A.G.E's Joint

  I got an intergalactic call The helmeted one wanted to brunch With biscuits the size of his head Meet me in Taylor Square, Savannah, my friend An old hole in the wall hidden by Spanish Moss The greeter sings you to your seat While Louie rings through the Muzak. There's an old bookstore across the street Where we will work off the meal And find angels in the architecture.

The damp handkerchief couldn’t keep up with the rivers of moisture pouring down his face. Savannah, the land of sweating and gnats. Heat rose from the faded pavement, something he never liked. Nothing had a clear view, just a shaky look. Only place he’d been to worse was New Orleans. At least here you might catch a breeze. A halfhearted attempt to squeeze the cloth out didn’t help. Laundry was going to be gross this week. Kathy would hold it by one corner and wrinkle her nose as it landed in the washer. Oh, well. Can’t be helped. A feeble attempt to wind dry it was made before putting it back in his pocket. It had been a productive trip. Somebody at the VW store had mucked up their inventory system. It turned out to be an idiot using an unsecured site had downloaded a a virus. He’d seen it before. Floor traffic gets slow and the sales folks get bored. The fix ended up being two software patches and a quick code rewrite. A reboot later, and everything was working properly. Before ...

He had begun to snore as his hand slipped off the mouse and against his drink. Whiskey and water soaked his lap. Snapping awake, he reached for a towel and managed to dry off to where it didn’t look like he had wet his pants. How long he had been out? Long enough said the black screen in front of him.    Tapping the key, the lighthouse came back into view. It was the best image from his last. The structure rose up behind the haunted driftwood forest, daring all those near to explore. And such adventures it held. The picture also showed how perilously close to the water to structure was. Someone said it may be a little as ten years before nature claimed it. He wanted to go back there before it washed into the sea.    To go back with her.    A frizzy haired apple, she was the first girl that had ever paid attention to him. And for that, he was forever grateful. She had taught him beauty was internal.    Even the first encounter w...

A hot, humid day in Savannah and a working girl is found dead on one of the squares. It is a show killing meant to terrify and confuse and it grabs your attention. This book hits the ground running and doesn't stop until the finish line. This is the third book in the Elise Sandberg series and like the others, the moss draped city of Savannah stands out as a willing accomplice. Well worth your time. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24833794-pretty-dead" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="Pretty Dead" border="0" src="https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1432756814m/24833794.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24833794-pretty-dead">Pretty Dead</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4327517.Anne_Frasier">Anne Frasier</a><br/> <br /><br /> <br/><br/> <a href="https://www.g...

Hotter than hell in the Dowager City and Armageddon was about to come from the heavens. The heat off the street was like flames of fire raging at his back . Just another summer, tourists braved the heat shopping on Market St. Everyone else decamped to Cashiers or Asheville. Him? She had made sure he didn’t have the money to leave. Adjusting his hat, the deluge came as he cleared the door. The Battery was only a few blocks away, which was a blessing in this heat. Small wet patches turned to steam almost as soon as the water hit. The mottled gray towers of Old First Scot’s were glowering down on his sinning ass like one of Satan’s angels. Was this absolution or condemnation? It didn’t matter, the old Calvinists elders wouldn’t be part of this ceremony. She was stuck again, trying to decide between Heaven and Hell. As it was, as it is, as it ever shall be, it seemed.  A group of black kids were singing an old spiritual out of tune, bad doo wop rather than tight har...

When I was a little, my mother would make Red Rice. It is a humble dish, adapted from the Gullah settlers during the depression.  It's combination of leftover meat and vegetables was designed to fill bellies with low cost.  But even to this day, I equate this dish with weekday dinner. It didn't matter what Mom's sobriety level was that night, she never would mess this recipe up.  And I would eat until my heart's content.  When I was in college, my own ability to make this dish earned me more than one couch to stay on. But now, I rarely get to eat it. My wife and kids hate onions and bell peppers. I need to take a vacation. So, I can eat it again.   Savannah Red Rice

Grey skies and a stiff breeze off the river greeted Hart as he left the building.  "Another nippy day at the Roundhouse", he thought as he took out his lunch. A strapping young man made bigger by the work on the rail cars, he was glad for a short break. Even at sixteen, he was known as "Big Man" for his 6 foot 8 inch frame and hard shoulders.  He'd only been working at the rail yard for a few months and Jack. Gilligan , the Foreman  had moved him from Boilerman to Switchman when he found out he could read. Most of the men didn't even know their numbers, much less whole words. It wasn't that hard of a job. The Locomotives would pull into the Roundhouse, where other Switchmen would detach the couplings and push the cars back into the yard. Hart would then pull the rail switches to allow the cars to fall in place in the pattern required by the Yardmaster. Because he was such a strong kid, he was able to wrangle most cars where they needed to be. It...

It was an unusually warm Christmas Eve at my Uncle Archie's house.  My family had driven to Savannah from Orlando with a car load of "Santa" gifts. I was 10, and had pretty much figured Santa for a ruse, but I really didn't want to let go of the fantasy.  It took away from my parents fighting again and my Dad had lost his job.  There wasn't a partridge in the pear tree for us, just ravens in the live oaks along the dock. The launch of Apollo 8 was on the morning we left, so we delayed our start to see it. The cartoons that touted and mocked the inventions of the future were about to come true.  All the scoffing about lunar travel and it’s impossibility silenced for all time.   Our house was 40 miles west of the launch pad and the schoolyard at the end of the street made viewing launches easy. We could see the glint off the fantastical machine as the craft vectored away from shore.  When the dot made 15 degrees over t...

Here we are Alone. Meeting after so many years Why so long? I speak to my friends In this new-fangled online market, I have not set foot here in years It's a lonely, lovely place, I know. Children scattered To the four winds. Not knowing whether  they are alive. Now I come to see you A Sphinx. Not sure why. Maybe to bask in the silence Of the relatives I never knew, And the few I did.   Austen said To look upon verdure was the greatest refreshment. But the oaks and moss Only remind me  Of past time wasted, Time was supposed to explain. Ain't no use complainin' Time to move on.

Before I met my wife, I dated a girl named Julia.  Her memory had been triggered in me by the entry in my desk calendar for yesterday, which was her birthday. The calendar is Worse Case Scenarios and How to Prepare for Them. , and the entry was "How to Survive If Your Car Careens Down a Mountainside" . How we met and began dating is one of the greater adventures in my life. The beginning was not unlike running off a cliff blind.   It was in the spring of 1981. I was going to college, acting in Community Theater and working at Home Depot.  It was a crazy schedule, but I was young and thrived on the lack of sleep. One weekend, I was invited by my best friend Karl to a cast party for a players group that had put on a production of Brigadoon at North Georgia College.  \It would be a big event and I would meet some neat people.  He said everything would be happening Saturday and drive on up.   Because of scheduling conflicts at work and some...

A pile of laundry tossed against the cold stone staircase, at least it looked like that until the sun began to shine on it. Like a lizard sunning itself, Terry slowly began to move. He had survived another night. Struggling to his feet, he wipes away the brown and kaleidoscope in his eyes.  A chill shook him down to his core making his hands feel like they would break off.  The muscles along his abdomen clinched uncontrollably as what little there wanted to be set free.    “Jesus.  Where am I?”   Wiping the spit from his face, he reached down and felt for his pants.  Still there.  Better than the last time.  It wasn’t that good and he nodded off.  It scared the crap out of him when the cop’s baton touched him down there. The girl wasn’t anywhere in sight, either. Just another day. He ended up leaving he jail in the jumpers he had been booked in with. Bastards couldn’t even find a donated shirt. A bit of sadness set in...