The Face Of Erasmus

When I tell these stories, there will be times when I will not name all the names or tell all the details.  I'm sorry if this offends.   My objective is to illuminate a time, cause a smile, sometimes a tear, not to stretch the reputation of anyone who was probably too young to be held responsible for what they did anyway.  If you know the names of any of the people in this story who are not named, please keep it to yourself.

I love my old school.  My experience there didn't end the way anyone thought it would, but I loved my time there and the people who travailed and matriculated with me and especially the poor souls who taught us, fed us, coached us, and sat with us while we waited to see the principal.  

St. Andrews aimed to provide small-classroom instruction on a classical liberal arts method, offering advanced education as far as the student could stretch.  Early on, they provided special attention to students with communication and reading issues like mine, long before the public or other private schools did.  For an example of how advanced, in our ninth-grade literature class, we were taught Beowulf (both translated and untranslated) and Candide (translated) and the historical placement and environment of each.  We were one of the first high schools in the state to offer Advance Placement courses, although my learning disability meant I wasn't ever a candidate for them.

Trying to do all these things in the 1970s in Jackson, Mississippi, wasn't without challenges.  There were cultural sea changes happening in every area of life, in many ways equal to those after the Civil War.  Some have called the years between 1960 and 1980 our Second Civil War.  

At its heart, St. Andrews was a parochial school, and as such, its board generally appointed Episcopal Priests as our headmasters.  There was a steady stream of fathers such and such leading us, and nobody ever really thought much of it until one day, a student in our newly created high school was arrested for selling drugs, to wit, marijuana.  Not enough to get him sent to Parchman or the Raymond School for Boys, but enough to cause a tailspin in the adult community guiding St. Andrews.  Our priestly headmaster was replaced by a layperson who himself was almost immediately released two years later, and the school's dean, also a layperson, was assigned as Acting Headmaster while the board searched for a permanent headmaster.   

There were adventures in those years waiting for a new headmaster that I've written about before.  At the time, I thought we were fairly well-behaved and normal kids until one day, the board was to present us with a gentleman who we understood was seriously being considered as our new headmaster.  In his address to us in the courtyard of the second upper school building, this new man said to us something I'll never forget.  

"It's my understanding that you have a problem with drunken degenerates." 

Others would, in time, call me both drunken and degenerate, but at fifteen, nobody ever had before.  We all thought there was no way this guy would get the job after being so rude to us upon our first meeting.  He didn't even know our names yet.  We were wrong.  Come the next fall, David Hicks was our new headmaster.  Apparently, there were members of the board who agreed with his assessment of us and thought he was the perfect solution to changing our wanton and degenerate ways.

Before school even began, several boys were expelled.  They were expelled before they even met the new headmaster.  I'm not even sure how this process happened.  Were they given a hearing?  Was there testimony brought against them?  I really don't know.  What I do know is that if he was seeking to cut off the source of the drug and alcohol problems at St. Andrews, he picked the wrong guys.  The boys he expelled were no saints, but they also weren't the source of the problem.  He also hadn't yet proven (to me, at least) that we had a drug and alcohol problem that was different from any other private or public school in Jackson.    

Once Hicks was installed as our headmaster, several boys were given the choice to either be expelled summarily or attend an experimental drug rehabilitation program in Atlanta.  This was not too many years after Betty Ford had made international news for receiving rehabilitation for her alcoholism; dependency programs were still pretty rare.  Again, if Hicks was trying to attack the problem at its source, he was picking the wrong boys.   These boys were troubled, for sure, but they were hardly the cause of the problem that I wasn't even entirely sure we had.

At sixteen, I decided it was up to me to try and talk Hicks out of this course of action for the good of the school.  I began regularly meeting with him to discuss these matters.  While he never refused my meetings, he was clearly getting irritated by them.  Our relationship began to become adversarial.  The more his actions troubled my classmates, the more I was compelled to confront him about it, and the more irritated he became with me.  By Christmas, we were clearly adversaries.  I've written before about how that didn't end well for me.

Small and large acts of protest began to spring up.  A newspaper was formed.  We were allowed one printing before getting shut down.  Whispers, coughs, and dress code violations became common.  The teacher's lounge mysteriously burst into flames one night.  The war between David Hicks and the students continued.  It became clear that there was an income threshold beyond which Hicks would not question any of your actions, but should your parents not earn enough--boy, were you in trouble.

One morning, we came to school, and the greatest act of protest I'd ever witnessed was revealed.  I won't say who did it, but I know it was two people, and the fact that two people had done all this in the middle of the night, by themselves, without getting caught, amazes me even today.

Every flat surface on the upper school held some level of spray paint.  I've used Krylon spray paints many times.  I know how far a single can will spread.  The culprits must have purchased a case

Most of the school's faculty, staff, and administration were much loved by us all and were spared any comment by our midnight sign painters.  But, those few who were considered traitors to the cause found themselves immortalized and pilloried by teenage wit, presented in letters large enough to be painted by a spray can, all over the upper school walls along with David Hicks.  Every upper school wall.

During this year of our discontent, a phrase had sprung up.  Every student from the fifth grade on up knew it.  It was scribbled on desks and book covers and shouted from cars.  Someone even wrote it in ballpoint pen on the back of my blue jean jacket while I piddled in my sketchbook on the bleachers one sunny afternoon.  Hix Sux.  It became our war cry.  The heroes of our story, on their midnight run of protest and spray paint saved the large brick wall to the right of the gated entrance into the upper school building for the last.  There, in letters several inches thick and seven feet tall, they painted:

                                                            HIX
                                                            SUX

I'm not even sure how they did it.  Maybe they brought a ladder with them.  Somehow they painted what we were all thinking as a two-story protest sign on unsealed bricks for us all to see when we came to school the next morning.

By the time I got to school, Jessie and the other janitorial staff were already at work trying to wipe away the graffiti that was literally everywhere.  By the end of the school day, our three janitors and one coach had either scrubbed away or painted over all the evidence of our midnight revolutionaries, all but one.  Remember the unsealed bricks I mentioned before?  Attempts to scrub the paint away from the surface of the bricks just drove the paint deeper into the grain of the brick.  HIX SUX was slightly dimmer now but wider and still very, very visible from the lower school playground.  Several chemicals were tried, and none worked.  St. Andrews closed out my tenth-grade year, my last year, with HIX SUX still quite visible on the upper school wall in two-story letters.  

Over the summer, the decision was made to paint over the offending remark with the same paint used on the metal gates.  Now we had a giant, windowless wall painted flat gray.  Hicks entertained suggestions, which included painting a large mural.  The students were consulted about what the subject of the mural should be and given several suggestions.  I wasn't there, but it's my understanding that Erasmus, who I had never heard of, was chosen democratically to be the subject of the mural.  The school's art teacher, Mrs. Mitchell, suggested Lawrence Jones, a former professor at Jackson State, to head the project, which he completed using students from her class. 

Forty years later, the painting of Erasmus still presents on the wall of the now primary school building, but its history was seemingly lost in time.  Underneath the philosopher's intractable visage remains evidence of a sixteen-year-old revolutionary fighting for the honor of his friends who were called degenerate.

 You've probably heard about a lot of Southern chefs; most were from New Orleans, and some were from Savannah, but the biggest innovator among Southern chefs and the one with the longest shadow was Bill Neal.   Neal elevated the status of Southern food that wasn't from Galatoire's or Commander's Palace to the rare air Southern food appreciates today and makes places like Dooky Chase's and Elvie's eligible for consideration for Beard Awards.  (One day, I'll tell you the story of who James Beard was and why he was important.)

Of all the dishes Neal cooked and all the dishes Neal wrote about, none were as famous or as far influencing as Shrimp and Grits.  Like most of Neal's recipes, shrimp and grits find its origins in the Afro-Caribbean influence of the Tidewater region and feature two of the Southland's most famous ingredients, shrimp and grits.

For Southern chefs of a certain generation, Shrimp and Grits is a dish they simply must get right or not offer at all.  Damien Cavicchi, formerly from the Country Club of Jackson and now the much-talked-about new owner of Hal and Mals and Campbell's bakery, is a chef, I'm convinced, will at some point be a Beard nominated chef, if not a Beard award winning chef.  

The menu at Hal and Mals is iconic and delicious, but it's also almost forty years old.  Chef Cavicchi is tasked with the considerable challenge of updating the menu, making it his own, but also keeping the flavors and experiences Hal and Mals is known for.  

One of the dishes he added to the menu, to accomplish these goals, was Shrimp and Grits.  Hal and Mals is famous for Southern staple food, and Shrimp and Grits is a perfect match for that.  It's not an elevated, gold-rimmed plate version of the dish you get at some places, like City Grocery (which is fantastic) but maintains the Hal and Mals blue plate, meat, and three level of cooking, while seriously raising the stakes with the flavor.

Shrimp and grits are three elements that must balance and must be right.  Plump gulf shrimp, which are more difficult to cook correctly than most people realize, creamy and flavorful grits, cheese, and garlic are preferred, and perhaps the most important element, the sauce.  Cheft Cavicchi nails all three, especially the sauce, and he does it with hearty portions that you could easily share with a sweetheart if you wanted to pair with their famous gumbo or seafood bisque.  

If you think you've eaten at Hal and Mal's a million times, and it offers you no new experiences, you're wrong.  There's a new chef in town, and he's bringing it on home while keeping the favorites you've come for, for the last forty years.  

The downtown renaissance is happening, and a vibrant young chef at an established classic location can't help but anchor the effort.  There are several other exciting elements of the new Hal and Mal's menu, but the Shrimp and Grits is my favorite.

Dogwoods and Turkeys

 A faint Mississippi dogwood blooms, hidden among its giant wild neighbors.  It's wild too, but wild in a secret, deceptive sort of way.  The mass of his neighbors creates a world where he can thrive.

A flock of wild turkeys lives in these woods.  They've lived there since before the Englishmen came, before the French, before the Spanish, and even before the Choctaw or the Chickasaw.  These were their woods before a bunch of weirdos from Jackson decided to build a retirement community here.  If you try going to your car at dusk or dawn, they'll remind you these are their woods by chasing you down like a New York street gang.  Don't feel sorry for the bird in your croissant sandwich.  On their own, they're meaner than you and me put together.  

Feist Dog and The Farm Report

An hour and a half before the alarm clock goes off, I'm giving up sleeping through the night for Lent. When I was little, this was the only time I was allowed to sneak into bed with Momma and Daddy. Around five, I'd hear him sit up, then see the cherry orb of his first cigarette move up and down in the dark. He never sat up until the last minute when his radio started.

In the silence, I hear momma breathing and his tobacco burn as he inhales. I'm pretending to be asleep. His alarm clock told the time by rotating a drum and flipping little cards with numbers painted on them. In the silence, I hear them flipping fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, then a bigger flip and Five a.m. Good morning, feist-dog. It's time for the farm report. The cigarette goes out, and daddy gets up to pee. I watch him shave, and momma stirs and makes her way to her bathroom. One of the luxuries of moving from the Northside drive house to the Honeysuckle Lane house was that Momma and Daddy had separate lavatories. Daddy's lavatory was spartan, but Momma changed the wallpaper on hers regularly. Mother had a thing for walls. When Martha moved out of the house, she insisted on texturing the feature wall in her dining area. She didn't do a terrible job, either. I wonder if the new owner kept it.

Being alone in Momma and Daddy's bed meant I could get up and watch TV in the den. Sleeping in didn't become part of my life until adolescent depression started sinking in. Even then, I'd still wake up before Farmer Jim came on the radio, much like I did today, but I might not stay up. Sitting up in my own bed, sneaking my own cigarette in the dark, I'd consider whether or not the day was worth it. My wife hated it. "Go OUTSIDE. You're supposed to go outside." then she'd lay back for a few more precious sleeps.

Where I am now, the nurses change shift in an hour. I hear them gossip as they gather near the door. I'm not the only resident awake, but only a few of us who are awake are aware. The light is on under Dr. Amazing's door. She's probably reading.

She went to the Methodist service in the chapel yesterday. I normally do, but yesterday I went to a poetry reading instead. I met coach Culpepper's wife. We didn't recognize each other at first. It's been forty years. Once she explained who she was, it all came back to me. I remember when they were just dating.

Listening to guys read their poems, who not only let other people read their poetry but manage to get people to print them in books. I write free-verse poetry. Nobody ever reads it. I don't know if I'll keep it that way. This piece is kind of free-verse, but it's more of an exercise I usually describe as cracking open the egg and seeing what's inside. The words slip out of my brain shell onto the skillet and begin to fry. This isn't precision cooking. It's catch-as-catch-can.

If only I could travel in time as easily as my mind does when I write. What would the nine-year-old me say to the fifty-nine-year-old me? Farmer Jim's been dead a while now, but feist-dog is still with me. He's been more loyal than all the women I've loved. Probably too many. I try not to think of the number, but I remember their eyes, every-one. Their hands. Holding hands and looking into a woman's eyes while you talk in a restaurant is a perfectly acceptable thing to do in public, even though the communication through my fingertips into the well of her hand can be absolutely filthy. It's a secret. Feist-dog looks away. "Not this again."

The sky is purple now.  Trees stand out black against it.  I'd like to finish my painting today.  I haven't had the urge for the past three days.  That's annoying.  Soon blues and grays will creep into the sky and cars will begin to move.  

Today, I begin the process of closing one apartment and moving to another.  My beloved Standard Life building is for sale.  I was kind of expecting it.  Covid killed the viaduct end of Capitol Street renaissance dead.   I'm hoping Jerry will open the Mayflower for supper before I go to the Ash Wednesday service.  From what I understand, he doesn't open every day anymore.  I miss his dad.  I miss his cousin Theo.  I miss a growing, optimistic Jackson.  Maybe if I work really hard, I can leave that to the next generation.  The second generation after my generation.  Honestly, that's kind of fucked up.  About half the girls I held hands with in the paragraphs above are grandmothers now.  To me, they're still beautiful.  Their tiny hands still remind me of fairy's wings, but we're old now.  I don't feel old, even though my back hurts and I have to pee about a thousand times a day.  

I thought being old would come with a feeling of confidence, a calm reflection that I am the river's master.  It didn't turn out that way.  I'm as nervous and unsettled now as I was at sixteen.  The river laughs at me and changes its meanders while I sleep when I sleep.   This is my home.  I was made to think I could be its master, but all I can do is throw words at it.  Words, words, words, maybe there's an idea in my scribblings that will ignite a discussion that might change a heart.  Maybe changing a heart here and there as the river flows by is the only way.  I've seen guys trade tens of thousands of acres of real estate and have less impact than a properly placed idea.  

Feist-dog wants me to get up.  The alarm goes off in a moment.  My fingers race to type out the last words before it does.  Good Morning.  It's time for the farm report.