I am not one to spend too much time in the past and I don’t visit there very often. I never thought it did anyone much good and if you’re not too careful you can get stuck there. When you’re stuck in the past your life passes you by and opportunities that hit you in the face fall to the floor without ever being taken advantage of.
My past is mostly catalogued anyway in the books that I’ve written and more recently in the blogs that I post. Stories of marvelous and sometimes tragic things that I’ve witnessed or participated in are used to illustrate thoughts or feelings that I hope to convey.
Well Face Book has reconnected me with my past. Childhood friends, High School friends, college friends, Seminary friends, homeless friends, professional friends, and just friends all collide on the page everyday. It is a wonderful and miraculous thing to experience!
And it reminds me of stories long stored away. Yesterday my friend David from Seminary wrote about a blog that I’d written and reminded me that he was born by the sea too.
Then Seminary and water came together in my mind and I was reminded of the baptismal pool at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was once employed as a professional Christian. The large pool had a backdrop that was a painting of the River Jordan where Jesus was baptized. The water was painted as brown which is actually what the River Jordon looked like though the water in the pool was as blue and crystal clear as the Caribbean.
Anyway, there were all of these homeless people sleeping outside and I was in charge of this building called a sanctuary that had bars on the window to keep people out when a sanctuary is a place for people to go. I was in seminary at the time so I knew everything!
There were also all of these unused Sunday School rooms in the building because the only people who came to Church were five little old ladies who started attending before the bars had been installed on the windows.
So the ladies and I had a garage sale getting ride of all of the cute wooden tables and chairs and used the money to buy beds. Then we invited homeless people to live inside of the Sunday School rooms. Very Biblical stuff, huh?
After about two weeks you could tell homeless people were living in a church because the place stank. Most Churches do not have shower facilities.
BUT, we had a baptismal pool! I filled it up, passed out soap, and the dirty became clean!
It was by far the most popular part of the Church. I would wander to the baptismal pool and several homeless guys would be naked, lounging around, enjoying themselves. They took to buying candles to set a better ambiance than the brown water of the River Jordan. Many days my young son Jeremy, around four at the time, would be swimming around them having a good time.
So the Baptist at corporate headquarters in Atlanta would send me this form to fill out every month. How many people came to Sunday School? How many people came to Church? How many people got saved? How many people got baptized?
The Baptist in corporate headquarters believes that Jesus called us to count his sheep and not necessarily feed them.
As a professional Christian I was obligated to fill out the form and the answers were always the same. Five. Five. Zero. 487.
Later the Chapel was recognized for shattering the convention’s record of baptisms in one year!
Ah, good times.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Gone Fishing
Back when I was a professional Christian at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky I had the idea that we should close once a year and go on a retreat together. The idea came one day when I was looking at a bunch of homeless people who were tired from sleeping in the streets, begging for alms to buy alcohol, and standing in line to eat.
“You fellows need a vacation,” I said because if anybody needs a vacation it is the poor. The rest of us get them but poor people don’t.
Then I looked at the little old ladies who were the backbone of the place mostly living off Medicare. I would take them to the grocery store and watch them pinch pennies and buy chicken necks to make soup out of because it was the cheapest thing. I thought that they needed a break too.
And the poor students who attended the church because they were the radical fringe of the seminary spent more money on books than they did food. As a matter of fact God’s name was invoked in the Book Store more often than the seminary Chapel whenever we saw the prices of the book. After the short prayer of God’s name we would usually add the word “Dammit!”
I’ve always been good at raising money and finding resources where a lot of people wouldn’t think of looking, even at 25 years of age. So I found a $1000 or so somewhere, booked a band camp out in the countryside, bought a ton of food to cook and about 70 of us went on a retreat from our lives.
We would leave on a Friday and return on Sunday evening so the sanctuary was closed for services that weekend. Before we left I would make a sign that read “Gone Fishing” and put it on the front door.
I crack myself up! This was a great line invoking Jesus admonition that we should be fishers of men and women though it could also mean “To hell with it! We’re outta here for a while.”
So once a year for the eight years that I was there we repeated the practice. I got better at raising money and finding resources every year so the places and the food got better. Towards the end we had almost 200 people attending. “Gone Fishing Sunday” was more popular than the Christmas or Easter service combined!
We would all show up with guitars, Bibles and footballs. Homeless men would show up with bottles of vodka and normally by Saturday evening we were all having a rip roaring time.
And we had a rule. “What happens on retreat stays on retreat” because a lot of stuff normally happened on retreat.
The following Sunday was “Confession Sunday” and I remember that it was the longest service that we had every year.
Ila Massey, one of the radical fringe seminary students gave me a gift at one of the retreats. It was a painting of sand dunes covered with golden sea oats marking the fall of the year (the retreat was always in October). In front of it were lyrics from a Jimmy Buffet song:
Now in my line of work
I seem to see a lot more than most
Write ‘em down, pass ‘em around
It’s the Gospel from the Coast.
Reflections not just replays,
Taking time to escape the maze;
looking for better days.
It is one of my most prized possessions. And now for the first time since those days, I find myself on retreat from the life that I have lived. It is long pass due and for the life of me I cannot figure out why I stopped the wonderful practice of retreats except that the major prophet John Lennon is right: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
Retreats are for getting your life back.
So I’ve gone fishing again for the first time in decades.
“You fellows need a vacation,” I said because if anybody needs a vacation it is the poor. The rest of us get them but poor people don’t.
Then I looked at the little old ladies who were the backbone of the place mostly living off Medicare. I would take them to the grocery store and watch them pinch pennies and buy chicken necks to make soup out of because it was the cheapest thing. I thought that they needed a break too.
And the poor students who attended the church because they were the radical fringe of the seminary spent more money on books than they did food. As a matter of fact God’s name was invoked in the Book Store more often than the seminary Chapel whenever we saw the prices of the book. After the short prayer of God’s name we would usually add the word “Dammit!”
I’ve always been good at raising money and finding resources where a lot of people wouldn’t think of looking, even at 25 years of age. So I found a $1000 or so somewhere, booked a band camp out in the countryside, bought a ton of food to cook and about 70 of us went on a retreat from our lives.
We would leave on a Friday and return on Sunday evening so the sanctuary was closed for services that weekend. Before we left I would make a sign that read “Gone Fishing” and put it on the front door.
I crack myself up! This was a great line invoking Jesus admonition that we should be fishers of men and women though it could also mean “To hell with it! We’re outta here for a while.”
So once a year for the eight years that I was there we repeated the practice. I got better at raising money and finding resources every year so the places and the food got better. Towards the end we had almost 200 people attending. “Gone Fishing Sunday” was more popular than the Christmas or Easter service combined!
We would all show up with guitars, Bibles and footballs. Homeless men would show up with bottles of vodka and normally by Saturday evening we were all having a rip roaring time.
And we had a rule. “What happens on retreat stays on retreat” because a lot of stuff normally happened on retreat.
The following Sunday was “Confession Sunday” and I remember that it was the longest service that we had every year.
Ila Massey, one of the radical fringe seminary students gave me a gift at one of the retreats. It was a painting of sand dunes covered with golden sea oats marking the fall of the year (the retreat was always in October). In front of it were lyrics from a Jimmy Buffet song:
Now in my line of work
I seem to see a lot more than most
Write ‘em down, pass ‘em around
It’s the Gospel from the Coast.
Reflections not just replays,
Taking time to escape the maze;
looking for better days.
It is one of my most prized possessions. And now for the first time since those days, I find myself on retreat from the life that I have lived. It is long pass due and for the life of me I cannot figure out why I stopped the wonderful practice of retreats except that the major prophet John Lennon is right: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
Retreats are for getting your life back.
So I’ve gone fishing again for the first time in decades.
Monday, September 13, 2010
When the Coast is Clearl
Purple, red and white clouds that had been hugging the eastern shore finally blew out to sea this morning and a magnificent sun high in the sky. The waves were softly kissing the sand and a breeze blew sand from the north end of the island to the south end. Everything was so fresh and clear that I could easily see the details of Hilton Head just across the mouth of the Savannah River. Massive Cargo Ships were lined up for miles and will make their way up the river throughout the day to the Ports.
The beach is lightly sprinkled with people, most walking in the surf, holding hands, appreciating the beauty of just how beautiful it all is.
The coast is clear.
Once I sent postcards from St. Martin to a lot of people including many at work. Aside from the name and address I wrote, “I’ll be back when the coast is clear.”
I stole it from a Jimmy Buffet song that I love, “I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear.”
Some people who received the cards thought that I was talking about the weather and that I must be stuck in bad storms which prevented me from returning until things cleared up.
Others thought that there was so much bad stuff going on that I had fled to St. Martin to get away from that I wasn’t going to return until things got better. You could take it either way.
At this point in my life I can take it both ways. The coast is definitely clear outside of my window and I think a big part of this day is going to include me in it. Feet in the surf, fingers dragging through the sand, cooler by my side.
Nor am I involved in that other stuff taking place on the mainland. Politicians are making decisions (mostly bad ones). Business men are making deals. Clergy are recovering from Sunday. Teachers are teaching or hiding from their students. The poor stand in line. That was my life for three decades but I am clear of it right now.
Last night I strolled over to Shirley’s sad little holy dock because she has taken pity on me. Sundays have always been special to me but over the past few years they lost their luster and have become difficult to endure. First Union Mission’s heavy agenda started showing up and kidnapping the day as I tried to manage so much diverse activity. I would sit and stare already consumed with what Monday would bring.
Then the person that I used to share Sundays with left and it became a reminder of lost. Love is something you fall into. Sometimes you have to make yourself get back up. Sundays became get-up day.
I shared this with Shirley several weeks ago and, dear friend that she is she’s made certain that I am preoccupied on Sunday evenings. Last night we just sat on the dock listening to the ticks and pops of mussels opening and closing. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. Stars were high and bright. We were talking about a lot of things as good friends do but we kept stopping to admire how beautiful everything is.
So I’ve finally come down to talk to me. I am spending most of my time doing that right now. There are others who dip in and out of the discussion but for the most part it is me facing me. It’s hard stuff to do.
But I’ll be back soon. I’ve got too much left to give so I’ll be back.
When the Coast is Clear.
The beach is lightly sprinkled with people, most walking in the surf, holding hands, appreciating the beauty of just how beautiful it all is.
The coast is clear.
Once I sent postcards from St. Martin to a lot of people including many at work. Aside from the name and address I wrote, “I’ll be back when the coast is clear.”
I stole it from a Jimmy Buffet song that I love, “I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear.”
Some people who received the cards thought that I was talking about the weather and that I must be stuck in bad storms which prevented me from returning until things cleared up.
Others thought that there was so much bad stuff going on that I had fled to St. Martin to get away from that I wasn’t going to return until things got better. You could take it either way.
At this point in my life I can take it both ways. The coast is definitely clear outside of my window and I think a big part of this day is going to include me in it. Feet in the surf, fingers dragging through the sand, cooler by my side.
Nor am I involved in that other stuff taking place on the mainland. Politicians are making decisions (mostly bad ones). Business men are making deals. Clergy are recovering from Sunday. Teachers are teaching or hiding from their students. The poor stand in line. That was my life for three decades but I am clear of it right now.
Last night I strolled over to Shirley’s sad little holy dock because she has taken pity on me. Sundays have always been special to me but over the past few years they lost their luster and have become difficult to endure. First Union Mission’s heavy agenda started showing up and kidnapping the day as I tried to manage so much diverse activity. I would sit and stare already consumed with what Monday would bring.
Then the person that I used to share Sundays with left and it became a reminder of lost. Love is something you fall into. Sometimes you have to make yourself get back up. Sundays became get-up day.
I shared this with Shirley several weeks ago and, dear friend that she is she’s made certain that I am preoccupied on Sunday evenings. Last night we just sat on the dock listening to the ticks and pops of mussels opening and closing. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. Stars were high and bright. We were talking about a lot of things as good friends do but we kept stopping to admire how beautiful everything is.
So I’ve finally come down to talk to me. I am spending most of my time doing that right now. There are others who dip in and out of the discussion but for the most part it is me facing me. It’s hard stuff to do.
But I’ll be back soon. I’ve got too much left to give so I’ll be back.
When the Coast is Clear.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Remember (Charles)
On September 11, 2001 I was in my office when someone told me about the plane crashing into the World Trade Center. I remember getting up and walking back to the dining room where a television hung on the wall for homeless men to watch after dinner.
Several were watching when I entered the room including Charles, my six-foot-two, African-American, former bank robber, mentally ill, “adopted” son. I stood and watched the smoldering hole in the building.
Then the second plane hit and when it did, Charles grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. He was shaking with fear. Of course I tensed in disbelief when the plane crashed into the building and when Charles grabbed me I almost came out of my skin.
Turning from the television I looked at him and he was bent over as though he was trying to hide behind me. He shook and his eyes were full of fear. His hand remained gripped on my shoulder.
Charles had been with us for a few years at this time and was as stable as he had ever been. He cleaned our building, ate Oreo cookies like a kid, and mostly talked to himself. He would write letters to the President which meant that I got regular visits from Bill at the F.B.I. Except for when he was talking to himself --- laughing or cussing loudly --- Charles never showed much emotion.
This was the first time that I had ever seen him frightened.
“Sir,” he said in his deep voice as I stared at him and put my arm around him, “do you think that they will come for us?”
I couldn’t believe how scared he was but who knows how his mentally ill mind was taking it in. I glanced back at the television in disbelief at what I was seeing. Not knowing who or why. I made myself think about him.
“No Charles. We’re just a homeless shelter. No one is coming after us,” I reassured him.
“Why not?” He shot back as his head was almost on his knees as he stood behind me still holding on to my arm and shaking, “You get us government money.”
My head shook in another kind of disbelief. How does one answer something like that? I had no words for him. So I hugged him tight and told them that I would take care of him.
Whenever September 11 comes around I cannot help but remember this. Our nation changed that day. Fundamentalism of any kind is a cruel and evil thing be it Muslim or Christian or any other brand. Lives were lost because people’s religious and political views are as perverted as Charles’ ability to think rationally.
When all is said and done, it is about how we treat one another at the individual level. What happened between Charles and me that day was as significant as anything else happening that day. People hugged one another and cried as we witnessed tragedy beyond comprehension.
So it is right to remember what our country lost that horrible day. But it is also right to remember that it reminded us how much we care for one another. And in the end we will be there for each other.
Regardless.
Several were watching when I entered the room including Charles, my six-foot-two, African-American, former bank robber, mentally ill, “adopted” son. I stood and watched the smoldering hole in the building.
Then the second plane hit and when it did, Charles grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. He was shaking with fear. Of course I tensed in disbelief when the plane crashed into the building and when Charles grabbed me I almost came out of my skin.
Turning from the television I looked at him and he was bent over as though he was trying to hide behind me. He shook and his eyes were full of fear. His hand remained gripped on my shoulder.
Charles had been with us for a few years at this time and was as stable as he had ever been. He cleaned our building, ate Oreo cookies like a kid, and mostly talked to himself. He would write letters to the President which meant that I got regular visits from Bill at the F.B.I. Except for when he was talking to himself --- laughing or cussing loudly --- Charles never showed much emotion.
This was the first time that I had ever seen him frightened.
“Sir,” he said in his deep voice as I stared at him and put my arm around him, “do you think that they will come for us?”
I couldn’t believe how scared he was but who knows how his mentally ill mind was taking it in. I glanced back at the television in disbelief at what I was seeing. Not knowing who or why. I made myself think about him.
“No Charles. We’re just a homeless shelter. No one is coming after us,” I reassured him.
“Why not?” He shot back as his head was almost on his knees as he stood behind me still holding on to my arm and shaking, “You get us government money.”
My head shook in another kind of disbelief. How does one answer something like that? I had no words for him. So I hugged him tight and told them that I would take care of him.
Whenever September 11 comes around I cannot help but remember this. Our nation changed that day. Fundamentalism of any kind is a cruel and evil thing be it Muslim or Christian or any other brand. Lives were lost because people’s religious and political views are as perverted as Charles’ ability to think rationally.
When all is said and done, it is about how we treat one another at the individual level. What happened between Charles and me that day was as significant as anything else happening that day. People hugged one another and cried as we witnessed tragedy beyond comprehension.
So it is right to remember what our country lost that horrible day. But it is also right to remember that it reminded us how much we care for one another. And in the end we will be there for each other.
Regardless.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Smiling Out Loud
Most people just get along doing the things that they’re supposed to do and life remains pretty constant. There are others of us though who blow up our lives or sometimes have our lives blow up on us.
At 57 years of age my friend Trolley Joe decided to blow his up. He had a successful career, marriage and kids. Then he went through a divorce and lived alone for a couple of years before meeting the love of his life, Barbara. Though madly in love, something inside of him was calling him away. She said if you got to go then go, which is about as mighty expression of love as there is.
So he called a friend who lived on a house boat in Key West and asked if there was enough room for him to crash for a while. The invitation was made and Joe made his way to the island. He slept in a tiny compartment but it had a view of the Gulf of Mexico and all of the tension and frustrations of his life began to disappear.
In a short period of time, he got a job driving the Conch Train, the tourist tour of Key West. He proudly called Barbara to inform her of his good fortune. “Looks like I’m gonna be staying awhile,” he explained. “I have a job making $6.50 an hour!”
Of course Barbara did what most wives who love their husband would do and quit her job as a nurse to move to Key West. She also got a job working for the Conch Train. They found their own place and for two years became one with the island that succeeded from the Union during the 1970s!
It was an idyllic life but one day Barbara told Joe that she wanted to be nearer to their children and by then he had healed from the scars of the past. After a bit of discussion he found that he could “transfer” to Savannah and work for the Trolley tours there. They found a condo on Wilmington Island to be near the ocean and Joe drives the streets of Savannah Wednesday through Saturday.
Sundays through Tuesday he is one of the original members of the Bored, a collection of friends that congregate every midday to toast life on Tybee Island. Thanks to O Johnny, we have hats and tee shirts that have “Official Tybidiot” on it ($25 if anyone would like to order one; plus shipping and handling). I further understand that Joe, Barbara and their daughter have “Certificates of Authenticity” as official Bored members.
The point of all of this is that I’ve wanted to do it for years. I begged for a Sabbatical several years back but didn’t get it. So I fall into the category of life blowing up on me rather than me blowing up my life to get to where I want and need to be.
It hurts like hell to do it this way but I’ve never been know for taking on easy tasks always preferring the hardest way instead. I mean I made a career out of homelessness and AIDS.
In the stages of loss you reach a point called “Emptying” and I think that I’ve finally gotten there. This morning Goddess and I meandered along the Back River looking at the High Tides covering the marsh grass. There was no breeze and the orange sun danced on the water. My I-pod played in my ears.
It always seemed like a good idea
Buy a little house boat free and clear
Living on Shrimp and Navigator beer
Every day goes by without a cloud
And every time you see him
He’s smiling out loud.
Trolley Joe smiles a lot. And this morning I found myself smiling out loud too.
At 57 years of age my friend Trolley Joe decided to blow his up. He had a successful career, marriage and kids. Then he went through a divorce and lived alone for a couple of years before meeting the love of his life, Barbara. Though madly in love, something inside of him was calling him away. She said if you got to go then go, which is about as mighty expression of love as there is.
So he called a friend who lived on a house boat in Key West and asked if there was enough room for him to crash for a while. The invitation was made and Joe made his way to the island. He slept in a tiny compartment but it had a view of the Gulf of Mexico and all of the tension and frustrations of his life began to disappear.
In a short period of time, he got a job driving the Conch Train, the tourist tour of Key West. He proudly called Barbara to inform her of his good fortune. “Looks like I’m gonna be staying awhile,” he explained. “I have a job making $6.50 an hour!”
Of course Barbara did what most wives who love their husband would do and quit her job as a nurse to move to Key West. She also got a job working for the Conch Train. They found their own place and for two years became one with the island that succeeded from the Union during the 1970s!
It was an idyllic life but one day Barbara told Joe that she wanted to be nearer to their children and by then he had healed from the scars of the past. After a bit of discussion he found that he could “transfer” to Savannah and work for the Trolley tours there. They found a condo on Wilmington Island to be near the ocean and Joe drives the streets of Savannah Wednesday through Saturday.
Sundays through Tuesday he is one of the original members of the Bored, a collection of friends that congregate every midday to toast life on Tybee Island. Thanks to O Johnny, we have hats and tee shirts that have “Official Tybidiot” on it ($25 if anyone would like to order one; plus shipping and handling). I further understand that Joe, Barbara and their daughter have “Certificates of Authenticity” as official Bored members.
The point of all of this is that I’ve wanted to do it for years. I begged for a Sabbatical several years back but didn’t get it. So I fall into the category of life blowing up on me rather than me blowing up my life to get to where I want and need to be.
It hurts like hell to do it this way but I’ve never been know for taking on easy tasks always preferring the hardest way instead. I mean I made a career out of homelessness and AIDS.
In the stages of loss you reach a point called “Emptying” and I think that I’ve finally gotten there. This morning Goddess and I meandered along the Back River looking at the High Tides covering the marsh grass. There was no breeze and the orange sun danced on the water. My I-pod played in my ears.
It always seemed like a good idea
Buy a little house boat free and clear
Living on Shrimp and Navigator beer
Every day goes by without a cloud
And every time you see him
He’s smiling out loud.
Trolley Joe smiles a lot. And this morning I found myself smiling out loud too.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Public Displays of Affection (PDA's)
I was having lunch with Ben Barnes, 91 years of age with a mind that is as good as ever. And his mind was good, as President of First Bank of Atlanta then was associated with the Bank of London, then in his retirement he started the Wachovia Bank in Savannah. He served 12 years as a member of the Union Mission Board and we are very close.
Thin white hair, a long winkled face with glasses resting on top of a narrow nose he is dressed causal which is rare for him. He even has tennis shoes on. I’m in a tee shirt, blue jeans and flip flops. We’ve always been “Mutt and Jeff” as he refers to us.
I’ve had the incredible good fortune to have had an incredible string of Board Chairmen, virtually all who have become good friends. Jerry Robinson, Carol Beeson (Ben’s daughter), Archie Davis, Philip Solomons, Jr., Curtis Lewis III, Don Kole, Herb McKenzie and …Ben.
Ben is actually mentor to several of the names above. He is a legend in the banking world and walking the streets of Atlanta with him is a history lesson. He knows how every building came about and there is a story behind each and every one. His old office is in 2 Peachtree Street in Atlanta which is now a 40 story government complex. Ben built it.
We were at Johnny Harris which is a Savannah landmark of a restaurant known for its bar-b-que and seafood. In its day, it where Savannah decked out to dance under the inside stars. Today it is used for political meetings and “old Savannah” families. It remains a place to be seen.
We had not seen one another since May and he wanted to know everything that had taken place in my life. Ben’s a good listener and so he did for half-an-hour as I described professional and personal changes that have occurred. He would interrupt with an occasional thoughtful question that pushed my answers to deeper levels.
Then he sat back and stared into space for a second before exploding the words out of his mouth at me with his thoughts.
“You’re a leader,” he began, “so whatever it is that you do you be sure to be out in front cause that’s where you’re most comfortable.”
Ben doesn’t beat around the bushes.
“And people are followers because they follow. There are too few leaders in this world and dammit you are one. And stop taking your time about it! The world needs you. And the world is bigger than Chatham County and your beloved Tybee! And the longer you beat around the bush the sooner people forget who you are! And people forget quickly because they are followers!”
Then he pushes back, wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin, smiles and concludes, “Of course that’s just my opinion which nobody asked for.”
How does someone respond to all of that?
“Um-huh,” I answer.
He laughs and it is a good one. I reach my hand across the table and touch the top of his and he grabs mine as his eyes grow moist. And I know that he loves me as he knows I do him.
It is good to be loved.
“One last thing,” he says pulling his hand back from the brief display of public affection (or PDA as Keller Deal calls it). Ben is the epitome of proper and dignity. It is rare for him to display emotion like this whereas I wear my emotions on both shoulders.
“We’re not going to let this much time pass anymore without talking and getting together! You understand that?”
And I look at this 91 year old man whose days are numbered understanding that he is more concerned about me than whatever amount of time he has left. And I am humbled by it and thankful beyond words.
We walk outside and he sees my convertible with the top down and smiles.
“Go pick up some chicks,” I hear him say as he laughs and gets in his car.
Thin white hair, a long winkled face with glasses resting on top of a narrow nose he is dressed causal which is rare for him. He even has tennis shoes on. I’m in a tee shirt, blue jeans and flip flops. We’ve always been “Mutt and Jeff” as he refers to us.
I’ve had the incredible good fortune to have had an incredible string of Board Chairmen, virtually all who have become good friends. Jerry Robinson, Carol Beeson (Ben’s daughter), Archie Davis, Philip Solomons, Jr., Curtis Lewis III, Don Kole, Herb McKenzie and …Ben.
Ben is actually mentor to several of the names above. He is a legend in the banking world and walking the streets of Atlanta with him is a history lesson. He knows how every building came about and there is a story behind each and every one. His old office is in 2 Peachtree Street in Atlanta which is now a 40 story government complex. Ben built it.
We were at Johnny Harris which is a Savannah landmark of a restaurant known for its bar-b-que and seafood. In its day, it where Savannah decked out to dance under the inside stars. Today it is used for political meetings and “old Savannah” families. It remains a place to be seen.
We had not seen one another since May and he wanted to know everything that had taken place in my life. Ben’s a good listener and so he did for half-an-hour as I described professional and personal changes that have occurred. He would interrupt with an occasional thoughtful question that pushed my answers to deeper levels.
Then he sat back and stared into space for a second before exploding the words out of his mouth at me with his thoughts.
“You’re a leader,” he began, “so whatever it is that you do you be sure to be out in front cause that’s where you’re most comfortable.”
Ben doesn’t beat around the bushes.
“And people are followers because they follow. There are too few leaders in this world and dammit you are one. And stop taking your time about it! The world needs you. And the world is bigger than Chatham County and your beloved Tybee! And the longer you beat around the bush the sooner people forget who you are! And people forget quickly because they are followers!”
Then he pushes back, wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin, smiles and concludes, “Of course that’s just my opinion which nobody asked for.”
How does someone respond to all of that?
“Um-huh,” I answer.
He laughs and it is a good one. I reach my hand across the table and touch the top of his and he grabs mine as his eyes grow moist. And I know that he loves me as he knows I do him.
It is good to be loved.
“One last thing,” he says pulling his hand back from the brief display of public affection (or PDA as Keller Deal calls it). Ben is the epitome of proper and dignity. It is rare for him to display emotion like this whereas I wear my emotions on both shoulders.
“We’re not going to let this much time pass anymore without talking and getting together! You understand that?”
And I look at this 91 year old man whose days are numbered understanding that he is more concerned about me than whatever amount of time he has left. And I am humbled by it and thankful beyond words.
We walk outside and he sees my convertible with the top down and smiles.
“Go pick up some chicks,” I hear him say as he laughs and gets in his car.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday Drives
When I was a kid, we would do what a lot of Southern families did during those days. Church came first (Pastor Johnson always went past 12:00), followed by a big lunch either at home or at Morrison’s Restaurant where we waited in line with all of the other Christians, and then we would often take a Sunday drive.
These drives could be to Tybee Island, to other neighborhoods to see how other people lived or to the Country to see cows or horses or pigs. It was Mom, Dad, David and me. I suppose Angi wasn’t born yet or my folks had put her in the trunk because she cried all of the time. Either way, I don’t remember her on Sunday drives.
The world has changed since then. A lot!
On Face Book I’ve made a lot of new friends whom I haven’t actually met yet. One is Will Simmons who lives in Atlanta and is a graduate of Georgia Tech. He is the grandfather of Sam who is my daughter Chelsea’s boyfriend (Yes they are a mixed relationship. He goes to Tech and Chelsea is at the University of Georgia).
Regardless, Will made a friend request which I gladly accepted and we have been communicating back and forth for a while now. Will reads my daily writings and he decided that he wanted to visit to see for himself the places that I describe every day.
So he goes to Bing’s Bird Eye View on his computer, types in my address, and there are satellite images of my house. He looks at it from the street then scrolls around the side. He sees the carport and the hanging plants and the outdoor shower where I am baptized most days. He goes into the back yard and sees my beloved back deck.
The he travels down the street to the marsh and traces the walk that I take daily with Goddess. He finds Shirley’s sad little holy dock.
He messages me to tell me these things and I am blown away!
Then I think about Deedra, Mitch, Mark and Gyni who I went to college with and how Face Book led to a reunion at my house. We have talked together every day for more than a month now. It is though thirty years of not seeing or talking to one another never happened.
Even Guy, the person to blame for me going to seminary and becoming a professional Christian, is now on and talking to us.
One of the blessings of being at Union Mission all of those years were the wonderful people from across the country that I got to know when I visited them or they visited us. We are now in a constant dialogue with one another.
Then there are the communications that I have with those I see with some regularity. Johnny O posts pictures for me to see though he is only a few blocks away. I let Conner know of all of the new and creative things that he can accomplish with a nail gun. Shirley lives around the corner but we Face Book more than we talk.
Even when Keller Deal is mad with me and not communicating she chooses to use Face Book to make her point and the silence can be deafening.
Then are daily private conversations that fly back and forth offering or receiving advice and counsel, love and encouragement, or to make plans.
And on Sunday’s, I have more time to take a drive on the World Wide Web to see what is going on in the lives of people I love and care for. It seems that many of them do too. And these Sunday drives are just as special today as they were when I was a kid.
These drives could be to Tybee Island, to other neighborhoods to see how other people lived or to the Country to see cows or horses or pigs. It was Mom, Dad, David and me. I suppose Angi wasn’t born yet or my folks had put her in the trunk because she cried all of the time. Either way, I don’t remember her on Sunday drives.
The world has changed since then. A lot!
On Face Book I’ve made a lot of new friends whom I haven’t actually met yet. One is Will Simmons who lives in Atlanta and is a graduate of Georgia Tech. He is the grandfather of Sam who is my daughter Chelsea’s boyfriend (Yes they are a mixed relationship. He goes to Tech and Chelsea is at the University of Georgia).
Regardless, Will made a friend request which I gladly accepted and we have been communicating back and forth for a while now. Will reads my daily writings and he decided that he wanted to visit to see for himself the places that I describe every day.
So he goes to Bing’s Bird Eye View on his computer, types in my address, and there are satellite images of my house. He looks at it from the street then scrolls around the side. He sees the carport and the hanging plants and the outdoor shower where I am baptized most days. He goes into the back yard and sees my beloved back deck.
The he travels down the street to the marsh and traces the walk that I take daily with Goddess. He finds Shirley’s sad little holy dock.
He messages me to tell me these things and I am blown away!
Then I think about Deedra, Mitch, Mark and Gyni who I went to college with and how Face Book led to a reunion at my house. We have talked together every day for more than a month now. It is though thirty years of not seeing or talking to one another never happened.
Even Guy, the person to blame for me going to seminary and becoming a professional Christian, is now on and talking to us.
One of the blessings of being at Union Mission all of those years were the wonderful people from across the country that I got to know when I visited them or they visited us. We are now in a constant dialogue with one another.
Then there are the communications that I have with those I see with some regularity. Johnny O posts pictures for me to see though he is only a few blocks away. I let Conner know of all of the new and creative things that he can accomplish with a nail gun. Shirley lives around the corner but we Face Book more than we talk.
Even when Keller Deal is mad with me and not communicating she chooses to use Face Book to make her point and the silence can be deafening.
Then are daily private conversations that fly back and forth offering or receiving advice and counsel, love and encouragement, or to make plans.
And on Sunday’s, I have more time to take a drive on the World Wide Web to see what is going on in the lives of people I love and care for. It seems that many of them do too. And these Sunday drives are just as special today as they were when I was a kid.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
When Bicycles Get Drunk
On Tybee Island we use bicycles a lot. The island isn’t all that big and the traffic this time of year is horrible. The parking lots are full so even with the Tybee sticker on our windshield that allows us to park for free we end up just riding around looking for some place to use it so most of us just use our bikes.
Most of us have regular bicycles that you peddle. Not Johnny O. He has one that has an engine and he doesn’t have to peddle. Johnny O is not a big believer in exercise.
Once, my friend Conner told me a story that relates. The company that he works for held a meeting that everyone had to attend. In an effort to improve the health care of the employees the folks in the corporate office wanted them to exercise. So they gave a speech about it and passed out odometers.
“We want everyone to walk and run. The odometers will allow you to keep up with your distance. Each week, everyone will report their distance and each month those who’ve done the most will be given cash awards.”
It was a great idea.
Typical Conner decided to do it his way. Every day after work, he grabbed his odometer and a rubber band and went to the bar. After ordering a Coors Light, he used the rubber band to attach the odometer to the beer. Every time he picked it up to take a drink it registered the distance. He did this throughout the night. Every night!
At the end of the month Conner was awarded a first prize cash award which he used, of course, to buy more Coors Light.
It’s hard not to love Conner.
But I digress (though Conner does fit in really well on Tybee).
Recently at the daily Bored Meeting, so called because we have been accused of being Boring, O Johnny showed up and his arms were all scratched, bruised and bloody. (Just so everyone knows, O Johnny is different from Johnny O. O Johnny actually works. For the federal government no less! And he peddles his own bicycle.)
“What happened to you?” several of us asked at the same time when he peddled up to join us.
‘This is what happens when bicycles get drunk,” he explained.
Everyone nodded their heads because no further explanation. It seems that everyone has a bicycle that drinks.
Tonight at the city council meeting a lot of locals are going to show up to express their support of the Tybee Island Police Department, all of whom were fired or placed on administrative leave recently for using Tassers on people.
I’m not going. I do not believe that Johnny O is either. Or O Johnny. Roma is going but she is old.
The reason we’re not is because of one of the numerous other controversial issues surrounding the Tybee Island Police Department. Last summer they began ticketing people for riding around on drunken bicycles. Talk about blaming the victim!
OK, I gotta go and hose down my bike with cold water. It’s almost time for the Bored meeting and it didn’t come home until like 2:00 last night.
It woke me up slamming into the screen door when it came in to park itself after I’d fallen asleep studying my Sunday School lesson.
Most of us have regular bicycles that you peddle. Not Johnny O. He has one that has an engine and he doesn’t have to peddle. Johnny O is not a big believer in exercise.
Once, my friend Conner told me a story that relates. The company that he works for held a meeting that everyone had to attend. In an effort to improve the health care of the employees the folks in the corporate office wanted them to exercise. So they gave a speech about it and passed out odometers.
“We want everyone to walk and run. The odometers will allow you to keep up with your distance. Each week, everyone will report their distance and each month those who’ve done the most will be given cash awards.”
It was a great idea.
Typical Conner decided to do it his way. Every day after work, he grabbed his odometer and a rubber band and went to the bar. After ordering a Coors Light, he used the rubber band to attach the odometer to the beer. Every time he picked it up to take a drink it registered the distance. He did this throughout the night. Every night!
At the end of the month Conner was awarded a first prize cash award which he used, of course, to buy more Coors Light.
It’s hard not to love Conner.
But I digress (though Conner does fit in really well on Tybee).
Recently at the daily Bored Meeting, so called because we have been accused of being Boring, O Johnny showed up and his arms were all scratched, bruised and bloody. (Just so everyone knows, O Johnny is different from Johnny O. O Johnny actually works. For the federal government no less! And he peddles his own bicycle.)
“What happened to you?” several of us asked at the same time when he peddled up to join us.
‘This is what happens when bicycles get drunk,” he explained.
Everyone nodded their heads because no further explanation. It seems that everyone has a bicycle that drinks.
Tonight at the city council meeting a lot of locals are going to show up to express their support of the Tybee Island Police Department, all of whom were fired or placed on administrative leave recently for using Tassers on people.
I’m not going. I do not believe that Johnny O is either. Or O Johnny. Roma is going but she is old.
The reason we’re not is because of one of the numerous other controversial issues surrounding the Tybee Island Police Department. Last summer they began ticketing people for riding around on drunken bicycles. Talk about blaming the victim!
OK, I gotta go and hose down my bike with cold water. It’s almost time for the Bored meeting and it didn’t come home until like 2:00 last night.
It woke me up slamming into the screen door when it came in to park itself after I’d fallen asleep studying my Sunday School lesson.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Global Love or Individual Love
So, I go to Chicago, hang around brilliant people, come home with a brilliant idea, work the emails and the cell phone, checking it out and setting it up. It is going to change the world. We all know it and spent today reaffirming it. We know. World changing stuff but at 8:45 p.m....I am home and alone.
Goddess has gotten a lot of love but she is loved out.
It seems that a lot of people are that way. I guess that love isn't everything that it used to be.
I don't know.
I've spent a career doing global love and I did it very well. I've got a lot of awards to show for it, but the problem with awards is that after a while you don't know what to do with them. Some are in the closet. Most are in storage at my Mom's house. Sooner or later she'll want me to come and get them and I don't know what to do with them. I have no more wall space.
When Mom retired, she had broken like every glass barrier that a woman in the south could break. So she had a lot of awards too. My Dad took care of it for her. He sold them all to a re-cycle awards place. She was furious, but didn't have to worry about what to do with all of those plaques and things.
Knowing Dad, he kept the money.
Anyway, I am an award winning global lover. At the individual level, I don't seem to be all that much.
Let me rephrase that. I am a GREAT lover. But things haven't worked out like I thought.
I wouldn't trade my experiences or the relationships that I've had. Sometimes people come in your life at the right time and the right things happen but it doesn't last beyond what it was supposed to. At least that is how I choose to look at it.
The passion, depth and intensity were all there in the relationships that I've had. In the beginning, love is the "suddenly compact universe of skin and teeth and hair" to quote Bruce Cockburn. They grew beyond that of course and deep abiding friendship came. And it was good. But it ended just like life one day ends.
It can be boring being alone sometime. Television is boring. I finished the book that I was reading and don't feel motivated to start a new one. Maybe I'm just spent from going and coming to Chicago in 34 hours.
So I grab my I-pod and a glass and go to my beloved back deck to talk to my friends the stars. Goddess decides to join me. A light summer breeze is blowing and I prop my feet on the railing.
Of course every song that plays on my shuffle is a love song! I laugh at the irony. Sometimes life is funny that way.
I stare at the stars. I know that I am getting ready for a lot of new things in my life. I have the gift of this particular time when I can think and write and talk to only the people that I want. New endeavors are just around the horizon and everyone tells me how wildly successful it is going to be. The past is becoming only other stories to tell as I look forward to the things that are next.
Yet as I sit there, the thing that I am most looking forward to the most, is receiving the kinds of rewards that I did for global love with that one person who is just for me.
Goddess has gotten a lot of love but she is loved out.
It seems that a lot of people are that way. I guess that love isn't everything that it used to be.
I don't know.
I've spent a career doing global love and I did it very well. I've got a lot of awards to show for it, but the problem with awards is that after a while you don't know what to do with them. Some are in the closet. Most are in storage at my Mom's house. Sooner or later she'll want me to come and get them and I don't know what to do with them. I have no more wall space.
When Mom retired, she had broken like every glass barrier that a woman in the south could break. So she had a lot of awards too. My Dad took care of it for her. He sold them all to a re-cycle awards place. She was furious, but didn't have to worry about what to do with all of those plaques and things.
Knowing Dad, he kept the money.
Anyway, I am an award winning global lover. At the individual level, I don't seem to be all that much.
Let me rephrase that. I am a GREAT lover. But things haven't worked out like I thought.
I wouldn't trade my experiences or the relationships that I've had. Sometimes people come in your life at the right time and the right things happen but it doesn't last beyond what it was supposed to. At least that is how I choose to look at it.
The passion, depth and intensity were all there in the relationships that I've had. In the beginning, love is the "suddenly compact universe of skin and teeth and hair" to quote Bruce Cockburn. They grew beyond that of course and deep abiding friendship came. And it was good. But it ended just like life one day ends.
It can be boring being alone sometime. Television is boring. I finished the book that I was reading and don't feel motivated to start a new one. Maybe I'm just spent from going and coming to Chicago in 34 hours.
So I grab my I-pod and a glass and go to my beloved back deck to talk to my friends the stars. Goddess decides to join me. A light summer breeze is blowing and I prop my feet on the railing.
Of course every song that plays on my shuffle is a love song! I laugh at the irony. Sometimes life is funny that way.
I stare at the stars. I know that I am getting ready for a lot of new things in my life. I have the gift of this particular time when I can think and write and talk to only the people that I want. New endeavors are just around the horizon and everyone tells me how wildly successful it is going to be. The past is becoming only other stories to tell as I look forward to the things that are next.
Yet as I sit there, the thing that I am most looking forward to the most, is receiving the kinds of rewards that I did for global love with that one person who is just for me.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A Duct Taped Life
I saw Charles the other day for the first time since May. For almost 15 years, Charles has been my six-foot-two, former bank robber, mentally ill, child like janitor of Union Mission, who the staff called my adopted son. When he first came to Union Mission, he was on parole so he was forced to stay. That ended over a decade ago and we were able to achieve a stable environment and a quality of life for his mentally ill mind.
For all of these years, I have been the one constant in Charles' life. Joy Pankey oversees his affairs now and she and I needed to see one another to swap some items. I phoned her as I pulled up to the Fahm Street campus and she told me that Charles was sitting outside. I have missed him as we talked at least once a day for all of those years.
The car stopped at the curb and I crawled out. Joy was standing there grinning and he sat at her feet. When he saw me he stood and walked to me. His orange shirt was filty. His faded green jeans were mostly held together with duct tape. His hair hadn't been cut in a while and was a bit wild.
"I see you've almost got that shirt broken in Charles," I said shaking my head.
He looked down at it and then up at me with a grin. I don't know if he was smiling at the joke or was glad that I was there. He walked up to me and we hugged. He gave me as much as he could which was a limp embrace though I squeezed him back tightly with a lot of love in my heart for him.
I rubbed his hair and told, "Charles, you got gray hair."
"I know, sir," he replied as he reached up with both hands and somehow grabbed one gray hair in his fingers and pulled them up. He flashed his beautiful smile as he did this.
Then he got serious and stepped back from me. Closing his eyes and placing one hand on top of his head, he said, "Sir, I was very sorry to hear about your resignation. Please tell Julie hello for me."
We're never quite certain what Charles does or doesn't know. He knew that I had left Union Mission but no idea that Julie has been long gone.
"I'll tell her Charles," I said.
Then a few members of the staff came outside and gave me hugs and Charles took this has his cue to leave. He prefers one-on-one with me rather than having others around. But he left and it was poignant.
I looked at all of the duct tape on the back side of his pants and was struck by a thought. Charles' whole life is mostly duct taped together. He has done so well for so long because we were outside of the box with him. We didn't follow our own rules and made exceptions for him. But the result was a good one. Stability and a group of people who care for him almost like the family he no longer has.
I've since learned that he has stopped referring to a lot of people as "Sir" which is what he does when he gets to know someone. Over the past year he was finally calling me "Micheal." Today I was "Sir" again.
My time as Charles' principal care giver has passed. As has my time overseeing Union Mission. For everything there is a season, right?
Today I say a prayer for Charles. That his life becomes more than duct tape. That exceptions are still made for this child-like man who will never grow up. That new caregivers love him as much as they are capable. That his mind find peace. And that one day he can go home again.
He has taught me much over these years.
And I thank him with everything inside of me.
I love you Charles.
For all of these years, I have been the one constant in Charles' life. Joy Pankey oversees his affairs now and she and I needed to see one another to swap some items. I phoned her as I pulled up to the Fahm Street campus and she told me that Charles was sitting outside. I have missed him as we talked at least once a day for all of those years.
The car stopped at the curb and I crawled out. Joy was standing there grinning and he sat at her feet. When he saw me he stood and walked to me. His orange shirt was filty. His faded green jeans were mostly held together with duct tape. His hair hadn't been cut in a while and was a bit wild.
"I see you've almost got that shirt broken in Charles," I said shaking my head.
He looked down at it and then up at me with a grin. I don't know if he was smiling at the joke or was glad that I was there. He walked up to me and we hugged. He gave me as much as he could which was a limp embrace though I squeezed him back tightly with a lot of love in my heart for him.
I rubbed his hair and told, "Charles, you got gray hair."
"I know, sir," he replied as he reached up with both hands and somehow grabbed one gray hair in his fingers and pulled them up. He flashed his beautiful smile as he did this.
Then he got serious and stepped back from me. Closing his eyes and placing one hand on top of his head, he said, "Sir, I was very sorry to hear about your resignation. Please tell Julie hello for me."
We're never quite certain what Charles does or doesn't know. He knew that I had left Union Mission but no idea that Julie has been long gone.
"I'll tell her Charles," I said.
Then a few members of the staff came outside and gave me hugs and Charles took this has his cue to leave. He prefers one-on-one with me rather than having others around. But he left and it was poignant.
I looked at all of the duct tape on the back side of his pants and was struck by a thought. Charles' whole life is mostly duct taped together. He has done so well for so long because we were outside of the box with him. We didn't follow our own rules and made exceptions for him. But the result was a good one. Stability and a group of people who care for him almost like the family he no longer has.
I've since learned that he has stopped referring to a lot of people as "Sir" which is what he does when he gets to know someone. Over the past year he was finally calling me "Micheal." Today I was "Sir" again.
My time as Charles' principal care giver has passed. As has my time overseeing Union Mission. For everything there is a season, right?
Today I say a prayer for Charles. That his life becomes more than duct tape. That exceptions are still made for this child-like man who will never grow up. That new caregivers love him as much as they are capable. That his mind find peace. And that one day he can go home again.
He has taught me much over these years.
And I thank him with everything inside of me.
I love you Charles.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Beach Chairs and Bar Stools
This has been a summer of Beach Chairs and Bar Stools. Most of the Beach Chair time was spent in St. Martin in June but I have logged a bit of time with my toes in the sand on Tybee Island.
Chelsea and Kristen argue that this is the least amount of time I’ve been on the beach in their entire lives. It is true I know as I have concentrated on the Back River and the marshes around my house.
Last night my Mom and Jeremy and I sat on my beloved back deck and spoke of lost love while we grilled steaks and chicken and drank wine. It was good to be with my family in the tropical back yard where I spend most of my time these days.
“I want to get a sign made with Fran’s name on it,” I explained, “and put it there on the fence underneath the canopy of a thousand shades of green. I think that it would be a good memorial.”
Fran was my friend in college and she taught me green one day as she stared at a bunch of evergreens outside of the History Building. She had M.S. and knew that her days were numbered and she appreciated …everything! Especially the shades of green and she took the time that day to teach me.
I can no longer sit on my beloved back deck and not pay a bit of homage to her. She died years and years ago and I am now convinced that Fran is the green.
Mom agreed and we discussed how it should be done. We then talked about serendipity and my writing and Jeremy’s job search and all of the things that my Mom does (which is a lot for a 70-something year old woman who believes she’s in her 40’s).
Then Chelsea and Sam blew in to get Jeremy for Tybee Bingo. Mom took this as a cue to leave and in a matter of seconds Goddess and I were alone. She started at me with her tail wagging.
“What?” I asked. Yes, I talk to a dog. “What do you want?”
She stared at the top of the fridge where her leash is kept.
“Ok,” I answer and got it.
We stroll to Shirley’s sad little holy dock. Shirley has hidden a couple of chairs that we can pull out and sit in so I grabbed one and Goddess and I sat and watched the sun set. The tide was low so the music was the ticks and pops of shells opening and closing. Fran must love the marsh too in her after life because it was also a brilliant explosion of greens against an almost black mud and purple gray sky. I sat and patted Goddess and watched and wondered.
A lot of people have told me that they are surprised that I am back from St. Martin at all. They thought that when I left Union Mission that I was finally going to expatriate. I returned because my Mom ordered me too basically and because I chase Serendipity. Last night I wondered about it all.
When I was in St. Martin there is this beach bar named “Orange”. It is built on powder white sand just yards away from an incredible aqua-blue ocean dotted with mountains and islands rising out of it. Orange is very French and Oliver (pronounced Ah-liv-eeeer) and they struggle with English. Almost every day I would stroll down Orient Beach and sit on the same bar stool, order a Presidente and a fish sandwich.
Oliver got to know me as the weeks stretched out and saw that I was alone. Through his broken English he would ask me questions and in no time at all I was greeted with smiles. Now the French are quick with smiles but not service so these lunches took a while but it was a nice break sitting on a bar stool from a long day in a beach chair.
And I remembered how grateful I was to Oliver for his greetings during a lonely and difficult time for me. And their fish sandwiches are better than our fish sandwiches. And Presidente Light is better than Bud Light. And I contemplate returning.
Then Goddess licked my thigh and I snapped out of this memory with a jerk.
“Well,” I said petting her with as much love as I have inside of me, “at least I got you!”
Then Goddess and I walked home underneath a brilliant blanket of stars on a warm summer night.
Chelsea and Kristen argue that this is the least amount of time I’ve been on the beach in their entire lives. It is true I know as I have concentrated on the Back River and the marshes around my house.
Last night my Mom and Jeremy and I sat on my beloved back deck and spoke of lost love while we grilled steaks and chicken and drank wine. It was good to be with my family in the tropical back yard where I spend most of my time these days.
“I want to get a sign made with Fran’s name on it,” I explained, “and put it there on the fence underneath the canopy of a thousand shades of green. I think that it would be a good memorial.”
Fran was my friend in college and she taught me green one day as she stared at a bunch of evergreens outside of the History Building. She had M.S. and knew that her days were numbered and she appreciated …everything! Especially the shades of green and she took the time that day to teach me.
I can no longer sit on my beloved back deck and not pay a bit of homage to her. She died years and years ago and I am now convinced that Fran is the green.
Mom agreed and we discussed how it should be done. We then talked about serendipity and my writing and Jeremy’s job search and all of the things that my Mom does (which is a lot for a 70-something year old woman who believes she’s in her 40’s).
Then Chelsea and Sam blew in to get Jeremy for Tybee Bingo. Mom took this as a cue to leave and in a matter of seconds Goddess and I were alone. She started at me with her tail wagging.
“What?” I asked. Yes, I talk to a dog. “What do you want?”
She stared at the top of the fridge where her leash is kept.
“Ok,” I answer and got it.
We stroll to Shirley’s sad little holy dock. Shirley has hidden a couple of chairs that we can pull out and sit in so I grabbed one and Goddess and I sat and watched the sun set. The tide was low so the music was the ticks and pops of shells opening and closing. Fran must love the marsh too in her after life because it was also a brilliant explosion of greens against an almost black mud and purple gray sky. I sat and patted Goddess and watched and wondered.
A lot of people have told me that they are surprised that I am back from St. Martin at all. They thought that when I left Union Mission that I was finally going to expatriate. I returned because my Mom ordered me too basically and because I chase Serendipity. Last night I wondered about it all.
When I was in St. Martin there is this beach bar named “Orange”. It is built on powder white sand just yards away from an incredible aqua-blue ocean dotted with mountains and islands rising out of it. Orange is very French and Oliver (pronounced Ah-liv-eeeer) and they struggle with English. Almost every day I would stroll down Orient Beach and sit on the same bar stool, order a Presidente and a fish sandwich.
Oliver got to know me as the weeks stretched out and saw that I was alone. Through his broken English he would ask me questions and in no time at all I was greeted with smiles. Now the French are quick with smiles but not service so these lunches took a while but it was a nice break sitting on a bar stool from a long day in a beach chair.
And I remembered how grateful I was to Oliver for his greetings during a lonely and difficult time for me. And their fish sandwiches are better than our fish sandwiches. And Presidente Light is better than Bud Light. And I contemplate returning.
Then Goddess licked my thigh and I snapped out of this memory with a jerk.
“Well,” I said petting her with as much love as I have inside of me, “at least I got you!”
Then Goddess and I walked home underneath a brilliant blanket of stars on a warm summer night.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
What I Am Doing
I was lost in thought, walking Goddess, I-Pod streaming Jim Morris beach music into my ears. My neighbor threw down his weed-whacker and walked towards me.
He is a large man with a large house and a large family. Whenever I see him on the beach he has large flags flying over this set up. The U.S. flag, the University of Georgia flag, Furman University and the Irish flag. He also has a large smile whenever he waves at me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and I was touched by the sincerity in his eyes. “I mean you’re not really retired are you?”
“What are you doing?” It is the question that I have been asked the most throughout my life. Many times it’s “Just what in the hell are you doing?”
Growing up my parents asked me. In college it was my friends and professors. In seminary, I helped those ordained teachers learn to cuss when they asked it. While earning my Masters of Social Work, I was sitting across from the Dean who wanted to throw me out of school when she asked it.
As a professional Christian in charge of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel the people at corporate headquarters in Atlanta would fly me there to ask it. And at Union Mission Board members would enter my office with exasperated expressions and demand me to answer.
Now when I’m not doing anything people still want to know what I’m doing.
“I am gathering my thoughts and rearranging them,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re consulting,” he said flashing the large grin.
Laughing, I told him that I am. I didn’t tell him that I am mostly consulting myself right now.
The other morning at breakfast with two former Board members I was asked the same question and I replied that I am writing, learning to live alone, and taking the Sabbatical that I wanted several years ago that I think would have altered the direction that my life has taken.
“You’re gathering your thoughts,” he shot back. “You need to be doing something!”
Well, I am doing something. I’m taking advantage of the gift of these moments because none of us are assured much anything. And I am not relentlessly changing people or things for the first time. And I am getting myself back after pretty much giving all of me away for the past three decades.
It is hard work.
And I am deciding. Dive back in to the deep end of the work pool or expatriate to a place where there is no winter. I know that I would do well regardless of what I decide to do. Self-confidence has never been an issue.
That’s enough for today. I have to get back to doing something as I stare out of the window and enjoy just how beautiful Fran’s thousand shades of green are in the trees in the yard.
He is a large man with a large house and a large family. Whenever I see him on the beach he has large flags flying over this set up. The U.S. flag, the University of Georgia flag, Furman University and the Irish flag. He also has a large smile whenever he waves at me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and I was touched by the sincerity in his eyes. “I mean you’re not really retired are you?”
“What are you doing?” It is the question that I have been asked the most throughout my life. Many times it’s “Just what in the hell are you doing?”
Growing up my parents asked me. In college it was my friends and professors. In seminary, I helped those ordained teachers learn to cuss when they asked it. While earning my Masters of Social Work, I was sitting across from the Dean who wanted to throw me out of school when she asked it.
As a professional Christian in charge of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel the people at corporate headquarters in Atlanta would fly me there to ask it. And at Union Mission Board members would enter my office with exasperated expressions and demand me to answer.
Now when I’m not doing anything people still want to know what I’m doing.
“I am gathering my thoughts and rearranging them,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re consulting,” he said flashing the large grin.
Laughing, I told him that I am. I didn’t tell him that I am mostly consulting myself right now.
The other morning at breakfast with two former Board members I was asked the same question and I replied that I am writing, learning to live alone, and taking the Sabbatical that I wanted several years ago that I think would have altered the direction that my life has taken.
“You’re gathering your thoughts,” he shot back. “You need to be doing something!”
Well, I am doing something. I’m taking advantage of the gift of these moments because none of us are assured much anything. And I am not relentlessly changing people or things for the first time. And I am getting myself back after pretty much giving all of me away for the past three decades.
It is hard work.
And I am deciding. Dive back in to the deep end of the work pool or expatriate to a place where there is no winter. I know that I would do well regardless of what I decide to do. Self-confidence has never been an issue.
That’s enough for today. I have to get back to doing something as I stare out of the window and enjoy just how beautiful Fran’s thousand shades of green are in the trees in the yard.
Back to Normal
After Labor Day passes, Mike Hosti owner of the Tybee Markey normally has the sign out front of the grocery store proclaim “Back to Normal!” The tourists are gone and the island is ours again. The letter N is typically backwards because Tybee’s sense of normal is not quite like anyone else’s. It’s one of the many reasons that I love living here.
For the first time in my life I have not returned to work on the day after Labor Day along with everyone else. It’s a bit strange but I have list of things to do today:
(1) Go to the Drug Store for prescriptions which I was to have picked up on Friday but never got around to it;
(2) Swing through Wall Mart because Goddess keeps eating everything in the house and she needs new stuff;
(3) Attend the Bored Meeting;
(4) Maybe go to Johnny O’s to watch squirrel feeding (or as his wife Judy calls it when I sit on their porch “It wine and Whine!”)
(5) Call my mother because she’s leaving me messages to call her and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. (Mom, I am not sure why this is number 5. You know you’re number one but my computer keeps dropping you to fifth. Technology!)
(6) Have Goddess take me for a walk.
(7) Try to come up with an answer to Mom’s question when I finally do get around to calling her. She ends every conversation with “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” because she knows that I have no idea and will often not even bother with it.
(8) Breeze by my 30-going-on-17 year old daughter Kristen’s weekly beach volley ball tournament and watch her be the only girl to beat the boys.
(9) Attend Roma’s weekly pool tournament at the Quarter and try to get their in time to actually play.
(10) Brush Goddess on the beloved back deck, prop my feet on the rail, sip a glass of wine and dance with the stars.
A few years ago, Union Mission went through a very difficult period and I had conversation with Aretha Jones. We both acknowledged how much of our self identity was tied up in our jobs. Who we were was determined by where we worked.
I now understand that this is a perverse way of living life. God created us to be …us. Not to work for the man (or woman)! Sure work is something that we do but it is not who we are. I am at a place now where I am trying to get back to Normal…to be the unique “me” that I was born to be.
I think that each of us reach a point in our lives where we have to face ourselves. And we either do or we don’t. And those who do embrace themselves for who they are grow closer to God in the process. And those who don’t lose a little bit more of themselves every day.
So I am working on getting back to normal by facing myself as just me and doing my best to embrace me for me.
Of course, the N is backwards in my normal. Just as God intended it to be. She’s smart that way.
For the first time in my life I have not returned to work on the day after Labor Day along with everyone else. It’s a bit strange but I have list of things to do today:
(1) Go to the Drug Store for prescriptions which I was to have picked up on Friday but never got around to it;
(2) Swing through Wall Mart because Goddess keeps eating everything in the house and she needs new stuff;
(3) Attend the Bored Meeting;
(4) Maybe go to Johnny O’s to watch squirrel feeding (or as his wife Judy calls it when I sit on their porch “It wine and Whine!”)
(5) Call my mother because she’s leaving me messages to call her and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. (Mom, I am not sure why this is number 5. You know you’re number one but my computer keeps dropping you to fifth. Technology!)
(6) Have Goddess take me for a walk.
(7) Try to come up with an answer to Mom’s question when I finally do get around to calling her. She ends every conversation with “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” because she knows that I have no idea and will often not even bother with it.
(8) Breeze by my 30-going-on-17 year old daughter Kristen’s weekly beach volley ball tournament and watch her be the only girl to beat the boys.
(9) Attend Roma’s weekly pool tournament at the Quarter and try to get their in time to actually play.
(10) Brush Goddess on the beloved back deck, prop my feet on the rail, sip a glass of wine and dance with the stars.
A few years ago, Union Mission went through a very difficult period and I had conversation with Aretha Jones. We both acknowledged how much of our self identity was tied up in our jobs. Who we were was determined by where we worked.
I now understand that this is a perverse way of living life. God created us to be …us. Not to work for the man (or woman)! Sure work is something that we do but it is not who we are. I am at a place now where I am trying to get back to Normal…to be the unique “me” that I was born to be.
I think that each of us reach a point in our lives where we have to face ourselves. And we either do or we don’t. And those who do embrace themselves for who they are grow closer to God in the process. And those who don’t lose a little bit more of themselves every day.
So I am working on getting back to normal by facing myself as just me and doing my best to embrace me for me.
Of course, the N is backwards in my normal. Just as God intended it to be. She’s smart that way.
All Over the Place
It is Labor Day and I am working on me these days after decades of working on others. In many ways, it is much more difficult work.
Over the years I had assumed many postures and positions that weren’t really me but I used them to accomplish or to cope and now I am stripping them away to get back to just me. It’s like scraping barnacles from the bottom of a boat. It hurts like hell but is necessary for smooth sailing.
One of my weekend traditions is to review all of the things that I wrote that week. I read them bask-to-back-to-back, sort of taking an inventory of me. Recently a friend of mine told me that I was all over the place so I started looking at it from that perspective.
It is true. I am all over the place.
Everything from bicycles that drink too much to 91 year old men who forsake their numbered days for my benefit; from my adopted son Charles to making out with my High School girl friend at the Drive Inn on Sunday nights; and, of course, to the family all agreeing that my baby sister Angi would enjoy a Sunday Drive better from the trunk.
I’ve written 8 books (one self-published as a fund raiser for Union Mission) and one of the things that kept getting me in trouble as an author is that I would never stick to a particular subject line. My books are all over the place too! So I had to keep finding new publishers because the old ones didn’t like the new subject matter. They wanted me to write the same stuff. I wasn’t interested in that. I wrote about what I WAS interested in.
It may very well be that being all over the place is the way that I’ve always lived my life and not just recently because of the trials and traumas of relationships that fall apart and work that comes to an end.
Union Mission is as diverse and as complex as it is, in many ways, because I was always interested in moving on to the next thing.
My 91 year old friend Ben told me the other day, “I’ve watched you a long time now. You like to create. Then at the ribbon cutting you smile and pat someone on the back, hand them the keys and move on to the next thing.”
As soon as the words hung in the air at Johnny Harris’ restaurant, I knew that they were as true as any that have ever been spoken.
For decades I survived work by carving out this schizophrenic lifestyle where in Savannah, I was one person --- public, driven, relentless; but on Tybee I was another --- laid back, beach bum, picking up crab grass in the yard. It worked great. Until it went to hell!
A few years ago work started invading Tybee and my home. It became all consuming and so it consumed all.
Today I sit here looking at Fran’s thousand shades of green in the bright sunshine and for the first time in my life appreciate Labor Day. Most every one has the day off. The government of all things created a holiday to say to us, thanks for the hard work. You did good! Take a little time for yourself and your family. They are more important anyway.
And I’m coming to realize that I’ve always been all over the place. It is who I am. For Christ’s sake my friends range from Johnny O, Conner, Roma, O Johnny and Trolley Joe to Will Campbell (Southern Baptist prophet) , Jack Pegrim (does street medicine in Calcutta), Lucy Hall (Amazon woman in Atlanta saving addicts on the streets), and Dr. Jim Withers (founder of the Street Medicine movement). Talk about a schizophrenic collection of people! And I love them all in equal proportions.
So, on this Labor Day, I am going to celebrate me and the work that I am doing to get back to just me.
It’s all over the place.
Over the years I had assumed many postures and positions that weren’t really me but I used them to accomplish or to cope and now I am stripping them away to get back to just me. It’s like scraping barnacles from the bottom of a boat. It hurts like hell but is necessary for smooth sailing.
One of my weekend traditions is to review all of the things that I wrote that week. I read them bask-to-back-to-back, sort of taking an inventory of me. Recently a friend of mine told me that I was all over the place so I started looking at it from that perspective.
It is true. I am all over the place.
Everything from bicycles that drink too much to 91 year old men who forsake their numbered days for my benefit; from my adopted son Charles to making out with my High School girl friend at the Drive Inn on Sunday nights; and, of course, to the family all agreeing that my baby sister Angi would enjoy a Sunday Drive better from the trunk.
I’ve written 8 books (one self-published as a fund raiser for Union Mission) and one of the things that kept getting me in trouble as an author is that I would never stick to a particular subject line. My books are all over the place too! So I had to keep finding new publishers because the old ones didn’t like the new subject matter. They wanted me to write the same stuff. I wasn’t interested in that. I wrote about what I WAS interested in.
It may very well be that being all over the place is the way that I’ve always lived my life and not just recently because of the trials and traumas of relationships that fall apart and work that comes to an end.
Union Mission is as diverse and as complex as it is, in many ways, because I was always interested in moving on to the next thing.
My 91 year old friend Ben told me the other day, “I’ve watched you a long time now. You like to create. Then at the ribbon cutting you smile and pat someone on the back, hand them the keys and move on to the next thing.”
As soon as the words hung in the air at Johnny Harris’ restaurant, I knew that they were as true as any that have ever been spoken.
For decades I survived work by carving out this schizophrenic lifestyle where in Savannah, I was one person --- public, driven, relentless; but on Tybee I was another --- laid back, beach bum, picking up crab grass in the yard. It worked great. Until it went to hell!
A few years ago work started invading Tybee and my home. It became all consuming and so it consumed all.
Today I sit here looking at Fran’s thousand shades of green in the bright sunshine and for the first time in my life appreciate Labor Day. Most every one has the day off. The government of all things created a holiday to say to us, thanks for the hard work. You did good! Take a little time for yourself and your family. They are more important anyway.
And I’m coming to realize that I’ve always been all over the place. It is who I am. For Christ’s sake my friends range from Johnny O, Conner, Roma, O Johnny and Trolley Joe to Will Campbell (Southern Baptist prophet) , Jack Pegrim (does street medicine in Calcutta), Lucy Hall (Amazon woman in Atlanta saving addicts on the streets), and Dr. Jim Withers (founder of the Street Medicine movement). Talk about a schizophrenic collection of people! And I love them all in equal proportions.
So, on this Labor Day, I am going to celebrate me and the work that I am doing to get back to just me.
It’s all over the place.
Do You know how big this is?
The sky has been finger painted with pinks, whites, and purples against a dark blue backdrop. The temperature is warm as I sip coffee and stare out of the fifth floor window watching a line of cars make their way into Athens then a group of jogging co-eds divert my attention. College football has arrived.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
Do you know how big this is?
The sky has been finger painted with pinks, whites, and purples against a dark blue backdrop. The temperature is warm as I sip coffee and stare out of the fifth floor window watching a line of cars make their way into Athens then a group of jogging co-eds divert my attention. College football has arrived.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
Amazon Woman
I spotted her from a half a mile away. I was on my morning run lost in thought at the beauty of the day. There were no clouds in the sky to hinder the brilliant sun’s dance on the ocean. The weekend crowd has yet to descend on the island so there are only a few other people on the beach but Lucy is definitely one.
I couldn’t miss her.
Lucy Hall is an Amazon of a woman over six feet tall. Her dark black skin glistens in the sun as recognizes me about the same time that I spot her. She starts laughing and clapping as I run to her and we embrace and I strain my neck upward to hit her face with a kiss.
“Hello My Brotha!” she gives me as a regular greeting.
Sometimes she calls me handsome. “Hello Handsome” and she’s more subdued when I get this greeting and I know the conversations are going to be serious.
Today she is excited because she didn’t know I was here and I didn’t know she was so it is “Hello Brotha!” So I understand that she is delighting in us unexpectedly running into one another on a mostly deserted beach. She believes it’s a gift from God.
Lucy is the President of the Mary Hall Freedom House in Atlanta, a program for women who are addicts. She came from these women and her story is as compelling as they come. Out of nowhere she has built one of the country’s most unique and effective programs. She is also famous and has graced numerous magazines, television shows, radio spots, and newspaper articles.
We met nine years ago in Washington D.C. when Lucy was being awarded the “Community Health Leadership Award” by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation which included a $100,000 cash prize and a ceremony at the National Press Club. I was one of the speakers as a previous winner.
In the middle of my speech Lucy said out loud, “Oh you are going to be significant in my life!”
I’d never had that happen before during a speech and I remember just stopping and staring at her. She was grinning at me with knowing eyes sitting in the middle of an audience of perhaps fifty people. But she has proven right. Lucy and I are close.
She often retreats to Tybee and either brings a bunch of folks and rents a place or she comes alone and stays in the apartment downstairs. She’s made numerous visits to Union Mission and I’ve been to the Mary Hall Freedom House and we both blew one another away in the stuff that we were working on.
Later, I was at Marlin Monroes, talking to Chela Gutierrez who has the most color arms on the planet, when Lucy strolled in.
“Hello Handsome,” she smiled.
We took a table inside with a view of the ocean and immediately fell into deep conversation like good friends do. So I caught her up on everything and then she caught me up on everything and then she looked at me and asked, “Tell me where you are with God.”
I laughed. “OK, let’s frame this conversation first. You use very traditional religious language and I don’t. But I understand what you’re saying and you can understand the way that I say things.”
She laughed with sparkling eyes and an evil grin.
“I think we’re fine,” I answered, “she and I dance most every day.
“You listening to Him?” she asked.
“She always whispers,” I said back. “I wish she talked a little louder.”
“So long as you’re listening,” she concluded.
And we laughed together though I knew that Lucy was being as serious as a heart attack.
Then we made plans to see each other in a few weeks when I’m in Atlanta before hugging each other and going our own ways. I had a paper to finish and she wanted to invade the Tybee Island YMCA so that it achieved integration.
You’ve got to love friends like that.
I couldn’t miss her.
Lucy Hall is an Amazon of a woman over six feet tall. Her dark black skin glistens in the sun as recognizes me about the same time that I spot her. She starts laughing and clapping as I run to her and we embrace and I strain my neck upward to hit her face with a kiss.
“Hello My Brotha!” she gives me as a regular greeting.
Sometimes she calls me handsome. “Hello Handsome” and she’s more subdued when I get this greeting and I know the conversations are going to be serious.
Today she is excited because she didn’t know I was here and I didn’t know she was so it is “Hello Brotha!” So I understand that she is delighting in us unexpectedly running into one another on a mostly deserted beach. She believes it’s a gift from God.
Lucy is the President of the Mary Hall Freedom House in Atlanta, a program for women who are addicts. She came from these women and her story is as compelling as they come. Out of nowhere she has built one of the country’s most unique and effective programs. She is also famous and has graced numerous magazines, television shows, radio spots, and newspaper articles.
We met nine years ago in Washington D.C. when Lucy was being awarded the “Community Health Leadership Award” by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation which included a $100,000 cash prize and a ceremony at the National Press Club. I was one of the speakers as a previous winner.
In the middle of my speech Lucy said out loud, “Oh you are going to be significant in my life!”
I’d never had that happen before during a speech and I remember just stopping and staring at her. She was grinning at me with knowing eyes sitting in the middle of an audience of perhaps fifty people. But she has proven right. Lucy and I are close.
She often retreats to Tybee and either brings a bunch of folks and rents a place or she comes alone and stays in the apartment downstairs. She’s made numerous visits to Union Mission and I’ve been to the Mary Hall Freedom House and we both blew one another away in the stuff that we were working on.
Later, I was at Marlin Monroes, talking to Chela Gutierrez who has the most color arms on the planet, when Lucy strolled in.
“Hello Handsome,” she smiled.
We took a table inside with a view of the ocean and immediately fell into deep conversation like good friends do. So I caught her up on everything and then she caught me up on everything and then she looked at me and asked, “Tell me where you are with God.”
I laughed. “OK, let’s frame this conversation first. You use very traditional religious language and I don’t. But I understand what you’re saying and you can understand the way that I say things.”
She laughed with sparkling eyes and an evil grin.
“I think we’re fine,” I answered, “she and I dance most every day.
“You listening to Him?” she asked.
“She always whispers,” I said back. “I wish she talked a little louder.”
“So long as you’re listening,” she concluded.
And we laughed together though I knew that Lucy was being as serious as a heart attack.
Then we made plans to see each other in a few weeks when I’m in Atlanta before hugging each other and going our own ways. I had a paper to finish and she wanted to invade the Tybee Island YMCA so that it achieved integration.
You’ve got to love friends like that.
No Longer Work
I’m in downtown Savannah this morning for the first time in several weeks for meetings and personal business. Using it as an opportunity to have my car tuned up for the drives to Athens for University of Georgia football games I stroll through the parks towards my favorite coffee shop.
As soon as I hit the south end of Forsyth Park, I hear my name being called. “Mike Elliott!! Mike, it’s me!!”
An older African-American man walks his bicycle towards me. He is flashing a dirty grin underneath a faded red baseball cap.
“Man I went to see you recently and they told me that you retired. Man! I thought that you would always be there!”
His name is David and I’ve known him for years. He was homeless when we met and I was still at Union Mission. That was years ago but David would come to see me from time to time, checking in, often to ask for my advice on something that he was working on.
That was a lot of what I did as President of Union Mission; talking to people who were or are homeless. It was a good reality check to make certain the things that we were doing were actually needed. Most of the programs that make up Union Mission were conceived as a result of these conversations.
That was then and this is now. David and I shook hands and then he embraced me. “Hey when you have time will you look at a business plan that I’m putting together.”
I laughed and said sure.
“Great! Thanks Mike! I’ll give it to Mrs. Joy and she can get it to you. That alright?”
“That’s fine David. You take care of yourself.”
“You too Mike! Good to see you man!”
I hadn’t been in downtown for five minutes yet. I began making my way through the Big Park and immediately ran into Charlie. Long blond hair fell out of the baseball cap that he was wearing. He was sprawled out on a park bench.
“Hey Rev,” he said with a grin then held out his hand for me to shake it. Charlie is an alcoholic who went through Union Mission several times. He may still be there for all I know.
“You staying clean?” I ask.
“Quit drinking five times yesterday,” he shot back. “I remain committed.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“Take care of yourself Charlie,” I say and make my way on.
This happens two more times before I make it to the Express Café on Chippewa Square. I sit and sip coffee and realize that these are still my people. A 30 year career surrounded by people falling into or crawling out of homelessness taught me how we are all the same. Everyone has issues and struggles and flaws and incredible abilities all at the same time.
I note that I felt lighter as I encountered my friends than I used to. Before they would be wanting me to do something for them. It was never ending and I would often have a list of commitments or instructions when I got back to the office.
It is good to not have to feel that way today. It is also nice to understand how much they still appreciate the things that I did. I am reminded that real things happen at the one-to-one level and not on a grand scale. And I notice that I enjoyed seeing these guys and it no longer seems like work.
As soon as I hit the south end of Forsyth Park, I hear my name being called. “Mike Elliott!! Mike, it’s me!!”
An older African-American man walks his bicycle towards me. He is flashing a dirty grin underneath a faded red baseball cap.
“Man I went to see you recently and they told me that you retired. Man! I thought that you would always be there!”
His name is David and I’ve known him for years. He was homeless when we met and I was still at Union Mission. That was years ago but David would come to see me from time to time, checking in, often to ask for my advice on something that he was working on.
That was a lot of what I did as President of Union Mission; talking to people who were or are homeless. It was a good reality check to make certain the things that we were doing were actually needed. Most of the programs that make up Union Mission were conceived as a result of these conversations.
That was then and this is now. David and I shook hands and then he embraced me. “Hey when you have time will you look at a business plan that I’m putting together.”
I laughed and said sure.
“Great! Thanks Mike! I’ll give it to Mrs. Joy and she can get it to you. That alright?”
“That’s fine David. You take care of yourself.”
“You too Mike! Good to see you man!”
I hadn’t been in downtown for five minutes yet. I began making my way through the Big Park and immediately ran into Charlie. Long blond hair fell out of the baseball cap that he was wearing. He was sprawled out on a park bench.
“Hey Rev,” he said with a grin then held out his hand for me to shake it. Charlie is an alcoholic who went through Union Mission several times. He may still be there for all I know.
“You staying clean?” I ask.
“Quit drinking five times yesterday,” he shot back. “I remain committed.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“Take care of yourself Charlie,” I say and make my way on.
This happens two more times before I make it to the Express Café on Chippewa Square. I sit and sip coffee and realize that these are still my people. A 30 year career surrounded by people falling into or crawling out of homelessness taught me how we are all the same. Everyone has issues and struggles and flaws and incredible abilities all at the same time.
I note that I felt lighter as I encountered my friends than I used to. Before they would be wanting me to do something for them. It was never ending and I would often have a list of commitments or instructions when I got back to the office.
It is good to not have to feel that way today. It is also nice to understand how much they still appreciate the things that I did. I am reminded that real things happen at the one-to-one level and not on a grand scale. And I notice that I enjoyed seeing these guys and it no longer seems like work.
Horizontal
It’s hard to be upwardly mobile when you’re horizontal in the sun.
Right now I’m horizontal, lying in the sand, listening to the surf, feeling my growing hair blow in the breeze.
The only regularly scheduled thing on my calendar is the daily Bored meeting and that after morning prayers at the Breakfast Club. Other than that its salt air and sea spray and beach music.
I’ve had way too much vertical in my life. Always shooting upward or doing my best to propel others to do so. I’ve danced with all of the stars of politics, business and celebrity and am glad to be away from all of that …ego. I’m doing my best to drown mine in the ocean. It has served me well I suppose but I don’t want to be over reliant on it again.
My geography is small and the people that I talk with is very tight these days. No longer being there for everybody all of the time. Just some.
One wrote me over the weekend. “We’re just waiting to see when you’ll heal and get off that damn roller coaster. It kind of seems that you’re all over the place right now (as it should be) …Wow! When Stellar gets his grove back and gets back to a giving place in his heart … sure would be cool to be on that radar.”
The words made me stop and ponder them for a long time.
I thought that I was healing. I believe that my heart is still capable of giving. My groove’s gone? I thought with this small geography and tight circle of friends that I wasn’t all over the place.
But her words proved me wrong. And her right.
My friend Kim Hinely likes something called “Depression is not a sign of weakness it is just a sign that we’ve been too strong for too long.”
I was checking the status of my friends on Face Book when I saw that she had liked this link.
These words also gave me pause and I pondered them. What is the aftermath of being so strong for so long for others who didn’t have it in them to be strong for themelves?
Everything has a cost and all of my success, vertical achievements and upward mobility has left me here sitting in the wind on my beloved back deck, alone for the first time in my life, wondering exactly what it is that I want to do next.
This morning I the Breakfast Club I was sitting with Helen, Jodee’s mother, and the woman who actually started the place. She was asking me what I’m going to do next so I was throwing out what my options are. Helen was excited about each one and it is hard not to love someone who conveys excitement over you. It made me excited about my possibilities.
Then we talked about being alone. She likes her space and routine.
“Home is wherever you happen to be,” a homeless friend of mine told me, and what I have come to think that he meant by this is that we are ultimately home to ourselves. It’s just us. If we’re fortunate we don’t have to do it alone.
My horizontal time will soon be over. I’m finally on the Sabbatical that I wanted three years ago that likely would have changed a lot of things. That’s the thing about gifts right? You never know when they’re going to arrive. Not necessarily when you ask for them but always later. And gifts have cost associated with them too.
So for now I’m going to stay horizontal, laying my head back down in the sand. Not an ostrich but to enjoy the feeling of warm sand on my face.
Right now I’m horizontal, lying in the sand, listening to the surf, feeling my growing hair blow in the breeze.
The only regularly scheduled thing on my calendar is the daily Bored meeting and that after morning prayers at the Breakfast Club. Other than that its salt air and sea spray and beach music.
I’ve had way too much vertical in my life. Always shooting upward or doing my best to propel others to do so. I’ve danced with all of the stars of politics, business and celebrity and am glad to be away from all of that …ego. I’m doing my best to drown mine in the ocean. It has served me well I suppose but I don’t want to be over reliant on it again.
My geography is small and the people that I talk with is very tight these days. No longer being there for everybody all of the time. Just some.
One wrote me over the weekend. “We’re just waiting to see when you’ll heal and get off that damn roller coaster. It kind of seems that you’re all over the place right now (as it should be) …Wow! When Stellar gets his grove back and gets back to a giving place in his heart … sure would be cool to be on that radar.”
The words made me stop and ponder them for a long time.
I thought that I was healing. I believe that my heart is still capable of giving. My groove’s gone? I thought with this small geography and tight circle of friends that I wasn’t all over the place.
But her words proved me wrong. And her right.
My friend Kim Hinely likes something called “Depression is not a sign of weakness it is just a sign that we’ve been too strong for too long.”
I was checking the status of my friends on Face Book when I saw that she had liked this link.
These words also gave me pause and I pondered them. What is the aftermath of being so strong for so long for others who didn’t have it in them to be strong for themelves?
Everything has a cost and all of my success, vertical achievements and upward mobility has left me here sitting in the wind on my beloved back deck, alone for the first time in my life, wondering exactly what it is that I want to do next.
This morning I the Breakfast Club I was sitting with Helen, Jodee’s mother, and the woman who actually started the place. She was asking me what I’m going to do next so I was throwing out what my options are. Helen was excited about each one and it is hard not to love someone who conveys excitement over you. It made me excited about my possibilities.
Then we talked about being alone. She likes her space and routine.
“Home is wherever you happen to be,” a homeless friend of mine told me, and what I have come to think that he meant by this is that we are ultimately home to ourselves. It’s just us. If we’re fortunate we don’t have to do it alone.
My horizontal time will soon be over. I’m finally on the Sabbatical that I wanted three years ago that likely would have changed a lot of things. That’s the thing about gifts right? You never know when they’re going to arrive. Not necessarily when you ask for them but always later. And gifts have cost associated with them too.
So for now I’m going to stay horizontal, laying my head back down in the sand. Not an ostrich but to enjoy the feeling of warm sand on my face.
Could We Start Again Please?
Ryan and I have decided that we are cursed when it comes to women in our lives and romance. He lost his girlfriend recently and I have no body in my life either. Neither of us have anyone interested in us either, so we sat beside one another at the counter of the Breakfast Club and came to the conclusion that we are cursed.
Unfortunately Johnny O was sitting there when we made this announcement. He looked at Ryan first and said, “It’s because you look guilty.”
“Oh is that it?” Ryan laughed.
“Yep,” Johnny O continued, “even when you’ve done nothing wrong you look like you have and women don’t trust that.”
“And you!” he said pointing a finger at me, “you’re out of control!”
Then he left. Johnny O has never been known for bringing conversations to a meaningful conclusion.
“Well I know what I want to do,” Ryan said after a few minutes of silence. “I’m moving to Colorado and am going to get a job as a Ski Lift assistant and help women get on it.”
At only 24 years of age, Ryan still has a lot to learn.
“I know what you mean,” I reply. “You got to have hope. I’m going to get a job as the towel boy for the University of Georgia girl’s swim team.”
“Now you’re talking,” Ryan smiled.
Franklin, who is brown, stood on the other side of the counter listening to us. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he chimed in, “there are no available women on this island except gay ones. I want to be a professional beach volley ball player; a woman’s team or co-ed because it really doesn’t matter. I’m pretty desperate.”
And you can’t help but wonder sometimes why love remains elusive when it is the thing that each of us wants the most. This isn’t necessarily the same thing as being married or in a significant relationship with someone for a long time. I know a lot of people who live together but don’t share the kind of love that they desire with everything inside of them.
There is no one in my life at this time. Love hides from me. Serendipity has fled for other horizons. I sit in my red room and stare out of the windows at lush vegetation and brilliant green marsh grass and I can’t help but wonder where it went wrong. I’ve made a successful career for myself giving love away only to find myself sitting here alone.
There is this scene in the musical “Jesus Christ Superstar” that is very meaningful for me. The Disciples are sitting outside of the gate among the crowd as Jesus is getting his ass kicked by Pilate’s men. Mary Magdalene and Simon Peter stand and sing.
“I’ve been living to see you, dying to see you but it shouldn’t be like this; this was unexpected, what do I do now? Oh, could we start again please?”
They are desperate to get back to Jesus’ promises of a new world full of love and possibilities. Instead they watch love being beat to hell. They long for what was as they regret what is.
I think it is healthy to take an inventory of how you’ve lived your life from time to time; Reflections of my life. I suppose that’s what I’m doing. Could we start again please? It is a valid question because in the end that is all that we have; to get up every day and start over, trying to not repeat the mistakes or the mishaps of the past.
And always looking to the future where there is the love that we want with everything that is inside of us.
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