"Shaking the tree, Boss, shaking the tree!"

Friends: "Shaking the tree, Boss, shaking the tree!"
Paul Newman

Late night driving, whether sober or wigged-out on uppers, produces thoughts that come out of nowhere, from the deep levels of lunacy lurking near the surface, ready to jump out at any provocation ~~~ particularly as one cruises east near midnight through the rural darkness along I-16 with a full moon and truckers as travel companions. This was my predicament last night.

The above lines from the classic movie, Cool Hand Luke, uttered by Paul Newman, came to mind. Remember that movie? He had "the urge to go," so the chain gang Boss let him ease into the edge of the woods for relief, only he was to continue shaking the bush so he wouldn't run off...and he did just that, with a very long string while he made his escape.

Sometimes I feel like Luke when I'm in Atlanta, always "shaking the deal-bushes" to see what might fall out. When the kids were very young they called me The Money Tree. Before they knew how to spend really big money, and when they needed coins for snacks, and not for cars or houses, they used to say, “Let’s go shake The Money Tree.”

Well, what goes around eventually comes back around, you know. And for a lot of years now I have been shaking the Atlanta banks' money trees for coins, and I suspect a whole lot of others have been doing the same thing, too, if the news has any accuracy to it. But for many their "string" has run out, and while they attempt to escape through the forests of confusion, the banks are closing in. Escape is never possible...and the past is always close behind!

Cool Hand Luke was ultimately captured, beaten, humiliated and forced to dig deep holes (which always happens when we shake the banks' money trees too much!), from which the famous lines by the Warden originated: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

Leaving Atlanta for the coast reminded me that we can run, but we cannot hide (also famous lines from the boxer, Joe Louis). The string will always run out, and we will be captured, stripped naked, beaten, cast into cages for punishment and shaken without mercy, forced to pay the last farthing...at least metaphorically anyway. I saw the beginning of a lot of holes being dug in Atlanta this week, and I'm glad that one of them was not mine (at least not yet!). And I hope that none of the holes I see appearing down here are yours!


Bud
August 30, 2007

Escape to Africa

Friends: Escape to Africa


My wife escaped to Africa...another way of saying "she done left me."

After 41 years of a "blissful" marriage, she left me stranded on this island and headed for Africa with her friends. For a man's ego, that's hard to take: Why'd she go 8,000 miles, ride on a plane for 20 hours, just to escape this wonderful environment, and me, Mr. Wonderful?

I had some clues months ago that she had planned to leave me...late-night e-mails, UPS slick packages of exotic African game preserves, secretive phone calls. I admit I was alerted, but it was only when she rented "Out of Africa" starring Robert Redford and "The African Queen" with Bogart and watched them five times that I really became suspicious.

She must have gotten homesick, since she's called me regularly. On the last call she said there were some disappointments in the game preserve. Oh, the animals were wonderful, nobody on the tour had been eaten by lions, but the "tent" she saw in the brochures was not the actual tent she was given...Duh! I shudder to think, having slept in tents many times! Furthermore, she said the African plains were dry, dusty and the plants and trees brown. Where are the lush rain-forest jungles and Tarzan swinging from vines, she asked.

I asked if she'd found a Great White Hunter yet to keep her company, or at least to get a picture with...perhaps a Redford, or a Bogart. NO, that was more disappointing. Romantic notions die hard, especially when reality is faced with slick advertising!

I asked about buses...Oh yes, she said...we board buses, stand in single-file line like tourists, eyes glazed over from the early morning, shuffled out to the vineyards...but at least they could get anesthetized, and make the ride home enjoyable.

I'm not sure, but I think she kinda misses me...I'm just now getting into being a Left-behind, and my social life is improving, thanks to good friends, widows and other lonely hearts. The table has all the newspapers (week's supply--don't want to miss any news), and the place is generally clean. I can go to the Golden Isles Speedway without a curfew. Heck, if I didn't know better, I might think that maybe I am a Redford, a Bogart, if not a Tarzan...but alas, romantic notions die hard here, too!

She'll be home soon, and we'll resume our blissful marriage. But I got lucky, fellows, and I strongly advise you to keep a close tab on your spouse's activities, emails, advertising brochures from Abercrombie and Kent and rental movies...you may be able to stop madness before it occurs.


Bud
September 27, 2007

Nail Soup and Other Tidbits....

Friends: Nail Soup and Other Tidbits….

Weird stuff this week…it happens that way sometimes. What, with the meltdown of the credit markets, havoc in the financial streets of the world, racial beatings in Louisiana, tortures in Virginia, O.J. back in jail and a weirdo arrested at the airport with Asian snakes in jars of formaldehyde…why would my visit to Atlanta this week not be filled with strange events?

Sitting at the City Grille at Five Points with 3 other members of my investment team, sipping Perrier and “appearing connected” (which is what you must do at all costs to be successful in Atlanta), the subject of “nail soup“ came up. “Men, it’s all ‘nail soup’,” Kirby said.
“What, are you some kind of nut,” I replied? “Nail soup?” He said, “That’s right…we are no different from a group of hobos, sitting out yonder among their pasteboard edifices under the interstate overpass, dreaming of the great fortunes they are destined to make with these investment schemes.”
Tom shouted, “Explain yourself, you fool, just what are you suggesting? We’re first-class businessmen here, concocting fabulous ideas to help the poor sub-prime victims escape jail, albeit at a profit to ourselves…it’s a humanitarian effort.”
Kirby said, “OK, you Pretenders, let me tell you a little about ‘nail soup,” and he went on to explain the receipt for the witches brew:

“It’s simple: We take a big pot, fill it with water and set it to boiling, put a rusty nail in it and call it ‘Nail Soup.’ Immediately we create some carnival-like excitement among the other hobos, and they begin to flock over to our ‘office’ to see what’s going on.” One comments, “What’s in the pot?” We say, “Nail Soup,” to which we add that it’d be a little tastier with some carrots thrown in. Carrots miraculously appear.
The Fat is now in the Fire, so to speak, and other ingredients begin to show up from some “reinvented” hobos who want to join the “bailout” party…some potatoes, some onions, maybe some celery, a little seasoning and finally some meat. “Viola,” we have Nail Soup.

“What are you trying to say, Chef,” Elliott said. “Only this,” Kirby says: “We’re starting out with a good idea, but we’ll need the help of some others to really make an edible stew out it.”
We returned to lunch of quiche, salads and fine coffee on a white linen tablecloth. But we left with a new appreciation of how ideas really come together. And Friends, we’re boiling up a big pot of water up here in the city right now! Nail Soup’s on the menu!


Bud
September 20, 2007

Life is Normal Again

Friends:
Life is Normal Again


Whatever that means.

Life is never really normal, as you know ... something's always messing with it to make it incongruous and difficult. But on the island things are returning to what we'd like to call normal. First of all, traffic is manageable, without license plates from all over the country, particularly California. And the whole place has the feel of "empty," which is what it was before we all showed up here. Property is getting mold on it since the real estate market has collapsed and values are plunging. If you don't believe me, just go up to any of the banks and observe: people are frantic, withdrawing their money, buying shovels at Ace for burying it in the yard, restructuring their loans ... and bankers are no longer calling with lunch invitations. It all has the "feel" of an impending tsunami.

Even restaurateurs are kinder these days, what with plenty of tables for locals without having to go to the back door down the ally and beg for a takeout. Tourists on bikes are no longer a menace, and the beach is virtually unused now. Well, that's not quite right, if you consider over on East Beach one still has to dodge dog dung when you walk ... who are these people (they live over on Sea Island, too!)?

But over here at the hangar, things are always happening, and life is anything but normal.
Why, just today we had beautiful ladies, models and photographers, posing on Mr. Gruber's fleet of airplanes, pretending to be off to some exotic spot like Maine or Palm Beach. I attempted to join the one most beautiful model, Mary Bryan (her phone number is my very own secret), whose picture is included (except she reminded me I had coached her in soccer when she was 12 ... young women no' longer have any respect for age). And to compound my efforts at being suave, she reminded me that her father and I were business partners! So much for that fantasy! They suggested that my orange shirt didn't match any decent football team colors, Tennessee, notwithstanding, and I volunteered to remove it so I'd appear to be a Dawg or Clemson Tiger ... we never wore shirts in Colquitt in September!

But the most exciting thing happening this morning at dawn (well, it was 9 AM, and just seemed like dawn to me!) was the Georgia National Guard esoteric exercise. When I pulled up, they were taking names and kicking you-know-what...young, virile men, running around madly in full camouflage, biceps bulging, testosterone oozing, sweating profusely, frantically setting up to counter extraterrestrial aliens or some sleezy politician who might show up (which I thought was appropriate). I had first assumed that Mr. Gruber had purchased all the equipment and was adding that for screening purposes for his airline empire. But things turned nasty and we had to submit to body searches for weapons or other terrorist paraphernalia. Grown men were running around in moon suits, in 95 degree heat, pretending to counter some supposed threat from those innocents here at the hangar. It was all very weird and other­worldly, but we enjoyed the entertainment.

But like most things, it ended. They broke camp, packed up and by 2 PM were gone. Even the models left and nobody but us regular normal folks remained behind having survived another normal day. We who witnessed all this will not only sleep better tonight. but it will give us, and you as well, great comfort that Mr. Gruber is on top of things around here.

Bud
September 6, 2007

reflections on the Screen Door.....A Requiem

Reflections on the Screen Door...
A Requiem

"I feel like I'm always talking to you through the screen door," he once said to me. His name was Bob, and he was a friend of mine. That was in Atlanta, 1987. Funny how some words stay with you for a long time.


I remember the day he spoke these words to me. It was a nice end-of-summer morning, and suddenly there was this incessant pounding on the front screen door. I raced downstairs to confront the intruder, and there he was, maniacally beating his fists against the door, shouting, "Open up, open up; we're at a crossroads...hurry, open up." I shouted, "Bob, are you crazy, carrying on like this? What's come over you?" "Salvation, man, Salvation, that's what we need...it's Heaven or Hell, and we have to choose right now!"
He was weaving back and forth, sweat pouring from his face, and his eyes were like balls of fire, blazing, and they had the crazed look of one who'd seen Hell itself. "The End Times are upon us, man, and Salvation is the only thing left. Open up!"
His raving was like that of a mad man, and he kept jerking at his tie as though it was a noose of his own choosing. His face was twisted and twitched in spasmodic convulsions like a man possessed… his clothes reeked with the stench of stale tobacco smoke and grease from cheap diners. "Get a grip on yourself, man," I screamed, but to no avail. He had clearly lost all control. There was no way I was going outside that screen door to accept any invitation he had to offer.
Rebuked, slowly he began to come to his senses, and he staggered and stumbled his way back down the walkway in lockstep with lunacy, muttering incoherently something about "blood being on my own hands" and the prophetic words, "I feel like I'm always talking to you through the screen door." Believe me, Bubba, it was a terrifying scene!
I haven't seen Bob since that day when I rejected his invitation, but I have not forgotten his comment. There is a fine line between genius and madness, and notwithstanding whichever he might have been on that day, his comment about communication through the screen door was prescient. I never forgot it ~~ the past is always close behind!


Well, that was another time and big cities will do that to you. But life is quieter here and I am not known for turning down reasonable invitations. I recently accepted one from my pal Wayne to eat "dinner" (lunch for city folks) with his clan, The Brand family, over in Nahunta. It helps to go to places like Nahunta to get the right perspective on things. We pulled up in the back yard and Edward, the patriarch of the clan, shouted from the back porch screen door, "Hey, you boys get in here right away...Lois and Aunt Janie have got the food all laid out and ready to eat."
Wasting no time, we sprinted into the house through that screen door, and all I can say about the next hour or so was that it was a time of pure ecstasy, as we feasted on an endless supply of fresh vegetables, meats and yeast rolls the size of baseballs. My table companion was Lois, a lovely and spry lady of 98, who kept us entertained with her exploits.
But all the while there was this undefined nagging in my mind, something about screen doors that I could not quite put my finger on. As the table droned on in conversation, my eyes became transfixed on the screen door. My thoughts drew me back in reflection on the screen doors of my youth, the vestiges of an era of Southern Lifestyle gone with the wind. In those days screen doors were as common as sorghum syrup and cornbread...everybody's house had them. They provided not only a sense of security and a protection from insects, but also served to establish boundaries between people.
I remembered the sounds they made: "slap, slap, slap," as we ran outside, and "rap, rap,' rap" when visitors came by and knocked. Visitors were usually folks you knew; they always came to the back or side porch where the screen door was. Front doors were formal entrances and were used only by strangers like encyclopedia salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses or the IRS. I don't remember many homes with screen doors on the front.
But that was a long time ago, and today my thoughts focused on how screen doors have represented a politely-veiled but distinct distance between things and people, a subtle yet decorous boundary of separation, which literally said, "You're welcomed, you can come close, but only so far..." That is why Bob's comment still haunts me. He never got inside!
Today our culture has mostly transcended screen doors as a boundary of separation by substituting more sophisticated means of "boundary control," albeit highly impersonal, like e-mail, voice mail, caller ID and things like that. Personal visits rarely occur unannounced at our homes these days. Alas, while much is gained, much is also lost of the more innocent past. Screen doors are just not that necessary anymore.


I mentally returned to the table discussions just as the pie and watermelon were being served. Afterwards, the conversation began to drag, eyes got heavy and naps were in order. It was time to say "Goodbye."
Lois stood on the inside of the screen door, waving goodbye, and all the while I couldn't help but notice the silent shadow of a turkey buzzard as it soared overhead in the hot summer sunlight, high above the 108 year old homeplace. I felt a sudden foreboding as the shadow passed over me. Eerie, I thought.
As we left, I cast a backward glance at the screen door. There, alone with the past was Lois, a solitary and diffused figure, fading slowly, silently from the half-light of the sultry afternoon into the cool, dark shadows of the house. And overhead, just as solitary and silent, was the black bird of carrion, that Last Feeder on flesh, ever narrowing its circular vortex and casting its prophetic and ominous shadow over the blistering, scorched landscape of another bygone era....patient, certain, effortlessly awaiting the Final Knock at that screen door.


At dusk I arrived at my own homeplace, walked around to the back porch and was about to enter the screen door. Lying there on the door stoop, stopping me dead still in my tracks, was one black feather. Perhaps it was an omen or perhaps it meant nothing at all ... but it unnerved me and I shuddered with a sudden chill, remembering the day.....


Screen doors and porches … eliminate them and there will much less elegant island living on these islands; without them there would be a lot fewer memories. So if you ever come by my place, wander around to the back porch and come on in the screen door……together we’ll remember and be the better for it.


Bud
September 4, 2007