Dream Makers

"We're after the same Rainbow's end ... walking round the bend ... my Huckleberry friend ..."

I'm full of melancholy today.

Things are not everything they seem.

Sarah's girls left this morning for a few days with their Dad which is good, because he's their Father, but leaves me in an unsettling quiet home.

Sarah's at work in town.

I'm working in the fellowship of two dogs and a cat ... blasting music to fill the void they leave behind.

Writing a guy in Atlanta through E-mail I'm talking on the phone with someone a few blocks away trying to coordinate a conversation between them.

The problem with virtual work is it's ... virtual.

It's a heart without passion.

I was five-years-old when "Moon River" was written and introduced to the world in the film "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

There is a river not far from here that inspired Johnny Mercer to write the words ... Henry Mancini wrote the chords ... and it's the perfect song for melancholy ... everything's right around the bend.

For years I wanted love and contentment and now I have it.

Just as long I wanted money and success and I had it.

Ah ... balancing the two ... that's a bitch!

It's a funny dichotomy ... with a great track record, I'm now at my creative best but miss the daily interactions with real people in real time!

On Thursdays I play music for people in beds and wheelchairs at a Nursing Home ... on Sunday's I'm the leader in a Church in a Bar ... and... it's pretty exciting.

Bigger things are coming.

I've been around that bend before and feel it with everything in me.

In the meantime I need to take care of the people who've taken care of me.

"Old Dream maker ... you heart breaker ... wherever you're going ... I'm going your way."

'Cause ... I'd determined to be with the Dream makers.

In spite of reality ... I refuse to be deterred.

Because ... it's just around the bend.  

A Dream Comes True

I'm sick but Sarah and I are in Ireland so ... to Hell with sick!

Sarah holds my arm as I'm coughing and hacking as we make our way down the cobble stone streets of West Port ... driving our walk because I'm stumbling.

"Where you want to go?" she asks.

I should go back to our marvelous and quaint little Hotel room and sleep  but ... we're in frigging Ireland so I point my shaky finger at a Pub.

It's three in the afternoon as we enter the packed bar full of singing patrons and happy music played by a band of five.

Grabbing the last remaining Bar stools we settle in and Sarah instantly becomes the object of every man's desire.

Ignoring me they tap her shoulder, ask what she's drinking, where's she's from and other things I don't hear.

Even the boys in the band keep their eyes off of her as they play.

"Where ye from?" they scream at us between songs because the Pub is so loud and rambunctious.

"U.S." I cough, "Georgia."

"Ha, we've been!" they joyfully scream. "Atlanta!"

Laughing, because the world believes Georgia consists of Atlanta and that's all ... primarily because Atlanta thinks there's nothing else ... I answer, "No we live on the coast ... by the Sea."

A hush falls over the Pub as everyone stares at us.

Ireland floats in the middle of the Gulf Stream ... warm waters ... so even though it gets bitterly cold there ... Palm Trees grow ... the flowers are incredible ... and the culture is defined by the ocean.

The band takes a break and the older guys rush to Sarah but the guitarist ... a younger guy talks to me ... primarily because there's no more room next to my wife .. "So ... you be a player aren't ye?"

"A wee bit," I hack.

"BOYS," he screams to his mates, "HE'S A PLAYER!"

Before I know what's happening Sarah's pushing me towards them and I'm sitting with the band holding a guitar.

And a dream comes true.

"Go on now," the boys in the band yell picking up their instruments, "We'll pick ye up!"

"Crossing the highway late last night," I sing and play "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road" ... and the Pub grows silent ... except for Sarah's smile ... "I should have looked left and I should have looked right."

My young friend pulls out a Celtic drum and beats the Hell out of it.

The boys in the Irish band laugh.

Finishing ... the Pub burst into applause and calls for another one.

People buy me shots.

Sarah winks still surrounded by her crowd of admirers.

I break a string on the guitar.

"Sing on Lad," the boys in the band yell.

We do Jimmy Buffett's "God Don't Own a Car" and the Pub laughs at the words.

Finishing I'm coughing and hacking and drinking shots ... can't find Sarah for the thong of her admirers ... am hugged by the boys in the band who scream ... "Anytime Lad ... Any Time."

Sarah guides me to the Hotel and I sleep for a day and a night.

When I wake my head's cradled in her lap as she brushes my hair with her fingers ...

For the rest of my life ... that's what St. Patrick's Day means to me.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone.

Managing Affairs

Monday's are tough.

"You've fallen into a pattern of taking long naps on Sunday," Sarah explains.

Sometimes I do not understand her at all.

The Bible plainly states Sunday is a day of rest.

After creating everything in the known Universe God rested on the 7th day ... which is no longer accurately observed because it really is Saturday but lets not squabble with our Jewish friends ... or those crazy ass 7th Day Adventist people.

God took a nap on the first Sunday ... I mean Saturday ... I mean when He was done ... and I take that to mean naps are wonderful, glorious, God given things.

It doesn't actually say God took a nap in the Bible but I can't imagine what else it would have been.

Besides our weekends are a blur.

The girls conduct a hostile takeover of our house on Friday ... pillaring the cupboards ... raping the Fridge ... trashing their rooms and talking over each other so nobody hears a damn thing.

Saturday ... we're in a parade as official members of the O'Neill'
s ... and Chelsea is here with a friend ... Batman and Robin show up ... and we march ... drink ... eat ... have fun ... and go home.

Sunday begins with Bar Church ... which is an all morning affair.

Sunday afternoon begins with lunch and Maddie, the 13 year old, planning her day's affairs, which naturally disrupt everybody's else's plans.

Sarah talks to her daughter about it.

I take a nap.

When I wake Sarah ... looking like she is in desperate need of sleep ... is on the Beloved Back Deck talking to Laurel, the 10 year old, ... Maddie is out on a date managing her affairs ... no one's heard from Cassidy, the 8 year old, all weekend.

Now it's Monday and I should be working but ... the girls talked us into letting them skip school today so ... ALL HELL'S GETTING READY TO BREAK LOOSE!

Sarah went to work ... leaving me to manage affairs.

I'm having a tough time getting started this morning and I've got lots to do ... though they're going to sleep until 11:00 or so ... but I've got it all figured out.

When the girls wake up ... we'll have a nice Brunch together ... then they can do whatever the Hell they want ... as I take a nap.

Don't Worry!

I'll wake up in plenty of time to clean the house, prepare supper, light some candles, make it nice for Sarah to come home and ... find the girls before she arrives.

I think that's about as good as you can do on a Monday.

You just get through them as best you can.

Heaven

"Okay I've spent my time in Hell," Johnny Cash says at the end of his life, "I'm going to Heaven."

He was sick, alternating time between a Hospital Bed and a wheelchair which certainly isn't living.

His wife June Carter was dead ... as were most of his best friends and his fellow members of music royalty ... Elvis, Roy Obison, Waylon Jennings, John Lennon ...

Yet the old man still finds the energy and strength to record one more song ... often one line at a time.

"I still have a little more to give," he sighs.

A handful of people continue to believe in him and there words and encouragement lead to a series of songs that are among his best ... with the crowning achievement being "Hurt" a punk rock song by "Nine Inch Nails" he turns into a somber retrospective of life and loss.

The accompanying video is hailed as the best EVER!

But all good things come to an end and the Man in Black dies ... just like the rest of us will.

Over the past several months I've lost friends who've gone on to Heaven or Hell ... and I have others struggling with illnesses and bad forecasts from America's money driven Health Care System.

They have to decide on Chemotherapy with no life or life without the drugs, pain and costs.

I read an article recently about what Doctors do when faced with the question and find their answers fascinating.

They do not go to the Hospital opting to enjoy their freedom of choice and squeezing the best out of however much time they have left.

Plus, they know how Hospitals really work ... making money off illness for as long as they can.

That's why HOSPICE exists ... there are better ways to die than in a Hospital under Doctor's care with mounting debt for whoever's left behind.

Give me morphine!

Whenever the time comes for me to choose, I'm going to look at Sarah and say, "Let's Go!" ... meaning somewhere we haven't been yet to enjoy the Hell out of each other ... because I'm convinced that's how you get to Heaven.

I know, I know ... people who got well and bought more time from the Insurance Industry will take umbrage and defend Hospitals and the American Health Care System.

Good for you!

Choose the things you believe in.

I like Johnny Cash ... "I've still got a little more to give" ... a little more to enjoy ... a lot more to love ... I'd rather create till the end than be dictated to conform and buy a little more time before I get to Heaven.

A Little Tybee Wedding

Standing on Little Tybee, which is actually bigger than Tybee Island but is uninhabited and only accessible by boat, I stand on the beach barefoot wearing shorts and a tee-shirt under my black robe.

I'm conducting the wedding ceremony of Deke and Denise.

He's a retired Norwegian sailing Captain known for his daily swims at the old Desoto Beach Hotel pool wearing "Speedos" when no one else in the state of Georgia ... or most of the south for that matter ... wears them.

Denise is a brilliant artist, open minded, a few decades younger and has a slew of friends who made their way to Little Tybee ... most came by boat but more than a few paddled over on surf boards or in blow up floats with coolers.

Friends from the Savannah College of Art & Design are filming everything.

Waves lap the pristine shore ... seagulls circle overhead squawking in delight ... dolphins skim the surface smiling ... on a glorious, cloudless day.

"In the glory of this grand Cathedral built by none than God," I begin.

Deke burst into laughter and I pause.

In his funny Norwegian English he says, "I know what that means!" ... and he keeps talking.

"Well it is his wedding," I think to myself so I shut up and listen.

"When I'm out on the boat and it's just me ... you learn to appreciate God's grand design."

Everyone claps and Deke kisses Denise WAY AHEAD OF SCHEDULE!

Standing there getting hot in the black robe, I wait until they're finished.

Deke nods his head to proceed ... so I continue and everything's fine until we get to the vows.

Deke's wrote a poem delivers it breathtaking, emotional passion.

I criy like a baby.

The beautiful Denise follows up with her own love letter, alternating her eyes between the paper and his eyes as passionate love hangs in the air.

I'm an emotional wreck before we get to "I Do's."

They "DO" and half the congregation immediately lights one up and a giant group hug occurs.

It was the first wedding I'd conducted on a beach though, all these years later, I can still feel the sand between my toes ... the heat of a black robe in bright sunshine ... the majesty of the grand Cathedral built by none other than God ... and the joyous love of Deke and Denise.

I count my blessings.

I don't conduct many wedding services but those I do ... all end up being quite spectacular somehow ... I don't know how ... except perhaps I sure respect love when I see it.

Those are the best weddings.

Multiplication

In a moment of clarity I am stuck by the obvious ... each of our children are building careers in the "Helping Profession."

"The Helping Profession is one that nurtures the growth of or addresses the problems of a person's physical, psychological, intellectual, emotional or spiritual well-being."

Jeremy is a teacher and a coach.

Kristen is a waitress who is perilously close to becoming a Nurse.

Chelsea works helping Autistic children discover themselves through art.

Maddie dreams of becoming a psychotherapist.

Laurel also helps autistic kids in her school and dreams of becoming an entertainer.

Cassidy is an artist, like Chelsea, and though she's too young to say what she's going to be when she grows up, I'm betting the Farm that Art will be at the center of it.

It's a humbling realization.

"Go forth, be fruitful and multiply," God tells Noah after being the only survivors of the end of the world as know it.

In times gone by the words always reminded me of my Grandparents ... Ira and Edith Carver ... who conceived 11 children ... birthed 9 ... who begat 56 grandchildren ... who in turn begat a few hundred.

Ira and Edith knew how to multiply!

I'm struck now that ... like most things ... there's more than one way to look at it.

Mine is "fractured Brady Bunch" ... two broken families that became one ... and though our multiplication is exactly like my Grandparents ... well ... the result is the same.

At the same time I realize we are a people who help others.

It's who we are.

It what we do.

What was once one ... became two with Sarah ... and now it's 8 ... multiplying goodness in the world.

I wish Ira and Edith were here to discuss it ... though they are in some resurrected kind of way that I don't understand ... but they're sitting here gushing, laughing and proud of everything we've become and how we do multiplication!

American Health Care and me

"I'd like to see you again in a month," my Doctor orders.

"Absolutely not," I reply, sitting on wax paper wearing nothing more than a paper towel.

She's already conducted a hostile takeover of my ears gleefully ripping wax out with an instrument invented by the Nazis.

My affectionate response is calling her an illegitimate daughter of a dog.

Smiling she lubes her gloved finger and tells me to turn over and hug my knees to my chest.

After I land she hugs me and informs me about my next appointment.

"I won't be here," I explain.

"It's the power of the pen," she smiles holding her ink pen from the white Doctor's coat. "You have to come back so I can write the prescription for the drugs you need to keep on living."

"Not at all," I say pulling my black running shorts back up. "Did they teach you about Canada in Medical School?"

Fear creeps across her face.

"I can get whatever I need out of Canada ... for a LOT CHEEPER THAN AMERICAN DRUGS ... and I don't even need your damn prescription."

Pulling my UGA tee shirt with spaghetti stains on it, she sits beside me on the cold metal table.

"How much does it cost?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Damn," she spits, "they're under cutting us bad."

"We love it," I tell her. "It's like a game ... order from Canada then guess which country your drugs come from ... Sarah and I just laugh when they arrive from ... India, Germany, France, Africa ... even Cuba."

"Cuba?" she seems shocked.

"You get your news from mainstream media?" I ask putting my arm around her shoulder.

That was over a month ago.

I receive a letter from her office ... a Memorial Health Physicians Practice ... explaining that I missed my appointment ... they understand life gets in the way ... please reschedule immediately ... so they can continue making money.

"They just wasted money," I tell myself. "I already told them I wasn't coming back. Why did they send me a letter?"

And that's the problem with the American Health Care system.

It is not customer friendly and certainly doesn't understand we have alternatives.

"You need this?" Sarah asks holding up the letter.

"No," I answer.

She throws it away.

"Did you tell them we no longer have the land line?"

Grinning devilishly I reply, "I did not."

"That's probably why you didn't get the reminder call from the Doctors."

Sarah always says "Doctors" ... in the plural ... as it's all a conspiracy.

"Damn," I say. "I hate that. I can't believe I forgot."

We both burst into laughter.

Smile

Watching the rising sun burn the fog hanging in the air, I wish it would hurry up ... this fog is killing me.

Standing I look towards town, across the Palm Trees and Pines seeing dark purples and blues.

Turning I look east, across the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and newly fashioned grass skirt ... pass the fortress of the crazy man who lives behind us ... to witness the sun's really trying.

I can't blame him ... he's doing his best ... which is as good as anyone can do.

The damn Fog refuses to relent ... even in the face of defeat ... hanging on to the reality of what no longer exists.

The sun glows brighter ... casting off rays of light ... and I can literally see pockets of wet darkness evaporate.

Within minutes the Fog retreats westward as the Sun chases.

Caught in the middle, I rip off my shirt, bask in the golden glows, retrieve my list of "Things to do" ... only to hear Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, clawing the screen of the sliding glass doors.

Muttering a repetitive explicative I stand and let them outside ... slamming the door shut so Gypsy the cat cannot get outside.

Resuming my seat, I'm now bathed in bright, warm light and ... smile.

Don't get me wrong ... everything's not perfect ... sustainability is a bitch ... "How do we keep doing this?" I ask myself ... then pick up the "Things to do" list hoping it's as right as the Bible.

There've been times in my life when I had lots of money but little love and I did my best with it though there was always more unsatisfied feelings than anything else.

These days I've got WAY MORE love than money and while it should scare the shit out of me ... I'm pretty content.

It's like the Fog fighting the sun.

Rather than focus on the darkness of what I don't have ... I'm concentrating on who ... not so much what ... I do have fulfilling my life.

If that doesn't make you smile ... nothing can.

 

Monday Morning Staff Meeting

The Cat Lady shuffles in the kitchen wearing a stained yellow Terrycloth bathrobe, blue towel piled high on her head wearing pink bunny slippers ... looking like ... Marge Simpson on meth.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is already sitting at the table with pen and paper ready to take minutes.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, lays on his back in chair.

Goddess yawns.

My Guardian Angel burps.

"Alright, let's get started," I say clapping my hands together.

"Wait," the Cat Lady says. "Somebody's missing."

My Guardian Angel shakes her head ... takes a shot of bourbon ... a very long drag from her cigarette ... chases it with beer... burps again ... pulls her robe back over her skinny white shoulder just before it exposes her right breast.

"The Gardener is not here," I explain.

"Why not?" the Cat Lady fires back.

"She's dead," I answer.

"Oh," the Cat Lady says taking her seat as cat hair falls on the floor reminding me of Pig Pen on Charlie Brown because whenever he speaks dirt falls from his body.

"What did she die of?" she continues.

"Oh Jesus Christ," my Guardian Angel explodes, smashing out her cigarette as another miraculously appears.

"We don't know," I confess.

"WHAT?" Winston TLGD asks before answering for everyone ... "Yes we do. It was a Gypsy curse that killed her."

This makes my Guardian Angel laugh. After taking another shot she points the lit tip of the cigarette at our little dog and says, "Of course it was."

Goddess yawns.

Gypsy's disappeared.

"I'm glad everyone could make it," I sigh. "Let's get down to business."

"What business?" my Guardian fires. "You don't write about us anymore! There's nothing to talk about."

"Who put the Gypsy curse on the Gardener and her underwear?" the Cat Lady asks.

"It's best you don't ask," my Guardian Angel explains. "She could put one on you too."

"I move the meeting be adjourned," Goddess yawns.

"Seconded," my Guardian Angel says while simultaneously disappearing.

Goddess and Winston, TLGD, quickly follow suit.

I'm left alone with the Car Lady.

"So who put the curse on ..." she begins but stops dead in her tracks when my wife pulls into the carport.

"You better go," I whisper and the Cat Lady flees leaving a trail of feline hair in our kitchen.

"Hey Babes," I say as Sarah gracefully makes her up the stairs.

"How was your meeting?" she asks giving me a kiss.

"Aw, it didn't happen," I tell her.

"Why not?" she asks throwing her bag down and kicking off her shoes.

"I don't know," I answer tenderly rubbing her feet. "They were scared of something."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I can't for the life of me figure out why they would be scared."

In the distance I hear my Guardian Angel snort... laugh ... spit a logy ... take a shot and ... laugh again.

My Dance with God

The time changed last night.

I have to go to Church this morning because I'm in charge of the service.

It reminds me of a joke a Priest told at St. Meinrad Seminary and Monastery in southern Indiana.

The joke went like this.

Mom: "Get up son it's time to go to Church."

Son ... slurring his words while asleep in bed ... " I ain't going to Church."

Mom: "Yes you are. Get up and get dressed!"

Son ... putting the pillow over his head ... "I am not going to Church."

Mom: "DO NOT MAKE ME COME UP THERE! GET READY FOR CHURCH NOW!"

Son ... angrily sitting up in bed while throwing the pillow against the wall" "WHY DO I HAVE TO GO?"

Mom: "Because you're the Priest."

It still cracks me up ... primarily because there's so much truth in it.

A lot of clergy are dreading heading into work today.

It's partially because of the time change ... it'll be "Church Lite" today ... but it's also because they know they're going to give far more than they receive and it's going to leave them absolutely spent!

They're also under some delusion they pretend they haven't shot their wad so they pretend to still care when they've got nothing left to give.

These are the good clergy anyway ... there's many that really don't care and it's just a paycheck.

Back in the days when I heard the long, lanky Priest at St. Meinrad tell his joke, I was on a mission to find God. Attending a Baptist Seminary, inexplicably in charge of an inner city congregation, I was also plowing the rich fields of Catholicism ... doing the readings for Mass at St. Martin de' Tours every Wednesday and visiting lots of Monasteries.

When all was said and done, I'd shot my wad ... left organized religion as it had already left me ... but found my dance with God.

I'm heading off to Church in a bit ... after I cook the girls cinnamon rolls which is a Sunday tradition in our house ... and my priorities are in order.

Our Church is in a bar and is definitely disorganized religion.

But there's a Holiness that happens ... I don't know how ... but it does in spite of my lack of understanding.

Individually we are a flawed messed up bunch of overdrinking, under caring, cussing, smoking, lusting independents ... but collectively we become a Church ... in a Bar transformed into a Sanctuary.

It's pretty spectacular and I find great joy in it.

When it's over and I've shot my wad ... I'm pretty spent ... and care about how many Cinnamon rolls the girls ate while I was gone.

Then we settle in for a day of rest.

Maddie the 13 year old watches "The Murder Channel" ... Laurel the 10 year old talks ... Cassidy the 8 year old stays in her room playing on her Mom's I-Pad ... while Sarah and I lust surrounded by barriers.

It's a good way to spend a Sunday.

I believe God gets a big kick out of it anyway.

A Bar Becomes A Church

Worship in bars is typically seen as scandalous!

But each Sunday morning in Benny’s on Tybee Island we gather to give glory to God the best ways we know how ... and to celebrate each other ... or just to find some comfort there.

Traditional church left us wounded and lost. Many lost their religion but still need a place to feel accepted.

A collection of individuals transforms to a magical community of spiritual holiness and love, where everyone is welcomed.

A bar becomes a church.

We wish everyone could experience it for themselves because words do not do it justice.

Many out of town guests join us and continue to come worship with us on their vacations.

There's no dress code, we don’t give tithing envelopes, we don’t make visitors wear nametags.

We just open our doors, lay a potluck breakfast on the pool table, and do our best to share God’s love to all who come.

And we hope that one day soon you have the opportunity to be with us.

We rarely ask for anything because the focus is on God, praise, healing and community.

Most who come can't afford to tithe much ... working as waitresses, Bartenders, cleaning vacation condos, doing maintenance and landscaping ... but they do!

Their giving covers about 1/3 of the costs of keeping God in a Bar.

As this ministry continues to grow and ... it's growing ... we have to cover the costs!

We are aiming to have only two fundraisers a year and ask for you to help us with our first one of 2015.

Will you give $5, $10, $50, $100 or $500 to help your neighbor?

Just click www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

Thank you!

Enjoy yourself today!

You are God's gift to you!

Now that's living!

Ob-li-de! Ob-la-da ... Life goes on ... "

Well ... it does and it doesn't.

I've been counting up the deaths and there've been a lot in my life.

They're gone.

I'm still here.

It's as mystifying as "Ob-li-de! Ob-la-da" ... a Jamaican phrase Paul McCartney admits he has no clue as to what it means ... but he liked the way it sounds ... so a song was born.

Why do I get to stay and they had to go?

If it were up to me I'd rather they still be here.

Well ... not all of them ... but most of them ... the ones I loved and liked ... I don't give much thought to the others.

I'm not one who believes God's got St. Peter at a desk with a Divinely appointed time chart of who's got to go when ... that strikes me as silly and sad.

I do think we're given this life and ... it's ours to do with what we wish ... some do better than others with it ... and then it ends.

It's like most everything you buy at the Grocery Store ... there's a life expectancy stamped on it.

I don't know what my life expectancy is ... I choose to not think about it ... because I'd rather focus on the good things happening at the moment.

I'm sitting in a nice chair, with a nice view, in a nice house, with a dog snoring under my bare feet, watching the floor dry where I mopped it a while ago, listening to good music my son sent me, waiting on a friend to come practice guitar for Bar Church on Sunday.

I worked hard throughout the morning and am satisfied with the progress so far.

I've got to pick up the girls in a few hours so I'm trying to get a lot done in a short period of time because ... there's no getting much anything done with little girls in one house.

My mind drifts to last night as I sat on a pillow in the floor while Sarah lounged on the sofa while we mindlessly watched television ... the girls were elsewhere for the moment ... and she drug her fingers through my hair.

Now that's living!

Of course the girls had to screw it up by coming in wanting attention ... affection ... "prayers for scary dreams" ... to deliver their ultimatums for tomorrow ... and other such stuff.

It makes me smile.

I don't know how much of this I have left.

It's a gift.

Ask God.

I'd rather not interrupt God right now as lots of my friends are dying.

I'd rather go unnoticed.

Because as bad as it can sometimes be ... Life is Good!

Remembering Roma

"Exactly," she asks cuing the ball, wearing a red lace glove so the stick slides effortlessly through her fingers, "what kind of Preacher are you?"

Leaning on my stick waiting for her to shoot, I look at her as she looks at me ... "A Damn Good One!" I answer.

Roma's laugh starts in her brain as she processes my reply, makes it way to stomach as a slight smile builds on her lips then there's an eruption of joyful happiness.

It's a Volcano laugh.

I no longer remember how I became a member of "The Bored" ... the daily gathering at Fannie's-On-The-Beach for libations, laughter and ... for many years ... pool.

The all time best meeting in the early days was when Johnny O bought a brand new white pick up truck and drove it "down Front" on a blustery winter's day.

Roma, Chicago Bob, Bil-with-one-L, Johnny and I are inside Fannie's shooting pool when Henrietta's ... Roma's Life Partner ... car pulls into the mostly empty parking lot stopping like a "Stock Car" beside Johnny's new truck ... leaving black tire marks on the pavement.

Roma's already grinning as we stop playing pool gazing out the large plate glass windows with views of the ocean on the other side of the parking lot.

Henrietta jumps out holding loafs of break ... laughing hysterically ... as Roma's eruption begins.

Opening a loaf, Henrietta throws a slice on top of the cab of the truck ... and proceeds to empty four loafs over the vehicle.

Seagulls appear from nowhere and in seconds we cannot see the truck for the blanket of birds.

"NNNNNOOOOOO!" Johnny screams.

Roma, Chicago Bob, Bil and I are holding each other up laughing as hard as we've ever laughed.

With the bread gone Henrietta blows Johnny a kiss, gets in her car, peels out the parking lot, leaving Johnny's new truck looking like a pile of Seagull shit.

A month later, strolling outside in the pre-dawn darkness to make my way to The Breakfast Club  a lit, reindeer is affixed to the top of my car.

I recognize the reindeer as part of the display in front of City Hall.

"Aw shit," I mutter, "they're going to think I did it!'

Quickly throwing the lit reindeer in my open trunk, I slowly drive to Johnny O's house and put it in the back of his dirty but brand new pick up truck ... then speed away to The Breakfast Club.

Later ... at the Bored Meeting ... I ask ... "Roma did you?"

"NO," she yells emphatically before ... the laugh's born in her brain, moves to her lips and erupts like a Volcano.

Shaking my head ... I know that she knows that I know ... and we wait on Johnny to arrive.

The last good talk with her ... Sarah and I are taking a walk ... it's almost dusk when she speeds by in her Golf Cart ... stops when she sees us... hits reverse ... and in the middle of 5th Ave and 12th ... we have a family reunion.

I got to see her right before she died.

"Hey!" I say walking into her bedroom, she laying in a Hospital bed, breathing oxygen through a tube, "you want me to make your boobs move without touching them."

A slow laugh bubbles from one side of her mouth.

"No," she slurs.

Brushing her hair, my eyes fill with moisture and ... I don't know what to do.

"Love ..." she says ... and then fades out.

"I love you too," I say brushing her hair with my fingers ... "Thank you for everything."

I have lots of Roma stories.

How can I not?

She was such a big part of my life ... a wonderful friend ... glorious partner in crime ...mischievous little girl in an old woman's body ... when Henrietta died I was there ... and when I was abandoned she was there ... and when Sarah and I became us ... she was there too.

That's a friend.

Today's for you Queen Roma!

Here's to us!

Who's like us?

Damn few! 

I love you.

I know you getting any rest or peace.

There's too much Hell to raise in Heaven.

My Little Boat of Life

The Ocean roars loudly in the distance.

The sliding glass door is open and I stare outside ... waiting ... searching ... emptying ... maybe praying.

The first few hours have productive ... some editing, marketing, planning ... coupled with fixing breakfast for Sarah and spoiling our furry ones.

Now there's lull.

It's like being on a sailboat when there's no wind.

I've got to wait it out.

It's something I've learned to accept.

I used to be one who ... when the winds weren't blowing in my direction ... filling my sails ... taking me to where I want to go ... would huff and puff blowing air ... as though I can do it alone.

I love the image.

Life's at a standstill ... nothing's happening ... I'm making absolutely no progress getting to where I want ... in my little boat of life ... the winds aren't blowing in my direction ... so I arrogantly stand up and blow in the sails ... thinking I can do it all by myself.

The truth is no body does anything by themselves.

It's a lie John Wayne made up.

You remember John Wayne ... or Google him if you don't ... he did everything by himself ... he didn't need anyone.

He's also a fictitious persona.

GOD ... we want to believe we do all ourselves ... we don't need anyone ... but it's the biggest load of Bullshit ever!

I wouldn't be here at all without Sarah who keeps me in the boat in the first place so I'm not jumping ship and drowning.

I've almost drowned a few times in life and am grateful I didn't.

Our children ... a multicolored tapestry of personalities sprinkle joy into my little boat every single day ... somehow ... I don't know how.

A few good friends float by either waiting on their sails to fill ... or they zip by quickly because they have.

I sit and wait.

The water ripples ... a Dolphin breaks the surface ... Seagulls swirl ... and I know ... with everything in me ... a Hell of a wind gust is coming ... and we're going to fly!

I can feel it.

It's almost here.
 

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?"