Homeless in Jackson

 

There's a perception that part of the "problem" with Jackson is that there are so many homeless people.  When I was fourteen, my church and six others joined together and created an entity that became known as "Stewpot."  My mother volunteered to be the first manager of Stewpot, which meant she volunteered for us four kids and my dad as well.  I literally grew up coping with the homeless in Jackson, and here is my perspective:

1) The homeless go where you go.  Food doesn't fall from the sky like it did for Moses, so at some level, just like you and I, the homeless must be around enough people for them to find food.  Many would rather not socialize or have difficulty socializing, but no matter how you cut it or who you are, food comes from other people; it's the same for the homeless as it is for you and me.  If you haven't noticed, the homeless are now in Ridgeland, and soon they'll be in Madison.  They go where the people are.

2) Many of the "vagrancy" laws that used to keep the streets clear of the homeless were struck down in court, making it difficult to keep them off the streets.  To be honest, many of these laws and practices were cruel.  Often the only legal way you can keep the homeless out of your neighborhood is by gating it, which is one of the reasons why gating has become so popular.  

3) This isn't a liberal issue.  Jackson was a very conservative city when the downtown churches banded together to do something to alleviate the homeless problem.  Being conservative doesn't make the homeless go away, and being liberal doesn't attract them.  They go where the people are.  As Jackson's population shrinks, the homeless have been moving to cities in Rankin and Madison counties, very conservative cities in Rankin and Madison counties.

4) I've known hundreds of homeless people, and I've yet to meet one that I thought was lazy, and I've never met one that I thought was evil, not even the one that shot Matt Devenney.  Having a stable home means you're able to regularly complete complex and difficult social tasks, and some people aren't capable of it.  As a person who's had difficulty socializing at times, I can appreciate this.  They're not all addicts, either.  Some are, but sometimes the addiction is a symptom of another disease.  

5) In his last sermon to the people of Israel, Moses says: "the poor shall never cease out of the land: therefore I command thee, saying, Thou shalt open thine hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy, in thy land."  I'm not asking you to believe Moses is real or God is real or anything like that.  You have to make your own decisions in that regard.   I am telling you that people hundreds of years before Julius Caesar was born were concerned enough about the homeless to include instructions about it in their sacred texts, and you see this all over the world in every culture.    I've spoken to people infinitely wiser than I about this, and they don't know a solution to the homeless issue either.  It is a condition of our life together and has been for thousands of years.  

Goodbye Friends

 I'm no good at obituaries, so let me tell you a story.  I had kind of a rough week.  My best friend was out of town, and I lost two women who featured heavily in my youth.  I had a loving family and the best friends in the world, but I was a painfully shy kid.  I had a significant stutter that made it difficult for me to talk in front of people unless I was cutting up, and a reading deficiency kept me in constant fear of being moved to special education classes.  Finding a way through that prickly shrubbery made it difficult for most adults to reach me, but there were two who made it effortlessly.  

If you're on my list, there's a good chance you knew both of these women.  The first was Sarah Jones Nelson.  Sarah was our perennial class mother.  When you're small, most grown-ups treat you like children, but Sarah treated us like friends, like somebody she knew, and that made a huge difference.  She was with us on field trips, camping, and cross-country journeys by bus to the nation's capital.  She helped us through the rough years between childhood and the universe of teenagers.  Sarah ended up moving next door to my sister and her family, where she spent her final years.  I'll be there Friday when we say goodbye to Sarah.  I probably won't say much, but I'll be there.  

I never met the other woman, but I saw her every Saturday night.  Her name was Annette Stutzman, and every Saturday night when I was a kid, she drove to the WAPT studios between Jackson and Raymond, where she played the role of Scarticia on Horrible Movie.  In 2009 I wrote an article about her on my blog that, even now, is the most viewed page on the blog:  https://boydslife.blogspot.com/2009/01/jacksons-horrible-movie.html

I was a devoted Scarticia fan, even though she was something of a mystery in those days.  Through people who read my blog, I would learn that her name was Annette, and she was the secretary for the station manager at WAPT.  She was a few years younger than my mother and involved in what was then known as Hinds Junior College.  She loved music and participated in coral music most of her life.   Annette retained several friends from Jackson but made her way to California, where she made a living in television production and raised a family.   I never knew her, but she has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.  

I commit these friends to the hearth of memory.  You made life much better for a frightened little boy, and you live in the hearts of my generation.  

Packed Off

 Because he was a jock, some people might have thought Neil Brown was a bit dim, but before college, he was the best word-smith I knew, and in the disjointed band of misfits we called a high school, that made him a leader.  He found or created a phrase we ended up using a lot: Packed Off.  It meant getting so injured that you couldn't continue in the athletic event you were in and had to be taken off the field.  Packed Off.  

It only happened to me once.  I didn't know it yet, but this would be the last game I played at St. Andrews.  My relationship with the headmaster was bad and getting worse, and soon I'd be off to other adventures away from the class I'd been with since second grade.

It was cold.  A late fall rain made our field an ugly mud pit for the last game of the season.  Coach Clark developed a play just for me.  Pulling guards were pretty standard in those days, but I was a tackle.   I couldn't maintain it, but for short distances, I could develop fairly good speeds, and with my size and leg muscle, his thought was I could pull around the end and build up enough momentum to take out pretty much any defender in our way.  Nobody expected a tackle to pull around the end, plowing the field before a runner.  We'd tried it a few times, and against some defensive formations, it was devastating.  We were behind and needed to put points on the board badly.  It was my time.

Ours was a natural grass field, the cold and the rain made the sod something of a paste.  Down!  Set!  Hike! I pulled out of my position, turned toward the end, and planted my foot to turn back into their defensive end...  My foot was supposed to pivot, and I would direct that considerable momentum and bulk into their defensive end, but my foot stuck in the mud.  I could feel the pop.  I connected with my man, but without much power.  We made a few yards, but not enough.  Second down.

I knew I was in trouble.  I also knew this was our last game, and I and every kid and coach, and parent I knew wanted to end the season with a win.  Third down.  For me, it was a regular play.  My job was to stay in my position and move my defensive counterpart toward the end enough to create a hole for our man to go through.  Four yards and a cloud of dust, Coach Clark called it, but we needed six.  

I was in considerable pain and starting to limp.  Down! Set! Hike!  I connected with my man and pushed for all I could.  Three yards.  Not enough.  Fourth down.  Special teams, my job was to protect the punter and then make it downfield as fast as I could to block the way of the receiver.  I blocked, I started to run and collapsed.  The pain was intense, and my right leg could no longer support me.  I was packed off.  Coach Myers (now Doctor Myers) put my arm around his shoulder and crutched me off the field.

On the sidelines, my pants wouldn't pull over my knee, so he cut them.  Coach Myers had his eyes set on medical school and knew more about anatomy than anyone I knew.  My knee was the size of a cantaloupe and turning purple on one side.  

"I can go back in!"

"You can't go back in."

We were losing.  It was our last game for the year.  We needed this game to have a winning season.

"I can go back in!"  I stood up.  I wouldn't be denied.  Michael Mitchell hid my helmet.  I wasn't going back in.

Playing hurt is part of the American Male credo.  Sylvester Stalone literally made a career making movies about guys who played hurt.  "Are you a pussy?" "Get back in there!"  If you're a man, you feel it, even if nobody says it.  We're forged into believing we are disposable men, I suppose, in case we're ever needed in a war.  Once you get to be around thirty, you can start living for yourself without this burden of playing hurt hanging over your head.  It takes a toll too.  Every boy I know has scars on his face, and seventy percent of them have profoundly damaged knees.  I don't know anybody who had any of these micro-brain injuries you hear about that come from getting your bell rung too many times, but I don't know anyone who was tested, either.

I never had sons, so I never got to put it in practice, but I decided if I did, we'd have a talk about sports and steroids and playing hurt and not making the mistakes dad made.  For young men and boys, the message is pretty clear: your life, your health, and your well-being aren't as important as the game.  Know your place.  Whatever cultural forces make young men believe being disposable is honorable are wrong and possibly evil.   I got packed off.  Mike Mitchell hid my helmet, so I couldn't go back in.  I'm glad he did.

The Day My Mother Lied To Me

 Sometimes in my youth, a mother's desire to shield her child from the unpleasant truths of our condition meant that sometimes I had to be lied to.

By the summer I turned ten, I taught myself to operate our eight-millimeter film projector and often would, with and without permission.   Being the third of four very active children and far too shy to do anything performative worth filming, I wasn't in very many of these films, but I loved them nevertheless. 

That this unlikely-looking machine could turn thin strips of plastic into a show, tantamount to a time machine, was nothing less than magic to me.   I would eventually learn that some years my father sold more Bell & Howell film projectors than Sears and Robuck.  

One reel I particularly enjoyed showed my brother Jimmy when he was five or six, playing in the wading pool at Riverside Park with my cousin Libby.  They looked to be having such fun, and the pool was packed.  I recognized the structure.  That's where we sat and had bag lunch in the summer when I was in Y-Guys.  Riverside Park was a great place for a summer day camp because it offered the occasional visit to Dead-Mans Gulch off near the nature trail.  

By the time I knew and used the wading pool, there was no water in it, and the paint was faded and peeling off.  It seemed a relic of some bygone civilization.  But here in this film, just a few years before, it was filled with water and happy kids.  What happened?

"That looks like fun.  Why don't they put water in the pool anymore?" I asked.

"It leaked."  My mother said.  

That was a lie.  It was a lie to cover up a truth about living in Mississippi that she believed I wasn't ready for yet.  There would come a time when she would tell me the truth about this and many other things, but that summer, she hoped to let me hold on to my innocence a little longer.

In truth, Riverside Park and every other city-owned pool were closed because Jackson lost a court case forcing them to integrate the parks and pools, and rather than dealing with white and black kids swimming together, the city closed them all, no matter how much money they invested in building them.

I was always very interested in this part of our history.  Jackson abandoned several really nice facilities to spite the courts trying to force us to integrate.  The biggest were Livingston Lake across from the Jackson Zoo and Lake Hico, which rested on the sixteenth section land and served to cool the production facility for Mississippi Power and Light.  

I asked a man involved in the Lake Hico decision about it once.  "My job was to provide electrical power to the people of Mississippi and deliver a dividend to my shareholders, not worry about whether or not some negras wanted to go swimming."  He told me.  That seemed harsh, but not wanting to deal with "the troubles" became a common refrain in Jackson.

Whatever reason Hico was initially closed, it remained closed to leisure activities because MP&L had no desire to deal with the insurance and liability of keeping it open.  It cooled the water used to operate their natural gas-powered electric dynamos, and that was that.  

In Mississippi, a film-strip time machine sometimes opened doors and initiated discussions nobody wanted to have.

The Sharks Are Laughing

 Mississippi floats like a lifeboat on a vast and friendless ocean.  Because it's Mississippi, we divide ourselves into halves, despite having no place where we may retreat in this ancient and poorly equipped craft.  Because it's Mississippi, one half is mostly pink, and one half is mostly brown.

Because we believe the other side is untrustworthy and insane, we hoard what few crackers and potable water we have, not trusting the other to share in them fairly.  Occasionally one side will steal crackers from the other and build a volleyball stadium.  (Sorry, I had to bring it up.)

Both sides know real help isn't coming, although we beg passing liners for more crackers and water.  "Salvation is to the North," one side says and paddles like mad in that direction.  "Our only hope is the South," the other side believes and devotes all hands toward pushing us that way.  

There actually is an island to the East, but nobody wants to go there, and nobody will tell me why.  I've spent years in the north side of the boat, years in the south side, and more than a few years in the middle, waiting for the boat to sink.  Occasionally, a wise soul will jump over the side and swim for it.  They often are never seen again.  Sometimes they'll send us postcards telling us they survived and how great their island is.  Rarely do they ever send us more crackers and water.  Thanks, Oprah.

So, here we sit.  Despite considerable effort on both sides, our boat hasn't moved in years.  Our population of deserters increases, including the next generation of my generation.  I love them, and I miss them, but I can't blame them.  Meanwhile, the sharks play cards and wait patiently below us, knowing they'll eat soon enough.

I Met A Diva

 Kids today (I hate that phrase) use the word "diva" a lot.  For them, it describes someone who thinks a lot of themselves, which is fine, but I met a real one once.

My mother was a lady, not in the perfumed lace, looking down the nose sort of way, but in the garden club, "my children will not grow up in Mississippi without exposure to some sort of culture" way.  Mother had furs, but she preferred jeans, and her hands were in the dirt more often than mine, only she had a purpose in it.  She wasn't raised with airs.  She was the second child of a plumber and a seamstress from Learned Mississippi, both fiercely Irish and more fiercely independent, and raised in West Jackson.  A simple turn of fate threw her into the path of the twentieth-century Campbells and their odd ideas about "doing something" with Mississippi.

A singer was coming to town.  I had no idea who she was.  It was to be in the new auditorium, and the only name that registered with me was "Bubbles."  My father, being my father, somehow warranted front-row seats.  He had recently been the chairman of the Jackson Symphony, and Mississippi School Supply Company could be counted on to buy their place into the back of the program brochure at every arts event.  He could do all these things but couldn't be bothered to attend any of them.  Jim Campbell's favorite singers were Porter Wagoner and Roy Clark.  I met both men through him.  Wagoner was rude, and his hair disturbed me.  Roy Clark acted like he was a cousin or something and smiled at me genuinely.  

With my father out of the picture, invitations were extended on down the line.  Jimmy, No.  Joe, No. Martha, Too Little.  That left me.  I had no idea what "opera" was.  It was akin to church music, I was told.  Similar to how Mrs. Moffatt sang at Galloway.  

I was told what clothes to wear.  This was apparently a church plus dress code.  Mother wore the fur stole she never got to wear and something with a bit of a shine in parts, like tinsel.  The auditorium had a scale model of the city in the foyer.  That was my favorite part.  

I didn't see any of my friends.  I didn't see any other kids at all.  A few junior high girls were handing out program pamphlets, but that was about it.  I saw Uncle Tom and Aunt Burnice.  Uncle Tom wore a tuxedo.  Daddy had one with ruffles in front, but he never wore it.  I recognized Mr. and Mrs. Irby and Mr. and Mrs. Goodman from church, but that was about it.  Mother knew lots more people.  I was in a big crowd in alien territory and the only kid.  This was a lot of pressure.

When you're considerably less than five feet tall, the front row of the Jackson Auditorium meant that you were looking straight up at whoever was performing.  Besides the orchestra, the first person on stage was a man I didn't recognize who said something about something, something, and something, and I'm sure he asked for "support," meaning money.  Lewis Dalvit came out with his tuxedo and remarkable hair.  I'd been to enough of these events to know that meant the show was about to start. He tapped his baton on the music stand.

Whoever Bubbles was, she was next on stage.  She was about Mother's age and had similar hair.  She stood maybe fifteen feet from me, maybe less.  The lights changed.  Lewis Dalvit began to move.  The strings played.  "Here comes the church singing." I thought.

The sounds that came out of Bubbles were impossible.  She looked like my mom, but wow!  Just Wow!  I don't think she was amplified at all.  The auditorium has excellent acoustics, and it wouldn't matter where I was anyway.  I could feel her singing in my hair.  Beyond the power of my own control, my jaw fell open when hers did.  It looked like I was mimicking her, but I had lost control of my face.

When distracted, I tended to leave my chair.  I was mesmerized.  I kept trying to move closer to the stage, which was already just a few feet from me.  After some resistance, Mother let me stay there so long as I was quiet and still, which wasn't a problem because I don't think I could have made a sound if I wanted to.  

From Bubbles' perspective, I was a tiny head with an awkward haircut peeping over the stage, with a tiny pink hand resting on the apron.  After the second song, she knelt down and patted my hand.  I was allowed to stay.  She sang for just a few more minutes or for a few more years.  I couldn't tell you.  When it was over, a man gave her flowers.  She waved and bowed, waved and bowed, then looked at me, winked, and blew a kiss.  

The space between my ears grew considerably that day.  For a child who could barely get his words out without stuttering, I learned a whole new universe of sounds and words.  This was my mother's gift.  I met a diva.  She smiled at me.

The Sleeper

 For so long, I slept, hidden from the world that filled me with life but showered me with death.  Only the voices of the fellow hidden I heard, spewing their wounds onto each other, seeking neither light nor hope.  

By design, my body weakened, waiting for the day when I could release the chord that held me here.  I saw no other fate.  One day, the choice came.  Do nothing, and I would find peace, call out, and I would return to the world I chose to leave, even though it is still full of pain.

"Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping," Mr. Rogers said.

The strength came from a place I'd forgotten.  I called out...

The helpers: First to a woman in an ambulance, then to a woman who's been with me since she was born.  An ambulance ride.  A hospital.  Many long talks.  The sleeper was waking.

While I slept, my body became weak and strange and white and painful.  The first order of business, cut my beard and my hair.  I meant to be Samson, not Moses.  Second, lose all the excess flesh I used to hide me from the world.

Though I could barely move, I could feel the life returning, like a green shoot emerging from a dead tree stump.  If I wanted to live, I would have to fight, and listen, and trust, and love, and follow.  

Now, with my eyes open, I can see the world as it is.  So much that I love needs me to return.  I can feel my strength returning, dew at first, then drops, then a trickle, now a stream, life returns to this vessel.   Whatever I was meant for is manifesting itself before me.  The sleeper has awakened.  The life is returning.  I chose this.

How I ended up in private schools

 There are some stories where I always said I would never tell them until everyone involved was dead.  How I ended up in private schools is one of them.  I'm not even sure if my siblings know this story.  Even though everybody involved has been dead for at least fifteen years, I'm still not going to give out the names.

As you may know, my father was the head of Missco Corporation.  Five of its seven divisions derived most of their income from the public schools.    

By 1970, Mississippi had exhausted all options to keep its public schools segregated.  There was a mad rush to form private schools beginning the prior two years to absorb the predicted flood of white kids leaving the public schools.

The right choice for my dad's business would be to keep all four of us in public schools.  My dyslexia had already manifested itself, but at that point, my teachers thought I just needed to work harder, but I didn't need any special education.  Taking his children out of the public schools could have been seen as an affront to his most valuable customers.  

Here's the part where I'm not going to give you the man's name.  He was a good man.  My dad admired him.  I admired him,  But he was wrong.  This man had a senior position in Mississippi public schools.  He was a friend of my dad, granddad, and Uncle Boyd. 

"Jim, you need to get your kids in private school before they hit Murrah.  We just don't know what's going to happen at Murrah next year.  "  He said.

By next year, he meant 1971,  the year I would be in third grade.  My brother Jimmy would be in Murrah soon.  My dad was in a position where most of his friends were moving to private schools, and now this man he admired, whose job it was to administer the Mississippi public schools, was saying to get out of our public schools before high school.

Let me be clear on something.  Many of my friends went to Murrah.  I have family members who went to Murrah.  My ex-wife went to Murrah.  Absolutely nothing terrible happened at Murrah.  Whatever that man was afraid of didn't happen.  Some of these people are better scholars than me, even now.

Because of my dyslexia, I needed some special training that St. Andrews offered that Casey Elementary didn't, but in 1970, nobody knew I was dyslexic yet.  They just thought I was lazy.  

My parents had to choose between the right decision for the business and what all their friends said was the right decision as parents.  For my dad, having his friends say to move us was one thing; to have an actual official with the schools say it was another.  

I would have had a great time at Murrah.  Many of my friends did.  Forced to choose between doing what was best for his business and what everyone said was doing was best for his children, my dad chose us.  I don't know what I would have done in his position.  Both of us tend to err on the side of caution when children are involved.  

They pulled me from Casey and moved me to St. Andrews.  At St. Andrews, Mrs. McIntyre became concerned that my reading and writing were far behind my classmates, so they held me back a year and got me some special training both for my dyslexia and my stuttering.  Eventually, I learned to read and speak normally.

Had we stuck it out in the public schools, I'm sure I would have been fine.  I might have had to have tutoring or something for my dyslexia and stuttering, but it would have been fine.  That's hindsight, though.  There was a panic among parents in 1970, and my dad erred on the side of caution.  I can't criticize him for it.  There were times when he would be accused of choosing business over people, but this time he didn't; even if the danger her feared never manifested, he chose us.

The Robin's Nest

 The Lord's been good to me.  She sent me a friend who could always see the truth of my situation.  The gentle glint of her eyes anesthetizes the sharpness of her rapier.  When we were young, I could sometimes hide from it; now that I'm old, I just don't bother.

"Why do you find it necessary to try and save everyone and everything?"  She asks.

That's the question, isn't it?  That's THE question.  The answer is not so simple.  Part of the answer is that I had a moderately privileged upbringing, exaggerated by the reputations of my father (who was always out of town) and my uncle (who was actually dead.)  I was receiving credit for things I had nothing to do with, and I knew it, and it bothered me.  A lot.  

I had a moderately privileged life in a world where nearly everyone was desperately underserved and suffering, and if I gave away everything I ever had, it wouldn't make a dent in that condition.  Psychologists and sociologists call it "white guilt" or "survivor's guilt."  Whatever you call it, I had it in spades, and it made enjoying the privileges of being privileged very difficult.

Dickenson says to help one fainting robin unto his nest again, and I will not live in vain.  That's great advice, but Dickenson was a devoted recluse and couldn't see the thousands of naked, struggling robins dying on the ground with no one caring to look if their nest was even close by.  I understand why Dickenson became a recluse.  I tried it myself.  I failed.

Suffering, when I'm not the one suffering, makes me insane.  It splits my mind into a million different directions.  Sometimes I can help.  Most of the time, I can't.  The thousand failures make it difficult to enjoy the precious few victories.  

In my rehabilitation, I'm surrounded by people in much worse shape than I.  The staff here is world-class, but even they can't provide comfort for some of the sufferings.  If I'm to recover, I have to focus on myself.  One step, two steps, three steps, look up, straighten my back, take my meds, watch my diet.  Pretend as if everything is normal and smile at everyone like it's afternoon tea, even when they're in genuine distress, distress that will never go away.  I can be gentle, I can be kind, but I can't actually help.

I am Sisyphos, endlessly pushing a boulder up a hill.  At least Sisyphos knew what his sins were.  When the moon is right, I can sometimes move one of my boulders to the top.  No rest, though; there are thousands of boulders still at the bottom.

So, Why do I find it necessary to try and save everyone and everything?  If I'm honest, then I suppose the answer is: because I cannot.  

 

The Gait Belt

 Let me introduce ya'll to something called a Gait Belt.  They're constructed like and buckle like a football or Boy Scout belt.  They're a tool of the trade for Physical Therapists and Occupational Therapists.

Like a Boy Scout belt, the Gait Belt has a million different uses, but its primary function is to act like a handle for the therapist when they work with you.  Using the belt, they can grab hold of it and guide you when you're heading in the wrong direction,  they can tug the belt and correct you if you're not using the correct form, and they can use the Gait Belt to pull you to safety if you stumble or lose your strength.

Therapists work like football coaches because they condition your body and strengthen it.  They work like a Scout Master in that they teach you the right, safe, and best way to do things.  Unlike football coaches, therapists don't tell you to tough it out or work through the pain.  They definitely don't ask you to bust some heads.  Like a Scout Master, they tell you to be prepared and remember safety first.  

I think my mom would have benefited by putting me in a Gait Belt starting around nineteen sixty-five.  They call it a Gait Belt because it's used to help build and correct your gait, but I might call it a Gate Belt because the therapy is a gateway towards getting my life back. 

I may continue to wear my Gait Belt long after I no longer need therapy.  If you see me wearing a Gait belt and feel like I need to correct my course, improve my form, or a pull to safety, feel free.  If you see me wearing it, know it's a sign of gratitude for all the people who helped restore me, including many of you reading this.

Shrimp and Grits

 1985.  Ruben Anderson is appointed to the Mississippi State Supreme Court.  My dad decided to have a dinner party in his honor.  My dad was making a point.  He probably thought his points were subtle, but they never were.  There were men in Mississippi who might make a face at having a black man on the State Supreme court, and my dad wanted them to know his opinion of their opinion.  

Besides Judge Anderson and his remarkable wife, the guest list was the regular suspects, Brum Day, Rowan Taylor, Charlie Deaton, and added in George Hughes, Bill Goodman, and of course, everyone's respective spouses or public girlfriends.  A lot of times, I was more pleased to see the spouses and girlfriends than the men themselves.

Daddy was making a point.  His side of the Capitol Street Gang approved of Judge Anderson, and he didn't care who had other opinions.  Not just approval of Judge Anderson, although he's a genuinely remarkable man, but approval of having black men in positions of power in Jackson, Mississippi.

The guts and the details of the dinner party fell to my mom.  She was a self-taught cook and a great one.  Her regular co-conspirators were Mrs. Kroeze, Mrs. Lewis, Mrs. Flood, Mrs. Bass, and my Aunt Linda.   Jane Lewis was the best baker I've ever met.  They told me it was a rare disease that took her from us, but several other dear Mississippians died of the same condition, so maybe it wasn't all that rare after all.  That disease stole vital human beings from me.  That makes it my enemy.

Mother was a very experimental cook, which I appreciated, but my siblings often had another opinion.  Sometimes her menus were unconventional.  Gazpacho, different forms of liver and oysters, and calf's tongue were served at family dinners but not well received.

"What are you serving?"  I asked as she was cutting onions.

"Shrimp and Grits," she said.  I could see the shrimp in the sink where she de-veined them.  She bought them from a man coming up from Biloxi every week and parked his truck with ice chests full of fresh seafood at Deville Plaza.  Every woman in town made occasional trips to meet him and cut a deal. 

"Mother, this man is a judge; you cannot serve grits for supper."  I was adamant.

She ignored my opinion, as she often would.  In this instance, she was correct.  This was a few years before Bill Neal made shrimp and grits famous and Southern Cooking respectable.  If you've never heard of Bill Neal, I'll include a link to a video about him.  He's a remarkable man and responsible for many of the recipes you eat.

Years later, I asked her how she knew ten years before anyone else that Shrimp and Grits were a thing.  She said she got the recipe out of Southern Living, but I've looked, and there weren't any Shrimp and Grits recipes in Southern Living that year.  Further research told me that Galatoire's in New Orleans had occasionally been serving Shrimp and Grits since the seventies.  Her recipe was similar to that.  Either she had it there, or one of her co-conspirators had it there.

The best Shrimp and Grits I've ever had was at City Grocery in Oxford.  Their recipe was similar to Bill Neal's but had a little extra push to it.  By now, if you're from here, you've had the dish somewhere unless you were kosher or suffered a shellfish allergy.  

For me, Shrimp and Grits mean a time when my mother was right, and I was wrong.  They represent a day when my Daddy wanted to make a blunt point, and my mom made it graceful.  Food isn't just food.  It's art, and it's culture, and sometimes it's memory.

A video about Bill Neal

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeteYtkVB6Y

My Uncle Tom

 I was probably ten years old when I fully understood that it was my Uncle Tom who made the newspaper.  I was probably twenty years old before I realized he was considered a controversial person.   

Whatever else the world thought of Tom Hederman, I can tell you he was very kind and very patient with a little boy who had way too many questions.  He had the most fantastic collection of tin toys he purchased in New York and Chicago.  Despite fighting against Mississippi becoming "wet", he enjoyed wine with dinner.  He was a regular patron of the downtown library, and he was a relentless promoter of Jackson and Mississippi.

I still lament the sale of the Clarion-Ledger.  He didn't live very long after the sale, so I understand his motives, but when I look at what the paper is now, I can't help but wonder what would have happened had it remained in local hands.  Gannett did a really good job by Jackson for a long time, but what I see now is pretty much useless.   Thank God for Mississippi Free Press.

Enclosed is a photo of the Flowers Siblings and their respective spouses around 1968.  Tom is to the right in the double-breasted suit, his wife Bernice below him.  They're all gone now, except in my mind.

The Origin of Barbeque Sauce

 While the technique of pit cooking is pretty much universal, nearly every food historian posits that the origin of Barbeque is the Caribbean and a combination of native and African influences during the colonial period.  I'm willing to accept that.  The word itself is Spanish if that tells you anything.  If you look at how Barbeque spread and where it's distributed, even today, a Caribbean origin is the most likely.  Considering how many Southern enslaved people came from or through the Caribbean, it kind of seals the deal.

What about Barbeque Sauce, though?  Traditional food history says that Jamaican Jerk Sauce is the most likely origin of Barbeque sauce, which makes sense, but here's my issue:  the principal ingredients of Barbecue Sauce are tomatoes, chilis, and some form of acid.  Traditionally, the acid is vinegar, but let's assume that the acid might originally have been citrus, maybe limes, but what about a pre-Columbian acid, like passionfruit juice?      

Here's what I'm getting at: all of the main Barbeque sauce ingredients are pre-Columbian and originate in central and south America, not the Caribbean.  I don't believe that Mole sauce is colonial in origin, the name might be, but I refuse to believe it was the first time somebody used a molcajete to grind chiles into a sauce.  

Here's my theory, and I'm not a professional, so don't beat me up.  If you want a professional opinion, ask George Bey or David Woodward.  I think Barbeque Sauce is much older than Carribian Barbacoa.  I think the people pit cooking in the Carribian already knew of the sauce.  They inherited it from Central and South American ancient sources and had been putting it on meat for generations.  If you look at the development of chiles and tomatoes and ceviche and the molcajete, you have all the essential ingredients of Barbeque sauce, and they all pre-date Columbus by thousands of years.  Surely they weren't waiting for the arrival of Europeans to put it all together.  

Strange New Worlds Episode 4 Memento Mori

If you're curious, Memento mori is a Latin phrase meaning: "remember you will die."  You see the expression in the bible, Sirach 7:40 "In all thy works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin."  Both have meaning in the episode.

Star Trek Strange New World is catching the world on fire if you haven't heard yet.  Episode 4, Memento Mori, is an ensemble episode, including a good bit of time for my personal favorite: Bruce Horak as Hemmer, the blind passivist Andorian engineer.  

This episode introduces everybody's favorite carnivorous aliens; the Gorn and La'an Noonien-Singh has a personal history with them.  Ethan Peck as Spock shines in this episode, and there seems to be some effort to tie up what some fans consider loose ends in the Spock-Michael Burnham story.  

If you don't have Paramount Plus yet, between Strange New Worlds and The Offer, it really is worth the seven bucks a month (with Amazon Prime).

Mississippi Art The Wolfes and the Lazy Log Lodge

This is a story about memory, and family, and art.  This is a story about Mississippi and happiness and a story about love.

Yesterday my sister sent me a text message that she found a painting and wanted to know if it was of the Raymond Lodge; and included a photo of it.  Immediately I confirmed that it was indeed a painting of the Raymond Lodge and that it had hung in our grandmother's house for many years.  

I believed it was painted by Jackson artist BeBe Wolfe.  My sister texted back a photo of the signature, and it was painted not by BeBe Wolfe but by her mom, Mildred.  All this opened the most beautiful treasury of memories I had stored away, not forgotten but not visited in a long time.

The Raymond Lodge Painting
As Sent By My Sister

The lodge was the Lazy Log Lodge, about five miles east of Raymond, Mississippi.  After World War I, a retired colonel built it, and my uncle Boyd bought it in the fifties.  It was a little over thirty-five acres, with a five-acre lake, and when he bought it, there was the log constructed main house, a caretaker's house, a horse barn, a sheep barn, and a pavilion.  

It was the site of many company and family gatherings.  I learned to ride a horse there and bait a hook there.  I told and heard many ghost stories there, and in the days when I barely got to see my dad because his career was so busy, I could spend time with him there. 

It had a massive brick barbeque that Kelly, the caretaker, once used to cook enough hamburgers to feed the entire St. Andrews eighth and ninth grade.  Some people got two!

Besides the main house being made of logs, I don't know why it was called "lazy log."  The colonel built the house himself with trees cut from the land and four sandstone fireplaces, made from the same sandstone quarried in Hinds County and used at the Jackson Zoo and Smith and Poindexter parks.

The horse barn burned down in the sixties, leaving only a mule cart with a broken axel, and the horses were moved to the sheep barn under the levee.  The pavilion was storm-damaged in the seventies and had to be torn down.  The whole farm was sold in the eighties to finance a project my dad was working on.  

The house and the pavilion were on a hill looking over the lake.  Mrs. Wolfe must have been sitting in the pavilion when she made the painting.  She would have been shaded, but her subject bathed in sunlight.  By the colors, it must have been fall.  Although I wasn't there that day, I can clearly see it in my mind.  I tried to find a photo I'd seen of her painting before to include here, but I couldn't find it.  Maybe it was in a book.  I'll keep looking.

My Grandparents were big fans of the Wolfe's, both from their studio work and their involvement in Millsaps.  I don't know exactly how the painting came to be.  Either they commissioned it from her, or she painted it as a gift.  I've seen other landscapes she made, but I didn't recognize the locations.  From the vantage point of the hill, she couldn't see the levee that created the lake, only the center part of it before smaller hills blocked the rest. 

Across the water in the painting is a medium-sized weeping willow tree.  There were four weeping willow trees around the lake, planted as saplings by the colonel himself.  By the time my dad sold the place, they were massive.  There was pretty good fishing under that willow tree, and it was a great place to water your horse.  One time my Uncle John said we could walk our horses all the way across the lake from there to the other side, and we did!  I was in trouble for getting my pants wet in the lake water, but boy, was it fun.

Veterans of the fabled Dixie Art Colony, Mildred, and Karl Wolfe, settled in Jackson, Mississippi, after World War II.  They started a studio and became a part of the fabric of central Mississippi and especially Millsaps College.  Some years they were the entire art department at Millsaps.  Karl became one of the most famous portrait artists in the state of Mississippi.  Mr. Wolfe's portrait of my uncle Boyd Campbell hung at Mississippi School Supply for many years and now hangs in Millsaps College.  Boyd also had a portrait done by Marie Hull, which was in my mom's house for many years, then my house, and now hangs in my sister's house.  My uncle had the hat trick of Mississippi portrait artists of the 1950s.

For many years, Karl's work overshadowed his wife, but by the 1980s, Mildred became more appreciated for her own work.  Both tended toward impressionism, but I always thought she did more than he.  I can't say that I prefer her paintings to his, but it's close.  She also worked in every other medium I can think of, including Ceramics (which I guess she's the most famous for now) and glass.  

Mrs. Wolfe and my paternal grandmother were friends.  I believe they played bridge together.  I was never invited to those parties.  There was a cluster of little old ladies in Jackson determined to bring arts and letters to our community, and they held Mildred Wolfe and Eudora Welty as proof of Mississippi's worthiness.  Looking back on it now, I guess they got what they wanted.

My grandmother Campbell had some forty-five paintings by Mississippi artists; three were by Mildred Wolfe and possibly two dozen of her ceramic birds.  My sister and aunt have them all now, and they're in good hands.

Signature On
The Raymond Lodge Painting

According to the signature on the Raymond Lodge landscape, I was three years old when Mrs. Wolfe finished it.  My uncle Boyd never lived to see it, but he would have loved it.  I cannot remember a time before this painting existed.

Before my sister's house, the Raymond lodge painting hung in the hallway of my grandparent's St Ann Street house in Bellhaven.  Across from it was the doorway to my Aunt Evelyn's bedroom, which became the guest room.  Visiting them, I saw it there my entire young life.  A well-made painting accomplishes so many things, not the least of which invoking happy memories, which this one did for me.  

I want to thank my sister, my brother, my brother-in-law, BeBe, and Mildred Wolfe for bringing all these memories back to me.

For more information about The Wolfe Studio and Wolfe Porceline Birds please visit their WEBSITE.

Karl and Mildred Wolfe 1950s

Karl and Mildred Wolfe 1950s

Hull Portrait
Campbell-Cooke Home

Wolfe Portrait
Millsaps College

My White Plume

It's come to my attention that there are those who have never known the name Hercule Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac.  Why should they know him?  Edmond Rostand wrote the play in 1897 and he wrote it in French, of all things.

A secret few know that I have two totems in literature: one is the creature-god Kong, and the other is Cyrano.  I've never denied it.  I have seen and studied every possible production of the play that came within my grasp.  The most recent production in 2021 adds two remarkable new facets to the story: its music and the actor Peter Dinklage.

Rostand's play tells the story of Cyrano, a brilliant and gallant soldier who secretly loves his oldest friend Roxanne.  Secretly because despite his many gifts, Cyrano is deformed.  Traditionally portrayed with an enormous nose, but in 2021 as a dwarf.

At a play, a cadet in Cyrano's regiment named Christian de Neuvillette sees Roxanne and instantly falls into infatuation, as she does with him.  Later, Christian confesses his love for Roxanne to his commander Cyrano and asks for help making Roxanne love him.  Christian is shy and uses words poorly.  Cyrano knows Roxanne loves wit and poetry.  He also knows that Christian is brave and as beautiful as Roxanne herself.  He agrees to write letters to Roxanne, pretending to be Christian, so that Roxanne may fall in love with him.

The plot works.  Roxanne confesses to Cyrano that she loves Christian, not knowing that the words she loved were of her friend, Cyranos's own devotion for her, not Christian's.  

Cyrano's regiment goes to war.  Cyrano uses all his skills and all his bravery to ensure the cadet Christian's survival.   He also risks his own life by secretly delivering letters to Roxanne pretending to be Christian but telling of his own love.

Ordered into a suicide mission, Cyrano's skills grant his own survival, but despite them, Christian dies.  Roxanne has one last letter from Christian that she keeps on a ribbon around her neck, stained with tears she believes are his, and her own.

Many years later, Roxanne lives in a cloister.  Still faithful to her beloved Christian, she never took another suitor.  Regularly, her friend Cyrano visits her and delivers the news and styles of Paris.  

On this day, he is mortally wounded by bandits.  He hides the scar under his hat and meets one last time with the now older Roxanne.  Knowing he is dying, he asks Roxanne to read Christian's last letter; he knows she keeps it close to her breast, aloud to him.  The letter he wrote himself.  I won't give away the end.

Besides switching Cyrano's nose for Dinklage's dwarfism, what's remarkable about this production is that it's based on a stage version written by Erica Schmidt, Dinklage's own wife.  Many great actors have sought to play Cyrano as they do Hamlet and Othello and Lear, a privilege denied to Dinklage because of his condition.  The play is Schmidt's love gift to her husband.

After a successful run, funds became available allowing them to mount a film production, but Covid prevented its broad distribution.  It's not available on any of the streaming services, but you can rent it from either Youtube or Amazon for just a few dollars.

It's worth the viewing based on the performance by Dinklage and Haley Bennett as Roxanne.  The locations and cinematography are beautiful, and the music is memorable and charming.  It's nominated for several awards, including BAFTA, Golden Globes, and Academy Awards for acting and music.

Of the many interpretations of Cyrano, this may be my favorite, based mostly on Dinklage's performance.  I also found the audacity of mixing up a piece considered a classic a brave move, fittingly inspired by a real-life true love.  

Ayn Rand and Andrew Ryan

For many years, I studied Ayn Rand's Objectivism pretty closely. I saw her ideas, combined with libertarianism, as the solution to most of our social and economic shortcomings.  

I had help, too. Libertarian commentators like James Randy and Penn Jillette guided me through the process, and I criticized, especially conservatives, who strayed from Rand's precepts. I never really considered the other side of the argument, though. I tend to be a very stubborn person and sometimes suffer from myopia on some issues.

A video game called Bioshock opened my eyes to the full spectrum of what Objectivism really meant. Rapture is The Fountainhead, and the introduction of a science fiction element called "plasmids" makes Rand's utopia unravel in the face of true human nature.

Never let anyone say you can't learn something from a video game.

Deville Theater Adventures and Lessons

Technically, my first theater was the Lamar downtown because they had Disney movies.  The very first movie I can remember seeing was Toby Tyler, which I remember more for the painted walls and staircase in the lobby than anything else.  There was a scene in Toby Tyler where a monkey gets hold of a pistol and started acting up that scared the bejesus out of my little sister, who saw the rest of the movie from the crying room, while I sat in the big seats with my grandmother who we called Nanny.   We also saw Snowball Express and the revival of Dumbo there.

Besides the Lamar, the best source for movies when I was a kid was the Deville Cinema, off the recently constructed Interstate 55.  It was closer and newer.  It had a single screen and a capacity of six hundred kids.  Technically, it was close enough for me to ride my bike, but that involved crossing Ridgewood road, so I wasn't allowed to very often.

Deville had a summer Saturday matinee revival series.  For five dollars, a kid like me could see a movie with a coke and a red and white striped box of popcorn.  And, oh what movies they had:  Godzilla vs the Smog Monster, The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad, The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, The Mysterious Island, The War of the Gargantuas, Destroy All Monsters, Gorgo, King Kong Escapes, and more.  Every boy I knew would be there.  It's possible there were girls too, but I don't remember any.  In those days, girls who liked Godzilla were pretty rare.

Besides the matinees, they had some of the most important first-run movies of the seventies at the Deville.  I saw Star Wars there as many times as I could talk somebody into taking me.  Rocky played there for months, as well as Logan's Run and Westworld.  Johnny Kroeze was my most common co-conspirator in those days, and we saw pretty much everything that didn't have much girl stuff in it.  There was one girl in Star Wars.  That was enough.

The Exorcist played at the Deville.  I wasn't allowed to attend, but I remember the reports on the news and in the paper of the protests.  A movie about the devil in Jackson Mississippi in the seventies had no choice but to draw some heat.  I suspect the hullabaloo increased ticket sales by a factor of ten at least.

Many people from Jackson remember Deville for its Saturday night midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show that ran through the seventies into the early eighties.  I was aware of it too.  I heard it was a gay musical making fun of science fiction and horror movies, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

I didn't know much about homosexuality in those days.  I heard a guy from my church lost his job when he got arrested for "loitering" at Smith Park.  I don't know if he was doing anything nefarious or actually just loitering, but anything involving Smith Park at night could get you in trouble.

There were a couple of times when I would pick my little sister up from United Methodist Youth Fellowship and get catcalls of "Hey!  We're over here!" from the interior of Smith Park.  They didn't seem all that dangerous, but I wasn't taking any chances.

In high school, I couldn't name one single person who admitted to being gay.  In college, I knew precisely one.  Andrew Libby ended up teaching me a lot about that side of life.  He was my first gay ambassador.

Later in college, I met a girl who often got me into trouble.  Maybe more than one, but this one really had my number so I was doomed.  Deville had a one-weekend revival of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and she not only wanted to go, but she wanted me to go as well.  I won't say her name because she might be reading, but she was from the Delta and had green eyes, and had she asked me to put on a dress and go to a dog fight, I most likely would have.  That probably gave it away.

We packed up our little group to go, including her friend, whom I was equally taken with.  She had skin like alabaster and hair like obsidian and was slightly less likely to get me into compromising situations.  Slightly.  Who am I kidding?  She was just as bad.  Their powers combined, I was pretty much condemned to seeing the whole movie.

They had newspapers, and toast and rice and water guns ready for the performance.  I had a bad attitude and lots of doubts.

The lights went out, and the screen lit up with a pair of lips...

Michael Rennie was ill
The day the Earth stood still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It came from outer space...

Holy shit! 

 The scales fell from my eyes.  Gay or not, this was my people.  This was my tribe!  It would be another five or six years for me to learn that my beloved Fay Wray was a gay icon, but just the mention of her name made me open my heart a little bit and accept, not just a new movie, but a who new body of human beings.

Toward the end of the movie, Frankenfurter sings, "Whatever happened to Fay Wray?"  I knew the answer!  She was living in Beverly Hills with her last husband, the surgeon.  Her son had a pretty famous music store there, and her daughter was in New York becoming a writer and teacher.

In the years to come, I would see Rocky Horror in something like twenty different theatres and live at least five times.  I owe it all to two little girls from Millsaps, who knew better what I liked than I did myself.

In the years that followed, multiplex movie theaters took over the business and The Deville faltered.  The last movie I ever saw there was The Nightmare Before Christmas, in 1993 with Jay Cooke.  I loved the movie and Jay was possibly the only person I knew who could have appreciated it like I did, but that was the swan song for the Deville.  

I do love single-screen theaters.  Jackson had some grand ones.  Except for the Capri, they're all gone now.  They hope to keep the Capri going by making it as much of a restaurant as a movie theater.  I hope fortune shines on them.

In the years that followed, the Deville became a pretty popular store for china and whatnot, and a nightclub after that.  It makes me a little sad to drive by it now.  So many memories.  So many movies.

My Depression

 I'd like to talk about my depression.  There have to be some ground rules, though.  Most of all, you have to promise not to worry about me.  If I can talk about it and write about it, I'm in a pretty good and stable spot.  This isn't some sort of cry for help. Depression is much more common than you may know, and I feel there's something to be gained by honestly telling the story.

 My current diagnosis is Persistent Depressive Disorder, also known as Dysthymia.  As far as depression goes, this is about in the middle.  I'm in no immediate danger and have no need for hospitalization or heavy medication, but I cannot shrug it off quickly.

Some of you have known about my condition as long as I have.  Others have suspected it for at least as long.  It's not something I'm ashamed of.  Perhaps it made me anti-social for long periods and kept me from reaching my potential sometimes, but I've managed it, and I've endured it, and it's a part of me.

If you're on my list, you've known and loved people who died from depression.  Part of me would like to say their names, but I don't think I have to, and they may not have wanted me to.  When I talk to other depressed people, their greatest fear and regret is that their condition might hurt or worry the people they love.  I want to write about this for the people who survived a loved one lost to depression to help them understand what happened.  

Those you know who may have died from depression--know that they loved you profoundly and regret whatever wound their suffering may cause you.  While I've never been in danger of active suicide, there were periods when it was pretty obvious I was trying to accomplish the same thing slowly by self-neglect.  I may have bad days still, but the long stretches of self-neglect are over.

When I was about ten years old, my parents were concerned I wasn't reaching my potential academically and had me tested.  By "having me tested," I mean my mother did the work, and my dad paid the bills.  

Besides a comprehensive physical exam, including hearing and vision, a woman came to my school and set up a battery of psychological and educational tests in the cafeteria.

I had perfect visual acuity (thanks, uncle Ben) and mild tinnitus.  The other tests showed I had a high IQ but pretty aggressive dyslexia and dyscalculia.  To this day, I can invert words and numbers on occasion.  (Thank God for Grammarly) 

As for the psychological part of the test, they just said I was very shy.  Well, duh. I never really knew it was that weird to hide from other kids.  Many of the people I love the most are even shyer than I.  

Even though I suffered from dyslexia, I still managed to love reading by starting with comic books.  They made it possible for me to wade into the deeper waters of reading and develop skills to help me organize blocks of text so I could comprehend them despite my dyslexia. 

When I was fourteen, my older brother was having some pretty severe problems, so they had me tested again.  This time the diagnosis was anxiety and depression.  I began seeing Doug Draper, who treated me for over thirty years.  Doug was never able to "cure" me, but he managed to keep me alive and help me develop many of the coping strategies I use today.  

With his guidance, I was able to escape some of the destructive behaviors many depressed people resort to, except for smoking (which I did eventually beat on my own, cold turkey), and bad diet, which I also ultimately defeated, even if I did it with a rash and irresponsible technique.

Depression often made it difficult or impossible for me to escape painful or abusive or hopeless situations.  More often than not, my response to these was to become anti-social once the crisis was past.  Sometimes these reclusive periods would get pretty severe.  The worst lasted almost fourteen years.  

Sometimes people worried that my lack of interaction meant they did something wrong or I didn't love them anymore.  That was never the case.  Isolation was my means of healing, not a judgment.  It wasn't wasted time either.  I read, I studied, and I kept my mind active and challenged.

You will encounter other people who suffer from depression.  While it can be harrowing and sometimes even fatal, depression is most times treatable.  Most importantly, remember that whatever the depressed person is going through, it's not your fault.  It's also not their fault either.  

Drugs and alcohol make depression much, much worse.  It's nearly impossible to treat depression and addiction at the same time.  Try and guide depressed people away from any recreational drugs.  There is no such thing as a safe recreational drug where depression is involved.  

Love them and just as important, know that they love you.  Your depressed loved one would snap out of it if they could, and it's not your fault if they can't.  Most people eventually survive and learn to cope with depression, so do not give up hope.  If you're suffering from depression, be patient with yourself. Take your time but don't give up. Seek help and believe there is light on the other side.

A Solution to the Gun Violence Epidemic

Ok, here's another tough one.  Before you get mad, hear me out.  These are just my observations and ideas.  Maybe they have merit, perhaps they don't, but I feel like we should discuss this.

Today, the leading cause of death for men under the age of twenty-one is gun violence.  It's been gun violence before, but only during times of war.  Only recently did gun violence surpass automobile accidents as a cause of death in peacetime.

Let's define gun violence as any time the projectile from any gun enters human flesh, causing injury or death.  In ascending order, the types of gun violence are accident, suicide, murder, and assault.  Let's focus on the last two as they cause the most problems.  I do believe my proposal would decrease all four, though.

Our constitution provides us with the right to keep and bear arms.  I believe in this.  I take advantage of it personally as a gun owner.  However, the constitution does not address the issue of how we make people responsible gun owners.  There is no policy or law designed to make novice gun users into responsible gun users.  I believe this is why we have the problem with guns now.  People who posess guns, but don't have the necessary skills to use them properly are incredibly dangerous and a threat to the safety of all. 

Let me present this: when was the last time you heard of a person who committed assault or murder with a gun who was a regular hunter?  It almost never happens.  Hunters know guns are only tools.  Powerful tools that demand respect or disaster results.  You sometimes hear of hunters having gun accidents, but it's pretty rare, and I've never heard of a case where the hunter didn't know exactly what he did wrong and regretted it and knew or learned how to prevent it the next time.

Automobiles are tools too.  To make it safe for young people to use automobiles, we make them take tests and get licenses, and where possible, we have them take driving education classes.  We're tested on automobive laws and safe operation before we're liscensed to operate them.  That model works pretty well with automobiles. What if we tried it with guns?

Every state and municipality in this country has gun problems, and every state and city in this country has an education system.  Maybe we can use the schools to improve or resolve the situation of gun violence.  We make kids learn algebra in school, why not gun safety?  

I propose we include gun education as part of our national educational objectives, just like math or language.  We could do this at three levels, elementary, middle, and high school.  Curricula objectives would be gun safety, gun function, gun storage, gun maintenance, and finally (for the older kids) gun use.

We'd have to find funding for it but let the schools manage the program.  As the second amendment is the law of the land, I feel like we have the political will to seek and find funding for a gun education program.  

Keep the NRA out of it, though.  When Oliver North, who used to work for the NRA, says it's corrupt, there's a problem.  It's Oliver North, for god's sake.   We can do this without the NRA trying to take the reins.  (Which they would,)

Think of gun teachers like you would driving teachers.  Their purposes are the same.  Automobiles are dangerous machines if misused, and so are guns.  We should address gun use the same way we do automobile use.

Young car owners must procure a learner's permit and a license to operate an automobile.  Through this, the state helps decrease injury and death by automobiles.  It would do the same for guns.  We also rely heavily on automobile insurance to help us cope with whatever injuries the misuse of cars may cause. Gun-owners insurance to help cover the cost of accidental discharges and lapses in judgment.

We have to do something.  Getting tough and building more prisons won't solve the issue.  Our society cannot function with so many in prison.  I believe gun education is a better solution than gun control.  We don't have a lot of luck with prohibiting things.  I see no reason to believe gun prohibition would work any better than marijuana or alcohol prohibition did.

A responsible, educated gun owner, no matter what type of gun they have, is far less likely to commit gun violence. In a nation where everyone has the constitutionally granted right to a gun, it's our responsibility to make sure they know how to use them safely.  I believe gun education would decrease people using the threat of a gun to commit robbery too.

Let's at least try this before we start talking about outlawing guns.  Those of you who profess the "good guy with a gun" philosophy, imagine how much stronger your argument would be if all these good guys were equipped with the best available gun education.

 

Mississippi Famous Foods

One day, I want to develop this into a much fuller piece.  Here are some of my notes so far.  I'm gonna use ya'll to help me work out the kinks and give me some ideas.

Comeback Dressing

Comeback dressing was invented by Mr. Alexander Dennery at the Rotisserie Restaurant at five points in Jackson sometime in the '30s and '40s.  Both the Rotisserie and its successor Dennery's are closed now, so the reigning comeback champion is The Mayflower Cafe in Jackson, using a recipe by Mr. Kountouris.  Both Kountouris and Dennery were Greek immigrants, but Comeback Sauce is much closer to French remoulade sauce.   Put it on salads, fries, burgers, hell, just pour some on saltines.  Everybody in town has their version of Comeback now.  Besides the Mayflower, try Scrooge's, Hal and Mal's, Crechale's, and CS's.  

Hot Tamales

This was my dad's favorite.  So much has been written about Delta Hot Tamales I don't know what I can add.  I've never found a Delta Hot Tamale at a Mexican restaurant.  Look for somebody who serves them in coffee cans if possible.  They should come tied in bundles of three.  

Best Choices; Sollys in Vickburg, The Big Apple Inn in Jackson, and Doe's Eat Place in Greenville, but that's just the tip of an enormous iceberg.  There's some discussion about whether they should be wrapped in corn husks or parchment paper.  I like them both ways, but some insist the corn husks add something the paper doesn't.  

This part is controversial, but Hormel makes a decent canned hot tamale.  They're based in Minnesota, for God's sake, and I have no idea how they came to produce a Delta hot tamale, but they're not bad.  Serve warm with saltines just like regular tamales.  They're good in a hot tamale pie too.

Mississippi Mud Brownies and Mississippi Mud Pie

A 1927 recording of Bing Crosby with the line "beat your feet in the Mississippi mud" might be the origin of this dish.  There are two versions of this dish.  As best I can tell, the first is the Mississippi Mud Brownie which is a chocolate brownie topped with marshmallow and ganache.  It was in many cookbooks in the sixties and seventies.  The second is the Mississippi Mud Pie, which comes in a pie shell, often with a chocolate wafer crust, and replaces the marshmallow with vanilla ice cream.  Both versions are sinfully good.  

Biloxi Pressed Po-Boy

The Po-Boy (poor boy) may be a New Orleans invention, but the Biloxi version, which is pressed like a panini, is far superior.  Primos Northgate used to have one of the best I ever tried.  They would press it, then wrap it tightly in butcher paper which helped unify the sandwich. 

Pig Ear Slider and Red Hot Slider

Big Apple Inn, on Farish Street in Jackson, MS, is home to two uniquely Mississippi dishes that are reasonably famous now.  Pig Ear Sliders are actual pig ears, cooked in a pressure cooker until soft, then served on a slider bun with mustard.  At least try one before you turn your nose up.  Red Hots are Red Rose sausages by Magnolia meats stripped out of their casing, then cooked on a griddle and served on a slider bun with mustard.  

Fried Dill Pickles

It's possible fried dill pickles were invented in Arkansas.  I'll cede them that.  I insist they are far more plentiful in Mississippi, though, and the recipes are far better.  For my taste, the very best fried dill pickles in Mississippi come from Cock of the Walk on the Pearl River Reservoir (I don't use its official name) 

Kool-aid Pickles

This one really is Mississippi Specific.  Kool-aid Pickles are easy.  Take a regular jar of pickles and mix in a packet of cherry Kool-aid and some sugar.  Where to find them?  Gas stations and roadside stands in The Delta.  Don't turn up your nose.  You've had sweet pickles your whole life if you're from here. These are just red. 

Fried Catfish

You don't think fried catfish is Mississippi-specific? Fight me!  Yeah, they have catfish all over the South, and yeah, lots of people fry things, but Mississippi is the catfish king and always will be.  Best catfish in Mississippi?  Boy, I really am looking for a fight, huh?  Let's try Jerry's in Florence and Cock of the Walk on the Rez.  Your opinion may vary. 

Fried Buffalo

Often caught in the same waters as the catfish, the buffalo (Ictiobus cyprinellus) is prepared, dusted with cornmeal, and fried, just like a catfish.  Some people consider Buffalo a trash fish, and to try one you often have to go to an older, more run-down establishment.  Give them a try though.  They're tasty with flaky white flesh,   They don't clean as easily as catfish though, so beware of bones.  

Cheese Straws

I might get some blowback on this one.  Cheese wafers are made all over the South, but I insist that Cheese Straws made with a piping bag are a Mississippi creation (or at least perfected here).

Coke and Peanuts

I can't really claim this is a dish unique to Mississippi, but you've most likely seen it if you're from here.  It's just a bottle of cold Coke with a packet of salted peanuts dumped through the mouth of the bottle. You drink the Coke, then tilt the bottle back to get the peanuts.  The salt interacts with the coke, and the coke interacts with the peanuts, creating a profoundly southern synergy. 

Boiled Peanuts

I would love to claim boiled peanuts as a uniquely Mississippi dish, but they're found all over the deep south.  Peanuts originated in South America, then made their way to Africa, where they were called "goobers" or "pindars" and served boiled, then imported back to America via the slave trade.   The best source for boiled peanuts is roadside stands found all over the state in the summer.   

You might have heard that you can only make boiled peanuts using "green" (un-dried) peanuts, but truth be told, you can use the same dry raw peanuts you use for roasting, but soak them for 24 hours before boiling, just like you would dry red beans for red beans and rice, and they'll boil up just fine.  They freeze really well, and they're good for you!  Try making them with crab boil, lemons and MSG added to the brine.

State Fair Taffy

Malone's State Fair Taffy candy is based in Byram, Mississippi but sold at state fairs and carnivals all over the South.  It comes in one flavor: vanilla, and softens quickly in the microwave.  Off-season, you can get it from their website.

Mississippi Pot Roast

Slow cooker pot roast with pickled jalapenos and a packet of ranch dip mix. This dish is said to have originated with Mississippi State tailgate parties.

Mississippi State Cheese

In 1938, Mississippi State University Dairy Science Professor F.H. Herzer imported ten teakwood molds from Belgium to teach cheese production.  His Edam cheese soon developed a reputation for quality, and now they can barely keep up with demand (and often can't).  Mississippi State cheese is only sold at Mississippi State University, either through their website or from the campus store.

Hiney Ho Smoked Sausage

Produced by the Hinds Community college meatpacking department, you can only get it at the Raymond campus store in Porter Hall.  It's especially good with biscuits or on a hoagie roll with mustard.

Barq's Root Beer

Edward Charles Edmond Barq Sr. first bottled Barq's Root Beer in Biloxi, Mississippi, in 1897.

Cathead Vodka

I wanted a spirit, and this is a good one.  Also, their distillery on South Street was the original home of the Mississippi School Supply Company, where my dad once upset the world by hiring a black secretary and sitting her out front where people could see her.  

Inez Burger

Technically a chili burger with queso sauce and pickled jalapenos. The Inez Burger from CS's is much more than that if you're from here.  Get it with the cheese fries and give Inez a hug from me.

Slug Burger

Slug Burgers are indigenous to Corinth, MS, where they have an annual Slug Burger festival.  Slug Burgers use potato flakes or other fillers to extend the ground beef, then the patty is deep-fried and dressed simply with mustard and pickles on a bun.  

Primos Brownie (Fudge Squares)

I wanted to include a recipe from Pop Primos, but which one?  The caramel cake and the gingerbread men were contenders, but the Primos Chocolate Brownie is legendary.  

Pirouline Cookies

Pirouline Cookies might have a European flavor and sensibility, but they were invented in 1984 by Peter DeBeukelaer and produced in Madison, Mississippi. 

Pimento Cheese

I can't really posit that pimento cheese is a uniquely Mississippi dish.  I can say though that the best Pimento Cheese I ever had came from the Woodland Hills Jitney.  Some people make a vicious version using Mississippi State Cheese blended with cottage cheese too. 

Sliced Tomatos

This is another one that isn't unique to Mississippi, but is ubiquitous here.  The concept is simple.  A whole ripe heirloom or beefsteak tomato, cut in one-half inch slices (use a serrated knife) and served with salt, pepepper and a simple vinagrette or mayonase (dukes preferred)  Try a scoop of cottage cheese or pimento cheese for a Mississippi Caprese Salad.  

Pine-Sol

Ok, so this isn't food, but if you have a kitchen or a bathroom, you're familiar with Pine-sol.  Harry A. Cole of Jackson, Mississippi, invented Pine-sol in 1929.  In 1948 Dumas Milner acquired Magnolia Chemical Company producing Pine-sol, and in five years, they increased sales to twenty million bottles distributed in eleven countries.  In 1963, Milner sold Pine-Sol for $17 million, and production moved from Jackson, MS, to New Jersey.

What If Jesus Wasnt Real

Every Christian must answer the big question in their own mind: what if none of it is real?"  Absolute faith is incredibly difficult.  I believe no one who professes faith can navigate this life without ever facing the possibility that it was all wrong.

Let's consider Occam's razor.  Paul and the other apostles say Jesus came back from the dead and made eternal life possible for all of us.  Historians and politicians contemporary to Paul said the followers of Jesus stole the body to keep their movement alive after the death of their founder.  Which opinion is more reasonable?  Which is more logical?  

Nikos Kazantzakis, the author of Zorba The Greek, faced these issues in his novel The Last Temptation of Christ.  In it, he faces the problematic issues of the Jesus story by presuming every fantastical and miraculous element of the story is very real but explores the possibility that Christ falters and accepts Satan's last temptation and uses his powers to come down from the cross and live like an ordinary man.  

As you might imagine, this proposition didn't sit well with many Christian readers.  In 1988, Martin Scorsese struck out to make a film adaptation of Kazantzakis' book, with the result being one of my most loved films, both as a cinephile and as a Christian.

In it, he cast Harry Dean Stanton as Paul.  Stanton plays Paul much as I imagine he was in real life: a charismatic evangelist trying to share this fantastic story with the people trying to survive the sometimes difficult path of the first century.

Jesus, in his post-crucifixion life, confronts Paul during one of his sermons.  "None of what you're saying is true!  I'm alive. I didn't die!"  I cannot write Paul's reply nearly as well as Stanton portrays it in the film.  Please take a moment to consider what he says:

The Rocky Springs Tiger Trap

Forty burgeoning adolescents, four parents, one teacher, and one bus driver, in the woods, with a ghost town and a graveyard overnight; what can possibly go wrong? 

The tiger trap is a device said to be of Indian origin, consisting of a deep pit dug in the ground, then covered with enough vegetation to hide it.  Tigers would walk on the leafy covering, and fall into the pit below where they couldn't escape.  The Viet Cong used the tiger tap with some success against our forces in Viet Nam.

Antebellum Graves in the churchyard

Rocky Springs is a ghost town attached to the Natchez Trace in Claiborne County, Mississippi.  The State of Mississippi maintains a popular semi-primitive campground there.  

My Scout Troop used the site a year before, and I learned you could use a burning ember from the fire to light your own farts.  There's no merit badge for that, but there should be.  

My Junior High Class had a very loving and very optimistic parent group who got the idea that we could manage a co-ed camp-out there and make it back home with everyone intact.

Mr. and Mrs. Lyle were itinerant and experienced campers.  They would keep us alive.  Mrs. Seargent was our young history teacher.  She was who all the boys dreamed about, and all the girls wanted to look like.  She must have loved us because she took us to Washington DC by bus the following year.  I hope someone reading this can remember the name of the school's Haitian bus driver.  He was a super sweet guy who also drove us to football practice every day.  Rounding out our team of fearless leaders was Mr. and Mrs. Jones.  They tried to get me to call them Tim and Sarah for forty-five years.  It's still not happening.

The plan was to take the bus from school to Rocky Springs, make camp, have lunch then explore the old trace.  We were to have dinner while the sun was still up, then visit the ghost town at dusk, come back to camp for the night, have breakfast the following day, and take the bus back to Jackson.  That was the plan.  We were never that great at sticking with the plan.

Early on in life, I recognized there was something about Mr. Jone's eyes telling me he was a fellow member of my tribe.  He must have noticed the same thing because we had a few adventures together.  

In the little abandoned town of Rocky Springs was an old church with an ancient graveyard.  The plan was to hike as a gang from our campsite to the old cemetery at dusk, have a spooky adventure among the antebellum graves, and return to camp with flashlights in the dark.  That was the plan.  

Mr. Jones had the idea that he and I would sneak ahead of the bunch and hideout so that as they were hiking back in the dark, we could jump out and scare the bejesus out of them.  It would be so funny and so cool.  That was the plan.

On the way there, we spied a circular split-rail fence with a placard saying "Old Homesite"  with some bushes and kudzu overgrown in the center.  That would be my hideout.  This was a great plan! 

The old church and graveyard among the Spanish moss dripping trees was a pretty great adventure, with lots of giggles and dares as we awkwardly tried to figure out the best way to navigate inter-gender conversations in the dark surrounded by confederate ghosts.  

With the sunlight fading, Mr. Jones and I sprung our plan into action.  We quietly slipped away from the rest and headed toward the fenced "old homesite" to set our trap.  "Hurry!" he said before the rest of the class began their way back.

This was going to be SO COOL!  They were gonna be SO SCARED!  With a hop, I was over the split rail fence.  One step, two steps, one more, and I'd be hidden in the bushes, ready to pounce!  This was such a great plan!

By "old homesite," they meant this was the site of an old home as part of the little town of Rocky Springs.  The wooden structure was long gone, but the root cellar remained.  Nobody told Mr. Jones or me about the root cellar.  That eight-foot-deep root cellar lay completely hidden among the bushes and kudzu.   The split-rail fence was supposed to keep us out of it.

One step!  Two steps! Three... WHOOSH! and I was in total darkness with a thud.  I can only imagine the look on Mr. Jones's face as I vanished into the greenery.

"Boyd?"  I could see him looking over the edge down at me with his flashlight.  "Are you ok?"  I was absolutely unhurt.  The bushes and kudzu vines themselves cushioned my fall.  It took a few seconds for my brain to process what happened, then I bust out in uncontrollable laughter.  So did Mr.  Jones.   

Moments later, the rest of the class caught up to the site of our misadventure.  I could see their shocked and amused faces peering down at me over the edge of my pit with a dozen flashlights illuminating my predicament.    

I was already over two hundred pounds by junior high school and bench-pressing over three hundred.  Getting me out of this tiger trap wasn't going to be easy.  As we had no rope, a human chain made by nearly the entire class was chosen as the best option for rescue.

Soon, Mrs. Seargent's hand reached down for me.  In her twenties and deeply tanned, Mrs. Seargent was just about the prettiest thing I ever saw.  Touching her hand was way out of my pay grade, but I had no choice.  

With a solid tug in unison, my class rescued me from my antebellum dungeon.  I plucked kudzu leaves from my hair, pants, and shoes on the way back.  The plan was to scare the class, but in the end, the only ones who got scared were Mr. Jones and me.

And, that's the story of how the eighth-grade class saved me from my own eagerness and an ancient tiger trap. 

Photo By Kim Wita

photo by Kim Wita