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Our July/August issue will be out this week. Lots to read about this issue.

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Lake livin’

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“Tangled up in Blue”

By Jennifer Whittier

So this happened today…..if you’ve ever watched Christmas Story and the iconic scene of the kid whose tongue stuck to the frozen pole, you will appreciate this dilemma. My two grandsons, Colton and Connor, were jumping on their trampoline. The jumping turned into wrestling; and the wrestling resulted in Colton’s face being shoved into the netting….at which time his braces latched onto the tightly woven mesh like Velcro. Wanting nothing to do with the aftermath, the blame game, and the unpleasant consequences, Connor bailed on his older brother….with Colton screaming DON’T LEAVE ME!

In the meantime, Connor went into his room to play while Colton’s face was trapped by the labyrinth of wires and net. Mom was accustomed to the antics of her two little boys, so the noise was ignored briefly…..until that motherly instinct kicked in, and she sprinted to the trampoline to find Colton trapped, teeth tightly intertwined! Laughter replaced fear and frustration, and the rescue process began. Hoping not to destroy the braces, dexterity was a MUST. Soon the little prisoner was released with minimal damage. Lesson learned; Colton forgave his little brother; Mama went back to cooking supper; and another day awaits another adventure.

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Thank you, Natchez

Jennifer Jackson Whittier

When one reaches her 72nd Birthday, something special needs to happen. I wanted to celebrate; I wanted to include my daughters and granddaughter; and I didn’t want to have to spend hours driving to our destination. The logical choice was Natchez, Mississippi, only an hour’s drive from my hometown of Brookhaven, and a town filled with history, beauty, character, and hospitality. Natchez has undergone some changes of the past few years…..very positive changes; and if you haven’t visited there in a while, you must see it for yourself.

My first order of business was to reserve accommodations that would be comfortable for us to rest and relax; a place close to restaurants and the lovely shops and boutiques that Natchez has to offer. I found the perfect spot….a charming cottage on Canal Street, close to the River, shopping, and my favorite eateries. We arrived and were pleasantly surprised with a welcome basket, laden with wine, gourmet cookies, and fudge from the iconic Darby’s on Main Street.

The cottage was warm and inviting, and the décor and furnishings were not only beautiful, but tasteful and comfortable. This was a very special place, and my birthday weekend was off to an excellent start.

We found ourselves quite content to snuggle up on the sofa and enjoy just being together. Those times are rare; and the conversations varied from reminiscing about my girls’ childhood and beyond, to sharing plans for their futures. It was a mother’s dream, and one of the most special birthday gifts I have ever received! Of course we shopped, took strolls, and ate far too much of the varieties of delicious food, but the most special part of our weekend was our time together.

I have learned many life lessons in my 72 years, but one of the most important ones is to embrace family time. The years pass by so quickly, and there hardly seems to be enough chances to simply stop and relax. The time spent in that little cottage will be one of my fondest memories. Natchez, I thank you for your hospitality, and for providing such a lovely setting for the best birthday I have ever had.

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We have a 50th Anniversary Blog by Jennifer Whittier…. Here are some images with story following

Cheers to Fifty Years

By Jennifer Whittier

Little did I know that when I said, “I do,” fifty years ago, my life would change so drastically, nor that the years would fly by so quickly. We were just kids when we were married in 1971. I was still in college, and Greg had just begun a teaching job in Aberdeen, Mississippi, some forty miles from Starkville and Mississippi State University, where I was also preparing to launch into a teaching career.

We were the typical young married couple, assuming that we knew all the answers, and if we didn’t, love would get us through almost anything. I was just learning to cook, and the pot roast that we splurged on was a disastrous reminder that I had a long way to go. Apparently when one adds a cup or two of water to a roast, the results are meat with the consistency of a catcher’s mitt. Live and learn though; and we became quite accustomed to eating tuna casseroles, canned spaghetti and meatballs, and hot dogs…….the pink kind.

Fast forward to 1980 and the birth of our first child, a beautiful baby girl. We were now living in my hometown, Brookhaven, Mississippi, where we had built a home and a career. Things were taking shape; we were bonding with friends, working hard to make ends meet, and facing the same struggles that other young couples were facing. Apparently we didn’t have all the answers after all, and love sometimes wasn’t the answer to everything, but it certainly helped.

Daughter number two arrived in 1983; there was no such thing as a good night’s sleep, and my work certainly didn’t end when I left the classroom for the day. We made the best of our time, trying to juggle career and family. Day care turned into kindergarten; and kindergarten turned into elementary school, junior high, high school and college. Where were the years going, and why were things moving so fast? The next thing we knew, weddings were being planned, and grandchildren were being born. Suddenly we were empty nesters, caught up in the whirlwind of life.

Why not celebrate it? So we planned a 50th Anniversary trip, one very similar to our honeymoon trip to the Smoky Mountains; this time we chose Georgia and the beautiful Blue Ridge. We selected a modern, yet rustic bungalow, the Beetree, in Cherry Log, Georgia, and what a beauty! The weather was unseason- ably warm, just like back in 1971; but the cabin was outstanding, and the scenery was breathtaking. We enjoyed the towns of Blue Ridge and Ellijay, the shops and the restaurants. This time we were focused on taking a deep breath, enjoying the peace and quiet, and being thankful for the good times, the tough times, and our cherished memories.

And here we are, reflecting on being seventy years old; knowing that we surely didn’t have all the answers to life’s questions when we said our marriage vows all those years ago; but blessed that our love and faith got us through it all.

So, where has the time gone? The minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months turn into years, and those years make up our lives: who we are, what we have become, the lessons we have learned, and the memories we embrace. Here’s to many more!

Sent from my iPhone

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Jennifer Jackson Whittier Road Trips

Road Trips

When we go on a road trip, it’s not an ordinary trip; it’s an adventure! One of the perks of retirement is the opportunity to travel. The trip doesn’t have to be long or extravagant; it doesn’t even have to require a lot of planning. In fact, impromptu trips are often the most enjoyable. Time is precious, and we enjoy making the most of it.

Such was the case on our latest adventure to Owensboro, Kentucky, a city of nearly 60,000 people in the northern part of the state, literally a short drive over the Ohio River bridge from Indiana.

If you know my husband, you know he is a music lover. He has recently become a fan of a cover band whose music is a dead ringer for the band, Chicago. I have to admit that Leonid and Friends, a group of Russian musicians, are incredibly talented and have become quite a popular duplication of the iconic Chicago. When Leonid and Friends scheduled a concert in Owensboro, our road trip plans began, and so did the adventure.

Equipped with state-of-the-art GPS navigation in our vehicle and on our IPhones, we began our journey. Only WE can confuse Mapquest by using our own directional skills and challenging the expert advice of “the voice.” One of us.....and it wasn’t me.....made the suggestion that we should buy an Atlas, just to give us an additional resource. Fighting our “the world is flat” mentality, we decided to put our faith and fate in the hands of our navigational system.

A five hour drive through heavy traffic and road construction can tax the stamina of even the most experienced travelers; so we stopped for the day in Jackson, Tennessee, leaving only a four hour drive for the following day. Refreshed and ready to reach our destination, we set out again, and arrived at our hotel in Owensboro. I’m a bit of a stickler concerning our hotel accomodatiins, so my heart rejoiced when I saw the “Now Open” sign at the entrance of our hotel. New furniture, new carpet, new everything! I also pack for a four day trip as if we are boarding the Mayflower for a journey to the New World. Two luggage carts later, everything is ready to be neatly arranged in our home-away-from-home.

A day of exploring the city, with only a few navigational mishaps, resulted in some great photos, and a drive over the Ohio River bridge into Indiana. The concert is tonight; music of Chicago, skillfully performed by Leonid and Friends, will fill the venue; and another adventure will become a memory. It’s times like these that make life exciting. I hope we never tire of that excitement and the thrill of a little adventure!

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More Than A Best Friend

Jennifer Jackson Whittier

Most of us have had a pet at some point in our lives; and most of us remember even the smallest details. We remember their names, their breeds, their personalities, their little quirks, but the things we find most memorable and endearing are their almost human-like abilities to touch our hearts.

As a child I had a number of pets: a rooster that I raised from an Easter cockerel; a little feist that gave real meaning to the word feisty; a Cocker spaniel that I adored......when he died, I cried for days and swore I could see his shape in the clouds as a message to me that he was in dog heaven; and a parakeet I cleverly named Peety. Peety escaped from his cage when my mama was changing the newspaper lining, and he never returned....cue music from Born Free. As I grew older, my pets became more family pets than belonging to me alone.

When I moved away to college, my roommate Lana and I had an aquarium in our dorm room. We had a few fish bought from a local store, and we named them all and took special care of them. One day after class, we found our favorite gold fish belly up and immobile in the water. Determined to honor his memory, we decided to give him a Viking funeral, so we put him in a small match box and flushed him down the toilet in our dorm. A few minutes later, we heard someone screaming, “It’s alive!” Sure enough, the fish was swimming like a champ in the toilet water, so we scooped him up and put him back in the aquarium where he lived out his other life.

When I married, my husband and I continued to own pets; two Siamese cats named Gandalf and CJ, both with truly unique personalities; a German Shepherd/Doberman mix named Bruno.......he would run and catch frisbees like a pro; two English bulldogs, beautiful, but quite high maintenance; and then there’s Bogey. Where do I begin to describe this little gem? He’s a Cockapoo.... a mixture of Cocker Spaniel and Poodle. We bought him sight unseen from a very highly recommended breeder’s website. We chose him over a dozen other adorable puppies; there was just something about him that endeared him to us.

We brought Bogey home the day after Thanksgiving, and my husband Immediately began to train him to ring a little shopkeeper’s bell he had attached puppy-accessible at the back door, if he needed to go outside. The potty training took a few weeks, but Bogey was a quick learner and mastered the art of bell ringing, much to my husband’s delight (and mine, too!) That little puppy has grown into a three-year-old precious little “person”. He has his own language of barks, and he has trained us well in how to respond to each. He continues to amaze us as he has grown from a high energy pup to a snuggly lap buddy. He is our alarm system, our constant companion, our emotional support, and a member of our family.

Pets have a way of reading our hearts. They often look into our eyes and seem to know exactly what we’re thinking. They greet us when we come home and welcome us with live and enthusiasm. They know us for the person we really are, and they love us anyway. They forgive our faults, and they make us better people. Just look into their eyes, and you will see far more than you expect; you’ll see true love; you’ll often see your best friend.

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Signs of Life

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

Signs of Life

When you feel that little nudge from God to reach out to a friend, never

Ignore it. I believe that these are signs....signals about someone special in your life. Pay attention; you’ll be glad you did.

Such was the case last week when a photo memory appeared on my Facebook page. It was a picture taken many years ago of a lifelong friend

and me at my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary; he had been

our former pastor........I always simply referred to him as Preacher, and that term of endearment had stuck. Preacher had officiated at our wedding; he had baptized my husband, a former Lutheran, and had later ordained him as a Southern Baptist deacon. In short, he had been there for us during the most memorable times in our lives, including the birth of our daughters and those instances when only the advice of a good friend with a hot line straight to God would suffice.

That photo prompted me to search for our old wedding album, a collection of precious memories.......There we were, in our early twenties, full of dreams and determined to live a life full of happily-ever-afters. Preacher was standing over us as we knelt at the altar; he was grinning from ear to ear; I think he knew he was tying a knot that would last a lifetime. One memory led to another, and I spent the afternoon remembering how this Man of God had been with us as friend and counselor throughout most of our lives, well

after he moved to another town and was called to be the pastor at another church. We stayed in touch through emails and phone calls. He had

suffered tragedy in his life, and I liked to think that the bond of our friendship had lifted some of his burdens as he had lifted ours. We would sometimes

visit when he moved to Nashville, never failing to bring our girls with us so they could get to know this special person. He took us on whirlwind tours of the city and the beautiful Opryland Hotel where he was a chaplain; we shared meals and laughed about old times; and he always, always shared his love for the Lord with our family. He prayed the prayer of salvation with our older daughter.

His impact on our lives was immeasurable.

His hair was fiery red, and he had a voice and a laugh that was

unmistakable; his personality lit up any room, and he could preach a

sermon that was the envy of any revival evangelist. He made life better for others and we were definitely blessed by him and his joy in Christ and in life itself.

Those memories prompted me to make a phone call to a number I hadn’t called in far too long. At age 91, his voice was a little weaker, but still

a joy to hear. He recognized both my phone number and my voice, and it was as if the years had been erased, and time and distance didn’t exist. We talked. We laughed. We caught up on the important things. Then we said good-bye.

Last night I was awakened by a phone message informing me that our beloved Preacher had passed away. It’s odd how learning of a death sucks

the breath from your body......how everything stands still, and the silence is deafening. People don’t say “death” much anymore when referring to someone’s dying; they say, “arrived in heaven” or “in the arms of God.” I like that better.

Death sounds so final, so definitive; but death is just the beginning. I recently saw the quote: We don’t HAVE a soul; we ARE a soul; and that soul has a home in heaven. My Preacher is at home in heaven, and I am so

thankful that God allowed me to have one last conversation with him before

he walked through those gates.

Those signs are important; they often afford us an opportunity to reach out to someone for the last time.

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Good Luck for Eugene

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

I began my teaching career in Brookhaven, Mississippi, in 1974 at

Alexander Jr. High. I had two years of experience under my belt, but I was far from being a seasoned educator and had a lot to learn. One thing I knew for sure was that my ninth grade classes would be a challenge; after all, I was only a few years older than they were; and nobody thinks they have it all figured out like adolescents......just ask them.

The personalities of my students ran the gamut; some were quiet and shy; others were outgoing; some were like sponges, ready to soak in all the knowledge they could; others thought they already knew it all. The challenges began immediately. There’s a level of hierarchy that must be established. Who’s going to run this show? Respect is essential, but respect is a tough thing to earn, and it’s a door that swings both ways. I learned early on that these young adults deserved my respect just as much as I deserved theirs. That realization was a daily work in process.

Many of my students struggled academically, but they won my heart, and I was determined to do whatever I could to help them succeed. One such student was Eugene, quiet and timid. He could barely write a complete sentence, and his spelling was built around phonetics.....however a word sounded to him was exactly how he spelled it, often creating a language all his own. Eugene never asked questions and always seemed to appreciate any help I could give him.

He was eager to learn, and his smiling face was a gentle reminder of that. He smiled a smile that was a mirror to his soul, his gentleness, his desire to learn, despite his ever present struggle with obstacles like English, math, science, and history. Before every test, Eugene stopped as he entered my classroom to tell me that he had studied for hours, and that he was sure he was going to make

a 100 on the test. His eyes would widen as he talked to me, and the hope in his voice was almost tangible. Unfortunately, Eugene’s reality fell far short from the perfect paper he envisioned. Usually taking the entire class period to complete his work, he would carefully fold his paper and print very neatly and without fail the words GOOD LUCK FOR EUGENE. I always graded his paper first. His anticipation was obvious, and I was not going to keep him waiting and wondering.

As I read his answers, my heart sank. I knew his smile would fade as soon as he saw the red marks on his paper. I stealthily erased some of his wrong answers and replaced them with the correct ones......not a lot, but enough to give him a passing grade. When the bell rang, and the other students would leave, Eugene timidly walked by my desk to see his test results. A 70, sometimes a 75, and occasionally an 80 would miraculously appear on his paper. His smile lit up the room and touched my heart. Some may have found fault with my creative grading policy......if they had known......but this was my decision to make. Eugene had something that so many students lacked; Eugene had HOPE, and I was not going to be the one to shatter that. He inspired me then, and I have taken that inspiration with me throughout my career as a teacher. I’ve lost touch with Eugene over the years. I don’t know if he ever graduated from high school. I moved on to the next year, the next class, and the next challenge. Believe me, there have been plenty of challenges throughout my years as a teacher; but sometimes the teacher is privileged to become the student; sometimes teachers learn valuable lessons, too. That was my experience with Eugene. His hope never faded, and throughout my own struggles in life.......two battles with cancer, raising two daughters, the deaths of my parents, and even the seemingly routine life as a retired educator, Eugene’s message of hope still guides me, still encourages me, and still inspires me.

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The Scenic Route

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

My recent day trip to St. Francisville, Louisiana, falls under the category of “You can’t get there from here” places. At least you can’t get there easily from my hometown of Brookhaven, Mississippi. There was no interstate highway that led from my home to my destination; instead, my vehicle navigational device allowed me to choose from several options, including a variety of scenic routes through territory totally unfamiliar to this traveler......and so the adventure with my granddaughter begins.

Maddie and I chose the first route option, which proved to be a most unwise decision. As we left familiar territory, we were then guided onto narrow, two lane roads, some practically void of that helpful center yellow line; but we continued undaunted. The scenery was lovely, but the houses were few and far apart. Winding roads, some that haven’t seen pavement in far too many years, and some covered in loose gravel would unfortunately be our route for most of the trip. Actually, that was fine with us; we had little else to do, and we were determined to make it to St. Francisville in time for lunch at The Magnolia Café.

Finally, a major highway appeared, and within a matter of minutes, we were seated in the quaint, colorful dining area of The Magnolia. The special of the day was mesquite grilled chicken, topped with fresh tomatoes, bacon, and creamy pepper jack cheese.....delicious! The café was filled with locals, which definitely confirmed our choice as an excellent one. After a walk around the charming motor court cottages adjacent to the café, we headed for our next destination, The Myrtles Plantation. A mixture of curiosity and a fascination with the haunted history of The Myrtles had prompted our trip in the first place. The long, shaded driveway was typical of the era and seemed to wrap the home in a veil of sadness. The Myrtles has become the destination of curious sightseers and ghost hunters for many years, but with the help of social media, its popularity has expanded. Tours are scheduled daily, and the main house and cottages are available for overnight guests. That option was definitely not in our plans; a guided tour would be sufficient. Our guide had quite a sense of humor, and we enjoyed her personality as much as her knowledge of history. After the forty-five minute tour, she quipped, “If you enjoyed the tour, my name is Debbie; if you didn’t my name is Janet.” We had a lot of things to think and to talk about on our way home. Unfortunately......or fortunately, there were no ghostly encounters or cold drafts to report, but the day had definitely been one to remember. I didn’t have to remind myself how lucky I was that my eleven year old granddaughter found joy in spending time with me. I didn’t mind the winding, twisted roads that led us toour adventure. I found myself occasionally looking at that eleven year old’s face and being thankful that she still enjoyed my company, my corny jokes, my ‘70s music, and the fact that I move a little slower as the years pass. She’s quick to hold my hand and give me unexpected hugs; those things are priceless.

With Mapquest set for the shortest route, we headed back to Brookhaven. This course took us through little towns that dotted both Louisiana and Mississippi; the journey seemed much shorter, but isn’t that always the case when you’re headed Home?

[bluffsandbayous]

The Dentist

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

As a child, nothing struck more fear in my

heart like a trip to the dentist. When I was

growing up, there were no such things as artificial

sweetener, fluoride in toothpaste or water, diet

drinks or fancy rotating toothbrushes. Sugary treats

were part of our daily diets. We knew exactly

how many licks it took to get to the center of

a Tootsie Pop. Colgate and baking soda were our

go-to products for cleaning our pearly whites, but

cavities were common place. I kept a piece of

Double Bubble in my mouth and often used it as

a substitute for brushing. I hated milk, still

do, except now I know there’s actually a name

for that…….lactose intolerance. I’d eat cereal with

a fork; but cheese and ice cream didn’t bother my

digestive system….go figure. My disgust

for milk was blamed for the cavities that plagued

me. My teeth were like chalk, so trips to the

dentist were frequent.

Mama was well aware of my denta-phobia

and tried clever ways to trick me into a drama

free experience. She’d check me out of

school early and tried to act as if she had no

scheme up her sleeve, but I knew better.

As soon as we turned the corner by the post

office, I knew full well that we were headed to

Dr. Tindall’s office. Dr. Jack Tindall had been

our family dentist for years; he was also quite a

well respected community leader and later the

author a comprehensive history of Lincoln

County. He was a veritable Michelangelo of

amalgam crowns and could craft a replacement

for any tooth during a single dental visit. None

of these accomplishments relieved my stress

level; and as soon as the car stopped in front

of his office, I broke into the cold sweats

that accompany anxiety diarrhea. Every joint

in my body locked up, and I envisioned myself

having to be forcibly carried into the waiting

room. I can still smell that small, sterile

chamber…..a mixture of rubbing alcohol and

Novocain. I sat in quiet fear until the nurse

came to escort me to THE CHAIR. It was then

that the prayers began. Please, Sweet Jesus,

don’t let me gag. I had a gag reflex that was

unequaled in all of Lincoln County. Had there

been an Olympic competition for gagging,

I would have indeed been the winner of a

gold medal. Dr. Tindall casually strode into

the room, and the very first words out of his

mouth were JENNIFER, DON’T START THAT

GAGGING TODAY! He and I both knew that

once the mirror on a stick touched the back

of my tongue, all bets were off, and the

gagging would begin.

I was quite familiar with the procedure;

after unclenching my jaws, he would swab my

mouth with something orange flavored on a Q-tip;

then came the Novocain, administered

with a needle and syringe the size of a

turkey baster. The doctor would leave the

room for a few minutes, and when he

returned, I would be numb from my eyebrows

to my collarbone. The drilling would begin

soon, along with the odor of metal on

flint stone. By now, my hands had made

indelible imprints in the chair handles, but

it wasn’t long before the fillings were packed

and polished; the end was in sight, and I had

survived. Dr. Tindall had worked his magic

once again, and I didn’t gag once!

Mama was waiting for me in the car. She

treated me to ice cream at Kern’s Café. I

couldn’t taste or even feel a single bite

of the frozen goodness, and we laughed as

it dripped down my chin. I knew that another

appointment had been scheduled, but that

was a childhood worry for another day.

[bluffsandbayous]

The Window

Jennifer Jackson Whittier

I’ve looked out of the same kitchen window

for almost fifty years. The landscape has

changed over time, but the view is always

familiar and comforting. I’ve watched

my children play as I stood by that window;

I’ve watched as my grandchildren took their

place as the objects of my love and attention

while they played in that same yard.

Seasons changed, and I saw them all. The

sweet gum tree that has weathered more than

its share of storms gracefully wore the cloaks

of each of those seasons; amber, red, and

orange leaves gave way to bare branches,

only to be replaced by soft, green foliage

that provided shade through the hot summer

days. Sometimes a soft blanket of snow graced

my view, and I watched as tiny blades of green

grass appeared. The process repeated year

after year, and I had a front row seat to watch

the transformation. I’ve watched the sun rise

as I cooked breakfast during the morning

rush to get my girls to school and myself to

work. I’ve watched the hummingbirds as they

gathered for their share of nectar from the

back porch flowers. I’ve mourned the loss

of loved ones and cried tears of joy over some

of the happiest moments of my life as I looked

through that familiar window. Thousands

of prayers have been whispered; a million

daydreams pondered, and a myriad of quiet

moments embraced as I looked through

that kitchen window……my view of the world,

my view of life.

[bluffsandbayous]

Fathers

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

The first man I ever loved was my daddy. He was a brick layer, just like his father and was one of the hardest working

men I’ve ever known. He built our house himself. It was small, but to me it was a castle. He left for work every day before

I awoke, and many nights he returned after I’d gone to bed.

He never worked on Sundays because he said that was the Lord’s day. Even when I was a child, I knew he was a hard worker, and he often came home so tired that his shoulders slouched from fatigue. His hands were rough and often calloused from the trowel, bricks, and mortar that were the tools of his trade. There were times when money was tight, especially when rain or winter months were unkind to him

and others who made their living working outside. We lacked for little, but there were times when birthday and

Christmas gifts were simple and and sparse. He never complained about the hard work and always made time to spend with me. The front steps of our home became our special sanctuary where evenings were spent looking at the stars, counting the

lightening bugs, and listening to him whistle his favorite

hymns straight from the Baptist Hymnal. Those evenings

were precious, and the memories of time spent sitting

on those steps will be with me forever. As he grew more and more successful, his family time continued to be a priority. He

was a gentle man, and he never had to raise his voice to discipline me; the look of disappointment in his eyes was enough

to dissuade me from straying too far from the straight and narrow path. Even now, eight years after his passing,

he is still my moral compass. As an aging adult myself,

I credit him with many of the right decisions I have made in my life, every ounce of integrity I possess, and any success with which I have been blessed. I miss him

still, especially as Father’s Day approaches. I held his hand when he took his last breath and thank God that I had

the chance to tell him how proud I was to be his

daughter. When he passed from this world, three

little birds hovered outside the window beside his bed and

flew away one at a time. I have no doubt that they

escorted him into to the arms of the Lord. To those

blessed enough to still have their father, embrace

every moment, pay attention to the life lessons they share, give your own daddy a hug.....and tell him what’s in your heart;

after all tomorrow is not promised to any of us, and you’ll never have another chance.

[bluffsandbayous]

Coming Back to Life

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

When Hurricane Katrina devastated Mississippi’s Gulf Coast in 2005, many wondered if the state would ever be the same. Once again, catastrophic disaster had left the Magnolia State badly battered and bruised. Landmarks had been destroyed, along with homes, businesses, and lives. News

footage surveyed areas ravaged beyond recognition. The area looked more like a war zone than a vacation destination, debris stretching for miles

and homeless families desperate to find cherished bits and pieces of their lives; but a common thread held these communities together.....hope. The determination and strength of Mississippians astounded the nation. Families helped other families, forging a bond that defied failure. Strangers reached out to lend a hand, and lasting friendships

were formed. Days and weeks passed, leaving many without electricity, housing, or clean water, yet these survivors persisted. Their hope

to rebuild gave them the strength to carry on. The people of Mississippi are strong.....strong in their faith in God, and strong in their faith in each other. We have overcome many obstacles, and this one would prove to

be one of the biggest challenges our state had ever faced; however, fierce determination often leads to astonishing success, and such was the case in our beloved state. .

As the years have passed, Mississippi’s stretch of coastline and the outlying areas have undergone an amazing transformation. The highway that stretches the length of our Gulf Coast displays an amazing, almost

unbelievable revitalization of life as it was before Katrina. Beautiful Gulf front homes grace the coastline. Businesses are in full swing. Communities are vibrant and growing. Beaches are

beautifully restored. Our Mississippi Gulf Coast is once again a vacation destination, hosting conventions, concerts, visitors, and families looking for that perfect getaway. Our Mississippi Gulf Coast

is open for business and will welcome you with open arms.

Like the beautiful live oaks that line the streets of our coastal towns have

withstood the storms over so many years, the people of Mississippi have also stood together, surviving the battles nature has brought our

way, and we look forward to a very proud and prosperous future, continuing to buildand grow with deep, strong roots.

[bluffsandbayous]

Watermelon Birthday

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

There are only a couple of my birthday parties that I remember, probably because I’ve only had a few. I’m not into celebrating my birthday with a lot of hoopla, never have been. I’m sure some psychologist would have a field day delving into my reasons for just wanting to be left alone and do what I want to do on MY day. Low self esteem? Hardly. I do in fact think pretty highly of myself, hence the reason for wanting my birthdays to be mine to plan. I’ve even bought myself cakes, the kind of cakes I like, not the ones others choose for me. If I want to stick a candle in a Big Mac, that’s my prerogative! But enough self analysis….I’m beginning to bore even myself.

Back to one of the birthdays that stands out in my memory: January isn’t the best birthday month; I’ve secretly always been a little aggravated with my mother for not holding out for March or April; but alas, January 7 is my big day…..two weeks after Christmas…..just enough of an interval for Christmas gifts to bear a card reading “Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday.” Don’t even pretend that those of you who share my January birth date haven’t experienced this combo gift. But I digress….The winter of 1960 had been unseasonably mild, and during the late summer of that year, we had raked a large mound of pine straw from our yard and piled it by a small pond near our sprawling back yard. It was also a dumping ground for watermelon rinds loaded with seeds. As summer turned into fall and winter, I started to notice watermelon vines, lots of them. Those vines were undaunted by the mild frosts of that winter, and tiny watermelons were forming and thriving. I babied those treasures like they were family, making sure they were snuggly wrapped in a heavy blanket of pine straw. Each day I’d check on them and give the little green zeppelins an occasional thump. In the South there are those trained in thumping melons to test the ripeness ; there may even be a college degree in that area of expertise. My grandmother had taught me how to thump a watermelon to determine its degree of ripeness. Christmas holidays arrived, allowing me plenty of time to obsess over the plump, juicy fruit. I had a plan. No birthday cake for this 10 year old; I was going to celebrate this special occasion with my circle of friends, that consisted mainly of cousins, by serving that red luscious goodness, the miracle watermelon that had been spared by Mother Nature especially for my birthday.

Birthday morning dawned cold and dreary, colder than usual; but all was well with the world. Three watermelons had been harvested and placed on the back porch along with paper plates, plastic forks, and salt shakers. I donned my favorite Christmas present, a brightly colored Swiss style hat with long blonde braids attached, hoping to fulfill my desire to look like Repunzel,but probably strongly resembling a young Viking. I have no earthly idea where my mother found that jewel, but apparently she and Sears and Roebuck had pulled it off. I was anxiously awaiting my guests’ arrival. Looking like I had popped out of a coo coo clock that had just chimed the hour, I paced the floor as I watched for cars to arrive. The gravel on our driveway crunched as my guests arrived…..all 5 of them. I graciously escorted them to the back porch where the melon rested neatly sliced and ready to be devoured. One lone candle poked its head from my special slice. The awkwardly obligatory birthday song was sung. I still remember that first bite….perfection. With juice dripping down my chin, I looked around, trying to capture that moment, that salty, sweet moment that would be framed in my memory as one of the best of my life. Sixty years later, I can still remember it.

No matter how many birthdays have come and gone, they pale in comparison to the January watermelon birthday. I just wish I’d saved that Swiss hat with the yellow braids, if for no other reason than to relive that one memory and savor that slice of winter watermelon.

[bluffsandbayous]

The Graduates

By Jennifer Whittier

It’s that time of year again—graduation time; but like almost everything else, this season of the graduate has expanded far from high school graduation. It seems that celebrations and commencement ceremonies begin with kindergarten, leap over to 6th grade, and culminate at the end of a student’s 12th grade year. For those who wish to continue their education, college graduation awaits them; thousands of college graduates decide for one reason or another to take their education even farther to achieve higher degrees. Decisions to enter graduate school, leading to a myriad of degree completions, have become the norm, much to the chagrin of many a parent’s financial planning expectations. Thankfully, four or more years of college is not the only option for students who have chosen another path. Associate degrees and trade schools open doors to lucrative careers and are essential alternatives for many students. Degrees in medicine, law, education, etc. are grand achievements, but when I need a plumber, carpenter, electrician, or mechanic (just to name a few), I call experts in those fields. All are necessary! I want “the best” when I visit a doctor; I want the lawyer who wins in court; I want my grandchildren to have exceptional teachers. I also want my car to run properly, my home to be safe and well maintained, and my life in general to be as worry-free as possible. For this to be possible, our kindergartners must be encouraged to embrace learning; our adolescents must be allowed to find their bliss and to realize their potential; our high school students must be able to see a future for themselves that will make them happy and to choose a path that will provide a comfortable life for themselves and their families. Graduates at all levels represent success in a variety of shapes and sizes. Graduation is just the beginning. It is the first step of a life journey, filled with challenges, changes, and opportunities to succeed. So let’s celebrate them! Kudos to all who are taking the first steps into their future. Bring on the cake and the balloons…….and watch them soar!

[bluffsandbayous]

​ The Porch Swing

A porch swing is not mandatory in the South, but having one is a pure joy, a simple pleasure, and often a sanctuary from the bustle of the outside world. Life seems to slow down when I perch amongst the soft pillows and strength of the hundred-year-old barn wood from which my swing is constructed, a tangible metaphor for a gentle embrace by powerful, yet loving arms. Dreams happen here; ideas are shaped; problems are resolved; burdens are lifted; and cares drift away. In the stillness of the evening, lightning bugs share their glow, while crickets provide the music, and honeysuckle sweetens the air. A porch swing is a place where grandparents tell their stories, lovers exchange whispers, and memories transform into companions. Solitude is a blessing here in the swing, and peace is imminent. Time is irrelevant, and schedules are unnecessary. If a gentle breeze presents itself, it is a welcomed friend. If birds share their songs and chatter, then the more, the merrier. The stars set the stage, and the moon becomes the lead character at a venue only God could create. This place, this time, this refuge allows me to escape from the chaotic details of life….a weight I may not even realize until I experience the freedom. I feel confident that the problems of the world could be solved if porch swings replaced podiums and thoughtful solitude became a treasure. Jennifer Whittier