think she already knows if she's won?" I ask.

Winston, TLGD, shrugs.

"Schumuck for Police Chief," is the next one.

"Aren't they all?"

Winston, TLGD, nods.

"That's depressing," I say getting up to fix another glass of sparkling water with lemon juice.

Slamming the scrap book shut, Winston, TLGD, rolls over to tan his belly.

Shaking my head, I take my seat again and sigh.

"Let's just enjoy this holiday weekend shall we?"

Winston, TLGD, gives me a high paw.

A Day to Enjoy

Getting sick forces you to face your mortality.

I happen to have lots of friends experiencing this at the same time, each diagnosed with some form of cancer and each fighting to live knowing there is a finality to this life as we know it.

Amber's been in treatment for over a year now. Wanda just had a mastectomy. Gyni got a crew cut in front of his students. Guy turns his treatment into thoughtful sermons to lift the rest of us while he's down.

My morning ritual is to focus on each of them, conjuring up their faces and sending them prayers, good Karma and whispers of love.

I wish there was more I could do but for now that seems all.

Now I have pneumonia and while that's not cancer it does give me pause.

I take a shit load of medicine, drink gallons of water, hate the breathing treatments because they make me cough to spit up the infection and that hurts like Hell.

Of course my prognosis is good and I feel alright most of the time so, while I know the Grim Reaper can show up anywhere and anytime, I'm not too worried.

Such times force you to evaluate your life and ask if you've done everything you've wanted or needed.

Never one to wait, I've experienced lots of things, seen wishes come true, lived dreams, and while I've had my fair share of heartbreak and tragedy, I still want more.

I don't wait until the time is right to do things because there's only NOW as far as I'm concerned.

Sitting here healing, I'm thankful each of my friends are still here, pretty happy I am too, enjoying a brilliant blue sky, choirs of birds singing Hymns of Praise, bathed in warm sunshine, watching flowers bloom, on an island full of friends, at a house full of love.

Memorial Day weekend is time to remember the things we've lost but also a celebration of the life we have and I'm doing both this weekend!

To the losses I say thanks. As difficult and as painful as you were, in spite of the scars I carry because of you, I'm still here, stronger and wiser because of your inflictions.

To the life I have now I celebrate as I never have before, incredibly thankful just to be here, surrounded with people who've more than demonstrated love for me, in a place I love, with Sarah and with plans to enjoy more of this life before the time to face whatever it is that comes next.

Happy Day Everyone!

It's yours to enjoy!

Blogging in sick

I have a note from Sarah that I'm too sick to blog today.

It's not like the notes I gave to my teachers at Groves High School from my mother but, honest to God Sarah wrote it.

We're in the town of Westport where great things have happened but I'll have to tell you about them tomorrow.

I just got up from a 13 hour sleep ... something I'd never previously achieved.

It wasn't great sleep because I had hacking, coughing and spitting the whole time.

Sarah tried to kill me twice.

That's it.

Finishing my coffee and going back to bed.

I'm supposed to play with the boys in the band again tonight and got to get ready.

Times of Trouble

"I've passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks," but I'm back to normal today as we leave Westport to make our way to Dublin.

We on a bus with two dozen friends, old and new, and most everyone has been sick at one time or another over the ten days we've bounced around the entire southern coast.

We made two stops at Irish medical clinics where there is no waiting, the doctor is friendly, payment is 45 Euro for the visit and health care access here beats the Hell out of the crazy system we have in the states.

The Irish have a pride in their country that America lacks too. 

In the Pubs, bands sing the old songs and everyone joins in.

Outsiders are welcome and the first question is "Where ye from?"

"Georgia," I reply.

"I know but two things about it," the leader of the band smiles. "A man got very famous because of peanuts and there's a nice Golf tournament there."

"How do ye get famous from peanuts?" someone yells.

"He became their President," is the answer.

"Did he play Golf?"

"No."

"That's why he was a terrible President then."

Then they launch into a 15 minute song with lots of interaction with the extremely crowded Pub.

Ireland is more playful than Americans are in spite of its wretched history, British occupation and the constant chance of rain.

The people here are extremely proud that they have reached peace between Catholics and Protestants and, though deeply committed to their respective faiths. they acknowledge the value of the other.

St. Patrick was not a Catholic, I am told. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland but there was no Church. He was not Protestant either. He was for all.

No one here is as rushed either.

People sleep late. Shops don't open until noon. Meals take more than an hour. There are no "To-Go" cups here. Everyone takes time with everyone else.

And Ireland sits in the middle of the Gulf Stream and its green countryside if covered with Tropical colors.

Everyone drinks Guinness.

I'm struck this morning that America could learn a lot from the Irish.

We've helped them in times of trouble.

Maybe someday we'll be open to them returning the favor. 

Today's Plan

It's great to be back in the outdoor office after international travel.

The only knock I have on the magic of Ireland is it's cold.

I understand why the Irish spend so much time in Pubs drinking Guinness and Jameson singing songs and dancing. They're trying to stay warm.

I hate cold with everything in me.

Clad in black running shorts, sitting on the beloved back deck watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the ocean breeze, I'm baptizing myself in the sunshine.

Diagnosed with cold weather infirmities I'm drugged up, drinking loads of "Sparkling Water" and listening to Beach music convinced that healing begins with the mind.

Believe it and it will come true.

If being a beach bum isn't enough being sick gives me the another excuse to not do anything I don't want.

There's not much I want to do today.

People in Ireland are whiter than most and I found myself acclimating so now I'm working on my tan to get real brown again.

Short aside ... Sarah and I found a sauna in Ireland and went in with the locals.

Bikini clad Sarah's the only woman sitting in steam, dripping in sweat, a guy stares at her finally asks, "Where ye from?"

Everybody in Ireland asks this and after we tell him he nods, points at our skin and says, "I can see."

It was a great moment.

This is a better one.

It's a day to heal from the inflictions of the past, to enjoy the gifts I have now and to dream for tomorrow.

That's the plan.

Enjoy whatever you're doing!

Whatever's next!

"Mike what do you think I ought to do?"

"About what Dad?" I ask from the dark hospital room sitting beside my brother David with Mom standing nearby.

Dad sits staring at his hands. Though he'd been unconscious for the better part of a week, he'd been upright since I'd return home two days earlier.

Without looking up he blurts, "I think I'm ready."

How do you know when you're ready?

The Major Prophet George Harrison said, after a bout with Cancer and then being stabbed by an intruder, "Well, when you've been through something like that you ask yourself, 'What would it be like if I left body in an hour? What would I miss?' ... well," he muses, "I have a son and a boy needs a father but ... other than that ... I don't think I'll miss anything."

It isn't to say he, or my Dad, didn't really enjoy life, making the most of it, loving many and getting it back in return but they had come to a point when they were ready for whatever's next.

It's also not to say leaving those they loved was easy.

Dad agonized over it until he finally asked our permission in the Hospital that day. We gave him our  blessing and three days later he moved on to whatever's next.

George's wife Olivia describes his passing as a  room being lit.

On the other hand, I've witnessed lots of people hang on to life ... refusing to let go ... not saying goodbye ... afraid to lose what they've got because they're terrified of what's next.

These were painful, long and excruciating deaths leaving family and friends traumatized.

What's next?

Is it Heaven or Hell?

Do we get another chance and come back somehow or do the lights simply go out and that's it?

Honestly nobody knows ... though every single one of us believe in one these options.

I take great solace in Dad stunning us as he struggled with the reality he was ready for whatever's next but needed our support.

Never one to mince his words or refuse an opportunity to gain a higher level of consciousness, George Harrison seems as though he couldn't wait to get on with it.

I'm not there yet ... it's taken Sarah and I this whole life to get to where we are so I'm in no hurry ...  I'd miss too many and too much if I died right now.

And I'm not worried about whatever's next.

Whatever next is.

The Real Ireland

I'm never ready to come home.

Even though this was Sarah's destination choice ... it just never occurred to me to go to Ireland ... it's not my temperate zone, it rains a lot and it's quite the haul to get there, there's a lot I love about Ireland.

I don't know if we'll ever be back but I'm grateful for the sheer joy of being here.

It wasn't perfect, largely because I've been sick on the last leg but that's no one's fault and in spite of hacking, coughing, and spitting up ... I've crossed the Valley of the Druids ... saw fairy stones ... held on for dear life on a cliff above the ocean at Mizzen Head ... the list goes on.

As the sickness began its initial invasion we wander into "The Markey Pub" where Tom, Tom and Patrick held court with hilarious Irish ballads.

The tiny place is packed as Sarah grabs the last two stools at the bar and we're immediately greeted by those standing around drinking while shouting and singing with the band.

Old Tom plays a mandolin and harmonica. Patrick, also called Mick, is the lead singer/accordion player and conducts the room as though the conductor of an orchestra. Young Tom plays guitar, looks like Rick Derringer immediately takes a break to refill his glass to meet Sarah.

American ladies dance with locals. Laughter is the common language. Guinness is the Communion Wine. Pretty Molly Malone is remembered in song.

"Come play with us," Tom exclaims dragging me to the corner and giving me his guitar.

After handshakes and welcomes Mick says, "Well go on then. Play us one."

As I begin strumming chords the crowd grows deafening quiet and sweat breaks on my brow, the accordion falls in with the guitar filling the Pub with sound.

Old Tom picks the high notes while young Tom bangs a drum.

I sing the first verse which ends with the words "God don't own a car" and Mick stops playing and puts his arm around me smiling.

A short song lasts fifteen minutes because of numerous solos, verses sang repeatedly as they pick up the words and incessant handclapping by the Pub.

When we finish the entire Markey Pub explodes in applause, new pints of Guinness are poured, the entire band hugs me and we talk while everyone gets ready for the next song.

I stand to leave but young Tom and Mick jerk me back down.

It's a holy and humble moment and Holy Water fills my eyes.

Afterwards men in the Pub embrace me as they shake Sarah's hand speaking in brogue so thick we struggle to understand.

Of everything we experienced in Ireland, being accepted as one their own was most precious.

Later when we left it was like leaving a family reunion where there's always one more handshake ... another hug ... petition to stay for one more.

We'd found the real Ireland. 

Ashford Castle

I was going to share how we've discovered the secret to immediate life long happiness and prosperity here in Ireland but at 10:00 last night we were "invited" into Ashford Castle.

Now I can't recall those secrets.

We did have a rip roaring good time though.

A tuxedo clad guitarist and a pianist wearing an evening gown sang sad Irish ballads and happy jigs.

Twelve year old Jameson was involved.

Sometime in the middle of the night we strolled home through the forest under an almost full moon swaying and laughing.

We became official members of the "Order of the Sleepless Knights."

Now I'm trying to remember how to drink coffee so I'll have to get back to you on gaining immediate eternal happiness and prosperity.

As soon as I recall what what it is.

I can say if you ever get invited to a Castle ... GO!

Sticks and Stones

Settled at a prime table beside the bar in Fitzpatrick's Pub in Doolin, Sarah and I were enjoying the Irish ballads when I felt something furry being stuffed between my back and the chair.

Before I could turn around, his arms were patting my waist as he said, "It's too crowded and there's no place for my coat! Alright if I leave it here?"

Shrugging my shoulders, I didn't mind.

That's when he noticed Sarah and no longer gave a damn about his coat.

"Hi Doug," she said to the big, burly red headed Irishman over the noise.

"I'm not Doug," he laughs downing a third of a pint in the first gulp.

"That's Doug," he said pointing to a man at the bar. "I'm Richard."

"That's alright," Sarah laughs, "I was shooting the shat!"

Roaring with laughter, Richard smells of the earth, has massive dirty hands and I can't tell when's the last time he brushed his teeth.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"Surf," he grins. "I like to ride the big waves."

It never dawned on me there are surf shops in Ireland but they're everywhere.

"Hey ya cock," he says staring at my half eaten Salmon, greens and potatoes. "Don't you want to be healthy?"

Scooping up the greens with one hand he stuffs them in his mouth like he's Popeye eating spinach.

Sarah's expression is frozen before she explodes into laughter.

"I rarely finish a meal," I explain.

"That's what makes you a cock," he roars grabbing the salmon and stuffing it in mouth.

Finished eating, Richard turns his complete attention to Sarah standing perilously close as they launch into a dialogue about the Garda, the country's police force.

"Ah, the women are rough," he tells her as he admires everything about her. "They be the ones that hurt you."

The Pub grew increasingly crowded but after a full day of travel I was fading fast.

By now Richard's rolling a cigarette spying girls searching for a seat and he strikes out to help them.

I pay the bill and as we make our way outside, I interrupt whatever he's telling them to say, "I'm done watching your coat."

He roars with laughter and calls me a cock.

An Unexpected Visit

"Want a pint of Guinness?"

"Two," she says holding up dirty fingers.

"What are you doing here?" I ask handing her a pint of the dark foamy brew.

"Why are you here?" she asks downing a pint in a single gulp then burping in my face.

"Right?" I say taking a sip of my Guinness. "In a million years I never thought I'm come to Ireland but here I am! It was Sarah's idea. You know me I'd much rather head south but it's my wife's birthday and she's always wanted to come."

"I don't care," she snaps taking a drag from a cigarette that magically appears.

After another sip I ask, "I thought you were spending all of your time with Jimmy Cochran."

Rolling her eyes, my Guardian Angel orders a shot of Jammisen and I see she's not as dirty as she usually is, her broken wing if colorfully duct taped in place and she seems to have put on some weight as the blue robe is not sliding down her right shoulder.

"I had to get away from him," she spits. "He spent all of his time chastising me for cussing and drinking, wants me to attend a friggen Baptist Church him and was always preaching at me."

"He tried to reform an Angel?"

"Right?" she says sipping the second pint.

"Can't you report him or something to St. Peter?"

"I did", she sighs, "but he just told me to handle it."

"What are you going to do?"

Leaning forward and poking the cigarette in my face she says, "I thought I'd hang out with you. You're let me be the Angel I need to be to keep your ass straight."

"No, no,  no, no," I say holding up my hand. "This is Sarah's birthday trip! You are not going to screw it up!"

"You sound just like Jimmy Cochran," she sighs.

"Tell you what," I say. "Leave Sarah and I alone until next week when we're home and you and I'll have cocktails on the Beloved Back Deck and you can tell me all about it."

"I suppose," she sighs.

"Good," I say slapping my hands together. "Now get the Hell out of here! Sarah's waiting on me so we can hear the band."

My Guardian Angel's lip quivers.

"No, no, no, no," I say holding up my hand again. "You're not going to cry!"

A lone tear rolls down her dirty face.

"Oh fine," I say, "Come on and join us but I'm not telling Sarah. You have to tell her."

She smiles. "Sarah's a saint. She won't care."

"Fine. Let's roll!"

"Let's go to O'Conners," she says. "It's a better Pub."

"How would you know?" I ask.

"We have quarterly meetings there."

"Great," I sigh looking for Sarah in the crowd.

Ireland in the Stream

The greens of Ireland are beyond anything I could ever imagine.

The entire country is a blanket of green beginning on the highest mountains descending to lonely beaches in empty bays.

Everything is in bloom ... flowers of every color ... Palm Trees grow here ... Monkey Trees ... every possible color taints the island.

It's cold here ... much further north of New York City on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean ... so I can't help but wonder how Tropical vegetation dots the island in abundance.

Ireland sits in the middle of the Gulf Stream.

There's nothing more magical in the world than it to me.

An current of warm water flows like a river from the tip Florida off the east coast up to Canada then across the ocean to Europe. Ireland is an island in the middle of the Gulf Stream.

The island's as enchanted as everyone claims but it's not because of Leprechauns ... it's because of the Gulf Stream.

It's the Key West or Havana of the northern Atlantic.

For the past two days we traveled the coasts of Ireland, the Ring of Kerry and the Dingle Peninsula, sparsely populated with quaint fishing villages and majestic views of the Atlantic. This is the land of the ancient Druids and I feel a spiritual connection to the land.

Ruins dot green mountain landscapes and I marvel at the people who spent generations building stone homes, beehives, farms and monuments.

It was the Gulf Stream that drew them here and it is what sustains this land.

We've taken to looking for Monkey Trees and Palms, tropical vegetation in the most unlikely of places.

Today we continue along the coast, ferrying to out islands, where today I plan on tipping my toes in the Gulf Stream, a piece of home ... half way around the world.

Sarah's Laugh

His mouth moved a beat or two behind the music but the joy erupting from it beat anybody's in the Pub singing in time.

Stephen has Downs Syndrome with ears bent slightly forward and eyes set slightly back and he screams to his Uncle Patrick who he obviously adores, "I know she's tempting but she's married."

Sarah's been adopted into an Irish family and Uncle Patrick is hitting on her.

I'm lost in the music not paying them any attention at all.

Wandering into Dunloe Lodge, a Pub in Kilaraney Ireland filled with families finishing up Sunday, Soccer teams done playing and lonely men looking for lonely women as they sit waiting for another drink before deciding.

Sarah's laughter is a magical thing and draws me away from the music to them.

Laughing with Stephen's mother arm draped over her shoulder Sarah delights being the center of attention.

In addition to being adored by the Irish, Mike and his Canadian tourist friends are also hitting on Sarah.

"If her husband has to take you outside," Stephen laughs, "I don't have your back!"

"What about that French lady?" Uncle Patrick points to a woman sitting at the bar.

Stephen looks at her then back to Sarah and Patrick, "NO! She's just nice."

The woman looks away annoyed at the pronouncement.

The band has the crowd in a frenzy playing old Irish songs everyone knows and sings. A guitar, accordion and bass are ministers of ancient things and couples twirl madly to the music in the crowd. Pints of Guinness are everywhere. It is a wild ending to Sunday and I wonder how everyone goes to work tomorrow.

When they break the bass player makes straight to me, robustly shakes my hand asking, "You're a player aren't ye? Why don't ye come on up and sing us one?"

Suddenly filled with pride, I break into a grin while shaking my head from side to side.

"No, you are owning the place! We're honored just to be here."

The old man grins and hugs me before disappearing in the crowd.

Sarah's laughter joins the choir of Patrick, Stephen and his mother.

Irish Pubs are like attending family reunions where long lost cousins delight in finding one another again in joyous celebration. We're the only Americans in the room though it seems we're Irish tonight, embraced by a people who easily laugh infecting us with a joy rarely seen back home.