My Stained Life

"He wears that on a plane?" she asks in a thick New York accent.

Sitting in the lobby of the vacation rental in Key West, I'm staring out of the window not paying attention and assume she's talking to Sarah.

"He dresses like that all of the time," I hear my wife explain.

Looking down,  I'm wearing a stained, white, "Full Moon Party" tee shirt from "Latitude 32", black running shorts and flip flops.

"And they let him on the plane?"

She has dyed flaming red hair, an orange and black Safari outfit and lots of jewelry that rattles when she talks.

Sarah nods, admitting her disbelief and says, "They do."

Shaking her head, the woman shifts her focus to the clerk explaining they'll need assistance unpacking all of the things packed for her dog.

Having my sense of fashion accosted doesn't phase me.

Men wearing bathing suits that fall past their knees are obviously projecting they've overcome other ... deficiencies.

Women wearing outlandish designs or tons of gaudy jewelry are too.

I'm okay projecting stains.

It's not like my life hasn't had them so I may as well wear them well.

Divorce ... getting mad in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person ... occasional lies that always make things worse ... failing to do what I'd said I would ...

Yeah, I got stains.

But ... my "Full Moon Party Latitude 32 tee shirt" remains mostly white.

Like me.

I do far more good than bad ... have pretty good timing saying the right things ... am almost always honest ... and carry through on whatever I say I'm going to do.

I've got to live with it all so I may as well wear my life with as much dignity and pride as possible.

It's better than pretending everything's perfect, great or awesome when the next person has as many stains as I do.

"Even the righteous of God," wrote the crusty old Saint, they got stains too, "for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

We may as well be honest about it with each other.

Then we get another shot at the glory of God. 

A Key West Night

Stumbling into our room, thunder booms in the distance and just as we collapse on the bed we hear a loud POP and everything is dark and silent.

Meaning the air conditioner stops and it's 91 degrees at midnight.

An emergency light blinks so I crawl out of bed and wander outside to the tiny deck we share with three older ladies on a "Girl's Weekend."

Key West is covered in blackness as the rain began to fall though I can make out the silhouettes of the Palm and Banyan Trees.

The weekend girls are still on their Pub Crawl.

The world is silent as I return to Sarah in the bed.

"Imagine the crowd at Irish Kevin's," I laugh, "hundreds of people plunged into darkness."

"Or trying to get down the steps from 'The Garden of Eden,'" she giggles.

Duval is crazy tonight, proving to be much too crowded for us ... besides we'd already enjoyed it earlier in the day, took naps, met up with friends and celebrated life.

The air conditioner roars to life and Sarah's asleep in a nanosecond.

Crawling out of bed, I wander outside again and Key West is covered in a blanket of starry lights and I hear "crazy crowds boogie to the sounds and the lights."

"Thank you," I say out loud before returning inside for the second time, slipping beside my wife.

Now Sarah sleeps late, still recovering from the race she ran cheered on by Bill, Joey and me, while I chat over coffee with the ladies on their "Girl's Weekend."

We return home tonight where decisions loom, work waits, school starts and fears are faced.

But we have today and one last visit with Joey and Bill, a walk around together holding hands ... perhaps a swim in the Gulf ... a last toast at Irish Kevin's.

Then it's to the hard stuff!

Well ... except for the secret plan we have with Johnny and Judy O for tomorrow night.

That comes first.

Then it's on to the hard stuff!

Key West Futures

"Irish Kevin's Bar" is one of our favorite Key West experiences.

When Sarah and I can't decide what to do we wander inside, grab a high top table and become part of the show.

Musicians have lots of interaction with the crowd and laughter floods the bar between really good songs.

After checking into our quaint little room, we make a quick run to Fausto's for groceries then head straight to Irish Kevin's where we spend two hours laughing.

Climbing the stairs to "The Garden of Eden" we have a cocktail and people watch before heading back to the room to cool off before our friends Joey Finch and Bill Bray pick us up for dinner.

There's a tiny back deck we share with three ladies here for a Girl's weekend. It's completely enclosed, has a table and chairs under an umbrella, Palm Trees, a massive girl and a hot tub.

I have no idea why we have a hot tub in Key West where the air's hotter than the water but it's one of the quirks of the island.

Of all the places Sarah and I've been we find ourselves happier here.

We laugh more, love more, communicate at deeper levels and enjoy everything in richer ways.

Later sitting on the curb waiting we laugh as Joey and Bill slowly drive down Petronia Street for the drive to Stock Island and Hogfish's Restaurant where we have ... Hogfish!

Between feeding leftover fish to a cat, we share deeply as friends do on warm nights in a marina restaurant with live music and lit by the Milky Way and stars on the water.

Joey drives us to their place and Bill shows me Shiva and his guitars and we continue to talk into the night as good friends do.

Now I sit on this tiny patio with a hot tub and three older ladies in nightgowns on a "Girl's Weekend" as Sarah lay in bed sending text to Martha who's also here.

We've been in Key West less than 24 hours and it already feels like a lifetime of wonderful things though we've learned a lot about ourselves ...

from the palm reader on Duval ...

where I learned I'm going to be fertile until my late 70s, will never drown or come to an unnatural death ...

and Sarah learned that she is stubborn, stubborn, stubborn (seriously he told her three times as soon as she turned over her palms).

"That guy's full of shit," Bill told us later. "It's a sham. I can do a better job."

"I don't know,' Sarah and I both say in wonderment, "he seemed to be spot on."

Sure enough today Sarah's been stubborn and won't get out of bed and I'm feeling particularly fertile.

I guess we'll have to compromise.

Then we'll do it all again.

Key Wasted

Had I found Key West earlier in life, I'd still be there.

Living next door to Joey Finch.

But then I never would have met Sarah.

It makes one stop and ponder ...

Regardless, today Sarah and I are heading to Key West today to see Joey Finch and Bill and it just doesn't get any frigging better.

It all works out in the end.

I should be writing but I'm rubbing Sarah's firm tan leg, having just spent the free drink tickets John Branigin gave us, watching the water get lighter and lighter out of the plane's window.

Burning the last of our miles, this flight costs us $10 each.

Savannah to Atlanta to Key West.

No wonder the airline industry is messed up!

Fly north to fly south?

I have to ask Angela Barras Brackett about this.

She runs the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron if there ever was one!).

It doesn't matter, Angie's doing the best she can.

Actually I had little to do with the purpose or planning of this trip.

Well, except I told Joey we'd be back soon.

This is Sarah's trip

She signed up to run races ... knows I love Key West, Ernest Hemingway and Joey Finch so she signed up and we're on our way.

There's no real point to this story, other than what I've already said.

So ... in conclusion ... have a really good weekend!

And if Angela gets the international part of the Savannah/Hilton Head Airport actually meaningful ... come join us!

Bad Wedding Story

Charlie Sherrill and I are performing a wedding ceremony together at a farm in the country.

Charlie is an extremely talented saxophone player and entertainer who blows magic. He's a soft soul, incredibly charismatic and generates love even in the seediest of bars ... or churches.

Dressed cool and beach like, he wears purple floral shirt, white cargo shorts and sandals.

I wear the black minister's robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business.

We're conducting a service together at a farm off a dirt road in Bulloch County, Georgia ... far from the beach both of us call home.

It's also our first "Butterfly" service.

The assembly has been given small boxes, each containing a yellow Butterfly which is to be released when I pronounce them husband and wife.

Do you know that Butterflies don't like to be confined to boxes?

Charlie and I didn't.

Neither do the gathering of family and friends.

When Charlie softly blows his sax ... we can't hear a damn thing for the sound of a hundred Butterflies wildly ramming themselves against the tiny cardboard boxes.

He plays louder which seem to infuriate the already pissed off Butterflies so they try harder to escape drowning him out.

With his sweet countenance, Charlie looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

I scream wedding vows to the top of my lungs.

"WHAT?" the Bride asks.

I scream louder.

Charlie shrugs his shoulders sympathetically and pretends to clean his Sax.

I scream louder and the couple say they "do".

Holding my hands up, I yell with everything in me "I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!"

Over a hundred people cheer ... open up the little white containers ... and over a hundred Butterflies drop dead on the ground.

There's dead silence.

Two yellow Butterflies survive the horrific ordeal, floating together to get the Hell away from the wedding as quickly as possible.

Everyone looks at me to bring an end to the service.

I look at Charlie ... who shrugs his shoulders.

"You may kiss your Bride," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

Dead yellow Butterflies are everywhere as he kisses her.

Charlie sweetly blows his Sax as I rip off the robe and rush to my car.

He looks at me as he plays with eyes asking ... "Where the Hell are you going?"

I shrug my shoulders, get behind the wheel and leave a cloud of dust on that country dirt road.

A few days later Charlie and I are in Doc's Bar where he's the main draw and we burst out laughing when we see each other.

"Think they're gonna make it," I ask?

Charlie shrugs his shoulders and I laugh.

Grabbing me, he says, "Those poor Butterflies."

"Damn poor couple," I say as we hug.

I wish I spoke "Frog"

I'm listening to a choir of frogs.

It's an overcast morning, hinting of rain with a breezy blast of salty air from the ocean.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, who desperately wants me to let him inside so he can snuggle with the sleeping Sarah ... the chorus of frogs are deafening ... harmoniously so.

I've got lots to do but I'm not doing any of it.

It's been a crazy week ... the exhausting kind ... and I'm determine Sarah sleeps as long as she damn well pleases ... which is why Winston, TLGD, sits in exile with me.

Plus the frogs have obviously put a lot of practice into this performance.

I'm not overthinking things but sit here appreciating the moment ... and the choir's performance.

"Stress makes you believe everything has to happen right now," is something our friend Chuck Courtenay posted on Facebook, "Faith reassures you that everything will happen in God's time."

I'm not one of those who believe that God sits in the sky pulling strings to make things happen according to some plan but ... I believe Chuck's quote is right.

Sarah and I have been struggling with God's timing.

We get the stress part ... things need to be happening now! ... and we know what they are ... how can God not know what they are and when they need to happen?

But they're not.

So what do you do?

We have faith things are going to happen ... we just wish it was now.

But it's not.

This choir of frogs have me wondering if God's trying to me something.

Why else would they be bursting in song this morning as I sit here pondering things, protecting my wife and trying to figure out Divine Plans that obviously conflict with ours?

Oh well ... what do you do?

I let Winston, TLGD, inside and he darts to snuggle with the sleeping Sarah while I tiptoe back to the choir of frogs.

I wish I spoke frog.

I'm pretty sure they're telling me something.

I hope it's ... when.

My wife and the cop

What do you do when the police are called on your wife?

There I stand, wondering about the whole "serve and obey" concept in wedding vows as I help clean up crap left behind by HER tenant in HER house.

Actually I'm trying to remember what exactly Samuel Adams, who plays damn good music on Tybee Island with some regularity, said when he performed our ceremony.

I wasn't listening.

Sarah wore a white dress, luminous in the moonlight on the beach, and she may as well have been doing water aerobics with the way things stood out.

Sam may have had me promise to make chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday morning or to return all her library books for her (which really is full time employment).

I don't know ... my thoughts were bouncing like my eyes as she stood before me.

Unlike now as she stands before a cop.

She looks good ... wearing shorts and a tank top ... sweat glistening on her tan firm body ... beautiful blue eyes flashing laser brilliance ... buttocks tightly clinched ... intensely focused on getting her points across ... which she obviously is from my vantage point.

Sweat pouring from my body as I'm witness, I have to stop working and get a grip on myself.

The other person talking to the cop is the lady whose furniture we're moving out.

She showed up wanting her stuff but sat on the staircase rather than help which, of course, drew the attention of my wife.

I've never seen a volcano explode but ... certainly it's very similar to what Sarah did.

"Get off your lazy ass and help us get your stuff out of my house," is how she politely began.

The poor woman couldn't take it, wanders outside and calls the cops.

"Hey," my beautiful daughter Kristen, who is helping us, exclaims, "I know that cop. He used to live with us. I wish Sarah would shut up! I can handle this."

Nodding my head in understanding, I hug Kristen and say, "Aw baby there's no shutting Sarah up once she's making points. Let's just watch? You ever seen a nuclear explosion?"

From the upstairs window, we watch the woman slither away.

The cop remains intensely focused on Sarah's points.

My wife turns around with a wicked grin ... as though she just scored the winning goal of the World Cup.

"Oh Shit," I yell, shoving my daughter to the stairs and picking up a broom.

Sarah storms the stairs like Sherman taking Atlanta.

"Oh hey honey," I sing. "How did it go?"

She has a beatific smile ... that says it all.

The rest of the day was pretty damn good.

 

Today's Miracle

Well!

Thank God that weekend's over!

It started out poorly on Friday ... grew progressively worse on Saturday ... Sunday landed with a splat ... and the whole affair ended with thud.

Everyone was in a bad mood and try as we collectively did to improve things ... nothing worked.

To radically alter everything I proposed ... er, I  mean mandated ... that we go out to dinner at a favorite restaurant. 

Everyone dressed up ... looked great ... and we drove into town ... to celebrate each other surviving the weekend ...  only to have the worst waiter every hired.

To say "he sucked" doesn't begin to describe his demeanor, pushiness, avoidance of detail and complete lack of understanding of the concept of time.

He was handsome though.

Drinks and dinner eventually came and the setting was right for everyone to enjoy each other ... except we didn't.

Everyone took turns being mad about something ... there was a little yelling ... and at least one punch was thrown.

In the hour we were there, one went to the bathroom three times ... and though I didn't keep track ... she was likely in there longer than she sat at the table.

When dinner mercifully ended, we dropped the girls off at their Dad's house.

"Well that was terrible," Sarah sighs.

"Yep," I concur. "Thank God it's over."

We drive home in silence individually contemplating the existence of God.

Then a miracle happens!

Home alone, Sarah and I grab hold of each other and call upon the name of the Lord.

When we woke up ... everything's better.

A Birthday Blessing

It's my son's birthday.

He's 36 which throws me for a bit of a loop because there's no way I'm old enough to have a son that old but ... I do.

He's had quite a year ... full of transitions, tragedy, accomplishments, frustrations and surprises but seems to have landed in a pretty sweet spot.

He was the recipient of a divorce, lost his best friend in a tragic accident, moved from his dream apartment to student housing, won scholarships, is perilously close to graduating with his Ph.D. and was surprised to find love.

That's a lot in a year.

Jeremy handled them with a grace and determination that leaves me proud though most likely view him as unconventional.

Three things left a big impression on me.

For a man who hasn't made his mind up on God he maintained a devote grace Priests and Preachers would kill for ... never turning to anger or hate but instead accepting and relying on those who love him ... which is one of the hardest things to do in life.

When his best friend Matthew Wilkerson was tragically killed driving home from work ... Jeremy exploded in grief and then pulled it all together to do the things Matt would have needed and wanted ... focusing on Jen and the kids ... helping with all of the details death brings ... and then delivering a eulogy Priests and Preachers would kill for ... and I know drew love and laughter from Matt.

And when Terenca showed up from the past in the wake of Matt's death, Jeremy embracing love, two little girls and making plans for a whole new life.

This year Jeremy will graduate from the University of Georgia, already his alma mater, and I'm looking forward to watching whatever that means.

Sarah's much bigger on birthday celebrations than I am ... to me it's just another day ... but I try to listen to her and understand what a blessing my son is to the world ... just like her little blessings ... so I'm  mustering up all of my clerical best to wish you Happy Birthday Son.

You are loved beyond description.

Terenca and the rest of us will let you know that.

I love you.

Lots of people do.

Why do good people do bad things?

"It isn't my fault," she pleads.

Standing in the rental house from which she's being evicted, she cries and mascara runs down a pasty white face.

It's not her rental house ... she was just staying there with her boyfriend who'd signed the lease but they didn't get along so he left ... and she stayed.

In frustration, anger and tunnel vision focus only on herself ... she trashed the place.

There's no way she's going to be out by the deadline ... forcing the owner whose already losing money with every second she remains in the house to make an ethical/moral/religious decision on the spot.

Call the Police and confiscate her belongings (all scattered on the floor ... including the pictures of her two small children) or ... give her one more day?

And it's raining.

The owner has done nothing wrong yet feels God's punishing her for past sins.

Most blame belongs to the boyfriend who signed the lease, realized he's in a shitty relationship and ... rather than deal with it ... flees. (I don't know why the story of the Prodigal Son flashes through my head at this point.)

Wearing running shorts that don't cover her ass, dirty hair piled on top of her head, standing over the photographs of her children on the floor ... she cries explaining the boyfriend said he'd paid the rent and she has time to figure out what to do ... and where to go.

"It isn't my fault," she sobs ... using the only weapon she has left ... manipulation.

"This is my kids stuff."

The air is sucked out of the room.

Sitting on the banister of the staircase, bare feet dangling in the air, Styrofoam cup in hand, staring at the trashed house ... I watch and listen ... and think.

Why do good people do bad things?

I don't know how good they are ... most are better than others ... some seem Angelic ... but whatever amount of good is in this mother of two ... and her relocated boyfriend ... has crashed on the shoulders of the owner of the house like a heavy cross ... with Roman shoulders slashing with whips ... in front of a snarling crowd.

It just ain't right," as Grandma Carver used to say.

Why do people ... regardless of how much good they have in them ... do bad things?

Why do tornadoes swoop down blowing up homes and killing people? ... How do tsunamis roll out the sea flooding homes and drowning families? ...  Lighting strikes from nowhere killing a father watching the sun set as his family plays in the sand ...

Can it be that bad things are simply part of the way life is?

Let's be honest ... we all got bad in our lives ... some more than others ... and bad always arrives at the worst possible time.

But ... it is what it is ... as my Mother says.

What do you do when it comes?

That's the real question.

What do you do?

Snorting Holy Water

I had a friend who snorted BC Headache Powder.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand the first time I witness him empty the wax paper onto the desk, straighten the white powder into a thin line, roll up a dollar bill and snort it up his nose.

"I think you're suppose to swallow the stuff," I offer.

"Why?" he asks wiping his nose with his sleeve, "I don't have a stomach ache."

I don't know how to respond.

"I got a headache," he continues. "This is the fastest way to get rid of it."

I found it hard to not love Rodger Pack.

It made such an impression I included the whole scene in my book "Tour of Homes" though, honestly, I haven't thought about it in years.

Until last night.

Sarah's oldest, Maddie's been on a four week trip with her grandmother, the Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary is a very devote, opinionated and dictatorial Catholic and as she and her husband drove Maddie across the country they stopped for Church a lot.

The Virgin Mary and her husband prayed and genuflected while 12 year old Maddie checked out the boys.

Anyway ... Maddie returned home last night bearing presents for Sarah, her sisters and me!

I got a bottle of Holy Water.

A white cap carved into a rose adorns the top of a glass vial with an elaborate metal engraving of Jesus touching his scared heart and a Celtic Cross behind his head.

For some reason ... the number "69" is on the bottom.

"Is this from you or the Virgin Mary?" I ask as she laughs when handing it to me though it quickly turns to horror when I unscrew the top and take swig.

"Oh My God," Maddie exclaims covering her mouth as her sisters burst out laughing.

"What?" I ask before taking a snort up both nostrils, "I want to be filled with Jesus."

"I'm going to tell my Grandmother," Maddie threatens.

"Go for it," I reply.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, asks, "Can I have some?"

"No precious child," I explain, "this is all mine."

Laurel, the 10 year old and by far the most religious of the girls, tells us she's going to her room.

"It's only eight o'clock," Sarah says. "It's too early to go to bed."

"I'm not going to bed," Laurel explains walking down the stair. "I'm going to pray for Mike."

"Aw thanks Laurel," I beam. "That can only help."

Our Journey Begins

"The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet."

That's what Lao Tzu said, though we've changed it to the journey beginning with a the first step.

There are two different meanings.

Taking the first step of a journey involves will power, determination, action, putting one foot in front of another and moving towards ... or away ... from something ... or someone.

A journey getting started under one's feet means action arises from stillness ... it's contemplation ... praying ... wondering ... coming to terms with what's next.

I understand why the sayings been changed ... we find it hard to sit still.

It's better to take control ... be in charge ... ask for forgiveness rather than permission ... kick ass and take names!

It's harder to wait ... be quiet ... listen ... feel what's right ... be grounded ... imagine what's coming before it happens ... know what's next.

Some days I just don't know how to start.

Getting up, I stumble to the outdoor shower, baptize myself as the sun begins to bubble from the sea and begin to come to life.

With more vigor I walk up the stairs, kiss my sleeping wife, dress, throw the dogs a treat and head for coffee with friends.

Half-an-hour later I'm home, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, ready to start.

Some days, it's easy ... like the other night my Guardian Angel came in a dream to show me how "Purple Jesus" is made.

Other days ... I have no idea.

I sit and wait.

Then something happens ... a saying I haven't thought of in years pops into my head ... it strikes me as apropos to where Sarah and I are in life so I look it up and ... it's exactly the right thing to think about at exactly the right time.

The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet.

It's our quiet time as ... we wait ... we're silent ... we're listening ... we're feeling for what's right ... grounding ourselves in one another ... imagining together ... coming to know what's next ... falling deeper in love.

Soon we'll be taking control ... in charge of whatever it is ... needing nobody's permission ... kicking some royal ass and ticking off their names.

But it's not that time yet.

It's still the marvelous moments when the ground shakes beneath our feet ... quivering with anticipation ... the same Holy ground Moses stood upon before the Journey to the Promised Land.
_____________________________

To signify the coming Promised Land, a prophet visited our house the other day. Jonah affirms we're doing the right things at the right time. That's him standing between us.

Post Biirthday Blues

Staring at all of the birthday wishes on my computer screen ... I'm incredibly thankful.

Sarah got an early jump posting a sweet love note to me on Facebook and a slew of friends jumped on it with their own birthday wishes.

Other friends took time to send wishes and comments on my Facebook page and it was great to hear from many I haven't talked with in a long time.

There were several messages on LinkedIn and my friend Rick Smith actually send on an old fashion e-mail.

Going completely over the top, Sarah also presented me with an actual birthday card with a message SHE HAD WRITTEN with a pen!

Judy O burst into The Breakfast Club and gave me a birthday hug which led the team that works there to scream "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" repeatedly at the top of their lungs.

Sarah gave me more than a hug later in the morning.

Each of my kids called and we shared great conversations.

Two of Sarah's girls called to sing me "Happy Birthday" and the other messaged a bunch of happy faces then quickly moved on to lobbying me to take them to Florida.

I worked part of the day ... meaning I looked for work because things are slow right now.

We have renters who relocated to another state without telling us and that cannibalized part of my special day.

I did get a birthday nap, snuggled beside Sarah, which is a wonderful gift.

We went out for dinner and afterwards sat in "our" swing on the beach but it was too windy so we left to listen to Sam Adams play damn good live music on the island.

As soon as we entered, God told Sam to stop playing in the middle of a song to hug us and talk for a while which was nice and we enjoyed each other as friends do, though God told Sam to tell me it's time for me do something in Bar Church again.

Back home again, Sarah and I watched a movie while birthday wishes buzzed on my phone then it was time for bed.

Now I've reread each and every wish, watched the cute videos people linked, listened to the voice mails, replied to the personal messages while touching the card Sarah gave me.

I find myself with the post Birthday blues.

It's not centered on being older ... I'm a kid at heart!

And it's not that I lack in much, because I don't, though I fret about how to keep it all.

But there's a restlessness ... a boredom that's crept inside ... that's leaving me melancholy on a lovely sun drenched morning kissed with a delightful ocean breeze.

It happens after most birthdays ... and with some regularity throughout the year ... a question haunts ... the fire in my belly burns ... in spite of everything I've done and I've done a lot ... the only thing matters is what's next?

Thank you everyone.

My Birthday Wish

The scratching of finger nails on glass wakes me from a wonderful slumber with my body completely intertwined with my wife.

"Hell," I mutter, disentangling myself from Sarah without waking her.

Stumbling through the living room to the kitchen, Goddess' tail wags and I sigh loudly.

Spying through the sliding glass doors into a dark night because the moon's already set, I see her glow ... red cigarette tip, smoky halo, dirty white robe almost sliding off her shoulder and exposing her right breast, oily black hair ... it's my Guardian Angel.

I haven't seen her in months.

Assuming Jimmy Cochran was keeping her busy, I'd been careful to not ask God for anything lest she show up ... but here she is.

Opening the doors, she stands to greet me ... something she never does ... and sure enough her robe slips further and her right breast pops out.

"Hey Birthday Boy," she says with a grin.

"Aren't you going to cover that?" I ask taking a seat at the table on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Why should I?" she snaps. "You're naked!"

"Whatevs," I sigh glazing at a billion stars overhead.

"I'm just here to wish you a Happy Birthday," she grins and two Styrofoam cups magically appear out of nowhere.

"Wait a minute," I say leaning forward. "Where's your tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and bourbon chaser?"

"It's your birthday stupid," she snaps. "We're having a birthday toast."

"Oh," I reply with uncertainty ... because she's never this nice.

She slides one of the cups toward me.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Just where in the Hell have you been."

"Upstate New York," she says.

"What for?" I begin but she angrily cuts me off.

"Listen you stupid ass, I'm here for your frigging birthday! Shut up and let me talk."

I remain nakedly quiet.

"To you on your birthday," she smiles holding up a Styrofoam cup with her right breast still exposed.

Taking a sip of the drink, I almost throw up while swallowing it.

"What the Hell is this?" I cough and choke.

"Purple Jesus," she answers.

"Seriously?" I ask, examining the liquid in the dark cup.

"Yeah," she explains, "we have to wring out the white cloth Catholic Priests use to clean out the chalice and save all of the leftover grapefruit juice Baptists and Methodists use ... because that's the Body of Christ. We mix it together and ... WA-LA ... Purple Jesus!"

"That's disgusting," I snort.

"Well, God started recycling way before anybody else ever thought of it."

I can't think of anything to say.

"Happy Birthday," she says fading away. "I got more important shit to do."

"Hmmm," I sigh still holding onto the empty Styrofoam cup. "Thank you Lord for thinking about me," I say out loud.

Turning towards the sliding glass door, I suddenly stop and look towards the billon blazing stars in the dark sky.

"Hey God! When I get up, I'm going to write down the things I want for my birthday. It's not a lot! A winning Lottery Ticket ... that's all!"

It thunders in the distance.

"Thank you Lord," I say returning to the wonderfulness of my sleeping wife.

A burst of life!

"Aren't you going to have breakfast Hun?" the older woman in the white shirt with the "Fairfield Inn and Suites" logo asks as I sip coffee from a Styrofoam cup staring intensely at my Netbook.

"Jaynce" is printed on her nametag.

"No," I reply smiling at her smile, "I'm waiting on my wife and the girls."

"Awe, that's sweet," she says floating to the next table of overnight stayers asking, "Are you enjoying your breakfast?"

It's hotel food ... pans of scrambled eggs, pork sausage, gravy and biscuits, tiny pastries, boiled eggs and a self-service waffle maker.

I've been at a thousand of them, and you probably have too, but Jaynce made this one feel like my grandmother is hovering over making certain everyone's happy, pleased and full.

She magically transforms a bland, pseudo-meal into a breakfast and almost pulls of making a room full of strangers a ... family.

Darting around speaking to everyone, she refills the coffee urns, restocks the pastries and cleans up the spills from the waffle make ... all the while dripping delightfulness.

"She's so nice," I think to myself, "in all my travels I've never seen a server at a hotel work such magic."

She's older ... has a husband she mentions ... my guess is they retired to Florida and the money ran out and she takes "Speed" to dart around like this.

"No, I got it baby," she tells her supervisor who's come to check on the woefully overcrowded room.

Ignoring my Netbook, I'm completely mesmerized.

Shifting my attention to my fellow overnight stayers, they look like sleepy hotel guests sipping coffee, eating pastries and making a mess at the waffle station ... EXCEPT ... when Jaynce asks them if they're enjoying themselves ... what they're doing today ... and if they need anything?

Suddenly bursting into life ... they're all smiles, full of vigor and ready to tell their story.

It's almost like church.

I wonder why more aren't like her?

She truly seems to be enjoying the moment.

No doubt her feet will hurt when she gets home to her husband and she'll be tired of talking.

I image them fixing drinks and sitting there until they're ready to talk about the day they had, the money made, the crazy or wonderful things that happened or look for other jobs.

I am inspired by her and will lobby that Fairfield Inn and Suites give her a huge ass raise.

The hotel was nice.

She was incredible.

An Unexpected stop

The only speed limit sign … 25 Kilometers/hour … is in Cockburn Town, the only population of any size on San Salvador … which isn’t saying a lot.

Less than 1000 people call the 13 mile long island home but we see less than a hundred in the capital.

Laurel, Sarah’s 10 year old and I stroll into the island liquor store that also serves as the town bar.

It’s her first time in a liquor store and she’s excited … until she hears the loud music, the roars of laughter, the clacking of Domino's hitting the table and cheers for soccer on the television.

Suddenly suspicious Laurel hangs near my leg as I buy bottles of wine then she breaths sighs of relief when we tip toe passed the men drinking on the sidewalk and crawl inside our rusty rental car.

The road back to Sandy Point and our tiny house is lined with pristine beaches, brownish green scrub brush, a large white cross where Christopher Columbus allegedly made land fall in the Americas and sprinkled lightly with houses.

A man limps down the little road with his thumb stuck out.

“Let’s give him a ride,” I say slowing down.

“NO, NO, NO,” Laurel begs with wide horrified blue eyes. “HE COULD HAVE A KNIFE. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!”

“Hey man,” I say opening the back door.

“Hey Mon,” the lanky black man grimaces, “my name is Willie. I hurt my leg today.”

Long bony fingers on a paper thin hand shakes mine as I tell him my name.

“This is Laurel,” I say.

Willie shakes her hand.

I stifle a giggle when she stares at her tiny now defiled white hand before giving total concentration to the book in her lap.

“How’d you hurt your leg?” I ask.

“I fell.”

“Well,” I reply not knowing how to reply.

Willie stares out the window at the scrub brush while Laurel continues to stare at her book and I drive down the tiny road at 50 Kilometers per hour.

“Can you pick up any radio stations on the island?” I ask.

Willie shrugs saying, “Maybe AM.”

                                                                                      

We speed along passing no one for 5 or 6 miles before he sits up exclaiming we’re at his road.

Laurel breathes sighs of relief as Willie limps out into the bright sunshine.

“Let’s go find someone else to give a ride to,” I smile.

“Take me to my Mommy,” she frowns.

After a few off the road explorations we return to the tiny little house and Laurel tells Sarah what I did.

I listen with a smile but reflect on how biased we are to not be nice to others. Fearful we'll be taken advantage of,  we protect ourselves first and those we love. Besides we've helped others only to be burned with ingratitude, forgetfulness or theft. 

We become very literally with Jesus' words, "What you do for the least of these my brothers and sisters ..." is really restricted to our blood kin ... except for the ones we have little use for.

These things have certainly happened to me and I have scars to prove it but ... somehow I still believe it's better to be nice, occasionally stopping whatever it is I'm doing and give a stranger a ride.

Spending Faith

In many ways I've been sliding into this for a long time.

Sarah laughs at me, charging I have too much need to remain connected because of all those years when I was the center of a universe. Everyone wanted me then so I was always on the phone, responding to text and email ... even when I wasn't working.

Once in St. Martin my friend Conner saw this, shook his head as he strolled over, ripped the phone from my hand and stuck it in the freezer then handed me a beer and led me to the beach.

These days I'm no longer needed as much and have spent years now exploring the Monk within me.

Old habits die hard though and Sarah's right that I'm quick to check on things when there's nothing to check on anymore.

Sitting in San Salvador, Bahamas I really have to give it my all to get the connections to work at all.

The Internet is virtually non-existent and when the stars are aligned, I can only "connect" for a few minutes which makes it pretty damn frustrating so ... I give up.

I still have the love of standing on this deserted beach, watching the magic of crystal clear water dance in the sun, feel the ocean breeze kiss my body and dig my toes deeper in the sand.

There's no better way to spend a day.

Add a cool drink, an I-pod of good music and a best friend of a wife with a really hot body and ... well ... that's Paradise.

It's such a shame I ate of the tree of knowledge all those years ago.

The truth is I love the life I'm living right now but figuring out the continued financing is quite challenging which makes me ... antsy.

I'm not the only one in this boat as I know many who've reached a place they love only to fret how to maintain it.

Worse are others who know what they love but don't believe they're capable of sustaining it so they don't try ... working and waiting until the right time which never seems to arrive.

I'll tell you something though.

The only bread you can buy on San Salvador is baked by a lady who sells it from her home and at the local Grocery Store.

It's fresh daily and we have to slice it ourselves.

No additional nutrients or bleaches are added.

It's just freshly baked bread.

While Sarah and her girls are sleeping ... I'm having communion.

Choirs of birds sing. Palm Trees with coconuts dance in the breeze. The blue and teal ocean beacons me for baptism. Orange and black crabs dart around like anxious Alter Boys. I taste the Holy Host and pray that I'm not too antsy to enjoy the gift of today ... in this place ... with those I love ... because that's really all I've got anyway.

Financing's always a bitch anyway, regardless of what bankers say.

What it boils down to is how I ... and you ... spend our faith.

Routine Paradise

The days have no names here.

The sun slowly rises and dances with bluish clouds in a deep blue sky before magnificently easing itself into the sea.

The routine is to rise whenever we wish, sip coffee or juice, eat a little breakfast and stroll to our deserted beach for the day.

We were joined by five sharks yesterday ... each four feet or longer ... gliding through the pristine water just out of arms reach.

There's also a large Stingray we hovered above while snorkeling.

And an old dog walks the beach every afternoon and plays with Sarah's girls.

We're not lonely on our deserted beach.

Returning to our tiny house we prepare lunch and dinner and after the sun sets we play vigorous games of Spades until bedtime.

We've broken the routine twice, climbing into our rusty rental car to circle San Salvador learning just how few people call this island home.

Stopping at the Lighthouse built in 1866, we climbed the 76 stairs to the top and surveyed 19 miles of sea and sky. Still running on kerosene, a dusty 40 watt bulb sits between the glass prisms which made us laugh.

We've also made runs to the Grocery store replenished on Sunday only to have sold out of anything fresh by Monday morning. It was the first time in 3 weeks the Food Boat delivered so everyone was out of most everything.

The meats are frozen and unmarked so I study to tell the difference between ice covered steaks and ham.

There is an ATM on San Salvador which I used a couple of days ago. Yesterday a nice woman strolled into our tiny house to return my bank card which I'd inadvertently left in the machine. There's no crime here and the one police officer drives around the island twice daily to make certain of it.

There are two resorts on the island. One's a divers paradise that looks like a run down Motel 6 with an incredible ocean view and the other is a tiny Club Med with guests mostly from France.

We had lunch at Riding Rock Resort, the divers resort, and was waited on by Angela, a lovely Baptist Minister, seamstress, waitress, event planner and bookkeeper. It seems employment is very diversified on the island.

Today we're heading to the Club Med to hang around the French.

The coffee's gone and it's time for my morning naked swim then I'll fix breakfast for Sarah and the girls before we do it all again.

Our Deserted Beach

We're on a deserted beach which is pretty nice.

Five houses line the bluff overlooking the beach but only one has someone in it and he's pretty reclusive.

So the morning is to get up, stumble across the dead coral that makes up the bluff and across the powder white sand to the blue teal water and fall face forward to wake up.

It's a wonderful way to start the day. 

Returning to the house we're in, the coffee's made and I pour myself the first of several cups and stare at the deserted beach until my thoughts are collected in some order.

Turning on the computer, I check to see if I can connect with the world which is a crap shoot.

Yesterday the breeze blew from the west knocking out the Internet but today it's blowing from the same direction so everything's working. We'll see for how long.

The girls are blissfully asleep after vicious games of Spades last night.

There's no television but we have music from my I-Pod or the hum of the ceiling fans.

It's a big day because the Food Boat came yesterday so, along with everyone else on the island, we're going to the grocery store.

We'll take the one road full of pot holes which  is a perfect circle and drive around the island, stopping at the white cross marking where Columbus first set foot in the "New World."

There's not much "New" about it but God it's beautiful!

I'm done drinking coffee and the Internet is starting to act up so I'm taking this has a sign to head back down to the deserted beach where the girls will find me whenever they wake.

Have a great day everyone!

Nassau

Having taken my sweet time to evaluate this thoroughly before I say anything out loud ... I am now ready to publicly pronounce that Nassau, Bahamas sucks.

Sure, Sarah and I had a wonderful afternoon once fleeing the Atlantis Resort in a cab driven by a crazy guy trying to sell us weed while picking up girls on the sidewalk and introducing us by saying, "No they be cool Mon. They be like

us."

And the girl got in!

There are four cruise ships today and the Government here has butchered the downtown area.

The Straw Market has been replaced by a large garage with vendors who grab you be the throat.

Storefronts are exact replicas of those on Grand Cayman, Jamaica, Half Moon Cay and St. Martin, all resemble outdoor shopping malls with the lone redeemable attraction of publicly drinking.

Now Nassau has ripped down buildings to build an exact replica of the welcome areas in ... Grand Cayman, Jamaica, Half Moon Cay, St. Martin and Disney World.

The uniqueness of a grand place is no more.

The El Grekco motel is a tiny sliver of the way things used to be and Sarah and her girls are loving it!

Across the street from Junkaroo Beach, a nice but overpriced escape from cruise ships, the hotel remains as it was.

"Hello Sarah," she says as we wander in for the first time in our lives.

What's not to like ... though the towels are thread bare, there's no restaurant or bar, and if  you want ice you have to go to the front desk so they can get it for you to cart back to your room.

BUT ... the place is old time elegance.

The pool is 8 feet deep surrounded by a Spanish tile patio and only 40 rooms.

Somehow Sarah got us in the "Presidential Sweet" which overlooks the pool with a terrific balcony, a large room with two beds and a bathtub with stuff on the bottom none of us can identify.

A pack of Christians in matching orange shirts are also here to save someone from something though the chaperons seem to be going through the motions while the kids apparently text God's love without ceasing.

We celebrate the time here by feasting on a last meal of overpriced American food before leaving for San Salvador where the choices are mostly conch and fish, although Sarah learned of a roadside hamburger shack.

I talk to my kids one last time and call my Mom to say I love them, something I believe you can never do enough in life.

I take one last look at the crazy things going on at home where I apparently made news without even trying.

I look over my shoulder for a brief moment at all the things that got me to this point in my life, leaving me here in Nassau with a thirst for something more and a passion for life that's not done yet.

I stare through the window at the girls, already in bed, and Sarah gives me a wink and a tired smile.

"Alright God," I say to the warm Bahamian night, "thanks for getting us here. Take care of everybody back home. Let's get this party started and see where you're taking me next."

Amen.