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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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. 

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