Merry Christmas from Dixie Post # 40

 Last week I went to the best Christmas party ever!  There were two hosts.   One is a friend that I met on the street during an art festival when he and his beautiful lady were sitting in lawn chairs with a small table set up, sharing glasses of wine, gourmet cheeses and snacks.  It warranted a picture and, forever being the tourist, I asked if I could take a photo.  This led to a conversation that sparked a friendship and has opened the doors for fun opportunities for all of us – often inviting each other to cool events.  His lady friend – Lynn had paintings in the art show and they were going straight from there to the opera where he, John, would be one of the lead singers.  They are also ballroom dancers.  

Schoolhouse saved & moved to the estate

          The other host owns the property where the party was held as well as a chain of markets here.  The homestead is in the country on Mobile Bay where he & his wife and their grown children live in various houses connected by trails and long wooded driveways.  There are ponds, bridges, a water mill and lighted trails in the woods that lead to the bay.  But what was most impressive was the host’s desire to, not only preserve history, but to bring it to his family and then to share it with other people - like me.  

Church saved & moved to estate

There is a quaint old school house from Toumanville on deck to be torn down and he negotiated a deal to buy it, then moved it to his property to be restored.  He did the same with a beautiful chapel and a small general store that both narrowly escaped being destroyed and were also moved there and restored.

            We arrived at 4:40 in the afternoon, parking near an outdoor theater where a Blue Grass band was singing “Merry Christmas from Dixie”.   As I looked around at the water mill  next to the wood bridge that crossed a creek to the main house, the song seemed so perfect.  There were food and wine stations outside and in the school house was a room full of decadent appetizers, desserts, and yet, another wine and soft drink station.  The party-goers were free to roam the property to check out the historical structures and walk the trails.  Various musicians performed at the outside theater and the chapel with one group playing violins, cello, harp, and other beautiful instruments.  The weather was warm, though it cooled after dark just enough to need a sweater.  It was picture-perfect!   I love the country, especially in a woods-like setting; and the way the host blended local history into his family life just felt like this is the way life should be.

 But for some reason, this season – this year – has been particularly hard.  I find myself tearing up over  Christmas songs while shopping.  Though it’s been four years since Mom died and eight since losing my step-mom and step-dad, at the most unexpected times, the tears start rolling and that once familiar lump that lived in my throat from 2004-2009 returns without warning.  My life seems to be in review and things from that period rear their heads unprovoked. I find myself living in regret; regret for not being able to save Mom; regret for allowing other people to do the talking for me when I should have done it myself; regret for being too honest when I shouldn't have, and for words left unspoken that should have been said; regret that I was out of state taking care of Mom and unable to be with Sally when she died; sad that standing for justice is not always rewarded and that the truth does not always prevail.  Sadness and depression are not normal for me and I don’t like it, yet siblings and nieces have shared the same experience – a delayed reaction to those years which we all spent in survival mode; dealing with the two deaths after short-term bouts of cancer and four years of caring for Mom who was rendered an invalid from a brain injury.  There was no time to grieve!

For myself, I’ve learned not to go through a divorce, a life altering brain injury, and illness and death all in the same year;  each of which encompass loss and draw out friends who don’t understand.  It’s like being in a canoe heading towards a waterfall and those who are on the shoreline are either throwing bricks at you or yelling words of advice, and you are trying to figure out which is which.   The bricks will sink you for sure and the advice may or may not apply, and you are just paddling, grasping for any stick or log that floats by, hoping that it will get you to shore - though about half will ultimately drag you over the falls.  That was my 2004-2009!

            But then I go back to the party; the setting in the woods donned in history and I see some of that regret and sadness washing right over the water falls when I realize that we can’t control how other people respond, what they say, or what they believe to be true.  We can’t control brain injuries, sickness, or death.  But we can control the setting in which we experience those things, particularly the grief.  And in spite of all of the would’ve, could’ve, should’ves, I realize now that I controlled what I could – and that was my environment; what I see when I look out the window, the climate I live in, and the overall personality of where I live – which is much more empathetic.  And though I must still, at times, walk through the shadow of death, loss, sickness and regret, I have chosen my setting of where this will take place.  And though oddly, this delayed reaction hangs over me this year like a dark cloud, being there in the woods walking the trails, listening to music, eating the food, and sharing wine, I’m thankful that I get to go through this here in paradise.   And I thank the host (no name so the party doesn’t go viral next year) for making me a part, for sharing history and the beauty of his piece of heaven with me.    Thank you Mr. Host, and thank you Mr. John!  Merry Christmas from Dixie!

Walking In a Winter Wonderland #39

Mobile, Al Tree lighting, 2012

          Last night was the Christmas tree lighting in downtown Mobile and my first time to attend.  As soon as I stepped out of the car it was evident I was in for a treat.  The happy sounds of children laughing and playing permeated the air and the background Christmas music from the singer on the bandstand made the perfect holiday setting.  To the north side of the park, in the glow of the gas lanterns I could see perfect snowflakes floating in the air.  Wait!  ‘Floating?  Snowflakes don’t float!’  Yet these beautiful little ice specimens rotated in a circular motion, as though some invisible force was playing a game called ‘Keep the Snowflakes off the Ground!’ 

Mobile, Al - Bienville Square 2012

           There were extra lights brought in for the sole purpose of lighting up the snow as it fell out of the ‘sky’.  I thought back to 2010 when Mobile County got its first snowfall in nearly thirty years.   The day before, our city proved faithful once again by calling every home (see my post ‘The City Calling’) to let us know school would be cancelled the next day due to the impending snow.  But it wasn't because they were afraid to drive in it, or didn't have the equipment; it was to give people the opportunity to enjoy it!  I remember many happy friends driving thirty miles to show their kids the snow – which never really accumulated.  I stayed home – fearing I would not reach my life goal, which is to never see snow again.  But seeing snow last night, well, I was excited!

                Like everyone else I, too, ran over to see it.  Not just to see snow, but I wanted to see fake snow!  I had never seen fake snow before, nor have I ever had the privilege of controlling the snow.  I liked that idea!   The temperature outside was just cool enough to enhance the atmosphere without that obnoxious cold blowing straight into your bones.   The ‘snow’ pirouetted in the air while children danced around the cold flakes and adults happily took pictures.   The music continued and in the center of the square, just below the band-stand, the Brandi Brown’s Ballet school presented several performances with ballerinas dressed in burgundy-red Santa dresses.   Next were a few food stands and a couple of other vendors.  I thought of several conversations I have had over the past couple of years with southerners who had never seen snow before and could not fathom why I never wanted to see it again.  When I would explain what life was like living in the Snowbelt, their faces would go from a dreamy nostalgia to wide-eyed shock.

                They held images of an idealistic life where everyone in the north needs no more winter clothing than cute, stylish (often high healed) boots, cardigan sweaters, scarves, and knit caps, and their evenings and weekends are spent happily frolicking in the snow - that is only about four inches deep - making snow angels and snowmen.   Then they go inside and drink hot cocoa, cappuccino, or Brandy by the fireplace while big, white, fluffy snowflakes gently fall outside the windows and the surrounding landscape, like a framed portrait, dons a cotton-like blanket that drapes off of rooftops and trees, with a finishing touch of icicles.  Oh!  And it often culminates in a romantic lovemaking session between lovers of every race, color and creed!  Now, I don’t want to wreck their sweet image but I wasn't going to lie to them when they asked why I never wanted to see snow again. 

Winter in Syracuse!   Yuk!

                 A cold house in Alabama is no different than a cold house in New York.  But sitting in a freezing house with chilling drafts coming through the windows, sometimes the memories come in, unsolicited, as though parading across the room begging for my recollection; those things that northerners take for granted and know no different.   Things like realizing that my pants from the knees down are no longer wet for five months out of the year from walking in the snow, or the stomping sounds that each person makes when they come into the house and stomp the snow off their shoes.  I could always identify who was coming through the door by the sound of their stomps regardless of where I was in the house.  And then there was the snow that melted on the floor near the front door and throughout the house that fell off our pants as we walked, and we’d step in the water in sock feet, then either changing  or wearing wet socks for the next couple of hours.  There is the layering of clothes; sweaters, coats, socks, and boots, just to go outside, which make just leaving the house a chore.   And shoveling our way up and down the sidewalk when leaving or returning home, and the white bumps that line the streets – one of which was our own car - and rotating our cars on odd/even days to accommodate snowplows were all more work just to get through the day.  Then there was the driving and not being able to see beyond my own hand, hoping that the car lights I was following didn't end up driving off a bridge because often, when one car goes off the road, ten or twenty more follow.   And on the icy roads, inevitably, there is always some idiot who thinks they are immune to the laws of physics until they spin out, hitting every car in their path. 

                Like most people from the north (though I wasn't native to the north), when I contemplated moving, I thought I would miss the seasons.  I didn't think there was such thing as Christmas without snow.  But having experienced life in both climates, the trade-off is far worth the quality of life in return!  Coming and going is simple.  No shoveling leads to more time for the people and activities that I love.  Lower cost of heat and supplies means more money for 'real' life.  Sometimes, when I see a person acting ‘not-so-nice’ or complaining about Mobile (which is far and few between), my first thought is, “Well, have I got a place for you!”   I secretly wish they could be banished to the Snowbelt for at least one winter because I’m certain they would come screaming back in repentance, recognizing what a great life they have here and never misbehave again.   

North Pole in Mobile, Al

                 There are people who thrive on the winter life.  They snowmobile, ski, and even make a living from the winter months.  And every so often, I run into someone here who swears they too would thrive in that type of climate and to them I say, “Then do it!  Why put off living the life you would love?”     But there is something about fake snow.  It is beautiful, it sets the mood and it makes people happy.  It brings about the desired results, which is to see snowflakes flying through the air when the world is lit up for Christmas and holiday music is playing in the background.  And when we are done, we can turn it off.  Yup!  Just turn it off!  I like that!  Yes!  I have found my paradise!

RIP My Sweet Friend Post #38

     For the past two weeks, I kept feeling an urge to message my friend, Jimmie Morris, to chide him to get started working on a book he had been thinking of writing, "Once Upon Paw Paw".  The thought came up many times and I put it off, thinking I'd do it next time I remembered.  I did remember on Monday.  I sent him a message through Facebook that said,

"Hey Jimmie, I have been thinking about your book - Once Upon Paw Paw.  This is a message from the Angel on your shoulder to encourage you to start writing if you haven't already.  I'm sure there are some wonderful stories in that head of yours that need to be shared with your Grand babies and future generations.  I will definitely read it and share it with my family as well.    Mary Beth"

     I don't know if he ever read it or not.  On that same day, he posted this on his page:  

"For all to know:  Mimi shared her most delightful Tailgate Dessert, Chocolate Pie, with Mee Maw, and a small Paw Paw slice.  Then she brought us a Apple Festival Gift of bread loaf with Cheddar Cheese, most delicious to the taste buds.  We love Mimi!" 

     I had only gotten on to send him that message and wasn't on for the rest of the day - I'm limiting my time near any electronic devices - but, after working on a project all day, I popped on late at night.  The first thing I saw was a post from Jimmie's page announcing that he had died in his sleep.  It must have just happened because his post was less than twelve hours before.

Just found this link on Channel 15 about Jimmie

     I had never met Jimmie in person.  He friended me after someone shared my blog post - "Big Band in the Crystal Ball Room".  Jimmie and his wife, whom he called 'Lady Margaret' lived with their children in Georgia in their elderly years - she still does.  But he is known throughout the Gulf Coast as 'The Voice of Mobile'.  During his history here, he MC'd the Senior Bowls, Mardi Gras Tableau's, and was involved in with the Mobile Pops.  I'm certain I don't know half the details of his life here.  But he, like me, loved Mardi Gras and the light, happy spirit of the City of Mobile and the Gulf Coast and he missed it terribly.

     Jimmie sent me a wonderful, encouraging note on FB regarding my blog and he became an avid reader.  We became fast friends and he cheered me on each time he saw that I was doing any of the things he loved to do.    What amazed me most is that Jimmie's sweet spirit was a light to so many people, even those he never met in person.  He was one of those people whose presence on FB was like a person who walks into a room and and the whole room lights up.  He lit up Facebook.

     But I wondered why I felt so compelled to give him that message - or word of encouragement - if he really wasn't going to have the time to write it.  Then I realized, maybe the message was for me.  So many times, we go through life and we leave things left unsaid; things left undone, unfinished business.  We let things hang like a limb being torn off, always thinking we will have the time to fix it, or say those words.  And then one day we wake up - or jump on Facebook - only to find out that the person we needed to share those words with is gone,  our words left unspoken and perhaps a path left empty that could have been taken.

     A year ago, I had felt compelled to befriend a young man.  I had never really talked to him but every time I saw him, something told me he needed a friend.   I knew nothing about his life or situation but I did know his family.   The man had been through a divorce and I was afraid of being misunderstood, though he could have been my kid.  Over and over I felt I should reach out.  Then one day, we found out he had taken his own life and I wondered, 'Would knowing he had a friend have made a difference?  If we developed a friendship would it have put him on a path to live?'  

     I began to wonder how many times kind words, healing words, offers of friendship, redemption, restoration, and encouragement make a life-changing difference for a person.  Yet we hoard them, allowing our own fear or even greed to keep them to ourselves.   I realize now that regardless of my encouragement to Jimmie,  he was not going to have time to write that book.  But one thing I am glad about is that I did send the message - just hours before he passed.  I'm glad I don't have to live with the regret of words I should have said, but were left unspoken.

Rest in Peace my sweet, sweet friend.

The Legend of the Government Presbyterian Church Secret Post #37

Every church has its secrets.   The Government Street Presbyterian Church is no different.  Yet the secret at our church is one that has been whispered into the ears of each person, one-by-one, over the years.  It was whispered to me after I had been there for a year or so.  I sit and watch as the same secret gets passed along to each new person at some point along the way and I wonder if their reaction mirrors my own.

                It had been about a year after I started attending GSPC and, for personal reasons, I had opted out of communion.  After much soul-searching, prayer, and consideration, I finally decided it was time to take that step of faith.  Our church is one of the oldest churches in Mobile and is in the National Historical registry.  Coming from a Loosy goosy church environment where worship was filled with a myriad of individuals resembling a bunch of intoxicated Roosters running around strutting their feathers, I found the liturgical order of service very intimidating at first.  I also feared it would be extremely lame and boring.  However, it wasn’t long until I found that without all of the ‘noise’ and chaos that was a product of ego and self-exaltation, I was able to hear the true message and cut to the chaff as to why we are there and what I am supposed to be learning.   One day, I did learn something; the secret of GSPC.

                The communion plate was passed and I took my parcel and waited for the plate to make its rounds for further instruction.   A prayer was said and I put the symbol of Jesus’s body in my mouth when suddenly a voice whispered the secret into my ear.   “OMGosh!  What is this?!?  Mmmm!  This is the most delicious, buttery, melt in your mouth communion biscuit ever!     Who knew that Jesus tasted so good?!?  Does Jesus know?  Wonder who makes this stuff?”, followed by a list of names of potential communion biscuit bakers.  Then another whipser, “Wonder what that has in it?  Does anyone have the recipe? I bet those ushers eat the leftovers? (Eyes squinted with a twinge of envy!)  Uh oh!  Will this break my low-carb diet?  How many calories were in that anyway?”

                I was embarrassed to tell anyone for fear of being too carnal until it came up in Sunday school class.  Apparently, my reaction was quite typical, though many also feared the focus would be lost if attention was brought to the secret so it became like the naked Emperor that no one talked about; at least not until a crisis happened!   The story goes like this:  The Scotch bread wafers are the secret recipe of a lady by the name of Merle Cane, a lifetime member of GSPC, who has since passed; but most members no longer remember communion without them.    Years ago, she - or maybe her successor - had to take a leave of absence and made enough dough for six months and put it in the church freezer, portioned for once-a-month communion services.  That morning, the assigned person would roll the scotch bread - portioned-for-that-month -  and bake it, then cut it into bite-sized squares for communion.  

                Our church feeds the homeless breakfast five days a week (and may I say the food is delicious!)    At that time, one of the homeless men stayed after regularly to help clean up.  He had earned his way to be entrusted with tasks unsupervised.  One day, he opened the freezer and saw all that dough in there.  A few months later he saw that it was still there and figured it was old and he was hungry so he decided to roll it out and bake it up for himself.  He enjoyed himself a wonderful feast of which, he had no idea was Jesus’s body and, he did indeed enjoy every buttery morsel.   

                The next time it was communion Sunday, the assigned person went to pull the out the dough and it was gone!  Disappeared!  Shock and horror filled the  prep team as though there were no other options at GSPC for communion.  They pulled out some loaves of bread and tore it apart.  Later that morning, communion was served and suddenly, in the midst of silent reflection, there were audible gasps throughout the quiet church.  Eyes flew open,  eye-contact was made from person-to-person and the mentally telepathic messages that flew around the formal, well to-do and highly educated congregation stripped away all pretenses of solemnity when the savory, sweet, buttery ‘Body of Christ’ that they were accustomed to had turned into mushy, tasteless, white bread.  The naked emperor could no longer be ignored!    Conversations started and people confessed their love of the GSPC communion wafers and many were determined to solve the mystery of the missing dough;  and even more important, to get our delicious communion scotch bread back!

                Various people and groups have access to the kitchen so it took a little detective work to get to the bottom of it and soon word got around.  But what I love more than the communion wafers, and more than the story itself,  is the reaction of the church – which is the part of the story that will probably otherwise never be told.  There was no witch hunt, curt words, insults, or gossip.   Nor were people misconstruing the culprits motives, or mixing their own Molotov cocktail spawning it on to a life of its own and damaging a reputation.   Rather, the members were amused and remember it fondly; and I'm certain many secretly wished it was they, themselves, who enjoyed the feast of the communion scotch bread.  True to southern form, it became a story; part of our story of Government Street Presbyterian Church and of the fabric that is woven into its wonderful history.    The subject once again became mute except for the whispers in the ears of newbies but the congregation grew even more fond of the ‘wafers’ because in the south, it is the stories, the love, and the traditions that makes food even more delicious.   The lady who began the ritual of the scotch cakes understood that food is an offering of love just as Christ offers us His love.   The reality is, that scripture tells us that when we live in Christ, we live more abundantly and I can’t think of a more delicious way to deliver that message! 

Somebody Loves You In Mobile POST # 36

When dad was a child, they lived in a house where you had to cross a swinging bridge to get to it.  They parked on the side of the road and walked across, 50 feet high over the Kentucky River.  Their house sat on the side of a mountain.

                Our family reunion was a couple of weeks ago and I missed it.  Growing up, every year we went to Jackson, Kentucky, a little town in the Appalachian Mountains in the Southeastern part of the state.  Back in the early 1900’s, my great-grandmother, on her death bed made her children promise that there would be a ‘Deaton’ reunion every year.  As the family was moving out of the hills to different parts of the state, or out of state, it was her dream that her decedents – of which I am one -  would never forget  our roots; at least the American ones.

As families grew, we had to rent a place to have it.

                We loved going to Jackson, because, for one weekend a year, we were famous.  Everywhere you looked  was our name; Dr. Deaton the physician, Dr. Deaton the dentist, Deaton’s Funeral Home, Deaton’s Hardware, this list went on.  The reunion actually starts in Ohio as a Friday night dinner between the ‘Ohio Folks’; our grandparents, Dad’s brothers and uncles and their families.  On Saturday, we’d make the four hour trip to the hills of Kentucky, often as a convoy.  We’d stop just outside of town for ice cream and then head to whomever’s house we were staying at and get ready for the Saturday evening dinner, filled with the traditional and authentic ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken, beans and corn bread – real corn bread that is made in a skillet with a heavier, grits like texture and, rather than cut it, you break pieces off – and the cheese potatoes, cheese grits, green beans Kentucky style, pound cakes, banana pudding, peanut butter cake, and that list too, goes on.  Perhaps they were trying to prepare us for much, much, more of the same the next day, at the reunion, where ‘everyone’ showed up.

Yearly trek down the tracks in Wolfcoal

                The kids often stayed at my great aunt Thelma’s house and her living room and spare bedrooms would be filled with siblings and cousins, on beds, floors and couches.  As cousins, we had a lot to catch up on and would giggle and laugh, sharing memories, until 3 or 4 in the morning.  (Aunt Thelma was a saint!)  Several houses in that quaint neighborhood were all Deaton families so for two days we would hop from house to house, and we were offered even more food and southern breakfasts wherever we went.  But on Sunday mornings, the day of the reunion, the kids (us) were always too tired to get up before 9 a.m., but other families would just be arriving into town.  We’d be laying there sleeping while lines of adults would step over and between us and we’d hear Aunt Thelma, or Aunt Jean, or Second Cousins Beth, Gail, or Dawn, giving a tour and we were the sight. 

                In the sea of kids, we’d hear our names, ‘That thayer is Theresa Ann, Franks daughter, and thayer is Virginia Ann, V’s daughter, and Tony Dee, V’s Son, and Christa Ann, Brant’s daughter, and thayer’s Murry Baeth, Brant’s daughter, and the list would go on as, in a half sleep stupor, we’d here them oohing and ahing over a bunch of drooling, sleeping kids.  After we were up and able to see what new relatives arrived, our star status would continue, as relative after relative would hug us and say things like, “Wha, Murry Baeth, aren’t you just the purtiest thing!  You’ve grown up so much!”  As we grew older, and often drove ourselves, we’d sometimes arrived into town late at night and, though we were welcome anywhere, we did not want to disturb anyone so we’d sleep in the car.  Or shall I say, any car that had an out-of-state license plate meant that they were a Deaton so we’d find the ones that looked the most comfortable and all get in separate cars to sleep.  In the morning, the cars would be surrounded by worried adults, all welcoming us with hugs, offers of food, and beds to go back in and sleep a little longer, and showers.  Their houses, like them, were always beautiful, meticulous, and there was nothing better than a warm shower with dove soap and a hot breakfast waiting.

Our family under tree @ cemetery (I missed that year)

                But the best memory of all, are the many, many relatives over the years who always told us how much they loved us!  In particular, was my Great Uncle Logan who would be sure to give each of us a big hug as we would be saying our goodbyes and he'd say, “No matter what happens, always remember, there are people who love you in Kentucky!”    And many times through my life, when the roads were rough, when failure was my only companion, or when my dreams shattered before my eyes, I could hear Uncle Logan softly whispering in my ear, “There are people who love you in Kentucky!” and somehow, that was enough to get me through. 

                Many of those beautiful, sweet spirited people have passed now and are buried together in a beautiful cemetery on the hillside as you enter the town of Jackson.  Their graves, like their houses and like themelves, are beautiful, meticulous, and peaceful.  And I think how important it was to them the legacy they would leave behind.  Deaton’s have never been ‘here and now’ thinkers, rather they think about what they will hand down to future generations.  And I think of that too!  I thought about that before ever having children, and I will continue to bring my own kids, and eventually grandchildren, and great grandchildren to the Kentucky reunions, and they will get the tour of the hills and be told the same stories over and over.  And they will be told about reunions of the past and the fabulous cooks who have long-since left this world.

                But now, Mobile is another part of our story, a new - or perhaps old - part, a place I want my descendants, friends and family to love and explore with me, and to call home - whether or not you ever live here.  And for all those I hold dear to my heart, I want to share the gift that Great Uncle Logan and my Kentucky relatives gave me.    Regardless of what happens in life, or how bad things get, how lonely you are, or how rough the road looks ahead, please, always remember, that there is someone who loves you and will welcome you in Mobile, Alabama.

Mother Mother Ocean POST #35

     Pirate Looks at 40 - Gulf Shores, Al July 11, 2010

          I remember the first time I ever saw the ocean, at nine years old on a family vacation at Myrtle Beach.  For some reason, the very thought of it, it’s size and vastness always terrified me yet, since I was a small child, there was a strong pull in the back of my mind to see it.  We arrived at our campsite after dark and, once it was set up, my dad decided to take my sister Sandy and I to the beach to see it.  He had told us stories of his three month adventure on a navy ship and we asked many questions about its size, depth, and the creatures that lived within – though this was pre-jaws so the thought of sharks never entered our minds.  It was a dark night with no moon when we walked down to the beach, which must have been somewhat near our campsite.  All I remember was hearing the waves crashing into shore but seeing nothing except billowing, shadowy figures walking the shorelines; just like us.  It was scary and I couldn’t wait to go back to our safe tent.  I know we went to the beach on the subsequent days but I have no recollection of the ocean during that trip.

               It wasn’t until, as a teenager spending my summers in Panama City, that I fell in love with the sugar white beaches on the Gulf.   The memories of the soft warm breezes and the smell of salt in the air, riding the waves – when there is no post-hurricane undertow - collecting shells, digging for sand dollars with our toes, and just listening to the sound of the waves lived in my mind when I settled in the north during my twenties, thirties and into my forties.

       The ocean called me every year as I watched the leaves change colors and drop from the trees.  I heard it calling during many winters while sitting in a window watching snow fly.  After the internet came out, the closest I could get to it was pulling up beach pictures, wishing I was there.  I fell in love with the ocean all over again after moving to the Gulf Coast and it comforted me during the loss of Mom, when I had no close friends to walk that part of my life’s journey with me. 

               The ocean still terrifies me!  Sometimes I lay awake thinking about its raw power, or the depth, or of tsunamis.   I lay sleepless with all kinds of horrible scenarios, vowing be more careful (not that I’m already not) and to never go out there in a boat (which I don’t).  As a child, Kare (my sister) and my biggest fear was falling asleep on the beach lying on a raft and waking up floating in the middle of the ocean and not seeing land.  We’d drum up such visions while lying in bed at night (when we should have been sleeping) and scare ourselves to half to death, even before we ever saw the sea.  On the Gulf, I have many friends who work offshore or who sail, or ‘cruise’,   most of whom have their own ‘rogue wave’ stories and I listen rapturously, hanging onto every detail that heightens my fear, only to find myself longing to be at the beach when weekend comes around, and never wanting to leave when it’s time to go home.

             One of my fondest memories is the post-oil-spill Jimmy Buffet concert.  Though there were tar balls on the beaches, the sand was still sugar white and, on that 95 degree day, there was a beautiful breeze that made the heat not only bearable, but comfortable.  The sun shone brightly in the blue skies and the gulf was as smooth as glass – or at least pretty waveless – and crafts from pontoons to sailboats, speedboats, and yachts anchored along the coastline in the emerald green water where Jimmy Buffet, a native from this area, gave his concert.  His song Margaritaville was originally written about Gulf Shores/Orange Beach, Alabama.  

            They had such a huge part of the beach blocked off so that we didn’t have to be in the crowd.  In fact, we sat on blankets quite a ways back and could see and hear perfectly.  We grieved for the damage that was still taking place that very day - around day 80 of the oil spill; as hundreds of thousands of gallons were spilling into the gulf daily.  We wondered if that could be the last of the Gulf as we knew it; or if life on the coast would never be the same.  We were scared of what the future held but basked in the moment of the ‘here and now’, grateful for what we had, and vowing never to take the ocean for granted.  Yet, her strong, beautiful, sparkling waters comforted us, and she reassured us, that she, too, was fighting for her own life.

               Now we prepare for Isaac, which is nothing new to the ocean.  As I sat on the beach yesterday watching the waves roll in, I wondered what it would be like on Tuesday.  ‘Would the very spot I’m sitting on be hundreds of feet offshore?’  ‘Will the beach be destroyed?’  ‘What does the angry sea look like when it is being tossed about by a storm with a name?’  I’m very curious, yet I don’t want to find out!  But one thing I do is look to the creator of the sea and give thanks for its beauty, its fierceness, and life-giving forces that we so often take for granted.    Hurricanes only hit on average, about every 23 years to the same area, though all season every year we are on watch.  But in spite of it all, on the Gulf Coast, the living is easy, gentle, and slow. As we prepare for the hurricane, I think of those I love near and far, and those who have touched my life along the way; and I vow to love more, live more, and play more.  

My mind goes back to the ocean, as terrifying as it can be, I think of its beauty, and for the first time, I understand and marvel at the similarities between our relationship with the sea and that with God.  We respect it, yet we are terrified of it.  It loves us whether or not we love it back.  It nurtures us and we work it and reap the fruits.  But if we cross it, or disrespect it, we reap the consequences.  An old saying comes to mind:  ‘Never turn your back on the sea, because you never know what it’s going to do.’   We don’t know what it’s going to do, and I do my best to follow that advice.   But I will always be glad that, in spite of my fear, I have fallen in love with the ocean because of the life it gives me, the peace it brings, its ability to wash away the not-so-good memories with each wave that rushes back out to sea, and it brings in fresh life to my spirit, telling me that, no matter how bad the storms may be, there will always be the morning after.

               

The Night of the Living Dead!!! Post # 34

Some stories are best left untold.  But time and again, this one has knocked on my door, begging to be written.  True to form, I ask my self, ‘Is there a moral here?’  As far as I’m concerned, if there is no moral, point, or plot, it’s not worth telling.  But there is a moral. There is a point.  But I’m not so sure there is a plot!

            It was late last summer, 2011 on a warm, sultry, southern night.   Arriving home late from the beach, we pulled in the driveway and, as usual, I stopped to observe the full moon hovering over the Live Oaks and drink in the smell of Sweet Ginger flowers that permeated the air.   I thanked God – as I had done hundreds of times over the previous three years – that I am in the south, particularly Mobile.

            A twinge of guilt lingered in the back of my mind because I was too tired to give a longer audience to a perfectly beautiful night.  But the no-see’ems won out.  As discussed in my post, ‘The Bugs of Mobile’, in order to truly enjoy the south, you must make peace with the bugs. I had done a great job!  It’s not uncommon to find one or two palmetto bugs in your house in the morning, always lying upside down as though they just flip over at sunrise.   But like anything, there must be a balance. 

            I turned on the living room light and saw a palmetto bug – some call them roaches though they’re not even related.  As usual, I found the nearest shoe that is not mine and killed it.   I went to grab a napkin and turned on the kitchen light.   On the wall was another one so I killed that one too, grabbed the napkin, picked it up and headed toward the living room to pick up the last one.  But there was another one so I killed that one too.  That was the first time I had ever seen more than two in a day.  Many times, we don’t see any. 

            I went to put the three gigantic bugs in the garbage.  In the dining room was another one.  At that point, I yelled into Les, who was ready to crawl into bed,   “Something’s not right here!”  True to form, as most men do, he basically patted me on the head telling me I was overreacting.  Then there was another one so I made him get that one.  Then another in the kitchen, three more in the ‘pod’ – a big room in the middle of the house that does nothing – and four in the bathroom.  At that point, I was not only frustrated with the bugs, but also at Les for minimizing it.  Then I realized that in every direction was two or three more.  Les was now concerned!  It was starting to look like the night of the living dead with an attack of gigantic zombie bugs infiltrating the house.

            We were renting and I knew that Barry our Biologist (and landlord), like Les, would never believe this – so I went to the garbage, pulled the previous 20 bugs out and put them in a baggie.  Twenty bugs!!!   NOT!!!  The bugs continued to materialize out of nowhere!  The more that came out, the more frantic I became because Chicken Liver Les would be quite content to leave me fighting the battle and I was afraid of not catching them before they spread to our bedroom or found hiding places.  It became evident that drastic action must be taken!  We were just going to have our very own, old fashioned, bug-stompin!

            I put on a pair of sneakers and ran around stomping them, grabbing them off the walls with napkins, swatting them with fly flappers, anything to keep them from getting away.  Les became frantic, asking me what the hell I was doing, to which I replied angrily, ‘Having a bug stompin party!’  I continued bagging them and was up to 65 when we got the brilliant idea use flea bombs.  We were de-fleaing the dogs the next day and bombing the house to prevent reinfection.  We bombed every room except our bedroom and locked ourselves in for the night.  At least we would be safe in there!  The bugs thought so too!

            About twenty minutes later, Les was sleeping and my adrenalin was still up so I was reading.  Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a bug running up my closet door.  Les assured me there was only one.   As I stood up, I saw three more following their buddy up the wall.    Again, I went on a killing rampage while Les pulled the blankets over his head laughing.  We saw no more that night but in the morning, it looked like a bomb had gone off!  Hmm!  One did!  There were over 100 more.  I bagged every one of them and told Les to take them to our Biologist so he would believe it!   But Les felt that was over doing it.  I had called and told Barry what happened.  Les ran into him outside and he smirked and said, “Were there really that many?”  Les replied, “There was a lot!  I quit counting at 30!” 

            He came in to assure me he supported my story and shared the dialogue.  “Thirty!?!?!  Why did you tell him 30 !?!?   Now he will never believe it!”  I was furious but Les swore that by saying he stopped counting at 30 Barry got the message.  That day Les went sailing and I re-bombed the whole house and went away for five hours, then came back and bleached the house from top to bottom.  We only saw about three bugs the whole rest of the time we lived there.  However, I was petrified it would happen again.  I was telling my sister what happened when she said, “Something had to have changed for them to come in like that!”  I realized we had had a storm a few days before and there was damage to our laundry room wall AND a large live-oak branch fell in the back yard, apparently their home!  They decided that our house would be quite adequate.  We removed the branch and did wall repair.

            About a week later I got a text from Georgia, our biologist’s girlfriend that said, “We had the night of the living dead last night!  Now Barry believes you!”  Apparently, since our house was no longer hospitable, they moved on to Barry’s.  (Karma!  J)  They warned us they were bombing and advised us to do a second round and warned other neighbors as they are prone to keep going until they find a new home! 

            The moral of the story is, much of drama in life is not about what happens but how we react to it.  On the night of the living dead, we were just starting to catch up financially but were not over the hump.  We nearly went to a hotel for a couple of nights stretching our already tight budget, and fought the knee-jerk reaction to call the landlord and throw a fit, causing a good relationship to sour.     Sometimes we get hit with too many bad things at once and the tendency is to overreact and tap out our resources (emotionally, financially, relationally, and physically).  Minor hiccups turn into huge, blown-out-of-proportion monsters where lives, relationships, reputations, health, and finances are damaged – sometimes beyond repair.  When we are seized by an onslaught of bad luck, sometimes all we can do is have an old fashioned bug stompin’, squashing one problem at a time until the barrage slows down enough to clean up the mess and reassess.  But the reality is, if the worse thing that happens today is an invasion of big, zombie palmetto bugs, then life is good!  Real good!

                        

'I' is The Queen!!! POST #33

Another magical night in Mobile – like so many in the past four years. There are too many factors that fed into Monday night; the night that I was Queen! So many life-long prayers were answered in such a simple, symbolic way and it was the most fun I ever had.

I ‘m a dreamer and often see the good in people when others can’t, yet I have a very hard time accepting credit for my own accomplishments and have often shot myself in the foot by passing it off too quickly. Though none of us could accomplish anything without the help of others, when recognition comes my way, my first instinct is to look at who else I should be passing the credit to, or who I should be pulling along. I’ve always preferred creating stars rather than being the star and often have felt embarrassed and self-conscious, like somehow, I didn’t really deserve it, or like an imposter where someone would stand up and yell, “She’s really not that great!”

Mobile has helped tremendously with this (see my post – “Legs of Ballies”) yet I didn’t realize how much so until Monday night. Two weeks ago, Les pointed out a plea for volunteers to dress in Mardi Gras attire and parade into a CEO convention to let out-of-towners know about the tradition that is fairly unique to this part of the country and - I must add – started here in Mobile! Always jumping at the chance to share the magic of Mobile, I immediately responded and decided to solicit a group of ten volunteers to participate.

As the night approached, I became less interested and more self-conscious. As my group of volunteers grew, then thinned, the thought of pulling a no-show was very strong. The event was at the Battle House – the same venue as my ‘The Big Band in the Crystal Ball Room’ Post… and once again, the grand marble stair case would come into play. I had written in the ‘Big Band’ post about Les and my own a grand descent down the staircase, though unannounced. This time, our entrance would be announced!

We arrived at our holding suite to an extremely large ice bucket of beer, wine, and beverages. While the CEO’s were at a reception in the grand ballroom, we were treated our own party while getting ready. It turned out that 12 of my recruits showed and there was about 35 total. It took about two minutes to become totally comfortable with mostly strangers and, in Mardi Gras fashion, the fun began. Though we arrived at 7 p.m. our tableau would not be until after 8:40 p.m. We had been there nearly an hour when the organizer came up and asked if I would be the queen. That was the first I had heard there would actually be a
queen that night.

My first thought was, “Why me?” I looked around and could see many other ‘Queenier’ women and was ready to point out and nominate them instead. But it was just a thought! A very, very, fleeting, fly in and right back out, thought! ‘Why, Of course I’d be the Queen!’ I heard myself say. And from that point on, I was swarmed with people attaching a long, extended robe - that clashed with the color of my dress - onto my shoulders and my only thought was, “It clashes! We can do this at Mardi Gras!” Then, on came the crown, and for the next 45 minutes, there was a barrage of pictures being taken with the queen. Next we were summoned to the top of the staircase.

The story of Mardi Gras was told and the King was first to make his grand entrance down the marble staircase, as many Mardi Gras Kings and Queens have done for over a century. As I waited for my own grand walk as queen, various thoughts went through my head – thoughts that surprised me. My Great Granddaddy was not one of the well-known families of Old Mobile, nor was I born and raised here, though, as I’ve said many times, my spirit was manufactured here. I thought of Camilla Parker Bowles – who stole her way into the throne. Yet, it really wasn’t Mardi Gras, rather a long, live commercial about Mobile, the city I love. For the first time in my, I knew that I knew that I knew, that I was the Queen! The Queen of Showing off Mobile! And in order to do so, it was essential to accept and step into the role!

The king reached the bottom of the stairs, and then they introduced me - the Queen! Queen Mary Beth! And for the first time in my life, as far back as I can remember, all self-consciousness was gone. I slowly waltzed down the stairs, doing exactly as instructed – “Walk like the dress you are in is made of snake skin!” I descended the stairs, the barefoot Queen, waving to a cheering crowd, meeting my king at the bottom. Taking his arm, we paraded through the room waving to the still-cheering crowd. Then we came to the front where we were handed another set of crowns and a king and queen from our CEO guests were chosen – a married couple of 45 years. 

The King and I (the Queen) got to crown King CEO and his queen and hand them their royal scepters. And then the rest of the Mardi Gras crowd was announced and “When the Saints Go Marching In” began playing as they danced down the stairs and through the crowds as well. For the next 20 – 30 minutes, the King – a real Mardi Gras king - and I stuck together dancing paths through the crowds and watching as some stiff-as-board CEO’s retreated to the sidelines as though we had just landed from Uranus, and others jumped in to dance as though they, too, had been dying to do it all their lives but nobody ever told them they could!

         As dramatic as we came in, we left, ascending the stairs in a slow dramatic walk, waving again to the cheering crowd. We stopped for one last wave on the marble balcony as the King, in true Mardi Gras Fashion, began a conversation with myself and my two Marshalls who had been manning my robe all night – one of whom was Les - about the ‘little people’. We stood and watched them, basking in our own greatness. And for the first time in my life, I felt completely natural, as though somehow, this were part of the plan for me – not to be on a pedestal, and certainly not to think I’m better than everybody else. But sometimes, we are offered a gift and we refuse to take it. Somebody pays us a compliment and we look around to see who they are talking about. Or we do something that is worth merit and then feel guilty or ashamed to take the credit. I can think of hundreds of other people who deserve credit for my accomplishments, successes and for all the good things that have ever happened to me. But this post, like that night, is about me! I’m the one to be celebrated! For the first time ever, I have been let out of the prison of self-consciousness. This was one of those ‘Ah ha’ moments, or one of life’s epiphany experiences when I realized that, for this night, I is the queen!