Ahem

"Hey! You won!" Richard Brown says.

"That's great!" I yell into the phone.

After a few moments of awkward silence I ask, "What did I win?"

"Um," he ponders as though I'm an idiot, "Book of the Year."

"Really?"

There's another long moment of uncomfortable silence before Richard asks, "Aren't you excited?"

Sitting in my office with my feet on my desk and a hundred people outside waiting to see me, I inquire, "Who's 'Book of the Year'?"

"Well it's actually 'Paperback of the Year,'" he boldly proclaims, "awarded to US last night by the Mid-America Book Achievement Awards in Chicago."

"Why wasn't I invited?" I ask.

"Aren't you excited?" he counters. "After all you are now ... ahem ... an award winning author."

I will never forget the ... "ahem."

Seriously Richard set it up that way because they were too cheap to fly me to Chicago for the awards ceremony and put me up for the night ... because he and Marg Pon went ... and are calling me the next day to tell me how great WE DID!

The only reason the book exists at all is because Terry Ball, Deputy Director of the Georgia Department of Community Affairs orders me to write it at Fannie's-On-the-Beach one day.

"You need to write a book about solving homelessness in America," he says over shrimp burgers.

"Why?" I mumble with a mouthful.

"Because I won't give any more money if you don't," he grins.

It is not politicians who run Government but the people who work for Politicians who run Government.

That's how "Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes and What to do About it" came to be.

I needed the money.

And the book got famous for a while.

Terry Ball was pleased and we got more money.

"Hey," Michael Stoops of the National Coalition for the Homeless asks me over beers at another awards ceremony in New York City, "you need to write another book about the homeless."

"I've got nothing else to give to them right now. I mean a Life is enough isn't it."

'Hmm," he mumbles as he sips his beer. "So what's next?"

"A book about Tybee Island where I live ... and where you've stayed ... it's almost done."

"Ahem," Michael says as we sip our beers.

"Ahem," I reply as we toast.

The Back Story

It's Sarah's fault.

Sitting down to collect my thoughts and write she has my books sitting on the table and each has a life of its own which I'm remembering after not thinking about them for years.

"I want you to write a book called 'Partners in Grace'," the successful Savannah businessman Frank Stanton orders after storming into my office.

This is the same Frank Stanton who doesn't believe I wrote "The Society of Salty Saints" and tells me so to my face though it's plainly my name on the cover.

"Do a better one this time," he continues. "The last one was depressing. Write something more uplifting like the first one."

"Right," I sigh.

Bill Thompson, the former manager of the Seminary Book Store, and my Publisher has been fired when Meyer Stone Publishing was bought by "The Pilgrim Press" whom I call to see if they're interested in publishing a new book I haven't written yet.

"Will it be like the first one?" Richard Stone, my new best friend, asks."

"Of course it will," I lie.

Richard flies from Cleveland, Ohio to Savannah, Georgia to see if I'm telling the truth and takes me to a nice lunch at "The Windows" in the Hyatt overlooking the river.

I write a book that reads like "Salty Saints" but isn't about them at all! It's about rich people who are often the poorest of us all ... in Spirit anyway.

When it's released Richard and his rich friends in Cleveland throw a big party at the exclusive "First City Club" in Savannah though none of them actually attend.

The book does very well.

Rich people love it because I make them look Holy.

Richard flies back to Savannah to explain he wants me to write another book because ... since "The Pilgrim Press" is making lots of money off "P.I.G." ... I am not ... so the least they can do is offer me another book deal.

Frank storms back in my office and says, "I like this one."

"That's because you're in it," I answer.

"No really," he protests," holding up his hand in his fine suit, "really it's a good book."
_________________

Here's a back story.

Sarah and I worked together then and she's just excellent in everything she does.

Frank Stanton storms in my office to inform me, "I'm hiring Sarah. I just want to let you know first."

"She won't go," I reply.

"I've got way more money than you can pay," he insists.

"Aren't you a member of my Board of Directors committed to taking care of the homeless, people with AIDS, the sick and suffering?" I counter.

"It's got nothing to do with that," he snaps. "It's just business."

"Fine," I say not knowing what else to say.

Franks offers Sarah the job.

She turns him down because she cares about the homeless, people with AIDS, the sick and the suffering ... like me and my kind of people.

That was a good day!

Oh! ... You're the one!

"Hey Mike, you want to write another book?" Bill Thompson, the former Seminary Book Store manager turned publisher asks.

"The Society of Salty Saints" made the Publishing Company lots of money so they want more.

It is slowly dawning on me that I'm not making all that much but ... they want another book which strokes my ego so, of course, I say "YES!"

It's a problem from the beginning.

They want another "Salty Saints" as my writing grows less sweet ... they don't like my title so they changed it to one I didn't like ... and when it's released ... it's a major flop!

"The Community of the Abandoned" ... isn't that a suck ass title? ... I wanted to call it "Embracing the Exile" but somebody else had already named a book something like that so I'm overruled.

Yet I have a fondness for it because ... it's dedicated to my family and when I walk in Grandma Carver's house to give her a copy ... she's napping on the sofa ... but immediately comes to life ... hugs the book ... hugs me ... tells me she loves me ... then to leave her alone so can read it.

I'll never forget that.

The other thing about "Community of the Abandoned" is Dr. Henlee Barnette comes to see me ... thanks me for writing it ... tells me stories about Clarence Jordan, the only Prophet Southern Baptists ever produced ... and teaches me writing is not about money ... it's about sharing.

Henlee Barnet taught ethics at the Seminary I attended ... hosted Martin Luther King, Jr. on campus and marched with him in other places ... and was the first pastor of the rag-tag inner city congregation I was inexplicable in charge of ... the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel.

"It's a good book," he tells me with his feet propped on my desk "but it's not a popular one."

"Oh," I sigh.

"It's okay," he laughs. "I like it ... I'm the one."

And to this day if someone tells me they like something I've written I say, "Oh ... you're the one?"

"Move those books back to the table," Sarah orders today.

She's doing stuff with them and I'd placed them out of the way but she's not finished with whatever-it-is-she's-doing so they're back on the table ... so I pick it up and flip through it ... and have a nice visit with my Grandma Carver and then Dr. Barnett decides to show ... and he brings Clarence Jordan who is one of my heroes.

Laughing, I place the book back in Sarah's pile ... pet the dogs ... make the beds ... and marvel at how blessed I am.

A Relic of the Past

"The Society of Salty Saints," my first book, is the story of a rag-tag inner city congregation where I was inexplicably the minister.

Comprised of five little old ladies, homeless men, Prostitutes, Prisoners with a guard, kids from the Projects and the radical fringe of the Seminary we somehow brought hope to a hopeless world.

The great radical Will D. Campbell wrote the preface and he was riding high with his National Book Award finalist, "Brother to a Dragonfly" so his name on the cover sold a lot of copies.

"Salty Saints" was different from most books the Baptists were producing because it focuses on the very poor, how gallant they are and why God loves them so.

It came about by Divine Accident ... or Providence ... depending on your point of view.

My friend Bill Thompson was leaving his job as manager of the Seminary Book Store to work for a small publishing company and he asks if I did any writing.

I'd taken to "journaling" ... jotting down stories, prayers and descriptions of life as I saw it ... living and working in the "Hood" ... fascinated by the dire poverty of the inner city where we lived and the vast wealth of the Seminary I attended.

"Well," I answer Bill, "I've got these notebooks ..."

He asked to see them, advised I put the stories in some kind of order and give him a manuscript.

I did ... he liked it ... Meyer Stone published it and ... that's how I became a writer.

The book has had a fascinating life!

It was republished multiple times ... got incredible reviews nationwide ... made Meyer Stone lots of money ... made me hardly any ... but got me invited to lots of places to talk about the book.

Frank Stanton once stormed into my office with the book demanding to know who wrote it?

"Hmmm, that's my name on the cover," I point out the obvious.

"You couldn't have written this," he forcefully explains. "Look at you!"

I didn't know how to answer.

Sarah pulled the books out the other day, places them in order and starts taking pictures of them so we can have a sale.

One of the things about being a writer is you can end up with lots of copies of your books ... or ... can't find one for the life of you ...depending on how things are going.

For the first time in a decade or so, I picked up "Salty Saints" flip through it and ... the dead are raised ... the smell of the Louisville Stockyard on a hot summer night wafts from the pages ... the indignity of Seminary wrestles with the Holiness of the Gospel ... and an idealistic, completely unrealistic young man is still here somehow.

It's a relic of the past ... the Baptists kicked the Church out of it's Convention ... and virtually everyone in the book are dead  ... but for a time anyway ... Holiness happened in a big way and it makes me happy to hold something in my hands to prove that it did.

The Right Mix

I may be more Chemist than I am Christian.

For years I've been mixing the precise correct formula of sin and salvation.

There have been times when I got the formula completely wrong ... too much sin and ... wake up thanking God I somehow survived.

Or too much salvation when I came across as a sanctimonious ass ... till somebody put me in my place.

Reality is we need the precise chemical mix of salvation and sin in our lives.

Honestly you cannot have one without the other.

It's like Ying and Yang.

Like Light and Dark.

Like Democrat and Republican.

Like Real News and FOX News.

Like Honest Police Officers and the money generating thugs in uniform on Tybee Island ... and in St. Louis ... Atlanta ... Ferguson ... Port Wentworth.

Like stolen orange cones on one end of Lewis Avenue but not the other because ... HOLD ON TO YOURSELF ... BLACK PEOPLE ARE ON ISLAND!!!

Anyway ... Sarah's in bed ... naked under the covers ... and I'm strongly searching for the precisely right mix of S.I.N. and S.A.L.V.A.T.I.O.N!

That's all.

I hope you find the right mix today!

Enjoy!

Heaven's Planning Committee

"Well you know everybody," Sarah says getting dressed.

"I knew Dick because of my folks," I reply making up the bed.

Dick Smith died yesterday and I've known him for so long I have a hard time pinpointing a time when I didn't know him.

He was funny in debonair sort of way.

Classy humor with an undercut of lazier focused satire!

"Are you out of your frigging mind?" I asked him once in the Tybee Post Office.

Dick had announced he was running for City Council.

"I wish I would have done this a long time ago," he replies ... then grins and agrees, "Yes I've lost my freaking mind."

He won ... then he lost ... but he never stopped sharing his freaking mind.

We were rarely together but there was a great fondness we shared when we were.

Today's the Beach Bum Parade which somehow seems fitting as a send off for Dick. Have a good time but keep it clean! Wash you sins away while laughing. Make fun at Government control.

A parade of people are marching before me ... lining up to greet Dick in Heaven ... Roma is of course at the front of the line though David Ring is jostling for position with her as they laugh ... Steve Hendricks is flashing his sly grin and shaking his head ... Dean's holding a beer to hand over ... Dirty Dan is going to pop out of a cake wearing a thong ... Chicago Bob is crooning ... Trolley Joe is sitting in the driver's seat ready to take everybody to God ... and Bruce Bohme is saying to Dean, "PLA-EEE-ZZZ-EEE! You didn't bring enough beer."

My Dad's standing there too greeting his old friend.

Here's to you my friend Dick Smith!

Enjoy our other friends!

We're all going to have one Hell of a party when we're together again.

Now you're part of the planning committee. 

After A Resurrection

"Hey Mr. Demery," I speak into the phone. "It's Micheal."

"Who?" his shaky voice asks.

"Micheal Elliott," I clarify.

"Micheal?" he asks as remembering who I am.

Bob Demery and I met because of Frank Stanton ... both incredibly compassionate Savannah businessmen who cared about the dark sides of their city ... homelessness ... AIDS ... addictions ... and such.

At the time my world is full of homelessness ... AIDS ... addictions ... and such and sitting in my office one day, Mr. Demery says, "Mike, if you ever find yourself in a hard spot and need a check ... just call me."

He's that kind of guy.

Mr. Demery did lots of things in Savannah ... inherited a successful business and made it better ... passing it on to his son ... started Savannah Country Day, based on a boarding school model for those who can afford it ... and lots more.

"Hey Mr. Demery," I continue, "you remember that time you told me if I ever needed a check I should just call you?"

We really needed the check.

Caring for people always takes more than you have to give ... monetarily and emotionally.

There was a long pause.

"Micheal," he finally says as though he realizes it's really me he's talking to.

"Yes Sir, it's me."

"Micheal," he repeats before blurting, "I have Alzheimer's."

I am speechless.

What does one say?

"Hey Robert," I finally stammer, "I just wanted to say 'Hey.' I hope you're doing okay. Can I do anything for you?"

And I hear him cry.

"Thank you Micheal," he finally says hanging up.

That was a long time ago but last night Sarah and I are watching an excellent movie about what it's like to have Alzheimer's and ... Mr. Demery decides to show up ... and full of emotion of his kindness and his lost-ness  ... I tell my wife the story ... and I just cry ... and she just holds me tight.

I do believe in the Resurrection.

Mr. Demery did it last night.

Hell he's doing it again this morning.

Now the question is ... what does one do after a resurrection?

Catholic Prejudicial Dance Judging

For years, we have believed that the annual "Father/Daughter Dance" at St. Vincent's Academy was rigged so only Catholics won.

Kristen and I blew their socks off only to lose to a senior with two left feet.

Chelsea and I were so hot lights melted and Sister Pat grew flush ... but we lost to a Catholic Dad wearing a suit.

Who wears a suit to a Father/Daughter Dance?

Now I love to dance and really throw myself and ... Sarah ... into it!

Dancing is good the heart ... the soul ... the mind ... throwing caution to the wind ... finding your rhythms ... showing love ... just having fun!

I don't believe in that formal Ball Room dancing stuff ... though I can fake it ... I like the wildly abandoned leave-it-all-on-the-floor stuff.

Over the past few years I've been teaching the girls to dance like me.

Honestly, whenever we're out ... they love to dance with me and we have a good time.

Today though it strikes me that because Maddie, the 13 year old, has enrolled in St. Vincent's Academy  for High School ... there is the opportunity for me to participate in more "Father/Daughter Dances" and break the Catholic prejudicial judgment system once and for all.

They finally ran Sister Pat off which saddens me because I still want to watch her cry when I win with my daughter.

Which reminds me that the Judges at the St. Vincent's father/Daughter Dance are all Nuns!

I've seen a singing Nun but never a dancing one!

What do Nuns know about judging a Dance?

I tell you the whole thing is rigged at St. Vincent's Academy!

BUT ... I have a chance to take 'em down again!

It's not all that easy because Maddie may take her actual Father to the Dance but I've got time to work on that.

Maddie and I already practice our dancing.

We need to get an online "Confirmation" Certificate and I think we're ready to take them down!



 

The Wrong Side of Judgment

"People either love you or they hate you," I'm often told, "and those who love you really love you but those who hate you seriously hate you!"

It's true regardless of what you do ... even if it's good.

Back in my corporate days I hired lots of women ... of all colors ... gay or straight ... because they were smarter, more ambitious and willing to do go above and beyond. Consequently less than a quarter of our workforce were male

I thought it was a good thing.

Then people posted on the Savannah Morning News webpage that it's "all about Micheal Elliott and his Harem" ... how I take advantage of women ... I'm a swinger ... and what a rotten person I am.

Shaking my head as I read these things I marvel ... not only that people believed such things but publically pass their judgments on for all to see.

I'm not saying I'm perfect ... I already confessed to breaking the majority of the 10 Commandments and a few of the 7 Deadly Sins ... but the things they said simply weren't true ... or certainly not as true as they said them.

I am not one to judge often going overboard giving others the benefit of the doubt.

Waiting on a meeting to start, talking to some guys, one says, "Did you hear about Rob? He's separated and living in an apartment ... seems he can't keep his pants zipped up."

Immediately I feel a sympathy for Rob and his wife, Susan, a peer at work, and walk away from the conversation.

Who knows what happening to Rob and Susan ... though obviously they're going through tough times.

Shortly afterwards I find myself with Rob who's standing in a corner of a room either being shunned or too wounded to talk.

Making a beeline, I give him a hug and ask, "How you doing man?"

Though far taller than me, Rob shrinks a bit but we chat until the meeting starts and he seems grateful as his sad eyes keep darting to me.

In the end Rob and Susan work through whatever it was and are happily married as they now slide into retirement.

Perhaps he couldn't keep his pants zipped up or maybe Susan keep her skirt pulled down or ... who knows except them ... and who should really care?

We love to judge, condemn, put on trial and execute before asking.

I've been on the wrong side of Judgment in my life and hope I've learned from it.

I'm certainly not one to rush towards Judgment.

There's already far too much in the world.

Blending without a Blender

I went from being a single father of three adult children ... meaning I lived alone if other people weren't here ... with a semblance of a plan ... but no real focus ... to blessedly becoming Sarah's husband ... and "parental advisor" to her 3 little girls ... and do my best to introduce a little fun in their lives.

Like yesterday ... we are at Laurel's, the 10 year old, concert ... apparently because the people who run the Savannah Children's Choir planned to get a big crowd of Mothers to pay $10/head to get in to see their kids perform ... ON DAMN MOTHER'S DAY!

Talk about perfectly executed kidnapping and extortion ... the Savannah Children's Choir has it down!

The Choir administrators took our money ... Mothers attended having to cancel seeing their Mother's on Mother's Day ... or as my Mother put it ... "I love Laurel and know she will do well but there is no way in Hell I'm coming to downtown Savannah at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon!"

Of course, we live on Tybee so if we leave the Island there is always the realistic increasing reality we will be stuck in traffic for hours getting home ... and ticketed several times by the Police force.

Now I understand there will be 25 new Lifeguards who will probably stop traffic too for new ... and heretofore unimagined ticketed offenses ... like sticking a toe in the sand without a permit.

But I digress.

During the cursed timed ... yet wonderfully performed ... Savannah Children's Choir performance ... this is what I did:

1. Lusted Sarah who wore a blue jean miniskirt and a tank top that almost covers everything.

2. Executed a perfect practical joke on Maddie, the 13 year old, which left her angry for the rest of the night!

3. Took Cassidy, the 8 year, to the bathroom twice because ... I don't know ... she's a big fan of singing ... but that got pretty boring so ... using a credit card we opened the door to the "Elvis Room" at the Savannah Arts Academy ... where we took pictures waiting on the concert to end.

4. Texted Kristen, our adult child, who wants us to stop at her place for swimming and grilling to celebrate "Mother's Day" and Sarah's birthday at her place but ... of course ... we can't because of the damn Savannah Children's Choir planners!

5. Jeremy and I text and I learn he and Terenca and their girls have almost finished moving from Athens to Gainsville, Georgia before they move again to Alabama.

6. See that Chelsea and her husband Sam are at a concert in Atlanta and though we don't communicate, we sent them love and wishes for a good time.

Ours is a blending family and like many it's a crazy emotional ride  that ... on the one hand makes you perfectly understand the concept of "if we weren't all crazy we'd all go insane!" ... and on the other ... feel love again as deeply as ever.

We all gave up lots to get here though we're gaining more every single day!

Our investments are yielding significant results.

Lots of people scratch their heads at us ... but we don't care.

We love our family and all the crazy insanity that makes us ... US!

And if you have issues with the more than 50% of families like us ... I suggest you get a blender!

Toast us ... or ... be us!

A Double Whammy Day

Today is Sarah's birthday and Mother's Day ... meaning it is a cluster at our house.

Three years ago she was sick with Strep Throat and I was in charge of the girls which was unfortunate because I'd completely forgotten the parental skill set necessary to supervise three small girls at one time.

When Sarah finally recovered our house looked like Berlin in April 1945 after the Allies had blown it to Hell.

Last year Sarah and I were in Ireland without the girls and it was a wonderful lifetime experience.

Today I've learned I still haven't mastered adult supervision of three little girls as there are four very distinct plans for celebrating Sarah's birthday and Mother's day.

Of course none of the plans overlap in any way, shape, form or matter.

Whatever ends up taking place is going to be interesting.

Very interesting.

With an affinity for Wonder Woman, Sarah is something of a Super Heroine, seemingly doing pretty much everything at once while looking very good!

Rarely does she "lose it" over much anything, is forever pushing the girls to be everything they're capable of and forever plots about what's best for all six kids.

She sends lots of little gifts and notes to her friends, not expecting anything in return but celebrating friendship ... an increasingly rare commodity in the world.

She is practical, personable, passionate, pastoral and patient.

She deserves a "Double Whammy" day!

Happy Mother's Day my love.

Happy Birthday too!

You make me smile.

Water on Tybee Island

"Isn't that's what's happening to us?" Maddie the 13 year old exclaims while laying on the sofa staring at her phone and texting without ceasing.

Stunned to discover she can still actually talk Sarah and I look at her ... confused.

"What?" we both ask.

Pointing at the television with one hand while continuing to text with the other and never taking her eyes off the phone she says, "That."

We're watching the News and the story's on Credit Card Companies inappropriately charging people for Medical Insurance and rectifying their systems by reimbursing customers for gross overcharging.

Sarah and I comprehend the story on the television ... stare at each other for a moment ... look at Maddie who hasn't moved anything except her thumbs ... and wonder, "Who is this child and what has she done with Maddie?

"Water bills on Tybee Island," she says while still working on an unending text exchange.

"MY GOD," I say to Sarah, "the child can multi-task!"

"WHO KNEW?" we both exclaim at the same time.

Maddie rolls over to stare at us before rolling her eyes and saying, "Isn't Tybee Island scamming us?"

"Well yeah," we reply still dazed she knows anything about ... oh ... anything!

"It's not right," she says throwing her leg back over the sofa, resume texting and the soft light from the cell phone illuminates the beauty of her face.

"No it's not," I say, "but they've promised to work it out."

"Who?" she asks without moving anything other than her thumbs.

"The Mayor ... our Councilman ..." I explain.

The News shifts to a story about the school system in Atlanta and if it's better since educational administrators and teachers were convicted of "fixing" test scores and are now imprisoned.

Everyone's quiet.

"Okay," Maddie says standing up and heads off to bed.

Sarah and I look at one another ... shrug our shoulders at her ... just like we do the City of Tybee Island amidst all this water that surrounds us.

My New Angel

"For Christ's sake will you get up?" she snarls. "I brought company."

Grabbing hold of semi-consciousness, prying my arms from around Sarah, I roll over to see My Guardian Angel who reeks of cigarette smoke, bourbon and beer.

"Oh go to Hell," I sigh, rolling back over to spoon Sarah.

"Oh no you don't," she spits in her raspy voice pulling me out bed so I lay naked in the floor.

"Have you been working out?" I ask suddenly awake.

Her puny arms are pasty white ... she's way too thin ... so the stained white robe with blue stole ... is always dropping over one shoulder or the other almost exposing one of her breasts.

"Follow me," she commands and floats across the bed room.

Thankfully Sarah's sleeping though I notice Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog and Gypsy the formerly-Gender-confused-cat are shivering under the bed.

When I get to the kitchen I drink a glass of water before stumbling out into the warm night on the Beloved Back Deck and take a seat at the table.

My Guardian Angel does a shot of bourbon and chases it with a tall boy PBR, hacks up a lung and spits it over the side and speaks in her raspy voice, "Meet my friend Adaliah."

Looking across the table into the darkness, Adaliah is dark so I have to really look hard ... "Nice tan," I finally say. "Why are your eyes so red? You spend a lot of time on Tybee?"

She laughs and her voice is what you expect an Angel's voice to sound like as she replies, "I get around."

Burping my Guardian Angel throws and empty into the back yard.

"Wait a minute," I exclaim standing up ... fully awake now ... 'Adaliah' means death in Hebrew!'"

"Nice to meet you," Adaliah says, "now sit down. Don't worry I'm off the clock. I've heard lots about you and just wanted to meet you in person."

"Great," I sigh.

"Actually we've almost met several times," Adaliah continues, "but it never worked out."

"You're welcome," my Guardian Angel sneers.

"I owe you the next round," I yawn scratching myself.

"You owe me several," she snaps.

"Well what can I do for you?" I ask Adaliah who ... aside from the red eyes looks remarkably like Jennifer Lopez.

"I didn't want to come," she smiles nodding her head to the right, "she made me."

"Pleazzzzzeeee," I say to my Guardian Angel. "Why? What?"

She burps in my face and snaps, "Because you owe me and I wanted to."

There is an awkward silence.

"Hey Adaliah," I ask, "would you be reference on my resume?"

"What?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say standing up again, "if we almost met several times but never did ... that's pretty cool! It should be on my resume. Are you on anybody else's resume?"

"I've never been asked before," she smiles.

I hug my Guardian Angel who screams, "LET ME GO YOU BASTARD!"

"My goodness," my beautiful wife Sarah says over coffee this morning, "you certainly are happy today."

"What's not to love?" I smile. "Plus I have a new angle ... I mean Angel ... on the job front."

"Good," Sarah smiles looking like Heaven.

Honest At The Broken Places

"The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially."

Ernest Hemingway wrote that before killing himself at the age of 62.

I love Hemingway ... his extraordinary writing and the way he lived his life, except for the end.

I used to believe him right ... that we can all be strong in the broken places ... that we can overcome ... God will heal ... like a Phoenix we will rise ... but now I know it's a lie.

There is another great piece of writing that I think is closer to the truth.

"And all the King's Horses and all the King's Men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again."

Sitting in a McDonald's I watch a fat woman yawn while reading the Newspaper, a flamboyant gay couple tenderly attend to one another as they split a sausage biscuit and a tall thin man order food to go but quickly eats it before he makes it outside.

"I am weak but he is strong"  is an unending loop playing in my head and I know the first part is certainly true but can find no real evidence of the second part.

I can pinpoint the general era when I was broken and now know that it wasn't any one thing or a particular person or group that did ... it really doesn't matter ... but I broke ... and there's no strength in broken places ... King's Horses and King's Men or Jesus himself can't put it back to the way it used to be.

Not that I want it to be like it was because I don't.

Like most I exaggerate the fond memories and minimize the bad ones trying to prove I've done pretty good getting to this point ... though the reality is no one really cares.

Last night, sitting at the dinning room table, after several frustrating days ... I broke again but this time it was to let Sarah in.

My wife is a strong woman and won't be denied entry and, though it's taken a while and circumstances conspire against us, I let her in ... to wander where she will ... to touch every hurt, failure and loss that make me who I am today.

I've never done that before and now, sitting in McDonald's, I feel open and exposed as the fat woman stares at me intently ... the gay couple whisper as their eyes dart my way ... and the tall think man pretends to pick crumbs from his tee shirt while glances towards where I'm sitting.

I don't mind.

I am here because Cassidy, our 8 year old, asked if I would meet her for lunch at her school. I was mad at her the other day and let her know so she knew I was angry and she's a wickedly smart child who knows childhood selfishness caused it ... so she blows off her Mom and Dad and asks me to join her for lunch.

I'm supposed to do other things but I couldn't say "No" so I blew them off ... as important as they are ... and am killing time until I walk into an Elementary School lunchroom so we can ... I don't know ... heal each other .... say "I love you" without saying it.

I think I'm finally becoming honest at the broken places.

And know there are those who still believe in me ...  in spite of them.

Closet Excavation!

Sarah and I are sitting in the floor in the Red Room going through boxes long hidden in my closet.

The boxes have been on the top shelf or in the corner of the closet floor for years.

Out of sight ... out of mind.

That pretty much sums up my closet.

Cracking the door open, sticking my arm inside, I find a pair of black running shorts and a tee shirt ... every color matches black ... and put them on.

Sarah's closet is meticulously organized through she can't possibly fit anything else inside and has begun "coveting" my closet ... which quite honestly ... I have no idea what's in there.

There some Union Mission clothes I have no need for ... a tie Chelsea gave me when she was little ... a tuxedo I hope to never wear again ... shoes I hate ... and God only knows what else.

"Honey," I say to my wife who I adore than anything ever, 'Thou Shalt Not Covet. It's one of the Ten Commandments."

"So," she says. "You've broken more than me."

"Damn," I think to myself, "she's right again."

Anyway ... because I love my wife ... I actually opened my closet door and pulled out boxes of ... I have no idea ... boxes ... and not wanting to carry them downstairs ... I left them in the Red Room ... which Sarah immediately spied ... and suddenly a nice night of my head in her lap was evilly transformed into sitting in the floor looking at every single thing in those damn boxes.

I'll cut to the chase ... aside from a couple of funny letters from Bill Berry (not the former drummer from REM but the other one) ... it was mostly crap ... news clippings of things that no longer matter ... old pictures ... awards ... and reports cards.

"Seriously" Sarah asks sitting there with those beautiful legs, "you made D's in English?"

"I don't remember ever taking English," I lustfully reply.

BUT ... the excavation of my closet has begun!

Sarah is beside herself as Mother's Day looms ... which is also her birthday ... because she's getting more closet space ... and I'm discovering just how much past I have buried.

To celebrate everything ... the girls and I decided we're having Key Lime Pie for her Birthday ... as she pries things out her closet to loosely hang them in what used to be mine ... we will celebrate O.U.R.S.

That's all there really is anyway.

The World is made of Glass

I know what it's like to do something you hate.

Go to work ... or home ... or to other people's houses.

At the end of my days saving the world I couldn't bear to go to the office anymore ... the aroma was heavy and depressing ... regardless of how I pumped myself up ... the smell immediately left me depressed and sad.

The people did too ... all wanting more than they were willing to give ... all taking with the expectation I'll always deliver ... each wanting more at the precise moment they're receiving.

The last several months ... thanks to technology ... I went to a coffee shop on Chippewa Square, turned on the laptop and communicated with everyone from a distance ... because I could no longer bear their sight ... touch ... smell ... sound ... and unceasing demands.

The truth of the matter was I had nothing else to give.

Though I never gave up ... which was a gross mistake ... sometimes in life it's best to give up.

Of course once you do ... you have to start over.

"God's greatest gift," says Elie Wiesel, "is the chance to start over."

God's been good to me.

I've started over a lot in my life ... and am doing it again.

Sitting in the dark on the back deck in the middle of the night ... full of frustration and non-understanding ... I think of something I haven't in years.

"Commit a crime and the world is made of glass," wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson. "Some damning circumstance always transpires."

In worlds made of glass you can see everything regardless of how much you hide ... and things break to the point of no repair.

One of my favorite writers ... Morris West ... wrote a book about a rich woman overcoming childhood incest and the damnation of the Catholic Church ... on women and incest and sex ... so she has a single visit with Carl Jung ... the inventor of analytical psychology.

It's a great book ending in a convoluted mess because ... life is often a convoluted mess.

I think the secret is choosing what's good and doing your best with what's bad ... and everyone comes down on one side or the other ... because there's always good ... and there's always bad.

"Why do you do this every day?" I'm asked. ""Put yourself out there ... say what you feel ... question the majority ... dig through the past searching for clues to why I behave the way I do now ... celebrate your NOW in flamboyant ways ... juggle the light with the dark?"

I believe it's because the world really is made of glass and I'd be foolish to hide it ... and what I do ... when it's all transparent anyway ... perhaps just to you ... or your lover ... or the whole damn world!

I don't mind the transparency ... in fact I welcome it.

I do care when glass breaks and worlds fall apart.

I've seen ... and lived ... far too much of that in my life.

Sunday Cinnamon Rolls

Watching the sun rise through the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt, choirs of birds sing Hymns of Praise to the birth of this day for an audience of one.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck under a deep blue cloudless sky, Fran's thousand shades of green glisten in the sunshine, dripping dew from the night.

Goddess lays under my bare feet and I rub her white golden fur.

Squirrels play in the trees, the pungent aroma of the Marsh ... the smell of sex in the Tropics ... fills the air and, in the distance, waves are the kissing the beach.

Golden rays flood the yard, illuminating the yellow, purple and red blooms of the plants I tenderly care for.

A door slams causing the birds to cease and the stopping the Squirrels dead in their tracks.

Turning I spy Cassidy, the 8 year old, wrapped in her blanket, blond hair askew in every direction, stumble into the kitchen looking for me.

Goddess' tail wags as she jumps up and paws the sliding screen door.

Following her inside, I pick Cass up and she rests her head on my shoulder.

"Are the Cinnamon Rolls ready?" she sleepily asks.

"It's too early," I whisper because everyone else is still asleep.

"Aw," she sighs.

The birds resume their Hymns.

"Why don't you get back in bed and I'll get you when it's time to put on the icing."

The girls fight to lick the plastic container and the knife once the rolls have icing.

"Don't lick a knife!" I scold. "You're going to cut your tongue off."

They lick it anyway.

I place Cass back in bed and return to the kitchen ... where Laurel the 10 year old waits ... blond hair askew in every direction.

"Are the Cinnamon Rolls ready?" she asks.

"Not yet," I reply. "Go back to bed."

"Call me when you put the icing on," she yawns.

"Sure."

Strolling outside I thank the Heavens, the birds, Squirrels and the rising sun for a prayerful, peaceful beginning to this day.

Turning I make my way to oven because if I don't get these babies baking ... all Hell's going to break lose and ruin a beautiful day that the Lord has made. 

A Vanilla Blog

"Why did you write that?" she sighs.

It's not my Mom this time.

Mom's forever asking me before proceeding to get on to me if when I use "bad words," chiding me and reminding "You were raised to be better than that!"

It wasn't my wife Sarah either.

My writing typically leaves her speechless and she refuses to bring it up at all unless she thinks I'm thinking too much about the past when we have so much present to live and future to plan.

It wasn't Sarah or Mom this time ... it was Judy O.

"Why did you write that," she asks.

"Me?" I cleverly deflect the antagonistic question ... I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee at The Breakfast Club.

"Tybee does not hate black people," she clarifies.

"Yeah we were just counting the number walking by," I smile.

"Gay black people," Johnny O further clarifies.

"Yeah," I agree, "gay black people. We haven't seen one yet."

"Well don't write that kind of stuff," Judy O says sounding like Sarah and Mom.

"Fine," I agree because I love Judy and Johnny O, "I'll write something vanilla today."

"That's great!" Johnny O and Judy O say at the same time.

"It'll be about white people," I let them know in advance.

So I've come up with a new game based on living on Tybee Island for those who don't live here but want to ... or for those white people who want to know exactly who lives here.

Whitley Reynolds is going to help me design a plotted map of the island showing every dwelling.

In the middle of the map is a string to calculate the radius of how far your house is from (a) a Gay Person ... (b) a black person ... (c) a politician ... (d) homes without children ... (e) number of cop cars ... (f) everybody else.

There will be little pins to mark the homes ... (a) rainbow colored pins ... (b) black ones ... (c) green puke colored ones ... (d) a couple of transparent ones no one can see ... (e) a couple of hundred pins with little flashing blue lights and (f) and ones with dollar signs on them.

You can have fun plotting who lives near you ... even if you don't live here yet and plan on buying a house from Judy O ... or the Soul Sisters ... or a Gaster ... you'll know what you are buying and it'll be fun knowing what's around you.

This is going to significantly help keep people excited about Tybee when they're stuck in traffic trying to leave the island ... or come on the island ... or waiting on the Cop to finish searching their car without a warrant.

Well I have to go ... wait on Whitley Reynolds to call me back ... put our house on the market ... take Goddess and Winston The Little Gay Dog downstairs to wait on the Cop who's going to ticket for writing this blog ... wave at my gay neighbors ... and brace myself for what Sarah, Mom and Judy O are going to say to me about this.

Good News from Tybee Island!

It's Friday and after all of the horrible news around the world ... especially Baltimore ... and that guy who hung up on the Pope TWICE DURING THE SAME PHONE CALL ... can you spell J.E.R.R.Y. R.A.I.N.Y.? ... I am happy to report there is Good News on Tybee Island!

First though, I like Pope Francis!

He's "Sinner Friendly" and who doesn't like that?

Well ... T.D. Jakes, Joel Osteen and his bleach blond wife, Charles Stanley, and the Tybee Island Methodist Church who uses crime scene tape for worship don't ... but Pope Francis is great!

"You've sinned ... I've sinned ... everybody loves sin!"

"I scream ... you scream ... we all scream for ice cream?"

That's Pope Francis's message.

What's not to like?

After the racist debacle of  "Orange Crush" ... where the citizens of Lewis Avenue stole barricades from the Georgia Department of Transportation to block black people from driving down their street ... things have gotten better.

While Tybee Island doesn't like black people ... Tybee Island LOVES GAY PEOPLE!

It makes me proud.

Not the first part about black people but the second part about Gay People.

It's Gay Days on Tybee and honestly ... the entire island is mostly financed by Gay People ... though politicians and Church officials deny this.

The island's mostly Lesbian ... they ran most of the Gay guys off ... but occasionally invite them back to dance ... they do a really excellent job of maintaining the things about living on an island that you really love about island living in the first place.

They have great parties ... much better than anything the American Legion throws.

Tomorrow's a Gay Pride Parade and everyone is looking forward to it.

Sarah, the girls and I will be there!

We can't wait to celebrate island acceptance.

There's only one thing that worries me ... I hope there are no black Gays here ... the island will go nuts.

We're a tiny island and can only stand so much.

Top 10 Things for Kids to do on Tybee Island, GA

Our house is an anomaly on Tybee Island for many reasons ... meaning we have children.

There's not a lot for kids to do on-island because it's overrun with childless adults who could care less about anything other than when their grandchildren visit during the summer!

Year round there's not many activities for our girls to take advantage of on Tybee because all the structured, financed, planned functions are for old people.

The current big controversy on-island ... well if you don't count Orange Crush ... is if the City will build a public pool?

City leadership refuses to make the call and put it out for a referendum in November because they don't want to be blamed if the pool fails ... so they want the public to demand it be built ... rather than make a decision themselves ... which is what they are elected to do.

A decade ago City Leadership did have the guts to make a decision and built the "Yoeman Solomon's Gymnasium" ... named after two politicians ... which nobody really uses ... because it's inaccessible and expensive ... plus it's built backwards, is ugly and occasionally opens for kids to use.

It was one of the worst councils ever elected ... unless you talk to anyone's who's elected ... then they were great ... and have a Gym to prove it.

I think the people on-island will demand a pool be built ... because they are too old to play basketball or roller skate in a Gym ... but they will flock to water aerobics with floats!

Of course there will be no available parking for the new "Old People Pool" ... because there is no parking on Tybee Island ... just stroll down the ocean side of 12th or 13th Street and count the number of yellow curbs for no apparent reason ... the island could have more parking but doesn't want it.

Honestly I believe we're morphing into a "Gated Community" which is what old people love.

But I digress.

This is the top 10 list of things for kids to do and enjoy on Tybee Island, Georgia.

1. Go to the beach.

2. Pick up a dead cannon ball jellyfish and toss it to your Mom or Dad to scare tourists.

3. Count the number of police vehicles and lifeguards on the beach (and to make it more challenging count the number of people being ticketed for simply being here  ... this will soon become a more challenging game when plastic bags are banned).

4. Take your friends to the top of the Lighthouse so you can spit on tourists entering the Lighthouse ... BY FAR ... THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING ACTIVITY FOR KIDS WHO LIVE ON TYBEE OR ARE VISITING!

5. Get your Mom to drive to drive you to the Wilmington Island YMCA to go swimming in the pool, play soccer, run the track, and actually meet fellow young people!!!!

6. If you are an older kid ... screw in the Dunes after 5 when the Lifeguards and Cops stop patrolling the beach.

7-10. There are none.

I hope this is helpful because I love this place but our girls keep asking me "What are we going to do today?"

It strikes me that, if they're asking ... then other kids are asking too ... so this is for them.

Now I'm going to go outside with our dogs and wait on the Police Department to ticket me for barking ... as Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, sleep in the grass.