Tybee Quirkiness is still here

Sometimes you can stand in the middle of Butler Avenue and have a decent conversation.

Last night was such a night.

Dave Cahill stood and me are catching up, telling one another things we need to share and embraced a couple of times.

He's one of the best drummers ever, surfs, is a Marshpuppy and reeks of "coolness" even he doesn't bathe.

It's already a nice night as Monty Parks and I stood outside of Doc's Bar talking while noticing the fog on a warm December night made the exterior of "Bernie's Tavern" look like a British Christmas Card.

Three skateboard punk rockers roll by and stop to talk smack.

"Hey," one of the Punks sneers, "You Skake? What did you do when you were our age?"

"Make love with girls in the back seat of our parent's car," I answer.

"You want to beat 'em up?" Monty asks.

Shaking my head I return to the sidewalk as Conga Dave strolls out to join us immediately chasing away the juvenile delinquent wannabes.

Back inside the warmth of the Bar, Clark Byron and I have one of the most heartfelt conversations I've had in years. There was so much behind the words that ... it was hard to capture the words.

Those are damn good conversations when they happen!

But that was earlier and now Davy and I stand in the middle of Tybee Island's main drag talking when a mini-van screeches to a halt in front of Benny's.

"DID I HANG UP ON YOU?" the driver screams.

It's Ann ... Cupcake's sister ... pulling in from her home in South Carolina to oversee the funeral.

"We were done," I answer. "You were answering other calls."

"Okay then," she says heading inside Benny's, "See you tomorrow."

"Alright Rev," Davy says climbing inside his sticker covered jeep.

Later," I reply jumping back inside the convertible with me guitar idling in the middle of Butler Avenue.

The Ocean gives loud kisses to the Beach in the distance through the warm fog.

"God," I smile driving home to Sarah, "I still love this island sometimes."

Speechless and Grateful

"Well do you want to know?" my son asks.

We'd already talked so I'm surprised by his call and immediately go to that bad place where I expect the worst.

Unexpected calls always mean bad news right?

Our earlier conversation had been normal ... family talk ... Georgia football ... holiday plans and such ... so his afternoon call brought on anxiety.

Besides it's been a day of death.

My friend ... and a rock upon which Bar Church was built ... died in the morning ... leaving an unfillable void.

If that weren't enough ... our neighbor Scott who's been fighting Cancer for a year ... surrounded by an Banana Trees and an American Flag ... died too.

I've spent the day running around consoling those left behind ... maybe that's why I'm expecting bad news when Jeremy calls.

"It's a boy!" he says and I can feel his happy grin through the phone.

We've got lots of girls in our family.

He and I are the only boys.

"Tell Sarah," he says as she magically opens the door.

"You tell her," I say ... and he does.

"It's a good thing I took all the girl clothes I bought back when your Dad told me Terenca's having a girl."

There are times when it's smart to keep your mouth shut ... this is one.

They laugh and basking in their glow I think ... "And when I die. And when I'm gone. There'll be one child born in this world to carry on ... to carry on."

While I don't understand it, I figure God's got a plan and is sticking to it.

Two deaths and an impending birth ... of our Grandson.

It simply leaves you speechless and grateful ... for those who have gone ... and for what's coming.

That's Why I'm Here

Most Mondays begin full of dread because you don't want to go back to work again.

You want to be off ... be yourself ... do what you want ... live!

Other Mondays are depressing because there's nothing to do ... no job requiring your presence ... family demands ... or lover's coos to share preciousness.

Some Mondays commence with hope as you can't wait to get at it again ... work brings you joy ... co-workers were missed ... you've figured out the problem ... or it's just better than home.

Occasional Mondays are allow for musing, contemplation, thinking and prayer ... when there's the time and focus to wonder ... about everything.

Regardless, Monday's have a way of throwing more curve balls at you than any other day.

It's the most hated day of the week.

50% of everyone is late for work on Mondays.

Less is accomplished on Mondays than any other day of the week ... including Fridays.

More people die on Monday than any other day of the week.

All that to say, I woke up pretty chipper this morning though Sarah and the girls struggled to get off to school and work and as they rushed out everyone managed to say "I love you's" and "Have a great day!"

It's a glorious day with a limp flag hanging over the marsh, a flat Ocean, warm temperatures, lush green vegetation and blue skies.

Just as I turn on the music, fire up the computer and get ready to create ... the phone buzzes and I learn a friend I talked to last night has died.

The bell on the computer rings at the same time and I learn another friend has died too.

I text Sarah who's busy working.

No one's home so I rely on my "Fall-Back-consistent-Go-To" strategy ... and take Goddess for a walk.

"Damn," I say to our dog, "I wasn't ready for this."

Turning the corner from the Marsh to the Back River, I wonder why it was their time and not mine?

Rounding the curve from Back River to 13th, I know it's time to go to work and see what I can do ... for those left behind ... because there's absolutely nothing I can do for those who've gone.

"Maybe that's why I'm still here," I tell Goddess as I let her in the house and grab the car keys.

Between Heaven and Earth

You know how sometimes it feels as though Scotty's beamed you up and while you're still here going through the motions, doing the things you do every day, you're not really here?

That's me today.

I'm here but I'm not.

Perhaps it's because the girls aren't home and for the first time in a hundred Sunday's there are no Cinnamon Rolls to make.

I was really missing the kids on the last UGA game of the season mindful this is the first time in their collective lives either all of us, or some collection,  didn't share the experience together.

While it's sunny and warm outside now, winter's coming and that always depresses me though Sarah and the girls are beyond excited and maybe it'll rub off on me, especially when we visit her parents in New York City in a few weeks.

Sitting on the sofa as I watched games Sarah navigated the Internet searching for warm places to go in a few months and I wish we could just pick up and go now to return in late Spring ... if we return at all.

It could be because Sarah's traveling the next two weeks so there will be days without her which I do not relish ... though Maddie will be here and I'm not certain who's taking care of who.

A portion of today is spent doing things I'd prefer not to but duty calls and I've done my best to prepare and we'll see what happens.

Sometimes when I'm playing at the Nursing Home I'd rather not be there and I go through the motions, leaving it to Lona to carry the  crowd with energy and enthusiasm ... then ... something kicks in ... and I see the face of a woman in a wheelchair I'm fond of and I suddenly give it everything I've got ... and Lona smiles, John Iacovini hits the Congas with wild abandon and the inmates go wild ... then Scotty beams me up again ... and I'm there but not completely.

I've been told that when this happens you're between heaven and earth ... one foot in both places ... given the chance to see life without you ... and trying to decide if it's time to go.

I'm not ready yet ... there's too much to live for here ... and I still feel needed ... and necessary ... anchored down in love.

But it's a gift I think when these moments occur ... Scotty beams us up ... and we see and feel our life differently than normal.

It makes me appreciate NOW.

And reminds me that it won't always be here.

Heroes and Saints

I'm predisposed to sadness.

It's primarily because I spent over three decades "dancing in depravity" as my friend Michael Harris once opined.

Spending time emerged in miserable situations with depressed people doesn't leave you quickly ... if it leaves you at all.

Many Veterans confess how they were traumatized by the war ... injustice, insane politics, incompetent military leadership and killing people for a living ... changed them because they lost something of themselves in the process.

There's nothing different about being immersed in the war on poverty.

Soldiers make peace by conquering often ... as Malcom X put it ... by any means necessary ... and when they're finished ... they're Heroes.

If you're successful in the war on poverty ... like a Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Teresa, or Gandhi ... you win a battle or two though nothing much changes ... but you're suddenly a Saint.

War's war the way I see it and there's not a damn thing good about it!

Of course I've known ... and know ... lot's of Heroes who ended their military service living in poverty which is one of the worst things about America, a culture that believes we love you so long as you're useful.

So I'm not into all this Hero Worship we give to Veterans because we're too damn cheap to give them things they really want like free health care, counseling, job training and decent housing.

Just like I'm not into paying homage to the Saints who set examples but really didn't accomplish much more.

"The poor will be with you always," Jesus said, "SO THAT YOU CAN HELP THEM ANY TIME YOU WANT" (Mark 14:7).

It's F-ing sad when Heroes become homeless ... sadder still when the few who give a shit become Saints ... and most don't give a damn.

You can take your Heroes and Saints and throw them away because ... in spite of everything they've done ... nothing much has changed.

 

The Post Thanksgiving Recollections

"Well I believe in God you know?" she loudly says, tossing another chip on the table.

We're teaching the girls to play Poker on Thanksgiving night.

Sometimes the best times come from the result of poor planning.

The first part of the day was planned perfectly in that Sarah wanted to run a race in town with daughter Maddie and our friend Michelle and I'm content to "babysit" Laurel and Cassidy ... meaning not to make too much noise while they sleep.

Late morning they arrive home and eventually take off for the Family Celebration, a dinner-on-the-grounds feast for a hundred or so Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, nephews, nieces, friends and several others I don't know.

Perfectly timed, we arrive as Grace is being said to pick and choose from several hundred home cooked dishes, amidst hugs and catching up, jokes and memories and remembering everyone who's not present.

Followed by pictures in the massive front yard, we load up for the drive home.

Back on island, we opt to skip the celebration at Fannies-On-The-Beach and stay home with the girls who are staring at their cell phones in their rooms.

Sarah and I crash in an uncomfortable sort of way as she realizes we have nothing planned for the evening ... no intimate family meal with leftover turkey and dressing ... and not one thing in our home speaks of the Holiday.

So we break out the chips, gather the girls at the table and play poker ... which of course turns into a hotly contested and LOUD game full of accusations of cheating, calling each other names and a couple of yelling matches!

But we're together which is really what Thanksgiving is all about.

"Next year we have to plan better," Sarah concludes.

"I want to run my own Casino," Maddie informs us. "Do I need a business degree for that?

So from our family to yours ... we hope you had a fantastic Thanksgiving celebration!

Just wait till next year's!

Quiet Thanks

The ocean roars in the distance on a bright sunny, almost warm, morning.

Sea breezes blow from the Northeast but are muted by the Palms and lush Tropical vegetation.

Goddess lay at my dangling bare feet and my toes rub her golden fleece.

Soft acoustic guitars steam online as I ponder Thanksgiving.

My friend Sean's on a plane accompanying his father who passed away yesterday and is heading home for the last time.

None of our older kids are home for the Holiday so the fictional Norman Rockwell gathering is dead before it starts.

Sarah's off with Maddie and our friend Michelle for the "Turkey Trot" run in town and I'm babysitting our other girls who are sound asleep.

Later we "going to the country" to have dinner-on-the-grounds with our large extended family though my grandparents, Dad, several uncles, aunts and cousins won't be there because they too have passed on to whatever's next.

Afterwards Sarah and I plan on stopping in at the celebration at Fannies-on-the-Beach to wish our friends merriment.

Tonight the girls and I will either watch a movie, play poker or everyone scatters to their own private space ... meaning staring at their phones.

I'm happy to be here doing this.

Hell! At this stage of life I'm happy to be anywhere but ... especially with girls who love me ... with my feet on a dog who helps me write ... in a tiny house on a tiny island ... with the Ocean roaring in the distance ... and the Sun dancing in sky.

Free Travel

If money weren't an object, we'd be gone.

Without money the realities of girls in school, debt consolidation, a terrible economy in spite of what the politicians claim, exhausting resources for the things we believe in only to be left in disbelief ... we're pretty much planted here.

For now.

But when the money comes ...

Sarah doesn't want a home base somewhere which I would prefer ... a quaint village on a small Caribbean Island ... but she knows we'd rarely be there. She wants to see the world, especially the places I've never seen ... except the really good places ... and to see them as us!

I support that and have no problem spending Christmas in a Lodge in the Swiss Alps so long New Year's through Easter's on the coast of Central America.

The girls want a luxury Jet that'll take them anywhere they ... notice it's not "We" ... want to go though I don't believe they care much about destinations, just impress their friends they have a plane. The biggest headache is answering who get's to spend the night?

I still prefer a Houseboat.

If we don't like the neighbors it's easy to move.

If the weather turns bad, it's easy to move.

If politicians or Jehovah Witnesses come calling, it's easy to move further away from shore until they leave.

We can travel and stay at home at the same time.

Honestly I like air travel too for various destinations so I'm pretty open.

That's our travel plans.

Now if we can just work out that money thing.

Skipping's Fine with me

The girls want to get out of school early and are begging me to be the one to spring them.

I'm overly sympathetic and don't mind being an accomplice as I have a long history of skipping.

I've skipped out of numerous classes in school ... Chapel Services in Seminary ... every class reunion held ... a few public appearances ... many Conference Workshops I'd registered to attend ... a couple of marriages ... and once I skipped a speech I was giving.

In front of about a hundred people I was following a really bad speaker ... the entire audience of a College Baptist Student Union was falling asleep, slitting their wrists and praying for the Second Coming to immediately take place.

I mean this guy really sucked.

After he mercifully sat down, I was introduced, took the Podium and asked, "Who wants to follow that? I don't."

And I sat down.

This endeared me to the kids who gave me a standing ovation though the Baptists in charge didn't seem to appreciate my gift of unallocated time.

Furthermore, I already have plans to skip growing old (I'm gonna stay young till I die), any funeral planned (who wants to attend their own funeral?) and my burial (I'm all for this "Dust in the Wind" theory so just blow my ashes in the faces of people I don't like!).

So when the girls ask if they can be sprung ... I'm predisposed.

Of course I support Sarah's decision and say ... "Sure Honey! You are absolutely right! I support anything you say! Whatever you want!"

At the same time I'm telling the girls, "I'll see what I can do."

I'm pretty pansy when it comes to the girls.

Part of it is I helped our older kids skip the boring and unpleasant stuff so it's a family tradition!

So it's completely unfair when I'm put in this position!

I'm all for getting them out today!

Though ... I'm only 49% of the ultimate decision!

I attended enough school to know reality when it hits me in the face!

I love you girls but I'm not that stupid.

She's Already Gone

At the Oceanside Nursing Home on Thursday, I'm working the room before we start playing live music for the inmates.

If you don't believe people in Nursing Homes consider themselves "Inmates" akin to being in Prison then you've not spent enough time in one or are kidding yourself that the money you spend is giving your loved one everything Mom or Pop ... or Son or Daughter ... need to enjoy life.

As nice as Nurses and workers may be ... the Inmates remain locked inside and under close supervision when they're out.

Anyway, I'm working the room ... saying hello to both the conscious and the unconscious ... the drooling and the dry.

"Hey Mike!" half exclaim loving the hug or handshake, full of joy we actually returned for another show.

The other half remain silent in their wheelchair or laying their head on the table like a sleeping child in school and when I hug them or touch them ... they do nothing ... already more dead than alive.

A white haired woman who I'm fond of sits alone staring at her hands and as I hug her, she jumps in surprise and with guarded eyes, says, "WELL ... I'M MARTHA! WHO ARE YOU?"

The world stops spinning for a moment ... I'm transported to another Universe ... away from the cold routines of Oceanside ... into the place of "Shock."

She knew me last week ... called me by name ... told me how thrilled she is that I'm back ... and asked for her favorite song.

Now she's crossed some line ... drawing closer to forgetting this life ... preparing, I suppose, for the next one.

My wife is the Director of the Alzheimer's Association and has taught me a great deal about things I'd preferred to not know.

Growing at an alarming rate, people with Alzheimer's Disease already eclipses most everything else combined.

Later as I sing her favorite, "We're going up, up, up but I'm going to climb a little higher ..." Martha sits there oblivious ... staring at her hands ... and my voice breaks a little over the words ... because I see ... she's already go

Post It Note Reminders and other Perverted Love Songs

At Monty Parks "Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam" at "Doc's Bar" ... never to be confused with the "Coffee. Deli. Jam" which sounds like something sold at "Starbucks" in a plain red cup ... we're thinking about doing an Album, Deluxe Box Set CD with lots of pictures and liner notes, YouTube videos all wrapped in Conga Dave's boxer shorts.

No, it's not a Rolling Stones' "Sticky Fingers' redux ... it's a concept based on "Post It Notes."

The concept grew out of our beloved member Gregory L. Bell's use of "Post It Notes" stuck to his guitar to remind himself of what he plans to play.

Oh ... to set the context ... a group of renegade bridge hating musicians gather every Tuesday night at Doc's on Tybee to play music ... and otherwise.

We drink ... play music ... tell jokes ... make fun of each other ... and don't allow coffee.

Greg used to be a bomber or something in the Military. He taped Post It Notes on the bombs to remind him of where to drop his load.

Apparently we either won ... or tied ... that particular war ... and Greg received an "Honorable Discharge" ... which is pretty funny for someone who drops bombs ... and the man equates "Post It Notes" with successful droppings.

When he drops a song at the Jam, it's scripted from the Post It Note on his guitar.

Once, while Greg was getting a beer, I stole the Post It Note from his guitar and when he found out you would have thought the Taliban had invaded.

Greg did a loving melodic version of "Eve of Destruction" with out his Post It Note.

I recall Bob Fulton followed by "Stroking to the left .... Stroking to the right."

Anyway we've decided to kick it to the next level with out soon to be released ... musical delux extravaganza!

As soon as Conga Dave gives up the underwear.

Then we're going on tour to promote "Post It Note Reminders and other Perverted Love Songs".

First stop ... Coffee. Deli. Jam.

Then ... who knows where the Post It Note tells us to stop?

No Such Thing

It's Friday and ... let's be honest ... everyone's excited about the weekend and nobody reads whatever it is I'm compelled to write.

I don't blame you.

Hell ... half the time I don't read what I write!

So here's what I'm thinking ...

It's like the guy who got fired from his job at the Orange Juice Factory ... he couldn't concentrate.

Or spotting a blind guy on a Nude Beach ... it's not hard.

Or making love in an elevator ... it's wrong on so many levels.

But I can think about things I want to think about without worrying anybody reads this stuff Fridays ...

Like, when Sarah's naked in the bathroom it's not just the shower that's turned on.

Why do they cotton swab a guy's arm before giving him a lethal injection?

Why isn't there mouse flavored Cat Food?

Why is the third hand on a watch called a second hand?

Why is it that Doctor's call what they do "practice"?

At our House these are the burning questions ...

Why does an alarm clock go off when it turns on ... or in my wife's case ... why doesn't an alarm clock go off when it's on?

If the Tybee Island Police Department is on their way to save someone ... and runs over somebody else going Bat shit speed down Butler Avenue ... do they stop to help them?

Or ... when an island cop asks, "Mind if I search your vehicle?" and you say, "Of course!" ... and the cop replies, "Of course I can or of course you mind?" ... and regardless of the answer you will be ticketed.

Or ... as our daughter asks, "Is there a spell to become a Mermaid that actually works?"

Or ... if I eat myself will I twice as big or completely disappear?

Which makes me wonder what's for dinner tonight?

Well, I hope this is helpful for whoever happens to read it on a Friday.

And remember kids ... there's no such thing as a stupid question.

Just ask anybody.

Except a Tybee Cop.

Walking Away

"Well," he says sarcastically, holding the financial documents in his hands, "why don't you just go get it now."

Across the conference room table the white hair old man who had come out of retirement to handle the books is shaking.

"I said go get them now!" the jet black hair Bank President bellows.

Fumbling to his feet, the book keeper knocks over his coffee, grabs napkins and does his best to soak the stains from the papers spread out before him.

"I SAID NOW!" the banker snaps and the old man scurries away looking frightened and beaten.

Alone in the room, the Banker giggles to himself and focuses his narrow eyes on me.

Sitting at the end of the table, he's to my left and Chip's, the old man, spilled coffee and drenched papers are on my right.

"What did you do that for?" I ask. "You scared him."

Leaning back in the posh leather chair, "I have a gift of making people afraid."

"Not much of a gift," I mutter.

"Listen," he snarls, "he should be prepared! That's why we're in trouble! People aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. My job's to make them."

I've never personally met Satan but am pretty certain the Banker has.

"There are better ways to get people to do things," I shrug.

"I am very successful the way I handle things," he says.

"No doubt," I say rising to clean up the spill.

"Sit down," he orders. "You didn't do that."

Wiping the table and dabbing the papers, I toss things in the trash and move Chip's stuff to a dry place on the table before resuming my seat.

The Conference Room is full of anger.

Chip returns with more papers and our meeting resumes though I'm not longer paying attention.

I'm remembering something Frederick Buechner,  my favorite author, wrote:

“Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.”

Standing, I grab my coffee cup as the Banker is in mid-sentence and make my way out of the room.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snaps.

"I need a break," I say continuing towards the door. "It's too emotional in here to think straight."

"Sit back down," he orders. "We're doing this now dammit!"

I keep walking.

There are certain things in life that are simply not worth walking back to and, for the most part, I've never stopped since.

Leaky Tents In the Rain

"You have sound and deep understanding of politics in Savannah," he muses while taking a sip from his beer. "Tybee? ... Not so much."

"I'll take that," I reply. "Tybee was home away from politics. I never wanted to get involved."

"A wise decision," he concludes. "Savannah politics is vicious stuff. On Tybee it's only during elections that people get mean."

I think that's true ... for the most part.

It's true too that I understand politics and very well know my way around the Halls and the processes of the City of Savannah, Chatham County Commission, Chamber of Commerce (Believe me! They Count!), Georgia General Assembly/Governor's Office/Departments of State Government and Congress/Departments of National Government.

I've never been to the White House but my wife has.

I did camp out with protesters in Lafayette Square across the street from the White House for several days!

Ronald Reagan was the resident across the street and I sat in one of a hundred or so white tents occupied by homeless people.

The tents were the brain child of Mitch Synder, America's first advocate for people without homes. Looking like a Hippy with a long droopy mustache, olive green Army shirt and faded jeans, Mitch always seemed stoned. He was hard to not like ... unless you were Ronald Reagan.

Mitch drove Reagan nuts.

The President believed in pulling yourself up by one's own bootstraps and Mitch visually demonstrated there are hundreds of thousands who don't have boot straps ... or boots.

When all was said and done, Mitch won the battle but lost the war.

Reagan capitulated allocating millions of dollars to house homeless people.

It didn't matter though. It takes more than a house to end homelessness though few knew it at the time.

Mitch hung himself in the housing that Reagan paid for.

Reagan liked spending money and spent more than any other President up until then, mostly growing Government.

Both men leave their political legacy ... Government's bigger and more obtrusive than ever before and we've never had as many homeless people as we currently do.

Which leads me back to not being involved politically on Tybee.

I'm not sure that's true.

It's just that I'm used to looking at Government from a leaky tent in the rain and I really believe you see it more as it really is this way.

Still No Room In the Inn

It's Christmas at the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia and Preston Blackwelder's delivering the sermon.

"Pep" is the Church member who pitch hits for Jesus when the Minister-of-Music or Preacher Johnson's not available because God needs them elsewhere.

The entire congregation loves it when this happens because "Pep" is a Hell-of-a-lot better than Orvis Crump or "Fireball Johnson" at leading the music AND preaching!

We're in the new Sanctuary, with Teal colored padded pews, tall stained glass windows that aren't mosaics or Biblical pictures, parents dressed in Sunday's best and us teenagers dying to be free loving Hippies sitting on the back rows.

"There's this story," Pep begins with his booming baritone voice. "It's about a boy named Harry. Nobody liked Harry! He was awkward ... fat ... face full of pimples ... his clothes didn't fit right ... and he had a ... peculiar aroma."

Pep smiles the entire time he says these things.

I have my hand on Marsha Gnann's leg on the next to the last row but ... it's Pep preaching so I'm listening too.

"It was time for the annual Church Christmas pageant," he booms from the Pulpit, "and there wasn't a part for Harry. Honestly, nobody wanted him to be in the play at all ... but he quietly sat there waiting to be assigned a part."

"It made everyone else mad. Why couldn't he just go away? He'll ruin the pageant, they whispered."

"Let him be the Innkeeper," someone suggested. "He only has to say "NO" when asked if there's any room in the Inn." 

"So that's what they did," Pep gravely explains, no longer smiling, looking down.

"So there they were ... Shepherds tending their flock ... tiny Angel's singing 'Silent Night, Holy Night' ... Joseph and Mary looking for a place to stay ... and they walk up to the Inn and knock on the door ... and pimply faced Harry, reeking of whatever, answers the door."

"Can we stay here?" Joseph asks.

"No," Harry says perfectly ... so Joseph grabs Mary and turns away ... and Harry watches as his lip quivers ... and as the Holy Couple make their way ... tears fill the Innkeeper's eyes ... and he wipes them fast ... along with the snot on his nose ... until he screams ... "WAIT! DON'T GO! YOU CAN HAVE MY BED! STAY HERE! I'LL SLEEP ON THE FLOOR!"

It was over 40 years ago this actually happened.

I've never forgotten ... can still feel it ... the dead come back to life today.

"A lot of people," Pep softly concludes, " believe Harry ruined the Christmas pageant that year ... but ... there are those ... who believe he saved it."

"What do you believe?" Pep ends and sits down in Preacher Johnson's throne of a chair.

Yesterday, Governors and other Believers issued orders as Christmas approaches that our Inns are full this year. Put your pregnant wife on your ass and haul her away. We don't want your kind. Savage Muslims!

So that's peace on earth ... for what it's worth.

"What do you believe?" Pep still asks all these years later.

Telling Stories

"Everyone has stories to tell," Lona says, "it's just that most people don't know how to tell them."

Nodding his head,  John adds, "Or when they do tell them most don't know how to make a point."

We're putting stuff away after Bar Church where I'd done a "So-So" job telling a great story, had a great point but isn't sure how well I'd made it and while the entire room was dead silent as I spoke ... I wish I could do it again.

It'll be better next time.

Sarah gets on to me when I tell stories she's already heard.

"You've already told that one," she'll say, or, "It's not the same as you told it before."

"Of course it's not," I tell myself.

"A story, if it's a good story, is tailored and contoured to the audience. It's never repeated exactly. It's fitted in. A different condition calls for a reshaping of the story that will address appropriately the new condition; you have to put the grease where the squeak is."

That's why there's Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

Had they not been trying to connect with their audience, there wouldn't be the four Gospels.

I learned that from the great Fred Craddock in his book "Preaching as Storytelling."

I also heard him tell his story several times and ... it was never quite the same.

It's like listening to a song ... if you want to hear it the same way every time, listen to the record ... but for the joys of live performance ... hear it LIVE ... it's never quite the same!

I have a tendency to like live music much better than recorded music.

I believe it's the same with good stories.

"The power of stories is that they are telling us that life adds up somehow, that life itself is like a story," says Frederick Buechner and I believe that with everything in me and our lives ... each and everyone ... is of tremendous significance.

If my story touches your story then ... magic happens somehow ... and the world's a little closer.

If you don't like my story ... that's alright ... I did my best to share it ... will try harder next time ... after all it's my life.

You try harder too ... but it's as much for me as it is for you ... and sometimes you have to do things that are just for you.

Because the thing about a story ... much like life ... is you keep telling it ... or living it ... until you get it right.

Firm Plans for Later

Just as I'm focused and ready to write, Cassidy the nine year old, meanders into the kitchen wrapped in her bed sheets, blond hair completely askew from her pillow, carrying three stuffed animals.

Dropping on the floor beside the table where I sit, she says, "I've been up since 7."

"You have not," I reply, knowing I'm not going to get things done the way I thought.

"I'm hungry," she coos.

Sunday is Cinnamon Roll day at our house so I turn on the oven and get them ready.

"I'm going to get in bed with Mommy," she says getting up.

"Your Mother's asleep!"

"I won't wake her," she explains as she opens the door and yells, "SHE'S AWAKE!"

As I check on the sticky buns in the oven, I hear her feet loudly run across the floor to her room then back again to retrieve her phone so she can watch Netflix.

Today's modern child cannot exist without a phone.

Climbing back in bed with a sleepy Sarah, I pull the rolls out and slather them in white frosting.

"I'll have 5," Cass tells me.

"You need to leave some for your sisters," I explain handing her three.

She eats five with no concern at all for her siblings.

Shrugging my shoulders, I know I'll be gone by the time they get up and won't have to deal with their reactions.

Now that Sarah's completely awake, Cass returns to the solitude of watching Netflix in her room.

I kiss Sarah Good Morning and, though her eyes are open, she's still pretty much asleep.

"It's time to go," I tell myself. "I'll have to do this later."

So the day begins with firm plans for later.

Being Afraid

Life ...

"It's such a fragile magic ... a puff of wind can break the spell ... and all the golden threads are frail as spider webs ..." (Jimmy Buffett).

One minute everything's perfect!

The sun shines, the moon glows, lovers and friends delight, food is exquisite, games are thrilling, it is safe and secure and life is good.

Then ...

Magic's murdered ... the life we believed in shatters ... our golden threads break and fall in the wind.

Suddenly we are afraid.

When it happens to someone else, we thank our lucky stars, good fortune or God.

It could have been us but ... it's not!

At least for the moment.

When it does happen to us ... we are physically or emotionally hurt, lose our livelihood, our loved ones, pieces of our lives ... the fear grows and we wonder what's next?

The sun stops shinning, the moon hides behind clouds, food is tasteless, games meaningless and we are exposed, insecure and life is bad ... if we still have life at all.

Life is a gift none of us asked for yet we all share.

You never know how long it's going to last, who's going to share it with you, whether it breaks or you lose it somehow.

The only things we're certain of is ... we have it for now ... and it's not going to stay this way.

So it's best to enjoy the Hell out of it while you've got it!

And enjoy the Hell out of who you share it with!

Because things change ... for the better or for the worse.

Celebrating the gift of life you have now ... and knowing changes are coming ... can make you less afraid.

And nothing steals more of life than being afraid.

Meat Loaf and Ketchup

Sarah taps my shoulder and nods her head across the table at Cassidy who has her fingers in the Meat Loaf.

"What cha' doing Cass?" Sarah asks.

"Picking out the onions," she replies, head and fingers intensely focused on the task at hand.

"Wait a minute," I interject. "You like onions on your hamburgers."

Rolling her eyes, Cass explains, "These are cooked onions. I do not like cooked onions."

"Oh," I sigh.

"Just do what I'm doing," Laurel suggests, eating a slice of Meat Loaf between two pieces of bread drenched in Ketchup. "It's just like a hamburger."

"Yuck," Cass says, now eating the pieces of onion less meat.

"Why can't you just eat the Meat Loaf like a normal person?" Maddie loudly demands pouring a small mountain of Ketchup on her slice.

Sarah's parents are dining with us and decide this isn't a conversation in which they wish to participate.

On the other hand, the home made au gratin potatoes are a huge hit ... once the girls put Ketchup on it.

All three decline the field peas cooked in butter, bacon drippings and salt water.

After dinner the girls rush to the kitchen for ice cream and Krispy Kreeme doughnuts.

I've learned ... and am learning ... a great deal about living from the girls.

They're each unique ... believing they are only children forced to live with others pretending to be sisters ... and relish in their distinctness!

They dress however they wish regardless of the occasion.

Food begins with Ketchup and ends with dessert ... though sometimes it's the other way around.

They alternate between being utterly self-absorbed in their own world or demanding that  they are the center of ours.

Each demands to be heard first and this is accomplished by interrupting the other as soon as someone says anything.

And each knows that when push comes to shove she has me wrapped.

"You're gonna cry when we leave," they tell me.

There's no point in denying it so I admit defeat, nod and say, "Yep." 

Why I Dress Like I Do

I'm scrubbing the stairs with bleach, water and Mr. Clean when it strikes me ... I'm in touch with my Feminine side ... Cinderalla.

The dogs and cat sit beside one another at the top of the stairs intensely staring at me.

Acoustic music is blasting from the computer, the windows are open, an Ocean breeze whips through the Palm Trees and the pungent aroma of the Marsh ... the smell of sex in the Tropics ... hangs in the air.

Dressed in black running shorts and a long sleeve UGA tee shirt, I take a moment to admire my figure.

I've dropped 25 pounds or so in the last month or so can see parts of my body I haven't seen in a while.

My Beer Belly no longer resembles a Keg but's now not-quite a six pack.

"Hmmm," a beer would be nice when I finish cleaning the steps.

The pale of water is filthy black so I take it outside, throw it behind the outdoor shower, turn on the hot water, lose the laundry and jump in.

"Oh yeah," I say out loud, "that beer."

Leaving the water on I stroll upstairs, pop a cold one and stroll back outside to the steaming shower.

A lady walks her down the street but she doesn't notice my mostly all over tan. There are a couple of spots the sun has trouble getting to but I don't worry about it too much.

Standing under the water, I take a swig of beer and look at the blue grey clouds moving quickly overhead.

Paul Thorn music wafts through the open windows and I sing along, "Oh I sin on Saturday, I repent on Sunday, then I tell myself I won't procrastinate on Monday ..."

It's cause for another swig of beer! I haven't procrastinated on Monday because I'd promised Sarah I'd wash the stairs and they're done!

She's going to be so proud!

Finishing the beer, turning off the shower, I stroll ... not streak ... down the deck to the porch ... upstairs past the dogs and cat who still stare at the stairs ... into our bedroom and my closet where I grab a fresh pair of black running shorts and another long sleeve UGA tee shirt.

Which makes me think about Cinderella again.

If she would have just attended the damn ball dressed as she normally did ... it would have saved her and everybody else a Hell of a lot trouble!

As good of a story as Cinderella is, I think it would be better had she shown up dressed in rags with an attitude, ready to kick some sister's ass, flip off the Bitch of a Step Mother and conquer a Prince.

"I really am Wonder Woman," Sarah tells me later in the day.

"I know," I instantly agree. "I think it's rubbing off on me too."