The List of Life

Italy. The coast of Africa. Ireland. Bora Bora. And then last night I learn Poland is on the list.

I'm alright with Poland ... so long as we go in the summer!

I've actually been once with Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and it was quite the adventure. We got busted on a train when we were the only passengers. We woke up a fairly of Gypsies sleeping in front of an ATM then had to flee down the road. We jumped off a bus to spend the day in a concentration camp and were the only people there! We walked on railroad tracts until we could jump on a train to make our way back to another train.

But I digress.

We're in St. Augustine with the Carnival of Friends having a grand ol' time. For some unexplained reason, the conversation turned serious and Sarah and Jodee Sadowsky were talking of juggling Gypsies and suddenly the list grew longer. Who doesn't want to see juggling Gypsies ... especially when they're of your lineage?

Sarah and I have a list of places to visit. It always seems to be growing. I had no idea she wanted to go to her homeland until last night but now we have to go.

Complicating things is I want to keep returning to places I've already been like St. Martin, Key West and here in St. Augustine.

Further complicating things is Sarah is tired of traveling and would like to stay home for a while. She's forever indicating that I'm of the opinion that home is a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there.

I don't think this is true but I do know a few things. Life is short and I'm determined to not miss out on what I have left of it. I don't know how or why but I've already gotten to see a lot of the world but there is more I want to experience.

A lot of people are surprised that we always seem to be going somewhere. "What you just got back?" they say. Implied under their words are certain convictions. Vacations are alright but should only occur occasionally. You should do that when you retire. If it's work-related then you are to be pitied but just going somewhere because you've never been is ludicrous. I think they want me to confine the way I live.

My friend Guy Sayles writes an excellent meditation and his latest revolves around what a panther sees confined to his cage ( http://www.facebook.com/notes/guy-sayles/free-from-the-cage/586866744674395). Guy suggest that God desires us to be free from the cages we inprision ourselves in as we live life.

So the list keeps growing. There's just so much to see waiting in front of me ... so we got to go.

Who needs February?

I don't care much for February.

Sure, there's Valentine's Day if you're so lucky to have one.

It's also black history month and that makes a lot of people happy.

Did you know that more heavy weather coats are produced in February than any other month?

Other than that it's a dud of a month. Football is over. March Madness hasn't come yet (as if I gave a rat's ass about basketball), baseball is still around the corner. It's cold, windy and dark way to early. Then there's ... wait, that's about it for February.

This year we took a different approach to enduring the month and making it celebratory! We booked a cruise to Central America in the beginning of the month and spent a week in hot weather, ocean breezes, Palm Trees and blue water. We saw dolphins, flying fish, explored Spanish ruins, collected new friends and had a really good time.

We got home last Sunday and it's been a busy week.

Staring outside, it's a shitty day. The wind is blowing and its raining. Sarah is perfectly content to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away. She'd take her book and if she woke, read a bit until falling back asleep.

Instead we're hopping in the car and heading to St. Augustine to celebrate the birth of Joseph Sadowsky with the Carnival of Friends. Last year we all took a cruise together so now its a tradition. Besides, it's sunny and 80 degrees there today!

When we return, there'll only be a couple of days left in February and we can start sliding on into Spring. The time changes in a couple of weeks and we're making plans for new plants in the front yard and redoing the Beloved Back Deck which has been a haven of solitude for too long. Now its going to be a celebratory center!

Now in honor of the shortest month of the year, I'm going to be brief, primarily because I'm ready for flip flops and friends and for February to be over.

And When I Die

I am not a reader of the Obituary column. I find it hard to get excited about death! It has its place but I'd much rather focus on other things.

My brother David is an avid reader of it though. He pours over it searching for people he knew and keeps current with everything. If I want to know if someone has died, I just call him.

Every morning I sip coffee as I flip through the Savannah Morning News at The Breakfast Club. When I get to the Obituaries, Johnny O asks, "Anybody we know?" I glance at the photographs to see if I recognize anyone, which I never do, and he'll stand and take a quick look because he knows to not trust my review. As soon as he finishes, I flip it to the Sports page.

Recently I've begun to notice the Obituary pages when I turn past them. It's like driving past a car wreck on the side of the road and I have to glance even though I know I won't like anything about what I see.

What I quickly see in the death notices is the growing number of people dying who are younger than me. Sometimes it was cancer or "after a lengthy battle" that has led to the terminal breath. Most often however it merely says that he's passed away at 53 years of age.

I don't know about you but at 56, I think of myself as a 26 year old. Sarah will be the first to tell you that I act much younger.

The truth of the matter though is I still believe that most of my life is yet to come. Sure I've done a lot already, seen the world, loved and lost and somehow keep on ticking ... like a bomb! That was all fun and I enjoy talking about things I've done sometimes but I'm much more concerned about what's next.

Plus I refuse to grow up. "I believe if I refuse to grow old, I can stay young till I die," is how it's put in the marvelous Broadway musical Pippin. That's how I feel ... and act!

When I was a kid, we'd ride the roller coaster at Six Flags and I'd immediately scream, "Let's do it again!"

Now we're driving home from a trip to Central America and before we hit the drive way I say to Sarah, "Let's go to St. Martin!" She rolls her eyes and tells me she just wants to be home for a while. I like home. It's where I prefer to be when I'm not somewhere else.

Once, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I were standing in the Old Jewish cemetery in Prague, Czech Republic. It's a haunted and beautiful place because so many people are buried in such a small area, the tombstones literally shove against one another giving the impression the dead are pushing them out off the way.

I like that image.

Hell if I'm going to let death keep me down! I'm certainly not to give it any of me time while I'm still alive! There's just so much to see waiting in front of me ... and to do ... places to go ... love to make ... laughs to have ... and beauty to enjoy.

Whoever writes my Obituary will likely be forced to admit, "He did a lot but didn't seem to dwell on it. Just like always, just when we thought we knew what he was doing we learned ... he's outta here ... again."

Then they'll likely ask, "Anybody seen Sarah?"

Renegade Believers.

Dr. Russell Bennett, Director of the Long Run Baptist Association in Louisville, KY, was driving down Shelby Street when he saw the sign. "ROMAN CATHOLIC/SOUTHERN BAPTIST COALITION Wednesday 12:45" and he immediately concluded that I had something to do with it.

It was in front of the St. Martin de Tours Catholic Church beside it was another, "The German/Afro Tea room." Father Vernon Robertson was the Priest and we were friends. Every Wednesday after the noon Mass, during which I did the readings from the High Alter, we would have lunch in the tea room. He dubbed it the "Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition." He was Catholic and I'm Southern Baptist so it was ecumenical.

Russell Bennett was my boss and he liked to approve public ecumenical activities before they actually occurred. The formation of our Coalition was news to him ... especially learning of it on an extremely large and Gothic sign on one of the city's busy roads.

A bit later my phone rang at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, where I was employed as the "Professional Christian" (getting paid to do what everyone else had to do for free). It was Russell's secretary.

"He wants you now," she said.

"What did I do?" I asked.

"What haven't you done," she replied.

She had a point. Recently Russell had accused me of breaking into his office one night and placing pages of pornography in the files of his elaborate filing system. It was going to take him years to find all of the porn carefully placed in the thousands of files.

I told him that I had no idea what he was talking about and had actually been at home studying my Sunday School lesson when the crime took place. Russell's a real doubting Thomas and didn't believe me.

I went to his office dressed for work in blue jeans, a nice shirt and sock tie. Like most Southern Baptists, he wore a three piece suit.

"What have you done?" he demanded.

"I haven't done anything," I told him.

"What's a Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition?" he fired.

"Oh that," I said understanding. "Vernon and I have lunch together on Wednesdays."

"Well you can't announce it on a sign like that!" he angrily said.

"I didn't announce anything. Vernon did that."

"Well tell him to take it down!"

"I'm not Catholic," I protested. "I can't tell a Priest what to do. He wouldn't listen to me any way."

Russell would have none of it, reminding me that I was in enough trouble with the Southern Baptists. Later I recounted everything with Vernon over a lunch of crab cakes with white wine.

"You want me to take it down?" he asked. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Naw," I said. "Just invite Russell to lunch and let him talk a lot. Those are the key components to solving Southern Baptist problems."

On my refrigerator, a most holy of places in our home, there is a picture of Vernon and me. It was taken here on Tybee towards the end of his life. His body could no longer tolerate the cold so he rented a house down the street from mine for the winter. He's flashing the peace sign with one hand and holding on to his glasses in the other. I'm laughing so hard I'm wiping the water from my eyes.

Vernon died not too long afterwards though he lives still inside of many of us he touched. He was a  renegade believer and taught me be one too. Today I miss him and at noon will remember the Mass as I express thanks for the Saints and Guardian Angels that have graced  my life.

My Fourth Life

The sliding glass doors are open, birds sing and the sun glares off the table on the on the beloved back deck. While we were away, high winds blew the umbrella away because I forgot to lower it. It's alright. I seem to lose an umbrella about every other year.

I've survived worse.

It's a beautiful morning. Birds are singing. Fran's thousand shades of green glimmer in the sunshine. The skies are blue and the grass is green. The weeds have died after I treated the yard a couple of weeks ago. Spring is beginning to push winter away.

I am restless, ready for the new things that come with warmer weather. Winter is the season of death, a reminder of dark tombs and empty places. Things are always worse in the cold night.

Standing on the back deck I can see the cold front making its way towards the coast. The breeze picks up from the west. Purple clouds roll towards the sea. The first drops of rain fall.

I close the doors and resume my seat in front of the computers. There is much to be done before domestic obligations overtake me this afternoon. Like a winter's day, time is shortened and I desire long afternoons that slowly fade into the night. I want open windows, the singing of the waves and endless miles of blue skies.

I'm at the beginning of my fourth life and have an emerging sense that time is no longer on my side. I still have it but no real certainty of how much so I'm cramming as much into it as possible.

My first life was growing up with my parents, learning to live with a brother and a sister before taking those initial steps towards independence. The second life was discovering who I am, starting my own family and making my way in the world. The third was having my children turn into my friends, starting over in work and love while finding my place beside the sea.

It's all led me here to this time, place and to Sarah.

My kids are all in their second lives. Jeremy and Marie have birthed their family and are now making their contributions to the world. Kristen continues to work but is back in school so she can do more than she has. Chelsea and Sam are planning their marriage, working on Master's degrees and raising a rabbit. They've yet to determine where home will be.

It's fun for me sharing the same agendas that my kids have. I've vowed to spend more time with them this year than I did last. Like them, work is again brand new endeavor for me.

Yesterday I read an article on LinkedIn that if you're over 55 and looking for work, you're really screwed these days. It told me I should retire, volunteer, or start my own business (because nobody in their right mind would consider hiring me!).

I don't have problems with that other than I look, feel and certainly act a lot younger than the photograph of the old man in the LinkedIn article. So I laughed and got to work on my forth life. It's much different from the others, more introspective, contemplative and prayerful; less contentious, frightful or mysterious.

I like the number four. There's something Biblical about it. On the third day, Jesus rose from the dead and I'm pretty certain by the next morning everyone knew it.

That's how I feel.

Everyone else should get out of the way.

The Agony of the "To-Do" list

If I still had a conventional job like I did at Union Mission and at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel,  I'd call in sick today.

It's one of those days.

I'm not in the mood.

Not that I know what kind of mood I'm in because I don't. I'm just not in the mood to do all of the things on my "to do" list today.

Apparently I AM in the mood to lock Winston, the little gay dog, outside in 39 degree weather. It's funny watching him jump up and down trying to turn the latch on the sliding glass doors to let himself inside. With all of that jumping he's got to be warm and its hilarious watching him head butt the glass to no avail.

I get back to work instant messaging Sean and now have the things necessary to cross the first thing off the "to-do" list but ... it's   time  for a break so I pour myself a large glass of Sparkling water heavily spiked with lime juice.

I need more motivation to plow through the things I have to accomplish. This leads to a great deal of introspection on my part. Finally I determine that Neil Young and the Shocking Pinks will enable me be inspired and sit back down at the computer.

Winston, the little gay dog, is now laying by the door giving me the sad, "what did I do to deserve this?" look.

I review my "to-do" list again. It's really not that long. Last week I worked everyday we were traveling,  crawling out of bed before the sun came up and stumbling to the Lido Deck for coffee. After writing the blog, I'd flip through the social media channels, manage email and work on media plans. So I stayed pretty current while sailing the Caribbean. It's the beauty of the world today. If you're disciplined you can work from mostly anywhere.

Besides, it's President's day.

All of the Presidents are off. I actually think its better when President's are off. The more they're off, the safer we are. You know what I'm saying?

Winston, the little gay dog, has gotten Goddess to stand beside him scratching the door for me to let them in.

Sighing, I walk over, open the door and she gleefully rushes past me. Winston, the little gay dog, slowly prances in giving me the evil eye wearing his black sweater with pink ruffles with the words "Gay Republicans came out of their log cabins."

Sitting back down I type a few things, hit send and cross the first thing off the "to-do list. It's tough being the President of a company.

Wait a minute!

It is President's day.

It wouldn't work though. I need to collect more of the bastards! You know what I'm saying? So sadly, it's back to the "to-do" list.

At least until Winston, the little gay dog, wants to go back outside.

Warming my heart (and my hands)!

After a week of 85 and 90degree weather, I must agree with James Brown ... I Feel Good!

And tan!

I only have one question upon returning to the good ol' US of A. 

When did Alaska move to Florida?  It was freaking 46 degrees in South Florida when we got off of the boat.  I called upon The Lord repeatedly!!

"Hey God!! It's friggen cold!! Throw us a little hell for warmth will ya?"

So far God hasn't replied.  

Other than homecoming temperatures, it was a hell of a trip.  Sarah and I had fun, met new friends who would fit right in with the old ones, went to places we'd never been before and enjoyed new things!  

Now it's back to work.  There is so much to do after being away. Plus I'm back to also doubling as Mr. Mom throughout the week.  

To help with this, the old friends have planned a new trip this weekend.  Now I understand my son Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on Tybee, and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie will also be there!  This is great news indeed.  

It warms my heart. 

Now it's time to warm my tanned brown hands.  

Sarah has both hands on the wheel and will be defenseless as I do so. 

Ah, it's a good day that The Lord has made.  

The Dotted Lines of Life

“Be good and you will be lonesome.”

So wrote Mark Twain in the inscription to “Following the Equator” which chronicles a trip he made around the world on a steam ship. There’s a photograph of him, white droopy mustache  cigar clinched between his teeth, wearing a full suit and a straw hat. His feet are propped on the railing and he’s staring out to sea.

It’s a great book where America’s humorist of the time takes readers around the world at a time when few made it outside of their town’s limits. His stories introduce men and women who are much different from us … yet at the same time they’re not.

I’ve always liked the inscription and find myself in a contemplative mood this morning. Sitting on the Lido deck of this ship, the calm blue water of the ocean rushes past as I sip coffee.

Tonight at dinner, I’ll swap email addresses with new friends and tomorrow they’ll be new Facebook friends.

When I finished High School, there was no clear cut plan. My mother willed me to go to college so I went. By the time I finished I had a degree, a son and a wife though I still had no clear cut plan.

So I went to Seminary, obtained more degrees, had a daughter, found myself working as a Professional Christian, touched success for the first time and watched it come tumbling down.

A vague notion called me home to the sea. I returned to Tybee, had another daughter, established a career, was published, traveled the world, got divorced and remarried and then watched that all crumble too.

Some think I’m adrift in the sea of life and it certainly may seem that way. There is little conventionality to me. I haven’t followed the dotted lines of life …grow up, find a job, start a family, save for retirement, enjoy it all at the end. There is a certain security that comes from living life this way but I’m not certain its part of any Divine Plan.

Are their Divine Plans anyway?

I think God created life but leaves it up to our parents to give it to us, either planned or otherwise. Then it’s up to us to figure out what to do with it. Some follow the dotted lines plotted out by those before us while others are continuously reborn.

I’m being reborn … again. At this stage, I don’t even have dotted lines to follow. That’s how far out there I am!

Sure, it’s scary sometimes but as I look back over my life I’ve always done things differently. Why should I change now?

Besides, I’m not lonesome!

And a lot wonder how good I am.

Beautiful Bay

Christopher Columbus sailed saw it and proclaimed it “Porto Bello,” …beautiful bay.

And it is.

Rain forests tumble down a mountain into the calm Caribbean Sea. The town is littered with three forts built by the Spanish to protect Central American Silver shipping for Europe. Sir Francis Drake, the pirate, is buried in a lead coffin in the waters. Sailboats from around the world are moored in the Bay content to stay a while. Cantinas are more plentiful than churches.

Jimmy Buffett is singing in my head.

There’s a cowboy in the jungle and he looks so out of place

With his shrimp skin boots and his cheap cheroots and his skin as white as paste

Heading south to Paraguay where the Gauchos sing and shout

Now he’s stuck in Porto Bello since the money all ran out

I like Porto Bello and tell Sarah that I wouldn’t mind staying. Later I learn that it rains eight months out of the year in Panama and the thought loses its luster though the dream doesn’t. I’ve got an expatriate’s heart and the soul is definitely Caribbean. At 56 I still dream of cashing it all in and finding that one particular harbor.

Of course, in my case though, the money ran out a long time ago.

And I live on an island that most would die to call home.

I am happy on Tybee Island with the smell of the marsh, choirs of mussels, egrets and pods of Dolphins. The seafood on the island is better than any I’ve found anywhere else in the world. Sunrises erupt from the sea and sunsets linger over the marsh.

Still, my wandering toes are always itching. I’ve made it to Central America twice now in the past year and I can’t wait to come back. St. Martin is forever calling. The little latitudes are the best ones.

Some may say I look a gift horse in the mouth but I don’t.

I have this incredible gift of life to make with what I will and I’m doing my damn best to squeeze as many of the things I want in to it as possible before I die. Besides, I’ve been criticized enough in life to not worry about it much anymore.

Besides, next week the Carnival of Friends are gathering in St. Augustine, another Spanish town littered with a fort, to celebrate the birth of one of its own. There’s just too much to do and so little time left.

I may as well get busy!

The Costa Rican Pedicure Patrol

The last thing I ever expected to do in Limon, Costa Rica was get a pedicure. But there I sat in a wicker chair with my bare feet in the lap of a lovely Caribbean Princess.

It’s alright.

Sarah was sitting in a wicker chair next to me getting one too. We were in a Market that was selling the usual tourists crap made in China but stamped Costa Rica. It’s almost Jodee Sadowsky’s birthday so we were shopping when we stumbled upon eighteen different women giving Pedicures.

Jodee’s birthday would have to wait. We couldn’t resist.

If you’ve ever been to Limon, Costa Rica then you know there’s not much there. Oh, they have an abundance of broken sidewalks; trash in the streets and fruit stands piled high. There’s also a Burger King and a Pizza Hut but both were empty. I immediately liked it and told Sarah it beat the hell out of Cozumel, Mexico (which we really didn’t go to anyway).

 

The first thing we do when we hit a new place is check out the Grocery Store. We wandered past sidewalk meat markets, fish markets and, I swear to God, an open air Pig market with two skinned Pig heads for sale … complete with eyes! I assumed the flies were free with every purchase at each of these establishments.

The Grocery Store was about the size of The Tybee Market back home and boy was it packed! Over a hundred people were standing, and yelling, four deep at the meat counter. In addition to screaming at the two masked people behind the counter, customers were screaming at each other. They were also passing money, baskets and at least one child. Everyone had received a number but they were buying and selling them to get to the front of the line.

Sarah and I were fortunate enough to visit on the day the Chicken Boat arrived. Behind the counter were stacked cases of fresh chickens and they were going fast! People were buying twenty chickens at a time!

I like to experience a culture when I visit so I got in line. Of course I looked completely out of place wearing my faded and ripped UGA baseball cap, Kevin’s Irish Pub tee shirt from Key West and black running shorts. Everyone else had dressed up nice for Chicken boat day.

All those chickens made us hungry so we left to search for lunch and found a tiny bistro with white table cloths, open windows with views of the sea, fans and cold Pilsner beer. It was hot and we were hungry so we had a three hour lunch. We were the only Americans and, other than a table fill of German kids, everyone else seemed local.

“I’ll have the Chicken Gordon Blue,” Sarah told the waiter.

“Who the hell is Gordon Blue?” I asked.

The waiter explained in broken English that it is chicken stuffed with ham and cheese. There was nothing French about it!

I ordered shrimps and rice along with another Pilsner and lunch was on.

Afterwards we were sleepy and making our way back to the docks where we discovered the Costa Rican Pedicure Patrol and let me tell you something: THIS IS WHAT I’M FRIGGING TALKING ABOUT! You don’t get this in the United States! … unless you’re elected to Congress!

It was so nice, so romantic, quite exotic and pleasing that as soon as we got back to our cabin I looked at Sarah with great anticipation.

“Don’t say anything for twenty minutes,” she said and fell fast asleep on the bed.

That was two hours ago.

I’m almost finished reading War and Peace.

But our toes look nice.

We never did get Jodee anything but I’m wondering how to sneak the Costa Rican Pedicure Patrol on to the boat.

Building the Now

“Do you go to St. Martin?” he asked.

I stood swaying in the sunshine watching thousands of Flying Fish skirt over the dark blue water. It was mesmerizing! Translucent tiny things jumped from the ocean and flew twenty or thirty yards before making small splashes in the deep.

“I do,” I said turning my head to see a chubby man wearing a baseball cap. His grin was lopsided and his voice a high pitched whine that I instantly didn’t like.

“I recognized your Georgia cap” he said moving the lopsided grin to the other side of his lip.

I love my UGA cap! It’s black but almost faded white from the sun, sea and salt. The bill is ripped and frays hang down in my eyes. There are three rips in the top; one beside the logo and two on the back side. I don’t know how long I’ve worn it but it’s almost broken in.

“It’s probably the same cap,” I sighed.

“I remember you,” he grated on, “and your wife. She was trying to get a job down there.”

It was the worst thing he could possibly have said. All these years later, I’ve come to understand that she had begun the process of leaving me long before she actually did. She just kept increasing the distance between us until I was no longer significant enough to return.

“Is she here?”

I pointed to Sarah reading a book and working on her tan.

The chubby man walked to her and looked down. “I don’t remember you at all,” he said with a confused look.

“Oh well,” the lopsided grin returned, “Hi.”

And he left.

He just wasn't worth the energy to set straight.

Returning to the Flying Fish, I fought off the urge to allow a bad mood to overtake me. I’m happy with the life I have now. Sarah is full of love and joy and I’m crazy about her. We’re building this life and delight in the things we are doing.

The past is mostly a collection of stories that I enjoy sharing. There are some though that I never return to. They’re just not worth the energy!

Bending over, I kiss my love on the top of her head. The fish jump for joy. And we continue to build the NOW.

Collecting Friends

There’s something about travel that makes me reminisce. Day before yesterday we were off the coast of Cuba and I found myself remembering. Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one) called out of the blue and asked if I wanted to meet him in Havana.

                  

“Why?” I asked, excited that we would soon be having another adventure.

“Ummm,” he replied obviously making up a reason, “we need you to give a speech in a church.”

“Alright,” I told him without ever learning what the speech was about.

Several weeks later I flew to Nassau, Bahamas and got on Cuba airlines where they serve free rum and cigars during the flight. After a lovely flight I was interrogated by Cuban Immigration before being set free to run to the bathroom. Then I found Bill standing outside in the bright sunshine.

We spent over a week in old Havana. I did give a speech in a Church but I don’t recall much about it. The girl translating my words into Spanish was cute. The Cuban Baptist were sweet. That’s all I remember.

Though Bill and I hitchhiked to Hemingway’s house, ended up in a nightclub full of Americans and hookers, played baseball with a bunch of kids, danced the night away with a group of students at the University of Havana and somehow ended up on a boat that took us out to sea.

I had a grand time, right up until I was busted by U.S. Immigration returning home. It seems Bill forgot to give me the letter giving me permission to go to Cuba.

Yesterday Sarah and I were in Mexico. We sat on a beach with newly made friends in 87 degree weather. Whenever I’m in Mexico I can’t get the James Taylor song out of my head. “Oh Mexico, I never really been but I’d sure like to go.”

Bill Berry is a huge James Taylor fan and of course made me become one too. This was my forth visit to the country. I’ve visited the Mayan ruins, swam in its crystal pools and danced a conga line. Now I get to experience it with Sarah on a lovely beach and then in a bar where the tequila was poured directly down the throats of those wanting it.

Today we’re back at sea, sailing for Costa Rica. Weve collected new friends. Last night we ate together, had pictures taken, tried to get hypnotized and played a grand practical joke on a hairdresser from New York City. Today the only plan is to do it all again.

Collecting friends is one of the secrets of a happy life. It’s like sticking money in a savings account or multiplying your talents. If you’re not ever expanding your circle then you’re stuck and it’s hard to grow when you’re not being challenged by others and learning new things.

I’m blessed enough to have lots of friends and now I have more! Bill Berry remains my oldest one. The Carnival of Friends on Tybee remains a foundation. I’m fortunate to have children who are my friends. Sarah is my best friend. Yet there are all of these others, Joey from High School, Mitch, Mark and Dedra from college, Shirley and Stacy and way too many to call by name.

Some are skeptical about it, believing if friends are not doing the initiating then they’re not really all that.

I don’t look at it that way.

Friends are gifts and like life you’re never really certain how long you have it or how long it’s going to last. If you aren’t spending all of your time celebrating what you have then life just passes you by.

It’s the same with friends.

I want to celebrate the ones I’ve got as I do my best to collect more.

Mutiny at Sea

What does a Pirate wear to a Captain’s Dinner?

It’s been bothering me all day.

Just because a Captain has a uniform doesn’t mean everybody else on the F-ing ship should have to put on long pants!

It makes me understand mutiny.

Of course I took several classes in mutiny in Seminary so I am an expert.

I can hear a lot of you asking, “What? They teach mutiny in Seminary?”

The answer is, of course they do.

It all started when God decided to separate the heavens from the earth, followed by the land from the water. What actually happened is the land was sick of being wet. At the time its occupation was being the bottom of the ocean which is not the best job in the universe so the land quit and formed Continents which is an ancestor of the Confederacy which of course eventually led to Congress. 

Everything’s a circle because Congress is as close as you can get to the slime sucking, bottom dwelling dark muck.

There’s also Jonah and the whale. Most have it backwards believing Jonah built a fire in the belly of the whale giving him heartburn until the behemoth threw up a man and his puppets who were, of course, Congressmen. 

In fact the opposite is true. Whales swore off politics in Biblical times beginning in Nineveh. Before there were Congressmen, there were a people run by Conan the Rotarian, who believed you could solve the problems of the world through weekly lunch meetings.

The Rotarian people made the mistake of serving a seafood buffet one Monday at 11:45 in a Hyatt Regency and all hell broke loose. The seafood wasn’t dead and included Killer Whale which held a raffle before eating the Rotarians, though a couple escaped and hold meetings to this day.

Pus everybody’s got it wrong about Sodom and Gomorrah, the Twin Cities of excessive partying. Back in Biblical times most everyone was a sinner because the Ten Commandments hadn’t been invented yet. They needed a place for an annual convention so they chose Sodom. The event proved so popular they had to expand to Gomorrah.

It got too big so God invented the Ten Commandments and brought an end to the perks, parties, prostitutes, and broken promises all happening in one place at the same time. Except … again … a few escaped though they broke off into two different factions and still meet to this day in Congress and … the Southern Baptist Convention.

This brings me back to mutiny and the Captain.

I don’t have any problems with a man who likes to play dress up. I’m not into it but if it makes him happy then fine. Just don’t go sticking my legs in long pants to make him feel better.

So I’ve spent the entire day utilizing the things I learned in Seminary, the times I spent in Congress and speaking before Rotary Clubs organizing a mutiny and let me tell you something.

As far as I can see right now, I don’t see one single person wearing pants.

Open Seas

For as far as I can see there is only water. It is a deep blue sprinkled with white. The sky is powdered blue also littered with white and purple clouds. The sun hangs low on the horizon, climbing its way to its majesty. It is warm and I wear little, sipping coffee and watching. There is no sign of land in any direction.

The boat has a gentle sway as though it dances to a rhythm that only it knows. I love the gentle rolling motion. Even in rough waters I have sea legs. Once I went “bow riding” in a high speed boat, slamming into waves, as I held onto a rope looking like a cowboy roping the ocean, dripping with salt spray and listening to my friends say, “Mike’s crazy!”

May be I am.

I’ve certainly never been a strong advocate of conventionality. I think we’re all finding our way in life and there are lots of different paths. There is no one, right way. We do the best we can, either finding our rewards … a happy and satisfying existence … or we don’t. I leave whatever happens next to God.

Last night, Sarah and I played a new game! How many people can you fit in a hot tub? We didn’t mean to play it but like life, sometimes things just happen. It had rained and there was a chill in the air, so we climbed in the bubbling water and settled in beside an elderly gentleman from Florida.

Within minutes, others followed our cue. In half-an-hour, we learned the answer. Twenty-three!

(The reason for the odd number was an old Jewish guy from New York City wearing beads and a Cowboy hat determined to tell everyone that he knew Janice Ian who sang “At 17” a thousand years ago. We gave him his own space in the pool so the rest of us were a bit crowded.)

Before the ship left Port, we had new friends. Staying in the pool until eight o’clock, we dressed and got ready for dinner. Sarah was stunning and I wasn’t the only one who thought as much. A man named Frank did too and he went out of his way to let her know it!

Afterwards, we meandered around, took in a show before stumbling to our cabin and falling in bed. She’s still asleep in the bottom of the boat while I sit high sipping coffee, far away from the cares of the world.

“You’re going again?” my Mom admonished when I told her we were setting sail. “You just got back!”

I had a most difficult time fingering out what her point.

“I don’t know Mom,” I tried to explain “it just time to go. Sarah and I have missed out on so much so we’re making up. It just seems like the things to do.”

“You Father used to do that!” she fired back. “He’d come home and tell me where we were going.”

“Aren’t those precious memories Mom?”

“Well,” she faltered, “they are now but they weren’t then. We couldn’t afford it.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m glad I got that from Dad then.”

Mom softened. “You and Sarah have a good time,” she said.

And we are.

There’s only so much life left and we have so much to do!

We’ll worry about everything else later.

Coloring outside the lines with Winston, the little gay dog.

"Dad, why is your vet calling me?"

"Oh hey Chelsea! They've already called you? Sorry. I put you down as the emergency contact because I couldn't remember your sister's phone number."

"Oh," she mumbled from Atlanta where she lives. Kristen, her sister, lives on Tybee Island where I live and where the dogs are boarded.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

"Um, no," she said. "But Winston, the little gay dog, did attack a German Shepherd."

"Oh," I mumbled from the car sailing south down I-95. The sun was shinning, the skies blue on an eighty-five degree day and the last thing I wanted to think about was Winston, the little gay, son-of-a-bitch (and I use the term literally).

"The German Shepherd's OK," Chelsea went on to explain.

Winston, the little gay, dog has been acting strange lately. He's in trouble with the law, has become quite the Diva, is expressing Bi-Polar Disorder tendencies and wears little sweaters with sayings on them like, "Coloring outside the lines."

"How's Goddess?" I ask.

"Same as always," Chelsea says. "Laid back, happy and snoring in her cage."

While I had inspected her thoroughly I suspect Goddess was still able to sneak her stash inside Tybee Animal Care. Maybe she had raided the Pharmacy when Dr. Iyler was separating Winston, the little gay dog, and the German Shepherd. I don't know.

"Oh well," I sighed. "It'll only be week." 

"Winston, the little gay dog, will own the place in a week Dad," Chelsea shot back.

Immediately I could envision the clinic decorated in pink and black with lava lamps and tie-die throw pillows in the cages. Giant rainbow flags flying out front behind a sign reading, "Tybee Animal Care! Ending Heterosexual Privilege!

"Yeah," I signed.

What do you do? Sarah and I are getting on a cruise ship today. We'll be gone all week. That's plenty of time to figure out where we'll board Goddess and Winston, the gay little/Diva/Bi-Polar, sweater wearing, son-of-a-bitch, next.

Sighing, I told Chelsea I loved her and hung up.

"What was that about?" Sarah asked.

"Oh nothing dear. Everything is just as it should be."

Sailing down I-95

We are sailing down I-95 on our way to the Promised Land in Florida. Along with California, Florida promises more than Amy other state. Sunshine, blue skies and ultra-violet rays. Relaxation underneath Palm Trees, laid back is a life ... Unless you live there.

When I was a kid we would go to Florida for vacation sometimes and to this day I still feel a tinge of excitement when I cross the St. Mary's River bridge and see the "Welcome to the Sunshine state" sign.  Part of me will always remain a lite boy.

Since then, I've spent countless hours in the state. From Fernadenia Beach to Key West, it's been my retreat, sanctuary and healing place. From Cedar Key to Naples on the Gulf Coast and in between on the Alligator Highway, I've seen it all.

"Now in my line of work, I seem to see a lot more than most
Write 'me down, pass 'em round, it's the Gospel from the coast
Reflections not just replays, taking time to escape the maze
Looking for Floridays ..."

(Jimmy Buffett)

This time we're only passing through. Tomorrow we're getting on a boat and sailing away to the Caribbean Sea which has been my home away from home.  For the first time since we got married, Sarah and I are going alone. Friends were invited but couldn't go for one reason or another. We'll miss them buy it's OK just being us.

Sailing past Floridays ... To better days.

Kitty Love

Just when I don't think it can get any stranger, it does.

I've got a little gay dog who is in trouble with the law, another who uses medical Marijuana, a house full of girls, a Carnival of friends, am a member of The Bored, a Southern Baptist Minister without a Church, don't believe much in underwear, haven't had a hair cut in a couple of years, and believe that clothing is optional.

But that's nothing.

My neighbor, the Cat Lady, has several hundred feral cats, dresses in a pink fluffy bathrobe with bunny slippers and a blue towel wrapped around her head. Cat hair flies around forming a halo. Her voice screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY" and makes me believe in the N.R.A., Capital Punishment and the right wing of the Republican Party.

But this is where it's gotten weirder.

Now, she has a lover.

I know, I just threw up a little too.

He drives a white Bronco and arrives just after dark wearing a white long sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows, khaki pants and brown loafers. His hair is dirty blond and he uses product in it. His teeth are glistening white. Taking the stairs two at a time he rushes inside.

The Cat Lady's window are directly across from ours so I see them embrace. Cat hair flies around like a mini-tornado and it is obvious things are getting hot. She steps back and opens up the pink bath robe and wicked grin broadens on the man's face.

I throw up a little more.

She says something and closes her robe. Then she walks to the window and closes the shutters. I can no longer see anything.

A few minutes later, the cats begin to moan. It's a choir of long, slow, car horns that don't stop. The yellow shutters keep rhythmic timing as they bang against the window. It all grows in intensity until a giant cloud of cat hair erupts from the chimney.

Then all is quiet.

The next morning, I walk outside to make the short drive to the Breakfast Club. It is still dark and as I open the car door, he does too at the same time. He flashes me a Cheshire grin and his winkled white shirt has cat hair on it.

At that moment, the Cat Lady throws open the shutters and screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."

"Right here baby," he smiles at her.

I throw up a little, jump in my car and drive like a bat out of hell to The Breakfast Club where the coffee just won't wash the taste away in my mouth.

Mcdonalds

Things are strange.

I'm sitting in one of my least favorite places in the known universe, Mcdonalds, watching a chubby girl eat three hash brown patties for breakfast. She's dressed for school and her Mother, also feasting on hash browns, is wearing pink pajamas with white bunnies on them and a black North Face jacket. They douse their hash browns in ketchup. I had no idea it takes seven packets of Mcdonalds ketchup per hash brown patty to achieve the appropriate culinary ratio for dining.

At the same time, I'm having a discussion via LinkedIn with a woman in Copenhagen. She wants to discuss buying content from me and hopes that I want graphic design from her. The world is indeed a small place.

"Senior coffee," one of the servers yells when a guy walks in.

I've never heard of senior coffee. Is it the old stuff left in the pot for several hours?

Lots of single parents are bringing their kids in for breakfast before taking them to school. After ordering chocolate milk and chicken biscuits, the adult whips out his phone and starts to read. The kid is busy opening little packets of ketchup getting all over his school uniform along with the chicken. The father doesn't notice.

Older kids are studying as they eat. They are quiet, well behaved and seemingly desperate. Several cuss as they stand before lapsing into prayer.

I'm here because I've dropped my car off for service and have no other option. There's this Mcdonalds and nothing else as I wait on Sarah to pick me up.

A single father looks up from his phone and discovers his six year old son is covered in ketchup and is licking it off his fingers. He hasn't touched his chicken biscuit.

"Are you kidding me?" the Dad says.

The kids turns his head to look at his father as he prepares to take a drink of the chocolate milk and pours it on top of the white, ketchup covered school shirt.

The Dad cusses loudly and the kids closes his eyes.

The line for Drive-In service wraps around the building, filled with folks who prefer to dine in their vehicle rather than endure a happy meal inside.

My phone buzzes and Sarah sent a text informing me that she's outside.

I can't get out of there fast enough.

The father sticks the ketchup, chocolate milk wearing son into a green Jaguar and peels out of the parking lot towards the school.

Sarah drives me home and I try to explain everything that has happened.

There's no making it up.

It happened just like that.

_________________________________________________________________________________
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Relics of the past

There is a photograph on my refrigerator of Roma with her mouth duct taped shut. Her eyes are wide and crazy as though she wants to kill somebody. One one of her shoulders is Jenny O with her eyes clasped shut and a broad late night grin. My happy face rests on the other shoulder, broad smile, happy eyes and wearing a black top hat.

I remember when Johnny O gave me the picture on New Year's Day. We'd gathered for breakfast and Bloody Mary's prior to the Polar Bear Plunge, the annual celebration of starting over by jumping into a cold ocean.

"You had a good time last night," Johnny O told me.

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he smiled handing me the picture.

For as long as I've lived on this clump of sand I've been part of this group of crazy characters.  Beginning as a break off of The Beach Bums, we started a daily pool tournament anchored by Roma, Johnny O, Bill with two "L"'s, Tuttie, Joanie, myself and a cast of revolving visitors.

Oh and there was Bobby.

"You look great," Chicago Bob used to say. "Whose your Mortician?"

It was hard not to love Chicago Bob, even when he threw my Mother and Sister out of his house one night, because he lived one tremendous adventure. Once his wife was going out of town and admonished him to not smoke, drink or do anything crazy. He promised as he kissed her bye and sent her off.

Five minutes later she returned having forgotten something to find Bob sitting naked in the living room, smoking and drinking Scotch.

She turned and left again.

Trolley Joe came next, reflective and funny, alternating his life between driving tourists around downtown Savannah and gathering with us for the daily "Bored" meeting to celebrate life on the island.

Once I was walking to a meeting in downtown Savannah when a trolley full of tourisst stopped in the middle of the road while Trolley Joe announced on the microphone, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is "The Rev." He's famous though for the life of me I don't know why. Let's give him a hand."

The trolley full of tourists burst into applause as I just stood in the middle of Liberty Street laughing my ass off.

Chicago Bob is no longer with us and when Johnny O and I dumped his ashes off the pier into the ocean with a cluster of fishing Hispanics looking on, the ocean breeze kicked up and Bobby's ashes went in two different directions. The Hispanics dropped on their knees still holding on to their poles with one hand while doing the sign of the cross with the other.

"That explains that," Roma said.

"What?" we asked.

"His schizophrenic personality."

We burst into laughter which is a great way to end a funeral.

Trolley Joe has died too and when Johnny O and I put his ashes in the ocean a dolphin jumped through them into the sky before falling back to the sea and sending Joseph's ashes in every direction.

"You don't see that every day," Roma said.

Luckily, Whitley, Essie, O John and O Judy, Swanny, Al and others have taken their seats at the daily "The Bored" meeting.

As Tybee continues to change, The Bored may become a relic of the past. Serious behavior has no place for spontaneous celebrations.

But for twenty-five years it's been an incredible gift of friends who love one another and find something to celebrate daily. Members have gone on to become angels leaving the rest of us missing them. But, the rest of us aren't dead yet ... and that's a damn good reason to celebrate.

Bobby, cue the music!