So Long, September Summer

On the far, far horizon here in South Mississippi is a day in which my sweat glands will rest and cooler temperatures will trigger my desire to work outside. An inviting autumn breeze will draw me from indoor seclusion to savor the seasonal shift. Dogs will romp, cats will give chase to swirling leaves and I will feel human again.

But not today.

Today is a miserable, skanky hot bitch who hails from the tropics.

I’m lighting candles in honor of air conditioner inventor, Saint Willis Carrier—or perhaps—in defiance of the devil who surely enjoys overtime in this sticky, steamy summer. I’m drinking iced tea and threatening to push buttons on the thermostat until body parts ice and teeth chatter.

I’ve lived my entire 55 years in South Mississippi. I hate hot weather. I also despise the whine of transplants from places that stock snow shovels next to the bourbon and antifreeze who admonish me with “You don’t know what cold is!”

I beg to differ. I’ve walked several city blocks in Minneapolis in December. I have visited snow-capped peaks in Estes Park. I married a man from Nebraska! I have waited for hours in meat locker hospitals and clinics where workers wear fleece jackets year round. In my most sincere Forrest Gump voice, I declare “I may not be smart, but I know what cold is, Jen-Nay!”

Look, I share a DNA profile with people from Sweden, Norway, Wales and Ireland. If my fair skin and freckles could talk, they’d squeal “Holy hell, why is it so HOT up in here?!” I am clearly out of my natural habitat. It’s coded in my very person that I should wear mukluks and trader caps, thrive on hearty stews and actually USE a fireplace instead of filling it with fake logs.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my Gulf Coast home—the people, the culture, the food. It’s one of the most beautiful places in America, and from November until March, you will see me happy, relatively dry and far less obsessive of the thermostat. But even my birthday is a hot mess of a joke. August 19th? I’d have been dead decades ago if it hadn’t been for artificially cooled air.

While writing this, I watched the sky turn from a glowing gold to a soft winter’s gray. The wind blew hard and oak leaves stirred. Magnolia limbs reached out to me, tendering promises of lighter, airier fare out there. Squirrels dug for winter stores and cardinals pecked at empty feeders. It looked suspiciously and suddenly COOL.

One day soon, scarlet spider lilies will appear, the sentinels of fall and the biggest liars of all. This gal didn’t fall off the pumpkin truck just yesterday. I know it’s still hot as a crotch outside, and it will be until November.

Now it’s raining while the sun is shining. As the old saying goes, the devil must be beating his wife. The raindrops are her tears. Maybe, like me, she’s weary of summertime. Or maybe she’s sweating? Either way, I’m staying inside. This Swiss sister has a hankering for hot chocolate and the early demise of September summer.

The Katrina Photo That Says It All

On a momentous August morning after Hurricane Katrina made landfall, my husband Steve made his way to the intersection of Highway 90 and Highway 49 in Gulfport, MS with a bunch of other stunned Mississippi Department of Transportation folks to survey damage caused by Hurricane Katrina. He called me on his cell phone and described what sounded like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb—total decimation.

He began with simple words, his civil engineer brain struggling to grapple with the task at hand, the unbelievable calamity that overwhelmed with its expanse and depth and mass. But then came the pause, the hard constriction of vocal cords and gritting teeth and a sob of incredulity. In the 26 years we have been married, I can count on one hand, maybe two, the times I have heard my husband cry. That day, his tears flowed, and I will never forget the utter disbelief and sorrow in his voice.

Pictures and video of that storm's aftermath do not do justice to the devastation. You have to see what our beautiful Mississippi Gulf Coast looked like before that bitch of a storm hit. Footage and photographs of miles and miles of debris and wind torn trees and masses of rubble offer only a glimpse of what Katrina took in her wake.

Tonight I looked through some of the digital photos Steven took along Highway 90 that day because my son, Sam, asked if I had any photos of Long Beach. All the photos are labeled “Highway 90 West.” The sad part is, the destruction was so complete, it took a lot of looking to figure out which shots were those of my childhood home, a place I knew like my own heart. Pretty much any photograph could be any spot along the 26 mile stretch bordering the Gulf of Mexico. Landmarks had disappeared.

After looking at scores of images and pinpointing a few for Sam, one photo stood out from the others. In the midst of that horrific mess leaned a tattered sign against a pile of debris along what I believe is 2^nd Avenue in Pass Christian. Those big white words on a green board exemplify the spirit of this Mississippi Gulf Coast. It is the image I choose to remember on this 10^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s landfall.

Thank you, Sam, for asking about the Katrina photos. It is important to remember the lives lost, the selfless efforts given and the recovery that continues. God is good, all the time. It’s Mother Nature who can be a real bad ass.

Riding Shotgun with Dad

My dad in his garden in front of The Back Forty.

Grinding gears and dodging the ditch that cut a hundred feet or so into our deep backyard, I learned to drive a 1960’s Volkswagen Beetle that had one wheel in the grave. Our family of five lived on almost two acres that featured a rear section of wetlands. We called it the Back Forty.

Dad transfigured the soggy bottom with his tiller into an extended garden spot, only to see the valleys between his neatly formed rows repeatedly fill with the next downpour on our South Mississippi home. He joked about growing rice, but he found some success cultivating Silver Queen corn and okra. The land rising to our house featured better drainage where he focused his gardening efforts, so periodically the Back Forty would return to its natural state when Dad stopped tilling and mowing it. Crawdads loved it. Pitcher plants, too.

It was here I learned to finesse the withered clutch and brake system of a very tired and cranky old Bug.

Beneath my feet, the floorboard featured a gaping hole that only Fred Flintstone could appreciate. Driving through puddles meant your feet got soaked. The stick for the windshield wiper had long ago broken off. Somebody figured out a small flat head screwdriver substituted nicely. The hand-cranked windows functioned well enough, thankfully, as the air conditioning was non-existent. By the time you got the thing properly ventilated, your feet appropriately positioned and the windshield free of debris, driving proved to be a comparatively simple endeavor.

Early in my tutelage, my dad would fold his six-foot-two-inch frame into the shotgun seat, his right arm braced in the passenger window and his left hand poking around for a toothpick or shoving his silver hair from his sweaty brow. He smelled of wintergreen Skoal and Old Spice and dispensed short, obvious commands, like “Ok, back it up, “or “Don’t hit the Pontiac.”

My dad taught biological sciences for a living at a community college. Teaching was as second-nature to him as whining was to us kids. He exuded the kind of calm most folks appreciate when their nerves are raw and learning a new skill, whether that was mastering the release of clutch and application of gas in a rustic car or skinning cats for dissection. His was the kind of patience I wish we could mass produce as a cure-all for anger and apathy and distribute as needed, an elixir of Quincy Long.

Driving lessons with Dad left me laughing hysterically. He feigned cardiac arrest, white-knuckled panic and bladder emergencies. Or maybe that was for real? Either way, over what seemed like days to me or probably a good hairy year to him, I learned to drive. I looped through evenly spaced azaleas, turned on a dime past the burn pile, skirted the perimeter without damaging the fence (much) and found liberty behind the wheel when we wildly ventured out on open road.

More years have passed than I care to count since those days lurching past the pampas grass with my Dad in stitches as we careened just shy of the wisteria and too close to the Longleaf pines. He let me have the wheel before either of us thought we were ready. I remember the closeness I shared with a father who never let me know just how awful I was doing, an essential condition when learning to drive, whether you’re behind the wheel of a broken old VW or piloting life itself.

I remember riding shotgun with Dad. Even if I had hit something, he would have still taken that seat beside me. What he taught me were not driving skills but riding out life skills—with patience, tolerance, laughter and love.

Piano Man and Unicorns

Piano Man and Unicorns

A former newspaper columnist, I host this much neglected blog. But in light of depressing news (Syria) and my own bad health (falling apart at the seams), I indulged in a little word gathering in an attempt to feel good about SOMETHING. 

To all my artist friends out there, you are a gift to me. I count you among my greatest, most treasured blessings. Keep painting, drawing, writing, singing, playing...you are divine.

Saturday I woke up early. This is no small feat for a night owl of my caliber. Never do I rise before my husband who keeps an internal alarm set somewhere around dawn-thirty. My eyes opened and my brain, unusually functional for a pre-coffee state, immediately noted that we needed milk.

I dressed, hopped in the car and headed to the store. The sun peered from billowing cloud sculpture, the trees swayed in breeze uncharacteristic for August in South Mississippi. Dare I say it felt like fall?

We seldom speak openly of autumn here for fear of frightening it away or offending the sun gods. But the cool air and the morning sun lifted my spirits. I turned the radio up a little louder than usual.

An unexpected joy settled in, a smile that turned the corners of a surly scowl. There was that accepting look at myself in the rearview mirror that has nothing to do with the unkempt bed head or the impression of bed sheets on puffy cheeks. It’s an awakening, of sorts, that we get sometimes, that there remains much to be happy about in spite of the rotten old world.

I felt magic in the air and fully expected a unicorn to cross my path. Just a whisper of autumn is all it takes for this gal. To see the thermometer register anything lower than 74 has me dreaming of hot toddies on the back deck, wrapping up in blankets and walking outside without breaking a sweat. It is definitely magic.

The music on the radio, a song by Pink, challenged “you gotta get up and try.” Considering my previous week of struggling with a complete lack of energy and enthusiasm, the message struck a chord. And then for no reason at all, I thought of the song “Piano Man.”

I love the lyrics about a vocalist in a bar at a piano singing the stories of his hard luck audience, from a man “making love to his tonic and gin” to pounding carnival chords from the keyboard. I picture a young Billy Joel writing that song and I wonder just what inspired him to tell that story? At what moment did he recognize the significance of composing his song?

Now, I share this story for only one reason. I am clearly crazy, which I think you have to be—at least a little— to do things like write stories and share them for anyone’s eyes but your own. But what happened next made me understand on some intrinsically cellular level that God or Billy Joel or maybe the unicorns at large needed me to hear something.

Do you know those moments, when you feel so connected to something or someone beyond yourself that you cast a suspicious glance over your shoulder? Am I on Candid Camera? Is there a secret webcam in here? Am I dreaming?

That very instant, “Piano Man” sailed from the speakers on my car stereo. I mean, as soon as Pink finished her call to perseverance, Billy Joel serenaded me all the way to Dollar General. I’m not sure exactly why, but I cried. I felt instantaneously connected with something so good, like suddenly reuniting with the very best friend I ever, ever had. But why?

Because timing is everything, people. 

Some would say it's Jesus, some would say Buddha’s calling, some would say a screw is loose and it’s all just a stupid coincidence.  But I allowed myself to have that moment of clarity. I considered that song played for a reason, when it could have so easily been one of countless others. It wasn’t just any song. It was the one that led me back to writing something good for my soul. It made me revisit my own purpose in writing and how I love to spend time with words. 

The Piano Man sang me a memory, and after a long absence from writing,  I hope that you’re feeling all right.

Our Spotted Hound Says Goodbye

They don’t write obituaries for dogs. At least, they don’t run them in newspapers.  But like so many families with pets, ours feels compelled to honor the memory of our lost canines and cats with something more than a swift and painful goodbye at the veterinarian’s office, which is what happened yesterday with our dear old boy, Spottie.

Spottie found us 15 years ago. He showed up out of nowhere in our front yard and cast a spell over our then seven-year-old son, Sam. The boy presented his newfound friend to me, the mother of all soft hearts, and announced that he was keeping him. There was no collar or identification of his owners. It wouldn’t have mattered. I’ve seen a lot of bonding periods between dogs and kids. Never has there been one that melded any faster. You would have come closer to separating oxygen from the air with a garden rake. 

Of course, the instant a new dog appeared on the premises, our daughter Katie wasted no time in loving him. There was something about that tailless white dog with black spots and pointy ears that proved dogs have souls. Spottie arrived full grown, probably a year old, but he acted like a very old friend, someone who already knew your heart and where to find the bacon.

Fortunately for us, no one came to claim him. My husband Steve made a meager attempt to establish Spottie as an outside dog. That lasted about two hours, just long enough to endear himself to his new daddy and to our beloved Winnie dog who was dying of cancer. She accepted him without question, and Spottie found himself inside, belly up on the carpet, further upping the ante on just how completely irresistible this angel dog could be.

Life loves to show us that timing is everything. I don’t believe for a second that Spottie materialized out of nowhere by accident. He slipped seamlessly into our lives and eased our grief when we took Winnie on that last car ride to the vet. Spottie more than filled the space. He was obedient, yet playful; loyal yet friendly; fearless, yet gentle. The dog was our super hero, a calming constant throughout the years who won favor with everyone, even our sore-tailed cat, Matilda. It is astounding to consider our children were in second grade and kindergarten when he graced us with his presence. They are now in college.

When you are a dog lover and you live long enough, you will no doubt feel the loss of a beloved friend. Words never do much to shore us up during this kind of loss, but memories have a way of soothing the raw edges, especially when those memories evoke the undeniable solace of  unconditional love.

Age and arthritis took their toll on Spottie. He was blind. And deaf. And diabetic. His hindquarters hadn’t worked well in years. Stairs proved to be his most formidable foe. He never stopped, though. He showed us how to go with the flow and recognize the simple rewards of ordinary days, where a tummy rub and a piece of cheese can be pretty darned awesome.

Spottie taught us well. He lived an exemplary life of love, trust, tolerance and forgiveness (even for Matilda). He would remind us, even today—especially today—that life is a gift of opportunity to simply be the good and constant friend in the lives of others. And then there’s spaghetti. There’s always glorious spaghetti.

Godspeed, Spotter Dawgie. We love you!

Birds, Biloxi and Being Home

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.

Katie Mo

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.