Last evening, I stood on the slight hill overlooking the Mississippi Sound and the Pass Christian Marina.
The setting sun painted the horizon a light orange as a slight breeze blew the smell of fried seafood across the road. I looked out at the marina, the restaurant and the scarred oak trees. I had stood on this spot soon after Katrina and wondered if the Pass would come back.
It has.
Pass Christian has always been a special place to me.
In 2005, Robert St. John and I did a book signing at Pass Christian Books. This was a couple of weeks before the Katrina throat-punched the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Robert was driving, I was riding and together we drove through neighborhoods full of beautiful homes that were shaded by the huge live oaks. It was one of those beautiful moments that just burned into my memory.
Of course, in a couple of weeks, it WAS a memory.
After the storm, I worked in the area with Camp Coast Care, helping homeowners clean their lots and fix their roofs and then went down several more times as the area began to recover. The following year, I took our young sons to a rebuilt playground. Then I went to a book signing at the phoenix-like Pass Christian Books. Last night I made a quick trip down (over six hours round trip), I went down to speak to the library’s author series, One Book One Pass. To me Pass Christian, like the oak trees lining Highway 90, is a symbol of resilience.
I heard Jesse Winchester’s song “Down Around Biloxi” as I took a couple of pictures.
“Air is filled with vapors from the sea. Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean. He sees creatures from his dream underwater. And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans”
I paused, took another deep breath as I inhaled the smell of fried shrimp. I looked out at the tranquil Sound. Like a sleeping lion, I knew what it was capable of when angered. But tonight it was peaceful. Warm salt air wrapped around my tired shoulders like a warm blanket. One more breath and a look to the West — The sky began to dim as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. It was time to go in and get work.
Author Margaret McMullan and her husband Pat O’Conner rolled up on their bikes. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged — then the three of us headed into a room full of smiling faces for my talk.
Like the warm salt air, the friendship embraced me. I smiled and then got to work.