Original Christmas Weather

The sun shines brightly through the heavy morning fog as the Ocean sings loudly in the distance on a balmy Christmas Day.

I used to go to St. Martin for perfect Christmas weather but God is indeed good and it's going to be in the 80s on Tybee Island today.

The windows are open, the ceiling fans dance and, in a strange aberration of nature, the girls are sleeping late so all is calm, all is bright!

The aroma of Turkey roasting in the oven, the Holiday sounds of Jimmy Buffett make it perfect for Eggnog in bare feet on the Beloved Back Deck.

Sarah spent the day cooking yesterday so most things are ready for our family and friends arriving later for a feast.

I'm in an incredibly festive and happy mood given these things.

I paid good money to the Seminary to learn that Jesus was likely born in late April and not in December! The date was chosen by the Church as terrorist attacks on Pagans who celebrate Winter Solstice!

I'm pretty certain Jesus would have been against the whole thing given his attitudes towards love and peace.

In fact I believe he's demonstrated the whole thing today which is why we're having late April weather and, as a huge supporter of Jesus anyway, I'm all for Christmas weather as it originally was and not this made up stuff about snow and ice.

Today I'm celebrating the peace and love that I have in my life today ... there's far too many who have neither.

I'm going to celebrate with my family and friends with no real concern, or need, of presents.

Then ... I'm going to work on my tan.

Happy Christmas!

Enjoy Everything!

Broken Promises and all

Sometimes you can't do everything you want to do.

You can't always keep every promise.

So you don't.

I promised the inmates at the Nursing Home I'll be there tomorrow on Christmas Eve and they're pretty excited that I ... and whoever else shows up representing Bar Church ... are coming.

They love the weekly mix of rock-and-roll, Gospel Hymns, story telling which sometimes lead to dancing, laughing, confessions, spilled coffee and other signs of life!

I love being with them ... the drooling or sleeping ... the feisty and freaky ... the lost and the lovely.

Honestly they're a lot more fun crowd than any religious congregation I know and that includes BAR CHURCH itself.

Thrown away people know how to have a good time when given half a chance.

Anyway something's come up and I have to hazard the God forsaken traffic to drive to the other side of the County for some potential work.

So I have to go.

Fellow Bar Church occasional participant and musician Bob Fulton is spotting me at the Nursing Home and I'm sure others will show up too ... there's just never any telling who it may be or how many will come.

Lona's had to miss the past couple of weeks because she's taking care of her Mother up north and the inmates sure miss her.

The ones who remember may ask Bob about me tomorrow ... or they may not ... they'll just be glad someone is actually present bring tidings of comfort and joy.

It'll be the essence of Christmas.

Me too actually ... humping my ass to the other side of the world which to get money to pay taxes ... at least I don't have to find a  place to stay.

There's something especially Christmassy about all of it though.

Broken promises and all.

Not Exactly a Church but ... Hell Yes it is!

I swore I'd never do Church again.

Stained Glass ... nice carpet ... padded pews for the asses who sit ... comprised mostly of homogeneous people disliking others unlike them ... a clothes loving sort ... with immaculate music ... plenty of parking ... and popular preachers.

Radicalism in today's Church means you dress casual ... with creases of course.

What a load of crock!

Yet ... here I am ... in a Church!

For my literal Church friends, I'm not exactly in a Church ... but a Bar ... where we gather to worship bringing mostly our sins because ... it's all we really got.

We bring food too.

We can't afford to give money so it's Deviled Eggs (okay if you don't find that funny you're probably dead but nobody's told you yet) ... biscuits and sausage gravy ... left over wedding cake ... fruit ... and mixers.

I'm not saying people who come to Bar Church don't drink ... or haven't been ... or will soon ... just that it's not publically ... or legally tolerated when we gather.

Though there are numerous requests to turn water into wine because most attendees can't afford a bottle.

And I'm the pastor ... as my wife says ... though I'm nothing of the sort.

I was a "Professional Christian" earlier in life ... getting paid to love while asking others to do it for free ... AND TO PAY DUES to the Church ... but they kicked me out when I wasn't all that great a Christian in the first place.

Not only did I sin a lot but ... as a writer and story teller ... I told everybody!

I never read the Job Description's admonition to "keep your sins to yourself" while "calling out others on theirs."

Regardless ... I'm the sinner in charge of Bar Church ... mostly comprised of other sinners ... a people who redefine dress causal to wrinkled tee shirts, jams and flip flops ... we're so poor we can't afford to pay attention ... so we don't.

Well ... unless you take the part about not judging others seriously ... there's not a lot of judgment at Bar Church ... because we've all been the plaintiff.

We're pretty good at not judging.

So if you've had as much as you can stand and need to leave in the middle of a service ... because you need a smoke, the Deviled Eggs are gone and the music sucks ... it's alright.

Thanks for not pulling a Jesus and turning the Pool Tables Over.

It's a nice enough Church without a building, Hymn books or dress code.

I like enough to keep going.

The sinners like me enough to keep welcoming me as one of their own.

I think when all's said and done ... that's really what Church is after all.
________________

If you care to help, you can find Bar Church at www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

 

Thank you and Happy Christmas!

Dancing in the night

Being on stage in a Bar ... fronting a Band ... with special guest performers ... the best drummer around ... conducting worship on a Sunday morning ... is interesting enough but the things I see make it more fascinating!

The room is L-shaped, dark, filled with booths, round tables and barstools. Neon signs colorfully flash brands of alcohol behind the long classic mahogany bar as sunshine streams in large plate glass windows fronting the island's main drag.

The place reeks of smoke and when I get home Sarah and the girls prohibit me from entering until I strip and shower ... then we can be a family again and have Sunday lunch.

On stage, Davy keeps a vicious beat as Monty plucks lead with flying fingers, John adds Calypso on Congas as I sing a rocking version of "Do you hear what I hear?"

Jars of Eggnog line the stage, a gift from Sam one of our parishioners and I see the dimly lit Christmas Tree through the smoke.

Monty and I grin, pushing each other to play harder during a jam in the middle of the Christmas Carol ... Davy's relentless beating of the drums ... and John's in a trance hitting the skins.

People are clapping and dancing!

Well ... most people.

A Dad and his three kids greedily eat sitting in the booth directly in front of the stage.

People don't have money so they bring food instead. A pool table's converting to a setting of banquet fare and the hungry come for food ... music ... company ... a kind word.

There's no preaching ... the world has far too much of that.

There is simply an unspoken acceptance ... of sad smokers, broken Christmas Spirits and people wanting to find a job under the Tree this year ... or perhaps a smile on a day designed for families ... and nothing's going to happen for them.

The Dad nods to his kids and they flee to the Pool Table for seconds.

My voice cracks as I sing ... "Do you see what I see?"

Monty plays harder, pouring of sweat, giving them everything he's got.

Davy beats the living Hell out of the drums because nobody in this Bar needs any more of that ... having far exceeded their quota.

John kindly delivers solace to the wounds in the room, continuing his love like trance repeating his kind rhythms.

Before it's over, Dad huddles his kids and moves them outside ... embarrassed I think ... because this is all he can give them today ... maybe all they'll get for Christmas.

It doesn't matter.

We're giving everything we can.

They've taken what they need.

As the open the door to leave, brilliant sunshine pours into the darkness.

"A star! A star!" I sing ... "dancing in night."
_____________

If you care to help, you can find Bar Church at www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

Thank you and Happy Christmas!

Winning the Game

He was always waiting when I got home from work, baseball glove on his knee and bat in his hand.

After quickly changing clothes we go to the back yard for "the game."

I pitch and he hits.

He pitches and I hit.

We both do running commentary as we play, often mocking the other.

It is not an idyllic example of a Father and Son playing backyard baseball ... it is cut throat competition ... and we love it.

Later, the competition turned from games to books ... who's read what first ... and whether or not we've exhausted a subject before the other.

Then it was music and to this day we've forever sharing songs and artists we discover before the other.

It got a little crazy.

I got divorced ... he got divorced.

I inherited little girls when I married the love of my life and then ... he did too.

But now he's done something I'm never going to match, much less exceed.

My son was awarded his Ph.D.

It gives me pause.

You want your kids to do better than you did but when it happens it's astounding.

Making it better is, to date there's only one boy in our family ... five girls!

But soon there's going to be two!

The Doctor and his Misses are having a Prodigy.

I can't top that so I won't even try.

Congratulations Jeremy.

Enjoy Everything.

Checking It Out

Deciding to take a bike ride to the beach on an unexpectedly warm day, the tires need air so I eventually find the pump, hook it up and notice a woman walking up the drive way.

"Hi," she says with a nice smile.

"Hello," I reply and we shake hands.

"I'm checking out the house across the street," she explains. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

She looks up and down the street to make certain no one's listening.

"Where does the crazy Cat Lady live?"

Caught off guard, I'm unprepared though I point to the house.

"Next door to you," she laughs.

"She's not that bad," I explain. "She muddles around a lot when she's not calling cats."

"Where are the frogs?" she asks.

A few houses behind our house is one with a frog pond with a trained choir of frogs which are quite spectacular when they croak out the hits.

"Uh, that way," I answer pointing.

I ponder how this lady has certainly done her research as she considers moving into a new neighborhood.

"I read your blog," she says smiling.

Hmmm.

"Thanks," she concludes and makes her way across the street to the house where the woman who gardened in her underwear once lived.

As she does, Santa Claus skateboards passed flashing me the peace sign.

Hmmm.

A Kidnapping

My blog was kidnapped today by a mean spirited person who only cares about himself.

Or a Saint, depending of your point of View and you don't care for my writing but it's like a car wreck and you can't help yourself and read it in spite of hating it ... which makes you pretty messed up.

I was already pushed for time with Sarah getting dressed for work this morning which is always a wonderfully major distraction!

The Bar Church Nursing Home gig was mid-morning and today I was supposed to be the loan representative but ... lo and behold John Iacovini brings his Congas in ... and Julia Pearce strolls in followed by Rachel Perkins and the party is on!

Afterwards there's a clandestine meeting on a porch about secret things which I can't share about thwarting an evil plot to kidnap a Church service on Christmas.

Then it was time for a hot dog with cheese, yellow mustard and chopped red onion.

My phone buzzes and it's a nasty message necessitating a phone call I don't want to make but ... there are things you do in life ... so I made it and everything was fine.

It's supposed to rain so I took Goddess and Winston, TLGD, for a walk and was really enjoying the 80 weather so took the dogs home to ride my bike on the beach.

It starts raining but I don't mind so get soaked coasting home so ... since they were already wet ... tossed my shorts and tee shirt in the laundry and took a hot outdoor shower in the rain.

If you've never taken a hot outdoor shower in the rain you have not yet truly experienced all of the nice things about life.

Inside, Winston, TLGD, has decided to shed on the sofa so, after calling the little son-of-a-bitch a SOB (and I mean it literally), I vacuum.

The rain falls and I remember my car is in the carport and I rush out to move it so Sarah doesn't have to get wet when she gets home.

Finally I sit down to write and ... there's no inspiration.

Maybe tomorrow.

Why Should I Care?

I no longer remember when I learned to make my bed but was quite proud of the milestone so I drug my parents into see the accomplishment.

Being funny my Dad, a former Marine, rips a quarter from his pocket and says, "If it doesn't bounce back up in my hand, it's not perfect and can be done better."

Flipping the coin on the bed of course it's sucked into the covers.

"You'll get it right," Dad laughs grabbing the quarter and leaving the room.

My Father had a good heart, was a kind man and it was just his way of "playing" but ... I learned the first lesson in it's never enough.

Regardless of how much you give ... or withhold ... it's never enough ... people will take everything and demand everything regardless of what you do.

Several years later I'm skipping through the neighbor's back yard where I find a wadded up $20 bill!

In disbelief of my incredible good fortune, I hop on my trusty bike, speed to Cowart's Drug Store and purchase perfume for my Mom, tobacco for Dad, baseball cards for David and comic books for me.

Presenting the gifts at home, my Dad's convinced I stole them and orders me to return everything to Cowart's Drug Store which, in spite of my sobbing protest, I did.

I learned you can be punished for doing good things.

Today I remain phobic about neatly making the bed.

I'm wary, untrusting and suspicious of gifts, a very ungracious recipient of presents large or small, somehow believing I don't deserve them.

I can pinpoint when and where both traits, perhaps they're serious flaws, were born ... and I have no idea why they remain significant exhibitions of my behavior on a daily basis.

A successful life is one in which you never stop discovering yourself, learning new things, embracing change and, in my case anyway, the past is between the covers of dusty books on the shelf.

At least I wish the last part were true.

I often have a hard time shaking the past to be fully and completely in the present.

In the grand scheme who things, who gives a shit if the beds made?

Why not enjoy, relish and exploit life's pleasures when they're revealed?

And why should I care what anyone else thinks of it?

It's a funny thing growing up.

If you're not completely in the moment of now, you're stuck in the past and will never successfully make it to the future.

A Pointless Conversation

It's a warm, overcast December day, and the Ocean roars in the distance sloppily kissing the Beach.

Palm Trees stand at attention outside open windows as squirrels scurry up and down them hiding nuts from who knows where.

The Lighthouse is lit because of a wet fog dancing over the Sea and Cargo Ships wait on Tug Boats to bring in all manner of food, merchandise and stowaways.

Colored lights of the Christmas Tree and the girl's stockings hang from the bookcase lighten my mood which is heavy.

I'm waiting on God to do things but God doesn't appear to be in the hurry I am.

I've worked hard all morning and had a meeting that went well enough but left me wanting.

It's not I'm inpatient, God knows the Lord has taught me that but ... Jesus Christ there's a lot I'm not understanding right now.

Why is it consistent good deeds go unrewarded ... especially when the doer could really use some good of her own?

Why is it people take so long as it is given but the moment it stops it's suddenly selfish and mean?

Why is need often met with silence?

Why does it take so long My Lord?

Indeed.

"Thank you for the warmth," I finally mutter as the only thing to be thankful for at the moment.

Apparently God doesn't know how to say, "You're welcome."

The house remains silent.

"Thank you for the girls, their Christmas stockings, a nice tree with all the lights working," I press.

God remains uncommunicative.

"Why do I have to do all the talking?" I sarcastically spit.

I could hear a pin drop as I strain listening ... but I don't.

"You know," I say standing to make my point. "You're like all those people who read what I write everyday but never say anything ... even when they enjoy it ... or Hell! ... even if they hate it!"

Nothing.

"Alright," I sigh. "I don't know what else to say."

At the moment, apparently God doesn't either.

A Potential Off Island Experience

"Do you ever leave the island anymore?" Tom Kohler asks as I leave the Breakfast Club.

Looking like a Rabbi, Tom's sitting on a bench talking to Gordon Matthews who looks very much like a Gentile.

The sun's not up yet and they're waiting on the Club to open.

"We don't have 'Local's privilege'," Gordon says wearing a plaid shirt and his hands stuffed in his Kaki plans with creases.

"How long have you lived here?" I ask the man who definitely does not look like a local.

He has nothing to say.

"How long has it been?" Tom repeats.

"Yesterday," I answer wearing black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt. "We went to see the Savannah Children's Choir perform with the Savannah Philharmonic Choir."

Both are surprised, roll their eyes and whistle.

"Sarah and the girls also made me go to Starbucks," I continue.

"Well, why don't you come meet me for lunch sometime at greasy spoon?" Tom offers.

"Tommy Holland's after me to come to the 'Coffee.Deli.Jam' Christmas concert this week but ... I don't know ... it's so far."

"What's that?" Gordon asks.

"It's my neighborhood," Tom explains. "Anywhere between 20 and 40 players show up with stringed instruments and everyone takes turns playing their songs. In these days of incessant multi-media it is a refreshing return to reality."

It's hard not to love Tom Kohler and his precise ability to explain concepts to us Goys.

"Oh yeah, I've been," Gordon says like everybody from Savannah says regardless if they've ever actually been or not.

"Well call me," Tom continues. "We'll do lunch."

Climbing into the car I doubt I call. If he wants to have lunch badly enough, he'll call me. I don't know what we'd talk about anymore. We used to share a lot in common but that was a long time ago.

The last time I was with Gordon ... he basically wanted the newspaper I was reading and really doesn't care about much else.

Tommy Holland on the other hand won't stop writing me about the Coffee.Deli.Jam ... primarily because he's up all night having multiple near death experiences when he's not walking his dog!

It's hard to not love Tommy too.

Maybe I'll combine trips.

Maybe I won't.

It's a lot to think about.

Breaking but not entering

"Micheal," she asks in exacerbation, "can I have a credit card?"

It's Cassidy, the 9 year old, who left her phone at her Dad's house, which is locked and there's no one home to let her inside.

"Sure," I say thinking ... well, this is going to be fun!

Snatching the card, Cass runs to the front door and desperately sticks a corner of the card into the key hole as I giggle from inside the car.

A few minutes later I stroll up and say, "You're pretty desperate."

"I have to poop too," she explains.

"Oh," I say not knowing what else to say.

"This always works on TV," she sighs.

"Does it?" I laugh.

"Yeah, you just have a flimsy card," she concludes handing it back to me.

"Well I can't argue with that," I say taking the maxed out piece of plastic.

Climbing back inside the car, Cass says, "I guess we'll have to wait."

"On what?"

"My Dad or my Grandma," she explains.

"Not going to happen," I respond worried about the whole pooping thing.

"Where are we going?" she demands as I drive away.

"To your dance class. They have bathrooms."

"I can't poop there," she loudly says.

"Why not?"

"People can hear."

"Oh," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

Any Christmas Here?

"Hey!," I yell into the microphone, "Who vandalized your ceiling?"

"WHAT?" several inmates in wheelchairs ask, looking perplexed, forlorn and sad.

"Look up," I tell them.

A couple do, shake their heads and Paul, an angry man who was at Woodstock, mumbles, "They're our Christmas decorations."

"Seriously?" I ask pointing at the red tinsel randomly draped from the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Paul shrugs his shoulders while wheeling himself out of the dining hall.

"YOU DIDN'T SING IT RIGHT!" a white hair woman in a wheelchair hisses.

Just a few weeks ago, she was completely present, full of joy we show up every Thursday to sing, tell stories and give hugs but a lot can change in a little while and ... she's a different person now ... full of anger.

"Hey," a black man in his wheelchair soothingly calls her by name. "Calm down. It was okay."

I'd sang a "Sons of Anarchy" version of "Silent Night/Holy Night" and she obviously prefers the original.

"HEY!" I yell regaining control of the inmates. "I had to go to Jury Duty the other day! Y'all still have to go for Jury Duty?"


"The money's good," the retired Boat Captain says from his wheelchair. "$25 is good money."

"It's only $10," I tell him.

"Not where I'm from," he snarls.

"Well anyway," I continue, "the Judge made me stand up to explain why I'm unfit for Jury Duty ... so I say, 'Judge'" ... and I strum my guitar ... "Your Honor, I'll tell you why ..."

"I woke up this morning feeling so bad ... it was the worst hangover that I've ever had ... It wasn't wine that I had too much of ... it was ..."

And I stop singing and point to Iris sitting in the back of the room.

"It was her," I yell.

Iris laughs and claps her hands and we launch into a rollicking version of "Double Shot of My Baby's Love."

The Nursing Home inmates come to life, singing, clapping or drooling while they sleep.

"Please come back," they plead as we pack things up to leave.

"Of course we're coming back," Lona affirms while wrapping electric chords.

"Well Merry Christmas then," a large black woman with a child's face says.

"No Christmas is later," Lona explains.

Watching the exchange under the crappy red tinsel, I find myself wondering if there's ever any Christmas in this shithole.

Just Curious

Normally I would have a story up by now but ... the Gods have conspired against me.

After taking Maddie to school and dropping things for Cassidy at her Dad's house, I became very focused on one of several assignments Sarah left for me to complete while she's out of town.

I'm under a bit of a time constraint because I'm supposed to be at Bar Church weekly "Too Old to Rock: Too Young to Die" concert at the Oceanside Nursing Home, which is part of God's work.

Nevertheless, my wife told me to hide the Elf before the girls get home.

I'm probably still going to Hell is I miss out on more of God's work ... Sarah left very explicit instructions ... and I haven't written anything yet.

SHIT!

It's the Problem of Evil all over again!

God is omnipresent. God omnipotent. God is all loving.

You can have two out of the three but you can't have all three to make sense out of evil's existence.

It's the same thing for me this morning!

Do God's work ... Do what my wife wants ... write for me!

Dammit!

So the guitar's packed and ready!

The Elf's having a Ball ... literally.

Maybe I'll write later.

If Sarah doesn't Face Time me again.

Let me ask you this ... changing the subject and all ... have you ever licked your phone while Face Timing?

Just curious. 

Goddess' Birthday is Today

Goddess is ten years old today ... meaning she's 70!

She looks it too with a greying face, thinning coat and is skinnier than she's ever been.

Sarah takes immaculate care of our dog cleaning her ears, bathing her and has her on a gluten free diet ... which Goddess loves!

Of course Goddess loves any food and will sit by the table while we're eating shamelessly begging for food ... which Sarah used to give her but over the past year such whimsical things are no more.

Goddess and I always too care of each other having both been abandoned in our lives but Sarah ... who may indeed really be Wonder Woman after all ... is our Hero ... taking care of us like we've never been cared for before!

In return, Goddess sleeps at the foot of our bed watching over us like an Angel in the night. It used to be she slept in the floor on my side but that's changed as Goddess' adoration of Sarah's grown.

Before bedtime, Goddess likes to crawl in my lap if I'm sitting in the floor which is what she used to do as a tiny puppy.

Almost a decade passes and she's now doing it again.

It makes me wonder if she's letting me know in no uncertain terms how she loves me.

Most mornings, Goddess tries to prevent Sarah from leaving the house for work, making an obstacle course of the stairwell, refusing to move when commanded so totting bags full of notebooks, calendars and electronics wearing high heels and a dress ... my wife carefully steps over our dog.

When the girls are gone, and Goddess and I are alone, she stays nearby, as she is at this very moment, curled in the kitchen floor as I write, content, secure and happy.

Sarah's lost dogs and has given one up to lovingly care for us, make a home out of an empty house, be the professional working woman, mother to three impossible girls and still love Goddess as never before.

I have no such experience and already dread the dark day when Goddess decides it's okay to leave us for what's next.

I don't know what I'll do!

Pope Paul VI, who was never accused of being a happy man, once told a distraught boy whose dog had died: “One day, we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God’s creatures.”

I like this and have now made it part of my belief system.

Happy Birthday Goddess!

You simply make the world a better place!

God you are loved!

Thank you for everything!

The Dance

It's funny writing every day and tossing it out there for the world to see.

"You know," my wife says, "No one is ever going to hire you again because you put it all out there for the world to see."

Sarah's mostly always right.

It's not like people are knocking my door down to get to me.

But what's wrong with putting yourself out there ... consistently and as honestly as you know how?

I honestly believe it helps others though it may not always be as beneficial to me.

It's true I share stories about Winston, our Little Gay Dog (LGD) ... my drunk ass Guardian Angel ... the Cat Lady next door ... the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes ... and Fran's 1000 Shades of Green ... which many claim are pure fiction!

But they're real to me.

There's also Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) ... my childhood friend Gene Prevatt ... Dedra, Mark and Mitch from College ... Jim Withers ... the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church ... and my grandparents Ira and Edith Carver ... all very real.

They're dreamlike ghosts from a different time and place but ... they're still real to me too.

Sarah's my reality, showering me in love and doing her best to keep me grounded though I seem to enjoy dreamful fantasy mixed in it.

"Wanna do lunch?" she texts.

"Hells Yeah!" I reply.

"I could go for soup," she says.

Where in the Hell do you get soup on an island?

Sometimes I think she's the one living in the fantasy world.

But we meet on another island and ... lo and behold ... there's soup!

She has cheese broccoli ... and I have seafood Gumbo.

All of that to say, I believe it quite healthy to engage in the dance between fantasy and reality.

Because when the two dance ... dreams come true.

Even if people think you're crazy for putting it out there.

No one comes calling.

And they'd be nuts to hire you.

Well ... unless they want to make their dreams come true.

Caupcake

At the Celebration of Cupcake's Life, I walked around Bar Church at the faces of Tybee Island. I saw the love in their eyes, heard them talk of things she's done, stories of how she loved them. I saw our siblings mingle with those I've grown to love over the 15 years. She called Tybee home. I hear laughing ... Yes, laughing. One wonders how can people laugh when we hurt so much. We laugh because we share a common love.  We laugh because relationships are healing. We laugh because they see her in me. We laugh because God is praised!

MY TYBEE FAMILY smile when you remember a place we dance together, eat together, dolphins jump. And please, by all means please, don't freak when you see me walking your beautiful streets or sitting on the walk-over, Cupcake is NOT haunting you!

Sunshine and Smiles, Anne.

Around the Corner

"How does this make you feel?" Sarah asks as we're snuggled on the sofa, glowing in the light of the Christmas Tree, watching Jim Withers at the CNN Heroes Award's.

"Glad for him," I honestly answer.

He deserves everything he gets after spending the 23 years being a Doctor to the Homeless, developing the Street Medicine concept, making it a world wide endeavor and ... in his office he can't sit behind his desk because that's where he's stuck all the awards he's won.

"I don't have any other place to put them," he explains.

What's one more award for someone who's already received hundreds?

The more you receive, the less they mean ... except such ceremonies and broadcasts allow you the chance to continue advancing your message.

It's a new audience to spread the word to and an opportunity for more converts, contributors and believers.

In some ways it's like being a Prostitute ... the more corners you own ... the more you make ... but it's okay because ... there's a few more buying into what you're selling.

When others take your idea ... your heart ... and make it their own ... well ... either good or bad things happen ... depending on the idea.

Jim's idea ... and heart ... are pure.

"Do I know him?" Laurel, the 11 year old, asks snuggling with us under the lights of the Christmas Tree.

"He's stayed with us several times," Sarah replies. "You know him."

"How old was I?" she fires.

"It was a couple of years ago," I answer.

"Oh," she absentmindedly mumbles returning to whatever she's watching on her phone.

But ... here's to you Jimbo! ... you picked up another couple of blocks last night ... the rest of the world is just around the corner.

Tiny Glimpses of Heaven

I have a Love/Hate relationship with Church.

I know ... that's a horrible thing for an ordained minister to say.

Nevertheless, I find it to be the most reprehensible of institutions ... when it's not the most glorious.

It's as schizophrenic as it comes ... beating out even Government!

I suppose it's understandable because you like about half the people in Church and no use whatsoever for the others.

Just like half the people in Church like you and the rest could care less.

In spite of verbiage to the contrary I think it really is a bit premature to seriously consider everybody really loving each other.

Though it is nice to still aspire to such loftiness.

I'm attending Church today with people I feel have seriously wronged my wife and I!

And I have little doubt they believe the same thing about us ... primarily because they've said so ... and we have too but in quieter circles.

Skeptics will claim we're doomed from the start because we're supposed to be perfect as God is perfect ... which is about a bogus a statement as ever uttered (Matthew 5:48) ... though it's really not an admonition to be "perfect" ... but to greet everyone equally ... speak to everyone the same way.

We fall pitifully short of something as simple as being nice to everyone we see.

It makes me hate it all!

Yet ... there are moments ... tiny glimpses of Heaven ... when forgiveness actually happens ... egos left at the door ... people losing themselves in each other ... God actually attends.

I do love these moments.

As fleeting as they are.

The Sadness of It All

Walking to the Nursing Home with my guitar, I have to wait for security to let me in which really means not letting the inmates out.

Yes ... residents of Nursing Homes consider themselves to be "Inmates" ... they can't leave whenever they wish ... plus the place is decorated in "Early American Prison"  and Jane Coslick herself couldn't do anything with this dump of a place!

"HEY KIDS!" I yell strolling into the Dining Hall.

Normally the inmates laugh at being called "Kids" at their age but today there the room is filled with gloom.

"They didn't pay the cable bill," Paul explains from his wheelchair. "We can't watch the 'Price is Right'."

Lona Crask shrugs her shoulders, John sets up his drums and I look at the blank television screen.

Bob Barker has been our opening act for the better part of two years.

"Dammit!" I think, "We're going to have open cold today."

It's hard to replace Bob Barker.

The Nursing Home Nurses rush in to calm the crowd with coffee, oatmeal cakes and pickles which the inmates savagely grab and immediately eat.

It's sad.

There's not enough chairs for everyone to sit in the room as the floors were recently cleaned and ... well ... floors are more important than people!

Lona, John and I break into music and the inmates come from everywhere ... meaning the Nurses have to find chairs and bring them into the room.

The room is packed in no time ... in spite of no Bob Barker.

"HEY!" I yell between songs. "HOW MANY OF Y'ALL DID IT IN THE BACK SEAT OF YOUR DADDY'S CAR?"

Nurses frown.

Old men and women in wheelchairs grin and raise their hands as dead memories spring to life.

"Yeah, me too," I laugh.

And they laugh ... for a moment anyway.

At the end, they rush up to hug, help with the equipment and howl that the television doesn't work.

It's time for "Wheel of Fortune."

Walking out, the people in Administration count money ...literally ... from the selling of Oatmeal Cakes and pickles.

A Nurse punches in the code to let me out and keep them in.

Throwing my guitar inside the car, I sit behind the wheel full exhausted wanting a strong drink.

I'm doing a funeral later.

I hope I'm up for it.

Then I bust out laughing at the sadness of it all.

Funeral Wear

There's something about an island in the winter.

Cold is relative term! Folks visiting from Canada or the Midwest find Tybee absolutely balmy whereas I know it's freezing outside!

Of course I'm barefoot, wearing black running shorts and ... a long sleeve tee shirt.

"DO NOT TURN ON THE HEAT," Sarah tells me. "PUT ON PANTS."

I lovingly adore my wife but I swear sometimes ... she says crazy stuff!

I am firm believer the weather should always suit the clothes ... NOT the other way around.

Sarah and the girls love clothes! The more the better as far as they're concerned! They say I have issues which I don't deny.

It  is telling though that virtually every plastic clothes hanger in my closet holds a tee shirt.

But I got dressed up last night ... an honest to God sweater, long Kaki pants, red underwear and flip flops.

Right before sunset, we gathered on the South Beach Gazebo to say goodbye to Cupcake ... a true island character with the biggest of hearts ... and ... had she been physically present ... I think she would have laughed her ass off at the way I was dressed!

To make it better, I wore my black preacher's robe over the clothes ... Sarah calls it "layering" ... because I'm partially responsible for the funeral.

A crazy collection of islanders ... Tybidiots ... are dressed in every conceivable manner ... causal business attire or camouflage fatigues under cut off blue jeans, tie-dye shirt and crocks under a yellow "Bass Pro Shop" cap.

When Davy Cahill sees ... dressed in yellow jams, dirty black tee shirt and flops ... he points at me and burst out laughing.

I flip him the finger.

Then Cupcake's service begins.

God finger paints a glorious sunset after calming the waters of the Ocean and blowing the winds somewhere else.

We celebrate the gift of Debbie Cochran's life to each of us.

Laughter mixes with tears.

Baby breath floats away on the Sea.

Julia Pearce is the first to recognize the Holiness of it all ... puts out her cigar ... lights her incense ... and carries on a private conversation with God while the rest of us check out to see who's wearing what.

I don't think Cupcake could have planned a better funeral if she tried.

As if she was ready to.

I'm sorry she missed it though.

Her funeral is as good as Tybee Island gets.