Better Things

"There you go again," Ronald Reagan used to say when he disagreed with whatever Jimmy Carter claimed.

As my wife will quickly point out, I am not much of a literalist, rarely taking anything at face value and finding multiple meanings everywhere.

While things are either black or white, truth is mostly found in the middle where it's always grey.

Reagan knew part of the truth but so did Carter and it's a shame they never co-Presidented.

The United States would likely be in much better shape!

Today though I'm taking Reagan literally ... "There I go again."

Sarah and I are taking her youngest kids to the Bahamas primarily so I can cross something off my bucket list.

My wife loves me a lot because there is absolutely nothing to do on San Salvador, an island of less than 1000 people, two hotels, a tiny grocery stores and a food boat that restocks the island every 10 days.

We're stepping back in time 50 years to the way island life used to be.

We have a house on a beach with no television, Internet or telephone. We'll have a car to navigate the one road on the island. A suitcase of food will get us by until the food boat arrives or after its gone. I-Pods will offer music variety and Sarah has another suitcase full of books.

There is Internet access on the island but only in certain places and it's spotty at best. I'll be writing daily but who knows when I'll be able to share with anyone.

For years I've heard people talk about Key West the way it used to be and now even Tybee Island before it was ruined by too much Government, a paramilitary police force and money wasted on Waste Management.

For a little while anyway, I want to escape the ridiculous madness of politics, the shallow excuse for news reported nightly by "personalities", religion that's at war with itself, policies set by corporate greed and the stuff that passes for music these days.

We're looking for better things.

San Salvador is the spot where Christopher Columbus first set foot in America as he discovered the new world.

We're looking to discover all sorts of things too ... about an island ... but mostly about ourselves.

Manyana ... maybe.

If I were President

So much is happening in the world today that it's hard to keep up so I've fallen behind in sharing my opinions on current events.

Not that anyone asks me for my opinion.

I used to get asked my opinion all of the time but not so much these days.

My favorite is when I was speaking at Christ Church in historic downtown Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah's Christ Church is what would have happened if Jesus had gone to Peyton Place ... ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE!

But those crazy Episcopalians know how to throw a schism!

Anyway I gave a speech and it must have been good because during the Q and A (that's questions and answers for the non-doctrinated ... though Unitarians have mastered all the questions but none of the answers while Southern Baptist have all the answers with no clue of the questions) ... people asked my opinion of things.

"If you were President, what would you do first?" the beautiful and gentile Mrs. Sprague asked.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

When I finally stopped she stood in front of the congregation expecting an answer.

I can't recall if I was being paid for this speech as a "Professional Christian" or if I was actually being a Christian in my spare time but ... I felt obligated to answer.

"Well," I cleverly began remembering Clarence Jordan, "if I was President ..."

Mrs. Sprague and the entire congregation burst into uncontrollable laughter at such a prospect.

When they finally stopped I continued.

"If I was President I would reinstate a mandatory draft ... EXCEPT we'd only draft people 62 or older. That way we'll wipe out all Social Security/Medicaid/Medicare expenses because they'll be in the Military. The budget will immediately be balanced and nursing homes will go out of business."

Mrs. Sprague and the congregation seemed confused but were pondering what I'd said.

"It gets better," I said sounding like every other President shoveling promises down throats, "all these AARP heroes aren't going to carry packs or guns making it difficult to engage in war. I believe we've had enough wars in America!"

Some members of the congregation clapped while others prayed for deliverance though one veteran stood and demanding to know how we'd protect the country against our enemies.

"We'll send our troops over to show the enemy pictures of their grandchildren! Who doesn't love grandchildren? The enemy will pull out their own photographs and before you know they're all planning some reunion."

The congregation applauded ... well except for the ones leaving in a hurry.

"Now isn't that the kind of war we want to fight in America?"

That was the last time I've been to Christ Church to speak.

But they've been busy at war with themselves ever since.

Cinnamon Rolls are like Life

I never thought I'd be baking Cinnamon Rolls again but here I am staring at the Pillsbury Doe Boy who's smiling at me.

I hate the little bastard!

When I opened the can, tearing off the little silver piece, only the tinniest sliver of wrapping comes off leaving no way for the can to POP open.

Sarah and the kids are still sleeping so I can't beat the Hell out of it on the counter top.

Pillsbury and its frigging little Doe Boy makes me cuss.

Taking a butcher knife I stab the cute little SOB and cut the can.

POP ... doe magically appears from the wound.

Shards of Pillsbury Doe Boy and his defective can fall to the floor ... which makes me smile.

In spite of the false promises of Pillsbury marketing of easy open cans, I bake five Cinnamon Rolls, slather them with icing and watch Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, eat the tops.

"Why aren't you eating  the bottoms?"

"They're burnt," she tells me.

"When did golden brown become burnt?"

She shrugs her shoulders leaving the bottom of five Cinnamon Rolls on her plate.

Leaving her to finish the chocolate milk, I stroll outside to the Beloved Back Deck realizing how much cooking Cinnamon Rolls is like life.

Everything seems perfect when we start, largely because we believe all the false promises that everything is perfect.

In actuality most everything is defective ... you, me, the world and the way things really work.

Discovering this makes us angry forcing us to lash out at the beliefs in perfection and the false Prophets who sold us such crock.

In spite of this we somehow figure out a way to make it work.

Even when we pull things off ... even miraculously! ... not everyone is pleased.

That's Life!

I may as well accept it.

Damn little Pillsbury Doe Boy!  

A Question of Faith

You know those stories of someone who finally retires only to die?

They finally hit the magic money number, feeling they can afford to "live" without work, but the shock is too much for their system so they shut down ...  way before they planned.

It's the ultimate irony.

Work hard to finally get what you want to not have it when you want it.

It's like Moses leading the people to the Promised Land only to die before he got there.

Honestly it all works out for many and while that doesn't seem fair you can't begrudge it when they have the happiest of lives.

The crazy thing is our body shuts down and wears out just as we hit the "golden years," so instead of traveling the world we hire home health to ensure we remain home or move into assisted care facilities.

And all the things we always meant to do ... remain things we always meant to do.

Life is a gift all of us share yet none of us asked for ... and it's not always fair.

I don't know why God made it this way but ... it is what it is.

I've known lots of people who had bad luck hit them way before their time ... cancer in their prime ... their child dies ... a parent needs constant caregiving ... jobs are lost ... the money runs out while friends run away.

What do you do?

The song "Living on a prayer" keeps running through my mind and I think the answer's along that train of thought.

Ultimately life is a big question of faith.

I believe things work out the way they're supposed to.

Even when cancer hits someone in their prime it forces life to appreciated like never before ... when a child dies we understand the incredible gift of a child ... caring for a parent no longer capable of tending for themselves enables us to pay them back ... lost jobs mean new opportunities ... no money in the bank leaves you with nothing but God to rely on ... lost friends leave you with an appreciation of who remains with you.

It's not always fair but it is always life.

"What to do? What to do?"

That's the only question.

And the only answer is ... enjoy this or not?

Believe it's supposed to happen this way or not.

Make the most of whatever it is you got or wish for a life that you don't have.

Because it is what it is.

Undercover for Jesus

"What do you do?" she asks with a twang in her a voice from south Alabama or Texas.

"About what?" I reply sipping coffee at the counter of "The Breakfast Club" where she's taken the stool beside mine.

On her other side sits a man who waited in line beside her for the world famous restaurant to open and he's suddenly intrigued by our conversation.

"What do you mean about what?" she demands in a very high pitch Soprano on steroids voice that can shatter stained glass.

Simultaneously the staff stops cooking, waitressing, bussing and washing dishes because her voice is that grating.

"I dunno," I continue. "You talking about achieving world peace? Ending homelessness? Getting Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi to sleep together? How to prevent a last second score in a soccer game?"

"Did y'all watch?" she suddenly squeals.

The man on the other side admits he did not stuffing a fork full of over easy eggs and hash browns in his mouth.

"I was out on a date with my wife," I explain.

"It was so exciting," she claps and I swear her Dolly Parton hair moves.

Taking a sip of coffee she stares at me intensely with deadly eyes that betray the sweetness of her voice.

"I want to know what you do for a living Silly," she explains with a politician's smile.

Not wanting to talk, I give my stock answer that always shuts people up who want to know what I do for a living.

"I'm a Southern Baptist Minister," I confidently announce dropping my voice two octaves.

"Ooh," she claps again. "I'm Baptist ... Pastor."

"Shit," I mutter as Jessie the cook and Denise the waitress stifle giggles.

Darkness returns to her eyes as she stares at me again while taking another sip of coffee and she dubiously says, "You don't look like a Baptist Minister."

"Thanks," I say taking a sip of my own coffee.

The man on her other side laughs and if looks could kill she would have sent him straight to Hell in that instant.

"Alright," I say standing up. "I'm going to go proselytize or something."

Confusion fills her face.

"Save the heathens," I explain.

"Oh," she nods. "Is that why you dress wear black running shorts, a vulgar tee shirt and flip flops?"

"Yes man. I'm undercover for Jesus."

"God Bless you," she says as I leave and the entire staff bursts into glorious laughter.

Night Prayers

Scratching on the sliding glass doors wake me at 2:30.

Sighing, I stare at the silhouettes of Palm trees outside of our window, disentangle myself from a lovely sleeping position with Sarah and quietly pull myself out of bed.

Stumbling into the living room there's enough moonlight to easily make my way.

In the kitchen the silhouette of our dog Goddess jumps up and her tail wags as I slide the door open so she can go out.

Following her out, the heat of the night embraces me in sharp contrast to the coolness of the air-conditioning inside.

Goddess rushes down the stairs to the back yard as I lay my hands on the rail of the beloved back deck sleepily taking inventory.

Stars dance around a bright half moon to the song of a choir of cicada.

Every light is on in our neighbors house and her television throws off colorful hues as she sleeps passed out on her sofa.

Aside from the cicada choir, all is silent ... all is calm ... all is bright.

I stand naked in a Monastery built by God and on an oh so Holy night.

Prayers rush through my mind, first of Thanksgiving for Sarah and this life, then petitions to look over the ones we love and finally for interventions to guide us to the things we must do next.

I hear the scratches of Goddess' paws as she lumbers up the wooden stairs and takes her place beside me.

Yawning and scratching my head, I say "Amen" out loud before returning to the coolness of the sanctuary that is our home.

Goddess continues to wag her plume of a tail, breathing excitedly as I crawl back into the manger with Sarah grateful for night prayers and a dog who insists that I have them.

Amen.

Today's Present

It's best to be honest about it.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, has issues.

Let me begin by clarifying that Winston, TLGD, and I get along fabulously.

Sure I call him names a lot, especially you little-son-of-a-bitch, which I mean literally ... because he is.

But we hang out together on the beloved back deck because he likes to tan and I prefer being outside.

He asks my advice when he's online shopping.

Just yesterday I showed him a black V-neck and no sleeves with white letters reading ... "I'm out therefore I am." He loves it!

I give him treats every morning. He prefers really big bones and I make certain he has one to start every day off right.

Sure he sheds all over the sofa, makes the bed feel like it has "Magic Fingers" as he cuddles beside Sarah and barks like a girl ... but he's a little gay dog so I expect such things.

But this morning he's really ticked me off.

He left a little present on the living room floor.

Sarah's still asleep and the little SOB is hiding under the bed where he knows I won't go because I love my wife and want her to sleep late.

I could kill him.

After cleaning it up I'm sitting here fuming pondering my revenge.

It has to be sometime diabolically clever that he will hate and Sarah will never know.

I don't know what it is yet so your suggestions are welcome.

I am contemplating puppy Prozac for him but want to get him back before he gets too mellow.

The best suggestion gets a free book!

Marvelous imperfections

I belong to "Memories of growing up in Savannah," a Facebook group where people remember things that are no more.

Daily I click the site and my memory's jogged to recall things long forgotten.

My favorites are old photographs of everything from the "Shoney's" on Abercorn to the crumbling beach wall on Tybee Island ... though I'm naturally drawn to old pictures.

Whenever we travel I find the local history of mostly black and white photos and I imagine what it must have been like before neon lights, Interstate Highways or jumbo jets.

Things are both better and worse then ... a marvelous imperfection where things were as good as they could possibly be but would soon get better.

Through there are always causalities.

The "Shoney's" is long gone, along with the old seawall ... Joe's Drive In, the Highway 80 Theater, the Bounty House Restaurant, the Krystal downtown, swimming pools with diving boards and the water park on Tybee.  

Each had its moment in time, now forever frozen in memories and old photographs.

Friends too had their moments and, while either they've moved on or we have, the best of us never forget the impact they had on us.

"He was great when he was great," George Harrison once said of Elvis Presley. "Last time I saw him I said, "Put your jeans back on and do 'That's alright Mama" because that really is your way ... not singing 'My Way.''"

I love the sentiment because Elvis was freaking great ... when he was freaking great ... then one day he wasn't.

It's the same with most everyone else.

While I enjoy memories of growing up I sure as Hell don't want to go back.

I like this part of the journey better.

I love reconnecting with old friends, especially when they mix well with my new ones.

What I enjoy most are seeing old friends who grew into themselves. When we're together there are short stories about the past but learning, experiencing and enjoying who they are now is far better.

All of that to say ... see you in a month Joey Finch!

Sarah and I can't wait.

Explaining the 70s to a child

"Mike what are you listening to?" Sarah's 7 year old asks having crashed my quiet time on the beloved back deck.

"70s music," I answer. "Just music from the 70s."

"It's weird," she tells me.

"You should have lived it," I retort.

Pondering this as she plays a game on the I-pad, she says without looking at me, "God wasn't alive in the 70s."

"Naw," I explain, "God was just on vacation in the 70s."

She stares at me.

"Nixon was President. Terrorism was born. OPEC was conceived. Kent State happened. Floppy Disks were invented. The Beatles broke up! God had to have been on vacation."

I can't tell if she's ignoring me or considering the whole "Death of God" controversy which also occurred in the 70s ... Elton John said so.

"The music's weird," she finally says.

Disco is streaming.

"Yeah well," I agree. "There was a lot of bad music in the 70s.

Actually I enjoyed the 70s a lot, starting High School at the dawn of the Decade and graduating from College when it ended.

"You couldn't have been alive in the 70s," Cassidy finally concludes.

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't be alive now," she explains putting her elbows on the table to look at me as if I'm an idiot.

"I'm pretty sure I was alive Cass," I reply.

"Well," she says reversing her opinion, "God was alive in the 70s."

"Alright then," I shrug, "God was alive in the 70s and I was too otherwise I wouldn't be here now."

"No," she says.

I count the decades my fingers which she ignores.

"The music's weird," she concludes as John Lennon sings "Imagine."

Crazy Summer Days

Summer drips like molasses here.

Everyone is dancing in glue.

Everything takes longer than it should.

Green grass requires gallons of water on a consistent basis.

So do the Hibiscus blooms, the petunias and all manner of green on the beloved back deck.

Air conditioners sing their very expensive songs without ceasing.

Sweat comes easy.

Business slows to the minimalist efforts.

Ice cream melts before it can be eaten.

The sun is blistering.

I LOVE IT!

Sitting on the beloved back deck in black running shorts, I laugh watching the neighbor water her grass because she keeps squirting herself trying to position the sprinkler to the exact right position.

Finally giving up she holds it above her head baptizing herself in coolness, completely unaware I'm watching the grey tank top she's wearing turn translucent becoming one with her pasty white skin.

They're desperately trying to sell the house and return permanently to Philadelphia because it's too damn hot here.

Their dream retirement home turned into Hell on earth.

Everything's fine until Credence Clearwater Revival's traveling band takes a 737 out of the sky causing  my neighbor to jerk her head in the direction of the music and sees me here with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, working on our tans.

She doesn't wave or wish me a good morning as she covers herself to run inside though I do hear her pronounce her opinion of my lineage.

I wave.

A slight ocean breeze kicks up and the squirrels decide it's time to play in the Palm Trees.

"May as well water the flowers," I say out loud and Winston, TLGD, looks at me and shrugs.

"HERE KITT
Y, KITTY, KITTY," my other neighbor screeches and feral cats across Tybee Island awaken.

"Let's go inside and see what Sarah's doing," I say opening the sliding glass door. "It's starting to get crazy out here."

 

Dancing your problems away

"The future belongs to those who prepare for it today."

So said Malcolm X.

Every since I read his autobiography as an impressionable teen I've always liked Malcolm X.

I was at Groves High School as it was being integrated which actually went pretty smoothly in that there were only a couple of riots and I was the cause of one when I asked a black girl to dance at a school function.

All the black kids were dancing and having a good time while all the white kids stood against the gymnasium wall talking about how good they can dance ... if they were going to ... which they weren't.

So I wander across some imaginary line to ask this girl to dance.

It's one of those scenes that is crystal clear in my head.

Wearing a purple gown she sheepishly looks down because every black kid in the Gym have their eyes set on her and I immediately sense the awkwardness of the situation.

Then her large brown eyes look up and she grins so I take her hand and spin her to the dance floor.

All the black kids immediately join in.

All the white kids stood against the wall talking about how good they can dance ... if they were going to dance ... which they weren't.

The next day a riot broke out.

As I walked down the hall to Gretchen Johnson's English class a bunch of white kids beat me up for dancing with a black girl.

There is another moment forever frozen in my mind as they kick the crap out of me.

My best friend Gene Prevatt comes flying through the air like Superman into the middle of the pile to make it a fairer fight.

They kick the crap out of him too.

Later we're both laying in the Nurses office when Gene asks, "Elliott did it never dawn on you that when you danced with that girl it was going to piss some people off?"

"What do people have against dancing?" I retort, wiping blood from my mouth.

Gene ponders this for a moment before answering.

"Well," he begins sitting up on the table and for the first time I see his black eye, "we do live in the South. There are lots of Baptists and they don't like it worth a damn."

"So?" I cleverly reply.

"Just give me some warning next time," he sighs laying back down. "Okay?"

It was sometime before or after this happened that I read "The Autobiography of Malcolm X."

Decades later Denzel Washington made a movie of the book which I watched and was pleased as punch to learn that Malcolm X danced.

It all makes sense now.

If everyone would spend more time dancing there wouldn't be as many problems in the world.

The Answer to Stuggling with your Faith

Living a life based on faith is hard as Hell.

It can kill you.

Just ask Jesus.

But then he'll go on to say it all works out in the end.

A friend of mine takes care of his elderly mother and his mentally ill brother. He lives on a fixed income so there's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to cash flow. The problem is the price of everything ... groceries, gasoline, utilities and such ... keep getting higher. It frightens him that one day the math won't work and he'll forfeit the pledge he made to his dying father to take care of the family.

Like most, he expects the worst to happen, imaging it on sleepless nights ... the power's cut off and they have to cook the few remaining things on the grill ... until the gas runs out ... but by then the heartless bank will have foreclosed and he haul his tearful mother and confused brother to whoever has room in the Inn.

I understand.

I worry about such things too.

Many of us wonder why God keeps so quiet during such times.

It was with wonder then over the weekend we opened the fortune cookies after food delivered from Chef Wan.

Sarah's promises, "You will have many friends when you need them!"

As if that isn't good enough, on the other side of her fortune are her winning Lottery numbers ... 1, 13, 19, 35, 46 and 48.

Excited I tore my cookie open and was delighted to learn that my "dearest wish will come true within the month."
AND my winning Lottery numbers are 4, 6, 9, 18, 24 and 29!

Well ... that takes care of that.

And to my friend I say, keep believing and ... order Chinese.

Dad's damn jokes

"Ah," he says storming across the crosswalk, "the spirit of Billy Elliott!"

Vigorously shaking my hand he explains how he once spent a week with my Dad at the Horse Races in Kentucky.

"You stayed with my Dad? Did you get any sleep?"

Laughing he admits he did not but had a grand time anyway.

Dad had a Ph.D. in snoring.

His friends drew lots to determine who shared a room with him on their trips.

Regardless the impression he's left is deep and passionate.

"Ah, I miss your Dad," I often hear when they encounter me.

Whenever I write about him someone gets in touch to explain the void he left in their life.

I understand.

Unless I was traveling we talked every day and he always told me a joke. Sometimes they were corny but often were funny as Hell.

He loved them and relished in telling jokes.

He was a funny and gracious man who watched Charles Bronson movies, hated war, loved the pungent aroma of the Marsh and was utterly addicted to sports and looking at pretty girls.

He was a passionate family man who delighted when he spent time with some or all of us though he always exercised the patriarchal right to fix his plate first.

I think about the things he misses now. All of us for sure! His friends and the wild and crazy things they did (and they did extreme wild and crazy things!). He would delight in Sarah and her girls and be beside himself that his granddaughter Maggie is expecting. He misses Mom.

I miss our daily talks and the times we'd sneak off and share pitchers of beer.

Dad's last beer story is told by my son Jeremy who was with Dad in Athens.

"Pull over son," Dad tells Jeremy, "and go get us two beers."

Jeremy does as he's told and they share two tall ones in brown paper bags before returning to my sister Angi's house.

I just love that and now Jeremy and I delight in sneaking off for beers too.

So as I do on every year, I'm going to pour Dad and me one in a cold frosty mug and toast all of that.

You'd be shocked at how you're still missed, discussed, talked about and how every single one of those damn jokes are making the rounds.

Here's to you Dad!

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Pre-Father's Day

I don't understand people who buy brand new cars.

The moment they drive the spiffy little model off the lots it depreciates by 1/3.

Plus the new owner spends a tremendous amount of time and energy keeping the new car NEW which, in spite of the most valiant effort, is doomed.

Climbing in and out of the car means grass and dirt grind in the carpet, bugs hit the windshield and that wonderful new car smell evaporates while new unexplainable odors appear.

This is why I've long been a proponent of "pre-dented" vehicles.

Sure they may cost a little more but it saves you all the worry and consternation of the first dent on your new car.

Just as there's no such thing as a perfect life, cars don't stay perfect for very long either.

It was with great surprise then that I received a "Pre-Father's Day" card yesterday.

I had no idea such things existed.

It was custom made by hand by Sarah's middle daughter Laurel who I've been carting back and forth all week to paddle board camp.

Honestly we've been miffed at one another most of the week.

She's a ten year old who knows everything, hates to get up in the morning to actually attend paddle board camp and then it's somehow my fault for making her go against her will when she's the one who's wanted to attend since last year!

Sarah was gone with her two other girls and I was responsible for taking Laurel to meet them after paddle board camp.

Of course Laurel did not want to go and fired excuses at me as though her mouth is a machine gun that never needs reloading.

I stomp my foot down telling her to get ready so she busies herself while I remind myself I'm the adult.

After dropping her off by slowing down to 35 miles per hour and thrusting her out of the car to Sarah, I return to the peace and quiet of home and ... discover my "Pre-Father's Day" card tenderly laying on my pillow.

"Well Hell," I say out loud reading that she loves me and thanks me for everything I do.

You can never figure kids out. Just when I have her where I want her ... meaning gone! ... she does the sweetest thing, touches my heart and I miss her.

Well ... until Sarah got home and kid-less for the first time in weeks, we quickly busied ourselves with other, long overdue activities.

I'll thank Laurel after the fact when she gets back home tomorrow night.

Catch Scratch Fever?

It's Friday the 13th under a full moon and a lot of people are scared.

I'm not superstitious so such things do not bother me.

I'll tell what does bother me though.

It's a beautiful morning bathed in sunshine, the slightest ocean breeze, flowers blooming everywhere, salt hangs in the air and the ocean sings in the distance.

I feel as God's given me entry into the Garden of Eden because everything is just perfect!

Then ...

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

Against my will,  my head slowly turns towards the ghastly orange house beside ours to see her.

Wearing a filthy yellow bath robe, pink bunny slippers and a blue towel piled high on her wet head, she looks like Marge Simpson on meth.

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY," she screeches again sounding like fingernails on a chalk board and my golden brown skin crawls as Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, run inside and hide under the bed.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, hides in the shower ... which Sarah happens to be in.

Suddenly branches start breaking, clouds appear out of nowhere hiding the sun, and the air fills with the sounds of a hundred feral cats from as far away as Dicky Trotter's boat at the Tybee Marina clawing their way to my next door neighbor ... THE CAT LADY.

My blood curls ... when she adjust her robe and cat hair falls to the ground like dirt from Pigpen on "It's a Charlie Brown Christmas."

"HERE KITTY, KITTY ... oh hey Mike," she screeches, suddenly seeing me here naked on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Good morning Cat Lady," I limply sigh.

Before she can say anything, hundreds of black feral cats cover her like the plague.

I wonder where the Tybee Island Animal Control Para-military squad is?

If Goddess barks ... or Winston, TLGD, wears a black wife beater tee-shirt with pink letters that read, "Why do police officers wear tight clothes and dressy shoes? Doesn't it slow them down chasing crooks?" ... well, Tybee Island Animal Control is at our house with police backup.

But the Cat Lady has conclaves of feral cats moaning and humping her on her back deck and everything's fine because everybody on this island loves freaking feral cats.

Taking this is as a sign from God to get the Hell away from her as quickly as possible, I dart inside and shut the sliding glass doors.

Ted Nugent is singing "Cat Scratch Fever" on the radio and I pause to rethink if I'm superstitious or not.

A Holy Place

When I was in Seminary I spent a good bit of time in Catholic Monasteries which is funny because I attended Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.

But the great Catholic Monk Thomas Merton had lived only a hour's drive from Louisville so Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I would drive to Bardstown to spend afternoons at Gethsemane.

There's no interaction with the Monks but we would make our way to the balcony of the Chapel and watch them pray, which they do seven times a day.

It sits on wonderful lush hills permeated by a sense of holiness that's either manufactured by the Monks or we just believed it so it was true.

Later I discovered the much more opulent, but no less holy, St. Meinrad Monastery in Indiana and unlike Gethsemane, I had free reign of the place and wandered into Monk's rooms, the Chapel and the adjourning Seminary.

In terms of feeling holy, I enjoyed visits to Meinrad more.

There have been others though they don't stand up in memory test and I can conjure up only fleeting images of having visited.

What I do vividly recall is the search for holiness that I seldom experienced at the Baptist Seminary.

That was all a long time ago and I haven't visited a Monastery in decades but the search for holiness has never waivered.

There is a back deck affixed to our house filled with plants, a Chiminea my kids gave  me, a table under an umbrella, a wooden robot looking man who holds a potted plant and a ceramic frog with a silver ball on its head.

There are also signs proclaiming the site to be "Clothing Optional" and "Umbrella drinks served here" hanging underneath four wind chimes, each chosen by Sarah and one of her girls.

It's mostly bathed in brilliant sunshine during the day and blanketed by stars at night. The songs of the sea are easily heard from just on the other side of the Palm Tree with the oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt.

I have no idea why it's such a holy place but from the moment I step on it I can feel Divine things ... the way the leaves dance in the summer breeze ... the choirs of birds ... the shadows playing on the wall ... the feel of salt on my skin ... the pungent aroma of the marsh in the air ... a spot for drunken Angels to rest and collect themselves ... a spot where I collect myself.

God only knows why this is such a holy place.

Alone on the beach

It's fair to say I've spent as much time sitting on this beach alone as I have with anyone else.

It's the wilderness where my soul constantly wanders.

I sit staring at the majesty of the Sea ... lost in contemplative non-thoughts ... mostly feeling ... turning golden then brown with a reddish flair thanks to my Dad's side of the family.

Beside the wilderness of the Ocean I mostly listen and watch.

It's like a prayer closet ... without the closet.

It's worship without a Church.

It's God's most majestic Cathedral.

Rasta reggae rhythms flow through my ears as I anticipate.

Boys and men wear jams stretching from just below their belly buttons to underneath their knees.

Wanting to get as close to the Garden of Eden as I can get I'm wearing next to nothing and it's tan through.

I don't know what these other people are thinking.

I don't pay them much attention because I'm preoccupied watching dolphins glide, pelicans dive and schools of menhaden make their own waves.

Way back when I willed myself to be here and came surrounded by cries of protest.

That was 3 decades ago.

It's my sanctuary, my refuge, my calm in the storm even when the lighting and thunder put on a Hell of a show!

This beach has been good to me. It's seen me through a lot and I sit here now appreciating this clump of sand.

Dolphins break the water and motion for me to follow. Pelicans fly in V-formation towards Little Tybee before disappearing in the distance.  Schools of menhaden clap underwater making a splashing celebration. A flock of seagulls sing squawking Hymns of Praise.

I sit here alone in this grand Cathedral, intently watching these things, anticipating what's being said and wondering what's next.

The Great Stories

I'm reading a book about Chimpanzees.

It's about these marvelous creatures who share 98.3% of the same DNA as humans but it's really about Dr. Carole Noon and her heroic efforts to save Chimps in America.

The United States has not been kind to Chimpanzees ... using them to conduct horribly gross experiments in the name of science, health care and space exploration.

The U.S. conducted Nazi like experiments in Concentration Camps where the Chimps lived in very similar conditions.

The Entertainment Industry hasn't been much kinder to these most advanced of God's creatures, punishing them to perform on Queue and repeatedly.

Hollywood isn't above using cattle prods, starvation and vicious behavior to give audiences what they think they want.

Along comes Carole Noon.

She's an unlikely Heroine out of the University of Florida, meets Jane Goodall, visits Africa to meet Chimpanzees first hand and then completely loses her mind to take on the United States of America to Save the Chimps! (www.savetheshimps.org )

It's a fascinating story of determination, perseverance, luck and love and it's amazing to see what one person can accomplish in a short period of time.

Carole Noon died a few years ago but the incredible work continues.

Over the past week several people I like died and they've got me thinking about the things we leave behind.

Obviously if I'm thinking about them then it stands to reason they're still here somehow.

Yesterday my friend Julia sends me a text saying she's writing Ronnie's obituary and, having never paid any attention to them, has no idea what to do.

"Sure you do," I text back. "Tell the great stories about Ronnie. That is in between the year he was born and now. Make him like it."

Later Julia calls to read what she's written and it's perfect, capturing who he was on earth and I can imaging him sitting there, cigarette in hand, sly downward smile on his face under dancing eyes listening to her.

I find myself celebrating life today!

I'm not thinking too much about death ... it happens ... what else can you say.

Ronnie always made me smile and now I find myself smiling back.

I never knew Carole Noon but like her a Hell of a lot and wish I could have shared a Budweiser with her in one hand while touching the finger of an abused Chimpanzee who's been given a new life with the other hand.

Because when all is said and done ... we're remembered for what we've given in this life.

And if we rarely gave then nobody remembers.

God's will for me

I need to go ahead and win the Lottery.

It'll make planning easier and cause less stress.

I understand I have a better chance of being struck by lightening in the North Pole, which is far away from where I sit, than of actually winning the Lottery but that's not stopping me.

I have tremendous faith and know God will make certain I win at the right time with the right amount ... not too much but not too little ... and everything is going to work out fine.

As a matter of fact, I have much faith in God making it happen I don't even have my own special numbers like our anniversary or the kids birthdays.

I figure God will make it happen regardless of such things so I just get the "Quick Pick."

It's God's will.

In the meantime, I'm just living as though I've already won the Lottery, pretty much doing what I want ... when I want ... and with who I want.

Sure my check book consists mostly zeros on the wrong side of an actual number and my accountant burst into tears whenever he sees me, but I'm of the opinion that if you believe it ... it'll come true.

Besides God's got my back.

It's not I'm going to spend the money frivolously or anything.

I'm not going to buy clothes or silly things like that because who really needs them? The car I drive is fine though I may get cloth falling from the roof tacked back up. And the windows that don't open in the house will probably get replaced though they work fine in the winter.

Though if it's God's will that I win "Mega-Millions" I'll likely buy Delta Airlines so I can fire everybody or pay off Congress so they'll just stay home and not bother us anymore.

But I'm not planning on "Mega-Millions" because God and I both know I don't need that much.

I just need enough to keep doing what I'm doing now.

Well ... and buy a House Boat with an icemaker, large screen plasma television, large kitchen and a great bedroom.

Oh ... and I'll need another smaller one for Sarah's girls which will be tethered 30 feet behind ours so we can hear them they call.

Oh ... and one more for my kids when they come to visit!

Other than that, I'll just keep being my usual humble, satisfied self and the only difference is this wonderful lifestyle will finally be adequately financed!

Oh ... and I'd hire Dicky Trotter to take all of my calls so he can decide if it's Gods will if I make investments, personal or otherwise, in all of my new best friends.

Anyway that's the plan.

Sometime today, I need to ride my old rusty bicycle up to Chu's so God can do the "Quick pick" for me again this week.

It's just a matter of God's timing now.

The Circle of Life

Goddess is scratching the sliding glass doors to be let out so I drag myself out of bed, stumble across the living room and through the kitchen and sleepily slide the door open.

My dog shoots out but instead of darting down the stairs, she wags her tail at the figure sitting on the Beloved Back deck.

A halo of cigarette smoke floats above the long greasy black hair in the chair reserved for me.

Glancing back to make certain sleeping Sarah isn't bothered, I step out into the warm moonlit night.

Coughing, she hacks and spits over the railing, clears her throat and says, "Aren't you going to put some clothes on?"

"You're the one interrupting my night," I sigh, plopping down in the chair beside her.

Wiping her eyes, she sucks snot up her nose.

"What's wrong?" I ask suddenly fully awake.

I've never seen my Guardian Angel cry but here she sits, mindlessly smoking, drinking a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon, looking almost saintly in the moonlight. Her shear white robe is translucent. The dirty broken wing almost aligns with the other. Her pasty face is beautifully sad.

"Have you been keeping up with what's been going on?" she snaps.

"Well," I say continuing to stare while rubbing my fingers through my hair, "uh, it started out great with you helping Jimmy Cochran  get baptized in the ocean and discover a deeper level of holiness ..."

"I told Sam to wear a shirt," she laughs.

"Yeah well, Samuel Adams has his own direct hotline to your boss."

"I know," she says. "It still pisses me off."

Uncertain of what to say, I keep quiet.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says rolling her right hand over and over while taking a slug of beer with the other.

Staring at her, I'm not quite sure where she's going.

"Ronnie died yesterday," and as soon as I say the words she sobs.

Instinctively I put my arm around her and smell the cigarette smoke in her hair.

The sky turns an ever so shade of grey as the sun begins its climb out of the sea. A lone bird sings a solo and is soon joined by a choir.

"It's the circle life right?" I finally say.

Nodding, she wipes her eyes, throws her empty can in our backyard and another magically appears in her hand and she immediately takes a slug.

"Yeah," I continue, "Jimmy finds he has a deeper calling from God that he's going to follow and Ronnie's moved on to what's next. Both of them have left us behind."

"I know," she says. "It just doesn't get any easier.

"I know," I agree ... carefully extracting my arm from around her wondering how I'm going to get rid of the smoke smell before crawling back in bed with Sarah.

"Wait," I suddenly say, "isn't Ronnie going an Angel or something?"

She nods.

"Well what in the Hell are you crying for?" I ask.

"These are tears of happiness stupid," she snaps.

"Oh yeah," I agree as the sun begins to rise.