I was sitting at the kitchen table talking to my best friend with my chin resting on top of my hands which were folded and resting on a cup. The cup held Coke which I rarely drink. It was one of those thoughtful conversations and there was no hurry. We were enjoying the time together which we never seem to have enough of.
“Well, I show my emotions as I have them,” I confessed.
“No?” came the mocking reply.
And it is true that my emotions are never held in check. I allow them to live as they come. Hugs erupt abruptly and I’ll sling my arms around a neck in the second that it demands to be let out. Kisses happen easily. Words flow as they are needed. I am never guarded.
I think that life is better if it’s lived this way. Too often we mean to hug someone or let them know that they’re loved and we never get around to it. Then the moment is gone and it becomes something that we meant to do but didn’t.
This can often become a pattern. And that is how friends are lost or how love dies. We mean to do the things necessary to care for them but somehow we don’t get around to it. Other things seem to be more important. Or we become self-absorbed with something that we deem to be more important. Many times we start to care more about ourselves more than others. The love in our lives is then slowly strangled as though we tie panty hose around our necks and suspend ourselves from the ceiling.
Did I ever take you in my arms, look you in the eye and tell you that I do?
Did I ever open up my heart and let you look inside?
If I never did it, I was only waiting for a better moment that didn’t come.
There could never be a better moment than this one. This one.
So sings Paul McCartney in one of my favorite songs. Years ago I was in a relationship that ended up dying and most of the reason was because everything was taken for granted. Love became a routine and an expectation. Conversations drifted to the most superficial of communications. We stopped helping one another to grow as individuals.
I remember listening to this song and I resolved to never take things for granted again. That if a moment to tell someone I love them presents itself then I’m grabbing it.
If someone obviously needs a hug then I’ll give them one regardless of where we happen to be standing.
If they need an honest and open immediate answer then why should I wait?
Over time, this is increasingly how I’ve chosen to live my life. It startles a lot people because they are guarded with their feelings or emotions, choosing to hold them in check for fear of being rejected or hurt. I don’t think that this allows us to live life to its fullest which is the way that God intends us to live it. So by not taking advantage of the opportunities to express love we reject the life that God gave us.
And you never know how many moments you’re going to get anyway. Especially how many you’re going to have with the people you care about the most! So it’s best to take advantage of them as they come.
Because there is no better moment … than this one.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day
bSipping coffee I watch a pure unobstructed sunrise bubble up from the ocean. Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary and around the world with me) is sitting beside me. We are on the eighth floor balcony of a Myrtle Beach hotel. Neither of us speaks as we watch. The birth of a day is a holy thing.
When we do talk, I falter. Emotions seem to be getting the best of me. I go back inside and look for distractions. Turning on my computer I find my favorite radio station in St. Martin in an attempt to flee to another life in a happier place.
Beneath the tide, the fishes glide, fin to fin and side by side.
For fishy love has now begun, fishy love, finny fun.
James Taylor fills my brain with his quirky ode to this day. It is a song full of images. “Paper moon, paper heart, pink balloon, work of art, Al Calpone, Bugs Moran, Valentine’s Day …”
The sunshine now fills the room. Bill has retreated so that I can reel myself in. The song will not leave my head.
“Land your punch, I stand my ground. We break for lunch and have a second round.
We set them up, we knock them down. Valentine’s Day.”
Love is the most powerful and overwhelming of emotions. When it bursts into your life it is all consuming. When making love with the one you love the entire universe is reduced to skin and breath and hair. I suck it inside of myself and it fills my soul. Lightning strikes and the sun rises at the same time! Your senses are completely filled with love.
Then it has this way of settling. And love becomes subtle. Food rubs and lotion, chicken noodle soup, bread, or getting a blanket for the person you love become powerful though simple expressions of what you feel and who you are.
“Oh day to repay the one that you love, Gentlemen take off your hats as I speak thereof.
Just a brief break from the push and shove, we may go a few rounds without boxing gloves.”
Then love can be reduced to token expressions because they are expected. Flowers are bought, dinner reservations made, cards are exchanged and pecks are given to cheeks with quick wishes of “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
And you find yourself pondering what happened to the love? It is reduced to a routine only interrupted when … it is challenged.
By another. By the threat of a partner who no longer wants you. By demands of something more.
“Me and you, you and him, him and her, us and them, we keep score, love as war. Valentine’s Day.”
I think these things as I stare off of this eighth floor balcony at the vastness of the ocean and the brilliance of the sun. I have a lot of love inside of me that I don’t know what to do with. It is as vast as the ocean and as bright as the sun. It is ready to explode out of me but remains captive by … circumstances.
Bill returns to make more coffee. He asks what I’m writing and I try to explain it to him. He just stares at me for a bit as though processing what I’m saying. He has this way of listening where you feel you have every fiber of his being focused on you.
He walks to where I’m sitting and hugs me.
At least you’re with somebody that loves you.
“Yep,” I nod as the emptiness returns.
When we do talk, I falter. Emotions seem to be getting the best of me. I go back inside and look for distractions. Turning on my computer I find my favorite radio station in St. Martin in an attempt to flee to another life in a happier place.
Beneath the tide, the fishes glide, fin to fin and side by side.
For fishy love has now begun, fishy love, finny fun.
James Taylor fills my brain with his quirky ode to this day. It is a song full of images. “Paper moon, paper heart, pink balloon, work of art, Al Calpone, Bugs Moran, Valentine’s Day …”
The sunshine now fills the room. Bill has retreated so that I can reel myself in. The song will not leave my head.
“Land your punch, I stand my ground. We break for lunch and have a second round.
We set them up, we knock them down. Valentine’s Day.”
Love is the most powerful and overwhelming of emotions. When it bursts into your life it is all consuming. When making love with the one you love the entire universe is reduced to skin and breath and hair. I suck it inside of myself and it fills my soul. Lightning strikes and the sun rises at the same time! Your senses are completely filled with love.
Then it has this way of settling. And love becomes subtle. Food rubs and lotion, chicken noodle soup, bread, or getting a blanket for the person you love become powerful though simple expressions of what you feel and who you are.
“Oh day to repay the one that you love, Gentlemen take off your hats as I speak thereof.
Just a brief break from the push and shove, we may go a few rounds without boxing gloves.”
Then love can be reduced to token expressions because they are expected. Flowers are bought, dinner reservations made, cards are exchanged and pecks are given to cheeks with quick wishes of “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
And you find yourself pondering what happened to the love? It is reduced to a routine only interrupted when … it is challenged.
By another. By the threat of a partner who no longer wants you. By demands of something more.
“Me and you, you and him, him and her, us and them, we keep score, love as war. Valentine’s Day.”
I think these things as I stare off of this eighth floor balcony at the vastness of the ocean and the brilliance of the sun. I have a lot of love inside of me that I don’t know what to do with. It is as vast as the ocean and as bright as the sun. It is ready to explode out of me but remains captive by … circumstances.
Bill returns to make more coffee. He asks what I’m writing and I try to explain it to him. He just stares at me for a bit as though processing what I’m saying. He has this way of listening where you feel you have every fiber of his being focused on you.
He walks to where I’m sitting and hugs me.
At least you’re with somebody that loves you.
“Yep,” I nod as the emptiness returns.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Billy's Beach
Standing on the end of the dock where my Dad’s ashes will be scatted one day mixed with my Mom’s I felt the arms of love wrapped around me. It was though Mona Lisa herself was smiling at me, bemused with anticipation.
After Dad died and was cremated my brother David said one night, “Mom, we’ve got to follow Dad’s wishes. We’re going to scatter his ashes in the marsh and then throw you on top.”
We’re not too sure about David.
Dutch Island is beautiful but my parent’s house is one of the pinnacles of splendor. The place had everything. A fantastic house that is decorated to look like the finest “Cracker Barrel” ever! It is full of antiques, pictures, old books and windows with breathtaking views.
There is a lush and manicured yard that seems to go forever, until it ends at the marsh that my Dad loved so much.
Then a dock that extends through the marsh to the tidal creek that we swim and float in.
And though my Mom used to be famous like me and was wildly successful in banking and collecting antiques, she has a bit of insanity that she passed on to my sister Age and me (David was skipped but neither Age or I are certain he actually shares our DNA anyway).
Mom decided that my Dad, beach bum that he was which I thank God every day that he passed that gene on to me, should have his own beach.
In the back yard.
So she built him one.
Trucks of sand were brought in. A lifeguard stand was built (though I’m not certain Dad ever actually got in it). A life preserver proclaims this to be “Billy’s Beach” and it was. And it is.
Dad was forever throwing parties and cooking oysters. For every special occasion, birthdays, anniversaries, divorces, Christmas, deaths (including his own day) … the oyster cooker would come out and we would feast.
So a couple of years after he died, Mom decided that it was time for an oyster roast. So it happened last night and about seventy people showed up to toast an incredible sunset over a golden brown marsh. There were lots of hugs and many laughs.
New friends were made and old friends were reacquainted. Mom fretted at the number of red wine drinkers who had shown up.
My cousin Jason fluttered around being in charge until he realized that nobody was listening to him so he stood around with the rest of us toasting and laughing and enjoying the hell out of a magic night.
David and I slid off at one point to talk about the future. He has one and I suppose that I do too. People kept interrupting us, obviously bothered that we may not share the same DNA, so it took us about an hour to finish our conversation. But I’m happy for him. And he seems to be inching closer to forgiving me.
Then as the stars twinkled and nighttime came, I walked alone back onto the dock. I wanted Mona Lisa’s smile again.
“Hey Dad,” I said to the marsh. “You’d love this.”
And a breeze kicked up and the marsh grass danced. I threw my wine into the tidal creek as the music of laughter sang from the sand on Billy’s Beach.
And Dad told me that he loves me still.
And was loving the hell out of this party.
After Dad died and was cremated my brother David said one night, “Mom, we’ve got to follow Dad’s wishes. We’re going to scatter his ashes in the marsh and then throw you on top.”
We’re not too sure about David.
Dutch Island is beautiful but my parent’s house is one of the pinnacles of splendor. The place had everything. A fantastic house that is decorated to look like the finest “Cracker Barrel” ever! It is full of antiques, pictures, old books and windows with breathtaking views.
There is a lush and manicured yard that seems to go forever, until it ends at the marsh that my Dad loved so much.
Then a dock that extends through the marsh to the tidal creek that we swim and float in.
And though my Mom used to be famous like me and was wildly successful in banking and collecting antiques, she has a bit of insanity that she passed on to my sister Age and me (David was skipped but neither Age or I are certain he actually shares our DNA anyway).
Mom decided that my Dad, beach bum that he was which I thank God every day that he passed that gene on to me, should have his own beach.
In the back yard.
So she built him one.
Trucks of sand were brought in. A lifeguard stand was built (though I’m not certain Dad ever actually got in it). A life preserver proclaims this to be “Billy’s Beach” and it was. And it is.
Dad was forever throwing parties and cooking oysters. For every special occasion, birthdays, anniversaries, divorces, Christmas, deaths (including his own day) … the oyster cooker would come out and we would feast.
So a couple of years after he died, Mom decided that it was time for an oyster roast. So it happened last night and about seventy people showed up to toast an incredible sunset over a golden brown marsh. There were lots of hugs and many laughs.
New friends were made and old friends were reacquainted. Mom fretted at the number of red wine drinkers who had shown up.
My cousin Jason fluttered around being in charge until he realized that nobody was listening to him so he stood around with the rest of us toasting and laughing and enjoying the hell out of a magic night.
David and I slid off at one point to talk about the future. He has one and I suppose that I do too. People kept interrupting us, obviously bothered that we may not share the same DNA, so it took us about an hour to finish our conversation. But I’m happy for him. And he seems to be inching closer to forgiving me.
Then as the stars twinkled and nighttime came, I walked alone back onto the dock. I wanted Mona Lisa’s smile again.
“Hey Dad,” I said to the marsh. “You’d love this.”
And a breeze kicked up and the marsh grass danced. I threw my wine into the tidal creek as the music of laughter sang from the sand on Billy’s Beach.
And Dad told me that he loves me still.
And was loving the hell out of this party.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
What Love Is
It was a strange yesterday. It seems as though I spent the entire day covering people’s asses. But if you love somebody that’s what you do. You cover their ass when they can’t cover it themselves.
Enough about my friend Dee!
It all started with my son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie. They showed up and that led to Fish Tacos at Café Loco which led to Roma and the Bored meeting which led to Bernie’s last night where Sam Adams and Gordo play damn good live music! Then it all got crazy. Typical Tybee!
Yet in the midst of all of this I am reminded that I live on an island. Goddess and I walk to Shirley’s sad little holy dock and it takes my breath away. I jog the beach and the joy of the ocean still makes me tingle with excitement as though I were still a little boy. The smell of the marsh (it smells like sex in the Tropics) makes my skin come alive and the breath that I inhale is pure, unadulterated love. And you take love where you find it and you hold onto it with everything that you have inside of you.
That’s Tybee.
Just a few months ago I would have never noticed these things. I was living a fast and famous life changing the way that the world dealt with homelessness, health care for the uninsured, treating the mentally ill and such. I never slowed down. I never stopped. It was all consuming and … in the end, it consumed my all.
For seven months now I’ve been on this Sabbatical. I left my career. Love left my house. Having never really been alone, loneliness blanketed where I lived. Quiet became the language that I spoke.
Sustenance came from the most unlikely of places --- my children made certain that I ate; the Breakfast Club ensured that I was touched with love; Shirley would break into my house to force company. Stacy was relentless in sending me messages of love.
Roma of all people took long walks down the sidewalk with me with her old arm hung over my shoulder and just listen and nod. O Johnny demanded to know what was wrong and when I told him he just showed me friendship. Cheryl and Jodee were constantly letting me know that I always have a place to go.
And Johnny O and Judy rearranged their lives to take care of the one that I had which was in shambles.
And a dog licked my tears when I was immobile to do anything other than cry.
So I sat beloved back deck with that dog and several things happened. My dear friend Fran came back from the dead and reminded me of her thousand shades of green and all of the love that hides there. Goddess took to writing with me every morning my laying her head under my bare feet as I typed and it was …family. My friend Nancee at the Breakfast Club took to kissing me and giving me long hugs to chase the sadness away from the morning. Old friends from college made a pilgrimage to my house and laughter returned. An old partner returned and demanded to be a new partner.
Someone asked me yesterday what I’ve learned on this Sabbatical. There are several things. You notice more when you slow down --- the colors of the marsh, Fran’s thousands shades of green, how much a hug can mean, and the joy of laughter.
That it’s better to be honest because it takes too much energy to be something else. I’ve learned to be open to the things and people that come my way and to not chase things as much.
I’ve learned who my friends are. And I’ve really learned who they are not.
I’ve learned that it is ok to invest time and money in me because nobody else will. This is the only life I’ve got so while I’ve given a lot of it away to others it is fine and perfectly acceptable to give pieces of it to yourself. And that nobody … and I mean nobody … will give you permission to do that except you.
When you just stop and have only yourself …in the end …it is just yourself that you have anyway. It’s only you that you have influence over. Be open to what you want and need. Everybody else will deny you of these things and you are the only person who will allow you to follow your heart.
For the past couple of years my life was exposed to the world to do with what it wished. It wasn’t pretty and I lost a lot.
But then these things happened on this Sabbatical. And people who love me covered my ass when I couldn’t. And I love them.
And the most important thing that I’ve learned on this Sabbatical is …what love is.
And what it’s not.
Enough about my friend Dee!
It all started with my son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie. They showed up and that led to Fish Tacos at Café Loco which led to Roma and the Bored meeting which led to Bernie’s last night where Sam Adams and Gordo play damn good live music! Then it all got crazy. Typical Tybee!
Yet in the midst of all of this I am reminded that I live on an island. Goddess and I walk to Shirley’s sad little holy dock and it takes my breath away. I jog the beach and the joy of the ocean still makes me tingle with excitement as though I were still a little boy. The smell of the marsh (it smells like sex in the Tropics) makes my skin come alive and the breath that I inhale is pure, unadulterated love. And you take love where you find it and you hold onto it with everything that you have inside of you.
That’s Tybee.
Just a few months ago I would have never noticed these things. I was living a fast and famous life changing the way that the world dealt with homelessness, health care for the uninsured, treating the mentally ill and such. I never slowed down. I never stopped. It was all consuming and … in the end, it consumed my all.
For seven months now I’ve been on this Sabbatical. I left my career. Love left my house. Having never really been alone, loneliness blanketed where I lived. Quiet became the language that I spoke.
Sustenance came from the most unlikely of places --- my children made certain that I ate; the Breakfast Club ensured that I was touched with love; Shirley would break into my house to force company. Stacy was relentless in sending me messages of love.
Roma of all people took long walks down the sidewalk with me with her old arm hung over my shoulder and just listen and nod. O Johnny demanded to know what was wrong and when I told him he just showed me friendship. Cheryl and Jodee were constantly letting me know that I always have a place to go.
And Johnny O and Judy rearranged their lives to take care of the one that I had which was in shambles.
And a dog licked my tears when I was immobile to do anything other than cry.
So I sat beloved back deck with that dog and several things happened. My dear friend Fran came back from the dead and reminded me of her thousand shades of green and all of the love that hides there. Goddess took to writing with me every morning my laying her head under my bare feet as I typed and it was …family. My friend Nancee at the Breakfast Club took to kissing me and giving me long hugs to chase the sadness away from the morning. Old friends from college made a pilgrimage to my house and laughter returned. An old partner returned and demanded to be a new partner.
Someone asked me yesterday what I’ve learned on this Sabbatical. There are several things. You notice more when you slow down --- the colors of the marsh, Fran’s thousands shades of green, how much a hug can mean, and the joy of laughter.
That it’s better to be honest because it takes too much energy to be something else. I’ve learned to be open to the things and people that come my way and to not chase things as much.
I’ve learned who my friends are. And I’ve really learned who they are not.
I’ve learned that it is ok to invest time and money in me because nobody else will. This is the only life I’ve got so while I’ve given a lot of it away to others it is fine and perfectly acceptable to give pieces of it to yourself. And that nobody … and I mean nobody … will give you permission to do that except you.
When you just stop and have only yourself …in the end …it is just yourself that you have anyway. It’s only you that you have influence over. Be open to what you want and need. Everybody else will deny you of these things and you are the only person who will allow you to follow your heart.
For the past couple of years my life was exposed to the world to do with what it wished. It wasn’t pretty and I lost a lot.
But then these things happened on this Sabbatical. And people who love me covered my ass when I couldn’t. And I love them.
And the most important thing that I’ve learned on this Sabbatical is …what love is.
And what it’s not.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Salt Water Sand Spurs
“Well Bite me!” he exclaimed as they stared at the overheated van now parked on the side of the Interstate.
The Salt Island Sand Spurs were on their way to the airport to catch a plane to Dallas. They’d won a video competition to play in the first ever “Jimmy Bowl” a flag football competition to be played in the Dallas Cowboys Stadium. Now they were in danger of missing their flight because of the overheated van and they didn’t have any water.
After considering their options all six --- Paxton, Travis, Nick, Danny, Eric and Ryan --- took turns peeing in the radiator until it cooled down. They drove the van to the airport, parked, and would worry about getting back to Tybee Island later.
Once inside, Travis had lost a bet and had to carry Eric’s bag through Homeland Security’s check-in. The lone African-American of the group, tall, handsome with long dregs, he threw the suitcase on the belt for X-Ray. Of course it beeped, Travis was patted down and the suit case was opened for inspection.
Inside were women’s high heels, bras and panties, photographs of nude male models, and a can of spray paint to ensure inspection.
Welcome to humor on Tybee Island where I live.
“We’re a ragtag bunch of riffraff who wanna play football with some flags,” they sing in their video, though they’ve never actually played a game. They did shoot a funny video though which won them the national competition.
They all hang out at Huck-A-Poo’s on the island. It looks like a giant porch that happens to have a giant bar inside. Decorated with the best stuff you can find at a garage sale and giant flat screen televisions the pizza place is typical Tybee …trashy but with taste.
Given the island motto of “Any excuse for a party!” there had to be a pep rally to send the boys off. So it was held the other night and I went.
Forget about the Salt Island Sand Spurs! Let’s talk about Grayson. Grayson was the choreographer and lead dancer for the cheerleaders. The other two cheer leaders were incredibly hot in their University of Florida “jorts” and white tee shirts cut off just below the breasts.
Grayson? Not so much.
But they danced and did cheers until Travis couldn’t take it anymore and tackled Grayson pinning him to the ground. The crowd burst into applause.
Then there was this locker room video of the “team” getting “ready” for the game. The Jimmy Bowl is sponsored by Crown Royal so the biggest question was “What do you like with your Crown Royal?”
“Coffee,” was the answer.
So, if you’re not a fan of the Salt Water Sand Spurs, you will be soon.
Especially if you work for the federal penal system.
They do make you laugh.
And I must confess that they are my friends.
Go Salt Water Sand Spurs!
Grayson …not so much!
The Salt Island Sand Spurs were on their way to the airport to catch a plane to Dallas. They’d won a video competition to play in the first ever “Jimmy Bowl” a flag football competition to be played in the Dallas Cowboys Stadium. Now they were in danger of missing their flight because of the overheated van and they didn’t have any water.
After considering their options all six --- Paxton, Travis, Nick, Danny, Eric and Ryan --- took turns peeing in the radiator until it cooled down. They drove the van to the airport, parked, and would worry about getting back to Tybee Island later.
Once inside, Travis had lost a bet and had to carry Eric’s bag through Homeland Security’s check-in. The lone African-American of the group, tall, handsome with long dregs, he threw the suitcase on the belt for X-Ray. Of course it beeped, Travis was patted down and the suit case was opened for inspection.
Inside were women’s high heels, bras and panties, photographs of nude male models, and a can of spray paint to ensure inspection.
Welcome to humor on Tybee Island where I live.
“We’re a ragtag bunch of riffraff who wanna play football with some flags,” they sing in their video, though they’ve never actually played a game. They did shoot a funny video though which won them the national competition.
They all hang out at Huck-A-Poo’s on the island. It looks like a giant porch that happens to have a giant bar inside. Decorated with the best stuff you can find at a garage sale and giant flat screen televisions the pizza place is typical Tybee …trashy but with taste.
Given the island motto of “Any excuse for a party!” there had to be a pep rally to send the boys off. So it was held the other night and I went.
Forget about the Salt Island Sand Spurs! Let’s talk about Grayson. Grayson was the choreographer and lead dancer for the cheerleaders. The other two cheer leaders were incredibly hot in their University of Florida “jorts” and white tee shirts cut off just below the breasts.
Grayson? Not so much.
But they danced and did cheers until Travis couldn’t take it anymore and tackled Grayson pinning him to the ground. The crowd burst into applause.
Then there was this locker room video of the “team” getting “ready” for the game. The Jimmy Bowl is sponsored by Crown Royal so the biggest question was “What do you like with your Crown Royal?”
“Coffee,” was the answer.
So, if you’re not a fan of the Salt Water Sand Spurs, you will be soon.
Especially if you work for the federal penal system.
They do make you laugh.
And I must confess that they are my friends.
Go Salt Water Sand Spurs!
Grayson …not so much!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Quiet
It’s a rainy day and the air is full of moisture. Water rolls off of the Palm Trees and I sit in the red room of my house which has thirteen windows in it. There is a blue couch and a coffee table that holds my feet. Goddess is asleep on her bench beside me. The desk is cluttered with paper work that demands attention but is being ignored. It is a day to call in sick, stay in bed, read a book or just stare at the rain falling on the world.
The house is dark and I am content. Goddess is content too. There is no need to move. It is a time to simply be.
It is not cold so I have on running shorts and a long sleeve tee shirt. Music plays from the other room but it carries a silence with it somehow.
It is a time to take things in.
It is a time to recharge.
It is a time to be still.
It is prayerful.
So today I will embrace the quiet.
The house is dark and I am content. Goddess is content too. There is no need to move. It is a time to simply be.
It is not cold so I have on running shorts and a long sleeve tee shirt. Music plays from the other room but it carries a silence with it somehow.
It is a time to take things in.
It is a time to recharge.
It is a time to be still.
It is prayerful.
So today I will embrace the quiet.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Religious Discrimination (the St. Vincent's Father/Daughter Dance)
One of the glorious things about Face Book is that you can have wonderful international conversations in real time. Yesterday my daughter Chelsea who is in Italy and I instant messaged one another for catching one another up on things. She spent a couple of weeks with her fiancée Sam in London before making her way to Rome and today she lands in Cortona in northern Italy. She and Sam will meet when they can and dance across Europe.
The other day Chelsea posted on my Face Book page “Never saw the Pope. He apparently knew I was coming to confront him and was afraid. I tried to communicate with him telepathically but they must have some sort of block against that in the Vatican. He never admitted to rigging the Father-Daughter dance.”
Both Kristen and Chelsea attended St. Vincent’s Academy a Catholic girl’s school in Savannah. Neither are Catholic and when they’re asked to describe their religious beliefs they normally look lost for a while before answering, “You know who my Dad is right?”
They both made good grades for the most part except in religion class.
“What do you mean God can’t be a woman?” Kristen fired at the Priest one day. “Of course God can be a woman. It’s God for God’s sake! God can be anything God wants!”
The Priest called me that day to tell me how disruptive Kristen had been in class. After hearing him out I asked, “Father, do you have a point?”
It was like this for both as they fought their way through parochial education as my daughters.
The greatest sacrilege however was the St. Vincent’s annual Father/Daughter dance. I tore up the dance floor with my girls for eight years. We never won. Suspiciously it was always a Catholic that won. It only took us a couple of years to figure out religious discrimination.
So our dances grew wilder and better! We were determined to show them our liberal Protestant moves. I’d throw my girls all over the dance floor often knocking other Fathers and Daughters on their butts. Sister Pat, the academy’s Dictator, grew even more obstinate as she chose Catholic winner and Catholic winner.
Once Chelsea and I were diving in Key Largo, when she apologized because we’d never won the Father/Daughter dance competition though we were obviously the best on the floor. I explained religious persecution to her and she asked me why it happened.
“I dunno,” I answered, “Let’s call the Pope and ask him.”
So we dialed 1-800-VATICAN on my cell phone and it rang and rang but no one answered. Being the Pope and all I assume he knew why we were calling and didn’t want any part of owning up to it.
Hence Chelsea’s post when she visited the Vatican earlier this week determined to find the rascal who allows religious discrimination on the dance floor.
So I had to explain to my daughters that the world is not always just. Especially when it comes to religion! There is judgment of the worst kind. People are discriminated against because they are different. If you don’t fall into line you can get crucified.
But my daughters believe in truth. And the truth will set you free. And we kicked their asses on the dance floor.
And the Pope knows it!
The other day Chelsea posted on my Face Book page “Never saw the Pope. He apparently knew I was coming to confront him and was afraid. I tried to communicate with him telepathically but they must have some sort of block against that in the Vatican. He never admitted to rigging the Father-Daughter dance.”
Both Kristen and Chelsea attended St. Vincent’s Academy a Catholic girl’s school in Savannah. Neither are Catholic and when they’re asked to describe their religious beliefs they normally look lost for a while before answering, “You know who my Dad is right?”
They both made good grades for the most part except in religion class.
“What do you mean God can’t be a woman?” Kristen fired at the Priest one day. “Of course God can be a woman. It’s God for God’s sake! God can be anything God wants!”
The Priest called me that day to tell me how disruptive Kristen had been in class. After hearing him out I asked, “Father, do you have a point?”
It was like this for both as they fought their way through parochial education as my daughters.
The greatest sacrilege however was the St. Vincent’s annual Father/Daughter dance. I tore up the dance floor with my girls for eight years. We never won. Suspiciously it was always a Catholic that won. It only took us a couple of years to figure out religious discrimination.
So our dances grew wilder and better! We were determined to show them our liberal Protestant moves. I’d throw my girls all over the dance floor often knocking other Fathers and Daughters on their butts. Sister Pat, the academy’s Dictator, grew even more obstinate as she chose Catholic winner and Catholic winner.
Once Chelsea and I were diving in Key Largo, when she apologized because we’d never won the Father/Daughter dance competition though we were obviously the best on the floor. I explained religious persecution to her and she asked me why it happened.
“I dunno,” I answered, “Let’s call the Pope and ask him.”
So we dialed 1-800-VATICAN on my cell phone and it rang and rang but no one answered. Being the Pope and all I assume he knew why we were calling and didn’t want any part of owning up to it.
Hence Chelsea’s post when she visited the Vatican earlier this week determined to find the rascal who allows religious discrimination on the dance floor.
So I had to explain to my daughters that the world is not always just. Especially when it comes to religion! There is judgment of the worst kind. People are discriminated against because they are different. If you don’t fall into line you can get crucified.
But my daughters believe in truth. And the truth will set you free. And we kicked their asses on the dance floor.
And the Pope knows it!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Sea Glass
Surrounding the island of St. Martin are numerous other islands. Depending on which direction you look standing on Orient Beach you can see Anguilla, St. Barts, or Saba. Closer are the uninhabited islands of Green Cay, Tintamaree and Pinel.
About a half mile off shore I’ll often swim or snorkel to Green Cay. There’s not much there except a beach that comes and goes with the Trade Winds and lots of dead coral which is impossible to walk on without shoes. An old World War II radio tower is there as are boats that washed ashore. But the view of Orient Beach is fantastic and it is as quiet as it gets!
Pinel is cool as there are restaurants and private beaches where you can lose the laundry if you choose. It is a short boat ride and makes for a nice day with friends though it proved to be a bit too busy for me though I’m glad I went. Once!
Tintamaree is a longer boat ride away and it is uninhabited and I’ve had many, many adventures there. I watched a church organist play a muddy organ one day standing in the water with my friend Hugh. Conner once led an attack on the uninhabited island and returned wounded and defeated. On another day Conner and I had to save two people from drowning because they thought that they could swim. It is also the place where I learned about mud baths.
It’s a beautiful little island with Palm Trees, coral reefs, wild goats from an old farm, abandoned walls made out of stones mounted on top of one another, a long empty beach, and another wild one on the leeward side of the island. I’ve been perhaps 15 times and met some of my best friends in life on this trip.
Before I was “suddenly single” I was standing in the surf one day and we were looking for sea glass. People throw bottles off of boats and the ocean crushes them and the water rounds off the edges and they become smooth. Most are green because most of the beer in the Caribbean comes in green bottles. Anyway, in my house is this jar of sea glass. Above my kitchen sink on the window sill are two pieces that I collected on my last trip to Tintamaree.
When I go now, I’m the odd man out. There are all of these couples and I am dear friends with some and don’t really know the others. The first timers take off by themselves so that they can kiss or make love in broad daylight on a Caribbean island. Who can blame them?
The old timers raid the coolers.
Now I have this new routine. I slide off by myself (mainly cause there’s no one else to slide off with) and wade out into the surf and look for sea glass. Sometimes I’ll have my I-Pod and listen to sad music while I do this though many times I just let the sea sing its song. It’s not as easy as you think because the sand is so soft and the waves are constant and you see green and grab just a hand full of wet sand as quickly as you can. Half the time you come up with something and half the time you don’t.
I’ll spend an hour doing this by myself, lost in thought and in sun, sea, surf and sea glass. It is a holy worship experience. And the relics of this religion of lost love are all in a jar where they sparkle and shine. Two lonely pieces rests on the window sill, signifying that which was whole is now broken.
I pick one up and hold it between my fingers. It is smooth and nice to touch. It reminds me of warm --- water, air and hearts.
Then I think of things to come. And I smile and put the broken back in its place.
On a window sill that looks out at the past.
About a half mile off shore I’ll often swim or snorkel to Green Cay. There’s not much there except a beach that comes and goes with the Trade Winds and lots of dead coral which is impossible to walk on without shoes. An old World War II radio tower is there as are boats that washed ashore. But the view of Orient Beach is fantastic and it is as quiet as it gets!
Pinel is cool as there are restaurants and private beaches where you can lose the laundry if you choose. It is a short boat ride and makes for a nice day with friends though it proved to be a bit too busy for me though I’m glad I went. Once!
Tintamaree is a longer boat ride away and it is uninhabited and I’ve had many, many adventures there. I watched a church organist play a muddy organ one day standing in the water with my friend Hugh. Conner once led an attack on the uninhabited island and returned wounded and defeated. On another day Conner and I had to save two people from drowning because they thought that they could swim. It is also the place where I learned about mud baths.
It’s a beautiful little island with Palm Trees, coral reefs, wild goats from an old farm, abandoned walls made out of stones mounted on top of one another, a long empty beach, and another wild one on the leeward side of the island. I’ve been perhaps 15 times and met some of my best friends in life on this trip.
Before I was “suddenly single” I was standing in the surf one day and we were looking for sea glass. People throw bottles off of boats and the ocean crushes them and the water rounds off the edges and they become smooth. Most are green because most of the beer in the Caribbean comes in green bottles. Anyway, in my house is this jar of sea glass. Above my kitchen sink on the window sill are two pieces that I collected on my last trip to Tintamaree.
When I go now, I’m the odd man out. There are all of these couples and I am dear friends with some and don’t really know the others. The first timers take off by themselves so that they can kiss or make love in broad daylight on a Caribbean island. Who can blame them?
The old timers raid the coolers.
Now I have this new routine. I slide off by myself (mainly cause there’s no one else to slide off with) and wade out into the surf and look for sea glass. Sometimes I’ll have my I-Pod and listen to sad music while I do this though many times I just let the sea sing its song. It’s not as easy as you think because the sand is so soft and the waves are constant and you see green and grab just a hand full of wet sand as quickly as you can. Half the time you come up with something and half the time you don’t.
I’ll spend an hour doing this by myself, lost in thought and in sun, sea, surf and sea glass. It is a holy worship experience. And the relics of this religion of lost love are all in a jar where they sparkle and shine. Two lonely pieces rests on the window sill, signifying that which was whole is now broken.
I pick one up and hold it between my fingers. It is smooth and nice to touch. It reminds me of warm --- water, air and hearts.
Then I think of things to come. And I smile and put the broken back in its place.
On a window sill that looks out at the past.
Sea Glass
Surrounding the island of St. Martin are numerous other islands. Depending on which direction you look standing on Orient Beach you can see Anguilla, St. Barts, or Saba. Closer are the uninhabited islands of Green Cay, Tintamaree and Pinel.
About a half mile off shore I’ll often swim or snorkel to Green Cay. There’s not much there except a beach that comes and goes with the Trade Winds and lots of dead coral which is impossible to walk on without shoes. An old World War II radio tower is there as are boats that washed ashore. But the view of Orient Beach is fantastic and it is as quiet as it gets!
Pinel is cool as there are restaurants and private beaches where you can lose the laundry if you choose. It is a short boat ride and makes for a nice day with friends though it proved to be a bit too busy for me though I’m glad I went. Once!
Tintamaree is a longer boat ride away and it is uninhabited and I’ve had many, many adventures there. I watched a church organist play a muddy organ one day standing in the water with my friend Hugh. Conner once led an attack on the uninhabited island and returned wounded and defeated. On another day Conner and I had to save two people from drowning because they thought that they could swim. It is also the place where I learned about mud baths.
It’s a beautiful little island with Palm Trees, coral reefs, wild goats from an old farm, abandoned walls made out of stones mounted on top of one another, a long empty beach, and another wild one on the leeward side of the island. I’ve been perhaps 15 times and met some of my best friends in life on this trip.
Before I was “suddenly single” I was standing in the surf one day and we were looking for sea glass. People throw bottles off of boats and the ocean crushes them and the water rounds off the edges and they become smooth. Most are green because most of the beer in the Caribbean comes in green bottles. Anyway, in my house is this jar of sea glass. Above my kitchen sink on the window sill are two pieces that I collected on my last trip to Tintamaree.
When I go now, I’m the odd man out. There are all of these couples and I am dear friends with some and don’t really know the others. The first timers take off by themselves so that they can kiss or make love in broad daylight on a Caribbean island. Who can blame them?
The old timers raid the coolers.
Now I have this new routine. I slide off by myself (mainly cause there’s no one else to slide off with) and wade out into the surf and look for sea glass. Sometimes I’ll have my I-Pod and listen to sad music while I do this though many times I just let the sea sing its song. It’s not as easy as you think because the sand is so soft and the waves are constant and you see green and grab just a hand full of wet sand as quickly as you can. Half the time you come up with something and half the time you don’t.
I’ll spend an hour doing this by myself, lost in thought and in sun, sea, surf and sea glass. It is a holy worship experience. And the relics of this religion of lost love are all in a jar where they sparkle and shine. Two lonely pieces rests on the window sill, signifying that which was whole is now broken.
I pick one up and hold it between my fingers. It is smooth and nice to touch. It reminds me of warm --- water, air and hearts.
Then I think of things to come. And I smile and put the broken back in its place.
On a window sill that looks out at the past.
About a half mile off shore I’ll often swim or snorkel to Green Cay. There’s not much there except a beach that comes and goes with the Trade Winds and lots of dead coral which is impossible to walk on without shoes. An old World War II radio tower is there as are boats that washed ashore. But the view of Orient Beach is fantastic and it is as quiet as it gets!
Pinel is cool as there are restaurants and private beaches where you can lose the laundry if you choose. It is a short boat ride and makes for a nice day with friends though it proved to be a bit too busy for me though I’m glad I went. Once!
Tintamaree is a longer boat ride away and it is uninhabited and I’ve had many, many adventures there. I watched a church organist play a muddy organ one day standing in the water with my friend Hugh. Conner once led an attack on the uninhabited island and returned wounded and defeated. On another day Conner and I had to save two people from drowning because they thought that they could swim. It is also the place where I learned about mud baths.
It’s a beautiful little island with Palm Trees, coral reefs, wild goats from an old farm, abandoned walls made out of stones mounted on top of one another, a long empty beach, and another wild one on the leeward side of the island. I’ve been perhaps 15 times and met some of my best friends in life on this trip.
Before I was “suddenly single” I was standing in the surf one day and we were looking for sea glass. People throw bottles off of boats and the ocean crushes them and the water rounds off the edges and they become smooth. Most are green because most of the beer in the Caribbean comes in green bottles. Anyway, in my house is this jar of sea glass. Above my kitchen sink on the window sill are two pieces that I collected on my last trip to Tintamaree.
When I go now, I’m the odd man out. There are all of these couples and I am dear friends with some and don’t really know the others. The first timers take off by themselves so that they can kiss or make love in broad daylight on a Caribbean island. Who can blame them?
The old timers raid the coolers.
Now I have this new routine. I slide off by myself (mainly cause there’s no one else to slide off with) and wade out into the surf and look for sea glass. Sometimes I’ll have my I-Pod and listen to sad music while I do this though many times I just let the sea sing its song. It’s not as easy as you think because the sand is so soft and the waves are constant and you see green and grab just a hand full of wet sand as quickly as you can. Half the time you come up with something and half the time you don’t.
I’ll spend an hour doing this by myself, lost in thought and in sun, sea, surf and sea glass. It is a holy worship experience. And the relics of this religion of lost love are all in a jar where they sparkle and shine. Two lonely pieces rests on the window sill, signifying that which was whole is now broken.
I pick one up and hold it between my fingers. It is smooth and nice to touch. It reminds me of warm --- water, air and hearts.
Then I think of things to come. And I smile and put the broken back in its place.
On a window sill that looks out at the past.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Waiting for Dreams (the Super Bowl)
I should have gone out last night. I didn’t and that ended up being a mistake. Throughout the holidays I took great care to be proactive and have ample distractions even when things didn’t go as planned. These were the first holidays that I had to live through since becoming “Suddenly Single” as my friend Bill put it.
Thanksgiving was this progressive series of celebrations beginning with my family, then my extended family at the Breakfast Club and finally at Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting party. It started slow and a bit depressed but picked up steam and laughter as the day went on and I ended up having a good time.
Christmas was in St. Martin where warm sunshine, aqua-blue waters, and Caribbean and Canadian friends kept me preoccupied. There were a few hours on Christmas Day where I struggled to not miss the family that I was once a part. It ended in a Villa with a hodge-podge of people including my ten year old friend Lucas who became permanently attached to my arm throughout the evening. He and I laughed like kids on Christmas.
An expired Passport forced me back to Tybee Island for New Year’s where I was promptly kidnapped by my Carnival of friends for the night. It started at Bernie’s listening to Sam and Gordon, moved to Fannies where I evidently walked out without paying and ended at Huck-a-poo’s on the far end of the island. I had to walk home that night at about four in the morning. Goddess woke me up licking my face at 11:00.
Martin Luther King Day was spent mostly at Fannies again with the members of the Bored. It was a good day though I don’t recall what we did other than have a Bored meeting which largely consists of nothing other than celebrating life on Tybee and our incredible collective wit.
I forgot that the Super Bowl is a national holiday and I failed to prepare for it. Last year in the depth of depression and loss, Stacy Jennings was my distraction. I love Stacy as much as I love anybody and her Saints of New Orleans were rolling magic and she was on top of the world. So I pulled for her pulling for the Saints and it all worked out though I don’t recall last year’s game at all. Other than Ryan Sadowski made me throw away more money on the Breakfast Club Super Bowl board like he did again this year.
Yesterday began well enough. I was with my mates at the Breakfast Club and we all make one another laugh which is a great way to start the day. Then I ran, walked Goddess, wrote and went to Bar Church where none other than the world’s most famous heathen was to “bring the word”.
It was hard not to get excited!
And Johnny O brought the house down! He got a standing ovation when he said that Bar Church is real church and those other churches on the island are “full of crap”.
Now that’s preaching!
Then it was time to get ready for the Super Bowl. My friend Philip from the Breakfast Club was having a party at his house and I was invited. But I told myself to stay home, enjoy the game, and rub Goddess’ butt. It sounded cozy.
It ended up being hell.
While the rest of the world celebrated or cussed (depending on their team) I felt … alone. Goddess did her best but my hands were raw from rubbing her butt. I spend a lot of time in Pittsburgh and love that city (especially the hot tub!) and Hines Ward plays for the Steelers (Go Dawgs!) so that was who I was pulling for but … I really didn’t care.
I tried to do other things. Jumping on-line I tried to buy tickets for a trip to St. Martin with Conner but everyone at Delta was watching the Super Bowl so nobody was ready when I was. My daughter Chelsea is in Italy so I tried to book tickets but … nobody was working. It’s a national holiday.
I tried to find what I needed to accomplish these things but I evidently lost them in the divorce. So frustration mounted. I should have given Goddess a treat at this moment and driven to Phil’s which is only a few blocks away. But I can be hard headed and try too hard. So I kept at it. Cussing louder and louder as the evening progressed. The intensity built and I grew … PISSED!
Then I just collapsed on the sofa and stared at the silhouettes of Palm Trees out of the windows. Sadness filled the room. Goddess tried again but I had nothing for her. The game was on but I wasn’t watching. The Palm Trees danced in the moist wind.
I sat there for a long time like that. Then came this message from nowhere of the promise of dreams of things to come. So I went to bed. And laid there waiting for those dreams.
Thanksgiving was this progressive series of celebrations beginning with my family, then my extended family at the Breakfast Club and finally at Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting party. It started slow and a bit depressed but picked up steam and laughter as the day went on and I ended up having a good time.
Christmas was in St. Martin where warm sunshine, aqua-blue waters, and Caribbean and Canadian friends kept me preoccupied. There were a few hours on Christmas Day where I struggled to not miss the family that I was once a part. It ended in a Villa with a hodge-podge of people including my ten year old friend Lucas who became permanently attached to my arm throughout the evening. He and I laughed like kids on Christmas.
An expired Passport forced me back to Tybee Island for New Year’s where I was promptly kidnapped by my Carnival of friends for the night. It started at Bernie’s listening to Sam and Gordon, moved to Fannies where I evidently walked out without paying and ended at Huck-a-poo’s on the far end of the island. I had to walk home that night at about four in the morning. Goddess woke me up licking my face at 11:00.
Martin Luther King Day was spent mostly at Fannies again with the members of the Bored. It was a good day though I don’t recall what we did other than have a Bored meeting which largely consists of nothing other than celebrating life on Tybee and our incredible collective wit.
I forgot that the Super Bowl is a national holiday and I failed to prepare for it. Last year in the depth of depression and loss, Stacy Jennings was my distraction. I love Stacy as much as I love anybody and her Saints of New Orleans were rolling magic and she was on top of the world. So I pulled for her pulling for the Saints and it all worked out though I don’t recall last year’s game at all. Other than Ryan Sadowski made me throw away more money on the Breakfast Club Super Bowl board like he did again this year.
Yesterday began well enough. I was with my mates at the Breakfast Club and we all make one another laugh which is a great way to start the day. Then I ran, walked Goddess, wrote and went to Bar Church where none other than the world’s most famous heathen was to “bring the word”.
It was hard not to get excited!
And Johnny O brought the house down! He got a standing ovation when he said that Bar Church is real church and those other churches on the island are “full of crap”.
Now that’s preaching!
Then it was time to get ready for the Super Bowl. My friend Philip from the Breakfast Club was having a party at his house and I was invited. But I told myself to stay home, enjoy the game, and rub Goddess’ butt. It sounded cozy.
It ended up being hell.
While the rest of the world celebrated or cussed (depending on their team) I felt … alone. Goddess did her best but my hands were raw from rubbing her butt. I spend a lot of time in Pittsburgh and love that city (especially the hot tub!) and Hines Ward plays for the Steelers (Go Dawgs!) so that was who I was pulling for but … I really didn’t care.
I tried to do other things. Jumping on-line I tried to buy tickets for a trip to St. Martin with Conner but everyone at Delta was watching the Super Bowl so nobody was ready when I was. My daughter Chelsea is in Italy so I tried to book tickets but … nobody was working. It’s a national holiday.
I tried to find what I needed to accomplish these things but I evidently lost them in the divorce. So frustration mounted. I should have given Goddess a treat at this moment and driven to Phil’s which is only a few blocks away. But I can be hard headed and try too hard. So I kept at it. Cussing louder and louder as the evening progressed. The intensity built and I grew … PISSED!
Then I just collapsed on the sofa and stared at the silhouettes of Palm Trees out of the windows. Sadness filled the room. Goddess tried again but I had nothing for her. The game was on but I wasn’t watching. The Palm Trees danced in the moist wind.
I sat there for a long time like that. Then came this message from nowhere of the promise of dreams of things to come. So I went to bed. And laid there waiting for those dreams.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Preaching Class
This is a seminary story. I know. I’m sorry. It’s Guy Sayles fault. He’s the one who called me and told me to come. I’ve never not listened to Guy so I went; though he’s never recovered. He’s fled across the nation trying to find a church to pastor that didn’t know about me. Alas most found out and he’s had to move a dozen times. I really hope the people at First Baptist Church of Ashville, N.C. don’t read this.
Regardless of that it was “Preaching” class. We were all supposed to stand up in front of some old white guy in a suit with a “Dairy Queen” swirl top haircut, and … well … preach.
My friend Greg went first. He was nervous because he never wore socks and the old white guy professor was a big believer in socks; especially if you’re sitting in the pulpit. It would be downright un-Godly if a “Man of God” (no women at the Seminary I went to) were to sit and face the Congregation without socks. He actually lectured on this once. I think Greg skipped that day because he didn’t wear socks on the day he was to preach.
He did try to impress the Professor with the Dairy Queen haircut by speaking in Greek to begin his sermon. It was the words that Jesus cried from the cross. “My God, My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?”
God forsook Greg.
It was bad.
And without the socks …well…he was toast.
Next was Cin, who is now famous. While Southern Baptist didn’t believe in women, I did. She was the Associate minister at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel of which I was inexplicably in charge. I hired her for many reasons but one was the Southern Baptist Convention said that women couldn’t be ministers while God was calling them left and right. I went with God on this one.
Cin had large breasts which means she was a goner as a Southern Baptist minister. That had nothing to do with why I hired her. She was smarter than me, a better preacher, believed Baptist stuff more than I did, and never wore socks (panty hose but not socks…now that I think about it I wonder if the Professor had a thing for panty hose).
Anyway, Cin got up and blew the class away.
The Professor …not so much. She was a woman and Southern Baptist do not believe in women so I think that she got a “DD” as a grade.
Then it was my turn. To be honest I was already in major trouble with the Seminary and Guy had long ceased speaking to me in public. As a matter of fact an attorney was representing me against the Southern Baptist so that I could get my degree. He wore socks. I felt pretty good about it.
But in Preaching class I stood up that day after Greg and Cin. I stared at my classmates and the Dairy Queen hair cut professor and the Baptist Police outside of the door because we were in litigation with one another.
Then it was time to begin quoting the text. I opted for the Boss instead of the Bible and I started singing.
“I got a wife and kids in Baltimore jack, I went out for a ride and I never went back.”
“Like a river that don’t know where it’s flowing, I took a wrong turn and I just kept going.”
The class started clapping as I sang.
I started dancing behind the pulpit.
The class started singing with me.
“Everybody wants a place to rest. Everybody wants to have a home. Don’t make no difference what nobody says, everybody wants to have a home.”
It was all about the homeless who I lived and worked with. This was their moment in Seminary.
I was clapping and singing with the class. Several got up and danced with me including Cin with her large breasts bouncing and the Dairy Queen Professor couldn’t watch because that was a major sin so he concentrated on his socks. Greg was speaking in tongues. The rest of us were dancing and slapping hands. I think my attorney was even smiling.
I made a “D”. I’m not sure why I didn’t fail. Maybe because I was the only student in Preaching class with an attorney.
So … that is how I learned to preach.
You can’t it up.
Hallelujah!!!!
Oh…and pull your socks up.
Regardless of that it was “Preaching” class. We were all supposed to stand up in front of some old white guy in a suit with a “Dairy Queen” swirl top haircut, and … well … preach.
My friend Greg went first. He was nervous because he never wore socks and the old white guy professor was a big believer in socks; especially if you’re sitting in the pulpit. It would be downright un-Godly if a “Man of God” (no women at the Seminary I went to) were to sit and face the Congregation without socks. He actually lectured on this once. I think Greg skipped that day because he didn’t wear socks on the day he was to preach.
He did try to impress the Professor with the Dairy Queen haircut by speaking in Greek to begin his sermon. It was the words that Jesus cried from the cross. “My God, My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?”
God forsook Greg.
It was bad.
And without the socks …well…he was toast.
Next was Cin, who is now famous. While Southern Baptist didn’t believe in women, I did. She was the Associate minister at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel of which I was inexplicably in charge. I hired her for many reasons but one was the Southern Baptist Convention said that women couldn’t be ministers while God was calling them left and right. I went with God on this one.
Cin had large breasts which means she was a goner as a Southern Baptist minister. That had nothing to do with why I hired her. She was smarter than me, a better preacher, believed Baptist stuff more than I did, and never wore socks (panty hose but not socks…now that I think about it I wonder if the Professor had a thing for panty hose).
Anyway, Cin got up and blew the class away.
The Professor …not so much. She was a woman and Southern Baptist do not believe in women so I think that she got a “DD” as a grade.
Then it was my turn. To be honest I was already in major trouble with the Seminary and Guy had long ceased speaking to me in public. As a matter of fact an attorney was representing me against the Southern Baptist so that I could get my degree. He wore socks. I felt pretty good about it.
But in Preaching class I stood up that day after Greg and Cin. I stared at my classmates and the Dairy Queen hair cut professor and the Baptist Police outside of the door because we were in litigation with one another.
Then it was time to begin quoting the text. I opted for the Boss instead of the Bible and I started singing.
“I got a wife and kids in Baltimore jack, I went out for a ride and I never went back.”
“Like a river that don’t know where it’s flowing, I took a wrong turn and I just kept going.”
The class started clapping as I sang.
I started dancing behind the pulpit.
The class started singing with me.
“Everybody wants a place to rest. Everybody wants to have a home. Don’t make no difference what nobody says, everybody wants to have a home.”
It was all about the homeless who I lived and worked with. This was their moment in Seminary.
I was clapping and singing with the class. Several got up and danced with me including Cin with her large breasts bouncing and the Dairy Queen Professor couldn’t watch because that was a major sin so he concentrated on his socks. Greg was speaking in tongues. The rest of us were dancing and slapping hands. I think my attorney was even smiling.
I made a “D”. I’m not sure why I didn’t fail. Maybe because I was the only student in Preaching class with an attorney.
So … that is how I learned to preach.
You can’t it up.
Hallelujah!!!!
Oh…and pull your socks up.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Mud Puddles
(OK! Sometimes I break my own rules. I mean if you’re going to break other people’s rules then you need to be honest about it and break your own sometimes. Today’s one of those days. Things happened that were more important than rules. I stepped out of the routine, I was with people that I’m not with enough, and my daughter ran with me for the first time since she was in High School. So here is today’s musing. Six and a half hours behind schedule. Who cares? I had a wonderful six and a half hours!)
I ran the 5 K in the Tybee Race today, an annual celebration of runners with the choice of a Marathon (26.2 Miles), Half-Marathon (13.1 Miles) and 5 K (3 ½ Miles for the not-so stupid runner who want to hit the bear tent first!).
(I wonder who came up with this distance. 26.2 Miles? How random is that? “Honey, run to the store and get me cigarettes.” This was in ancient times so running to the store really meant running to the store. The store happened to be 26.2 Miles. That is how Marathons were born!)
It is a mass of spandex, running shorts, sweat, spit, Power-Aid, paper cups littering the road and by-standers either cheering or watching in silence. There is a lot to see. It really is fun to do and also to watch.
Surrounded by friends and stunned that my daughter Kristen showed up to run (she hasn’t run since High School and that’s been a while) after words of instruction, encouragement from Dale Critz the sponsor and the longest version of the “Star Spangled Banner” in the history of live music, we were told get ready!
Then we were off!
Meaning everybody kind of ran in place or walked until we were a mile into the 5K when the crowd thinned out. That is when Kristen showed up wearing a rain coat. It didn’t seem to bother her as she ran along beside us. Her friend Sterling was with her and he is a serious runner, also wearing a rain coat, and determined to show how fast he is. Meaning he ran like ten yards in front of us.
Did I mention it was raining?
It poured then it stopped and then it poured some more. Mud puddles were everywhere. Now most people do not like mud puddles. Especially old people! They are afraid that they might slip and fall in them and break a brittle bone.
Vane people don’t like them either! The clothes that they are wearing might be splattered with mud and we all know “It is more important to look good than it is to feel good!”
But there was this kid in front of us. Perhaps twelve, he didn’t see a mud puddle that he didn’t love. He stomped into the water, danced through the puddle and had it all over him. He was a joy to watch!
“If I were closer to the finish I would do that,” my friend told me.
That made me want a mud puddle at that moment! Wouldn’t you know it? There were no real good ones until the end of the race. Though later, my friend did this spectacular ballerina leap across one landing in the middle of it. If it had been an Olympic competition the score would have been:
Technique – 10
Distance – 6
Height – 0
Anyway, I like mud puddles. Goddess loves them passionately! She loves to walk through the middle of them, dragging her tongue through the water and shaking her coat to throw off the wetness every once in a while.
After the race, the rain, and crowd, Goddess and I took a walk. She ran through every puddle that she saw. Happy and full of joy! And I thought of that twelve year old boy running and stomping into every one he encountered.
Joy can be found in the wet, dirty places as much as anywhere else. I wonder why we spend so much time ignoring them. We want perfection. We want sanitized. We want Fairy Tales. What’s wrong with mud? And life’s not always that clean.
According to my friends Mitch and Mary Ann it is the dark, wet dreary places where life and love is born. That makes me smile.
So the next mud puddle, Goddess is lapping and focused when I stomp my feet in it and splash her. She jumps to the moon and back. I laugh as much as I’ve laughed in a long time. A happy heartfelt laugh! Which brought tears to me eyes.
And I said of prayer of thanksgiving in February.
For mud puddles.
Where life and love are conceived.
I ran the 5 K in the Tybee Race today, an annual celebration of runners with the choice of a Marathon (26.2 Miles), Half-Marathon (13.1 Miles) and 5 K (3 ½ Miles for the not-so stupid runner who want to hit the bear tent first!).
(I wonder who came up with this distance. 26.2 Miles? How random is that? “Honey, run to the store and get me cigarettes.” This was in ancient times so running to the store really meant running to the store. The store happened to be 26.2 Miles. That is how Marathons were born!)
It is a mass of spandex, running shorts, sweat, spit, Power-Aid, paper cups littering the road and by-standers either cheering or watching in silence. There is a lot to see. It really is fun to do and also to watch.
Surrounded by friends and stunned that my daughter Kristen showed up to run (she hasn’t run since High School and that’s been a while) after words of instruction, encouragement from Dale Critz the sponsor and the longest version of the “Star Spangled Banner” in the history of live music, we were told get ready!
Then we were off!
Meaning everybody kind of ran in place or walked until we were a mile into the 5K when the crowd thinned out. That is when Kristen showed up wearing a rain coat. It didn’t seem to bother her as she ran along beside us. Her friend Sterling was with her and he is a serious runner, also wearing a rain coat, and determined to show how fast he is. Meaning he ran like ten yards in front of us.
Did I mention it was raining?
It poured then it stopped and then it poured some more. Mud puddles were everywhere. Now most people do not like mud puddles. Especially old people! They are afraid that they might slip and fall in them and break a brittle bone.
Vane people don’t like them either! The clothes that they are wearing might be splattered with mud and we all know “It is more important to look good than it is to feel good!”
But there was this kid in front of us. Perhaps twelve, he didn’t see a mud puddle that he didn’t love. He stomped into the water, danced through the puddle and had it all over him. He was a joy to watch!
“If I were closer to the finish I would do that,” my friend told me.
That made me want a mud puddle at that moment! Wouldn’t you know it? There were no real good ones until the end of the race. Though later, my friend did this spectacular ballerina leap across one landing in the middle of it. If it had been an Olympic competition the score would have been:
Technique – 10
Distance – 6
Height – 0
Anyway, I like mud puddles. Goddess loves them passionately! She loves to walk through the middle of them, dragging her tongue through the water and shaking her coat to throw off the wetness every once in a while.
After the race, the rain, and crowd, Goddess and I took a walk. She ran through every puddle that she saw. Happy and full of joy! And I thought of that twelve year old boy running and stomping into every one he encountered.
Joy can be found in the wet, dirty places as much as anywhere else. I wonder why we spend so much time ignoring them. We want perfection. We want sanitized. We want Fairy Tales. What’s wrong with mud? And life’s not always that clean.
According to my friends Mitch and Mary Ann it is the dark, wet dreary places where life and love is born. That makes me smile.
So the next mud puddle, Goddess is lapping and focused when I stomp my feet in it and splash her. She jumps to the moon and back. I laugh as much as I’ve laughed in a long time. A happy heartfelt laugh! Which brought tears to me eyes.
And I said of prayer of thanksgiving in February.
For mud puddles.
Where life and love are conceived.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Breakfast Meetings
After leaving the Breakfast Club I drove to Larry’s Restaurant to have coffee with Herb McKenzie. I’ve known Herb for perhaps twenty years and for the past 14 he was one of my Board members at Union Mission and Chairman until he was replaced some nameless guy. Regardless Herb and I remain dear friends and in touch with one another.
I’ve been incognito (unless you happen to be on Tybee where I am the “Rev” and a member of “The Bored” and the Chaplain of the Breakfast Club; or you happen to be most anywhere else in the country where I’m an expert on ending homelessness, establishing health care programs for the uninsured, and a lot of other things) in Savannah for the past six months and rarely go into the city.
The main reason is that I’ve been on Sabbatical and after 31 years of taking care of everybody else, I’m now taking care of me. Herb has a very difficult time with this concept and said as much. “Straight ahead,” he told me for the hundredth time and I told him if he said it again I would hit him.
“We’re from different generations,” he said sighed slumping his shoulders.
I’ve also laid low out of respect for Francis Carter who was my last hire at Union Mission so that she doesn’t have me as a distraction as she establishes herself. I love the place far too much to not respect whatever the next incarnation is going to be.
I see my friend former Mayor Floyd Adams and interrupt his conversation. He is holding court with a table full of white people.
“Hey Stormin’ Norman,” he says. Floyd called me this in front of City Council one time because of my tenacity. We’ve been good friends a long time.
“Where you been,” he asked? “When we going to lunch?”
“Soon,” I replied smiling.”
He is now a member of the School Board when he should be a state legislator. I like Floyd a lot and he was good for my work and was the “City’s Mayor” attending Confederate Memorial Day Services even though he is black. It’s hard not to love Floyd.
Herb doesn’t care for politics save for the Chatham County Commission these days so he asks who Floyd is. “My friend,” I tell him.
Then we talked about Union Mission for a bit, what I’m doing and finally what I plan to do.
Before we got too far, Steph, Jay and their kids stopped by the table. “You look good,” they said.
I smiled and was glad to see them. They had a relative we’d helped. Mentally ill, he had lived a hard life. We got him into Grace House after she came to see me crying one day in my office. He did well and was the most stable he’d ever been in his life. But Union Mission kicked him out for not following all of the rules to the letter (see above reference to nameless Board Chairman). He disappeared leaving a very hopeful family in tears. They thanked me for my efforts. I wiped my eyes (this paragraph is dedicated to Letita).
“You pump up with energy when people come by,” Herb commented.
“It’s all about them Herb,” I replied. “That is what the work is.”
So we finished our conversation. My I-phone kept buzzing because some woman on my Twitter had decided to take picture of her boobs and send them to me. You don’t get that every day on you I-phone so it makes you pause. I must have groupies.
Larry Corey, “the Larry” of Larry’s Restaurant, came by to say hello. For years he kept a bucket beside the cash register asking customers to donate their change to Union Mission. It was several thousand dollars a year. He’s been a good friend.
Then I had a lunch meeting to learn about marketing what is next for me.
Then I rushed back to the safe Sabbatical confines of the beloved back deck, the Breakfast Club, Goddess, the Bored meeting and Shirley’s sad little holy dock. The afternoon was filled with phone calls from across the country where I’m still somebody.
A prophet is not honored in his home town. Doesn’t it say that in the Bible?
Then it started raining. And none of this mattered. I spent the better part of the evening looking for my rain boots. They are here somewhere. I need to put my put my hands on them. Now! It’s raining!!!
Then my I-pod buzzed and it was Twitter.
I’ve been incognito (unless you happen to be on Tybee where I am the “Rev” and a member of “The Bored” and the Chaplain of the Breakfast Club; or you happen to be most anywhere else in the country where I’m an expert on ending homelessness, establishing health care programs for the uninsured, and a lot of other things) in Savannah for the past six months and rarely go into the city.
The main reason is that I’ve been on Sabbatical and after 31 years of taking care of everybody else, I’m now taking care of me. Herb has a very difficult time with this concept and said as much. “Straight ahead,” he told me for the hundredth time and I told him if he said it again I would hit him.
“We’re from different generations,” he said sighed slumping his shoulders.
I’ve also laid low out of respect for Francis Carter who was my last hire at Union Mission so that she doesn’t have me as a distraction as she establishes herself. I love the place far too much to not respect whatever the next incarnation is going to be.
I see my friend former Mayor Floyd Adams and interrupt his conversation. He is holding court with a table full of white people.
“Hey Stormin’ Norman,” he says. Floyd called me this in front of City Council one time because of my tenacity. We’ve been good friends a long time.
“Where you been,” he asked? “When we going to lunch?”
“Soon,” I replied smiling.”
He is now a member of the School Board when he should be a state legislator. I like Floyd a lot and he was good for my work and was the “City’s Mayor” attending Confederate Memorial Day Services even though he is black. It’s hard not to love Floyd.
Herb doesn’t care for politics save for the Chatham County Commission these days so he asks who Floyd is. “My friend,” I tell him.
Then we talked about Union Mission for a bit, what I’m doing and finally what I plan to do.
Before we got too far, Steph, Jay and their kids stopped by the table. “You look good,” they said.
I smiled and was glad to see them. They had a relative we’d helped. Mentally ill, he had lived a hard life. We got him into Grace House after she came to see me crying one day in my office. He did well and was the most stable he’d ever been in his life. But Union Mission kicked him out for not following all of the rules to the letter (see above reference to nameless Board Chairman). He disappeared leaving a very hopeful family in tears. They thanked me for my efforts. I wiped my eyes (this paragraph is dedicated to Letita).
“You pump up with energy when people come by,” Herb commented.
“It’s all about them Herb,” I replied. “That is what the work is.”
So we finished our conversation. My I-phone kept buzzing because some woman on my Twitter had decided to take picture of her boobs and send them to me. You don’t get that every day on you I-phone so it makes you pause. I must have groupies.
Larry Corey, “the Larry” of Larry’s Restaurant, came by to say hello. For years he kept a bucket beside the cash register asking customers to donate their change to Union Mission. It was several thousand dollars a year. He’s been a good friend.
Then I had a lunch meeting to learn about marketing what is next for me.
Then I rushed back to the safe Sabbatical confines of the beloved back deck, the Breakfast Club, Goddess, the Bored meeting and Shirley’s sad little holy dock. The afternoon was filled with phone calls from across the country where I’m still somebody.
A prophet is not honored in his home town. Doesn’t it say that in the Bible?
Then it started raining. And none of this mattered. I spent the better part of the evening looking for my rain boots. They are here somewhere. I need to put my put my hands on them. Now! It’s raining!!!
Then my I-pod buzzed and it was Twitter.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Faith
Sitting in the conference room in the Marriott at George W. Bush International in Houston, I was chairing a Board meeting of people working to redefine health care. It is a critical issue at a critical time and we’ve got some compelling stuff.
I introduced a woman we had contracted with to assist with of the details of our efforts which are many. She is a nationally known consultant, is attractive, and appeared to be the epitome of professionalism. So I said some nice things about her and how fortunate we were to have her helping us. Then it was her turn.
Twelve eyes stared. Three sets of ears on the speaker phone stained to hear what she had to say. There was this pregnant pause as we waited.
And she burped.
I should have taken it as a sign I suppose. I mean I’ve got nothing against burps and do it myself from time to time. This was the first time in my career that I’ve ever seen a presentation start with one. It did get our attention.
“Excuse me,” she said and then rushed onto explaining chart number one to us. She took the approach that if you pretend it didn’t happen then nobody would notice. Each of us grabbed chart number one and poured over it and within seconds it was as though her burp had never happened. Though I was seated next to her and it lingered there for a bit so I knew.
We spend four hours working through complicated issues against a political landscape. It was grueling. Then we retreated to the bar and continued talking about these things in a more informal manner. Finally we all went to dinner together and the conversation grew serious again.
Afterwards we were all walking to the hotel elevator to collapse into our beds when she said, “I can’t take anymore. This is just too much to process.”
So yesterday I’m sunning on my beloved back deck. Van Morrison is explaining what it would be like if I was into the mystic. The phone rings and I answer.
“It sounds like you’re having a party,” she said.
The music was loud coming from my ear buds. I turned off the I-pod and asked her what was up. And she resigned. It was all just too much for her; too complicated; too political; too many large personalities; and too ambitious. I think that it was the burp that was the first indication of all of this.
Immediately I had eight phone calls to make to the people with us in Houston. Aside from a brief break, I worked the phones. Ideas are bigger than people. And if you believe in them you don’t stop just because someone burps in the middle of grand design.
Throughout my career I learned that faith in an idea plus persistence equals success. Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel would have never overcome impossible discriminatory Southern Baptist odds without such a conviction. And Union Mission would still be a little tiny homeless shelter (which is what its fast becoming again. Hi Francis!) if we hadn’t made it into a major company with a diverse portfolio.
Sure, I had my share of burps in my face (the worst are from elected officials) and every kind of obstacle and barrier was thrown in the way of just about everything that we tried. But we kept trying. We had faith.
“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Out of that came Union Mission. And out of it will come this redefinition of health care. Of course it is not just me with the faith but eight other people who believe.
Jesus and 12 others (11 if you discount Judas) changed the world. Eight others and me believe that we can change a country.
In spite of burps in our face, I like our odds (Thank you Kermit Lord!).
I introduced a woman we had contracted with to assist with of the details of our efforts which are many. She is a nationally known consultant, is attractive, and appeared to be the epitome of professionalism. So I said some nice things about her and how fortunate we were to have her helping us. Then it was her turn.
Twelve eyes stared. Three sets of ears on the speaker phone stained to hear what she had to say. There was this pregnant pause as we waited.
And she burped.
I should have taken it as a sign I suppose. I mean I’ve got nothing against burps and do it myself from time to time. This was the first time in my career that I’ve ever seen a presentation start with one. It did get our attention.
“Excuse me,” she said and then rushed onto explaining chart number one to us. She took the approach that if you pretend it didn’t happen then nobody would notice. Each of us grabbed chart number one and poured over it and within seconds it was as though her burp had never happened. Though I was seated next to her and it lingered there for a bit so I knew.
We spend four hours working through complicated issues against a political landscape. It was grueling. Then we retreated to the bar and continued talking about these things in a more informal manner. Finally we all went to dinner together and the conversation grew serious again.
Afterwards we were all walking to the hotel elevator to collapse into our beds when she said, “I can’t take anymore. This is just too much to process.”
So yesterday I’m sunning on my beloved back deck. Van Morrison is explaining what it would be like if I was into the mystic. The phone rings and I answer.
“It sounds like you’re having a party,” she said.
The music was loud coming from my ear buds. I turned off the I-pod and asked her what was up. And she resigned. It was all just too much for her; too complicated; too political; too many large personalities; and too ambitious. I think that it was the burp that was the first indication of all of this.
Immediately I had eight phone calls to make to the people with us in Houston. Aside from a brief break, I worked the phones. Ideas are bigger than people. And if you believe in them you don’t stop just because someone burps in the middle of grand design.
Throughout my career I learned that faith in an idea plus persistence equals success. Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel would have never overcome impossible discriminatory Southern Baptist odds without such a conviction. And Union Mission would still be a little tiny homeless shelter (which is what its fast becoming again. Hi Francis!) if we hadn’t made it into a major company with a diverse portfolio.
Sure, I had my share of burps in my face (the worst are from elected officials) and every kind of obstacle and barrier was thrown in the way of just about everything that we tried. But we kept trying. We had faith.
“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Out of that came Union Mission. And out of it will come this redefinition of health care. Of course it is not just me with the faith but eight other people who believe.
Jesus and 12 others (11 if you discount Judas) changed the world. Eight others and me believe that we can change a country.
In spite of burps in our face, I like our odds (Thank you Kermit Lord!).
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Morning Protest
It all started when we were sitting at the Breakfast Club just after it opened at six a.m. It was the normal crew of early arrivals and after just a sip or two of coffee we were laughing loudly. It was like this most every morning.
Then one of the gang, Kenny, started loudly saying things to Jodee and the staff who were still getting things ready for the business of the day. I don’t recall the particulars but I do know that Kenny can be quite loud and obnoxious.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jodee run outside with a bottle of shoe polish and start writing on the windows. I think nothing of it as I have seen many stranger things at the Breakfast Club and Jodee has written many interesting messages on the windows, my favorite being “Please do not run over my cooks!”
The next morning, I stumbled out of bed, drove to the Club, stumbled to the door and found it locked. I stood there in shock and bewilderment at a complete loss of what to do.
“Hold on Mike,” I heard Fritz say. Fritz was Jodee’s father-in-law and lived next door. He walked over with a key, unlocked the door and let me in.
“Oh no” I was told! “The hours have changed. We don’t open until six-thirty! You can fix a to-go cup but nobody else is coming in Mike.”
I shrugged my shoulders, poured myself a cup, walked outside and bumped into Johnny O who was stumbling inside. I explained what had happened.
“Damn Kenny,” he said. Kenny was later excommunicated from the first-shift.
The rest of the Counter Crew’s first-shift arrived and we stood there talking. This just wouldn’t do. We have tradition. We have our routine. It’s in the Bible somewhere that we’re allowed to have our coffee at six at the Breakfast Club. Blind Mike said he thought it was also referenced in the third amendment to the Constitution. We gotta do something about this.
So the following morning at six a.m. several vehicles pulled up to the Breakfast Club. Two tables were set up on the sidewalk in front. About 20 chairs scattered around them. Thermoses of hot coffee with cups were set up. Betty decorated the tables with fresh flowers and we sat down to have our coffee.
Inside the cooks were laughing and Jodee was beside himself. We toasted them and then ourselves with our coffee cups.
Then a police car pulled beside us and Major Woods rolled down the window asking what was happening so we explained that we were protesting the change of hours. He nodded, opened the door, left the police car running in the middle of Butler Avenue and joined us.
Then Betty pulled out a basket of bacon and egg biscuits. The Breakfast Club doesn’t serve these as every other breakfast place does and the Club’s menu is the most expansive and higher quality in the world. It was the ultimate sign of protest.
After that Helen, Jodee’s mother rounded the corner in her night gown and robe on her way to get her morning cup of coffee.
“Hey fellas, what’ca doing?”
We explained. She took a seat and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Screaming was heard from inside.
Rick, one of the cooks, came out of the door marked “Exit Only” on his way to retrieve more bread. He stopped and looked at us with a grin. His eyes stopped on Jodee’s Mom.
“Et Tu Helen,” he asked?
We roared with laughter.
Wearing these yellow rain boots, Bruce or Bubba as he was known rounded the corner and busted out laughing. He grabbed his stomach and literally fell on his knees laughing. He coughed between laughs and kept laughing. Laugh, cough, laugh, cough! Tears were in his eyes and he laughed and coughed so much that he got every single one of us laughing with him. It was a chorus of laughter!
When he finally composed himself he ran to his truck, got his camera and took pictures of us as he continued to laugh and cough and cry. Finally he went inside to go to work.
After about an hour we had made our point and put all of the stuff away. The Breakfast Club was open by this time so half walked inside to order something to eat. The rest of us went to work. Except for Johnny O. We’re never certain where he goes. Or why?
To my knowledge that is the only time a protest has ever been held at the Breakfast Club. We never felt the need to repeat it. Though the hours did change again to seven but no one bothered to pay attention this time.
Then one of the gang, Kenny, started loudly saying things to Jodee and the staff who were still getting things ready for the business of the day. I don’t recall the particulars but I do know that Kenny can be quite loud and obnoxious.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jodee run outside with a bottle of shoe polish and start writing on the windows. I think nothing of it as I have seen many stranger things at the Breakfast Club and Jodee has written many interesting messages on the windows, my favorite being “Please do not run over my cooks!”
The next morning, I stumbled out of bed, drove to the Club, stumbled to the door and found it locked. I stood there in shock and bewilderment at a complete loss of what to do.
“Hold on Mike,” I heard Fritz say. Fritz was Jodee’s father-in-law and lived next door. He walked over with a key, unlocked the door and let me in.
“Oh no” I was told! “The hours have changed. We don’t open until six-thirty! You can fix a to-go cup but nobody else is coming in Mike.”
I shrugged my shoulders, poured myself a cup, walked outside and bumped into Johnny O who was stumbling inside. I explained what had happened.
“Damn Kenny,” he said. Kenny was later excommunicated from the first-shift.
The rest of the Counter Crew’s first-shift arrived and we stood there talking. This just wouldn’t do. We have tradition. We have our routine. It’s in the Bible somewhere that we’re allowed to have our coffee at six at the Breakfast Club. Blind Mike said he thought it was also referenced in the third amendment to the Constitution. We gotta do something about this.
So the following morning at six a.m. several vehicles pulled up to the Breakfast Club. Two tables were set up on the sidewalk in front. About 20 chairs scattered around them. Thermoses of hot coffee with cups were set up. Betty decorated the tables with fresh flowers and we sat down to have our coffee.
Inside the cooks were laughing and Jodee was beside himself. We toasted them and then ourselves with our coffee cups.
Then a police car pulled beside us and Major Woods rolled down the window asking what was happening so we explained that we were protesting the change of hours. He nodded, opened the door, left the police car running in the middle of Butler Avenue and joined us.
Then Betty pulled out a basket of bacon and egg biscuits. The Breakfast Club doesn’t serve these as every other breakfast place does and the Club’s menu is the most expansive and higher quality in the world. It was the ultimate sign of protest.
After that Helen, Jodee’s mother rounded the corner in her night gown and robe on her way to get her morning cup of coffee.
“Hey fellas, what’ca doing?”
We explained. She took a seat and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Screaming was heard from inside.
Rick, one of the cooks, came out of the door marked “Exit Only” on his way to retrieve more bread. He stopped and looked at us with a grin. His eyes stopped on Jodee’s Mom.
“Et Tu Helen,” he asked?
We roared with laughter.
Wearing these yellow rain boots, Bruce or Bubba as he was known rounded the corner and busted out laughing. He grabbed his stomach and literally fell on his knees laughing. He coughed between laughs and kept laughing. Laugh, cough, laugh, cough! Tears were in his eyes and he laughed and coughed so much that he got every single one of us laughing with him. It was a chorus of laughter!
When he finally composed himself he ran to his truck, got his camera and took pictures of us as he continued to laugh and cough and cry. Finally he went inside to go to work.
After about an hour we had made our point and put all of the stuff away. The Breakfast Club was open by this time so half walked inside to order something to eat. The rest of us went to work. Except for Johnny O. We’re never certain where he goes. Or why?
To my knowledge that is the only time a protest has ever been held at the Breakfast Club. We never felt the need to repeat it. Though the hours did change again to seven but no one bothered to pay attention this time.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Smile
“Where’re you off to now?” they asked as I breezed into the Breakfast Club at 5:30 to grab coffee for the ride to the airport.
“Houston,” I replied pouring myself a to-go cup.
“Hope you make it.”
I nodded my head. It is 26 in Dallas and 70 in Brownsville. And I’m going to Houston assuming that I make it out of Atlanta. Because the Super Bowl is in Texas I’ve paid more money than I ever have for an airplane ticket in my life. And it is Tuesday.
Nine of us are trying to gather from across the United States to continue work designing a new system of making health care accessible. One of the nine will be calling in from Copenhagen.
The plan is to spend the day working through a plethora of issues to establish a new entity than will franchise the new delivery system that we’ve already built. Forget about Obama Care, this is an efficient system combining the best of old fashion personal treatment, physicians and nurses who actually spend time where you are and the best in new technology.
Fun stuff, huh?
It’s a bumpy ride on the plane and I bounce around as I type. The sky is a muted blue grey from top to bottom outside of my window. Everyone is trying to sleep but their heads jerk around in their seats.
Over the past couple of years, the emotions of my life have been a continuous storm of thunder and lightning. It was unrelenting. A handful of brave souls made their way into the midst of it to make certain that I was alright. A few others managed to express an occasional message hoping that I was OK. Many just stood around watching the storm wondering if I would ever make it through. Most didn’t care one way or the other.
The worst of it has moved off shore now. I can still see the thunder and lightning in the distance but it no longer encompasses me. The ocean is eerily calm and the breeze is lite. I am comfortable with the silence. My life looks like these images right now.
I’ve spent a year now writing every day exploring the things that are me. As a friend put it I’ve chosen to live my spiritual journey publicly. Through this came a new community that I hadn’t known had been there. Old friends and new friends dart in and out of my life now having discussions with me about where they are in relationship to where I am.
I have waited and things have come to me. Ignoring the advice of just about everyone I’ve concentrated on me. Joy has returned to my life and I pray that it stays. My smile has returned. Intensity has been replaced with something softer. I’ve tasted tears that are mine now. “Yesterdays are over my shoulder,” says Jimmy Buffett, and I’m learning that there is “so much to see in front of me.”
Up here looking down, I see all of these things. I feel them. I am changed. I’m an Altered Boy. I understand that there is this sense of expectation about what I’m going to do next. There is anxiousness. There are so many skeptics who doubt that I will ever match the things that I’ve already been a part of. And there are those who root for me to fail because of the past successes that I’ve been a part.
I find myself smiling. And I thank God for the gifts that have given it back to me.
“Houston,” I replied pouring myself a to-go cup.
“Hope you make it.”
I nodded my head. It is 26 in Dallas and 70 in Brownsville. And I’m going to Houston assuming that I make it out of Atlanta. Because the Super Bowl is in Texas I’ve paid more money than I ever have for an airplane ticket in my life. And it is Tuesday.
Nine of us are trying to gather from across the United States to continue work designing a new system of making health care accessible. One of the nine will be calling in from Copenhagen.
The plan is to spend the day working through a plethora of issues to establish a new entity than will franchise the new delivery system that we’ve already built. Forget about Obama Care, this is an efficient system combining the best of old fashion personal treatment, physicians and nurses who actually spend time where you are and the best in new technology.
Fun stuff, huh?
It’s a bumpy ride on the plane and I bounce around as I type. The sky is a muted blue grey from top to bottom outside of my window. Everyone is trying to sleep but their heads jerk around in their seats.
Over the past couple of years, the emotions of my life have been a continuous storm of thunder and lightning. It was unrelenting. A handful of brave souls made their way into the midst of it to make certain that I was alright. A few others managed to express an occasional message hoping that I was OK. Many just stood around watching the storm wondering if I would ever make it through. Most didn’t care one way or the other.
The worst of it has moved off shore now. I can still see the thunder and lightning in the distance but it no longer encompasses me. The ocean is eerily calm and the breeze is lite. I am comfortable with the silence. My life looks like these images right now.
I’ve spent a year now writing every day exploring the things that are me. As a friend put it I’ve chosen to live my spiritual journey publicly. Through this came a new community that I hadn’t known had been there. Old friends and new friends dart in and out of my life now having discussions with me about where they are in relationship to where I am.
I have waited and things have come to me. Ignoring the advice of just about everyone I’ve concentrated on me. Joy has returned to my life and I pray that it stays. My smile has returned. Intensity has been replaced with something softer. I’ve tasted tears that are mine now. “Yesterdays are over my shoulder,” says Jimmy Buffett, and I’m learning that there is “so much to see in front of me.”
Up here looking down, I see all of these things. I feel them. I am changed. I’m an Altered Boy. I understand that there is this sense of expectation about what I’m going to do next. There is anxiousness. There are so many skeptics who doubt that I will ever match the things that I’ve already been a part of. And there are those who root for me to fail because of the past successes that I’ve been a part.
I find myself smiling. And I thank God for the gifts that have given it back to me.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Redemption Song
“Missed you at Bar Church yesterday,” I said to Whitley has he joined Johnny O and I at the Breakfast Club Counter.
“I was with the frozen chosen,” he said sitting between us.
“Presbyterians” I asked.
“Yep,” he said sipping his coffee.
And Bar Church is very different from any other that I’ve ever attended. I took my friends from college yesterday who wanted to see it for themselves. First of all there are advertisements for Budweiser everywhere. You don’t see that in most churches though the beer may be consumed there.
Then the bar had votive candles at every seat transforming it into a different kind of alter. Sam Adams has a giant screen with the words of songs on it and leads the congregation of smokers, Pirates, barflies, waitresses and cooks; just a bunch of regular people. I didn’t see any doctors, lawyers, teachers or elected officials. The holiness is down to earth and there is a spontaneity that equals the scripted stuff that the Pentecostals do when they gather.
Gordon sits at the bar wailing on his harmonica. Between verses of Praise songs Sam will yell, “Lead us in worship Gordo,” and the harmonica lifts the spirits of everyone there.
After a while Sam introduced yesterday’s speaker, a former minister named Joe. He had been married for more than 20 years, had done all of the things he was supposed to have done and his life looked like it, and was successful like you’re supposed to be at that age.
Then his wife left him and his life all fell apart. Most churches don’t hire “damaged goods” so Joe’s life was rearranged overnight.
I could relate. So could most everybody else in the room based on their reactions as they nodded, yelled out and pumped their fists in the air.
Later my college friends and I were having lunch at my house. We sat around the table munching through a thoughtful conversation. Transition abounds in our lives. We’re living on faith. We’re either hoping for change, changing or are on the downward slide of change. We shared our stories.
Relationships didn’t work out the way that we believed. We found ourselves with little love in our lives. Careers didn’t work out the way we meant for them to. If we can take it a year at a time for just four more years then … perhaps we’ll make it.
“I dunno,” I said at one point, “I did all of the stuff that you’re supposed to do; all the stuff that God asks of us, and was wildly successful. Sure I had my share of screw ups … who doesn’t? And now I’m in this transition and am not quite sure where I’m going. But I believe that God will help me work all of this out.”
One of my friends looked at me and we shared tears at the same time.
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds,” sings the major Prophet Bob Marley. And that is true! Only we can push ourselves towards God and in new directions and new lives.
And none but ourselves can free our hearts either.
I’ve been in relationships that were good for a while but then they weren’t. I don’t think that it’s anybody’s fault. You do the best you can, giving it your all. But then one day you either leave for yourself or you are left behind and there is only yourself.
This is where emancipation comes in. We have to free our minds from what was once to what is now. We must emancipate our hearts because the love that was there is no more though hearts must have love.
So we emancipate ourselves and do these things and if we do we find redemption.
And we sing.
And if we don’t?
We die a little every day. Until we are completely dead.
“I was with the frozen chosen,” he said sitting between us.
“Presbyterians” I asked.
“Yep,” he said sipping his coffee.
And Bar Church is very different from any other that I’ve ever attended. I took my friends from college yesterday who wanted to see it for themselves. First of all there are advertisements for Budweiser everywhere. You don’t see that in most churches though the beer may be consumed there.
Then the bar had votive candles at every seat transforming it into a different kind of alter. Sam Adams has a giant screen with the words of songs on it and leads the congregation of smokers, Pirates, barflies, waitresses and cooks; just a bunch of regular people. I didn’t see any doctors, lawyers, teachers or elected officials. The holiness is down to earth and there is a spontaneity that equals the scripted stuff that the Pentecostals do when they gather.
Gordon sits at the bar wailing on his harmonica. Between verses of Praise songs Sam will yell, “Lead us in worship Gordo,” and the harmonica lifts the spirits of everyone there.
After a while Sam introduced yesterday’s speaker, a former minister named Joe. He had been married for more than 20 years, had done all of the things he was supposed to have done and his life looked like it, and was successful like you’re supposed to be at that age.
Then his wife left him and his life all fell apart. Most churches don’t hire “damaged goods” so Joe’s life was rearranged overnight.
I could relate. So could most everybody else in the room based on their reactions as they nodded, yelled out and pumped their fists in the air.
Later my college friends and I were having lunch at my house. We sat around the table munching through a thoughtful conversation. Transition abounds in our lives. We’re living on faith. We’re either hoping for change, changing or are on the downward slide of change. We shared our stories.
Relationships didn’t work out the way that we believed. We found ourselves with little love in our lives. Careers didn’t work out the way we meant for them to. If we can take it a year at a time for just four more years then … perhaps we’ll make it.
“I dunno,” I said at one point, “I did all of the stuff that you’re supposed to do; all the stuff that God asks of us, and was wildly successful. Sure I had my share of screw ups … who doesn’t? And now I’m in this transition and am not quite sure where I’m going. But I believe that God will help me work all of this out.”
One of my friends looked at me and we shared tears at the same time.
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds,” sings the major Prophet Bob Marley. And that is true! Only we can push ourselves towards God and in new directions and new lives.
And none but ourselves can free our hearts either.
I’ve been in relationships that were good for a while but then they weren’t. I don’t think that it’s anybody’s fault. You do the best you can, giving it your all. But then one day you either leave for yourself or you are left behind and there is only yourself.
This is where emancipation comes in. We have to free our minds from what was once to what is now. We must emancipate our hearts because the love that was there is no more though hearts must have love.
So we emancipate ourselves and do these things and if we do we find redemption.
And we sing.
And if we don’t?
We die a little every day. Until we are completely dead.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
ANother Non-Underwear Sunday
The weather has turned for the better and I am sitting on the beloved back deck bathed in sunshine. Winter has killed many of my plants that promise of things to come and they lean wilted and brown in their pots. The trees around me are naked and Fran’s thousand shades of green has been reduced to hundreds. The wind blowing from the west is blocked by the house so it is pleasant and warm this morning.
Finally! It is another Non-underwear Sunday!
This weekend has been a collision of my friends! My friends from college have reunited with me again. On Friday night I sat with my friend in my lap and we laughed and talked.
Last night we grilled, laughed and ate. A fire was in the Chiminea and we spilled onto the beloved back deck listening to music. Later my friend Mitch and I pulled out our guitars for the first time since we played as a duo all of those years ago and launched our new band and tour.
The Acoustic Savages are pleased to announce the “Ram our music down your throat” tour!
We were pretty awful last night as I realized that my little finger can’t do the things that it used to do. But the audience kept calling for more songs and we aimed to please so we kept playing until my fingers bled. Then the band spit up and Mitch went solo.
Both yesterday morning and this morning my college friends accompanied me to the Breakfast Club. My friends were colliding with another. In no time they were conspiring together to prevent anyone from sitting at the Counter. This was because they were all seated together at the Counter so that no one else could. We had a good time though a long line formed.
Then my college friends also went to the Bored meeting yesterday and we’re going again today. First we are going to Bar Church. They have wanted to see it for a while and are disappointed that Johnny O is bringing the “word” next week rather than today. Today Gordon is bringing it and between Harmonica solos I am certain that it will be good as Bar Church can be.
Earlier this week I had lunch with Stacy. I spent time with Shirley in Atlanta and we will be together soon. Mom called and we have a brief conversation because we are both so busy. Goddess is lying underneath my feet as my college friends enjoy this moment with me. The sun shines brightly on us all.
They talk and laugh. I am struck by something. The past several days has been a gathering of the people who have loved me through this past year. They have all serendipitously come together and collided at the same time. It has been a celebration punctuated with laughter, stories, music, food, and the things that people who really love one another do.
I am telling my friends that underwear is optional for Bar Church. Flip Flops are encouraged. Smokers are welcomed. It is the place where pirates worship.
Dee is telling me that she isn’t capable of being a pirate or a wrench (unless Johnny Depp is involved).
“As much as she would like to be,” she confesses.
Underwear optional is in her future.
The rest of us who love her so dearly celebrate her steps towards liberation.
Finally! It is another Non-underwear Sunday!
This weekend has been a collision of my friends! My friends from college have reunited with me again. On Friday night I sat with my friend in my lap and we laughed and talked.
Last night we grilled, laughed and ate. A fire was in the Chiminea and we spilled onto the beloved back deck listening to music. Later my friend Mitch and I pulled out our guitars for the first time since we played as a duo all of those years ago and launched our new band and tour.
The Acoustic Savages are pleased to announce the “Ram our music down your throat” tour!
We were pretty awful last night as I realized that my little finger can’t do the things that it used to do. But the audience kept calling for more songs and we aimed to please so we kept playing until my fingers bled. Then the band spit up and Mitch went solo.
Both yesterday morning and this morning my college friends accompanied me to the Breakfast Club. My friends were colliding with another. In no time they were conspiring together to prevent anyone from sitting at the Counter. This was because they were all seated together at the Counter so that no one else could. We had a good time though a long line formed.
Then my college friends also went to the Bored meeting yesterday and we’re going again today. First we are going to Bar Church. They have wanted to see it for a while and are disappointed that Johnny O is bringing the “word” next week rather than today. Today Gordon is bringing it and between Harmonica solos I am certain that it will be good as Bar Church can be.
Earlier this week I had lunch with Stacy. I spent time with Shirley in Atlanta and we will be together soon. Mom called and we have a brief conversation because we are both so busy. Goddess is lying underneath my feet as my college friends enjoy this moment with me. The sun shines brightly on us all.
They talk and laugh. I am struck by something. The past several days has been a gathering of the people who have loved me through this past year. They have all serendipitously come together and collided at the same time. It has been a celebration punctuated with laughter, stories, music, food, and the things that people who really love one another do.
I am telling my friends that underwear is optional for Bar Church. Flip Flops are encouraged. Smokers are welcomed. It is the place where pirates worship.
Dee is telling me that she isn’t capable of being a pirate or a wrench (unless Johnny Depp is involved).
“As much as she would like to be,” she confesses.
Underwear optional is in her future.
The rest of us who love her so dearly celebrate her steps towards liberation.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Back to the Future?
“You’re not scared to be seen talking to us?” he asked with a bemused look.
“About what,” I replied?
“He ain’t scared,” said his companion.
I shrugged my shoulders at Mayor Otis Johnson who had asked the question and City Alderman Van Johnson who had made the pronouncement on my feeling about being seen with them.
We were at the gate of our flight back to home after the annual Chamber of Commerce’s Lobby-fest in Atlanta. They looked dapper. Black men wearing black. The Mayor with a baseball cap and the Alderman with a fedora.
I was the white guy in faded jeans, dirty tennis shoes and, I suppose in an effort to show solidarity, a black long sleeve tee shirt. I haven’t had a hair cut in a while but I got a tan.
What I was supposed to have been scared of was having an integrated conversation in 2011 with a City Council who has made racism front page news again. Five black council members voted for two black finalists to become City Manager. Four white Council members wanted a white finalist too.
It’s like watching the History Channel.
They appeared confident and smug.
“I’m doing what I think is best,’ the Mayor says. “In the end that is what you have to do.”
I nod my head. Who can argue with that?
“I’m just glad that it’s not 2008?”
“Because of your heart attack” I asked?
“No, because I was up for re-election,” he explained.
I ask if he enjoyed the Lobby fest and he tells me that he didn’t go.
“The important stuff happens at the Capitol,” he explains. “I don’t need to go to no party where everybody drinks and eats.”
Everybody else at the Capitol disagrees with that assessment and were there.
We’re called to board. “When I’m done I’m going to frame my collection of Streeter cartoons,” he says as we walk down the gangplank.
Mark Streeter is the political cartoonist for the Savannah Morning News.
“I’ve got my share,” I tell him.
“I know you do,” he smiles.
Then we take our seats. No first class on this tiny plane. The Mayor is in front of me giving a speech to the guy sitting next to him. I would turn around to see what Van is doing but I really don’t care.
I ponder these things. A collection of framed political cartoons will represent a legacy. The search for a City Manager has turned into blanket assertions of race. Black is pitted against white. And 250 miles from Savannah where this is all happening, I’m asked if I’m scared to be seen with a black Mayor and Councilman in front of mostly white people who are flying to Hilton Head and don’t know about any of this stuff anyway.
It is sad.
I wonder how far we have all really come. It makes me miss St. Martin where race simply isn’t an issue.
“About what,” I replied?
“He ain’t scared,” said his companion.
I shrugged my shoulders at Mayor Otis Johnson who had asked the question and City Alderman Van Johnson who had made the pronouncement on my feeling about being seen with them.
We were at the gate of our flight back to home after the annual Chamber of Commerce’s Lobby-fest in Atlanta. They looked dapper. Black men wearing black. The Mayor with a baseball cap and the Alderman with a fedora.
I was the white guy in faded jeans, dirty tennis shoes and, I suppose in an effort to show solidarity, a black long sleeve tee shirt. I haven’t had a hair cut in a while but I got a tan.
What I was supposed to have been scared of was having an integrated conversation in 2011 with a City Council who has made racism front page news again. Five black council members voted for two black finalists to become City Manager. Four white Council members wanted a white finalist too.
It’s like watching the History Channel.
They appeared confident and smug.
“I’m doing what I think is best,’ the Mayor says. “In the end that is what you have to do.”
I nod my head. Who can argue with that?
“I’m just glad that it’s not 2008?”
“Because of your heart attack” I asked?
“No, because I was up for re-election,” he explained.
I ask if he enjoyed the Lobby fest and he tells me that he didn’t go.
“The important stuff happens at the Capitol,” he explains. “I don’t need to go to no party where everybody drinks and eats.”
Everybody else at the Capitol disagrees with that assessment and were there.
We’re called to board. “When I’m done I’m going to frame my collection of Streeter cartoons,” he says as we walk down the gangplank.
Mark Streeter is the political cartoonist for the Savannah Morning News.
“I’ve got my share,” I tell him.
“I know you do,” he smiles.
Then we take our seats. No first class on this tiny plane. The Mayor is in front of me giving a speech to the guy sitting next to him. I would turn around to see what Van is doing but I really don’t care.
I ponder these things. A collection of framed political cartoons will represent a legacy. The search for a City Manager has turned into blanket assertions of race. Black is pitted against white. And 250 miles from Savannah where this is all happening, I’m asked if I’m scared to be seen with a black Mayor and Councilman in front of mostly white people who are flying to Hilton Head and don’t know about any of this stuff anyway.
It is sad.
I wonder how far we have all really come. It makes me miss St. Martin where race simply isn’t an issue.
Friday, January 28, 2011
The Garden Party
For once the weather in Atlanta didn’t suck. For the past 23 years it seems as every Savannah Day-in-Atlanta Lobby-fest was cold, wet and windy. Once Laura Webb and I had to lock arms and bend forward into the wind as we made our way back to the hotel so we weren’t blown back into Underground Atlanta. Atlanta can be bitter in so many ways.
But it was nice yesterday. The sun shone, the temperature was pleasant and I never donned the heavy coat that I’d brought for once. I had a pleasant lunch in Virginia Highlands and then went to the Capitol for the beginning of Savannah Day festivities.
I walked in with Mayor Otis Johnson of Savannah. We go way back. We shook hands. He asked if he was in the right place. You would think a Mayor know.
Then I walked inside and there was Councilman Tony Thomas who handed me a button pushing cruise ships in Savannah. I asked him if he had a good time yesterday. Yesterday the City Council orchestrated a 40 step backwards by making Racism front page news.
Then show had already started. This consists of WTOC television personality and former state legislator Sonny Dixon introducing people who are elected or appointed who mostly tell us how busy they are … how hard it is … how many committee meetings they have … and similar bullshit.
The room is packed with the current Leadership Savannah class, anybody who holds elected office in Chatham County, paid lobbyist and members of the business community. It is standing room only though the Chatham County Commission, City Council and School Board all have seats. I notice that these are the only people actually paying much attention to the BS that is being thrown across the room.
Well, and the Leadership Savannah class but that is only because they are facing the audience, behind the elected or the appointed, and are forced to look like they are interested. The rest of us are checking our blackberries, waving at one another, or whispering jokes and giggling as though we’re still in High School.
Every year that I’ve been here I was kissing political ass trying to get something done for Union Mission, Savannah’s homeless, or Chatham County’s uninsured. As my dear friend Stacy put it the other day, it was like walking around with a wet mattress strapped to your back.
After about an hour I left. Margaret Mary was standing outside and we hugged. “What are you here asking for,” she asked?
“The single question everyone in the state wants answered,” I replied. “Gov. Deal, just how in the f*@k did you get elected? Really”!
She cracked up.
Then I hooked up with Rebekah and it was time for the Garden Party at the Train Depot which is alcohol, oysters, bar-b-que for a thousand people. Without a particular agenda, it was great! Friends that I haven’t seen since Many bear hugged and kissed me. They wanted to know where I’ve been, what I’m doing and what I’m going to do. Lunch meetings and cocktail were demanded and my pocket is filled with names and dates.
My dear friend Terry Ball shows up. Shirley Sessions (who actually runs the United Way and Tybee Island) was there. Jenny Gentry, Joe Buck, Kay Ford, Bill Hubbard, Ron Stephens, Buddy Carter, James Holmes, and a hundred other embraces and tiny conversations take place.
As it all started winding down in walks my former co-workers Lavanda Brown and Aretha Jones. I suppose there’s an after party that they attend to which I’ve never been invited.
Interim City Manager Rochelle Smalls-Tony walks by and awkwardly gives me a hug. “I don’t understand what all of this controversy is about,” she tells me.
I shrug my shoulders. “Really,” I say? “I can help.”
Then I survey the room. There is no one else left to talk to. So Rebekah and I walk back to the hotel. We laugh and talk about the evening. At one point I text Aretha because as soon as I saw her she disappeared into the crowd and I never got to say hello.
Then it was bed time. And I was glad. Garden parties are really for politicians.
I’m not one.
But it was nice yesterday. The sun shone, the temperature was pleasant and I never donned the heavy coat that I’d brought for once. I had a pleasant lunch in Virginia Highlands and then went to the Capitol for the beginning of Savannah Day festivities.
I walked in with Mayor Otis Johnson of Savannah. We go way back. We shook hands. He asked if he was in the right place. You would think a Mayor know.
Then I walked inside and there was Councilman Tony Thomas who handed me a button pushing cruise ships in Savannah. I asked him if he had a good time yesterday. Yesterday the City Council orchestrated a 40 step backwards by making Racism front page news.
Then show had already started. This consists of WTOC television personality and former state legislator Sonny Dixon introducing people who are elected or appointed who mostly tell us how busy they are … how hard it is … how many committee meetings they have … and similar bullshit.
The room is packed with the current Leadership Savannah class, anybody who holds elected office in Chatham County, paid lobbyist and members of the business community. It is standing room only though the Chatham County Commission, City Council and School Board all have seats. I notice that these are the only people actually paying much attention to the BS that is being thrown across the room.
Well, and the Leadership Savannah class but that is only because they are facing the audience, behind the elected or the appointed, and are forced to look like they are interested. The rest of us are checking our blackberries, waving at one another, or whispering jokes and giggling as though we’re still in High School.
Every year that I’ve been here I was kissing political ass trying to get something done for Union Mission, Savannah’s homeless, or Chatham County’s uninsured. As my dear friend Stacy put it the other day, it was like walking around with a wet mattress strapped to your back.
After about an hour I left. Margaret Mary was standing outside and we hugged. “What are you here asking for,” she asked?
“The single question everyone in the state wants answered,” I replied. “Gov. Deal, just how in the f*@k did you get elected? Really”!
She cracked up.
Then I hooked up with Rebekah and it was time for the Garden Party at the Train Depot which is alcohol, oysters, bar-b-que for a thousand people. Without a particular agenda, it was great! Friends that I haven’t seen since Many bear hugged and kissed me. They wanted to know where I’ve been, what I’m doing and what I’m going to do. Lunch meetings and cocktail were demanded and my pocket is filled with names and dates.
My dear friend Terry Ball shows up. Shirley Sessions (who actually runs the United Way and Tybee Island) was there. Jenny Gentry, Joe Buck, Kay Ford, Bill Hubbard, Ron Stephens, Buddy Carter, James Holmes, and a hundred other embraces and tiny conversations take place.
As it all started winding down in walks my former co-workers Lavanda Brown and Aretha Jones. I suppose there’s an after party that they attend to which I’ve never been invited.
Interim City Manager Rochelle Smalls-Tony walks by and awkwardly gives me a hug. “I don’t understand what all of this controversy is about,” she tells me.
I shrug my shoulders. “Really,” I say? “I can help.”
Then I survey the room. There is no one else left to talk to. So Rebekah and I walk back to the hotel. We laugh and talk about the evening. At one point I text Aretha because as soon as I saw her she disappeared into the crowd and I never got to say hello.
Then it was bed time. And I was glad. Garden parties are really for politicians.
I’m not one.
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