Resolving to resolve

I ate the last piece of gourmet chocolate this morning. A chocolate

fudge sundae. Or was it a chocolate tiramisu?

It was a Christmas gift, something I intended from the moment I opened the box at the Breakfast Club on Tybee Island to give away, to re-gift.

Except I didn’t. I couldn’t.

What’s a tray of eight silky, smooth, Belgian chocolates in a month of eggnog-from-scratch, potato latkes with sour cream and apple sauce, homemade shortbread, a piece or two of sweet potato/pecan pie, Italian biscottis (the tooth-threatening kind you dunk in coffee), stuffed sweet peppers?

OK. There were two trays of gourmet chocolates. Not one. Sixteen pieces altogether. But who’s counting? Who cares?

We know how to socialize in this town. We know how to have fun. We also know when it’s time to get real.

Still, when the temperature hovers around 70 -- and it’s January -- when pink and blue hues flood the skies at sunset, when the few cold nights we’ve had only help to sweeten, not kill, the rows of arugula, the motherlode of collards, the curly mustard greens, who can complain?

So what if the dogs are still chasing fleas, if we have to wait for March winds to drive, and then rake, last year’s leaves from their comfort zone, if I have to spend $2,000 to replace a sewer line that the gas company busted when it bore through the ground with a new pipe?

Not that I minded those few weeks of sub-30 weather. When else are we

going to get to wear all the sweatshirts and jackets that follow us around and take up space in our closets?

When else are certain neighborhoods going to be free of drug dealers, the scourge of the earth?

“It’s even too cold for them, I guess,” a neighbor said to me.

You don’t realize how great your neighborhood -- and your life -- is and

how irritating those guys are -- the ones who hang around on a porch or

in the middle of the street at 6 in the morning -- until they’re not there.

Which reminds me: How’s that crime commission going, Mayor Johnson? I know you’re trying to go after the big guys, the ones on top who pull all the strings. But in the meantime, how about getting aggressive with the worker-bees so the old people on the block can come

out of their houses, so people don’t have to be afraid to move to this sweet, little coastal town with moderate temperatures and good parties?

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” said a friend in a coffeehouse when we read about the Mayor and the City Council getting together for a meet-and-greet retreat. “That’s what I’d like to see him and Brother Pete deal with.”

Amen, brother.

As we start the new year, we can resolve to pass on the chocolate bonbons, eat our greens, drink our six glasses of water a day, swim our laps, try not to spend more than we make.

We can change our name from the Coastal Empire to the Creative Coast and consolidate more city and county departments.

We can -- praise Jesus -- lighten the bureaucratic load on our public school teachers and just let them teach. But we

can’t do it all.

We can run, but we can’t hide. Neither can you.


Jane Fishman, who will write a weekly column for ConnectSavannah, can

be reached at

To comment in a letter to the editor, e-mail us at

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