#Katrina11 + #laflood = brand new perspective

Biloxi, before and after 

Hurricane Katrina.

Eleven years ago today, Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I grew up.

As tragic as that day, the months and years to follow have been, I didn't think I could feel any more strongly about personal belongings being destroyed than I did in 2005.

I thought, "You know, I'm FROM the coast. I get the sense of loss. I'm as close as you can come to being the one who actually lost everything."

And maybe I was. Maybe. 

Or maybe I didn't realize that while being away and not being able to help in the ways I wanted pained me, just as a picture of a destroyed landscape doesn't show a 360 degree view, nor does not living in it.

Panoramic view from our driveway in Baton Rouge, 

taken this evening.

Maybe I kind of missed out on the fact that driving past debris piles daily wears on you. Seeing others' belongings sitting on their street is saddening in ways you can't describe. And hearing about diggers climbing on debris mounds is both infuriating and heartbreaking at the same time.

And there's no maybe about this one -- I certainly didn't think about the toll a mass displacement takes on hosts and hostesses during this type of crisis. "Yes, please come into my home. I want to make you feel welcome. What can I do to help you?" And then silently, surely, "How long will this last again? They're nice, but...my family needs some normalcy, man." 

Then the guilt. Everyone involved feels the guilt.

Those of us who went through it wonder what we could've done better, how we could've been proactive.

Those of us not present to help want to be there to help, even when there's nothing tangible to do, and maybe even nowhere to stay while we do the nothing that's so important for us to feel like we're doing. (This was 100% me in Katrina while I was three hours' north of my family, by the way.)

Those of us present bend over backwards to help however we can. Laundry? Dishes? A place to hang out? A meal? My home? A ride to work?

It's all over the top, and we are over the top, and our emotional barometers are full before we can ever brush our teeth in the mornings.

Each anniversary of Katrina, I reminisce on my beautiful upbringing and all the places and faces I call "home."

This year is different.

This year I'm empathizing with Nan, and all the times I offered to give her something -- you know, a basic, like a nail file, and she replied with, "Well honey, I used t'have SEVEN of 'em, but now I guess they're FLOATIN' in th' GULF a' MEXICO."

This year I'm thinking about my Mother, and her multiple washings of Nan's and others' clothes to make sure they got that "Katrina smell" out and saved the saveable clothes from ruining. (God BLESS laundry and dish washing angels!)

This year I'm thinking about Pop Ball, who diligently worked at contacting FEMA and filing insurance claims and making repairs like it was his job, and I'm thankful for a husband that is doing the same, on top of his own full-time job, plus spraying the house nightly for mold and sorting through clothes as we organize ourselves in another new place.

This year I'm thinking about the many who hosted families like my own little Maricelli bunch of Baton Rouge in their homes when they were displaced by that storm.

This year I'm thinking of all the power outages, which I am thankful we are not dealing with, and all the nasty heat on the Mississippi Gulf Coast in August '05 and in Baton Rouge in August '16, and how we are all getting so much sun, but not in an ideal way.

This year, on the anniversary of the storm that changed the landscape of my upbringing, I'm thinking about the first 18-wheelers I saw coming into Baton Rouge post-flood, and how they were all from my Mississippi Gulf Coast. And the first of still ongoing Red Cross trucks that delivered meals to my neighborhood, and how they were from my Mississippi Gulf Coast, too.

No, this memory and day aren't all about what we went through in Baton Rouge, but I'm experiencing a different sort of commemoration of Hurricane Katrina, and it's all because of the flood we just experienced and, though we [read: me] are terrified, we have been shown enormous kindnesses.

Mainly, I'm keenly aware that while eleven years ago today Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of where I grew up, and that while two weeks ago a flood changed the landscape of my present life, I am from a resilient people, and a pattern has been set to overcome tragedy. Michael and I will not just survive; we will thrive.

Our perspective may have changed, but our resolve has only strengthened.

Of all the beliefs that remain unchanged, though, there's this: good riddance, Katrina.

Not a Good Rememberer: Katrina+10

I've never had a great memory, but this time of year, my disinterest in the past is purposeful.

In three days, it will be a decade since the most powerful hurricane of my lifetime struck not only America, but also the place I grew up. Landmarks along the entire Mississippi Gulf Coast were demolished. Beautiful homes are now slabs. Sites of childhood memories are gestured to with the opening remark, "Well, that used to be..."

Ten years is a milestone. I get that. Many places have come a long way, and some haven't, and there's a lot to talk about. Also, as sick as it is, people love a tragedy. Why else would some weirdos in New Orleans have profited off Katrina tours in the Lower Ninth post-storm?

Photo credit: Washington Post

Yes, Katrina affected many people and places I love, but I didn't even live on the Mississippi Gulf Coast when the storm hit, so I'm not sure why I'm still such a baby about seeing footage and hearing stories. But I am oddly grateful when I hear that others have similar feelings.

I guess as my cousin so eloquently posted on Twitter, "Just hearing the word Katrina makes me sick."

Exactly.

I visited New York City a few years after 9/11, and still vividly remember the rawness on some residents' faces when someone asked about their experiences around that day.

(No. I'm not even trying to compare Katrina to a deliberate act of terror by a person or group. And I am certainly not insinuating I will ever in any way understand what NYC residents felt that day or in those years to follow.)

But a horrible thing marred and scarred and tore up my beautiful home, and it's painful to relive. Every time. And when I see the concrete slabs that were once foundations of antebellum homes, I want to stand and tell all the people, "This isn't just a vacant lot! Something beautiful was here and an actual disaster ruined it! People aren't being lazy. They had to get back to work!"

I appreciate empathy and sympathy and well wishes for affected areas. I do. And I'll always be proud to tell of my hometown's resiliency and to wear the label of a place that is still valiantly rebounding from a thing so horribly inflicted upon them, and my gratitude for nationwide responders' immediacy to our situation still brings me to tears.

I think that for me, though, the prompted rememberance of Katrina is almost like when someone criticizes another's family, or upbringing, or something else literally so close to one's home. If the person deeply tied to it brings it up, it's safe. If it's CNN or a nosy tourist, ummm... Maybe not so much.

"Angel Tree" on the Mississippi Gulf Coast,
one of the many wood sculptures created from
remaining oaks by artists who donated their time.

There is, however, what I believe is an excellent and even digestible-for-me feature from the Washington Post on the Mississippi Gulf Coast by DeNeen L. Brown, and I hope it gets great exposure.

So....this is admittedly one of those times when I feel like blogging exactly equals journaling, and there is no real conclusion, but as Anna Nalick sang in Breathe, "If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside me, threatening the life it belongs to."

As for Katrina and #katrina10, well, good riddance. The storm may have flattened our landscape, but it made our hearts stronger.

Still, forgive me if I choose not to remember too much.

Wordless Wednesday: There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays.

Wordless Wednesday: Where I come from.

Wordless Wednesday.

Five Things I'm Thankful For This Day.

It's been a while since I've posted five things I'm thankful for, and there's no good reason for it. So here goes:

1. My roots. Not just hair-wise, though I'm proud to be a ginger (shout out!), but my Mississippi, Southern, Gulf Coast, Protestant (specifically Southern Baptist), Moore, Johnson, and deep-woods, country roots. I love each of them, and wouldn't trade any of them for anything in the world.

2. Umbrellas. If you have not experienced the torrential rain that we have in the Baton Rouge, Louisiana area lately, just look us up. You'll see what I mean.

3. Nice people. This seems ridiculously basic, I know. But until you have reason to appreciate the "House Bunny" quote, "Mean people are mean," you won't get it. I hope you don't.

4. Technology.  It feeds my still undiagnosed ADHD. It keeps me entertained. It lets me blog. And it does much more important things, too, like saves lives. What's not to love?

5. Christmas cards.  They're better than bills. They make me smile. They remind me of why I loved going to the mailbox as a kid. That's some good stuff. And I know Christmas is over. But it's still recent enough for me to be grateful for it. :-)

Wordless Wednesday - 12.26.12.

Growing pains.

One of the most impactful teachers I had in school was not very encouraging. I probably didn't hear "good job" or "way to go" too often from Coach O'Neal.

(Before you ask, yes, I was and still am a total dork. Even so, I'm pretty sure this teacher's behavior toward me wasn't just because I was smack in the middle of my awkward phase, which I would, for the record, gradually meander away from around the tender age of 22.)

No, if memory serves correctly, I think it's safe to say none of us at d'Iberville High -- the graceful, angsty, athletic, pretty, troublemakers, awkward, pimply, mischievous, gorgeous, shy, overeager, troublesome or ambivalent -- walked out of that classroom at the end of A Hall with the warm and fuzzies on a regular basis.

Yet, it seems the majority of us ended the semester, year, high school career, and sometimes even the week under Coach O'Neal's tutelage with a great sense of satisfaction of having tackled something much more complex than the when-will-I-EVER-use-this-in-the-real-world Algebra III equations we inevitably, somehow, miraculously overcame.

In Coach O'Neal's class, we tackled an environment where it didn't matter who "ya mama an' 'em" was. It didn't matter if you wore snazzy Girbaud jeans (my cool friends) or highlighter pink smiley face t-shirts (dorky me). It didn't matter if you had beautiful silky smooth hair or had never heard of hair product but desperately needed to (must you ask?).

What did matter in Coach O'Neal's class -- at least what I recall of it -- was the task at hand. If you were in Trig, Trig mattered. Same for all the Algebras and other advanced math classes.

This isn't to say the other excellent teachers we rave about didn't focus on the same things; they totally did. But Coach O'Neal did it in a much different way, and we all knew it.

Coach O'Neal's focus was sans the warm and fuzzies, and when you got him for your math classes, you were well aware that your work was cut out for you.

DHS didn't have only one math teacher, so I wasn't required to ever walk into this man's classroom. Given that, you can imagine my parents' surprise when I requested him for Algebra I just a year or two after he'd wrongfully accused my very sweet sister of cheating on a test. (Those of you who know my sister KNOW. I won't expound too much.) So to make a very long story a little less long, after The Accusation, my kind parents met with him leading to no results, my sister powered through, took the 0 on the test,  and worked like a dog to pull her grade up.

Because of all this, my parents were understandably mortified not long after when their questionably minded younger child chose this man for not just that one inaugural class, but eventually all four years of really unnecessary advanced math classes during high school.

And looking at this in black text on the white screen, I gotta wonder, why in the world would I do that to myself? Or them? Or Kim, for the love of Pete?

But, feeling the emotions that have come from the reason I've typed these words tonight, of course I know why.

I chose to take elective math classes that I didn't need not to raise advanced or bonus or whatever the geek word for Overachiever's GPA was in the 90s, but to prove something to Coach O'Neal...or so I thought at the time. I thought I was showing him that our family was ethical, and not scared of him.

And maybe, just a little bit, in some ways, I was.

But maybe also, I kind of liked tackling his snuff-dipping, deck shoe-wearing, unconventional, non-back-patting teaching style. Because getting those As and Bs on tests and in classes and subjects I really hated and didn't excel at and had to work for felt much better than any end-of-year academic award in areas that came much more naturally to me.

See, when I was growing up, in and out of the classroom, I received encouragement and warmth and receptiveness from almost everyone. I mean, I was no one's little princess by any means, but I was good for the most part. I did my work and did it well. I only smarted off  out loud sometimes; I didn't push the line too much, and when I did, I apologized.

So getting a straightforward, no-nonsense hour of sarcasm laced with, "If you can do this, show me you can do this" each weekday might've been good for my shiny (hello, T-zone!), happy self. I think I might've even grown to like it a little bit.

And one thing's for sure: there's nothing like a good balance of warmth and reality from high school teachers to prepare you for college professors, the work world, "grown-up" relationships and "adult friends" that come with enough drama to make Ryan Seacrest feel like it's his birthday. In fact, I think can see Coach O'Neal rolling his eyes now!

Only....I can't. And I haven't for many years.

Which is why I'm thinking of him tonight, and why I'm working through this whole Dewey Decimal system of memories, blog-style, like I do when I need to sort out this type of thing.

I learned today that this impactful, sloppy-on-the-outside, studious-on-the-inside instructor o' mine has been dying of metastatic colon cancer, and that Hospice has been called in.

From what I've heard through former classmates, he's donating his body to scientific study, and his family and friends will hold a memorial service on the beach. All this is very fitting for the unconventional, shaggy haired teacher who non-verbally challenged my word-loving self to take advanced math classes and my sweet sister to stay in his class and pull up her undeserved failing grade.

In Coach O'Neal's classes, we at DHS learned to power through more than the successive Algebras and Trigonometries.

In Coach O'Neal's class, I think we all learned how to power through growing pains, which for some of us included an unfortunately late discovery of hair products, and for others might've been the buzzkill of peaking at a very young age.

Today, with the news of his declining health, many of Coach O'Neal's students are powering through other growing pains.

We're all adults now, for better or for worse.

Some of us have procreated.

Some are in our ultimate careers.

Others are still discovering that path.

We all can drive and are probably doing this every day, which might make Coach O'Neal shudder if he were to use energy to think about those very special days in the student parking lot.

Far removed from the sacred halls of DHS, we still might not get warm and fuzzies from each of life's "teachers," but we've probably learned how to scope out the ones who will instruct us well, and which ones we should return to for repeat lessons.

Whether or not we resolved the growing pains of if and only if, other complexities of higher-level math, or Coach O'Neal's sarcasm, we're basically all dealing with the same word problems as our peers now, just as we were back in 5th period.

My sister has been teaching since the late 90s, and is stronger in that environment in every way than I could be for one hour. In the past month, I have volunteered for work projects that were out of my realm, but they needed to be done, so I stepped in.

But no matter what we've grown to do and be, I'm confident that all of Coach O'Neal's students have our own stories to tell and be told, and our own challenges, word problems and solutions waiting to be worked out.

And you know what? We're Warriors. We got this.

So here's to you, your ever sockless feet, and those deck shoes, Coach O'Neal. You won't be forgotten. Thanks for all the lessons.

Sail on.

Beside the Still Waters.

I grew up near water.

My parents live about 20 miles inland of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, but even so, water was always accessible to play in and sit by, and was super easy to get to. The beach wasn't too far away, and while it wasn't Jamaica, it was a beach. And then, of course, there were rivers and creeks galore. I was baptized by my Southern Baptist uncle in the creek near my home, and a friend's mom dubbed our senior class "river rats" because of our penchant for hanging out there.

Growing up near water, though, also means growing up near hurricanes. And flooding. And storms. They happen. They're part of it. It doesn't mean they're always fun (in adulthood, that is), but they do happen.

But as much energy and inner and outer turbulence as crashing waves can cause, there is truly nothing quite like still waters. The calmness, peacefulness, and general sound of softly lapping waves bring a feeling that nothing else can quite measure up to.

The more into life I delve, and the more birthdays I have, the more I realize that (much like the "fires" we talk about putting out so often in our work environments) we experience more of the turbulence and hurricanes and watery messes to get ourselves out of than we do the peaceful, easy feelings.

I mean, yes, I'm an anxious person by nature, but good grief. Everyone talks about hectic days, and wasn't it like 20 years ago that the song "Manic Monday" came out? So now, with email and smart phones and life at the speed of 4G light, I'm afraid Manic Mondays have become the norm for everyday...even our weekends.

That said, Psalm 23 has been comforting to this anxiety-ridden redhead lately. God promises to lead us beside still waters. And although the Psalms were written way back when, He doesn't even limit that promise to David's shepherd days (which I'm pretty sure aren't as calm as I envision them, with giants and such).

Lately, I just can't help but have my confidence be reassured that God, when inspiring David to pen the Psalms, did know that one day my own memories of "still waters" would go quite mad, thanks to Hurricane Katrina. And that water would become scary versus soothing for a while for me, and for my entire hometown and the entire Gulf Coast. And that one day, our quest for efficiency combined with our ignorance about safety and neglection to protect His creation might one day come back to bite us -- in this case, with a very nasty oil spill leading to, well, oil spill waters rather than the still waters we so long for.

So Psalm 23 has been very comforting to me, and has gently reminded me that no matter what my environment is, God can take me to a still, calm surrounding that only He can create. And that He can restore my soul, even in the presence of those who could care less about me, and who want to see me fail.

And really, that is the best kind of still water ever.

Hometown Boy or Hometown Team?

The Mississippi Gulf Coast (and maybe even more of the state and region) has a dilemma this weekend.

We've watched our hometown boy, Brett Favre, go from cocky (but talented) high school and college football player to somewhat settled NFL quarterback to more mature, valuistic, family-oriented star football player.

This weekend, Brett Favre's current team, the Minnesota Vikings, are playing our hometown team, the New Orleans Saints, in the NFL playoffs.

Nearly everyone I know from home is a Saints fan. If they're not, they probably just don't like football. Many of us have remained faithful to our Saints, despite years of losses and disappointments. Some are more fair-weather, but everyone would love to see this team with a heart of gold (and a little black) go to the Super Bowl.

I can remember as a little girl, riding home from church with the family listening to the games on WWL (News Radio 87). My poor Daddy might've been outnumbered in gender, but that AM station, then the game on TV once we got home, won out every Sunday afternoon during football season.

I didn't really get into football until the past few years, but have always kept up with the Saints. I've been teased endlessly: "If you're going to be loyal to one team, why THEM?"

My question is: "Why NOT?"

To me, the Saints feel like home just as much as the Gulf of Mexico, and gumbo, and boiled shrimp. My high school and college both had the Saints' black and gold colors, which just worked out nicely. In fact, until I moved to Baton Rouge and got caught up in LSU, purple was just another shade of the rainbow.

When I moved to Jackson, MS after college, I distinctly remember being in the mall one Sunday afternoon and passing a TV that showed the Saints nearing a win. I was so excited that I ran to the nearest pay phone -- remember those? -- and called my Daddy while jumping up and down and screaming, "The Saints are going to the Super Bowl! I knew it! I knew it!"

With the pride and grounded nature of a true Saints fan, my Daddy said, "Ok, Rebekah... But remember, it ain't over till it's over. They've just reached the playoffs."

And he was right, of course... But now, 2010 might be THE YEAR!!!! :-)

So, back to Favre. Most of the people I've talked to and heard from like Brett Favre, and are proud of his successes, but are die-hard Saints fans, and want to see them go all the way. I can imagine even Brett Favre himself, having grown up in Kiln, MS, less than an hour from New Orleans, secretly wants the Saints to go all the way. I mean, it's the SAINTS!

So, we'll see, come Sunday. But for now, the chant continues...

Who dat! Who dat! Who dat say 'dey gonna beat 'dem Saints?! :-)

Aching and thirsty.

I made a very stupid, momentary choice to look away for just a second while driving to work yesterday and totaled my car.

Also, my year-long allergy issues are finally being resolved with the right mix of medication.

Why blog this? Truth is, today has left me very, very sore, and very, very thirsty. I cannot get enough water to drink, and all the ibuprofen in CVS's warehouse isn't cutting this achiness.

But I can't even bring myself to feel bad about that.

Not just because (thank God) no one was seriously injured, but because there is no way soreness from an airbag can compare to what the people who have actually survived Haiti's magnitude-7 earthquake are feeling right now.  And that's just physical. The emotional toll of seeing hundreds of corpses on the streets, not knowing where loved ones are or if they're alive...impossible to imagine.

And yes, I'm thirsty. But I can turn on my faucet (in my heated, clean, safe apartment) and get as much water as I need. Even if I could not do that, I could drive in my car to buy bottled water, or probably find a friend that would help. Reports from Haiti say people are fearful of dying of thirst.

Yesterday, I smelled airbag for the first time. There was powdery residue all around me from whatever's in an airbag, and I wasn't sure where my glasses were at first. But I found my glasses, and the powder didn't stay on me. Many Haitian survivors are stark white with the dusty remains of the buildings that have crumbled around them.

Some of my friends and coworkers have relatives who are sick, or injured, or in some state of unwell. I hate this for them. Bad is bad, no matter how you cut it. But my friend Skye, who is doing her culinary internship on the island of Provos, works with people whose families are in Haiti, just 90 miles away. These coworkers of hers are on Provos to make more money that they can send home to their families. And now, they have no way of contacting their loved ones to see how they are...or even if they still are.

My closest brush with destruction was when Hurricane Katrina devastated the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I grew up. There were a few days when we weren't sure about some family members' homes, and there are still changes in landscape, missing landmarks, and stark differences in how and where people live that are  constant reminders of that life-changing storm.

I didn't live on the coast at the time, though. I was three hours away in Jackson, Mississippi, and it was hard to come by, but I had access to gasoline and water to get to my family within the week.

I'm not sure if that's going to be an option for Haiti.

This situation is obviously weighing on me heavily. There are ways to help, and many of them are detailed on an NPR site that was posted this morning. I know more relief efforts have been enacted since this morning, and there will be tons of ways that we can help from where we are.

I'm saving the best way to help for last: prayer. No matter what the skeptics say, prayer does change things. Aside from the celestial benefits, it strengthens and solidifies the one who's praying, and -- pun intended -- Lord knows we occasionally need it.

Please do what you can. And be grateful for what you have. I know I am.

Case in point: I never thought I'd be saying I'm thankful for a totaled (new to me) car.

What a reality check.

Finding my happy place.

I could've told you this before the article below was even thought about, much less published, but I've found my happy place.  Louisiana is definitely close enough to home to have the look(ish) and feel of the (MS Gulf) Coast, yet in a spot where I can learn and explore newness, which makes my redheaded self full of joy.

However, I guess someone leaked this bit o' news to the press, so now everybody knows:

States ranked from happiest to least cheerful

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

WASHINGTON -- A new study found that people who report more satisfaction with their lives live in states that score well on things like good schools, low crime and short commuting time, perhaps a first objective look at why some states are happier than others.

The state-by-state list, from happiest to least cheery:

1. Louisiana
2. Hawaii
3. Florida
4. Tennessee
5. Arizona
6. South Carolina
7. Mississippi
8. Montana
9. Alabama
10. Maine
11. Wyoming
12. Alaska
13. North Carolina
14. South Dakota
15. Texas
16. Idaho
17. Vermont
18. Arkansas
19. Georgia
20. Utah
21. Oklahoma
22. Delaware
23. Colorado
24. New Mexico
25. North Dakota
26. Minnesota
27. Virginia
28. New Hampshire
29. Wisconsin
30. Oregon
31. Iowa
32. Kansas
33. Nebraska
34. West Virginia
35. Kentucky
36. Washington
37. District of Columbia
38. Missouri
39. Nevada
40. Maryland
41. Pennsylvania
42. Rhode Island
43. Ohio
44. Massachusetts
45. Illinois
46. California
47. New Jersey
48. Indiana
49. Michigan
50. Connecticut
51. New York

Again... No shock to me that my current residence is #1 and my home state is #7 out of 51, but for those of you who didn't know how awesome the deep South is, FYI. And come see us! :-)

On the Nightstand: In The Sanctuary of Outcasts

I recently finished one of the most stellar, well-written, and compelling non-fiction books I've come across in at least two years.

In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, a memoir by Mississippi-born and bred and former Louisiana resident Neil White, is a detailed account of one man's drive for success, his mistakes, and his payment for those errors. Not only is the writing ridiculously captivating and page-turning for any reader, but the entire novel is set in Mississippi (mainly Oxford and the Gulf Coast), and Louisiana (New Orleans, the Baton Rouge area, and Carville).

Ok. I'm going to stop trying to summarize this work myself and just quote the author's own website:

Daddy is going to camp. That’s what I told my children. A child psychologist suggested it. “Words like prison and jail conjure up dangerous images for children,” she explained.



But it wasn’t camp.

Neil White, a journalist and magazine publisher, wanted the best for those he loved—nice cars, beautiful homes, luxurious clothing. He loaned money to family and friends, gave generously to his church, and invested in his community—but his bank account couldn’t keep up. Soon Neil began moving money from one account to another to avoid bouncing checks. His world fell apart when the FBI discovered his scheme and a judge sentenced him to eighteen months in federal prison.

But it was no ordinary prison. The isolated, beautiful colony in Carville, Louisiana was also home to the last people in the continental United States disfigured by leprosy. Hidden away for decades, this small circle of outcasts forged a tenacious, clandestine community, a fortress to repel the cruelty of the outside world. It is here, in a place rich with history, where the Mississippi River briefly runs north, amidst an unlikely mix of leprosy patients, nuns, and criminals, that Neil’s strange and compelling journey begins. He finds a new best friend in Ella Bounds, an eighty-year-old, African-American, double-amputee who had contracted leprosy as a child. She and the other secret people, along with a wacky troop of inmates, help Neil re-discover the value of simplicity, friendship and gratitude.

Funny and poignant, In the Sanctuary of Outcasts is an uplifting memoir that reminds us all what matters most.

I really do highly recommend this read for anyone who likes great writing, interesting non-fiction, sheer honesty, and other people's views of the South.

Also, if any of you hear of a book signing with this guy anywhere in Louisiana or Mississippi, please let me know. I'd really like to meet him.

And finally, thanks a billion to Angela Long, who recommended it to me! Best read in a while, by far.

5th Element.

Five things I've had to be grateful for this week:

1. Inspiration to do and be better. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can....

2. Exposure to the "If God is so great, why am I so pathetic?" sermon series. Much needed.

3. A nephew who counts down days till he can see me. For real?! Preciously sweet.

4. Pre-fall breezes...in AUGUST. God bless.

5. The first-time-ever decision to separate myself from the bad, at least for 24 hours. Very liberating to someone who has marinated in sad memories / guilt / the loss of her Coast way too often these past 4 years.