The chosen

Tonight I could not sleep.
Tomorrow we drive back home
And leave the rumbling of the surf
On the beach behind us.
Tonight my eyes were drawn to the horizon,
As far as I could discern it
Through the deep purple of two thirty in the morning,
And there I could see a bright, distant light
Cutting strongly through the darkness,
Showing the position of a fishing boat
Plying its midnight trade
On the rolling waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
And the light drew my interest
And caused me to take leave of my bed
And step out on the lonely balcony.
To feel the ocean breeze
Flowing across my face
And smell the sea's raw perfume
Rising up from the beach
And take note of the awesome host
Of stars thrown across the firmament of the skies.

And I wondered what those mariners were thinking
As they reached into the depths of the ocean
To pull their livelihood from its bounty:
Did they take nautical notice of the starlight above them
And chart their position
To find their pathway back home?
Did their hearts get caught, like mine,
In their throats from the beauty
Of the starlight strewn across the blackness of the heavens?
Or did their ability to discern the light above them
Become entwined with the nets they cast
Into the darkness washing beneath them,
Their hopes tethered by their concern
For the fishes swimming below?

How much better, in my sleeplessness,
That I could sit out on that wooden chair
And consider the brightness and depth of those stars
And the vastness of the heavens above us
And take note of the simple differences of position
Lying between myself and my brothers
And the distant heavens
That caught us up in the arms of the cool Winter's night.

The Season begins

Yesterday, Brother Frank, with Maggie and Lily in tow, arrived around 4:30 in the afternoon at Fishtales Manor on the beach at St. George Island, and soon, we were on our way into town for the opening meal of the Holiday Season. Everyone was here who was going to be here and it was time to drive down to Boss Oyster for the first big feast.

Nine years ago, I opened the menu at the restaurant and noticed the Oyster Roast, which included three dozen Apalachicola oysters, roasted over an open fire. At that point, when you entered into the restaurant, you walked between the kitchen on your right and a fireplace on your left, upon which the cooks roasted the oysters.

Now, you are seated and you order and they bring your a pile of oyster shells and an oyster knife and some melted butter and other condiments which are unnecessary in my mind.

Last night, Kate and I shared my roasted oysters, and Kate opined that she would like to share a pile of roasted oysters with me on Friday at lunch.

So, today is Thanksgiving, and I am particularly thankful for family and the ocean and vacations and the bounty of the sea. Later, I will eat turkey and grandmommie's dressing and green beans and whatever dessert is on the table.

And Susan has made more brownies and there is dark beer and the weather is warm and breezy and I can take a triptophan nap in the afternoon.

I should walk on the beach to prepare for the day of eating and sleeping. This is a long day and the beginning of a long time of eating and drinking and thinking about the many gifts we receive, even in hard times.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Plan B

I have passed over the bridge, driven down the long stretch of US 19 from Griffin to Tallahasee, then across I-10 to the second Quincy Exit, then down through the piney woods and saw palmetto to where the long paved county road winds its curves through the woods and suddenly shows the light of the Gulf of Mexico at the end of the road.

And I have sat on a bench at Boss Oyster and enjoyed a basket of fried oysters, served with cheese grits and corn fritters and a cold pint of amber ale.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Cindy and Kate and I are sitting in an internet cafe, where we could get a connection.

Last night, I made Scallops Barbara Jean's for the family. Surprisingly, even with a pound of butter and eight strips of Broadbent bacon, it seemed remarkably light. I guess it helps to have the contrast with the fried oysters, which we ate for lunch.

Anyway, with the exception of trying to get used to the pillow under my head and the mattress, I have slept quite well. I wonder why.

Cindy says it is the pounding of the ocean. I personally think it has something to do with being surrounded by my family, eating a sufficient amount of seafood and drinking more beer than normally. And being away from the pressures of work helps.

I look forward to eating oysters again on Wednesday night. However, I have plenty of time to enjoy other aspects of Franklin County.

The weather is cool, but not that bad. The wind, when it dies down, is enjoyable.

A tanker truck ran through a traffic light and hit the bank in town. That was probably the biggest news of the month, I would suspect.

While, you sit in your home, eating yourself into a turkey coma, I will think of you all, eating my turkey and dressing in front of a big sliding glass door, watching the surf come in and roll out.

So much fun.

St. George Island Reunion

When I begin the long, straight drive
Over the bridge from East Point
To St. George Island,
I will see the oystermen in their boats
Bobbing out in the gulf
And the sun will rise golden
In the eastern blue beyond,
Far off toward Tallahassee,
And I will roll the windows down
So I too can catch a sniff
Of the elemental musk
Of the ocean and the bay
Spreading out like glass beyond the bridge,
Lapping softly against the powdery sands
Of St. George,
And no matter how many years may pass.
And though lines may crease my sunburnt face,
The hairs falling from the top of my head,
I will still find the red-headed child in my heart
Running down the soft, white sands,
Chasing the surf as it rolls and thunders
And holding hands with my love
As we watch for dolphins swimming in the sea
The afternoon sun stroking the western sky
Pink and orange and crimson, in imitation
Of the seashells we find washed up on the beach.

The Eve of Thanksgiving is coming

The anticipated time has arrived. Thanksgiving is nine days away. Kate is driving home on Friday morning and, if all things continue in the manner in which they now find themselves, we will be driving down to St. George Island on Saturday for a week of walking in the sand, strolling through the town of Apalachicola, and sitting down at table eating seafood and drinking beer.

And being thankful for it all.

Around fifteen years ago, dad was driving down to Apalachicola with his buddies from IBM and coming back with stories of fishing in the Gulf, sleeping in little motels near the waterfront, and eating oysters and ribs in little restaurants like "The Frog Level". The more I heard about it, the more I wanted to go.

However, whenever the question of Apalachicola came up, my dad would talk around the subject but never volunteer anything. But finally, back in 2000, my parents decided that it would be fun to rent a condo on St. George Island and celebrate Thanksgiving at the beach.

That year, Mom and Dad and Susan and Kate and Cindy and I drove down to St. George and celebrated Thanksgiving in a new location. The evening before Thanksgiving, we drove into Apalachicola and enjoyed the first of many meals at Boss Oyster, a seafood restaurant on the waterfront.

I perhaps will never forget that meal. As we perused the menu, I noticed a special "oyster roast" of three dozen roasted oysters. The number and the concept sounded really good. So, as everyone else ordered a plate from the bounty of the sea, I ordered the oyster roast and waited for our meal's delivery.

Unfortunately, when our order finally arrived, my roasted oysters were nowhere to be found. The waitress realized this immediately, and ran back into the kitchen to place the forgotten order. As everyone sat down to eat their seafood meal, I sat and watched and nursed my beer.

But quickly the oysters arrived before me, in the form of a cafeteria tray, piled with oysters in shell, covered with a towel. The waitress delivered them before me, handed me the tools of my meal, and then pulled up a stool next to me and began to shuck my oysters.

I had never had such service. I was trying to shuck oysters myself, but the waitress was too fast for me. Drawn butter was oozing down my forearms. Tobasco was dashed on their heads. Lemons were squeezed on their carcasses. Before long the mountain of oyster shells was deposited in a bucket on the floor and I will full of the little grey bodies.

That was tremendous. And still is. For eight years now, almost without interruption, I have been able to sit down at a table with my extended family and fill my belly with the bounty of Apalachicola. Last year, brother Frank, Maggie and Lily were able to join us as well.

Even now, as I think about the upcoming trip, I think of the drive over the bridge from East Point to St. George Island. As the morning sun comes up, I will watch the oystermen in their little boats out in the bay. The front of their boats will hopefully be covered with the rock-like shells of their prey. And I will remark to Cindy and Kate, "That man has my oysters."

And he will, too.

The last game

I was thinking about the last football game I played in college. We were playing Georgetown University on their home field and we had just lost a close game with Emory & Henry at Wilson Field the week before. I loved playing Georgetown in Georgetown. The idea of playing in DC, with all of the history and excitement of Georgetown and Washington was breathtaking.

Every year we played in DC an alumnus of Washington and Lee arranged for us to stay at the Guest Quarters in Alexandria the night before. It was a cut above from the normal Holiday Inn. We ate a brief breakfast and rode the bus down to the Georgetown campus. Dressing out, I thought of our game with Georgetown two years before. We had scored thirty five points and beat them soundly. We didn't have many of those at Washington and Lee. Based on my experience, I was confident that we could win.

But I was emotionally drained for that game. I had been so fired up to play Emory and Henry the week before. It had been our last game at home. I had worked myself into a lather and really played my best game as a college football player. I sacked the quarterback four times, recovered a fumble, and had numerous tackles. I came upon the quarterback on an option play one time and slammed his helmet into the turf. They hauled him off and took him to the hospital, as I chuckled in the huddle. After the game, I was sobbing in my locker down below the stands. The defensive backfield coach came up to me and hugged my shoulders. He tried to console me and congratulated me on the best game of the year. Unfortunately, we had lost by two points in the fourth quarter. The combination of the last game at home and such a close game where we lost after we had had the lead was hard.

After the game, I went back to our apartment and all of our parents were waiting for us. I couldn't handle the festivities. I was adrenalin sick and emotionally drained. My parents followed me back to my room and helped me into bed. While everyone enjoyed an evening in one of the restaurants in Lexington that evening, I slept off the emotions of the day.

So when it came time to ride up to DC, my emotions had been left on the grass of Wilson Field the week before. As the game began, I could tell that I was down. I was making mental mistakes on defense, going in the wrong directions, going after the wrong back, letting the quarterback go for long runs. By half time, we were losing nineteen to three. Only a last second field goal was a positive mark on the half.

At halftime, Coach O'Connell yelled at me, wondering aloud where my head was. I sat on the bench with eyes wide open, wondering if I could recover. We needed to invest ourselves emotionally into the game. I sat silently on the bench and tried to recharge my batteries.

The second half was different. The offense began to assert itself and the defense rose to the challenge. By the end of the fourth quarter, we were winning 20-19 and were holding Georgetown and forcing them to punt.

With just a few minutes left in the game, Georgetown lined up to punt. Our nose man, Mike Merlick, pummelled the center as he snapped the ball and the football went dribbling back to the punter. The other defensive linemen chased after him as the kicking team released downfield. The punter, a tackle ordinarily by profession, looked around frantically and threw a floating pass toward their tight end. The tight end miraculously caught the ball and the referees signaled a first down as several of us noticed all the other linemen downfield around the tight end. As the head referee set the ball for first down, our coaches were yelling at all of the ineligable receivers downfield. The referees ignored them.

But that was the beginning of a final drive in which Georgetown drove down the field for their final three points and victory. I remember as we lined up for the attempt, telling Jack Norberg that I would pull the outside man inside to give Jack enough room to block the field goal, but it was too little, too late. The ball rose into the air and through the uprights as the final horn blew. We looked around and saw the final score: Georgetown 22 Washington and Lee 20.

As many times as we lost during my career at W&L, that game and the Emory & Henry game were the ones I remember most. I remember walking across the field after the game and little boys from the neighborhood around Georgetown were celebrating us, saying we were better than Maryland. The quarterback for Georgetown came up and congratulated me, saying that we would surely win the next game. I told him flatly that there were no other games. Mom and dad and Susan came down from the stands. My dad was in tears. Mom cheerfully stated that she was glad that I had passed through all those years of football without a serious injury. I was in shock.

Later, we went down into the lockerroom, showered and dressed for the ride back to Lexington. I remember one of the younger guys in tears, promising we would win next year. I stared at him mutely. I couldn't get over the shock. Some of the guys rode home with their parents for the weekend. I said goodbye to my family and rode the bus on back to Lexington. Even the journey through the shops, restaurants and bars of Georgetown didn't hold the same allure as before.

Throwing my gear in the dirty clothes in the lockerroom for the last time, Coach O'Connell asked me how it was to have the last game behind me. I told him that if I could I would continue to play. And I would have.

Still life in East Tennessee

I was travelling south on I-75
Through the mountains of East Tennessee
When the highway crossed over a bridge
And I could glance down into the valley
Below the concrete bridge,
And there, I saw the hills cuddled
Like a pile of calico cats,
A coat of many colors: orange, red and yellow,
The river tranquilly lapping the shore,
The water flowing like cane syrup
Through the curve of the hills below,
And I spied a small fishing boat
Anchored on the dark green river
And I envied the two fishermen
Spending their Sunday sabbath
Out on the water together
Throwing lines to the fish
Hidden beneath the surface,
The cool November breeze
Not yet chilling their endeavor,
The fallen leaves floating silently
On the still green water below.