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.)

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

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

The Leaves Let Go

April opens the door to spring. It’s the month when the Great Silent Voice speaks: “Time’s up, release without remorse and make way for the new.”

Nature has a different set of rules for the live oaks that canopy the islands of coastal Georgia. They’re programmed to shed their leaves in spring, not November. It disguises our winters. We like that.

But now, last year’s leaves have run their course. Their grip on the Great Mother oak relaxes. One by one, without complaint or coaxing, they begin their short but final journey ‘home.’ Mission accomplished, job completed. Now freed from their work, the transients collectively head south for their permanent retirement.

The enormous oak Titans suddenly stand naked and exposed. But only for a few days. Their spindly skeletons stretch skyward, communing with the winds. Redwing blackbirds give stark contrast to the sky as they bark orders from the barren branches.

Sunlight shines profusely on the warm ground below. The Great Silent Voice speaks again, “Make haste, my small children.” The vegetation undergrowth below immediately springs into life. Somehow it knows its hour in the sun will be short.

Nature is consistent, operating a tightly organized process of life. It makes all appointments on time. Hard on the heels of the leaves’ departure, small green hints of life, barely visible to the eye, begin incipient life. Almost overnight the oaks emerge fully clothed, bathed in a verdant wardrobe.

In a short time, the fallen leaf carpet becomes compost. The Voice speaks softly to these fallen workers, “Sleep on, you have served well. It’s time for another to bear the burden. For you to cling beyond your appointed time would render you a dull, lusterless relic of the past, an antique of a bygone season.”

Leaves listen, never argue. They instinctively know that new life requires them to move on. They’re innately schooled in photosynthesis, knowing that when their green morphs to brown, their ability to synthesize food is terminally impaired. They’ve become useless. Unlike some politicians, they know when to say, “Enough.”

Oak leaves don’t think. But if they could, would they have a self-esteem problem? Would they look around and see billions of other leaves and say, “O, of what value am I, just one among so many, and a little one at that?”

And if the Mother Tree could answer, it might say, “If not for each of you, I could not exist.” Is this answer sufficient to solve low self-esteem? One wonders. After all, there is a time and a season for everything.

Perhaps to assuage the hearts of the fallen leaves, the Titan might say, “Consider the acorns, my children. They also have to let go, to drop, to die. Somehow they’re programmed to know that there’s a squirrel waiting to bury them so they can again take root downward and bear fruit upward. Trust me, My ways are perfect.”

The March breezes carry the whisper of the Great Silent Voice as it speaks tender assurances to the leaves. “As you were not anxious in the day of your birth, be not anxious in the day of your demise. Well done, good and faithful leaves.”

**********

Mystics might find a metaphor, maybe even a simile, in contemplation of a leaf’s final ‘let go.’ After all, it’s a one and done, its first and its last.

If metaphors could be extrapolated, they might lead us to the conclusion that our very own final drop could be an exhilarating and incredible journey home. Personally, I look forward to my very own noble experience of letting go.


Bud Hearn
April 7, 2017