Really Nice Hair

I couldn't take my eyes of Mick Jagger's hair. Sarah and I were sitting on the sofa watching the Concert for Sandy Benefit in New York and the Rolling Stones were on the stage. For the most part they looked like they're supposed to. 

Drummer Charlie Watts appeared to be dead.

Guitarist Ron Wood looked like Keith Richards.

Keith Richards looked like pirate Santa Claus on crack.

But Mick was sporting new hair. It was the hair of a twenty year old and was damned perfect for a super rock star. It didn't quite fit on the 70 year old man prancing around the stage, ripping his shirt open and screaming instead of singing, "Jumping Jack Flash is a gas, gas, gas."

The Stones are kicking off their fiftieth anniversary concert tour and to promote their new album "GRRR."

"What do you want to call the new record?" the producer likely asked.

"GRRR," drooled out of one of the Stones mouth and that was that.

In preparing for the tour, I wonder if Mick picked up the phone and called Elton John.

"Elton, where did you buy your hair?"

I figure Mick went to the same store. It's probably an exclusive place designed for aging Rock Stars though I really have no idea.

"I may be old but I got to see all the cool bands," reads a magnet on our refrigerator and it's true I think.

I've seen Clapton, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, the James Gang, George Harrison, Elton John, Jimmy Buffett, Grand Funk Railroad, Bruce Springsteen and the Carpenters. There were several other big name bands that I can no longer recall.

All of them had regular hair.

Then again Mick Jagger's always been a trail blazer (though most of us could never quite figure out the trail he was blazing). Perhaps he's doing it again trying to teach a new generation the difference between playing the drums and listening to a drum machine.

I don't know.

He's got really nice hair though.

GRRR!



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Who says you can't?

"Who says you can't go home again?"

Thomas Wolfe says you can't.

Bon Jovi asks, "Who says?"

I'm with Bon Jovi on this one though I appreciate what Thomas Wolfe said.

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ...  back home to a young man's dreams of glory and fame, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed so everlasting but which are changing all the time ... back home to the escapes of time and memory."

The response is, "It doesn't matter where you are, it doesn't matter where you go; If it's a million miles away or just a mile up the road, take it in, take it with you when you go. Who says you can't go home?"

I came home.

After High School, with some nudging from my Mom, I went to college a mile up the road and then to Seminary a million miles away. Everything about me changed in those places. I earned degrees, gained experiences, had success and had babies.

Then one day I wanted to go back ... so I did.

It went well for the longest time. Every time my name was in the Savannah Morning News it was followed with, "a Savannah native." It still means something here though I didn't care much about it.

I live where I want, on a clump of sand, outside of the city. I achieved success where no one obtains it, having one hell-of-a-ride that took me around the world. Honors, books, prestige, and broken glass ceilings rained down upon me.

I gave it everything I had. 

And they took it.

Then home didn't want me anymore.

So I went around the world but adamantly refused to give up the clump of sand, the smell of the marsh, the smell of the sea. A group of co-conspirators rallied around me and transformed themselves into a Carnival of Friends.

When home kicks you out ... you're  supposed to leave. They want you gone, meaning you may as well be dead as far as they're concerned. You're not supposed to come back.

That's the story of Jesus right? They nailed his ass to a cross then buried the body behind a large rock so it would never be seen again.

"To hell with this," Jesus said laying there in the dark. In spite of what everyone else wanted he decided to come back out. That's when all hell really broke lose.

It's hard to not like Jesus when he did stuff like that!

Last night I was with my family ... childhood friends and cousins surrounded me, back to where my dreams of fame and glory were birthed, where the old forms and systems I've long broken away from still reign supreme, where time and memory are as alive as I am sitting here.

"I'm not dead yet," the Black Knight says to King Arthur in Monty Python's "In Search of the Holy Grail."

"Tis but a scratch."

He says this even though both arms have been severed as has his legs and his blood is spewing everywhere. He refuses to give up.

If you're going to ever go home again ... then that's the spirit!

So to all of my Homies in Port Wentworth, behind the closed gates of the Landings, in Savannah's historic district, in the Baptist Church that kills spirits while preaching resurrection, in the pompous halls of Government where I once roamed ...

I don't care what you say. I'm home and I'm not leaving in spite of your wishes. As a matter of face I have two words for you ... one is a verb ... the other is a pronoun.

Who says you can't go home?

I have.

The World has changed (and that's good)!

Sitting at a large table in Spankey's South side, the group was finishing up lunch when one pulled out a stack of square, white envelopes.

"I've got a present for y'all," he said handing each of us one.

He is the second generation of a three generation family business with locations in Georgia and Florida. Nearing the end career, his son is positioned to take over. My table mates opened their envelope and pulled out a calendar. Embossed on it is the name of his company. Flipping through the pages it was filled with stock photographs depicting whichever month. His business card was also included.

When I got to the car, I threw the calendar on the seat and hit my I-phone. The calendar app reminded me where I was due next. I checked the instant messages, emails, Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter before I put the car in reverse. It only took a minute.

I send a text to Sarah to see if she needed anything, Tweeted to let followers know what I thought about things and checked out a video that my friend Mitch had posted. This only took another minute.

Then I put the car in reverse and was on my way to pick up the girls after school.

As I drove my I-phone buzzed with phone calls, beeped with email notifications, dinged as a text message came and sounded like a rattle snake when Sarah communicated. (Before you go jumping to any conclusions, she chose this sound to let me know it was her. I had nothing to do with it! So there!)

The calendar remained quiet and I noticed no activity.

I had an hour to kill so I opened my Netbook and connected to the world and was productive working on proposals customers want as I checked the six open screens. Rhapsody played more of the music Mitch had sent. Facebook noted I had twelve action items, LinkedIn and Twitter had too much activity for me to pay attention to at the moment, Google was open in case I needed to look something up and I'm writing a blog for our company (www.letustellit.com).

The calendar lay there with empty white spaces and colorful displays of somewhere else.

When the girls arrived I shut the Netbook off though the I-phone kept me connected to everything I'd been doing.

Turning up the old fashioned car radio I heard what other people wanted me to hear rather than everything I have at my disposal. After flipping through each channel searching for something I liked, I turned it off, opened Rhapsody on my I-phone and listed to Laura Nyro until the girls arrived. Then the girls turned the radio back on so we could enjoy the crap that's played on Top 40 radio these days.

The world has changed. You don't have to actually go anywhere to travel the world. Our business serves customers across the country and we deliver on the spot. My office is the table under the umbrella on the back deck. My partners have offices five blocks away with a terrific ocean view but our communication is instant and constant. We actually see each other about once a week.

Once home the girls need help with homework. I haven't done school homework since my kids were in school ... I rarely ever did it when I was in school. I Google every question they ask. They think I'm a genius.

Cooking dinner, I can't remember how the sauce is made. Grabbing the I-phone I remind myself.

As night falls I light a fire in the outdoor office and think about everything that was accomplished today. It was actually a lot though not nearly as much as I intended. Grabbing the phone which softly plays music, I typed notes to myself about tomorrow's agenda.

Cleaning up before heading to bed, I see the calendar laying there. I only felt guilt for a moment as I throw it away.

When Life Gets In The Way

Only two blocks into my three mile run, I wasn't loose yet and probably looked like a Lumberjack stomping down the road. Grooving to the tunes streaming into my ears, I'm still getting into it. Typically it takes the first mile before I start feeling good and by then I'm on the beach where everything is better anyway.

The route I take leads me the entire length of the street we live on and its only five blocks long. If I miss the turn, I get wet!

I like our street. Walking out the house, if I look to the right the Marsh is half-a-block away. Looking the other way I see a canopy of trees hanging over the road. In the mornings that's the direction I head.

More than half of the homes are vacant most occupied in the summer. I know everyone who lives here year round. There's the crazy woman who gardens in her underwear, the Cat Lady next door, and the old man who walks his tiny dog twice each day. A couple has two large dogs that walk them every day, a young couple flies a Clemson flag from his front porch and at the very end of the street lives my friend Frank who lost his wife a couple of years ago and has never recovered.

Lumbering away listening to Pearl Jam, I notice a house that was there yesterday is gone today. It's still there ... just no longer put together and lays in a pile on the ground. A bulldozer is resting beside the heap still exhausted from tearing it down. I see pictures are still nailed to pieces of walls. In the distance I see the back of a house I've never seen before.

I keep running but am surprised that a perfectly good house is gone. It was built of cedar which is uncommon but I liked its rustic beach look. It had a garage apartment that stood alone next to it but it's no longer there either.

I reach the beach where everything remains the same yet changes a little bit every day. Eddy's run that weren't there. Sand dunes have grown or have been reduced in size. Horseshoe crabs litter litter the beach dead from a mad dash to float out with the tides. The shrimp boats have disappeared. Yet the ocean remains is ever constant.

It makes for a pensive run. I'm loose now, organizing the day in my head knowing full well that I won't get half of it done. Life will get in the way ... which is as it should be.

I'm not opposed to change and have had my fair share. I asked for some of it and the rest just dropped on me. It's all right. Things have a way of working out so long as you believe they will. If you don't believe they will ... well ... you're screwing yourself.

On Twelfth Street I top the cross walk and make my way home again. I hope it's still there. It was when I left. I hope Sarah hasn't regained her sanity and fled. I'm pretty sure Goddess would still wait on me but I have no confidence in Winston, the little gay dog.

Turning on the street, I breath a sigh of relief that the house is still there. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog are too. Sarah's car is gone but she left me a note saying she loves me still. I breath a prayer of Thanksgiving. For one more day at least, it all remains the same.

A Service of One

First my cousin Ricky Hinley died. He was just two months younger than me. Then my cousin Rick Donelly passed on and he was born just four weeks after me. Over the weekend the Grim Reaper claimed Ricky's baby sister Sherry Baker.

It makes you wonder.

I don't see how it helps any Divine Plan though certainly people will quickly tell me it will be revealed when God is ready. I don't find this comforting at all. It's more like passing the buck.

We're taught that God is love but I find little of it when motherless children are left behind or an already wounded Grandmother suddenly has new kids to raise.

This is when religion has its best chance to demonstrate its validity. Family, friends and believers can all come together offering love, tears and community. Hopefully, this is what happens though I've seen my fair share of really shitty funerals where love is fake, conversation is the prize and everybody just prays for it to be over.

You can never be certain which religion is going to show up.

Beside me is a towel Dad gave me before he died. He passed on his love of cooking to me, especially on the grill, and he used the towel to wipe the sweat away. It's white with a green strip down the middle and stained and worn. I use it a lot. It's a nice way to keep him close to my heart as I cook, clean or wipe the sweat away while I tan.

There are no tangible testimonies to my cousins other than memories stored in my heart. Ricky and I drank beers on the Pier the last time we were together. He was hurting and a biter about some things but we laughed a lot and promised to do it again. Alas, we never got the chance.

It was also on Tybee the last time I was with Rick. He and my Aunt Becky were visiting so I went to visit them. On a beautiful summer day we watched the tanker ships float into the mouth of the river. We laughed and told stories and promised to do it again on the next visit. It never came.

Sherry too was on Tybee and ran up to me as I was shooting pool with the members of the Bored. I lost the game but my cousin and I talked for an hour or so. Her companion arrived and took her away to ... I'm not certain where they went ... and that was the last time I saw her.

I believe life is a gift that none of us asked for yet each of us share. None of us have any idea how long this gift of life is going to last. A gift's a gift. Some are different than others. They can be short and fast or long and drawn out. You can be born in the greatest of circumstances or the absolute worst. You may be double gifted and have affection in your life ... or not.

Taking my Dad's rag, I wipe my face and touch it to my lips.

The first thing Jesus did after he came back from the dead was cook breakfast on the beach. His friends were all fishing which you may as well do after a funeral. Building a fire in the sand, he grilled fish and called for them to come eat. They did and life went on.

My friend Will D. Campbell once told me, "Mike when someone dies and I go to visit I take my Bible, a bottle of Jack Daniels and potato salad. One of the three ... possibly all three ... will prove to be useful, comforting and holy."

I'm having a service of one this morning. Remembering my cousins I say thanks for their lives but bitch they ended too soon. I think God can take the bitching being God and all.

I thank God for my own life. In spite of its flaws I remain surrounded by affection, love and joyful surprises.

So that's it. There is no day but today. It's the most basic gift that we have though some of us are lucky enough to have other people, adornments and things to make the ride more lovely.

You may as well celebrate it because if you don't you've already started dying.

Christmas in the sand

"Oh bells will be ringing this sad, sad news ..."

Sure enough they really are ringing on a foggy but warm Tybee morning.

The bells sound cold and make me think of winter and snow and other things I don't like. I've been left out in the cold, blown away by people I loved and heard promises of good tidings and joy only to miss them somehow.

I know the Catholic Church has bells but this is the first time I've ever heard them ring on a Sunday morning. I wonder what in the world has the Catholics in a tizzy today?

It can't be the Methodists ... they're not up yet. The Episcopalians, former Southern Baptists who converted to social drinkers, are preparing for shots at morning Communion. The Baptists pretty much keep to themselves.

Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on weekends, is setting up at Bennie's for Bar Church. People will create a congregation by stopping in on their way home from last night or stumble in after they wake up wherever they happen to wake up ... and with whoever they happen to wake up beside.

Winston, the little gay dog, wearing an obnoxious red sweater is shivering under my dangling bare feet on the beloved back deck. Goddess is passed out under the Chiminea. The breeze is ever so slight, not enough to push Fran's thousand shades of green around. Waves sing morning Hymns in the distance.

It's a muted morning.

"This is the day that the Lord has made ... let us rejoice and be glad in it."

To which I add, "Hell Yeah!"

"You look naughty but I'm sure you're nice," could be a Tybee mantra.

It must be holy because the damn bells are still ringing!

Who wants sad when they can have happy?

Christmas in the sand beats the hell out of anything else.

And Tybee does Christmas pretty good!

The sun suddenly explodes out of the fog. The bells stop ringing as the waves crashing into the shore get louder. It's hard not to believe in God when it all happens at once.

Christmas is coming ... and its best when in comes in the sand.

Funky Christmas Beginnings on Tybee Island

The lighting of the Christmas Tree was wonderful last night. We gathered around a tree that looks like a big old bush decorated with beach balls and counted down in unison ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1!

Nothing.

It remained as dark as the night.

Kids moaned. Adults took another sip.

"Do it again!" Billy ordered everyone. He was wearing a red sweater and a Santa hat and appeared to be the closest thing to an authority figure present. The Tybee Island Police Department were all busy inspecting the crowd making certain that Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, weren't present as they've had skirmishes with the law.

Because Billy was wearing red and looked like Santa after a couple too many ... plus he taught choir to most of the kids on the island ... everybody did it again.

5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1!

And someone plugged the bush with the balls beating on it in the breeze and ... it was right out of a Frankenstein movie ... the lights blinked on and off ... the crowd held our breath ... would it work? ... would it not? ... the only sound was the psssffftt of the lights blinking on followed by the psssfffttt of the lights going off.

While this was happening I sneaked into Doc's Bar where Frank Shuman's birthday was being held to refill my wine. Frank died a few months ago but the island loves him still and just because he can't be here is no reason to not celebrate the fact that he was here ... it's kind of like Christmas.

There was a swell party going on but I didn't want Sarah to know I'd left at all while she and the girls, D-Luv, Sean and Wen, Glen and Vickie, Johnny O and Judy O, Jodee and Cheryl were all standing there breathing in and out with the lights ....

psssffft ..... psssffftt ... blink on ... blink off ...

No one noticed I'd gone to celebrate Frank's birthday.

I took a sip and half the lights came on and stayed on. That was enough excitement for the crowd. They all cheered and walked away while Wanda proclaimed that she was sorry that the Mayor couldn't be there and she had to be.

For the most part nobody showed up for the funky Christmas beginnings on Tybee Island. The Tybee Island Police Department was out in force, blocking the road off in both directions, feverishly searching for Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. Jodee was wailing the blues, Johnny was beating his drum, and Cheryl was flipping the finger.

The girls were getting their faces painted.

The Tybee Island Police Department gave up their search for Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and opened up traffic on the street. It was immediately worse than any Orange Crush (my personal favorite Tybee parade) I've ever witnessed.

So that's how a funky Christmas begins on this island.

It continues today a parade.

I wonder if Frank's party is still happening?

I wonder what Johnny O is beating off now?

There's a rumor that Jenny O shot somebody at Fannie's on the Beach last night.

Who knows?

Ho Ho Ho.

Jonesing for St. Martin

I'm missing St. Martin right now.

It's natural I suppose because I've spent so much time down there over the past several years. There was a pattern that I'd grown accustomed to where I was going down four times each year. Up until last year I'd spent the previous six Christmas' in the Caribbean and five of the past New Year's (be sure to check the expiration date on your passport BEFORE you leave the country!).

There's the anticipation of course and even on my darkest and loneliest days there was an excitement about being there again. It's an early morning flight out of Savannah so one of the kids would drop me off at the airport for the flight to Atlanta where I'd enjoy the Crown Room before making the four hour flight to the island.

I was flying a lot in those days so I'd amassed a zillion Frequent Flyer Miles and was bumped to first class which was great when you're suddenly single. I'd watch the latest movies for free and drink a lot of wine. When we landed at Princess Juliana airport though I'm as excited as a kid on Christmas morning!

Clearing customs fast and not having to wait on luggage (which takes forever) I'd grab a couple of Dutch Coffee's for the ride to the French side. Either Luis or his wife Daisey ... or my dear friends Carlos or Verna would pick me up. I'd lost the laundry pretty quickly because it's never under 80 degrees there and sip on the Heineken while we climb the mountain through the middle region.

Verna takes the longest to get me there because she loved driving a white man with his bear feet on her dash so she'd ride by all of her friends houses laughing and saying, "Oh My God," in her lovely St. Kitts accent.

Checking in I would be kissed on both cheeks by Karima and Annette then I'd walk to the store and Mimi treats me with endearing indifference. Making my way to the tiny studio I'd unpack my groceries and my tub full of stuff which I leave down there.

Then it's straight to Orient Bay where ... the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven.

During the first walk by the crystal clear, aqua water I learned who was there. Mary and Denise? Jack and Loraine? Hooker Man and Levy? John Bob Jovi and Skank? I already know when Conner and Hania, Hugh and Patty and the Kosters are arriving.

Afterwards its to Papgayo to meet up with Nancy, Karine, Kenny, Patu and some guy named Ambrosia. On the way I'd hug Matina, Angela, Ana and that bitch Nathalie. I'd have dinner and hook up with more friends before dancing breaks out and I get my work out done.

The next day I'd do it all again.

Unless Carlos talked me into doing something ... which he often does ... like the time he took me to the Lingerie one Sunday afternoon.

Then Conner and Hania and Hugh and Patty would arrive and things really started to happen. I don't happen to recall any of them at this time and have absolutely no idea who drove me home from Papagyo's which is about forty feet from my studio.

Last year Sarah got to go for the first time and we collided with all of the above and lets just say that it was quite fun.

Anyway Christmas and New Year's is coming around and nothing puts me in the Spirit more than the Caribbean!

I've had a blessing of a year. I have no idea how it all worked out but it all seems to be working out. It reaffirms faith in God, who I believe actually lives on a House Boat right between St. Martin and Saba. I keep meaning to swim out there and say hey but all of the aforementioned friends seem to prevent me.

"Honey, I'm writing everybody about us all hooking back up in St. Martin," Sarah says in passing and my heart starts doing flips.

The Christmas Spirit followed by the New Year's Spirit which is then followed by an actual New Year!

This has been a really great one but I find myself really exited about the next one!

Work Friends

Joe Bridges and I would sit on the stoop of the health center being built and talk about the future. He'd take long draws from his cigarette and I'd sit beside him unconcerned about second hand smoke. Late afternoons, towards the end of the work day, I'd be exhausted from raising the money and overseeing everything and he'd be beat from preventing everything from falling apart.

"Lookie here," he asked blowing halos into the sky. "No matter what anybody says. We're the ones who did this."

"Hmm," I huffed shrugging my shoulders.

"Joseph ... I always called him that in honor and remind him that he's up there with the man who raised Jesus ... "in a hundred years nobody is going to remember any of this."

His baby blue eyes cut like a knife right through me. "God will remember," he spit.

Who can argue with that?

We sat in silence for a while.

I love Joe. An alcoholic who found sobriety and talked me into hiring him as the maintenance man when there was no money for such things. He could panhandle with the best of them. He grew a maintenance department and more than paid for himself and it. The man cared deeply about ... everything.

"Well then," I finally said as I stood, "if God's going to be the only one to remember, let's leave everybody else a hint."

"Hmmm?," he asked without actually using a word.

Concrete had been poured that day for an unplanned addition. I led him there and we wrote our names in it.

"Nobody's ever going to find this," he giggled as only a deep throat, chain smoking, recovered alcoholic can do.

"One day," I said, happy that he was happy, "or it'll just be you, me and God who knows."

That was a long time ago.

Joe died last year. His body just gave out though his heart never did. Mine broke when his daughter Kelly told me.

"Crossroads seem to come and go ..." says Greg Allman, and it's certainly true.

Today someone else I used to work with sent a round about communication through Facebook that she's keeping up with me.

I don't care.

I loved her deeply once and we did many good things together. Then she stopped caring ... or cared about other things more ... and in the end a lot of good people were badly hurt.

She's either doing penitence, good Christian that she is, or seeking forgiveness without actually asking for it.

But she killed a piece of my heart and it'll never glow again.

Joseph Bridges, on the other hand, shines bright and makes me proud still. He makes me giggle at the secret place where our names are written ... now only God and I know where.

It's sad, isn't it, what work can do to us? Work will take everything you give it and if you give it everything it will take everything (thanks to people like the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy and others).

But Joseph knew.

And I know.

And God knows too.

The Pagan with the Pen

Guy Sayles, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I spent a night in a cabin outside of Dublin, Georgia once. Three good friends who had been instrumental in each others lives were taking a break from it all to be together.

We'd all ended up working in Georgia at the same time. Guy was the Pastor of the Baptist Church in Lagrange, Bill was working for the Home Mission Board in Atlanta and I'd left the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville for Union Mission in Savannah.

I remember that I was the one who suggested we gather having not all been together since we were in Seminary. Bill was the one who secured the cabin as it was owned by his good friend Bill Black's family. Guy agreed to do the cooking, which we insisted on, because he's a great cook!

We all rendezvoused at the Wendy's in Metter then found our way to the cabin. It was rustic, tin roofed and light shone through the wall in spots. Bill loved it. Guy was appalled. I was along for the ride.

Sitting around a large bonfire throughout most of the night, we smoked cigars, drank beer, argued theology and talked about what we wanted out of our lives. Our true personalities came out as we freely and openly shared in the safe zone that only the deepest of friendships can trust.

"We're averaging a beer every twenty minutes," Guy said.

"Do you have a point?" I replied as I opened another one.

Throwing another log on the fire, Bill asked, "Are you saying we need more beer?"

Shaking his head I could tell that while Guy is no more religious than we are, he approaches it with a seriousness that Bill and I lack. I do recall that  he got in the car with us as we drove to the Beer store and return to the firs pit. I think he even drove though I'm fuzzy on that.

We stayed up most of the night "just having a chance to hang around and lie there by the fire ... and talk of Poems, prayers and promises and things that we believe in ..."

It was a defining retreat for each of us. Guy was determined that his life was to be lived out within the church which is exactly what he's done. He remains the best I've ever heard so Google him or become his Facebook friend so can see for yourself. Plus he probably still believes he can beat me in racquetball, which he can't, though I haven't played in years.

Bill has been around the world several times over looking for God and love which he found ... and he lost ... more than once. He works now, behind the scenes, giving life to those who would otherwise be dead. Now skiddish to put himself completely out there, he's tough to track down these days. He remains himself though, believing in ways that Guy and I could never match.

And I'm the Pagan with the pen. I remember these things because I love them so much and I wouldn't be me without them. Occasionally I go to Bar Church these days but spend more time worshiping on the Beloved Back Deck or on the beach ... or calling God's name when I'm with Sarah.

Last night I sat by a fire and remembered that weekend. I sipped wine instead of beer. I no longer care for cigars. Waves crashed in the distance as I read Guy's latest post and said prayers of thanks that Bill and I were together a couple of weeks ago.

"And what about tomorrow? And what about our dreams? And all the memories that we share?"

Then I toasted my glass towards heaven and called you both by name as the waves crashed, the fire crackled and the stars danced.

Working the World

Barefoot on the beloved back deck wearing black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt, the I-phone is glued to my ear as I was talk to a colleague in New Jersey. He's also working from home though he has an office in New York City. I don't know what he was wearing ... we weren't Skyping ... but he had a phone to his ear too. Both of us had laptops open in front of us.

As we talked, I could hear him hitting his keyboard so he could Google confirmation of whatever I happened to be saying. I was doing the same thing when he talked. After a short period we just gave the specific websites to navigate as we talked.

It's a pleasant and invigorating conversation. He is smart and aggressive ... and he plays the violin in an Indie Band. I told him Sarah and I are in the Bar Church band on Tybee Island and I could hear him looking it up. Later I sent him the links.

We make a commitment to talk again on Friday. In the meantime I'm certain both of us will surf the World Wide Web and by the he'll probably know if I have a birthmark or not. Information is instantly available.

I check Facebook after we talk and Shirley Sessions has messaged me. "I wish you lived next door," she wrote. "I could keep an eye on Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, whenever you and Sarah are away."

I wrote her back and said that I wish we did too. We'd return the favor and watch her cat Mr. Peepers when she's gone.

Shirley lives one block away.

We converse via Facebook.

The I-phone buzzes and it's Sarah messaging me so I'll know where to meet her to pick up the girls. I'm bringing two home while she takes the third to basketball practice.

After dinner I help them with their homework. They ask me the answer to each question, which I immediately Google. They think I'm a genius because I know the answer to everything.

At the evening's end, Sarah and I are snuggled on the couch and we're up later than normal. It had been such a long day! We turn everything off or plug it in to recharge for the next day. Television, computer, phones, I-Pad, I-Pod and the water dripping from the kitchen sink are cut off.

While she gets ready for bed, I take Winston, the little gay dog, down the stairs into the back yard. I sit on the bottom step while he takes his time. He will not be rushed. He looks at me, licks himself, looks at me again to see if I was watching, and then wanders off into the dark.

A white moon illuminates the Palm Trees. Waves crash into the shore. Stars dance in a black sky. Channel markers blink on and off on the ocean. The lighthouse shines this way and that, going round and round and round. Choirs of mussels tick and pop in the marsh of dead low tide.

Winston, the little gay dog, returns and is ready to go upstairs. He has to kiss Sarah goodnight before sleeping under the bed on her side. He follows me upstairs. Goddess is waiting for me to pet her. Nightly rituals take place and we collapse into bed.

Falling asleep it occurs to me that I've been around the world today just so I could get back to this place. And tomorrow, I'll do it again.

Scary Dreams

Holding hands we strolled the beach on a beautiful December day. Children played in the surf while their Moms tanned in the sand. A freshly painted Shrimp Boat rolled on the ocean dragging its nets behind. We were making our way to Marlin Monroe's for the annual "Pay off the Tybee Island Police Department Oyster Roast".

We were not too worried about the dogs causing a disturbance while we were away because Goddess was stoned out of her mind and had fallen asleep under the Chiminea.

Winston, the little gay dog, was tied up with a sock stuffed in his mouth and locked in Sarah's closet. It's one of his favorite games! We pretend to be the neighbor who gardens in her underwear which scares the shit out of the dogs and they moan loudly in agony. Apparently this disturbs the neighbors to our right who pretty much stay locked up in their house.

The neighbor on our left never seems to notice because she's standing on her back deck wearing a bath robe with cat fur flying all around her with a blue towel wrapped around her hair. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth as she screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

She's a nice neighbor and once stopped me when I was walking Goddess to say, "Mike are you aware that our neighbor gardens in her underwear and is bombarding my kittens with Cherry tomatoes?" 

"Well," I replied while Goddess turned her head to take a quick toke, "she did leave a note on our door explaining that our moaning dogs were giving her a headache whenever she gardened in her underwear."

"What did you?" the Kitty Lady asked.

"I left a note on her door asking that she please put clothes on when she gardens or at least buy underwear that match and don't have holes in them."

"Hmmm," the Cat Lady said while cat fur circled around her blue towel head like a halo. 'Maybe that's why we never see anybody else who lives on this street."

She has a point.

It's a nice street though. The marsh is at one end with a terrific view of the lighthouse. It goes for six blocks in the other direction and dumps you in the Back River. They're lots of trees, tons of birds, lush foliage and we're close enough to the ocean where we can just carry our stuff.

It's like any street in most any town. It's Mayberry ... ON ACID!

Strolling into Marlin's Michael Moody and Anne Allman (yes those Allman's) are playing some great blues. We're greeted by neighbors and meet new friends. Jenny O invites us to her Christmas party and we invite her to ours (which has a saran wrap theme). The Tybee Island Police Department seem to be enjoying themselves slurping oysters and slugging beers. There's no breeze and the freshly painted Shrimp Boat continues to roll in the distance.

After a while we make our way home and run into Glenn and Vicky who literally moved to the island today. We arrived just in time to miss helping them unload anything. Sean and Wen arrived just before we did and didn't have to unload anything either! When you live on an island, timing is everything!

In the distance I could faintly hear, "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!"

"Shit!" I exclaim. "We forgot about Winston, the little gay dog!"

Running home we were relieved to find him unbound, giggling and snuggled with Goddess under the Chiminea.

"How do you suppose ..." Sarah started to ask.

"Ssshhhuuu," I said. "Sometimes its best to not know. Besides, they seem happy."

Before bed, Sarah prayed the nightly prayers with them. "Dear Jesus, please let Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, know how loved they are and not have any scary dreams ... about bitchy neighbors gardening with holey underwear."

Where Christmas Trees grow wild

The lemons are tremendously large and fill the trees. They are a pale yellow and look like Christmas ornaments hanging on the green leafs. Palm trees surround them and squirrels are dancing in those while choirs of birds sing loud Hymns of praise. The sun is bright and God has finger painted a blue sky with wisps of white. Waves crash on the shore in the distance. Goddess wanders in and out as the sliding glass doors are open while Winston, the little gay dog, lay under my feet.

I wonder if Goddess has the munchies and it makes me laugh.

Sarah is sleeping and all is calm ... all is bright.

Our Christmas tree is up and we can lay in bed and see it in the other room. Behind it are Palm Trees we can see through the fourteen windows in the Red Room. I like laying there, snuggled in love, looking at the lights of the Christmas Tree and the Moon lit Palm silhouettes through the windows.

Goddess has taken to sleeping on the floor on my side of the bed. Winston, the little gay dog, sleeps under the bed on Sarah's side.

Today I'm struck that there's not much difference being inside or out. Either has decorated trees surrounded by Palms.

"Sun's up, uh-huh, looks OK! The world survives into another day," sings Bruce Cockburn and its an especially beautiful one.

Leaves rain down on the beloved back deck giving the feeling that I'm sitting on the porch of a cabin in the mountains somewhere.

I'm mostly lost in thought, taking all of this in, listening to four sets of wind chimes ting or clack. I believe this is a time of prayer. It's just God and me sitting here. There's not much to say. There is a great deal to experience.

A lemon falls from a tree and it's as if God has decided to say something.

"Enjoy it all while you have it," are the unspoken words.

I sit back and try to see everything at once. I hug Goddess and pet Winston, the little gay dog. Sarah surprises me by being awake so we celebrate our marriage. The dogs dance as we do so.

And in the distance, the ocean meets the shore with loud sloppy kisses. Squirrels dance while choirs of birds sing. Lemons ripen and the sun throws warmth on Christmas Trees growing wild.

So much to do (AIDS)

"Is it the first?" eleven year old Maddie asked as I drove her to school.

"Nope," I reply. 'SEC Championship Day is tomorrow. World AIDS Day is tomorrow too."

"What's that?" she asked. "AIDS?"

"You don't know what AIDS is?" I replied in disbelief.

"You mean like what Laurel wants to be when she grows up? A helper?" Maddie continued.

My mind rushed back to the mid-1980s and I was sitting in my office at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel with long hair and a beard, blue jeans and tennis shoes. As the 25 year old minister I'd turned the place into a sanctuary for homeless people and a refuge for radical Seminary students who couldn't stomach what Baptists were doing to Church.

Throughout the week the Chapel was a social service center and people came seeking help for all sorts of things. The latest one sat across from me and reached out to shake my hand. He wore black which was a stark contrast to his ashen complexion. His skin was flaking and was layered on his black clothes. His eyes sat far back in the sockets and he was so thin he looked like flesh on bones. There were no muscles.

"I'm Jesse," he said and my hand shook as I took his hand.

I was scared.

"My landlord threw me out," he explained in a soft, almost tender voice. "I suppose he thought he would catch it or something. Any way ... I've got no place to go."

"Family?" I asked.

He shook his head and I thought he would cry.

And I was hooked or converted or maybe even saved. I don't know. I was resolved that he wasn't going to die alone and cast aside like garbage.

We stuck him here and there until we could find a place for people with AIDS to live. A few months later Glade House opened and Jesse was the first person to live there.  He was also the first person to die there.

In the late eighties I returned to Savannah and there was nothing so we opened Phoenix Place for people with AIDS. It is now a two block complex that does a bustling business. The good news is that AIDS is no longer the immediate death sentence it once was.

So I explained to Maddie what HIV is and told her about Jesse.

She didn't say anything when I dropped her off and to be honest I'm not sure if she cared or not. Back then people cared because they were scared.

Congress is currently slashing the budget and the other day a group of folks showed up and took their clothes off in the middle of our pompous, arrogant, do-nothing leaders. On their bodies they'd painted the word "AIDS." Our nation has made tremendous progress in treating AIDS but the work isn't done and it must continue. I'm proud of these brave people who illustrated the Emperor's clothes to the members of The Elect.

It is World AIDS Day. I've read the names of the dead and cried because I knew so many. Today I'll light a candle and remember. I'll also make a pledge, Maddie will know about AIDS and the horrible discrimination that our country inflicted on people and the scourge it is throughout the world now.

And in spite of what those assholes in Congress believe, the work of healing isn't done yet.

We all still have much to do.

When Christmas Really Comes

Back when I was a Professional Christian, getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free, we tried to make a big deal out of Christmas.

Not so much because it's the birth of Jesus, the "most wonderful time of the year" and stuff like that but because the Congregation was comprised mostly of homeless people and Seminary students with no money. It's the most depressing time of the year for the poor. No matter where they go or what they see on television they're reminded of everything they don't have. They know they're not going to get it either.

Making it worse, wherever they do go ... say Church, City sponsored "Lighting of the Tree" ceremonies ... it's all fun until its over. Then they go home if they have one ... or out if they don't ... or to the room in the Nursing Home or the tiny Dorm room.

They drink more. Use more drugs. The incidences of suicide increase. 

Christmas really sucks for millions of people though billions of dollars are spent ... beginning at Halloween ... to convince us that it doesn't.

Like the rest of the world, Tybee Island, where I live, is a community of haves and have-not's. Lots of people can afford it and enjoy living here like crazy while the rest work their asses off to survive another day in the place they love.

At Christmas though, the place really comes together. Aside from the churches, which remain the Island's most segregated and gated communities, the Bars and restaurants really act like ... CHURCH! They throw parties, stay open (whereas Churches close for the night) and accept most everybody.

Way back when I got paid to care about such things, we'd do all sorts of crazy stuff at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel to make it merry and bright all of the time. We were a 24/7 expression of religion. People took baths in the Baptismal Pool, slept on and under the pool table and the social hall kitchen never stopped smoking.


Every year we had a special service and everyone stopped whatever they were doing. We served Dolly Madison cakes, apple cider and gathered around the television to watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas". 

It was a great worship experience.

Afterwards we had a dance. Everybody had to chose their favorite dance from the scenes in the show and do it! Were you Lucy, Linus, Pigpen or those two twins who do that really cool Zombie move?

I was remembering these things the other night during the annual broadcast of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Cassidy, Sarah's youngest watched it with me and reminded me of Jeremy and Kristen at her age sitting in the laps of homeless men watching the show. My eyes grew moist at the memories and I kept wiping them as Lucy explained that Christmas is really run by a large Eastern Syndicate.

What's great is that when Charlie Brown does home, everybody follows him. When the tree falls, they all pick it up. Then they all sing! They do it all outside ... in the grand Cathedral that God built.

It's the opposite of how most folks do Christmas ... or Church, Synagogue, religion ... where you start at home or in a building and bring it all to you. Where it's orchestrated, planned and everyone strives for the perfection we're taught to achieve during the Advent.

Then somebody gets sick of it all and goes outside.

Others witness this and go outside too ... under the stars ... in the fresh air ... and they prop each other up, often with Egg Nogg, beer or pot. Perhaps nothing at all.

And that is the moment that the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven.

The Funny Church

They begged me to stay.

Then they asked me to leave.

It left me hurt of course because it was unexpected, delivered by people I trusted ...  some of whom I loved ... and occurred in the context of I'd already been abandoned and was suddenly single.

Luckily, I was in St. Martin when it all happened and surrounded by people who didn't know me professionally. They just knew me as me. They were a funny church ... Carlos and Verna who live in St. Martin cooked for me and had me babysit their daughter Chelsea to keep me preoccupied. Hania and Conner stood constant vigil over everything I did. The Kosters from Canada kept throwing parties as a distraction.

Aside from Verna, I don't know if any of them actually believe in God.

Yet they were church in the truest sense of the word. Acting as my support, community and caregivers they just loved me.

When Conner and Hania went back to Florida the Kosters stayed on until they had to return to Canada. My kids wanted to know when I was coming home. Carlos and Verna were begging to me stay. I could start all over there.

After a month in the Caribbean something ... was it God? ... moved me to return home. It was difficult to do but Jeremy picked me up at the airport, Goddess greeted me with love and the Carnival of Friends were born.

Then Sarah came home.

Though still as funny, they were a different kind of church. Still giving love, support, community, and holding vigil over me.

Then Dedra, Mark and Mitch were raised from the dead and came to my house. They brought laughter, music and memories back home. Dedra liked it so much, she stayed and refused to leave.

Then Sarah brought a different kind of love home. The Carnival of friends blessed this with baptism and wine (lots of wine). Hania and Conner inserted themselves again (though they never really left). The two churches co-mingled. Sarah went with me to St. Martin and Verna and Carlos served us supper in their little concrete apartment and announced their impending marriage.

And God looked down upon it and said, "It is good."

It is chilly in Savannah as I stroll into a breakfast meeting wearing flip flops and jeans my wife bought me. My hair is in a pony tail, my skin tanned and laughter dances around me eyes.

"Seriously Mike?" Peter asked, "Flip flops? Seriously?"

"You sound like Shirley Sessions," I told him pouring myself coffee.

"It's cold," he exclaimed.

"I dress like Steve Jobs did," I say. "And Conner."

He is silent as he looks me over and smiles.

And the funny church grew by one.

Growing old disgracefully

By now it's apparent that I'm not doing things the way they're supposed to be done. By my age, I probably should wear clothes on a more consistent basis, not have shoulder length hair, be married to a hot young babe, have a gay dog, still aspire to be a musician and beach bum, combine cussing with being a minister, and hang around a bunch of people exhibiting similar traits.

I continue to disappoint my Mother (this time I'm missing the family Christmas dinner to go to Key West), receive regular notes from people praying for me  (though many are praying that I do go to hell), have drawn the wrath of the entire Tybee Island Judicial System and whenever I talk to Shirley Sessions she just asks, "Really Mike? Really?"

It appears I am growing old disgracefully.

That's alright. I lived middle age disgracefully too ... young adulthood ... most of my adolescence ... and I seem to remember peeing on my brother David when we shared a crib.

I feel like Keith Richards.

It's had its perks though.

I've been to the places in the world I've wanted, been part of really cool movements, won a lot of awards, ran with the Olympic Torch, have books, been on television and wore suits. There's been standing ovations, adoration, invitations to do most everything and groupies.

Beginning as minister at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, the first Director of the Louisville Coalition for the Homeless, President & CEO of Union Mission, Board member of everything from the International Street Medicine Institute to a Robert Wood Johnson Foundation national program, it's been fun!

"What I like about you," she suddenly said in the middle of steak salads at Longhorns, "and what I want buy from you is you keep reforming yourself. You're not content with who you were. You're always moving on to who you want to be."

I ordered wine so we could toast.

She laughed and said she couldn't. She had meetings.

"Well," I replied, "then you're going to have a hard time reforming yourself."

After a thoughtful moment she raised her glass.

I'm only 56 and there is lots that I'm thankful for, mostly the people who love me, my family, where I live, where I go and where I'm going.

The where I'm going part is a bit fuzzy right now.

This is what I do know. My son watches Jimmy Valvano's speech at the ESPY awards when he was dying with cancer. He gives good advice in it. There are three things to do every day ... laugh ... think ... allow your emotions to move you to tears.

I try to do that every day and succeed more often than not.

I'm happy with where its gotten me so far.

I can't wait to see where I'm going.


(Image from www.starpulse.com)

A Far Better Way to Live

"You believe that there's good in everybody," she told me. "I don't."

Sipping from my wine I answered, "I don't know how else I could have survived a thirty year career doing the things I've done."

Now I've met my fair share of sons-of-bitches and there are certainly people I don't like but I do believe everyone was at least born with good in them. I still do.

"For God is good and Her love endures forever; and Her truth endures to all generations."

Having said that if I could find some good in Hitler would it matter? He killed millions! So what if he helped a little old lady across the street or gave candy to kids?

I suppose even if there is some good in every person, there's a lot more evil in many that completely negates it.

There are others too who are self-absorbed with themselves and what they want that it's always at the expense of those around them. The end of my time at Union Mission was filled with them and while individually they're a pain-in-the-ass, collectively they can smother anything that's good.

What do you do?

Keep your guard up? Never completely trust anyone? Forgive but never forget? Take an eye for an eye? Shut people completely out of your life and pretend they don't exist so you can build a fantasy world?

For me, it comes down to believing. If I'm going to believe in God then I'm going to believe in good; that it can conquer evil but doesn't always. I think love is better than hate. Forgiveness is healthier than forgetting and that its healthy for me and not necessarily the person I'm forgiving.

Honestly, there are several people I really struggle with forgiving, loving or even liking. These are the people who make me believe in hell. These are the demons in my life. We're taught that the first step in casting out demons is to name them and I'm certainly tempted to call them all out right now (this includes you Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy) but I'll refrain and be ... mostly good.

I've seen a lot of bad in my life. I've encouraged wives to leave abusive husbands and helped them do so. I worked to separate kids from bad parents. I'm still overwhelmed by selfish politicians and preachers and they fill me with cynicism. I've touched far too many of the dead having fought with them to keep their life ... while they're families no longer gave a damn. I've been left, abandoned, betrayed and somehow survived my own crucifixion.

But ...

I still believe in good. I still believe in love. I still believe in God.

I try to live these things.

I think its a far better way to live.

With a song in my heart

Driving back from Athens yesterday morning I was flipping through the radio stations of middle Georgia and discovered two things.

First, almost all of the stations were either country music or church service broadcasts. I therefore assume that people who listen to country music do not attend church. They must be home listening to country music (or in their trucks, at Wallmart or perhaps in a dear stand). Radio stations spend lots of money to determine their markets so it has to be true with so many country music stations playing country music during church.

Second, listening to several of the church services I can completely understand why people would prefer to stay home and listen to country music. I mean these were services with bad music, worse preaching and a generally bad feeling about the shape of things. I could envision two things happening listening to these "Worship Experiences" ... people in the pews were silting their wrists and Jesus was rolling the stone back in front of the tomb.

Thank God there was several alternatives to these two choices! Every other radio station in middle Georgia was playing Christmas music.

Not the good Christmas music but repetitive versions of a six year old Michael Jackson belting "I Saw Mommie kissing Santa Claus", Brenda Lee's "Rockin' around the Christmas Tree" and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir .... come to think of it, middle Georgia Christmas radio stations seem to prefer voices that haven't changed with puberty.

Hmmm .... what does that say about the state of modern radio?

So it got me to thinking about my favorite Christmas songs so here they are.

10.  Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmas Time" is just a happy thing and I really like the video back when there were videos.

9.  Detroit December by Jon Hart is a sad melancholy thing about being broke and alone.

8.  Hard Candy Christmas by Dolly Parton makes being broke and alone sound better if you're in the mountains.

7. Have yourself a merry little Christmas by THE MUPPETS and John Denver though Rowlf steals the show.

6. George Winston's Variation on the Kanon by Pachelbel is a religious experience.

5. James Taylor's Home by Another Way which has some of the greatest lines ever ... "Those magic men the magi, some people call them wise, or Oriental even kings, well anyway those guys." Great stuff!

4. Jimmy Buffett's version of Up on the House Top is a rocking beach song about surfing. It's "TUBULAR DUDE!"

3. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem's version of Little St. Nick. It's just the best!

2. Darlene Love and the E Street Band's Nobody Ought to be alone on Christmas from Home Alone II. It really is Christmas.

1. Of course, John Lennon's Happy Christmas (War is Over) which is why we're supposed to have Christmas in the first place.

So those are mine. Now I'm on to work with visions of sugar plumbs ... or something like that.

Thanking God for what I've got

It's become a precious and increasingly rare gift when my kids and I are in the same place. I've had family time come in waves over the past several days.

Kristen came blowing into the house like a hurricane which is how my daughter does most everything. She was there to watch the girls so that Sarah and I could fight for Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, at Tybee Court. We didn't get to spent much time with Kristen because she blew right out when we got home. It was something about a date.

On Thanksgiving I saw my Mom for the first time in a few months. I was the lone representative among her children and it was Sarah and the girls introduction to my large extended family. There were almost one hundred of us gathered at my Aunt June's house where we feasted and played as we do every Thanksgiving.

The weekend has been spent in Athens. Jeremy and Marie were at dinner on Friday and we celebrated in grand style. Chelsea and Sam arrived yesterday and a good time was had as the beloved DAWGS of Georgia won a a glorious football Saturday. (Well ... everybody had a good time except Sam but he sure looked nice.)

After dinner last night Sarah and I had time alone just relaxing in our room. It was a great way to wind down. She is my family and we celebrated that.

It's a cold, bright Sunday and we'll drive back home to continue the liberation of Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, from the house they've been cooped up inside. Kristen has blown in and out to feed them but they'll be happy when we're home.

My bag is packed and Sarah's is getting there as it rests beside mine. I can't help but feel good. Everyone is healthy and seems happy. We have a wonderful home to return to and there are terrific friends waiting.

There is no better way to celebrate a Sunday than to thank God for the things you have. Tomorrow we can worry about what we may need.