An Unplanned Family Reunion

I'm flying high, everything's clicking professionally and I'm pretty convinced I'm happy ... as my marriage falls apart.

I'm oblivious.

For God's sake if you're making money, live where you want to live, successfully raised children and ... pretty much doing whatever you want ... LIFE IS GOOD.

Except it isn't.

Strolling down the beach on a picture postcard day I've drink my beer ... carrying the empty in my University of Georgia Koozie ... index finger stuck in the hole of the can ... feet in the surf ... the beach is packed so I dart around kids building sand castles ... Frisbee throwers ... abandoned towels and people who refuse to move.

The one who's leaving me is home ... packing ... though I'm oblivious ... and make my way up the stairs of the Pier.

My normal friends ... and I use the adjective "loosely" ... have already left.

Michelle pops a top and refreshes my Koozie with no words spoken.

Turning to look at the Sea ... my cousin Ricky Hinely's feet are propped on the railing ... a family trait ... intensely talking to his friend.

Ricky's two month's younger than I ... along with our other cousin Rick Donaldly ... we were in an intense race to be the firstborn grandchild.

Ricky came in second.

Rick came in third.

"Cuz," he says smiling.

"Cuz," I reply as we click bottles.

"Cuz" is our family greeting.

I have a thousand cousins ... Ricky was the first.

My feet prop next to his.

He has this funny grin ... a smirk really ... endearing as Hell.

"What's a country boy doing at the beach?"  I ask.

"Country needs to come to town every once in a while," he says ... then ... "This isn't really town is it?"

"No," I reply and we laugh.

And we talk sitting in the sunshine on a glorious day ... sipping beers ... referring to each other in the family way ... feet propped on the rail.

He's sick and this is his last trip to the beach.

I'm fortunate enough to stumble upon an unplanned family reunion.

"They've taken everything Cuz," he says staring at the Sea.

"Yeah," I answer thinking I understand though I don't.

A month later I'm shocked because he is dead.

I'm still alive.

Like every Funeral ... his sucked ... primarily because he wasn't there.

A year later Rick dies.

There's a big gap in the family tree ... broken braches have fallen down  ... and we're no longer everything we should be ... but the tree remains.

I think it's a "Cuz" sort of day.

I'm going to try to make it to the Pier ... maybe get a beer ... look at the Sea ... toast Ricky and Rick ... say a Prayer thanking God for them ... and wonder why?

Something's not quite right.

And I'm determined God and I are going to work it out before I die.

Life! ... and whatever's next.

It's awkwardly funny being a divorced parent whose children just lost their last remaining grandparent on the "other side" ... as if she's with Darth Vader or something.

She didn't go to the Dark Side ... she died.

Dying is the natural conclusion to living. 

I love my kids and want to be there for them but ...their Grandmother is not part of who I am anymore ... that was then ... this is now.

Except she was a funny woman I enjoyed ... I think she enjoyed me ... and there are some nice memories.

The world has lost a little more because she's gone on to whatever's next ... and whatever it is ... she'll clutter it up in no time ... while laughing.

I worry about my kids though.

They're all different about dealing with death.

One's emotionally accepting ... another hates it because it means more change in her life ... and the last is stoic in an almost Buddhist sort of way.

I believe in them and they'll get through it but ... "once a parent always a parent" and I love them with everything in me and would take the hurt away if I could.

But I can't.

Besides they'll all adults now ... not that it matters to me ... because they'll forever be my kids ... and when I think about them it's most often in some crazy way ... where they're still kids.

If it's not bad enough ... my son's fiancée loses her Grandmother at the same time ... she has two young girls who are being exposed to death for the first time ... so that's not going well.

As this happens, Sarah, the girls and I head to a Willie Nelson concert for a happy night ... which we have.

We've got our own issues ... cash flow isn't what it should be ... bills mount ... the girls are talking about moving in with us full time ... controversy happens in the tiniest of churches ... and Flood Insurance is due and it's ridiculously expensive because it's administered by Government.

But none of these equate with D.E.A.T.H.

Nor the vacancy it leaves behind.

I'm trying to keep it all in perspective today.

Mostly I'm thinking about my kids.

And celebrating everything I have in my life today.

Because the reality is death is life's Grand Finale ... and then whatever's next.

The North verses the South ... ends of Tybee Island, GA.

The longer I live on this island the smaller it gets.

I don't go to the North End anymore.

It's about two miles away.

That's too far.

And people who live on the North End will testify they rarely come to the South End because ... it's too far.

Let me confess I love to travel and am ready to go now ... The Caribbean, South America, Europe, many cities across America, the Ivory Coast of Africa and of course to see Joey and Bill in Key West ... but not the North End of the island Sarah and I live on.

"Why?" you ask?

I'll tell you why ... it's too far.

There's lots of cops over there ... the new City Hall/Courthouse/Jail/Government-Money-Making Industry is on the North End and I don't like it one bit.

I think all City Council meetings should be held on the Beach.

That way, City Council is forever reminded of why everybody's here in the first place and the meetings would be a lot shorter.

It's too damn hot in the Summer and too damn cold in the winter to have a City Council meeting on the Beach ... so it'll create less Government right off the bat.

I think all Judicial proceedings should be held on the beach so the Judge in a black robe can sweat his ass off for once.

You take Government indoors and look what happens ... they want nicer buildings ... named after politicians ... and they have to pay for it ... which is where fees and fines come in ... so to ensure collections "Parking Services" (an oxymoron) and the Police Department are given carte blanche authority over everybody ... except the Government.

I've been to the North End.

It's nice.

We have dear friends who live over there.

There's a nice Lighthouse ... some fine restaurants ... an old fort ... a soft ball field and the American Legion.

The South End has prettier beaches ... the Back River ... four Churches with stained glass and one with no windows ... "The Breakfast Club" ... "Doc's Bar" ... and the Pier.

There's less Government on the South End but far more arrests.

I'm pondering succession.

They can have everything from 11th Street North on ... we'll take 13th Street South ... Tybee Market will be a neutral zone where everybody can pretend to be nice while buying groceries.

The Post Office is on the North End ... so they've have to deliver mail to the South End and the Northerners can continue to pick theirs up ... or they can just leave it at Tybee Market and we'll get it there.

There is a liquor store at both ends so there's no problem there.

The South End should be left alone to market the South End ... with "Clothing Optional Beaches" ... "Belly Flops off the Pier Competitions" ... and Fannie's on the Beach can bring back the "The Best Buns on the Beach competition."

Speaking of which, Jenny Orr owns both "Fannie's On the Beach" and Marlin "Monroe's" ... one's at the south end and the other on the north end ... when disputes occur I think we should just let Jenny decide what's best.

I think it's an idea who's time has come.

This Year's Garden

"Life is like a Garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory."

Leonard Nimoy ... a.k.a. Dr. Spock ... "Tweeted" that.

Like most in my generation I love Spock ... and I love Leonard Nimoy in the Bruno Mars video "The Lazy Song" ... and he died yesterday taking Spock with him ... but he leaves behind some profound words.

Perfect moments are had but they don't last.

Well they do ... in your heart and mind.

"That was a damn good day," we say out loud remembering how close to perfect it was.

Graduating ... the first kiss ... making love ... the marriage ... baby's being born ... hitting the home run ... making the perfect presentation ... writing the book ... climbing the mountain ... or surfing the wave ...

Moments of perfection!

We anticipate them ... they bloom ... it's wonderful ... they fade and they die.

Except they don't.

They stay with us somehow ... I don't know how ... but they do.

Things I've done ... things done to me ... the births of my children ... home runs I've hit ... things I've written ... a sandy kiss on the beach that I taste at this moment ... mountains I've climbed ... waves I've ridden ... I can still feel, taste and touch them all.

Strolling outside I review the dead plants on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Well that sucks," I say out loud in the cold wind of a shitty day.

Inside though, our warm home is full of sleeping girls, dozing animals and incredible love ... both the loud and the quiet kinds.

Strolling back inside I shake off the cold, take my place at the kitchen table and ponder how many plants will be resurrected this year.

Experience as a gardener has taught me that most will return in their full splendor ... and others will have to be replaced.

Like friends ...

I've lived long enough to not take any of this for granted ... because I know with absolute certainty that one day ... it's all going to be taken away from me ... or I'm going to be taken away from it.

So each time Sarah breathes as I watch her sleep ... every single time I talk to the kids ... when the girls hug or kiss
me on their own ... as Goddess lays at my feet ... the laughs with my friends ... the hopes we have and the dreams we're dreaming ... I clutch them tightly.

These are my seeds.

I love this year's garden.

The Grand Cathedral

"Rev," Chicago Bob greets me on the Pier.

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,"  I answer tipping my beer towards him.

Trolley Joe and Johnny O mumble their own greetings.

Michelle the bartender laughingly shakes her head.

Dean, the overseer of the Pier, rides up in a Golf Cart, which is banned on the Pier.

Thus it begins.

Others wander in and out ... Whitley Reynolds ... Kenny Wade ... Ohio Bob ... O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) ... Garrett ... even my son Jeremy ... and faces I recognize with names I don't recall. 

It lasted for several years ... this gathering of friends on sunny days at the Pier jutting out on the Beach ... overlooking girls in bikinis, surf fishermen, Frisbee throwers and Volleyball players ... we stand there taking it all in ... drinking libations ... and cracking jokes.

"Hey Rev! You look great! Who's your mortician?"

Bobby was old school before there was a school.

Leaving him with Johnny O, I stroll to Trolley Joe who's silently praying to the ocean, grateful that he ... and his wife Barbara ... are still here at all.

Cancer danced with them but they still stand with us.

We clink our drinks without saying anything standing there in Holy Community in the Grand Cathedral that God built.

"Hey, Hey, Hey," Johnny O says, "it's all getting a little too serious here.""

"What'd he say?" Trolley Joe asks.

"I have no idea," I reply.

As the tornados of change ripped my life apart ... the "Bored Meeting" sustains me.

Judy O named it that after that after attending and concluding "You are boring."

Maybe.

But God we loved each other and the time together.

Johnny O and I are the only ones still alive ... well if you don't count Whitley Reynolds or Kenny Wade.

Around 11ish today there will be an empty spot because the "Bored Meeting" is a thing of the past but ... ah ... it was one Hell of a gift.

So here's to Bobby, Trolley Joe and Dean!

I miss you guys.

There's no doubt you're having fun raising in Hell in Heaven.

Raise some for us too!

More of Life's Unaswerable Questions

Why do parents wait until they get to Walmart to spank their kids?

What happens when you get scared "half to death" twice in the same day?

Do Jewish Vampires care if you pull out a cross?

I'm thinking deep thoughts today.

I feel it's important to examine life's complex issues. It's how we grow as human beings. That's why my daily musings tackle life's tougher questions, going deep, being utterly transparent and completely honest, I seek to find the answers, create a dialogue with readers and a support system for those determined to wrestle with shortcomings and inconsistencies to find peace.

Like ...

Can a short person "talk down" to a taller person?

Why is it when we skate on thin ice it gets us in hot water?

If "pro" and "Con" are opposites, wouldn't the opposite of "Progress" be "Congress?"

If something goes without saying why do people say it?

I'll tell you why they say it! It's because we blindly steal what other people say and pretend we made it up on the spot to make us look smarter ... sophisticated ... debonair ... wise ... perhaps even "believable".

It's important to take on Life's darker side so you can understand and appreciate it's lighter side. To quote Arlo Guthrie, "you can't have a light if you don't have a dark to stick it in" which makes perfect sense.

This one's for Kris Allred, our family's meteorologist ... "When exactly does it stop being 'partly cloudy' and becomes 'partly sunny'?"

Explain that one to me!

This one's for Jodee Sadowsky ... "How fast do Hotcakes really sale?"

For our next door neighbor The Cat Lady ... "Why isn't there 'mouse flavored' cat food?"

For John O'Neill ... "If we're taught to not take candy from strangers why do we have Halloween?"

For my hotly beautiful wife Sarah, "Why not now?"

And for God, "Does staying in bed screaming your name on a Sunday morning constitute Church?"

Nothing But Blood

When I was little I spent as much time as possible with my Grandparents ... Ira and Edith Carver ... who died a long time ago but are still very much alive.

Mom and Dad were busy raising my brother David who cried a lot ... and conceiving my sister Angie whenever David fell asleep ... so they were happy to let me stay with my Grandparents.

My "formative" years were with Granddaddy and Grandma.

Ira and Edith were good, country people who ... late in life ... developed a love for Jesus boarding on Monastic.

On Wednesday nights in those days there would be "Gospel Sings."

Granddaddy, Grandma and me faithfully attended.

A piano, a guitar, a bass and a drummer accompanied a quartet of singers washing everyone in nothing but the Blood of Jesus ... making us all whole again.

In a half-filled room of believers in Pooler, Georgia with my Granddaddy and Grandma who showed every bit as much love as Jesus did, I came to believe.

I can still feel what it felt to be there ... can still recapture the moment ... raising them from the dead to live again.

It's been a frustrating week!

Misunderstandings, miscommunication, misfires and missed opportunities ... coupled with really crappy weather ... leaves us sullen and sour.

The bills are a bit out of hand, cash flow isn't coming close to projections and dinner at our house pretty much sucked last night.

I'm struggling to start today.

Then Granddaddy, Grandma and Jesus too I suppose, reach down from Heaven and make my fingers hit keys I don't mean to and ... someone's singing "Nothing But the Blood of Jesus" and stopping dead in my tracks ... I'm suddenly a little boy again at a Gospel Sing sitting between them.

I laugh to myself.

Then I print out the chords, pick up the guitar and start practicing for Bar Church.

I haven't thought of that song in decades.

But my Grandparents and Jesus too I suppose thought I needed a pick-me-up ... so they threw some blood on me.

I'm feeling pretty righteous right now.

"Oh come on world," I say out loud, "throw me some more of what you got!"

Then I'm throwing nothing but the blood back at you.

I wish it was Christmas

There's no getting around it it's terrible outside.

Wind, rain, cold and a vicious squirrel that has now attacked a second chair on the Beloved Back Deck leaves me in a foul mood.

Damn squirrel.

Making it worse, Laurel ... Sarah's 10 year old ... has named it "François".

"Oh look," she exclaims as we sit on the Beloved Back Deck in chewed up chairs on Sunday afternoon when the weather was perfect ... well for winter ... "it's Francois?"
"Who the Hell is Francois?" I ask working on my tan wearing nothing but black running shorts ... sometimes the girls really interrupt my tanning and I have to wear something.

"Him," she points at the wire hanging in the back year with the squirrel on it.

"Little Bastard," I mutter.

"MICHEAL," Maddie, the 13 year old
 clueless child who knows everything chides.

At that moment several dozen cats start howling from next door.

The Cat Lady's not home so Laurel sweetly coos, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand sitting up in my chair and taking my bare feet off the table.

"Oh they need some love Mike," she explains.

"NO THEY DO NOT," I explain. "I NEED A B B GUN!"

Maddie starts laughing and quotes something I always say when they want something ... "Well Christmas shopping just got a little easier."

"Why do you want a B B Gun," Laurel asks.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask sticking my bare feet back on the table with their bare feet.

"No ... why do you want a B B Gun?"

I have serious doubts about American Public Education.

LAUREL," Maddie yells ... because she knows everything without understanding anything ... "MIKE WANTS TO SHOOT THEM!"

A lover of animals Laurel is horrified.

"Don't you want another stuffed one," I ask?

"YOU WOULD NOT," Laurel says with ice.

"Sure I would," I reply, "where do you think stuffed animals come from anyway?"

More horrified Laurel rushes downstairs to check on the health of the several thousand stuffed animals she owns.

"A B B Gun huh?" Maddie giggles.

"I think so," I reply moving my bare feet from the table to rail ... staring at François ... pointing a finger at him ... pulling the imaginary trigger ... blowing my fingertip afterwards ... "It's time to thin the herd."

"What's that mean?" Maddie asks.

"Never mind," I say, "just make sure I get a B B Gun for Christmas."

"Okay," she answers ... "What are you getting me?"

"Shut up," I say.

"No you tell me or you're not getting a B B Gun."

G.I.R.L.S.

"What do you want?"

Several hours later we leave the Beloved Back with a long list ... a faint memory of what I want ... as that little Bastard Francois plans his next attack.
 

Why is it when you try to be nice ... about anything ... or nothing ... others don't like it?

I've never understood it.

You can raise the dead and it's going to piss somebody off.

Don't let it bother you too much.

That's all I have to say today.

God Bless you.

God Bless me too.

And while you're at it God, bless you too.

God knows there's enough un-blessing going on these days.

Double Secret Missionary Journies

"My friend Michael Ruffin has been hired by Smyth & Hewlys," I tell my son Jeremy on the phone.

Smyth & Hewlys is a religious publishing company.

Michael Ruffin and I went to Seminary together at the same time ... he and his "Good Wife" had the incredible misfortune of living below Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for REM but the other one.

I'd often go to Bill Berry's apartment when his wife Kathy wasn't home with a brown bag full of Bibles.

That's a lie ... it was a six pack of beer but as Michael Ruffin saw me walking in, I'd say something like, "We're on a Double Secret Missionary Journey that I'm not at liberty to discuss."

Because we're attending a Southern Baptist Seminary, Michael Ruffin nods his head indicating he completely understands.

Southern Baptists pioneered religious terrorism ... well ... I mean the Catholics set the bar with the Inquisition ... ISIS is now trying to raise the bar but Southern Baptist hold the record for lynching's.

Then Michael Ruffin would go to the class Bill Berry and I were skipping to drink a cold one.

The pizza arrives so Bill Berry and I would open beer number two, stuff a slice down our throats and say, "GOD IS GOOD."

I loved Seminary.

Except for that time we tried to sue each other ... but that's another story.

Regardless I'm telling Jeremy about Michael Ruffin's good fortune when I'm interrupted.

"Smyth & Helwys?" my son asks. "I have a good friend who works there. I told him that you'd published with them."

"Who's your Dad?" my son's friend asks.

So ... a long time ago ... Smyth & Helwys was a new publishing company that needed authors.

Scott Nash was their higher something there and he'd attended Seminary with Michael Ruffin, Bill Berry and me.

I'd already published some books and Scott really wanted to sign me ... which is what happened.

My first book with them was "Running with the Dolphins and other Tybee Tails" which had absolutely nothing to do with religion, Michael Ruffin, Southern Baptists or Bill Berry.

It's about the beach.

Jeremy's good friend who now works for Smyth & Helwys says, "That's YOUR Dad? He wrote the biggest seller we ever had."

So ... after that Scott Nash asked if I would write a religious book for the religious Publishing firm he oversaw and, of course, being a good Christian ... I agreed.

"Playing Hide & Seek: A Non-Church Goers Guide to God" was then published by Smyth & Helwys  and ... Scott Nash disappeared from the face of the earth and the Publisher stopped taking my calls.

All that to say ... Michael Ruffin if it's helpful ... use my name.

And congratulations Buddy!

You deserve this!

Have you heard anything from Bill Berry?

Mrs. Timmins

"It's a lot like religion and a little like sex," to steal Jimmy Buffett's words.

Or it's a lot like prayer and a major addiction.

It's about creating ... doing my best to give something back to those who've given me so much ... friends ... the earth ... the Universe ... God.

Sometimes I've been so arrogant about it I thought my writing could change the world but quickly learned people don't remember most of what they read.

My first book did quite well, received lots of terrific reviews, went through four printings, made the Publisher lots of money so naturally they encouraged me to write a follow-up ... which I did.

It was about my homeless friends and people with AIDS when everybody was scared shitless of the disease.

I learned many things from these wonderful people as they struggled through poverty, disease, discrimination and felt their heroic deeds should be shared to inspire the masses.

But with a title like "Community of the Abandoned" it's no surprise the book tanked, reviews called it "depressing," the Publisher dropped me and I was left to start over as a writer.

But then there's Mrs. Timmins  ... from somewhere in Texas ... who wrote me a letter.

I can still see her tiny feeble handwriting in blue ink, on a page ripped out of a "School Composition Notebook."

"My son is addicted to drugs and alcohol. I pray for him every day. I don't know what else to do so I pray. I saw your book and bought it because ... I don't know why. It reminds me of my son. He truly is Abandoned. Thank you for helping me understand that. God's blessings on you and please pray for me and my son."

That was a long time ago but I vividly recall the powerful emotions of reading it.

Decades later Mrs. Timmins very much remains alive though I'm certain she's long dead.

Every day when I sit down to write, sometimes full of purpose and intention, and sometimes lost in the Wilderness, she floats through my mind ... along with others who took the time to say they took something from what I'd written ... and it makes me keep at it ... even when I'd rather be doing other things.

"For we know that all of creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to now (Romans 8:22).

I take that to mean we're all in it together ... you, me and God ... delivering this baby of lives ... and these often insignificant things I write every day are my contribution. 

All Things Considered

In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that "Consider the lilies of the field" was the only commandment she never broke.

She could have done a lot worse.

Consider the lilies.

So wrote Frederick Buechner, my absolute favorite author ... yep more than Hemingway, Graham Greene, Chaim Potok, Carl Hiaasen or ... even myself!

Back to the point ... I've broken far more commandments than stopping to consider the lilies of the field.

I've broken most of the "Top Ten."

Confessing that ... again ... it is true that I spend far too much time chasing things rather than ... considering ... lilies of the field ...

or ... the turning of the Marsh Grass ...

the ever changing Beach sculpted by the Tides ...

the rising of the Sun bubbling out of the Sea ...

the setting of the sun over the Back River ...

the smell of fresh cut grass ...

the dark blues of the sky ...

the colors of the rainbows ...

the shooting of the stars.

Through I try.

At night ... when I'm already  mostly asleep ... my leg flops on top of Sarah's ... and I'm very mindful of the Holiness of it ... for those few seconds before I slide into another Universe where God considers me ... rather than the other way around.

These are the things I'm considering today.

Later, I'm going to buy Lilies.

The Anti-Rev

"He's the Anti-Rev," Lona Crask says in an attempt to explain what I've just said.

Dobby Simmons is trying to lift his music stand so he can see it but is having difficulty ...

so the "Rev" in me comes out ...

and with outstretched arms I yell ... "IN THE NAME OF J-HE-SAS-AH, I COMMAND THEE TO RAISE."

Immediately the music stand rises and Dobby thinks a miracle just happened.

The musicians at Monty Parks weekly jam laugh or ... start praying for me.

I'm feeling pretty good about it all and blow on my fingers cause they are H.O.T. hot.

This is when Lona tries to explain a miracle.

You can't explain miracles.

I learned that in Seminary.

Just like ... other substances ... they happen.

I've been an ordained minister for most of my life ... 3 and a half decades ... though I was a pretty religious child before (if you don't count the beer and the girls).

I've never tried to be too serious about it.

There's a lot of pomp and circumstance that comes with religion I try to avoid ... except at weddings and funerals.

Take away the weddings and the funerals and the pomp and circumstance of religion resembles political rallies.

I don't believe God cares much politics.

I believe worship should be fun ... a celebration of things ... a happy opportunity to be with others and the oft chance God's stopping by.

So if being the Anti-Rev is like ... being Anti-Freeze ... I'm cool with it ... cause I hate the cold ... and like it hot.

I crack myself up.

And for you non-believers ... God's laughing here with me.

Having said that ... I also believe religion is mostly a personal matter between God and me.

We spend lots of time together ... mostly in silence ... though when we do talk, it's mostly me ... because God likes to listen ... which makes sense ... cause God can tackle my unanswerable questions and leave the other stuff for me work out on my own ... which I'm perfectly capable of anyway.

When two or three gather in God's name I believe it should be a party.

Who gets to hang out with God?

WE DO!

It's pretty cool!

But most people think going to Church is like going to a funeral ... you get all dressed up and serious ... you have to feel bad before you feel good ... and God's talked about like She's dead but ... IS COMING BACK! ... like a sequel or something.

I don't believe that.

God's right here.

Right now!

And we're enjoying the Hell out of my life.

Because that's how you get to Heaven.

Happy Ash Wednesday?

Exactly what in the Hell is a "Happy" Ash Wednesday?

Let me first confess that I am not an Ash wearer.

I don't go Mass and have the Priest smudge ashes on my forehead as a reminder I'm going to die ... like Jesus did.

I already know I'm going to die.

There is no need to be reminded.

I'm in no hurry.

I like my life.

Before Ash Wednesday there's Mardi Gras ... more specifically "Fat Tuesday" ... a Pagan celebration dedicated to the God of Fertility ... or what Jimmy Buffett explains ... "Let's get drunk and screw."

The next day you ... (a) wake up with someone you don't know ... (b) wake up with someone you do know and are horrified ... (c) are quite content with you wake up with ... or (d) don't wake up.

The Catholic Church didn't like the freedom Pagans do and want people to feel terrible about the way we actually live our lives so Ash Wednesday was created.

The purpose of Ash Wednesday is for Priests (who deny doing things on Fat Tuesday) to smudge ashes on our foreheads and say ... "BAD BOY!" ... "BAD GIRL!" ... "YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF!"

Ash Wednesday is actually the beginning of "The Guilty Season" ... you're supposed to feel terrible about yourself and the things you've done ... though Priests are somehow exonerated.

On the Up-Side ... Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent ... or the drying out period ... where you swear off everything you did on Fat Tuesday ... the person you wake up beside ... well except for (c) ... and sales of "The Morning After" Pill skyrocket! ... Pharmaceutical Companies LOVE Ash Wednesday.

Ah religion ...it's a funny thing ... when it's administered by Hierarchies, Governments and Big Business!

I mean why did they kill off Fat Tuesday to have Ash Wednesday?

I'll tell you why ... money.

You'll pay anything to get out of (a) waking up with someone you don't know ... (b) waking up with someone you do know and are horrified ... or ... (d) not waking up.

Plus religion administered by Hierarchies, Government and Big Business negotiated a giant kick-back from the Pharmaceutical Companies.

Honestly that how big religion works.

All that to say "HAPPY ASH WEDNESDAY!"

Wherever you are.

Whoever you're with.

Assuming you woke up.

I. HATE. SOCKS.

"You have a bank of stories don't 'cha?" he asks sipping his beer.

"What do you mean?" I reply with my bare feet leaning in the window of "Fannies on the Beach" staring at the beach.

Eying me suspiciously he continues, "You write new stuff every day?"

"I do," I answer moving my feet from the window to my favored dangling position on a high stool.

"So on the days you don't feel like writing," he pushes, "you have extras laying around and use one of them."

"Nope," I answer ordering another Chard-on-ice-in-a-Styrofoam.

"It takes me forever to write," he sighs.

"Yeah," I agree sticking my bare feet back in the sunshine pouring through the large plate window with the view of the ocean, "some morning's it takes me forever too."

"MORNINGS!" he erupts. "It takes me weeks to finish a song."

"Some days I get up knowing exactly what it's going to be," I continue, "but a lot of times I have to sit and wait."

Like now.

It's a crappy, non-inspiring day.

After a wonderful weekend with Sarah and the girls in the warmth of Florida, it's cold and those damn Weather Forecaster people are saying it's going to get worse.

Sarah's at work ... the girls are off at school ... the kids are scattered ... and I'm in a funk about it all.

"I bet you're wearing socks and hating every minute," is the post on Facebook by Sarah's soul sister Aaron, "and hating every minute of it."

It makes me smirk ... sitting with bare feet dangling over Goddess's fur ... she doesn't know me yet ... but we're already friends.

"AH," I say to myself, "INSPIRATION! ... I. HATE.SOCKS!"

I respond which leads to a lovely back-and-forth exchange ... complimented by our friend Matt Few ... who knows what a Handle is ... which a question for me ... "Who in the Hell would want to know what a Handle is?"

There is no backlog of these offerings.

This one happened just as it's spelled out with no "creative license" (my wife is going to be so proud of me)!

Thank you Aaron for the inspiration.

Thank you Matt for knowing things I never want to know.

And to conclude ... I haven't worn a sock in a year or so ... and in the last job interview I was in they pointed out that I wasn't wearing socks.

"And your point is?" I ask.

They didn't have one.

I didn't get the job.

But even in this crappy weather, Sarah keeps my heart hot ... which keeps my feet warm.

So there you go ... that's how I write ... where the inspiration comes from ... in real time with no bank or backlog.

I wish it was inspirational.

The point is ... I suppose ... if there is a point ... is ... it's easier to be inspired and write if you're barefoot.

My Dreams

 

Over the past few years I've begun to have vivid dreams.

Throughout my life I either slept hard and dark or lay awake focused on work.

Leading a slower life, no longer trying to save the world, dreams emerged as regular occurrences.

At first I found this startling and unwanted but, over time I've come enjoy them in spite of the occasional bad one.

Most are quite fascinating and I apparently really get involved.

Like the Bar Church Band is playing in Benny's like always but the stage is giant and new. Thousands of people are clapping but not singing along so I 'm giving it my best "Freddy Mercury" marching and prancing, holding the microphone over the crowd, led them to sing LOUDLY.

"You were singing in your sleep," Sarah says the next morning.

It took me a second but I remembered the ginormous stage and the crowd of thousands.

"How was I?"

"You were pretty funny," she laughs and does an impersonation complete with wild waving arms.

I don't read too much into them but do look forward to their arrival now.

God speaks, "In a dream, in a vision of the night, when sleep falls on people while they slumber in their beds" it says in the Bible.

I'm wondering what the message I should be getting in my dreams ... especially the erotic ones.

I had good dreams last night and am already looking forward to tonight's.

But I'm more curious about the messages in them.

Washing Away What Might Have Been

Standing in the crowd listening to Jesse J ... whoever she is ... because the girls had never been to a live concert ... so here I am.

It's actually a 1/2 live concert with the background singers all on tape and two guest rappers were ... nowhere to be seen

But the girls think it's Bad Ass rock-and-roll we're having a good time!

Standing on the lawn holding Cassidy the 8 year old so she can see ... my black running shorts explode in relentless buzzing.

Handing Cass to Sarah, I stick my hands down my shorts to retrieve my phone.

It's my sister Angie.

Mom was at a party, started to slur a bit, fainted and is now at the hospital.

"She going to be mad when she wakes up," I think. "She hates Hospitals and Doctors except on social occasions."

Sarah casts looks of worried contemplation so I hand her the phone as she hands me Cass.

Jesse J is engaging audience members to sing and I'm surprised they know all the words to songs I've never knew existed.

The 17 year old kid standing beside me is screaming, "PICK ME! PICK ME! PLEASE JESSE I LOVE YOU MOST!"

The phone starts buzzing again so I hand Sarah Cass as she hands me the phone.

It's my cousin Jason who's at the Hospital with Mom.

"She wants to talk to you," he texts.

That's when the lump in my throat grows significantly and my heart drops like a roller coaster. 

Jesse J runs out of songs and we rush to the car to sit in traffic, find a single and I call.

"They're running a battery of test," Jason explains, "and are keeping her tonight ... because she hasn't been to the doctor in so long, they're checking everything."

Mom gets on the phone and sounds ... perfectly fine like she always does.

"I didn't want you to worry," she says.

"Angie already did that," I laugh.

It gives me pause ... and I'm washing away what might have been.

I thank God, whatever lucky stars are mine and freely spending any Good Karma I've amassed.

I exhale a sigh of relief ... which really is one of the honest prayers.

A few minutes later Jason sends another text and Laurel, the 10 year old, reads it aloud in the Angelic voice of a little girl ... "All the test results are fine and positive" and the car breaks into a celebration of love and joy.

I know they'll be a day when I can't wash away what might have been but I'm pretty happy it still hasn't arrived.

Valentine's Day ... with girls

We're in Florida, very near places I've almost been hired over the past year and where we've almost moved.

For whatever reason neither opportunity worked out.

The first was extremely disappointing because it was something I really coveted.

The second was most frustrating because at the very end they opted for a member of their own Board of Directors ... the one chairing the Search Committee who'd really wanted to hire me.

Driving the same roads I've driven over the past year with excitement, expectations, hopes and dreams ending in ... missed opportunities.

The difference now is the car is ... FULL ... OF ... GIRLS!

In the back seat the girls are loudly singing today's really crappy pop hits.

The beauty on my right is yelling at them to be quiet so she can tell where I'm going.

"Who's been best on this trip Mommy?" one asks.

"Well it was me," the oldest immediately replies.

"It was not," the other counters.

And they get in a fight which, of course, makes Mommy yell louder for them to shut up so she can tell me where to go.

In the nanosecond of ensuing quiet, Mommy reaches over, rubs my shoulder and asks, "You okay? You seem a little tense and you're driving like a fool."

"I'm great honey," I smile. "I just really want to get there."

What I mean, of course, is to get the Hell out of the car after six hours!

We arrive at the really nice place Mommy booked and, of course, the girls get in a fight over who's sleeping where.

Accessing the Internet, I go to Spotify, find "The Boat Drunks," turn it up and pour myself a very large glass of wine while Mommy negotiates "World Peace."

But you know what?

We have the best time at dinner.

"There is a 15 minutes wait," the waitress informs us.

"That's cool," I reply, "we'll wait in the Bar. You serve minors don't you?"

We were seated pretty immediately.

Our table is full of laughing, telling stories, holding hands, conversations running over each other ... it was a truly remarkable evening ... and the kick off to one Hell of a Valentine's Weekend.

Enjoy yours!

Love yourself if you're not getting enough from others.

In the quiet of this moment I am celebrating the gifts of my life ... because I know all Hell is going to keep breaking loose ... as Hell always should.

Happy Day everyone!

Random Unanswerable Questions

Why is McDonalds classified as a "fast food" when it takes 10 minutes to get a cup of coffee during breakfast?

What's fast about that?

Is it because I didn't order food so therefore they don't have to be fast?

It's food for thought isn't it?

Which makes me wonder how many Stop Signs are required on a 3 mile long island that's two miles wide at it's broadest?

I "Googled" it because I don't know and Google doesn't know either so ... who knows?

How do they put air inside a tennis ball?

There's no hole on the ball so how do they get the air inside?

It's a mystery isn't it?

Why do people care if it's Republicans or Democrats controlling Congress when they're both the same?

Why is there never anything worth watching on television when there are hundreds of channels?

Where is Dedra Dukes Shuman and why?

Why do people listen to today's Country Music?

Why do Sarah's girls listen to today's Pop music?

It's all strange isn't it?

Why do buildings named Sanctuaries stay locked most of the time?

Which of course begs the question ... why does anyone believe in celibacy ... which has never really existed?

I could keep going but why bother?

Perhaps there will be a "Part II" list of unanswerable questions?

You can't blame me for stopping now though can you?

We're off to Florida for a few days and who doesn't like that?

Or do you think it could be the people in Florida?

Do you think we care?

Don't you know it's warm there?

And I think you all know how much I love warm ... don't you?

Raising the Dead

BE WARNED ... THIS IS A CRAPPY STORY!

We're having the best conversation and don't want to interrupt for the distraction of cooking so we keep talking.

It's an intimate, good talk and we're sharing things we never have.

Far after normal we decide it's time to eat, settle on where and rush out for a bite and continued conversation.

It's nice.

Returning home we watch a delightful move ... "Life's a Breeze" ... filmed in Ireland ... where we visited last year.

Then we're tired and it's bed time so ... stay up a little while longer.

THEN ...

Somewhere around 3 in the morning ... Sarah snuggles beside me ... but something's not quite right.

First off I'm sweating and I'd already done that when we went to bed and stayed up longer ... now I'm sweating in my sleep!

Second of all I'm not having any dreams of events, activities or things that would make me sweat.

I find this bothersome.

THEN ...

My belly starts talking ... and it's not the good kind ... it's the gurgling, rumbling, discomforting sort of dialogue you avoid at all cost.

Leaping out of bed ... I take little tiny steps to the bathroom.

THEN ...

It hits the fan.

Repeatedly.

My first thoughts are "I wonder who did this to me?" ...  "Could it have been that greasy burger, baked potato and slimy salad I had for supper?" ... "Maybe it was the Onion Rings, Fried Shrimp, Cheese and Bread and Brunswick Stew I had for lunch?"

It couldn't have been breakfast.

I don't eat breakfast.

THEN ...

The funniest thing happens.

"I can't be sick," I think, "I have to play at the Nursing Home today."

They would just die if I didn't show and ... as everybody knows ... especially the people who live in one ... there's WAY TOO MUCH dying in Nursing Homes.

THEN ...

And ... to quote my dear friend Guy Sayles ... America's greatest pastor ... well until he recently quit ... "I don't know ... but I believe."

It's just hard to NOT LOVE GUY SAYLES!

THEN ...

I'm fine.

It's like God reaches down, touches me and says, "Those people are important and you have to go ... so BE HEALED!"

And I was.

Climbing back in bed I surround myself with Sarah and peacefully sleep.

And you can bet everything you got to bet ... today's show at the Nursing Home is going to raise the dead.

Or at least keep them from dying for one more day.

It's a funny story ... a very true one ... one people don't normally share ... but ... there's something about raising the dead that raises you too.