Government does not equal Fun

The entire time I worked in Savannah, commuting the 20 minute drive from Tybee, I never recall High Tides preventing me from getting on or off the island.

Sure there were times salt water covered part or all of the road but it was never officially closed as a public safety issue.

If people wanted to go to work or get home they merely drive through it.

Those not wishing to work or go home call in explaining the road's impassable and stay in bed, go to a bar or continue sleeping with whoever they're sleeping with.

It's no longer a matter of personal choice.

Now we receive text messages and automated phone calls from local Government informing us the tide is high, Police block the road leading on and off the island, Emergency Medical Transport is on standby, Helicopters fly overhead taking photographs posting them on the Internet and the entire island is placed on "Lock down."

As a kid I fondly recall when the High Tide slams into the Sea Wall on the South end of the beach and waves of salt water splash high into the air and over the parking lot. Kids run though each passing wave that slams into the parking lot. Teenagers drove their cars under the splashing waves laughing and showing off for one another. Crowds of locals and vacationers collect to watch and laugh.

A few naysayers say, "That salt water's gonna ruin that paint job."

Otherwise a good time is had by all.

There were no Police, Ambulances, Media frenzy and if a fool kids wants to drive his car under a wave of salt wave splashing into the parking lot it's his own damn business.

Now we're a protected society functioning under the assumption that Government knows best! The vast majority are forced to comply with rules to protect the few who aren't capable of crossing the street without a flashing sign telling them when it's safe to walk and when it's not.

It's exacerbated of course by those who shoot guns in public places or drive cars into crowds during parades.

Today the Tybee Road is impassable and I'm not suggesting people go plowing through the High Tides just because they can.

I'm just remembering a simpler, more enjoyable island where kids play on Monkey Bars, Skateboard down the middle of Butler Avenue, jump off balconies into Hotel swimming pools and jump off Ft. Screven into the Sand Dunes ... when adults toss water balloons in the Beach Bum Parade, skinny dip in the Ocean and have hot dog roasts of the Beach.

These things are prohibited now because they're matters of Public Safety ... and ever encroaching Government which is always justifying it's growth and power.

It's a shame.

Then again, no one's ever confused Government with having fun.

Listening to the Wind

"Hey God! You there?"

A gust of chilly wind blows through the Palm Trees outside the open windows.

"Fine!" I snap, "You're here! No reason to blow cold!"

The wind subsides and the Palm Trees stand at attention.

"Thank you," I sarcastically say.

A puff of wind blows out one of the candles lit on the table.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, relighting the wick, reminding me being in the Auschwitz and found two candles under a Jewish Prayer stone on a cold winter day. One was lit ... the other wasn't. The only people in the entire Concentration Camp was Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and he was nowhere around. I took the lit candle and shared its flame with the other ... and at that moment a cold wind blue out the first while the second blazed.

It was a pretty Holy moment in my life.

"What did you bring that up for?" I ask God. "I wanted to ask you something else."

The house is deadly silent.  The dogs and cat are asleep. The sun is covered with a blanket of clouds so it's muted and subdued. Outside the wind picks up again and large Banana leafs dance wildly.

"I wish you're talk out loud a little more," I complain taking my seat again at the table.

The wind dies again.

"Aren't you funny?" I say taking a sip of my drink.

All remains calm though all is certainly bright.

"Listen," I press, "why does everything have to be so hard? We're busting our asses here trying to make things work, in no small part for you, but Holy Mother of God, we just seem to fall further behind."

The response is as loud as the Pork Chops I have thawing on the kitchen counter.

"Hmmm," I sigh.

A bird chirps outside.

"That's it?" I laugh.

Then I spy my neighbor Al stop his bicycle for his daily visit to our neighbor Scott who is dying. Hospice is a regular visitor as is "Meals on Wheels" but every morning Al checks on Scott, staying for 10 minutes or so.

What's funny is Al's an Atheist.

"Wait!" I suddenly snap back to God. "What are you saying? Just keep on keeping on?"

The wind blows ... the Palm Trees and Banana leafs wildly dance ... as do the flames on the candles.

Great Defining Quotes of my Life!

"Hell is portable. You take it with you wherever you go" (Dr. Guy Sayles).

We were in College and it was cold. I was ready to move to Florida and get away from grey skies, cold wind and the necessity for layers of clothing when Guy looks at me and utters these words. It's such truth, I've never forgotten them and use them often. Guy went on to become America's greatest Pastor and I'm still wanting to move much further south.
_________________

"Everybody's a whore. The question is who is your Pimp?" (Dr. Larkin Rossiter).

"If your Pimp's not Jesus, then you're in trouble," Larkin goes on to say. He's preaching at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I'm employed as the "Professional Christian" and regularly take advantage of the large number of Seminary students who attend. Larkin is preaching away when he utters these words.  The five little old ladies in the Church are aghast but everyone else thinks it's hilarious! And it's true, every one's a whore for something.
________________

Professor Kingsfield: "Mr. Hart, here is a dime. Take it, call your mother, and tell her there is serious doubt about you ever becoming a lawyer."

James T. Hart: [pause, as he is leaving the room] "You... are a son of a bitch, Kingfield!

Professor Kingsfield: "Mr. Hart! That is the most intelligent thing you've said today. You may take your seat."

It's from the movie "The Paper Chase" which had a profound impact on my view of academic institutions and learning to tell good teachers from bad teachers. By the time I got to Seminary, I figured it was best to start each class by calling the Professor a son of a bitch! If I was allowed to remain in my seat I learned a lot. If I was kicked out, it was probably wasn't worth learning.
_______________

"No matter where you go, there you are" (Buckaroo Banzai).

It doesn't get much truer that! Regardless of wherever I went, I found myself there. Still do.
_______________

"You weren't ready for me then" (Sarah Elliott).

Describing why it us so long to fall in love, marry and live this wonderful life. We've known each other a long time but were married to different people then. Now that things are so good I often wish we would have started sooner. My wife then explains why it didn't happen that way.
_______________

"And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you make" (The Beatles).

It's so profound and simple. I think it's so true too and it's how I try to live. You should too.

You can quote me.

The Magic of Marcie

I'm pressure washing the house and am mystified by the immediate cleansing of grey Stucco walls suddenly becoming white again, green mildew magically evaporating from wooden beams and Aluminum Siding and oil and grime flush from concrete.

If only it were this easy in life.

The longer we live the more tarnished our lives seem to become.

Hurts inflicted on us, disappointments of wishes that never came true, lies we foolishly believed, love that really wasn't, betrayals from those we believed in and the sad realization we're not capable of everything we thought we were ... are things that each of us share in life.

They leave us different ... sadder, cynical, grieving, disappointed, less hopeful and more doubtful.

Such is the grime of life each of us share and wear.

Last night we were at the celebration of the new life of Marcie, a bright and happy baby who is as pure as each of us once were.

It's funny ... as each of us took turns holding Marcie, something of the child we once were suddenly springs to life!

We speak "Baby-talk", make funny faces and noises, recapturing who we really are underneath the grime we've become so accustomed to wearing ... to being.

As I watch the magic of Marcie cut through the grime like a pressure washer, I see my friends as they really are and not who we pretend to be.

For a little while anyway, a little baby enables a group of crusty adults to become children again.

We're who we were before the hurts, disappointments, lies, unrealized love, betrayals ... when we still believed everything is possible if we just believe.

It makes me wish in every meeting of Congress, Corporate Board room and political function, everyone's given a baby to hold as business is conducted.

The cynical grime and greed might be washed away and we could be ourselves as we were really meant to be as we make the important decisions in life.

I know it'll never happen but celebrating Marcie last night left me believing Babies are born to remind us of what each of us are capable of being ... again.

The Story I Can't Find

There's a story I want to tell at Bar Church this week so I went looking for it.

We don't preach at Bar Church. There's far too much preaching in the world already! Do this ... don't do that ... most preaching today is a bad sign. So we stay away from it. We do tell stories though and I have a particular one in mind for this Sunday.

Confidently I stroll to the book shelve and retrieve a book full of stories I'd written over two decades ago. Flipping through it, the story isn't there!

Lots of other stories are ... people, places and experiences I've completely forgotten so I linger reintroducing myself to episodes once significant enough for me to include in a book.

But the story I want isn't there.

I grab the book after that one and flip through it, repeating the experience, reintroducing myself to people and things long forgotten and not finding the story I'm want.

Perplexed, I stare out of the window, recalling writing the story ... "At 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon, after being away all weekend, the phone won't stop ringing when all I want to do is rest, so I angrily answer," is how it starts.

I remember writing that.

"It must have been for a Newsletter," I tell myself. For two and a half decades, I wrote stories each month for Union Mission's Newsletter to raise money. A return envelope was included in the 8 page epistle and several thousand dollars came back to us inside.

I kept every Newsletter we ever published in black notebooks but I lost them in the divorce so Union Mission still has a boatload of MY STORIES.

Strolling to the Beloved Back deck to bask in the sunshine I fight to recall what's next.

"Rev. Elliott, Mr. Von Schramm has died and you need to make arrangements for the body," someone explains when I answer the phone.

"Who's Mr. Von Schramm?" I ask.

"You should know," a Hospital Social Worker says, "he's listed you as next of kin."

"I don't know anybody named Von Schramm," I snap and much to her dismay hang up.

Then in the middle of the night, perhaps because of a dream, I wake and sit up bolt right in bed and remember ...

That's how the story I can't find begins.

"Well," I say to myself, "I'm just going to have to conjure the rest back to life."

And I make myself remember.

It's funny. I've got boatloads of stories written in books and blogs but the one I want is a lost one, likely sitting in a dusty notebook I no longer own, if it hasn't been thrown out with the rest of the past.

I don't know why it popped into my head, thinking about Bar Church and how it's a good story, one that may be useful to others, had obviously been helpful to me and refuses to die ... even if I can't find it.

It brings itself back to life, appearing out of nowhere, demanding to be told ... to raise Mr. Von Schramm from the dead and now very much part of me again.

I'm not sure why yet.

Maybe I'll find out at Bar Church this week.

Can we do it again?

Rushing through the Publix parking lot early in the morning Carlos climbs out of his car, looks my way, begins his stride toward the market and snaps his head back towards me.

"Micheal!" he exclaims changing direction flashing a blazing white smile on a perfect black face.

We embrace.

We worked together for years. He started with me but when the Homeless Authority was created we encouraged him to apply as a case manager. He was hired and been an excellent addition to this community ever since.

"When you coming back?" he asks in his self demeaning manner, sly smile as his glance goes towards our shoes.

"To what?" I laugh.

"You know ...," he fumbles in an "Awe Shucks" sort of way, "you know ... um ... to our work ... there was nobody like you ... we don't have that any more."

I can't think of anything to say.

His wide brown eyes steal at glance and he seems embarrassed.

"You look great!" I tell him. "You look happy."

"Oh yeah," he smiles. "I am."

"Good," I say hugging him again. "Me too."

I climb in the car, start the engine, back out of the space and in the rear view mirror I see Carlos standing at the door of the Supermarket staring at me wistfully.

Those were good times. Incredibly productive times. We were comrades taking on the evils of the world and winning. Satan himself couldn't figure it out as people overcame the ills of society by finding themselves. The whole world took notice.

Like most things it ended abruptly and while many stayed in place, I left in large part because I wasn't wanted anymore.

But I've moved on, found new happiness, growing in areas I'd sacrificed then, overcoming the psychological wounds either self inflicted or otherwise, learning to appreciate then while relishing now.

Carlos is still staring as I turn out of sight.

At first, I wonder if I'm missed. Do people still care about the things we did? It doesn't seem so though from time to time I run into old mates like Carlos who ask "Can we do it again?"

Sadly, the answer's "No."

But it was one Hell of a ride while it lasted and there are some things people never forget.

Deju Vu

It's Deja Vu, being part of a family with younger children.

Last night at dinner, one wanted nothing to do with what had been cooked, little to do with us but had very definite opinions about me.

She prepares her own meal while Sarah and I eat, joins us when we're done, and pans my approach to several things.

After a futile attempt at dialogue I give up and sit silently with the growing realization that "I've been here before."

It's a place I never dreamed I'd be again, though here I sit.

Each of my kids uncomfortably passed through adolescence, raging out of control hormones, unchecked emotions, discovering themselves at the expense of others, rebelling at any and all authority while squeezing pimples and mastering pubic hair.

Most parents survive their kids adolescence and swear to never do again ... opting to wait on grandchildren who they may enjoy when they're pleasant and leave when they're not.

Something inside of us helps us forget the pains of growing up and remember the good times.

Though last night, many of the unpleasant memories of raising my kids flooded back sitting at the table trying to enjoy the tension.

The good news is I'm experienced and a proven survivor of overseeing adolescence. Making it better, now I'm primarily an advisor and occasional participant in the actual oversight of teen angst.

The things I do out of love go largely unnoticed or are simply expected. Words I speak or advice I offer are easily dismissed or construed as criticism. Being in the same room is often little more than sharing space. Love seems to be a one way street.

I've been here before and this time don't take it as personal.

Yet there are moments ... she lays her head on my shoulder ... she HAS to talk to me and not any one else ... she tells me I give the best advice ... we share things that only the two of us share ... Super Nova moments of love making it all worthwhile somehow.

In the end I know she'll grow up great ... and I'll survive again ... and everything will be alright.

It's Deja Vu ... literally ... all over again.

The Island With No Winter

I keep breaking the same vow I've repeatedly made and here I am doing it again.

A chilled wind from the Northeast blows outside in a clear blue sky, under a bright while sun blazing off the lush Subtropical vegetation.

From the inside looking out it could be summer with a strong Ocean Breeze but from the outside looking in it is cold.

Sarah and the girls love it. Providing them the opportunity to wear more clothes, furry boots, hats and gloves, they delight in the fashions of colder weather. They wish for snow, ice staking, making S'mores over a fire washed down with steaming cups of hot coco.

While I'm amused at their passion, other than making them happy I want little to do with these things.

I passionately hate winter!

I already detest the weather now and it's only going to get worse until sometime in March. Thankfully the temperature will bounce up and down for the next several weeks so while it's cold today it'll be 80 by Thursday. I'll hold on to the warm days while cursing the cold ones.

Years ago I swore I'd never endure another winter and move somewhere in littler latitudes yet here I sit at 32 degrees ...again this year.

It's sobering.

But I've postponed my promise for nine more years until our youngest graduates from school and I'll take a home full of happiness and rely on it to get me through the goddamned cold days and dreary nights when darkness comes too soon. My heart is here with them though it means another winter.

In the meantime I focus on the hot times we've had in San Salvador and Mexico, stream live music from St. Martin while continuing to plan for the island with no winter that we'll eventually call home.

Never too late

My cell phone buzzes and it's "Bitch boy" so I answer, "What's up?"

"What are you doing?" Johnny O inquires.

"Watching football," I answer.

"I have a strange requests."

Johnny O and I have a rich friendship and a long tradition of doing out of the ordinary things together and in larger groups so I'm not especially suspicious.

"Can you do an illegal wedding?"

"What does that mean?"

"They don't have a license but have to get married," he explains.

Johnny works at "The Hotel Tybee" and I naturally assume, this being Tybee and all, some Dude met the love of his life last night at Benny's, are getting married today before they return to their respective homes tomorrow.

"Why not?" I tell him. "I'll even cut my fee in half because no paper work's involved."

"GREAT!" he says hanging up.

At 3:00 I arrive at the Hotel carrying my Black Robe to wear over my UGA tee shirt and black running shorts.

Then it gets magically strange and wonderful.

The Groom sits in a wheelchair with half open eyes, a mouth where only one side works and white fingers made of wax. He is dying and his bucket list included one last trip to Tybee and to marry the woman who's been with him for years.

The Bride is nervous and flutters about, handing her daughter the rings and straightening her dress.

"Dearly Beloved," I begin, stranding there in my robe, one hand of blessing in the air, and I ask them if they freely and totally commit themselves to each other as companions for whatever amount of life they have left.

A long pregnant pause follows.

"I will," he softly slurs.

She cries tenderly placing the ring on his finger made of wax.

"You may kiss ..." and I trail off because he's incapable of moving.

But she kisses him and they cry ... and he says, "I should have done this 17 years ago."

"Well you're doing it now," she tells him and Husband and Wife continue their consummation as I made my way out of the room.

Outside in the bright sunshine, robe slung over my shoulder, leaning against the car, I wipe the salt water from my eyes and take a deep breath.

Sometimes if you're lucky, you have the opportunity to participate in the Holiest of things and it never leaves you when you do. Seventeen years is a long time to put off what you always meant to do but, for whatever reason, didn't. Even at the last minute ... it's never too late.

Heading home, I find myself resolved to let Sarah and our kids know how much I love them now. I don't want to put it off.

More Great Questions

Inquiring minds want to know! ... Sleepless minds like to meander ... Idle minds remain in neutral ... Curious minds contemplate killing cats ... Great minds think alike ... BUT MY MIND ponders the Universe's greatest questions!

"Who put the bob in the bopshoobobshoobop?"

I don't know but I'd really like to thank the guy.

"Who wrote the Book of Love?"

Again I Have no idea. Could have dropped from Heaven for all I know.

"Should I stay or should I go?"

I have to ask Darlin'.

"How much is that little Doggie in the window?"

The truth is I could care less. We already have Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat  and we don't need another dog!

"What's the frequency Kenneth?"

I need some Benzedrine before I can even start considering the answer.

"Do you believe in life after love?"

Well, I can feel something inside of me say there is but I really don't think you're strong enough.

"Who's that Lady?"

She's one beautiful Lady! A real fine Lady! I would dance upon a string with any gift she would bring. As a matter of fact, I'd love to take her home! Oh wait, I already did.

AND PERHAPS THE MOST PERPLEXING OF ALL ... "What's new Pussycat?"

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa ... I can't even wrap my brain around that one.

Are there others I'm forgetting?

Liars on TV

It's a beautiful day here with the high in the low 80s, bright sunshine, not a cloud in the sky and the ocean breeze is lite.

This is the way winter should be!

But those damn people who call themselves "Meteorologists" are prophesizing the temperatures are going to drop tonight and it's going to get a "lot cooler."

Do you know that there's no legal definition of a meteorologist, so anybody can call him or herself one and get away with it?

That's right!

The number one reason people watch the News ... the Weather ... is forecast by someone who woke one day saying, "I WANT TO BE A METEOROLOGIST!"

What really happened is they woke up one morning needing a job.

Let's be honest, meteorologist are wrong 50% of the time.

I WISH I GOT PAID TO BE WRONG 50% OF THE TIME!

There are only two occupations that get paid to be wrong more ... the Clergy ... and all of Congress.

It's like that old adage ... fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me 330,000 times you're a freaking Meteorologists!

To Hell with them!

I'm going outside and enjoying the day!

Probably tomorrow too!

Writers Block

"Write about me!" Winston, The Little Gay Dog, wearing a black sweater vest with fluffy pink letters, that say "As Jesus said about Gay people ... NOTHING!"

"No," I say.

He prances back into our bedroom and crawls under the bed.

"HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" the Car Lady screeches next door.

Standing I close the window.

Something crashes downstairs so I make my way to the carport to see my Bicycle laying on it's side for no apparent reason.

"GET UP!" I yell. "You're not drunk!" and I storm back upstairs.

"Hey," she snarls looking dirty and drinking a beer.

"Not today!" I say.

Blowing cigarette smoke in my face, she takes a draw from her Pabst Blue Ribbon followed with a shot of bourbon and my Guardian Angel stares at me with yellow meth like eyes.

"Don't you have an album to promote?" I sigh. "Why don't you torture Jimmy Cochran?"

"You don't want me?" she snaps puling her robe back over her pasty white shoulder.

"No."

"Fine!" and she disappears leaving two empties and ashes on the table.

Goddess lumbers in, sighs heavily and collapses on the floor under my bare feet which always makes me smile.

Laurel, the 10 year old sends me a text, "I love you" and I immediately respond in kind.

Sarah's working so I have to leave her alone.

"Well," I sigh, standing to get ready for the weekly gig at the Nursing Home. "I guess I'll do it later. I can't think of a damn thing to write about."

Jarring Paradise

Back on the Beloved Back Deck, undressed for work, it's nice to be upright again, I'm listening to the birds sing, watching squirrels dance in the lush green trees and watching Goddess work on her tan.

There's not a cloud in the sky so it is a deep blue and the sun is a blazing ball of white.

The choir of cicada is small and soft hidden in Fran's thousand shades of green.

It's idyllic ... save for the guy with the chain saw trimming Palm Trees two houses down, jarring my computer and making it hard for to think ... to feel.

Which reminds me it's election season!

So far, I've loved the Republican Debates, the funniest live television since Saturday Night Live with Donald Trump as Chevy Chase. God they make me laugh.

Then last night the Democrats got started and, though I didn't watch it, I'm sure they were funny.

I have thoroughly enjoyed this Savannah Mayoral election which is the 3 Stooges version of a debate! (I know there are four but Louis Wilson, Sr. seems dead.) I especially like Murray Silver's explosion into John Belushi, guessing how stoned Eddie DeLoach is and Edna Jackson saying, "Good Afternoon!" when the debate begins at 7 p.m.

On Tybee it's just every bit as good! There's one Political Action Committee who host the island's only debate. Everybody knows the purpose of a PAC is to select, fund, elect and support politicians who will pay them back with votes for what the PAC wants! It's Civics 101.

BUT Tybee's PAC makes it better and invites the candidates they don't support making for an entertaining evening of fireworks. Imagine the Christians being led into the Coliseum and fed to Tom Barton ... I mean the Moderator ... no I mean the Editorial guy whose job is to spend the facts towards the outcome he desires.

Beat that National Republicans and Democrats!

Only the Savannah Mayoral Election comes close to matching the entertainment value!

Except this year the non-PAC supported candidates peed on the Parade by not showing up!

Sure the people that love watching Christians being fed to Lions are pretty upset but I think it's funny to not always play by Bully rules.

Because "remember, where you have a concentration of power in a few hands, all too frequently men with the mentality of gangsters get control. History has proven that" (Lord Action).

Or as John Lennon put it, "You say you want to start a revolution?"

Sleep Talk

Tossing and turning in a sweat soaked bed, every position is uncomfortable and sleep comes in spurts.

When it does for twenty minutes or a couple of hours, the dreams are vivid and crazy, robbing much of the comfort sleep gives.

When I'm awake, either freezing or sweating, I feel the soaked sheets, the loneliness of night, the aching of my body, my mind races as crazily as the dreams.

Throughout my life I got sick only when I was exhausted.

Giving myself away to others on demand, trying to save people slowly killing themselves, tackling the Demons of politics and corporate greed, purposely meeting and trying to convert some of the meanest sons-of-bitches in the world to support the good who die too young while the bad go on to live long lives ... left me different.

Those tendencies remain my nature.

One of the things coming to me during these nights is what a lousy job I did, and do, taking care of myself which is easy to see when I consider failed marriages, alcohol induced poor decision making, obsessing over great things while utterly neglecting other equally great things.

Everybody loses their way in life from time to time, creating similar results, so from that perspective we're all in it together.

The reality is, in the end, it's only up to ourselves to keep repeating or exacerbating our past, or fully embrace the Now. The way to make the best of the present is to give it your best ... meaning the best "you" there is to give it ... not a watered down version leaning on crutches and anchored in what used to be real but isn't any more.

This is what I'm thinking and dreaming in my sweat soaked bed.

"Indeed God speaks once, or twice, yet no one notices it. In a dream, a vision of the night, when sound sleep falls on men, while they slumber in their beds, then He opens their ears and seals their instruction ..." (Job 33:15).

I cannot imagine an encounter with God being anything remotely like a Church service. I think one would rattle my bones, soak me with sweat, leave me dazed and confused but with absolute certainly that I'm being addressed.

Other's can't do the hearing for me.

I have to do that alone.

Then it's up to me to make it real ... now.

Too Many Nurses

I am a sick writer.

This will not be pretty today.

I just want to go back to bed.

After the Bar Church Service at Pirate Fest yesterday I faded fast, came home and slept for the next 12 hours with alternating bouts of shakes and fever ... freezing and sweating ... tossing and turning.

This morning ... after keeping Sarah up most the night ... I got up, washed away the sweat in the outdoor, dressed and stumbled into the Breakfast Club for coffee where ... I felt terrible but receive lots of love.

Returning home I go back to bed.

A bit later I drag myself out of bed and see Sarah's left a note for the girls to take care of me ... drink water ... a Gatorade ... NO WINE ... give him medicine.

"I can't find my phone!" a very agitated Cassidy exclaims storming into the kitchen.

"Let's call it," I tell her and four phone calls later she finds it.

Then she reads Sarah's note, brings me water and medicine and says, "We're taking care of you Mr."

"Did you just call me Mister?"

"Yes."

"I just took my Medicine," I explain. "Remind me in an hour."

"Okay I'm going to watch the Disney Channel."

Laurel stumbles up next staring at her phone watching a movie on Netflix ... reads her Mom's note and spends the next half-an-hour LOUDLY making a breakfast milkshake while never taking her eyes off her phone.

The moment she finishes Maddie storms up the stairs reads her Mom's note and asks in rapid fire procession ... "How do you feel? ... Did you drink water? ... have you had Gatoraid? ... JESUS I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE OUT OF SOUR CREAM!"

Laurel takes her breakfast shake and several candy bars downstairs.

Maddie concocts something to take the place of sour cream.

Cassidy storms over with medicine, "Now Mister!"

"Girls," I say. I love you. Thank you for taking care of me. I'm going back to bed. Leave me alone."

Maddie calls a team meeting in front of "Monster's Inc." blaring from the television.

Turning she sees me watching them.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing," I answer.

"Why don't you go back to bed?"

I think that's a good idea.

Planning my Funeral

Did you ever see the movie "The Big Chill"?

It's a happy movie that begins with a death and a bunch of friends coming to funeral.

It's not much different from any other funeral ... save the organ solo is "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones.

That's pretty cool!

I am in no hurry whatsoever to get to my funeral but planning's everything ... so here goes.

I don't really want one ... give mine to somebody who needs it ... (I'll leave a list of candidates).

As a matter of fact if I pass in a Hospital I don't want anybody to come get my body ... just leave it there to drive them crazy ... after a while I'll start to purge, smell and become a nuisance to the medical profession!

As much they've screwed us in the United States it's my little way of paying them back.

I hope Sarah and all of our kids, dogs and cats go out for a nice dinner somewhere ... maybe a show afterwards.

By this time the Hospital will engaged attorneys to sue Sarah but ... she loves a good fight and will string it out so I'm purging and they have to close an entire floor because of the stink I'm raising.

Once Sarah wins ... and there is no doubt whatsoever she will ... I hope she listens to "Sarah Smile" on the way home.

All of that to say ... don't go out laying down.

You know what I mean?

I love you Honey ... you're the hardest part about funeral planning ... I want to be with you for a long time ... forever in fact ... so let's not rush anything!

Well, except that part about my funeral to someone else who needs it.

I'll leave the list.

Promotion by Parade

"It's Pirate Fest," he says. "Are we dressing as Pirates?"

"I'm dressing as a Beach Bum ... you can dress like a Pirate if you want to."

Sending texts, Bob Fulton and I are planning Bar Church where we're part of the Festival ... after three days of drunken debauchery ... Sam Adams had the bright idea to include a Worship Service to kick off the last day of ... debauchery."

Tybee Island almost as many Parades as it does Stop Signs ... searches of cars without warrants ... cigarette butts on the beach ... and plastic bags.

It's gotten to the point that if you throw a water balloon, the Island throws a Parade.

WAIT A MINUTE!

That's how this whole Parade Culture started!

A really shitty soft ball team ... with cheerleaders ... who liked to drink more than hit or catch ... left another loss on the field to march to a Bar when someone threw a water balloon at them.

The next time, the soft ball team threw back.

That's how it all started.

Then Tybee Island City Council learned about it and now we now have a frigging parade for everything.

If your cat actually hits the litter box, the Tybee Tourism Council is all over it ... and there's another parade!

Today the Island is overrun with Pseudo-Pirates, Wrenches and Booty grabbers ... filling the Hotels, Bars, Streets, beach, wandering into the sand dunes, beach swings and under the Pier ... where they make love, drink, grope, make love, make love,  make love and make love.

I wonder why the Tybee Tourism Council isn't promoting us as "THE" Love Making Island?

 The Department of Public Works cannot effectively retrieve the volume of condoms left in the sand dunes and on the beach every day ... though they do recycle ... and the Police Department knows where the rubber really hits the road.

I'm over the Parades!

I'm not dressing like a Pirate (though I certainly hope Sarah does the Wench thing) ... I'm not into the crowds ... and am increasingly convinced the reason Tybee has so many fireworks is so the Police Department can charge people with illegal discharge of firearms without a gun.

WAIT!

I may be confusing that with the discharges in the sane dunes.

Crossing the Bridge

There's only one road on to an island ... and only one road off.

Sometimes they collide as they did last night and there's no getting on or off an island without a boat or swimming.

Last night was such a night.

Picking up Maddie, our 14 year old, from a Homecoming Celebration at the Benedictine Academy complete with a bonfire fueled by teenage lust and hormones, she climbs in the car excitedly chatting about boys and asking "Can we go through a drive through? I'm starved."

I remember when I could eat like that!

The good old days!

Every fast food place is full as we zip pass because I refuse to wait in line until we get to the Wendy's on Wilmington Island and as I turn, I see the flashing blue lights and the officer placing orange cones in the road.

"This isn't good," I say to Mad.

Strolling inside she orders crap and we find a table.

Our dear friend Wen McNally and her daughter Ava join us and we speculate on what's happened.

Sarah's texting it's a wreck with a fatality.

Wendy decides it's the perfect time to close so we all make our way outside in the dark. Chu's Liquors and the Convenient Store agree and also close with several hundred people parked outside.

"The Flying Fish" ... a terrific seafood restaurant across the four lane is open ... so Mad and I make our way there.

It's a reunion of Tybee people stuck in the night ... ordering drinks and join the anticipation of the opening of the bridge ... such is life on an island.

Then the news hits ... Susan was killed.

Susan was something.

A billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant.

A piece of joy disappears on a bridge.

The night grows darker.

Our drinks become tasteless ... jokes evaporate ... a sadness blankets something islanders turn into a party.

Susan's one of us.

Life is a gift none of us asked for but each of us share. All gifts are to be celebrated while you have them because you never know how long they're going to last.

Our island lost the beautiful spirit of Susan Allen Bartoletti last night and if you were fortunate enough to experience her you understand joy because you saw it shine in her.

The bridge opens near 1:30 in the morning and Mad and I get home at 2:00.

A worried Sarah's waiting and, though exhausted, there is joy we are together again having survived the dark places.

I believe ... I'm not sure how ... but I'm pretty certain ... Susan's experiencing something very similar in a much more glorious way right now.

The Guardian Angel Sessions

"I don't need you anymore," she says after suddenly appearing without any warning.

"Great," I reply. "Does that mean you're going to leave me alone?"

"I wish," she snaps spitting a loogy over the Back Deck into the dark night. "Apparently you're a permanent assignment."

It makes me snort as she takes a long draw from her PBR, chased with a shot of bourbon and a drag from her cigarette.

My Guardian Angel looks like a meth addict ... pasty white ... so skinny her dirty robe keeps falling off her shoulder exposing a breast ... and a voice that sounds like Janice Joplin on a bad day.

"Well," I say leaning over to face her, "if you don't need me anymore but God's keeping you under contract ... what does that mean?"

Spitting another loogy, she points the cigarette at me ... "I have my own album."

Bursting into laughter, leaning over to hold my belly, it takes me a moment to find myself before saying, "I've heard you talk ... you can't sing."

She throws her empty beer can at me hitting me the arm.

"HEY!" I yell.

"I was aiming for your head," she snarls.

"You missed," I say rubbing my arm. "If you can't hit my head what makes you think you can hit a note?"

"It's not my album," she hisses. "Sean McNally and his band "IN FOR WHATEVER THEY CAN GET" did an album about me. I'm on the cover."

"His band is 'IN FOR A PENNY,'" I clarify.

"Yeah, what I said," she further clarifies.

"That's great!" I say pulling her robe back over her shoulder.

"You think so?" she asks in a little girl sort of voice.

"Oh yeah! Sean's great! I hope they make a lot of pennies."

"Me too," she cries and ... for the first time in our relationship ... she hugs me.

"You think Jimmy Cochran is going to write a song about me?" she asks wiping snot from her nose.

"I dunno," I say standing back to breath fresh air. "Perhaps if you washed your robe ... your hair ... body ... clean up your language ... Jimmy likes clean stuff."

"You think he'll like the album," she asks with bright red eyes.

"Oh yeah," I lie.

"Alright, I gotta go see him," she grins and disappears.

And I swear to God, I hear muffled laughter coming down from Heaven.

Confessions of a Semi-Professional Christian

I'm the Pastor at Bar Church.

I don't care for the title very much ... it means you're in charge of a Christian Church or congregation ... and I'm not in charge of shit!

In my past I was a "Professional Christian", paid good money to pretend I was in charge.

It took me a long time to realize I wasn't.

Oh back in the day ... I'd plan ... write sermons ... pick songs ... orchestrate who did what when ... script God to arrive at 11:47 so everyone could feel Holy ... while still beating the other Churches to the best restaurants.

And I got paid for such nonsense!

Two and a half decades pass and ... I'm a pastor who doesn't plan shit ... at a Church ... in a Bar.

(HEY BEN AFFLECK ... you're here on-island filming a movie ... I got your next one right here!)

I've learned a lot in my Holy Pilgrimage to this particular age of 59 ... I'm not in charge of shit.

At Bar Church, I try my best to get people who play better than me to play ... sing better than me to sing ... preach better than me to preach ... collect offerings better than me (I really suck at that part) ... make announcements (I REALLY SUCK MORE AT THAT PART) ... and somehow make it work so at God sticks Her head in at to say "Hey!":

I had an epiphany this past Sunday at Bar Church as I was singing and playing guitar ... a slow prayerful version of "We Will Build A Beautiful City" ... from the rock opera "GODSPELL" ... and it's supposed to be slow ... longing ... prayerful ... Hymn like.

But you know what?

Our drummer ... Davy Cahill ... actually runs Bar Church.

If he wants a Hymn ... he doesn't play ... he strolls over to the Potluck on the Pool Table and gets Banana Pudding which is always there like Manna from Heaven.

If he wants a "Spiritual" he beats the Hell out of the drums and the Bar ... and a really prayerful version off "Beautiful City" ... sounds like KISS is going to rock and roll all night and party every day!

Soaked with sweat, out of breath, and out of God when we finish ... I turn and stare at him.

"Hey," he says ... "C'mere."

So in the middle of disorganized religion (thank you Bob Fulton), I turn my back on Church to ask, "What?"

"Little KISS is playing this weekend but I ain't going. It's not worth the $5 to get in."

What does one say?

"Holy Jesus," are the words I recall coming out of my mouth.

Then ... I don't know how this happens ... but it does ... for a few minutes ... a Bar becomes the Promised Land ... and everybody present knows it's happening ... and for a second anyway ... the Kingdom Comes on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Afterwards, I turn and look at Davy again ... who is as stoic as Socrates ... and he hugs me saying, "We pulled another one off Rev" ... then he says ... "Oh I meant to throw these away before Church" ... and empty bottles of "Fireball" are tossed.

"That's the way God planned it," goes the old Hymn.

"That's the way God likes it."

I can't argue with that.