Two Springs

With water in my veins, whether ponds, streams, creeks or the mighty Mississip, I longed for sandy beaches and welcoming waves. Sometimes, if I were really, really lucky, my Daddy would complete his six day workweek, load the family into our unairconditioned, stick shift car and head south. If we left too late on Saturday night, we might stop at a tourist court. This familiar accommodation has mostly vanished but once it ruled the two lane roads where vehicles rumbled past all night in a harmony so different from my usual farm sounds. Made of concrete blocks and with only the barest of decoration, the small rooms were serviceable, generally cooled by a window unit, and without exception, impeccably clean. I paid little attention to the lack of amenities. I wanted the water and considered this diversion barely tolerable.

Once we reached the coast, I'd sink my toes in white white sand, sample the salty surf, and think about a tan. Often we'd take a boat out to Ship Island for the day. With a collection of beach towns strewn along the highway, there was plenty to explore. However, I have no recollection of wandering the quaint streets of Ocean Springs. Nor could I have known then that this small town would someday contain a very special person, related to me through two separate familial lines.

We found each other the modern way, via the Internet. Picked up on a genealogy message board where she inquired and I responded. Sitting in my own 'Springs' town, I was thrilled that someone had posted a question that I could actually answer. With a simple click of the mouse, I acquired another cousin to add to the lengthening chain.

Typical of her caring nature, she archived that first e-mail. Apparently I signed it, "Your cousin....." Generally these exchanges last a little while. Information is shared, fragments from our collective past traded. I may have dates or names the other person seeks. He or she will offer data which bolsters my own research. It's all perfectly pleasant and generally useful.

Not this time. It becomes personal very quickly. Without saying so, both of us know. Quickly we recognize an invisible and inviolable bond that transcends generations, crosses states, and ignores the years each was unknown to the other. And yet, the words ceased. Stopped. Vanished. It happens.

A few years intercede and one day there's a new message from a choice correspondent. She has an explanation. There was a visitor, a savage one. Named Katrina, but definitely no lady, she took a house and a history but not the unquenchable spirit of my recent cousin. She found me again and this time, it's forever.

We're on our way for a third visit to her cherished town, Ocean Springs. An arty town so different from Natchez and New Orleans, yet born and bounded by water like those sister cities. This is lagniappe because we cousins have recently seen each other in Natchez. Carol and Steve must experience the Gulf Coast and witness its incomparable beauty and resilient residents. The fact that my dear Dottie lives in the region is, well, Foster fate.

Cast adjacent to the shore, the Beau Rivage is phoenix-like, having survived the hurricane and been revitalized with an energy that proclaims it as unvanquished. Gamblers amble the carpeted space, spreading money, sometimes enjoying the largesse of small and large winnings. We know this place from pre-disaster days. It looks the same, only stronger. Rooms are spacious and windows unveil a calm wetness beginning with the tranquil pool and beyond, the majestic Gulf.


Passing over the bridge, we're going to Dottie and Kenny's house. There's a local restaurant we must sample. Bozo's is legendary and attracts working people, families, generations of seafood aficionados. It's a humble place that doubles as a regional grocery. Wander the low stacked shelves and you'll be enticed into buying crawfish batter; Creole rub and its cousin, the Cajun kind; and butter pecan sauce for fish or chicken. Not found on western shelves, these treats make great gifts.

Tucked in to the back corner is a small table. A man sits next to it, pencil in hand. Before him, a stack of white paper bags. To his left is a miniscule kitchen with a tall opening and a broad shelf. The menu is posted above this space. Customers peruse the listing to make their choices or recite personal favorites to the seemingly innocuous man who is actually the order taker. He patiently writes each order on a paper bag and hands it through the window to the kitchen crew. Sandwiches are stuffed in this multi-purpose bag and readied for the person whose name appears on the outside. Fish or shrimp boxes arrive in their own containers. It's all very efficient and not the least bit strange to the regulars.

Kenny buys several plastic bags full of crawfish. He brings them to the high round table where we're assembled. Immediately we notice something unusual. There's a square hole in the middle of the table and a lined trashcan underneath. As shells and inedible parts are removed from crustaceans, the debris is shoved into the waiting space. Ingenious. Soon Carol and Steve have mastered crawfish preparation and the pile is growing. There are moments to stop and savor the sea's delights.


After the crawfish appetizer, oyster and shrimp poboys nearly create culinary swooning. I'm quite content with the bad-for-you box of fried shrimp, hushpuppies and French fries. We later learn the Bozo's occasionally encounters health code problems. Kenny's theory is that once those issues have been addressed, it's the perfect time for a meal. You can bet that everything is in order immediately after the inspectors make a return visit.

The white Tahoe meanders through the streets of Ocean Springs with Kenny providing a Katrina commentary. Henry and I shared this odyssey during a previous visit yet the sorrow remains profound. Carol and Steve ask questions, consider the enormous losses. Later, there's enough time for Shearwater Pottery and as a result, my collection of unique glazed work continues to grow.

Family dining includes absolutely too cute Wes II, nearly one and irrepressible to all. We speak in baby talk and I wonder what I just said to him. Coincidentally, all the ladies are wearing orange. A happy color. A happy moment.


We are family, settled around the table. Crawfish stuffed shrimp tingle the adults while the high chair accommodates sedate mac and cheese for the little man. Everyone is congenial, relaxed. Nobody watching this movie could guess that we haven't been together always. I freeze frame the scene for future succor. Others may be doing the same.

Carol and Steve have adopted the South. Its people, rather,
my people, consider them family. No reservations, fully embraced. Realistically, they must return home to New York. Our own 'Springs' is where we belong and will retreat. Parts of our hearts will stay in Southern waters permanently.