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."