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?

The Portal on the Bay-Way #23

        Though I’m not a fan of real life drama or horror films, I do have a bit sci-fi edge. But this edge goes only to that which takes you into the realm of what could be possible and not too far fetched; just enough to stretch the mind. I have come to believe, very strongly, after a few experiences such as this story will tell, in portals. There are portals out there and many of you have gone through them.

A few years ago, we spent four days in Annapolis, Maryland. Annapolis is a fairly small, historical village where the town planners must have been on vacation or sleeping off a hangover when they planned for the growth of the town that hosts Annapolis Naval Academy.  It is quite evident that traffic patterns to handle the changes were totally left out of these meetings.

        We learned quickly that, in order to enjoy the quaintness and history of this bayside town, you must step outside yourself and view things objectively, especially when you became the brunt of another’s road rage. There are many portals in Annapolis, all of which overlap the car doors of native Annapolins. What is so shocking is that poor behavior, swearing, flipping the bird, and yelling at people has no social class lines. The beautiful Naval Officer whom you are admiring as he walks down the street will turn into a raging monster when he gets into his car – through the portal door.

     We saw people from every walk of life driving cars from Fords to Lamborghini's, mashing their horns, throwing fits, and making total spectacles of themselves. Then we’d see the same person park and get out and a smile would don their previously swearing face and they would walk down the street like the Queen of England, waving at everyone they met.

In an earlier post, the story was told about my first few months in Mobile and the wonder and awe I have of the Live Oaks. Because of that, I often drove looking up and, as a result, was constantly getting beeped at. Coming from New York, and having had my Annapolis experience, I fully expected to see the raging faces and fingers flying as I looked to see who was honking. Ironically, nobody was ever looking so it was hard to pinpoint who the honkers were. It was a relief to discover that Alabamians are as nice in their cars as out. That is, except for the bay way!

The bay way is shown in the background of this picture. It crosses from Mobile to Spanish Fort and Daphne. 


                                                                                                                                  It is common to hear about accidents there, whether I-10 or the Causeway and I always wondered, “What the heck?!? The roads are as straight as arrows!” The only distraction would be the beautiful view. Then one day while crossing over I saw something that I've  seen many times since, but only on the bay way: A car trying to run the another one off the road. It was shocking to see the car fighting that goes on, people whipping in front of others unnecessarily, even when there is no traffic. Drivers refuse to let others in and often cut one another off.  

It was obvious that this was a different variation of the same strange phenomenon in Annapolis. These people drive like roller derby girls, trying to knock each other out of the competition. Yet, when you try to make eye contact, they don’t look back or even acknowledge there is a problem. Perhaps the secret of this portal is that each driver has the illusion of being the only car on the bay way.

What makes it funny, though I don’t appreciate the dangerousness of it, is that, these are nice people even after entering their cars. While in Annapolis the alternative version of self happens when they enter their car, in Mobile, it happens only on the bayway. Seriously, in our newspaper ‘soundoff’ section, people actually call or write in to apologize to the person they cut off at such and such place. But not on the bayway! It’s as though they turn into killer zombies and remember nothing of it after they get to either side. It is the only place I  have seen purposeful road-rage in Alabama, though I’m still not sure it is road rage. I’m beginning to totally believe that there really is a portal on the bayway that throws people into an alternate version of themselves, and also blocks out all other drivers, only to put them back into their current life when and if they live to make it to the other side.

The Bugs of Mobile Post # 22

There is that weird bug shown on right that my co-worker found in the top of her garbage can at work. (There are two bugs, mother and baby I guess.)

One of the hardest things in my life was making the decision to move south. I desperately wanted to do it but had put it off for decades. There was always a job, a friend, a house, or just the logistics of it all seemed so overwhelming. Like most people do when attempting to make big, life-changing decisions, they wait until they are backed into a corner, either financially, relationship-wise, or in my case, hating-winter wise.

        After making the decision, I was faced with the daunting task of what to sell, throw out, give away or keep. As I stated in an earlier post, I put everything in my 3800 square foot house on Craigslist and decided whatever was left, we’d load in a 24’ truck and start over.

The easiest thing that I ever did in my life was arrive in Mobile and adjust to a totally new and different culture from how I had lived the previous 40+ years of my life. Perhaps it was easy because my spirit had told me all along that this is how my life should have been. I just hadn’t known where to find it.

 It took less than 24 hours here to realize though, that there were some things to adjust to; the size of the bugs! The first soul I met was a Palmetto bug, also called ‘giant roaches’, though they are not even cousins in the bug family. I had been warned about them. Barry, our built-in-biologist (see earlier posts), was sure to give me the run-down on the bugs to keep us from turning around and moving right back to New York.

         I was sitting in my living room late in the evening, strategizing my next phase of unpacking. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a mouse run by. Startled, I jumped up and screamed for Les. Upon further examination, however, I realized it was not a mouse. It was a Palmetto bug! At that moment, I decided that if I were going to survive here and not be on-edge worrying about these ugly buglies, I needed to ‘stalk the stalker!’  So I did just that. 


        I grabbed the nearest shoe that did not belong to me and chased the darn thing mercilessly, determined not to be afraid. It was at that moment, my spirit made peace with those guys. ‘Palmetto bugs and snow cannot co-exist’. As long as they are here, there would be no snow. A major epiphany filled my being unlike any ever before; This bug and I were on the same page! To him, snow meant death. To me, it meant the death of my spirit. We were kinfolk, him and I. Yet he was ugly, he was in my house, and he must die. Shanon’s shoe did a great job!

          Afterwards, I googled ‘palmetto bugs’ to find out everything I could about them, as I was now their new stalker! Horror story after horror story were written of people claiming that they grow new heads, if you cut them in half they duplicate, they rise from the dead 4 and 5 times and, that they are unsmashable. Many told of lying in bed only to discover they were sharing it with a palmetto bug. My new expertise, however, showed that these bugs don’t do any of the above and are quite smashable. They are actually very fragile.

        They enter the house through chimneys, or any type of hole that leads outside, or worse, they fly in. Yes! These are flying bugs. I had heard it but didn’t believe it until one night I was at Ellen’s house. Her kitchen windows were open when one flew in. Ellen began a hysterical wailing that I had never imagined coming out of my soft spoken, old-south friend. “A Roach just flew in here! Close all the windows!” By the time I got to the windows, about three had flown in. What is strange is that once they get inside, they turn into crawlers and seem to never fly again.

      Even more ironic, by morning they are all laying on their backs either appearing dead or really dead. You never know which till you go to pick them up. I’ve often wondered, “What the heck?” Do they just say, “Uh oh! The sun’s coming out! Time to flip over pancake!” Once they are on their back, they can’t do much but wiggle their legs, unless by some unfortunate mistake, you accidently flip them upright while trying to dispose of them. Then you are on for the chase of your life!

        I hurriedly closed the windows, all the while explaining to Ellen that they are not roaches. Roaches are just too disgustingly gross to fathom having around. I assured her that they are quite smashable, only to provoke her high-pitchedness. Once again, I greeted my new ugly friends and thanked them for holding off the snow but proceeded to search for the nearest shoe that was not mine. Ellen thanked me profusely as I went on my killing rampage in her kitchen.

       The key thing is, there are always things in life that are irritating, upsetting, or just plain inconvenient. We don’t have to like them, but we must live with them. What a shame it would be to let these ugly little monsters ruin my paradise. As a matter of fact, they are my ugly reminder that I live in a beautiful place. But there are more big bugs. Many more! 

        There are the Banana Spiders (see picture on right) that seem more native to here, than northern Alabama. This isn't hard to figure out when the out-of-town students at the boarding school next door walk by and do double takes at the spiders, then pull out their cameras, just as we had.


        Our built-in Biologist believes in the most environmentally safe methods of mosquito control. Therefore, much to his girlfriend’s dismay, he allows them to weave their webs all around their yard. Many times in the mornings, while having coffee on my porch, I watch Biologist Barry – who forgets the spider habitat in the corner of his yard - or Jonathan, his 20+ stepson who vehemently hates spiders, leave the yard by cutting through the corner. They run into the webs and begin what I call“The Spider Dance” all the way down the street.

         Many people do spider dances, including students, early morning joggers and evening dog walkers, while I sit on my porch, laughing my butt off. They peacefully, almost dreamily walk down the street,  when suddenly, they are covered with spider webs and have no idea where the spider is. I watch amused, as they continue on their way, flailing down the street. Others notice the spiders as they walk by and do a startled double-take. The screams, squawks, and flailing dances over these harmless creatures provide hours of entertainment.

    There are the black grasshoppers that are as big as my hands. Barry, our biologist, had taken the kids and I across over the bay-way to see alligators. While there, someone noticed a big, black dead bug that made Palmetto bugs look like ants. After gasps of horror, biologist Barry began to point out the dead carcasses that lined the trails as well as the live ones that hopped happily around. He picked a couple up, holding them in his hand to show us they, too, are harmless.

Well, he's not a bug but he is butt ugly!  On the plus side, the first time we went to see a gator, we had dinner on the bayway on a balcony overlooking the bay, then went to see the gators. On the way back across the bay, the sun was huge in the sky as it set over the city of Mobile.  It was such a beautiful sight and I thanked God that I live in a place where the only ugly thing I saw that day was a gator.

       Then we went back to the boardwalk where we can look for gators. What we saw was something very disturbing; these crabby looking things that covered the sand and are about half the size of my hand. They are not water crabs, rather a combination of a bug and a crab and are all along the edges of the bayou. Having seen signs at seafood markets that say, “Get Your Mudbugs Here!” my first thought was that these were mudbugs. I was ready to go grab a net and catch them for dinner when our biologist explained that these are not edible.

        There are many other bugs in Mobile; the swarms of beautiful dragon flies that hover around people and I imagine are government spies; The love bugs that fly around attached in twos. There are many theories about what they are doing. Since the bugs seem to be most prevalent around shopping centers, mine is that they are mommies and girls holding hands and shopping.   The red ants are just creepy little buttholes! But those are for another story. Red ants are kind of like ‘When the Lights When Out In Georgia!’ Everybody knows where they were and what they were doing the first time they got bit by a red ant.

These are crawfish (mudbugs)- like little lobsters and yummy!  

I’ve never been a bug person before coming Alabama. It became evident early on that making peace with their existence was crucial to fully enjoying my experience here. In many ways, they have enhanced it, as I have learned that even ugly things have a divine purpose. The bugs have taught me many things and have much more to teach. I often wonder; ‘How many times do we miss out on the things that we want the most in life, simply because we allow ourselves to be bugged by the things that matter the least.’