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.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Old Town Lives
Late yesterday afternoon, I sat outside under a large covered dining area with a couple of friends, had a glass of wine listening to an acoustic guitar and pleasant singer, and enjoyed looking across the street at lovely old architecture, cleaned and occupied. There was such life, such energy along the street, people passing, cars looking for spaces to park among the many cars already landed there. A horse driven carriage with plumed horse trotted by. A trolley turned the corner and let people out, and picked up waiting ones. Around the corner on the river, a minor league baseball team played in the state of the arts field where a large crowd of fans gathered. We walked across the street to another new bar, dining area, where my friend showed me "the shot room", photographic in the way the bottles are placed in square cubicles in an icy cold room where shots are served in ice jiggers. This was "The Alley Bar", another popping place for 6 in the evening. Then we strolled down the alley behind the main street and looked at the many lofts with balconies and plants and umbrellas, all tucked on top the old renovated buildings. Another stop at a ZaZa's Pizza for delicious pizza and another full house of others who were enjoying the downtown experience of my hometown. Yes. Montgomery.
Montgomery is changing! My brother, Charles, gives a lot of credit to the new mayor, Todd Strange (he went to Montevallo with my good friend, Andrea, and me).
They now run the trolley between downtown and Old Cloverdale and Maxwell on an hourly basis. They are "redecorating" the corridor between Maxwell and downtown and the entire downtown is going through a facelift. The same is being done from the Capital Heights corridor to town. What is so nice is the integrity of what still stands of the old town remains visible and is showcased by the innovations. You will be totally surprised as I was yesterday when I visited Charles and Sheila. My nephew won a literary award for his essay on Retinitis Pigmentosa, his disease which ultimately leads to blindness. It was just an incredible, unforgettable afternoon and I wanted to share a special time with my old Montgomery friends.
May we meet by the river one day soon.
Missie
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Learning from the Past
Well, I thought I had ended. Seems not.
Soon, though, I’ll embark on my next voyage. Now the women--from Margaret Lynn Lewis, to Jane Strother Lewis, to Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, to Sophie Gilmer Bibb, to Martha Dandridge Bibb, to Susanna Dunlap Porter Bibb, to Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson, to Deane Jones Edmondson, to me—we all go our separate ways, but we don’t really separate at all. I could be trapped in this intense montage if some degree of exfoliation didn’t occur as a natural process. If I refused to learn from the amazing parade of unleashed spirits how to live better in the present, or how to better appreciate the past, I could be encased in lifeless cells. I opt for renewal.
Before I do leave, I’ll retire “the box”. Maybe find a new home for all it has held sacred. This should be a wonderful period of relaxation. For now, I’ll pause, feel the inevitable let-down, and simultaneously, milk the satisfaction over completing this meandering journey. Then, I’ll remember how great it was to get us all together to have this heart to heart. After circling and searching for the routes that mattered, for me, for this moment, and for my family, it’s sweet to be home, Alabama. It’s also great to know the Southern Bypass awaits if I choose a rapid exit. Or re-entry.
Soon, though, I’ll embark on my next voyage. Now the women--from Margaret Lynn Lewis, to Jane Strother Lewis, to Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, to Sophie Gilmer Bibb, to Martha Dandridge Bibb, to Susanna Dunlap Porter Bibb, to Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson, to Deane Jones Edmondson, to me—we all go our separate ways, but we don’t really separate at all. I could be trapped in this intense montage if some degree of exfoliation didn’t occur as a natural process. If I refused to learn from the amazing parade of unleashed spirits how to live better in the present, or how to better appreciate the past, I could be encased in lifeless cells. I opt for renewal.
Before I do leave, I’ll retire “the box”. Maybe find a new home for all it has held sacred. This should be a wonderful period of relaxation. For now, I’ll pause, feel the inevitable let-down, and simultaneously, milk the satisfaction over completing this meandering journey. Then, I’ll remember how great it was to get us all together to have this heart to heart. After circling and searching for the routes that mattered, for me, for this moment, and for my family, it’s sweet to be home, Alabama. It’s also great to know the Southern Bypass awaits if I choose a rapid exit. Or re-entry.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
End of Road
After resurrecting these personal and illustrious antecedents, calling them forward, giving each a starring role, I now send them back to their peaceful places, hoping they’re not dizzy from the ride. I also hope the reunion served its purpose in giving each participant a respectful soapbox, a grandstand, and graceful exit, baggage and all. If I have been fair in my presentation, honest in my assessment, thorough in my coverage, and compelling in its delivery, I have exceeded my expectations.
As an unsolicited bonus, I have a new intimacy with my father, mother, and grandmother, and beyond. The relationships had suffered prior to my in-depth exploration. By connecting the dots, not only did I track the lineage and define the line, but I made a personal discovery and a recovery as well. Each member, each memory, letter, poem, or picture formed a piece of the puzzle that now reveals the truth about my people and what formed them as well. Also, I am going out on a limb to say, in seeing them more clearly, they see me in the same light. A true catharsis has transcended time and allowed a soothed soul’s repose.
As an unsolicited bonus, I have a new intimacy with my father, mother, and grandmother, and beyond. The relationships had suffered prior to my in-depth exploration. By connecting the dots, not only did I track the lineage and define the line, but I made a personal discovery and a recovery as well. Each member, each memory, letter, poem, or picture formed a piece of the puzzle that now reveals the truth about my people and what formed them as well. Also, I am going out on a limb to say, in seeing them more clearly, they see me in the same light. A true catharsis has transcended time and allowed a soothed soul’s repose.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Down the Road
This is hard to believe, but my tale is winding down and approaching an exit on the Southern Bypass. It's time for me to introduce the last traveler on this particular journey.
Daughter of George Bibb Edmondson and Deane Jones (Edmondson)
Born St. Margaret’s Hospital July 20, 1946
Montgomery, Alabama
Married July 20, 1968
Richard Reginald Patterson, Jr.
When to Say “When”—
I’ve hardly ever known when to say when, not even with pepper or parmesan. My segment, the ending one, should be short. My tale unfolded in a round-about way as this slow trek ensued. Most of me, or all I choose to reveal, can be found in-between the lines of the preceding words, passages, and people. The trails have merged onto the fast-paced interchanges of the 21st century and the bypasses skirting issues, times, and towns. My trail will continue to unwind in these modern fast-paced lanes that one day will be as outmoded as those of my earliest ancestors.
Today, the southern bypass maintains its offering as an alternative passage around and outside Montgomery. It accommodates the rush of life most days. It’s lined with service stations, fast-food chains, medical facilities, etc. and etc. and it’s a great route, if you’re heading south, down 331 toward Panama City, east toward I 20 and Atlanta, or westward ho, just moving on. Most of the travelers in this written pilgrimage missed the modernity of four-lanes, interstates, and fast-tracks of any configuration. They actually wrote letters and documents with pens or pencils or typewriters, and did research solely at the library. I, on the other hand, sat at my computer to compile this chronicle and used the same to check points, identify unknowns, or correspond with vast resources available on line. To ask for editorial comments, I attached files to emails and zipped them to anyone and anywhere I chose. I “tweeted” my progress on Twitter and began a blog--the fast track at my finger-tips. How did the old guys manage?
Elizabeth Deane Edmondson (Patterson) (Cooper)
“Missie”
Divorced July 20, 1990
Children—
Richard Reginald Patterson, III married to Lori Hackleman
Children: Lucy Porter, Sophie Huyen, George William
George Bibb Patterson married to Hope Henry
Children: Kathryn Evelyn, Camden Bibb
Elizabeth Meriwether Patterson Thurman married to S. Michael Thurman
Children: Seaborn Forrest Thurman, Elizabeth Grace
Married October 2, 1998
Donald Leonard Cooper, Jr.
When to Say “When”—
I’ve hardly ever known when to say when, not even with pepper or parmesan. My segment, the ending one, should be short. My tale unfolded in a round-about way as this slow trek ensued. Most of me, or all I choose to reveal, can be found in-between the lines of the preceding words, passages, and people. The trails have merged onto the fast-paced interchanges of the 21st century and the bypasses skirting issues, times, and towns. My trail will continue to unwind in these modern fast-paced lanes that one day will be as outmoded as those of my earliest ancestors.
Today, the southern bypass maintains its offering as an alternative passage around and outside Montgomery. It accommodates the rush of life most days. It’s lined with service stations, fast-food chains, medical facilities, etc. and etc. and it’s a great route, if you’re heading south, down 331 toward Panama City, east toward I 20 and Atlanta, or westward ho, just moving on. Most of the travelers in this written pilgrimage missed the modernity of four-lanes, interstates, and fast-tracks of any configuration. They actually wrote letters and documents with pens or pencils or typewriters, and did research solely at the library. I, on the other hand, sat at my computer to compile this chronicle and used the same to check points, identify unknowns, or correspond with vast resources available on line. To ask for editorial comments, I attached files to emails and zipped them to anyone and anywhere I chose. I “tweeted” my progress on Twitter and began a blog--the fast track at my finger-tips. How did the old guys manage?
Monday, March 8, 2010
85 Mays
May 7, 2005
My 59th May 7. Her 85th.
This May, and the more recent ones, harvested fewer signs of new life than expected for the last month of the season. The hope of spring, or of anything, spoke less audibly in the haze of Mamma’s out-of-rhythm heart.I was headed to Demopolis to see the live rendition of “To Kill a Mockingbird” in the actual courtroom of movie fame. It was to be my first viewing of this traditional yearly performance and I’d gotten tickets months ago, the day they went on sale. I stopped en route from Birmingham in Montgomery to check on Mamma and found her slumped in her chair saying, ‘Missie, I just don’t feel good.” I could see it. Her breathing labored for each quick intake of oxygen and left her exhausted in the effort.
Too weak to walk, she stayed on her sofa while my sister-in-law and I prepared her things and called the ambulance. It arrived promptly with two amicable attendants ready to assist.
The trip to Harper Lee’s town quickly faded into perhaps another future season as my trip re-routed to Jackson’s Hospital. That spring, that May belonged to my mother. Her humor remained as she said to me, “I guess I’m going to kick the bucket,” when the doctors announced pneumonia as a fateful diagnosis and complication in the already present heart arrhythmia.
I'll remember her last few days on earth as a group of the most difficult of any seasons to date. She wanted to hang on for a few more Mays, a few more seasons, for what reason I don’t know. Depression smothered her and blanketed her countenance with remorse over lost beauty, love, youth, and a child. Her mind held tightly to life with acuity, except for allowing her the reality of her own impermanence.
In a moment of melancholic pleasure, I wish to bring Mamma to a safe harbor with sprawling roots of truth and ease. Had she ever known a sanctuary at all? She has been dead for several years, but realistically, she was absent for much longer and I truly, deeply miss her and always have.
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