Lost Love

Sometimes, when we have a bad breakup, we feel like we were never loved at all.  Because something wasn't ever-lasting, we tend to believe there was something false or defective about it in the first place.  Maybe it was never real at all.  That's an illusion, though.  A false assumption.

No matter how it ended, there were still nights of flaming passion.  There were still mornings when you saw her eyes before you saw the sun.  There were still days when you went to work, and all she really wanted in the world was for you to have a good day.  There were still days so bad when the only thing in the world that would make you feel better was her voice.  None of those things were false; they just weren't permanent.  Being locked in a moment of time doesn't make things any less real.  In some ways, it makes them so much more real.  

Where I am now, every day I see people coming to visit the person they've loved for the past sixty years and spend time while their lover forgets who they are.   Their love lasts, but their names are forgotten.  Some come to hold hands with the woman who bore them three children while she struggles to breathe, knowing her last day won't be long.

God injected us into the fabric of eternity.  The love of a thousand years lasts but the briefest moment.  It's not your failure when things end because all things end; you will too.  In the span of eternity, a moment is an hour is a decade, is a century, is a millennium.  The love of just one moment lasts beyond the life of our sun; neither will last--in time.  

Fountainhead

This morning, I had a breakfast meeting with John Maxwell.  John has some interesting projects in mind; hopefully, I'll be able to report more there soon.  He has an interest in allowing Millsaps to archive his manuscripts at our Library.  I'm trying to work with our Library to facilitate that.  Besides working to install a new president, Millsaps is also working to install a new librarian, so nothing happens quickly.  He also has at least two new plays in the works.

I learned Sunday that Galloway is interested in reviving its drama ministry.  John's a member at Galloway and certainly could be a valuable resource there.  After hearing this, I went and eyeballed the space and some of the equipment myself.  The good news is that the lighting equipment is in pretty good shape; the bad news is nobody uses those kinds of lights anymore.  I'm not even sure we can get lamps for some of the fixtures.  Whatever happens, we'll figure it out.  Hopefully more to report on that soon.

Since I mostly use Ubers, I arranged to arrive early, and I'm really glad I did because I got to spend about twenty minutes with one of my favorite people in the world, Bob Adams.  A Millsaps 1959 alumni, Bob is one of Mississippi's most significant architects, particularly with regard to anything involving the restoration and rehabilitation of historic and architecturally significant structures in Mississippi. 

Besides Millsaps, I mostly know Bob from my years with the Jackson Zoo.  We both took turns on the JZP Board and the Friends of the Jackson Zoo Board.  As an architect, Bob is responsible for the Annie Laurie Herin Education Center, the Elephant House Cafe, and the Discovery Children's Zoo.  As a board member, Bob was responsible for the African Rainforest and Savanah Exhibits and many others.  Like myself, Bob also had the experience of dressing as Santa and riding Marre the African Elephant into Christmas At The Zoo to greet the visitors.  

In Jackson, Bob is known for adopting and renovating historically and architecturally significant buildings.  For me, calling a structure "architecturally significant" is a pretty high bar.  Architecture is important to me.  One of Bob's purchases is the Grayhound Bus station on Lamar Street.  The Bus Staton is done in the Art Deco Streamline style, which is very rare in Mississippi.  It represents some of the most interesting uses of architectural glass I've ever seen.  For many years, this building served as Bob's office; I'm happy to report that it has been purchased by a gentleman who intends to make a restaurant out of it.  That's actually very interesting because the Lunch Counter inside this bus station has a very significant role in America's Civil Rights history.  I don't think I can say who bought it yet, but he's one of Mississippi's best chefs, and I've eaten with him before.

Like myself, Bob has physical balance issues these days, so he has moved to a new home, leaving his old home for sale.  Saying Bob's old home is for sale is a big deal because Bob's old home is Fountainhead, one of the most important houses, not only in Mississippi but in the South East.  Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and built in 1950, Bob purchased Fountainhead in 1979 and spent several years restoring it to Wright's original vision.  

There will be no open viewing for Fountainhead.  If you are genuinely interested in this property, your agent can arrange a viewing.  The last time Bob had an open house for Fountainhead, over six hundred people came.   The Zillow listing is here:  It shows as off-market, but that's incorrect.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/306-Glenway-Dr-Jackson-MS-39216/3031559_zpid/

Again, I cannot express what a big deal this is.  Hopefully, some young family will fall in love with the house and continue the tradition of keeping it as well as Bob did.

As much as I enjoyed seeing Bob, we did discuss something pretty painful for both of us.  Conservatively, I've invested a few thousand hours at the Jackson Zoo, Bob, maybe three or four times that.  In the next ten to fifteen years, Jackson will have to make the painful decision to pull the plug on the Jackson Zoo.  Without a deeply serious re-investment in West Jackson, I don't see how it can be avoided.  There's a group now trying to do for West Jackson what the residents of Fondren did.  Unless they are successful, I don't see any other fate for my beloved Jackson Zoo.  I don't think I'm adequately expressing how difficult this is for me, but the fate of the animal collection comes first, and unless we can seriously change the course of progress here, I don't see any other way.

Life gives, and life takes away.  Having to have conversations about the Zoo are painful, but I got to spend time with two of my most favorite people in Mississippi, John Maxwell and Bob Adams.  I also got to spend a minute or two with Joel Howell, who is one of the people responsible for creating the new Millsaps Theater space.

There's a really cool article about Bob on the MBench Website.  It doesn't include a byline (which it SHOULD) but I think I recognize the style.  I'll ask her.  By the way, Bob asked if I knew the whereabouts of Barbara Barrett, who was the director of the Zoo most of the years when we were active, and I had to say I didn't know.  If you do, please let me or Bob know.  I want Barbara to run for Governor or something.  She's that capable.  

https://www.mbench.org/s/1438/18bp/interior.aspx?pgid=504&gid=1&cid=895

Words For Race

The preferred word to describe people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  How we, as a culture, perceive and treat people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  I was blessed to live in interesting times.

Currently, I mostly use the term African to describe people of the African Diaspora.  For one thing, it's the most accurate.  My genes are from Scotland.  I am Scottish.  Their genes are from Africa.  They are African.  To be entirely honest, I'd much rather break it down to what part of Africa they come from, but for people living in the US, what goes on inside the great continent of Africa is a complete mystery.  Were they asked to name countries or cities in Africa, they'd be at a loss.  I'll be completely honest with you, most of what I know about Africa started with my interest in Tarzan, a character created by a man who had never been to Africa himself.  I've informed myself since then, but that's how it started.

Using the word "African" also describes the elephant in the room itself, the place called Africa, ironically also where elephants come from.  The idea of colonization and colonizing that created these bad ideas and bad feelings about race that we live with began with colonization, and no place on earth was more poorly treated and received less in return than Africa.  The cradle of mankind has not been treated too kindly by the people who migrated out of there.

What might currently be the preferred term for people who are African is "Black."  While historically often used, it came into preference in the seventies and probably became a favorite from the use of the phrase "Black Power," which spoke to the ideas of upward social movement, self-determination, and solidarity that were popular then.  A short and square word, Black ends with an aggressive K sound.  I get why it's liked.

My problem with Black is that it was originally used to exaggerate the otherness of African people and suggest that they are somehow the opposite of Europeans, who were described as "White."  We are good; they are bad.  We are enlightened; they are in the dark.  We are civilized; they are slaves.  We are men; you are animals.  All of these ideas were real and common for a very long time.  I genuinely dislike the use of "White" as well.  Leave white to the White Walkers.  It also squashes all the cultural and ethnic, and genetic diversity of Europe into one big pot.  I don't like being lumped together with the English, much less the Finns, the French, or the Flemish.

Both of my preferred words to describe Africans are no longer in favor.  They're no longer in favor because they were used so long to condescend, and there came a time when African people began to demand we stop condescending to them.  Besides all the crap we were already doing to them, that became an insult.  I get that.

For me, "Negro" is a beautiful word.  For one thing, its origin is probably French or Spanish or both.  It has a musical shape and sound to it, like a viola.  "Which wine would you like, Madam?"  "What is your best bottle of Negro, Garcon?"  Besides being condescending, Negro fell out of favor because it degrades into something horrible.  First "Negro", then "Neegra," then, you-know-what is next.  

Some writers type it easily.  I do not.  Even when my fingers are making words spoken by a character or relaying what someone I actually saw actually said, it's uncomfortable.  If I'm honest, it's not because I'm enlightened or nice or anything admirable.  My grandmother taught me to never use that word because it made me sound ignorant, and she said it with a face that made it seem so much worse than just ignorant.  Evelyn Flowers was most of the time as gentile as a flower, but she could be as harsh and aggressive and unmoving as a lion on some things, and me being "ignorant" was one of the things.

Colored is my favorite.  Who wouldn't want to be colored?  If your choice was to have color or to have none, you'd choose color.  "Colored lady" or "Colored gentleman," or even "Colored baby" are some of my favorite phrases.  They express a friendliness, both on the parts of the speaker and of the person they are describing.  If you're white and from the South, and I use the phrase "colored lady" it's most likely going to invoke memories of someone who loved you and was kind to you.  

The system of having African "aunties" or maids in white families was itself problematic, as described by Kathryn Stockett was very real, but she also did a great job of describing the sometimes cruel problems that came from it.  "Colored" is archaic, and it's problematic, so even though it's my favorite term, I really only use it when I'm making a point, or speaking for a character.

Ultimately, white men like me do not make this decision, and that's the way it should be.  I may be made of words, but these are real people with real lives, and I respect that.  The preferred word will probably change again in time, but "African" will always be accurate.  

Don't call me white, though; I am a Highlander.

True Love and Caramel Cake

My parents started "dating" when they were in the sixth grade at Power Elementary under the watchful eye of my aunt Sara Catherine, who ran the cafeteria, and her husband Luther was the favorite of everybody in daddy's generation, which was all boys except for two hold-outs.

From sixth grade until the day daddy died, neither of them had ever been involved with anyone else.  It's been my mission to make up for all the romantic gregarity daddy missed out on.  I may have invented a word.  Meriam Webster is telling me there's no such form of gregarious as gregarity.  I'll never be recognized for my genius in my generation.

When Daddy died, Momma was on vacation with my cousin Libby in Florida, they chose to drive, even though we had a plane and Libby worked for Delta. (my family can be odd.)  There were carphones in those days, but Momma refused to get one.  They were intrusive, she felt.  She was probably right.  She also confused Cell Phones with the Radio Phone that Rowan Taylor had, and somebody with a police scanner caught him calling a judge an asshole, so he never trusted them again.

As they entered Alabama, Libby called daddy's office to let him know they'd be home in x number of hours.  She was transferred to James Carr, who told her what happened but not to tell Mother until she got back to Jackson.  He thought that'd be better than her sitting all that time in a car thinking about how her life had suddenly changed.

Back at home, the house was filling up with Ole Miss KA's, Millsaps people, and whatever family we could find.  Robert Wingate drove to Jackson from Greenwood and waited for momma to get home.  Of all my relatives, Wingate always was.  He just was.  Poor Libba Wingate.  How many times did Robert have to say, "I gotta go." then disappear into the night.  He was just that kind of guy.  God, I miss him.  

As she drove up to our house on Honeysuckle, Mother saw all these cars.  She immediately assumed something had happened to one of her children, probably me.  She'd lived through this with other families before.  Turning in the driveway, the headlights lit up Leon Lewis and Brum Day.  Mr. Lewis might have been there if I died in a wreck, but once she saw Brum, she knew what it had to be.  Her fifty-year love affair had come to an end.

Fifty years is a long time.  So far, twelve years is the longest I've gone with the same person.  I think what made their relationship work was that they had a genuine sense of humor about each other.  

One time, Mother got real sick with an intestinal thing and had to spend six days at St. Dominics.  People from all over brought daddy all these casseroles so he wouldn't starve, even though he and Rowan ate steak every night.  Daddy only knew how to cook one thing, and I had to teach him how to do that correctly.  The casseroles began to stack up.  He gave me one, and I think Jimmy got one.  

Finally, momma came home.  She gave me instructions on how to heat up one of the casseroles stacked in her refrigerator, and we ate as a family for the first time since she got sick.  Martha was still living at Millsaps, but the rest of us all had our own places.  Eating the Mexican something, something casserole Jane Lewis made, Daddy said, "If you'd been sick a little longer, somebody woulda made me a caramel cake."  He got away with it.  My wife woulda made sure I wore whatever was left of the something, something Mexican casserole, but then we didn't start dating when we were ten years old.

Mother wasn't the type to let anyone get the better of her.  She took to the habit of leaving daddy a birthday card on his lavatory every year.  He would read it, kiss her on the head and say how much he loved it, then leave it back on his lavatory as he went to work.  That night, he'd come home and take her out to eat, usually at the Mayflower, and we kids were at the mercy of Hattie the maid, or my grandmother, both of which were excellent cooks.  Noticing that Daddy did the same thing every year without deviation of any sort, Mother decided to try something.

She took to collecting the birthday card he left on the lavatory and tucking it away in her desk.  The next year, she'd leave the same card on the same lavatory where he would read it, kiss her on the head, then take her out for dinner.  This went on for most of my youth. The same card, the same ritual, year after year.  Finally, in my twenties, she was lubricated enough at a dinner party that she revealed the rouse to her friends.  Daddy turned a little red-faced for a minute, realizing he'd been caught not really noticing the card she picked out all those years was always the same one.  Then, he sheepishly offered, "still counts."  And, so it did.

Playing tricks on each other can be good for a relationship.  A sick wife really should be worth a caramel cake.  You can even buy them at the store now.  Obviously, I don't know the secret to true love, but I think maybe being able to laugh at each other helps.