Dogs and cats

The dog is at the end of the line. He is not releasing himself the way he used to. He may have a problem with his kidneys. Dogs outlive their organs. It is sad. I really think his kidneys are at the end of the line. We usually outlive our pets. It is sad. I have had three dogs as an adult and three cats. No four. Georgia. Molly. Tex. Violet. Calvin. Maggie. Tuxedo Bob. They don't survive us.

It is sad.

Boys and girls

I was discussing the difference between boys and girls the other day with my wife and a friend when I remembered something from my childhood which perfectly illustrates the difference. When I was about twelve years old and my brother around nine, we were sitting in the dark of our parent's den, with the lights out, at twilight, watching television. As I remember, our parents and our sister were out of the house, running some errand. Frank and I were just laying on the floor, watching television. Among the three network channels, the two public broadcasting channels and the three UHF channels, there was not much to watch on a hot Summer day in July. As we flipped around the dial on the television, two of the following were on the UHF channels: bullfighting from Tijauna, Mexico, roller derby featuring Joanie Weston of the Bay City Bombers, a rerun of an old movie serial of Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon, in which Buck attempted to escape from the clutches of the Emporer Ming, and professional wrestling from some arena somewhere in the south. The channel dance lit on the professional wrestling, as Frank and I settled in to watch wrestling.

As we sat in the glow of the television, we suddenly noticed a rural beauty on the front row of the auditorium attempting to remove her brain with her finger through one of her nostrils. You can not imagine the fascination and drama instilled in those two pre-teen boys as we watched that young woman picking her nose. Absolutely riveting television. To this date, I can guarantee you that I could call my brother and ask him if he remembered the lady picking her nose on the front row of the wrestling arena and he would confirm in the positive. As a matter of fact, I called my brother after I thought about this and his response was, "Didn't she have some kind of beehive hairdo?"

Now, given the possibility of watching a lady picking her nose on television and some other source of amusement, my wife would just turn the television off. And she couldn't conceive of why two young boys could find so much fun in this show. But that is the difference between boys and girls. The girl was picking her nose. The boys were finding amusement in watching it.

Tuesday brain waves

This morning arose at o:dark:thirty. I left Griffin with a hint of morning on the eastern horizon, heading in the direction of the new morning. Later, the sun was up over the courthouse in Columbia County. Fort Gordon is in Columbia County and everyone seems to be a retired soldier, particularly the bailiffs at the metal detector.

When the courtroom door opened, I got to listen to another marshall, watch an orientation video, and wait for the magistrate to arrive and beckon me to the podium for a brief statement about my case, a discussion of the missing defendant, and a promise of a final order. Then I was released to return to the bright, summer-bright sunlight, Kate's Explorer, and the road back to Griffin.

Many detours. I drove past the home of Tom Watson, one of my favorite characters in Georgia politics. I took a picture with my phone. Then, I drove past the home of Alexander Stephens, "Liberty Hall" and took a picture on my phone. Then I drove toward Madison on 278, stopping in Greensboro, just long enough to head south to the interstate.

Then on past Covington and Conyers to Stockbridge and then to Jonesboro and the courthouse. A rather dull, quiet place these days, even with jurors running back to work from lunch. The bailiffs running around like ants.

Then back to Griffin, where I took phone calls, checked the mail, talked to people, considered the afternoon, tried to reboot my brain.

Too late. I went home and watched MLB channel, as they replayed the 1982 World Series between St. Louis and Milwaukee. This was the best world series for style. This was pre-steriods baseball. All the young guys were as thin as rails, covered with substantial facial hair. All the old guys were paunchy, covered with facial hair, looking amazingly like their coaches as they age. One team looked like they got all of their players at the industrial league softball fields. The other team was basketball players rejected by the NBA and the CBA and all the other a's.

It was very cool. I forgot the series went to seven games. I still marvel that anyone could beat the Cardinals back then: Keith Hernandez, Tommy Herr, Ozzie Smith, Ken Oberkfell, Willie McGee, Lonnie Smith, Vince Coleman, George Hendrick and Darryl Porter. If they had had substantial hitting, no one would have beat them. I remember watching the batting statistics and seeing them monopolizing all of the places. It was wild.

Oddly, the Braves were good back then. Dale Murphy, Bob Horner, Chris Chambliss, Brett Butler, Steve Bedrosian. Dale Murphy was the regular MVP. Look at those players, They had their share of beanpoles and softball players too. Baseball was fun without steroids.

Anyway, we go to see the Braves take on the Astros on Friday. Fun. Fun. Fun.

Afternoon in Macon

The air was dry and the sky was blue. Blue like turquoise. Late in the day, I was sitting in the Explorer waiting for the borrowers on my closing. I had been back and forth with them trying to get them to call me back. The wife said she had left messages, but I didn't have any messages on my phone. I was standing in the middle of Macon on a Sunday afternoon; no one around to speak of. I was looking around the buildings on the block. There seemed to be a lot of cars parked across the street. Doctor's offices were around and there was a television station on the corner. A satellite dish, with a channel logo peeling off the center sat behind the building. For the life of me it didn't look like there was anything going on there.

It was pretty, but I was suffering from the beginning of a migraine. I climbed back into the Explorer and closed my eyes. I was a little afraid of the possibility of someone coming up on me while I sat in the car, staring at the inside of my eyelids. I kept my eyes open. No one was around. I finally exited the car again and waited outside. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Finally, the wife arrived and pulled up on the other side of my car. I went around, carrying my file. Then the husband arrived. He drove all around the building and parked in the back. No one shook my hand. No one acted like they cared much as to whether I was there or not.

When we entered the building, he directed us to a conference room with a table covered with surveys and plans for power plants. He removed one of the set of plans. I removed the other.

After we completed the closing documents, I exited the building and no one followed me. I headed to the car and drove out of the lot, winding my way around downtown Macon. Macon has some amazing buildings, most of which suffer from deterioration at some level. When you drive around Macon you feel a city which was vibrant once, but is no longer. Oh sure, there are still the parts of the residential section to the north of the business area which are well kept, for the most part. You see homes one hundred, two hundred years old. Most kept up fairly well.

But downtown is half new businesses and ghost town, all mixed together. I wish it would thrive. It deserves to thrive. Perhaps the failure of agriculture in the area has taken away its reason for being. Its sad. Meanwhile, Macon keeps growing north toward Bolinbroke and Forsyth. Maybe Monroe County will ultimately thrive as a result of the desire of all these Maconites to move away from their roots toward the empty farmlands and buildings in Forsyth and southern Monroe County.

There ought to be a impetus for replacing the old and leaving the forests and pastures alone. Perhaps this historical preservation should be primary. Make sure cities like Macon and Columbus and Americus and Albany survive.

By the time I left, the orange and pink of the sunset was disappearing through the woods on the western side of I-75. I left the interstate and returned home in darkness. This was a long day. I didn't notice stars in the skies.

April 26th: yesterday, today and tomorrow

Today is Confederate Memorial Day. For anyone born below the Mason Dixon line before 1970, you can be happy because you are off tomorrow. You can be conflicted, because you don't want to celebrate what seems to be a dead allegiance, but proud of your background. You can be upset that the state of Georgia still holds on to something which should have died a long time ago. Or you can be completely ignorant of the existance of a holiday which was begun a long time ago when the white citizens of the Deep South tried to wage a philosophical battle with their northern brothers and sisters by coming up with an alternative Memorial Day from the end of May. What it means to me is basically when we moved to Huntsville, back in 1964, when the police in Birmingham were battling the African-American citizens of that city with firehoses and dogs, and segregation still lived in most schools around the old Confederacy, I got a day off from my segregated school to sleep late and ride my bicycle around the neighborhood and enjoy the end of April.

Then back to school. It is hard to hold on to the past and grow into the future.

Health

Yesterday we had a wonderful taste of the beginning of summer. On Friday night, around ten thirty, I built a fire, cut some fat and rubbed salt on two pork shoulders and started the process of turning pig meat into barbecue. It is magic, but it is slow magic. Yesterday morning, I awoke around six thirty and started it all over again. Then I tried to take care of a little business, without success, before I came back home and worked in the yard with Cindy for a few hours until it was time to pack the barbecue and drive over to Williamson for an evening of relaxed fun at the Reahard's house.

Sitting under the cover of the green-leaved trees and enjoying the comradery of our friends, we ended the evening with plane rides in Chip's Stearman trainer plane. Even the return of allergic reactions, late in the evening, could not place a damper on our evening. Cindy and I returned home and I put a pot of water on the stove and we ended the evening drinking glasses of hot tea to relax the burn in our throats.

Now it is Sunday morning. Tex has been out and now he is beating his paws against the floor, as he tries to reduce the itching beneath his fur. Poor dog. No matter what we do, there is no cure. Oh well, at least it is calm and quiet and we can watch the world awaken on this bright, sunny morning.

I did hear birds this morning. Spring is here. April will be gone on Friday and we will be officially in the "lusty month of May." This is the month in which England rises to the sap within herself and begins to enjoy the wonderful weather of that island during the late Spring and Summer months. It is also the month of the Kentucky Derby. Ladies in bright dresses and hats. Men in light-colored suits, officially. A new look at the world, again. We are young and we have life within us. No matter how old we are.

Rise and feel the life flowing within you. Summer and all that it holds is before us. We are on the brink. Close your eyes. Hear the birds, feel the warmth. Enjoy the home-grown vegetables.

Apalachicola and St. George Island

The oil is playing colors on the water
And I can smell the diesel fuel from the shrimpboats.
Take a drink from the glass of amber,
Watch the seagulls and pelicans
Sail down from somewhere beyond to the docks,
Eat my fill of seafood, rich and fried
A golden brown, crisp, sweet slaw
And the feel of the breeze off the Gulf
On my short-sleeve shirted arms.
The sun is disappearing in the west
Above the trees, toward Pensacola.
Tonight we will walk barefoot, together,
On the silver sands, reflecting
The moon's glow above us
And watch for the lights
Of shrimpboats, out on the black water,
Until it is time to go back
And catch the breezes through the window
Across the covers, and find sleep,
Like children, happy, sunbrowned children,
The heat of the day finding its rest
On our sunbruised faces.

Wilson Field, Early Fall 1978

The character of sunlight at noon,
Pouring down like golden rain,
Before the game began
When we were trotting across the field
And the thick, green grass was so welcoming,
Cantering across the yardlines
Like young colts, kicking, smiling
Laughing in the yellow sunshine
Popping each other playfully
For this was a game,
Despite its martial tendencies
And the language of war and struggle
For this is a game of territory, like capture the flag,
But a game, nonetheless, for boys,
In colorful play uniforms, just boys,
Numbered, decorated playclothes, for boys
Having fun in the sunshine.

The last Pop Warner game

On one of the walls in my office is a series of three photographs grouped together in one frame. To the left is a picture of the Branham Hughes football team from around 1917. My grandfather, without helmet, is crouching behind the front line. In the center is a picture of my father with his helmet, without facemask, he wore for the Clarksville High School Wildcats. At the right is a picture of the Washington and Lee football players in 1978 who were from Atlanta, Georgia: Stewart Atkinson (Lakeside High), Don Crossley (Henderson High), George West (Westminster High) and yours truly.

That's three generations of Tom Baynhams in their football gear. I have a picture of brother Frank and myself in our Dunwoody High School uniforms. I think they are both from our respective junior years. There have been numerous other football players in my family, particularly from the branch which lives near Aiken and North Augusta, South Carolina. Notably, Craig Baynham, who played for Georgia Tech before being drafted by the Dallas Cowboys. He had a son, Grant, who also played for Georgia Tech. There have been others. Football is a big part of our family history.

When I was nine years old, my mother let me out of the station wagon at Murphy Candler Park in North Atlanta to participate in my first football practice. I remember looking back at her as I walked toward the other boys and listening as she said, "Be aggressive." An odd admonition for my mother. Interestingly, it was fourteen years later, on the football field at Georgetown University, when my father was tearing up over my last football game and my mother grinned and said, " I am so glad that your career is finally over without a serious injury."

As you can see, my mother laid the bookends on my career with an admonition for my benefit and a final statement in which she let her true feelings show. I suppose all mothers of football players, no matter what size, age or level, worry about the possibility of harm to their little boys.

I had a lot of fun playing football. I remember way too much about the games and my teammates and the plays. I sometimes amaze my wife with my ability to remember minutiae of games that happened thirty to forty years ago. I remember one special year very vividly.

When I was twelve years old, I tried out for the 115 pound Atlanta Colts. It would be my last year in Pop Warner football and the Atlanta Colts was one of the premier leagues in the country. At one time we had more participants in that league than any other youth athletic league, of any sport.

A lot of my friends were on that team. Guys I had played with or against for four years prior. Guys I would play with or against in High School. I remember my last high school football. Jeff Meadows and myself, along with all the other seniors, were the team captains for that game. We walked out to call the coin toss. On the other side were Tony Cannaro, Blake Mitchell, Bud Schrieber, Gene Geeslin, maybe a couple of others I can't now remember, who all played with me on the same 115 pound Colts. We shook hands and smirked at each other.

But when we all finally made the 115 pound Colts team and the final cuts were made, the coaches met with our parents outside our hearing. In that meeting, the Head Football Coach, Bob Johnson, told our parents that he didn't necessarily expect much from this team, since it was so small and untested. I was playing at 104 pounds at right guard. We had very few members of that team who sweated the weigh-in before every game. Going into the season, nobody knew what we could do.

But that didn't stop the coaches from training us the same way they had trained all the others.
I remember that the word "pride" was the biggest word in all of our practices and pre-game speeches. We were following teams who had been bigger, who had gone on to play college football. And yet, not one 115 pound team had won the championship, the Bobby Dodd bowl.

So it was quite a surprise when we were flying south toward Fort Myers, Florida, after going undefeated and twice scored upon during the season, the champions of the 115 pound Bobby Dodd Bowl, played at College Park Stadium against the class of our league, the Midway Mighty Mites, and winners of the Atlanta Colt Classic against a team from Vienna, Virginia.

As we flew down to South Florida, the only thing we knew was that the team from Fort Myers was undefeated as well. As we arrived in Florida, we were parceled out to the families of the players on the other team. They were nice boys with nice families. They showed us around the area. By the time we played on a cool December night in South Florida, we were distracted, but ready to play.

That game went back and forth. We were inside their twenty twice in the first half, but our quarterback threw an interception into the end zone on one fourth down and then was tackled trying to run into the end zone on the second opportunity.

Late in the game, still tied at 0-0, we caught Fort Myers in a stunt away from our play on second and eight from the five yard line, a straight dive up the middle off my right hip, and Tommy Sheehan cut out and ran down the sidelines toward the other endzone. Unfortunately, Tommy ran out of steam and got caught from behind and fumbled the ball into the opponent's hands.

That was the last chance for either team to score. Fort Myers had never crossed our fifty yard line. The final whistle sounded and we went out to shake hands with the other team. Later, we ran sullenly off the field and on into the locker room. The coaches stayed inside, talking to the parents, not really knowing what to say to us. This would be the only negative on our record that year. As the coaches and parents talked outside the visitor's lockerroom, the team became little boys again and cried together.

I will never forget that night. Crying on the bench in the lockerroom. Watching as the coaches filed in, not really knowing what to say to us. There would be other final games. But that was definitely a memorable one. A milepost to remember.

Driving through the falling blossoms of April

This was a grand day to drive around Georgia. The early morning was suspect, the grey light of morning reflecting on the wall of the living room, as I sat in the darkness watching the early morning news. I held off from taking Tex out for his morning constitutional until the last moment; I really waited until I heard his first rustling in the kitchen. Then, when I opened the door, the sun had risen high enough to light the morning with a golden glowing and the fair blue skies and the remainder of the dogwood and azalea blossoms hanging from the trees caught my heart square in the fleshy center and I felt much better about the day.

I made it into the office and waited around for a new client who never showed, then left Kate in her area, playing solitaire on the computer, and headed over to McDonough to buy gas and head up to Doraville and parts to the north.

"Doraville, a touch of country in the city." Those were the song lyrics when I was in high school. Now it should be "Doraville, a touch of Latin America and Asia, intermixed in an odd stew, in between the bustle of Atlanta and the population exploding in Gwinnett County." I winded my way from Chamblee, down Clairmont Road past the old Vanover barber shop, now a hair salon, to the general location for the Georgia Department of Vital Statistics, housed in an old elementary school, abandoned by the Dekalb County Board of Education over to the State of Georgia.

Inside, a nervous lady sitting at a table guarding the door didn't know what I needed and directed me to Window 4 inside. As I opened the door to the main room, a cornucopia of people and their children crowded around, staring at my entrance. If 'Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world', then so must the Georgia Department of Vital Statistics. There were children laying on the floor, playing with each other, sitting in their mother's laps, sitting in their father's laps, toted in a sling around the shoulders of their mothers, laying in infant seats. They were squealing with delight, crying, speaking in various tongues, making noises both joyous and terrible. And that was just the children. I made my way to Window 4 and turned and stared into the eyes of a hispanic woman. There was no look of recognition in her eyes, I didn't trust her ability to communicate in English, nor mine to speak in any latin tongue. Four years of German study seemed unavailing in this regard.

Before me was a series of glass windows, behind which the employees of Vital Statistics showed varying degrees of inaction. I am sure that the multitude gathering outside their window was not very inspiring, but their attempts to ignore us was quite effective. "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" could have been written over the front door.

Finally, one of the employees glanced at me and approached me and asked me if she could help me. That, at least, was the message I assumed from her attempt to speak to me through the glass. I positioned my ear to the small circular portal in the bullet-proof glass so that I could hear her, then turned and spoke through the chink, like Pyramus, and asked for help with a putative father certificate. For the first time, a note of understanding passed through the eyes of someone with an official capacity inside this building, but unfortunately, the person who could help me was apparently out. I looked at the clock on the wall and realized that I had made my way to this building during the first moments of the lunch hour.

She informed me that the person who could help me was out and would be back in a little bit. I was told to sit and wait until he returned. Unlike everyone else in the waiting room, I was not given a piece of paper with a three digit number on it, so my optimism was at an all time low, slowly being replaced with its opposite.

But after forty five minutes of sitting, trying to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible, a gentleman arrived within the offices on the other side of the windows who, being told, apparently, of my needs, caught my attention and directed me to a closet next to the windows, within which was another bullet-proof window. I closed the door behind me, thus shutting off the noise from the outside room, and I could speak with the gentleman, who turned out to be the acting head of the department. He initially informed me that he couldn't help me because the computer was down. However, he allowed me to fill out a envelope and promised me he would mail the certificate I needed.

This was a might pump to my joy button, and I thanked him and left the closet, to vacate the waiting room, which had filled with more screaming children to replace the ones who had exited while I was there, found my way back out to the parking lot, which was relatively quiet, its peacefulness only broken by the sound of birds singing their Spring songs, and the dull roar of traffic on Clairmont Road.

After a short trip to the Fulton County Deed Records Room, which is much higher on the business-like scale from the office of Vital Statistics, I re-entered my car and drove through the baby blue skies, among the other speeding cars and trucks, back to Griffin. As I drove through Central Georgia from downtown Atlanta to Griffin, I was able to stop and purchase a Starbucks grande London Fog, which cured the pains throbbing in my throat from the pollen. I took a shortcut from Ga 81/20 down past Del Webb Peachtree in North Spalding County, and through the country to downtown Griffin (which is much preferable to downtown Atlanta or, especially Doraville, as far as mental health is concerned) and was able to come back to my quiet office on the second floor of the house at 329 South Hill Street, overlooking the cars driving through the sweet, cool streets of Griffin toward their homes, families and the weekend.

Soon, I will join them.

Cul de sac

We are trapped
Living our lives on this cul de sac,
Surrounded by houses at every angle.
The street light is playing moon,
There are empty houselights behind us
Dogs are baying at the shadows
And we are laying here on the car hood
Playing the melodies attendant to
This youthful moment,
Ironically trying to erase the summer
As it unwinds slowly away from us.

The police will be here soon,
Flashing their rude lights,
And we will drive away,
Out the only exit, away from the cul de sac.

Morning surprise

In the grey light of morning, I must push on
And do the habitual thing that the day requires
Despite my reluctance,
And find a new surprise
In the morning light: that the flowers still bloom
And the air is perfume with the morning
And perhaps God, the creator and sustainer,
Still does condescend to love me, despite my blindness.

Threads through the tapestry

I can hear it but I can't discern between the garbage and the truth;
I am older but no wiser and I wonder sometimes if I will ever get it
Because the longer I go in this life, the more opportunities I find
To ignore the pieces of the thread to which I should pay attention
And lose myself in silliness and wittiness that accounts for nothing.
I will hurt others around me and I will not see the scars I cause
Because I am too often lost in myself when I should be attuned
To the ones I care about, particularly my loved ones
Who look to me for concern and caring and love,
Over others, who too often show more concern
Than I do, from time to time, and that is why
I must step back and listen and learn and know
What is important for you and me and both of us.

Failure to communicate

Where are we? The ability to communicate is so broad, yet we allow ourselves to go deeper into ourselves so that we control the communication, like a border guard in Texas. Yet the communications continue to bombard us from without and we sit and work to block and keep them out. That becomes our greatest task.

When I was in high school at Peachtree, I used some birthday money and bought "Bridge over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. That ultimately led me to purchase every album they ever put out, which included two albums with "Sounds of Silence." I remember reading album blurbs about the meaning of the song and its diatribe against a lack of communication.

Perhaps we need to revisit that song again. Perhaps we ought to rename it. Something like "Silence through the Sounds." I feel a poem coming on.

Down time

I am starting this day by sitting in the living room in front of the Today show, writing on the computer, listening to the sounds coming from the master bathroom and the upstairs bathroom, hoping that I will get my turn sometime soon. It is chilly outside, but will be warmer in the afternoon. Tex, the singing cowboy dog, has gone back to bed. I am not sure, but I think I can now go take a shower. I'll grab Cindy's coffee and deliver it to her as I step into the shower.

I think this is over for the time being. Obviously, there is nothing of any great significance swimming around my brain at the moment. Time to let it swim slowly until there is something there to relate.

An early morning followed by an early lunch followed by an early day

My early morning alarm clock, that would be when Cindy turns toward me and starts to breath heavily in my ear, went off around 5:00 this morning. I placed my glasses on my face and went out into the living room to hit the power button on the television and see if there was anything besides infomercials on at that time of the morning. I watched thirty minutes of "Becker" then turned off the television and dozed for about thirty minutes until Cindy's shower woke me up and I found the morning light was reflecting off the living room wall from the front window.

I considered the time, despite the fact that I couldn't read the clock on the wall. Judging by the intensity of the light on the living room wall, I could tell that Tex needed to find a spot on the lawn in order to decorate the yard. I fought the need for action and allowed the muscles in my arms and legs to atrophy for a few minutes.

But I knew this was a losing proposition and I finally got up to take Tex out. He did not disappoint. When I returned to the interior of the house, I noticed the couch beckoning and lay my body back down to catch a few more moments.

Meanwhile, Cindy entered the living room in her towel and asked if the coffee was ready. I always make the coffee unless there is something to take me out of the house too early to make the coffee. I usually make enough for Cindy, since Kate doesn't ordinarily take coffee in the morning. Of course, I don't drink coffee.

So I filled the coffee maker with water and coffee grounds and turned the machine to brew Cindy's morning coffee. Meanwhile, Cindy reentered the living room and asked me if I would water the plants in the carport. I suggested that it would be good to do this at lunch, since Kate would be with me and could help me move the plants on to the back patio for watering. Meanwhile, I went back out front to take the garbage cans to the street, along with some extraneous additional trash. As I moved the trash toward the street, Cindy reminded me to take the rest of the trash to the street and then decided that I really needed to water the plants today.

So I went back to the carport and removed the plants to the back patio and started to water the plants. Cindy came out and suggested that I finish taking the trash out to the street. I did and went back inside to take a shower and shave and dress for the day.

I got to the office late this morning and the day followed suit. I did get the Walker probate set up for good and need to talk to my clients before Monday. McDonough is getting way out of hand. Too much traffic. Too many cars. It took me forty minutes to return to Griffin. All the additional time was due to traffic. No extra stops. No slow down in the journey. Just the usual traffic in McDonough.

Too bad I am old enough to remember when it took twenty minutes to get from downtown Griffin to downtown McDonough. Both trips took you through farmland and cattle farms. They are no more. Just one house after another. Convenience stores. Gas stations. People. People. People.

Elbow room, cried Daniel Boone.

The original American dream: peace, land and solitude.

Soup Kitchen

It smells good no matter what's in the pot.
Its better a couple days later.
Its the symbol for a hand out or a help up.
It warms your body when its cold.
It fortifys the soul in the dead of Winter.

Every race, creed, nationality, color or people
Have their soups and they all are good
To cure what ails you when times are bad,
The weather is cool, or when your backbone
And your belly do the hunger rub.

Soup communion

Soup is the procrastinator's meal:
It is always better the next day,
When the flavors meld
And what you wished for yesterday
Becomes a reality tomorrow.
Differences, both subtle and profound, disappear
And the individual components become one in the soupbowl,
Floating in the stock together
To become a single remarkable thing:
Savory communion in a bowl,
Or a mug or cup,
The cook's choice.

Perhaps we could attempt true communion
Over mugs of steaming soup
Rather than pieces of stale bread
And a thimble full of grocery store grape juice.

We might catch the lost sinner
With a last spoonful
From the bottom of the bowl.

April 10, 1865

If I am not mistaken, today is the day that the Army of Northern Virginia bivouaced west of a little village called Appomattox, Virginia. General Lee sent a messenger east toward the headquarters of General Grant and they agreed to meet at Appomattox Court House, in the home of a local farmer, a farmer who had witnessed the Battle of First Mannassas and decided to move southwest to get away from the war. On this date, the two general met and politely discussed their former connections. Both generals were polite to each other, despite the fact that they really didn't have any close connections, other than having served in the Mexican War together. However, by the end of the day, the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia was effectuated and the war in that part of the south was over.

Afterward, General Lee and his assistants mounted and returned to his army where he informed them that they were now private citizens and could go home with their horses, if they had any. General Lee went to Richmond where he was reunited with his family. Within a year, he had been offered and he accepted the position of President of Washington College in Lexington, Virginia. While there, he probably did more to make the college a modern, thriving institution of higher education. Unfortunately, his most important lieutenant general had been dead for several years, now buried in the Lexington Cemetery. Life ultimately returned to normal in Rockbridge County and when General Lee died on a rainy day in October 1870, his son took over as his successor as President. Later, they were both buried in the Lee Chapel at Washington and Lee.

Within four days of General Lee's surrender, Abraham Lincoln would be assassinated while watching "Our American Cousin" at Ford Theater in Washington DC. That would be Good Friday, 1865.

Derek and the Dominoes

In my opinion, this was the best band that there ever was in its short existence. In the 70's I had an original copy of "Layla, and other love songs" and it is still my favorite album. When I hear the first strains of the guitar on "Layla" my heart and mind flip in concert together and I see myself in Criteria Studios in Miami with these guys and Duane Allman putting together the album. When you look at the pictures which were originally included in the interior of the double album, you can almost feel the heat of a summer in Miami, Florida and taste the alcohol and seafood being consumed and smell the marihauna floating over the scene like incense. I don't know whose dog it is but I even like the dog in the picture. Unfortunately, Duane Allman died within a year of the album. Carl Radle died in the late 80's, I believe. Jim Gordon is in prison in California for murdering his mother (he suffers from schizophrenia). As far as I know, only Slowhand himself and Bobby Whitlock are still with us. I wonder about the girl staring into the camera in one of the pictures. Who was she? Where is she now?

I was a young man when that picture was taken. It transports me to Dunwoody in 1970. Eighth grade at Peachtree High School. 115 lb. Atlanta Colts. Camping out in the woods near the Balfour's house. Vacation trips to Naples, Florida. Visiting grandmommie and granddaddy at the farm and Dee Dee in her apartment in Hopkinsville. At the farm, there were always ice cream sandwiches in the freezer on the back porch. Dee Dee always kept glass bottles of water with every kid's name on it so we wouldn't argue about whose was whose. She always seemed to have the frozen popsickles in her freezer. I remember visiting Dee Dee at the courthouse in Hopkinsville. Walking through the woods at the farm, finding robin's eggs on the edge of the pond. Chasing cattle through the fields, avoiding the cow manure. Eating barbecue at the Pick-a-rib.

How about eating shrimp sizzle at Kelly's Fishhouse in Naples and watching the shrimpboats coming into dock after supper? Feeling the heat of the sunburn on my arms and face in the evening. One time mom and dad had rented the last rental nearest the beach and Frank and I shared the last room overlooking the Gulf. One night, I awoke in the middle of the night and could see a figure sitting in the chair, through the dim light, seeming to stare at us. I lay there in the bed staring at the figure, wondering who it was and what he wanted. Finally, I popped up out of the covers and realized that the figure in the chair was just Frank's shirt hung on the arms and back of the chair.

Sometimes a vivid imagination is more of a hinderance than a help.

There was so much going on in the early 70's. But sometimes I feel as if the world was going on away from us and we were just floating in our own little pond. We had such good times. While others struggled and battled to gain something they saw as significant.

Well, it is still Spring here and the moment in which I find myself is really hard to beat.

Eternal Spring

My office windows are surrounded by dogwoods in bloom. In the back parking lot is situated a little yard filled with blooming fruit trees. The pink blossoms are gone now, washed away by the rains that hit us last week. But the dogwoods are strong, still covered with the white blossoms of Spring. This is Griffin's glory, when the dogwoods and azaleas are in full blossom and even the houses which need primping and pruning are decorated with color.

I have a memory I wish to share. When I was about thirteen or so, my father had taken me to T&E Clothiers and bought me a light blue short-sleeved shirt. I remember putting that shirt on, placing a Bob Dylan album on my stereo and opening the windows to my bedroom. I remember leaning out through the window and feeling the cool breeze on my arms. The sun was bright in the afternoon but the temperature was cool from the breeze. Dad had started the grill on the deck and we were going to have hamburgers or ham steak or something. It doesn't really matter.

Funny, how that ended up being an eternal Spring.

Holy Week continues

Today is the day that thirteen men entered a room in Jerusalem to celebrate Passover and came out with a different understanding of the deliverance of God's people. I have always appreciated Easter, but it is hard to appreciate Easter completely unless you start with Maundy Thursday. I wouldn't want to miss this evening any year.

When I was a child, we didn't celebrate Maundy Thursday in the churchs that I attended. It was only when I joined First Presbyterian in Griffin before I had the opportunity to attend a service on Maundy Thursday. With the exception of the little service we hold on Good Friday, it is the smallest of services, but holds so much significance. Easter is almost nothing more than bunnies, chicks and Spring flowers without Maundy Thursday. The day sets the tone for the miracle of Easter.

When Jesus met with his disciples in the upper room, they started off as thirteen Jewish men, gathering to celebrate the deliverance of the Israelites from bondage in Egypt. When they left, Jesus had placed the deliverance on his shoulders and expanded salvation to his disciples and to the world. By the end of the day, he was taken prisoner, whipped and placed on display and finally executed on a wooden cross.

There is no proper perspective at the empty tomb unless you understand what started tonight. It could just as easily be a carpenter's son who was executed then his body removed from its resting place. Maundy Thursday expands the message of Easter to all time and all people.

Walking my tiger back home

If I were to pick a cat for myself I think I would want a tiger
With long whiskers and large velvet paws
And a smile on his face which reveals the true satisfaction
He finds with his place in the world, bearing a royal title,
Or just satisfaction from his last meal,
Clad in colors which truly could only look appropriate on the body
Of a lithe, muscular athlete of a cat,
So perfect of body that his feet make no sound
Because the ground dare not respond to the imprint of his paws
Lest the night awake and realize the danger
Slinking between the low bushes, the blackness
Reflected in the shadows of his tiger heart, a snake slithering
Down the smooth bark of the jungle tree,
And our tiger cat full from his dinner
Of whatever kibble the jungle might offer.

If I could have a tiger, how envious would people be?
Parting the sidewalk, as I walk my pet
Proudly down the avenue, cars flashing their brights,
Policemen stopping traffic to let me pass, Escalades
Pulling to the side, drivers lowering their cellphones
Their mouths agape at the majestic jungle cat
Striding toward them with his kittie on a leash.

I shake my mane in disdain as I stride down the sidewalk.

Tigers and lapdogs

I want a kittie.

What kind?

The soft, striped kind.

A tabby?

I don't know, the kind that has claws.

Well, all kitties have claws.

But velvet paws.

That's sweet.

One to lay in my lap, perhaps,
Or at my feet.

Why do you want a kittie?

I like kitties.

Ok, but what kind of kittie do you want?

I striped kittie with orange and black stripes.

Really?

And large paws as big as oven mits.

Yes?

And a body as long as a sofa.

That's big.

And a purr to keep me awake at night.

That's loud.

And the desire to keep me safe.

Inside his belly?

Is that the only option?

Sounds like it.

Hmm, maybe I'll get a dog.

That's a good idea, try a lap dog.

As long as its housebroken.

I want a kittie

"I want a kittie. "

Do you really, why?

"I want a kittie."

Is it the soft, soft fur?
Is it the colorful patterns on its flanks ,
The velvet paws
Or the inscrutable power burning in their eyes?
Or is it the simple desire to hold
And control that lithe, powerful movement
So fluid, like a rattlesnake or lightening striking
Covered with fur?

"I want a kittie."

Perhaps this involves an uncontrolled desire
Of yours, which keeps you from controlling yourself,
A basic flaw which keeps you desiring the impossible,
A broken understanding which seeks the upper hand
On an unleashed feline animal driven.
Perhaps it is your own sinful nature
Which leads you to attempt to control the uncontrollable.

Perhaps.

"Perhaps, but I want a kittie."

Palm Sunday

Five years ago, or so, I was asked by our pastor to speak to the congregation on Palm Sunday about something I had discovered while working on a Session workshop. That year, our pastor had the elders of the church meeting to work out a vision for the church. Week to week, we had met and gone through a number of tasks and tests to try to work our way to a shared vision.

Unfortunately, it seemed that everytime I came up with something, my findings would be discarded and we would be directed in a new direction. Every week seemed to find the same frustration. We didn't seem to be any further to the vision.

One Saturday morning, I was thinking about the latest task and flipping over the internet on the website for the church. As I flipped through the website, I came to some historical pieces which referred to an earlier time in our church when the Session met and felt like the church was passing through a spiritual malaise. The elders prayed about it and decided that the church needed to repent, beginning with the elders themselves.

The Session minutes reported that as soon as the elders and the congregation were led to repent, the spiritual malaise retreated and the church seemed to rise spiritually.

As I read this, it occurred to me that we too were being called to repentance. So on our Sunday evening meeting, at the end I asked Rev. Dalstrom to let me relate my findings. In response, the elders immediately concurred and the next Session meeting was spent in nothing more than the elders praying and asking for forgiveness.

After this, Reverend Dalstrom asked me to bring this before the congregation. So as Palm Sunday bore closer, I prepared to relate my findings and the efforts of the elders to begin the act of repentance. Oddly, however, as Palm Sunday came closer, my thoughts changed as I continued to read a book I had been reading for some time.

Suddenly, the message changed. Rather than a message of repentance, God seemed to be telling me that the final message was that the end result of repentance and faith that Christ's sacrifice was effective to save me from my sins. The book I had been reading taught a lesson about how many Christians suffered from a lack of acceptance in the gift of forgiveness.

The writer stated that many Christians continued to suffer from anxiety about their sins, even after they accepted the gift of forgiveness. It seemed that these anxious Christians simply could not accept the sacrifice of Jesus as a complete and effective cleansing of their sins. These Christians just could not accept that the sacrifice of the Christ was sufficient to eradicate all of their sins. These Christians were always working to try to earn forgiveness, even when the promise of the Christ was complete forgiveness itself.

This failure to have faith in the final and effective sacrifice of Jesus as a complete eradication of our sins became a failure of faith, the failure to accept the sufficiency of Christ's sacrifice. It became a sin itself. Perhaps this was the final sin of the Christian.

The message the writer gave me was that the sacrifice of Christ was final and totally effective. There was nothing else to be done. We need not suffer or agonize over our sins, because, through our faith in the sacrifice of Christ we were forgiven once and for all. The end result was a complete release of the anxiety and concern for ourselves. God himself had provided the sacrifice.

So the message that God had ultimately laid on my heart was more than that we needed to repent from our sins. The final message was that when we repented our sins and believed in the sacrifice of Jesus for our sins, our sins, in fact, were fully, effectually and finally forgiven. The weight of our sinfulness was released and we could live our lives without the burden of our sinful nature.

When I came before that crowd on Palm Sunday, the message I gave was not the message I was listening to in my heart. Oddly, many people in the congregation that day apparently didn't hear me. Perhaps that is because the message that I needed to deliver that Sunday morning was not that they needed to repent, but that if they did repent, that God would wash away their sins, completely, fully and effectively forever.

On that first Palm Sunday, the disciples, followers and just plain folks of Jerusalem followed the Christ and proclaimed him the Messiah. They waved their palm branches and shouted Hosannahs to the blue skies above them. However, less than a week later, they would turn their backs on their Messiah and deliver him up to the Roman government for execution. Even the disciples would run away. The sacrifice that was meted out to the Messiah was answered with derision and scorn.

Somehow, they could not accept that this sacrifice was effective for their forgiveness and salvation. Instead they waited for more. But they had it right the first time. He was the Messiah and his gift of himself made the action complete. They need not look for anything more or try anything else. The man who arrived on the donkey's back was the one who could effectively and finally provide them with the salvation they sought.

The burden upon our shoulders is cast off. To continue to feel it is a sin, itself. We need to repent, but we also need to believe that we are free from that sin. That is the final message of Palm Sunday and all of Holy Week. Amen.

Dogs and cats

There is an affinity between man and dogs. Dogs are pack animals. So are men. Dogs left their pack to follow men. The Bible says that woman should leave her home and cleave to her man. So we are creatures of the pack as well. To find the key to the affinity between dog and man consider the moon. For all time when the moon grows to its full size and comes close to our home, we seem to have a response much like the swelling of the tides. Our hearts swell to match the tide and we yearn for things, for someone, someone whose heart is swelling in concert with the selfsame tides. And the rising of the moon.

And look at the dogs. The moon rises and the hound dogs bay, for what? Who knows, except they seem to respond to the moon, in their own way, just as we do. Is it the affinity we share? Is it something we hold in common? Perhaps. Perhaps when the moon rises and the music swells within us, we both yearn for that creature in common. The one person whose heart is swelling in concert with our own.

And then there are cats. With cats, we seek to bend their wills to ours. We see something soft and nice to hold. Something which brings us pleasure. But the claws await us. We try so hard to bend them to our wills. And yet, a cat is it's own creature. If a cat bends its will to ours, it is because they wish to, not because they feel compelled to be with us, but because they find something they want in us. Food. Comfort. Shelter. But something they want.

And that is what cats give to us. A vision of something pleasant and soft, perhaps even helpful. But something we cannot control, with its own will. And so cats are a reminder that we cannot control our world, just bits of it. And certainly not cats, even the cats in our own houses.

Springtime

This was a grand day in Atlanta, Georgia. This was a day to make you understand that there is nothing like Central Georgia in the Springtime. The Indigo Girls were right, even though they seemed to include quite a bit of Autumnal Georgia in their song. Can you really beat 73 degrees, blues skies, fleecy clouds, everything in pastel bloom? You can see the people coming out in their shorts and t-shirts and skirts.

The rain washed away the pollen and the morning air was so clear that I almost forgot I had corrected vision. Corrected by the turning of the days and the wheel of the year to Spring flood. From the time that I was a young boy, I have always visualized the year as an oval with the Winter months at the top and Summer at the bottom of the wheel. Right now, we are going around the left side of the wheel heading for the fast, hot months during the Summer. I don't know why I have always seen the seasons in this way, but it is in my mind and I can't get it out.

Meanwhile, I have always had a clear vision of the globe in my mind as well. I can even visualize the physical world as if I were flying around above the trees. I can also visualize the world with a time component. I see America before it was settled, with green woodlands spreading out before me, the trees growing thickly across the ripples of the Appalachians toward the soft blanket of Kentucky and Tennessee spreading west from the Blue Ridge toward the Mississippi and then flattening out west toward the Pacific Ocean.

There were quite a few girl volleyball players in Atlanta today. They were all over the place. I don't think I have ever seen that many athletes in any one sport all in the same spot. An interminable number of girls, little and big, short and tall, heavy and slender. Some looked like the baby fat was still on them. Others looked oddly anorexic. Every type of girl, every color, shade, hair color, consistency, race, color, creed, all gathered together in uniforms which were holdovers from the 70's. Odd.

I thought that football players were bad, but you don't know what its like when thousands of girls are hitting little balls all over the place, hitting with their hands, their arms, with a modicum of aim and balance. I would have to say that I was hit or hit at with about ten balls over the span of six hours. Volleyball players will hit balls anywhere. Volleyball players tend to walk in groups anywhere and ignore anyone who is potentially in their way. Their coaches will have them chasing after balls in odd, frantic ways as close to the spectators as they can get.

Then lets talk about the venue. The Georgia World Congress Center is huge. In the one locale, there were around one hundred volleyball courts with spectator seats on one side and seats for the girls on the other with a scorer's table in between. Multiply that by one hundred and you have a ton of people trying to share space. Consider that there were two huge rooms being used for volleyball. How can there be such a demand for volleyball in this country?

Then add the preliminaries where every girl is paired up hitting balls at each other, often inacurately. No wonder the balls fly. It is nice that the balls are soft. If they played with lacrosse balls or baseballs, there would be injuries left and right. Serious injuries.

I guess I am overstating it. It was fun to watch. Just an awful lot of it.

But we got to go to Six Feet Under for supper and it was delightful to sit and enjoy each other and the Spring weather in Atlanta.

Tomorrow we try to do a little gardening after Palm Sunday services. Perhaps the rain will hold off until late in the day. Now they are saying it should start around four. Which doesn't leave much time for gardening. And then Cindy and I are going to Community Group. That's a lot to go through during one day. Monday will be busy too.

Sunny Saturday morning

I am so tired. Kate is in Columbia. Cindy and I went to a movie last night and then ate supper at the Thai restaurant. It was a nice night out together. After all was done, we came home and watched television for too long and got to bed late. Now I am a little tired this morning, despite the fact that when I took Tex out I found that it was a beautiful morning. The kind of morning that would cause you to want to get ready for the day and pop out into the sunshine. There will be time for that, I suppose, but it does make you want to push the moment. I don't know when Kate will be back. I do know that she is probably sleeping late, since they celebrated her friend's birthday last night by eating supper then going out on the town in Columbia. I wonder if she will stop at Baynham Family Restaurant near Aiken? We discussed that yesterday. She said that her two favorite things in that regard were free pie and t-shirts. So I assume someday there will be a Baynham Family Restaurant t-shirt in the laundry basket. If they have them. Megan is playing volleyball in Atlanta so we will be there for some of the day. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday and we community group at 6:00. We have church at 11:00. What will fall in the middle is beyond me right now. I think I am going to see about breakfast and then move on into second gear. Because right now I am definitely in first gear. Carry on.

Looking forward to Saturday in the Spring in Georgia

Today is Friday and I have a few folks coming around and I need to go to Henry County to discuss a probate with the kindly personnel of the Henry County Probate Office and we, meaning Cindy and I were going to go up to Atlanta and eat with two of our friends at Six Feet Under but everyone had other things to do tonight so now we are going to J. Henry's and then to a movie and Kate is driving to Columbia, actually Lexington, South Carolina to celebrate a birthday with one of her friends and her friend's twin sister and she is excited and we got her car fixed and now I am feeling a tad light in the billfold but her car is running soundly and she is happy but wishes life weren't so expensive which it is but you really can't do anything about that, Clark Howard notwithstanding, but despite the clouds and the growing darkness around Spalding County, it is still pretty outside and I can look out the window in front of me and see three beautiful dogwood trees in full bloom and this is really the nicest time of year in Griffin with all the dogwoods and cherry trees and apple trees and peach trees and the azaleas in bloom and I do want to go to Callaway Gardens and tomorrow would be a perfect day with sunny skies and a high of 73 but we are still supposed to drive to Atlanta and watch junior volleyball in the World Congress Center which is kind of a bad place to be on such a beautiful day which reminds me of a Sunday about ten years ago when Cindy and Kate and I (the Killer Bees) were visiting mom and dad and dad asked me if I wanted to go to see the Falcons play the Rams and we rode MARTA down to the Georgia Dome and walked across the street to the ticket office and bought tickets in the south end zone and the Falcons won (amazing!) and all the points were scored in our end zone and we were sitting in our seats in the fourth quarter and it occurred to us that it was a perfect day to sit in the endzone and watch a game, except for the fact that we were indoors and it would have been so much nicer to sit out in the sun on an early November day in Atlanta, when the skies were blue and the clouds were fleecy and the temperature was around 70 degrees which leads me to this thought, if we can sit in the sun on an afternoon in August and watch the Braves and not complain then why do we need a football stadium with a roof over it when they play football in the Fall when the climate in Georgia is usually perfect but no one ever asked me opinion on these things and I am clearly not in charge, but Saturday will be pretty and I am looking forward to enjoying the day.

Its a small world after all.

You never know how many connections you might have out there. I somehow got a comment on my facebook wall for an inocuous comment I made about the rain. I replied to that comment and ended up with a connection I didn't know I had. A friend of mine who graduated with me from DHS and played basketball with me apparently graduated from UGa and worked with a Christian organization in Greenville, where he met some friends of ours who are now missionaries in Kenya. Our friends are now members of his church in Greenville, when they are not in Kenya. Of course they still come home to Griffin, where the husband grew up. Who would have guessed that?

It is a small world.

Morning thunderstorm

The rain is falling resolutely
Collecting in the low places,
Washing the pollen
Away from my nose.
But I must shower this morning
And I fear the thunder
The evidence of dangers
Falling from the sky
Into my lap
From distant climes.

An unwanted present from above;
In earlier times they saw
Zeus or Thor or Jehovah
Grinning in the clouds.

Rumbling in the jungle

This has turned into quite a week. The week has seen a rain shower virtually every day. Followed by sunshine. We have had days of mail where nothing is in the box, followed by a day where every facet of the day seems to bring clients with problems and needs. That is good. Now Cindy and I are going to eat supper in Atlanta on Friday, perhaps with the Hopkins. Meanwhile, we are trying to work a Braves game on Saturday, when they are playing exhibitions with the Detroit Tigers. That is my two favorite teams. How about that? Meanwhile, the Megan and Missie show arrives for a three day run beginning on Friday. Can we work a baseball game into the middle of the craziness? We shall see soon. My hair is slipping from my head. I see it in the morning. I feel it in the evening. Oh well, I am 52. Some say that I look pretty young for my age. Both of my parents do, as well (that's for you mom and dad). We think Kate has pretty good genes. Tonight I feel good. Tomorrow brings more rain and depositions. Perhaps a trip to McDonough. And the high probate court of Henry County. Now the Judge has demanded that I run the newspaper citation in the local organ for Spalding County on my adoption, which is silly, since the potential putative father is an unknown man in Viet Nam. I am sure he subscribes to the Griffin Daily News. There is such coverage for the local organ in Viet Nam. As a matter of fact, I understand that everyone in Viet Nam is crazy for news about Central Georgia. Its just a crazy fact. We received a visit from salesmen (actually saleswomen) from a communication company from Marietta. They were trying to get us to sign up by the end of the March, which was Tuesday. But daddy said no. Now child has pulled up some negatives on the internet. Then I met with two salesmen from Atlanta. They were a guy from Buckhead who went to Georgia instead of W&L and a young guy from Ohio, who played football for Mount Union. That was kind of cool. It was a fun morning, but we shall see where it will lead. Kate and I are happy now. We want Cindy to be happy too, but she is sitting watching a detective movie with a dirty dog in her lap. Kissing the feet of the dog. Cindy, what are you doing? Meanwhile, Kate is cracking her nuckles. I guess that is how you spell that. My eyes are drying up, my contacs drying up at the end of the day. We have a quarter of a pizza in the kitchen. I should put it in the refrigerator so Kate can have some breakfast. We are heading toward Holy Week, beginning on this Sunday, Palm Sunday. I love Holy Week. It is the time in Christendom where we emulate the rest of the spiritual world. When we take it seriously. Even when we don't. I love Maundy Thursday service and the little Good Friday service. I don't understand why others don't too. It just doesn't make sense. It means so much. There are so many people who just show up on Christmas Eve and Easter Morning. What does that get them. I know that our faith requires communion with God and with each other. You can't have it without it. It is not genuine. I don't want to seem self-righteous. But there is such a thing as objective truth. It is not all subjective. You can't just skim across the surface. You need to dig into it deeper than the surface. It has to mean more than just a small part of your life. A compartment in your desktop. Kate wants me to include the fact that she has a bacon grease burn on her foot. It was a small problem which is probably more than she lets on. Her mother wants her to go to the doctor to get checked. I think that Kate will survive if she continues to treat it topically. Perhaps that is the time when you skim across the surface. This is how my brain works: now I am thinking about the water in the canals on the St. Pete side of Tampa Bay. Smooth as glass. So beautiful. Can you see the blue-green water on the edge of the water of Eckard College? Can you see the green, green grass leading up to the edge of the water? Can you feel the sun on your face? Can you close your eyes and sit still and see the snow white sand on the beach at Pass-a-grille in the afternoon? Can you hear the moan of the bagpipes as the man dressed in Highland dress plays tunes to the sunset? Feel the wind running from the western sky, blowing the crisp, dry sea oats across the sands. See the orange and pink dying at the end of day. Night sky at the beach is fine. But the morning coming up on the sand with a bowl of citrus fruit and a cup of tea, the wind blowing through my thin long-sleeved teeshirt. Take a shower and deliver your body down to the sea and let the salt water run across your feet and your legs. Until the end of day and another day beginning. The eternal waves running along the sands. Up and down. Forever.

This is how my brain works.