Crooked Letter Crooked Letter Eye (2024)

I think it goes without saying: I love being a Mississippian.

I love the Magnolias and the relentless summers and the fact that we don’t have any professional sports teams. I love the fact that the only religion we all truly agree on is the New Orleans Saints. I love that William Faulkner has that one quote about us and we put it on everything. I love that Oprah is from there but pretends she’s not.

That’s why my story today is just a big fat love letter to Mississippi. Hope ya like it.

COME SEE US IN ATLANTA at Eddie’s Attic on May 3rd. It’s going to be wonderful.

Crooked Letter Crooked Letter Eye

There is an awful lot of magic kicking up in the dirt atop the landmass between New Orleans and Mobile. Why do you think there are so many tornadoes in Mississippi? It’s basically supernatural. Put your ear to the ground and you’ll hear the spirits of Tennessee Williams and Elvis Presley swirling with their poetry and gyrating hips. That ain’t the ocean, baby. And I’m not talking about voodoo. These are church going, God fearing folks. The kind of magic I’m referring to is the ‘abracadabra’ of my native tongue. I’m talking about a story.

The stories in the pine trees.

The tall tales on that mockingbird’s beak.

Rumors and lore rule the roost from the butt of Tennessee all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. Fishes so big, Ahab would tremble. An ex-wife so mean the Devil applied to work for her. Being so close to going pro, you can’t even bare to watch football on TV no more. We’d do anything to just keep the story going a little bit longer. Because, though we don’t have a major city or any movie that takes place here that doesn’t portray us as the final boss in some divine plot about racism or obesity; what we do have up to our ears is: Time.

That’s why your standard Mississippi Neighbor will be found rocking on a chair on the front porch at all hours of the day. We aren’t work from home; we’re just waiting for you. Come sit by me and tell me something good. I won’t bite you unless you try to steal this beer I’ve been nursing.

“What c’you know good?” I’ll ask.

And you won’t have a clue how to answer.

Unless, of course you, too, are from this sweet patch of grass growing under the magnolia trees. And if that’s the case, you probably didn’t wait for me to ask—you just came up and started talking. But on the off chance you let me talk first, you answered with something like:

“Hell, you know. Just trying to get some work so I can feed these kids I’ve got.”

Which, we both know, is nonsense. If you’re looking for work, why in the world did you come to my porch? I ain’t hiring. But I’d never say that to your face. I’m just glad to see you. Plus, that gives me one more thing I can tell the next guy that sits down when you leave. I’m taking in every word so I can butcher it to the next fella that’ll listen. “You won’t believe how many kids he’s trying to feed these days. Now I’m a Christian so don’t get me judging. But I will say: it’s enough to fill an offensive line. And I’m not talking about peewee, neither. I’m talkin’ Ole Miss.”

Who cares what person is in the picture when the corners are painted in so pretty? Because you know what else we love down here in the land of the Yellow Pines?

Hot Gossip.

It’s the only reason my mom stayed friends with any woman she met at the Booster Club. You think she invited Cheryl over so she could hear about her views on the economy? No, child! It’s because Cheryl’s husband left her for his assistant at the Used Tire shop and she’s been awfully busy since she started reconnecting with boys from her past on The Facebook. Now, do I think my mother would be a shoulder to cry on when the next one stops responding to her text messages and starts texting her younger sister, Tonya instead? I think the odds are pretty good but I pray Cheryl doesn’t have to test the limits of my mother’s loyalty. I’ve seen Cynthia on the business end of a pep talk. She isn’t built for it.

She isn’t built for retaining all the facts, either.

My mom once told me to be “extra sweet” to my cousin Brandon’s new girlfriend coming over to Thanksgiving. Tragically, she was going blind prematurely and she was nervous to meet our family under these strange new health conditions. Was it glaucoma? What did Ray Charles have? When the girl came up to shake my hand, I was in awe of her aim in the darkness and felt she would have made an incredible sharpshooter or even a pilot in another life. How unfair life can be! And then she complimented my outfit; the sharp combination of navy and a slightly different shade of navy. It was the nuance she appreciated. Most people couldn’t pull it off, she said, but I did. Did the compliment mean more or less coming from someone who needs a dog to guide them through a grocery store? When my dad offered her wine, she replied, “Oh, no thank you. I’m driving,” I almost fell out of my chair. She must be paying her tithes because these new miracles are happening!

That’s when Brandon’s little sister Breanne walked in wearing sunglasses.

“Don’t get near me,” she shouted. “I’m sure you’re mom told you, but, I have pink eye.”

My neck spun like an owl towards my mother, who was hiding behind a pot of gumbo texting the rest of my family an update on the situation.

But what is gossip but just another color on the tapestry of a good story? It’s only lying if the story’s no good. And I’m not saying that’ll hold up under scrutiny of the law. But in the people’s court: I swear to tell the truth, maybe not the whole truth, a little bit extra, but just, like, fun bits thrown in for seasoning, so help me God. Your Honor, I object! This story sucks and I’d rather get the chair than keep listening to this guy jabber on and on.

My father was the Judge.

He would have been in the same conversations as William Faulkner or Jim Henson if he ever wrote anything down. He never slowed down enough to even reach for a pencil. He just sprayed his mythical lore to anyone fortunate enough to be in the splash zone. I’ve witnessed enough of his tales in person to verify his nobility in the world of good talk. The man is no liar. Which is why some of his stories were always so miraculous: you really believed them.

“Did I ever tell you about the Russian girl from my high school that could stand up on her own butt crack?”

Of course he did. On my birthday, no less. But he’s not asking me if I’ve heard it: he’s asking can he tell it. Because Erin hasn’t heard it. Scotty’s gasoline was a good audience. He was cranking the engine. As soon as he explained what it meant to stand up on a butt crack and Erin groans like they always do, my dad starts squealing the tires. He may be in our kitchen, but in his heart he’s doing donuts in the parking lot of Walker’s Dairy Bar.

“Now, imagine her in a thong!” he howls.

My first concert may have been Garth Brooks, but the first performer I ever witnessed was Scotty Stricklin. The second he found out someone at the dinner table never heard about the time he had to pull a hammer out of his truck to defend himself from a mugger, that’s really when the thunder rolled. The only thing more entertaining than my dad’s pauses were the faces of everyone at the table hanging on every word. Who needs pyrotechnics when my dad is shouting the ‘f’ word at the dinner table? It was anything but boring.

I think it’s why my town never had anything more than a run-down bowling alley.

We had all the entertainment we needed to enjoy ourselves. There was no market in Laurel, Mississippi back then for laser tag. Just give us a wide enough circle to build an audience for sittin’ a spell. We’ll take turns until we run out of beers or Jeff’s got to go home to let out his pitbull before she starts eating up the couch again.

But the out-of-towner’s don’t see all of that. And how could they? Nobody just sits around and talks anymore. The world is too noisy to see the magic; even when you’re driving right by it. You’ve got to get out of your car and sit with it—take your headphones out and press your ear up against it. It’s not a kind of soul-joy for the modern world—you’ve got to go back if you want to feel it. Mississippi is a land of time traveling. If you want the keys to the machine you have to reach your hand out and ask for it. But just know: the machine can’t go forward. It only goes to a simpler time. And why would we go any other direction? That’s where the magic is.

Sure, to the untrained eye, Mississippi may be just another town to pass through on your way to Texas—with it’s dusty interstates and Dollar Generals. But, there’s always someone pretending that rabbit in the hat was there the whole time. It’s just a little trick; it’s not real magic. The quarter wasn’t behind my ear, you put it there. But, this ain’t Oz. It’s something else.

Show them the way time moves slow on the stoops of old brick houses; an enchanted spot made for soaking in the shade from the Red Maples.

Sing them an incantation on the six string just the way Elvis did it.

Give them a bite of fried chicken from your mother’s secret recipe; with breading so crispy it had to be sorcery.

To some it’s just a line connecting the dots to some other place; a preamble to somewhere better.

But that’s the thing about magic.

You’ve got to want to believe.