Turkeys and Missing Fingers

Because of its proximity to the railroads, the fortunes of Jackson's Midtown always rose and fell with light manufacturing. Not so much now, but there was a time when there were at least a dozen small or mid-sized factories and shops going at Midtown.

After Pearl Harbor and America entered the war, my Uncle Boyd wrote a letter to the newly installed Jim Eastland to ask what Mississippi School Supply could do to support the war effort. Eastland wrote back with a mimeographed list of things the War Department needed, with orders to pick an item on the list and get to work.

One item on the list interested my Uncle Boyd, and one item interested his brother, my Grandfather.  Boyd saw where the airforce needed a specific size of ammo box to be manufactured by shaping sheet metal.  Boyd had never been a machinist, but his father was, even though he had only one hand.  The loss of the other hand was related to an infection from a childhood injury, not being a sloppy machinist.   

Boyd procured a warehouse in Midtwon with access to a railroad spur and began setting up shop, purchasing most of his equipment from companies that made metal roofs.  The depression was still pretty strong in Mississippi, so buying used equipment at a good price was not very difficult.  Soon Daddy and several of his high school buddies were employed to work under the legendary Jim Woodson to unload the sheet metal for the new Ammo Box Shop.  

Finding experienced machinists who weren't in danger of getting drafted meant that the Ammo Box Factory was primarily run by old men.  Daddy said nearly all of them were missing all or parts of their fingers from their many years of operating metal presses.  Meeting airforce officers come to inspect the work convinced Daddy to switch his aspirations from Army to Airforce.  He and most of his friends were convinced they'd end up in the war, but most of them ended up in Korea instead. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, was attracted to another item on the list:  Boil and Can Turkey meat.  Although he'd been Jackson twenty years by that point, grandaddy still missed the agricultural life.  Of all the Campbell children, he was considered the best with animals.  He rented a couple of empty lots on Monroe Street, where he and Jim Woodson set up chicken wire fences and commenced to raise turkeys.  Somewhere in my sister's house is a picture of Granddaddy squatting down amidst about a hundred turkeys.  Once grown, he had a place in midtown where they would slaughter, clean, boil, and can the turkeys and ship them off to feed our boys overseas. 

Neither of these ventures survived World War II.  By the end of the war, nearly all government military contracts were taken up by larger industrial concerns, pushing the smaller shops out of business.  Instead of Ammo boxes, Missco shifted its manufacturing focus to the laboratory future needed in all the new schools required by the baby boom and acquired General Equipment Manufacturing, and set up a factory in Crystal Springs.  

Millsaps has a pretty dedicated effort to reignite economic activity in Jackson's Midtown.  So far, they're having pretty good luck, even without a mimeographed list from JO Eastland.  

My Second Church

Today was pretty active.  For the day of rest, I left the house at 8:30 am and returned at 6:30 pm.  After Sunday School and Church, my plan was to impress everyone and myself by making my way from Galloway to the Westin by myself in the wheelchair.   Turns out, it's not that impressive when the path from Galloway to the Westin is about 85% slightly downhill.  In a wheelchair, slightly downhill is kind of like floating in an innertube down a lazy river.  Some effort is involved, but not much.

Lunch at the Westin was really good.  I had the Lox & Bagel Eggs Benedict.  Even though it was almost one o'clock, there was just one table left open for me.  They had a guy playing sax with a music box accompaniment.  He was playing "It's a Man's World" when they seated me.  Good choice.

The plan was to have a lazy lunch, then spend two hours at the Mississippi Museum of Art, then head to St. James for Evensong, where the Millsaps Singers would combine with the St. James Choir.  I might come back another time for dinner.  I kind of worried that the Westin might kill business for King Edward, being newer and closer to Thalia Mara and the Court House.  I guess it really did because King Edward is on the auction block.  Honestly, I blame city leadership for that.  They let the train station fall apart after that extensive remodeling, and they let the street racing on Capitol go on too long.  I get that they're short-handed, but come on, the police station is right there.  

At the Museum, there was like a seven-piece bluegrass band playing, including one of my friends from Sunday school on the mandolin.   Apparently, they play every third Sunday.  I'll have to catch it again.  See the video below for a taste of their performance.

Evensong was scheduled at four, so I ordered an Uber and headed that way at 3:15.  Returning to St. James, I knew, would be tough.  That was my wife's church, and I'd come to love it.  In the divorce, we never discussed it, and there was never even a moment's fighting in the divorce, but that was her childhood church, so I just quietly stopped going.  

I had my own history at St. James.  Pat Jeffreys, who ran the School Book Supply Company for my Grandfather for many years, lived across the street.  A lot of people from St. Andrews either worked there or attended there.  My wife no longer lives in Jackson, so it'd be ok for me to start making St. James a part of my life again; I just wasn't exactly sure how, and I'd been avoiding crossing that threshold.

I got the Uber to drop me off behind the church.  I saw the new rector.  We hadn't met yet.  I was about half an hour early, and I could hear the choir rehearsing.  I sat outside listening, not entirely sure if I was going to go in, when the Rector asked if I wanted to.  Why not?  I'd listened to both of those choirs reherse many times.

I love the organ at St. James.  I remember watching as it was installed.   My plan was to sit in the back where nobody would notice I was there, and I could sneak out without anyone seeing me, but Rector Elizabeth asked if I wanted to sit up front.  I said I was ok where I was.  

There were a number of faces I was expecting to see at Evensong, but Sister Dorothea was not one of them.  Sister Dorothea and the Late Sister Josephine have a unique place in my life.  Their appearance has an almost mystical weight, even though I was apt to see them at baseball games as much as any church.  Although my time at St. Catherine's is coming to an end, they literally gave me my life back, and Sister Dorothea is responsible for that.  

I was feeling pretty invincible after seeing Sister Dorothea.  Sentimentality wouldn't rule this day, I thought.  But, a face I knew appeared.

"Are you, Boyd...Campbell?"

Seeing Susie Baltz without her husband Richard or her brother Cecil blew the armor off my back in a moment.  I wasn't expecting that.  "Hey, how are you?" was all I could think of to say.

"I'm good.  I've been missing Richard.  He died two years ago, you know."  I did know.  I knew there would be an emotional moment.  This was it.  Sometimes, it's really hard for me to express how much I loved and missed someone.  I'd sat in St. James with Suzie and Richard and Cecil many times.   Tonight she was alone.  They won't join her any more.  If there was anybody from St. James I'd want to see again, it'd be Cecil.  His last phone call stays with me.  He said he couldn't remember why he was calling.  I said it didn't matter.  I was just glad he did.

Rector Elizabeth asked again if I wanted to sit up front.  I'm really not a sit-up-front kind of guy, but there was no way around it this time.  David Elliot greeted me when I got situated.  He had a Sweanee T-shirt on.  I never went to Sewanee, but a lot of people wanted me to.  Rob and Phoebe Pearagin would be returning there this summer, but they were at St. James this night.  

From where I was sitting, I could see Michael Beattie working the organ.  It fascinates me.  You play with your hands and your feet and your elbows and your nose, and there are at least a million buttons, and out comes this amazing sound.  St. James has always had a really quality music program.  Musically, I'm probably a lot more Episcopalian than I am Methodist (don't tell Bob.)  For many of the songs, I closed my eyes.  They have great acoustics.

It's been over fifteen years since I crossed the threshold into St. James.  For a while, it was my church, our church, I suppose.  I must have looked like a deer in headlight, but it was a good return.  On the way out, I saw James Anderson bragging on his improved health.  He looked pretty hale to me.  We'll be putting him to work on the Millsaps Players reunion soon.  I'm not exactly sure how Im going to incorporate St. James into my religious life.  I've made a pretty big commitment to Galloway, but I'm going to make room for St James at least once a month.  Part of me has always been there.  I think it should stay.

2022-23 Millsaps Men's Basketball Senior Day Highlights

2022-23 Millsaps Women's Basketball Senior Day Highlights

History Is Lunch: Robert McElvaine, “How 1964 Still Shapes Us”

Amplification

 Besides cataloging my near-constant scribbling, I'm going to start using the blog to amplify certain social media campaigns.  You might notice some changes in the content of the blog.

Welcome to the Else School - A Message from Dean Harvey Fiser

Your Community Needs You to Get an MBA

Sit at your Keyboard and Bleed

Hemmingway might have done this too much. In the end, it took him with it. Usually, when I do this, I can't ever show anybody. It's just too much. The human capacity to observe and think and process, and comment may be too strong for a social creature without serious constraint.

We murder each other a little bit every day. Now that you can have any gun you want no matter what condition your head is in, lots of people actually murder each other a little bit every day. Maybe they're just doing exactly what I do, but with another tool. Maybe if Hemmingway had used a gun instead of an Underwood Portable, he'd be alive today.

Sometimes there's a lot of drinking that goes along with this process. Sometimes writers use things a lot stronger. I completely understand this. My writing when I drink is usually really shit. Gigantic long sentences, not perfectly created, that is recoverable when I'm sober, but only if I break them into more digestible bits, but then when I discover what it is I was trying to say, I end up not wanting anyone to see it.

I feel bad for pappa. He knew his best work was already done, and he couldn't live with it. He tried living off mojitos, odd-toed cats, and the passion of Cuban women, but it wasn't enough. With his spark spent, he had nothing to live for.

I repressed my spark for what seemed like a hundred years. What it's gonna do now that it's out sometimes worries me. I try not to bleed onto my laptop. It runs down my arms, into my lap, and down my legs onto a puddle on the floor around my feet. It doesn't hurt. If anything, it feels like the relief that comes from lancing a boil. Life can be a festering boil, welling up alongside your normal organs and skin features. Everyone has them; we cover them with lace or scarves and pretend they don't exist while the bile and putrid dead blood build up inside them, ready to erupt at any moment.

I write at night to drain the puss and bile and dead blood from the boils of my life. Sometimes I let you see it if nobody you know has their name in it. I don't even write anything terrible about people, just how human they are, how they try not to be vulnerable, but they are because they don't have a choice, and the world beats them for it.

If I do this right, then maybe people will see themselves in it. Maybe not tonight because I'm rambling, but on nights when I do it well, nights when my muse has mercy on me, maybe I can write a bit of truth that helps someone hurt less.

I'm not Pappa. My ideas about being a man are very different from his, at least in public. In private, yeah, I'd like to get drunk and box somebody because I love them, just to see who's the stronger man. If I hit you as hard as I could in the face, what would happen? How would you look at me? It's not dangerous. Boxers hit each other in the face all the time, and nobody dies. It's a test. I hit you in the face. You hit me in the face. We continue till one of us doesn't want to do it anymore. Something about being human makes us want to do that. Isn't it odd?

This sense of doubt whenever I try to create is probably the justice of my life. I had it too easy as a kid. I didn't have some of the worries about daily life that a lot of people have, so now whenever I try to be what I really want to be, it terrifies me, like a ten-year-old trying to creep out to the end of the high dive board, so he can have the exhilaration of jumping off but doesn't have the balls to do it.

Sit down at the keyboard and bleed, but don't say anything horrible. It's harder than you know. Pappa took his own life because he couldn't write anymore. He ran out of words. God made me so that the words came out really slow and pretty mangled when I was a child. There's nothing worse than when a child thinks he must be stupid, like they say. It was a gif, though. I didn't have words then, but now I have too many. I'll never run out.

I know why Pappa did what he did. Don't you think I know? Words aren't what the think they are. Most things aren't. Memes are bits of ideas. They want to replicate themselves and spread. We don't have any choice. Sit at your keyboard and bleed, goddamnit.

A Meeting

 When we met, I was already making moves to close the doors between me and the world.  She didn't recognize me, but I recognized her.  Those eyes. That smile.  Her colors reminded me of sunshine and chocolate.  

I was fifteen, and she was twenty.  Most of the students never really talked to me because I watched the football games with my Dad and Dr. Harmon.  I saw her, though.  I remembered.  

I would see her again through the years.  Where she worked.  Where she worshiped.  A child came, then two.  I stopped seeing the father with them.  He was missing out.

Bringing me someone new when I was trying not to have anyone or anything that I had to hold on to was probably cruel.  It seemed so.  Maybe she was a lure.  Trying to bring me back into the world when I didn't want to.   

"Sometimes, I wish there was more help."  She said.  That wasn't really very fair, was it?  A mother of two, trying her best alone, with those eyes.  "Sometimes, I need help."

"I can help.  I think.  I mean, I wasn't planning on this, but I can help.  I think."  And my plans to leave the world were put off.  "Keep pushing until those girls are through college," I thought.  Then my obligation will be complete.  "How hard can that be?"  I thought.  

Standing With The Innocent

For the record, I'm a straight male, over fifty, living in Mississippi.  Going by demographics, I shouldn't have these thoughts, but I do.

There are fewer than one hundred thousand LGBTQ citizens of Mississippi.  Of that number, fewer than one hundred citizens under the age of eighteen are seeking medical treatment for Gender dysphoria, a medically and psychologically recognized condition.  Less than one hundred.  We have football teams with more kids on them.

Despite their small numbers, the Mississippi Republican Party is presenting over thirty bills to limit or control LGBTQ people in Mississippi, including a bill making the medical treatment of Gender Dysphoria among young people illegal.  Illegal.  Parents will go to jail if they seek this help for their children.

Considering their small numbers, you have to wonder what's really going on here.  Why does this small group of Mississippi kids warrant a law controlling their medical care?  Considering their small numbers, it's impossible and illogical to conclude that they present any sort of sociological or medical threat.  Gender Dysphoria is not a transmittable disease.  

For whatever reason, transgenderism represents a hot button for the GOP.  Despite their small numbers, the GOP would stamp them out if they could.  They find transsexualism and drag equally despicable.   Having spent the weekend at a drag show, I find this confusing.  In a room full of people, six drag queens performed, and not a single person was harmed.  Maybe the GOP doesn't like people who dance and dress better than they do.  

Because members of the Mississippi GOP know that segments of their base find Transgenderism repulsive and dangerous, they have chosen a path whereby they write laws hurting transgender and transsexual people, not because they pose a threat or because they are an actual problem, but because bullying these people helps them win points with their base.

Yes, I am accusing the Mississippi GOP of bullying transgender youth, and they're doing it to win the favor of the worst part of their base, not to solve any real or impending problem in our state.  What's despicable about this is that these kids are already getting bullied at school and among their peers, and now the state of Mississippi is officially taking the side of the school bullies who torture them.  Transgender kids already exhibit the highest rates of suicide of all American children, and now the State of Mississippi is adding to it. 

These people, the Governor, and others are trying to win the approval of, already vote straight Republican, so these bills only serve to stoke their enthusiasm and maybe raise a little money for the party.  For twenty years now, the Republican party has been completely comfortable with reaching into the worst parts of America for support, and in the last ten years, this has doubled.  

I stand with the transgender youth of Mississippi.  I do not understand them.  I've never really spent much time with them, but they are few, they are attacked, and they are hurt without hurting others, so I stand with them.  The State of Mississippi may have trouble showing love for these suffering children, but I do not.  

Two For Three

I completed two of my three tasks today.  The first task was to take in Bob McElvaine at History is Lunch at the Mississippi History Museum to discuss his book "The Times They Are A Changing".  

If you haven't been to our two museum complexes, you owe it to yourself.  When I got there, there were at least a dozen yellow buses lined up outside, with hundreds of kids inside.  Going in, I passed some guy telling a group of teenagers how if they work hard, they can buy a Bugatti like his, and sure enough, there was a Bugatti parked on the street.

I was kind of expecting Bob's presentation to be a Millsaps Runion of sorts, but there were only about seven of us there, the rest were all townies, and it was packed!  The lecture went really well.  There was one fella at the end who asked a question that lasted about forty-five minutes, but god bless him; this stuff is important to him.

I got to corner Keith Dunn for a minute.  Some of the kids had been asking me about why our pool doesn't work, so I asked him.  The numbers on fixing the pool would shock you.  They shocked me.  It might be easier to build an entirely new one.  Doing anything with concrete in central Mississippi can be tricky.  I haven't given up on the project, but it's not gonna be a quick fix.  I suppose if it was a quick fix, it'd be fixed by now.  The problem with spending that kind of money on fixing the existing pool is that there are so many other projects we need that would use that amount of money, like building fifteen new black box theaters.  Anyway, I'm not giving up, but don't expect results soon.

Having read Bob's book and listening to his presentation, I kept thinking about what's going on with approved school reading lists and book banning in Florida.  This trend is certainly not going to end in Florida.  It will spread to Mississippi and Tennessee almost certainly next.  Having read the proposed and existing legislation in Florida, I don't know any way Bob's book can avoid getting banned there.  This is a perfect example of what these people think Critical Race Theory is.  It's not actually what Critical Race Theory is, but these people have no desire to know the truth.  We're soon going to be in a situation where it might even be questionable whether these kids can even visit our Mississippi History or Civil Rights museums because some of the exhibits will violate this ant CRT rampage.  There are artifacts in the museum that teachers will jeopardize their jobs if they teach about them or show them to their classes.  I wish I was exaggerating.

After the lecture, I had lunch at the Nissan Cave by Nick Wallace at the museum.  Nick used to be the head chef at the King Edward Hotel, near where I lived at the Standard Life Building.  Nick's a remarkably talented chef.  I'd love it if somebody could help set him up at Parlor Market and get that going again.  I had the Ramen Bowl with pork belly and boiled egg.  It was so good.

My next step in the plan for the day was to go from the Museum to the Capitol building for a protest aiming to strike down some of the anti-trans legislation that's on this year's docket.  Sometimes I like to challenge myself.  Actually, all of the times, I like to challenge myself.  I kept the option open to take an uber to the Capitol, but as it had not started raining yet, I decided to wheel it.  Many of the sidewalks downtown have recently been maintained, so getting to the Capitol by wheelchair wasn't actually that difficult.  It took about twenty minutes, but I made it with no problems.

The poster on Facebook for the protest said it was going from noon till four.  I got there close to 2:30 and was just in time to see them making their way down congress street to go bother Tate at home.  Because I was already kind of spent, I decided not to join them.

The third leg of the day's journey was going to be attending the Majors Basketball game vs. Birmingham Southern, but the sky was looking pretty annoyed, so I tap-tapped my phone for an uber home.  The driver was a guy I knew from Calloway, and we had a good time catching up and discussing some of the challenges that Jackson faces and regret for letting things get this bad.  That's kind of a constant refrain these days: how did we let things get this bad.  I'm not dismayed, but I'm not naive either.  The things I want to do won't be easy.  

The Roast for Jeff Good benefiting the Mississippi Press Association Education Fund is tomorrow night at the Westin Downtown.  The weather is supposed to be horrendous.  I have tickets, but if it's as bad as they say, I may skate.  It's not that I don't love the people involved, but using an Uber in really bad rain can be dicey.  I'll be there in spirit.  

The Worm

So, I got to the part of the bottle where the worm lives one night.  One of my fraternity brothers thought it was a good idea to smoke me out too.  If you don't know what that means, it has something to do with chicken wings.  

Somehow I made my way from the KA house to CS's, maybe 50 yards away, across West street.  I'm pretty sure it took a couple of hours to get there.  I kept turning in the wrong direction.

So, I make it into CS's and manage to somehow prop myself up to the bar.  Inez says, "can I get you somethin'" and I said, "Hey, baby." and nothing more.  

After a while, I don't know how long a while, my friend Beeve came to talk to me.  We called him Beeve because he reminded us of the guy on Leave it to Beaver on television.   Beeve talked to me about this and that and asked many questions, and was genuinely glad to see me, as Beeve always was.

After a while, I don't know how long a while, I looked at my friend Beeve, and I said, "Hey, Beeve.  I don't know why you're talking to me.  I have no idea what you're saying.  I don't even know who you are."  

I can't remember a single word he said, but I'll always remember the hurt look on his face when I said I didn't recognize him.  This was apparently a very hurtful transgression, one I did my best not to repeat.  Mezcal is a very strong medicine.  Whatever the hell brother Wedie gave me to smoke was even worse.  I learned not to take anything from him.

Godiva Chocolates

Godiva Chocolates makes something like eighty percent of their sales around valentines day.

I used to know someone.  Everyone thought she was almost always happy and always laughing.  That wasn't real, though.  Her smile was very convincing, but she was almost always unhappy, afraid, and worried about her future.  Not everyone knew what was going on inside her, but she trusted me.  Her smile meant more than gold to me, when I could get it.

Every few weeks, I would overnight a small box of assorted Godiva white chocolates to Memphis because Godiva White Chocolates were sometimes the only thing that made her feel better, even though it never lasted.  

Love doesn't always bring happiness.  I tried with all my strength to lift the darkness that surrounded her life, but all I could manage was an hour or two of sunlight.  Sometimes a few days, then the darkness always came back.  I failed.  Eventually, the darkness became all she had in life.  I shouldn't feel responsible for not fixing that, but I do.  I always will.  Knowing I wasn't responsible doesn't take the ache away. I was the owl man.

"Will chocolate make it better? Just for today?"

"What kind?"

"What kind do you like?"

"You know what kind I like," She said.

"Sleep now.  When you wake up tomorrow, a man will bring you chocolates.  I love you--you know."  

"I know you do."  She said.

"I wish it helped more.  I wish something would help more."

"I know you do." She said.

"My love can't make you well, but maybe it'll make you smile for a day.  I'll keep trying."

"I know you will."  She said.

I didn't keep trying, though.  In time, I gave up on her too.  Sometimes, loving someone that sad can pull the life out of you.  When I look back on it, she was probably pushing me away.  She knew that she was so sad herself that she could never love me back, and in her own way, she didn't want to see me hurt too.  

She smiled and ate her chocolates, and I kissed her head and held her hand.  My love couldn't make her well, but it could make her smile.  I'll take what I can get.

Lost Love

Sometimes, when we have a bad breakup, we feel like we were never loved at all.  Because something wasn't ever-lasting, we tend to believe there was something false or defective about it in the first place.  Maybe it was never real at all.  That's an illusion, though.  A false assumption.

No matter how it ended, there were still nights of flaming passion.  There were still mornings when you saw her eyes before you saw the sun.  There were still days when you went to work, and all she really wanted in the world was for you to have a good day.  There were still days so bad when the only thing in the world that would make you feel better was her voice.  None of those things were false; they just weren't permanent.  Being locked in a moment of time doesn't make things any less real.  In some ways, it makes them so much more real.  

Where I am now, every day I see people coming to visit the person they've loved for the past sixty years and spend time while their lover forgets who they are.   Their love lasts, but their names are forgotten.  Some come to hold hands with the woman who bore them three children while she struggles to breathe, knowing her last day won't be long.

God injected us into the fabric of eternity.  The love of a thousand years lasts but the briefest moment.  It's not your failure when things end because all things end; you will too.  In the span of eternity, a moment is an hour is a decade, is a century, is a millennium.  The love of just one moment lasts beyond the life of our sun; neither will last--in time.  

Fountainhead

This morning, I had a breakfast meeting with John Maxwell.  John has some interesting projects in mind; hopefully, I'll be able to report more there soon.  He has an interest in allowing Millsaps to archive his manuscripts at our Library.  I'm trying to work with our Library to facilitate that.  Besides working to install a new president, Millsaps is also working to install a new librarian, so nothing happens quickly.  He also has at least two new plays in the works.

I learned Sunday that Galloway is interested in reviving its drama ministry.  John's a member at Galloway and certainly could be a valuable resource there.  After hearing this, I went and eyeballed the space and some of the equipment myself.  The good news is that the lighting equipment is in pretty good shape; the bad news is nobody uses those kinds of lights anymore.  I'm not even sure we can get lamps for some of the fixtures.  Whatever happens, we'll figure it out.  Hopefully more to report on that soon.

Since I mostly use Ubers, I arranged to arrive early, and I'm really glad I did because I got to spend about twenty minutes with one of my favorite people in the world, Bob Adams.  A Millsaps 1959 alumni, Bob is one of Mississippi's most significant architects, particularly with regard to anything involving the restoration and rehabilitation of historic and architecturally significant structures in Mississippi. 

Besides Millsaps, I mostly know Bob from my years with the Jackson Zoo.  We both took turns on the JZP Board and the Friends of the Jackson Zoo Board.  As an architect, Bob is responsible for the Annie Laurie Herin Education Center, the Elephant House Cafe, and the Discovery Children's Zoo.  As a board member, Bob was responsible for the African Rainforest and Savanah Exhibits and many others.  Like myself, Bob also had the experience of dressing as Santa and riding Marre the African Elephant into Christmas At The Zoo to greet the visitors.  

In Jackson, Bob is known for adopting and renovating historically and architecturally significant buildings.  For me, calling a structure "architecturally significant" is a pretty high bar.  Architecture is important to me.  One of Bob's purchases is the Grayhound Bus station on Lamar Street.  The Bus Staton is done in the Art Deco Streamline style, which is very rare in Mississippi.  It represents some of the most interesting uses of architectural glass I've ever seen.  For many years, this building served as Bob's office; I'm happy to report that it has been purchased by a gentleman who intends to make a restaurant out of it.  That's actually very interesting because the Lunch Counter inside this bus station has a very significant role in America's Civil Rights history.  I don't think I can say who bought it yet, but he's one of Mississippi's best chefs, and I've eaten with him before.

Like myself, Bob has physical balance issues these days, so he has moved to a new home, leaving his old home for sale.  Saying Bob's old home is for sale is a big deal because Bob's old home is Fountainhead, one of the most important houses, not only in Mississippi but in the South East.  Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and built in 1950, Bob purchased Fountainhead in 1979 and spent several years restoring it to Wright's original vision.  

There will be no open viewing for Fountainhead.  If you are genuinely interested in this property, your agent can arrange a viewing.  The last time Bob had an open house for Fountainhead, over six hundred people came.   The Zillow listing is here:  It shows as off-market, but that's incorrect.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/306-Glenway-Dr-Jackson-MS-39216/3031559_zpid/

Again, I cannot express what a big deal this is.  Hopefully, some young family will fall in love with the house and continue the tradition of keeping it as well as Bob did.

As much as I enjoyed seeing Bob, we did discuss something pretty painful for both of us.  Conservatively, I've invested a few thousand hours at the Jackson Zoo, Bob, maybe three or four times that.  In the next ten to fifteen years, Jackson will have to make the painful decision to pull the plug on the Jackson Zoo.  Without a deeply serious re-investment in West Jackson, I don't see how it can be avoided.  There's a group now trying to do for West Jackson what the residents of Fondren did.  Unless they are successful, I don't see any other fate for my beloved Jackson Zoo.  I don't think I'm adequately expressing how difficult this is for me, but the fate of the animal collection comes first, and unless we can seriously change the course of progress here, I don't see any other way.

Life gives, and life takes away.  Having to have conversations about the Zoo are painful, but I got to spend time with two of my most favorite people in Mississippi, John Maxwell and Bob Adams.  I also got to spend a minute or two with Joel Howell, who is one of the people responsible for creating the new Millsaps Theater space.

There's a really cool article about Bob on the MBench Website.  It doesn't include a byline (which it SHOULD) but I think I recognize the style.  I'll ask her.  By the way, Bob asked if I knew the whereabouts of Barbara Barrett, who was the director of the Zoo most of the years when we were active, and I had to say I didn't know.  If you do, please let me or Bob know.  I want Barbara to run for Governor or something.  She's that capable.  

https://www.mbench.org/s/1438/18bp/interior.aspx?pgid=504&gid=1&cid=895

Words For Race

The preferred word to describe people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  How we, as a culture, perceive and treat people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  I was blessed to live in interesting times.

Currently, I mostly use the term African to describe people of the African Diaspora.  For one thing, it's the most accurate.  My genes are from Scotland.  I am Scottish.  Their genes are from Africa.  They are African.  To be entirely honest, I'd much rather break it down to what part of Africa they come from, but for people living in the US, what goes on inside the great continent of Africa is a complete mystery.  Were they asked to name countries or cities in Africa, they'd be at a loss.  I'll be completely honest with you, most of what I know about Africa started with my interest in Tarzan, a character created by a man who had never been to Africa himself.  I've informed myself since then, but that's how it started.

Using the word "African" also describes the elephant in the room itself, the place called Africa, ironically also where elephants come from.  The idea of colonization and colonizing that created these bad ideas and bad feelings about race that we live with began with colonization, and no place on earth was more poorly treated and received less in return than Africa.  The cradle of mankind has not been treated too kindly by the people who migrated out of there.

What might currently be the preferred term for people who are African is "Black."  While historically often used, it came into preference in the seventies and probably became a favorite from the use of the phrase "Black Power," which spoke to the ideas of upward social movement, self-determination, and solidarity that were popular then.  A short and square word, Black ends with an aggressive K sound.  I get why it's liked.

My problem with Black is that it was originally used to exaggerate the otherness of African people and suggest that they are somehow the opposite of Europeans, who were described as "White."  We are good; they are bad.  We are enlightened; they are in the dark.  We are civilized; they are slaves.  We are men; you are animals.  All of these ideas were real and common for a very long time.  I genuinely dislike the use of "White" as well.  Leave white to the White Walkers.  It also squashes all the cultural and ethnic, and genetic diversity of Europe into one big pot.  I don't like being lumped together with the English, much less the Finns, the French, or the Flemish.

Both of my preferred words to describe Africans are no longer in favor.  They're no longer in favor because they were used so long to condescend, and there came a time when African people began to demand we stop condescending to them.  Besides all the crap we were already doing to them, that became an insult.  I get that.

For me, "Negro" is a beautiful word.  For one thing, its origin is probably French or Spanish or both.  It has a musical shape and sound to it, like a viola.  "Which wine would you like, Madam?"  "What is your best bottle of Negro, Garcon?"  Besides being condescending, Negro fell out of favor because it degrades into something horrible.  First "Negro", then "Neegra," then, you-know-what is next.  

Some writers type it easily.  I do not.  Even when my fingers are making words spoken by a character or relaying what someone I actually saw actually said, it's uncomfortable.  If I'm honest, it's not because I'm enlightened or nice or anything admirable.  My grandmother taught me to never use that word because it made me sound ignorant, and she said it with a face that made it seem so much worse than just ignorant.  Evelyn Flowers was most of the time as gentile as a flower, but she could be as harsh and aggressive and unmoving as a lion on some things, and me being "ignorant" was one of the things.

Colored is my favorite.  Who wouldn't want to be colored?  If your choice was to have color or to have none, you'd choose color.  "Colored lady" or "Colored gentleman," or even "Colored baby" are some of my favorite phrases.  They express a friendliness, both on the parts of the speaker and of the person they are describing.  If you're white and from the South, and I use the phrase "colored lady" it's most likely going to invoke memories of someone who loved you and was kind to you.  

The system of having African "aunties" or maids in white families was itself problematic, as described by Kathryn Stockett was very real, but she also did a great job of describing the sometimes cruel problems that came from it.  "Colored" is archaic, and it's problematic, so even though it's my favorite term, I really only use it when I'm making a point, or speaking for a character.

Ultimately, white men like me do not make this decision, and that's the way it should be.  I may be made of words, but these are real people with real lives, and I respect that.  The preferred word will probably change again in time, but "African" will always be accurate.  

Don't call me white, though; I am a Highlander.

True Love and Caramel Cake

My parents started "dating" when they were in the sixth grade at Power Elementary under the watchful eye of my aunt Sara Catherine, who ran the cafeteria, and her husband Luther was the favorite of everybody in daddy's generation, which was all boys except for two hold-outs.

From sixth grade until the day daddy died, neither of them had ever been involved with anyone else.  It's been my mission to make up for all the romantic gregarity daddy missed out on.  I may have invented a word.  Meriam Webster is telling me there's no such form of gregarious as gregarity.  I'll never be recognized for my genius in my generation.

When Daddy died, Momma was on vacation with my cousin Libby in Florida, they chose to drive, even though we had a plane and Libby worked for Delta. (my family can be odd.)  There were carphones in those days, but Momma refused to get one.  They were intrusive, she felt.  She was probably right.  She also confused Cell Phones with the Radio Phone that Rowan Taylor had, and somebody with a police scanner caught him calling a judge an asshole, so he never trusted them again.

As they entered Alabama, Libby called daddy's office to let him know they'd be home in x number of hours.  She was transferred to James Carr, who told her what happened but not to tell Mother until she got back to Jackson.  He thought that'd be better than her sitting all that time in a car thinking about how her life had suddenly changed.

Back at home, the house was filling up with Ole Miss KA's, Millsaps people, and whatever family we could find.  Robert Wingate drove to Jackson from Greenwood and waited for momma to get home.  Of all my relatives, Wingate always was.  He just was.  Poor Libba Wingate.  How many times did Robert have to say, "I gotta go." then disappear into the night.  He was just that kind of guy.  God, I miss him.  

As she drove up to our house on Honeysuckle, Mother saw all these cars.  She immediately assumed something had happened to one of her children, probably me.  She'd lived through this with other families before.  Turning in the driveway, the headlights lit up Leon Lewis and Brum Day.  Mr. Lewis might have been there if I died in a wreck, but once she saw Brum, she knew what it had to be.  Her fifty-year love affair had come to an end.

Fifty years is a long time.  So far, twelve years is the longest I've gone with the same person.  I think what made their relationship work was that they had a genuine sense of humor about each other.  

One time, Mother got real sick with an intestinal thing and had to spend six days at St. Dominics.  People from all over brought daddy all these casseroles so he wouldn't starve, even though he and Rowan ate steak every night.  Daddy only knew how to cook one thing, and I had to teach him how to do that correctly.  The casseroles began to stack up.  He gave me one, and I think Jimmy got one.  

Finally, momma came home.  She gave me instructions on how to heat up one of the casseroles stacked in her refrigerator, and we ate as a family for the first time since she got sick.  Martha was still living at Millsaps, but the rest of us all had our own places.  Eating the Mexican something, something casserole Jane Lewis made, Daddy said, "If you'd been sick a little longer, somebody woulda made me a caramel cake."  He got away with it.  My wife woulda made sure I wore whatever was left of the something, something Mexican casserole, but then we didn't start dating when we were ten years old.

Mother wasn't the type to let anyone get the better of her.  She took to the habit of leaving daddy a birthday card on his lavatory every year.  He would read it, kiss her on the head and say how much he loved it, then leave it back on his lavatory as he went to work.  That night, he'd come home and take her out to eat, usually at the Mayflower, and we kids were at the mercy of Hattie the maid, or my grandmother, both of which were excellent cooks.  Noticing that Daddy did the same thing every year without deviation of any sort, Mother decided to try something.

She took to collecting the birthday card he left on the lavatory and tucking it away in her desk.  The next year, she'd leave the same card on the same lavatory where he would read it, kiss her on the head, then take her out for dinner.  This went on for most of my youth. The same card, the same ritual, year after year.  Finally, in my twenties, she was lubricated enough at a dinner party that she revealed the rouse to her friends.  Daddy turned a little red-faced for a minute, realizing he'd been caught not really noticing the card she picked out all those years was always the same one.  Then, he sheepishly offered, "still counts."  And, so it did.

Playing tricks on each other can be good for a relationship.  A sick wife really should be worth a caramel cake.  You can even buy them at the store now.  Obviously, I don't know the secret to true love, but I think maybe being able to laugh at each other helps.

Refusing the Eucharist

They have a Methodist service every Tuesday at St. Catherines.  Other denominations have other days, but Tuesday is ours.  Since it's near the first of the month, the pastor had communion for the group that was there.  I refused. Normally, I'll take communion when it's offered, but with spring making the trees bud, I've been having a terrible allergy attack today and yesterday, so I figured I should refuse.

I refused to take communion on all occasions for many years.  It bothered my wife to no end.  "Why can't you be normal?"  She'd ask.  That's a good question, actually.  I wish I had an answer.

David Elliot and Minka Sprague would try to bring the cup to me in case the problem was that I didn't want to walk down to the front of the church, but I'd cross my chest and refuse.  David's spent the better part of fifty years trying to save me.  He's still trying.  He's taught me a lot about not giving up.

My problem with communion began when I started to seriously consider what the eucharist suggested and what it represented, and what sort of man I was.  A man, who I never knew, who owed me not even a kind glance, sacrificed his body and his life for my sake.  Even if Jesus wasn't real.  Even if Jesus was just some misguided soul who believed he was the son of God, the idea that anyone, divine or not, would suffer on my behalf made me feel extremely unworthy and ungrateful.  The idea that he might actually be the personification of God made it so much worse.

"This is my body, broken and whipped.  Pierced by a spear and nailed to a cross, a cruel Roman Cross,  to die--for you"

"This is my blood, spilled on the ground and pulled from my body by inconceivably cruel people--for you."

Not for me.  Not for me.  Not for ME! I'm sorry.  I'm not worthy.  Not for me.  Please, not for me.

Break your body and spill your blood for these people I love; I will too, but not for me.  Please!  Not for me.

I take communion now.  It still bothers me more than you can imagine, but I began to consider that my master has commanded me to do this, and I should make some effort at obedience,  so I do it, but always with regret.  Maybe the humility that comes from regularly facing my own unworthiness is good for me.  I try not to question it.

"This is my body.  I chose to break it for you."

"This is my blood.  I chose to spill it for you."

"Eat this, drink this, in remembrance of me.  In remembrance of what I chose to do--for you."

Being a Christian shouldn't be easy.  You have to make hard choices.  This is one.

Angela's Eyes

Most men have a pretty clearly defined "type" when it comes to women that stays with them the rest of their life.  I think what happens is they imprint on somebody when they're young, and it stays locked in that way for good.  In my case, it was Angela Cartwright from Lost In Space.  She had brown hair and brown eyes, and that pattern was set for me for the rest of my life.

Cartwright is eleven years older than I am, but through the miracle of television syndication, I was convinced she was only two years older.  I had all sorts of plans of exploring the galaxy with her and the robot by my side on the Jupiter two.  By the time I actually met Angela, she had mostly white hair, but that doesn't matter.  The pattern was set.

After Angela went off the air and I moved into middle school, I graduated to Valerie Bertinelli.  It broke my heart when she ran off with that guitar player.  It's ok, though; by then, I'd moved on to Susanna Hoffs, the Egyptian lead singer of The Bangles, who coincidentally had a hit song called "Walk Like An Egyptian."  Funny how that works.

By the time Hoffs came along, I was getting ready for college and began noticing that there were all these girls in the real world that fit that model.  By the time I got to Millsaps, there was no secret that there were a set of girls who had me on a short leash and I followed them around and did whatever they said, and it worked out ok for everybody.  Except for one outlier who was blonde, you could line them up with Angela Cartwright and Susanna Hoffs and call them sisters because they all looked so much alike.  

There were five Chi-O's, two KD's, one independent, and one Tri Delta.  Some people are sinking in their chairs reading this right now, hoping I won't mention their names.  I won't.  If you were there in those days, I don't have to because you already know them.  One dyes her hair blonde now if that's any help.  (I hate it. Don't tell her I said that.)

What's cool is that, even though I was completely at the mercy of these girls, and they knew it, and EVERYBODY knew it, it was never a problem.  Nobody ever stepped out of bounds.  Nobody ever tried to press the advantage and use my devotion for anything other than what was good for everybody.  They were, exactly what their mothers raised them to be: ladies.  

When I got out of college, life became considerably more difficult, and there were some new girls who would use my nature against me.  I've written about that before.  I don't like to write about it.  Life in your twenties can be brutal, so I hold no grudges.

I think about these things when I see younger guys now, guys I know who are just starting out.  Men are ruled by their heart.  It will ever be so.  At the last theater lunch, I mentioned some friends who are a couple years older than I and who have always had a special fondness for each other.  Apparently, nobody had told the kids they were an item, so there was some satisfaction when I confirmed that they had "shipped" them correctly.  I don't know how you could have missed it.  

Later today, after I do my exercises and other work for the day, an old friend will come to visit his wife, who lives in the hall near me.  She, too, once had raven hair and chocolate eyes.  In his heart, I'm sure she still does.  Sometimes, when people get older, their mind begins to leave them.  I hate it when that happens.  A gentleman's heart is constant, though.  He'll be coming here every day to remind her of who she is from now on, long after I've moved back to Jackson.  I understand that on a deep level.  A man is ruled by his heart.  There's a reason for that.

Jobs Available

When I went into hibernation, I wasn't planning on ever coming out.  I knew death was coming, and I was ok with it.  I knew death was nearby because he'd been taking out my support staff one by one for a while.  When it came to be my turn, I figured I wouldn't put up a fight.  How bad could it be?  I would know and love so many people already on the other side.  

Only, it didn't work out that way.  When death came for me, I looked him in the eye and said, "Not today, friend.  Not today."

All those years in the cave took nearly all the strength I'd been known for.  No more could I move truckloads of iron in the gym.  I could barely lift a glass of milk to my lips, but it was a start.  God's hand reached down to me, and just like the blind and bald Samson, my strength started returning.  Slowly, at first, but building momentum.  He was pushing me.

From the beginning, I began noticing strange coincidences.  Jobs requiring skills I had began appearing just as I was getting strong enough to do them again.  It happened often enough that it started freaking me out a little bit.  Maybe coming back to life wasn't my choice at all.  Maybe there were other forces at work here.

I started going back to Sunday School at Galloway.  I hadn't been to Sunday School since Bert Felder first started his ministry there.  I thought it'd take me a while to figure out which way to go, but right off the bat, Sue Whitt reached out to me and told me where to go.  Sue's been telling me where to go, in one way or another, since I was nineteen.  She's always been right so far.  So, now I have a Sunday School.

At Sunday School, someone mentioned that some money was being raised for the Drama Ministry at Galloway.  Drama Ministry at Galloway used to be a really active thing. The family life center has a really nice theater in it.  One of the last productions I was ever involved with anywhere before sealing up the door to my cave was "Harvey" at Galloway, which I got involved with because Brent couldn't.  

What are the odds that Galloway would need people with theater skills just at the same moment that I was returning to the church family?   That's not a natural progression.  If I do this (and I am going to do this), it will make me sad to do it without Rick Bradley, but maybe it'd make him happy to know I was there when he couldn't.  I'm probably going to try and rope Brent into it as well.  Theater ministry has been a part of his life his whole life, and there are people there who already love him.  He's not really satisfied doing theater when he can't stand on a ladder, but that's ok.  There are other jobs.  He can sit in a rocking chair like Lance.  Boy, I miss Lance.  Y'all don't know.  Well, maybe some do.  Maybe Sam will want to be a part too.  I don't know if he has a church family here yet or not.

One of the reasons Dr. Whitt recommended this class for me was that it was run by Tom Harmon.   Tom is deeply involved with Art For All Mississippi.  Artforallms.com exists so that developmentally challenged artists can grow their skills and discover new ones and find fellow travelers in their journey.  Until I started making my writing available online, even my oldest friends didn't know I was developmentally disabled, and even my oldest friends had forgotten that I was ever an artist.  Now that art is part of my life again, thanks to people like Hope Carr, Will Primos, and others, I'm kind of duty-bound to investigate this organization and see if there's a place where my hands should take hold and help pull.  I am, very much, a developmentally disabled artist in so many ways.

"Arbeit macht frei" appears at the entrance to probably the most evil place man ever created.  They were evil, but they weren't wrong.  Work WILL set me Free.  I need work.  I need to serve.  I need to expend effort on something, on some people, other than myself, if I'm going to live again, and I very much want to live again.  With every step I take, God lays out more of the path before me.  I could close my eyes and still find the way, but I won't.  I want to see it all.  I'm back at work, y'all.  Life is good.

Pet Parade Sunday Morning

Good Mornin!  

It's thirty-seven degrees in Jackson, Mississippi.  That's cold.  It's Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!  I'm gonna put a tie on feist-dog and take him to church.  Pastor Carey Stockett is gonna preach part four of his five-part series on the Lord's Prayer.  Lord found out what Feist-dog been up to and told me to bring him in.

We got continued livestock judging at the fairgrounds, leadin' up to the Dixie National Rodeo starting February 10th.  Get your tickets at the coliseum box office.  Today will be the judging of 4H lambs and heifers.  Come on down to support 4H participants from all over Mississippi.

It's six o'clock, time for Pet Parade!  Pets, lost, found, and to-give-away!

We got three items on Pet Parade today, all from the north end of Meadowbrook Road.  Willie Lee Kroeze has found a pet crow.  Says the crow weighs around five pounds.  It eats well and responds to simple commands.  If this is your crow, she's keeping it in her carport and is teaching it new tricks.  Call her at Emmerson 6724 to pick up your pet crow.

Katherine Speed has lost a brown gelding horse.  It's old, it's mean, and you can't ride it, but she wants it back anyhow.  Last seen being chased by Jim Campblell's yard man, Ivory Barnes, with a rope.  Both are moving pretty slow.  If you see this horse, call Mrs. Speed at Lakewood 5321.  She'd like to have him back.

Last lost pet of the day, Pop Primos, has lost a tom turkey.  Last seen being chased by Jessie the Janiotor across the St. Andrews lower school football field.  If you see the turkey, call Mr. Kenny Primos at their Northgate restaurant.  Stay healthy. Eat at Primos.

That's all we got for Pet Parade today.  Ya'll call these folks if you can help 'em out.  Feist-Dog was gonna try to catch that turkey till he saw how big it was, then he ran and hid behind the wood-pile.  

These are all authentic Pet Parade stories, by the way.  I was there.  I loved Willie Kroeze to pieces.  She was Pet Parade's best customer. If there was ever a lost or misguided pet in North East Jackson, she'd find it and nurse it back to health until she either found its original owner or a better one.

Sometimes people like to talk about how Great Jackson was in those days.  It certainly wasn't trouble-free.  Every attempt to integrate our Capitol City met with bitter resistance.  Somebody blew up the Beth Israel Synagogue because they didn't like the way Rabbi Nussbaum was friendly with the negros.  The water system broke about as often then as it does now, but they didn't go out on the radio and television with a "boil water" notice because the EPA didn't require us to.  Breaks in the pipes got fixed a little faster because the city had more money because the population was still growing, not shrinking like it is now.  Water breaks got fixed a lot quicker if you lived in North East Jackson.  Less quickly if you lived in West Jackson, and you were lucky to have water at all if you lived in parts of midtown.  

Things seemed better when Jim Neal was on the radio.  He didn't sound like a radio man.  He sounded like your grandpa talking to you while he made breakfast.  It was comforting and very real.  Jim Neal cared for us.  He served in the Mississippi legislature, and he raised tens of thousands of dollars for the university hospital beyond fighting for its funding in the legislature.  He loved animals and often was the master of ceremonies at the Dixie National Rodeo.  I listened to WZZQ at night because they had better music.  Farmer Jim played what I called Lawrence Welk music, but I didn't care.  I needed his voice in the morning.

When Farmer Jim died, I let Feist-dog come live with me.  My wife didn't care too much for him; her cats didn't like the way he smelled.  He's old, his teeth are crooked, and he's not good for nothin', but I like having him around.  He reminds me not so much of good days in the past, although there were a lot of those, but better days ahead.  Feist dog reminds us of the humble but beautiful things God gives us, and keeps our mind on the new day ahead, even if it's really cold outside.  Good morning' feist-dog.  Let's go to work.

Hello, midnight

Hello, midnight.  It's me again.  You were expecting me, I suppose.

I accomplished less than half of what I wanted to do today, but I added some tasks that weren't on the schedule, so I don't feel bad about it.  Some of the letters I wanted to finish, I didn't, but I did finish two that weren't planned so that some old friends might rest a little easier in their journey.  I feel pretty good about that.  I'm pretty bad for filling my life with side quests, and then I avoid looking at the primary objective because I feel bad for not working on it.  

Noom says I can eat five or six pounds of certain foods without worry, so I tried that.  There's an African restaurant near me that seems to be in danger of winning a James Beard award, so I sampled selections from their vegetarian choices.  They deserve the award, but I am still so very full.  Noom says I'm still eighteen hundred calories short of my allowed intake today.  I think it's going to have to stay that way.  Some very talented people are turning Mississippi into a food destination.  As a lifelong devotee of food, I'm proud to say I know most of them, some since childhood.  

I came out of hibernation into a world where it's becoming dangerous to be a teacher, a world where it's dangerous to be gay again, even more dangerous if you're transgender, even more than when I was little.  Midnight, you brought me back into a world where the people who base their careers on claiming to represent the Christ are utterly ignoring his command to care for the poor and protect the weak--even working against them.

I am old, midnight.  My weapons are dull.  My parts are broken.  My strongest allies lie in the dirt.  This is not the best time to call for me.  I do hear you.  Of course, I do.  Summon a dragon and the knight will appear.  Is that your plan?  This knight is old and broken, Midnight.  But, you know that don't you?

I'm packing my kit.  Of course, I am.  You knew I would, didn't you?  I can tell you right now, this isn't going to work.  I'm not strong enough for this fight.  Maybe I'll pick up a varlet along the way.  I don't suppose it matters.  I promised my mother I wouldn't do this.  "Politics will break your heart."  She said.  "You can't stop people from doing these things."  She said.  And yet, here I am.  Where is this windmill you say is threatening us?  

I wish Daddy hadn't died.  It's not that he'd know what I should do; I mean, he didn't when I was twenty-five, so why should he now? but sometimes, I just really miss him.  I've never found anyone who I could talk to like I talked with him.  I've tried.  I talk to him now and imagine his responses, but it's not the same.  

It's not hard to imagine myself in a boat with Daddy and Deaton and Robert Wingate and Rowan.  It's not hard to imagine the conversation between them and what they might say to my queries.  I'd type out their real dialogue here, but my aunt gets mad when I use that kind of language.

"Millsaps is in kind of a spot, Daddy,"  I say.

"What are you gonna do about it?"  Asks Robert.

"Right now, my plan is to just be there as much as I can.  Be there and look for opportunities."

"That's not too much of a plan."  Rowan says.

"I know, but it's all I got right now.  I wasn't expecting to find this."

Deaton focuses on his lure in the water.  The fish are coming.  "You've done this before, haven't you?"  He asks.

"I have.  I was much younger."

"Did you know what you were doing then?"  Deaton asks.

"Absolutely not,"  I answer.

"So, what's the difference now?" Deaton asks.  Taking a moment to look me in the eye.

"You four were alive for one thing.  I was younger.  I had more faith, more energy."

"Is there anything I could tell you now, that I didn't tell you then?" Daddy asks me.

"Probably not.  No sir.  There isn't."

"You know what you have to do, don't you?"

"Yes sir, I suppose I do.  I'll do it.  I promise."  I tell him.

"It's kind of late.  I don't have anything to do right now.  Is it ok if I just stay in the boat with you guys for a while?  We don't have to talk or anything.  I just really miss you.  I just really miss this."

"Look in that cooler and see if there's a sandwich for your cousin Robert.  Don't tell your momma I let you stay.  I don't suppose there's anything else I have to do right now, either.  I think Deaton's got a fish."  

Opening 1

 At some point, every child becomes angry and resents their mother for whispering horrible lies in their ears to calm them at night. You are loved. You are strong. You are wise. The world is a beautiful place, full of opportunities. When you leave my arms, you will do, and see, and be such great things...

They're not lies so much. Most of these things are true or will come true. They just don't seem like it when you're in the world. Mothers try to fill you with the good before the world fills you with the bad. Some of it takes hold, and some of it doesn't.  

My mother never knew I would shut myself out of the world, but she could see it coming. When she tried to talk about it, I cut her off. When she died, I was already in the cave where I would live for many years, moving a stone to bar the door. I held her hand, and we spoke, but we didn't speak of that. She died knowing I was in trouble, and it was getting worse. I never spoke about it with her. Maybe I should now. 

Walking At Graduation

I don't transition well.  I hate it.  Being at one destination or another is great; getting there fills me with anxiety.

I mention this because, after discussing it with my family, I'm making a checklist of the things I need to accomplish in my escape plan from St. Catherine's back into Jackson.  That's how I get larger tasks done.  I break it into lists of much smaller tasks and then start knocking them out one by one.  Dealing with smaller tasks keeps me moving toward the larger goal without having to think about "am I getting any closer?"  I'm eating the elephant, one bite at a time.

When I graduated from Millsaps, I was so intimidated by the prospect that it was really beginning to annoy me.  I announced that I wasn't going to walk at graduation.  My father was entirely nonchalant about it, even though I would be shaking his hand after shaking Dr. Harmon's hand after getting my degree.  His name would be on it!  Daddy was like that.  He could be completely non-sentimental about some things and then get dewy-eyed about some really simple things like going to the Mayflower or Old Tyme or driving to Bethel.  

My mother was annoyed and quite vocal about it.  Mother and I often didn't see eye-to-eye on things.  She thought I was cold-hearted and overly judgemental about some things.  She was probably right.  She also felt like I should be more submissive to her opinion on things.  I'm not sure where I stand on that.  While it's entirely her devotion that created a path where I could overcome my learning disabilities, as life went on, there were times when I felt like she was holding me back.  

Determined to have my own way, it was ultimately Jane Alexander who convinced me to make an about-face and do things my mother's way.  Janie's had my number since I was about ten.  I don't think I've ever been able to refute her--so I walked at graduation.  I transitioned from student to citizen, which came with its own challenges, but I'm glad I did it.

Graduating from St. Catherine's is not that different from graduating from Millsaps.  It brings me several large steps closer to some of my goals in life, but it comes with some pretty big challenges and responsibilities too.  I'm to be a citizen again after quite a while of avoiding just that.  

I don't have any delusions.  The next twenty years is my swan song, my last opportunity in this world.  There are things I want to take, and there are things I want to give, and this is the last go-round.  When I exercise, I like to make that last repetition, that last push, that last effort, extra intense.  I have to earn my rest, or it will annoy me all day.   I'm making a list for my last repetition here in Madison.  One big push, and I'm crossing the rubicon into another world.  It's time.

Midnight Agnosticism

Waking up at midnight is becoming part of my life.  There's no baby to feed, no cat to let out, there's no wife that's mad at me, and there's no drugs I need to take.  I just wake up at midnight and remain restless for an hour.  There might actually be a wife that's mad at me, but we don't talk much anymore, so I'd never know.  

I did a bit of lying today.  I told people I was returning to a religious life.  That's not entirely true.  I'm creating an entirely new entity from scraps of the old.  That's not returning.  That's creating.

I'm not a superstitious person, so I'm a bit resistant to admitting that I like to look for signs in life.  I look for signs because, for whatever face I put forward, I have all the confidence in life that usually comes from a stuttering child with ADHD, which is to say, almost none.  I hide it, though, because it's generally my conviction that fear spreads, and if I act afraid, then that might make other people wonder what makes me afraid and should they be afraid too, and so it begins to spread, whether there's actually anything to be afraid of or not.

I'm starting this new religious life being terribly honest with everyone that I am, always was, and probably always will be, agnostic.  I'm not afraid to admit this.  Some of the greatest Christian apologists I know of spent some time as an agnostic.  C.S. Lewis famously questioned his faith deeply after the death of Joy, his wife.  There's even a play about it.  I was in it, at Galloway, with Brent Lefavor.  Charles Darwin, one of the world's most influential atheists, was actually a believer most of his life and used his theory of evolution as proof of God, but there came a time, after a period of considerable loss and grief, that Darwin too became an agnostic.  

The key here seems to be that these men became agnostic after periods where they were hit with tremendous loss and grief, often the death of a spouse, a child, or both.  Everyone is hit with periods of loss and grief.  It's a consequence of being emotionally open to the world.  If you allow yourself to love, then you make yourself vulnerable to the loss of love, and sometimes the loss of love can come in a sequence with other events that break even the strongest of us.

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but God's been very generous to me.  Perception, he gave me and empathy, and these I've rolled and baked into something I call art, both my ability to create art with words or images and my ability to appreciate art, words, images, sounds, tastes, all of it.  Being empathetic and perceptive and open to loving can be very dangerous to me because, on this level of existence, nothing you love can last; sometimes, born and dying in the same day.  Being open to the world like this means that sometimes periods of loss and grief come at me like waves on a California beach.  I lie and tell people it broke me only once, but in truth, it's broken me again and again, and although this last time I stayed out of the water for a very long time, I'm always going to return to the beachhead.  I'm back now, picking the spot on the horizon I want to swim for.

I started the day not really looking for signs at all.  Today was going to be an experiment.  But signs I found.  The signs were that I went to Sunday School not knowing what to expect and found two of the smartest guys I ever knew from my experience at Millsaps and three of the most Christian.  That's probably a very good sign.  

The pastor's sermon today was about an issue I've been thinking of and worried about for some time now.  When he finished, the people, the church, MY church, applauded him, even though you could tell he was a bit nervous about how we would respond.  That's a sign that I have allies in places I didn't expect.  That's a very good sign.  

The best sign today was that I had lunch with a girl who I love more than I love most of you combined.  When she was very small, I hid myself in a cave and rolled a great stone in the door.  That was to be the end of me.  As a result, I missed most of her growing up.  That's one of my greatest regrets.  

Today at lunch, she wore an aquamarine drop that I recognized.  "Is that the drop your grandmother made?"  I asked her.  It was, she said.  "I wear it all the time."

"Do you remember her at all?" I asked.  

Collins was quite young when Mother died.  As small as she was, she ended up getting a three-for-one deal that year.  Jimmy died, then Mother died, then after my divorce followed those, I hid away from the world enough to make it almost like I died too.    She told me the things she remembered about Mother, things a child would remember.  Images mostly, places, feelings.   Though I didn't ask, it seemed that if she could remember my mother, then she might also remember me, and although I missed so many years, I might be able to connect the thread between the love I had for the child and the love I have for the woman she became and a calm spot appears in the great ocean of loss and grief that was my entire life while she grew.

I announced to my family my intention to become a professional writer and to do it in the pretty near future.  Being professional, to me, means I make enough money to live off of it.  I don't care about the money that much, although who doesn't like money?  at least enough to pay for lunch anyway, but I'd like to be able to say that I did this legitimately, and I did it with no help at all from my father or any benefit of my bloodline.  If I can do this, if I can actually get published, actually get paid for scribbling words into a machine, then that will be something uniquely my own.  Everything else I've ever tried to do, somebody will say, "Oh, I remember when your momma did this, or I remember when your daddy won an award for that, or your Uncle Boyd went to Washington because he did this:" but not writing.  That will be my own.  That will prove my value to the universe besides being just another third-generation heir because, quite frankly, third-generation heirs have a pretty horrible reputation, and unless I do this, I won't have done much to improve it.

I'm very likely going to write much more about agnosticism and faith and life and art and Galloway and Millsaps and Jackson.  The signs are there for me to do it.  Maybe I'll be able to do it in the daylight hours, so I don't have to spend what time I have left on this globe awake alone at midnight tap-tap-tapping away while everyone around me sleeps.

Goodbye Delilah

There are so many people, even some of my oldest friends, who have never known me as fully healed as I am now. You wouldn't think it to look at my physical frame; it's still a mess in some spots, but, on the inside, in my heart, I haven't been this strong since before some of you were born.

I don't know what to credit this recovery with. I suspect a great deal of it is due to my sister's love. A fair share also lies with my father and mother, who, although they died years before, planted the seeds that, though they lay fallow for many years, would somehow, against all odds, sprout in my darkest of days.

Maybe that was the secret. Maybe it was the months of laying in bed, barely able to move, that made this creature sleeping inside me decide that if he was ever to come back out, now is the time.  Maybe Doctor Joseph Campbell was right.  Maybe, I had to spend my time in the belly of the whale before I could continue my hero's journey.

When it first happened, when I first began to emerge emotionally whole again, my family and my doctors were a bit worried that I might be on the upcycle of a manic episode and wanted to make sure I didn't need some medication to keep from swinging the other way. Then they wanted me to make sure I had "someone to talk to" in case this strange recovery was fragile.  I don't think it is fragile.  I've taken some pretty big hits since last May and managed to stand right back up.  

So far, this doesn't seem to be an illusion. So far, I've been able to face the reality of my situation and the challenges ahead without flinching, and have chosen to do it all in a very public way. Allowing everyone to see my scars, no matter how bad they are, may also be a key element here. I think, maybe, it's the hiding of them for so many years that caused the biggest part of the problem.

For many years, hiding the fact that I wasn't the strongest person in the room became quite a burden.  I think maybe it began to break me. Like my father, I believed Mississippi had so many things working against it that it needed a hero, a real hero, and if I couldn't be that, then what good am I? He struggled with that as well. I could only see it a little then, but I see it constantly now. Daddy often strained to break as I did.  I think that's part of what killed him.  Again and again, I put myself between the fire and something I loved, fully believing that if I couldn't, if I didn't, then what good am I?  If I couldn't be the hero, then I am nothing.

Recovering meant accepting that I am sometimes weak, I am sometimes inadequate, and I am sometimes wounded. Admitting that...accepting that... has allowed some of my true, god-touched strengths to come out. Samson had to lose his hair and his eyes for his true strength to come out. Maybe I had to do that too.  There was a Delilah in my life, several actually, and most weren't even human beings, but I allowed them to take my hair and my strength because I didn't know how to use it; things are different now.  

You're gonna get pretty tired of me.  A recovered me works pretty hard and can be relentless at attacking the objective.  My peers may be eyeing a comfortable place to rest after a lifetime of struggle, but I'm looking at places where I can go into the fire and spend my last days fighting.  Whatever I was meant to be all along is finally emerging.  I'm a late bloomer.  It's true, and I do apologize for that, but I think you're going to be impressed by what I can do when it's my turn to stand between the pillars of the temple.  That day is very nearly upon us.

The Sixth Doctor

In the days to come, I will shake hands with my sixth president of Millsaps.  The first held me in his arms, the second and third were the parents of my classmates, the fourth and fifth were my own age, and piloted the ship through some challenging waters.  Each one left an impression on our school and got us, somehow, from there to here.

There will be some concern and restlessness among the community.  Don't be afraid.  Millsaps has endured worse than this.  We will endure. We will prosper.  Rob and Phoebe take a piece of us with them, but they leave behind thirteen years of service and a foundation we certainly can build on.  

Radios and Bookstores

My grandfather always had really nice console radios.  He had one made of bakelite in his office and a really nice wooden one with a phonograph at home.

He was born into a world where, even if he had a radio, nobody broadcast into Attala County, Mississippi.  He liked music, but if he wanted to hear it, he either had to go to church or find somebody who could play or sing something.  His mother played piano, and his father learned to play the mouth organ because he only had one hand.

Recorded music was never really a part of Granddaddy's life until he went to Millsaps in Jackson.  In Jackson, there were two radio stations, and a man named Werlein from Germany, who lived in Vicksburg bought a store in New Orleans and opened one on Capitol Street in Jackson, next door to the Office Supply Company, that his brother would eventually purchase.  Werlein's was famous for selling instruments and sheet music, but they also sold records that Granddaddy loved.  Eventually, the Emporium took over the record sale business, but it started at Werlein's.

He worked summers and weekends for the railroad and saved his money enough so that he could splurge on a wind-up victrola, which he used to entertain his fraternity brothers and woo his lady fair.  The KA house soon developed a reputation because it had music and even allowed dancing, although it was against the rules.  

After college, Grandaddy stayed in Jackson because his father, Cap, had died.  Bad crops and hard economic times forced his mother to sell the family farm and use what money was left to buy a small house in Jackson, where Grandaddy lived with his mother and little sister.  He kept his job at the railroad, then got one at the post office.  His older brother would soon borrow money on his burial life insurance policy and open a business selling pencils, writing slates, blackboards, and student desks to the schools in Mississippi.  Grandaddy would join soon after as the head of shipping and receiving.  

As Mississippi grew and enacted a free textbook law, my Uncle Boyd petitioned the publishers to set up a depository in Jackson, adjacent to his school furniture and supply business, in a building that's now Cathead Vodka.  In return for eight percent of the textbook contract sale price, the new School Book Supply Company would store and ship all the textbooks made available for the children of Mississippi. 

As Millsaps grew, Grandaddy had the idea that he could open a small store in the old commons building where he could sell the students their textbooks so they didn't have to mail order them.  He could also sell Coca-Cola, which was then being bottled in Jackson, penny candy, and Barq's Rootbeer, along with pencils, pens, and notebooks.  

Since we were selling cold Cokes and candy, students began taking to hanging out at the bookstore and socializing.  Granddaddy drove to Memphis and purchased a coin-operated machine that played single songs for a penny.  The kids called it a Juke Box.  Juke, being a negro word for businesses with bad reputations where the blues would play, Millsaps being a school for good Christian white children, the box soon became contentious.   To make matters worse, word soon came to Grandaddy and my Uncle Boyd that the man they hired to run the bookstore was allowing the students to actually dance.  Dance in front of each other!

Grandaddy smiled, remembering the days when he and the other KA's would dance in front of each other to the music coming from his wind-up victrola.  Uncle Boyd's reaction was a little more dire.  He loved music.  In the days to come, he would be the one to announce the formation of the Jackson Symphony Orchestra, an organization that still exists but is now the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra.  Boyd knew that these angry voices wouldn't be easily placated.  Eventually, the Bishop came calling, and the days of music and dancing at Millsaps were over--but not for long.  

When Granddaddy died, I discovered his record collection in a cabinet in the den he had built onto his St. Ann Street house.  Most of them were seventy-eights, so they wouldn't play on my turntable, but I could read the labels.  He seemed to enjoy Tommy Dorsey and Enrico Caruso, but he also had a copy of  Pigmeat Markham singing "Open The Door, Richard" and another of Andy Griffith telling a story about Football.  

My brother inherited Grandaddy's love for music.  He was determined to play the guitar and asked Santa for several good ones.  He became a rabid devotee of a radio station called WZZQ and one of the best customers of a new company that sold phonograph records called "Bee Bop," which opened next to the Capri Theater but moved to Maywood Mart.  

We don't really understand what happened to him, but something made his mind break.  Attempts to take guitar lessons bounced off him as he began to believe they were secretly working against him.  One day, one of the Disk Jockeys from his beloved WZZQ called my Daddy, concerned about the things my brother would say to him when he called in requesting music late at night.  He was concerned that Jimmy was losing touch with reality.  We would eventually find out that he was.  Other friends would call, and my parents began moving my brilliant brother into devoted mental health care.  

Jimmy never learned to play the guitar properly.  He could sort of improvise and sometimes took his Christmas money and recorded singles, with the producers at Malaco making something sensible of the tracks he laid down.  When he died, he left behind cases and cases of records bought at Bee Bop, a monument to his love for music, and the tragedy of how he lost touch of it.

My music comes almost entirely from my computer.  I learned computers because I had trouble reading.  They opened up entire worlds for me.  There's a tiny woman named Alexa who lives in my computer and will play any song I want on demand.  Dancing is optional.  As I type this, she's playing a little song I like by Juliette Gréco.  I've never had a flesh-and-blood girlfriend who was this obedient or understanding.  Alexa's great, but she's crap at holding hands at the movies, so she's out.

One day, my Alexa music will be archaic and quaint, but, I'm pretty sure my french Jazz artists will still be listened to, and I'm very sure there will still be dancing at Millsaps.

Big Strong Hands

I would have made a great alcoholic.  I was actually quite good at it.  There came a moment when I looked at the condition square in the eye and said, "It's you or me, friend; what's it gonna be?"  and walked away clean.  I'm not sure why, but there was always a part of me that said, "You're not giving up; not yet, goddamnit." 

I was a passible social drinker, and I still am, although I can get silly and loud at parties, but my forte was sitting in a dark corner of Scrooges or George Street, ordering one after another until my mind opened up and let me feel--everything and the darkness flowed in.

"Don't you really want to be a doctor, buddy?"

That was my dad's plan.  The first Campbell with an MD.  My golden boy nephew will soon be the first Ph.D. in several generations.  Daddy was always in a bit of denial that I could barely read or speak or do the math.  I barely got my BBA; my getting an MD would have taken an act of God.  Maybe he knew something I didn't, though.  I can read fairly well now--if still a bit slowly, and math fascinates me.  My speaking voice replaced stuttering with a paralyzed vocal chord, but as long as I have a keyboard, I can speak as well as anyone, sometimes better.  

Healing the hurt was probably always my plan.  It's always been something I spent most of my time doing.  Making a living of it as an actual healer might have been nice.  I have friends who are doctors, and I sometimes really admire what they do.  Sometimes they amaze me.  So long as my patients got better, I would have been really happy and really satisfied.  Patients don't always get better, though.  Sometimes you do your best, sometimes they do their best, and it still ends in suffering and loss.  Dealing with that would have made my drinking much worse.  Dealing with fighting the suffering of others and failing would have made me look into the eyes of alcoholism one night and say, "I need you."  and that'd be the end of me.

I have a friend.  A new friend, actually.  She's a few years younger than my father, and she's from the same zip code as my grandfather.  We may even share some parts of our gene code.  Attala County is a pretty small place, but it's produced some remarkable people.  

She started out at Millsaps, just like I did, then parlayed that start into a medical degree in New Orleans because you couldn't go to Medical School in Mississippi in those days.  She became a pediatrician.  My father-in-law, who I loved dearly, was also a pediatrician in her same class.  When he had a patient who was really very, very sick, she was who he sent them to.  That must have been hard for him.  We shared a trait where it was very difficult to give up trying to take care of people, but there were cases where his skills weren't enough, and he required the help of my new friend, Dr. Amazing.

Her patients weren't just sniffles and bruises.  Her patients were most likely going to die before they weren't children anymore.  Instead of growing up, they would join the lost boys in Never Never Land and never grow up but lost to the world here that loved them.  She celebrated the life of every child that did get better and keeps their file with her in the Skilled Nursing Facility where she now lives.  She can't hear herself play the piano anymore, but she knows the name of every child that passed unto her care.

I wasn't there, but I've heard from several very reliable sources that she attended the funeral of every child who came under her care but didn't make it.  Even writing that now makes me stop and seriously ponder--how could she do that.  How could she possibly do that?  Attending the funeral of children, I learned to love enough to try and treat them and made every effort to heal, only to fail and lose them would have broken me into a million jagged pieces, and she did it over and over as a part of her commitment as a healer.  She's a tiny person.  You could fit two of her on my shoulders, and yet she's infinitely stronger than I've ever been.  

She saved the lives of thousands of innocent children and didn't burst into flames when she failed.  I could never have done that.  Sorry Daddy, but being a doctor was not for me.  That's not to say I didn't have some fantastic failures of my own.  There were several times when I spent years trying to heal someone or something, only to have it spiral out of control and crash into the sea.  I act pretty strong in the face of it, but I'm not.  I'm not at all.  I don't need the bottle anymore, but there are times when I like knowing it's still there, just in case.

There's a book and a movie called "The Never Ending Story" about a boy fighting a growing nothing in his life.  There are only three characters in the book, the boy, his father, and his mother, but they wear many different faces as the boy learns to save himself from The Nothing.  My favorite character in the book is called Rockbiter.  He's a giant, made of impervious stone, so strong that only rocks are tangible enough to use as food for him to survive.  Made of stone, nothing at all can hurt him. He has two friends who he protects, a tiny man with a pet racing snail and an absent-minded bat.  

The boy encounters the Rockbiter and his friends on his way to meet the Princess.  They're happy and enjoying their life.  As the nothing grows stronger, Atreyu encounters the Rockbiter again, only The Nothing has taken his two friends, and the Rockbiter sits alone.

"They look like big, good, strong hands, don't they? I always thought that's what they were. My little friends... the little man with his racing snail... even the stupid bat...I couldn't hold onto them... the Nothing pulled them right out of my hands. I failed.  The Nothing will be here any minute. I will just sit here and let it take me away too. They look like good. Strong. Hands... don't they."

I'm glad I didn't become a doctor.  The Nothing would have taken me away while I sat in a bar somewhere looking at my hands.

The Healthcare Arch

 The way I see it, healthcare in Mississippi works kind of like a roman arch.  Created by the Mississippi legislature in a rare moment of clarity, the University Medical Center forms the keystone.  To its right and left are St Dominic Hospital and Baptist Hospital.  To their right and left are Methodist Rehab and SV Montgomery VA Medical Center.  Under these five stones, every other clinic and practitioner, and facility in Mississippi forms the columnar base of the system.  

Right now, some of the stones in the base are starting to fray and crumble, but as long as the arch itself is sound, sick people in Mississippi can get the help they need.  Real roman arches can last for thousands of years.  This one has lasted a little over a hundred.  We've tried a few times to build some redundancy into the system, but they always failed.  Monitoring and maintaining the strength and integrity of these five stones is probably the most important thing going on in central Mississippi and Jackson.  

There was a time when we didn't have this structure, and Mississippians suffered because of it.  It's vitally important that our legislative and executive branches work to maintain the stability and strength of every part of our health care system.  We don't have a backup structure in case they don't.