Greetings on Independence Day, 1776-2011

***** Firecrackers & Freedom *****

“And it shall come to pass afterward, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions…” Joel 2:28


The Spirit of Freedom will sparkle again on Monday. Our land will light up with firecrackers in celebration of a dream come true…Independence Day. It marks the 235th anniversary of the birth of America. But what exactly will we be celebrating?

Freedom, of course … fruit from the vision of courageous men, young and old. These pledged their lives and fortunes to fulfill the deepest dream of mankind…Liberty. The Declaration of Independence is the Word, the seed of that dream. Its words have become a living reality.

What is Freedom? A chimerical wish-list envisioned by idle daydreamers? Some romantic notion devised by Utopian idealists? Hardly. The poet, Gibran, writes, “(Vague) and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end…that which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined...and if you could hear the whispering of the dream, you would hear no other sound.” Thankfully, our ancestors heard that whisper.

From what compost pile is Freedom conceived? Often from the rotting detritus of oppression, enslavement, tyranny and brutality. It seethes in obscurity. It endures beneath the turf of tyrants, despots and dictators. When it can no longer be suppressed, its collective voice cries, “No more!” It then rises from darkness into a tsunami of unrestrained power.

All births are bloody messes. Travail precedes each. Ben Franklin and a friend once watched a hot air balloon exhibit. It rose from a field, floated over trees, and landed in a nearby field. Peasant farmers with pitchforks, ignorant and fearful, attacked it. The friend remarked, “What good was that experiment?” Franklin replied, “What good is any new-born baby?” Freedom begins as a baby. But it grows, changes, has dreams of its own destiny. America’s experiment with Freedom is now 235 years old. The baby’s growing up…and it’s changing.

How does Freedom consist, hold together? Is it by milquetoast methods of submission to the winds of fortune? Or is it by, as Churchill said in England’s dark hours of WW II, “…blood, toil, tears and sweat…?” All revolutions and preservations of Freedom are achieved not by slick rhetoric, but by the shedding of blood. America’s experiment with Freedom is no different.

Is our dream of Freedom in jeopardy? Has it become a faded billboard for rent, cheap? A fast-food court of entitlements, tawdry trinkets and handouts to appease the masses? A nation of ‘freeloaders’ and pilferers of the public treasury? Free everything…healthcare, food stamps, welfare checks mortgages, you-name-it? Are we like drunks, sucking the dregs of the Dream at the bottom of a bottle of debt, celebrity politics and self-gratification? Scary thoughts.

Again this year the fireworks extravaganzas will bring to remembrance Francis Scott Key’s words, “…and the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” And that’s what we need…a constant reminder that the horror of darkness has not extinguished our flag, the symbol of enduring Freedom.

On Monday the Spirit of Liberty will blow softly in the breezes. Firecrackers, both real and metaphorical, will beat back the night for a little while longer. After the parades, picnics, BBQ, hot dogs, beer, watermelons and heartburn, we’ll sleep soundly, nurtured in the comfort of Freedom. But not all of us.

Somewhere on a desolate plain a soldier with a weapon will keep a night watch. Somewhere a baby will be born. Their lives will merge with old men who still dream dreams, and with young men who still see visions.



Every generation has the power to retain or forfeit the Dream of Freedom. Which will we choose?

But for today, The Dream lives on…God Bless America!



Bud Hearn
June 30, 2011

Waiting for Comcast

It’s early morning. I boot up the computer, click on Internet. Nothing.
A blank screen appears. What’s this? I ask my dog. He snores.
Then words appear, “This Page Cannot Be Displayed.”
The screen mocks me. I curse it, call Comcast.

A mechanical voice answers, “Listen up, moron, our options have changed.”
I select 1 for English, queue in a cyber-line. I listen. I wait. Hours pass.
Canned Comcast music keeps me company. Is Guy Lombardo resurrected?
I opt for option 89, ‘Tech Support.’ Silence ensues. Lombardo is re-tombed.

A new voice. I’m encouraged. It says wait, helping other customers. I do.
Waiting makes me hungry. I pocket the phone, cook breakfast.
The music plays on. I read three newspapers. Waiting for Comcast.
The day drones. Time for lunch. Still the music, incessant. Waiting.

I get bored. Sit by pool. Take a nap. Read a book. Wait some more.
The sun sets. Cocktail time. I imbibe, big stiff ones. More. Wait longer.
I have dinner, phone in lap. A click. Something. I become alert, hoping.
Patience pays dividends. A voice asks, “How can I help you?” It’s now 11 PM.

O, joy, a human voice. But wait…the accent. Strange English. A Robot?
I don’t care. I vent. Demand help. I vilify the Robot and his mother.
By 2 AM. I’m calm. I listen to repair instructions. Understand nothing.
Router? What’s that? I unplug wires. Computer crashes. Screen goes dark.

The Robot is calm. I’m manic. The Modem, you say? Black box? Where?
I find several.Green LED’s wink.What? Unplug all? I do. The house goes dark.
Alarms sound. I panic. Break time, the robot says. I slump in the chair.
The Robot returns. Says to call back, request a technician. It’s 4 AM.

At 6 AM. I call Comcast again, punch 0, listen to the litany. I wait in line.
By lunch a voice answers. New Jersey English. Calls me honey.
I’m cordial, repeat my problem, ask for a technician. She schedules one.
When? I ask. Sometime this month, she says. What time? Guess, she says.

I wait. Weeks pass. Nobody shows up. Internet DT’s set in. I need a fix.
I call Pierre. He knows computers, things with wires. He comes.
Sees the dilemma. I unload frustrations. He listens, checks my pulse.
He disassembles things. Wires, black boxes, hard drives. Nothing works.

My wife shows up, bereft of shopping, fit to be tied, demands connection.
She interrogates us. I feign ignorance. Pierre mumbles mumbo jumbo.
She’s off the grid. Neiman’s is worried. Saks is concerned. Am Ex anxious.
Commerce suffers. Factories close in China. Unions strike. She’s depressed.

Pierre vanishes. I’m alone, waiting for Comcast. No word. Life’s insufferable.
June comes. A white truck arrives. A Neanderthal shambles out. It’s Comcast.
I hug him, offer champagne. He obliges. A big man. Has a toothpick.
He’s hungry. We feed him. T-bones. Two. Demands wine. French Burgundy.

He swaggers, confident, surveying the destruction, the wires, black boxes.
Shakes his head, leaves. Be back, he says. He listens to the cable. Concerned.
Says he hears voices. I ask who? Government maybe, he says. I tremble.
He works. Connects wires. Replaces black boxes. Computer starts. He grins.

Internet pops up. News. Emails. Life returns. I ask how. Secret, he says.
I plead. He relents. Shows me. Loose cables, work of Comcast idiots, he says.
I tip him. He writes the bill. I pay it, call the bank, mortgage the house.
He packs up. Needs a vacation, he says. Overworked. Says he’s union. Leaves.

We fight for Internet. Form a queue. On-line shopping resumes.
Cash registers ring. Cha’ching. Unemployment drops. Credit cards max.
Factories reopen. UPS delivers. Air freight arrives. Boxes pile up.
Happy customers. Comcast smiles. Animosities forgotten.

But I worry, become uneasy. ‘What if’s’ invade. Comcast déjà vu nags.
Monopoly, unions, bargaining rights...we’re screwed, I conclude.
I think of God. Would He approve? He has the monopoly. Hates usurpers.
What if He calls? “Hold on,” I say. “On the line.” Would He understand?

I’m waiting on Comcast………..

Bud Hearn
June 23, 2011

Shopping on Aisle 6

Shopping in supermarkets sucks. Like most male shoppers, I linger, helpless and hopelessly lost.

The groceries play games with me, like hide and seek, or Survivor. My buggy blocks the aisles…people curse me. Some utter ridicule. Others snarl. Especially ‘Her,’ the Island Gossip. She stalks me relentlessly.

Today I wander aimlessly, seeking instant gratification. The pickles are perched near the raisins, the cereals next to obscure baking components. I once asked management to provide guides to help men locate things. They’re still laughing.

Product ingredients and expiration dates baffle me. Vendors are duplicitous. They crouch behind counters, laughing uncontrollably at unwary shoppers. Reading and understanding labels requires magnifying glasses and chemistry books. I also suggested they be available at the door. For that proposal the Grocery Goons forcibly removed me from the premises. The Salvation Army now uses the ‘Suggestions’ box.

Men don’t have shopping genes. They hover between the aisles for hours with vacuous faces, long lists, grim expressions and empty carts. ‘No Loitering’ signs are everywhere. They threaten arrest to violators. It’s a comedy hour… admission should be charged to watch men shop. I now ask for directions.


Today I ask a stock boy. He points to Aisle 6. “Aisle 6? Oh no! You sure?” He nods. I cringe, knowing Aisle 6 is the adult hygiene aisle. It’s where Kaopectate conspires with Fiber-con, where diapers dodge depilatories and Castor Oil cooks up terrorist tactics with Prep H.

Aisle 6 is a dead-end street. It wrecks reputations. It’s avoided like a third wife. Spasms convulse me when I pass by. Invariably the loudspeaker announces, “Customer needs assistance on Aisle 6!” Being seen anywhere near Aisle 6 engenders island gossip.

People get weird when shopping on Aisle 6. It’s usually desolate. Embarrassment is the foremost fear factor. Nobody wants to be seen caressing KY, analyzing the goodness of Gas-X or examining the merits of Metamucil, as helpful as they all might be. God forbid they are seen purchasing such contraband. So what do they do? They pretend, that’s what.

They stroll by in slow motion, looking lost or disconnected. When no one’s looking, they amble down the aisle, sauntering with the preoccupied air of a detached tourist who’s lost. They’re terrified. Their looks are a poor disguise.

They glance both ways, seize the item, and quickly conceal the evidence. It lies camouflaged beneath the cauliflower. Then they meander out as if nothing happened. A pretty slick maneuver.

Anyway, it’s my turn on Aisle 6. I put on sunglasses and approach it with caution and trepidation. I double-check to see if I’m spotted. So far, so good. Safe, I think. I take a big breath and grab the article. Instantly a female voice calls my name. O, Excrement, I exclaim (well, something similar, anyway). It’s ‘Her’ again. Things turn ugly fast.

In shock, I drop the ‘thing.’ It bounces twice, lands at her feet. She picks it up. “You dropped this,” she says, grinning. She slowly examines it. I shrivel. Then she looks at me and says, “Really?.....You? Hmmmmm…Interesting.” I’m mortified. I didn’t plan to divulge personal secrets today.

“It’s for a friend,” I stammer. It’s a weak lie. She hands it to me and says, “Of course it is. Real men like you don’t need this.” But the smirk gives her away. She knows, I know, and soon the entire island will know. I’m toast.

Her goodbye is more snicker than smile. I hide my purchase beneath bananas. Suddenly, a brainstorm. I snatch a box from the shelf and get in line behind her. As she checks out, I shout loudly, “You dropped this.” I hold up a box of Depends. Everyone looks. Cashiers giggle. Shoppers laugh. She glares. I gloat. The noose fits nicely around her neck.

Tomorrow the island won’t resonate with my secret purchase from Aisle 6. But as for her, well,… relationships with men will certainly be harder to come by.

Sometimes shopping has its moments…even for men!

Bud Hearn
June 16, 2011

Traveling With Women

He comes home from work. His wife is standing in the carport. The car trunk’s open. She has in her hands a measuring tape, a calculator and a list.

“Hi, whatcha doing?” he says. But he already knows. She’s preparing for their trip.

She answers, “I’m computing the cubic feet of this trunk to see if our luggage will fit. Based on my metrics, you’re pretty much outta luck. There’s no room for your luggage.”

What’s new, he thinks. He wants to argue, but why? He knows the results. All men do. He thinks of where it all went wrong. It was the new addition to the house, he remembers. It was added to accommodate her wardrobe. Her shoe rack alone was sufficient to jump-start a shoe emporium. He had once suggested this. Bad mistake!

She lives to travel. Mention ‘trip,’ and she says ‘when?’ She even named the dog Trip. Volumes of travel magazines are stacked in the bookcases. A “Traveling for Dummies” book, dog-eared and underlined, lies next to a world globe with pins sticking from it. He wonders if her parents were gypsies. He recalls having once asked her. He recorded her response in his journal under the heading of ‘Questions by a Fool’.

For two months she had been preparing for this trip. The process is always the same. It begins with The List. It consumes weeks and totally disrupts all normal household life. “What’s for dinner?” is met with silence.

The List is a computerized inventory of all her possessions. He once commented that it was longer than War and Peace, an unwise analogy as it turned out. He decided not to do this again.

After The List comes the logistics phase. This is a complex operation...ask any man who has traveled with a woman. It requires a great deal of time and a very large home. The List cannot match outfits and shoes, coordinate colors, select jewelry. So clothes must be laid out for proper combinations. They occupy all flat surfaces in the house, including the beds. He sleeps in his car.

This goes on for weeks. The vagabond clothes are arranged, rearranged, sorted, rejected and replaced. He wonders if clothes have feelings when they become ‘trip rejects,’ overlooked because of age, and substituted with new, more spiffy outfits. He pities the derelict garments. He extrapolates this thought, wondering if one day he’ll be one of her castoffs. Maybe. He smiles at the possibility.

Time gets short. She becomes manic. She now moves with warp speed. She’s packing medicines and cosmetics. The bathroom bulges with bottles, tubes, lotions, pills, powders and beauty products. It resembles an aisle at Walgreen’s. He brushes his teeth at the lawn spigot. He bathes in the pool.

Finally, she’s packed. “What are you taking?” she asks. He visits his cubicle, takes out a few shirts, pants and blue sneakers.

She says, “You’re not wearing THOSE, are you?” He knows the look and answers, “Of course not. What do you suggest?”

She shakes her head and says, “Whatever,” leaving him alone to ponder. He decides with dispatch. He grabs a pair of jeans, a shirt, and his blue blazer. He stuffs in the pockets a tooth brush, razor and Zantac. “There, all packed,” he says. Her bags stare back at him with scorn.

He ponders the dilemma of excess baggage. He concludes it’s because women are embarrassed to be judged by strangers on account of their clothes. He assumes these thoughts are the vestiges of an aberrant gene dominant in the female species. Who cares, he wonders. He doesn’t get it.

He sits on the floor, remembering how simple travel used to be. He tries to reconcile the hassle versus the allure of traveling with women. The concept of ‘excess baggage’ enters his mind. Her fault, he thinks. Maybe she’s excess baggage….but the thought ends there.

She shouts, “Let’s go. Bring the bags. Won’t we have fun?” He does, they do. And so it always goes, Traveling with Women. Get used to it!

Bud Hearn
June 9, 2011

The Poppies Blow

Neptune Park, St. Simons Island, Georgia, May 30, 2011.

It’s a magnificent Golden Isles afternoon. What appears to be a couple thousand of us are here in remembrance of Memorial Day. We’re here to pay tribute to those who have died in wars, present and past, and in service to this mighty nation.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our places, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

The annual event is organized by the Island Rotary Club. The Golden Isles Community Band has blown the dust from the militaristic music of John Phillip Sousa. With some imagination one might even get a glimpse of him directing the band. They play with enthusiasm, and we become band conductors, waving our tiny American flags in time with the music. Mick Jagger would be out of place here.

Picnics are everywhere. Our ravenous crowd numbers twenty-five. We stand around several tables covered with red cloths and gorge on fried chicken, pineapple and pimento cheese sandwiches on white bread (yes, the edges removed in true Southern tradition!), and more: deviled eggs, guacamole dip, fruit and numerous desserts.

The entire front lawn of Neptune Park is covered with people, mostly those with gray hair. We all face the rotunda, where bricks, engraved with names, honor the beloved who are deceased. In its center is a flagpole. Atop it waves high and free our flag, a symbol of our national unity. It is the central focus of all eyes.

As the day drifts down towards dusk, a Spirit, floating on the breeze, moves among the crowd. It swells, then hushes, and blows again. Stillness descends intermittently upon the multitude, then disappears. And returns again upon the breeze. In the distance the voices of children sing, voices not yet aware of the solemnity of the event.

“We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.”

The Spirit blows amid graves everywhere. We, the living, are restless; they, the honored dead, are in peace beneath the ground. Names, dates and events mark their final sites. Their names and our memories are what survive…along with the ideals of Freedom which we hold dear. This is what will survive, even we who now live…we have only borrowed the dust.

Like them, we live for a purpose…not so much for a nationalistic creed, but for a common devotion for freedom and brotherhood. We hear this theme from our Speaker, General Carl Mundy, Jr., Retired USMC, as he delivers a stirring message that memorializes the occasion.

Twilight approaches. The crowd becomes breathlessly silent as the Retirement of the Colors is conducted. The flag is lowered, gently folded, itself soon to be laid to rest in the darkness of the night. But on the morrow’s dawn it will rise again. It will again fly high and proudly across this nation. It will again personify our nation’s glorious past, and honor our enduring commitment to freedom.

The Spirit is restless in this place. It continues to blow as twin trumpets sound taps. The day is finished. Picnic baskets, tables and chairs are packed, and the crowd disperses, somber in the memory of the occasion. Yet it departs unsettled, knowing that our nation’s struggle for freedom continues.

“Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep…”

Yes, the spirits of our departed comrades are watching to see if we will join them in the preservation of our ideals. For now, it’s up to us to meet these challenges. Will we?

America has ascended because we have transcended. We cling to higher goals, to more lofty ideals, and we do not consider death as an end…but a means of freedom. Dare we abandon these transcendent aspirations that have been so costly to preserve?

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow…”

And in Neptune Park on this day, the voices of our children’s spirits sing the sweet song of freedom!

Bud Hearn
June 2, 2011

(Thanks to John McCrae for the use of his poem, “In Flanders Fields”)