The Myth of Shooting Stars

This morning I saw a shooting star in the constellation Orion.

The meteor shower Orionids passes through every year about this time and many people still refer to these meteors as Shooting Stars. But I’ve known better for a long time. These aren’t stars but rocks, most of them are small rocks about the same size as the ones found in a gravel driveway. They’re debris from a traveler that’s tumbling through space at breathtaking speeds. You see, every year a particular comet passes through the earth’s orbit. This comet is a gigantic ice-covered rock that travels a predictable path. This rocky snowball is moving fast, 17 or 18 thousand miles an hour so it’s constantly shedding bits and pieces, just like Clark Griswold’s wagon in the movie Vacation.  This comet is shedding poorly stowed luggage, cups of coffee left on the roof, toys from the kids, hubcaps.  All that junk tumbles away from the wagon and gets yanked towards the nearest gas station and in our case, that’s the earth. These little pieces of the comet are pulled towards our planet and upon entering the friction of our atmosphere, they burn up into nothing.  Oh sure, they’ll burn rather brightly, so much so that from our perspective they’ll look like shooting stars.  But that’s only from our perspective. These meteors are just rocks, about the same size as the ones in the parking lot of your football field. Of course actual stars are about the size of our sun and in some cases, many times larger.

It’s all about perspective.

Christ Church football captains, 2015. #57 is Tudor Malik

Suppose we didn’t know better?  Suppose we sat outside on a clear, moonless night and watched these little pinpoints of shimmering light we were told are stars then one of them suddenly bolted from the sky.  Who wouldn’t think that one was a shooting star?

I’ve known people that died much too early because they did something dumb, they made a reckless decision that cost them their life. Parents, friends, colleagues at the time referred to them as shooting stars. But what they were really saying was that they were pieces of poorly secured luggage, cast off of a fast-moving, careening world that they were not prepared for and they burned up in the process.

With Marine Corps Major Michael Middleton, Aircraft Commander of Marine One

I’ve also known people that did something brilliant many years ago and they’re still known for that one thing they did. Perhaps they scored an important touchdown or made a video that went viral, yet went on to make a mess of their lives.

As you gradually make your way to the front door of your own life, please do not look for a singular shot at fame, brilliance, or history. And remember that small, seemingly innocuous decisions can sometimes have dire consequences. One’s goal should not be to become a shooting star.

Instead, consider the sun. It’s often taken for granted. It warms the earth, provides sustenance and life, and more often than not, we enjoy its company, especially when we’ve had a long rainy spell.  I like that reference much better than the shooting star.  I have some friends that are like the sun and they make everyone around them happy.  They listen carefully, they treat others like they’re special, they’re always glad to see their friends, they help strangers in need without expectation of payment. Just like planets orbiting the sun, these people attract other good people.

I know you spend a lot of time thinking about how you will fit into the world.  So here’s your lesson for today and for the rest of your life.

Live for others, practice gratitude, say your prayers, help a stranger off the ground when they’ve stumbled and never take delight in another’s misfortune.  And if you beat someone in competition, beat them fair and square, then help them get up. And the next time you see that person, do not remind them of the time you beat them. Do not measure success by your bank account but rather by those you help when they’re down and out. Be the sun that shines and warms everything around you. Be the friend that others want to have. Be the man that other men will want to emulate. Be the son I’m proud of.

I love you.

chef john malik
Flying to NYC, he was four at the time

Merci Beaucoup, Chef

“One day, you’re going to be a great attorney.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks, Dad.”

How could I tell my attorney father that a morbidly obese cook from Opelousas, Louisiana, a man that favored sweet potatoes and pork belly over Filet Mignon, had already set me on my career path to become a professional chef, and not an attorney?

Paul Prudhomme is the reason I became a chef.

I grew up in a large family in south Louisiana. My mom loved to cook. She grew up on a ranch in the middle of Mexico, where she learned to do everything by hand. As a mother to her own five children, she taught us many skills of self-sufficiency, one of which was cooking. And for whatever reason, I was the one that usually helped her in the kitchen. She taught me how to clean wild duck, pick out tomatoes, supreme an orange, and make a kick-ass beef stew with the humblest of ingredients. She was also a surgical nurse in a bustling New Orleans hospital.Chef Paul

In 1982 I was half way through my English degree and contemplating law school when Chef Paul Prudhomme became my mom’s patient. He was there recovering from surgery and through my mom, Chef Prudhomme and I had a week long conversation. Paul had recently opened his restaurant, K-Paul’s, and he was already attracting an enormous amount of attention. And he was doing so by highlighting the cuisine and staples of south Louisiana. Sweet potatoes, creole tomatoes, turtle, okra, scallions, blue crabs from Lake Ponchartrain, spicy Andouille sausage, bell peppers, head cheese, red fish, crayfish, and pork.

At the time, Paul was the unequivocal star of New Orleans and this new world of food. The best known restaurants in New Orleans were decades-old stalwarts of French~Creole cuisine; Antoine’s, Arnaud’s, Brennan’s, etc. Their restaurants served filet mignon topped with sauce Rochambeau, poached salmon with hollandaise, red potatoes carved into seven-sided tournee, true sole from Dover topped with crab and lemon beurre blanc, and cherries jubilee tableside.  The city’s most highly regarded hotel-based chefs were from Paris. They were the French culinary mafia and they took care of their own. These were chefs that created cityscapes out of pastillage (a paste of gelatin, water, and sugar), Easter bunnies out of blocks of ice, and flower arrangements from sugar and a blowtorch. Privately they sneered at our indigenous ingredients and their hotels spent small fortunes flying in Parisian ingredients. And in the middle of this, Paul Prudhomme burst forth.

In the early 1980s, our country was in love with bran muffins, quiche cookbooks, and wine coolers. Paul was the antithesis of all that, and what a media personality should be. He was wildly overweight, he had a thick, unrecognizable (if you weren’t from south Louisiana) accent and he was a cook.  Back then, cooks weren’t given much respect. Dining rooms, filet mignon, tuxedoed maitre’ds, and luxurious tablecloths yes, but not cooks, and especially American cooks, from the swamps of Opelousas. On the Today show he cooked a hash from sweet potatoes and did so just as one would cook a risotto. Sweet potatoes were something south Louisianans like my mom bought on the side of the Airline Highway. At the time, sweet potatoes would’ve been considered fodder for the staff meal by the city’s French chefs. And that gargantuan, bearded cook from Opelousas was cooking them on national TV. Hearsay!  “Did you see the Fat Man on TV?” That’s how Chef Paul was mentioned by the city’s French chefs.

As the de facto family cook, the kid that helped mom pick out sweet potatoes, creole tomatoes, and okra at our roadside stands, I was amazed.  I was already cooking at a burger joint in Hammond, LA and hosting pop-ups in my college dorm. If one of my friends would shoot a couple of squirrels, I was the guy that would turn them into a stew. And there was Paul Prudhomme, extolling me on through his many appearances, magazine covers, and cookbooks.

When Paul spent a few days in my mom’s care, through her we exchanged ideas on culinary school and chefs I should work for. He was the one that told me to go to culinary school in New Orleans because in a few years, the city’s chefs and cuisine would be in demand across the world. He made those of us in the kitchen proud to be cooks and he showed us a future full of opportunity.  At a time when the only food celebrities were Hollywood starlets or exercise fanatics, Paul was a guy that grew up hunting, fishing, farming, and cooking. He was the one that inspired a generation of chefs to champion their own region’s raw ingredients. Today’s farmer’s markets, foragers, regional bistros, craft brewers, and distilleries all owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the “Fat Man.”

He was the champion of the Airline Highway sweet potato, the one that brought our humble south Louisiana ingredients into the forefront of the world’s food audience, and our first true American celebrity chef.

Merci beaucoup, Chef, and Godspeed.

Why Would You Do That?


I’m ready.

On Friday morning, July 17th, I’ll climb onto my Trek Road Bike and join 285 cyclists and pedal across the state of South Carolina.  Yeah I know. It’s gonna be hot, and cycling is dangerous, and I could hurt myself, and I’ll probably get sunburned, etc.  I’ve heard it all.

And all of that is accurate.  I could get hurt. It will be difficult. I might get a first-class sunburn, and definitely a sore butt.  I’m also planning on having the time of my life and along the way, helping the South Carolina Alzheimer’s Association collect about $250,000 or more in donations.  Yet in the swirling money pit that is Alzheimer’s disease and its associated dementia, that amount is a drop in the bucket. Every year our country spends hundreds of billions on the treatment, care, and research of this killer so what could one guy on 20 pounds of aluminum, carbon, and rubber possibly bring to the table?

That’s my Mom in the shades. Before Alzheimer’s stole her smile.

The answer is, I don’t know. I don’t know where the money that I help raise will go. Perhaps it’ll help pay for printing costs of new dementia care pamphlets, maybe a raise for an office worker, or new carpet in an office. I really don’t care how it’s spent, I just want it spent. The real effect will go beyond the money. If I and the other riders can call enough attention to this dread disease then perhaps we’ll help ferret out real money. Will the sight of nearly 300 maniacs pedaling across 252 miles of 90+ degree heat spur the right notes in a researcher, a neurologist, a big dollar donor? Yeah, that’s why we do it. We’re there to call attention to a disease that has a 100% fatality rate, no cure, and nothing to slow it down. We’re there because our mother or father, aunt or grandfather passed away from Alzheimer’s. We’ve sat there and held their hands, watched as the spark slowly faded from their eyes, and wiped tears away when they asked us who we were. We’re there to provide a place to turn for those family members that have just heard the dreadful news that Mom has Alzheimer’s.

When the diagnosis is Alzheimer’s, the outcome is always the same. In spite of what you may have seen on a sketchy web link on Facebook, there is no cure and nothing on the horizon. Alzheimer’s is a frightening death sentence that will steal away every precious memory before it takes a life. At least with cancer there’s a battle plan; a record of patients that have managed to survive even the toughest, rarest forms of it. They and their doctors have left scars and notes, a game plan for the newly diagnosed, left by the survivors.

RTR jersey
My 2014 jersey

Not so with Alzheimer’s. There’s just the dark reality that one’s mind will slowly wither until even the body’s ability to assimilate food into calories, or oxygen into our blood stream, has been taken away. And there’s a gaping uncertainty because Alzheimer’s affects everyone differently. One may live ten years, or it may take you in less than three.

And that’s why I’m going to do this. I need to do something and I won’t be much help waving and smiling as the riders go past. Since January I’ve put about 1,600 miles on my bike. I’ve ridden through cold days and blistering hot ones, pushed through pop-up thunderstorms, and a few snow flurries. I’ve fought 25 mph headwinds and daunting mountain ascents. Because 252 miles in three days just isn’t something one can get ready for in a couple of months.  I want to be strong enough that if needed, I can pull one of my teammates up a long climb. I want to offer a smile instead of a complaint, a compliment instead of a critique.  I want to help.  And I could use yours. I’ll take prayers, kind thoughts, encouragement, and of course your money.

Would you like to make a donation to my efforts?  Please click here.

The start of the final stage in 2014. Courtesy David Moody.


One last time, please.

All  I need is pedals, and a little air.

Climb on board and grip my bars, twist them in your familiar hands

Ease me onto the street, stand up and jump

Coax me through the gears

Just like we used to, so many years ago

Let’s go

All I need is pedals, and a little air

Remember when your muscular legs and toned arms willed me past speed limits?

Past other bikes, and racing dogs

Down mountain passes and up steep bridges

We sliced through corners, blistered pavement

Those younger guys?  Left in our dust

“Some guy on a pink bike”

That’s what they always said

Can’t we do it again?

All I need is pedals, and a little air

I know I’m not new

And neither are you

But I’m still fast, and I’ll make you smile

I’ve sat in this corner, gathering dust, losing air, and waited


All I need is pedals, and a little air



Where did Jonas Salk’s last dollar come from?

That question was posed by my friend Bill Englert.  It’s an intriguing question, isn’t it?  How much money did the cure for Polio cost and where did it come from?  And if Polio can be cured, why not Alzheimer’s?

If you don’t know the mind-numbing statistics, let me enlighten you.  Alzheimer’s is the sixth leading cause of death in the US. Of the top ten killers, Alzheimer’s is the only one not receding, and it has a 100% fatality rate. Unlike cancer or heart disease, there are no survivors of Alzheimer’s.  Alzheimer’s is expensive, probably costing the US more than 225 billion for 2015. As anyone that’s seen the movie “Still Alice”, Alzheimer’s is not a disease of the aged. If this isn’t enough, Alzheimer’s also tears families apart due to the burden of caring for a loved one with a rapidly failing memory.  I know all this first hand. I’ve seen it up close as Chef and Food & Beverage Director of two Continuing Care Retirement Communities; and I watched and listened as my mother succumbed in October of 2013.

Coast Busters in NC
Left to Right; Julian, Rene, Brian, Caroline, Kate, Myself, Emily, and Steven. Mark and Brian are missing from this photo.

With such enormous statistics and a dire need of funding, why on earth would I think that my efforts can make a dent in the needs of the Alzheimer’s Association? As Bill asked, where did Jonas Salk’s last dollar come from?  Which grant gave him just enough financial muscle to finish his polio-curing research?  And that’s why I do this; no donation to the SC A/A is insignificant.

The Alzheimer’s Association does not provide huge grants to fund research, they create the mechanism for those grants to reach the right facility and they fund outreach, training, and support for families.  Think of the A/A as the funnel for the bottle.  In South Carolina there are A/A offices in every county, and each provides help to beleaguered families, care givers, and care facilities as well as a political arm in the legislature.  And that’s where the Ride to Remember comes in.  Conceived by another cycling chef, Scott Roark, the RTR is a three-day ride across the state.  As riders, we raise money for the South Carolina Alzheimer’s Association.  This year the association’s overall goal is $200,000, and we hope to exceed that.

So on Friday morning, July 17th, I’ll climb onto my bike and along with my teammates from The Coast Busters, spend three days pedaling to Charleston.  Along the way, we’ll dream that perhaps the money we raise will create that ripple in the pond that will fund a cure for Alzheimer’s.  Because if we don’t try, we’ll never find out.

Support us at:

Team Coast Busters


Interview with The Poet

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ve interviewed poet Jessica Kristie.

A Rod McKuen 8-Track. That was my first exposure to poetry and looking back, it didn’t resonate with me because if my sisters liked it then I wanted no part of it. And if this guy was so special, how come he didn’t have a real band, with electric guitars? Well, that was my 12 year-old mindset.

Jessica Kristie laughs.

“Are 8-Tracks coming back?! If so, then I want to get on that train. Rod McKuen gave a lot of himself in his recordings. If you put yourself out there, then give all of you. People have a deep desire to grab on to something, and without knowing or understanding they will connect with you if you bleed a little. It can take a lot out of you, but the end result is a beautiful community of like-minded individuals.”

Jessica is the founder of Winter Goose Publishing, my publisher, and has written poetry since she was ten.  And to complete that circle started by Mr. McKuen, she’s also read some of my poetry.

“The first poem I ever remember reading was from Robert Frost. His poem Nothing Gold Can Stay was short, sweet, and even at my young age I could understand there was a deep meaning behind it. I didn’t necessarily get what a metaphor was exactly but I knew the words were powerful, meaningful, and could be inspiring. It was a unique way to reach me and I knew at that moment it could be a way to reach others too.”

Do you still have your first poem?

“I don’t specifically remember my first poem but I have poetry I wrote from as early as ten years old. I consider poetry my first language. It’s what has always resonated with me the most.”

So back to Rod McKuen. I was probably in college and studying Shakespeare, before I could appreciate what Rod McKuen was doing. Did you ever want to record your poetry like Rod McKuen did?

“I love spoken-word poetry. That is something newer to me and I discovered it only about five years ago. People learn in so many different ways and audio is powerful. Performance poetry is a different monster that I have not mastered but I admire it deeply. I have a spoken-word CD written and have every intention of recording it someday. And today I love Sarah Kay and Andrea Gibson. They are both emotionally driven and extremely powerful in their words and performances. They reach a younger generation with an intense fluency that is to be aspired to. They speak about difficult social issues but also speak with a genuine heart that reminds us of our humanity—something that I believe makes for an extraordinary poet.”

Jessica Kristie


What were your career choices that got you to this point in your life?

“I spent over fifteen years in the corporate world. I’ve been in banking, marketing, and worked at a series of non-profits. At the time I didn’t realize it, but all of those adventures led me to, and prepared me for, today. Each employer offered training, whether it be in budgeting, strategy, or dealing with a layoff that brought me to a stronger place and made me much more effective in my current position. For writing, these are all my breadcrumbs. My poetry or even my novel is a living journal that leaves pieces of where I was at that point in my life. Each story has another story. I was laid off in 2010 for the second time since the major economic crisis that started in 2008. I was tired of being a slave to everyone else’s companies and decided to take a risk and see what I could build on my own.

I had been writing off and on since I was ten and it came and went in phases. In 2010 I published my first poetry book with a small press. That experience gave me an opportunity to learn and discover what I thought was done right and what wasn’t. I didn’t ever walk away thinking I could do it better, but appreciated the opportunity to learn in the process. I needed to stay close to writing as my words just seemed to take off. Doing publishing was that opportunity to keep it close, but also… maybe… down the road, feed my family. In 2011, Winter Goose Publishing was created.”

What are your goals for Winter Goose? 

“To always be learning and growing. We are a traditional trade publisher, but only in the beginning stages of our growth. We don’t do everything right, but at the same time we give everything we have to do the right thing. We want to always maintain a healthy author community and offer amazing books with variety so everyone can find something to love and connect with. Books are magic, and we want to bring that magic to you. My greatest influencer would be Graywolf Press. They’re a non-profit, so a different model than us, but they put out Pulitzer Prize winners along with unique and daring works in fiction, non-fiction, and poetry.”

Was there an unsupportive little brother in your family that teased you over your love of poetry?

“No brothers. I have five sisters… yes five. I generally always had a certain amount of support for my poetry. I remember when I first started my website (2010) as a means to vent and a venue to share my poetry. I was terribly nervous over how it would be perceived. Partially because I wrote rather dark, but also because I had never publically shared it prior. I wasn’t stable in my abilities at the time and had always just written for me and from an extremely honest place. I was shocked at how it took off and the community I quickly became a part of. Within six months I was offered my first publishing contract by a small press on the east coast. From there, everything changed.”

Do you have any advice to an aspiring poet?

“Be honest and don’t force it. You can always tell when a poem is forced. Genuineness resonates most with poetry. Even if the poem isn’t perceived as generally “good,” if it’s honest, it will emotionally connect with someone.”


In Defense of Football

My son is a high school football player and I love watching him play the game.

I never played organized football.  When I started sixth grade, I told my dad I wanted to play ball.  And he said no.  Dad was afraid I would hurt myself so he told me I couldn’t play.  End of story.  And for years I felt as if I missed out on something important.  At my high school, I was envious of the camaraderie the players had, and I wanted to be a part of that. On the field they exerted themselves for the pride of our school, they sweated, suffered and bled for one another. Win they won, they all shared in the glory. When they lost, they accepted defeat and our applause.  And they went back to work on Monday afternoon and made plans to try and win their next game.

My dad did let me take Tae-Kwan-Do, and in college I soon found myself racing bicycles.  I won a few medals and earned a lot of scars in cycling and more importantly, I found the missing element I had been looking for.  I learned the importance of teamwork, of sacrifice, of training together, and suffering together.  And those lessons are still with me today.

When my son entered sixth grade, he asked about football and I said yes.  He had played years of little league baseball and wanted to give football a try.  Every season we’ve discussed the dangers and he’s accepted them.  He’s tried other sports: wrestling, track and field, and gymnastics.  It is football, however, that provides that spark in his life.  In his three years of high school football he’s learned valuable life lessons that would not have come from non-athletic endeavors.  He’s been pushed physically and mentally, he’s overcome injuries, found the will to win, and made friendships that will last a lifetime.  And he’s been an integral part of a winning program.

#57 3
My son is the one in black

Even though they won’t don uniforms until July, this year has already been challenging.  On the college and professional level, there’s been several high-profile career-ending injuries and notable retirements.  And that trickles down to the lower levels of the game and affects choices made by parents, coaches, and potential players.  Yes, contact sports are dangerous.  Competitive soccer, volleyball, swimming, gymnastics, baseball, etc. are not without risk.  But stop and think about the risk of your kid not getting to participate in a team sport.  Where else will they be asked to give of themselves so completely for the good of a team?  Competing in a team sport should exploit all of your faculties, every one of your physical and mental abilities.

Hazards are all around us and our lives are a series of calculated risks.  Asking for a promotion may be met with a stinging rebuttal, or perhaps with a smile and a congratulatory handshake.  After competing in sports, I believe I’m better equipped to handle the rigors of business. Sitting on the couch, never learning what you’re capable of, that sounds much more dangerous to me than actually competing on the field.

I still ride bikes, though it’s been many years since I competed.  And there’s inherent risk from riding a bike, with or without utilizing public roads.  Yet the joy, satisfaction, camaraderie, and health benefits I receive in return are tough to put a value on.


I’m not suggesting to choose chess over volleyball or vice versa, but rather to have a healthy respect for both the cerebral, and the physical. There is great value in giving your all and winning, likewise in giving your all and coming in second place, or in last place.  Yes, your child may get hurt.  They might leave their blood and sweat on the field of competition.  And when they lose, there’s opportunity to better themselves, to plan and train for the next match.  If they win, there’s a desire to continue and win again.  And when they leave the field, they may hold their heads in triumph, or hang their heads in defeat.   And when that moment comes, they might also say, “Mom, Dad, I did my best.”

Boxing with God

I’m going to jail, and I’m scared.

A couple months back, a very good friend of mine asked me a tough question.  And I should have said no.  If I had, I wouldn’t be in this position.  I would not be going to jail and I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about whether or not I made the right decision.  End of story.  But like a dope, I promised him I would consider it.

Kairos is a Christian faith-based prison ministry.  It’s one of those ministries that only the toughest, most sincere Christians tackle.  Kairos sends visitors into razor-wired penitentiaries to evangelize directly to prisoners.  I’ve known about this ministry for years; we’ve had a few friends participate and we’ve helped out through prayers and cookies, which are brought into the prison as gifts for the participants.

Back in January my friend Mike asked me to prayerfully consider participating in this ministry.  And inside I laughed, but outwardly I told him that I would think about it and pray about it.  And when I did pray, I prayed for Mike to be a better judge of his friends.  He knows me well enough to understand my faith isn’t strong enough to participate in something so important as Kairos.  What was he smoking, anyway?  Me.  Going to prison to evangelize?  He must be nuts.  Besides, my dad was a judge and I know what it takes to end up in the penitentiary.  Rarely is it a first offense; it’s a life of poor decisions, each one more consequential than the next, until the judge gets fed up with you and sends you to the penitentiary.  And what positive influence could a sorry excuse for a Christian like me possibly have on anyone in a prison such as Perry Correctional?

A week later, I discussed all this with Mike and he agreed with some of it, disagreed with the rest.  And he asked me to pray a bit more and to take my time with my decision.  The next day I was in my garage, working out on my heavy bag and praying.

One does not necessarily have to be on their knees to pray.

I asked myself what is really preventing me from saying yes, and eventually I realized that I was scared.  Scared that my faith wasn’t strong enough to do this.  Scared to look a felon in the eye and convince them God has asked me to do this.  Because suppose the felon snaps back, “I don’t believe you.”  What will I say?  Will I have the conviction and backbone to pull this off?

And then I heard God laughing.

“You’re scared, Malik?!  You?  Hahaha!”

I fired off a flurry of hits and God hit right back.

“You?  When have you said no to something because you were scared?  How long’s it been?  You miserable son of a bitch!”

God had a point.  I actually look forward to the possibility of drawing blood.  An element of danger can provide a tremendous amount of focus.  If there’s a very real chance of injury, then there’s a very real sense of focus and preparation.  I happen to be very fond of my skin but I enjoy the thrill of pushing myself through a boundary of danger then coming out on the other side, maybe scratched up, maybe not.  My concern over participating in Kairos is not due to a chance of injury, but rather my own embarrassment.  I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my perceived lack of faith and that’s what was holding me back.  That’s why I’m scared.


So I said yes.

The weekend after Easter, I’ll spend three days inside Perry Correctional Institute and perhaps I’ll play a very small part in saving the life of one person.  Perhaps not.  But I won’t know unless I try.  And if you could remember me with your prayers, Thursday evening, April 9th through lunch on Sunday, April 12th, all of us would greatly appreciate it. I’m going to need it.



I’m a fairly emotional guy.  I don’t mean that I cry often, rather I tend to linger over fond memories.  Perhaps too much.  Maybe that’s why I enjoy looking through old photographs.  Recently my wife asked me to help her find a photo of us from Mardi Gras.  We broke out stacks of real photos and spent a few hours reminiscing.  The memories flooded past in glossy, colorful, slightly faded pieces of our lives.  Four by six, five by seven, and a few wallets; California, Romania, Louisiana, New York, London, and South Carolina.  And I found myself wanting to make memories worthy of a photograph.

Taking a photo used to be a big deal.  You had to carry a camera, film, and perhaps additional lenses.  Then the film had to be developed and photos were printed and paid for.  So one only carried a camera if you were going to do something worthy of the trouble.  Today it’s so easy, it’s not uncommon to share a photo of a peanut butter and jelly in the process of being made.  Where’s the adventure in that?

I want to take more photos like this one, and less of my sandwiches.

Looking Glass
At the top of Looking Glass mountain, perhaps January of 1998. That’s me walking away from a poorly timed camera shot and my wife Amy is holding onto our faithful Jack Russell Terrier, Bonnie.

That’s our Jack Russell Terrier, Bonnie.  If you’re familiar with dogs, Jacks are notoriously high-strung.  They’re smart, energetic, and relentless.  Once they decide to do something, there’s no stopping them.  Bonnie was no different.  If we went for a hike, a swim in the ocean, a long walk, or a car ride, it was never enough just to go.  She had to go faster, harder, farther.  Case in point, in this photo she is as usual, waiting on me.

In our relationships, both personal, and business, we should all have a Bonnie.  A faithful companion that extols us to success.  Someone that we love and respect, someone that we’ll go that last mile for.

In one of my endeavors, I have an entire team of Bonnies. In July, I’ll ride across the state to raise money for the SC Alzheimer’s Association and I’ve got some teammates to encourage and push me to success. Yet I still feel like I’m missing something. I need someone to encourage and push me in my business relationships, and it feels like that’s missing from my life. A friendly competitor, someone to race me to the top of the mountain then pat me on the back when I’ve come in second, or third. We all measure success differently and I don’t use money as a yardstick. Are my kids becoming responsible? Am I protecting my family? Are my clients happy and are they getting their money’s worth? Because life isn’t about the destination, it’s really about the journey and our journey begins anew every morning.  Today I’m going to try and pray harder, run quicker, pedal faster, and make my clients happier. And I’d like to do this while I work towards taking more photos of real adventures, and less photos of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches.

Do you have a Bonnie in your life? Someone, or some dog, that is constantly pushing you to success?  I think I do, I just need to remind them.


Merry Christmas Amy

I spent half of 2013 on crutches as I recovered from reconstructive knee surgery that came with a lengthy period of rehab.  That May we celebrated our 26th anniversary with a long weekend at our favorite place, Fripp Island SC.  I could only walk very short distances but I could pedal a bike.  So on the night of our anniversary, we took a late-night bike ride on two beat-up beach cruisers.  The tide was low, the moon was full, and our shadows created a memorable evening.




I do believe that last glass of wine, gave the moon time

To climb a bit higher, and cast wispy Atlantic shadows onto our night

These two forlorn bikes may yet chase mystery, adventure, romance

Look past those pedestrian lines

The scars of carelessness, and their saltwater-weathered steel

My dear Amy, the ocean beckons

Shall we ride the length of this island, across the remnants of the tide?

Sand gently yields to tire, frothy salt water cascades towards us, reaching out, drawing back

Gentle pedal strokes carve love notes across our beach

Our lines intertwine, crossing, fading, chasing then embracing

Ghosts so elusive in the day’s light, scurry from our midnight path as

We chase our shadows, the moon, our past

Never quite catching, never quite leaving

She calls out and smiles, eyes reflecting the stars

A little further, a little slower, a little faster

A twist of steel, a balmy splash

I lift my feet, slice through summer’s rush

Creating my own tiny, fleeting ocean, now colliding back together

Saltwater mist glides across wounds, soothes pain, eases into hope

Now race me back to the quiet of our night

Hold me close and whisper…

Happy Anniversary




a writer trapped in a cook's body