Too Many Nurses

I am a sick writer.

This will not be pretty today.

I just want to go back to bed.

After the Bar Church Service at Pirate Fest yesterday I faded fast, came home and slept for the next 12 hours with alternating bouts of shakes and fever ... freezing and sweating ... tossing and turning.

This morning ... after keeping Sarah up most the night ... I got up, washed away the sweat in the outdoor, dressed and stumbled into the Breakfast Club for coffee where ... I felt terrible but receive lots of love.

Returning home I go back to bed.

A bit later I drag myself out of bed and see Sarah's left a note for the girls to take care of me ... drink water ... a Gatorade ... NO WINE ... give him medicine.

"I can't find my phone!" a very agitated Cassidy exclaims storming into the kitchen.

"Let's call it," I tell her and four phone calls later she finds it.

Then she reads Sarah's note, brings me water and medicine and says, "We're taking care of you Mr."

"Did you just call me Mister?"

"Yes."

"I just took my Medicine," I explain. "Remind me in an hour."

"Okay I'm going to watch the Disney Channel."

Laurel stumbles up next staring at her phone watching a movie on Netflix ... reads her Mom's note and spends the next half-an-hour LOUDLY making a breakfast milkshake while never taking her eyes off her phone.

The moment she finishes Maddie storms up the stairs reads her Mom's note and asks in rapid fire procession ... "How do you feel? ... Did you drink water? ... have you had Gatoraid? ... JESUS I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE OUT OF SOUR CREAM!"

Laurel takes her breakfast shake and several candy bars downstairs.

Maddie concocts something to take the place of sour cream.

Cassidy storms over with medicine, "Now Mister!"

"Girls," I say. I love you. Thank you for taking care of me. I'm going back to bed. Leave me alone."

Maddie calls a team meeting in front of "Monster's Inc." blaring from the television.

Turning she sees me watching them.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing," I answer.

"Why don't you go back to bed?"

I think that's a good idea.

Planning my Funeral

Did you ever see the movie "The Big Chill"?

It's a happy movie that begins with a death and a bunch of friends coming to funeral.

It's not much different from any other funeral ... save the organ solo is "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones.

That's pretty cool!

I am in no hurry whatsoever to get to my funeral but planning's everything ... so here goes.

I don't really want one ... give mine to somebody who needs it ... (I'll leave a list of candidates).

As a matter of fact if I pass in a Hospital I don't want anybody to come get my body ... just leave it there to drive them crazy ... after a while I'll start to purge, smell and become a nuisance to the medical profession!

As much they've screwed us in the United States it's my little way of paying them back.

I hope Sarah and all of our kids, dogs and cats go out for a nice dinner somewhere ... maybe a show afterwards.

By this time the Hospital will engaged attorneys to sue Sarah but ... she loves a good fight and will string it out so I'm purging and they have to close an entire floor because of the stink I'm raising.

Once Sarah wins ... and there is no doubt whatsoever she will ... I hope she listens to "Sarah Smile" on the way home.

All of that to say ... don't go out laying down.

You know what I mean?

I love you Honey ... you're the hardest part about funeral planning ... I want to be with you for a long time ... forever in fact ... so let's not rush anything!

Well, except that part about my funeral to someone else who needs it.

I'll leave the list.

Promotion by Parade

"It's Pirate Fest," he says. "Are we dressing as Pirates?"

"I'm dressing as a Beach Bum ... you can dress like a Pirate if you want to."

Sending texts, Bob Fulton and I are planning Bar Church where we're part of the Festival ... after three days of drunken debauchery ... Sam Adams had the bright idea to include a Worship Service to kick off the last day of ... debauchery."

Tybee Island almost as many Parades as it does Stop Signs ... searches of cars without warrants ... cigarette butts on the beach ... and plastic bags.

It's gotten to the point that if you throw a water balloon, the Island throws a Parade.

WAIT A MINUTE!

That's how this whole Parade Culture started!

A really shitty soft ball team ... with cheerleaders ... who liked to drink more than hit or catch ... left another loss on the field to march to a Bar when someone threw a water balloon at them.

The next time, the soft ball team threw back.

That's how it all started.

Then Tybee Island City Council learned about it and now we now have a frigging parade for everything.

If your cat actually hits the litter box, the Tybee Tourism Council is all over it ... and there's another parade!

Today the Island is overrun with Pseudo-Pirates, Wrenches and Booty grabbers ... filling the Hotels, Bars, Streets, beach, wandering into the sand dunes, beach swings and under the Pier ... where they make love, drink, grope, make love, make love,  make love and make love.

I wonder why the Tybee Tourism Council isn't promoting us as "THE" Love Making Island?

 The Department of Public Works cannot effectively retrieve the volume of condoms left in the sand dunes and on the beach every day ... though they do recycle ... and the Police Department knows where the rubber really hits the road.

I'm over the Parades!

I'm not dressing like a Pirate (though I certainly hope Sarah does the Wench thing) ... I'm not into the crowds ... and am increasingly convinced the reason Tybee has so many fireworks is so the Police Department can charge people with illegal discharge of firearms without a gun.

WAIT!

I may be confusing that with the discharges in the sane dunes.

Crossing the Bridge

There's only one road on to an island ... and only one road off.

Sometimes they collide as they did last night and there's no getting on or off an island without a boat or swimming.

Last night was such a night.

Picking up Maddie, our 14 year old, from a Homecoming Celebration at the Benedictine Academy complete with a bonfire fueled by teenage lust and hormones, she climbs in the car excitedly chatting about boys and asking "Can we go through a drive through? I'm starved."

I remember when I could eat like that!

The good old days!

Every fast food place is full as we zip pass because I refuse to wait in line until we get to the Wendy's on Wilmington Island and as I turn, I see the flashing blue lights and the officer placing orange cones in the road.

"This isn't good," I say to Mad.

Strolling inside she orders crap and we find a table.

Our dear friend Wen McNally and her daughter Ava join us and we speculate on what's happened.

Sarah's texting it's a wreck with a fatality.

Wendy decides it's the perfect time to close so we all make our way outside in the dark. Chu's Liquors and the Convenient Store agree and also close with several hundred people parked outside.

"The Flying Fish" ... a terrific seafood restaurant across the four lane is open ... so Mad and I make our way there.

It's a reunion of Tybee people stuck in the night ... ordering drinks and join the anticipation of the opening of the bridge ... such is life on an island.

Then the news hits ... Susan was killed.

Susan was something.

A billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant.

A piece of joy disappears on a bridge.

The night grows darker.

Our drinks become tasteless ... jokes evaporate ... a sadness blankets something islanders turn into a party.

Susan's one of us.

Life is a gift none of us asked for but each of us share. All gifts are to be celebrated while you have them because you never know how long they're going to last.

Our island lost the beautiful spirit of Susan Allen Bartoletti last night and if you were fortunate enough to experience her you understand joy because you saw it shine in her.

The bridge opens near 1:30 in the morning and Mad and I get home at 2:00.

A worried Sarah's waiting and, though exhausted, there is joy we are together again having survived the dark places.

I believe ... I'm not sure how ... but I'm pretty certain ... Susan's experiencing something very similar in a much more glorious way right now.

The Guardian Angel Sessions

"I don't need you anymore," she says after suddenly appearing without any warning.

"Great," I reply. "Does that mean you're going to leave me alone?"

"I wish," she snaps spitting a loogy over the Back Deck into the dark night. "Apparently you're a permanent assignment."

It makes me snort as she takes a long draw from her PBR, chased with a shot of bourbon and a drag from her cigarette.

My Guardian Angel looks like a meth addict ... pasty white ... so skinny her dirty robe keeps falling off her shoulder exposing a breast ... and a voice that sounds like Janice Joplin on a bad day.

"Well," I say leaning over to face her, "if you don't need me anymore but God's keeping you under contract ... what does that mean?"

Spitting another loogy, she points the cigarette at me ... "I have my own album."

Bursting into laughter, leaning over to hold my belly, it takes me a moment to find myself before saying, "I've heard you talk ... you can't sing."

She throws her empty beer can at me hitting me the arm.

"HEY!" I yell.

"I was aiming for your head," she snarls.

"You missed," I say rubbing my arm. "If you can't hit my head what makes you think you can hit a note?"

"It's not my album," she hisses. "Sean McNally and his band "IN FOR WHATEVER THEY CAN GET" did an album about me. I'm on the cover."

"His band is 'IN FOR A PENNY,'" I clarify.

"Yeah, what I said," she further clarifies.

"That's great!" I say pulling her robe back over her shoulder.

"You think so?" she asks in a little girl sort of voice.

"Oh yeah! Sean's great! I hope they make a lot of pennies."

"Me too," she cries and ... for the first time in our relationship ... she hugs me.

"You think Jimmy Cochran is going to write a song about me?" she asks wiping snot from her nose.

"I dunno," I say standing back to breath fresh air. "Perhaps if you washed your robe ... your hair ... body ... clean up your language ... Jimmy likes clean stuff."

"You think he'll like the album," she asks with bright red eyes.

"Oh yeah," I lie.

"Alright, I gotta go see him," she grins and disappears.

And I swear to God, I hear muffled laughter coming down from Heaven.

Confessions of a Semi-Professional Christian

I'm the Pastor at Bar Church.

I don't care for the title very much ... it means you're in charge of a Christian Church or congregation ... and I'm not in charge of shit!

In my past I was a "Professional Christian", paid good money to pretend I was in charge.

It took me a long time to realize I wasn't.

Oh back in the day ... I'd plan ... write sermons ... pick songs ... orchestrate who did what when ... script God to arrive at 11:47 so everyone could feel Holy ... while still beating the other Churches to the best restaurants.

And I got paid for such nonsense!

Two and a half decades pass and ... I'm a pastor who doesn't plan shit ... at a Church ... in a Bar.

(HEY BEN AFFLECK ... you're here on-island filming a movie ... I got your next one right here!)

I've learned a lot in my Holy Pilgrimage to this particular age of 59 ... I'm not in charge of shit.

At Bar Church, I try my best to get people who play better than me to play ... sing better than me to sing ... preach better than me to preach ... collect offerings better than me (I really suck at that part) ... make announcements (I REALLY SUCK MORE AT THAT PART) ... and somehow make it work so at God sticks Her head in at to say "Hey!":

I had an epiphany this past Sunday at Bar Church as I was singing and playing guitar ... a slow prayerful version of "We Will Build A Beautiful City" ... from the rock opera "GODSPELL" ... and it's supposed to be slow ... longing ... prayerful ... Hymn like.

But you know what?

Our drummer ... Davy Cahill ... actually runs Bar Church.

If he wants a Hymn ... he doesn't play ... he strolls over to the Potluck on the Pool Table and gets Banana Pudding which is always there like Manna from Heaven.

If he wants a "Spiritual" he beats the Hell out of the drums and the Bar ... and a really prayerful version off "Beautiful City" ... sounds like KISS is going to rock and roll all night and party every day!

Soaked with sweat, out of breath, and out of God when we finish ... I turn and stare at him.

"Hey," he says ... "C'mere."

So in the middle of disorganized religion (thank you Bob Fulton), I turn my back on Church to ask, "What?"

"Little KISS is playing this weekend but I ain't going. It's not worth the $5 to get in."

What does one say?

"Holy Jesus," are the words I recall coming out of my mouth.

Then ... I don't know how this happens ... but it does ... for a few minutes ... a Bar becomes the Promised Land ... and everybody present knows it's happening ... and for a second anyway ... the Kingdom Comes on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Afterwards, I turn and look at Davy again ... who is as stoic as Socrates ... and he hugs me saying, "We pulled another one off Rev" ... then he says ... "Oh I meant to throw these away before Church" ... and empty bottles of "Fireball" are tossed.

"That's the way God planned it," goes the old Hymn.

"That's the way God likes it."

I can't argue with that.

What I really really want is a Bass player

"Life is a journey of beginnings and endings. If we are lucky, there are people who stay with us through most of them," wrote my friend Mitch Wesley yesterday.

Mitch and I go way back ... all the way to College ... then Seminary ... and working together at Kienle's Delicatessen ... then we lost each other for a long time before finding each other again.

He's driving me nuts.

We need a bass player and Mitch plays bass and ... he wants to play bass in a band ... and he's damn good ... but he lives 4 hours away ... so it would be long commute for him ... which I don't have a problem with ... but his wife Linda evidently does.

I love Linda but ... we really need a bass player.

It's Pirate Fest weekend and it's big on-island.

Meaning the cops are going to pull a lot of people over ... the City's making a lot of money ... and wrist bands are now required to openly drink "down front" ... meaning the cops are going to ticket even more people and the City's making a lot more money.

I'm not certain when Government became business but ... it's all about the bottom line ... and kissing bottoms ... with a tongue ... and generating revenue ... regardless of how big a whore you are or who's your Pimp.

But's that's irrevelant to Mitch playing bass on the main stage at Pirate Fest this weekend.

I'm also trying to talk Sarah into singing but she's still miffed from last year when a full band miraculously shows up and we muddled through without her.

Though she's got the voice of an Angel and  regardless of where I am ... everybody wants to know where she is ... because it's never as good if she's not there.

Now ... I really want Mitch to play bass ... don't want anyone to get ticketed though it's apparently good for the island ... and desperately want Sarah to sing from the big stage ... and for our opening act "Little Kiss" to hang around and do a couple of spirituals during Bar Church ... on the main stage ... at Pirate Fest ... with wrist bands if you want to have Communion.

You know what I really want? ... what I really really want?

A pool.

We could drop the girls off for a swim and Sarah and I can make music of our own.

Mitch could play bass if he ever shows.

Sarah and I won't care.

Well ... until Sunday!

Then we'll really really care.

Now's Better

The funny thing about breaking out of a life you hate ... and succeeding ... is you find yourself in a whole NEW life!

It IS wonderful!

It's also quite hard.

People, things, resources you once relied on are no longer real and there's a sense of loss.

"WHAT?! ...You were always there for me ... that's what I did to get through ... what do you mean I can't do this anymore?"

On the other hand, everything's BRAND NEW!

Different people, resources and things take the place of past things and you grow into new and better ways.

The main reason is because you're different ... meaning I'm different ... hopefully learning from the past ... exiling the bad and building on the good of who you are ... meaning who I am.

The other main reason is because ... if you're lucky ... you've managed to surround yourself with better people than the ones you used to love ... which isn't to say you weren't with some great people but you were also with bad ones ... meaning ... I'm really just talking about myself but it's easier to say if I drag you into it.

But I believe life is supposed to get better as you go along ... I know mine has ... but it reminds me of the Grateful Dead's "What a long, strange trip it's been!"

No question it's been that!

But I find myself incredibly fascinated, enthralled, exhilarated and damn in love with where I am these days!

The intriguing thing is learning how to let go of "what was" to fully embrace "what is."

The funny thing is I'm uncertain if I ever really appreciated everything I had before because I always wanted more ... now I got more ... and sometimes miss what I had.

That's just stupid ... and I'm smart enough to know stupid by now!

You give up then to get now.

Which reminds of Jesus hanging on a cross ... to get to now ... because NOW's better.

I have to agree.

Morning Prayers

In the quietness of the predawn morning I light a candle in the kitchen.

Goddess, Winston The Little Gay dog and Gypsy flock to space under my feet wanting Communion in the form of treats, which I give them gladly.

Turning on soft music, Winston, TLGD, prances back to our bedroom, head butts the door and jumps back into bed with sleeping Sarah.

Gypsy gracefully leaps on the sill of the open window and keeps watch over the end of the Holy Night.

Goddess collapses under my dangling bare feet and sleeps.

Noticing a faint light I make my way to Cassidy's room to find her sleeping while still holding her phone watching Netflix. Smiling I turn her light off.

The sky turns grey and lush green leafs drip with rain which I can feel through the screen door leading out to the Beloved Back Deck.

A colorful wet beach towel hangs limply on the chair I normally write in and little metal desk decorated with seashells and an Tiki Bar oil lamp is filled with water.

Birds begin to sing.

Squirrels dart through Palm Trees carrying nuts in their mouths.

All is calm ... all is bright.

Next door the Cat Lady rolls the trash can over the rock gravel of her drive way though she is mercifully quiet this morning.

Sarah's made pumpkin bread so I pick some from the crusty ends which the girls don't like.

The computer starts to "ping" as my friends from college shoot verbal darts and I return the favor , stifling laughter so the girls can sleep.

Goddess licks my foot.

It's time to cook the Cinnamon rolls ... the Sunday tradition at our house.

Afterwards, I'll pack up and head to Bar Church but ... I doubt the worship can top how this day's already begun.

Great Questions

I've been pondering some of life's questions lately. It's been quite the exercise ... difficult yet rewarding ... heart wrenching but satisfying ... exhausting and exhilarating. As a service to humanity I want to share these questions and the answers with you so your life may be fuller.

I did not Google any of the answers and each question just came to me. I'm not sure from where but they are life's deepest questions.

Here you go!

"Are we human or are we dancer?"

On the surface this seems a stupid question ... unless you transform your humanity by dancing. Then it makes perfect sense.

"Why don't we do it in the road?"

A Great Question always begs another one! Why not?

"Have you ever seen the rain?"

I'm watching it now. It sucks.

"What's love got to do with it?"

It all depends on what "IT" is. In some cases love's got everything to do with it while in other cases it's got absolutely nothing to do with it.

"Where have all the Cowboys gone?"

Aside from the ones in Dallas I have no idea and honestly don't really care about the ones in Dallas either.

"Where is the love?"

I got it right here.

"Does anybody really know what time it is?"

Actually I do care because there are some games on today and I will be incredibly focused at 3:30.

"Is this real life? Is it just fantasy?"

Yes.

20 Minutes of Nothingness

There's finally a Pope I like ... a sinner friendly guy with a Liberation Theology background ... but he screws it up by meeting with a bigot ... Kim Davis.

You already know who the Pope is ... arrogant enough to take the name of St. Francis of Assisi ... the most Christ-like person to live ... since Christ!

And you know who Kim Davis is... a narrow minded believer ... stretching her 15 minutes of fame into 20 ... by refusing to acknowledge love happens in more ways than one.

The Vatican is "distancing itself" from her.

She's embracing him like no man she's ever had ... including her husband Joe ... her 4th husband ... and I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that ... God knows I'm not one to judge ... but it is funny.

All that to say ... THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH LOVE!

"It is what it is," as my Mom likes to say.

Gay .. Straight ... or otherwise.

GOD is LOVE.

One of the great things I paid damn good money to learn in Seminary is ... the "thorn in Paul's flesh" was his homosexuality.

"Take it away from me," he pleaded with God on three occasions.

"It's cool," God answers. "I love you the way you are."

And there would be no Church today without Paul.

So I know Kim Davis is a bigot.

And the Pope I liked so much is an idiot.

But the God I love ... is love.

And I hope Kim Davis ... and the Pope too ... enjoy their 20 minutes.

Killing Huggers

It pisses me off that "Hugs" are politically incorrect these days.

They'll get you sued for sexual harassment and wreck careers if you give one in the work place.

Doesn't matter if it's a same-sex hug or not ... Hugging gets you fired, sued and placed on the sexual predator list.

My friend Millar Fuller gave a hug to some volunteer in his office at "Habitat for Humanity" which he founded ... building houses around the world for those who had none ... developed the concept of "Sweat-Equity" meaning if you can't pay for your house with money, work with us and pay in sweat ... was a devoutly Christian man who started his path with the only Prophet Southern Baptists ever produced ... Clarence Jordan.

Everyone from former Presidents to Nobel Prize winners helped him build houses for people who didn't have one and ... was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

He housed more people than anybody ... ever!

But Millard gave a hug and it got him fired.

Devastated, he rallied and started the Fuller Center for Housing and continued building houses for people who don't have one.

"Our conclusion was that Millard was a hugger and was misinterpreted, and some people went out of their way to make something big out of something that wasn't really that big," said John Wieland ... who I also knew ... and was on the Habitat Board at the time.

Millard and I hugged on numerous occasions and I never felt sexually threatened ... though there was some peace that surpasses all understanding.

Millard died several years ago, never fully recovered from hugging.

The last time we were together was in Atlanta to receive awards and recognitions for housing people who didn't have a house.

He was sad ... his head was down ...as we sat at the head table with 8 others ... and when my name was mentioned ... he looked up and our eyes met.

He stood ... and I stood ... and we hugged in front of a thousand people.

"You alright?" he whispers in my ear.

"Yeah," I whisper back still holding him, "it's good to see you again."

"You too," he says letting me go.

"Yeah," I smile.

"Love you," he says placing both hands on my shoulders.

I cry ... and mumble, "Love you too."

And the world's not as nice as it was when Millard was alive ... and before we starting killing huggers.

One of those moements

It's one of those moments.

Sitting on a stool in Doc's Bar, waiting my turn to play guitar ... or join someone who already is ... I stare around the room at people I've become very fond of and ... I'm wondering how the new songs I'm bringing are going to be received.

Truthfully, none of us care, because we're bringing the best of what we've got and sharing.

It's cheaper than therapy.

Then Monty Parks does an incredible song he wrote about Detroit where he was raised and melancholy drips from his guitar strings.

Thomas Oliver follows with a striped down, slowed down version of "Hey, Hey Baby ... I want to know ..." and it's the best damn version I've ever heard ... with Chip Zulliger playing a killer lead.

And God Herself decides to stick her head in and listen as Greg Bell stares at the Post-it note on the side of his guitar.

And Scotty beams me up.

The back door's open and the Ocean's loudly singing in the distance.

Warm, salt air floods inside the back room with God.

Turning in my chair to stare outside and welcome our guests ... I don't hear anything for the longest time.

I've fallen into some Vortex of Salty Sea and Holiness.

"Hey," God says.

Unable to speak, I nod.

The propped open door is filled with darkness though in the distance are lights from tiny apartments in an alley.

I am baptized in salt air ... the aroma filling my lungs ... the stillness of the island on a lazy night shouting quiet.

Clark Byron finishes singing "Southern Nights" and Scotty beams me back down because it's my turn.

Reclaiming my focus, Lona Crask stares at me wondering what I'm bringing.

She's my partner at a weekly Nursing Home gig.

And God says, "Don't you love it?"

Hanging my head, I wipe my eyes.

"Don't you love them?" She presses.

Fumbling, I strum a G chord.

"Enjoy," She concludes and vanishes.

Everyone's staring wondering what I'm going to do.

And I play ... and sing ... giving myself to them ... just as they've given themselves to me.

It's a gift when such things happen.

God Herself reminded me tonight.

A Prophet's Daughter

"Rev. Elliott," Dr. J.J. Owens proclaims in a voice dripping with dignity, "may I see you down front?"

Down front means the center of the Amphitheatre.

He's teaching Hebrew to a group of a 100 or so and ... I'm on the back row with a group of friends drinking Rum and Coke in Styrofoam cups ... my greatest contribution to the pronunciation of Hebrew.

It's a lot easier to pronounce if you're a little high ... or "Closer to God" as we used to say in Seminary.

Hebrew is written from right to left ... rather than left to right ... only has 200 characters ... meaning combinations of letters ... there are no vowels ... so "Wheel of Fortune" is a purely "Christian" endeavor ... so to replace vowels ... Scribes used "Dots" and "Dashes."

You ever tried to read ... or pronounce a "Dot" or a "Dash" or speak a word with no vowels?

It'll drive you to drinking.

Grabbing my Hebrew Lexicon and Styrofoam Cup, I make the long trek to the front of the class completely prepared for the worst.

Throwing his arms around my head and whispering in my ear, smelling the Rum on my breath, he asks, "So you have a daughter?"

I nod because I'm completely overwhelmed by the moment.

"She is Jeremiah's brother?"

Jeremiah is the greatest prophet as far as he's taught us ... the one daring to talk back to God ... call Him names ...be carted off to another land ... and die a horrible death because he believes in his friend anyway ... God.

"Jeremy," I stutter.

"Same thing in Hebrew," he wetly whispers in my ear.

"What's your daughter's name?"

"Kristen," I answer.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Dr. Owens proclaims from on High,  looking like an Old Testament Prophet.

"Rev. Elliott has a daughter. In the Old Testament you make sacrifices over such Holy events so ... he is going to be excused from today's class ... and as a gift ... he may take whoever he chooses to go with him."

I'm crying ... standing there in front of a 100 or so ... really wanting to go home and hold my baby.

"Well?" Dr. Owen asks with a grin I've never seen.

Holding up the Styrofoam Cup, the entire back row follows me out the door.

In the hallway we laugh and hug and then ... I rush to work as a waiter ... to make a little more money ... because we have none ... and the girl can drink milk ... not her Mother's ... the store bought kind.

$1.27/can.

Around midnight, I hold her in my arms, give him his bottle and we fall asleep together.

Raising the Dead

"When someone dies you don't know what to do," my friend Will D. Campbell said, "so you make potato salad if you're in the South and take it over."

It's your way of saying, "I care ... I don't know what to say ... and I don't know what to do ... but I love you ... I'm hurting with you ... and here's some potato salad."

On another occasion, Will explained when a friend of his died,  he took a Bible and bottle of bourbon.

"If one doesn't get you through, the other might."

Receiving a message from a friend, I read ... "Will you please write about Ricky? I'm afraid the world's going to forget he was ever here. If you write about him ... they'll be something left for others to be reminded."

Well ...

What does one say?

What does one do?

I'm being asked to raise the dead.

A funny thing about being a writer is ... I can ...and do ... bring people back to life ... at least reigniting feelings, memories and stories in those who loved them.

It's a blessing and a curse ... as my wife often says ... keeping them alive though their stories comes with a cost ... everything comes with one ... in this case it's putting myself back then to recapture them  and ... at the same time ... remind myself of my own impending death.

But ... it costs to bring the dead back to life.

Ricky Hinely was my cousin. We grew up together ... snuck out ... drank beer when we were underage ... shared two girlfriends ... loved music ... snuck off alone to do things nobody knows though perhaps they'll be revealed in Heaven ... and the last time we were together was on the Pier, staring at the Ocean, sharing beers and talking about how it's a shame we grew up.

We went in different directions ... but we toasted the times ... gave each other hugs ... and said "I love you" ... which are the last words I ever told him.

The last words he ever told me.

So today Cuz ... welcome back ... missed you ... want some potato salad? ... maybe a shot? ... then lets open the Bible and get Grandma and Granddaddy here ... sing a few old songs ... make our way to the Pier again ... and tell old stories.

Then we'll do what we did before ... going our own ways ... doing our own things.

Though I do enjoy these visits.

I know you do too.

Sunday's Dilemma

I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.
I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.

Endless Summers

It is widely known I HATE cold!

 

There’s an old wives' tale that you love the weather you are born into.

 

I was born in July so it makes perfect since I LOVE summer.

 

Old wives and their tails begin to break down afterwards though.

 

Sarah was born in May so you figure she’d love hotter weather but ... to quote John Belushi ... “NOOOOO!” ... she prefers colder stuff.

 

Same with Maddie who was born in September. It’s still hot then but the child begs for air conditioning ... begging for blanket and hot chocolate.

 

Laurel was born in April and is therefore a bit schizophrenic about weather! She loves dressing winter clothes during the summer and goes near naked in the winter.

 

Same with Cassidy who was born during November ... the child believes in dressing for style and doesn’t give a damn about weather consequences ... fur boots in August are fine!

 

Jeremy keeps this train going because, though he was born in July like his Old Man, he prefers cooler temps which makes no sense.

 

Kristen, born in April, loves summer weather just like me.

 

Chelsea who was born on Summer Solstice definitely higher temperatures and little lattitudes.

 

In our house, the girls can’t wait for winter, layers of clothing, ice skating and the dispictable thing Satan ever created ... SNOW.

 

“Cold as Hell,” is said for a reason ... it’s the Devil’s work!

 

“But Mike,” some say, “you love College Football which is played on cool, crisp days!”

 

True ... though I think the entire season should be in September with games played every other night.

 

Regardless, the girls are excited and it’s hard to not enjoy their anticipation though I prefer endless summers.

 

You have to make compromises in life and love ... some are harder than others ... so I take solace in the fact that soon ... TOO DAMN SOON ... we'll all be snuggling under a blanket together ... drinking something HOT ... dreaming of summer. 

One Hell of a Nice Guy

The Pope would like to see you." she says unexpectedly.

"Don't give me that shit," I fire back.

She ... is my Guardian Angel ... a chain smoking, drinker of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Bourbon ... loogy spitting ... skinny ... pasty ... dirty ... Cherubim with a broken wing and a robe that doesn't fit.

"No seriously," she replies ... "I don't know why but the Holy Father wants to see you."

It strikes me for the first time in our relationship that I have no idea what faith my Guardian Angel practices.

"Are you Catholic?" I ask.

She laughs taking a long drag off her cigarette ... "No ... no ... Hell No."

"Well you're not a Baptist!"

She wails in laugher, bending over exposing a breast, limp oily hair hanging over the railing on the Beloved Back Deck ... which tickles me  ... so I'm laughing at her laughing ... then we're both laughing together.

Finally calming down, she asks if I want a beer.

"Not yet," I say holding up my hand in protest ... but a PBR magically appears from ... I don't know where.

Toasting her can with mine, I hear her gravely voice say, "Well the Pope wants an audience."

I stare at her in disbelief for a long time and finally ask ... "Do you know that you sound exactly like Janis Joplin?"

Smiling, she sits up straight, adjusts her robe and says, "Thanks."

"You're welcome. It's pretty cool actually," I say taking a sip. "So what's the Pope want with me?"

"I have no idea," she replies taking her own sip. "He's sinner friendly though."

"Yeah, I like that about him."

"Why is this taking so long?" Pope Francis demands in an epiphany, "I'm on a schedule."

"WOAH!" I mumble.

My Guardian Angel makes another PBR appear, hands it to Francis and he takes a swig.

"This is pretty cool," I eventually say. "Sarah wants to go to Italy and see the Vatican ... can you get us Hall Passes?"

Shaking his head, he flashes that sinner friendly smile, leans forward and explains, "No you have to pay like everyone else ... mea cupa."

"I completely understand," I reply, "business is business."

Laughing he takes another swing and says, "I deal with a lot of assholes ... been in Washington, the Capitol City ... I just needed a break and figured this is safe ... I waited till Sarah left."

"Smart," I tell him.

"She's a Saint," Francis says.

"Yeah," my Guardian Angel and I sigh simultaneously.

"Alright, I've got to get back," he heavily says. "I'm working on getting rid of Boehner."

"Really?" I ask.

"It's a start," he shrugs.

"Want another beer Father?" my Guardian Angel asks.

"I do," he slumps, "but ... Micheal's been to Washington ... he knows what it's like ... it's a lot of work and I gotta get back."

I nod as Pope Francis disappears.

"Damn," I say to my Guardian Angel. "He's a Hell of a nice guy!"

"Yeah," she agrees, "but you know what's great about him?"

"What?"

"He likes people like us," she says lighting another cigarette.

"Hell of a nice guy," I repeat.

Who's rich and who's not?

Sarah points out my social calendar to me.

1. Breakfast Club for coffee every day.

2. Monty's Jam on Tuesday nights.

3. Bar Church gig at the Oceanside Nursing Home on Thursdays.

4. UGA football on Saturday.

5. Bar Church on Sunday.

"That's it," she rightly concludes.

It sounds sort of ... lame.

Well ... I'm a bit defensive ... "I do clean the toilets on Fridays" I think to myself ... but I don't bring it up.

"You need to get out more," she presses.

I love going out with Sarah ... and while I may initially bitch about it, I enjoy taking the girls to wherever it is they have to be and we always have a good time ... and I often drag my ass into the Nursing Home and Bar Church but they always end up being special and Holy.

In truth I spend a lot of time praying, thinking, writing ... and looking for work.

In spite of what elected officials say ... the economy SUCKS!

It reminds me of a truth ... the only time a politician tells the truth is when s/he calls another politician a liar.

That's pretty funny ... and sad ... and often true.

Isn't it a shame you don't get paid to pray ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it a pity you don't get paid to think ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it atrocious you don't get paid to write ... well John Grisham does ... a handful of others ... but most of us do it for the love of writing otherwise ... we'd be rich.

Worst of all, isn't it demonic you don't get paid to love?

Because it would be fascinating to see who's rich ... and who's not?

Fishing

I've gone fishing today.

Why don't you write something in my place?

You can say what you really want to and attribute it all to me.

I don't care.

It's therapeutic and fun.

Or not.

You decide.

Be back tomorrow.

Maybe.