Oil on the Road

When I was three or four, my parents began our annual pilgrimage down Highway 331 heading to "the coast", they called it. I've been heading like a lemming back to the beaches along the Gulf coast ever since and have a deep, soulful attachment to them and all they signify and embrace. Through the years, I've rented places in Panama City Destin, Pensacola, Ft. Walton, Navarre, Perdido Key, Orange Beach, Gulf Shores, and Ft. Morgan. I took my children there. They take theirs. I can't count the people I know who have followed 331 or I 65 down to the glorious beach along Alabama's and Florida's coastline.

About ten years ago, my husband to be and I bought a townhome at the very end of the Ft. Morgan peninsula and I considered it my home. We swung back and forth between Birmingham and Ft.  Morgan like yo-yos, but I stayed for longer periods since I could work from there and watch the Gulf and nature thrive before me. The Gulf was spitting distance from our deck and I adored it.

My husband, Don, ritualistically heralded the pelicans with a resounding "Hey Boys!"as they flew in a constant elegance of soaring or death-threatening plummets to catch their daily dose of sustenance. We marveled at their skill, their aim, their success. We watched the gulls salute the wind as they stood in a military formation, the general at the front leading the chorus of adulation to their home. The almost extinct skimmers, usually flying in twos, skimmed the margin of the shore barely allowing their bottom long pointed bill to scrap along the water's edge in search of food.

I danced with the waves, watched them dance in sync to The Nutcracker's Suite. We watched their anger as storms aggravated their normal ebb and flow. We puzzled over the myriad of sand crabs who scooted in rapid side crawls from one hole to the next, stopping only to gaze with their popped eyes on stems at us, the intruders lounging above their labyrinth of tunnels beneath the sand. We wondered how they came back after a hurricane that had left the sand flattened and bare, all holes barred. But they came back as did much of what was destroyed during those storm.

The dolphin never failed to perform in front of our townhome. Because we were near the mouth of the bay, they came and went with a constancy that spoiled us. We watched them circle their young ones tossing the baby dolphin into the air where the acrobat performed like a jubilant kid in a pool.  We saw tandem jumps by the graceful creatures more than we could count. I swam with them. I paddled out on a raft to be near them and I was exhilarated beyond belief or words. My best birthday brought me the gift of double dolphin jumping under a double rainbow. What a gift!

Each time I arrived to that place, my thin space in an arena so full of life, I felt resurrected, washed in the balm of Gilead. From the salt air, to the soft sand, to the gorgeous expanse of water always changing,  each of  those things were elements that welcomed me  home.

How can I not but feel the deepest sadness over what is happening to that sacred place? I am only one voice in a sea of depressed lives, human and otherwise. We are all connected, in my view.
We don't have our place any more but I've missed it like crazy. It's still a part of me. The coast is a part of me. And my soul grieves over this tragedy.

Woodlawn Gains Postive Energy

A segment from my book, Southern Bypass, mentions Woodlawn, a community at the core of Birmingham's earliest days. Once thought to be the residential area on the rise, Woodlawn has crumbled through the years. Poverty is prevalent, schools are disheveled and malfunctioning, and there is little to lift the spirits of the small community's residents.  But the foundation has maintained its integrity, though difficult to see in its decline.

The community is getting attention these days. A thrift store "55th Place" is packed with anything from suitcases to pillows to linens, furniture, and clothes for any size, age, or gender. The vast merchandise is supplied by donations and the store is run by volunteers.

The small Episcopal church in the area, Grace, has a core congregation of people who care and are willing to put their concern to work. Recently, a home next door to the quintessential church building was bought and is being turned into a home for homeless Veterans in the area, some 500 I was told.

A young couple, both writers, have bought an abandoned pharmacy and are converting it into a tutoring center with a tropical flare that should attract passersby to investigate the apparent activities happening inside. Elizabeth and Chip Brantley are also offering their assistance in any possible way to Woodlawn High School and are recruiting volunteers to further their vision of creating a love of writing in students young and old in the area.

Had I not read the letters from a family friend who wrote from Woodlawn in 1889 and spoke about the thriving community with such ardor, I might not have such a keen interest now in the resurrection attempts I see. Where there is this kind of passion, there are sure to be rewards, even if in small increments.  I'm encouraged, and frankly, am interested in jumping on the bandwagon in some capacity. These people who have vision and energy to create new life are the catalyst for the change Woodlawn has needed and deserves.

This is a PS since I'm writing it three days later. It's important, though. The YWCA of Central Alabama has invested $11 million in Woodlawn, building a shelter and renovating a huge apartment building. They are looking for other building to renovate. A local church has opened a Health Center and a private school is expanding into a renovated church building making way for more than the 250 previously enrolled students. People are beginning to opt for housing in the area in hopes of spawning further community growth. These are even bigger signs of the positive energy attempting to divert and disperse the negative lifestyle of a community with a good heartbeat.