Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, December 29, 2017

In the Twinkling of an Eye


“In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall all be changed.” 1 Corinthians 15:52

**********

Strange title, I admit. Like a New Year’s Eve kiss, where will it go? Forget the part about the dead showing back up. Just to get changed is exciting enough.

Christmas is history. The frenetic shopping, the oohs and ahs of unwrapping, all that’s over in the twinkling of an eye. The remains include a desiccated and needle-dropping Christmas tree, volumes of ‘re-gift’ opportunities and a prodigious quantity of sugar sufficient to anesthetize an elephant.

News reports that $90 billion of merchandise will be returned or exchanged. The binge balloons, credit card fast-draw holsters proliferate, e-bay is overloaded, and common sense has collapsed. We’re left with an assortment of odds and ends to tidy up before 2018 will even consider showing up. Yet the cycle continues.

This week’s lull is prologue for the buildup to, or the letdown from, the final stroke of midnight on Sunday. Because in the twinkling of an eye, friends, 2017 will vanish like the exhalation of your last breath.

The ‘twinkling eye’ theme has been hijacked from Scripture by the songs of Dylan and Cash, two greedy grave robbers who exhume literary bones from the Good Book for filthy lucre. They ‘borrowed’ from the brain of St. Paul on the discourse of the dead rising and the part about changing.

Now, Brother Paul was not a pundit who promoted some political prophesy when mentioning “the last trump” (note: the ‘t’ is lower case). He might have foreseen, however, that many would be hopeful this particular ‘trump’ will be the last flash in the pan. He cleaned up the misnomer quickly by referencing “trumpet” in the next breath.

I once played a trumpet in a military band. And from personal testimony I can promise you that my notes would have raised the dead. I was soon ‘changed’ to a rifle platoon, and my golden trumpet given to someone who could ‘taps’ the dead to rest. Oh, well.

Now I’m all about change, hard as it is to accept. Not the kind that affects me, of course. I like things the way they are. But, the harshest thing about change is to accept that my mind has lied to me. No, my financial ship has not arrived; and No, all women don’t find me appealing.

This hint was obvious when my Christmas stocking was stuffed with enormous quantities of magical emollients guaranteed to erase wrinkles. Nothing has changed here except money from one pocket to another. Blemishes generate big bucks.

Before long the trumpet of 2017 will draw its last breath, blow its last note and leave its ghost to history. And in the twinkling of an eye, a millisecond in time, 2018 will become a living and breathing epoch.

Before the carcass of 2017 is rolled away, maybe it’s a good time to take a deep breath and assess our own ‘there-go-I’ situation. Now me, I like breathing and do it often. It’s healthy. A good breath will go a long way, so don’t take it lightly. Those who do may not like the change they’ll get.

Some friends lament the days of heavy breathing. Not me. I confess it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced it, much less even given thought to it. No need to visit the cemetery of the deceased. The slow-paced gasping group is sufficient; let the blowhards bellow on by chanting yogic oms.

Our culture measures time in years, not in moments. We give scant attention to the tides of our breath. Maybe we’re afraid of connecting with the rhythms of nature. For as the breath goes, so go the years.

This intervening week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is a good time to reflect on our deeds and thoughts. Turmoil is always waiting. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our eyes would reveal our love, and our smiles wipe out our wrinkles?

**********

In the twinkling of an eye 2017 will end its journey. But let’s remember, with every new breath, a New Year’s Day can begin anew. Happy New Year.


Bud Hearn
December 29, 2017

Thursday, December 21, 2017

Trusting in Stars


“…and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.” Matthew 2:9


Over 2000 years ago some wise men showed up in Jerusalem looking for the Messiah. They inquired, “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.”

Nothing happens in Jerusalem without Herod hearing about it. He ‘invited’ these wise guys over under the pretense of learning about celestial horoscopes. His invitations weren’t always for a banquet. Ancient manuscripts hint he had gallows installed next to his throne for entertainment value. The Magi found out that following stars has risks. After the interrogation they ease out the back door to return home.

Last Christmas I show up in a village gift shop looking for a gift. Some small hand towels hang limply on a wire rack by the door. They are engraved with a variety of witticisms and epigrams. One, obviously prophetic, reads: “Three wise men? Really?” In today’s supercharged culture, who would disagree?

The Greek word for ‘wise men’ is magoi, a derivation of a Persian word for “men expert in the study of the stars.” Curiously, there is no feminine gender for this word. In English, the transliteration of ‘magi’ means ‘a sorcerer.’ Its proximity to the word magic or magician can’t be ignored.

Consider the wisdom of these caravan sorcerers following a star looking for anything, much less a coming King. Can our imagination reach into the heavens? If so, then imagine an American President summoning some itinerant, camel-riding star-gazers to the West Wing to inquire about anything. Once there was a star-gazing former First Lady. Astrology has strange disciples. Which might tend to support the idea of ‘wise men.’ Whatever.

Stars are pinholes of light in the primordial eternal blackness. Some resemble recognizable patterns of constellations like bears, dogs and dippers. They circle in the black sky and have been reliable guidance systems for centuries. Sadly, celestial navigation has pretty much gone the way of slide rules and flip phones.

I once knew a fellow who lived in a high rise condo in Atlanta. With his telescope he developed an intense interest in stars. Unfortunately, the bright city lights tended to block out most of them. Frustrated, he took to studying heavenly bodies in the windows of neighboring condo towers. His study of celestial shapes ended abruptly one evening by a knock on his door. It remains a low point in his study of stars.

Circumnavigating the globe by dead reckoning or by celestial navigation has fallen out of favor. Notwithstanding the lack of utilization, their accuracy is no less diminished. The sky is now full of new stars: satellites. GPS is the star for guidance as much as tweets are the stars of confusion.

Stars are everywhere. There are movie stars, sports stars, rock stars, rising political stars, financial stars…you-name-it. Heck, even you might be a star in your own constellation. We follow these stars too, searching for something to worship. Sooner or later we follow them to their funerals. They shine briefly like beacons, then dim and finally fade into the blackness of night like burned-out supernovas.

Today it would be a sign of lunacy to admit that a star is leading us to some undisclosed important destination. Many have faith in the Lottery star, the one promising the illusionary pot of gold. Some of these people are even Dawg fans.

The Sages of Scripture had an uncommon faith, the kind that trusted a star to lead them to the Messiah. It begs question as to the guidance system of our faith in these troubled times. Which stars are we following?

Tonight in the moonless sky the brilliant stars sparkle in a vast canopy of ebony. I marvel at the mystery of the stars, an enigma no less awesome than the faith of the Magi.

Inside, our Christmas tree illuminates the ever-encroaching darkness with hundreds tiny points of light. An angel observes from its lofty perch. In times like this it’s possible to unite with the Magi in their mission: “When they saw the star they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy.”

Do stars still guide us to places where profound happenings are being born? I ponder this question, even as I already know the answer….Jesus is just not that hard to find. Joy to the world!


Merry Christmas

Bud Hearn
December 21, 2017






Friday, December 8, 2017

Sorting It All Out


You, who are on the road, must have a code that you can live by…” Graham Nash

**********

Lately the news has been a smorgasbord of strange happenings, some of which seems to have been cooked up in an asylum by a host of weirdos, nutcases and crackpots. It’s hard to get a sense of direction.

Life is complicated. Diverse opinions swarm like green flies on a batch of French-fried chitterlings. The compass needle of public opinion and political correction spins in wild gyrations. Direction is playing hide and seek. The North Star of Truth hovers dangerously near the vortex of a black hole.

It’s times like these when it’s helpful to resort to the flawless wisdom of the St. Paul, Minnesota philosopher, Larry B. Larry. He narrowed everything down in his timeless thesis: If life weren’t so serious, it would be a joke. The fact that he had this strange fetish of walking his fingers up the bare backs of ladies in no way diminishes the theory.

Stop and ponder the profundity of it. Ambiguity is squeezed out into two choices: serious or joke. No middle ground here: black/white, up/down, night/day. No more vacillating on the question, “What do you think about …?” Solid rock replaces shifting sand.

Just yesterday we hear that Jerusalem is becoming the site of the new American embassy sometime in the future. The turmoil that ensues would be about the same as if Judge Roy Moore suggested Selma become the capitol of Alabama.

Now, what are we to make of the Hermit Kingdom’s ‘Rocket Man,’ the poster boy of bad haircuts. Is there a message in his madness of firing blank ICBM missiles off into the ocean? He is lately being treated for pyrotechnic delusions of grandeur. But not to be outdone, America has its own Rocket man, a former limo driver who actually has a message.

What message, you ask? Why, he intends to strap himself to the tip of a garage-built rocket and blast himself into what he calls the ‘flatmosphere.’ Huh? That’s right, he intends to debunk the theory that the world is round and prove that it’s flat. Right or wrong, one thing’s for sure: it’s flat where we stand.

The Supreme Court Justices are fiddling around in the kitchen. They’re straining at gnats and swallowing camels over the issue of baking cakes in Colorado. Like the blind, they’re groping (oops, not to be taken literally) for the wall for direction out of this half-baked dilemma. Some things are too weird for words.

Meanwhile, the National Debt Clock has replaced its blown circuits and is back in Times Square to remind us of the $20 trillion debt we’ve run up. Where did all that money go? I’m confused. Some of it to the Congressional slush fund, of course. Buying silence for politicians is a time-honored tradition. But not to worry, your family’s share is only $172,560. Let the good times roll.

Well, old Joe McCarthy’s ghost got loose and is opening the books of judgment. Heads are rolling. Congressional inquisitions are stoking a national, come-clean catharsis of repentance. Mea culpas clog Twitter and lamentations of apology are flowing in the gutters of Main Street.

Like pigs, tort lawyers, formerly ambulance chasers, are lining up at the trough for the big paydays when ‘inappropriate behavior’ is clearly defined. The #MeTwo generation is in merger mode with the #KissOffCreep crowd. Reparations will be real. It’s so insidiously draconian that even the Witches of Salem are scratching their heads.

There’s a wailing in the Heart of Dixie. The mighty have fallen. History is being hauled off, one statue at a time, being dumped in weed-choked fields and picked-over cotton patches on the back side of oblivion. Meanwhile, a gilded and gloating Sherman rides smugly atop his steed at the entrance to Central Park. I find no humor in this!

**********

And so it goes, day by day, news filters in. Whether we laugh or moan depends on perspective.

But one thing’s absolute: The Pool of Narcissus is crowded.


Bud Hearn
December 8, 2017

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

The Soul of Thanksgiving


For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? “ Mark 8:36-37


The year was 1863. Abraham Lincoln was President. Strife ruled. The nation was at war with itself. The landscape by most visionaries was bleak and dreary. The nation seemed to have lost its bearings and its very soul. Being thankful under these conditions was seemingly impossible. The nation urgently needed to mend its fraying fabric.

Under these dire conditions Lincoln issued a proclamation establishing the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. His intent was to coalesce a nation of diverse cultures and individuals into a cohesive whole by remembering the origin of its birth. This year Americans will celebrate the 154th anniversary of Thanksgiving.

In 1620 pilgrims departed from Defts-Haven, searching for a new land with an ephemeral idea of freedom. They had no idea what they would face in the quest. As if the hardships of the voyage were not enough to deter them, what they saw at landfall must have made them question their sanity altogether.

There, looming before them in the stark winter stood a harsh land with a weather-beaten face. It appeared to them a country full of woods and thickets, a place full of untamed beasts and wild men. It had an ominous and savage hue. Such is the nature of the unknown…wild, fearful but full of promise.

It was up to these pilgrims to carve out their dreams and visions. They neither expected nor received the benefits of ease in the process. For having left their homes, having said goodbye to their families and friends, they said goodbye to the old life and searched for a better home.

We who read this today are benefitting from the sacrifices of these visionaries. We can ask ourselves these questions: Under what tyranny would we now be living if not for the perseverance of these intrepid travelers? How would our destiny have unfolded?

Fortunately, we have the answers. Living in America is a blessing of untold and incalculable dimensions. Read the news if you don’t believe this!

Three years ago on this date our family and friends sat in a Methodist Church in the small town of my youth. We gathered there to say a final goodbye to our mother. My nephew recalled the influence she had upon his life. He synthesized it based on his annual visits for Thanksgiving. He recalled pulling into the driveway of his grandmother’s home. The first thing he saw was her face in the kitchen window, welcoming him with a smile.

The soul of an American Thanksgiving also has a face. It’s seen in the Rockwell-blended faces of families, merged together into a national tapestry. Each face represents a precious memory, of a home and a secure place where families can thrive.

The blessings of national unity are too broad to enumerate. But the collective voice of Thanksgiving blends them together at every table where food is served, where laughter is heard and where love is shared. The soul of being American is once again revived on this memorable day.

Today, the world is a dangerous place. It’s fractious, filled with secular pursuits, religious divisions and seethes with national rivalries. Our country itself is not immune from its own fractured diversity. The horror of continuous news reveals this on a daily basis.

Yet in spite of this, America continues to stand, strong in the collective unity under which it was founded…established by a beneficent God for the purpose of freedom. A continuous remembrance of this fact is what Thanksgiving is all about.

Today began sunny on the coast, but clouds are gathering for another storm. In the front yard a squirrel sits on its hind quarters, gnawing on acorns. It seems to smile as it feasts on the prodigious crop furnished by the oaks.

America has endured many storms. It will weather more. But, like the squirrel, we can take comfort in the fact that a gracious, Almighty God desires to furnish us with untold blessings. Our collective soul will continue to flourish as long as we remember the Source of these blessings.

**********

Thank you, Abraham Lincoln, for the gift of this holiday. Thank you, God, for blessing the soul of America another year. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family.


Bud Hearn
November 22, 2017


Friday, November 17, 2017

Just Right


The coffee was hotter and blacker than the sins of the devil himself. But it tasted just right, you might say.” Louis L’Amour

**********

Life demands verbal responses. The choices are many, from the crude to the superlative. Finding the appropriate middle ground is a challenge. ‘Just right’ might be the perfect choice for you. It was for Goldilocks in her choice of beds, you know.

‘Just right’ is one of those colloquialisms that just doesn’t beat around the bush but hits it head on. What else defines everything and yet nothing at all? It’s on par with the ‘It is what it is’ rebuttal to anything defying explanation. You can’t go wrong dropping this idiom.

Perfect’ is its high-brow first cousin. It walks a tight, narrow line while ‘just right’ is a wide-open DMZ between opposing choices. It provides a lot more wiggle room and doesn’t box us in. After all, what’s perfect in this life anyway?

Even Plato, now with us only as a marble-busted Greek, knew this. He got tired of his girlfriend complaining that his dish washing wasn’t perfect. So he came up with his Theory of Forms. Pure genius. It’s as viable an escape hatch today as it was then.

It’s a simple philosophy that nullifies even the possibility of perfection. It’s only in the ethereal world where perfect patterns exist. Not here. Everything on this planet is just an imperfect copy of those perfect patterns. Look in the mirror. The reflection you see will affirm all contrary delusions.

My friend George brought the concept of ‘just right’ down to earth. He said a fellow named Philo once worked for him. Philo liked his whiskey. After finishing a job, George gave him a pint for doing good work. Later, this is how the conversation went:

“Philo, how’d you like that whiskey I gave you?”

“Boss, it was just right.”

“Just right? What does that mean?”

Well, boss, if it was any better you wouldn’t have given it to me. And if it was any worse, I wouldn’t have drunk it. So I guess it was just right.”

There you have it, no long, boring take-offs of the merits of whiskey, details nobody wants to hear. Just straight to the point.

Now, ‘just right’ is superior to some of its other lower-class, across-the-tracks relatives. Imagine Philo answering, like ‘not bad,’ or ‘pretty good.’ He could have said ‘OK,’ or ‘all right,’ or maybe even ‘fair’ or ‘outta sight.’ No, they’re cheap substitutes compared to ‘just right.’

True, ‘just right’ is a working-class idiom. It does not live in the same gated community as do some of its other more well-bred family members. You’ve met some of them, these formal and starchy adjectives and adverbs. They show up on engraved stationary and in country club conversations. Things like:

The holidays: marvelous
The symphony: stratospheric.
The trip: exhilarating.
The dinner party: smashing.
The wedding: lovely.

Huh? Such descriptive responses sound profoundly imposing but lack substance. They belong in British sitcoms. No, ‘just right’ is a utilitarian worker that shows up, gets the job done and leaves.

But back to Philo. What if he had attempted a more ‘perfect’ description to the question posed to him? How would it have come out? Maybe like this:

Well, boss, that mash you so graciously bestowed upon me had extraordinary qualities. It had a subtle nose of smoky sensuousness, coupled with a distinct savor of an old Irish keg and yielded the unmistakable aroma of an aged raccoon. Its heavenly essence and dark luminescence reflected warmly the glowing orange coals of my fire.” Gag!

‘Just right’ did the trick, no superfluous discussion necessary.

Now, ‘perfect’ may have a purpose somewhere, though nothing comes readily to mind. It’s inherently flawed within itself, a pie in the sky dream. Moreover, it’s a hard taskmaster, a cruel tyrant. It demands more than can be achieved and dishes out harsh punishment to anyone attempting to placate its insatiable demands. It should be obliterated as an alternative for anything.

**********

So let’s dispense with the notion of perfection and loosen up, take a breath and, like Philo, enjoy the fruit of our own labors.

O, the prison of perfection, and the freedom of ‘just right.’


Bud Hearn
November 17, 2017


Friday, November 10, 2017

Whistling


Whistling…you either can or you can’t. There’s no middle ground.

**********

I was about 10 years old when I first heard the question, “Son, what do you want to do when you grow up?” I knew without even thinking…. all I ever really wanted was to be able to whistle.

It’s a tough question to answer at any age. At 10, I was nowhere close to putting away childish things. I had barely broken the habit of sucking my thumb, a necessary rite of separation which, for some strange reason, led to biting my nails. But that’s another story altogether.

Now I know whistling is a low bar to maturity, and there’s not much future in it unless Lawrence Welk is resurrected. But for some strange reason I felt it necessary to want to stand on the corner and let out a shrill whistle that would turn heads and stop traffic. A perverse need for power begins at an early age.

But alas, the only instruction I ever got was, “Son, keep trying; it’ll come.” But it didn’t come, and it was really stupid to walk around constantly blowing air out of my puckered lips. I felt like failure was a perpetual way of life.

Now trying to teach a 10-year old boy anything associated with art is like teaching a stone to talk or training a mule to sing opera. No sir, it’s worse than having to memorize algebraic equations. The art of whistling is a learned trait.

I was still too young to join the after-school marble shooting games, which was a good thing I think. Basically, shooting marbles is the threshold to a greater problem: gambling. Bets were made, marbles were lost, marbles were won. Winners laughed, losers lamented. So I kept blowing air out of my mouth, hoping and spooking my dog.

Maybe whistling is not high on your list of achievements. But conquering the problem of making sound from blowing air will guarantee fame and financial success in such endeavors as politics, preaching and selling used body parts.

So for months I lay awake at night, twisting my tongue in various contortions and blowing air between my teeth. Finally one night a small sound slipped over my bottom lip. I had just scaled the Everest of whistling. Euphoria erupted, and failure retreated. Things began to look up.

For weeks I coaxed my ephemeral, fledgling sound. It grew like Samson in strength and volume. I was as proud of the accomplishment as I was of the fuzz that was forming on my chin. I’m whistling, and soon to be shaving. Maturation was happening.

There are no secrets in learning to whistle. No rules, really, it all just depends on the alignment of tongue, lips and breath. For me, whistling Rock of Ages in D major was my crowning achievement. Ok, so it drove my parents mad, even as rap music does most today. Some things must be endured in silence.

Like the multiple uses of tongues and lips, those mischief-making co-conspirators, one has to be cautious about whistling. I learned this the hard way some years ago. Let this story be a warning to all you whistlers out there.

A friend and I once hosted a very large party complete with a full petting zoo. The prime attraction was this enormous orangutan swinging from the bars of his cage. Harmless, the handlers said. Regrettably, I took their word for it.

So I walked over whistling a tune, maybe it was Fly Me to the Moon, I don’t recall. The creature obviously mistook my whistling for amorous intentions. Suddenly an enormous hand with eight-inch fingers attached to the end of a five-foot arm reached out, gripped me by the nape of the neck and planted a long, wet kiss on my lips.

Being proud of his conquest, he released me with a wink and a smile. Now take it from me, you haven’t been kissed until you have been smooched by an ape. It broke me from whistling in zoos.

**********

It was long ago and far away when I was a boy learning to whistle. Life moves on with its simple rites of passage. But whistling remains as long as you can blow air out of your puckered lips.

So if you’re learning to whistle, keep trying; it’ll come. And, friends, that’s not just whistling Dixie.


Bud Hearn
November 10, 2017

Friday, October 20, 2017

The Tongue is a Fire


“The tongue is a fire…and it is set on fire of hell.”

**********

It was a long time ago and far away when the Apostle penned this theorem. He was sitting under a date palm near the Dead Sea discussing women with his tongue-tied camel.

The validity of the theory was confirmed later that day when with a slip of the tongue he mentioned to his wife something about, “That’s woman’s work.” His tongue ignited a flame that burns in infamy to this day.

The tongue is a torch. It ignites. Sparks from words fly off and can set on fire the course of nature. The tongue is an unruly evil. It’s impossible to tame.

I learned this lesson the hard way. I was born with a forked tongue. It manipulated facts and fabricated untruths. I was five or six at the time. I had discovered some packets of what looked like candy. Like a dog, I ate anything. I remember exactly how the events unfolded.

“Son, what are you eating?” Mama asked.

Uh, candy grandmama gave me,” I said. The deceit slid off my tongue like greased lightening. I didn’t even have to think about it. There I stood, drooling. Five packs of empty Rolaids wrappers lay scattered about my feet. The severe tongue-lashing and stinging switch-thrashing convinced me that the tongue was not my friend.

Tongues wag uncontrollably. They’re attached in the mouth but lack connectivity to the brain, clearly a flaw in the original human design. No doubt it originated in some mythic fruit tree garden. Sadly, medical science cannot correct the glitch.

Tongues boast great things. This is the main use of it among men. It becomes quite lively after vast infusions of firewater. The context of such wagging tends to be centered on exaggerated achievements concerning money, athletics and embellished, tongue-in-cheek youthful dalliances. Not necessarily in this order, and nothing believable!

Shakespeare made this discovery by accident while nursing a hangover. He passed it on to Polonius who warned Ophelia, “…(when) the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.” The tongue boasts more than it can back up. Ask any politician.

The tongue’s fire begins as a spark in the back of the mouth. It roars forward at warp speed, gathers a host of demons and exits the tongue’s tip with a searing flame…too late for a recall.

My friend Marvin, a renowned deep thinker, forgot to bite his tongue when his wife asked him how her new dress looked. His tongue betrayed him. His knee-jerk response went something like this: “It makes you look fat.”

Just kidding,” he added, tongue-in-cheek. His apology was so shallow it was like trying to put out a house fire by spitting on the roof. Marvin now lives alone in Ludowici, thinking about what went wrong.

Last September was the anniversary of Einstein’s profound equation: E = mc2. It simply states that a tiny mote of mass can yield enormous energy. In fact, the nuclear bomb that exploded over Nagasaki contained less than an ounce of plutonium. Einstein made this discovery by accident.

One evening he came home, frustrated from thinking. The equation was eluding him. A stiff nip of rye sharpened his tongue. In his best Yiddish he snapped at his wife, “Velkh iz oyf varmes, eyfele?” Translated, it’s “What’s for dinner, baby.” E = mc2 came to him at the precise moment when the matzah ball exploded on his forehead.

Others have made such discoveries. I once remember commenting to my wife with a smug, silver tongue that nobody made banana pudding like mama. For some reason banana pudding has not been in our refrigerator since that comment. Such is the power of words.

Is there hope for the taming of the tongue? Nothing yet has been discovered that will mitigate the damage caused by this double-edged sword. I found this out again the hard way only last week.

We’re pulling out the Halloween paraphernalia. Among such is a sign board that reads, “The Witch Is In.” I show it to my wife. We laugh. She leans it against the pumpkin on the front steps. My tongue suggests we should nail it to the door permanently. Only a pitiful, “Oops” escaped my lips. Too little, too late.

**********

Out there in the vibrations of digital arcana the tweeting tongue twitters…and the fires of hell begin to rage.


Bud Hearn
October 20, 2017

Friday, October 6, 2017

Taking a Knee


“So here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.”

Travis Tritt wrote those lines, having been shafted by a romance gone bad. Country music can synthesize anything with these ‘somebody done somebody wrong songs.’ They lend substance to America’s self-indulgent malaise.

Everybody’s protesting something. Everywhere there’s Unrest, Disunity, Dysfunction and Inequity. It’s a cacophony of chaos. Social media is making martyrs every moment. Take a knee and Tweet your sacrificial rant; fame can be yours, too.

You gotta love the NFL players: their humility, their unity, their locking of arms, their bending of knees, the solidarity of conscience…all in peaceful protest. These growling and snarling turf gladiators who breathe out slaughter on testosterone-infused Sundays, they’re showing their compassionate side.

But for what? Oh, the usual…inequality and barrages of police brutality. Who better to lend credence to the subject of brutality? Res ipsa loquitor.

Ok, ok, back it down, quit foaming at the mouth. Only fools torch such a hallowed institution as football, and this is not a diss-your-darling kiss-off. Head knocking is brutal business. Survival is iffy. Anybody brave or crazy enough to do it deserves respect.

Now let’s set the record straight. I’m not against football in general; I’m just not necessarily for it in particular. Oh, I know, it makes men out of boys, exemplifies team spirit and guarantees orthopedic surgery. My broken nose testifies to it.

But I’m touched by their knees, nature’s built-in body parts that express humility and contrition. And there are plenty of other ways to apply these conciliatory virtues and make a statement. I know these things.

How? Because I purchased a $15 pair of rubber knee pads at Home Depot. I can testify it’s one of the best investments a married man can ever make. Men, when you feel like protesting something really stupid around the house, put ‘em on. Meekness pays big dividends.

My blood is running hot for protesting. The choices are unlimited. Just today I had it out with a gas pump. Did you know that gas pumps now talk to you? Get this: I pull up to one, start pumping. A grinning face shows up on the pump screen. It starts talking, rap music as background. “Hello, friend, you look like yesterday’s scarecrow. You need food. Come on in, I have some hot donuts, a cup of our famous-brand coffee, just for you.”

I protested with a wad of Juicy Fruit stuck right to his screen-smirking face. Was that extreme? After that, I called one of those ‘for-the-people’ lawyers. I got the number off of a billboard that pictured this mean-looking woman, dressed in black, holding a sledge hammer with the caption: “5’ 5” and Full of Mean.” I expect results soon.

Later I want to protest the ‘Unknown’ callers on my cell. Female Robo calls. Is this what the world’s coming to, female robots selling cruises? But protesting might put me on the ACLU hit list as a gender-bashing blowhard. I’m wary.

I was recently invited to join the ‘Protest a Politician Movement,’ that august convocation of disgusted citizens. It didn’t lead anywhere. Nobody could agree on anything harsh enough. I suggested duels with water pistols, or paintball rifles. It went nowhere.

Someone should protest baseball. I’m not that person, no credibility. I didn’t make the high school team because my eyes saw triple balls coming at me. I was made water boy. Today’s games are so long--up to five hours-- that players take naps between pitches and you’ll have to come back to the stadium the next day to see who won.

As I contemplate protest opportunities, I think of other body parts to use. I know it’s a stretch, but think of it as the ‘metaphorical body.’ The elbows with sharp edges. The lying lips. The wagging tongue, the nose butting into someone else’s business. The pointing of the fingers, index and middle, if you will.

The itching ears, the shifty eyes, the gnashing teeth, the run-around feet and the closed pumping fist. Don’t forget the boasting chest, the shrugging shoulders, the sagging bellies and the devious head fakes. Oh, so many opportunities.

So, taking a knee might be the most sensible protest gesture possible. Yet, what could be a more compelling demonstration of unity than taking two knees?

**********

So take a knee and protest. And here’s a quarter, call The Someone who cares. And when you do, say, “Thanks.”


Bud Hearn
October 6, 2017







Wednesday, September 6, 2017

My Doctor, the Artist


Medicine is in a civil war…science versus art. The battle rages, tooth and nail.

**********

You know it’s time when pain is a hot poker in your joints, when your vows of repentance fall flat, when the rosaries of contrition become nooses and when the prayers of the doomed no longer cut it. Then you make the call.

I shout into the phone, “I gotta see him. I’m dying.”

Calm down. Do you need 911?”

No, no, the ER’s a death trap of germs. Get him on the phone. Now.”

Soon the soothing voice of my go-to orthopedic answers. I can feel his smirk.

Pain finally got your attention, huh? I told you so. OK, come on over. Bring money, lots of it.”

I’ve got Medicare, Blue Cross, your work’s free.”

He laughs. “Medicare’s broke; Blue Cross has locked the vaults. Cashier’s check or cash, one easy payment. I need a new car.”

I hobble into a closet called an exam room. Peanut hulls are larger. Dr. K strolls in as if the whole world’s at peace. He adjusts his blue beret and matching ascot and loosens his black waistcoat. He pulls up a stool at the exam table and begins to draw on the paper covering it. I grimace and chew my nails.

Nurse Loretta stands behind him, draped in a model’s smock sketched with tiny pastel-colored anatomical body parts. Very calming. She whistles lightly and twirls a hypodermic needle slightly bigger than a majorette’s baton. The tune is vaguely familiar, something about when saints go marching in.

Dr. K continues to draw.

What’s this, man, you’re doing art while I’m saying last rites?”

His drawing takes the shape of an elephant, which is prophetic, judging by the enormity of my pain.

What’s this elephant have to do with my pain, you quack? Get to the business at hand, my hip.”

In time, in time,” he mutters. He strokes his goatee and keeps drawing.

He finishes just seconds before I lose consciousness. With a Salvador Dali flourish, he exclaims, “Done. Another masterpiece.”

His ego takes over as he preaches the gospel of how art is superior to science with its inscrutable digits, sonographic images, graphs and blips on a screen. He adds proudly that he’s finishing an on-line PhD course in art from an obscure ‘university’ with a name that rhymes with hypocrisy.

This drawing will explain the MRI. But first, did you notice my new waiting room?”

Yeah, I did. What’s with the spa music and wall art, all these drawings of arthritic joints, titanium prostheses and other sordid gore of surgical malfeasance?”

It’s the new wave of medicine, fishhead. One drawing of art is worth a thousand words of medical arcana. Nobody reads, just looks at pictures. Art reveals, science obscures.”

Uh, what’s with the wine cooler?”

Oh, that. Have you ever been to a gallery without wine? It opens the senses, dulls the stress and loosens the wallet. Everybody’s happy. Smiles everywhere, right?”

Maybe he’s on to something radical. A new movement in medicine. It can happen. Plenty of specimens out there to test the validity of the concept. Hedge funds will soon swarm. His creativity is extraordinary.

Who’s the Mona Lisa lady in the drawing by the votive candles and smoking incense?” I ask.

Ah, yes, that’s Barbara, my crowning achievement, the epitome of art over science. I replaced every joint in her body. She’s good as new. Wouldn’t think she’s 103, huh?”

That’s incredible. You did all that from a drawing?”

That’s right. The drawing plus eight new joints. Same day surgery. She woke up, got up and walked right out, same day. That’s art, brother, not science.”

I’m incredulous. “How did you come by this concept of art over science?”

He laughs. “By accident, like most things. I typed in a billing code one day that said ‘drawing.’ I meant ‘blood drawing,’ but the insurance computer somehow dredged up a cryptic code lurking in the bowels of their files. It paid, and paid big. Art pays.”

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. Medicare and the other insurance criminals fixed the glitch and shut it all down. We’re all cash pay now.”

What about the other docs?”

Oh, yeah, galleries in all the waiting rooms now. It’s revolutionary.”

Now, let’s fix your pain. Loretta, the needle.” Those were the last words I heard that day.

**********

Where does this madness end where art trumps science? Anybody’s guess. But Dr. K recently sold the drawing of my hip in the six-figure range to Sotheby’s. My cut should be arriving soon.

Here’s hoping your drawing will be a masterpiece.


Bud Hearn
September 6, 2017








Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Trucks with Ladders


Admit it, some things in life spook us, like being behind trucks with ladders.

**********

They’re everywhere, these pickups, their loose ladders bouncing about, deadly potential projectiles threatening with every bump to pierce your windshield and remove your head. Oh, the paranoia.

Recently I’m driving down a two-lane highway at a pretty good clip. The right-of-way slopes steeply into the marshy swamps. No room for mistakes. My nerves get neurotic.

I’m sandwiched in behind an 18-wheel Heineken beer truck and a long line of kamikaze bumper-huggers. Boxed in again. With sweaty palms I grip the steering wheel. Paranoia strikes deep.

Flashbacks resurface of being hung-up in the crawl space under my house, hemmed in with occupants of the dark spaces of life. Backing out takes hours, which demonstrates another design flaw in the human anatomy: lack of rear-view eyes. Lesson learned? Avoid boxed-in venues, front row church pews and audible use of the word ‘trump.’

An enticing photo of a frosty Heineken is painted on the truck’s rear panel. It temporarily distracts my mind from this disturbing dilemma. Its momentary reprieve transfers the fear factor over to the taste buds, then back again. The fear is real, the beer an illusion.

A large hand truck swings violently in the truck’s slipstream. It dangles there, hanging by a bungee cord noose like a condemned man waiting for the gallows door to drop. Stenciled beneath it is a warning: “Watch out for flying objects.” Trapped again, caught in the vortex where all options are bad ones.

Thoughts of disaster run wild. My mind does visual take-offs on all that can happen, none of which is good. Like that time I signed a large stack of loan documents. I ask the banker, “Say, Leo, what’s in these documents?” His reply is stenciled into my brain: “Nothing that’s good for you.”

So here I am, visualizing the hand truck flying off, hitting the highway, bouncing a couple of times and sending a twisted mass of steel hurdling through the windshield. A still, small voice whispers in the inner recesses of my brain: “Your morning’s repentance was weak, my son.” Paranoia covers all bases.

Miraculously, luck prevails. Catastrophe is averted. The bungee holds, and the truck turns off to deliver more of its frothy libations. But wait, all’s not well that ends well. Because the day has just begun.

I soon merge onto the interstate, thankful for options, three lanes each side. Good music on the radio, emails quiet, cruise control, life is good. Until I see ‘it.’

Lumbering ahead is a mammoth Caterpillar, twenty tons of yellow steel and rubber tires teetering on the edge of a lowboy trailer. The truck straddles the two outside lanes while traffic backs up, trying to decide what to do. Options narrow again.

This mass of disaster is anchored on the trailer by tiny chains found on a set of yard swings. Soon it’s my time to pass this enormous hunk of impending cataclysm. But wait, some boob in front slows down. Hedged in again, forced to contemplate the caveat written on the truck: “Danger. Wide Load. Stay Back.” No mention of a frosty beer.

Later I’m behind a logging truck. Its pine-tree products protrude waving a red flag and declare, “Watch for Flying Debris.” They’re perfectly positioned to give new meaning to the cliché, ‘a sharp stick in the eye.’

Listen, life is perilous and it’s not all just trucks. Hazards lurk everywhere, from sticky sidewalk chewing gum to random bird droppings from overhead.

Vertigo and the fear of heights make stairwells a snare. Escalators are shoe-eating monsters to the faint of heart, capable of chewing off foot and leg of the less than nimble. Home ladders, while useful, are entrapment devices engineered to lure unsuspecting fools into early hospice.

Don’t forget home elevators, cubicles so small they resemble vertical coffins. Trapped inside, … so long to sanity and a toilet.

Perfect places for paranoia to breed are slick bathroom stone floors and rolled-up corners of kitchen rugs. One fall will end it all.

But look, why carry on with this soliloquy? You have your own neuroses to nurture. Let’s just leave it at that for now.

**********

Time distills the essence out of everything. In retrospect, the Heineken truck episode was not all that bad. But next time I’ll follow it. I’ve concluded that beer is what’s real; paranoia is only an illusion.


Bud Hearn
August 29, 2017

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Slang It to Me


The venerable, time-tested idioms and clichés are rusting out. They’re about to bite the dust. Acronyms and instagrams of verbal arcana now rule, the new Esperanto. I’ve dusted off and cobbled together a few old ones. They still tell it like it is.

**********

We live in a culture of idiomatic clichés. We’re comfortable with our favorites. You can belly up to the bar with such claptrap chatter as lol, yolo and omg, but you’ll never get the same respect as letting you ain’t just whistling Dixie, bubba, roll off your tongue. Amen?

Today, our Republic seems to be hanging by a thread. Cordiality is as scarce as hen’s teeth and protest rules the roost. Politics is business as usual. Congress keeps slamming the door in our face and we’re tired of having to go around the block with Hillary.

What’s happened to consensus? It fell off the wagon and got in the ditch. Everybody’s posturing, saving face. The wolf is knocking at the door demanding more hand-outs. We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul to keep anarchy and looters off the streets.

There’s enough blame to go around. But, misery loves company, and the fat’s in the fire when government can’t pay its bills. Our leaders keep kicking the can and assuring us we’ll dodge the bullet of disaster in spite of the eleventh hour. They’ve hung us out to dry while rewarding themselves with the fruits of our labors.

The moment of truth has arrived. The Treasury is broke. We’re running from pillar to post, taxing everything that moves, and searching for money to pay the piper. Our ‘leaders’ are impotent. These hot-dog, flash-in-the-pan fat cats are making off with billions and laughing all the way to the bank.

Loose screws are everywhere. Our Supreme Leader is running around like a chicken with his head cut off and competing with Kim Jong Un on weird haircuts. Neither can figure out who’s on first and neither is playing with a full deck.

POTUS is hounded by the press and is trying to get the monkey off his back by blaming fake news. He shoots from the hip with nuclear tweets while Putin, a short dog in tall grass, sucker-punches him silly on Syria. He’s all talk and no action on making America Great Again. We’ve heard his empty rhetoric until we’re blue in the face. We’re fed up. He’s obsessed with walls and is drawing lines in the sands of Mexico. The world hates us. We’re easy pickings now, saturated with egg on our face and left hanging out to dry.

Robert E. Lee is disappearing while glib gloaters rub salt in the collective wounds of the fading Confederacy. National heritage is being swept under the rug of history in the glare of a gilded Sherman in Central Park.

America is passing the buck on world leadership and riding on the merry-go-round of avoidance, living in a fool’s paradise. We’re down in the back, stooped like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It’s high time we roll up our sleeves and stop equivocating. Then the world will be laughing out of the other side of their mouths.

Legalized duels will end political gridlock. No more endless beating around the bush of debate. Put your money where our mouth is I say. We’ll get to the bottom of it quickly when it becomes a matter of life and death. Such contests focus the mind. It’s a fair and square way of coming to grips with the issues. It would be the final nail in the coffin of flawed concepts and idiotic ideology. It will truly separate the men from the boys.

Citizens keep getting the short end of the stick. We’re left leaning on the weak reed of one measly vote, unless we live in Chicago. Yet we still run off at the mouth while eating humble pie. Soon we’ll be forced to man up and face the music. The biased media’s grim handwriting on the wall throws fuel on the fire, while we sit on our hands and hope the sorry mess will run its course.

While we may be as clueless as the man in the moon as to what’s going on, we’re still hard nuts to crack. We tend to our own business and try to make hay while the sun still shines. We let no grass grow under our feet.

**********

It’s a dysfunctional, dystopian new world of instagrams, sexting and tweeting. Get used to it. If you don’t like today, tomorrow will be a real pain in the ass. So put your foot in the door, sign up for Twitter and throw your own hat into the ring.

Remember, the long and the short of it is still: You Only Live OnceYOLO, y’all, and bless your little hearts.



Bud Hearn
August 17, 2017






Friday, August 11, 2017

Fitting In


It’s easy to fit in…it takes courage to step out.

**********

I’m reading La Rochefoucauld’s maxims. This one catches my interest:

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, one might say that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities.”

I chew on it while thinking about which is better: fitting in or stepping out. How far out can one step before they cross the threshold of becoming one of the deplorables, avoidables or uninviteables? Worth pondering.

Clearly, fitting in can get boring at times, but being ostracized is a serious matter this late in life. You can run out of time trying to make mid-course fashion adjustments before it gets too late. You have to think about such things as who’ll be pall bearers at your funeral.

My daughter comes in, slides an Austen-Heller shoe catalog across the table.

“Dad, check out these shoes. Think how you’d look with the green ones,” she says. “You would really be stepping out on the island.”

Hmmm, interesting. But what would I be stepping into? The last guy who tried this was Chuck Berry, and he’s dead. Currently I’m not making any societal waves and keeping character assassinations at bay. Besides, wearing green shoes won’t add one cubit to my stature.”

Come on, dad, get a life. Times are changing. Fashion is moving fast. Don’t be left behind. These are cool shoes.”

Maybe she’s right, they will make a statement. But matching them with my current JCrew wardrobe presents a dilemma. I don’t need to buy another round of clothes just to match the whim of green shoes. So I debate.

Uh, you’re right, but what would people think? (‘But’ always keeps the debate going) Brown and black match everything.”

Right. That’s the point. Step out in green leather loafers and you’ll make a fashion statement.”

I push back and take the defensive position of discussing the merits of fitting in. No waves, no discussions, no critiques. Just part of the herd. It’s safe and harmless. It’s a kind of invisible life. You’re in it, but nobody notices. It’s a place where all men look alike, comfortable in conformity, complacent in status quo.

Get with it, dad,” she says. “Toss the Cole Haan/khaki pant/blue blazer generation and step out. You’ll be noticed again.”

I tell her that fashion is a fickle, wallet-busting frivolity, better suited for the young who are trying to find themselves. At a certain age we have either found ourselves and approved or given up the search as a hopeless endeavor.

Look, dad, the green ones are on end-of-summer sale, a bargain at $125. Buy them, and I’ll guarantee you’ll get respect. Cachet will be in your future. Overnight you’ll be a trendsetter, an arbiter of style. And who knows but what your pals are just waiting for someone to take the lead. Do it, dad.”

All right, suppose I do. Just what crowd am I fitting into? Anybody over forty? And there’s your mother to consider. What will she think?”

Well, it may be a shock at first, but I think she’ll come along. After all, she keeps up with the styles. Have you seen her closet?”

I remind her of my past disastrous experience with the Stubbs and Wooten black velvet loafers, the toes emblazoned with red devils, and the Palm Springs pink flowered silk shirts.

Yes, that was unfortunate,” she says. “But you made those choices on your own. Now I’m going to help you. These green loafers will be your ticket to freedom in individual expression. Trust me. What credit card do you want to use?”

Like a hungry bear out of hibernation, the primal urge for individuality begins to stir again and it waves goodbye to the herd.

**********

W. C. Fields once remarked, “There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation.” Green shoes will soon be arriving.

So I step out, buy the ticket, take the ride. A promise of freedom for $125 seems like a bargain indeed.


Bud Hearn
August 11, 2017

Friday, July 28, 2017

Of Brains and Sponges

Brains and sponges have something in common: they require squeezing on a regular basis to remain useful.

Sponges are simple, utilitarian tools. Our household has lots of them, big ones, small ones, all colors. They’re mainly used for cleaning dirty dishes, a simple task requiring little brain function, which explains why men are sometimes assigned the task. The effort on the cerebral cortex ranks right up there with watching New Jersey Housewives.

In our home she cooks, I clean. It’s an equitable division of labor. She once suggested I move further up the food chain, like reading a recipe and following directions. It was an ill-conceived idea. Marital bliss cannot co-exist with such experiments. Meat cleavers are simply overkill for mincing garlic cloves.

Cleaning the kitchen will relieve any brain of the day’s accumulation of clutter…personal insults, injustices and outright rejections that flesh is constantly heir to. My utensil of choice is the long-handled scrub brush, not a soggy sponge.

A bloated blue sponge that floats around arrogantly in dull dishwater is repugnant. Splashing around in a sudsy sink will age hands in just minutes, not to mention the destruction of good nails. Moreover, no man would be caught dead wearing an apron and elbow-length yellow rubber gloves.

Like everything, there’s a protocol to proper dishwashing. Women write the instruction manual. What’s it to a man if an occasional dried rice kernel or two remains stuck to the wall of a supposedly washed pot. No big deal. And who ever looks at the bottoms of pots and pans? (Women, that’s who!)

For men, many of life’s lessons on proper cleanliness originate down on some creek bank. The brains of young boys are like sponges, absorbent and adaptive. The idea of acceptable cleanliness of cooking utensils is formed on camp-outs and fishing expeditions. Cleanliness is a relative term.

Grease and germs that dare to dangle in a pan after frying fish or bacon are exterminated by the simplest method: fire. After that, a wad of swamp mud rubs off the remainder of germ holdovers. Then a quick dip in whatever water is handy. No sponges necessary.

Somehow along the way men progress beyond fire and mud and live to tell about it. They’re now slaves to detergents. It’s more refined, says the Kitchen Queen, who inspects everything under the glare of a harsh halogen spotlight. Re-washing is frequent.

After washing, my tendency is to pick up the sodden sponge with tongs and fling it into the dishwasher. But Madame Decorum demands it be rinsed and squeezed, until all soaked-up grime and remnants of its day be removed. It’s a mindless process.

After last night’s thorough bout of rinsing and squeezing, my sponge is now an empty receptacle. It’s ready to absorb some more dirt from the next duty. I am about to put it away when I hear The Voice speak.

Hey, let me give your brain a big squeeze. Then learn the parable of the sponge.”

Do you ever hear voices? I listen. Suddenly I feel a little squeeze.

I ask The Voice if it washes dishes, too.

It answers. “Sort of. I scrub and squeeze out the daily layered-up brain debris you accumulate. Your brain seems to be a glutton for goop.” I want to argue, but my defense is weak.

I ask it to please refrain from any future squeezing. I relish the rubbish of my past. It defines me. I carry it everywhere. It’s like a security blanket. To squeeze it out, why, I’d be an empty vessel. I imagine demons moving into the vacancy and setting up house in my cerebral gray matter.

Brains might seem like sieves, but they record everything. The Voice dredges up a reminder of my long-forgotten lust for apple sauce as a kid. I’d overpower my younger brother and beat him out of his. My dad finally got fed up and forced-fed me an entire can. I hate apples to this day.

Everything in life seems to work towards a meaningful conclusion. I consider hearing this parable of the sponge a turning point in life. Now when I hold a sponge in my hand I see myself. A good squeeze every day is a remedial event.

From now on dishwashing will ever be sacramental. Keep squeezing.


Bud Hearn
July 28, 2017

Friday, July 7, 2017

The Right Tool

It’s hard to imagine what thoughts may come from the simple act of peeling a peach.

**********

There’s a tool for every job; choosing the right one is critical. Today’s choice for me was unfortunate but instructive.

Sadly, Georgia’s meager peach crop is about over. They’re harder to find now than hen’s teeth. The only choices are the nubbin rejects.

Same with blueberries. Only the tasteless, pesticide-embalmed varieties from south of the porous border remain. Like white bread, their shelf life is long. Eaten, your shelf life shrinks.

This morning I eye the last plump peach in the bowl. Others see it, too. An avaricious nature will overrule any Christian virtue of sharing. I grab it. Quick.

The fuzzy skin distorts the flavor. It needs peeling. My tool choices are a potato-fruit peeler or a short paring knife. I recall my daddy’s advice: “Son, a knife is a man’s tool.”

The peeler is safer; the knife is, well, the man’s tool. I opt for it.

I pull out the sharpening iron, give the blade a good stropping. Satisfied with the razor edge, I start peeling.

Rings of peach skin fall in circles into the sink. Peach nectar, like love, can fill the air and cause a swoon. It’s easy to get careless with a sharp knife. Like a seductive kiss, dangerous possibilities are always near. There’s usually a price to pay. Today’s price is a sliced thumb.

I call for help. “Bring bandages, please.” The last precious peach lies wasted among the bloody peelings.

Having no peach and nothing else to do but ride out the pain, my wounded thumb and I convalesce by contemplating the inner connectivity of household tools and human nature. A stretch, I know, but we go with it.

With the right tool, when paired with vivid imagination, consider what might be accomplished anonymously and often with great personal delight. Metaphorically, speaking, of course.

Take tongues, for example. Like knives, they can slice and dice the corpus of our enemies (or our friends) in absentia and leave the bloody carcass of their character lying in shreds. All this carnage at a safe distance, too,

Then there are pliers. They’re helpful tools if anger gets a notion to pinch something, or somebody. Like small vices, we can stick the fictional fingers of politicians in the chokehold of our disgust. Squeeze the grip and hear their muffled screams much like a pricked voodoo doll. Now while the best revenge won’t pay the rent, it will allow us to gloat.

Ladders are dangerous tools, but we all use them. The bottom rung is crowded. We want the top. The risk/reward of climbing high must be considered. Vertigo is real, and the air is thin at the top. Everybody wants to be there, the top of anything, everything…the game, the job, and the wealthy. But there’s only one step at the top. From that lofty peak fate spins the roulette wheel.

Ah, the hammer. The cold steel tool of resentment can nail things air tight. Used as a crude bludgeon, it’ll make short work of driving the last nail in the coffin of a duplicitous friend or a stake through the heart of a bitter rival.

Screwdrivers are saviors. Life deals us defeats, winds of vicissitude confound us and courage abandons us. Hear as Macbeth asks: “If we should fail?” And Lady Macbeth’s response: “We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail.” Tighten up, hang in there.

Pruning shears come in many sizes. They’re useful for trimming the stealthy hubris from any wisteria vine whose pride exceeds its allotted boundary and reaches for more. Imagine what an occasional pruning by the Master Gardener might do for our ego.

So many tools, so little space to praise them. Honorable mention goes to two: WD 40 and Duct tape.

With the attitude of WD 40, it’s possible to grease the hung-up rusty relationships of life with little more than a few smiles and kind words.

Duct tape, applied regularly to our own lips or our tweeting app, will bring about much needed silence and many will live happily ever after.

**********

Enough said on more about nothing. Just get the right tool for the job. You’ll be glad you did.


Bud Hearn
July 7, 2017




Friday, June 30, 2017

Our Flag Was STill There


The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.” Patrick Henry

The card simply read, “Happy Birthday, America…for 241 years old, you’re looking pretty good.”

Inside was a small scroll. On it read these words:


Dear America:

My, how you have grown. From a few stout souls to what, over 315 million now? My plan seems to be working, even though I continue to keep my fingers crossed.

Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, given the red and blue political divisions. You seem to have another civil war seething inside. It’s confusing to me. But I have not abandoned you yet, although that thought has occurred to me more than once.

Your body is showing the strains of wear. It’s hard to recognize you from your baby pictures. Lesser mortals and countries would have folded their tents and ridden off on their camels. But not you. You’re of hearty stock, chiseled by conflict, raw-boned, with a tough hide and courage of steel. Perseverance is your nature. A national Spirit lives within you. It’s my gift.

You were born of a Higher Power for a Higher Purpose…Liberty. For that worthy cause you have strived. You were born by the shedding of blood, not by cunning words crafted from philosophical dictates. You were given a Manifest Destiny, a calling to create something new…a new nation, a nation under God, whose cornerstone is Freedom. That Divine Destiny still lives within you.

Freedom costs. Every generation must earn it. The blood of your patriots, your martyrs, your fearless founding fathers cries from their graves even today. Their collective hearts still beat for freedom beneath your feet as you walk the dust and dirt of battlefields everywhere…from Bunker Hill to Ft. Washington, from Atlanta to Gettysburg, from Europe to Viet Nam, from Korea to Iraq.

America, your soil is stained from 384 battles in a Civil War waged to preserve this Grand Vision of a United States. Some 625,000 of your countrymen perished in this endeavor. The wound remains fresh, the scar permanent.

Lately cracks are eroding your former staunch resolve. Ice is forming in your soul. The work ethic once instilled in you is flagging. Ease and prosperity sap your strength. You’re getting soft, fat and satisfied. Idleness is rewarded; creativity punished. Your taxes and your laws are balls and chains. You sing songs with lines, “God shed His grace on thee,” but you ignore ‘grace’ and enact laws and tolls that load your citizens with burdens grievous to be borne.

America, allow me to remind you of this wisdom, “When the will fails, so do the hands, and you live at the expense of life.”

Grab yourself by the neck and shake off the innate laziness that so easily besets you. Stir up the vision and determination that sustains your life. There is no free lunch here. Your destiny is not written by lines in the palms of your hands but in the toil and sweat of your collective efforts. These are the marks of your greatness.

July 4, 1776 commemorates the birth of America, something new and bold, a noble experiment in the belief that all men are created with inalienable rights: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Was it an illusion? No! From the compost pile of these ideals emerged your great nation.

Will you remain great? Will you embrace this gift of Freedom, preserve its heritage, protect it and pass it on? Or will the grit of discontent grind away the grace you have been given? Will the flag still be there for the next generation? The choice is before you every day...Yes or No.

But for now, let’s celebrate your birthday. So strike up the bands, march in parades, grill up the hot dogs, slice up the watermelons, scoop up the ice cream, break out the beer and crown it all with traditional fireworks. Have fun!

You are a beacon of light to nations. As your fireworks explode and light the night’s darkness, then sing praises for your flag that’s still flying there…flying over the Land of the Free!

Happy Birthday, America
from The Spirit of Freedom.


Bud Hearn
June 30, 2017



Friday, June 16, 2017

It Is What It Is


Chance has a way of untangling many issues that wisdom left dangling.

**********

Churchill took his best shot at defining Russia: “It’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” Insightful, but leaves us hanging.

Al Franken, a comedian and U.S. Senator, (is there a difference?) came closer to a sort of wisdom when quipping about the Trumpian riddle: “It is what it is.” Crude, but close.

Cognitive thought is too shallow to examine enigmatic riddles and explain them rationally. Mostly we just open our palms, shrug our shoulders and utter a submissive whisper: ‘It is what it is.’ What a relief. No discussions, no rebuttals, no conflicts. An easy out.

Life’s riddles continue to stump philosophers, ascetics and not a few politicians and preachers. Some things remain permanent mysteries. Still, we’re a culture consumed with closing circles, tidying things up with answers and leaving no unsolved, hanging chads. Let’s face it: What better catch-all phrase to bring closure than, ‘It is what it is?’

Poetry, in its brevity, is sometimes superior to prose in slicing up dilemmas, or in creating them. So, for your enlightenment, the Weakly Post’s think tank presents its poetic solution of living among life’s deepest secrets.


It is what it is

It is what it is’ isn’t hard to recall
When a reply is required that answers it all.
Without any need or effort to think,
You can toss it right out as quick as a wink.

People will think you’re a genius profound,
And to utter such wisdom you’re sure to astound.
‘Cause both the simple and brilliant proclaim,
There’re just some things that can’t be explained.

It matters not if you’re dumb or you’re smart,
Just whisper these words and the waters will part.

Just what ‘it’ is it is hard to say,
It is what it is,’ there’s no other way.
Is ‘it’ maybe this, or could ‘it’ be that?
It really won’t matter, one tit or one tat.

It’ is a catch-all for any context,
Just spit ‘it’ out and great minds you’ll vex.
They’ll think that Wisdom is your Pedigree
And if you’re a Charlatan you can charge a big fee.

For Pretense pays big to escape the mundane,
Even for carnival-like legerdemain.

The Crux of the phrase is what ‘is’ really is.
And a former Arkansan had to explain away his.
And someday you may have a reason to try
To cloak your own ‘is’ with a creative lie.

Now Plato said that there ‘is’ no past,
That nothing that’s made can last.
The claim that he makes is only his
That ‘it is’ eternally ‘is.

But ‘it is what it is’ gives substance and proof,
Of its value to deflect with a hyperbolic spoof.
When all has been said it’s impossible to say
‘Bout the multiple uses of this adaptable cliché.

So when Life has riddles you can’t figure out,
Don’t moan and complain what it’s all about.
The answer will come, for Someone will say,
It is what it is, and it’s better My way.”

Sir Winston was close to the perfect explanation, but his equation didn’t quite close. Even Newton, with his Second Law of Thermodynamics on Quantum Theory couldn’t explain why things fall apart, or how to unscramble just one egg. Some things defy solution.

We can dig all we want for answers in the Google landfill of arcana, but it’s just simpler to kick back and enjoy the ride. After all, in the final consensus, ‘it is what it is.’ What more needs saying?

Res ipsa loquitur…the thing speaks for itself. Let it.



Bud Hearn
June 16, 2017

Thursday, May 25, 2017

The Poppies Blow


Neptune Park, St. Simons Island, Georgia.

In this place for many years multitudes of a cross-section of diverse Americans celebrate Taps at Twilight in remembrance of Memorial Day. We come to pay tribute to those who have died in service to our country, as well as honor those living who have served in our preservation of liberty. It’s a humble and solemn occasion.

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 St. Simons Island Rotary Club. The Golden Isles Community Band resurrects John Phillip Sousa for a short concert of his militaristic music. We can imagine him directing the band. The enthusiastic music is rousing. We march along with them, waving our tiny American flags in time with the music.

Picnics are everywhere. Smoke from barbeque wafts across the lawn. Our own ravenous crowd usually numbers about twenty-five. We gather around several tables covered with red checkered tablecloths and feast on fried chicken, sandwiches of cucumber, pimento cheese and pineapple, all on white bread (the edges removed in true Southern tradition). There’s more: deviled eggs, guacamole dip, fruit and unlimited desserts.

Throngs of patriotic Americans pack the entire lawn of Neptune Park. We face the rotunda where engraved bricks with the names of the beloved fallen remind us of our heritage. Standing alone in the center is a flagpole. Our flag, the enduring symbol of national unity, is alive. It waves freely in the breeze. It’s the central focus of all eyes.

As the day drifts down towards dusk, a Spirit floats on the coastal breeze and moves among the crowd. It swells, then hushes, then blows again. A profound stillness descends upon the multitude. Laughing voices of children ring in the distance. They add new life to the solemnity of the gathering.

“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.”

This same Spirit blows amid the graves of patriots everywhere. It’s we, the living, who are restless. The honored dead lie peacefully in the earth now. Their names, dates and events mark their final resting places. What survive are their names, our memories and the ideal of Freedom. The Freedom that beats in every living heart was purchased by the blood of our countrymen. This same Freedom, we pray, will continue to survive long after we, the living, are gone. We have our names; we have only borrowed the dust.

Like our warriors, we live for a purpose…a common devotion for freedom and brotherhood. We hear this theme from every speaker who ever came to memorialize the occasion.

At twilight we witness the Retirement of the Colors. The crowd is breathlessly silent. The flag is lowered, gently folded, itself soon to be laid to rest in the darkness of the night.

A mournful trumpet then sounds the three simple notes of ‘Taps,’ or Lights Out or Gone the Sun. In the distance its fading echo descends gently upon the declining day.

Three simple notes close this day, but another three notes will renew the morrow. Like death and resurrection, tomorrow’s bugle call is Reveille, accompanied by a cannon’s retort. It’s a rousing ‘get-em-up’ tune as the flag is again raised atop the naked flagpole. It will again personify our nation’s glorious past, its hopeful future and our enduring commitment to freedom.

So we will say goodnight to the Spirit here. 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…”

The spirits of our departed comrades are watching. Will our generation join them in the preservation of our ideals?

In Flanders fields the poppies blow…”

And in Neptune Park on Memorial Day, the voices of our children’s spirits sing the sweet song of Liberty.


Bud Hearn
May 25, 2017


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

Monday, May 22, 2017

The Leaf Blower


Behold, the Leaf Blower cometh, sowing the wind, and reaping the whirlwind.

**********

In your silent reverie it comes. The distant roar encroaches, closer, closer. You hear it before you see it. You smell the fumes of its foul breath before you feel its vibration. No explanation necessary: the Leaf Blower is here.

The ear-splitting whine of the two-cycle engine shatters the day’s quiet enjoyment. You can’t think, and your tongue utters expletives that would curl grandma’s blue hair.

You close all doors, windows, retreat to your prayer closet, take the matter up with a higher authority. You’re displeased with the former silent answers, like, “Patience is a virtue,” or, “Do it yourself.” You hope for better results today.

Reactions vary. Some curse, some rent their garments, some wish for the return of rakes and others flee the scene. Whichever, but look closer: There’s some good in just about everything.

I’m on the porch, reading. My yard team arrives. One mows, another blows. Both grass and leaves cower in fear of the impending destruction. The grass gets shorn, the leaves scatter in advance of the 250 mph, hurricane-force winds of the blower. Birds, insects and small creatures flee the wrath caused by the tornadic centrifugal force bearing down upon them. I escape inside.

Eric is the Leaf Blower. He wears a cap pulled tight on his head. Large, blue noise-reduction cups cover his ears. The blower is strapped to his back. If he’s not careful it can whirl him around like a ballerina doing a clumsy pirouette. Once he pointed it over the pool. The waters parted like the Red Sea.

The Leaf Blower reminds me of the 1950’s television and movie serials, ‘Rocket Man.’ They were before Technicolor, when good against evil always showed up in black and white. Like Rocket Man, the Leaf Blower always shows up and cleans up our messes.

Rocket Man was an average-looking guy dreaming about a career in space exploration. Alas, he was mostly earth-bound. When evil emerged, he hopped behind a rock and strapped on a jet pack. With a running start and a jump, he zoomed airborne to the squeals of us sitting in the front row during Saturday matinees.

Now I’m thinking, what would entice someone to build a career of blowing leaves into piles every day? Poverty? Insanity? What goes through the mind of someone in such a seemingly mindless occupation? Curiosity demands answers. So I go out and ask Eric.

He idles the blower to a dull roar when I approach. The leaves relax with the sudden reduction in the decibel level. Birds start chirping again. Nature exhales a sigh of relief.

Eric, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s it like to spend your days with that leaf blower?”

He gives me a quizzical look and switches the blower off. Suddenly, the air’s ambient silence is stunning.

Never thought much about it, I guess,” he says.

The question must have touched a nerve. He tilts his head while his eyes scan the skies for an answer. We both stand there in silence.

I guess it’s not much of a long-term job, doesn’t pay all that much, either. But for some weird reason I like to see things clean and pretty. Strange, maybe, but I get a joy from seeing all these messy leaves cleaned up and yards looking pristine. Kinda like how I imagine the Garden of Eden. It’s like having a lot of my own beautiful gardens without the expense.”

Well, Eric, that’s a good way to see a job. You do make our yard a showcase every week.” I smile.

He grins. “Funny you ask me this today,” he says. “It was always my dream to be a landscape architect, to draw beautiful gardens and enjoy making people smile. I guess this is as close as I’ve gotten so far. But maybe one day…” He trails off in thought, his eyes again searching the skies.

There’s still time,” I say.

I guess,” he says, and fires up his blower.

**********

Life is like a leaf blower. It’s a wind that’s always blowing. It sneaks up on us, blows for a while, then moves on. It usually makes a clean sweep of things.

I guess if we look close enough, we might see something good in everything. There’s still time for dreams to come true, even for Leaf Blowers. Thank you, Eric.


Bud Hearn
May 22, 2017


Friday, May 12, 2017

Cinnamon Toast


“Stood alone on a mountain top, starin’ out at the Great Divide. I could go east, I could go west, it was all up to me to decide…” Bob Seger

I left home at 18. Not willingly. Poverty evicted me. My parents couldn’t afford my enormous food intake. They had to choose…a new car or feeding their omnivorous son. The car won. So I left.

I didn’t really mind, except I hated to leave behind mama’s cinnamon toast. But life moves on. Anyway, the future winked at me when I graduated from high school. I winked back.

The future is a Siren. It seduces with promises of magic kingdoms, just waiting for us. Its allure packed more punch than my last fortune cookie, “See Rock City.”

I said my goodbyes. Mama sat grinning on the fender of her new 1964 gold, slantback Plymouth Savoy, delirious with joy over the car. Or my departure? She never said. I never asked.
I stood in our front yard, one foot on the driveway; the other on US Highway 27. It ran north and south. Across the street lay a dead-end dirt road to our farm. Three choices. I went north.

The Stone Age was slow to leave Southwest Georgia. It slipped out unseen in the dead of night the week before I left. We both knew it was time. It couldn’t compete with Elvis or hippies.

Food was responsible for my expulsion. Children consume vast quantities of it. My father was a righteous man but tight with his cash. He saved money by goading me into mowing the lawn and encouraged me to eat the grass for snacks. Promised it’d build muscles and attract girls. Skinny boys are dumb. They’ll believe anything that promises muscles or female attention.

But I hated anything green, except money, of course. Later I learned that’s what attracts female attention. If I got hungry, I had to find it or kill it. My parents were tyrants. “Feed yourself or starve,” they said. Claimed it builds character. Hogwash.

They were devout disciples of Dr. Spock. He warned them in a dream not to hug or kiss children. Said they’d never leave the nest, and like leeches, they would make old age a living hell. No, give ‘em sugar instead, said Spock.

I preferred sugar to kisses anyway. Familial affection abused me horribly as a child. I was mentally damaged, suffering from the dual stigma of being both seen with relatives and hugged by them. Aunt Doris once hugged me. Mothballs popped out of her pockets. Like a dog, I ate whatever fell to the floor. I now refrain. That day’s consequence remains vivid in memory.

As for kisses, OMG, their breath. It was a ghastly cross between snuff and coffee, as stale and stagnant as swamp water. But then again, who with any brain would touch a teenager who secreted musk more rank than that of a bull moose in rut?

Sugar is the quintessential staple in the diet of children. My mama had plenty of it. She dumped it on everything. Kool-Aid and ice tea were as thick as molasses. And always on cinnamon toast for breakfast. I mourn for it even now.

I used to watch her prep that delicacy. She’d slather slices of Wonder Bread (white, of course) with a tsunami of Oleo margarine. She’d shake fistfuls of freshly ground cinnamon on top and layer it with a pound of Dixie Crystal sugar. Just looking at it red-lined my glucose level and sent my stomach into orgiastic spasms.

Mama’s cinnamon toast was magic. In the oven the concoction boiled and bubbled. It emitted a heavenly aroma, the pure essence of Paradise. My mouth would drool profusely in anticipation of gnawing out the sweet bubbly middle of the toast.

I was a voracious snacker. Cheese toast, for example. Soda crackers toasted with cheese, topped with marshmallows. Bananas, peanut butter and honey. No apples…too mealy and mushy. Apple sauce? No problem.

There were mayonnaise sandwiches stuffed with pineapple, and light bread smeared with butter and sugar. I ate raw cookie dough, drank Ovaltine, devoured popsicles and occasionally squirrels. But nothing compared with cinnamon toast.

The crusts were the cast-offs of cinnamon toast. No kid ever ate them. Why remains an unsolved mystery. My mother tried, reminding me about starving Chinese children. Since I didn’t know any, my conscience was clear.

Some years later I discovered the Magic Kingdom promised by the Future is often more like a chimerical dream. It’s a mirage that shimmers in the distance, twinkling just out of reach. Unlike mama’s cinnamon toast, the center core of reality is not always sweet. Life has its own share of crusts.

So, here’s to mama’s cinnamon toast…thanks for the memories, and goodbye to the crusts.


Bud Hearn
May 12, 2017

Friday, April 28, 2017

Headging Our Bets


Shadows are always dark.

**********

Blame it on Newton: For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Took him three laws to infer that every action is a gamble. He never even suggested a hedge. Chew on that for a while.

The thought bounced around in my dream like a marble in a tin can. The Law of Probabilities points to the double pepperoni pizza as my fall from grace. Before the rooster crows twice, an Alka-Seltzer aperitif hedges the bet.

A hedge is simply a means of protection from the loss of something that’s valuable: Life, limb, property, love, reputation, health, wealth, souls and such as that. We craft them instinctively, even without realizing it.

But now, I need coffee. Without it, the abyss is not a mirage. A brain thusly deprived is riskier than roulette. Caffeine hedges against utter ruin.

Mr. Verizon, my umbilical wireless, slides easily into the back pocket of my jeans. I stumble inside Starbucks. A double espresso improves all odds.

The cell rings. I fumble to retrieve it, the coffee spills and a little kid in the corner laughs, “Mommy, look, that man’s rump is ringing.” Conversations cease, people stare. A stupid grin is my hedge against embarrassment. It fails.

I answer. “Hello?” It’s Billy. Thanks, Mr. Newton, for the warning.

He starts right in. “Empty your piggy bank, man; I’ve got a sure-fire deal for us this time. I guarantee we’ll be on easy street forever.” Mr. Verizon quivers in its case.

Back it down, brother. There’s no guarantee in life, especially not one of yours. Life is a gamble with incredible odds; if it was a bet, no one would take it. You’re leaning on a weak reed for a hedge.”

Rubbish,” he replies. “Money’s my hedge.”

“Well, your last money-loser mortally wounded my wallet. I was dumb. No cell app can convert Sinatra tunes to bluegrass. Long on glitz, brother, but short on grits. Now what, a rutabaga pie franchise?”

Gimme a break. This one’s a sure-fire winner…I’ll bet my pickup on it.”

Zing ~ he hedges the bet with a linguistic qualifier. But then that’s Billy, always doubling-down.

“OK, John D. Napoleon. I’m listening.”

“Sit down. This will blow your hair back, literally. I just bought the exclusive distributorship for the BugMaster Leaf Blower.”

Too early for jokes, B. P. Morgan. My ears are open, but my bank is still closed.” I slide in ‘but’ for my own verbal hedge.

“It’s a leaf blower with a muffler, so quiet you won’t even know the yard crew is there. Plus, now get this; it sucks bugs while it blows leaves. It’s like a large insectivorous machine, sorta like a mechanical Venus fly trap. It ingests mosquitoes and insects and composts them instantly into fertilizer. Pure genius, huh?”

>“Creative
,” I admit. “How’d you come by this novelty?”

By accident, like most things. Anyway, a lawn mower mechanic in Ludowici came across the idea in his garage and developed a prototype. He ran into a snag with compliance regs from the Noise Proliferation Act and got crossways with the Bug Preservation Society.”

Accidents are hard to hedge against, I think. “How did he compost those formidable opponents of common sense?”

Cost him plenty, for sure. He hired Squeezem and Fleece, the for-the-people law firm in Savannah. They picked his bones, then sold the carcass to a bucket shop hedge fund in New Jersey: Gold, Silver and Frankincense, Inc. Listen, Wall Street’s the answer to everything, man.”

How so?” I ask.

They did an IPO, created bonds, securitized them and monetized the package with a derivative hedge. The public ate it up. Sold out in minutes, blew the doors off Wall Street. Trust me, we’ll make millions. You’ll be the Croesus of the Coast, wealthy beyond measure. How about it, partner?”

Whoa, Colonel Manna, scratch the partner concept. You go ahead and join the Midas Americanus herd of millionaires, let me enjoy my coffee.”

You’ll be sorry. If my plan pans out, you could be living in Palm Beach next year.”

Enough is enough. “So long, Billy. Good luck.” It’s always ‘if’ with Billy.

The coffee clears my brain. Somebody once said: “If life weren’t so serious, it would be a joke.” Which will it be today?

For me, I’m gambling with a sure-fire bromide: Laughing more and praying longer…and betting that the Seeking Shepherd is peering over the hedge and hears my bleating. It’s the best hedge we can get this side of the Styx.

**********

Shadows are always dark.

Bud Hearn
April 28, 2017

(Thanks to O. Henry for some insight.)



Friday, April 21, 2017

The Magic of Wisteria


“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying
.” Robert Herrick, (1591-1674)

Poets have a way with words. Who cannot think of love when standing under a canopy of lavender wisteria in April?

An enormous heart-pine tree, maybe 60 years old, grows next to our sidewalk. Somehow the grizzled old tree has managed to attract wisteria vines of immense beauty and fragrance. The metaphor of magic may offer possibility to the grizzled old geezers among us. Hope springs eternal.

The gnarled vines, like nooses, cling to the tree like long-lost lovers. Twisted and contorted, they grip the sturdy tree with unyielding choke-holds. A friend says it reminds him of the wedding vows he took with his third wife. Purely coincidental.

Morning dew drips from the lavender bouquets of flowers. No artist’s canvas could recreate a scene more perfectly beautiful. Sidewalk strollers stop beneath the dangling displays of color. They inhale air perfumed with attar of wisteria, nectar of the gods.

Its indescribable sweetness floats freely, effortlessly, as it carelessly wafts its way among the shrubs. Tender breezes tease the bouquets into slight movements. They sway, side to side, swooning in a sensuous, romantic ritual of dance.

I pass this altar each morning when retrieving the newspapers. Time is arrested, infused by the pervading essence. Flowers dangle in small garlands, like locks of lavender braids adorning the hair of angels and young girls at May Pole picnics.

This morning a stranger approaches. She stops, captivated by the dangling array of purple, the color of royalty. We say hello.

Entranced by the display, she says it’s reminiscent of love. She whispers reverentially that wisteria, like love, defies description. She adds that words can’t convey the quintessential quality of the flower’s perfume, much less describe that of love.

Her monologue asserts that to understand either, one must remove the veil through experience. Strange conversation coming from a stranger. I offer no opinion, except to say, “It’s early. Who can discuss love without first a cup of coffee?” We laugh. She smiles, and strolls away.

It’s nice to linger, to savor the moment. Even before coffee, I know it’s impossible to seize the scent of wisteria. It’s a spirit, and like all spirits, it floats freely upon the breezes. We can only receive it, not restrain it, nor retain it. Like love, if it’s selfishly possessive, it withers in our palms.

It’s odd, standing beneath the vines, synthesizing the stranger’s similarities of wisteria and love. Neither asks, “Who’s worthy to receive?” They’re ‘free’ to all. Wisteria and love are magical wherever they blossom, both beautiful in their day. Perhaps there are more similarities, but the coffee, the coffee.

Suddenly the purple nursery appears to be alive. Bumble bees swarm in rapturous delight, flitting promiscuously from petal to petal in a paean of passionate frenzy. They know their time is short. Bees know a lot about wisteria, and perhaps love.

It’s a spectacle of nature at play. I’m mesmerized, wondering what it would be like to be a bee. Coffee can wait.

Once we cut some wisteria for the house. Our daughter, a gardener extraordinaire, advised against it. “It will simply wilt and soon die.”

We ignored her warning. But she was right. Soon the gorgeous flowers died. They hung limply over the lip of the vase. Both its fragrance and beauty had faded. The vine is the source of its life. Separated, it becomes a dried flower, useless, except to press between the pages of books.

Sadly, wisteria is ephemeral. At best, its life cycle is a couple weeks. It gives all it has, while it has it. Then, as quickly as it blooms, it wilts. Its blossoms fade, let go and are scattered by the wind. They lie silently upon the lawn like a bluish-lilac carpet…as beautiful in death as in life.

Back in the house I pour that cup of coffee, recalling the mystic poet’s line: “Love gives, and while it gives it lives; and while it lives it gives.” Do you suppose angels could really appear as strangers?


Maybe there’s metaphor somewhere in this episode…a stranger, the spirit of wisteria, the spirit of love. You decide. But one thing’s for certain, the magic of wisteria and love waits for no one.



Bud Hearn
April 21, 2017

Friday, April 14, 2017

Mystery of the Empty To


“…very early in the morning they came to the sepulcher and found the stone rolled away…and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.” Luke 24:1-3


Not even Poe could have concocted a narrative to rival the mystery surrounding the death and resurrection of Jesus. The enigma and significance of the empty tomb still baffles us today. Is it myth or fact? Is Easter just another day?

Take a stroll with me through the Cemetery at Christ’s Church on St. Simons Island, Georgia. It’s early, the first day of the week, a cool, sunny day. Spring is abundant. Our spirits soar.

Bare limbs blossom in colors: green, red, pink, white. Daffodils decorate the grounds. The meditation garden is ablaze in watercolors of azaleas. Spring is making its resurgence after a comatose winter.

We encounter a crowd huddled around a mound of freshly-dug red clay. It’s a gothic scene. There, in front of our eyes, is an open grave. The heavy lid of the vault has been removed, cast aside. The coffin inside is empty. We stare at it in silence.

The group whispers in low, hushed tones. We ask what’s happened here.

They reply with this strange story: “We arrived here early and saw two diaphanous apparitions in shining robes. They were sitting on the edge of this empty vault. We were afraid.

Then we heard a voice speak plainly: ‘Why are you seeking the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.

“Then suddenly they disappeared. We’re still confused and frightened. It’s scary. We keep asking ourselves what this means.”

**********

What would be our reaction to such an event? Is there an explanation?

As we approach Easter with its pageantry, its drama, its passion, its emotion, it’s easy to blend in with the crowd. There’s a lot to synthesize. As in previous years, it leaves us baffled with mixed emotions---hopeful, maybe confused, but often doubting and going along with the crowd.

Like nature, we yearn for renewal, too. Not just at Easter, but every day. We want to leave the tomb of self and experience the ‘more’ we know is out there. Yet somehow it always seems just out of reach.

So how do we capture the essence of resurrection? How can we allow it to regenerate our own lives? Even with the mention of the word we sense the feeling of incredulity. It’s difficult to imagine the reality of God’s promises.

We have stood by the red-clay graves of too many friends and family members, not to mention witnessing the ravaged consequences of violence in our streets and the blood of countrymen crying from the dust of other lands.

But for this moment we stare into an empty coffin. Doubt takes control of our minds as it leaps to plausible conclusions to this conundrum. Grave robbers, somebody says. But who? Friends, family? But why? Where’s the body?

We’re at a loss for words and slowly move on, leaving this strange spectacle of an empty grave as we found it. No answers, only questions and speculations, heading home to repeat the details of this extraordinary event.

And so here we are now, another Easter, another opportunity to vicariously re-live the drama of Jesus’ resurrection. Are we any closer to an explanation of the empty tomb today?

Our minds struggle to grasp this ephemeral concept of life after death. Logical conclusions evade us. But then someone mentions a word…faith. Our ears perk up. Tell us more. Help us understand this evanescent miracle of resurrection.

We want to believe. Yet we find ourselves like the man who asked Jesus to heal his demon-possessed son. Jesus told him that if he could believe, all things were possible. This father’s words are our own: "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.”

Tennyson tries to express our feelings with lines from In Memoriam, his poem: “…that men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.”

Easter is our opportunity to do just that, to allow faith to resurrect us to a new life. Then we will again blossom and join the Heavenly Choir in singing Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, “He is risen indeed.”

Easter…it’s just another day, right? Or is it?


Bud Hearn
April 14, 2017