Unfinished Stories

I was in Johnson City, Tennessee staying at a Holiday Inn overlooking the city and the mountains. After driving down from Louisville, I sipped a beer while checking out the view. I was struck by the city's simplicity and charm. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was scheduled to be the guest preacher at the Baptist Church the next day. In my mid twenties, I'd gained a reputation as a good speaker, Home Missionary and radical inner city minister of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. Monthly I'd be somewhere in the Southern Baptist Convention bringing the word of a homeless Gospel to the sanitized believers who supported the work through their tithes. After speaking in Churches from New York City to Kansas City, I had the presentation down pat though a cynicism had crept into my beliefs. Wearing a gray corduroy blazer, shirt and tie, blue jeans and tennis shoes ... I looked different from most Southern Baptist Ministers. I also had long hair, a beard, and wore shaded glasses. In addition to drinking beer, I chewed tobacco and played the guitar. Earlier I'd driven by the Baptist Church so that I'd know what to expect. Then I found a store to buy beer and checked into the hotel. Deacons from the church had invited me for supper but I'd turned them down as was my custom. I preferred to alone ... away from the never ending demands of the poor, the dirtiness of an inner city, the unrealistic facades of the Seminary and a whitewashed theology scrubbed clean of unpleasant things. I found a Pup to have dinner and met the city's unchurched. To this day this remains my custom. Searching out local haunts and dives, I watch and listen. More often than not, I'm included in fellowships that are far more powerful than those hiding under steeples. The Minister-of-Music and his wife picked me up the next morning. "We didn't recognize you," he explained with a laugh. "You don't look like a minister." I laughed a fake laugh at the very old joke. He was pretty with short cropped hair, a crisp suit and shinny black shoes. She had light brown hair that curled up at her shoulders, an light orange dress with white flowers on it and held a Bible in her lap. He did most of the talking telling me how wonderful the church is and how much I was going to enjoy the fellowship. It was a big box with pews and a Baptismal Pool. The congregation all looked the same. I suspect they were mostly in the same income bracket, voted the same and had sex in the dark. I told stories about homeless men doing their best to kick habits and believing in Jesus in ways that leave me humble, hookers dancing in Louisville's large porno district who came to church on Sundays, and this crazy group of kids who really believed they could change things and make the Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. The fellowship applauded when I finished. I sat in the preacher's chair looking forward to the beer I'd have when they let me go. The Minister-of-Music stood up to bring the service to an end when his wife stand up on the third row. She was crying which left him speechless. Almost 300 pairs of eyes watched. "It just is as he says," she sobbed clutching her Bible. "We just pretend to love but we really don't. We'll leave here and go to lunch while people go hungry ..." and her voice cracked and she cried from somewhere deep inside of her Bible. The church was full of embarrassment as the Minister-of-Music left the pulpit to hug his wife. Wiping tears from my eyes, I walked down and hugged the both of them. Then I left and made my way back to the Holiday Inn. Kicking off my tennis shoes and throwing the jacket on the bed, I opened a beer and stared out of the window. That was my only visit to Johnson City, Tennessee. The church never invited me back. All of these years later I wonder what happened to the Minister-of-Music and his wife. It's another unfinished story. I've collected thousands of them over the decades. It's funny. The only reason I'm thinking about them at all is because of Mitch Wesley and Mark Wood. We've been joking with each other on Face Book, claiming that God had given us songs to give to each other. My son Jeremy gave me a song which I gave to them and it references Johnson City, Tennessee. Angles arrived took me back to that day reminding me of what it was like back then. Reminding me of how hard it is to really believe in anything.

Words and Music

As a kid growing up in Port Wentworth, Georgia ... a mill town with a unique smell, a viaduct and an abandoned factory in the woods ... we mostly played outside. One day an-honest-to-God Encyclopedia Salesman showed up at our front door on Clifton Drive. Other than the Bible, there were no books in our house and my Dad must have felt bad about it so he bought the complete set of World Book and my life changed. Choosing to stay inside, I read the complete set repeatedly. Starting with "A" and going through "Z", I'd sit in the Den and read the short descriptions and explanations about ... everything. There were also a lot of pictures including some of partially clad women. I found it hard to not like the Encyclopedia! My Dad would walk in and see me sitting there engrossed in the "N" Book and ask me what I was reading. "Nudity," I'd tell him. Shaking his head he told me he'd be back later. And he left. To this day I'm not certain where he went but he went there a lot. There was also a television in the Den that picked up WTOC, WSAV and WJCL. There was another station but it was fuzzy so we never watched it unless we put tin foil on the rabbit ears which we never did because my Mom thought it tacky and we were better than that. When I wasn't reading World Book I was watching music on television. I loved it all ... from The Andy Williams Show, Lawrence Welk, Hee-Haw, Hootenany and Ed Sullivan. I'd grab a broom, pretend it was a guitar and sing along to everything. Dad would walk in, ask me what I was doing, shake his head and tell me he'd be back in a little while. Then he left while I kept doing wicked solos on the broom. Words and music remain foundations of my life. (I suppose nudity is too.) Books and records were everywhere. Now it's digital but it's still constant. Throughout my life the music has played while I've read or wrote. They are entwined in my DNA. Right now I'm sitting in The Mermaid Lounge listening to Organic X streaming live on the computer (thank you Son!) as I write, surf the World Wide Web (today's Encyclopedia) and read about whatever is popping in my head. "Youtube" is minimized on the screen in case I need to see Andy Williams belt out "Born Free" or those really cute girls on the Lawrence Welk show. "You always have noise," Sarah tells me when I complain about the girls having the television blasting through the house. "It's not noise," I reply. "It's music." Then I grab her and we dance in the kitchen as I sing her the words.

Ignoring it

There are 24 windows in our house that are now open. That's just upstairs. There are six more downstairs. There are also wide sliding glass doors, a set of French doors, a screened in porch connecting the upstairs with the downstairs. There are five ceiling fans up and two down plus another one on the porch. I love it! Especially when all of the windows are open. It's like outside moves inside. Sunshine and fresh air pour in. The cicada sing loud songs while squirrels dance in the trees. The wind chimes sweetly keep a beat as the ocean breeze is cooler than its been. Sitting in The Mermaid Lounge on the Beloved Back Deck I marvel at the brilliance of Fran's Thousand Shades of Green. The Hibiscus blooms are large and red. Goddess is happily laying at my feet and even Winston, the little gay dog, seems content. I know that I am, sitting here in running shorts and nothing else, with George Harrison singing on Pandora. It's a great Saturday morning! We have no plans ... no company ... no groceries ... no underwear ... nothing other than ourselves. I can't remember the last time this has happened. Goddess barks. I tell her to shut up. Winston, the little gay dog, starts dancing like a ballerina on meth. I want to beat his head against the Palm Tree with the smiling Oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. The doorbell rings. "Shit," I mutter as I ignore it.

Maggie's Day

Maggie Elliott is getting married today. She seems pretty happy about it though we really haven't discussed it. My brother David, her Dad, is pretty ecstatic based upon his Face Book posts and gives God all of the credit for introducing Mags and Eric. I've seen them together and they're going to make a terrific married couple. I think David and Susan, his wife, deserve a lot of credit for that. Eric's folks probably do too though I've never met them. It'll be fun. Most weddings are. My beautiful daughter Chelsea is here for the service and her feet already hurt from wearing High Heels. She is her Father's daughter and Flip-Flops are her shoes of choice ... if shoes are necessary at all! Maggie's has me mindful of weddings today. In October it will be Dani Sadowsky's wedding ... which I will be performing ... with ketchup. I'm uncertain if ketchup as ever been used as part of a wedding ceremony but it somehow seems appropriate for Dano's. I think the whole ceremony is going to the dog's anyway. Last month I officiated the wedding of Ryan Conner and Abby on San Juan Island in Washington State. That was fun too and the after party was really great. I don't remember there being any ketchup. My beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married next summer but she and Sam have been together so long that it won't seem like a big deal. I have to go really far back to remember Chelsea and Sam not being together. I think she was in a crib. Now they have their own crib in Atlanta. Jeremy and Marie were far ahead of the curve on this wedding stuff and got married years ago. Though they'd also been together forever ... I think The Beastie Boys were still a group when they got married. My Dad was still alive and I remember he cried like a baby ... just like I did though I was the one asking them to "repeat after me." Today they are like John and Yoko ... I can't imagine one without the other. Of course, Sarah and I got married under a full moon on the ocean just six months ago. We're still on our honeymoon ... though we have three little girls in the house which makes consummation a challenge. I view it as an Olympic event ... how far can you go without getting caught? It reminds us of our High School days. But today is Maggie and Eric's day. I wish them happiness and peace. May joy fill their every moment. I want God's blessings to rain upon them. And I hope they never get caught.

Fish in the front yard

Purple clouds dance on the ocean today. They billow and seem to pile on top of each other though the sea remains calm. A couple sits in two chairs sipping coffee with their toes in the cool sand. While they missed the sun rise the clouds are putting on quite a show. There is no rain though moisture hangs heavy in the air. All is peaceful and quiet. The tourists traps are empty ... vacancy abounds. A Tropical Storm named Issac is churning in the Caribbean and leisurely making its way to St. Martin so I'm throwing up prayers for my friends there. Carlos, Verna and Chelsea, Nathalie, Karima, Mimi, Victor, Patu and others. Keep them safe. The island has seen its share of hurricanes. A couple of years ago one hit and everybody lost power in the midst of tremendous wind and rain. Verna hugged Chelsea in the darkness of their concrete block apartment and screamed out for Jesus to take care of them. When Jesus kept quiet about it all she yelled out "Holy Shit!" and that seemed to get his attention as the winds died a bit and the rain let up. She was shaking and crying as Carlos put his arms around her and opened the front door. "Verna," he said in his lilting French Creole accent, "do you see any fish in the yard?" Sniffling she shook her head from side to side. Carlos hugged her again. "OK then. Everything's OK. Leave Jesus alone." I laughed and laughed when he told me this story and when I saw Verna later for dinner, asked her if she was eating fish from the front yard. Watching Verna eat a fish is nothing short of miraculous. She eats everything including the eyeballs! She reminds me of Barney Rubble on The Flintstones picking up a whole fish, putting it in mouth and then pulling out nothing but the skeleton. I've watched her do it countless times sitting there mesmerized. Of course when she cooks me jerked chicken wings, I probably look the same to her. Sarah and I had supper with them a few months ago and it was special. They had big news and waited until the right moment to share it with us. Sometimes, meals turn into celebrations and this was such an occasion. But today I'm throwing prayers onto the ocean, bothering Jesus to ask him to keep them all safe. After Issac finishes with the Caribbean he'll decide whether to attend the Republican National Convention in Tampa or maybe take a side trip to Tybee Island. Now we all wait to see what happens. Isn't it funny how life is that way? So long as nobody has fish laying in the front yard it'll all be alright.

Rip Van Winkle and ME

When I find myself in times of trouble ... I go to sleep. I know ... a lot of you are saying "Hello Rip Van Winkle! Damn you sleep a lot!" But its true. If someone's giving me grief or the day's just gone to hell and I don't know what to do about it, I simply go bed so it all ends. When I get up, the slate is wiped clean and I can start over. I don't yell or cuss (much) or throw things so it keeps me from making things worse. Of course, if I nod off in the middle of someone getting on to me ... it doesn't help the situation. For the most part, it's been a very successful strategy to avoid trouble that I discovered sitting in class at Seminary. My fellow students would be fighting over what God is really like, and cussing me for whatever I'd said, so I started sleeping through class. It was much easier and I avoided a lot of conflict. But yesterday my Mother called to chastise me for writing about Zombies. Apparently, one of the things I'd written was that if you go to church you'd see a lot of them. I've been to a lot of church services and, believe me, there are a lot of Zombies in church ... NOT EVERYBODY but a lot. Mom doesn't read much of what I write so she heard about it from her friends. They called her up to report "Mike says everybody who goes to church is a Zombie." "Why did you say that?" Mom demanded on the phone. "You're calling your grandparents Zombies." My grandparents, who I love deeply, are both dead and I'm pretty positive having a rocking good time in heaven. They more than earned that. They were loving and gracious people and I think they'd make terrible Zombies. My Grandfather would visit other Zombies and lead them in the Sinner's Prayer before confirming that he would pick them up for Sunday service at the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. My grandmother would cook them all Sunday lunch at her house on Carver Street. Neither are good Zombie material and put them together and you'd witness Zombies being brought back from the dead. Ira and Edith were amazing people ... the epitome of love and definitely not Zombie material. Having said that, I've personally seen Zombies in the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. They care more about sucking the life out of others than giving light and love. When I saw them, I fell asleep. When I woke up, they were gone. Of course no one was in the church except me and I missed my Grandmother's excellent Sunday lunch on Carver Street that the Zombies had been invited to enjoy. When I woke up this time, Mom was still getting on to me so I told her I loved her and hung up. All of which goes to prove, if you believe in Zombies ... you will get in trouble. Your Mother will yell at you. The Braves will drop two straight to the Nationals. You may as well go to bed. What else do you do?

The Mermaid Lounge

Rain drips from the umbrella I'm sitting under and the slick wood of the Beloved Back Deck is wet. The trees are crying as birds rest in their branches without moving. Four sets of wind chimes hang limply keeping their songs to themselves. The air is still, sticky with salt, and though its High Tide, the waves lightly kiss the beach. In the predawn darkness I stood in the hot water of the outdoor shower searching for stars. Blue and purple clouds covered them all. My neighbor is away so no one is screaming "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" and I offer a prayer of thanks. I linger in the shower with the door still open. No one is out. No one can see. On the door of the outdoor shower is a sign that Conner gave me years ago. It's a bright yellow carving of a sun wearing shades holding another sign that reads: "Showers -$1. To watch -$2. With me -$5." Strolling back into a sleeping house, Goddess waits on the landing of the staircase. She is always the first to wish me a good morning. I rub her belly and she follows me inside. Hanging my towel I watch Sarah sleep and offer a deeper prayer of thanksgiving. Winston, the little gay dog, prances around like he's on meth. I throw the dogs treats while I throw on clothes and peddle to The Breakfast Club which is already full of bright lights and energy. I'm hugged by several people and pitched by several others while I sip coffee. The Community of Non-believers and believers has formed a congregation. Starting every day with friends is special. Sometimes we have long thoughtful talks and sometimes we're quiet ... simply being there with one another. As the restaurant opens, I leave and whisper my third prayer of thanks of the morning. On a clear day, the sun just be rising. Returning home I bring the dogs outside with me. Most mornings I have a couple of hours to myself here. Just me and Fran's thousand shades of green, a Palm Tree with an oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt, and God. We don't talk much but all acknowledge each others presence. I love this time. And I love this place. There are signs that I've hung. "Umbrella Drinks Served Here" ... "Clothing Optional Beyond this point" ... "Spring Break" ... Whatever!" ... and "The Mermaid Lounge ... Cast away your troubles and have a Mari-i-time." And I do. The rest of the world still sleeps or is getting ready for work, at the Gym and extending the night into a new day. I sit quietly noticing everything surrounding me. People I love float in and out of my mind. Turning the computer on, the music begins ... "I'm skipping over the ocean like stone." It makes me smile. Everybody used to talk about me. They don't much anymore. I don't care. It's always peaceful and quiet in The Mermaid Lounge. Squirrels begin to violently dance in the Palm Trees. The rain continues to drip from the umbrella I sit under. My day has begun.

Celebrity Red Rover

I'm not into reality television shows but have a few ideas ... Celebrity Red Rover would be a great one! I'd love to watch a line that includes L.L. Cool, Rosanne Barr and Paula Dean yell out ... "Red Rover! Red Rover! Send Taylor Swift on over!" and then watch Taylor get clothes lined as she attempts to break through falling on her ass wearing a pure white dress into the mud with Cool J and Paula Dean butt jumping over her as Rosanne blows snot from her nose and gets ready for Katie Perry. I think it would be pretty popular. On Sunday mornings there could a Religious Red Rover so we could determine which church to follow. Would Benny Hinn miraculously be carried over the opposition line ... anchored by Charles Stanley and Kenneth Copeland (two of the dirtiest players on the team)? The winner could preach. The rest of us could change the channel to Political Marco Polo. Put a bunch of Congressmen in one side of a swimming pool and have Obama or that Mitch Romney Mormon Dude jump in the other end. If the President makes it to the other side without being tagged, one of his policies gets passed. The pool would likely look like a shark feeding frenzy which probably isn't a bad thing. All of the Senators and Congressmen would beat the shit out of each other in the water and many would drown. There could be body count at the conclusion of each show. Term Limits would take on an all new meaning. Congress would certainly improve. It can't get any worse. Media Dodge Ball is a game whose time has come. FOX News verses the Liberal Media. It would be fascinating to watch Brian Williams through a ball at Bill O'Riley trying to knock him trying to take out a tooth and then watch a pissed off O'Riley pick it up and throw it back as hard as he can. Of course Katie Couric would forever be defending her title aiming her throws straight at the gentiles of her opponents. I believe the major television networks would make up a lot of ground on cable and satellite with with such a strategy. Roller Derby for local news channels would also be big! I would love to see the WSAV team, anchored by Super-Weather-Woman Kris Allred, who is not afraid to use the "F" word, take on Jodi Chapman and the dominate players of WTOC. I think Kris would knock Sonny Dixon on his skinny ass. Pat Prokop would sit on the bench though he would be dressed out for the game ... wearing tights. Of course the team from WTGS, anchored by Jesse Blanco and a blond bimbo, would show up an hour early and miss the game forever being disqualified. Jesse's cool and wouldn't care. He'd beat the rest to a restaurant scooping then all to the dish (meaning the blond bimbo). There you go. These are my Monday morning suggestions to make your life better. I think I'm on to something here.

Church ... and then ME

After I left my job as a "Professional Christian", when I got paid to follow the Ten Commandments and love everybody, I really didn't want to be in charge of a Church anymore. My stint as Pastor (and I use the term loosely) had been tremendously fun and rewarding but I no longer needed or wanted to be the center of the universe for twenty minutes every Sunday morning. Besides, I was beginning to doubt that I should be doing all of this speaking on God's behalf anyway. She created the world for God's sake and is perfectly capable of uttering Holy words from on high whenever She feels like it. Plus the Baptists and I were having major conflicts. They would regularly fly me to Corporate Headquarters in Nashville or Atlanta so they could yell at me. It seems I had a pattern of doing things Baptists don't like ... like hiring a woman to be Associate Pastor or closing the church once each year to take everybody on a retreat (this didn't piss them off so much as did the fact that I'd hung a "Gone Fishing" sign in the front door which I thought was wickedly funny. Baptist Corporate Headquarters did not agree). So I'd sit there and get yelled at, prayed over, admonished and then sent back on mission trip to the inner city of Louisville, mostly nobody else wanted the job. If I was in Nashville I'd leave and head straight to Printer's Alley for good live music and strip clubs. If it was Atlanta, I'd go to a Braves game and drink beer. So it was quite miraculous when I got a phone call from Dr. Glenn Hinson telling me that the Oakhurst Baptist Church in Atlanta had lost their collective minds and was interest in calling me as their pastor. Oakhurst is by far Atlanta's best Baptist Church (though they have little competition) ... they're liberal, had lots of cool members I already knew and didn't have Sunday night services so you could stay home and watch 60 Minutes. And it was Dr. Hinson! Everyone who ever took his classes in Seminary loves Dr. Hinson. He personifies cool which is hard to do if you are a theologian. I would skip classes I was taking to go listen to Dr. Hinson lecture in classes I wasn't taking. He's that good! So when he called back to yell at me for not responding to the call from Oakhurst Baptist Church to be their minister, I felt bad. The Church would be better off without me but I hated disappointing Dr. Hinson. (He told me to call him Glenn but I just can't. He drips dignity.) Then after hanging up that call, I get one from Metro Baptist Church in New York City. It's right off 42nd Street and is the epicenter of cool. I'd been several times with Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me and introduced me to the world ...and loved it. A lot of Soap Oprah stars go there and there is a dorm to house students. They wanted to know if I was interested in being their pastor. It would be awesome to live in New York. If I started to fall asleep during one my sermons, I could sneak out and catch a Broadway show. The congregation would never notice because there's always something to do in the City. But I'd moved to Tybee Island. Let's see ... New York or Tybee? ... Tybee or New York? ... God told me to tell them no. Then I went to the beach. But I sit here thinking of the things that might have been. Life could be so different had I said yes to either Atlanta or New York. But I said "No" to Dr. Hinson, Oakhurst, Metro and God. I said "Yes" to the beach. These days when I go to Church its in a Bar. Sarah and I going this morning and playing guitar, probably praying out loud and she's singing. It's in the Bulletin so it must be true. We'll be surrounded by tanned sinners who will either sleep off last night on the beach or head to work bar-tending or waitressing for the after-church-Sunday-crowd. Breakfast will be served as this is the only meal half the congregation will get today (Alcohol is another matter). The Hymns are set to the rhythms of a Bar Band Beat. There is an acceptance here that I don't see in other churches ... "Hey. I'm fucked up. You are too. Thanks for allowing me to be me. You're welcome as I allow you to be you." I'll take this over what could have been.

Jehovah Called

Jehovah called. I hate it when that happens because you have to answer. I mean ... it's Jehovah. The caller ID flashes Hebrew consonants so you know it's God or somebody really good at professing to be God's spokesperson and you sigh ... "Shit! It's God. I have to take this call." It reminds me of when I was cramming four years of college into five at Georgia Southern. Sitting in my kitchen in Red Barn Trailer Park the phone rang. "Hello," I answered. "Mike, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?" It was Guy Sayles. Guy never starts with "Hello" or simple introductory stuff but cuts straight to the heart of the matter. He had graduated the year before and had enrolled in Seminary and was calling from Louisville, Kentucky. "I dunno," I answered. I was in a band, married and Jeremy had just been born. The Dean of the college had just called me in demanding that I declare a major. He explained that students traditionally choose their major at the conclusion of the second year of college. I was starting year five. "What do I have the most hours in?" I asked him. After studying at my twenty seven page transcript he said, "History ... but not by much. You have a tie for second between Literature and Religious studies." So I was soon to graduate with a Major in History, a double minor, and a son when Guy called. "Why don't you come to Seminary?" Guy asked on the phone. "OK," I told him. That's how I got called to go Seminary. Now, all of these years later, I'm still getting called. This time Jehovah wants Sarah and I to be in the Bar Church Band again. Sometimes Jehovah simply can't make up his mind. It was only a few months ago that Jehovah had called us out of the Bar Church Band. You're not supposed to question Jehovah ... so what do you do? In Seminary I paid a lot of good money to learn stupid shit ... like where did the word "Jehovah" come from. As with the rest of the Bible, it depends on who you ask. Dr. J.J. Owens, a great professor of Hebrew, who was forever getting on to me for introducing southern dialect to the class, taught that Jehovah is a mistranslation of the Hebrew word "Yahweh" which is the name that God gave Moses. Yahweh means "I am what I am" so he may as well have called himself "Popeye". God transcends human language anyway. Regardless, Jehovah has tracked Sarah and I down and we have to go to Bar Church Band Practice in a little while. I'm thinking about getting rid of caller ID. "Shit!" The phones ringing.

Killing Dreams on the Ogeechee

WSGA, the radio power of the Coastal Empire, hosted the River Raff contest on the Ogeechee River. In those days AM radio ruled, Jerry Rogers was king of the world, and Love's Seafood was a shack. If Jerry told us to do something on the radio between rock-and-roll songs we stopped what we were doing and did it. He instructed us to build the most creative raft to win the grand prize of ... whatever it was. My best friend in High School was a genius named Gene Prevatt. He told me what Jerry Rogers had told us to do so we naturally skipped school, went to the junk yard and found the rusted out body of a Volkswagen Beetle, which we promptly stole. Somehow we found large blocks of Styrofoam and laid the car on top tying it all together with rope. By this time, Robert Mixon wanted to join us so we told him to bring the beer. He did ... but also brought a lot of other people ... mostly girls wearing bikinis. We couldn't say "No." Throwing the car and the girls into the back of my Dad's pick up truck we made our way about 16 miles down Highway 17 to the Ogeechee River. Lots of kids were there before us with their rafts. Jerry Rogers stood there with his flowing long hair looking as cool as The Beatles and instructed us to line the floats up for the competition. We grabbed the Volkswagen on Styrofoam and put it in the water. Robert grabbed the beer and all of the girls in bikinis got in the back seat. I sat in the front passenger seat and, of course, Gene drove. We promptly sank. The girls in bikinis bailed. Robert saved the beer. Laughing, I jumped ship though Gene just sat their wearing sunglasses looking cool with water up to his shoulders in a sunken bug. I have fond memories of the Ogeechee River. When I wrote Running with the Dolphins & other Tybee Tales I learned all about the Yuchi Indians who inhabited this area way before General Oglethorpe discovered Savannah. They'd set up tents on the Savannah River and the Ogeechee living of the fish, the fowl and the game of the woods on banks of the rivers. The places were ... and are ... a beauty that heaven struggles to match. Now dead fish float in the Ogeechee ... poisoned by the King America Finishing Plant which regularly discharges waste water into the river. The result is floating fish. Georgia is a pro-business state so the Plant continues to dump chemical infested water into the River while politicians watch. The Savannah City Council passed a resolution condemning the practice which is like raising a flag when you can't get anything else up. The Governor seems most impotent as he's caught between keeping a Chicago based company in Georgia while protecting his citizens at the same time. In the meantime ... fish float. Childhood memories are prevented from giving way to the experiences of new generations. Dreams die on the Ogeechee River. And God cries at what we do to the gift of creation.

Our Home is a Religious icon

I went to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) yesterday, not because I was going somewhere which is why I always go to the opposite side of Chatham County but due to the fact that we were picking up Sarah's parents. They live in New Jersey on the Hudson River and pastor a Church in New York City. It's their first visit to our house. Airports and Hospital lobbies are built to look like Malls these days and the Oxymoron Airport near Pooler is no different. Standing there waiting, I spied Danny Filson of the Savannah College of Art & Design wearing a suit and holding a sign. We did stuff together when I was at Union Mission so I strolled over while Sarah and the girls waited on aforementioned Yankee Clergy. Danny and I had a good visit, catching each other up of what we're doing. SCAD's doing great in Hong Kong and he's been there a lot lately. He asked me about being retired and I told him that it's a lie. He laughed and said he suspected as much. Shaking hands we agreed to keep in touch. Back in the day SCAD and Union Mission were growing like crazy at the same time so we became good friends because we were on the same side of the law. My favorite Vox Populi, the section in the newspaper where readers can call in whatever they're thinking and have it printed is ... "One day there will only be two things in Savannah: SCAD and Union Mission. That was funny. Turning from Danny, I spied Angela Barras Bracket, dressed in black, conducting a covert operation to pitch my ass. Angie works for the Oxymoron Airport and we grew up together a billion years ago in Port Wentworth. We hugged and then she and Sarah hugged and aforementioned Yankee Clerical Parents arrived. Now I love Angie so we promised to get together ... one day. Now as my dear friend the Rev. Dr. Guy Sayles will confess, clergy do not mix well at cocktail parties. It's just awkward. I think I'm speaking for God. He thinks he's speaking on God's behalf. It just gets difficult which is why you don't see too many clergy at Cocktail Parties, Strip Clubs or in Liquor Stores ... you know ... the kinds of places Jesus hung out to hang around sinners. So God told Sarah to drive her parents home in one car while I drove the girls home in another. Then we got home. Now our home is religious icon. There is Celtic cross Mary Ann Beil gave me hanging in back yard ... behind the Palm Tree with the oyster face, Coconut bra and grass skirt. Fran's thousand shades of green throws shadows on us in the heat. A sad little holy dock is a block away. There is a statue of UGA, the beloved mascot of God's chosen team, and there are ... Jesus Magnets on the Fridge. "Jesus is coming, hide your bong" ... "I found Jesus, he was behind the sofa" ... "Get real! Like Jesus would own a gun and vote Republican" ... "Please Jesus protect me from your followers" ... "Jesus loves you but everybody else thinks you're an asshole" ... There are a lot of them. So it was pretty quiet when we got home. I decided to have communion by myself. But it was a good first day. Nobody converted or killed anybody. It's a start. Today we're going to the beach. What did I do with my tan-through Speedos.

Zombies

I've known a lot of Zombies in my life. They're not much fun, stumbling through their existence without any real purpose other than sucking the life out of those who happen to be too close. The vast majority of politicians are Zombies as are the bulk of people who go to Church. Certainly most bankers are Zombies. They want far more than they're willing to give. At the same time, I am surrounded by people I love who are obsessed by the walking dead. My beautiful daughter Chelsea and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie spend a great deal of time preparing for the impending Zombie Apocalypse. Nancee, me favorite waitress at the Breakfast Club, has a book about defending yourself against Zombies. D-Luv and Sandi became Zombies in the movie Abraham Lincoln and Zombies which we watched last night. "Does Dee get her head cut off?" Cassidy asked. "No," Sarah and I mumbled because we were riveted by the incredible acting performances we had the privileged of watching in High Def. "Awwww," Cass sighed. Maddie and Laurel don't like the idea of Zombies or D-Luv being one so they stayed the hell away from it all. Well ... except for the couple of seconds it took Dedra to stumble across the bridge to Fort Pulaski in an attempt to eat President Lincoln. Dee and I have never really discussed politics but I assume she is anti-Republican because she wanted to eat a President. At the same time, I really don't care. "She looks good," Maddie exclaimed. "I think that makeup really works for her." Sarah, Cass and I all agreed. Regardless, I've met way far too many Zombies in my life and try to avoid them as much as possible yet they keep intruding into my life. Yesterday I got letters in the mail from both Mitch Romney and Michelle O'Bama ... both Zombies ... both wanting money for nothing in return. Michelle is by far the better looking Zombie though Mitch has better underwear. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous is a Zombie. In my opinion Jerry Rainy wouldn't know life if it hit him in the face so he tries to take everybody elses. Every single person who works for a television news channel is a Zombie having sold their souls to be broadcast nightly. My current favorite television Zombie is Kris Allred Possman who got tired of being dead and used the "F" word to describe what it's like. She got put on Zombie suspension but she's back now ... though she's lost a little something. We live in a world mostly dominated by Zombies. It's a sad state of affairs. That's why I spend so much time on the Beloved Back Deck trying to stay away from it all. At the same time, Zombies are said to have originated on the coasts of Africa and in Haiti ... both beach communities ... which makes me wonder ... Do Zombies Surf? ... on Tybee Island mornings I see Zombies on Paddle Boards looking like a bunch of crippled Jesus walking on the water ... the entire Tybee Island Parking Services is staffed by Zombies ... Doc's Bar host a nightly gathering of Zombies for cocktails ... and Tybee Island City Council meetings are restricted to advanced Zombie meetings. Alright, it's a nice Hump Day. The sun is shining. The Sky is blue. The breeze is light. All of my kids are good. Sarah is snoozing away. Goddess seems happy and Winston, the little gay dog, seems especially gay today. But I've got this feeling that I can't shake ... Zombies are coming ... sometime today. I'm ready. I have a tan. They're whiter than most white people. Besides, Laurel learned how to do the dance from Michael Jackson's Thriller on the boat this week so she can keep them at bay with her incredible Zombie dance moves while I grab Sarah's hand and we get the hell out of here.

Zombies

I've known a lot of Zombies in my life. They're not much fun, stumbling through their existence without any real purpose other than sucking the life out of those who happen to be too close. The vast majority of politicians are Zombies as are the bulk of people who go to Church. Certainly most bankers are Zombies. They want far more than they're willing to give. At the same time, I am surrounded by people I love who are obsessed by the walking dead. My beautiful daughter Chelsea and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie spend a great deal of time preparing for the impending Zombie Apocalypse. Nancee, me favorite waitress at the Breakfast Club, has a book about defending yourself against Zombies. D-Luv and Sandi became Zombies in the movie Abraham Lincoln and Zombies which we watched last night. "Does Dee get her head cut off?" Cassidy asked. "No," Sarah and I mumbled because we were riveted by the incredible acting performances we had the privileged of watching in High Def. "Awwww," Cass sighed. Maddie and Laurel don't like the idea of Zombies or D-Luv being one so they stayed the hell away from it all. Well ... except for the couple of seconds it took Dedra to stumble across the bridge to Fort Pulaski in an attempt to eat President Lincoln. Dee and I have never really discussed politics but I assume she is anti-Republican because she wanted to eat a President. At the same time, I really don't care. "She looks good," Maddie exclaimed. "I think that makeup really works for her." Sarah, Cass and I all agreed. Regardless, I've met way far too many Zombies in my life and try to avoid them as much as possible yet they keep intruding into my life. Yesterday I got letters in the mail from both Mitch Romney and Michelle O'Bama ... both Zombies ... both wanting money for nothing in return. Michelle is by far the better looking Zombie though Mitch has better underwear. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous is a Zombie. In my opinion Jerry Rainy wouldn't know life if it hit him in the face so he tries to take everybody elses. Every single person who works for a television news channel is a Zombie having sold their souls to be broadcast nightly. My current favorite television Zombie is Kris Allred Possman who got tired of being dead and used the "F" word to describe what it's like. She got put on Zombie suspension but she's back now ... though she's lost a little something. We live in a world mostly dominated by Zombies. It's a sad state of affairs. That's why I spend so much time on the Beloved Back Deck trying to stay away from it all. At the same time, Zombies are said to have originated on the coasts of Africa and in Haiti ... both beach communities ... which makes me wonder ... Do Zombies Surf? ... on Tybee Island mornings I see Zombies on Paddle Boards looking like a bunch of crippled Jesus walking on the water ... the entire Tybee Island Parking Services is staffed by Zombies ... Doc's Bar host a nightly gathering of Zombies for cocktails ... and Tybee Island City Council meetings are restricted to advanced Zombie meetings. Alright, it's a nice Hump Day. The sun is shining. The Sky is blue. The breeze is light. All of my kids are good. Sarah is snoozing away. Goddess seems happy and Winston, the little gay dog, seems especially gay today. But I've got this feeling that I can't shake ... Zombies are coming ... sometime today. I'm ready. I have a tan. They're whiter than most white people. Besides, Laurel learned how to do the dance from Michael Jackson's Thriller on the boat this week so she can keep them at bay with her incredible Zombie dance moves while I grab Sarah's hand and we get the hell out of here.

My House Boat

By this time in my life I thought I'd be living on a House Boat. It's been where I've always wanted to end up. From the first time I set foot on one in Clark Lake I was mesmerized and wanted one. Then I read all of John McDonald's Travis McGee novels and the hook was set. What's not to love about selling everything you have and getting a House Boat? If you don't like the neighbors ... it's easy to move. Want a better school district for the kids? Sail to a one. When the crooks in Congress change your district from party to the other ... just drift on down to where you like. It's really hard for Jehovah Witness people to knock on your door if they have to swim to it. You see the attraction of what I'm saying. On a rolling sea the other day Sarah needed a break from the top deck so we all inside for lunch. Inside for lunch on a cruise ship is like going to Food Court in a Mall made in hell! There's all you can eat soft serve ice cream which is what the girls ate for lunch every day so there we were. Plus you have to put on a shirt and flip flops to eat inside which sucks. "How you feel baby?" I asked tenderly holding her hand. "You got your sea legs yet? You need 'em before we get the House boat." "We've got time," she said looking purple. At this precise moment, Cassidy knocked Maddie's plate of ketchup with a few French Fries over into Maddie's lap. Laurel patiently watched it all licking her ice cream. I think this is cruise ship Food Court norm as people were spilling plates left and right ... no one seemed to notice or care. Staring at the girls, I realized that ... as usual ... Sarah is right. We've got time. The House Boat will come later. A couple of years ago I almost moved to St. Martin for good. The time was right. The money was right. The only thing that wasn't right was me. I was pretty messed up ... lost and adrift ... dazed and confused ... abandoned and alone. But I didn't. Last night Sarah and I were home alone and opted to head to Nicki's for a late night bite. We talked while we ate and prepared for her parent's visit, how the girls are doing and my kids Jeremy and Marie, Kristen and Chelsea and Sam. Afterwards we strolled down the beach holding hands and talking about this and that. "Are y'all locals?" a pasty white dude asked. We told him we were and he explained that when he gets out of the military in eight more years he wants to move to Tybee Island. He asked where he should live, so we told him where we live. Walking back to the Combat Zone we ran into Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music most nights, and Bob Tripp so we sat and visited on a beautiful summer night at the beach. After a good visit, we came home and I called Jeremy and Chelsea from the Beloved Back Deck and we laughed and made plans. Wandering back inside, Sarah was finishing up hiding pictures we'd taken on my I-Phone (in case I lose it again) so we did what married couples do ... at least what happy married couples do. After we consummated things we took Winston, the little gay dog, outside to do the things little gay dogs do. There was a beautiful sliver of moon. The waves were roaring in the distance. The air was warm and filled with salt. The Palm Trees danced in the breeze. The House Boat will come. I'm much too determined a person to not have that experience. I think to myself ... well while I wait ... this isn't too bad a way to spend my time. Days pass without a cloud. And I'm smiling out loud.

A Beauty Never Seen

“I want my picture taken on the beach at Paradise Island,” she announced, “because my hair is beautiful and I want everyone to see me.” I was struck by her sincerity. Her black hair, a powerful contrast to her white skin, had obviously been braided the day before in Freeport, Bahamas and was in neat corn rows with white beads dangling from the end. She wore a matching black and white bathing suit which corresponded nicely with her walking stick. She was blind and would never see the picture soon to be taken for everyone else to see. Her smile however was beatific but eclipsed by her youthful enthusiasm. She’s a teenager and over the few days we were on a cruise ship, I watched her do all of the things that adolescents do … fill her plate like they’ll never be another meal, jump into the swimming pool with the other kids, and stroll off by herself to get whatever struck her fancy. The white and black walking stick would click from side to side of the polished wooden deck as she made her way this way and that. She seemed to always be wearing half-a-smile and her eyes were forever focused somewhere else. When Sarah and I took the girls to the beach in Nassau, there she was enjoying the crystal clear waters of the Gulf Stream and working on her tan as she lay on the white powder sandy beach. As the bands played, she danced a swirling kind of motion with her knees bouncing up and down with her arms outstretched. Her family seemed to both dote on her and keep a distance at the same time. They were older with grey hair, saggy skin and moved much slower that she does. The last time I saw her she was climbing out of the salt water swimming pool and somehow navigated the rows of chairs to her family through the cacophony of screams, talk and loud music blaring from the sound system. I think she is quite remarkable. There were others too, not blind but wheel chair bound or hobbling on canes. Not much seemed to stand in their way either as I saw them rolling down city sidewalks and shopping in straw markets. I watched one flip herself into a hot tub which scared the legion of kids that were in it and within seconds she had the bubbling water to herself. It only took a few seconds though before others joined her. Like everyone else I’ve had difficult things thrown my way in life. Abrupt disturbances that rocked my world, the abandonment of love and friends, the depression that loneliness brings have all hit me at the same time leaving me wounded, hurt and wondering if I would ever truly live again. Luckily, over the past few years I’ve mostly shaken off the trauma of the past and now work towards a future where the sun is shining brightly over a clam blue ocean. Every time I saw her on this trip, I stopped to watch her for a second or two. She personified an elegant grace that I do not have. Perhaps it was because she was in public and screams like most adolescent girls when she doesn’t get what she wants. I’ll never really know but I don’t think she’s like most teenagers. Most kids on the ship were obnoxious intrusions with absentee parents. They overindulged in everything from Pizza to ice cream and literally ran the adults out of the pool every afternoon. They screamed at their parents when they were around and the singular most often used phrase I heard on the boat was “THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Her walking stick steered her away from such things. She has a beauty that she’s never seen but one that she knows with everything inside of her is there. I saw it.

The Little Boy Inside

Wearing only a tan-through Speedo I pour myself coffee standing beside a woman clad in some kind of uniform with her brown hair in a tight bun. In front of us is an African American family dressed in bright yellow and orange shirts with matching jams. Behind me are college girls wearing bikinis followed by an idiotic guy wearing a purple LSU jersey. One thing I will say about cruising is that the culture clashes are quite stark. Having embarked out of Jacksonville though, this one is really a southern based multiculturalism. “We drove all the way from Arkansas,” a boy told me last night through a deep southern drawl. “It was the longest two days of my life.” He is fourteen. He hasn’t met a long day yet. After being challenged to race him down the dual water slide on the back of the boat I began teaching him about long days by beating him two out of three times. “Kicked your ass,” I told him. “You did,” he agreed in the southern drawl. It is fair to say that the “little boy” inside of me never grew up. Just ask anyone I’ve ever worked with or spent a substantial amount of time. I believe play and having a good time absolutely must co-exist with work! I think that’s how I survived for so long in my career … I made homelessness fun! Now, at 56 years old, I’m racing 14 year old kids down water slides, encouraging one to take his droopy jams that don’t cover his underwear off because they slow his swimming down (he did), and teaching Maddie how to be picked up by aforementioned 14 year old boys. As night fell on the boat, Sarah and I sat on the edge of the pool literally surrounded by fifteen or so kids. We were the loan adults included in the group. Of course Sarah was wearing a bikini and 14 year old boys are learning how to master lust and that may have had something to do with it. I’m not especially self-conscious either. Even when I get in trouble I have a tendency just to keep on keeping on. Yesterday the girls and I made our way to the end of a concrete pier that had a “No Diving” sign on it. I immediately dove into the crystal clear water of the Gulf Stream. Just as immediately, a Bahamian Police officer informed me that I can’t do this. He was pretty brief about it, probably because I was wearing aforementioned tan-through Speedo. Thanking him for the warning, I strolled to the end of the structure and cannonballed into the water. Within five minutes there were twenty kids jumping off the end of the pier with me and the girls. Pretty soon, adults joined in. Even in my sad, lonely and tired days, I found things to laugh at. In the midst of the tired fatigue that divorce brings, I was talking to one of my best friends about relationships with women. The conversation turned to sex so I asked Johnny O how many women he’d slept with. “I dunno,” he replied shrugging his shoulders, “couple of thousand.” Now that’s funny! One of the reasons I love Johnny O so much is the “little boy” inside of him and the “little boy” inside of me really get along! We hang around the “little boys” in Jodee, Sean, O Johnny and Whitley (OK, the little boy inside of Whitley is a Nerd). Throw in the “little girls” inside of Judy O, Cheryl, Joanie, Roma, Julia-Just-Julia, O Judy … wait a minute! … I’m naming most of the people I know on Tybee Island. Obviously I like to hang around people who keep their “inner child” alive and thriving. I got up early today because I’m excited. It’s a day at sea. Scoping out our chairs on the kids play deck, where the water slides are, I’ve already reserved the best ones for us. The sun is throwing a blanket of white blinding light on the ocean. The morning is warm without being hot and the breeze is cool but light. It’s a perfect day to be at sea! A guy wearing an orange Syracuse jersey interrupts these thoughts. He has a shaved head and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He appears to be educated. “Excuse me,” he politely asks, “did you purchase those on ship?” He’s pointing at my tan through Speedos. “Sorry, but I didn’t.” “Oh,” he sighs crestfallen. Yep. It’s just me. Let the day begin!

Experiencing the New

Sipping coffee I stare at the bright green, yellow, orange and blue buildings in the harbor of Nassau, Bahamas. It’s a tourist’s façade of course as the city is a sprawling urban mess of straw markets with aggressive hawkers, inadequate plumbing, an overcrowded population and far too much traffic for the roads to handle. It merely has the incredible good fortune of location. A group of workers try to move an overflowing dumpster but each time they attempt to drive away another pile of garbage spills out. They don’t seem to mind as they laugh and talk as they retrieve the rubbish and put it back in the truck. Finally one finds a tarp and they cover the bed and make their way to the mountain of discarded things. It is now a bright beautiful Bahamas morning. The ocean is flat and calm. There is no breeze and the sun is hot. Seagulls are everywhere squawking as they salvage and fight for food. The dark rain clouds are now in the distance over the sea while billows of white hang behind the colors of the city. The last time I was here Sarah wanted to see Paradise Island which I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. But I love her so what was I to do? We took a mad taxi ride through parts of the city tourists rarely go. It was fascinating as our driver even stopped and picked up a girl on the way. “Don’t worry Mon,” he explained to the dark suspicious girl dressed in red as she climbed in, “Mike and Sarah are good. They be like us.” It was a great compliment. One of the reasons I’ve lived such an interesting life is I have a knack of easily sliding into whatever environment I happen to find myself. Sure I like more than others. A wild taxi ride through the dark parts of town is far more intoxicating than looking at hats in a straw market. To me there’s no difference between putting on my pompousness for meetings in Congress than to have coffee with hookers in a D.C. McDonalds. It’s mostly the same thing anyway. Another reason is my DNA is comprised of a great deal of empathy. I easily identify with whoever I happen to find myself sitting beside. I not only hear what they’re saying but see how they say it, feeling the emotion … or lack of it … behind the words. I easily navigate to the heart of the matter. And when someone else needs to have their say I’ve learned how to be quiet and let them. It began when I was in the press a lot saying whatever I wanted to say. People would react and I’d had my say so I figured it was time for them to have theirs. It’s a little harder if Sarah’s getting on to me but I mostly sit there letting her get it out, internalizing far more than she thinks and then carry it with me until some resolution is reached. We’ve planned a full day in Nassau showing the girls the world is a far bigger place than they think. It’s me they have the sad fortune of being with so it’s the Bahamas as the kiddie starting point. Later we’ll progress to the Caribbean and Central America. This is the world I love. Last night we saw a show of Latin and Caribbean music, most of it sung in Spanish. They were mesmerized by the Calypso moves and the lavish Junkaroo costumes. They were horrified at the scantily clad dancers who shook their breasts while showing their asses. In the end though, they were on their feet clapping and dancing along. Music is another thing that’s in my DNA. If you really want to understand another culture … or another person … start with the music. If it’s a place or a person devoid of melody or harmony then there is likely little to be gained from interacting with them. The plan is to leave the sanitized culture of a cruise ship, lunch in Nassau and then head to a local’s beach. An unfinished concrete dock abruptly ends at the beach and city kids do flips off of it into the sea. There are food stands selling Conch Fritters, salted fish and Kalik Beer. I’ll slide right into it all. Sarah’s doing pretty good at it too these days. Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea are all comfortable quickly adapting to people and places, experiences and environments, angels and assholes. A large line of tourists are being disgorged from the ship after gorging on pancakes, bacon and pastries. Most are excited saying they are heading to Paradise Island. I hope they have a good time and find the things they’re looking for. Sarah surprises me by kissing me on the head. The girls wish me a good morning. “You want to eat inside or outside,” she asks them? “Outside,” they exclaim. “It’s too hot out here.” “What,” I shoot? “You’re crazy! This is perfect.” “Inside,” they yell in unison as Sarah shrugs her shoulders. “Shit!” I mumble as they go to the air conditioned controlled milieu of the masses. I’ve married into a crazy ass family that has a lot to learn.

The Beauty that surrounds

In High School I worked at the Airport Quality Inn. My job was to do whatever the manager told me so I did laundry, carting towels and sheets to the Maids, helped stock the bar, cut the grass and drive the van to the Travis Field Airport to pick up guests staying with us. My friend Steve Brantley worked there too and we mostly had a good time. The best part of the job was driving the van … you’d be surprised how long a mile long ride can take. There were several important perks to my position. The pilots and stewardess tipped a quarter each for the ride. There was nothing better than a packed van! We got to eat for free and as anyone growing up knows, eating out is always better than eating in! They would cook us whatever we asked. They didn’t care if we stole beer. We never stole a lot but always just the right amount. We had a set of keys that we could use at night when we were off meaning that I could always say to my date, “Hey baby, I can get us a hotel room if you want.” The Maids, all African American, had a terrific sense of humor and Steve and I mostly hung around with them. They sang Gospel songs and cracked dirty jokes as they raked the shag carpet of each room. We loved them and they loved us. So I have a strong affinity for people who work at hotels. I’ve witnessed how unthankful people can be for a clean room, a nice atmosphere and good food while traveling or vacationing. I’ve seen the aftermath of how people trash rooms and just leave stuff anywhere because they know someone else has to clean it up. I travel a lot and stay in a lot of places always leaving my rooms as clean as I found them. I hang towels up and don’t leave them on the floor. I say “Thank you” to everybody who contributes to making it a good stay. Over the years, I’ve become good friends with Maids who work at these places … Martina and Angela in St. Martin. Carlos who runs the restaurant there is one of my best friends. I’m on a cruise ship today watching people eat breakfast. It’s like a war has broken out as people fight for food. Discarded napkins dance across the deck in the wind. Plates of uneaten food are stacked on tables for someone else to clean up. I no longer have an appetite. Turning my back on all of this, I watch the ocean roll by … vast, clean, majestic and perfect … just the way God created it. The sun is shining over my shoulder and I feel my skin tan. Clipping my I-pod to my ears, I tune them all out to focus on the beauty that surrounds me while whispering prayers for forgiveness for those who don’t give a damn.

Sailing

In my life there are several constant places that are holy to me and I find myself going to them again and again. Athens, Georgia is where my Dad took me to football games and where I took my children. My son now lives there. My sister does too. Its hard not to love a place filled with memories, tradition and friends. I don't know how many times I've been to Athens but its in the hundreds. St. Martin of course is my home away from home. I've been to the island 21 times in the past several years. While I know my way around the place ... where to find the best croissants, lobster cooked over fire in a drum, even where the boats are sunk near the reef ... I have a tendency to stay at one end of Orient Beach. It became a sactuary for me through bad times and the site of many wonderful celebrations. It's also crowned with a wonderful set of friends! Tybee Island is home and remains the ultimate place of refuge for my soul. It's beauty continues to take my breath away daily on walks with Sarah, Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. It's fun watching the girls discover the island and listen to them make plans to have their friends visit. I still enjoy watching friends visit and witness their excitment to be back on the island. I have a Carnival of Friends, countless opportunitites to celebrate, dolphins to run with and a wonderful home that keeps me anchored. It strikes me this morning that the Crowne Plaza hotel in Jacksonville, Florida is another. It used to be a Holiday Inn and I've been coming here for as long as I can remember, first for football games and then later to stay before jumping on an airplane to take me to the Caribbean. It's a jumping off place and a place to return to. It has a pool that is both indoor and outdoor, meaning you can swim through a wall to get in or out, a nice bar overlooking it, and a lot of glass that allos me to stare at Palm and Pine Trees. It's a big place though it rarely seems crowded. I've stayed here with my children, accompanied Bruce, Jodee and Ryan from the Breakfast Club here for a "Boy's Trip" and held Sarah's hand as we walked through the door for our first stay. And I've come here alone when I was sad, depressed and lonely because I needed to get away from the reminders of painful things. I don't know how many times I've been here but I have enough points that this stay is free. It was the last time Sarah and I stayed here too. There are enough award points for several more visits in the future. We are blessed with the gift of time right now. As a result, we've done a lot of traveling over the past few months. A cruise with The Carnival of Friends, a Honeymoon in Belize, Daytona Beach, St. Martin, and San Juan Island in Washington State. Today we're jumping on a cruise ship which is the last of the trips of this gift of time. Nothing else is planned for the year, though we'll make it back to Athens soon. The girls are excited as this is the first time they've ever done anything like this. They have no idea how large the ships are or the expanse of the ocean when you're on it. It is hard to not catch part of their enthusiasm. It keeps me young. Today there are no big plans, no deep thoughts and no funny stories. It is a time to count my blessings and I have many. My struggles and fears have been set aside for the moment. My love and best friend are building our mountain of memories. And today we sail to celebrate beginning with a silent prayer of Thanksgiving.