The South

The Summer of Good

It’s summertime in the South. We are all intoxicated by the bluest of blue skies. We bathe in the brightest of suns. We eat the sweetest of watermelons. We hang out with the bullfrogs and cicadas on the back porch way past our bedtime, while the smell of magnolia blossoms perfumes our very souls.

There are pool parties and lake parties and beach parties and party parties. There are sno-cone stands on every corner. There are a million and one festivals, where we eat great food and dance into a dusky sunset. 

We Southerners move a little slower in summertime. Mainly because the heat of the afternoon sun will drench your shirt in 10 seconds flat. And if the heat doesn’t do it, the humidity will. But we also move slow because we know that summer is the very best of us – and we want to hang on to it as long as we can. 

Somewhere there’s a man getting ready to go fishing with his grandson. Somewhere there’s a neighbor drinking sweet tea on a front porch. Somewhere there’s a creek with kids splashing in it. 

And somewhere, either down the street or around the corner, in the next town over or at your mama’s house, there’s somebody doing something good. Helping a neighbor. Putting money in the offering plate. Adopting a shelter puppy. 

I’m sure of it. I’m convinced of it. I know it to be true. 

At least . . . I think it has to be true. I’m almost sure of it. Maybe? 

It’s been a long year. A really hard year. Along the way, I kind of lost my hope in people. I am having a hard time believing that people are out in the world doing good. Does goodness even exist anymore? Did Covid and politics and social media ruin us?

All I have seen on the news is hatred – acts of violence – yelling and anger. And around town? Well, people have forgotten how to smile at each other. And say hello when we pass each other in the grocery store aisle. We seem mad at something – or worse, scared of something. 

I have not seen goodness this year. 

So this summer, I am declaring it to be The Summer of Good. I have dragged out an old chalkboard. I have scrawled the words across the top. And I have instructed my family (as they look at me like I have two heads) that we are going to see GOOD in the world and then we will WRITE it down on the chalkboard when we see it. 

And I am declaring it to all of you – because I know there has to be GOOD out there. Right? 

Honestly, I’m a little worried we won’t have anything to write down on the chalkboard . . . 

Is this a little wacky? Yes. Is it a little cringey? Probably. Is it silly? Absolutely. 

But it’s also something I have to do – for myself and for my family. I must hang on to hope, cling desperately to its ankles. I can’t let it slip away from me. I have to see the goodness in our world before despair and desperation careen into all of us. 

And I want you to join me on this journey. I’ll be posting weekly updates and telling you what I am seeing. I’ll try to share photos of all the good that my family witnesses. I hope that you will do the same with me. Maybe we can find the good – together. 

What better time to do it than sweet summertime? 

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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. 

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Lessons In Growing Older

My 42nd birthday was last week. It’s crazy how these birthdays keep happening, faster and faster every year. And as they move faster, other things start to slow down. Like my metabolism and reflexes, digestion and remembering my multiplication tables. I find that my joints hurt more, I can’t stand up without a little limp, and my feet shuffle more than they run.

Honestly, I’ve never been one to worry about getting older. I’ve enjoyed the years. I hope I have a lot more of them to come. But the problem of birthdays lies in the fact that I don’t think my mind has caught up with the years. My mind never agrees with the number of birthday candles on the cake. My mind stays stuck somewhere in the past – a time when youth was on my side. 

This problem is so bad that when people ask me how old I am, my mind shouts out “23!” before my body can say “42”. And when the number 42 comes out of my mouth, my mind laughs a little – like what a good joke to tell people I’m so much older than I actually am. 

And then I stop and realize I am 42 and it’s always a little bit of a shock, a punch in the gut to my 23 year old mind. “What? Is this really true???”

It is true, I tell my mind. Remember Sliding Rock? 

Ah yes – Sliding Rock, the golden place for young people. It’s a haven for those who don’t know about mortgages and insurance premiums. A giant nature-made water park in the beautiful mountains of Arizona, where those who have lived less than three decades go to frolic and play in their blissful youth. 

It was the whoops of laughter that drew me in. Watching kids and teens and barely adults slip and slide down rocks made smooth from flowing water. It looked like so much FUN. The sun was dancing on the water, calling me to jump in. Enticing me with it’s sparkle and rhythm.

Seize the day! My mind told me. Live! Dive in! You’re 23!

So I took the plunge before I remembered that I, in fact, was not 23 at all. 

As soon as that icy cold water washed over me and I began to slide down the first rock, my body screamed out “Stop! You forgot you were 42!”

Within seconds, I had analyzed all the parts of me that were in danger of snapping in two. I had calculated my deductible and how much money it would take to put me back together. I felt every bump and knew that giant, blue bruises would soon appear and that I wouldn’t be able to sit down in a chair for a week and a half. My body turned into some sort of stiff board that refused to bend and flow like all the other young bodies I saw around me. I was going to die within seconds, I just knew it.

As soon as I came to a stop, I stood up. Shaking from the cold water, I looked around for the fastest way to get out of that death trap. My kids were standing on the edge of the water, pretending not to know me. Scott was shaking his head and laughing. The youth were stacking up behind me ready to slide and it was then that I realized with a sinking feeling that I had no way out. 

The rocks were too slippery to walk on. The water was rushing past my ankles making my balance questionable. And there was no way on God’s green earth I was sitting back down to slide to the end. I looked around, desperate to get out. 

That’s when a young man, probably in college and hanging out with his buddies on a sunny afternoon, stood on the rocks and reached out his hand to me. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “I can help you out if you give me your hand.”

I stared at him and managed to sputter, “I’m just so c-c-c-cold.”

“I know,” he said in a soothing voice that I’m sure he used with his grandmother. “It’s ok. Just give me your hand and I’ll help you out.”

It hit me in that moment. I’m old. I’m old and this college kid is talking to me like an octogenarian who has fallen and can’t get up. While my mind was screaming “You’re 23!” the rest of the world was seeing a middle-aged mom who was creeping toward the elderly side of life. It was one of those moments that seemed to happen in slow motion – the realization that I have slipped on over to the other side. 

I smiled at the young man, still standing there with his arm outstretched.  And then I did what any self-respecting woman at my age would do – I refused his hand and got down on my knees. I belly crawled my way out of that misery and up the rocks to safety. I wrapped up in a towel and thanked God that I had made it out alive. No more crazy adventures for this 42 year old. 

Later that afternoon, I ordered a large pizza and mozzarella cheese sticks for dinner. I signed up for an off-road jeep tour. I contemplated a horse-back riding class for when I returned home. While my body had not yet recovered from the morning rock sliding fiasco, my mind was back to being 23 again. 

I guess that’s the best thing about getting older. It’s so easy to forget. 

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