Marvelous imperfections

I belong to "Memories of growing up in Savannah," a Facebook group where people remember things that are no more.

Daily I click the site and my memory's jogged to recall things long forgotten.

My favorites are old photographs of everything from the "Shoney's" on Abercorn to the crumbling beach wall on Tybee Island ... though I'm naturally drawn to old pictures.

Whenever we travel I find the local history of mostly black and white photos and I imagine what it must have been like before neon lights, Interstate Highways or jumbo jets.

Things are both better and worse then ... a marvelous imperfection where things were as good as they could possibly be but would soon get better.

Through there are always causalities.

The "Shoney's" is long gone, along with the old seawall ... Joe's Drive In, the Highway 80 Theater, the Bounty House Restaurant, the Krystal downtown, swimming pools with diving boards and the water park on Tybee.  

Each had its moment in time, now forever frozen in memories and old photographs.

Friends too had their moments and, while either they've moved on or we have, the best of us never forget the impact they had on us.

"He was great when he was great," George Harrison once said of Elvis Presley. "Last time I saw him I said, "Put your jeans back on and do 'That's alright Mama" because that really is your way ... not singing 'My Way.''"

I love the sentiment because Elvis was freaking great ... when he was freaking great ... then one day he wasn't.

It's the same with most everyone else.

While I enjoy memories of growing up I sure as Hell don't want to go back.

I like this part of the journey better.

I love reconnecting with old friends, especially when they mix well with my new ones.

What I enjoy most are seeing old friends who grew into themselves. When we're together there are short stories about the past but learning, experiencing and enjoying who they are now is far better.

All of that to say ... see you in a month Joey Finch!

Sarah and I can't wait.

Explaining the 70s to a child

"Mike what are you listening to?" Sarah's 7 year old asks having crashed my quiet time on the beloved back deck.

"70s music," I answer. "Just music from the 70s."

"It's weird," she tells me.

"You should have lived it," I retort.

Pondering this as she plays a game on the I-pad, she says without looking at me, "God wasn't alive in the 70s."

"Naw," I explain, "God was just on vacation in the 70s."

She stares at me.

"Nixon was President. Terrorism was born. OPEC was conceived. Kent State happened. Floppy Disks were invented. The Beatles broke up! God had to have been on vacation."

I can't tell if she's ignoring me or considering the whole "Death of God" controversy which also occurred in the 70s ... Elton John said so.

"The music's weird," she finally says.

Disco is streaming.

"Yeah well," I agree. "There was a lot of bad music in the 70s.

Actually I enjoyed the 70s a lot, starting High School at the dawn of the Decade and graduating from College when it ended.

"You couldn't have been alive in the 70s," Cassidy finally concludes.

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't be alive now," she explains putting her elbows on the table to look at me as if I'm an idiot.

"I'm pretty sure I was alive Cass," I reply.

"Well," she says reversing her opinion, "God was alive in the 70s."

"Alright then," I shrug, "God was alive in the 70s and I was too otherwise I wouldn't be here now."

"No," she says.

I count the decades my fingers which she ignores.

"The music's weird," she concludes as John Lennon sings "Imagine."

Crazy Summer Days

Summer drips like molasses here.

Everyone is dancing in glue.

Everything takes longer than it should.

Green grass requires gallons of water on a consistent basis.

So do the Hibiscus blooms, the petunias and all manner of green on the beloved back deck.

Air conditioners sing their very expensive songs without ceasing.

Sweat comes easy.

Business slows to the minimalist efforts.

Ice cream melts before it can be eaten.

The sun is blistering.

I LOVE IT!

Sitting on the beloved back deck in black running shorts, I laugh watching the neighbor water her grass because she keeps squirting herself trying to position the sprinkler to the exact right position.

Finally giving up she holds it above her head baptizing herself in coolness, completely unaware I'm watching the grey tank top she's wearing turn translucent becoming one with her pasty white skin.

They're desperately trying to sell the house and return permanently to Philadelphia because it's too damn hot here.

Their dream retirement home turned into Hell on earth.

Everything's fine until Credence Clearwater Revival's traveling band takes a 737 out of the sky causing  my neighbor to jerk her head in the direction of the music and sees me here with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, working on our tans.

She doesn't wave or wish me a good morning as she covers herself to run inside though I do hear her pronounce her opinion of my lineage.

I wave.

A slight ocean breeze kicks up and the squirrels decide it's time to play in the Palm Trees.

"May as well water the flowers," I say out loud and Winston, TLGD, looks at me and shrugs.

"HERE KITT
Y, KITTY, KITTY," my other neighbor screeches and feral cats across Tybee Island awaken.

"Let's go inside and see what Sarah's doing," I say opening the sliding glass door. "It's starting to get crazy out here."

 

Dancing your problems away

"The future belongs to those who prepare for it today."

So said Malcolm X.

Every since I read his autobiography as an impressionable teen I've always liked Malcolm X.

I was at Groves High School as it was being integrated which actually went pretty smoothly in that there were only a couple of riots and I was the cause of one when I asked a black girl to dance at a school function.

All the black kids were dancing and having a good time while all the white kids stood against the gymnasium wall talking about how good they can dance ... if they were going to ... which they weren't.

So I wander across some imaginary line to ask this girl to dance.

It's one of those scenes that is crystal clear in my head.

Wearing a purple gown she sheepishly looks down because every black kid in the Gym have their eyes set on her and I immediately sense the awkwardness of the situation.

Then her large brown eyes look up and she grins so I take her hand and spin her to the dance floor.

All the black kids immediately join in.

All the white kids stood against the wall talking about how good they can dance ... if they were going to dance ... which they weren't.

The next day a riot broke out.

As I walked down the hall to Gretchen Johnson's English class a bunch of white kids beat me up for dancing with a black girl.

There is another moment forever frozen in my mind as they kick the crap out of me.

My best friend Gene Prevatt comes flying through the air like Superman into the middle of the pile to make it a fairer fight.

They kick the crap out of him too.

Later we're both laying in the Nurses office when Gene asks, "Elliott did it never dawn on you that when you danced with that girl it was going to piss some people off?"

"What do people have against dancing?" I retort, wiping blood from my mouth.

Gene ponders this for a moment before answering.

"Well," he begins sitting up on the table and for the first time I see his black eye, "we do live in the South. There are lots of Baptists and they don't like it worth a damn."

"So?" I cleverly reply.

"Just give me some warning next time," he sighs laying back down. "Okay?"

It was sometime before or after this happened that I read "The Autobiography of Malcolm X."

Decades later Denzel Washington made a movie of the book which I watched and was pleased as punch to learn that Malcolm X danced.

It all makes sense now.

If everyone would spend more time dancing there wouldn't be as many problems in the world.

The Answer to Stuggling with your Faith

Living a life based on faith is hard as Hell.

It can kill you.

Just ask Jesus.

But then he'll go on to say it all works out in the end.

A friend of mine takes care of his elderly mother and his mentally ill brother. He lives on a fixed income so there's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to cash flow. The problem is the price of everything ... groceries, gasoline, utilities and such ... keep getting higher. It frightens him that one day the math won't work and he'll forfeit the pledge he made to his dying father to take care of the family.

Like most, he expects the worst to happen, imaging it on sleepless nights ... the power's cut off and they have to cook the few remaining things on the grill ... until the gas runs out ... but by then the heartless bank will have foreclosed and he haul his tearful mother and confused brother to whoever has room in the Inn.

I understand.

I worry about such things too.

Many of us wonder why God keeps so quiet during such times.

It was with wonder then over the weekend we opened the fortune cookies after food delivered from Chef Wan.

Sarah's promises, "You will have many friends when you need them!"

As if that isn't good enough, on the other side of her fortune are her winning Lottery numbers ... 1, 13, 19, 35, 46 and 48.

Excited I tore my cookie open and was delighted to learn that my "dearest wish will come true within the month."
AND my winning Lottery numbers are 4, 6, 9, 18, 24 and 29!

Well ... that takes care of that.

And to my friend I say, keep believing and ... order Chinese.

Dad's damn jokes

"Ah," he says storming across the crosswalk, "the spirit of Billy Elliott!"

Vigorously shaking my hand he explains how he once spent a week with my Dad at the Horse Races in Kentucky.

"You stayed with my Dad? Did you get any sleep?"

Laughing he admits he did not but had a grand time anyway.

Dad had a Ph.D. in snoring.

His friends drew lots to determine who shared a room with him on their trips.

Regardless the impression he's left is deep and passionate.

"Ah, I miss your Dad," I often hear when they encounter me.

Whenever I write about him someone gets in touch to explain the void he left in their life.

I understand.

Unless I was traveling we talked every day and he always told me a joke. Sometimes they were corny but often were funny as Hell.

He loved them and relished in telling jokes.

He was a funny and gracious man who watched Charles Bronson movies, hated war, loved the pungent aroma of the Marsh and was utterly addicted to sports and looking at pretty girls.

He was a passionate family man who delighted when he spent time with some or all of us though he always exercised the patriarchal right to fix his plate first.

I think about the things he misses now. All of us for sure! His friends and the wild and crazy things they did (and they did extreme wild and crazy things!). He would delight in Sarah and her girls and be beside himself that his granddaughter Maggie is expecting. He misses Mom.

I miss our daily talks and the times we'd sneak off and share pitchers of beer.

Dad's last beer story is told by my son Jeremy who was with Dad in Athens.

"Pull over son," Dad tells Jeremy, "and go get us two beers."

Jeremy does as he's told and they share two tall ones in brown paper bags before returning to my sister Angi's house.

I just love that and now Jeremy and I delight in sneaking off for beers too.

So as I do on every year, I'm going to pour Dad and me one in a cold frosty mug and toast all of that.

You'd be shocked at how you're still missed, discussed, talked about and how every single one of those damn jokes are making the rounds.

Here's to you Dad!

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Pre-Father's Day

I don't understand people who buy brand new cars.

The moment they drive the spiffy little model off the lots it depreciates by 1/3.

Plus the new owner spends a tremendous amount of time and energy keeping the new car NEW which, in spite of the most valiant effort, is doomed.

Climbing in and out of the car means grass and dirt grind in the carpet, bugs hit the windshield and that wonderful new car smell evaporates while new unexplainable odors appear.

This is why I've long been a proponent of "pre-dented" vehicles.

Sure they may cost a little more but it saves you all the worry and consternation of the first dent on your new car.

Just as there's no such thing as a perfect life, cars don't stay perfect for very long either.

It was with great surprise then that I received a "Pre-Father's Day" card yesterday.

I had no idea such things existed.

It was custom made by hand by Sarah's middle daughter Laurel who I've been carting back and forth all week to paddle board camp.

Honestly we've been miffed at one another most of the week.

She's a ten year old who knows everything, hates to get up in the morning to actually attend paddle board camp and then it's somehow my fault for making her go against her will when she's the one who's wanted to attend since last year!

Sarah was gone with her two other girls and I was responsible for taking Laurel to meet them after paddle board camp.

Of course Laurel did not want to go and fired excuses at me as though her mouth is a machine gun that never needs reloading.

I stomp my foot down telling her to get ready so she busies herself while I remind myself I'm the adult.

After dropping her off by slowing down to 35 miles per hour and thrusting her out of the car to Sarah, I return to the peace and quiet of home and ... discover my "Pre-Father's Day" card tenderly laying on my pillow.

"Well Hell," I say out loud reading that she loves me and thanks me for everything I do.

You can never figure kids out. Just when I have her where I want her ... meaning gone! ... she does the sweetest thing, touches my heart and I miss her.

Well ... until Sarah got home and kid-less for the first time in weeks, we quickly busied ourselves with other, long overdue activities.

I'll thank Laurel after the fact when she gets back home tomorrow night.

Catch Scratch Fever?

It's Friday the 13th under a full moon and a lot of people are scared.

I'm not superstitious so such things do not bother me.

I'll tell what does bother me though.

It's a beautiful morning bathed in sunshine, the slightest ocean breeze, flowers blooming everywhere, salt hangs in the air and the ocean sings in the distance.

I feel as God's given me entry into the Garden of Eden because everything is just perfect!

Then ...

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

Against my will,  my head slowly turns towards the ghastly orange house beside ours to see her.

Wearing a filthy yellow bath robe, pink bunny slippers and a blue towel piled high on her wet head, she looks like Marge Simpson on meth.

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY," she screeches again sounding like fingernails on a chalk board and my golden brown skin crawls as Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, run inside and hide under the bed.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, hides in the shower ... which Sarah happens to be in.

Suddenly branches start breaking, clouds appear out of nowhere hiding the sun, and the air fills with the sounds of a hundred feral cats from as far away as Dicky Trotter's boat at the Tybee Marina clawing their way to my next door neighbor ... THE CAT LADY.

My blood curls ... when she adjust her robe and cat hair falls to the ground like dirt from Pigpen on "It's a Charlie Brown Christmas."

"HERE KITTY, KITTY ... oh hey Mike," she screeches, suddenly seeing me here naked on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Good morning Cat Lady," I limply sigh.

Before she can say anything, hundreds of black feral cats cover her like the plague.

I wonder where the Tybee Island Animal Control Para-military squad is?

If Goddess barks ... or Winston, TLGD, wears a black wife beater tee-shirt with pink letters that read, "Why do police officers wear tight clothes and dressy shoes? Doesn't it slow them down chasing crooks?" ... well, Tybee Island Animal Control is at our house with police backup.

But the Cat Lady has conclaves of feral cats moaning and humping her on her back deck and everything's fine because everybody on this island loves freaking feral cats.

Taking this is as a sign from God to get the Hell away from her as quickly as possible, I dart inside and shut the sliding glass doors.

Ted Nugent is singing "Cat Scratch Fever" on the radio and I pause to rethink if I'm superstitious or not.

A Holy Place

When I was in Seminary I spent a good bit of time in Catholic Monasteries which is funny because I attended Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.

But the great Catholic Monk Thomas Merton had lived only a hour's drive from Louisville so Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I would drive to Bardstown to spend afternoons at Gethsemane.

There's no interaction with the Monks but we would make our way to the balcony of the Chapel and watch them pray, which they do seven times a day.

It sits on wonderful lush hills permeated by a sense of holiness that's either manufactured by the Monks or we just believed it so it was true.

Later I discovered the much more opulent, but no less holy, St. Meinrad Monastery in Indiana and unlike Gethsemane, I had free reign of the place and wandered into Monk's rooms, the Chapel and the adjourning Seminary.

In terms of feeling holy, I enjoyed visits to Meinrad more.

There have been others though they don't stand up in memory test and I can conjure up only fleeting images of having visited.

What I do vividly recall is the search for holiness that I seldom experienced at the Baptist Seminary.

That was all a long time ago and I haven't visited a Monastery in decades but the search for holiness has never waivered.

There is a back deck affixed to our house filled with plants, a Chiminea my kids gave  me, a table under an umbrella, a wooden robot looking man who holds a potted plant and a ceramic frog with a silver ball on its head.

There are also signs proclaiming the site to be "Clothing Optional" and "Umbrella drinks served here" hanging underneath four wind chimes, each chosen by Sarah and one of her girls.

It's mostly bathed in brilliant sunshine during the day and blanketed by stars at night. The songs of the sea are easily heard from just on the other side of the Palm Tree with the oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt.

I have no idea why it's such a holy place but from the moment I step on it I can feel Divine things ... the way the leaves dance in the summer breeze ... the choirs of birds ... the shadows playing on the wall ... the feel of salt on my skin ... the pungent aroma of the marsh in the air ... a spot for drunken Angels to rest and collect themselves ... a spot where I collect myself.

God only knows why this is such a holy place.

Alone on the beach

It's fair to say I've spent as much time sitting on this beach alone as I have with anyone else.

It's the wilderness where my soul constantly wanders.

I sit staring at the majesty of the Sea ... lost in contemplative non-thoughts ... mostly feeling ... turning golden then brown with a reddish flair thanks to my Dad's side of the family.

Beside the wilderness of the Ocean I mostly listen and watch.

It's like a prayer closet ... without the closet.

It's worship without a Church.

It's God's most majestic Cathedral.

Rasta reggae rhythms flow through my ears as I anticipate.

Boys and men wear jams stretching from just below their belly buttons to underneath their knees.

Wanting to get as close to the Garden of Eden as I can get I'm wearing next to nothing and it's tan through.

I don't know what these other people are thinking.

I don't pay them much attention because I'm preoccupied watching dolphins glide, pelicans dive and schools of menhaden make their own waves.

Way back when I willed myself to be here and came surrounded by cries of protest.

That was 3 decades ago.

It's my sanctuary, my refuge, my calm in the storm even when the lighting and thunder put on a Hell of a show!

This beach has been good to me. It's seen me through a lot and I sit here now appreciating this clump of sand.

Dolphins break the water and motion for me to follow. Pelicans fly in V-formation towards Little Tybee before disappearing in the distance.  Schools of menhaden clap underwater making a splashing celebration. A flock of seagulls sing squawking Hymns of Praise.

I sit here alone in this grand Cathedral, intently watching these things, anticipating what's being said and wondering what's next.

The Great Stories

I'm reading a book about Chimpanzees.

It's about these marvelous creatures who share 98.3% of the same DNA as humans but it's really about Dr. Carole Noon and her heroic efforts to save Chimps in America.

The United States has not been kind to Chimpanzees ... using them to conduct horribly gross experiments in the name of science, health care and space exploration.

The U.S. conducted Nazi like experiments in Concentration Camps where the Chimps lived in very similar conditions.

The Entertainment Industry hasn't been much kinder to these most advanced of God's creatures, punishing them to perform on Queue and repeatedly.

Hollywood isn't above using cattle prods, starvation and vicious behavior to give audiences what they think they want.

Along comes Carole Noon.

She's an unlikely Heroine out of the University of Florida, meets Jane Goodall, visits Africa to meet Chimpanzees first hand and then completely loses her mind to take on the United States of America to Save the Chimps! (www.savetheshimps.org )

It's a fascinating story of determination, perseverance, luck and love and it's amazing to see what one person can accomplish in a short period of time.

Carole Noon died a few years ago but the incredible work continues.

Over the past week several people I like died and they've got me thinking about the things we leave behind.

Obviously if I'm thinking about them then it stands to reason they're still here somehow.

Yesterday my friend Julia sends me a text saying she's writing Ronnie's obituary and, having never paid any attention to them, has no idea what to do.

"Sure you do," I text back. "Tell the great stories about Ronnie. That is in between the year he was born and now. Make him like it."

Later Julia calls to read what she's written and it's perfect, capturing who he was on earth and I can imaging him sitting there, cigarette in hand, sly downward smile on his face under dancing eyes listening to her.

I find myself celebrating life today!

I'm not thinking too much about death ... it happens ... what else can you say.

Ronnie always made me smile and now I find myself smiling back.

I never knew Carole Noon but like her a Hell of a lot and wish I could have shared a Budweiser with her in one hand while touching the finger of an abused Chimpanzee who's been given a new life with the other hand.

Because when all is said and done ... we're remembered for what we've given in this life.

And if we rarely gave then nobody remembers.

God's will for me

I need to go ahead and win the Lottery.

It'll make planning easier and cause less stress.

I understand I have a better chance of being struck by lightening in the North Pole, which is far away from where I sit, than of actually winning the Lottery but that's not stopping me.

I have tremendous faith and know God will make certain I win at the right time with the right amount ... not too much but not too little ... and everything is going to work out fine.

As a matter of fact, I have much faith in God making it happen I don't even have my own special numbers like our anniversary or the kids birthdays.

I figure God will make it happen regardless of such things so I just get the "Quick Pick."

It's God's will.

In the meantime, I'm just living as though I've already won the Lottery, pretty much doing what I want ... when I want ... and with who I want.

Sure my check book consists mostly zeros on the wrong side of an actual number and my accountant burst into tears whenever he sees me, but I'm of the opinion that if you believe it ... it'll come true.

Besides God's got my back.

It's not I'm going to spend the money frivolously or anything.

I'm not going to buy clothes or silly things like that because who really needs them? The car I drive is fine though I may get cloth falling from the roof tacked back up. And the windows that don't open in the house will probably get replaced though they work fine in the winter.

Though if it's God's will that I win "Mega-Millions" I'll likely buy Delta Airlines so I can fire everybody or pay off Congress so they'll just stay home and not bother us anymore.

But I'm not planning on "Mega-Millions" because God and I both know I don't need that much.

I just need enough to keep doing what I'm doing now.

Well ... and buy a House Boat with an icemaker, large screen plasma television, large kitchen and a great bedroom.

Oh ... and I'll need another smaller one for Sarah's girls which will be tethered 30 feet behind ours so we can hear them they call.

Oh ... and one more for my kids when they come to visit!

Other than that, I'll just keep being my usual humble, satisfied self and the only difference is this wonderful lifestyle will finally be adequately financed!

Oh ... and I'd hire Dicky Trotter to take all of my calls so he can decide if it's Gods will if I make investments, personal or otherwise, in all of my new best friends.

Anyway that's the plan.

Sometime today, I need to ride my old rusty bicycle up to Chu's so God can do the "Quick pick" for me again this week.

It's just a matter of God's timing now.

The Circle of Life

Goddess is scratching the sliding glass doors to be let out so I drag myself out of bed, stumble across the living room and through the kitchen and sleepily slide the door open.

My dog shoots out but instead of darting down the stairs, she wags her tail at the figure sitting on the Beloved Back deck.

A halo of cigarette smoke floats above the long greasy black hair in the chair reserved for me.

Glancing back to make certain sleeping Sarah isn't bothered, I step out into the warm moonlit night.

Coughing, she hacks and spits over the railing, clears her throat and says, "Aren't you going to put some clothes on?"

"You're the one interrupting my night," I sigh, plopping down in the chair beside her.

Wiping her eyes, she sucks snot up her nose.

"What's wrong?" I ask suddenly fully awake.

I've never seen my Guardian Angel cry but here she sits, mindlessly smoking, drinking a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon, looking almost saintly in the moonlight. Her shear white robe is translucent. The dirty broken wing almost aligns with the other. Her pasty face is beautifully sad.

"Have you been keeping up with what's been going on?" she snaps.

"Well," I say continuing to stare while rubbing my fingers through my hair, "uh, it started out great with you helping Jimmy Cochran  get baptized in the ocean and discover a deeper level of holiness ..."

"I told Sam to wear a shirt," she laughs.

"Yeah well, Samuel Adams has his own direct hotline to your boss."

"I know," she says. "It still pisses me off."

Uncertain of what to say, I keep quiet.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says rolling her right hand over and over while taking a slug of beer with the other.

Staring at her, I'm not quite sure where she's going.

"Ronnie died yesterday," and as soon as I say the words she sobs.

Instinctively I put my arm around her and smell the cigarette smoke in her hair.

The sky turns an ever so shade of grey as the sun begins its climb out of the sea. A lone bird sings a solo and is soon joined by a choir.

"It's the circle life right?" I finally say.

Nodding, she wipes her eyes, throws her empty can in our backyard and another magically appears in her hand and she immediately takes a slug.

"Yeah," I continue, "Jimmy finds he has a deeper calling from God that he's going to follow and Ronnie's moved on to what's next. Both of them have left us behind."

"I know," she says. "It just doesn't get any easier.

"I know," I agree ... carefully extracting my arm from around her wondering how I'm going to get rid of the smoke smell before crawling back in bed with Sarah.

"Wait," I suddenly say, "isn't Ronnie going an Angel or something?"

She nods.

"Well what in the Hell are you crying for?" I ask.

"These are tears of happiness stupid," she snaps.

"Oh yeah," I agree as the sun begins to rise.

The Answer

My friend Dr. Jim Withers recently posted, "Now we're down to hours between mass shootings - not days. Pray for our people. Pray for change."

Since then a man stormed a Georgia courthouse ready to do more carnage but was killed after only wounding one.

In Atlanta a woman kills her husband in a Kroger before killing herself.

Down to hours indeed!

We watch it on the news with a detached objectivity, a sad acceptance of disbelief such things happen and a prayer of thanks it's no one we know.

The religious among us pray for our people and pray for change but things stay pretty much the same.

Politicians make promises, increasing funding for police departments, build more prisons to lock the problem away but nothing makes a difference.

Most just go about there business, getting on with our lives with some conviction there's not much we can do anyway because crazy people are going to do crazy things.

What do you do?

Honestly, we're not there yet as a people to address things like mass shootings, needless deaths, homelessness, corrupt health care systems, greedy leaders and selfish religions.

Our hearts aren't broken.

"When all the broken hearted people living in the world agree there will be an answer ... then they will be an answer.

But not until then.

As bad as things are ... our hearts aren't broken yet.

Nothing much is going to happen until then.

Lyrical Thinking

My friend Kyle Shiver has pointed out the obvious noting that I think and speak in song lyrics.

It's true.

Once in Seminary I wrote a paper on how Bruce Springsteen songs are a natural continuation of the "Psalms" in the Bible.

I was sent to the Dean's office ... again ... for failing or comply with Southern Baptist Theological instruction.

But it was with great glee a few days later, when Professor Donoso Escobar ... who had previously sent me to the Dean's office for calling him a "whitewashed Christian" because he didn't allow me to quote "Liberation" theologians in his class ... told us to write a paper on anything Biblical.

My topic was "Biblical Harems."

"Mr. Elliott," Dr. Escobar said when I announced my topic, "nobody's written about that yet. How do you plan to approach your topic?"

"With gusto," I truthfully answered.

There's actually a lot of Harems in the Bible and I studied them all ... from Esther getting whatever she wants from the King (Esther 2:13) to Solomon's 700 wives and Princesses and 300 concubines (I Kings11:3).

I wrote a great scholarly paper but needed a conclusion and couldn't think of one.

Then God spoke ... through Maria Muldauar ... on the radio.

"But you don't need no Harem honey
When I'm by your side
And you won't need no camel, no no
To take you for a ride."

Meaning of course God didn't use Harems much in the New Testament because people had gotten so much better at lovemaking.

Consequently I was sent to the Dean's office again ... though I was singing "Jailhouse Rock" the whole way there.

Island Morning

Making my way to "The Breakfast Club" in the predawn morning, I spy them sleepily stumbling down the sidewalk or sitting contemplatively on a bench or window sill, staring at cigarette smoke lost in thought.

It's hard to tell if their days are beginning or their nights have just given away to the day.

Darting between and around them are runners lost in their own universe pumped through ear buds singing songs of encouragement.

City workers blow trash from the sidewalks onto Butler Avenue where a giant truck brushes all manner of pollution inside.

A line of police cars are parked in front of "Sunrise."

Discarded bicycles lay everywhere.

Couples sleep in cars or huddle together on the beach.

Early morning fishermen race photographers to the ocean's edge as the water begins to bubble the birth of today's sun.

Bras, panties, boxer shorts and other articles of clothing vie with cigarette butts littering the high water mark.

A haphazard line's already formed outside "The Breakfast Club" with people intently smashing their faces against the large windows in disbelief that it's not open yet.

As the sun rises, ocean waves break into song, choirs of birds join in, the photographers capture the glory on film while others desperately search for sunglasses.

Returning to our quiet home, I check on Sarah whose had to get up to let the dogs out but is now trying to conquer sleep again.

Giving her a kiss, I shut the bedroom door and lead the dogs outside to the Beloved Back Deck, drink Perrier, pee off the side and plop down for morning prayers.

The rising sun rest in the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt so I rise to search for my sunglasses when Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, sleepily greets me, air askew, holding her pink blanket wanting me to pick her up.

The dogs go crazy with excitement, tails wagging and moans of delight and I tell them to "Shut Up" but their love will not be confined.

Throwing Cass on the sofa, I cover her with a blanket and hand her Sarah's I-Pad which will be another half hour of quiet time so I return to morning prayers.

Another Island morning has begun.

Here's to Hopes and Dreams

While I was born a rock-n-roller my Dad was all country!

The very first song I ever learned, and he delighted in my singing, was "Please help me I'm falling" by Hank Cochran. (Here's a link to painful video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DndK5hZBgu0&feature=kp ).

I'd sing it to the top of my lungs in the backseat of the old white "Comet" for Dad and Uncle Bobby and they'd just laugh.

Then I discovered "The Beatles", 50's rock-n-roll and Elvis and never looked back.

Growing up was a never ending battle for radio supremacy with me hitting the button for WSGA while Dad instantly flipping to WEAS.

It was his car so he always won and I got lectures on how Willie Nelson's "Red Headed Stranger" is better than anything John Lennon and Paul McCartney ever thought about doing.

I remember it as an intense hated of the other's music.

Looking back on it today though we found common ground.

Dad became a huge Anne Murray fan when she sang Kenny Loggings songs barefoot on the stage.

And I fell in love with "The Statler Brothers", an old white Gospel Quartet who crossed over into the country mainstream.

This opened the door for me to listen and love Waylon Jennings, Tom T. Hall and the coolest, hippest, country artist ever Johnny Cash.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck last night on a warm summer night with the ocean casting salt over the island, I hit Spotify and "The Statler Brothers" reminded me the Class of 57 had its dreams.

It's a haunting, poignant, beautiful recollection of how life turns out better for some than others in spite of the belief that "we'd change the world with our great words and deeds."

It takes me back to fond memories of Dad hitting the radio button for WEAS and Hank Cochran just after I'd hit the one for WSGA for Derek and the Dominos.

Dad's gone but I still have my dreams though "living life every day is never as it seems."

But here's to Dad and each of the Statler Brothers; here's to hopes and dreams that don't die; here's to still being here long after the class I graduated with is gone ...

Here's to us all.

Cleaning Up Christ

In Bantry Bay, Ireland I got up early and joined a group to attend Mass.

I like Catholic Mass.

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" employed as a Southern Baptist minister, I often attended Mass at St. Martin de Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky where my friend Father Vernon Robertson was the Priest.

I did the readings and got to know the Liturgy and to this day I have a fondness for Mass.

When I miss organized religion I'll often find my way into a Catholic Church and celebrate the Eucharist.

I've been to Bar Church on Tybee Island several times over the past year but here I am in Ireland with a bunch of Irish Catholics so I had to go to Mass.

Sarah stayed in bed.

We make our way to St. Fin Barre's Cathedral. 

The Priest was a young red head Irishman who was very serious about things. He never smiled and didn't have any Good News for the several hundred of us in attendance.

He did have a lot of Bad News.

Apparently the Irish are thinking about legalizing abortion which has the Catholic Church in a tizzy because the Bishop wrote a letter for the redheaded Priest to read.

It was a great letter!

The Bishop wrote if abortion is allowed then women can't have boys and then the pool to select Priests from will diminish  and there's already of shortage of Priests so ... everybody go out and make more Priests!

"What'd you think Micheal?" Tony Ryan asks as we make our way back to retrieve the sinners who'd slept through Mass.

"My favorite part is always when the Priest cleans the Chalice after the Eucharist and that red headed boy did a Hell of a job! He cleaned and scrubbed as though, if Jesus really was in there, he was going to get every drop out. It's like cleaning up Christ!"

This was met with stony silence until my friend Bill Shearouse turns, looks me in the eye and says, "What do you mean 'IF'?"

"I was trying to be respectful," Tony chimes in, "so I didn't want to say anything."

"Oh come on," I shoot back. "There's more than one way to look at Transubstantiation (the belief that the wine and the wafer actually become the blood and body of Christ)."

"No there's not," Bill and Tony reply at the same time.

As everyone knows, when it comes to religion, it's often best to keep your mouth shut.

I love Bill Shearouse and like Tony a lot so I nodded in agreement with them.

But I enjoyed Mass immensely, like St. Fin Barr a lot and his Church, laughed at the wicked intensity of the red headed Priest with no Good News and the several hundred good Irish Catholics who stared intently when I passed the collection plate without putting anything in it ... twice!

That'll probably do me for a while in terms of organized religion though eventually I'll start to miss it a little and will hit Bar Church and then likely a Mass somewhere.

Maybe next time Sarah will go with me and I won't offend anybody.

Or maybe I'll just stay in bed with her.

Today's Political Leadership

I want to be the first to thank elected official Tom Bordeaux who recently leaned over to fellow elected official Mary Osborn during a meeting of the Savannah City Council, head butted her while calling her an "asshole."

Here's the link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FW_YUIzE7zM

I don't know what the issue was.

Honestly I really don't care.

Issues handled by politicians are all the same because they're all rooted in two basic agenda:

(a) How will this vote benefit me and my political career? and,

(b) What is the least political damage I can do to myself when I am forced to make a decision?

That's what the modern political system has mostly boiled down to in the United States.

It doesn't matter the office ... City Council or Congress ... Judicial or official ... Executive or decorative ... they're all the same.

And God Bless Tom Bordeaux!

He finally said out loud and on television what the rest of us think and say every damn time one of them talk and ...

Make another false promise ...

Spend thousands of donated dollars to broadcast another commercial to get themselves elected ...

Spend hundreds of donated dollars on signs to pollute buildings, yards and even banners in the sky ...

Name buildings and roads after one another because nobody else will ...

Show up to get their picture in the paper for damn near anything ...

Vote themselves raises because they can ...

Get free parking at the airport ...

Hell they get free parking everywhere!

Anyway when these things happen and they're shoved down our throats on the nightly news... we just want to head butt the shit out of every elected official and call them an "Asshole!"

Thank you Tom Bordeaux for leading the way.

It does take one to know one but it takes guts to say on camera.

That's as much leadership as we have in this country these days.

You're Never Too Old

"Sir, your Dad is missing from the Nursing Home," the caller explains.

"Oh?' Neil asks with a sigh.

"Yes Sir, it appears he left in his Golf Cart."

"Yeah," Neil explains, "he can't drive anymore so we got rid of his car. It almost killed him so I got him the Golf Cart."

"It seems he may be on a date in it."

"He's 89 years old," Neil exclaims.

"Another resident missed curfew. Mrs. Bodie is 67 resident in the main building."

"He's out with a younger woman?" Neil is smiling.

"Sir, this is serious. You need to find your father and Mrs. Bodie if she's with him. She has a medical condition that merits continued supervision."

"Okay," Neil sighs fishing for his truck keys and rushing outside on a chilly Wilmington Island night.

Two miles later he finds the Golf Cart abandoned in the parking lot of "Gilligan's Party Beverage Center" with no sign of his father or Mrs. Bodie.

"They can't be far," Neil says out loud and heads across the street towards the nearest bars.

They're not in Basils or Cancun's so Neil parks, heaves himself out of the pickup and meanders into "Molly McGuire's" where he discovers his father and Mrs. Bodie having drinks along with a good time.

It's almost midnight.

"Ummm Dad, we have to go."

"What's wrong with us kids having a good time every once in a while," the 89 year old snaps taking a puff from his cigar.

"Yeah," Mrs. Bodie slurs sipping her Cosmopolitan.

"Look," Neil explains with his hands in his pockets trying to not laugh, "they can get you for kidnapping. Mrs. Bodie's confined to campus."

"Bastards," he old man puffs.

"Here's what we're going to do," Neil presses. "You and your date finish your drinks, then I'm going to drive you to your Golf Cart and I'm going to tie it to the truck and pull you back to the Nursing Home. It's cold so Mrs. Bodie will sit in the cab with me. You'll have to sit in the Golf Cart to hit the breaks when I stop."

The old man blows smoke in his son's face.

But that's what happens.

When Neil told me this story, I laughed my ass off.

His Dad claims to have no recollection whatsoever of that night.

And Mrs. Bodie can't corroborate because she died peacefully two months later.

The point of the story is ... you're never too old to do what you're supposed to do ... no matter what they say.