Monday, June 14, 2010
Birds, Biloxi and Being Home
We moved into a rental house on Big Lake in Biloxi from our house in Oak Grove. From these rear windows lies a panorama of waterways, marsh and endless sky that instantly reaffirm my need to live in the Coastal south. Although we lived in a lovely wooded place, I have felt landlocked for the last 14 years. It’s amazing what a great view can do.
Moving back where the salt air and the rise and fall of tides govern a deep sense of well-being reminds me that there remains no substitute for living within minutes of the beach or riverbanks, that the seamless horizon between gulf and sky serves as a homing mechanism for me, one embedded when I moved here as a toddler. Birds flock here in droves, close to the rivers and bayous, and my own need to nest here is being richly served by the fact that my family loves it here, too.
As soon as we could break away from unpacking, my husband and I rode out in an old bass boat given to us by our dear family friend, Miss Tommie. She will celebrate 90 years in September. She and that boat spent more than 40 of those years together, anchoring off favorite fishing holes in these same waters and landing countless fish both solo and in the company of my Aunt Ora, as well as with other family and friends. Her fishing and filleting skills are legendary.
On our afternoon jaunt, the boat glided knowingly past bulkheads and cattails, through the brackish water among other vessels of all shapes and sizes. We sailed under Popps Ferry Bridge and zipped past the massive homes of Biloxi Back Bay. And though there linger sparse remnants of Katrina’s onslaught, the overall view is one of thriving water dwellers and rejuvenated communities. The healing has been monumental. The recovery, nothing short of miraculous.
We saw egrets and herons, gulls and purple martins. This place teems with wildlife. The flora and fauna of the Mississippi Gulf Coast never fail to astound me with its diversity and resilience. The brown pelicans and least terns can tell the best stories of our role as their stewards. Brought back from near eradication due to pesticides, they boast a triumphant and prolific return.
I know that there are plenty of places on this planet that would make a great place to live. For me, the requirements are few, but essential, to my ability to feel at home. There must be water, salt and fresh, ample trees both deciduous and evergreen, and people who appreciate the value of these things and each other. Sunsets viewed without obstruction, full and magnificent from our most southern shore treat us to a daily reminder of our unique and invaluable heritage here on the Gulf of Mexico.
Perhaps that is why that of all the places I have visited, my South coast home pleases me to no end. Here, my most basic needs are met simply by stepping outside. Like the birds who navigate these spectacular waterways, I am drawn here because it is where I belong. Wherever you are, I hope you find that same satisfaction, the wonderful gratification of being home.
We moved into a rental house on Big Lake in Biloxi from our house in Oak Grove. From these rear windows lies a panorama of waterways, marsh and endless sky that instantly reaffirm my need to live in the Coastal south. Although we lived in a lovely wooded place, I have felt landlocked for the last 14 years. It’s amazing what a great view can do.
Moving back where the salt air and the rise and fall of tides govern a deep sense of well-being reminds me that there remains no substitute for living within minutes of the beach or riverbanks, that the seamless horizon between gulf and sky serves as a homing mechanism for me, one embedded when I moved here as a toddler. Birds flock here in droves, close to the rivers and bayous, and my own need to nest here is being richly served by the fact that my family loves it here, too.
As soon as we could break away from unpacking, my husband and I rode out in an old bass boat given to us by our dear family friend, Miss Tommie. She will celebrate 90 years in September. She and that boat spent more than 40 of those years together, anchoring off favorite fishing holes in these same waters and landing countless fish both solo and in the company of my Aunt Ora, as well as with other family and friends. Her fishing and filleting skills are legendary.
On our afternoon jaunt, the boat glided knowingly past bulkheads and cattails, through the brackish water among other vessels of all shapes and sizes. We sailed under Popps Ferry Bridge and zipped past the massive homes of Biloxi Back Bay. And though there linger sparse remnants of Katrina’s onslaught, the overall view is one of thriving water dwellers and rejuvenated communities. The healing has been monumental. The recovery, nothing short of miraculous.
We saw egrets and herons, gulls and purple martins. This place teems with wildlife. The flora and fauna of the Mississippi Gulf Coast never fail to astound me with its diversity and resilience. The brown pelicans and least terns can tell the best stories of our role as their stewards. Brought back from near eradication due to pesticides, they boast a triumphant and prolific return.
I know that there are plenty of places on this planet that would make a great place to live. For me, the requirements are few, but essential, to my ability to feel at home. There must be water, salt and fresh, ample trees both deciduous and evergreen, and people who appreciate the value of these things and each other. Sunsets viewed without obstruction, full and magnificent from our most southern shore treat us to a daily reminder of our unique and invaluable heritage here on the Gulf of Mexico.
Perhaps that is why that of all the places I have visited, my South coast home pleases me to no end. Here, my most basic needs are met simply by stepping outside. Like the birds who navigate these spectacular waterways, I am drawn here because it is where I belong. Wherever you are, I hope you find that same satisfaction, the wonderful gratification of being home.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Katie Mo
When I was kid, I didn’t give much thought to the fact that I didn’t have a sister. I had twin brothers, six years my junior. I didn’t have time for sisters.
Plus, I heard the horror stories of sisters swiping each other’s stuff, of sibling sabotage so sinister, only a sister with sisters could understand. I guess, at times, I was actually glad not to have a sister.
Then one day, I became a mom for the second time, to a daughter. Suddenly, there was a new and spectacular female voice within the family. I know a lot of mothers claim strong bonds with their baby girls at birth. But there truly was something extraordinary about ours. She completed me.
Mary Katherine slept all night her first night at home. She rarely complained, cooed this incredibly adorable sound that proved impossible to resist, and exuded contentment. She begged attention, not because she demanded it, but because she was so completely lovable, endearing and funny.
She always slept with her arms thrust directly above her head. When we’d pick her up from her nap, she looked like a miniature Sumo wrestler, hence her nickname, “Katie Mo.” She watched every move her brother made. Her greatest frustration as a baby was the fact that she could not walk and talk like him. Her greatest satisfaction was to hold his attention for even a few uninterrupted seconds.
Whether he realized it at the time or not, Sam had the ultimate sister. She idolized him.
Katie turned 16 on March 21, 2010. She’s come a long way from that nearly bald bundle of drooling, giggling glee. I have marveled at how intelligent and capable she is, wondered over how it is that Steven and l landed such a truly remarkable daughter. She is beautiful inside and out, and I treasure our time together. My dad said it best. She is one of a kind.
And though for some inexplicable reason she has been saddled with a medical disorder that defies definition, she remains that completely lovable, endearing and funny gal who won our hearts 16 years ago. At times, her pain and physical challenges have been more than any kid should have to endure.
She has weathered ridicule, misunderstanding and alienation from people who should have known better. She harbors no anger, no grudge, in spite of having every right to do so. She has shown strength of character and powerful will in the face of daunting discomfort and exhaustion. Her faith is unwavering, her spirit undaunted.
She doesn’t have a sense of smell, something we didn’t determine until she was nearly 13 years old. Why did it take so long? She’s resourceful. We just didn’t see the deficit because she never realized she had one. I still laugh when I think about taking her to Bath and Body Works and asking her to sniff a dozen fragrances or more. She thought I was crazy. And I thought she was odd to say they all “smell good…I guess?”
I have laughed harder and longer and more gratefully with her because anyone who can find the funny among countless needles and pills and procedures bordering on torture inevitably can make even the most stolid Ice Queen crack a smile. She takes one day at a time and makes each one richer for the rest of us.
So I never had a sister. It’s OK with me, because I have a daughter who is second to none.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Who Would Make Your Top 10?
A friend sent me one of those inspirational power point slideshows attached to an email titled “Voyage.” It featured a lot of pretty pictures of flowers and some clever thoughts on what’s important in life.
It had the desired effect, I suppose, in that it got me thinking about those things that make me glad to be here, that life is a journey, not a destination, and it's a good idea to take stock of those things that truly matter along the way.
Things like...
Have you ever come to know someone who is truly humble and selfless? They are rare beings. But my Grandma Long was that way. If she had one stick of gum, one leftover biscuit, one bit of energy left to spare, she’d give it willingly to just about anyone. She was a giver, never a taker.
With her, you always felt worthwhile and cherished. And that’s important.
Did you ever love a dog who could make you laugh and cry within the same breath? Dogs are incredibly gifted that way. Our Winnie chewed new shoes, ripped the insulation from beneath our rental house and rolled in putrid carcasses at every opportunity, but she had a way with our children that made me know they would never lack for a champion protector or devoted friend.
That crazy yellow hound always made us feel comforted. And that’s important.
Will you remember countless hours spent in the business of raising children? Kids are enormous investments of time. They come into this world by our invitation, completely dependent on our ability to provide.
There is this blur of birthday parties, tooth fairy visits and award ceremonies that I find difficult to recall. But I once stood beneath the boughs of newly leafed pecan trees in our back yard, watching my small son and daughter sleep in a stroller while the warmth of spring and the promise of the future rushed me with unforgettable gratitude. I can still remember every subtle nuance of that ordinary day.
Moments like that make a parent feel utterly complete. And that’s important.
Can you sing something for every season, read stories that inspire you, dance for the purpose of just pure indulgence and love unconditionally?
Have you forgiven the unforgiveable and received the same?
Do you laugh often and loudly, especially at yourself?
When you find solace and reassurance, is it based in an innate and unfailing faith that is as much a part of you as your DNA?
Do you do nice things for others because you want to, not because someone is looking?
Somewhere in your history have you ever taken the time to write a letter to someone for the sole purpose of reminding them that they are loved, they are special and they matter?
Because these are the things that make our lives as humans worthwhile and enjoyable. And that’s important.
In the slideshow I watched, the author reminds us that while most of us can’t name various “top tens” among celebrities or athletes or historical figures, we will remember the names of people who made a difference in our lives─ the teachers, the friends, the mentors. Some people, like whoever created that slideshow, take the time to remind the rest of us that kindness, compassion and a good sense of humor make all of our lives richer and far more memorable.
And that really is important.
A friend sent me one of those inspirational power point slideshows attached to an email titled “Voyage.” It featured a lot of pretty pictures of flowers and some clever thoughts on what’s important in life.
It had the desired effect, I suppose, in that it got me thinking about those things that make me glad to be here, that life is a journey, not a destination, and it's a good idea to take stock of those things that truly matter along the way.
Things like...
Have you ever come to know someone who is truly humble and selfless? They are rare beings. But my Grandma Long was that way. If she had one stick of gum, one leftover biscuit, one bit of energy left to spare, she’d give it willingly to just about anyone. She was a giver, never a taker.
With her, you always felt worthwhile and cherished. And that’s important.
Did you ever love a dog who could make you laugh and cry within the same breath? Dogs are incredibly gifted that way. Our Winnie chewed new shoes, ripped the insulation from beneath our rental house and rolled in putrid carcasses at every opportunity, but she had a way with our children that made me know they would never lack for a champion protector or devoted friend.
That crazy yellow hound always made us feel comforted. And that’s important.
Will you remember countless hours spent in the business of raising children? Kids are enormous investments of time. They come into this world by our invitation, completely dependent on our ability to provide.
There is this blur of birthday parties, tooth fairy visits and award ceremonies that I find difficult to recall. But I once stood beneath the boughs of newly leafed pecan trees in our back yard, watching my small son and daughter sleep in a stroller while the warmth of spring and the promise of the future rushed me with unforgettable gratitude. I can still remember every subtle nuance of that ordinary day.
Moments like that make a parent feel utterly complete. And that’s important.
Can you sing something for every season, read stories that inspire you, dance for the purpose of just pure indulgence and love unconditionally?
Have you forgiven the unforgiveable and received the same?
Do you laugh often and loudly, especially at yourself?
When you find solace and reassurance, is it based in an innate and unfailing faith that is as much a part of you as your DNA?
Do you do nice things for others because you want to, not because someone is looking?
Somewhere in your history have you ever taken the time to write a letter to someone for the sole purpose of reminding them that they are loved, they are special and they matter?
Because these are the things that make our lives as humans worthwhile and enjoyable. And that’s important.
In the slideshow I watched, the author reminds us that while most of us can’t name various “top tens” among celebrities or athletes or historical figures, we will remember the names of people who made a difference in our lives─ the teachers, the friends, the mentors. Some people, like whoever created that slideshow, take the time to remind the rest of us that kindness, compassion and a good sense of humor make all of our lives richer and far more memorable.
And that really is important.
Monday, March 01, 2010
"'Doing Business' at Your Friendly Kangaroo"
My daughter has chronic health issues that have led our family on some pretty interesting trips to medical destinations near and far. While we continue the pursuit of a unifying diagnosis, she has adopted an approach of “laughter is the best medicine” and tries to take one day at a time.
Sometimes, those days find us on the road and out of our minds.
Our family of four set out for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN one late October afternoon. We stopped for dinner, drove a bit, then nature called and we pulled into the next quick stop. Katie headed directly to the ladies’ room while her brother, dad and I browsed the aisles.
We immersed ourselves in shopping, beginning with a rack of tee shirts emblazoned with biker motifs and state logos. We moved onto the candy section, followed by the chips and crackers. We checked out the hot bar, the coffee station, the ice cream freezer, and the automotive supplies.
After 20 minutes or so had passed and we were reduced to second-guessing our snacking selections, I surmised things might not be going so well in the bathroom. Just then, my cell phone vibrated in my purse. As I made my way to the bathroom, I extracted my phone and noted the incoming caller.
It was Katie.
“Why is she calling from the bathroom?” I asked myself. “This can’t be good.”
I pictured the possible scenarios in my head: out of toilet paper, massive regurgitation, explosive diarrhea or a treacherous combination of all three. Who knew what lay on the other side of that restroom door? I answered the phone.
“Hey, girl, what’s going on in there?”
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM! FINALLY! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ANSWER THEIR STUPID PHONE? GEEZE, I THOUGHT Y’ALL HAD LEFT ME!”
Somehow, this high-decibel screech comforted me. She was breathing. She was conscious. And she was some kind of mad. Bravely, I motioned to the others that I was going in.
“Whoa. Calm down. I’m on my way in there. Are you OK?”
“Just get in here! Hurry up!” And with that, the phone went dead.
I was just past the oatmeal cakes and Ho Ho’s, almost to the nuts and pork rinds, when an unsuspecting woman cut in front of me and headed toward the sign marked “WOMEN.”
My mind raced as I considered the very real possibility that this gal might soon be rendered completely senseless by noxious fumes or worse, but I was helpless to stop her. She heaved the door inward, and what appeared to be a vacuous hole of pitch black darkness suddenly erupted into a glowing cubicle of searing white light.
In that split second, the ears of every creature within a ten-mile radius would splinter with the guttural boom that echoed from the confines of a single bathroom stall in a Kangaroo quick stop near Memphis, TN.
“THANK YOU!!!”
I would have loved to see the expression on that woman’s face upon her triumphal entry, but she ducked for cover in the stall next to Katie’s before I could gauge her reaction. What I did see was a completely benign bathroom environment, remarkably clean, actually. Thankfully, it smelled harmlessly like lemon cleaner. What I heard was far more sinister.
My daughter doesn’t cuss, but the blend of growls and pitches behind that metal door sounded much like the kind of muffled swearing grown-ups use in the presence of children and clergy, indecipherable but clearly not born of happy thoughts and well wishes.
“Katie, are you OK?”
“YES, NOW THAT I CAN SEE WHAT I AM DOING, YES. I AM JUST FINE.”
This was followed by several spins of the toilet paper dispenser, more grumbling and the type of telltale noises that make a mom know her services are no longer needed. I waited outside.
A few minutes later, the girl child emerged. Anyone with female adolescent offspring can testify to the fact that when they are ticked off, you best give them plenty of time and space to decompress. The problem in this particular scenario is that we were all about to crawl into a minivan together and finish what was left of a 20 hour drive to the northern limits of these expansive United States.
“Geeze, Katie, what took so long?” her brother asked.
To which she replied, “Grrrrrrrrr.”
But, to her credit, the outrageous circumstances evoked appropriate hilarity on her part, and within minutes, we were all laughing like a bunch of baboons on a big banana high.
Apparently, this particular bathroom came equipped with an energy-saving sensor that turned out the lights when no movement is detected after a certain period of time. Maybe five minutes or so into her bathroom retreat, it all went to black.
“You try doing what you need to do on the toilet when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face!” she spat.
She had called us, and we didn’t answer because two phones were in the van and one was on “vibrate” in my purse. So her only safe option was to wait in the dark on the pot wondering why her family had abandoned her.
All’s well that ends well, but I have to wonder what that woman thought when she was welcomed with such vigorous and appreciative cheers as she entered the bathroom. Perhaps she chalked it up to superior customer service--a big “thank you” for “doing business” at your friendly Kangaroo.
My daughter has chronic health issues that have led our family on some pretty interesting trips to medical destinations near and far. While we continue the pursuit of a unifying diagnosis, she has adopted an approach of “laughter is the best medicine” and tries to take one day at a time.
Sometimes, those days find us on the road and out of our minds.
Our family of four set out for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN one late October afternoon. We stopped for dinner, drove a bit, then nature called and we pulled into the next quick stop. Katie headed directly to the ladies’ room while her brother, dad and I browsed the aisles.
We immersed ourselves in shopping, beginning with a rack of tee shirts emblazoned with biker motifs and state logos. We moved onto the candy section, followed by the chips and crackers. We checked out the hot bar, the coffee station, the ice cream freezer, and the automotive supplies.
After 20 minutes or so had passed and we were reduced to second-guessing our snacking selections, I surmised things might not be going so well in the bathroom. Just then, my cell phone vibrated in my purse. As I made my way to the bathroom, I extracted my phone and noted the incoming caller.
It was Katie.
“Why is she calling from the bathroom?” I asked myself. “This can’t be good.”
I pictured the possible scenarios in my head: out of toilet paper, massive regurgitation, explosive diarrhea or a treacherous combination of all three. Who knew what lay on the other side of that restroom door? I answered the phone.
“Hey, girl, what’s going on in there?”
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM! FINALLY! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ANSWER THEIR STUPID PHONE? GEEZE, I THOUGHT Y’ALL HAD LEFT ME!”
Somehow, this high-decibel screech comforted me. She was breathing. She was conscious. And she was some kind of mad. Bravely, I motioned to the others that I was going in.
“Whoa. Calm down. I’m on my way in there. Are you OK?”
“Just get in here! Hurry up!” And with that, the phone went dead.
I was just past the oatmeal cakes and Ho Ho’s, almost to the nuts and pork rinds, when an unsuspecting woman cut in front of me and headed toward the sign marked “WOMEN.”
My mind raced as I considered the very real possibility that this gal might soon be rendered completely senseless by noxious fumes or worse, but I was helpless to stop her. She heaved the door inward, and what appeared to be a vacuous hole of pitch black darkness suddenly erupted into a glowing cubicle of searing white light.
In that split second, the ears of every creature within a ten-mile radius would splinter with the guttural boom that echoed from the confines of a single bathroom stall in a Kangaroo quick stop near Memphis, TN.
“THANK YOU!!!”
I would have loved to see the expression on that woman’s face upon her triumphal entry, but she ducked for cover in the stall next to Katie’s before I could gauge her reaction. What I did see was a completely benign bathroom environment, remarkably clean, actually. Thankfully, it smelled harmlessly like lemon cleaner. What I heard was far more sinister.
My daughter doesn’t cuss, but the blend of growls and pitches behind that metal door sounded much like the kind of muffled swearing grown-ups use in the presence of children and clergy, indecipherable but clearly not born of happy thoughts and well wishes.
“Katie, are you OK?”
“YES, NOW THAT I CAN SEE WHAT I AM DOING, YES. I AM JUST FINE.”
This was followed by several spins of the toilet paper dispenser, more grumbling and the type of telltale noises that make a mom know her services are no longer needed. I waited outside.
A few minutes later, the girl child emerged. Anyone with female adolescent offspring can testify to the fact that when they are ticked off, you best give them plenty of time and space to decompress. The problem in this particular scenario is that we were all about to crawl into a minivan together and finish what was left of a 20 hour drive to the northern limits of these expansive United States.
“Geeze, Katie, what took so long?” her brother asked.
To which she replied, “Grrrrrrrrr.”
But, to her credit, the outrageous circumstances evoked appropriate hilarity on her part, and within minutes, we were all laughing like a bunch of baboons on a big banana high.
Apparently, this particular bathroom came equipped with an energy-saving sensor that turned out the lights when no movement is detected after a certain period of time. Maybe five minutes or so into her bathroom retreat, it all went to black.
“You try doing what you need to do on the toilet when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face!” she spat.
She had called us, and we didn’t answer because two phones were in the van and one was on “vibrate” in my purse. So her only safe option was to wait in the dark on the pot wondering why her family had abandoned her.
All’s well that ends well, but I have to wonder what that woman thought when she was welcomed with such vigorous and appreciative cheers as she entered the bathroom. Perhaps she chalked it up to superior customer service--a big “thank you” for “doing business” at your friendly Kangaroo.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sammy, Sammy, are You Ready?
As I was looking through family photos to submit to my son’s yearbook staff, I determined I was having one of those “moments.” I have a lot of them lately with the rapid advance of the firstborn’s senior year. They are near-breathless moments that rattle my heartstrings with the insulting yet triumphant fact that he is nearly grown and I am getting old.
The photos, a mixed bag of babyhood and grade school shots, provided a bit of time travel:
a newborn wrapped tight in a hospital blanket
our big yellow hound perched in ridiculous profile atop a teetering birdbath, boy at her feet
a grade school Easter egg hunter
a teenager poised for who-knows-what leaning into his silver sedan at dusk
Moments like these validate what I knew instinctively all along. Glimpses of our history together─ the laughter on the road, the tears over lost loved ones, the anger beneath the surface, the fear inside unspoken words, the love within every single embrace and whispered prayer─confirm that being a parent makes me deeply grateful for this life as well as a little shocked that children seemingly become adults overnight.
Years of transitioning from one stage to the next blend and soften the stark reality that photographs showcase with such bold and undeniable detail. Sam is now taller than his dad. He does actually hug his sister, willingly. I am grayer than his dad, proving his father has weathered the years far better than I. This may have something to do with the fact that sentimental activities like looking at old pictures only make him grin, while they thrust me into an exhausting search for lost time.
Although I want to cheer and celebrate the victory of delivering such a grand guy to the world, the overriding desire is to chain the kid to his bedroom and deny him free reign of his destiny.When did this boy who used to spend hours devouring the pages of Calvin and Hobbes turn into a man who talks politics, religion and the complex language of the NFL? When did he learn the ways of the sneaky old world?
These yearbook photos will go on a page that honors his accomplishments and congratulates him on his high school graduation. It’s become a popular tradition for parents to purchase a page and provide photos and a note as a testament to the fact that their kid is, well, theirs.
There is so much I would have liked to say on that page, yet I kept our parental musings short. But given more space, I might have reminded my male child of just how splendid life is with him as our son.
I would remind him:
Even when you launch yourself from this nest we made eighteen years ago, we will still be in the picture. We are that part of you that makes you know you are loved unconditionally, trusted to the depths of your soul and understood at the chromosomal level.
You have never walked alone and never will. We take immense comfort in the knowledge that your faith is secure and your purpose is centered on good works and gratitude.
Whether there is a photo of it or not, we can be seen in the way you choose a good book or take comfort in a good friend’s smile or dance like a fool simply because it makes no sense to do otherwise. Nothing is as liberating as being able to laugh at yourself. (I think I taught that one best.)
We will always show up when you think about doing something you know you should not. It’s called a guilty conscience.
We are there, reminding you that everything happens in God’s time, not ours.
When you see that stray dog, and wonder if you should pick it up, we are the ones who already have you on the side of the road, in the rain, Samaritan heart full-throttle. Mom and Dad, invisible, are in every moment that leaves you marveling over the wildly intoxicating beauty of life. Your smile in that photo is our smile, one way or another.
I have these crazy moments, yes. But they are opportunities for me to reflect on my handiwork as a parent, to cherish this gift of an adult child and look forward to what is yet to come. I need these moments to remind me that this is a good thing, growing up. I just wish I was as good at it as this boy of mine seems to be.
“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”─ 1Corinthians 13:13
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Of grown-ups, goons and getting together
Last weekend, I had the pleasure of hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten. Hopefully everyone has friends like these, the kind you may not see for years at a time but can pick up right where you left off, talking about everything from college escapades to the unsavory business of gray hair and spare tires.
It’s difficult to describe, but old friends just make time together especially rewarding.
The fact that this particular group claims a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for off-color jokes definitely keeps things more than interesting. They are kind and mindful of everyone’s personal trials and tribulations without being a wet blanket. Each one of us claims a close personal tie to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a deep-seated love of seafood, saltwater and days and nights spent in the company of both.
But of all the satisfying reasons we have to gather, I think it is our common history of doing just what we did last weekend that gives us great incentive to remain good friends. Hanging out, retelling the same crazy, hilarious stories, adding some new ones for extra measure, we all simply enjoy time together.
When my parents passed away a couple of years ago, one of the comforts that helped us manage that tremendous loss was the fact that our family shared countless good times over the years. There were no regrets as far as “I wish we had seen each other more.” We cooked and savored wonderful meals, visited through long afternoons on the front porch, celebrated holidays and birthdays featuring a million or more hugs.
The memories we made together are what get us through our being apart.
Last weekend, ten of us long-time friends and one brave new one descended on Destin, FL with twelve kids. Eyes popped and mouths fell open as the younger set witnessed their parents let loose with endless ribbing and fully animated stories.
I suppose it’s a bit scary to see old Mom and Dad laugh like goons and head to the beach in the wee hours like a band of gypsies. Who knows if they will choose to maintain the same kind of friendships we have? But for those three days, they witnessed their parents adding yet another memorable chapter to the book of our lives and underscoring the vast rewards of lasting friendships.
Making friends reminds me of planting new trees. You can always search out a new one. The more, the better. But it’s the ones with deep roots beside your own that will always cast a wide and comforting canopy, buffering us from the storms of life and reminding us of the beauty. Much like the irresistible shade of a Coastal live oak, the laughter shared with these old friends is uncommonly good, a pleasure I hope we all cherish for many years to come.
Last weekend, I had the pleasure of hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten. Hopefully everyone has friends like these, the kind you may not see for years at a time but can pick up right where you left off, talking about everything from college escapades to the unsavory business of gray hair and spare tires.
It’s difficult to describe, but old friends just make time together especially rewarding.
The fact that this particular group claims a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for off-color jokes definitely keeps things more than interesting. They are kind and mindful of everyone’s personal trials and tribulations without being a wet blanket. Each one of us claims a close personal tie to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a deep-seated love of seafood, saltwater and days and nights spent in the company of both.
But of all the satisfying reasons we have to gather, I think it is our common history of doing just what we did last weekend that gives us great incentive to remain good friends. Hanging out, retelling the same crazy, hilarious stories, adding some new ones for extra measure, we all simply enjoy time together.
When my parents passed away a couple of years ago, one of the comforts that helped us manage that tremendous loss was the fact that our family shared countless good times over the years. There were no regrets as far as “I wish we had seen each other more.” We cooked and savored wonderful meals, visited through long afternoons on the front porch, celebrated holidays and birthdays featuring a million or more hugs.
The memories we made together are what get us through our being apart.
Last weekend, ten of us long-time friends and one brave new one descended on Destin, FL with twelve kids. Eyes popped and mouths fell open as the younger set witnessed their parents let loose with endless ribbing and fully animated stories.
I suppose it’s a bit scary to see old Mom and Dad laugh like goons and head to the beach in the wee hours like a band of gypsies. Who knows if they will choose to maintain the same kind of friendships we have? But for those three days, they witnessed their parents adding yet another memorable chapter to the book of our lives and underscoring the vast rewards of lasting friendships.
Making friends reminds me of planting new trees. You can always search out a new one. The more, the better. But it’s the ones with deep roots beside your own that will always cast a wide and comforting canopy, buffering us from the storms of life and reminding us of the beauty. Much like the irresistible shade of a Coastal live oak, the laughter shared with these old friends is uncommonly good, a pleasure I hope we all cherish for many years to come.
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