A Different Christmas

This is for those who already know and for those who will one day learn.

I am one of those with soft-focus, happy, glowing memories of childhood Christmases. As effortlessly as visions of trees draped in tinsel and multi-colored lights, frosted windowpanes, and warm, snug rooms float into my mind accompanied by sound of Mom’s favorite carols, it is the rich panoply of smells that is most evocative, the redolence of roast turkey, the zest of fresh oranges, the tang of evergreen, that trigger the most intense memories.

The house where I experienced most of my childhood Christmases still stands. Although expanded and reconfigured, the core still remains. My sister lives there now. Mom passed away two years ago, Dad two months ago. Even though Dad, gripped by Alzheimer’s, could not tell Christmas Day from any other day for the last few years, this is our first Christmas without at least one of our parents physically existing in that place that was Home. As long as just one of them was alive, that Home had a sort of tangibility that transcended mere concept, a tangibility which is now irrevocably, irretrievable gone, unrecoverable.

My wife and I discussed this the other day while out Christmas shopping, listening to carols as we drove around. Or rather I tried to express how it felt. For the 30 years of our marriage when I have thought of Home, I have thought of her. Home was where we made it, whether in Atlanta or Greensboro or Charlotte. These days the boys are grown, gone, and married. Our Christmases are now graced with the happy laughter and warm snuggles of grandchildren. Life is fuller, richer than any I could have imagined, undeserved, cherished.

Subliminally if never articulated, I suppose that I always knew that Home was really two places: the Home from which we sprang and the Home we made. The former, if we are fortunate, a blessing, an example and template for a good, well-lived life; the latter the Home we strive with God’s providential grace to build .

What I found so surprising was how strangely unmoored I suddenly felt when I realized that that first Home was gone, how unprepared I was for that revelation, how much more important the thirty years of new and evolving traditions had become, the Moravian Love Feasts and Christmas Eve services, the multi-part family singalongs of familiar carols, the Christmas Day fire laid and lit, the companionable babble of familiar voices around the breakfast table, cold winter light streaming through the tall windows onto well-loved faces.

We grow older. Things change. We realize that are many things that we cannot fix. We lose friends and loved ones to distance, neglect, or death. Our bodies don’t work like they once did. All are a reminder to recommit ourselves every day to seek out and cling to the good, the beautiful and life affirming, the vibrant, the blessings that are available, not the ones that were lost or squandered.

This year we will go to Christmas Eve services with both of the boys, their wives, and all four of our grandchildren, then pile into bed to sleep under one roof and wake up on Christmas Day together. Later after the blizzard or wrapping paper and squeals of delight and thank-you hugs, we will sit down for Christmas Dinner with four generations of family. We will embrace and laugh and share the little things in life, that sharing that binds people together, that creates family, and Home.

I will call my sisters and my oldest friend’s parents, who have been my “other” mother and father for years on end, to wish each of them a Merry Christmas, family far away but no less dear for the distance.

As Christians we celebrate the miracle of Christmas, Christ’s Advent, God himself appearing among us, no gift more undeserving or more freely given. Amid the enormity of that concept, I will also take time to celebrate that first Home and Mom and Dad who built it with God’s grace, the Home that held those Christmases of long ago, that Home intangible now that they now longer inhabit that place, but substantial in its effect, foundational, that Home which cannot be supplanted, but which can be, should be, built upon, the gift, the blessing without which the new Home and all of its Christmases would never, could never, have existed.

The capacity of the human heart is amazing. It can encompass sorrow and joy, loss and renewal, at the same time. We simultaneously rejoice that a loved one who has passed away has gone to a better place and grieve that they are gone. Some say that loss makes us more appreciative of what we have. That seems too simplified a response to me. The spectrum of human experience is too rich and varied, shockingly obvious or finely nuanced, overt or subtle by turns. All of it can, must, be embraced, each for its individual and relative value, each for its impact upon us, just as God in the form of His Son, wholly God and wholly human, must have experienced the entire variety of human life when He walked among us.

For me, that has been the unexpected gift of a different Christmas.

Thanks be to God for life and loss and wonder and blessing, and Merry Christmas to all.


Leave a comment

Filed under Christmas, Uncategorized

How Distant Is the Past?

I was ruminating on the passage of time, the way the years seem to slip by faster and faster the older one gets. For some reason I thought of something that happened the summer I turned eight years old.

It was 1961. As was not uncommon, I was spending the summer on my grandparents’ farm two-and-one-half miles north of Brazil, Mississippi, in the heart of the Delta.

One day in late summer, August, I think , Pop – the same name my grandchildren who have heard and read countless stories about my Pop, call me – informed me that we were going to visit Mrs. Ferguson for her birthday.

Pop and Mr. Ferguson had been great friends. In fact, at one point Pop was purchasing a place out at Friendship (where my father was born) from Mr. Ferguson and his sisters in the late 1920’s when the Great Depression struck. Unable to make his annual payment, Pop asked for additional time. That was fine with Mr. Ferguson, but his sisters disagreed  and outvoted him. Pop lost the farm and every dollar he had put into it.

It is hard to imagine how crushing that must have been, but it did nothing to diminish Pop’s and Mr. Ferguson’s friendship which lasted until Mr. Ferguson passed away. Pop took over management of the King place shortly thereafter.

I was not enthusiastic about putting on church clothes on any day other than Sunday. Actually I was not very enthusiastic on Sunday either, but Cat – that is what I called my grandmother – insisted, and off we went.

What do I remember about that summer day in 1961? I remember that Mrs. Ferguson’s garden was close to her house and that she had rows of tall sunflowers down one side of the garden with blossoms the size of saucers tracking the sun’s progress. Sparrows and finches flitted among the stalks, chattering incessantly.  The house was wood-framed and painted white. Despite  the usual humidity it felt and smelled dry and slightly musty inside. The rooms were filled with curtain-filtered sunlight cascading through tall, open windows.

I approached Mrs. Ferguson cautiously. She was very old, thin but not frail, lively actually, and seated in a rocking chair where she was receiving her guests and well-wishers. I shook her dry hand and mumbled ‘Happy Birthday, Miz Ferguson,’ then got a cup of punch and settled into an unobtrusive seat in the corner.

Soon Mrs. Ferguson’s parlor was filled with people, mostly very old people to my thinking, and the stories started flowing with the gentle give and take of people with long and intertwined histories, but the parts that stuck out with me were the old, old stories. You see, it was not just any birthday. It was Mrs. Ferguson’s 100th birthday.

I may only have been eight years old, but I could do arithmetic and had some idea of the history of the South, so I quickly put together that Mrs. Ferguson had been born in 1861, the year before the Civil War began. She did not remember much about the War, but the hard times after the War were vivid. The stories eddied and flowed about the room, hard times and flush, good crops and bad, loved ones gone, nods of agreement and gentle corrections of imperfect memories.

So how distant is the past? Most people consider the Civil War ancient history, but it resounds in many families. Cat never knew her mother who passed away two months after Cat was born, and ironically Cat’s mother never knew her father who died of pneumonia in North Carolina on his way back to Mississippi from the surrender in Virginia. In fact, he is buried less that ten miles from where I in live in Charlotte.

And I am a white man. How much more must that war, that truly watershed moment, resound in the lives of the descendants of freed slaves?

Viewed in that light, the past does not seem quite so distant. A few years ago, I told the story of Mrs. Ferguson’s 100th birthday party to a black co-worker. He stared at me in disbelief, trying to process the concept that he was talking to someone who had heard stories of the Civil War from a survivor of that conflict.


How distant is the past? Both near and far. The span of long lives allows for the transfer of a sort of institutionalized knowledge, which only has value when shared and internalized and used to inform our lives and actions.

Leave a comment

Filed under Civil War, Mississippi, Mississippi Delta

The Mississippi Delta

I have just finished reading Richard Grant’s Dispatches from Pluto: Lost and Found in the Mississippi Delta, and yes, the title is perfect because not only is there a Pluto, MS, but the Mississippi Delta in many ways might as well be another planet. Or former planet. Or dwarf planet. Or whatever.

Regardless, Mr. Grant’s book about a British travel/adventure writer and his then girlfriend who move to the Delta on a whim, grabbed me by the throat. Having been born in Greenwood and having spent an inordinate amount of time on my grandparents’ place two-and-a-half miles north of Brazil and generally roaming around the Delta visiting my 32 aunts and uncles and numberless cousins, the book was somewhat of a travelogue of my youth.

But more than just a travelogue of places,  more importantly it was a travelogue of the cultural, social, and racial geography of a place like no other. A place that one never quite gets out of their system no matter how many years pass or how far away they roam. I have not lived there in 54 years and presently reside in North Carolina, but I will always be a son of the Delta.

A place of friendly and open-handed people of all races, of wealth and soul-crushing poverty, of strangely institutionalized racism where people mostly get along with each other, the Delta makes me laugh until tears roll down my face, renews my faith in humanity, and breaks my heart again and again. Often all at the same time. And this is the part that Mr. Grant gets absolutely right, not just the dichotomies of the place and its peoples, but the polychotomies, if you will. People of the Delta cannot only hold two opposing views simultaneously but often several. With very little effort. That is just the way we are. That is just the Delta.

And this too is the Delta. I recently connected with a childhood friend that I have not seen or had any contact with since the third grade. He too has wandered far from the Delta, all the way to the west coast but has returned to land farmed by his great-grandfather. We have had a high old time catching up online, but that is nothing compared to the time we will have on my next trip to the Delta. We will travel some backroads, both actual and metaphorical, and continue to try to make sense of this place we still call home.

In the meantime, I suggest that if you get the time, correction, I suggest that you make the time, to purchase and read Dispatches from Pluto.



Leave a comment

Filed under Mississippi, Mississippi Delta, Richard Grant

Autumn Musings

It is a glorious November morning, cool, with a crisp bite to the air. Crimson and vermilion and gold leaves etched against a cerulean sky flutter like tattered flags from bare, black branches.

The harvest is in. Fields that held corn and soybeans and cotton are now but corrugated rows of gray and ocher stubble. The last vegetables have been gathered from neat garden rows and are being put up for winter.

The far line of woods is a gray smudge, the bare trunks indistinct in the distance but known for what they are: tall, silent sentinels rising from a carpet of autumn’s reminder of summer’s riotous growth.

Wasp and dirt dauber nests cluster under the eaves, abandoned, the drones and workers dead, starved, willingly sacrificed to the survival of the colony, the newly impregnated queens underground, dormant until spring.

Spring and rebirth are only a promise held in abeyance through the long winter, taken on faith as the rising of the sun.  Is it that promise that brings beauty to this annual death? Or is it some deep, unvoiced appreciation of the bounty gathered in? Or is it the wonder of the thing itself, accepted for its contrasts, cool air and warming sun, bare oak trees and luxuriously verdant cedars, crunchy leaves and soft grass?

I hope it is for the thing itself, but I know that buried in the back of my mind, subsumed, dormant like the wasp queen, is the kernel of knowledge that the annual violent eruption of life will roll around, a kernel which will sprout and bloom come springtime.

Leave a comment

Filed under Autumn, Mississippi

As I Lay Dying-Tragedy or Comedy?

I put it off as long as I could but finally broke down and watched James Franco’s film adaptation of As I Lay Dying, and although the film has many fine moments, on the whole I was not enthralled.

The first thing that one notices is the split-screen effect, or rather affectation, used from the opening scene and throughout the film. There were a few scenes where the split screen actually works, but they were few and far between. Mostly it is simply distracting. Does one really need to see the same character from two different angles in the same scene? Does that pull one into the story or add additional layers of meaning?

Filming a novel told from several, in this case many, viewpoints is undeniably daunting. The one thing that did work for me were the voice-overs where Faulkner’s rich prose was on display, even though often hard to understand. I did half of my growing up in the Mississippi Delta and the other half in the Mississippi Hills, so I am reasonably conversant in those two argots. Nevertheless I struggled to understand what practically every character was saying.

On the other hand, the casting however was a strong point, particularly Beth Grant as Addie, Ahna O’Reilly as Dewey Dell, and Brady Permenter as Vardaman.

Now for the crux of the matter. Am I the only reader who thinks As I Lay Dying is a comedy, albeit a decidedly dark comedy? How many times does Anse say “I’ll be beholdin’ to no man” as he borrows and begs his way to Jefferson? Dewey Dell was raised on a farm and falls for the “You’ll need the rest of the cure” line. And really, a ten-cent concrete cast on Cash’s broken leg. Farmers treat their livestock better. I could go on and on, all the way up to “My mother is a fish.” But the penultimate moment is when Anse shows off his new teeth as he introduces his children to his new wife. i actually laughed out loud the first time I read that scene.

These are not tragic characters unless one considers ignorance and a lack of self-awareness as tragic. Having just written that, I realize that, yes, that is tragic in our modern sense of the word, but not in the classic, literary sense of one who makes a serious error of judgement leading to their downfall. These people are a bumbling mass of incompetence stumbling their way through their lives. They are extreme, over the top characters, intentionally drawn that way by Faulkner, and they are sadly, morbidly hilarious.

All of this does nothing to take away from the novel. It is brilliantly written with its multiple viewpoints and deep, accurate revelations of character. But if As I Lay Dying is a comedy, then as a film maker, James Franco didn’t get it.

Leave a comment

Filed under As I Lay Dying, Mississippi, William Faulkner

The Most Southern Place in the World

Just read Richard Grant’s New York Times article “Sweet Home Mississippi” which stirred up more memories and emotion than I would have expected.

I have not lived in Mississippi in 37 years or the Delta in 53 years, but I will always think of Mississippi, in general, and the Delta, in particular, as home. I was literally born on the banks of the Yazoo River because that’s where the Greenwood-Leflore County Hospital is located, right on the riverbank. Except for a brief sojourn in Drew in the heart of the Delta, I never lived further than three blocks form the Yazoo River until our family moved to Tupelo the year I turned nine.

I attended Davis Elementary School, named for Jefferson Davis, of course, for two-and-a-half years. I spent weekends and summers on my grandparents’ farm two-and-one-half miles north of Brazil, a town consisting of three stores, two churches, a school, and a relocated post office still named Stover after its original location a mile-and-a-half north of Brazil. A spur of the Yazoo & Mississippi Valley Railroad ran through Brazil but did not stop. The nearest train depot was Sumner, site of the infamous Emmitt Till trial, and yes, I use the term trial loosely.

My first best friend’s great-grandfather was one of the first white settlers in Leflore County and a major landowner. I like most of my friends growing up am descended from Confederate veterans of the Civil War. My playmates at school were all white; my playmates on the farm were all black.

To this day I am both drawn to and repelled by my home. Its heritage of poverty and brutality is abysmal. The reality of the place is confounding to one who knows its history. On a personal level race relations are more amicable than an outsider might expect. My grandparents and their family bought all their clothes from one of my grandfather’s best friends, a Jewish merchant in Webb. Almost every little Delta town had a Pang’s Store operated by a local Chinese family, probably descended form railroad workers. No one gave a second thought to shopping there. Migrant Mexican workers followed the harvest north through the Delta every fall. My mother’s family, farmers too, relied on their help during the cotton harvest.

It is a land of contrasts: the crushing poverty of a family living in a tar paper shack and stately, old multi-generational homes of comfortable excess; the staggering beauty of sunset over a cypress brake, verdant green foliage etched against a fading crimson sky, and the heart-breaking decay of once-flourishing little towns crumbling into vine-choked gray shells; the soft cry of mourning dove over fields shimmering with the early light of dawn and the harsh roar and clatter of soybean harvesters at work into the night; black, white, brown and yellow children at play in parks and ball fields and segregated churches and country clubs and private schools.

But perhaps the most remarkable thing about the Delta, the thing that always seems to get a visitor’s attention, is that its people, regardless of their race, ethnicity, age, income, or profession, are open-handed, kind, and friendly. To neighbor and stranger alike. Sir, Ma’am, Hon, and Sweetheart are all used liberally and sincerely, without artifice.

In all honesty, I do not know if I could go back and live there. Maybe I could, maybe not. I have been gone a long time but am still pulled back regularly to visit. I cannot escape it, nor would I. What I do know is that to this day I draw strength from having been born and raised there. Whatever I may be, I am because of that place, the most Southern place in the world, the Delta.

So, thank you, Richard Grant, for taking me back. And for adding “Dispatches From Pluto: Lost and Found in the Mississippi Delta” to my reading list.

Leave a comment

Filed under Delta, Mississippi, writing

Uncle Bill

Maybe it is because I am a Mississippian, born in the Delta, raised in the Hills, but I have been a devotee of William Faulkner’s writing from the first time I opened one of his novels when i was 15 years old. I was captivated by his concatenation of adjectives, precise and descriptive; his often elliptical way of telling his story, each cycle offeing more illumination; his rich, fully-fleshed characters; his ear for regional speech patterns reflected in his wonderful dialogue; and his subtle yet wicked sense of humor.

I call him Uncle Bill when talking to myself, not because of any blood kinship, but because, in so many ways, it seems that any of us who attempt to tell stories about the South in general or Mississippi in particular, are beholding to him, like a favorite uncle whose influence is neither gentle or harsh but always profound, always there in the background.

Attend any writing seminar or fiction writing class, and you will be bombarded by the mantras of start with a bang, set the hook early, avoid adjectives, and only use one modifier at a time, all of which were rules that Faulkner broke regularly and relentlessly. A novel is not a pop song or a Tweet or a text to be quickly consumed and discarded. It is, if it is a good novel, filled with the complexities of emotion and motive, action and consequence, accomplishment and loss, that make up life, things that take time and effort to plumb, assimilate, and appreciate. That is why we go back again and again to great novels, to savor them and gain a deeper awareness of the beauty of life.

Leave a comment

Filed under William Faulkner, writing

Last Days

We buried Dad last week. I thought that after Alzheimer’s had robbed him of his memories, his ability to walk, and eventually the power of speech or ability to take care of himself in any way, after he lay there days and nights on end practically uncommunicative, that I had long ago said goodbye to him. I was wrong, emphatically wrong.

His actual passing away still hit me like a ton of bricks. Solace in the certainty that he is now without pain and in a better place and reunited with loved ones praising God helps, tremendously, but the pain of loss is still there, still fresh and sharp and focused.It still comes in waves at unsuspected times. And that is a good thing. It is good to miss someone who meant so much to you, one you loved so deeply, one whose love for you you never questioned. There is no loss without love.

I was fortunate. I spent the last eight days of his life with him. He was unconscious from the stroke that finally took his life. Nevertheless I talked to him like he could answer. I read the Bible to him. I kissed him goodnight and good morning. in fact, i kissed him goodbye every time i left his room. Just in case. And one morning, just in case came when I slipped into the bath for a shower. Through the door, I heard his last rattling breath. He was finally, irretrievably, gone.

He taught me so much. One of his greatest lessons was the value of time, a truly precious gift, time spent tossing a football or baseball, going to football games, wandering in the woods with a rifle on our shoulders, just time together, talking, sharing what went on in our respective worlds. Without that profound lesson, I would have missed out on those last eight days, hard, stress-filled days with nights of fitful sleep, days and nights I would not have spent any other way, a glorious time with the man who had given me life and love and shelter, a man whose instruction and example continue to inform my life and actions, a man who had shaped me into the kind of man who would want to be there with him to share his last days.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Newspaper Article

I am excited to announce that an article about my new career as a writer appeared in the online version of the Charlotte Observer today. It will be in the print version next Wednesday. Marty Minchin interviewed me back in September, and I had been waiting with bated breath. I am really happy with her article.

I had been interviewed before, by my friend Bill Bartee from Jesse Brown’s Outdoors (my go-to camping store) for the Carolina Outdoors program that he hosts on WBT Radio, AM 1110, FM 99.3. Even though it was recorded live and broadcast unedited, it was a lot like sitting around shooting the breeze with Bill and Don.

This was different. Interviewing for a different medium, Marty had the opportunity to conduct a more in-depth and wider-ranging interview. So first of all, you do not want to come across as a rambling, quasi-incoherent, blathering idiot. I think I accomplished that, although it may have been touch and go a couple of times. Marty, like Bill and Don, made the process a real pleasure.

Well, now the article is out there, and I must admit that it is somewhat of a surreal experience reading an article about yourself and seeing yourself quoted in print. newspaper stories are about other people. It is also an interesting glimpse of how others see you, what someone else finds interesting in your story.

Here is a link to the article. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think.


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Rowan Oak

Call it providential. I grew up less than 50 miles from Oxford, Mississippi. By my teen years I was reading and writing papers on William Faulkner for school. That started a lifetime of reading Faulkner for pleasure and for my own edification. Yet I had never visited Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s home in Oxford.

My wife and I rectified that on Friday, September 25, 2015. That’s right, on Faulkner’s birthday, 118 years to the day after he was born.

We parked along the shady dirt road on the property and strode up the gravel drive to the brick-paved walk lined with old, towering cedars to the stately white house, two-storied, columned, clapboarded, built in 1844 and purchased by Faulkner in 1930. We saw all the rooms in his house, including his study where he outlined the plot of A Fable right on the wall. His manual typewriter sat on the little portable desk Faulkner sometimes carried outside to write in the yard. Although Rowan Oak is a large spacious house, Sherrie and I were both struck by the simplicity of the furnishings. It felt like a home.

Soon Bill Griffith, the curator, and I were sharing our favorite anecdotes and thoughts on various Faulkner novels. He recommended some critical works and a memoir by Faulkner’s niece, Dean Faulkner Wells, for whom he was guardian after her father’s death. I bought a copy in Square Books later that afternoon.

We wandered about the grounds and saw the stables, barns, and servants’ quarters. it was a perfect fall day in Mississippi. We could hear the Ole Miss marching band practicing for tomorrow’s halftime show during the Vanderbilt game. Vaught-Hemingway Stadium is only a little over half a mile away as the crow flies.

The Rowan Oak staff was expecting guests from New Albany, Mississippi, Faulkner’s birthplace. In addition to it being his birthday, actually because it was his birthday, they were dedicating the 35-mile stretch of Highway 30 between New Albany and Oxford as the William Faulkner Memorial Highway. Sherrie and I showed up for the reception, and Mississippi being Mississippi, we met Kenny Ferris, the Assistant Director of Visit Oxford, who was from Tupelo where I grew up. Additionally her husband was from Macon, Mississippi, and through him she had met some of my extended Catledge family who had married into the Adams clan. That’s just Mississippi.

It was a rare and good day. Providence is like that.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized