Recent Posts

Popluation 1,778

There’s a small little beach town, barely visible on a United States map, tucked under Alabama’s southernmost coastline and located on a small island separated by the Mobile Bay. Population 1, 778.

Once on the island, one can drive from the east to the west in about 10 minutes. One can stand on the back porch of a beach house and see the calm waters of the Bay while simultaneously watching the choppy waves of the Gulf of Mexico wash up on the sandy shore. One might even consider quitting her job and moving to the town for early retirement if one could convince her husband it is a good idea.

Some people say that the entire island might be washed away one day by a major hurricane, but that doesn’t seem to worry the people of the town. They have been living there for hundreds of years and a little storm or two is not going to scare them off. Camille, Frederic, Georges, Ivan, Katrina, Ida – the locals can rattle them off like a list of outlaw cousins. They return every time, because, well, home is home. No matter what happens. 

So on this tropical day in June, the shopkeepers at Greer’s, the local grocery and hardware store, are stocking their shelves with the necessities. And by necessities, I mean any type of salad made with mayonnaise – Macaroni Salad, Egg Salad, Potato Salad, Pimento and Cheese Salad, Chicken Salad, Salad of the Sea. No one is worried about the upcoming Hurricane season, only that there might not be enough sweet tea at the annual flea market sale this weekend hosted by the Episcopalians. 

As the shopkeepers are busy lining cans on the shelves, an elderly woman stumbles and falls in the milk and creamer aisle. She seems disoriented and can’t quite make it to her feet. Several employees rush over to her and decide to call the local paramedics, just in case. Emergency personnel arrive quickly. One young man in a blue uniform bends over the lady and politely asks her what her name is. She politely asks him what his name is. Then she tells him that she is just fine and if he would give her a cigarette, she would be even better. “Ma’am” the young man responds slowly, “You don’t look fine. You’re on the floor at Greer’s.”

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to her,” a store clerk whispers to the customers as they squeeze around the stretcher to get their 2% milk. “Bless her heart,” he adds quickly. 

Meanwhile, the local Episcipalions are in a frenzy of preparation for the flea market sale to benefit the church mission. Two hundred chicken salad sandwiches need to be made, plus more chicken salad for their “to-go” customers. With tea and lemonade, plus home-made bread and butter pickles, it’s all hands on deck. Women and men of all ages pitch in to make the weekend a success. Cissy dons her “Have you hugged an Episcipalion today?” apron and everybody knows it’s time to get to work. She only wears that apron when it’s serious. 

Tourists and locals mingle through the arts and crafts booths, vintage wares, and garage sale treasures. Kids ride their bikes up and down the street that not only holds the Episcipal church, but the Baptist and Catholic churches as well. Brown pelicans soar over the crowd and seagulls wait impatiently for crumbs from the sandwiches. Necks are hugged. All two hundred chicken salad sandwiches are consumed. Priceless items are found and sold. Stories are exchanged. Smiles abound. 

It seems like the perfect summer day on the little island snuggled under Alabama’s coast. As the waves lap gently on the sandy shore, as the sun beams down from a blue sky, as the church bells toll and as sailboats glide on the glassy ocean, one might be tempted to think she has found paradise. But the locals know better. There’s no such thing as a perfect day and the only paradise to be found is when we cross those pearly gates. 

What they do know is this – that there’s two choices they can make in this little town. To wake up and thank the Good Lord for another day on this earth, to hug necks at the Episcopal flea market, to help an old lady who stumbled and fell at Greer’s, and to savor every last bite of those magical chicken salad sandwiches. 

The other choice is, well, to not do any of those things and one day slowly cease to live. 

And I guess one doesn’t have to live on a tiny island to figure out that we all have those two choices in life. It’s not that complicated, really. There’s no perfect life or perfect job or perfect town. There’s just people and life and happy days and sad days. We can either love it or hate it. But whatever you decide, remember it’s your choice and no one else’s. 

Life has to be lived, one way or another. Maybe how you do it is the lesson that the locals in this town have figured out. 

And for me? Well I think I’ll go hug an Episcopalian and find a chicken salad sandwich. 

I’d love for you to join me. 

Share This:

The Mockingbird

A mockingbird has taken up residence in the crepe myrtle tree beside our bedroom window. On warm and moonlit summer nights, he sings me to sleep with his vast repertoire of melodies. He croons them over and over with a chorus of locusts and crickets as his choir, until my eyes start to feel heavy and I drift off to sleep. 

It amazes me that this Louisiana land can create something as beautiful as the mockingbird, while also growing evil mosquitos the size of my fist, killer fire ants, and red wasps that will send you to the hospital. I guess that’s the trade-off with living here – the beauty comes with the danger. You can’t get one without the other. 

My Audubon Field Guide to Birds book tells me the mockingbird can mimic up to 36 calls of his neighboring birds. I’ve counted up to 12 so far. The book also tells me that the mockingbird is a small bird, with not many distinctive features and no striking good looks. I’ve never actually seen the mockingbird outside my window, but that’s ok. He tells me he’s there every night with his songs. 

I’ve named him Atticus, for obvious reasons. I imagine Atticus flying around the neighborhood during the day, visiting with the cardinals and robins. Listening to the doves and sparrows. He flies from tree to tree, paying attention to the songs of his bird people. He might hang out with the white egret that fishes for minnows in the bayou nearby, or sit in a tree while the red headed woodpecker pecks for bugs. I like to think that no matter where he goes, he’s always listening the songs of those around him. 

Atticus probably has good days and bad days. Sometimes the summer sun is searing and water is hard to find. Other times the rains come and he enjoys a nice long soak in the puddles in the backyard. He might fly far from home one day and wonder if he will make it back to his tree. He might get tangled up with a snake or have to hide from territorial neighborhood dogs.

But whatever the circumstances, I can count on Atticus singing me his song at the end of the day, bidding the world good night the only way he knows how. He repeats the melodies of the birds he met that day, he lets me know all is well in the backyard by the calls of his friends. When I close my eyes and listen, I’m reminded that Atticus has no song of his own to sing. His lullaby is made up of all the beautiful sounds of those around him. 

And as I bow my head to sing my song, to breathe my prayer as the world goes to sleep, I try to remember that mine is not the only song there is to sing. I think of Atticus and wonder if he’s been trying to tell me something all along. 

Maybe instead of attempting to change the world with my song, I should simply be more like Atticus. Maybe I need to remember that everyone has a beautiful song and it may not always sound like my own. Maybe I need to pay attention to what the others are singing. Maybe, when I can repeat the melodies of those I meet, when I can listen to their song, when I can put all those hearts and souls together, it will make the most beautiful music of all. 

Share This:

No Answer

We sat on the thread-bare couch together and stared at the television screen. Most days Mr. Mom was watching football, but not today. Today there had been another school shooting. 

Mr. Mom looked at me. “I can’t do it, Ms. Sally. I can’t send my babies to school if this is what’s happening.”

He had tears running down his cheeks. It was the first time I had ever seen a man like this cry. 

My job as an At-Home Teacher took me to all sorts of places. I saw students in gated communities and students in mobile homes. I stepped over trash piles and petted dogs that I knew by name as I knocked on the door. I went to homes with goats and chickens roaming the yard, houses that were spotless and houses that had roofs falling in. They were all different, but had one thing in common – the parents loved their children and wanted them to get an education. 

Mr. Mom lived in a tiny home in what most people would call a “low-income” neighborhood. His wife worked every day while he stayed home with the kids. He was an ex-football player, was twice my size, and loved to yell at the TV as he re-watched football games all day. To be quite honest, he was someone who I would have been scared of if I passed him on the street.

But I had learned that Mr. Mom was a teddy bear of a man, who laughed easily and was always very respectful. We were as different as could be, and while I didn’t always agree with his parenting choices, he loved his babies more than anything.

Most days I worked on the floor with the children as he blared the television. The children and I would sing songs, read books, count, and draw. Sometimes the two cats and pit-bull puppy would join us on the floor and crawl into my lap. There was also a White Anaconda snake in an aquarium in the corner that I always kept my left eye on, just in case he decided he wanted to join our lessons too. 

“What am I sending my babies to, Ms. Sally? Why are they shooting our kids?” Mr. Mom’s big brown eyes were pleading with mine, begging me for an answer. 

But I had no answers for him. As I sat beside him on the couch, I felt the tears sting my own eyes as I tried to offer words of comfort. I stumbled my way through an explanation of how we as teachers will protect our students at any cost, how we are trained in active shooter drills, how we have hiding places for our children at school. But my words fell flat as I watched the tears continue to roll, so I quit talking. I sat back down on the floor with the children and we started singing a song, as their dad continued to cry silently on the couch. 

Every once in a while I would glance up at this giant of a man, who was dressed in pajama pants, a gold chain around his neck, and slippers. Tears rolled down his cheeks for the remainder of my lesson. At the end, as I was packing up my toys and heading out, he was gathering his children in his arms and squeezing them tight. 

I wanted to tell him that everything would be ok, that his kids would be safe at school, that no one would harm them there. But I didn’t say any of those things because I knew they were empty promises. There was nothing I could say that would make any of this go away. No words would give Mr. Mom the answer he needed. 

And now – many years later as I watch another tragic school shooting in Texas unfold, I  still have no answers to offer. I can tell you that we, as teachers, have plans in our heads of what we will do if a shooter comes into a classroom. I can tell you that we will shield our students until we die. I can tell you that our schools know and rehearse the threat of shooters in the building. 

But those words still fall flat, just like they did all those years ago with Mr. Mom. Because when we hit the bottom and we sob on the couch as we watch another school shooting, we just know it shouldn’t be happening. And no words will ever solve the problem. 

So maybe, instead of more words of what we can do better, or how the teachers are trained to take bullets, or what everyone in the country is doing wrong to cause the problem  – maybe we should all go sit on the couch of someone we would be scared of if we saw him on the street. Maybe we should get to know his life – pet his pit-bull puppy as the dog slobbers on our shoes and cuddle his children in our laps.

Maybe we should cry with the one who is different from us, sit down and shed tears with the one who we thought we hated. Maybe we should reach out to the one who has more money than us, or less money than us, or lives in scary neighborhoods, or drives fancy cars, or voted for the enemy, or played on the wrong team. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we reach out to those whose life is so very different from our own, if we stretch our hands outward instead of inward, if our hearts connect with a hurting world, we will not need words at all because our actions will shout louder than any words ever could. 

Share This: