A Mockingbird Morning

“Life is like licking honey from a thorn.” Anonymous

Ah, those summer mornings when the dew has left its last traces of essence on the lilies and the bumble bees begin their pollinating deliveries. It’s such a morning when shards of August sunlight are cast streaming through the oaks lighting up the garden’s spectacle of colors.

You have coffee sitting in the shade of the pool arbor. You admire your garden. The fresh ambience of the day sets a swoon over the landscape. In your mind a vision appears. Over there, in the far corner of the garden, you see him, the gardener. He sits in the shadows of an imaginary tool shed.

He wipes periodically the perspiration on his face with a red bandana. His white shirt is soaked with sweat. His movements are measured in slow motion. He appears to be unconcerned, resting in an obvious peace of mind. He sips iced tea from a moisture-beaded glass like your grandmother used. His legs are crossed.

His implements hang orderly on the weathered wooden wall, like workers relieved from their recent toil. Their handles are worn and slick, the shears sharp and shiny. A shovel lies prostrate in a red wheelbarrow. His gloves lay on the bench beside him. A thin coating of dust covers his boots.

A cool breeze stirs the wind chimes hanging above the open door of the shed. The tin roof occasionally buckles with a popping sound in the day’s beginning heat. Overhead a fly buzzes. The gardener is motionless. He rests from his morning labors.

Gardens are solitary and proprietary creations. They yield clues to a gardener’s visions. They’re as much an art as a science. New gardens, like children, appear wild and sparse, haphazard, without symmetry. Like fine art, the masterpiece is seen only in the eyes of the gardener. But beginnings are never endings.

Time is a gardener’s friend. Nature counts time in seconds, not years. It’s one breath at a time. Anxiety is an unwelcomed guest in gardens. Labor is daily, nothing hurried, nothing rushed. Gentle snips with the pruning clipper treat the boxwoods tenderly. Progress is slow and imperceptible.

Gardens are the provenance of creatures, small and large. Deer nibble the roses, moles make subterranean trails. All have roles. Yonder gardener has shifted slightly on his bench. He seems to be watching the Whirling Butterfly plant, the guara.

Looking closely, you see a bee hanging from the tiny flower on the end of the guara’s long stalk. It rides the flower as in a rodeo while the wind twists and turns the tendril. It yields a Zen-like quality. The gardener seems untroubled with the concept. Perhaps he knows there’s a better way than Zen to achieve permanent nirvana.

A lone Monarch butterfly floats between the yellow lantana and the lavender garlic plants, indecisive with the abundance of choices. A tiny green lizard scurries up the stalk of the Jerusalem thorn tree, oblivious to the prickly thorns.

You notice how neatly you pruned the wisteria and trumpet vines yesterday. You consider asking the gardener his opinion on vines, whether they are evolutionary curses of nature or providentially designed for some greater purpose that escapes logic. But the fragrance of the jasmine overwhelms your senses and logic seems misplaced in your botanical wonderland.

There is a bias in nature to the wild side, not the cultivated gardens. Weeds are a fact of life. They produce miniature gardens of many-colored flowers. Few notice them. Yet in microcosm, their flowers have transcendent beauty unmatched in urbane environments. They grow anywhere and require no effort to nurture. You even contemplate being a weed.

Your coffee cup is now empty. The sun is hot. Your morning meditation is over. You glance one last time toward the tool shed. The gardener has turned into a misty chimera, a ghost-like apparition that seems to be vanishing into thin air.

On the rail fence post sits a mockingbird. It practices a repertoire of mimics. Suddenly it’s startled, as though a strange breeze passed by. It ruffles its feathers and flies away.

You are once again alone in your garden. Through the magnolia trees you see a shadow. It resembles a cherub and moves slowly out of sight.

Life could be an invisible gardener who shows up unexpectedly to check on how we’re doing. He may show up today. Will the gardener smile at our creation and see that it is good? He loves gardens.


Bud Hearn
July 31, 2015

The Lies We Tell

“In every walk of life each man puts on a personality and outward appearance so as to look what he wants to be thought. In fact, you might say that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities.” La Rochefoucauld

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Who can deny the fact our lives are layered with a pack of lies? We were born into the proclivity as the sparks fly upward. Lies fuel the fires of hell. The tongue lights the match.

Ok, so maybe this is a little dramatic, but you already know what happens when we tell a lie. Like a thief, we have to keep watching our backs. Our conscience stalks us relentlessly. Truth is a persistent pursuer.

Not all consciences are sensitive. This is especially true of the “For the People” TV lawyers. Politicians and televangelists tie for second place. Golfers are subtle. They fib on scores. It pays to have small handicaps posted on the wall of the men’s locker room. Egos need enhancement.

My mama used to say, “If you can believe it, then it’s true.” I think she was trying to convince herself that her son was not born brain dead.

According to American Indian folklore, the conscience is like an internal revolving stone triangle. It has sharp edges. Each untruth grinds it until the sharp edges no longer cut to the quick. Such is the conscience of a sociopath.

They’re everywhere. The latest study by the Women for Parity Coalition concludes all men are sociopaths. Few, if any, have the mental capacity for remorse. No sense of guilt. I relate. I am a man.

My first recollection of telling a lie was when I was caught with ten rolls of Tums bulging from the pocket of my shorts. I was about five or six. Having consumed maybe three or four complete rolls, a white, chalky residue clung to my lips like I’d eaten a bowl of kaolin.

“Son, what’s that white crud all over your face?” my father asked, and not too kindly.

Out of the mouth of babes come stupid, kneejerk answers.

“Candy?” It was a question used to deflect guilt. It failed. A sharp knife sliced my heart.

Clearly, cognitive function is logic-deficit at my age. Not only was a theft involved, but a significant cover-up to boot. Watergate stripped Nixon naked.

Truth will always out sooner or later. All of a sudden the stolen contraband turned to acid in my stomach. What if it had been rat poison? Horrors.

“Where did you get that stuff, boy?” my father demanded. He was a man with sharp tongue and decisive action. He should have been a Guantanamo interrogator.

The answer was so quick you’d have thought I’d been programmed before birth. “Grandma gave it to me.” Did I just say that?

But the lie was exhilarating, I recall. A big-boy lie, at that. I felt affirmed. Some things one never forgets. Like the first dark-night experience in the back seat of a car at the drive-in. Remember? It happened just at the very moment when Bogart blurts out, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Words have double meanings, you know.

Like after eating too many sardines, my stomach began to churn. A big grin stretched over my father’s face as he un-cinched his leather belt. What came next was no surprise. I’d been there before.

Tums still turns my stomach. Some lessons have lasting results. There’s a certain proverb that reads something like this: “Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of iron will drive it far from him.” Belts do the job just as well.

Lying tends to run in family genes. My father was a fisherman. He was a master inventor of fiction. Creative lying has been elevated by fishermen from a science to an art form.

There are degrees of lies. Most of us are masters of the midgets, those little white ones that grease the wheels of social graces. I have a good friend. He talks a lot. Lurking somewhere in each sentence is a word of truth. Embellishment and hyperbole disguise it. Fabrication is a creative act. Trump University teaches it.

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One day we’ll lie in state. The ruse will be over then. Public viewing eliminates a world of ‘assumed personalities.’ Repent now.

And if you ever say to me, “Hello, Mr. Wonderful,” I won’t hold it against you.


Bud Hearn
July 24, 2015

Dog Days in Dixie

Georgia is about to endure the insufferable assault of Dog Days, when movement becomes molasses and naps trump golf. The sleepy hound crawls from its hibernation in the heavens, shakes off the cosmic dust of its lethargy and announces its scorching presence.

Sirius, the Dog Star, gets an early start, rising before dawn. It follows the sun in its circuit and inflicts heat for six weeks on the prisoners of the earth. That’s us.

Never encountered Dog Days? For clarity, Google ‘heat wave.’ It’s when the sun pours out its searing bowl of wrath upon the earth. It torches every living creature. People pray and pledge their first born for reprieve. Relief comes only with a huge ransom.

Executives of Georgia’s utility monopoly luxuriate in air-conditioned comfort in Atlanta high rise offices. They lunch scrumptiously from revenue generated by massive utility bills, watching their customers wander about in hypnotic stupors.

The heat bakes Georgia’s red clay into bricks. Corn stalks wither. They bow in silent submission to the onslaught. Asphalt roads melt into hot tar. Tempers flare faster than July 4th fireworks.

Frequently the Okefenokee Swamp erupts in flames by spontaneous combustion. Huge plumes of smoke deposit ash trails reminiscent of Sodom’s demise. Mobile homes melt in the heat’s relentless march to the sea. Nothing is spared.

People in the piney woods pack their pickups. They flee the fiery path in a wild chaotic exit. The horror resembles a scene out of General Sherman’s playbook.

Even the brown gnats evacuate, seeking refuge on the Georgia coast. Nature delights in unannounced plagues during Dog Days.

Living on St. Simon’s Island, GA, we’re luckier than most in Georgia. The beach offers a temporary retreat from the stifling air, assuming one’s fortunate enough to find a parking place. Towel and chair spots disappear fast.

Before dawn ambitious teens stake out claims on the prime viewing locations. They barter with the late arrivals for these spots for cash or contraband in the form of cold-can elixirs. Capitalism is not an expletive to these entrepreneurs.

Come August the Chattahoochee River trickles and the ocean bubbles like a hot caldron of boiled peanuts. Sun worshipers will writhe in agony as their bare feet bake on the hot rocks and flaming beach sands. Their winter-white skin will sizzle, blackened by an unrelenting sun and fried crispy like Waffle House hash browns.

Tommy, the island’s local druggist, has again cornered the sun screen market. He purchased entire stocks from the local pharmacies. He rations his stash, selling one at a time. Prices escalate by the minute. Rumor has it that his profits from last year’s Dog Days financed a vacation home in Highlands.

Watermelons are in short supply everywhere. Last year a local farmer’s market sold all but one. It was posted on e-Bay and drew a huge bidding crowd. Some said a condo speculator from Macon paid $2,000 for it. Before leaving the parking lot, he doubled his money by flipping it to a fellow from Michigan. Which might explain the state’s tolerance toward Yankees.

This year I fell for the slick J Crew newspaper inserts touting linen shirts. “Stay cool, wear linen,” they read. So I buy five. Only to find out they soak up humidity like a sponge and look like they’re trying to crawl off my back.

Only kudzu, the Southern Cannibal, survives Dog Days unscathed. The insidious vine is Georgia’s solution to obliterating unsightly billboards along I-75. It can grow 18 inches in an instant.

Our neighbor in Atlanta preferred red clay for a yard. Even rocks wouldn’t occupy it. But kudzu thrived. It crept into our yard. In three days it consumed a lawn mower and threatened the mail man.

One night I wrestled the beast and succeeded in staking out a return path towards its origination. In two days the pernicious vine had devoured the neighbor’s Nissan.

Anything’s possible during Dog Days in Dixie. Whatever experiences you endure or enjoy, remember this: You only live once. Buy the ticket, take the ride.


Bud Hearn
July 17, 2015

Get It in Writing

“Don’t come around tonight, it’s bound to take your life. There’s a bad moon on the rise.”
Creedence Clearwater Revival

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A bad moon is rising over the American landscape. Government is demanding proof of ‘affirmative consent’ for consensual sex. Winks and nods no longer suffice. Men are being led away in chains and incarcerated.

It’s a disturbing portent. Government sleuths peek through the key holes of bedrooms, peer into back seats of cars and monitor movies for malefactors. The doctrine of ‘affirmative consent’ - the “yes means yes” rule - is strictly applied.

Positive consent is required for legal sex. The law is silent on what constitutes sufficient proof of consent. But like most statutes, agreements in writing can cover the backside of your naked exposure.

The ‘affirmative consent’ dragnet casts a wide arc. Imagine this scenario: A man and a woman share a bottle of pinot at a small table in the plaza of an outdoor restaurant. A violin plays. The rising yellow moon sets the tone. Romance hangs heavy in the summer air. Their conversation goes something like this:

“The moon is exquisite,” he says.

“Yes, lovely,” she replies.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks. His grin sends its message.

“Uh, I forgot to take the trash out,” she says. “What are you thinking?”

“Guess,” he says, and softly touches her hand. Nothing more.

Her hand’s cold, passive and non-responsive. Yes? No? He’s confused.

They stroll home, say goodnight. No hug. No kiss. The end. But wait, not quite.

Six months later he’s arrested on a criminal complaint under Section 213.6 (3) (a), “Criminal Sexual Contact.” She alleges rape. Farfetched? Hardly. He failed to get ‘affirmative consent’ for his actions.

Silence no longer means “Yes.” A noose hides in the context of the word, “Guess.” It is a presumption of sexual intent. What? Yes, government now defines ‘intent’ since Justice Roberts opined such in the recent Obamacare re-write.

The poor chump not only pays for the wine, now he’s paying for the crime. He fails to get unequivocal consent. With one simple touch of the hand he’s guilty of rape. He’s now the newest member of the sex-offender registry. Like leprosy, he’s forced to live in isolation and wear GPS monitoring devices for the remainder of his life. Fondling fingers is risky foreplay.

Say it’s not so, man. Who concocted this cockamamie claptrap? None other but the legal think tank of the Amalgamated Law Institute, a co-ed fraternity of frustrated lawyers and judges. Sex is in the crosshairs.

But wait, for everything bad that’s done to us, something good is done for us. You ask, what possible good can come from such fetid compost as this preposterous law? Take a guess. Robots, that’s what. The age of Isaac Asimov has arrived.

The internet miracle has made virtual physical contact available. Pygmalion déjà vu. Pyg sculpts a seductively irresistible woman out of ivory. He kisses her lips. They’re warm. Hot with passion, he kisses them again. She becomes alive. On-line voyeurs can now do likewise.

It’s easy. With the so-called Kissinger system, stick an app on your Smartphone. Kiss the screen, and the movement of the lips is mirrored in another machine. The kiss will be given to whoever has their mouth against a corresponding machine. Instant gratification. No consent. No rape.

Even more bizarre is the elastomer silicone-material dream doll. It’s produced by Doll Dream Company. It’s highly useful for criminal avoidance and private manipulations. Available on-line at a cost of about $6,000, it comes complete with makeup kits and removable components of indecorous descriptions. They’re portable, passive and compliant. Advance written consent is not required. Imagine the possibilities!

Not interested? Then have your lawyer draft up an ‘affirmative consent’ document with multiple boxes to check, ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ Things like, “May I look at you?” and, “Can you read my mind?” “Does it matter what I’m thinking?” The box of, “OK if I touch you?” should include, “Anywhere?” Get the idea? Be creative, entertain the jury.

Always attach copies of a passport, driver’s license, immunization history and proof of citizenship. Have it witnessed, notarized and recorded for extra credit. Don’t leave home without one.

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So much for another government entrapment scheme. Heed the sage advice: Agree with thine adversary quickly…and get it in writing. Be safe, not sorry.

Then let the wine, the music and the moon work their magic. That’s what they’re for.


Bud Hearn
July 10, 2015

Birth of a Republic…a Remembrance

Nations, like individuals, have birthdays. July 4, 1776 is the date on the birth certificate of America. Thomas Jefferson wrote and signed it.

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Revolutions change landscapes. They are not won by ideology but by blood. Without the shedding of blood there is no birth. So it was with the birth of America. The bloody war with England culminated in the advent of a Child of Liberty.

Lincoln harked back to the tenets of this nation’s birth when he wrote the Gettysburg Address. Excerpts follow:

“Four score and seven years ago our Fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

It continues: “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”

His rhetoric stirred the soul of this new nation, even as it stirs our collective soul today. National and world conflicts continue. Blood of our patriots continues to run red on our soil and on foreign shores. The price of Liberty is eternal vigilance. It comes at a terrible cost.

The concept of liberty pulsates in the hearts and minds of all people. These ideals of a personal liberty were eloquently penned in the birth certificate. It remains America’s most cherished symbol of liberty.

Forgive a crude analogy, but it could be inferred that America was immaculately conceived by the ethereal Concept of Liberty as its Father, and England as its Mother. Like children, maturity comes in ways both similar and different than their parents.

However, there remains always an atavistic and familial resemblance to both parents. This child, America, embodies similitudes of both ‘father’ and ‘mother’ in its struggle to mature. As we wonder what our own children’s legacy will be, so do we collectively wonder the same of our Republic.

There’s a story about Alexander Graham Bell. He and a friend observed a hot air balloon breaking the gravitational pull of the earth in France. It rose slowly, attained a significant height and drifted over a tree hedge. It plunged in a field where peasants worked. In panic they attacked the balloon with pitch forks. Change often evokes such responses.

The friend asked, “Now, what good was this experiment? It ended in failure.”

Dr. Bell replied, “What good is any newborn baby?” So it is with America. It continues to mature.

J. G. Magee, an American aviator and poet, wrote these stirring words:

“I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced with the sky on laughter and silver wings.…”

America, The Child of Liberty, has transcended Magee’s inspiring words. It is now soaring into full maturity.

How can we define our Republic today? Descriptions differ. Some depict it as a nation of junkies, drunk on oil from frozen tundra of North Dakota to the vines of Sodom in the fields of Gomorrah. Others claim its culture is one of excessive commercialism, the aphrodisiac of entitlement.

Some suggest the pervading pursuit of wealth turns us into herds of demon-possessed swine, rushing headlong en masse over the abyss of debt. Others lament the loss of jobs, trade treaties, and the hangover hegemony of Colonialism inherited from our ‘mother’s’ side of the family. No one fails to mention the insidious cycle of poverty and a perpetual welfare underclass. Oh, so many voices.

Others remind us of the technological genius that has broken down the walls of status quo and created new systems of scientific and economic paradigms. Still others see America exporting ideals of freedom to enslaved peoples of this world. America is constantly birthing yet more Children of Liberty.

Lincoln at Gettysburg looked beyond the carnage of a bloody Civil War and envisioned the future of America in a larger context. With words he sought to galvanize our disparate liberties into a more cohesive and nationalized whole. He wrote:

“…(T)hat this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” Can any words inspire more than these?

Of a truth, no nation on this earth has successfully existed into perpetuity. Perhaps it’s just a dream. But, dear Children of Freedom, living “under God” is a legacy of freedom to future generations. It is a dream worth dreaming.

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Tennyson wrote these words in his poem, In Memoriam:

“…(T)hat men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.”

Are there more profound words than these to remind us of our glorious heritage?

Happy Birthday, America.




Bud Hearn
July 3, 2015