The Secret Anniversary Scroll - Book of Walter

Historians have uncovered an inspiring manuscript that has been dubbed the Secret Anniversary Scroll. It apparently is a historical account of Walter, an unknown traveller who is blessed by God. Many historians consider the writing to be autobiographical.

This is an excerpt from the Book of Walter - Chapter 25. It appears to be in honor of his 25th wedding anniversary, which just so happens to fall on this date - October 1st.

-->

And it was, during the reign of Bushes, when George Herbert Walker sat upon the throne, the Lord looked down upon the arid land of his people. Yay, though it were no land flowing with milk and honey, the land did flow with crude oil and steak.

Indeed, the Almighty had blessed the land with longhorns, mesquite trees, pump jacks and prickly pears, brisket and beans. He looked down upon his creation and said, “It is good…especially the brisket.”

Then he looked upon Walt, a visitor to the land, and said, “It is not good. For it is my desire for Walt to have a companion. Plus, he needs somebody to keep him straight, the big dummy.”

And it was, in the darkest hour of the night, God sent down an angel to his young and fair servant Emily, descendant of a line of successful jock strap salesmen, with beauty like the bluebells that bloomed along the hill country. The angel blinded Emily and temporarily removed her sense of good judgement.

And it was, in that same evening, God spoke to Walt saying, “Verily I say unto thee, go and make Emily your wife. She shall neither see nor think straight for 40 days and 40 more plus 40. And throw the number 7 in there for good measure.”

Suddenly, the heavens opened, and parrots and coconuts reined down upon the land surrounding Walt and with a thunderous voice, God said, “Now is your chance. Don’t blow it, idiot!”

Walt did as commanded by the Lord, for occasionally he chose well.

Walt and Emily were married in God’s sight and much merriment occurred, for many across the land considered it a miracle that Walt would have a wife, much less one so lovely and wise as Emily. Those gathered at the wedding exclaimed, “This is a sign! God is with us! We shall no longer feel hopeless! For if Walt can marry, anyone can do thus.”

Others brought forth an argument claiming, “It is not so. Emily must have been blinded and out of her mind.”

To which the larger throng of people, who were still making merry, replied, “Oh shut up!”

And from that day forward, Emily and Walt were married.

Soon thereafter, Walt took his wife Emily, and travelled back to his homeland of palmetto trees and food from the sea, much to the dismay of Emily’s mother, whom Emily loved very much. Yet a covenant was made that whenever Emily desired to return to visit the Land of Brisket, she shall be given passage…unless basketball practice interfered with the dates.

Walt praised God for blessing him with in-laws who were absolutely awesome as well as a family who welcomed home their prodigal son (although they were actually more excited to bear witness to Emily, who was laden with child).

Emily bore a son and daughter to Walt. As the years passed, both children grew in favor with the Lord, spreading joy wherever they went through art and drumming, loving others and serving well. Many with whom they came in contact exclaimed in disbelief, “These are the offspring of Walt?”

To which came the reply from those who were wise, “Yay, do not forget that these are also offspring of Emily.”

And those who questioned were satisfied and said, “Oh yeah – you right.”

Walt was grateful to God for blessing him with his family, especially Emily, and after 25 years together, he sat down and scribed this account upon his MacBook Air for all to read and enjoy in the wonderment and incredulity of his blessings. Amen.

MMTT4S - Field Study of the Pelican, Seagull, and Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer

Captain's Log: The end is near; Surfside Beach, SC

The on-site lab - tough digs

Field notes taken from observations in my on-site laboratory (a beach chair sitting in the sand a few steps from the Atlantic Ocean): 

Subject: Pelican
Observation: Amazing glider; Great taste in food - sushi; Enjoys company of other pelicans at times; Uncanny ability to ignore other birds, humans; although water landing is incredibly awkward, it works; habitat - floating on the ocean, gliding over the water and beach, perching on pier and dock pilings, pretty much anywhere there's fish.
Conclusion: If reincarnation turns out to be a thing and I can't come back as Will Smith, I'll take "pelican" please.



Subject: Seagull
Observation: Plentiful; seem to always be hungry; adept at snatching minnows, tiny crustaceans, Cheetos, and spent bottle rockets from both sand and waves; often disrespected by little girls running after them and bratty tween boys trying to tag them with sidearm shell slings; as a result, they must always be on their toes...er, webbed feet...and have the maneuverability in the air of Top Gun fighter pilots; habitat - wherever there is a body of water or Walmart parking lot.
Conclusion: the pigeon of the beach, which makes it better than a pigeon, but that doesn't say much. Still, spotting a seagull or hearing its cry takes you to a happy place. If you like the coast, that is.

Subject: Human beach goer (scientifically labeled as "Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer")
Observation: Obese. Yet, somehow, that doesn't stop them from wearing skimpy swimsuits. They love body graffiti, especially the young adult females. They seem to have experienced numerous permanent reminders of temporary feelings. Young adult males seem to have lost all body hair that would, otherwise, naturally adorn chests, legs, arms. Except for those of the species that have an extreme amount of back hair. In those cases, no hair has been removed from any visible location on the subject. These may actually be coastal bears and not humans. The sun prompts various reactions in the subjects. Some of these are widespread. For instance, the vast majority seem to engage in a sort of sun-worshipping activity of prostrating themselves on large towels or seated in short chairs exposing themselves to the sun for hours. Curiously, many of these subjects retreat beneath colorful umbrellas for periods of time, as though the sun is displeased with them and has banished them from its sight. This ritual is repeated daily causing a change in subjects' skin tone from pasty white to fire engine red. This is one way to distinguish the FTPPC Vacationer from the indigenous Perma-tan Burrowing Local. The Local has a discerning dark tan hue that permeates all dermal layers due to a lifetime usage of SPF4 or below. Plus, the Local usually doesn't appear during the summer months except at just before dusk, for a few minutes at sunrise, and on Saturday mornings during the great Vacationer migratory shift. During the summer months, Locals hunker down in their domiciles, only venturing out when necessary, blending in with the Vacationers as inconspicuously as possible. Vacationers also participate in numerous activities when not reclining motionless. Certain subjects, typically the younger and older of the group, are obviously fascinated with seashells and cannot seem to collect enough of them. Some subjects are more competitive and participate in various types of games. The more creative types mold sculptures from the sand. The younger of these subjects have an affinity for medieval architecture. For some strange reason, a few subjects allow themselves to be buried up to their necks in the sand. They even find this enjoyable. On rare occasions, an elderly male treasure hunter will emerge wearing a headset and holding a contraption that he'll wave back and forth across the sand while walking down the beach. When the apparatus indicates an object has been located, the treasure seeker will dig down and will victoriously unearth rusty Corona bottle caps, lensless sunglass frames, roofing nails, Chuck E. Cheese arcade coins, and fake Rolex watch bands. The subjects take to the water as well. Many seem completely out of place and find their footing to be uneasy at best. From time to time, sun-worshipers wade thigh deep or kneel down in shallower water and unsuccessfully attempt to camouflage the fact that they are relieving themselves in public. The children spend more time in the water than their adult counterparts. Often, they will take along various flotation devices called rafts, boogie boards, inner tubes, and other inflatables and will ride the waves, or completely wipe out, tumbling over and over as though caught in the spin cycle of a gigantic salt water washing machine while their board rockets skyward in the opposite direction. In addition, while engaging in the sunning ritual previously mentioned, a large majority of Vacationers drink copious amounts of alcohol, which leads to entertaining versions of activities like football toss, which ends with one participant running at break-neck speed towards the oncoming waves with the intent of making a glorious diving catch. It's called break-neck speed for a reason, by the way. I think the ocean enjoys playing the role of defensive back at times like these, because it is very good at it. The result usually involves the intended receiver being knocked head over heels by a breaking wave as the ball splashes a few feet beyond. Occasionally, the receiver gets taken out by a squad of boogie boarding 9-year olds, a preschooler refilling her sand bucket, and a grandmother who never saw the inebriated sprinter because she had suddenly bent over to pick up yet another scallop shell, causing a massive pileup, lots of tears, a lost shell, a broken boogie board, and an incomplete pass. Interestingly, the vast majority of Vacationers have some instinctual alarm that alerts them when it's time to evacuate the beach front and temporarily head indoors. Usually somewhere between 4 and 5 PM. It's like some seaside shift bell rings in some strange frequency only audible to their kind. In largely unsuccessful efforts to wash away a day of sun, sand, and suds, many Vacationers change outfits and flood local seafood mega buffets where they engage in crab leg pile-building, more alcohol consuming, and crying (at least the worn-out kids and granddads picking up the checks). Vacationers travel by foot (clad in either high top untied basketball shoes or slide sandals - both paired with black socks), rental one-speed bicycle, slow golf cart on major roads, Harley Davidson, parasail, and towable banana boat. The ritual repeats every day for a week, and then the flock returns home. After a brief period of sanity, a new flock replaces the old and participates in the same weekly activities.
Habitat: On the beach between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM, seafood restaurants and bars afterwards; strangely, some Vacationers, who have traveled to the coast mind you, spend hours in and around swimming pools.
Conclusion: An invasive species that provides the local economy with an existence-enabling injection of money and the local populace with hours of unintended entertainment. Much like having a colonoscopy, eating a veggie burger, and paying full price to see a movie based on a DC Comics character - is it worth it? Well, maybe.

Saturday morning clearing

...in both directions!

Personal notes: While conducting my study, I found my favorite time in the lab was when I had few to no subjects to study - sunrise, twilight, and Saturday morning. Our Buffett song that corresponds to my published findings is titled "When the Coast is Clear" - definitely the refrain of an indigenous Local! It can be found on the Floridays album, one of my favorites.



Aloha, amigos!

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

MMTT4S - Scorching Sand, Drip Castles, UV Rays, and Inflatable Canvas Bronc Busting

Captain's Log: Started 23 July 2019, ended 6 August 2019; Beachside

Surfside Beach is just north of Garden City and just south of Myrtle Beach and east of land and west of the sea. It sits in the middle of South Carolina's Grand Strand. And it is grand indeed. This is a home for me. Spending my summers here at my grandparent's ocean front house, named Surf Pearl, etched salt air on my skin and injected salt water in my veins. I became a beach bum as soon as I could walk. In fact, Granny held my hand as I chased the waves back and forth, squealing with a mix of delight and trepidation as the foamy water rushed to grab my toes. As I grew, the beach became the ultimate summer experience. My siblings and I perfected beach playtime, the result of lots of practice spanning weeks at a time. 

Have you ever built a drip castle? We built lots of 'em. It's like a sand castle, but doesn't require tools - a sort-of poor kid's castle. You use wet sand and you let it drip from your fingers as you shape lumpy spires and walls. I think the movie set of Mordor in Lord of the Rings was modeled after one of my drip castles. Buckets and shovels are for the less adept.

My brothers and I would mount our trusty, albeit skin-eating, canvas rafts as we bested the ocean wave rodeo. These rafts were made of some space age denim that would repel salt water, shells, and shark attacks. No cheap plastic rafts for us. No sir. Dad was only buying rafts once every ten years and these were the puppies to make that span. Every night, our legs were chafed and nipples worn completely off. That, combined with the sunburn that tends to accompany the combo of 8 hours of sun exposure and no sunscreen, made showers straight up torture. The nightly ritual of painful washing was followed by the Solarcaine lineup, when Mom would douse our glowing red shoulders, tummies, and feet with that inexplicable spray that burned, cooled, and rubberized within about 5 seconds. The window unit in our bedroom was a welcome relief when we went to bed. By the time we awoke, though, we were buried under our covers as the room was an igloo. Had a timelapse camera been installed in the upper corner of our room, it would have revealed the bizarre migration of the Red-backed Whipper Snapper - going from completely on top of the sheets and blankets in only a pair of pajama shorts to total burial beneath all nearby coverings, including clothes, towels, pillows, curtains, and anything else within reach. We'd have burrowed down into the mattress had we been able. Oddly enough, the layer of ice that tried to encapsulate our bodies would immediately melt from the heat radiating from our sunburns. Amazing how nature works, huh?

We logged hundreds of miles walking to, and out onto, the Surfside pier. This occurred at least twice daily. After all, you could only bronco bust waves for so long and drip castle building was quite taxing on our creativity. I'll never forget walking across those old beams and their wet wooden smell. The surface temperature on that pier was a couple of degrees from being too hot for bare feet. That meant that bare feet were fine in our minds. Always on the lookout for discarded fish hooks and casting pier anglers, we'd go from rail to rail to watch the crusty old salts try to land a keeper. I remember how peaceful it was when we reached the end of the pier. The roar of the waves was a distant hum. No squeals, yells, and the general murmur of a crowd could be heard out there. The occasional lap of a wave against a piling or the call from a seagull were the only sounds to accompany the views of darker waters and endless vistas that stretched for 180 degrees. I often long to be there in that unique tranquility. Our trek to the end of the pier and back always increased in speed, though, as the heat on our feet finally started to register in our brains. I guess salt water veins may numb the body's nerves.

Speaking of heat - the scorching bright white sand that led up to the pier always presented a problem. Akin to the "the floor is hot lava" game, the white sand predicament was a challenge that could not be overcome, and it was real. Eventually, we'd just decide to make a run for it, usually after soaking our feet at the water's edge. I think the presoak kept a layer or two of skin on our feet. Otherwise, we'd have been walking on bones by the time we reached the pier - quite possibly our knee bones. This sand was a few degrees from becoming glass and is the hottest known naturally occurring substance known to man. Hotter than lava. Hotter than fish grease. Hotter than black vinyl car seats in August, but just barely. By about the third day, the bottom of our feet would peel. Off. In small wisps of skin chips. I guess our feet were prepping for the next day's battle, like sending in wave after wave of battalions, hoping at some point the war would end and peace would once again reign in Soleland. Our skin reproductive capabilities were truly tested during the summer.

Somehow, overnight our burns would become bronze glows, the soles of our feet would rejuvenate, our chaffed groins would heal, and our nipples would regrow - just in time to recreate the whole debilitating process the very next day. A pattern that repeated incessantly throughout the summer.

It's what we did as kids. And it was glorious.

I'll take it over video games and cell phones any day.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Since you've accompanied me on this long ride on memory wave, I'll reward you with a Buffett tune. "Floridays" is the title track from Jimmy's 1986 album and it reflects a desire to get away to the coast and, possibly, the good ol' days - before life's responsibilities produced the hectic busy-ness that it seems to do for most of us. Once again, the escapist's pursuit. While Buffett has done quite well preaching "the gospel from the coast," those "blue skies and ultraviolet rays" of his Floridays have enticed me my entire life, way before I'd ever heard of Jimmy Buffett. Even though he mentions Florida and a spot "on the corner of 'Walk' and 'Don't Walk' somewhere on US1," these Floridays really apply to any days on the coast. So, today's tropical tune offers a version of the heartfelt refrain that glides through my mind when I long for the beach, often the beach of my youth.

Aloha, amigos!

MMTT4S - I've Seen More Than I Can Recall

Captain’s Log: Summertime; As Willie says, “On the road, again.”

Aloha, amigos!

Miss me?

That’s what I thought. Of course you did. You see, in my Walter Mitty-esque brain, thousands of you have been wondering where my irregularly scheduled blog has been lately. Many of you are worried that I may have taken ill or gotten eaten by a shark. Some of you are panicked at the thought of carrying on much longer without my words of wisdom. A few of you are walking around in an audio-less stupor, not knowing what Jimmy Buffett song you should listen to.  To the masses of my readers, please accept my humble apology. I’ve been busy.

Having a restful and rejuvenating summer doesn’t register in my mind. When I’m greeted by colleagues with a greeting of, “I hope you’re well-rested and revitalized after the summer break,” I just stare back and try to mouth a reply, but nothing comes out.

I liken my time off to my hall closet – I try to cram as much into it as possible.

During the summer, I keep my “need to’s” to a minimum, completely ignore my “should’s,” and focus on my “want to’s” while carefully considering my “able to’s.”

That means I engage my gypsy soul by hitting the road.

Surfside Beach

DCI in Atlanta

Upon our recent return from Texas, I’ve been to Surfside Beach with my wife, son, and parents for a getaway; to Atlanta with my wife and son to see an amazing display of talent at the Drum Corps International Southeastern Regional Championships; to Wrightsville Beach with my wife to spend some time on the beach and water there with some dear friends; to Atlanta (again) with my fam to catch a Braves game and visit the College Football Hall of Fame; and back to Surfside tonight with my family to close out the summer (shhhh – don’t remind me). Those are my “want to’s” that have been influenced by my “able to’s.” In between, I’ve visited Bat Cave and Lake Murray to clean houses. Those are my “need to’s,” which help provide my “able to’s.”

Wrightsville Beach

Go Bravos!

In any case, I’ve been on the move and I love it. I’m not a homebody, that’s for sure. While I don’t return rested and relaxed, I do experience a change in attitude – no daily grind, no same ol’ scenery, no chores that I’ve put off for far too long. Life is just better out and about.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Today’s tropical tune is “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes” – a Jimmy Buffett classic. It’s one of those non-negotiables at his concerts – songs that must be played to prevent a Parrot Head riot. It was originally released in 1977on his fantastic album by the same title. The song sticks to Buffett’s autobiographical formula that has worked well for him for years. The same formula that has created the Buffett persona that has driven the whole Margaritaville mystique and escapist empire. Although my own latitudes unfortunately haven’t varied much this summer (thanks to my “able to’s”) my summer location has been on a constant shift. This continual state of being on the go gets only a few moments of reprieve and reflection. And that’s fine with me. Like the song says, “…yesterday’s over my shoulder. So, I can’t look back for too long. There’s just too much to see waiting in front of me, and I know that I can’t go wrong.” Well, I can certainly go wrong, and often do, but that doesn’t stop me. Like, Buffett, who has been a worldwide troubadour since day one of his career, the relentless journeys satisfy some innate traveling jones of mine, produce more smiles and laughter, and, yet, seem a bit senseless to some. But, as Jimmy sings, “If we weren’t all crazy, we would go insane.”

Truth.

Aloha, amigos!

Corso's replacements

MMTT4S - Bothersome Questions

-->

Captain’s Log: 22 July 2019; Back in Carolina, on the way to the coast

She went to Paris…

…and Normandy and Oxford and London.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Today’s tropical tune from Jimmy Buffett is a classic – “He Went To Paris.” It was first released on his 1973 album A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. What a great song! The protagonist in the tune – the proverbial “he” – takes off for Paris searching for “answers to questions that bothered him so.” Sort of a self-discovery getaway. As the song progresses, those questions get pushed aside and even forgotten as life takes its course. He falls in love with the Paris lifestyle, which “put his ambitions at bay.” About five years later, he goes to England as a pianist and starts a family. Twenty years pass as the “quiet and clean country living” there seems to suit him well. Then war comes and robs him of his wife and son, and leaves him “with only one eye.” It is then that our subject remembers the questions that drove him to Paris to begin with. Again, he is prompted to leave in search of his answers. So, he drops everything and lives out the remainder of his days as simply as possible down in the islands. As the song concludes, our wanderer admits that amidst the good and bad, he’s lived a good life.

We never know for sure what his nagging questions were or if they remained forever unanswered. It seems, though, that maybe the answers weren’t that important, and instead, the questions themselves launched him on a life’s journey, “some of it magic, some of it tragic,” that, in hindsight, proved worthy of living.

Aren’t our lives just that? An endless quest for discovery? 

I always chuckle inside when I hear someone say they are going off in search of him/herself. Dude, you’re not going to find you. At least not all of you. What would happen if you were to find yourself anyway? I think there would be an incredibly brief moment of joy followed immediately by disappointment that the whole expedition is over. Inevitably, that age-old question that seems to stump all who encounter it (at least for a while) rears its troublesome head. “What now?”

If you stop there, life is over. Done. Kaput. Seems a little worse than tragic. If you decide to journey on, you’ll need to find yourself all over again. We change a little with each new experience. The more we are exposed to, the more we are engaged in, the more we grow and change. With that first step, the “you” you just discovered might be a little different than the “you” you’ve just become. After a few more steps, “you” have certainly changed. Pretty soon this would become an endless cycle of lost and found.

Come to think of it, maybe this is what we do, whether we claim we have gone in search of ourselves or not. Maybe this is our life’s unending mission.

One truth from all of this postulating on the meaning of life is this: If you think you are in control, you are sadly mistaken.

This sentiment is addressed early on in Buffett’s song when the young man in search of answers takes off to find them in Paris, only to get swept up in the “French wines and cheeses.” The intent of his pursuit gets waylaid by life and remains thus for the vast majority of his time on Earth.

Ring a bell?

Have you ever thought you had it all figured out, only to quickly learn that you didn’t? I sure have. Usually for me, not only did I not quite have it figured out, I wasn’t even close. Clueless. The Big Guy Upstairs has a way of reminding me who is in control. I’m sure He gets a mighty laugh from watching my ego grow, all the while shaking His head and saying, “Will you never learn?”

Hindsight reveals an amazing song line for me, despite my best efforts to derail myself. It is often in those moments of self-reflection, if we are lucky enough to get an opportunity for such, that life’s truths are exposed. It is then that I become more amazed than ever. And grateful.

I put my daughter on a church shuttle bus in Columbia, SC that was destined for Charlotte. From there she was hopping aboard a plane and flying to NYC and then on to London. She is on the third level of the Student Leadership University experience, aka SLU301. This program is amazing. Students come back from each trip changed for the better. The 301 trip consists of visits to Normandy, Paris, London, and Oxford. Check out their program here.

I’m jealous.

My son has completed all four trips and I can see the impact his experiences have had on him, which is, in turn, impacting those in which he comes into contact. In a very positive way. 

Impressive.

So, my daughter went to Paris. I’m sure she has questions that bother her so. Maybe she’ll find answers to some of them while there. Maybe not. I have a feeling that her experiences will be a little different than what she had in mind prior to the trip, that she’ll be reminded that she’s not steering the boat, and that with each question answered there are at least ten more that develop. It will be a moving, life-changing, exhausting whirlwind of a trip for sure and I’m so glad she is there. 

And I can't wait for her to return home. 

Maybe one day I’ll go to Paris in pursuit of some answers for questions that bother me so. Maybe not. I just hope as I near my life’s final moments, maybe while fishing the pilings down in the islands – that would be a nice way to wrap it all up, I can too say, “Some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic, but I’ve had a good life all the way.”

Aloha, amigos!