A Family of Mermaids

Last year, Conner, Hugh and I joined 97 other Patriotic Americans and marched naked down Orient Beach wrapped in red, white and blue ... body paint. It was Conner's idea that we celebrate his birthday this way. Hania and Patty wanted nothing to do it with so we went without them. I grew up on the Stand Up for America Day in Port Wentworth, Georgia but celebrating Independence Day in St. Martin was a lot more interesting. Carlos, my friend and manager of Papagayo's, put on a French version of an American meal. Hot dogs with creamy cheese glaze, french fries (because they're already French), Chocolate Mousse and bottles of Pouly Fousse wine. I love Carlos because he tries so hard. It was as American as the French can do. I don't remember who drove me home that night. Home is a fifteen feet walk from the restaurant on a sandy road covered with Palm Trees. Conner has no idea who drove him home either. The last thing I remember was Hugh dancing with his hands over his head ... which is never a good sign. It was also the last time I was in St. Martin alone. This year, I'm back doing it all the American way. After grilling hamburgers and hot dogs last night, Sarah and the kids walked with me to the beach for the fireworks. In spite of the City of Tybee's front page announcement that anyone visiting the island would be ticketed, a decent crowd showed up. Entrepeneurs were selling Glow Sticks while people sat on their coolers. In typical Tybee fashion, the fireworks were late. It didn't matter. The rising full moon erupting from the ocean put on a better show anyway. Afterwards, we all walked home holding hands talking on a paved street lined with Palm Trees. Neighbors threw their arms around us saying how good it is we're back. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, welcomed us into our new home. Over the past few weeks, we've redone mostly everything about it. It is now a simply elegant Beach House that you can wash down with a hose if it gets too dirty. Later, I texted Conner and Hugh trying to make plans for another adventure. The Carnival of Friends have suddenly become strangely conservative and Prudish. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie are laying low. Kristen is too. Chelsea and Sam are working away in Atlanta which is a horrible way to spend the 4th of July. As the night moved towards day, I sat on the Beloved Back deck with my feet propped on rail and Goddess laying at my feet. Cassidy walked out in a pink bath robe with Winston, the little day dog. "Mike," she sweetly asked, "Can I sit with you? Because I always sit with you." She crawled in my lap and propped her feet on my feet which were still on the rail. She asked me if I wanted some of her bubble gum. I asked her if she wanted a sip of wine. Laughing, we both declined. Today, it's back to the beach with this family of Mermaids that now surround me. Friends are making plans to visit. The grill is begging to be used again. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing in delight. A Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt is smiling with the sun in its hair. I had a blast last year being an expadriate on the 4th of July and will likely do it again before I die. But this year is better. Happy 4th everyone! Oh ... and Conner ... Happy Birthday.

Independence Day (Cuba)

He was blacker than most black people but with the whitest broad smile I've ever seen. I'd just checked into the Hostal Del Tejadillo and it was his first day on the job. He was taking his time trying to get the entire process right. I'd made the reservations on-line and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me) had picked me up at the Jose Marti airport and brought me here. I have to give Cuban Airlines credit for a couple of things. Though the airplane was 1940's vintage with ropes for seatbelts, they had a cigar cart and a rum cart which is a perfect way to fly from Nassau, Bahamas to Havana, Cuba. I was smoked up and wasted when we arrived and had to pee really bad. Of course I was detained by Immigration as they questioned why I was in Cuba. "I am on a missionary mission," I explained hopping from one foot to another. He carefully eyed my passport for a full five minutes before stamping it. I already had a foot out of the door as I sprinted to the rest room where an old man blocked my entrance. I needed to throw change into a jar before I could enter. Capitalism is alive and well in Cuba. Michael ... pronounced Michelle by him ... carried my backpack to my room. He showed me how to turn on the facets in the bathroom, gave me a key to the safe and asked Bill and I if he can make any arrangements for us. "What kind of arrangements?" I asked. He winked. "Ahh Sir," he answered, "for the Cabaret?" "No thanks," we told him. "We going to Salsa tonight." And we did. A bunch of students at the University of Havana met us and walked us five miles to a tiny apartment where we were told that we must move all of the furniture before we could dance. So we did ... into the front yard ... except for the chair that the little old lady in ... she was the mother of one of the students and was in charge of the Boom Box. On a hot Cuban night, we danced with Communists who love Americans. Perhaps twenty of us were crowded in the tiny two bedroom unit. They taught me Salsa. I showed them Shag." Laughter errupted and neighbors showed up to join in. Salsa is religion in Cuba. At 3:00 in the morning, they carried us back to a street corner so that I could fall into a cab. In Cuba, Rum and Salsa go together. The Taxi dropped me off in front of the Hostal Del Tejadillo, which was closed. A giant metal door had been pulled down over the front door. Cursing, I banged on it. "Micheal?" Michael asked. "Stop it! "You're going to wake everybody up." "Let me in," I slurred. He did with the white teeth smile and told me that he would take me to my room. He was much bigger than me, so he basically carried me up two flights of stairs and put me to bed. The next morning, I stumbled downstairs in the same clothes he'd put me to bed in. Michael handed me a tiny cup of strong Cuban coffee. "You look like ..." he struggled with the words, "how do you say in English?" "Shit," I said rubbing my head and drinking the coffee. "That's it," he exclaimed. We talked throughout the afternoon. I'd slept through the morning. He gave me a book about Che Guevara who is a Jesus figure in third world countries and one of my heros. I asked him what he wanted from the States and he told me a Bible. When I got back I sent him one, along with a copy of Running With the Dolphins so he could learn a bit about the island I live on. I don't know if he ever got it. I tried to track him down to see but never could. It is a Communist country still and everybody in the world except Americans visit Cuba. Our Government hates their Government which hates our Government ... which is the way Government works (Mine's bigger than yours ...) This morning, on the Eve of American Independence Day, I find myself thinking of Michael ... I hope he got the books. Actually, I pray that he did.

Cuban Birthdays

His name was George and when he saw me wearing the grey tee shirt with the red letters spelling out "Georgia" he broke into a huge grin as he stood on the Camelback and stormed over to me. I was sitting between a woman breast feeding her baby and an old woman with a chicken in her lap. "I am George," the big man bellowed, smothering me in a hug and laughing. "We are friends now. I take care of you on this bus." Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me) smiled and shook his head as George shoved the old woman with the chicken in her lap down the seat. Bill was the reason we were riding a Camelback in the first place. Public transportation is Cuba is interesting and the buses are three times the size of those in the United States. That's because the Cubans literally take three buses and thrown them on top of each other ... hence the hump in the camel ... and cram as many people as possible on it for only 35 cents. "Since we're here," Bill explained to me, "we should travel like the locals do." So we rode the bus from downtown Havanna into the country where Ernest Hemingway's house, Finca La Vigia or "The Lookout House" which was ten miles away in San Francisco de Paula, a sleepy little village. "You get off here," George commanded with a smile and smothering me in another sweaty hug. Bill and I got off the bus with several other people who immediately disappeared somewhere in the thick, lush Tropical landscape. We stood there on a gravel road wandering in the general direction of Hemingway's past. When we got there, it's closed on Monday's. "Well, that's great," I bitched to Bill. "What are we going to do now?" Aside from Fica La Virgia, there is absolutely nothing in San Francisco de Paula. "We'll travel like the locals do," Bill cheerily replied without hesitation. "We'll thumb back to the city." So two Americans with back backs stood there with our thumbs sticking out. An old 1950's pick up truck held together by rust and wire coasted to a stop at our feet. It was filled with Cubans. The cab had five men in it and the bed looked like a can of sardines. Everybody was smiling at us. The driver, an old toothless man with flaming blue eyes, jumped out yelling in Spanish at his seat mates. Shaking their heads understanding, they vacated the cab and somehow crammed themselves in the back. The driver then made a great bow inviting Bill and I to sit in the cab with him. "No, no, no," we both protested but he and the 47 people crammed in the back would have nothing to do with it. They all clapped when Bill climbed in the middle and I took the seat with the window that wouldn't roll up. The truck spit gravel as it carried us back to Havannah where I was already dreaming of a majito at La Floridita, Hemingway's favorite bar. Bill can butcher Spanish with the best of them and was in some conversation with the driver with the smile and the flaming eyes. I just tried to absorb it all in. I mean who gets to do this? And I wanted to experience Cuba before it evenually becomes a Disney Land for the rich and famous. I've been to a lot of places but the nicest people I've ever met live in Cuba ... and some of the most beautiful too. We were dropped off at the University of Havannah where we were to meet up with a bunch of students that Bill knew who were going to teach us Salsa that night. When the driver got out, we emptied my back back on the seat. Snickers bars, bandaids, rubbing alcohol, medicine, cue tips, and such things. Bill and I bowed very ceremoniously and the driver returned the bow. Those in the back all smiled and waved. We turned to go. He climbed back into the cab and we heard him squeal in glee. We quickly made our way off into the bustle of one of the most cities I've every seen. In spite of a stupid Embargo, these are the nicest people I've met anywhere. They don't care for government, hell most of the time I don't either, but they love Americans. It makes me think, if we can keep Government ... and religion ... out of human relationships, we'd all get along a whole lot better. And I want to go back. I want to take Sarah. "What do you want for your birthday?" she asked me yesterday. I just smiled.

Another Day in Paradise

We got home from Jodee and Cheryl's last night and sat on the Beloved Back Deck talking into the night. We're finally glad to be home. It seems that we've hardly been here at all this summer. We've traveled to and fro on the face of the earth. It's been fun ... how can it not? A crusie, Daytona Beach, Belieze, St. Martin, and San Juan Island were all incredibly enjoyable! But that many places in three months is a lot of travel. When we were home , we're remaking the house. So there's been painting, throwing out old stuff, replacing it with other things, moving the girls into their rooms, fixing things that were broken and seeing how much we can cram into the storage room to deal with later. Plus it seems as though we've had a lot of company too. Folks wandered in and out of the house and we did our best to accomodate. So we grilled out, took them to Doc's Bar or to listen to Samuel Adams who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island. Or we were meeting up at North Beach Grill to listen to new bands or hooking up withThe Carnival of Friends which has been quite challenging so far this season. Chelsea's in town today, but is heading back to Atlanta so a visit with my baby daughter will be brief. We keep trying to hook up with Jeremy and my brilliant-daughter-in-law Marie but it hasn't worked out yet. Kristen did blow through yesterday because she was out of coffee and needed some of ours. Maddie, Laurel and Cassidy have been in New York for the last three wees and are due home next week and Sarah is beside herself with anticipation of their homecoming. I find myself missing all of them at once. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, seem awful happy that we're here. Goddess didn't even mind me giving her a bath in the outdoor shower. Winston, the little gay dog, loves his girlfriend Sarah more than anything and prances around her like a ballerina. The choir of birds that live outside of our bedroom window sing us new Hymns every morning and the woodpecker that resides in the tree in the neighbor's back yard taps a backbeat to it all. The grass is cut and I'm almost finished decorating the back yard. The plants are all watered and blooming. There is a hammock to hang and the critical decision of where it goes must be made. There is Mermaid Bar sign that I want to buy and the bicycles need air in the tires. It's July 4th weekend and the bicycles are the only sane way to travel on the island. So in the midst of all of this craziness, last night we just sat by ourselves and talked. The air was still though the ocean was loud. An almost full moon cast a wonderful glow on Sarah's face which left me distracted over the things she was saying. Salt stuck to our skin and we could hear the traffic on Butler Avenue five blocks away. We talked about how blessed we are, in spite of a lot of things, and how wonderful it is to be in love. We shared our fears of something interrupting it and pledged to never allow that to happen. Sometime close to midnight, we made our way to bed and slept without dreams in each others arms. It's just another day in Paradise. And God looked down from heaven and said, "It is good." Today, we have date to go to the beach. I'm not sure if it gets any better than this. Tonight ... we'll see.

Aren't you someone?

"Aren't you someone?" she asked me. She was an attractive African-American lady sitting beside me on the airplane. Toni works for International Paper, lives in Charlotte and has a home on Hilton Head. We were flying to Savannah in First Class ... I got bumped but Sarah didn't (and I tried to give the seat to my wife but she decided to pick up guys in the back of the plane instead). "Yes I am," I repsonded ordering a glass of wine. "Oh shit," she said. "If he's having wine then I guess I'll have wine too." "Good for you," I told her. The wine came and we toasted cups. "So who are you?" she asked. "Oh, I'm nobody," I answered. "I used to be somebody but now I'm a beach num." "No, No," she quickly shot back, glancing at me suspiciously, "You are somebody. I recognize you." "You go to the beach?" "Hilton Head." "That islands going to sink one day because of the traffic and the outlet malls," I said. 'No on Tybee." "I spend a lot of time on Dufaski and can see Tybee Island from there but have never actually been there." "Then I don't know how you'd recognize me," I explained as we sipped the wine. The plane was taking off so we couldn't talk because of the roar. Eventually it ended and we were in the air. "Weren't you on television?" "I was." "I knew it," she said slapping her leg. Then she asked, "Why?" "OK," I replied, "this is who I used to be. I ran Union Mission for a long time and was in the news a lot." "You were on the TODAY Show," she interruped. "I was." "What do you do now?" "I'm a beach bum. My wife's in the back being picked up by guys. I wish she was in your seat." "Well," she sighed. We were silent for a while. The stewardness came and refilled our glasses. "You did good stuff," she said. "AIDS and stuff right?" "Yep," I stared out of the window remembering what was. "It's good you're a beach bum now," she concluded. "That's a long time for stuff like that." Looking at her large brown eyes between thick glasses, I smiled. "It is." The flight from Atanta to Savannah is only half-an-hour so we landed. Toni rushed to get away after handing me her card. Sarah strolled down the runway with a tall, handsome guy named Rick from New Zealand. Rushing up, I grabbed her hand and drug her away from him. He smiled at her. I smiled at her. God it's good to be home.

Living in the Present

The sun was setting on the west side of the house over the marsh as we sat on the east side of the house on the Bleoved Back Deck under Fran's thousand shades of green. The Palm tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt was smiling at all of the new yard art I've placed everywhere. Two wooden fish now adorn the wooden fence along with a giant iton cross, a sun, moon, stars, hanging baskets of blooming flowers, an "It's 5 o'clock somewhere" sign, two "Fisk Naked" signs and three things that look like church windows with the ocean on the other side. There's also these funcky things that Rocky left that glow in the dark. The Back deck is full of flowers, the grill, a frog with a crystal ball on its head that my Mom gave me, a "Clothing Optional Beyond this point" sign that Conner and Hania gave me for my birthday, various wind chimes that the girls brought when they moved in, a "Beach Break" sign with a broken clock that my sister gave me, and a rock that says "Imagine" that Cheryl left for me in the middle of the bad days. I like the way the yard is becoming an artistic expression of who I am ... whatever that is. Sitting outside we were feasting on spaghetti, salad and bread. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, ran around the eight feet hanging from the tall chairs under the table which is under the colorful umbrella. It was balmy with a slight ocean breeze. Dedra was being eaten alive by "no-see-ums" but the rest of us were fine. Sarah and I are finally home in what seems like forever with no plans on the horizon. We had a visiting dignitary, Shirely Sessions, so everything was clean and perfect! We really haven't seen Shirley in a while so the conversation turned to her catching us up on things we really haven't been thinking about ... Savannah. Specially, we wanted to know about certain people: Kim, Greg, Peter, Michael and ... a son-of-a-bitch named Mark. We talked politics and about her guests at the Blue Bird, her bed-and-breakfast, and a little bit about Tybee Island which is home. A little after nine, Shirley was ready to take a walk. Dedra went with her. Wonderful husband that I am, the house was already clean and the dishwasher was humming. Sarah and I collapsed on the large brown U-shaped sofe that sucks you in and never wants to let you go. The television was on but we were't paying attention. Truth be told ... we were petting. The windows were open and the ocean breeze was drawn in by the ceiling fans. Half-a-moon threw off enough light that we really didn't need lights. Winston, the little gay dog, lay near Sarah. Goddess was carefully watching us from the floor. It had been interesting re-visiting a place and its people with Shirley. It's like running into someone whose been to the same places that you have. You share what you have in common ... "Oh I went there. It was great!" ... or, "Yes, I met him. I didn't think he was all that." After a quarter-of-a-century of intensity, where that was my life, it's now surreal ... like talking about a dream. It is what was. This morning Sarah is still asleep ... our petting lasted a long time. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are laying under my feet on the Beloved Back Deck. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing in the ocean breeze. The sun is smiling down from the east, resting in the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, cocnut bra and grass skirt. Birds are singing Hymns to the glory of the day. This is what is. I like living in the present. It's so much better than the past.

My Church of Choice

Back in the day I attended Catholic masses with regularity. It was in Louisville and my dear friend Father Vernon Robertson was the Priest of St. Martin de Tours Church. It was the noon mass and I was the minister at the Baptist Church a couple of blocks away and did the Scripture readings from the high Holy Alter. I grew to love and appreciate the liturgy and, if I don't go to Bar Church on Tybee Island, when I miss Church, I like a good Catholic Mass. It's ashamed the Catholic Priests are having such problems, have a terrible Pope, and the Church still doesn't recognize that Nuns really run things. On my refrigerator are lots of Jesus magnets, photographs and drawings by the girls. It's a shrine of sorts to the things I love and the things I believe. There is one of Vernon, visiting us here at Tybee when he could no longer bear the winters of Louisville, wearing a tanned coat, khaki shorts, black socks and brown loafers, flashing a peace sign while I laugh beside him. And there's another of St. Martin's ... "full of plaster statues with the swords in the bleeding heart: the whisper behind the confessional curtains: the holy coats and the liquefaction of blood: the dark side Chapels and the intricate movements, and somewhere behind it all is the love of God" (Graham Greene). I've long since traded in that kind of religion. I believe its the other way around. The love of God comes first. Church may, or may not, have anything to do with it. Lenny Bruce said, "Every day people are straying away from the Church and going back to God." I agree with Lenny. Sure, there are some really good congregations out there, doing really good things, but they are the exceptions rather than the rule. Sunday morning at 11:00 remains the most segregated hour in the world, which is the best visualization of sin that I know. People choose churches based on what color everybody is, how much money the general congregation makes, the music, the parking and if the minister can hold their attention or not. Parents want to introduce their children to God while they have a couple of hours to themselves sitting in a pew relaxing. The ambiance is important too ... so church must meet the threshold of whatever is holy enough for you. I, on the other hand, occasionally attend Bar Church these days because I'm on the Beloved Back Deck, naked in the sunshine, listening to "Organic X", waiting on Sarah to wake up so that we can celebrate the "Sun". I sing in the grand Cathedral that God built with a choir of birds, the smell of the marsh, and the salt of the sea. I pray, write and sometimes dance. I call the kids. Later, there is always a party on Tybee that we mostly make for the community of believers who toast the Holy Ghost with wine. I still have traditionalist tendencies though and check out Michael Ruffin's prayers and whatever Guy Sayles has posted that day. It's good stuff. When people ask me about me about Church, I suggest Bar Church with Sam Adams, Asbury Methodist with Billy Hester or First African Baptist with Thurmond Tillmond; Jim Lowder if you're in North Carolina or Cindy Weber if you're in Louisville. If you happen to be in Calcutta find Jack Preager. Sometimes I still go but don't feel guilty about not going. The love of God rains down regardless. Pieces of the Garden of Eden remain and ... that's my church of choice.

The Ties With God

They come in the night, as though someone who hates you has a voodoo doll and they're sticking pins in its head sending bad thoughts into your mind mind. Half-conscious dreams that may be literally true or some exaggerated distortion of what actually happened force you to toss and turn throughout the night. Dreams sometimes are like science fiction with you in the staring role and you wake up with a jolt wondering where that came from. And sometimes they are so sensual and real you can feel and taste them. Night before last in Seattle, I had strange dreams. It was the night before travel so I was restless, ready to go and get there. It'd been a long day and Sarah and I had to get up at 5:30 to make our flight. So when my dead friend Joe Bridges came to see me in a dream, I was unprepared for the visit. Joe had been a homeless alcoholic who overcame those things to help us build Union Mission. He wanted me to take a ride with him on his motorcycle. This was the Joe before he lost his leg in an accident, a time when he was at his best in life. We rode until we came to another long dead friend Chester Fawbush. Chester was the first homeless person I ever became friends with in Louisville Kentucky when I was in Seminary. He was long dead before I ever met Joe but they got along fine in my dream. They were wanting to talk to me about something but I can't recall it was. But they were as real and alive as if they were sitting across from me right now. Yesterday we literally flew all day, finally arriving in Savannah around 7:30. An hour later we were home on Tybee and took Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, on an evening walk. Collapsing we were happy to be back in our own bed. There's nothing better than your own bed. We were exhausted and making the adjustment from West Coast time back to East Coast time. So when the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainey ... showed up in a dream, he was definitely unwelcome. Being the little Dictator that he is, he showed up anyway. Smiling evilly, he told me he'd won. I flipped him the finger. Then we both realized at the same time that we were surrounded by a crowd of homeless people watching us. I knew most of them. Joe and Chester were there. Jerry seemed confused. Waking up, I tossed in a fidgeting way. Sarah said, "It's hot isn't it?" She was half asleep and had kicked all of the covers off. Wrapping myself around her, I fell back asleep. I've never been one to dream while I slept (which is different from dreaming while I'm awake ... which I do a lot). If I did dream while I slept, I never remembered them ... until now. The Bible makes it pretty clear that God sometimes speaks through dreams. Beginning with Jacob in the Old Testament through Joseph in the New Testament, God gave instructions. Jacob, sees a bunch of angels coming and going making promises. After the Three Wise Men visited the baby Jesus, God told Joseph in a dream to get the hell out of there. There are other examples, Moses and Daniel. So it makes me wonder. Why am I suddenly remembering my dreams? It is a rainy morning on Tybee Island, a perfect ambiance for contemplating such things. Sarah is back in bed, the trees drip in wetness, the birds dart searching for places to perch and I sit under the umbrella on the Beloved Back Deck wondering if God's trying to tell me something. Why does God want to be subtle? It's God, for God's sake! Send lightening bolts or angels or a burning bush (but please don't burn one of mine, but my neighbor's bushes are fine)! What is She trying to tell me? Is there something else I should be doing? Some other place to go? Some other truth to know? I happen to be re-reading Graham Greene's wonderful The Heart of the Matter while I think these things. There is a line in it that touches me ... "The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human being --- it is a symbol for mathematicians and philosophers to pursue. In human relations kindness and ties are worth a thousand truths." A common theme in my dreams have been the ties. Joe, Chester, and even the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous remain with me. We're surrounded by those who we've been kind to or have been kind to us ... or those we didn't really give a shit about. On a rainy Tybee morning, it is not the truth so much that I am seeking, but the ties with God. I suppose Joe and Chester are now angels delivering messages. The Little Dictator is still alive and I think he's a symbol of truth ... which I'm not particularly interested in. The ties with God however are far more intriguing. I'm going to spend my day pursuing those.

No Plane on Sunday

No Plane on Sunday Maybe one on Monday Just a hopeless situation Make the best of it that's all you can do I have often affirmed the phophetic utterances of Jimmy Buffett and this is another one of those times. Luckily, there is a plane on Monday though it's taking off 45 minutes after it's supposed to, meaning that we'll never make the connection in Atlanta. I was able to book us on a later flight home although God knows where our bags are going to end up. "Eventually we'll make it home," Sarah said as we boarded. And evenutally we will. When you travel a lot, most of the time it goes remarkably well. In spite of all of the ways that the airlines have screwed up the flying experience ... less flight options, more jam paced planes, $7 cocktails and $8 dollar stale sandwhiches ... what are you going to do? Especially if you want to see the world? So you have to spend some time in Travel Hell. Travel Hell now starts with booking your flight. Delta is no longer ready when you are but is ready when it is, so you have to book your time to fit in with their time. On this trip that meant a Red-Eye overnight flight with 12 inches of leg space. That's hard to do when you're wide awake on a five our flight. So we're on Alaska Airlines, a Delta partner for the daytime flight. Stage two of Travel Hell is T.S.A. which now has four times as many employers who it had just a month ago. You have to take off your jacket, belt, shoes and everything out of your pockets. Then a bored man waves you through the screening device which now requires that you spread your legs and hold your hands above your head. You look like you're being robbed, which of course you are. On a good day, Travel Hell ends here. On a bad day, it's just starting to get hot. For us, it started getting hot on Saturday night when my cell phone rang as we stood on the dock waiting for the sea plane. The nice voice on the other end of the line informed me that our flight was canceled due to bad weather, though it was pleasant where we were standing. This call came five minutes before we were scheduled to take off. Surely the airlines had been aware of this bad weather before now. "I see," I slowly replied. "Well, let me think about this ..." I was saying when Sarah jerked the phone out of my hand. "Let a northern girl handle it," she explained before exploding in the phone, "I don't have time to deal with you. Give me my money back! I'll deal with you later" Seeing that she had things under control, I looked at Conner who was looking at me. "You want a beer?" he asked. I nodded. So we made our way off the dock, dragging a loud Sarah along with us, and went to a party. The next morning I learned that there was no plane on Sunday so ... we went to Seattle and found a wonderful place called ... Elliott's! We highly recommend it. Then to accomodate the airlines, we got up at 5:30 this morning and made our way through parts one and two of Travel Hell. Then to torture us a bit, the airlines delayed our plane for 45 minutes and you know the rest of the story. Having said all of that, we saw whales up close and personal. We saw Eagles, otters, a Camel (why there was a Camel on San Juan island is a mystery to us but it's there), snow covered mountains, and the North Pacific Ocean. There were two quaint seaside harbor towns that are postcard perfect. We were with fun people. And Sarah and I are doing it together, rolling with the punches and enjoying the ride. There's lots to do when we get home. After a summer of constant travel, we're ready to spend the rest of the season on Tybee Island having cookouts, visiting with the kids, taking the girls to the beach, reuniting with the Carnival of Friends and taking Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, on walks. We'll do bike rides to The Bored Meeting and find music to listen to while we dance. We're both ready for this vacation to be over. So that vacation can begin.

Easy Going Love

It had been Conner again who'd asked me to do it. Would I come to the Florida Keys to perform the wedding of two of his best friends, Christy and Ronnie. He promised that it would be fun. I told him that I would because Conner asking and we always seem to have fun ... plus it was a trip to the Keys! I love it down there. I was also in desperate need of diversions. After a 23 year career, I'd burned out and was no longer working. I was also suddenly single, living alone in the house that we'd used to share so it was like living in an empty tomb. Aside from my dog Goddess, there was a tiny collection of people who were part of my life. I was sad, tired, questioning everything about how it could have happened to me, and full of uncertainty about what to do next. "Have fun with them," Conner instructed. "They are really good people." Eventually we set a time so that we could talk on the phone and I could get to know them. "Hello, I'm the Reverend Micheal Elliott," I said in my deepest and most solumn preacher's voice. "And before I can agree to do your wedding, I need you to answer some questions." They said fine though there was clear apprehension in their voices. Conner had told them that I was a crazy minister and a fun loving guy. "Now, which church do you attend?" After a moment of silence, Christy said "Um, we don't go to church." "I see," I gravely replied. "How many times have you read the Bible?" A longer period of silence followed. "We're not sure." "So you have read the Bible?" Silence again before they meekly said, "We haven't read the Bible." "I see," I said with even more gravity in my voice. "Do you beleive in God?" "Um," they said in a lingering sort of way. "OK," I continued, "Have you ever used God's name while having sex?" "YES!," they both exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Fine," I concluded, "we can proceed with this ceremony. Several weeks later, on the island of Islandmorada, as the sun set, I conducted their ceremony beside the ocean. It was a glorious affair with lots of laughter and affirmation of easy going love. They sailed away on a boat to commence their marriage. We all burst into laughter. If you go to Christy's Face Book page, her profile picture is the three of us standing there. She's looking stuningly beautiful in a formal wedding dress. Her face is radiant. Ronnie is wearing a flowered shirt and a broad smile as he celebrates with those watching. And I'm standing there with my arms raised in blessing, wearing a black robe and a UGA baseball cap. They are laughing because I'd just put the cap on my head before pronouncing them husband and wife. Last night, Sarah and I were with Christy and the story was retold in laughter the way friends do. We were at the wedding of Conner and Hania's son. It was another beautiful ceremony and The Nines were blasting good dance music. We all danced and celebrated. And there was a moment when I was back there on Islandmorado, suffering through the worst times of my life but being reminded by Christy and Ronnie that when love happens, it is a joyous explosion of happiness.

Homesick

The sun rises above the snow capped mountain throwing a blinding light on the calm waters of Puget Sound. Lush green fern trees seperate the two. No boats dot the water and I cannot see another house from where I sit drinking coffee from a giant brown mug. There is a peaceful scerenity to it all. A light chilled breeze is blowing so the branches are waving their tips wishing me a good morning. I find myself just sitting and staring at it, breathing it in and feeling as though I'm living a prayer. Others are asleep. It was a big night. After a rehersal for a wedding, there was a party in Roche Harbor, a quaint little fishing village that Norman Rockwell must have designed. Salmon was grilled, mussells steamed and wine flowed freely. Sitting around a huge fire pit, we laughed, toasted, spoke in pairs or found ourselves staring in silence at the beauty of our surroundings. Earlier in the day we'd made our way to Lime Klinn Park where pods of Orca Whales live. The mountains of Canada are across the sound. Otters and Sea Lions break the surface and sun. A tiny lighthouse sits atop a cliff and we sit there waiting and watching. The only sounds are those of nature ... the breaking of a tree limb, water slapping against rocks, the roaring silence of creation. Sarah snapped photographs when we weren't holding hands, walking and appreciating the experience. Conner keeps us laughing when he's around. His kids and grandchildren bring a youthful enthusiasm to it all when we're around them. They search the shore for eels and large purple Starfish or gleefully throw rocks in the water. "We should have booked more time here," I say. "We've come to the other side of the country and we're only staying for a couple of days. We could have driven south to Portland and that area." Nodding her head, Sarah replied, "Yeah but I'm ready to be home ... in our house. We've been gone a lot and we're still setting up our home. The girls will be away another week and I want to finish painting, get their rooms done and clean out the storage room." She's right. It's been a busy few months for us beginnning with our marriage in March. We went to Belize, took the girls to Daytona and then I had to share St. Martin with Sarah. Now we're in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington waiting on whales. "We've hardly been in our home," she sighs, surrounded by uncommon beauty and a question of who knows when we get to do this again. "Yeah," I softly answer. Homesickness happens ... often when you least expect it. It's Chelsea's birthday and I'm far, far away. There hasn't been enough Tybee time in our lives. We've taken the girls to the beach once this summer. There's only been scant skirmishes with the Carnival of Friends. Attendace at the daily Bored Meetings in front of Fannies-on-the-Beach have been brief and random. Goddess and I have barley touched the sad, little, holy dock. Winston, the little gay dog, still isn't properly trained for life inside. Fran and her thousand shades of green are lonely standing guard on the Beloved Back Deck without us. The charcoal in the grill is old. I miss the smell of the marsh and the feel of salt sticking to my skin. Sarah is looking at me. She has this way of being very intensely thinking while staring so deeply it cuts right through you. I look back at her, nodding my head. We're ready to come home.

Waiting for Whales

It never seemed to get dark last night. The sky was more of a dirty grey and the heavy dark drapes had the one crack where they didn't quite close so the little bit of light shone directly on me. On West Coast time we went to bed relatively early, 10:30, but we're still on east coast time so things are moving slow this morning. Roche Harbor is a drop dead gorgeous place ... a seaside harbor with quaint shops, houses on mountain sides and a retro hotels that look like a movie set. The restaurant sat above it all, off a cobblestone street with paroramic views of the boats, the mountains and the harbor town. It's a chore to get here. Fly to Seattle, drive 80 miles north, and then you catch a Ferry for an hour. The Ferry has a bar so it was a easy glide across Puget Sound. Sea Lions swam beside the Ferry and I found myself on the constant lookout for whales. Getting up front and personal with a whale has long been on my bucket list and this is my chance. When Conner first asked me to conduct the wedding of his son, he said that the service would be in Key West. Island Boy that I am, I immediately said I was available. Of course this is Conner. We've had many adventures together and this is the opportunity for a new one. I would have done it for him and Hania regardless of where and when. Plus, I love Key West and have been wanting to take Sarah for a while so this made for the perfect opportunity. Things don't always go according to plan in life so when Conner called me to say we would now be going to the San Juan Islands in Washington state, I cussed. I'd never heard of them but Washington state sounded cold ... even in late June. I hate cold. My enthusiasm for the entire thing suddenly was something that I was no longer looking forward to. Until now. First it is uncommingly warm here (though last week it apparently wasn't). There is plenty of snow but it's all on top of the mountains and luckily I'm at the bottom of the mountains. Mountains are everywhere. So is water. The mountains are covered with trees that reach for the sky covered in green. The water is grey and flat. The sun shines brightly sprinking diamonds on the sound. Bald Eagles are keeping an eye on things. I'm sipping coffee watching for whales. The house we're in sits at the base of a mountain so when I look to the left, the glass walls display a wall of stone and trees covered in lush greens. When I look to the right, the glass walls display a smattering of trees that hang over the water highlighted by the sun. There is a solitude and peacefulness here that I hadn't anticipated. Refreshing my coffee, I walk outside on to the deck and breath in a cleanness that I've rarely smelled. I'm used to salt hanging in the air. Sitting back in one of the deck chairs, I become one with it all. Steam rises from the coffee mug. Everything is still and the quiet roars. I keep my eyes open. I do not want to miss the whales.

Things You've Never Done Before

We're in the sky on a plane heading to Atlanta ... because you can't go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta. It thinks its the center of the universe drenched in bar-b-que sauce and politicians. The world's busiest airport is there and it will spew us out on another plane for the west coast. It professes to be a world class city but its not. It's more of a bunch of suburbs connected by the worst transportation scheme ever designed. Of course we had to drive through Savannah to get to the airport there. The Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) is located on the other side of the county from Tybee Island where we live. Savannah thinks its the center of the universe too but in a more laid back way. Race, cocktails and half-truths are what the city's political system is designed around. It professes to be a religious city but it's not. We had the top down and were enjoying the ride in. It was cool. The view of the marsh across the Lazaretto Creek Bridge was stunning. We talked about our future and the things that we're going to do. We held hands and shared excitment for this trip. Driving through Savannah ... and flying through Atlanta ... I don't miss it. I've spent several life times in both. To quote Bob Dylan, "I've done that once. Why would I want to do it again? I'll do something else." Both cities treated me as a prince ... then later as a pauper. Now they're just settings for old stories that come in handy from time to time. Both are also lightly sprinkled with friends whom I still love ... and who still love me. It's funny to travel through such places. At one time they meant everything, demanded everything, consumed everything and ... in the end ... took everything. Tybee Island is a much more forgiving place. It has it's quirks, and the political system is as screwy as Congress, but holiness resides beside the sea. Celebrations are often because people either ran away from what they needed to distance themselves from or found what they were looking for ... all on the same clump of sand. This is a future flight though. I've spent decades traveling alone. Today Sarah sits beside me napping because its a long way to Seattle and then a couple of hours in a car and on a boat after that. We will hook up with Conner and Hania and a celebration will commence. We'll all see and do things that we've never done before. That's one of the secrets of staying young I think. Do things you've never done before ... and keep doing them. That's what Sarah and I are doing today. I hope that you are too.

Born Again ... again.

First Conner calls and leaves me a message to call him. It was Conner so I had to call him back. We've shared momentous occasions together in St. Martin, Islandmorada, New Orleans, Fort Lauderdale and here on Tybee Island. We actually remember some of them. His wife Hania is our historian. She reminds us of the things we did. "Melliott," he said answering the phone, melding my name together as a group of crazy Canadians known as the Koster's do. "What do you want?" I fired with love and admiration. "I have no idea why I called," he explained Sitting on the Beloved Back deck on a hot summer night with my feet propped on the railing with a glass of wine, I gave him time. You always have to give Conner time ... he doesn't walk ... he strolls. "Oh yeah," he finally says, "what time are we meeting?" So I gave him the details before saying, "You didn't tell me it was going to be freaking cold you bastard." Sarah had checked the weather for Roche Harbor in the San Juan Islands ... north of Seattle! The high is going to be in the low 60s and the lows in 40s! I am going to freeze. I hate cold with everything in me and let Conner know it. "Ah, it'll be fine," Conner said. "Wear something under your robe." So we're getting ready to head to the West Coast to hook up with best friends who've lived with me through hell and back. It is a joyous occasion as their son Ryan is marrying the beautiful Abby. They've lost their minds and asked me to perform the ceremony. It'll be fun though. I actually like Seattle, Portland, Stevenson ... a lot. I've been there many times ... though never north of there. Conner hangs up on me, apparently finished with our conversation. Sarah's inside talking to the girls who are in New York. Dedra and her son J.R. had left after a feast of steaks on the deck. Winston, the little gay dog, lay next to Sarah while Goddess was laying beside me. God had hung the stars brilliantly in a pitch black sky. The sound of waves crashing were in the distance. The pungent aromas of the Marsh hung in the air. Birds sang goodnight lullabies to one another. I sat thinking. Friends come and go ... and sometimes they come back. Most times they don't. I'd spoken with an old friend earlier, someone that I haven't spoken with in a few years. Immediately, she wanted me to be who I was back then. So I listened and tried to conjure up the things that I used to do, but ... that's not who I am anymore. I am being born again ... again. Goddess follows me inside and I make Winston, the little gay dog, move so that I can sit sit beside Sarah. Locking arms, we don't say much. We just are And what we are is incredibly blessed to be together, where we are, with the people we're with and a whole life unfolding in front of us

Reflections (of my Life's work)

There is a story about the singer Harry Nilsson picking up the famous song writer Jimmy Webb one night for a ride. Nilsson was very sick and knew that he wasn't going to be alive much longer. As he drove, he popped tapes into the cassette player ... one after the other. Some had been hits and others were things that Webb had never heard. This went on for a couple of hours. Few words were spoken. "Well," Nilsson finally concluded as the car pulled up to Webb's house, "that's it. My life's work." It was the last time the two spoke. This is a different Nilsson from the one known for the way he partied. "Harry spent his entire life in pursuit of a a good party and he caught it," says Eric Idle of Monty Python fame, "and it caught him in the end." He was a man of extremes. At the end, it wasn't all of the good times he'd experienced that mattered ... it was what he was leaving behind. He became fiercely devoted to his children and his wife, leaving them love notes, playing with them without ceasing, appreciating what he had. And there was the music. Nilsson never followed rules ... he's the only rock star to have never performed live ... and he recorded an album of standards 25 years before anyone else thought to do so ... and he did this at the height of his popularity when the company wanted to keep doing what he had been doing. You can see why I like him. I was very struck by his struggle to share his Life's Work with his friend before he died. I wonder about my life's work. I've done a lot, been most places I've wanted to go, and have boxes of stuff documenting achievements. I am fiercely devoted to my children and delight in the ways they are making their ways in the world. I have friends sprinkled around the world and a very tight collection here on Tybee Island which is where I've always wanted to live. There are eight books on Library shelves so my name will still be around when I'm not. For the most part, I look backwards with pride. At the same time, "I am changing, rearranging, changing everything, ah everything around me" as the old song goes (Reflections of my Life). Sarah and I are redoing the house. A little gay dog runs around my feet while my aging Goddess sleepily watches him. Three little girls have freaking "Justin Bieber" posters hanging inside but they ask me the most interesting questions. I am still in pursuit of a good party but no longer care if I catch it or not. I still enjoy being on center stage, doing television interviews, and writing but ... love the solitude of the Beloved Back Deck more, rarely turn the television on and they don't have to be books anymore. The highlight of my day is when Sarah gets up. I am very much in a reflective period in my life. For whatever reason, God has blessed with with this time. I like to think I earned it but it could be that She just likes me and it's a blessing that I don't deserve but have anyway. I'm young and feisty, always on the lookout for the new stuff, yet have mountains of experiences and have amassed enough to keep doing what I'm doing (at least for a while longer). I am humbled and thankful for this time ... but frightened and apprehensive about how to keep going. Sometimes it is hard to focus on enjoying the present when you know there is more to do. But I am determined. It's all been great so far. Now is blissfully wonderful. Tomorrow is going to be much better.

Me Dad

"When your father dies," Peter Doliber told me after his father had died, "I'll be there to help you get through it." I remember that Peter was full of emotion at the time. His life was already going through major transitions so his father's timing couldn't have been worse. I was trying to show him love and help the best way I knew how. A couple of years later, my Dad died. He was actually pretty good about it. I was in St. Martin and he waited around until I got back. My understanding is that he'd been laying in bed and would likely be gone before I got there. Driving to the hospital directly from the airport, I walked inside his room and was surprised to see him sitting there fully dressed, staring at his hands, looking inside of another universe somewhere. My Mother and brother were also sitting there. "Hey Bub," Dad said when he saw me. "You look good." "Hey Dad, you don't look too bad yourself. I thought you were dead." He didn't respond but kept looking at his hands. A little bit later, exasperated Dad said loudly, "Mike! what do you think I should do?" I got up and sat in front of him. Placing my hand on his knee, I looked in his face but he was looking at the floor. "I dunno Dad. About what?" "I think I'm ready," he softly said to the floor. All of the air was sucked out of the room. "Hey Dad, if you're ready, that's cool." Turning, I looked at David, my brother, who came and sat in the chair that I'd been sitting in. David held Dad's hand. Dad kept looking at the floor. "If you're ready to be with Jesus Dad, he's ready for you." I heard Mom crying. Dad nodded his head but didn't say anything. Then things happened quickly. He moved to Hospice. We took turns spending the night. It was only three days later when he died. His last words were "It was beautiful." Father's Day is funny when you don't have your Dad around anymore. And in spite of what Peter had said, nobody can really do anything to help you with it. There are lots of good memories and I'm lucky enough to have been a son who split pitchers of beer with his Dad talking about ... everything. "You love everybody," Sarah said to me yesterday. I'm not sure about that. I've met my share of assholes. But I get my heart from my Dad. He mostly loved everybody and was forever trying to help a single mother who was a waitress, a gardener without health insurance or a niece who needed money. He was that way. He never preached but he practiced a lot. He also passed on a love of the ocean to me ... the sea, salt, smell of the marsh, sitting in the sun with as little on as possible, admiring girls in bikinis, and listening to good music. My first visit to Doc's Bar was with my Dad. So something's missing today. Having said that ... Dad would be the first to say, "Enjoy it son. It's beautiful!" Thanks Dad. I will.

55 Going on 17

I haven't hung out in many Tattoo Parlors in my life but we strolled into one last night. Tybrissa Street (formerly 16th Street and located between 15th and 17th Streets but inexplicably named Tybrissa) was packed with tourists and locals having a good time on a pleasant summer evening. After dinner and listening to the Sam Adams Band, who play damn good live music, we were making our way back home when we passed it. "You going to do it?" Sarah asked. Pausing, I looked inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dedra looking at me. "Let's do," I said grabbing Sarah's hand and we went inside. The first thing we saw was a guy having his tongue pierced. I thought Dedra was going to pass out. My son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have tongue rings so I'm used to the way they roll their mouth bling around when they're thinking. It was interesting to see a needle five miles long go through the guy's tongue, but ... he likes it I'm OK with it too. I'm open that way. My daughter Chelsea has a nose ring but she doesn't wear it much anymore. It's probably because she's being held captive on the campus of the Georgia Institute of Technology by her fiancee Sam. But she used to wear it when she was at the much cooler University of Georgia. Sarah has three ear rings in one ear and one in the other. She used to have a belly button ring but I've yet to see her wear any bling in it and believe you me ... I like her belly button and spend a lot of time around it. Regardless, I don't know why I never got my ear pierced. I always intended to. Once Johnny O bought us fake ear rings ... the clip on kind and we wore them around the island. Whitley was the only one who thought we'd actually done it. "With all of the rules you've broken," Sarah said, "I can't believe you haven't done this yet. What do you think your Mother will say?" "Oh she'll be mad," I quickly replied without hesitation. "I know my Mom." Then I thought of my friend Trolly Joe who died a couple of years ago. Before he did, he got his ear pierced AND ... he started having Pedicures (which is one of life's great pleasures. I like walking in with a cooler full of beer, make them change the television to ESPN and have a woman play with my feet. It's great! And if any of you macho men haven't done this yet ... well Trolly Joe and I sure celebrate this ... I'm talking to you Mark Wood and Mitch Wesley!). So I sat in the chair, had some alcohol splashed on my ear lobe and felt a pin prick. "You're done," Aaron said. Aaron had one piercing and two Tattoos. He didn't have an ass so I'm uncertain how his jeans didn't fall down. I assume he hocked it to pay for either the piercing or the Tattoos. So that was it. At fifty-five years of age, I finally got around to doing something that I meant to doing in High School. It's never too late to do something that you've always wanted to do. Besides ... Sarah thinks it's hot. O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) has already written wanting to plan his piercing upon (a) his retirement or (b) his birthday. Either way it's a party! Plus I like it. Fifty-five going on seventeen.

Music Rains

Music rains down on this island. Most every night you can find it somewhere. Sunday night we went to North Beach Grill to hear The Velvet Caravan then moved on to Doc's Bar to hear Jefferson Owens. It was grand, vastly different, and wonderfully celebratory (except for the house wine at Doc's, which sucks. So I walked across the street to Bernie's to get some and brought it back to Doc's). We learned that night, there is no such thing as Ordinary People ... and C. S. Lewis says so. Tuesday night we returned to Doc's Bar for the Acoustic Jam, which is held in the back room away from the bar. I ended up with a guitar in my lap, Dedra breezed in and she and Sarah sang. Chip and I played. Dave banged the bongos. We didn't have a bass player but we did have fun. Wednesday night we went to The Rock House to hear Samuel Adams and Davy play damn good live music. Sitting there, a party broke out as a bunch of friends joined us. Last night, Sarah and I rode our bicycles to Social's to listen to Bottles and Cans, a very excellent blues band. We nibbled on food and had a nice visit with Roy Swindel who is the lead musician at Doc's Bar. It's funny that all of the players on the island are friends who support one another. Roy often shows up to listen to Samuel Adams and Samuel often gives electric cords to Roy when his break. I must point out that Roy is the only musician on the island with his own bobble-head doll. It's pretty cool actually and can be purchased to sit on your mantle back home. Now it's the weekend and music is everywhere. Fannies-on-the-Beach or Marlin Monroe's will have Liquid Ginger or Savannah Steve. Roy will be playing. Samuel will too. I'm think American Honey Band is at the Rock House tonight. Sunday at Bar Church the service is built around music. It's mostly "Happy Jack" stuff, but it's fun. Then it starts all over again next week. "I miss the birds singing in the morning," I said to Sarah yesterday. "Well lets open the windows again," she replied. So we did. It had been raining a lot so they had been shut. This morning, I lay in her arms, listening to the birds sing me awake. Palm Trees danced in the ocean breeze. The sun was lazy, slowly dragging the blanket of clouds off his shinny face. Stumbling downstairs for the morning baptism in the outdoor shower, our neighbor Scott is listening to Rolling Stones. "Wild Horses" couldn't drag him away. Me either. I love this place.

The Road (so far)

Standing in Lafayette Square across from the White House, I'm surrounded by white tents with small signs in front of each. Each bears the name of a homeless person who died on the streets. Each tent is unoccupied. A handful of people are in President's Park though this is Mitch Snyder's show. He's got long black hair, a droopy mustache, wears a green Army shirt and white jeans. He looks tired staring at the White House in defiance of President Reagan. This protest has been going on for months. We'd met in Atlanta though mutual friends, Jim and Anita Beaty, back in the days when we all got along. He'd been wearing the same thing that day while I was in a suit. Our approaches to helping the homeless were very different. I remember Jim also showing up wearing a green Army jacket and Anita showed up looking like herself ... angry. In Washington D.C. for meetings, I'd joined Mitch in Lafayette Square and it was my first Presidential Protest. As far as rallies go, it was pretty sedate. Empty tents don't make a lot of noise. "Thanks for coming," Mitch said with his hands stuffed in his pockets on a cold night. "Yeah sure," I replied ... freezing. "How long you going to do this?" He looked at me with his tired eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Long as it takes," he signed. In the end, before he killed himself, Mitch won. President Regan caved into the public pressure of empty tents with dead people's names on them. A piece of prime Capitol real estate was given to Mitch along with hundreds of thousands of dollars so homeless people would have a place to go. The President was seen as a compassionate man though he believed people living on sidewalks on freezing nights should just get a job and move. He had no understanding of self-medicated mental illness. After the victory, Mitch hung himself in the shelter that he'd opened. It is still there. Last time that I was in Washington D.C., I walked by it. It's a filthy dump of a place surrounded by filthy people. I'd been inside many times and had no inclination to return so I kept walking. Stopping in Lafayette Square, I stared at the White House. The tents were long gone and the park was immaculate. There were two protesters demonstrating though for the life of me I can't recall what made them outraged. This time it was my eyes that were tired and sad. My shoulders drooped like Mitch's had all of those years ago. I cried with my hands stuffed in my pockets on a cold winter's night. After thirty years, I couldn't do anymore. I self-destructed like Mitch did but ... I kept my life. Winston, the little gay dog, plays under my feet, as I remember these things. Goddess is intensely watching him on the Beloved Back Deck. Sarah is sleeping and I'm determined they do not bother her. The sun shines through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt. Hibiscus blooms surround me. I hear waves breaking in the distance. The long and winding road ... In the beauty of a summer morning, wearing next to nothing, I remember the wild and windy nights. Mitch is long dead. President Reagan is too. Others have taken their places. The problems remain the same. Someone is standing in Lafayette Square staring at the White House and somebody else is protesting the President. And I'm still here. I'm not sure how ... or why ... but I am. I am deeply in love. I adore all of my kids. I'm blessed with friends who celebrate me. I live in Paradise. But ... there is something else left inside of me to do. I reflect on all of the places that I've been ... which are many. My gaze is ahead though ... wondering what's around the bend.

My Poor Wife

Sarah is a northern girl. There are things that she simply does not understand. She is stunningly beautiful, a terrific conversationalist, is well read, has done fascinating things and often draws a crowd. Last night at dinner, I tried to explain the wonderful things about being born and bred in the South. She stared at me with a blank expression on her face. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. A few things need to be said before I get started. She gloated last night when the highest paid team of thugs to play baseball, the Yankees, beat the Braves which proves that Satan does indeed exist. She has a dark side. Second, she is under some illusion that professional football is anywhere near same level of accomplishment, entertainment or devotion as college football. She did intern with the Buffalo Bills and dated several of the players. Let's be honest ... the mothers of the players of the Buffalo Bills don't even bother to watch them play. Now a confession ... "I don't hate Yankees," Lewis Grizzard once said. "I have a friend who hates them. His hobby is reading the obituary section of the New York Times." Having said all of that ... I adore my wife but ... She does not understand that college football is a religion that is far more significant than any church service which is why it has it's own day ... Saturday ... dedicated to it (Thursday nights too thanks to ESPN!). She does not comprehend why I have almost one hundred VHR tapes of Larry Munson's Greatest Calls that I refuse to part with because ... it's freaking Larry Munson. Munson talked God how to speak! Then there are the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia, God's chosen team. Sure God's making them wander around in the wilderness for a while but it's just a matter of time before they reclaim their appointed position on the heavenly throne. Sarah doesn't know that Philistines attend the University of Florida, heathens go to Tennessee, and Sodomites occupy South Carolina. I don't know why she doesn't know these things but ... she doesn't. She has no appreciation for Bar-B-Que. This left me speechless. She makes no distinction between Bar-B-Q beef and Pork ... knows that pigs are smarter than dogs ... that charcoal is the only thing you use on a grill or that Johnny Harris Bar-B-Que sauce is the nectar of the Gods. She has never been graced with a Bar-B-Que sandwich from the Georgia Pig in Brunswick or supper at Sprayberry's in Cowetta County. Seafood is not on her diet. This is completely foreign to me. How does one survive without fried shrimp, oysters, fish, hushpuppies, french fries and Cole Slaw? She has no idea that Mahi-Mahi is just a name that we made up to sell Dolphin fish to northerners because they though they were eating Flipper. I couldn't eat by the time I tried to explain all of these things. I'll give her this though ... she drinks sweet tea. As anyone who listens to good music knows ... on the eighth day, God made sweet tea. And she is stunningly beautiful. So ... I grabbed her hand and we walked outside into a Tybee night where the salt from the water stuck to our skin, the music from Doc's Bar called us in, and the moon danced above the clouds.