Other Dangersous Things About Tybee Island, Georgia

After an overwhelming response to yesterday's "The Ten Most Dangerous Things About Living On Tybee Island" ... I am compelled to share what readers have to offer.

Both residents and visitors alike offered dangerous things about Tybee Island that I've experienced and they were willing to share.

For all those who initially wrote considering purchasing one of the several thousand homes currently on the market and who have concerns about what life is really like on the island ... I offer what others have to say.

Republicans: There are a shitload of them on Tybee. They're easy to spot because they're all white. I mean really white! I mean like they haven't seen sunshine in decades!

This is because they're always meeting at the "American Legion" for "Hate Obama," "Hate Hillary" and "Hate Most Everything" meetings.

They are so intense they never notice the hippies, hipsters and surfers crashing whatever's going on because the Legion serves the cheapest drinks on Tybee Island.

(Thank you Robin Wheeler).

The Beach Bum Parade: Honestly the people of Tybee hate tourists.

That's why everybody who visits gets a ticket.

It's also why we have the annual Beach Bum parade which is a giant, orchestrated water fight to empty the Florida Aquifer because ... in spite of recycling cans in everybody's yard ... Tybee Island carts it all to the same landfill.

While the parade was a wonderful in the beginning ... it quickly eroded into people standing their yards with garden hoses and water balloons waiting on tourists arriving for the weekend with their windows rolled down.

God that's fun!

"We're finally on Tybee Baby!" yells the driver.

"Oh Honey, I love you for booking three nights at the Royal Palms and tonight I'm going to prove it ...SPLAT!!!"

She never finishes because the water balloon full of ice water hits her on the side of the head.

That's tame stuff now because a couple of years ago we started running over people.

(Thank you Sandi Postal)

Speed Signs: As though Tybee doesn't have enough cops ... we have a paramilitary police force with more heavy duty weapons than anywhere outside of the United States! ... electronic signs are strategically placed on the island to inform drivers of their speed.

The signs register a vehicle's speed at 5 miles/per/hour less than it's actually traveling.

This is where a paramilitary police officer is strategically placed to give the driver a ticket for speeding ... so the City can pay for speed scanners deemed illegal by the state, Tasers, sleek police cars and the operating cost of a new Headquarters paid for by a Special Options Sales Tax with no increases in the annual budget.

(Thank you Matt Few)

Sand Gnats: I'm uncertain if this refers to the minor league baseball the City Of Savannah is trying to give away because it's spending all of its Special Option Sales Tax money on a new Civic Center in a place nobody wants it ... or the little bastards that bite you when you've just laid your towel in the sand and you can't see 'em so you can kill 'em.

Come to think of it ... Savannah City Council and actual Sand Gnats are both the same.

(Thank you Santa John Driggers)

2nd Avenue: In an effort to prevent golf carts, bicyclists, walkers, joggers, and parents pushing baby carts being run over by the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police speeding after whoever they're going to ticket and not endanger pedestrians ... the "Elected People" on City Council designated 2nd Avenue a "Safe Place" to enjoy the island.

It works pretty good until you pass the daily "Whine and Cheese" where every one stops for a ... what President Clinton didn't do ... and some good Christian fellowship.

Actually the only time it doesn't work is when the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police speed down the "Pedestrian Friendly" street to ticket someone to pay for aforementioned slick new Headquarters.

(Thank you Anonymous Person scheduled to appear in Tybee Court in the aforementioned slick new Police Collusion Center in the not-too-distant future where you will pay as charged!)

Shirley Sessions: If you're coming to Tybee to escape everything wrong in your life ... and you need to commune with God ... be engulfed in the beauty of nature ... marvel at sunrises, sunsets and rainbows ... and heal ...

The last thing you need is someone telling you how "FABULOUS" everything is ... your life ... the husband you just deserted ... your child just you visited in prison ... the taxes you owe ... wondering how you're going to pay for this trip because you've been ticketed three times already and have two scheduled appearances in Tybee Court ... yours is one of several thousand homes on the island for sale ... or you went to the Methodist Church and your car is surrounded by "crime scene" tape because you're a person of color and the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police are waiting with Tasers ...

The last thing you need to head is Shirley saying, "FABULOUS!"

(Thank you Sandy McCLoud).

I could go on but have a life to live, Paramilitary Police to avoid, bills to pay and see what Mack's daily special is at IGA.

Have a great weekend everybody!

(Thank you Doug Weathers)

And if you come to Tybee ... enjoy your time in Paradise!

(Thank you Don Henley).

The Most Dangergous Things about living on Tybee Island

People throughout the world write me asking ...

"Micheal we're really thinking about moving to Tybee Island and read everything you write to gain a better understanding of what life's really like there. We've visited several times and marvel at the beauty of the Back River, the smell of the Marsh, the beautiful beach, excellent night life, a healthy competition between the churches and wonderful food.

But, we know everything has a dark side ... even a beautiful place like Tybee. Should we pull the trigger and purchase one of the several thousand homes currently for sale?

 What should be frightened of?"

Rather than write everyone individually, I'll use this public forum to describe the "THE TEN MOST DANGEROUS THINGS ABOUT LIVING ON TYBEE ISLAND!"

Driving through Savannah to get here: There's a 50% chance bullets will be flying around your car as you make your way ... doesn't matter if you take Bay, Liberty, Victory, 37th or the little secret shortcut I can't talk about.

The good news is shooters rarely hit their targets, unless you come in July. The odds go way up in July.

Premature Intoxication: Everybody wants a drink after successfully surviving the drive from Savannah! You have to be careful because of the salt air, abundance of drinking establishments, girls in bikinis, Tropical rhythms and ... running into Shirley Sessions with her one word vocabulary of "FABULOUS!"  ... which is just another cause to celebrate.

Unfortunately "Premature Intoxication" is an all too common occurrence on the island. If you want to witness it firsthand, attend a City Council meeting and watch the audience and 1/3 of the elected officials.

You have a 76.2% chance of being ticketed for something or another:  Tybee has one of the best paramilitary police forces in THE WORLD!

Unleash this force in Afghanistan or against ISIS anytime of day ... other than 11:30 am to 12:30 pm ... and our Police Department will have everyone convicted, tried and arrested in mere moments. THEY ARE THE BEST at keeping order having crushed countless oranges and activities by other peoples of color!

Except at lunch time when they're all eating at Sundae Café.

Mallory Pierce doing a caricature of you: This popular island character once got in a hot tub with Jane Fonda, teaches college classes, was repeatedly elected to City Council and single handedly integrated Tybee.

But he thinks he can draw.

Then he'll want a beer.

Be careful!

Road rage when looking for parking at IGA, the Liquor Store and when you get stuck behind the tourist driving 35 miles/per/hour on the Tybee Road (either coming or going):

Inevitably ... you are in a hurry to get on island and start enjoying or ... you have to get off island fast because your Grandmother's having a heart attack!

It doesn't matter because either way you're be behind a Tourist enjoying the beauty of the Marsh at 35 miles/per/hour or "Georgia Rolling Thunder" is to going to pull you over.

So calculate at least one additional hour of driving time to get onto Tybee and 3 additional hours to say bye to Grandma.

Roma Rage: This is completely different from road rage if you drive the wrong way down front or ride a bicycle on the sidewalk.

A sweet, Grandmotherly, former school teach is going to kick your ass!

You need to know.

Pay attention to the sign in front of City Hall: Most people stare at the ocean or are looking for their rentals and miss important messages like ...

"Drive Safe: We're going to pull you over anyway!" ...

"Parking Strictly Enforced 8 am to 8 pm: But you'll still get a ticket!" ... and of course,

"Family Friendly Community! Unless you have a disability!"

The Methodist Church: Their motto is "We have crime scene tape and we're not afraid to use it in the glory of God!"

Just trust me here ... they're not.

Jelly Fish in August: Tybee closes the ocean every August because of some long term rental agreement the City Manger reached with vacationing Jelly Fish.

If you try to share it with them ... you will get stung ... then you're get arrested ... and then ...

Tybee Court: "Pay as charged," is what you mostly hear but it's very efficient and out-collects the Baptist, Catholic, Methodist and Presbyterian Churches combined!

Only Bar Church does better!

These are the top ten most dangerous things about living on Tybee.

Other than that, it's Paradise!

Hump Day

Every morning when I leave The Breakfast Club I relish in the early morning happenings of the island.

Strolling out the door marked "Exit Only" I pass the line waiting to enter and I see them wondering why I'm leaving just as the famous restaurant is opening.

Nodding their way I either hop in my truck parked where they're waiting or next door to Helen's driveway where my bicycle rests against her porch, and make my way to the sun rising over the ocean.

If I'm in a hurry I take a left passed Sean and Wynn's house and scurry on home.

If I'm not, I take a right meandering down front, wave at Jerry the "Animal Control Officer" ... (what happened to Dog Catchers?) ... make my way down one of the lanes or alleys stuffed full of vacation rentals and apartments ... take a right on Butler Avenue ... (which is somehow also called the Korean War Memorial Highway though I rarely see any Koreans on it)... passed hotels, bars and restaurants.

Along the way I pass early morning joggers, power walkers, stumblers wondering what happened to the night, philosophers sitting still drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes while staring into space but they all disappear when I make the turn on 13th Street.

13th Street is only a few blocks long, has a rich canopy of lush sub-Tropical trees, ending in the Marsh with spectacular views of the Back River, Wilmington Island and mind numbing sunsets.

I'm heading west so the sun's over my shoulder and deep shadows sprinkled with dancing sparkles of light blanket the road.

It takes my breath away every single day.

It's magical about this time of morning ... the sun bubbling out of the Sea, the lushness of the trees, the heat of the morning, the smell of the Marsh and the tranquility of the Back River.

Today I'm in a hurry because Sarah asked me to make certain she's up and ready for work so I wave at Sean and Wynn's house, speed on down Butler, hang a fast curve on 13th and ... stop.

I'm not sure if the Garden of Eden was any better because it's pretty amazing.

Art lives at the end of the street so I say a prayer for him, inhale the pungent aroma of the Marsh at Low Tide ... the smell of sex in the Tropics ... and wonder how many more days I get to be blessed by this.

Then I rush home to make sure Sarah's up and moving, fix her coffee, start getting my day in order, admire my wife when she strolls into the kitchen and in a nanosecond ... the day has stuffed out the morning.

Sarah leaves ... the phone rings ... the cell phone buzzes without ceasing ... Goddess wants to wander in and out the sliding glass doors ... I can't believe the number of emails ... four different people want me to do four different things right now and I try to prioritize ... rubbing my hands over my head they're full of hair when I start typing again.

"Ahhhh," I sigh.

It's Hump Day and I wish you a nice one.

I think Goddess is taking me for a walk to remind me how precious it all is.

Heavy Metal Hymns

Choirs of birds are waging harmonious war with choirs of cicada.

It's so damn loud outside I can't hear myself think.

I'm trying to be contemplative because there's a lot on my mind right now.

Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, have retreated inside to get away from the noise but it's too cold in there for me.

Sitting in the bright sunshine, working on my all over tan, I'm wondering how many cicada does it take to make a choir?

Suddenly a hoodlum gang of squirrels get in a fight in the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt and it's even louder.

Grabbing one of Goddess' tennis balls, I hurl it in the branches of the Palm Tree and the squirrels, thugs that they are, scurry away.

Resuming my seat, I prop my feet on the rail noting the choir of cicada have chased away the choir of birds.

It reminds me of the time the choir in the Methodist Church sang "How many stars will there be in my crown?" while the Baptist Church choir next door sang, "No Not One."

Church jokes really are the worse jokes.

My cell phone buzzes and it's Samuel Adams, who used to play damn good live music on Tybee Island, actually following up with a text.

Miracles really do happen!

"SHUT UP!" I yell at the choir of cicada. "IT'S SAM FOR GOD'S SAKE! HE NEVER WRITES!"

Apparently unconcerned about whatever it is Sam has to say, the choir of cicada sing louder.

Finally looking at his text I read, "I'll get back to you after I make a Doctor's appointment. ASAP! Peace!"

It strikes me this is the longest text message Sam's ever sent.

Goddess meanders out to check on me.

"You think Cicada are charismatic?" I ask.

Our lovely Golden Retriever mixed with Boarder Collie lays down at my feet, sighs heavily and covers her ears with paws.

"Yeah I think so too," I concur. "They only know Heavy Metal Hymns. Damn charismatics!"

Goddess nods and closes her eyes.

No Doubt

"Get in!" he says.

I hand him the cooler ... the chair ... the beach bag ... the Styrofoam cup full of beer ... and climb inside his van.

"Where you going?" he asks while leaning over to awkwardly hug me.

"Seriously?" I reply.

He laughs as only Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island whenever he feels like it, can.

It's a self-depreciating, having fun with himself while having fun with you, laugh.

Sam cracks me up when he laughs and it makes me laugh.

"13th," I say and he turns the van around to drive me the four blocks I would have walked to the beach.

"I think it's God's will that I found you like this," he says suddenly serious.

"Well then," I mumble sipping the beer, "then it must be."

"It is," he says stopping at the end of the street, in a shady spot where he illegally parks before awkwardly hugging me again before settling in for serious conversation.

Sam Adams has always been Tybee Island's coolest character.

Sure John O'Neill you're funnier ... Roma's more stately ... and Monty Parks is more electable ... but Sam's the coolest.

"What do you want?" I ask ready to hit the beach.

"God wants us to talk," he pronounces looking like a Saint getting ready to pray.

"Well Shit," I think to myself, "God normally talks through Sam ... according to Sam."

"What's God want us to talk about?" I ask.

"Us," he says with conviction.

"Shit!", I think to myself.

"I just want to go the beach," I confess.

"In a minute," he proclaims.

"Shit," I think really wanting to hit the beach but ... it's God talking so I remain in the van.

"It's time," he says.

"Tell me about it," I say taking another sip of beer, "there's not going to be a spot left on the beach if I don't get on out there."

He laughs again and it melts my heart, "No it's time for you to step up," he explains.

"Well," I say not knowing what to say.

"We've both known for a long time," he continues.

"Hmmm," I mumble watching the endless parade of families carry beach supplies over the crosswalk.

"Where you been?" I ask.

"Where I'm supposed to be," he says.

"Of course," I agree.

"We'll get together this week," he concludes.

"You never respond to a freaking text," I snap.

"Oh I will," he smiles.

And there comes a moment when you either believe ... or you don't.

You're full of faith or as empty as a dry dog dish.

"Alright," I say grabbing my cooler but Samuel grabs me instead giving me another awkward hug and I spill beer on myself.

"It's gonna be great," he says with his infectious smile.

"No doubt," I say grabbing my chair and heading to the beach.

Questions about Worship

I'm in good spirits, mostly from napping, and it takes me away from it all.

Which got me thinking about Church.

My sister Angi updates her status to let the world know she's "@worshipping God."

My brother David is not as cutting edge and goes to Church without letting the entire world know.

My Mom goes to early service and gets home in time to watch the highlights on ESPN of the Georgia game.

Sarah's Dad is conducting service at this very moment and she's supporting him by staying in bed, waking up slow,  pondering what we're going to do today ... if we do anything today.

I'm the Heathen of the bunch which is funny because I'm an ordained Southern Baptist Minister sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, singling island songs, eyeing the new blender Sarah bought, envisioning the wonderful concoctions we're going to make to "Praise the Lord" later today.

Somewhere just under 50% of the nation is attending Church right now and it makes me wonder ...

How many congregants are staring at their phones during worship?

How many still fall asleep during the sermon like in the olden days?

How many are lusting?

How many are wishing they were somewhere else?

How many are hungry and thinking about dinner (e.g. lunch for Northern readers)?

How many are marveling at how the Preacher got his hair to stay that way?

How many are wondering why in the Hell a woman's in charge?

How many are already pumped about the Nascar race starting in a couple of hours?

How many are reliving the great sex they had last night and smelling their fingers?

How many are singing songs in their head?

How many have to pee but refuse to embarrass themselves by getting up in the middle of the pew and kneeing themselves out?

How many are watching the "Minister of Music" study his fingernails?

How many can't see around the head in front of them?

Me?

I'm thinking about going to the beach.

This is the day that the Lord has made.

Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
 

It's Game Day in Athens

It's a well known fact I love the beach.

I live at the beach and prefer to vacation at other beaches.

I love islands, staring at the ocean, turning my back to the mainland with all of it's congestion, crowds, politicians and cities.

Shrimp boats, lighthouses, Palm Trees, seagulls, salty air, Piers and seafood platters are necessary ingredients in my happy life.

The love of my life can talk me into going places like Disney World but that's purely a testimony to the depth of how smitten I am of Sarah.

She did talk me into going to Ireland, which had never occurred to me at all, but thankfully we mostly visited quaint sea villages that serve "cockles and mussels" and the Pubs have bands playing songs about the sea.

When work requires me to leave the island, I curse as my dark side goes public.

There's only one thing I've voluntarily, willingly and excitedly left the island for (well other than Sarah's house before we were married and she lived two islands to the west) and that is Athens, Georgia.

When I was 12 and my brother David was 11, my Dad took us to witness the Beloved DAWGS of Georgia play the demonic team from Houston.

I still vividly remember sitting in the Sanford sunshine, my hand on Dad's knee and David's hand on his other knee, and while we were already raised to be DAWGS, I really became one that day.

In no time at all I had children of my own and first took them to watch Georgia play Kentucky in Lexington until we made it to the island and got season tickets.

Every weekend in the fall became a wonderful celebration of family, friends and football.

So it's funny today.

This is the first home opener I've missed in 26 years but I'm on island with the love of my life ... who already knows I'm going to drive her and her girls absolutely crazy when the game starts.

"What's wrong honey?" she's already asked. "You seem bothered."

I'm not bothered.

I've got my game face on.

The Beloved DAWGS of Georgia are playing and I'm 12 years old again.

I'll be watching with my Dad, who died several years ago, my kids ... one of whom is there and the other two wishing they were ... the holy host of friends who've celebrated Game Day with me from New York City to the epicenter of the Universe in Athens for four and a half decades ... and Sarah and her girls who'll think I've lost my mind screaming at the television, hunching over in despair or jumping up and down in delight.

I find myself full of emotion sitting in the bright sunshine on the Beloved Back Deck with the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiling at me under Fran's thousand shades of green.

I miss being in Athens today but I love the Now.

We're going to the Beach.

Afterwards we're coming back.

Then it's all GOOOOOOOOOOO DAWGS! SIC EM! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

Dad, Jesus and me

My Dad used to make Salmon Croquets and I haven't thought of that in years until yesterday as Sarah and I push the cart in Publix and I saw the cans of Salmon on the shelf.

Immediately Scotty beamed me back to our kitchen in the house on Clifton Drive in Port Wentworth, Georgia and I could smell the Croquets frying in the skillet.

He served them with stewed tomatoes with lots of pepper over white rice, green beans and the thinnest crunchy corn bread ever made.

Dad was quite the cook and because he worked the night shift at the railroad, and Mom worked the day shift at the bank, he cooked supper.

We ate when Mom got home and then he went to work and we went back outside to play.

Scotty beamed me back pretty quickly and I hear Sarah ask, "What are you thinking about?"

"Salmon Croquets," I reply and she flashes a look of loving concern that I've lost my mind.

Sarah and her girls do not eat fish which is one of the great tragedies of life.

The first thing Jesus did after being raised from the dead was have a fish fry on the beach for his friends!

I've always wondered if Jesus walked on the water as a way to streamline fishing. Once above a school of fish, did he just reach down and pick the ones he wanted?

I never did learn the answer in Seminary because none of the Professors could fish for fish because the Baptists were always fishing for men ... NOT WOMEN ... just men ... or GAY PEOPLE ... just men.

Anyway, now I'm really jonesing for Salmon Croquets which I haven't had since Dad cooked them.

Obviously I'll have to cook them when Sarah and the girls are away because they don't appreciate the wonderful aroma of fish frying in grease in a cast iron skillet inside the kitchen like Dad, Jesus and I do.

Savoring every single moment

Things look different when you know they're about to change.

My friend Erin Sorenson wrote that and it hit me right between the eyes.

I spend a lot of time these days telling Sarah how much I love everything.

I love our house, the incredible transformation taking place and am forever stopping to admire how beautiful it is and how much it feels like a loving home.

I love when Sarah's girls are here because, in spite of driving me absolutely crazy, they are fun and show love in the most obscure yet over-the-top neurotic ways ... plus they've become vicious Spades players and we love beating each other!

I love when my kids wander in an out, always unexpectedly and typically cramming lots of information and emotion in the smallest amounts of time.

I love Tybee Island still ... though Jesus Christ has it changed! ... with it's paramilitary police force, Stop Signs everywhere for no apparent reason, no parking whatsoever, a sign in front of City Hall flashing "Welcome! Parking Laws Strictly Enforced 24/7!" and it still won some award for being family friendly anyway.

I love my friends ... both the close ones and the virtual ones on Facebook who bring mostly humor and occasional drama ... sharing lots of music, dinner, drinks, opportunities for good times and who are there whenever I need them.

I love the Tybee Island Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam in the bar formerly known as Doc's because it's eclectic as Hell, funny, too serious, and magic sometimes happens that lingers for days.

I love Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog, Gypsy the formerly gender confused cat and a Hermit Crab I never actually see because they love us with incomprehensible depth and passion.

I love every trip Sarah and I have taken, from Ireland to San Salvador, Belize to Memphis, Costa Rica to Athens, Georgia and Disney World to downtown  ... the ones we're planning ... and the time when we finally do expatriate!

I love the solitude and the frivolity of the Beloved Back Deck where friends rise from the dead, drunken Angels visit, God listens while I talk, I listen to the quiet response, a choir of Cicada sing Hymns and where the party always end up happening.

I love delighting in Sarah from the ever-so-slow way she wakes in the morning to the passion of the moments that sprinkle our days. 

And I love me! It's taken a long time to get here but, as Mom says, it is what it is, and I've forgiven myself for the things I did wrong, celebrate all the good things and find myself extremely comfortable in my own skin.

I'm looking at everything these days knowing they're going to change.

Houses need constant repair ... little girls grow up ... children have families of their own ... Government justify themselves by increasing rules, regulations, fees and fines ... friends move or die ... religious ecstasy is harder to come by the older you get and ... Sarah goes back to work next week changing the way we live our days.

It's all good!

It's better to have loved and lost ... screw that!

It's just better to love!

Enjoy it while you got it!

Savor every single moment.

That's what I'm doing these days.

A Meaningful Life

The things you initially love in a person are normally the first to be questioned, criticized or even despised.

Lots of lovers can't work through it so ... they don't.

Some do and learn that they really did love these things all along.

It's the same with the place you've always wanted to live.

You get there and after a while it's background scenery that's occasionally appreciated ... living at the beach, in the mountains, in the greatest city on earth or way out in the country away from it all.

Before you know it you're dreaming about going some other place.

Some fall in love with the place again, most dream about somewhere else and a few move again.

It's the same with Churches,  political persuasions, annual events, weekend activities and ... Hell! even family reunions.

The other day my friend Art says, while staring out of a window at something far beyond the Marsh and the Back River, "Micheal, none of it matters ..."

He's been told he only has a short time to live and a verse from the Bible pops in my head, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity!" is how one of the 16 different King James versions put it.

"Meaningless! Everything is meaningless," is how the modern translations put it.

Either way, they're wrong.

Art's wrong too but I cut him some slack because he's got a lot on his mind right now.

His life has been meaningful as Hell to mine!

When I went through the roughest part of my life and wouldn't leave the house, he threw a Cotillion Party complete with beer, steamed oysters and lots of people.

In the south mostly white families host very formal balls to introduce daughters who have come of age to society.

Art thought I should come out and took the Savannah Morning News pictures of Cotillions, cut one out, glued my photograph in and formally reintroduced me to my friends.

As hurt as I was at the time it me laugh ... and made me feel loved when that's the last thing I felt.

"Sarah Blue Eyes," is the first thing he ever said to Sarah. "Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes," and then ... as only Art can do, he continues, "Well Shit of course they have!"

Every day when I walk the dogs, Art's waiting with treats for them and we'll stand in his yard, talk boy talk ... give each other grief over college football because he's Auburn and I'm a DAWG ... or get serious about life, love, disappointment and hope.

There's nothing meaningless or vain about how rich and MEANINGFUL these moments were.

If death doesn't make you think about such things ... then you're well on your way to dying anyway.

I very much love everything about my life right now!

I love where I'm at and where I'm going too. I love our house and what it's becoming. I love my friends and delight in our interactions. I love watching my kids in adulthood and where they're taking themselves. I love Sarah and the wonderful moments we share on even the worst of days. I love God who drives me crazy staying quiet when I'd much prefer dialogue.

Having spent countless hours in his yard talking about such things, I know Art loves it all too and the thought of leaving it scares the Hell out of him because ... he finds it so meaningful.

If you've bothered to read this I want you to stop and take a deep breath ... take a good look around you ... look at what you've got ... who you're with ... and touch the meaningful things again.

One day they'll be gone or you'll be gone.

But that's not today.

And if you have a moment left over, say a prayer, send some good Karma or a wish or two for my friend Art.

A Real Church

"He needs Hospice," she whispers.

Nodding my head I stand in his Living Room wearing only black running shorts holding a Styrofoam cup.

Sarah is standing behind me holding the leashes of Goddess and Winton, The Little Gay Dog.

We'd strolled over to check on our friend and it hasn't been a good day.

Sitting at the kitchen table is another neighbor who's a Nurse as his frantic wife says, "I just can't handle this anymore," before rushing back to the bedroom to check on him.

"He needs pain management and she's completely overwhelmed," she whispers again.

I understand, have nothing to add so I continue nodding.

A fourth neighbor appears at the door carrying plastic bags full of Tupperware containers of hot food.

Rushing from the back his wife grabs a paper listing the Medications crying that nothing is working.

Calmly the Nurse suggests what she should give him and how often.

It's all of the heavy duty prescriptions Doctors lob at illnesses like soldiers on sterile battlefields lobbing grenades at unseen enemies.

He's scheduled to returned to the sterile battlefield of the Hospital tomorrow and his wife frets she'll be unable to get him in the car.

The Nurse answers her husband and yet another neighbor have already committed to be there when it's time to go.

"What happens if something goes wrong in the middle of the night?" she exclaims, shaking, afraid, a bodily collection of emotions.

"Call us," Sarah and I say at the same time. "We're right here."

Nodding, for the forth time in three days, his wife checks to see if she has our number.

The Nurse, Sarah and I take our leave so the neighbor can deliver the food to his wife.

As Goddess and Winston, TLGD, drag us back home, I'm feel as through we're leaving Church.

Stained glass, Steeples, majestic music, powerful sermons, handclapping praise  and wonderful prayers don't come close to the tenderness of the real service we'd just left.

The Impending Fall

It's finally warmed up enough for me to assume the writer's position and here I sit, appropriately un-attired, ready to see what happens.

"Feels like a lovely Fall day," someone said this morning and I wanted to shoot him.

I don't have a problem with Fall per se, except when it starts to get cold.

As my beautiful wife Sarah reminded me yesterday, "You don't hate anybody or anything ... except cold. You HATE cold."

Yep.

She's right ... as usual.

So the damn Tropical Storm in the Bahamas is wrecking havoc on a perfectly fine hot August day and I don't like it one bit.

It's okay now because it's finally 80 degrees on a bright sunny day but I found this morning brutal and went back to bed.

Sarah's gone to yoga and I'm watching the ocean breeze blow the Umbrella around in circles on the Beloved Back Deck.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is outside working on his tan, Goddess is snoring under my feet dangling from the kitchen table and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, is making a lot of noise from downstairs.

When Sarah gets home we have lots to celebrate!

This is her last week at home before starting a new job with the American Red Cross so our daily routines, rhythms and ways will soon pass like Summer into the Fall.

It's pretty exciting though as we'll make new ways, give new gifts to the world and pack more quality into our time.

As hot, humid weather reclaims August over the next few days, chasing mementoes of the impending Fall and cursed cold, Sarah and I have this week to continue our long honeymoon.

It's hot enough now for me to bring this to a close.

Besides Sarah's getting ready to walk in the door.

Celebrate good Times! Come on baby!

The Last Resort

At this moment a thousand years ago ... I was a "Professional Christian" ... getting paid to love everybody ... while asking everyone else to do it for free.

On Sunday mornings, I'd rise at 6:00 and make my way from the apartment on the third floor to the Fellowship Hall in the basement and start to fry sausage.

Chester Fawbush handed me coffee as I entered the kitchen.

"Morning Rev," the old homeless man said in a sweet grandmotherly way and he sat on a stool by the roll up window separating the kitchen from the Social Hall where a hundred homeless men were already waiting for the only meal they'd get that day.

RRRREEEEVVVV," Sonny Broughton hisses as he strolls in to cook the biscuits.

Making the gravy, I nod to the tiny, balding, fidgety man with who always wore blue jeans with creases and a blue work shirt.

Sonny was the best dressed homeless person I've ever known.

Well ... there was another from my Union Mission days who got up every morning, put on a suit and tie, packed his brief case and walked to the Chatham County Courthouse to pretend he was a lawyer ... but Sonny was the first.

Believe it or not, I had a staff ... people I supervised ... inexplicably the Baptists supported what I was doing.

None of the staff showed up until Sunday School time and breakfast for the homeless was my baby!

Pushing 7:00 I stroll into the orange Social Hall, announce breakfast is served, mumble some prayer and watch hungry men, women and children storm the window.

Chester and Sonny sweated like pigs slopping sausage gravy on biscuits while I stood there looking ministerial.

To this day I hate that shade of institutional orange because it reminds me of hungry people.

After breakfast, I'd lock myself in my office, slam in the 8-Track of "The Eagles" and listen to "The Last Resort" again and again before wandering into the Sanctuary to preach.

"And you can see them standing there on Sunday morning, they stand up and sing about what it's like up there. They call it Paradise ... I don't know why ... you call some place Paradise you kiss it goodbye."

There's never a Sunday morning that I don't remember these things.

Something to look forward to

"He ate a Krystal," she says standing behind his recliner, tenderly brushing his hair with her fingers.

"No shit!" I proudly exclaim ... being the one who'd suggested eating Krystals would make him feel better about being told he only has a few months to live.

"It was only one," she explains, "and it took him half-an-hour but he ate the whole thing. No cheese."

"No cheese?" I ask horrified at the thought.

"I was afraid it would upset his stomach more," she says continuing to brush his white hair.

Wearing only running shorts, he lays with his hands on his tanned belly, mouth open, staring at the ceiling and I can't tell if he's listening.

Standing at his feet, dressed just like he is, I lean forward and ask, "Are the drugs working?"

"For a little while," he painfully mumbles.

"Take more," I tell him.

"Call the doctor," he tells his wife, "and see if its okay for me to take more."

"Screw the doctor," I say grabbing the prescription bottle. "You can have 400 milligrams a day. You decide when you want them."

"Okay," he says and pops a pill.

She continues to lovingly brush his hair which is wildly askew from the pillow he spends most of the time laying on and I feel the salt water well in my eyes being privileged to witness such tenderness.

Suddenly he pulls himself from the chair and stands, still holding his belly, and paces before me.

"Micheal," he says ... and no words follow as he stares at the marsh and the Back River through his Living Room window.

I put my arm around his shoulder and say "Hey football season starts Thursday."

"Who's playing?" he mumbles still staring out the window.

"South Carolina and Texas A&M," I remind the diehard Auburn fan.

"Really?" he asks with a little more enthusiasm.

"Yeah. What time do your Tigers ... Plainsmen ... War Damn Eagles ... whatever the Hell your schizophrenic team is play?"

Turning his head he stares at me for the first time and grins.

"Three-thirty," he announces with pride.

Emotion and love pour out of my eyes.

"As much as I hate it," I softly say looking directly at him, "I think Auburn's going to win."

"I don't know," he mumbles returning his gaze to some far away place.

"Well you got something to look forward to," I say slapping him on the back. "You know it's important for you to have things to look forward to."

Laying back down in his recliner, hands still on his belly, his wife resumes the tender brushing of his hair and he locks his eyes on mine.

"Yeah, well ... Georgia's not going to cover the spread."

'There you go," I exclaim slapping his leg. "Something else for you to look forward to. And when Laurel and I are walking the dogs, you can rush right out to let me know we didn't"

He laughs ... for what I think is the first time in a while.

Paradise Found

The choir of cicada sing their Hymns loudly.

Fran's thousand shades of green dance.

The sun rests in the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

Jasmine vines are wrapping themselves around the pickets of the railing on the Beloved Back Deck.

Blooms of green, red, orange and purple proudly display themselves in strategically placed pots.

The grill sits empty and waiting.

Salt hangs in the air as a Tug boat wails in the distance.

The grinding of gears in Garbage trucks grate as they make their way down the street.

Sea shell treasures Sarah's girls brought home bleach themselves white in the sunshine on the railing.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, lay beside me and follows me in and out whenever I need something.

Goddess sleeps in the air conditioning on the other side of the sliding glass doors.

Sarah sits at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and playing with her hair while intensely studying something on her I-Pad.

"Someday we'll know why Samson loved Delilah?" America asks from the tiny speaker on the table under the Umbrella where I'm sitting.

My mind, filled with things I need to do today, battles with my heart, already full of emotions rooted in hope or fear.

I feel it all ... sense it all ... acknowledge today as it is ... try not to rush ... but just try to "be".

"This is the day that the Lord has made," makes it's way inside my head.

A lone Cicada, large, brown with green wings silently sits beside me until I notice then flies back to the choir. 

There are no clouds in the deep blue sky.

Butterflies appear, yellow and brown, kissing the blooms on the plants forming a circle around me.

It's as perfect as it can possibly be and I'm going to stay here as long as I can today.

Yard of the month competition on our street

After cutting a third of the front yard my lawn mower dies.

Sitting on his front porch my next door neighbor is watching.

Grabbing my tools I pull the spark plus, clean it replace it and ... nothing.

He giggles.

I cuss.

There is no real competition on our street for "Yard of Month."

The Cat Lady is our other next door neighbor and her house looks like a garage sale in a rain forest overrun with feral cats.

Apartments across the street from us look like a used car lot with two jet skies, three motorcycles, four cars, a trailer and four giant trash cans in the drive way. (Two of the trash cans are marked "Tybee Recycles" but it doesn't so there are four giant trash cans.")

Directly across from the Cat Lady is a purple house overgrown with sub-Tropical vegetation that may make the roof collapse. The owner spends a lot of time outside gardening in her underwear, shrieking songs to dying tomato plants, doesn't seem to care. A torn tarp over a rusty frame sits beside the purple house as a garage for her purple car with a "Witch Parking" sign and we couldn't agree more.

The only homes on our street in any serious competition for "Yard of the Month" ... if those people ever found our street ... is our neighbors and ours.

We are not close.

He cut his grass yesterday.

I check my lawn mower for gas which is fine, clean the spark plug again, pull the cord and ... nothing ... so I kick it.

Nothing.

"Heeeeyyyy Mike," he says in a sticky, sweet uncaring voice. "You need to borrow our mower?"

There are times in life when you realize that, in spite how much you think we're in charge of things, we really don't control all that much.

For the most part things go right until they suddenly go wrong.

To quote the great Harry Nilsson, "things went good ... things went bad ... things went good ... they went bad ... good ... bad ... goodbadgoodbadgoodbad ..."

No, I don't want to borrow his lawn mower ... Yes I want our grass cut ... I do not want to accept his charity ... I do want to remain in serious competition for "Yard of the Month" ... I can't stand the thought of him telling the neighbors how he saved me so our yard wouldn't look like theirs ...

AAAAARRRRRGGGGG! my soul rages as I raise my hands to Heaven asking "WHY?"

Standing on his porch watching me, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other, he waits.

Surrendering to the powers of the Universe, I hang my head and say, "Thanks. I will."

That's how our grass got cut today.

Summer Squalls

The density of the huge wet clouds push the salt air rising from the ocean down filling my nostrils with a strange pungent combination of impending rain and Sea water.

Peeking around our house towards the west I spy massive purple clouds roll south like Sherman marching towards the Sea.

Thunder booms.

Lightning flares in bunches.

Rain pours from the sky hitting the roof so  loudly it is hard to hear.

My first reaction is to cuss loudly ... which is exactly what I do because I can't sit outside on the Beloved Back Deck and continue working.

Jerking my cell phone off the kitchen cabinet I call Sarah, who's off island to warn her and ask her to take her time until the summer squall passes.

Thankfully she's listening to the storm inside the safe confines of Walmart.

"Come on Goddess," I say hanging up. "Come on Winston! "Let's go enjoy the storm."

Downstairs we have a screen in porch with a ceiling fan, television, sofa and chair, decorated with sea shells Sarah's girls bring from the beach and colorful art we've picked up or someone gave me a long time ago.

Goddess rushes on out but Winston, The Little Gay Dog, freezes on the bottom step when he sees it's raining.

He hates rain and before I can grab him he quickly prances upstairs to his hiding place under our bed.

Goddess plops down with her nose against the screen watching the rain.

Sitting in the chair, I do too.

Thunder, lightning, torrential rain are a pleasant experience from the safe confines of the porch.

My friends Dicky Trotter and Matt Few live on leaky boats and I wonder how they're holding up with pots and pans catching water as they wear raincoats huddled wherever it's not dripping.

It's August on an island so chances are a squall is going to hit sometime during the day and they're often quite impressive.

Grabbing the remote I turn on the television and the local channels are all showing graphics of the storm as downright orgasmic Meteorologists warn us to take cover.

I've come to believe most Meteorologists were children who didn't listen to their mothers when they yelled, "COME INSIDE! IT"S GOING TO RAIN!" or "COME IN OUT OF THE RAIN NOW!"

Alas the poor child did not, remains scared from the experience, probably got a whipping and is spending the rest of their life trying to make up for it.

Flipping the channel, Goddess and I watch "Bonanza" ... because to this day I don't know what Adam did to get kicked out of the Cartwright family.

The rain grows light and the sun throws off the blankets of clouds so I turn it back to the Meteorologists who are no longer orgasmic as their forecasts limps to an end.

Immediately, it's 35 degrees hotter.

"Come on Goddess, let's go wait on Mom," I say and she follows me upstairs where Winston, TLGD, remains under the bed ... obviously still traumatized by the whole experience and I wonder if he'll grow up to be a Meteorologist.

On the Beloved Back Deck I put the umbrella back up, plop down in a wet chair, pop the top on a cold beer and bask in the sunshine.

I love summer!

Even the squalls.

The Busted Flush

"Travis Mcgee's still in Cedar Key, that's what ol' John McDonald says ..."

It's a line from a Jimmy Buffett song but it's more than that.

Travis Mcgee, Salvage consultant, was in Cedar Key hiding and healing after successfully retrieving someone's lost treasure.

It's what he did as a "Salvage Consultant" ... if someone lost something or had it taken from you ... Travis would get it back ... for a price ... half the value of whatever it was.

He lived on a boat, "The Busted Flush" that he won in a poker game ... perpetually moored at the Bahia Mar in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida ... near his friend Meyer who lived on a boat the "John Maynard Keynes."

There are 21 Travis Mcgee novels and I devoured every single one ... some multiple times.

Apparently Jimmy Buffett did too.

John McDonald is the author who created Travis and his world.

Whenever things went wrong and Travis was hurt, physically or emotionally, he went "incommunicado" in Cedar Key ... cutting off all communication so he could focus on himself with a couple of friends who loved him.

If you're lucky enough to visit Cedar Key you know it's a pretty good place for such things.

I was incommunicado when I read the Travis Mcgee books, the first of which I'd purchased in Louisville, Kentucky at the old Hawley Cook Booksellers ... then had a head on collision with a truck leaving me hurt and broken ... ending up on Tybee Island ... sitting on the beach with broken bones ... healing while I read.

Every morning Terry Jackson took his walk down the beach and see me sitting there so he stopped to say "Hello" and ask what I was reading.

"That's 17 in a row," he laughs one morning and it was.

To this day I love Travis Mcgee ... the allure of living on a House Boat ... perpetually tan ... helping people salvage things they've lost.

So it was with utter joy on an otherwise shitty day when Monty Parks raised Travis Mcgee from the dead on Facebook and then Michael Neal says there may be a movie filmed on Tybee Island.

It's a funny turn of events ... Travis Mcgee strolls back into my life on a day when healing is needed ... just like he did all those years ago.

I think there's a Divinity to such things.

And Travis is letting me know that the time of incommunicado is coming to an end.

The Gift of NOW

Last week, I dropped off over 1000 books at the Goodwill Distribution Center.

It took several trips and after heaving the first couple of bins inside the poor guy hated seeing me come back with more.

"Sell your bed and buy a book," goes the old Puritan saying to which C.S. Lewis adds, "Just make sure it's a good book."

I had lots of good books ... each special in it's own way ... some stuffed full of wisdom while others contain only a kernel ... and I loved them all.

I found most in old bookstores, rummaging for hours before making the right choice ... taking it home ... sitting in my chair ... cracking the binding for the first time ... inhaling the aroma of ink on paper ... grabbing my favorite pen to write my name inside ... making it part of me.

Goodwill's now going to distribute parts of me all over the place for a bargain price!

That's life though right?

There's a time to gather stones and a time to cast stones away.

This is my time to cast away.

Casting away doesn't happen all at once.

The books rested in bins at my Mom's house for almost four years before we hauled them to Goodwill.

I only kept the most special ones ... all of Frederick Buechner and Ernest Hemingway ... Graham Green ... a handful of others.

In time I'll pass them off the kids or the girls ... who'll probably save them for a while out of obligation before ... taking them to Goodwill.

"Did you read all these books?" people asked when entering my office.

"I have," I replied to their disbelief because they believe books are for decorative purposes only.

I suppose each is still part of me somehow because occasionally I'll throw out a quote from one ... or say, "Oh yeah, I read that" ... not remembering what it was about ... though the truth of the matter is I did read it once.

I'm a hoarder though ... attaching significance to things that have long passed being significant ... forever challenging me to throw anything away.

Consequently, I have lots of stupid stuff ... a bobble head doll of a Pope I hate my daughter Chelsea gave me as a joke ... tee shirts from concerts I attended 20 years ago ... a favorite tie I wore at a job I no longer have ... a watch with no hands that simple says "NOW" my friend Terry Ball gave me after a Hurricane ... who knows what else is stuck and forgotten in the boxes, corners and crevices of our house.

The truth is I pay them little attention.

I am a terrible receiver of gifts.

Somehow I read ... or was raised ... that I'm not worthy of them ... which sucks ... because I am ... especially when someone loves me enough to stop everything and do something ... just for me.

I've come to believe that's most of us.

Grace is a hard thing to receive and most really suck at it.

I do.

So I'm working really hard getting rid of meaningless clutter in my life so I can fully appreciate everything that's in it NOW.

Because ... the only thing we really have is NOW.

My Ministry ... or not!

"What kind of minister are you?" Roma asks as I line up my shot on the pool table.

"A damn good one," I reply knocking in the 8 ball and winning the game.

"Where's your church?" Lindsay the bride asks when we meet for the first time to plan her and Frank's wedding.

Holding both arms in the air I answer, "The world is my church."

"If you're really a minister," Amanda messages me on Face Book, "how can you write things like 'JESUS: THE ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW'?"

"I thought it was funny," I write back, "and thought Jesus got a kick out of it too."

"Why don't you go to Church?" Tim emails. "Ministers are supposed to go to church."

"I prefer the grand Cathedral God built," I explain, "and not the church people have been trying improve on ever since with its stained glass windows, carpeted pews and really good sound systems."

"Do you ever go Church?" Diane asks in a text while asking if I'll be a job reference.

"Sometimes," I tell her. "I like Bar Church ... it's a church that meets in a Bar ... and when I miss the fancy stuff ... there's just nothing like a really good Catholic Mass."

"What exactly is your ministry," Neil asks sitting beside me at the counter of The Breakfast Club?

"Beats me," I laugh and then say, "I just try to be there when somebody needs me."

"You do know you're going to Hell," Beth posts on my page.

"I've already been a couple of times," I comment, "and it's not all that. I'd rather not go back but if I have to ... I'm a survivor and thinking about getting Tee-shirts saying as much."

"You are so damn frustrating!" Sandy tells me as I get the mail at the Post Office.

"About what?" I ask.

"Is your Guardian Angel real?" Dave the Bartender at Spankey's asks. "I could use a Guardian Angel."

"Everybody needs a Guardian Angel," I respond, "and I like mine a lot! I've put her through Hell but she's always there for me. You'll like yours too when take the time to meet her."

"Your blog drives me absolutely crazy!" Angela, a childhood chum, lets me know. "It's like a train wreck and I have to look. Why do you do it every day?"

"I think it beats listening to most sermons."

"Most sermons don't have Little Gay Dogs," she immediately retorts, "Angels that cuss and drink,  cuss words at all or Bill Berry in them."

"You know he's not the ... never mind ... I don't give many sermons anymore so you really can't compare ... Sometimes Samuel Adams (who plays damn good live music on Tybee) loses his mind and asks me to preach but even then I try not to preach ... There's way too much preaching in the world already."

"Why did you write about me?" my Mother yells into the phone. "I've told you not to write about me!"

"You're my Mom," I say for the hundredth time. "Everybody loves you. You're right up there with my Guardian Angel and Winston, The Little Gay Dog."

After Mom hangs up me, Sarah does not ask what I'm working on so I ask her, "Want to know what I'm doing?"

"No," my wife replies.

That's pretty much sums up my ministry.