The Snow Plows of Mobile Post #28

Snowplow in Oswego County - this is not nearly what they often get!

       It’s cold out again, in the low 30’s, which is pretty unusual for Mobile, especially in December.  The one thing that Mobile does have in common with Syracuse is the type of cold – damp and bone chilling!    Here it comes off the bay, and there it comes from Lake Ontario.  Either way, aside from the snow, 30 degrees is 30 degrees.  And another thing, a cold house in Alabama is no different than a cold house in New York.  The difference is when you walk outside; you don’t need that heavy winter wardrobe of snow boots, wool socks, mittens, scarves, and multiple coats.

        It was my first winter in Mobile on one of these cold, breezy nights when I had my first experience with the snowplows in Mobile.  To tell that though, it is crucial that Mobilians fully understand the snowplows of Oswego and Onondaga County.  Watching the news here, we see many tractors with plows moving snow, hence the perception that, that is what a snow plow is.  Those are snow plows but typically the kind that are owned by smaller contractors or individuals – or perhaps in states where they barely get snow.

This was either the storm of 66 or 76.  

There are NO hills on the side of the road.  

 That is pure snow folks!

        Oswego and Onondaga County has the best snow plows in the country.  They are huge and, in spite of the large amounts of the snow, do a great job of keeping the roads as clear as possible.    In Oswego County however, where the snowfall often dwarfs Onondaga County, the plows are out in full force and even when it's not safe to drive, it is never long before a plow comes along to provide your best shot at getting where you need to go if you follow right behind it.  The plows are out 24/7.

        A typical sound in the north during the snowy months is the sound of snowplows – much like the sound of the garbage trucks anywhere.  Then you hear the motorized plow lifting up, the hard, cold metal hitting the snow covered pavement as it moves forward, then backwards, over and over, moving the snow.  Some of the large grocery stores and malls allocate parts of their parking lots for the plows to dump the snow.  It has to go somewhere!  As the plow backs up, the typical warning beeps come on, over and over all day and night.  In the city you can hear it blocks away and eventually it is a background sound that you are no longer conscious of.

        It was a cold January night in Mobile and I was laying in bed plotting the holes and gaps I would be filling in the next day to keep the cold air out.  In my exhaustion, I was thinking how glad I was that the cold ‘stopped there!’ meaning that, though it is cold inside, a light to medium coat and scarf are really all that is typically needed.  I was relishing at how glad I was to be in the south as I drifted off to sleep.

        It didn’t take long, however, to hear the plows; the engines that sounded similar to the garbage truck.  In my drifting state, I thought, “Oh, the garbage truck!”  As I slipped further into that dream state – I could hear the snowplows coming out and then the hard metal hitting the pavement.   Over and over for the next couple of hours, I could hear those plows slamming down, plowing the snow, then backing up and doing it again.  The sound went on all night, all the while, me thinking I was in my old bed in Syracuse.

This is Mobile in the Winter

        The next day, I remembered this and laughed it off as a dream, thinking that those sounds were so embedded into my being that I had just dreamed it.    Then that night after drifting off to sleep, the same thing happened; The engine of the trucks, the plows coming out and hitting the pavement, the snow being scooted, the back-up alarm and then the inevitable clanging of metal as the plow is moving or shaking the snow or moving to the next spot.   After several nights of hearing this in my sleep, I made a deal with myself to force myself awake and get to the bottom of it.                                  

        It was about 2:00 a.m. several nights later when I was finally able to force myself awake.  Now Barry our Biologist – who knows everything – is a night owl and I knew that he and Georgia – his girlfriend – would still be up.     I forced myself out of the sleep to ascertain whether this was a flashback or if it was real.   It was real alright!  But why on earth would there be snowplows in Mobile, a place where school gets cancelled if it snows in North Carolina, and one where I haven’t seen a drop since I’ve lived here.  

        I texted Barry our Biologist and asked what that noise was and shared that it sounded like snowplows.  He was amused as he explained that what I was hearing was the shipping containers at the port on the bay, about a mile and a half away.  The shipping containers are what we commonly see on the back of 18-wheelers or the cargo boxes on trains, only they are coming off the ships to trucks and trains or being loaded on the ships from trucks or trains.  The engines I heard are the equipment that lift the containers.  Apparently this gets done mostly in the middle of the night.  The sound of the plow hitting the pavement was actually the containers being placed on the ship, train or truck.  The back up sound was the machine as it went from container to container.  The sound was identical!

Mobile Shipping Containers at the port

Another view of Mobile Shipping port

        These sounds had been here all along but, being in a new place, I was conscious of the many other new sounds as mentioned in earlier blogs.  These noises only came to the forefront when the weather and conditions (inside the house – cold drafts) lined up with the scenario in the north during snow season.   I am conscious of those sounds all year long now and, rather than think of snow, I wonder, what is in those containers;  where did they come from, and where are they going?

A Moment In Time #27

        I was in the kitchen tonite making hot cocoa for Shanon & I, (cappacino for me) to take into our cold living room and watch a Christmas movie on TV and wrap up in blankets.  I was sharing with her about a movie I had watched last night, The Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood.  It took years for me to watch that as the title did nothing for me.  I told Shanon that this movie ought to be mandatory for every girl in her twenties.

        Without spoiling the movie for those who still may want to give it a shot, it personifies a journey we all go through; seeing our parents as human.  As one thing often leads to another, so it was when I began sharing with her the first time I had looked at my own mom and saw her in her wholeness, a child, a teenager, a young mother, a middle-aged mom, and then, though she was only 40, I saw her as an old woman reflecting back on her life.

        We were at Disney World.  Mom and Charlie had   loved to go there and jumped at any chance to take us kids even if it had to happen weeks apart due to schedules.   Chuck and Mike (the two youngest) were nine and ten years old.  My step-sister, Christy, was 12.  I was fifteen.   

        We were passing by an open-air restaurant where a band playing Chuck Mangione music was on the stage.  Mom stopped to watch and the boys were restless to move on.  I waited patiently – inwardly angry that she would be so selfish to stop when she knew how anxious the boys were to explore. But I knew that pushing her would not speed things up so I stood next to her pretending to be interested, all the while keeping an eye on the two boys and waiting for an opportunity to get us moving again.  Finally, the song was over and we started walking away.  Then they began playing Mangione’s song, “Feels So Good.” 

        Mom stopped again to watch and seemed frozen.    I goaded her to keep going until something happened that I will never forget. I saw how mesmerized she was by the music and realized how selfish I had been to not give her this few moments to feed her own soul.  And yes, I mean her soul! 

        As I looked at her, it was as though all time was then and I could see her whole life – beginning to end; her as a child, the youngest of nine, born when her mom was 41 years old, and basically raised by her sister who was ten years older.  Grandmaw was so busy with the drama of the older siblings:  a 33 year old sister in an abusive marriage, pregnant with baby number six and died on her back porch while picking up one of the older kids; Mom's brother who spent a year in the hospital with TB; another brother at war;  mom grew up more as one of the many grandchildren then one of the children, especially once Grandmaw had to help raise Aunt Mary's kids.

        On this day, I saw a lost, lonely, girl always in the background left to figure things out all by herself.  Then there was the teenage Mom, vying for attention, marrying Dad at seventeen, losing her first baby at age nineteen and having her first five kids by age twenty-five – the fifth being me.  Then she was a young lady who, by the time I was born, had been moved all over the United States as a General Electric (GE) wife.  I had thought she was so mature until that moment, when I could see the scared, vulnerable girl, a child at heart, doing the best she could to raise her babies so far from home, with no family nearby, and constantly being relocated each time she tried to settle in.

        Then there was Chuck and Mike – born five and six years after me.  We moved to the dark, cold winter-land of Syracuse, New York only months before Chuck was born.  Again, another major life event in a new state, with no family support.  I remembered how Mom struggled with the weather and the temperament of the people who, in our middle class neighborhood, were far more rough and gruff than Mom was used to.  Her soft temperament and gentle spirit was no match the malicious gossip, bullying and competition that went on in that neighborhood with both adults and kids.

     I saw Mom’s passion for writing songs and knew that this was a defining moment in her life.  Mom could have a conversation with a stranger and then write a beautiful song telling a story that the stranger had shared but could never have articulated it in the way that she did, and one that, otherwise, would have never been told.  People told things to Mom that they typically would not have shared at all.  Mom had a way that made people want to talk to her, perhaps because she was so non-judgmental and made them feel comfortable sharing not-so-comfortable information.

 I saw and felt her years of frustration of being surrounded by people who did not believe in her enough to share in her dreams; older siblings who laughed at her for no other reason than she was their baby sister and they did not have the vision for anything beyond their own narrow scope of the world.

        But the worse part was when I saw Mom as an elderly woman, looking back at her life with regret at the things she could have done but didn’t – simply because she had believed those who told her she couldn't.  It was a transitional moment for me as well, one where I vowed to never, ever, stop Mom from enjoying 'the moment' again.  I didn’t want her life to end with her having regrets.

       

        I saw Mom as a whole person; her inner child, her beauty, pain, laughter,  vulnerability, frustration and her potential – and longing to do more.  I loved Mom more than ever at that moment and I too, didn’t want it to end.  I wanted to stand there all day, listening to “Feels So Good” and watch mom, herself like a child at Disney, mesmerized by music that carried her into her dreams.  I nearly burst out crying – just as I have many times since when I hear that song.  A sweet sadness!  

        When the song ended, Mom snapped back into the moment and continued along as though we had never stopped. The music went on but Mom kept walking.   It was me who dragged my feet now, telling her that we could stay longer and listen to the music.  Perhaps we would get a table and sit.  But now her main concern was to get the boys to The Pirates of The Caribbean, one of her favorite rides. The magic of that moment - as painful as it was sweet - was gone.  Mom had traded it up for more magic moments with her kids in a world where we could continue to dream big dreams for the whole rest of the day.

Thank You For Mixing With Us Post #26

            It was the last day of a three day conference in New Orleans.    On this day, we had breakfast, closing words, and then a 3 ½ hour bus tour of New Orleans; from the beautiful Carrolton district, through the Garden and Warehouse districts, Lakeview, the French Quarters, and into the more Katrina ravaged Ninth Ward, St. Bernard’s Parish, and a short stop thru the City Park.

    
Riding through the streets lined with Live Oaks and Magnolias draped with Spanish moss, my mind was multi-tasking as I was putting together the pieces of a conversation that took place after breakfast between me and a native of New Orleanean.  He was a light-skinned black man who appeared to be in his late sixties or early 70’s.     As we were getting ready for the bus tour, this gentleman came to me to say goodbye.  I hadn’t met him personally yet, but he motioned to me through the crowd and made his way across the room to talk to me.  

   I had noticed him several times in the previous two days and had actually tried to think of an excuse to go up and talk to him but my northern background told me that to do so, would be too forward.  I watched him quite closely, as a matter of fact, because though he is black, he looks just like my own Grandpa Deaton.   The shape of his head and face, his glasses, his build and shape, height and weight, all looked like he could have been Grandpa’s black twin.  

I watched him to see if he was as wise as Grandpa.  Was he as kind?  Grandpa always had a global vision of the world.  Rather than look at only what was before him in the ‘here and now’, he looked at things like human rights, women’s rights, and always thought about the legacy his generation would leave behind.  He died in 1998 at the age of 101.

            

            Born in 1897 and growing up in the hills of southeastern Kentucky, most people there lived a very narrow existence and never got out of the hills.  He often told stories of the things he had witnessed that, as a young boy, made him determined that the curses of the hills would not be passed down his bloodline.  

As an early teen and the oldest of several siblings, he often worked out of state, only coming home on weekends or holidays.  His parents agreed to let him go so that they could find out what people ‘out there’ were doing. 

Grandpa would come home and tell them things like, “Out there, people give their babies middle names!”  Thus he was entrusted with naming most of his younger siblings.  “Out there, the kids go off to college!”  Grandpa worked through his late twenties and served in the military in order to put his younger siblings through college because he knew that otherwise, his parents could not afford to send them.   Then he, himself in his late 20's, went to Berea College, in Berea, Kentucky then married at age 30.

 My dad shares that they were always taught equality and were not allowed to use racial slurs in their house.   One day, he, his brothers and Grandpa, were riding horses through the woods at dusk.  They looked ahead and saw men from the KKK riding in the distance.  Grandpa instructed them to stop and remain quiet, hoping the KKK would go by and not notice them.  Suddenly, one of the men – whose face was covered – spotted them and yelled, “Identify yourselves immediately!”  Grandpa said, “Its Ed Deaton and my boys out here hunting for dinner.”  The men began laughing and said, “Oh!  It’s Ned!  Hey Ned!  Ya’ll go on now!  Your okay!”    This scared Grandpa so much that people he knew (but never knew who they were) was actually part of the KKK.   He began making plans to move his family out of the hills.  They moved to Fairborn, Ohio a year later when my dad was twelve. Back then, that was a huge move.  My grandma had never been out of the hills and this was a big sacrifice and adjustment for her.

 Throughout my own college years, Grandpa was my pen pal and we wrote weekly.  Though I’m a girl, he ended every letter with, “Now Mary Beth!  You get your education now!  Besides loving and serving God, that is the most important thing you can do!”  I looked forward to his letters and felt sorry for my siblings and cousins who did not experience the joy of looking forward to his letters; so I thought, until last year at our Kentucky family reunion my siblings and cousins shared that he wrote them during their college years also.  We marveled at how ahead of his time he was; though he was a conservative Christian, he believed in the rights of women, and certainly in the equality of blacks and whites.

So, back to the present, for two days, I had watched this man and wondered if he was as wonderful, wise, and gentle as Grandpa was.  Is there anyone who could remotely step into his shoes?    I wondered if he liked white people the way Grandpa liked black people.  That is why I was so shocked when he motioned to me and made his way over. 

When he got to me, I looked into his eyes and wondered what he could possibly have to say.  His gentle eyes displayed a familiarity that I had only seen in Grandpas eyes:  Wisdom, caring, gentleness, and knowledge.  Yet I was still curious:  ‘Why me, when I had been so curious about him?’  He grabbed my hand and shook it, then he said, “Mam, thank you for coming to this conference! “  ‘The pleasure was all mine!’  I thought.   I was curious why he, just another attendee like me,  felt the need to thank me for being there.  He continued, “Thank you for mixing with us!”  It took a minute to sink in what he meant.  I stood without words and stared into his eyes as he went on.

            He told about a woman who, though he never shared her color, I assume is white.  “Back in the 60’s during the race marches, she walked right next to our family in every march.  She stood by our side every step of the way and has ever since!  She has been to every family wedding and funeral; even two weeks ago she flew in to attend my nephew’s funeral!”  He went on to tell how much she has meant to them and that they consider her family. Then he expressed how important it is to keep these types of relationships going well into future generations.

            He came back to the present day and told me what an honor it was that I was willing to ‘mix’ with them.  I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say, then said the only thing in my mind!  “I wouldn’t have it any other way!  The honor is  mine!”  I was serious!  Up until then, I had barely noticed that, though there were a lot of white people there, we were the minority.  It never occurred to me that my presence would mean anything to anyone.   

            I stared into his eyes fighting back tears.  I realized he has seen far more in his lifetime than I could ever imagine.  Not only did he have the advantage of age, but he lived in the south where the racial divide was greater but also much of the healing was initiated and carried out.  This man had seen things that I, in my short 40+ years could not even fathom.     

      The more I looked at him, the more familiar he became.  His friendly eyes told me he was a man who looked far beyond the scope of the world that surrounds him.  He has a global view and understands the concept of how our actions today will affect generations to come.  He understands the power of legacies.  I continued to stare, mesmerized, as though my own Grandpa were paying me a visit.  Yup!  He definitely filled Grandpa’s shoes!  He carried the baton and passed on the light to as many people as possible.  I couldn’t think of a more memorable way for my trip to have ended!  I left with this strange feeling that, somewhere in the seam of time, when the molds were being made and the fabric was being cut, he and Grandpa were cut from the same clothe. 

Behind the 'Trick or Treating Scenes! Post # 25

Best silhouette ever!  Sally Irvine 

            Last year (2009), during the Halloween season, I wanted to write about what really goes on behind the scenes in the historical districts on Halloween night.  The reason for the year delay is that in Mobile, a place where one celebration runs into the next, by the time I could have followed up on my Witches of South Georgia post, it would have been outdated. 

            My first Halloween season in the south rolled in with a sense of dread.  I had always hated it up north because the tacky decorations were the prelude to the color being drained out of the landscape and the stark, long, cold, silent, winters.     Nothing was pretty about this season and I was not looking forward to having my beautiful, southern, Magnolia and Live Oak tree-draped, historical life littered with a bunch of ugly Halloween decorations.  Furthermore, Mom was dying and it was likely that the culmination of the season would coincide with her passing.

            As mentioned in last years post, I was pleasantly surprised that, in Mobile, the décor of Halloween fits quite nicely with the landscape; the elegance, and the historical nature of the town.   I've seen formal china table settings donned with fresh fall flowers, sparkly pumpkins and ghosts, with black and gold wine bottles to maintain the elegance while celebrating the season of the dead. The 'spooky' takes on less of a ghoulish theme (not as many body parts, blood, and gore) and brings out more of the historical, ghostly ambiance that exists here at all times of the year.

My friend, Laura Williams 

            I was amazed at the involvement of the community on Halloween night; neighborhoods filled with trick-or-treaters, porches filled with adults sipping wine and handing out candy.  I noticed the gorgeous witch’s hats and costumes on people who  happily handed out candy and the beautiful southern men leaning on the columns of their porches, watching and sipping wine - some still in their suits from work.  People chatted back and forth from porch to porch until they ran out of candy and the trick or treating ended at around 8 pm.  Not being fully integrated in the community at that point, when things slowed down, Shanon and I went home.

           

Food arriving at House 1

 It wasn’t until the next year that I fully understood the secret of what happens afterward.  We were invited to hang out on the porch of some friends and hand out candy. The host was making a chicken chili so I offered to bring homemade seafood chowder, red wine, and candy to add to the pot.   Others arrived as we did, also bringing food.   Throughout the evening, we sipped wine and munched on cheese and crackers, hummus, hot artichoke dip, and other homemade snacks, all the while rotating shifts for handing out candy. 

         

   We socialized, just as I had observed last year, with neighbors from nearby porches and it was pre-set that our host’s house and the houses on each side would be having our ‘after trick-or-treat party’ together.  Some people were still dressed in their business attire, some wore witch or warlock hats, or jeans, or costumes.   The point is, it didn't matter.

            When the streets quieted down, the porches and homes liven up as houses group together – usually in threes, to share food and drinks.  Each house had different main dishes, various desserts, drinks, and other snacks.  Our house had the Chicken Chili and my Seafood chowder, along with sausage rolls, hot dips, and lots of other healthy and unhealthy foods and desserts.  The third house hosted the red beans and rice – a staple food in the Deep South that no party is complete without..

             We started at the first house to graze, doing our best to save room for the next two houses.  People from other neighborhoods and our church moseyed in and, once again, we found ourselves meeting a ton of new folks, eating a ton of good food, and having a ton of fun.  I thought back to the Halloweens of my northern past; the starkness of the bright, gory decorations with a near colorless background, the two to three hours of fun watching the happy children that ended abruptly as each house ran out of candy.  Doors would slam shut, lights would go off and, house by house, the party would be over.   They had done their job and the doors would close for another year.  It was often about the only time neighbors saw each other and I was sad upon realizing what my kids and I had missed over the years, but certainly glad to now be a part.

            By the time we got to our last house, it was near 10:00 p.m. and even in that late hour, we enjoyed the delicious Red Beans and Rice.  We stayed till nearly 11:30 and the house was still full when we left, with ages ranging older children to people as old as 90 years old.  Yet, the owners of all three homes were still happy, the guests were happy, and nobody was falling over drunk.  They were just doing what southerners – particularly Mobile – always do: celebrating one more time.

            I thought of the years I had dreamed of this place - though had no idea it really existed.  Perhaps I longed for a world that was more kind, gentle, colorful, and warm, and where time is slowed down enough to fully enjoy the beautiful backdrop of natural beauty, both in town and in the neighboring country areas.    In one year in Mobile, I had been to more parties and events than in the previous 25 years combined, yet I am less harried, more relaxed, and life moves much slower.  A lot happens between 5:30 and 7:30 pm.

I thought of the hard times of the previous few years; a divorce, financial stress, the death of my step-mom, and Mom’s brain injury all in one year – 2004, which I affectionately don “The year from hell!”.  I compare it with the culture of Mobile where people find a reason to celebrate regardless of what life throws your way. And as I look back over my life, I see how the culture and environment up north made good days average and bad days hell.  My biggest regret is not knowing that geographical location makes such a huge difference in ones overall outlook or how we experience life in general.  I had bought into the lie that there is no such thing as a geographical cure.  It seemed that from 2004 on, my NY life was kicking me out the door - where all the reasons to stay just disintegrated before my eyes - and the risk of leaving, when I weighed it with that of staying, showed that I had absolutely nothing to lose.  

What I didn't realize is what I would gain by taking that leap;  seeing and experiencing life from a whole different vantage point.  Financially, and during the last few months of Mom's life (after moving here), it wasn't easy.  But how I felt and was able to experience those bad times made all the difference in the world.  Though many in the north thrive on the cold and colorless seasons - and maybe even the overall aggressiveness of the people - I am sad for those sweet spirited people who are stunted or dying there and who may never know a life more suitable to them, regardless of where that place may be.  It makes me wonder about other places and sometimes I dream of traveling to experience more cultures nationally or abroad because I have learned that we don't truly know who we are until we experience ourselves and our outlook on life in different contexts. I'm sad for people anywhere who are unhappy but accept a  life that was fed to them simply because it is familiar or easier to stay than to venture out.  The past two years has been a time of rest, healing, and celebrating.  I don't know what the future holds but I am thankful to know what it's like to live in a place where both good and bad times are viewed as an opportunity to celebrate just one more occasion, just one more day.  

Big Band in the Crystal Ball Room Post # 24

             

                    Washington Square Park is in my neighborhood and is absolutely beautiful!

         Like children drawn to the Pied Piper, I’m drawn to historical places, particularly those set in Victorian and/or garden settings.  Mobile is like that, which is one reason my spirit is so settled here.  Each house, building, garden, or cemetery has a story to tell.  Many are told by locals who were raised in a place where storytelling is part of the culture.  Like at my own family reunions in Kentucky, it is not unusual to be talking to a stranger who then says, “Well, let me tell you a story….”  Therefore, it seems only appropriate at this point to say, “Well!  Let me tell you a story!”

            I’ve shared previously that there was always a world in my head that I had no idea really existed until coming to Mobile. Yet here it is a gift that keeps on giving, one layer at a time.  Something I hadn’t experienced until recently was the movie-like setting of elegant dinners with live ‘Big Band’ music where people dine, drink wine, and dance between courses.  I often wondered "Where are those places and will I ever get to experience that?”   

 

            Then I found out that the Big Band music was returning to the Battle House Crystal Ballroom after thirty years.  The Battle House is another place I love to tour out-of-town guests; the art, the whispering arches (you have to come down here to learn that secret), and the many stories these walls tell.

            This was a dinner and music event.  An attorney friend of ours whom I knew was in the band and plays with Wet Willie, is actually the conductor and initiated the whole movement to bring Big Band back to Mobile.  That was an unexpected surprise learned only hours before going.

            We arrived at the hotel, handed our car over to the valet service and entered.  The Crystal Ball room is straight across the beautiful lobby and through a door.  However, a hostess who knew by our attire where we were going, greeted us warmly at the entrance.   She explained that we would be taking the elevator to the second floor and making our “grand entrance” down the marble staircase into the room.  We expected to find a line of people at the door but there was only a host to send us on our way.  The seating was timed so that one party at a time went down the royal staircase about every two minutes.

 Walking down into the candlelit room made me wonder about the many lives who have made this decent before; brides and grooms, Mardi Gras Kings and Queens, Governors, Congressmen, Confederate Officers and wives, the list could go on.  I wondered how they felt during their own entrance – though this night no attention drawn to who was coming in, just people-watchers who– after being seated – kept an eye on the staircase watching other parties come down.

            At the bottom, we were handed glasses of champagne and a third host seated us and introduced us to our waitress who literally catered to us for the remainder of the evening.  We were given the option of when we would like to eat and we chose to wait.  She filled our water glasses and placed our napkins on our laps while another gentleman brought us fresh bread. 

 
Balcony is in background, half way up the stairs.

            As we (I) drank champagne, we watched as party after party, many whom we knew, descended down the staircase, received their champagne, and were seated.  Our waitress made sure we knew things would be done at our pace and that this was our table (home base) for the evening. There were several other servers in black and white uniforms whose sole job was to watch the room and make sure everyone was comfortable and pampered.

            Our first course came an hour later.  By then, the band had started with some sets hosting a singer and some without.  Les and I danced and it didn’t take long to notice that everyone else was ballroom dancing and we were barroom dancing as though at the Bayhole in Sandy Pond, New York in 1979. Suddenly, I felt naked,  as though I were living one of those nightmares where you are sitting in school and realize you are in your underwear.  We finished the dance, laughing hysterically the whole time. I’ve always believed you haven’t fully lived until you've been in an extremely awkward situation and have no choice but to laugh your way through it.”

            For the first time in Les’s life, he agreed that dance lessons would be a good thing.  We talked with several people, many whom we had met at other events.  Some invited us to take ballroom dancing, promising that we would know everyone in the room if we did, and would be invited to even more parties and events – as if there aren’t enough things to do here.  But trying new things (good things) and meeting new people is always fun and ballroom dance is one more avenue.

            Our main course was brought out between dances – and yes!  We did dance again.  What was neat were the friendly people who immediately adopted us as new friends in spite of the spectacle we were on the dance floor.  Desert, Pecan Bourbon pie and coffee, were served much later and, though I swore I wasn’t going to eat it, I did.

Midway through the evening, we meandered to the balcony to watch the room.  The male soloist sang “New York New York” while the big band played and couples Waltzed on the dance floor – a beautiful sight without those two barroom dancers in the middle of them all!  As I watched from above - you know all of those dancers are madly in love with perfect marriages – it looked very much like the ballroom on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World where the ghosts are dancing in their gowns and suits. 

Again, I imagined those who are deceased but had danced on that very floor and wondered if they ever pay a visit to events such as this, just for one more dance.  I pondered who the last dancers were years ago when the last Big Band played, and the balls that allegedly hosted both Yankee and Confederate soldiers.   I looked at the older generation, many whom had waited for this historical night in Mobile, the Big Band’s return to the Battle House.

        My train of thought was broken when a woman began talking to us.  It wasn’t long before she motioned her husband up to introduce us and I realized we had, yet, more ‘new best friends’.    They invited us to sit at their table and afterwards we went out for a drink and now have plans to get together.

 

            I think back on that night, and the many beautiful times we have here in Mobile, a place where beautiful things happen every day, literally!  There are no Fridays, or Mondays, or Thursdays!  Every day is a day to celebrate!  I think of myself, just a girl trying to find her way in a world that didn’t make sense.  I realize how close I came to living out a life that was foreign to my spirit, one that didn’t allow me to live, love, and give in the way that my heart had told me I should.  

            Often, I lay in bed on the crest of dreams and wonder if some day, long into the future, there will be, like me, a girl standing on the balcony in the Crystal Ball Room wondering about the lives who have come down those stairs.  Will she see the wonder in the eyes of another girl who, long ago took a leap and landed in the middle of her dreams?  Will she see the girl on the dance floor, heel entangled with another dancers’, causing the shoe to fly across the floor, only to have it lead to yet, another friendship in this place called home?  Will she know that, had she been here during my time, we would have been friends?