Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, February 29, 2008

Gardens at the End of the Road

Gardens at the End of the Road


Skylane Drive is a dead-end road. Sand takes over where asphalt leaves off, where commercial life ends and a new kind of life begins. A hard ninety- degree turn onto the sand strip opens the door to a couple acres of vegetable and flower gardens on the east end of Runway 4 at McKinnon Airport. It is the get-away home for dozens of gardeners who have turned the dusty earth into a veritable Garden of Eden.

Sandwiched between a chain link fence on the runway’s edge and a subdivision, small garden plots lie in perfect horizontal rows, verdantly demonstrative of the recuperative and productive power of the soil. Black composted soil, neatly lined in rows, is home to a variety of vegetables and occasional flowers that change with the season.

In the late February sun, rows of mustard greens, broccoli, carrots, cabbage, early Vidalia onions and other winter varieties live in quiet communion with the noisy surroundings. It is a surreal place for gardens, out of context. Yet here they are, now for over seven years, made available by the Airport Authority for about $65 per year rent for plots about 30 feet x 45 feet. A bargain.

I eased my bike down the sandy lane, instantly feeling at home. Only a few folks were tending to their plots this day, and I struck up a conversation with George Aycock and his pal, Ed Strickland. They were relieving the broccoli plants of their remaining remnants before they went to seed and were yanking huge orange carrots out of the ground.

George,” I asked, “Why do you garden here?” Standing erect, he considered the question, and replied, “I guess it’s something I enjoy doing and it gets me out of the house. There is a lot of companionship here during the season. Besides, my garden is overly productive and I enjoy giving produce away.” I asked, “George, what are those reddish-green plants?” He allowed as how they were beets, and while he didn’t necessarily like beets all that much, he had planted the row for a friend.

Sensing something more, I listened. “You see,” George said, “my friend was a World War II Veteran and made 3 parachute jumps into Europe. I always admired his courage. He was ill and loved beets, so I planted these. I dug some up and took them over to his house, only to find out he died a couple of hours earlier.” We both looked for a moment at that row of beets, captive to our own thoughts.

George reminisced about the years he’d gardened since retirement. “Grew a pretty big turnip once…guess how big it was,” he said as a big grin appeared. “I give up,” I muttered …just how big can a turnip grow, anyway, I wondered. “Six and a quarter pounds,” he said with pride, “but not much good except to brag about.” So are a lot of things!

After George and Ed left, I found myself alone, sitting on a bucket, listening to the wind whisper gently as I contemplated things about gardens. Some lessons are obvious, like “Weeds Happen!” True, there seems to be a bias in nature toward the uncultivated field, the wildness of nature over the orderly, where weeds, thorns and thistles grow without any help. Doesn’t seem fair that so much diligent care must be taken to keep the weeds at bay. Yet if I remember correctly, Somebody a long time ago cursed the ground for the sake of man, and like it or not, that is just how it is.

Gardens are the mothers of miracles, too…miracles of growth, and these miracles follow the plow. Lying fallow for weeks, the garden begins to enjoy its soft and comfortable self, but soon it will groan under the merciless tilling of the plow. Seeds are planted and in no time, with sun and water, the ground is alive with new life. What a place to sit and think….should be mandatory for all school children, and adults as well!

Only gardeners appreciate the subtle joys of planting and tending. Gardens can’t be hurried, and that is perhaps the best lesson of all…we are not in control! Nature will have its way and the best we can do is cooperate in the effort.

What is the story-line here with these gardens?

On that Saturday afternoon I think I could understand the “connecting point” these gardens have provided this community. And as to the mystic part of me, the subtlety seemed too obvious to overlook: The “end of the road” was not the end of the road…just a new beginning…recurrent life is omnipresent!

So do yourself a favor….wander over there one day, introduce yourself to a gardener, and experience “the warmth of feeling united with the common pulse of humanity” on this elegant island.



Bud
February 29, 2008

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Euphoria in The Vault

Friends: Euphoria in The Vault

"For in that hour so great riches are gone to nothing." Rev. 18:17

The Credit Bomb has exploded.

It casts its nasty ashes over the landscape of gleaming new condos overlooking a promised utopia. Smoke from the burning of the equity meltdown obscures the sun and fills the nostrils of snowbird vacationers. The horizon blazes with the red glow of cities on fire, fueled by the implosion of credit. It is a "doomsday" scenario--it is Florida.

Norway has made provision for the contagion. It has opened a "doomsday vault" deep in a frozen glacier in which thousands of plant seeds are being stored underground in preparation for Armageddon. People are fleeing into caves and burrows to ride out this credit fire-storm.

There is a collective wailing in the streets of America, lamentations and gnashing of teeth in the Land of the Free--only freedom has been compromised by the dark Specter of Foreclosure. Greedy lenders and lawyers with foreclosure writs rush madly into homes, summarily dispossessing people of their Possessions---"borrowed" possessions, that is!

A mad rush for the exits ensues as the conflagration spreads like the swamp wildfires of the past summer...Sherman would have loved this!

But not some, including myself, at least on a recent night. A new bank, celebrating its opening, had a reception "in the vault". Wine flowed, food was lustily gobbled by the swirling and swilling crowd, intoxicated by the smell of the "new money." It was a high time of euphoria, the promise of a new life on more borrowed money...as the Bible says, "Wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things." Eccl 10:19

It all reminded me of the "Four Stages of Real Estate Ownership" I had painfully learned: First, Euphoria when it's purchased; next, nagging Fear of having bought a bad deal; followed by outright Distress and finally, when someone shows up offering our money back, Relief. And there are a lot of folks looking for that last stage of ownership today!

Paul Dunbar foresaw these problems when he said: "Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought; Poor was the loan at best...but God! O the Interest!"

Good luck on your investments!


Bud
February 28, 2006

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Lunar Eclipse

“The Lunar Eclipse”


Friends:

The Moon….renowned for provoking change in tides and love….went dark last night.


It hung there, suspended in the firmament, mesmerizing an earthly audience in its changing brilliance. Wine glasses glistened in its light and lovers on park benches whispered renewed promises of love and possibilities.

In the stillness of the night, man and creatures moved like shadows in the half-light silence of The Eclipse. The stars, tiny points of light, studded the heavens and embraced the throne of the glowing orange ember. All nature was in awe.

Like a curious child I stood transfixed on the front lawn as the drama unfolded, strangely remembering the words of Mark Twain:

All men are like the moon and have a dark side.”

About three hours later, the familiar white glow of the full moon shown through the windows casting its luminescent personality across the landscape and bedroom walls. Back to its old self ~ order restored. Too bad the dark side of mankind never sees the beauty of light and the evolving enjoyment of change, I thought.

I slept the night dreaming of the memories of eclipses, of wine, of romance….and you?



Bud
February 21, 2008

Thursday, February 14, 2008

The Card Game...My Heart is the Wild Card

Friends: The Card Game...My Heart is the Wild Card

"Rejoice not over me, O my enemy; for though I fall, yet shall I rise." Micah 7:8

It's Valentine's Day, so the concept of a "heart" missive seemed to fit, especially that part which came from last night's dream.

Scene I: Card tables fill a massive room, and I'm sitting at a table, surrounded by strangers, to whom I'm also a stranger. The tournament "Leader" from His lofty perch announces that this card game is random, and we each get only two hands. We have already received the first one.

In the shadows of the room ghastly phantoms swirl and sway, laugh and whisper...they are the reason we strangers are all in this room. We had no say in it...we are all effects of amorous and passionate nights of years past. This "first hand" of cards we are dealt is not of our choosing, and judging from the looks of faces, some have received pretty bad hands, others Full Houses, Aces High.

Scene II: I walk into the hospital Tuesday for another cardioversion, knowing that it is a result of an aberrant hand of cards I was dealt 65 years ago. I am placed on a gurney surrounded by electrical devices to which I am hooked. Electrodes cover my naked body, and a solution of demerol and God knows what other poison is about to flow into my veins. Unintelligible utterances are whispered by the nurses and doctor as they prepare for the "procedure". The doctor taunts, "Been nice knowing you", and the nurse pulls the plug mumbling, "Lights out, Pal." The last act before my heart stops is The Finger I give them all.

The electrodes strapped to my chest are connected to a wall socket, and instantly my heart receives a 300-volt charge of Georgia Power's raw electricity. It cannot stand the jolt, so it stops in mid-beat. I'm dead, if only for a micro-second. But my heart can't be killed that easily as they found out, and soon I am coming out of the anesthetic stupor and being rolled out to the car where Leslie, my daughter, is waiting to transport an incoherently muttering and drugged father back to the island for recuperation.

Scene III: I am now back in the card room, playing with the sorry hand I was dealt, when the "Leader" says, "OK, it's time for you to exercise the One Choice you have: you can keep the hand you have, or get dealt another new hand." Sweat pouring from my face, I contemplate, I decide...OK, I'll take one more hand...let’s go for it. Turns out it's not much better, and the cards prophetically reading "ablation procedure in your future." Heck, my chances might have been better down at Sister Angel, the Tarot Card Reader.

I sigh...I will never win this game with these worthless cards, but at least I can play a little longer...and "Longer" is the name of this game we're all playing, that's for sure, since none in this room is going to win in the end.

The last Scene ends with a new day dawning and a combined Longfellow and Micah ringing in my ears:

"Defeat may be Victory in disguise:
The lowest Ebb is the Turn of the Tide;
Though I fall, yet shall I arise."

Deal the cards, light my cigar, another scotch and lets get on with The Game...Double the bet, I'm in !


Bud
February 14, 2008

Monday, February 11, 2008

Testing One-Liners...An Extreme Event

There are thousands of one-liners out there, and about all most succeed in doing is getting a blank stare or a roll of the eyes, meaning, of course, "buzz off, you creep." But it is fun to take a few and practice them. The following is a result of that experiment:

One-Liners That Work...an Experiment.

It was a good evening for an experiment...full moon over the marina, soft breeze, a slow blusey Dr. John on the piano, and several attractive ladies at the bar, alone, possibly lonely. The ambience was about perfect for The Experiment...so I fearlessly began to test out some new one-liners.

With eye contact, I said to the blonde, "Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by a second time?" Vehemently she screamed, "Get lost, you @#&#@#* loser!"

Undeterred, I eased on down the bar and nudged the petite sweetie with the pinot. "Hi, my name is Mr. Right, and I heard you were looking for me." The dregs of the pinot felt warm on my face, and I took that as a "No."

Somewhat dejected, I slid up on the stool next to this, shall I kindly say, "mature" lady with the rheumy eyes nursing a BudLite. "Darlin'," I whispered softly, "What good is it for me to have inherited $10 million when I have a weak heart?" She slammed her beer on the bar and grabbed me by the lapel and said, "Honey, lets go outside and talk about your problem." She was a woman of fine strength, hearty, robust.

We stood briefly overlooking the moonlit waters, and she reached into her bag and pulled out a big cigar, hiked her leg and lit a match off the bottom of her shoe. The cigar filled the air with a cheap perfume as smoke curled from the corners of her lips. "Now where were we, Baby," she said commandingly. I was not prepared for this much success so early on, and I hurriedly excused myself , feigning nature's call, but promising I'd return shortly.

Slinking out the back door of the bar, I could see her silhouette, smoke encircling her head like a halo. I made good time to my car and considered the evening's experiences. I concluded that in future "experiments" of this nature either I would be more circumspect with my choice of "subjects," or inherit less money. Maybe $100 would not provoke such an extreme response! But after all, it was just an experiment.

Good luck on yours.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Voice of an Island

The Voice of an Island…

But O for…the sound of a voice that is still!” Tennyson


It’s March, and The Island Choir is tuning up.

Jets overhead mingle with morning walkers, joggers and bikers along island sidewalks. The island is coming alive again after winter—The Choir has assembled, a recital is beginning.

The island has a voice and a language all its own…it is alive with singing through a cacophony of sounds—listen to its chorus.

The Voices—so many--the wind, the ocean, the sands, the stars, the lazy days or the Big Daddy of ‘em all, the still, huge voice of The Marshes. Who has not heard the marshes sing its refrain, “Come home, come home...” With such a synthesis of voices it is difficult to hear the individuality, only the collective unity of a Single Choir.

I know something about choirs. I had ample experience as a youth in the small town of Colquitt, GA, where the United Methodist Church ruled most Sundays. I can still see the faces of some choir members there…gazing from their lofty perch, their eyes seemed to bore into my very soul, saying, “Repent, you worthless sinner…”

Some years ago I visited my mother there. Abandoning a guilty conscience, I took it upon myself to brave church alone. And, Oh, my God, there they were, The Choir—singing away—like nothing had changed. There were so many of the “old” faces that for a minute I thought I had transcended earth. Yes, there were some new and younger faces, but they still sang with one voice the old Wesley favorites. With the exception of the octogenarian who, as I recall from youth, sang about a half-note off key, their individual voices were indistinguishable.

Would you like to hear to The Voice of an Island? Then stop it in mid-motion... here’s how I did:

On a dusty patch of sand, hard by Runway 22, an open tent stands shaded by giant oak trees. It is the island’s “Farmer’s Market.” Kathy is one of its daily proprietors. She is easily distinguishable by her trademark blonde ponytail and constant waves to the honks of friends. Quick with a smile and a hello, her enthusiasm is contagious.

Rows of boxes filled with fresh vegetables, citrus and other edibles reflect the bright sunlight. Alive and colorful, the produce, like an assembled choir, speaks collectively. It has a profound and perhaps primordial attraction, reminding us of family dinners, past and present. It sings of memories as well as possibilities.

There are few places that you can actually “feel” the pulse of a place…this tent is one of them. While we talk about her business, people come and go, passing around a little news or gossip they’ve heard, always leaving something of themselves, even as we kept sampling the hot boiled peanuts.

I ask Kathy, “How have times changed?” Reflectively, she answers, “Well, in the old days families came in and bought by the bushel, went home and sat around preparing the produce for cooking. Not so now…they want it shucked, shelled, shredded and stringed, so I spend a lot of my time preparing it for them. I guess I’ll have to start cookin’ it for ‘em soon!”

Why’s that,” I ask? “Well, I reckon nobody has time to sit around together anymore…they want it done for them. Maybe that’s a sign of the times, and maybe I’m becoming a relic.” I understood that fate!

Where does this produce come from,” I ask. “Mostly from small farms in Southeast Georgia. It’s a way for these small farmers to supplement their income and at the same time feel a sense of connectedness to a community larger than theirs. I think I represent a microcosm of the region, because under this tent a lot of people come together in one way or another…one plants, another harvests, one delivers, another sells, and the buyers eat. No matter how you look at it, in some sense we are all part of a larger community.” What she said got me to thinking.

What exactly is The Voice of an Island anyway? Is it not each of us who together sing a part? Perhaps it’s only a small part…but in the larger sense we’re all in this life together, and we all are part of a very big choir, singing with a lot of individuality, making up The Voice of an Island every day. Just a thought.

Yes, there are always some new faces in this elegant island choir…change is good. I hope yours is one of them. While I won’t speculate on how you might hear the Island Voice, I will warn you in advance of this:

I’ll be the lunatic singing hilariously with joy every day, hoping to make a difference!



Bud
February 10, 2008

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Lent...A Subtle Reminder

Friends: Lent...A Subtle Reminder

"I tell you, the past is a Bucket of Ashes." Carl Sandburg

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and forehead ashes adorned the devout. It's strange to see ashes on folks walking on the beach. For 40 days we will wail and gnash under the burden of penitence and fasting, smiling and abstaining under the commitment.

Lent is a harsh regime... failure is always at hand, so I wear ashes and sackcloth in hopes of not being blasphemous. But alas, even as you also lament, to begin is easy; and while the spirit is willing, the body is weak, and we are soon crushed under such strict discipline. Oh, that chocolate never looked so good!

But this year I’m after it big time ~~ no more "giving up" of small stuff like iced tea, sausage and biscuits, cokes, chocolate, desserts, gravy, wine and scotch... Oh no, I want to walk head high, shoulders back, right through those Pearly Gates without interrogation. So, I have taken a giant leap of faith this year.

What, you say? Why, the Renunciation of some Silly Notions I have kept, hoping...here are ten:

1. I will again run 50 miles…. Ha ha
2. All of the opposite gender find me attractive.
3. I may someday be able to actually retire.
4. The lines on my face will soon disappear.
5. My waist and weight will not change.
6. There is no next-day cost to over-indulgence.
7. That just a smile will take you just so far.
8. I will live up to the name of Mr. Wonderful.
9. The toilet lid can always remain up in my home.
10. Friendship works without communication.

I know, I know, impossible, you say. Perhaps. We'll see. But neither can you escape unscathed…as for you, let me give you some to think about:

Guys: The Silly Notions that:
You’re in control.
Golf and tennis will get easier.
You will always remain relevant.
Your children will never mock your goofy mistakes.
You are God's gift to the ladies.

Girls: The Silly Notions that:
You will understand men.
Your Man will some day be perfect (or even acceptable!).
The grass is greener out there.
Men love you only for your beauty.
More makeup will help.

Of course, I could go on, but enough is enough on the subject of Lent and Ashes. Just this: what we have in this life has all been "lent" to us for temporary use, and one day pretty soon we'll have to cash it in for the "bucket of ashes."
But until then, I think I'll continue to try for perfection. If that fails I’ll remember what Carl Sandburg said and let go of some weight, leave some baggage behind and move on. That is what Lent is all about to me.


Bud
February 7, 2008