A Brief Journey of Legendary Proportions

Friday, January 30, 2015 was a day made for legends.

On Christmas morning, a little over a month ago, I was surprised with a gift from my wife. We had agreed not to exchange gifts due to our budgetary bind, but she said she just couldn’t resist. Furthermore, she mentioned my two brothers were getting the same present. Baffled but excited I opened the envelope she had handed me and unfolded a printout of a ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Vince Gill in North Charleston on January 30.

Instant entry into the “Best Christmas Gifts Ever” file.

My brothers also made a deposit into their files that morning.

As the weeks pass, we make the necessary arrangements to free ourselves of our typical Friday affairs and decide to meet at the home of my parents, centrally located between our three homes and in close proximity to I-26, the path to follow from West Columbia to our destination in North Charleston.

Eventually, that highly-anticipated morning comes and, after dropping the kids off at their respective schools, I arrive at our meeting point to discover that my brothers would be delayed in their arrival by an hour or so. So my father and I slip out for some breakfast at his favorite Waffle House a couple of miles down the road.

As I peer through the steam swirling up from the cream-thickened coffee in his pudgy porcelain mug, I look at my father’s aging face and listen to his reflections on friends, family, life and it occurs to me that this is one of those moments to cherish. Some stories I’ve heard before, assuring their places in family lore. Others are new to me, and I can tell that Pop enjoys telling them, imparting the wisdom only a dad can impart. While he proudly divulges information about new acquaintances, many of the characters are the same – his coffee drinking buddies from Zesto’s restaurant, some old clients from his insurance days, distant relatives, the motley crew of friends he had growing up in the coal-mining little town of Richlands, Virginia, and, of course, the immediate family – all enjoying legendary status in our tight circle.

I develop an overwhelming sense that this rare breakfast date with Pop may well be the beginning of an entire day of memorable moments, brimming with legendary tales of our lives and the lives of our heroes.

My sense would prove true.

Soon, my brothers and I set out on our two-hour trek to Charleston and all it has to offer three 40-something brothers desperate for some bonding time together and a brief respite from familial and career responsibilities. Our evolving itinerary includes a good movie, good food, good beer, and a good show. All of the particulars are hammered out along the way, plugged in at appropriate intervals amidst the ongoing conversations on subjects brothers discuss – some words of anticipation of the future near and distant, but mostly reflections on life and the legends created along the way.

After a satisfying lunch that included a delicious jaunt into dishes previously untried, we traverse the iconic Ravenel Bridge that connects the barrier island of Mount Pleasant to the historical port city of Charleston, and propose a possible bridge run in March. This quickly leads to a discussion on the various successes and failures of our numerous exercise regimens and the sorry side effects of aging. We come to no conclusions as our sights quickly refocus on the next component of our journey – the cinema.

Our timing sets us up perfectly for the next showing of American Sniper. We enter with chatter-filled anticipation and exit two hours and twelve minutes later in silent admiration. Throughout the film, as Chris Kyle’s character must focus on his responsibilities and balance between his oath to his country and his vow to his wife and family, I can’t help but reflect on my own choices in priority.

I think back to the night before, after my daughter’s middle school basketball game, when she was distraught after what she concluded was a poor performance on her part. She turned to me for consolation. I guess I’ve somehow earned that. Her quiet sobs into my sleeve revealed volumes and I was grateful to be there. I’m grateful that she wanted me to feel her feelings, to console her and to help her move forward.

Then, I recall my feelings as I dropped off my son at school just that morning and watched him stroll down the sidewalk, the same sidewalk that he and I typically share every day. On one front, I’m the teacher and he’s the student – we’re both going to our jobs. On the other, he’s my son and I’m his dad – together we’re taking on new experiences and growing intellectually, emotionally, together and apart. I feel anxious but hopeful, lonely but proud, and inadequate but blessed when I watch him head into the fray without me. I wonder if I’ve prepared him for his lone journeys. I wonder if he’ll cherish breakfasts with me one day.

I wonder if I’m holding up my end of the vow to my family. Am I living up to my responsibility as a father and husband?

While watching Bradley Cooper convincingly play his role in the movie, I find myself wanting to be a part of something grand, meaningful, noble. I want to make a difference. I know what I do now seems to fit that mold, but I search for something greater. As we slowly and solemnly file out of the theatre in an awkward but reverent silence, we know we’ve been changed in some way, at least for a while.

Then my brother Lew, sandwiched in age between Keith, the youngest, and me, the eldest, abruptly shatters the thick somber atmosphere with, “Well, that was pleasant.”

Chuckles ensue and we hit the play button on our briefly paused day-long banter. The medley flows somehow seamlessly from favorite movies to favorite restaurants to honey-do lists to college days to politics to sports to sleep walking and eventually to a discussion on our next stop, a brief layover en route to our ultimate destination that night.

We choose a happy hour spot, where we learn about the Italian digestivo Fernet-Branca and sample its effectiveness – not caring if it’s actual or contrived. More importantly, our reflections and observations pour smoothly from car to street to tavern. Placing an order is not an interruption, but rather an opportunity to interlace yet another perspective on yet another subject. We reflect on the film, asking the rhetorical questions and speculating on the answers, comparing the cinematic offering to the written account. We contemplate the legends of the world and marvel at the legends in our lives. Then, we move on.

We eventually make our way to the last stopover near the end of the line, where we sample tacos and savor our fellowship, knowing it is drawing to a close. Our hope for a brighter future intensifies as we share dreams and make dreamers’ plans. Our humor switches in style like vehicles at a busy intersection – sophomoric pulls out first, then British takes its turn, followed by an anecdote, which suddenly yields to juvenile. The reactions are hearty and unceasing. We celebrate our camaraderie, but, eventually, our anticipation of the upcoming concert takes control as show time approaches.

After a quick perusal of snippets of our favorite Lovett and Gill tunes, we vacate the minivan and file into the North Charleston Performing Arts Center. We quickly realize that we are in the minority age group of attendees, a good 20 years their juniors. Or, maybe that’s our misjudged perspective and we actually fit into this category and do not realize it. Still, we feel younger, more hip, more in-tune to what “good music” really is. As amateur guitarists (and I take lots of liberties with that description) and expert musicologists (in our own minds), we are there for more than a couple of hit songs. We want to bask in the glow of expert musicianship, marvel at the masterful mix of melody and legendary storytelling, and be inspired by the sheer coolness of the event.

We are not disappointed.

In fact, the show is better than we had imagined…and we had imagined, as we often do, the extraordinary.

As the lights come up, highlighting a small area center stage, we see two chairs, a couple of guitar stands, two microphones, and…that’s all. Lyle Lovett and Vince Gill unassumingly stroll out to an anticipatory and appreciative applause and take their respective seats. I soon realize that this will be the show. No bands, no set up and tear down, no breaks…and no chance of disappointment. The legendary performers take turns sharing songs and swapping stories. We laugh at the tales of dysfunctional families, noting the similarities to our own, chuckle at the accounts of mishaps and poor decisions, wonder at the reflections of the many collaborations with those of otherworldly talent, smile at the revelations of earnest feelings, and truly enjoy the glimpses into the lives and minds of these two gentlemen. A moment of note occurs when Lovett makes a connection to our soldiers and I find an easy connection to Chris Kyle’s story from earlier in the day as the audience responds with a thunderous applause. The two singer-songwriters are long-time amazing performers, but they convince us through their modest natures that they are not performing at all. Rather, they have allowed us a peek into the back room of an old filling station where two guys, each with his guitar and a cold beer, share pieces of their lives through anecdotes and lyrics, laughing and affirming that they are doing what God had placed them on this planet to do. Life is indeed good at this moment.

Sadly, the experience all-too-quickly comes to an end. I want to run on stage and grab Lyle and shake his hand and give Vince a big brotherly hug, and let them know that what they just did was truly wonderful, that I want to go along with them, wherever they are going, and keep the experience alive forever. Theirs is such a different life, it seems. I want to be a part of it for a longer stretch than two and a half hours. But, alas, common sense qualms this fantasy that security would have prevented anyway. So, I file out with the old greys, wondering if they have a decent appreciation of what was just given to them. I know my brothers feel as I do and their immediate comments confirm it.

Once again, our commentary ensues - a reflection of the day, filled with awe, praise, laughter, and gratitude - and continues until we finally depart from one another, going our own separate ways.

I realize that while my initial deduction that the lives of the two superstar musicians and the military hero are different from my own may indeed be true, we still all share the commonalities of our own existences. We reflect on our own legends and situations and they may only differ in names and locales. The underlying feelings and the resulting lessons aren’t all that diverse. That allows me to be able to connect to Chris Kyle, Lyle Lovett, and Vince Gill, as well as my brothers and dad. And on a legendary day, where I watched a legendary story and witnessed legendary performers, I discover that the legends we experience and the legends that we create help make life enjoyable and meaningful and livable.

I have a feeling that my wife knew that her Christmas present to me was more than just a ticket to a show. A legendary gift of a legendary journey from a legendary love.

A Humble Hero Remembered

I don’t have lots of real heroes. I respect plenty of people I know and know of. But, when it comes to an overwhelming desire to thoroughly emulate a person’s actions and philosophies that I consider to be truly great, the sentiment is felt for but a handful of people.

I have differing degrees of fanaticism for plenty of celebrities – from being a die-hard Parrothead devotee of Jimmy Buffett to faithfully following PGA pro Bob Estes on Twitter; from striving for the on-stage excellence of Tom Hanks to jogging to the clever sounds of Will Smith. Politically, I lean to the teachings of Ronald Reagan and the ideas of Glenn Beck. Historical figures like Patrick Henry and Davy Crockett helped shape my perspectives. There are astronauts, athletes, entrepreneurs, giants of industry and servants of our nation that I consider more than praiseworthy. Compiling a list of those of whom I am a fan would take more time than I have and would inevitably be incomplete.

My heroes, though, are few. When I think of those who have had a profound positive influence on who I am, only a few names come to mind. I will quite possibly save those names for other posts, except one.

Dean Smith.

This hero of mine died Saturday night in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, leaving a remarkable legacy both on and off the basketball court. And while you can find a plethora of kind words and heart-felt reflections about Coach Smith from those who were much closer to the man than I, you are invited to take a moment to see the impact this coaching legend had on my life – a life he never really touched directly.

I have always avidly loved the game of basketball. As a child I could be found most any afternoon banking a blue rubber ball off of a plywood backboard into a net-less hoop. I would play for hours every day no matter the weather or time. As I grew older my love for the game only deepened. I spent summer afternoons running pick-up games inside the YMCA while most of my buds were out in the pool. On high school Friday nights, my friends and I would badger the coach to open the gym, eschewing date nights for hoops nights, much to the chagrin of the females in our class. This love escorted me through college where I transitioned from player to student-assistant coach. On many a night, I’d turn to a lone goal in the arena for a personal escape from the rigors of college. I had the privilege of coaching my son and daughter in youth leagues for eight years, the joys of watching them grow and develop a love of the game and all it has to offer far outweighing the many successes we had. I can’t imagine my life without basketball and look forward to my next chance to hit the court, no matter the capacity.

I developed a love for the University of North Carolina Tarheels soon after I discovered basketball and have been a fan ever since. I remember wearing my drawstring on the outside of my shorts – Dudley Bradley style, learning Sam Perkins’ signature baby hook, admiring the work ethic of Eric Montross, and, of course, trying every gliding move of His Airness, himself, Michael Jordan. Early on, I noticed how every player would acknowledge his teammate for a good pass, how each player coming into the game handed off his towel to the player he was replacing, getting information from that player on who to guard, how the team always huddled at the foul line before a free throw. They passed the ball well, shot the ball well, and played tenacious defense, which led to many transition points. Although there always seemed to be stars and superstars on the team, no one took the credit or coveted the spotlight. As a matter of fact, the players seemed to always point to their teammates, and especially Coach Smith, when giving credit for their success. It didn’t take long for me to figure out through all the years of watching the ‘Heels play ball, through their many ups and very few downs, there was always one constant, one common thread – Coach Smith.

Coach Smith was a creative innovator and organizer. He was a father figure for his players and created a family-like environment at his program. He established a simple way to approach basketball and life – the Carolina Way. This method is founded in unselfishness, hard work, and intelligence. The team concept drove his program. No one was bigger than the team and the team always came before the player. There was a joke circulating years ago after Michael Jordan had reached superstardom in the NBA that the only man to hold Jordan under 20 points a game was Dean Smith. Coach Smith placed immeasurable value on effort, stressing that effort was one of the aspects of basketball every player could control. That was not an area in which he was willing to lose. Practice was his classroom and he may have had no equal in effectively teaching fundamentals. Coach Smith knew that practice was where games were won and lost. Constant execution of those fundamentals would usually determine success and would allow his teams to perform better than any I can remember in late-game or time-constrained situations. Coach Smith could orchestrate almost miraculous outcomes on the court, which would not have been possible without his approach to practice.

He didn’t tear down players and build them back as he wanted. Instead, Coach Smith would focus on a player’s strengths, honing those skills he already displayed and using them to benefit the team. Then, he would encourage the player to improve in those areas in which he was weaker in an attempt to create a better total player. But more importantly, Smith also helped create better human beings.

Amazingly, Dean Smith carried his philosophy from the court into his players’ lives and, as a result, into the lives of people worldwide. His message of loyalty and selflessness perfectly accompanied his values on decency and humility when he taught about human relationships.  He was not afraid to take a stand for the causes in which he believed, but he respected the rights of those who opposed his views. I didn’t agree with all of Coach Smith’s liberal beliefs, but I always admired his willingness to humbly defend his viewpoints. I also appreciated his acceptance of those who saw things differently.

Throughout the years, as I studied coaching and coaches, Dean Smith’s philosophies began having a profound influence on me. I started employing his values into my coaching, teaching, and life in general. As his career was winding down, my appreciation and respect continued to grow. I still, today, refer often to Coach Smith’s teachings, although I’ve internalized much of what I’ve found to be applicable in my life.

Dean Smith’s legacy spans globally and pours out from the basketball court into most facets of life. The lessons he taught make me want utilize my gifts to the best of my abilities in the situations I’ve been given and to be a better person. If that is not heroic, I don’t know what is.

Thanks, Coach.

Beck Enlightens Again With "Dreamers and Deceivers"

Riding on the heels of the bestselling Miracles and Massacres, Glenn Beck’s Dreamers and Deceivers had big historical shoes to fill to live up to its predecessor. In the former, Beck, already proven as a number one author in the fiction, nonfiction, children’s, and self-help categories, takes up a subject near and dear to his heart – history. Unlike many authors of historical works, who simply replay facts and dates in a dry, straightforward manner, in Miracles and Massacres, Beck applies a mesmerizing knack for storytelling to bring little-known events to life. Each fascinating account occupies its own chapter, making for a page-turner that reads like a favorite novel or short story. In addition to his absorbing style, Beck enlightens readers with enthralling and moving content. Critics seeking political bias from the pen of the nationally syndicated radio host are hard-pressed to produce anything but some liberties taken with scenes and conversations added to enhance the storytelling aspect of the historical accounts. All in all, Miracles and Massacres is a brilliant piece of storytelling that both delights and informs.

from: barnesandnoble.com

Understandably, a second venture into our rarely realized history brings with it some skepticism. How could Beck not only find moments that hold a candle to those he revealed in Miracles and Massacres, but also craft them into the enchanting stories to the same degree of success? Indeed, skimming the chapter titles in Dreamers and Deceivers suggests a slight letdown after enjoying the first book in the series. It takes few pages, however, to realize Beck successfully duplicates the stories and the storytelling that placed Miracles and Massacres not only on the national bestseller’s list but also among the most significant history books today.

In Dreamers and Deceivers, Beck focuses on the people, both well known and obscure, who played considerable roles in molding our nation. Not since Paul Harvey’s “rest-of-the-story” accounts has someone delivered rare artifacts from our history in beguiling narrative format. Beck reveals fascinating truths about the likes of Walt Disney, Woodrow Wilson, and Desi Arnaz, and exposes true-life tales of inspired heroism and intricate deception. As in Miracles and Massacres, the stories that flow from chapter to chapter in Dreamers and Deceivers bring awe, laughter, shock, tears, and amazement. Also like its predecessor, this sequel prompts realizations that may challenge perspectives and promote deeper thought on the issues we face today. If nothing else, readers will be “entertained and enlightened” – like the claims made of Beck’s shows on his radio and TV network, TheBlaze.

from:glennbeck.shop.musicoday.com

While it may not surpass Miracles and Massacres, Dreamers and Deceivers is every bit as fascinating as its precursor and well worth the read. Readers should remove any blinders and forget any stereotypes and dive headfirst into both books for a mesmerizing revelation of truths from our nation’s ultimate story – its own history.

Go here for info on Miracles and Massacres

Go here for info on Dreamers and Deceivers

Fruitcakes Anniversary Spurs West Texas Memories

This weekend, RadioMargaritaville is celebrating the 20th anniversary of the release of Jimmy Buffett's platinum-selling album, Fruitcakes. This album is possibly my favorite of the trop-rock singer-songwriter's collection, which numbers around 50 now. For me, though, I think it's all about the timing.

May, 1994 places me in Abilene, Texas - a snapshot of the West Texas of old. Imagine a barbecue joint, scuffed plank floors, hardwood walls infused with mesquite smoke, a large board up on the wall that displays the menu - from brisket to steaks, which are ordered by thickness, and a long counter directly below, which multitasks as a buffet, check-out station and massive cutting board. Inside are ranchers, bankers, oil people, college kids, golfers, and actual cowboys, discussing the weather, prices, scores, and parties in between savory bites of smoked meat or pinto beans or homemade bread. It was into this world of Stetsons, Justins, longhorns and extended cabs that I brought Jimmy Buffett.

I became a Parrothead during college in the late 80's. But, having grown up in sunny South Carolina and spending my childhood summers at Surfside Beach on the Carolina Coast, I started unconsciously cultivating a coastal gypsy soul at an early age. So, Jimmy's stories of adventure and messages about enjoying life fit perfectly with my blossoming escapist dreamer's mentality. Armed with an arsenal of tunage, parrot-phernalia and ideologies to match, I rolled into Abilene in 1992, reunited with my brothers, who found Buffett with the same ease as I, and set out, peacefully making converts of their friends and my new acquaintances, including this cute co-worker who would become my wife in October of '94. 

Soon, as is customary of the Phlock, we held a party to celebrate life as it is seen through the salt-rimmed sunglasses of Margaritaville. My soon-to-be wife's family had a great remote West Texas spot out in Buffalo Gap, complete with pool, house, scrub brush, and the perfect sunset viewing mesa. We began an annual gathering here, away from the everyday two-step. The event grew exponentially, garnering the status associated with highly anticipated let-your-big-hair-down events.  It was around this time when Fruitcakes was released, providing the perfect accompaniment to the revelries of our ever-growing throng of newly tropicalized Texans. We found our inner fruitcakes as we quietly made noise with Miami cousins and Frenchmen, listening to Uncle John's six-string music on sunny afternoons with visions of lone palms, vampires, and mummies, Apocalypso on the near horizon (confused? see the song list from Fruitcakes). 

Jimmy Buffett had finally arrived in Abilene, Texas. Before, Margaritaville was a vaguely familiar tune, heard on rare occasions on the local country and western stations. Now, it had become a state of mind, an island reachable simply by imagination - not some far off South Pacific paradise that landlocked West Texans vacantly thought of after watching John Wayne in Donovan's Reef. For a few decadent days, boots became bare feet, starched white shirts gave way to leis, but we still wore our cowboy hats, even in the pool (rumors abound that those hats were all that some of us wore). Tiki torches blazed as we danced like natives about the base of a volcano. Pirates and parrots, sailors and surfers all joined this carnival, the likes of which had rarely, if ever, been seen in the heart of West Texas. Fruitcake city. 

The Buffalo Gap parties became too large to somewhat reasonably manage. So, we discontinued the official gatherings, leaving them to the ageless stories of legends. I returned to South Carolina, wife in tow. Some friends remained in Abilene; others scattered to other ports, both near and distant. Families naturally grew. Careers emerged. The movements of life shifted. The property in Buffalo Gap was sold. 

Those of us who can wrangle the cost and scheduling still gather annually in Frisco, Texas for the Jimmy Buffett concert and tailgate extravaganza, where we watch the parade of fruitcakes, indulge in our own brands of craziness (to prevent insanity), and reminisce about those few summers in Buffalo Gap when Jimmy Buffett's Fruitcake album accompanied a realization of the wonderful and wacky ways of life among friends old and new. Our kindred spirits rejuvenate. Our perspectives realign. 

We discovered back in 1994 and continue to discover still today that there was and is, indeed, "...a little bit fruitcake left in every one of us."

Tour shirt from the Fruitcakes tour - Saw the Dallas show

Rants from the Coastal Curmudgeon

The items that hold a higher ranking than “being at the beach” on my list of Things I Enjoy Most are few and, well, generally inappropriate for this blog. Suffice to say, though, that by adding “at the beach” to any of those same items thrusts them upward to a nearly incomprehensible level of enjoyment. It’s a true best-of-both-worlds situation for me. Reminds me of the Jimmy Buffett tune Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. No – more like sitting on a beach with my smart woman in a real short skirt listening to Jimmy Buffett sing the song by the same name. Wait…it’s really more like hanging out with my smart woman in a real short skirt and Jimmy on a South Pacific beach after a surfing session, playing guitars and singing Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. Oh, and Bob Marley is there. You get the picture.

Needless to say, there are very few things I enjoy more than being at the beach. Were it not for many of those who also travel to the beach, it would be Eden for me. For it is they who, on rare occasion, turn me into the Coastal Curmudgeon, the alias I will assume for this post.

Allow me to expound on these folks who, upon my most recent visit to my beloved Carolina coast, gave me pause to consider the interruptions they inflicted on my otherwise idyllic experience.

First, it is not appropriate nor acceptable to wear loosely laced high tops, baggy butt crack-showing, calf-length shorts, a wife-beater tank top undershirt, and a Major League flat-brimmed ball cap - with the brim at 5:00 - on the beach! It looks ridiculous in the mall. On the sand by the surf? Thoroughly idiotic. Try some board shorts. And if you must wear a shirt, you have options. Think loose and cool, or something with SPF protection. Headwear? Certainly. But keep in mind the words of my wise old grandfather-in-law – “I never seen a hat with the brim sewn on the back.” Oh yeah, trade in the heaps of cologne for a liberal application of sunscreen.

Speaking of apparel, let’s turn our attention to the ladies. Now, like most red-blooded males, I’m all for showing some skin. Bikinis are beautiful. If they fit. If you wear a size 18, don’t squish yourself into a 4. The saying, “If you got it – flaunt it” does not apply to fat, beer guts, rolls or hairy underarms. Is that a double standard? Damn skippy. We can’t pull off the magic you gals are able to create every day. There is a line, though. And I’ve seen some not only cross over that line but douse it in ranch dressing and cheese dip, roll all over it, wrap themselves in it,  try it on as a thong, then crush it underfoot, soak it in lighter fluid, set it ablaze, and eventually travel hundreds of miles past it.

I mentioned hairy underarms being taboo for the ladies. But where has the hair gone for the guys? Now this I kinda understand. If your woman likes a bare chest, then striving to please is not necessarily a bad thing. All I gotta say is it seems like there was a step in the evolutionary process that bypassed me in this area. If not, there is a whole lotta shaving going on. I find it laughable, and maybe a little sad, when I watch a dude go by with a silky smooth front torso and the back of a bear. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Looks silly, fellas. An all-or-nothing approach makes more sense. As for me, I’ll leave the waxing for my longboard.

This next complaint applies to the Garden City/Surfside beaches of South Carolina. If you don’t want to walk when you play golf on one of the Grand Strand’s many pristine golf courses, rent a golf cart. If you’d like to go from your rental house 5 blocks off the beach to the pier 4 miles away, take a road-worthy vehicle! Somehow, these 2 towns have seen it feasible to allow golf carts to travel on their busy streets. To make matters worse, those who drive these little misery-making machines refuse to move to the shoulder to allow the 24-vehicle build-up to pass. It’s as though they consider the streets to have been built for them. Bikers and joggers share the road and use common sense (usually), yielding to those machines made for tar and gravel travel. And many go at a higher rate of speed than the displaced duffers’ wagons. Town councils, can we not restrict golf carts to the secondary roads and require them to move over when safe? In the least, be considerate of those of us behind the wheel of a vehicle that can travel beyond 10 miles per hour. Otherwise, save the carts for use when driving a golf ball, like they were intended, not driving the rest of us slam nuts.

My final pet peeve deals with pets. Dogs are not humans. True, I prefer the friendship of a pooch to that of many a person I’ve known. But, if they are not allowed on a section of beach at certain times of the year, don’t take them out there. I can’t tell you how much I just love sifting through broken conchs, olives, and other assorted shells only to come across a pile of dog poop, in pristine condition, nonetheless. A wet nose of an overly friendly canine in my crotch makes maintaining the altitude of a kite somewhat difficult. Oh, and thanks for slobber-soaking that tennis ball my son and I were trying to toss about.

Mean-spirited? Maybe.

Uncompromising? Most likely.

Politically correct? Never.

You may hate me for what I said.

Haters gonna hate.

 

And Coastal Curmudgeons are gonna be crabby.

 

Be that as it may, I can’t wait to head back to my place in the sand.