Born Again ... Again.

My all time favorite use of the words were by my grandfather The Rev. Ira Vernon Carver who was ordained when he was 60 and decided it was a good reason to learn Greek.

As the guest preacher at the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia he said, "I've got my B.A. degree! Do you?"

After church I asked, "Granddaddy, you never went to college. You don't have a Bachelor of Arts. Why'd you say that?"

Bursting into laughter, he hugged me tight and said, "I been Born Again."

I love that story.

And I sure loved my Granddaddy.

The truth is I don't think much about being born again because I'm too busy living life, loving Sarah, bemused by her daughters, trying to keep up with my kids, writing, practicing my guitar and Bar Church.

But the other night I realized that I really have been born again ... again.

Sarah and I took the girls to Johnny Harris' Restaurant for the Savannah Singer/Songwriter Series because we wanted to introduce them to the music of Jefferson Ross and Tom Cooler and new friends we hadn't met yet.

I was speaking to Thomas Oliver when I stopped in mid sentence to say, "I didn't come to see y'all. I CAME TO SEE HER!"

Rushing the plate down in front of the customer, she squeals with glee, yelling "REV MIKE!"

And we embrace and she excitedly looks at Sarah and the girls.

A long time ago ... in another life ... I helped start The Starfish Café ... a working restaurant and culinary arts training program for homeless people.

Mae was one of the students.

Many years later ... in this life ... she remembers ... and remains grateful ... giving me lots of love whenever she sees me ... delighting in the life I have now ... filling me with a strange mixture of gratefulness and pride.

Jefferson, Tom and the others were killing it and you could hear pins dropping as they opened their souls and sang their songs.

Sarah's girls loved it.

The room was full of joy.

As we were leaving Maddie, the 13 year old, snapped a photograph of Mae and me ... documenting that both of us survived the last life ... to enjoy this one.

Old friends

Hawkeye Pierce... Vinnie Barbarino ... Frank Furillo ... Andy Travis ... Mary Richards ... Archie Bunker ... well, I scheduled my week around them.

And I learned a lot from each.

My favorite television characters still bring me laughter and deep thoughts today.

I'm forever flipping channels because with only 1000 to choose from I can never figure out why nothings ever on.

BUT ...

M*A*S*H ... Welcome Back Kotter ... Hill Street Blues ... WKRP in Cincinnati ... Mary Tyler Moore ... All in the Family ... make me stop and toss the clicker away.

Instantly I'm transported to a family reunion ... surrounded by people I love ... telling old stories I've heard before but simply cannot resist to enjoy again ... and "Scotty beams me" somewhere and I'm "Lost in Space" for a while.

The same thing happens when I chance upon reruns of "The Ed Sullivan Show" ... "Woodstock" ... anything with a Beatle ... Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy.

Bugs Bunny remains the greatest cartoon ever!

I don't live in the past.

There's too much to enjoy these days but I do enjoy these things immensely.

When I can't find these old friends I'm left with lying politicians ... depressing news ... more depressing newscasters ... stupid sitcoms ... reality television ... Infomercials ... and things I could care less about.

Honestly ... aside from College football ... I don't watch a lot on television.

Sarah and I like to watch movies ... if I don't fall asleep.

But I do love the shows and the characters that helped make me ...me!

And I'll stop and watch them again every single time ... even though I already know what's going to happen.

"What'chu reading Frank?" Hawkeye asks collapsing into his cot in the Swamp.

"The Bible!" Lt. Frank Burns self righteously fires back.

"Oh I read that," Hawkeye replies. "The Devil did it."

God I love those shows and somehow they still move me.

That's the great thing about old friends.

Sunday Morning Tradition

I'm baking Cinnamon Rolls.

It's become a weekend tradition.

I don't eat them but Sarah's girls devour them!

They do all the things little girls do when Cinnamon Rolls are cooking ... fight to see who's licking the icing from the plastic container ... take a bite of uncooked dough ... rush to pick the rolls with the most icing.

I enjoy the show.

Things are backwards this morning.

Maddie, the 13 year old, is up first and we're quietly talking in the kitchen about boys who like her, the boys who like her butt, homework she needs to do and why Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, won't shut up.

He's meowing to the top of his tiny little lungs.

"Attack!" I say to Goddess pointing at the cat.

Goddess sighs heavily and goes back to sleep laying on the floor.

The oven beeps altering me it's finished pre-heating.

"Yay!" Maddie exclaims staring at her phone which is permanently in front of her face and ... it warms my heart that Cinnamon Rolls create such happiness.

The noise of Netflix rises from downstairs so I know Laurel, the 10 year old, is awake.

Surprisingly Cassidy, the 7 year old, is still asleep ... she's normally my morning companion.

Sarah, of course, is sound asleep with Winston The Little Gay Dog curled in a ball beside her.

The sun rises into the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt, flooding beams through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen.

It's much too bright for Maddie who wraps herself in a blanket and retreats to the dining room to wait for the Cinnamon Rolls to finish baking.

Smelling the rolls as I take them out of the oven Cassidy rushes into the kitchen like Kramer on Seinfeld still putting on her Monster High housecoat.

Even Goddess snickers at the site.

Laurel yells she'll be up soon.

Sarah and Winston TLGD sleep through the blessings beginning this day.

And I smile at the warm happiness that fills this house.

My Guitar's been born again!

When the chips are down ... things can't get much worse ... and you find it hard to even breath ... because you want to cry ... what do you do?

When this happened to me ... I started a band.

I didn't mean to start one.

I hadn't played my guitar in years.

My pinky couldn't do the things it used to do.

Here's what happened.

Old friends from college I hadn't seen in decades came down packing guitars and electric pianos colliding with new friends who had harmonicas and drums, Sarah brought her voice and it was so damn interesting even my kids showed up to watch.

Everyone turned the living room into a recording studio and we played ... and laughed.

Then God told Samuel Adams ... who used to have long hair and play damn good music on Tybee Island ... to tell us to play in Bar Church one Sunday morning.

So there we were ... my distant past mixed in a delightful gumbo with my best friends from now.

We didn't sound all that great (you can judge for yourself at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5K_leyeJlM ) but damn it was fun!

And it was healing.

New purposes replaced old ones.

Fast forward to now and ... Sarah and I are most happily married ... Mitch still plays bass ... Dedra's been transformed into D-Luv ... Johnny O keeps the beat steady ... Gordo doesn't take us to church anymore ... but Sarah and I do ... and Samuel Adams is long gone.

There's lots of crazy happiness these days.

My pinky is doing things it hasn't done in years and my guitar's been born again.

Singing made everything better!

Today there's lots of music in our house ... Sarah's piano, Maddie's flute, Laurel's recorder, Cassidy's voice and my guitar.

Jeremy and Chelsea are forever introducing me to new music.

So ... if you find yourself with your chips down ... and things can't get much worse ... it's hard to breath ... you just want to cry ... and you don't know what to do.

Start a band!

Even if you're a solo artist!

Just sing and I promise ... every little thing's gonna be alright.

Goddess

Goddess has just been crazy affectionate for the past couple of days.

Starting before the sun's up she licks my hand hanging off the side of the bed.

Crawling out from under the covers our Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie follows me downstairs to the outdoor shower, plops on the porch and waits.

Upstairs in the dark, I dress while Goddess anticipates the treat she gets when I make my way for coffee at The Breakfast Club.

When I return she's so excited because it's time for more treats and to go outside that she practically dances across the floor.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, stays in bed with Sarah.

I grab treats and throw them on the deck and Goddess happily rushes out.

Later Goddess lovingly watches as Sarah has coffee and throws her pieces of her breakfast and when my wife leaves for work Goddess blocks her way on the landing ... not wanting her to go at all.

In the afternoon, Goddess, Winston TLGD, and I sit outside waiting on Sarah's return and the dogs ears perk up the moment they sense her car turning down our street.

Winston TLGD rushes out to ride in with Sarah and though Goddess is equally excited she waits by me until the car door opens.

In the evening Winston TLGD snuggles with Sarah on the sofa and Goddess has taken to growling and slamming her body into mine demanding affection.

I give her all she wants.

She is special.

Why is it that dogs get to live such a short number of years but still die old?

Today when I woke, I started my routine and as Goddess followed me around I stopped, slid down on the kitchen floor and she laid her head in my lap.

We just sat there in the dark giving and taking love equally.

"Are you going to cry when Goddess dies?" Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old asks ... and I can't comprehend an answer.

I can't imagine life without her.

She's growing old fast ... her coat is white ... she slid down the stairs yesterday rushing out to wait on Sarah ... she can't do things she used to do.

"Hey," I softly say so as to not wake Sarah, sitting in the kitchen floor with Goddess' head in my lap, "Thank you. I love you. I don't know what I'm going to do without you."

She sighs heavily then reaches up to kiss my face.

Life without Friends isn't much

Today is lunch with the boys.

Weekly we gather, place bets on this week's football score to see who's paying for lunch next week and give each other lots of grief about most anything.

I hate when I have to miss it.

The tie binding us together is the Georgia Bulldogs and years ago in Athens, Georgia we all hung out before and after games.

Consequently we share numerous war stories of grand adventures after great victories and tragic defeats.

We enjoyed each other so much that a "committee" was formed which issued a decree that a weekly gathering during football season wasn't enough so we now meet throughout the year.

Years ago when I found myself "suddenly single" ... their term for what I was going through ... they made me go to Athens to celebrate the fact!

We had one Hell of a time!

And I love them for that ... and for a weekly gathering where we mostly laugh.

My son Jeremy is a member of "The Boys" attending whenever he's in town.

The boys love ... perhaps lust is more accurate ... my wife Sarah.

The point being I'm incredibly fortunate to be part of a collection of friends who all love each other.

You'd never know it observing us have lunch ... we give each other lots of shit ... but we've all been there for one another when the chips were down and that makes us strong.

Tonight Sarah and I are graced to have dinner with "The Carnival of Friends" and we're already excited because ... damn we have a good time when we're together!

Life without friends isn't much of a life.

Today's a day to celebrate people I love ... and people who love me.

It's a pretty good day!

The Best Way To Approach Every Day

One of the things about writing every day and "putting it out there" for the entire world to see is ... the entire world can always see.

Most are far too private to publically share feelings and fears, successes and failures, love and loss ... so they don't.

Instead, they post cute posters with deep sayings, funny videos, pictures of their kids, beautiful scenery and such.

Too many hide behind political rants, religious demagogy, popular causes and self righteous proclamations which is why Facebook has so much crap on it.

If you've ever played "Hide-and-Seek" it takes a lot of energy, intense concentration and waiting in solitude to hide.

It's far too much work as far as I'm concerned.

"I'm pretty transparent," I say to a person interviewing me for a job. "Just Google me."

"We like that!" he said.

Except they didn't.

I wasn't hired.

It's alright.

I'd rather be authentic.

Most rise every day to take up the cause ... fight for the candidate ... find something to believe in ... search for something to enjoy ... bide their time ... and just make it through the day.

I get up and ... after tending to myself a little bit and to Sarah a lot ... share me with whoever happens to be interested.

It's a lot like praying.

I think about the things bubbling to the top of who I am ... celebrate them ... write them out ... and share them.

It's different from meditation where you go through the same steps except ... you keep them.

There's no great story or insight today ... no funny fiction or poking fun at things taking themselves WAY too serious ... just me sharing who I am, where I'm at and why.

I think it's the best way to approach every day.

There's way too much hiding going on in the world.

So I'll show you me.

You show me you.

Do the things you have to do

Arriving in hordes, casually dressed business men attack the Hyatt's high end Breakfast Room, talking as they arrive ... as they grab Quiche, biscuits piled high with cholesterol, Oatmeal and bananas ... and as they eat.

They laugh too ... about last night ... today's meetings ... yesterday's screw ups ...who's heading where next ... and making plans for when they're all together again.

A few women are with them, doing their best to "man up" and out hearty the men.

Collectively they leave in a rush and the hotel staff appear like Tasmania Devil's whisking away plates, coffee cups and spills.

Within minutes the Golfers appear wearing custom made "Titleist" wear, in no less of a hurry but their laughter's a bit more sincere.

Lugging their golf bags, they also leave in a rush, climbing in vans to be taken to the "Heavens on the Greens."

Sipping coffee alone at a table in the corner, I watch,  amused with the man who drinks 3 glasses of tomato juice followed by an orange juice ... the woman who puts one thing on her plate, clicks her heals to the table, eats, returns for one more item, clicks her heals, eats and makes 7 trips for a very progressive breakfast ... the talkers who speak without ceasing and their listeners wishing they were somewhere else.

Mothers with children arrive making messes as loud commands of "STOP DOING THAT!" and "EAT!" dominate the conversations.

I haven't been on the road for a while so I'm enjoying it all.

Two men stroll passed and nod recognizing me because we had dinner in the same restaurant last night and the protocol is I nod too.

Meandering up to my room, it's time to hurry up and wait.

Staring out of the 6th floor window, I survey downtown Lakeland, Florida and wonder what life is like here.

The phone buzzes with emails and phone calls so I pull a chair to the window, prop my bare feet on it as though it were a Beloved Back Deck and respond to each.

I sigh when I finish.

A long day's begun.

If everything goes right, the meeting will be great, the drive home will be safe, Sarah greets me with sandy kisses and we celebrate the gift of yet more time together.

It's true that you have to do the things you have to do to do the things you want to do.

That's what I'm doing today.

You?

Can't get it out of my head

Today's was the very best thing I've ever written.

I wrote while driving from Tybee Island to Lakeland, Florida a six hour drive and not many good radio stations.

The ground breaking, sensational blog was written in my head ... which is where it still is.

As soon as arrived in Lakeland checked into the hotel so I could quickly changed clothes for the meeting.

You didn't think I was going to wear meeting clothes while driving did you?

So I changed clothes and went to the meeting ... which lasted significantly longer than anticipated.

Now the meetings over, the News is on and it's time for a glass of wine.

Then I have to contemplate dinner.

I also have to do more work before another meeting in the morning.

PLUS ... Monday Night Football's on and the Steelers are playing and I like the Steelers.

I have to talk to Sarah too. We haven't had a chance to talk to today at all.

Gotta call the kids and Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old, has already called me 3 times to ask "What you doing?"

But don't worry!

Today's blog is written.

I just can't get it out of my head.

The Golden Stage

I have always loved the Marsh.

The expansive savanna of mud and grass gives life to mussels, fiddler crabs and produces abundant life to feed the fish of the ocean ... giving it a taste that different ... sweeter ... than those of the open sea.

It makes the ocean brown rather than crystal clear but ... when the shrimp taste better because of it ... who can complain?

I love the pungent aroma of the Marsh at low tide on a hot day ... it's the smell of sex in the Tropics as Marshall Chapman says ... and she's right because it's intoxicating!

Sailing across the causeway connecting Tybee Island to the chain of islands leading to the Mainland with the windows rolled down on a sunny day is ... orgasmic.

I have vivid memories of my Father sitting on his dock that juts out into the middle of the Marsh becoming one with it.

"I can never leave here," he once said as I sat there with him. "I love the Marsh."

And though he died and my sister has his ashes I can't help but believe he's part of it somehow ... having invested so much of himself in it.

Sarah, her girls and I were driving on the Tybee Road yesterday on a warm, bright, sunny day and the Marsh is turning from green to gold.

In winter it will turn brown and the ocean will carry the reeds to Sea, cleaning the haven of life for its next cycle.

Brown ... yellow ... blazing greens ... and golden are the colors of the Marsh.

Those are the seasons as Sarah and I move into a golden stage.

Little Pink Houses

Just when I think things can't get any stranger ...

"HERE KITTY,  KITTY, KITTY!" she screeches from the deck of the pink house next door.

Yes ... it's true ... Little Pink Houses surround us.

I do not mind the pink but the collection of feral cats she tends drive us nuts.

They love sleeping on top of the car leaving fur plastered everywhere.

A blue towel's wrapped around her head ... she wears a yellow bath robe and pink bunny slippers.

She looks like Marge Simpson on meth.

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

Hundreds of feral cats climb out of Palm Trees, jump fences, crawl out of trash cans, leave the gutters they're laying in and rush to the Cat Lady who feeds them.

Imagine a hoard of very fat Locusts converging in one spot at the same time.

"AW, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" she coos stooping to caress them.

"AW JESUS CHRIST," I mutter sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, both of which are covering their heads with their paws.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, runs and hides under the bed.

In every life there are moments that force you to make a choice.

This is one.

Wish my neighbor a good morning?

Or sneak inside the house?

Winston, TLGD, makes the decision for us when the little Son-of-a-bitch ... and I mean that literally ... wearing a fluffy orange cardigan with white letters reading "Gay! It's in my designer genes!" ...  jumps up and starts barking at a hundred feral cats.

Thankfully the cats are making so much noise moaning and meowing they don't notice so Goddess and I make our move ... darting inside with Gypsy and locking Winston, TLGD, outside with the Cat Lady and her Cats.

Everything's fine until Sarah strolls into the kitchen asking, "Where's my precious little boy?"

Goddess looks at me ... I look at Goddess ... the entire house is a giant pregnant pause.

"KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" she screeches again.

Winston, TLGD, is shivering in fear outside.

Goddess decides it's the perfect time to take me for a walk ... just in the nick of time.

Closets are for clothes

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, sashays in the Living Room wearing a black wife beater with white letters reading "Closets are for clothes."

He snares and snaps at Goddess who's laying under my bare feet dangling from the dining room table where I'm working and our beautiful Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie in her lineage is snoring.

Goddess pays Winston, TLGD, no attention whatsoever continuing to sleep.

Gypsy, the formerly Gender-confused Cat, lay beside Goddess watching Winston, TLGD, carry a bone in his mouth to spot on the sofa where Sarah sits.

Winston, TLGD, adores Sarah ... though he doesn't care about the rest of us at all.

It's all about Winston, TLGD, and Sarah as far as Winston, TLGD, is concerned.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, retaliated by barring Winston, TLGD, from her room.

Maddie, Sarah's 13 year, isn't even aware that Winston, TLGD, is here at all ... but then again she's hardly aware the rest of us are either ... in fact, the only time I ever hear from her is when storms into the room asking, "WHER'S MY MOMMY?"

I take great glee in shrugging my shoulders and saying, "I have no idea."

Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old, does pay Winston, TLGD, attention because she loves everybody.

Laurel's never encountered anything or anybody she doesn't love ... including Winston, TLGD, who does not respond in kind.

"Laurel," I told her the other day as she tried to love Winston, TLGD.

"What?" she screeched.

"Never mind," I say.

Regardless, Sarah and the girls are not home at the moment and Winston, TLGD, is an awful DIVA, Demagogue and ... I mean this literally ... a little Son-of-a-Bitch.

But it's Friday and everybody's excited.

The weekends here ... Sarah will be off soon ... her girls are coming home ... UGA plays ... Bar Church happens ... we'll play Spades ... steaks are already marinating ... CAN'T WAIT!

"OKAY KIDS!" I yell at Goddess and Gypsy ... pointing at Winston, TLGD, who pops his head up, bone still in mouth, with a frightened look in his eyes.

"LET'S GET HIM!"

Ten legs hit the ground running.

Winston, TLGD, cries like a baby hiding under the bed.

 

Some kind of Ecstasy

Sun's up, mm uh, looks okay ...

My world survives into another day.

My world's a little cooler than I prefer at the moment though I'm wearing the black running shorts and am bare foot.

Goddess keeps my feet warm as I sit on the Beloved Back Deck writing so I stick my toes under her golden fur while she snores under the table.

The sun blazes through the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

A brisk breeze blows off the ocean so I wear a long sleeve tee with a UGA logo.

Bruce Cockburn and I are wondering where the Lions are?

I've been on the phone all morning taking about possibilities and plans.

I've got my sunglasses on.

Bob Dylan bumps Bruce to ask ... How does it feel to be on your own? ... with no direction home ... a complete unknown ... like a Rolling Stone?

"Well," I say out loud ... "I'm not on my own because I live with my wife who doubles as my best friend ... her 3 little girls who love me a lot ... my kids who're scattered to and fro on the face of the earth ... a Carnival of friends ... and a Church in a Bar."

Goddess turns over as I say this so I adjust my toes to stay warm under her fur.

"Home is a relative concept," I continue telling our dog. "It's where you want and where you're wanted ... more or less."

Goddess sighs heavily.

"It's true," I say directly to her, "that a lot of people have forgotten me ... BUT ... I am not completely unknown."

Our lovely Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie in her lineage can't stand my interruptions to her nap stands ... shakes her head ... and meanders out into the back yard ... and pees.

"THANKS FOR UNDERSTANDING!" I yell.

"Ah well," I say to myself because there's no one else to say it to, "I've survived into another day."

Goddess meanders back upstairs and resumes covering my toes under the table where I'm writing on the Beloved Back Deck.

"One of these days," I tell her rubbing her head, "we're gonna sail away ... sail into eternity ... some kind of ecstasy's got a hold on me."

YUP.

It's my and Sarah's code word that we understand each other.

Most people don't have that ... either a code word or an understanding.

The sun burst out from the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt.

Goddess barks.

Some kind of ecstasy's got a hold of me.

God and Santa Claus

When I meet the Lord so kind
I'm gonna give Him a piece of my mind
And I'll tell Him I wanna know why oh why when He's so damn forgiving
My Daddy won't look in my eyes
And Momma knows the lies I'm living

Jeremy and Chelsea introduced me to the music from "Songs of Anarchy" from the television show "Sons of Anarchy" which Sarah and I don't watch.

BUT ... the songs are damn good!

Audra Mae is one who's songs sprinkle the collections.

She tells is like it is!

She's already figured out the first thing she's got to say to God when they finally meet face-to-face.

Listening to her sing reminds of the French Catholic Priest Michel Quoist who wrote incredible prayers about ... the first things he had to say to God when they met face-to-face.

"How dare you?" is how one prayer begins ... as he holds a baby born deformed clinging onto death more than life.

The same prayer ends with the words, "Who dares ask? I do. And you dare answer."

Now that's a prayer seldom heard.

But isn't that the point of prayer?

It's not climbing on Santa Claus' knee to ask for whatever we want ... it's engaging in a dialogue with the person we believe in most ... certainly about the good stuff when that happens ... but more importantly about the shitty stuff!

If we can't talk to God about the shitty things then ... why talk to God at all?

It's a bleak, rainy, quiet morning and I'm alone with lots of things in front of me I really don't want to do.

There's lots I don't understand these days.

Mostly it's all the things I want from Santa that haven't arrived yet that so frustrate us ... winning the Lottery, inheriting the money, getting the settlement, healing the sick, restoring the soul, raising the dead ... finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Santa listens and ... occasionally delivers.

God listens and ... drives us crazy with silence.

Father Michel died in 1997, long after I met him through his magnificent "Prayers", and I believe he's still giving God Hell with very legitimate questions.

In the meantime, Audra Mae's got hers teed up.

I've got mine too.

You?

Staying in July

I prefer every single month be July.

It's summer, the beach is perfect, Congress is out of session and can't screw us, there's fireworks, bands play outdoors and nothing's happening in the world because half-the-work-force just got back from Vacation and the other half is getting ready to go.

Alas ... it's October and people are excited about leaves changing colors, Meteorologists gleefully forecast Tornado Warnings, Congress is back in session, half-the-country's working while the other half look for work and there's mid-term elections which absolutely no one cares about because two losers are in a run off.

On the up side ... College football is pretty exciting right now.

In my heart ... and in my head ... it's always July.

Sarah and I were talking and ... we only have so much time together left ... primarily because I'm so much older than she is ... and though neither of us have calculated who has the better odds of being struck by lightning, run over by a truck, or hit by one of the daily misfired bullets shot in Savannah ... the fact is ... we only have so much time left together.

"What we gonna do when Mike dies?" Cassidy the 7 year old asks the other day.

"How do you know I'm going first?" I ask putting down the tender ribs I've spend 7 hours cooking that they doused in Ketchup.

All four girls stop in mid-whatever-they-are-doing and just stare at me.

The only sound is that of crickets chirping.

"Okay so I'm probably going to go first," I admit.

Nodding ... they pour more Ketchup on the ribs.

I prefer to not think about my Autumn years ... and I sure as Hell want nothing to do with Winter, no matter how it comes ... figuratively or literally.

I'd rather constantly live in July ... where it's always warm, Sarah's in a bikini, the beach is perfect, outdoor music is everywhere and every night there's one Hell of a light show put on by the Milky Way.

I know ... I'm the exception and not the rule.

I wish the very best to you color leaf loving people ... Tornado lovers ... Congressional intimates (meaning you like being screwed) ... stew stirrers ... clothe worshippers ... indoor people!

I really do.

Not me.

It's mind over reality.

As long as I can get Sarah to wear her bikini all winter ... I'll stay warm. 

Divine Intervention ... for a Pirate and his Wenches

Everything was perfectly planned.

Whitely Reynolds has a big Golf Cart he's willing to lend us.

It's Pirate Fest and we want to represent Bar Church in the Parade.

The day arrives, I pick up the Golf Cart from Whitley and drive it back to our house where Sarah and Laurel, the 10 year old, decorate it.

Everyone gets ready, we pile in the beautifully decorated cart and take off to pick up Judy O'Neill who gets in the cart successfully.

Three blocks later ... the Golf Cart dies.

I'm the lone Pirate in a Cart full of well dressed Wenches ... meaning I have to push the Cart back to Whitley's house ... (honestly ... my Gypsy Wife ... who's also the Pastor's Wife ... helps. Pastor's wives get no respect!)

A few blocks and several gallons of sweat later, Whitley who's obviously indisposed, grabs a wrench ... NOT A WENCH ... and fixes the Golf Cart.

The Wenches piles back in as Whitely hands me the wrench and we're off again.

One block away from the staging area, the Golf Cart dies again.

Grabbing the wrench ... NOT THE WENCH ... I turn the same nut Whitley did ... and the whole thing pops off in my hand.

So ... the Wenches stroll to the Parade staging area ... as I call the still indisposed Whitley ... who immediately comes to get his Golf Cart ... he toes me driving it to where it's going to be fixed ... then takes me back to the staging area ... where the Pirate Fest Parade is just staring.

The Bar Church Wenches are all waiting ... having decided we're going to make the best of it by walking the route.

Other Bar Church wenches and Pirates are looking for us.

THEN A MIRACLE OCCURS!

The Island Hopper "Ghost Tours" Golf Cart is instructed by the Parade Manager to stop in front of the Bar Church people.

There is no one in it save the driver who's dressed like a Wench.

"Hey!" I say, "Do you know Rocky Moore?"

She does.

"Our float broke," I explain.

"Oh get in," she cheerfully says, so we do hoisting the Bar Church Pirate Flag and goodies for the kids.

So the Church people get in with the Ghost people and ... we have the most marvelous Pirate Fest Parade!

Which has left me wondering ever since.

What are the freaking odds?

We lose Whitley's big Golf Cart right before the Parade we plan on marching in to honor God and ... another is delivered to us just as the Parade steps off.

How do you explain that?

It's right up there with Moses and the Burning Bush ... David slaying Goliath ... the walls of Jericho tumbling down ... walking on the water ... Jesus being raised from the dead.

I believe God loves Bar Church!

How else can it be explained?

Playing Dress Up

It's been a long time since I've played "Dress Up."

Growing up in Port Wentworth I wore costumes for Halloween and donned robes in the First Baptist Church choir but ... that was about it.

Later, I'd go to Washington, D.C. and the Georgia State Capitol dressed up in a coat and tie just like everyone there dressed up as "Leaders" when they're not.

For the most part, I am remarkably consistent in my aversion to "Dressing Up."

If clothing of any kind is required, it's a pair of black running shots and a tee shirt.

I still cling to this lifestyle commitment though it is incredibly hard!

I live with Sarah and three little girls who LOVE Dress Up!

"What are you going to be for Halloween?" Cassidy the 7 year old asks.

"A Georgia fan," I reply already dressed in black running shorts and grey tee shirt with the University logo.

"That's what you were last year!" she says.

I shrug my shoulders and ask, "What's your point?"

Give Sarah and the girls ... and our friend Judy O'Neill ... and HER husband John O'Neill for that matter ... any excuse to "Dress Up" and life suddenly takes a very serious turn!

I do my best to encourage their obsession to wear the right thing at the right time without actually participating.

Yesterday we marched in the Pirate Fest Parade representing Bar Church ... yep it's Church in a Bar ... and they're getting ready while I watch the UGA football game.

My wife the Gypsy strolls out looking extremely hot and plugs a gold hoop in my ear.

Then she puts a bandana on my head.

I thought I was already dressed wearing my black Bar Church tee shirt and red University of Georgia running shorts.

Everyone's ready so we pick up Judy O'Neill who's equally dressed, break a float, sweat in bright sunshine and then hijack the Island Hopper Ghost Tour float.

It was just another day on an island where everybody loves to play "Dress Up."

Island Living

It's a summer's day in October.

Giant yellow beams illuminate the green Palm Trees giving them a golden glow against a bright blue sky.

There is no breeze from the ocean so the only noises are the occasional hums of air conditioners, squirrels darting through tree branches, birds singing and constant Hymns of the cicada.

Orange, purple and pink blooms rest atop of the green foliage in pots on the Beloved Back Deck where the railing has been overtaken by Confederate Jasmine.

Inside our house, ceiling fans swirl and the only light is from the smart phones the girls lay in bed staring at, quietly playing games.

My computer softly streams Bob Marley as I write in my bare feet, utterly distracted by the beauty of the morning and the love bubbling inside this home.

It's Pirate Fest on island so there's a constant parade of bands on the Strand, a Carnival's happening and everyone's dressed as Pirates and Wenches including babies in strollers and old men pushing walkers.

There's a parade later and we're in it representing Bar Church ... yep on Tybee Island it's church in a Bar ... Hymns by the House Band ... prayers by struggling souls and the dress code's pretty lax ... smokers are welcome ... but a sweet Spirit blows into every service.

So in the quiet before the party explodes, rum flows and music erupts from every part of this clump of sand ... I'm taking this silent moment to say thanks.

There really is nothing quite like Island Living.

Unanswerable Questions

I spend a great deal of time pondering.

Maybe it's because I live at the beach with the most wonderful wife ever ... and her 3 little girls who set the bar asking questions.

"Question," Laurel the 10 year announces before saying anything.

"What?" I reply asking a question when she didn't.

Or Maddie the 13 year old who knows everything asking, "Mike can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," I clarify.

"What?" she asks.

"I can't answer that question until I answer the first one," I say as she grows frustrated.

"Where's my Mom?" is how these conversations normally end.

So it's questions all of the time at our house which ... leaves me with bigger questions ... in no particular order.

1. John Barrow, do you know how stupid you are in the commercials to reelect yourself to Congress by arguing you're not "one of them" ... though you have been for years ... and you're going to clean everything up by showing up at your Congressional office at 11:00 ... before your colleagues show up ... so you can film a commercial to be re-elected to the Congress you're running against?  
2. When did local cops become Paramilitary Military Police forces declaring war on the very people they're hired "to serve and protect" ... purchasing surplus military weapons to do so ... now wearing cameras to film arrests to be used as court evidence ... so Judges levy the fines to keep the cash flowing to ... buy more weapons?
3. Which leads to the next logical question ... when Lawyers put on black robes ... what in the Hell happens ... because a Demagogue is born on the spot?
4. Is Mitch McConnell the world's first living abortion?
5. Our friend Holly Howard Durrence reminds me of a perianal question ... why do people litter? It's an ultimate act of selfishness and pissing on the beauty of the earth.
6. How is it that we pay for and receive 1000 television stations and hardly anything's ever on?
7. What's Al Sharpton really?
8. RAP music glorifies violence ... which leads to black on black crime ... leading to outrage over a lack of outrage ... leading to increased sales of RAP music. Is this explainable?
9. Who does Joel Osteen's hair?
10. And, of course, where exactly does the Tide go when it goes out?

Oh my God my head hurts and the girls are coming home today bringing their own questions so I got get ready.

Happy Friday everyone!

And if you can answer any of these things, please do!

I think they're all unanswerable.

When there's nothing else to say

"My Dearest Mike," the letter begins,

Standing at one of the long tables in the Landrum Hall Post Office, it's the first letter I've received.

Everything else has been junk from the school, banks and Churches recruiting lonely first year college students.

But this is a real letter!

Ripping it open, I read the one page completely covered in blue ink ... front and back ... with only 9 words.

"My Dearest Mike ... I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, love you, I love you ... Your precious Grandma."

All these decades later, I still remember holding her letter ... feeling her love ... salt water welling in my eyes ... completely understanding how precious she is ... carefully folding it back in the same creases she'd folded ... sticking in the right pocket of my blue jeans ... and reading it a hundred times over the next few weeks.

Those first weeks of college were a drunken, party mess!

My best friend in High School ... Gene Prevatt ... and I'd decided to take college by storm and room together.

We had fun.

The only thing I can recall today is introducing "Broom Hockey" to the 3rd floor of the dorm who's name I can't remember.

The Resident Assistant storms out screaming ... but 20 or of us are having a really good time using our brooms to knock the shit out of a tennis ball.

We're freshmen.

He's a Junior ... and a nerd.

We tie him up, put a pillow case over his head and hang him upside down from the water pipes running just below the ceiling in the dorm.

Ah ... good times.

BUT ... lonely times too ... the first time away from home ... so when my precious Grandma Carver sent me that letter ... I knew no matter what ... I'm loved somewhere.

When I went home on weekends, I stopped at my Grandparent's first ... so the next time we sat at the tiny table in the kitchen and I pull out the letter ... and my Grandma starts to laugh.

I start to cry.

"I couldn't think of anything else to say," she explains.

"You said it all Grandma," and I cry like a baby as I hug her.

She's been gone a long time but ... her love remains.

Love never dies the Bible says ... and I've got a Grandmother's love still running through my veins on a sunny day, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck listening to a choir of cicada sing her favorite Hymns.