Donna Sue and I are on the island of Jekyll on the Atlantic Ocean coast of Georgia. Our Methodist Church is having its Annual Conference and the Jekyll Island Convention Center is the facility.

The Atlantic Ocean coast is different from the Gulf Coast. The water is not as clear and blue and the sand not so sugary white. Still, it is an awesome thought to stand next to a body of water so large that there is no end in sight.

It’s an appropriate place for Methodists to meet. John Wesley, the Anglican priest who is credited with founding the Methodist denomination, sailed to this coast in 1735, although it was somewhat northward in the Savannah area.

Whether on Jekyll Island or at home, I like to start my day early and with a cup of coffee. I had to sleep in a little later than usual because the free cup of coffee that I desired wasn’t available until 7:00. When traveling, I like coffee at the “bird” price. “Cheap, Cheap.”

I got to the free coffee a little early and that didn’t seem to go all that well with the attendant. She was friendly enough, but I got the impression that she would have preferred my visit to begin at 7:00. Be that as it may, she invited me in at 6:45.

She was quiet to begin with and that was alright with me because I had my laptop with me and I turned on my favorite news websites. I opined that the coffee was hot and she said, “Coffee is supposed to be hot.”

She asked if I was with the conference and I told her that, yes, I was a Methodist pastor. “I’m Baptist,” she let me know pretty quickly. That was fine with me; I was not in the proselytizing mood that early in the morning.

I might have surprised her with my early arrival and she might have had preliminary things to do, but it didn’t take her long to begin talking. Initially I tried to listen with my ears and read with my eyes and mind, but found that multi-tasking so early in the morning was impossible.

A television was on and the stories were the same that I had heard the day before. There was the continued news about the London terrorists. There was the news about the killings in Orlando.

“This world is going to hell in a handbasket,” she told me. I agreed. What else could I do?

I tried to read an interesting article on Trump and his tweets, but she began to tell me about her husband and two sons and four grandchildren.

“My son is as smart as they come,” she beamed. “But (here comes the “but”), he can’t get what’s in his head down to his arms and legs.” What did that mean?

She pointed to her head and said, “He thinks a great game, but can’t transfer his thinking to his working.” I figured he was unemployed.

“My daddy went to Nashville as a singer,” she said. “He auditioned for the Grand Ole Opry, but had laryngitis that day.” Not a good combination, I thought. “If you closed your eyes when he sang, you’d a thought it was Eddy Arnold.” Anybody remember Eddy Arnold?

“My grandchildren all have those ‘Alphabet diseases,” she continued nonstop.

“Alphabet diseases?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know that ADD, OCC, ADHD…all them diseases,” she explained.

I turned off my laptop. No use trying to read with a lady who could talk the hind legs off a donkey.