Two For Three

I completed two of my three tasks today.  The first task was to take in Bob McElvaine at History is Lunch at the Mississippi History Museum to discuss his book "The Times They Are A Changing".  

If you haven't been to our two museum complexes, you owe it to yourself.  When I got there, there were at least a dozen yellow buses lined up outside, with hundreds of kids inside.  Going in, I passed some guy telling a group of teenagers how if they work hard, they can buy a Bugatti like his, and sure enough, there was a Bugatti parked on the street.

I was kind of expecting Bob's presentation to be a Millsaps Runion of sorts, but there were only about seven of us there, the rest were all townies, and it was packed!  The lecture went really well.  There was one fella at the end who asked a question that lasted about forty-five minutes, but god bless him; this stuff is important to him.

I got to corner Keith Dunn for a minute.  Some of the kids had been asking me about why our pool doesn't work, so I asked him.  The numbers on fixing the pool would shock you.  They shocked me.  It might be easier to build an entirely new one.  Doing anything with concrete in central Mississippi can be tricky.  I haven't given up on the project, but it's not gonna be a quick fix.  I suppose if it was a quick fix, it'd be fixed by now.  The problem with spending that kind of money on fixing the existing pool is that there are so many other projects we need that would use that amount of money, like building fifteen new black box theaters.  Anyway, I'm not giving up, but don't expect results soon.

Having read Bob's book and listening to his presentation, I kept thinking about what's going on with approved school reading lists and book banning in Florida.  This trend is certainly not going to end in Florida.  It will spread to Mississippi and Tennessee almost certainly next.  Having read the proposed and existing legislation in Florida, I don't know any way Bob's book can avoid getting banned there.  This is a perfect example of what these people think Critical Race Theory is.  It's not actually what Critical Race Theory is, but these people have no desire to know the truth.  We're soon going to be in a situation where it might even be questionable whether these kids can even visit our Mississippi History or Civil Rights museums because some of the exhibits will violate this ant CRT rampage.  There are artifacts in the museum that teachers will jeopardize their jobs if they teach about them or show them to their classes.  I wish I was exaggerating.

After the lecture, I had lunch at the Nissan Cave by Nick Wallace at the museum.  Nick used to be the head chef at the King Edward Hotel, near where I lived at the Standard Life Building.  Nick's a remarkably talented chef.  I'd love it if somebody could help set him up at Parlor Market and get that going again.  I had the Ramen Bowl with pork belly and boiled egg.  It was so good.

My next step in the plan for the day was to go from the Museum to the Capitol building for a protest aiming to strike down some of the anti-trans legislation that's on this year's docket.  Sometimes I like to challenge myself.  Actually, all of the times, I like to challenge myself.  I kept the option open to take an uber to the Capitol, but as it had not started raining yet, I decided to wheel it.  Many of the sidewalks downtown have recently been maintained, so getting to the Capitol by wheelchair wasn't actually that difficult.  It took about twenty minutes, but I made it with no problems.

The poster on Facebook for the protest said it was going from noon till four.  I got there close to 2:30 and was just in time to see them making their way down congress street to go bother Tate at home.  Because I was already kind of spent, I decided not to join them.

The third leg of the day's journey was going to be attending the Majors Basketball game vs. Birmingham Southern, but the sky was looking pretty annoyed, so I tap-tapped my phone for an uber home.  The driver was a guy I knew from Calloway, and we had a good time catching up and discussing some of the challenges that Jackson faces and regret for letting things get this bad.  That's kind of a constant refrain these days: how did we let things get this bad.  I'm not dismayed, but I'm not naive either.  The things I want to do won't be easy.  

The Roast for Jeff Good benefiting the Mississippi Press Association Education Fund is tomorrow night at the Westin Downtown.  The weather is supposed to be horrendous.  I have tickets, but if it's as bad as they say, I may skate.  It's not that I don't love the people involved, but using an Uber in really bad rain can be dicey.  I'll be there in spirit.  

The Worm

So, I got to the part of the bottle where the worm lives one night.  One of my fraternity brothers thought it was a good idea to smoke me out too.  If you don't know what that means, it has something to do with chicken wings.  

Somehow I made my way from the KA house to CS's, maybe 50 yards away, across West street.  I'm pretty sure it took a couple of hours to get there.  I kept turning in the wrong direction.

So, I make it into CS's and manage to somehow prop myself up to the bar.  Inez says, "can I get you somethin'" and I said, "Hey, baby." and nothing more.  

After a while, I don't know how long a while, my friend Beeve came to talk to me.  We called him Beeve because he reminded us of the guy on Leave it to Beaver on television.   Beeve talked to me about this and that and asked many questions, and was genuinely glad to see me, as Beeve always was.

After a while, I don't know how long a while, I looked at my friend Beeve, and I said, "Hey, Beeve.  I don't know why you're talking to me.  I have no idea what you're saying.  I don't even know who you are."  

I can't remember a single word he said, but I'll always remember the hurt look on his face when I said I didn't recognize him.  This was apparently a very hurtful transgression, one I did my best not to repeat.  Mezcal is a very strong medicine.  Whatever the hell brother Wedie gave me to smoke was even worse.  I learned not to take anything from him.

Godiva Chocolates

Godiva Chocolates makes something like eighty percent of their sales around valentines day.

I used to know someone.  Everyone thought she was almost always happy and always laughing.  That wasn't real, though.  Her smile was very convincing, but she was almost always unhappy, afraid, and worried about her future.  Not everyone knew what was going on inside her, but she trusted me.  Her smile meant more than gold to me, when I could get it.

Every few weeks, I would overnight a small box of assorted Godiva white chocolates to Memphis because Godiva White Chocolates were sometimes the only thing that made her feel better, even though it never lasted.  

Love doesn't always bring happiness.  I tried with all my strength to lift the darkness that surrounded her life, but all I could manage was an hour or two of sunlight.  Sometimes a few days, then the darkness always came back.  I failed.  Eventually, the darkness became all she had in life.  I shouldn't feel responsible for not fixing that, but I do.  I always will.  Knowing I wasn't responsible doesn't take the ache away. I was the owl man.

"Will chocolate make it better? Just for today?"

"What kind?"

"What kind do you like?"

"You know what kind I like," She said.

"Sleep now.  When you wake up tomorrow, a man will bring you chocolates.  I love you--you know."  

"I know you do."  She said.

"I wish it helped more.  I wish something would help more."

"I know you do." She said.

"My love can't make you well, but maybe it'll make you smile for a day.  I'll keep trying."

"I know you will."  She said.

I didn't keep trying, though.  In time, I gave up on her too.  Sometimes, loving someone that sad can pull the life out of you.  When I look back on it, she was probably pushing me away.  She knew that she was so sad herself that she could never love me back, and in her own way, she didn't want to see me hurt too.  

She smiled and ate her chocolates, and I kissed her head and held her hand.  My love couldn't make her well, but it could make her smile.  I'll take what I can get.

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.