Tabasco and Eggs

 Don't be surprised if my first book isn't about breakfast.  Piecing together the words for this letter, I uncovered ideas for at least a dozen more.

When I was young, getting a private audience with my dad was something of a challenge.  There were seven of us at home, plus the maid and the dog.  At its peak, there were almost five hundred Missco employees, plus Millsaps, plus Trustmark, plus Unifirst, plus St. Dominics, plus Galloway, plus whatever else Daddy got himself roped into, so if I was going to see him, I had to be clever.  When he turned fifty, the Dominican Sisters gave him a two-by-four so he would have another board to sit on.  When they get together, nuns can be some of the funniest people you'll know.

Being a voyeur of other people's habits, I discovered that Daddy liked to eat and he liked to get up early.  That was my inside track.  Breakfast would be our time together.  If I could manage to meet him around six-thirty in the morning at either LeFleurs or Primos number two, I'd have my dad to myself for half an hour or more.  My sister had him for half an hour before that when they'd run together.  She's pretty clever about watching people's habits too.

My dad was never the kind to teach me things by saying, "do this, this way."  He was too subtle for that, and I was too stubborn.  To teach me, he performed the behavior he wanted me to learn when he knew I was watching (which was always) and waited for me to say, "why do you do that, Daddy?"

Fatty, sugary, creamy, breakfast foods are usually comfort foods.  That's not necessarily what you want to start a work day, though.  Daddy had a routine that turned fluffy scrambled eggs into a spirited wake-me-up to rival the blackest coffee.  

"Daddy, what are you puttin' on your eggs?"

"That's Tabasco Sauce.  They make it in Louisiana."

There are probably five thousand different kinds of hot sauce between Texas and Louisiana.  There are posters showing all the colorful bottles of Lousiana hot sauce, but I stick with Tabasco.   Tabasco chili peppers are filled with capsicum, one of the greatest gifts of the people we stole this land from.  As a young man, I took the Avery Island tour where they make Tabasco and saw an alligator, so that's maybe why Tabasco imprinted on me; plus, there were days when I shared a bottle with Daddy, Deaton, Wingate, Bass, and Taylor before we went to see if there were any fish in the water.  When it comes to tradition, the Jews in Fiddler on the Roof have nothing on us Southerners.  

There are a lot of health benefits to Tabasco sauce.  It adds virtually zero calories, is very low in sodium, and the capsaicin in it somehow raises your metabolism by almost ten percent for a little over an hour.  It quickens your mind and body at the time of day when you need it most.  It doesn't hurt if you miss the eggs and hit the bacon a little, either.

By this time next year, Daddy will be out of my life a few months longer than he was in it.  He taught me so many things.  Things that made me what I am.  Some lessons were very serious, some not so much, but my favorite (and his) was how and what to eat.  Sitting in a house Daddy helped build with Sister Josephine, trying to regain the strength I lost, there's a plate with the remains of scrambled eggs and Tabasco behind me.  If that doesn't make me better, nothing will.

  

Editor's Letter

Editor's Desk
Mississippi Free Press
Jackson, MS

Dear Editor,

I am not, what you would call, a supporter of Mayor Lumumba.  I try to be neutral on all politicians.  This is government, not football.  When he does something I agree with, I say so.  When he does something I don't agree with, I say so too, but either way, I put my name to my opinion.  I respect what few readers I have enough to say who I am and what I believe.

Recently, someone has been mailing flyers very disparaging of the mayor to what appears to be almost entirely residents of the 39211 zip code.  The flyers, so far, have been sent anonymously.  If you're from here or have been here any length of time, then you're undoubtedly aware of Jackson's often troubled history.  Many of these dark times involved anonymous political speech.  It was a favored tactic of the Klu Klux Klan.  These anonymous mailings remind me of that dark part of our history.

From a personal perspective, my father sometimes received anonymous letters and phone calls from people who didn't agree with the decisions he made or how he stood.  I know how threatening they can be.  I also know there is no effective response other than to stand up to them without engaging them.  Anonymous political discourse is meant to be intimidating.  It's the only reason to be anonymous.  It makes the speaker seem more powerful than he really is.  

Some of these mailings single out Donna Ladd, which I do not understand.  She's a writer, not a politician.  She makes none of the decisions you're upset about.  She also has multiple platforms where she not only accepts but welcomes your comments and challenges but not if you're going to whisper and hide behind a mask.  I don't think you're going to intimidate her.  Your tactics might motivate her, though.

Nobody on any side is happy about what's happening in Jackson right now.  The mayor is not above criticism, and I'd like to understand what happened as much as anyone.  These anonymous mailings don't help the situation in any way, and I honestly don't think they're hurting the people you want to hurt.  Whoever you are, you are invited to join the political discourse here in a stand-up way.  Whatever your opinion, I will fight for your right to have it.  Whatever your opinion, I may agree more than you realize.  Don't whisper anonymously in my ear, though.  That's bullshit.

Sincerely,

Alexander Boyd Campbell II
Jackson MS

Getting Published

 Everyone keeps telling me to publish.  I want to, and I am, but putting pen to paper and getting someone to publish it are two very different tasks, so bear with me.  It's coming, but I can't say when.  With the exception of my sister and brother, I've been secretly writing longer than I've known any of you, and I'm pretty sure my sister and brother only became aware of it recently.  

I owe my ability to Martha Hammond, my beloved neighbor, who knew I had trouble reading but continued to give me books anyway, and to my mother, who didn't give up on me and, instead of sticking me in a special education class, taught herself the Montessori Method so I could learn to read despite my dyslexia, and one day had the brilliant idea that if I couldn't learn to write properly, maybe I could learn to type instead.  I also owe a great deal to my teacher, Madora Mcintyre, who said, "Boyd's not stupid.  Something else is wrong." and got me tested for dyslexia.  

Writing is my strongest art, and making art is my strongest motive.  Writing is also my therapy.  Sometimes I have to write things down to get them out.  That means I sometimes write about painful, uncomfortable, or embarrassing things.  If it's about me, I'll let you read it.  I don't care.  You can look at my spleen if you want to.  If it's painful or embarrassing to someone else, you may never see it.  I'm not out to expose or exploit anyone.  I've seen writers who did that, and I don't approve.  Sometimes, I can't change the names or the details and keep people from knowing I'm telling their story, so those stories may exist in my computer somewhere, but you'll never see them.  No one will.    

My Friend Tim

  If you're lucky, and if you live long enough, there will come a day when it's your turn to watch over those who once watched over you. For most of the world, we were just kids, but my very first friends, who were also grownups, were named Sarah and Tim, and today it was time to say goodbye to Sarah.

Most goodbyes have little impact on me. They mean: "Good to see you! Let's do this again soon! Tell your neighbor I said hey!" But, there's one goodbye that means: "I'll never see you again. We'll never do this again. Your neighbors are here with me."

Final goodbyes are more than difficult for me. They make my weak parts tremble and make my strong parts irrelevant. I've avoided many of these, believing they were just too much and it'd be better for everyone if I weren't there, but when I heard my friend Sarah crossed over, something inside said I had to go. I needed to go. My first thought was to go and sit with my sister. I'm a lot stronger with her, but she would be out of town. "Alone," a voice inside me said. I had to do this, and I had to do it alone. It was time for that. This is important.

I lied and told the nurses at St. Catherines, where I'd been convalescing, that my family would be there to take care of me, so they approved and made arrangements so I could go to the funeral. There would be dozens of people I knew there, and I wasn't that far from my apartment if anything happened, so it wasn't a total lie. They also knew that the strength that completely left me just months before was now returning faster every day. They're not just my nurses, they're my friends, and by now, they know there are times when I will not be denied. Still in a wheelchair because my returning strength was so new, I looked improbable, but I knew I could accomplish this, and I needed to do it. I thought I'd be alone, but sometimes life has other plans.

My plan was to sneak in early and sit in the back where nobody could see me, then slip out quietly. That way, I could say goodbye without a ripple and satisfy the urge that made me come. Whatever I felt, whatever happened, no one would see me, and I could return to the safety of anonymity soon. After I settled into a far corner, some misguided soul saw my wheelchair and came to me and said, "Hey, we need you to sit up front."

By "up front," he meant the very, very front where everyone could see me, and I had to tilt my head back just to see whoever was speaking at the lectern an arm's length away; then he said, "we're going to move Tim next to you." Hearing that name, the pieces fell into place. I came to say goodbye to Sarah, but my heart would also be with Tim, and he would be next to me. I knew he'd been ill and didn't know if he'd be at the service with us, but once I knew I was to sit with him, it didn't matter who could see me or where I was sitting; it was my turn to watch over him as he'd once watched over me. Being next to Tim was where I needed to be. Tim was in a wheelchair like mine, but his was more permanent. Together we sat and said goodbye to Sarah.

The service began. One daughter delivered remembrances of her mother in what I couldn't help but hear as her mother's voice. I hadn't seen her since she was a teenager, and today she delivered her mother, my friend, to another place. Another daughter, who was our class favorite from childhood, said a prayer. Her voice quavered. She was once the very first girlfriend for two of my teammates, and her smile often delivered us all. Today she did what she must do. This was a difficult transition, but she was always one of the strongest amongst us. A third daughter, now the age her mother was when I got married, sat behind me with her family. When she was barely two months old, her mother, Sarah, asked if I wanted to hold her. My arms had moved thousands of pounds of iron and, through the years, would move more, but they'd never held a baby before.

The priest who said the prayer before most of our football games and later officiated the service that married me delivered the sermon for our mutual friend Sarah. This was a very personal service, not only an important moment and connection for me but for my entire class. Many of them were with me. We met more than fifty years ago, and today we gathered together to say the last goodbye to our class mother.

I could tell the friend next to me was in distress. His hands fidgeted, and his eyes watered. So did mine. He was in pain. I patted his knee, but it didn't help. A young man, I learned, was Tim's grandson, pulled him to the side, away from the front, where he could have some privacy. A young woman I'd never met but recognized immediately as Tim and Sarah's granddaughter came to comfort him. I moved my chair next to his. "It's ok, buddy." We held hands.

Only Sarah Nelson could arrange such a class reunion at a funeral. There were so many faces I knew before they could shave, now with white beards and hairless scalps like mine. Somehow only two of us still had hair. Maybe there was something in the water at St. Andrews in the seventies. This was the best service and farewell for our friend Sarah, surrounded by those she watched over when they were small.

I stayed with Tim until the driver from the VA drove away with him. Together, we'd said goodbye to the mother of his children, friend, and mentor to us all. Today I visited with more of my classmates than I'd seen in twenty years or more. It wasn't an ideal reunion, but it was somehow perfect for us.

After everyone was gone, I sat alone, waiting for my ride, having said goodbye to those I'd loved so long. Through the years, I've learned to restrain my tears because it's embarrassing, but it makes my nose run. I brought an extra handkerchief, just in case. The technique isn't foolproof, and the tears still came anyway. What a sight I must have been, in my convalescent wheelchair, crying alone across from the Governor's mansion, in front of this ancient church. An office worker stopped to ask if I was ok. "I'm fine. Thank you. I'm stronger than I look." I'd listened to the voice inside me and reconnected with my past. I should listen to that voice more often. I watched over my friend Tim while a man drove him away to a place where they take care of him. Somehow, a circle that started long ago was completed. I was home.