Of Ladies in Red and a Wise Old Man

Several years ago on a quickly planned trip to Europe with my wife, we caught a taxi in Amsterdam to take us back to our hotel because the temperature was starting to drop and icy cold rain was beginning to fall.  Being proudly from the southeastern United States, where the fact that driving an American made two and a half-ton SUV is a birthright, the use of a taxi is something generally reserved for infrequent rides to and from airports for vacations and trips for business, or as the responsible choice to take us home after celebratory events at the local watering hole.  And on those rare times when we cannot find a willing victim to pick us up when our freedom ride is in the shop for repairs, begrudgingly we enlist the services of a car for hire to take us to our home or office.  On these rare occasions when we opt for this mode of transportation, we are most often treated to a ride in an older car or mini van that looks like something used as a battering ram in a demolition derby on a Saturday night.  The interiors of these horseless carriages are fabric-upholstered repositories for the contents of coffee cups, traces of assorted petroleum derived products, and God forbid, the remains of biological matter that has uncontrollably found the quickest way out, of its human exporter.

On this September night in the capital city of The Netherlands, after the national soccer team had just successfully advanced in a European championship qualifier, the streets were filled with beer soaked celebrants, dressed in numerous sweaty layers of team colored attire.  Though the colors were not the purple, green and gold, which adorn the drunken masses during carnival season in the French Quarter, any resident of the Crescent City area would liken this to the revelry of a weekend night during Mardi Gras.  We had walked to the central market area of the city from a high-rise hotel, where our room on the eighth floor overlooked Olympic Stadium through its wall-high casement window, with a bird’s-eye view of the field.  Feeling that most familiar sense of emptiness in my stomach that is no stranger to my personal composition, we happened upon a traditional Dutch bakery that was about to close for the night.  In something that could be compared to an impromptu live auction at a charity ball, where small items not receiving a minimum offer are sacrificed to the lowest bidder at the end of the gala; marvelous pastries, succulent breads, and premium sandwiches, with what to Americans would be the finest of imported meats and cheeses, were ceremoniously offered to those fortunate passersby, willing to offer but mere ducats on the guilder to partake of an international feast.

After having a quick bite there on the street and departing with an eco-friendly, rope handled sack, teeming with day-old baked goods for an impending train ride the following morning; we continued to walk about the famous and infamous streets that lined this beautiful city of large tulip gardens and intricate canals.  With the laid-back attitude and the beaming pride of the populous, which embraces their unique culture with the exuberance of full participation, one could not help but think of Amsterdam as a much tidier, more cosmopolitan version of New Orleans.  As I was walking, mouth agape, admiring certain storefront wares through picture windows of nighttime businesses that were signified by the use of a red light above the door, my more attractive and annoyed better half, was repeatedly pushing my chin upward so as to close the hole between my lips and below my nose, and pulling me towards other merchants, whose transactions tended to provide goods whose use was not often followed by a round of antibiotics and a possible lifetime of physical and mental scarring. 

In an effort to stem what could have been a slight but very intense tongue lashing from the lovely Vicki, I hastened to direct our eye-opening stroll toward the district of urban residences whose architecture is the most simplistic form of old-world charm.  Just as one sees from the windows of a luxurious compartment in a Pullman car travelling through the suburban areas of Germany and Switzerland on Eurail, every house is well-ordered, complete with flowering window boxes and some artifact or trait that allows the observer to know that the residence is closer to the age of the birth of our nation than houses that fill the tract plots, speckling the landscape of our relatively young cities.   The edifices of government buildings, museums, and some of the older businesses that share the same geography as these homes, have taken their design cues and similarities from this type of architecture and help to complete a scene that is quite pleasing to see, yet even more rewarding to experience by passing through their doors and regaling the natural elements that encompass the walls, the floors and the intricate detail of their finishes.  Seeing the many unique details and viewing the finest work of supreme artisans in such a volume and in a relatively short span of time, can give one’s already acute hypersensitivity a case of sensory overload and create an urgent need to retreat the surroundings in order to digest and appreciate what they have just experienced.

It was at this point we stepped out into the rapidly changing elements and opted for a cab ride back to our hotel, with its inviting goose down comforter on a heavenly cloud of fine European bedding and American style bath suite.  I hailed the taxi and caught the attention of its modest, yet dapper middle-aged driver.  As he pulled to the curb I could see that the sedan he was piloting was a 300 series Mercedes Benz.  He immediately scurried to the right rear of the car, smiling ever so graciously and opened the door for my wife.  Upon closing the door and in the same fashion as before, he hurriedly retook his place at the wheel and asked where he might be able to take us.  I sputtered the name of our hotel, still drunk from the spirit that was the grandeur of what I had just seen.  With certain purpose, yet the precision of a master, the cab driver pressed down on the accelerator and the car smoothly glided on its way to our chosen location.  When asked why a Mercedes was used as a common livery vehicle, without hesitation and almost as if on cue, he said that he owned this car and like many other cabbies who own their cars in Europe, the Mercedes was chosen because of its quality, its longevity and due to the ready availability of professional service and parts.  He then quickly interjected, as if he knew what I was going to say next, and relayed that he knew that in the US, never would such a car be used as a livery vehicle, other than for limousine service.  He further added that he knew the Benz was considered a luxury car in the States, but due to the way the cars were equipped without the luxury features and with manual transmissions on the European stripped down, livery version, they were much more affordable in Amsterdam, than was the 300 series Mercedes, available in America. 

Quite knowledgeable about the history and politics of his own country, the whole of the European continent, and much of the USA, he smiled when added that the punitive and the regressive import tariffs that we have on foreign automobiles also adds much to the cost in our country, but it also adds to the allure of owning a piece of German craftsmanship. 

We were getting close to our destination and we almost hated to leave the company of such an interesting, witty and learned man.  I could not help but tell him how beautiful and lovely was his country and how hospitable the people were.  I further added how much we appreciated the friendliness of his people and though we have traveled to other beautiful places in Europe such as Lucerne, Naples and Paris, no group of people were as friendly to us as a whole, than were the citizens of The Netherlands.  Thanking me in earnest, regarding my comments to him, but with the same unimposing smile and that same dry wit he had enlisted when making his passive, humorous comment about import tariffs; he turned to us in the back seat as he put the car in park, looked at us directly, and shared one more bit of his Dutch wisdom.  “There are many beautiful cities in Europe and those you named truly are some of the most beautiful.  But if you remember only one thing I have said on our short ride back to your hotel tonight, let this be it:  God made Paris the most beautiful city in the world; but so as not to make the rest of the cities in the world feel jealous, or short changed, he put the French people there to even it out, so people everywhere in the world could always feel good about where they live, no matter where that may be.”

Gayfers, Newberry's or Something from Karmelkorn?

Back when the Edgewater Mall on Beach Boulevard was definitely the “It Place” to shop and eat back in the early years of my life, no matter where we lived, I think all my parent’s cars came with an autopilot option that automatically steered itself toward there; and if Mom was driving, it was at a much more rapid pace than if Dad were at the helm. Whether it was when we lived on Byron Drive in Windsor Park, driving a beige 1971 Pontiac Grand Ville with a big V8 motor and a four barrel carb (Mom’s all time favorite car) or eleven years later, when I learned to drive in a tan Buick Century with a gold vinyl half-top, that was garaged not a mile from our beachfront shopping mecca, our cars seemingly held a reserved spot in each lot at the mall.   I was very young when we started going to the mall and this time period holds some of my earliest and fondest memories. 

Though we would go to many, and I heavily stress the word many, of the stores each visit, I know that Gayfers, Godchaux’s, and Newberry’s were always the mainstay of our expeditions to that wonderful place; whose corridors were lined with huge trees in planters and pale green indoor fountains in the common areas where I was allowed to throw pennies into the water.  The corridor that held these fountains, had immense glass roofs that acted as skylights.  Very close to these sunlit expanses is where the Mall management would set up stages for special events such as concerts, fashion shows, contests or sales displays for many years.  In this area was where I met my very first celebrity, Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer, as he was stumping for pool chemicals.  I remember this distinctly because this is where I had my picture first taken with Santa Claus and the animated Christmas displays; the place where Charles and I had our pictures taken with a “real live,” as we called it, lion cub, and the place where, dressed in homemade Batman & Robin outfits, we held hands with dozens of other kids, as we all walked in a ring around the fountain to be judged in a Halloween costume contest. Even in later years, I remember singing there with Mrs. Ann Miller’s choir from Fernwood Junior High, and if I’m not mistaken, later with The Biloxians Concert Choir, with Beth and Robert Wiles, Kathleen Smith, Lewis Gamble, Nancy Wilson and many more very talented friends and acquaintances.  Even as an adult, I remember when my company got the Hummer franchise and I called Terry Powell, the Mall manager, and signed a contract to display one of those huge beasts in the northern most corridor, but not too far to the north of the food court.  So, as you may see, this 66 acres of hallowed ground on the beach in Biloxi, holds a special place in my heart for countless reasons.

There was not a food court back then, but there were many places one could go and get anything from a full meal to snacks and refreshments to battle the shopping fatigue that often set in the youngest of patrons.  Many times, we would go into Newberry’s first.  Though long gone from the Mall, it was a discount merchandiser that had everything from dollar store items to things found in a stationary store.  It was there that I was introduced to gardening, when Mom purchased “Punch-N-Grow” tomato trays, and we grew cherry tomatoes on our patio.  The thing that Newberry’s immediately brings to my mind though is the memory of their cafeteria.  It was located on the southeastern corner of what is now JC Penney, where Penney’s once had a hair salon.   I don’t remember much about many of the things they served, but as for my chosen menu when eating there, I can speak with professional authority about the homemade macaroni and cheese, often accompanied by a smothered steak with brown gravy and a homemade roll.  The macaroni was made to the specification of those served at a traditional southern dinner.  It was creamy with what I’m sure would have been a heavy cream béchamel sauce and topped with inordinate amounts of perfectly browned sharp cheddar cheese in every serving.  It was generously scooped out and served in a bone white bowl made to hold just the amount a heaping scoop would convey.   If we arrived at Newberry’s after having already eaten, Mother, often accompanied by my grandparents, Meme and Gran, would have coffee and a piece of pie.  As we as southerners often call any carbonated beverage a Coke, older people of that era, referred to “having a piece of pie” as the catchall phrase for eating a dessert.  I wasn’t left out by any means in this ritual; in fact I often had coffee, though mixed with more milk than that superb tasting Arabica bean blend.  And while most kids would have focused on the dessert, I was ever so excited to get my own personal container of half-and-half.  This cream was served in those triangular shaped packages that were sealed tightly on either end.  They had a hole in the side of the package that was protected by a little waxed paper cover, that one peeled back to access the opening of the container.  With the same anticipation as women at a Bourbon Street bachelorette party doing shots, I would grab that little triangle and empty its contents into my mouth in record time.

A few years later when the Mall had a renovation and Gayfer’s added a second floor of shopping space, they also saw fit to add one of my favorite restaurants of all time, The Copper Kettle.  It was on the top floor, directly behind the furniture and kitchen departments, just past the doors of the elevator.  While a majority of the time, it was just Mom, Charles, and me, this was one of the few places Dad would join us for a meal during the day.  Back in those days, men were working during the day and couldn’t meet the family for lunch, or would choose not to go to a restaurant that was not a steak or seafood place.  Even though this was a restaurant inside of a department store, The Copper Kettle was unique in that they had a huge menu that covered the gambit of what most anyone would ever want to eat.  They had real milk shakes and malts, served directly from the stainless steel mixing cup into a special glass, with a red and white striped paper straw; hot fudge sundaes and banana splits, reminiscent of those I had only seen at mom-and-pop ice cream parlors; homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a list of specialty sandwiches ranging from a double-decker club to fresh made tuna salad on rye toast.  I had gotten older and had already acquired a taste for foods that were generally the fare chosen by older teens and adults.  While I did enjoy their huge hamburger with fresh cut French fries, I generally chose their Blue Plate special.  Most times this consisted of a country fried steak smothered in a peppery white cream gravy, meatloaf in red gravy or some other diner type entrée that was always served with homemade mashed potatoes, a vegetable of either green beans or English peas and a garden salad; of which I chose their house made thousand island dressing.  

There were other places we ate in the Mall or procured certain treats while shopping. If we were in the “new part” of the mall, we would have an orange or pineapple smoothie with a hot dog at Orange Julius; Jaime Commander’s family operated the place, I believe.  If we were in the original Mall section, patty melt plates at the Walgreen Drugs Sidewalk Café, directly across from the fountain was always welcomed.  Or we would go to Karmelkorn, a popcorn and confectionary in the corridor between Food Center (later, the Jitney Jungle) and the pet store, owned and operated by the family of John, Candy, and Lacy Middleton.  This is where we would get a dipped cone of soft-serve ice cream or an Icee and one of their giant pretzels.   If we were there on certain Saturday’s at lunch, we would have a pizza or a reuben sandwich from the Swiss Colony Café, whose back kitchen wall backed up to the front corridor of where Bernie’s used to be located.  Ah, who could forget Bernie’s?  Eating at Bernie’s signifies to me, that time in my life when my parents recognized I was leaving my childhood and moving toward manhood, as it were.  Bernie’s was a bar and grill that had fabulous food, but still to my parents with a “tweener” aged son and a kid attending Popp’s Ferry Elementary, Bernie’s was not a place we got to go very often after 5:00 in the evening.  While they were known for and still are known for their steak sandwich, nine times out of ten we all would order a taco salad and Mississippi Mud cake for dessert.  As so many of these great eateries, shops, and stands have come and gone, I find it very special that the first name mentioned by my children when asked where they would like to eat is Bernie’s, in its present location just across the railroad tracks, north of the mall; taco salads for us, steak sandwiches for them, and Mississippi Mud cake for everyone. Dammit, David Bull, you have my mouth watering now. 

I know it seems that many of these great memories of Edgewater Mall surround food, but I am guessing that a treat was a way for Mom to keep us from being hellions while she shopped, and this was our magnificent prize for being good.  I remember all of those distinct flavors and wonderful aromas that permeated the air, not knowing at that time these would be those smells and tastes that acted as cement to concrete these memories of my childhood in my mind.  These random thoughts are solely my interpretation of what going to Edgewater Mall meant to me as a child, as there are many more stories of the great merchants that operated establishments in the mall and built vast amounts of local capital.  Hopefully at some later date, I will have more time to pen the tales of what these special retailers meant to us and how great local talent served the shopping public in ways that have yet to be duplicated.  Where a majority of stores that inhabit malls all over the country today are big chains and worldwide purveyors of goods, Edgewater Mall was quite unique in that nearly all of the stores, even the big anchor Gayfer’s (where we all reverently bow our heads when that great name from our past is mentioned), were either local or regional merchants that allow it in its present form, to continue to be a regional destination and a draw, as it is still one of the largest indoor (to be read, air-conditioned, by fat men everywhere) shopping mall in the region.   

We'll See You About 4:00, for Coffee

Lately, I have been remembering so many experiences from my childhood.  Most of the memories are concerning my preadolescent years, however a few of these bleed over into those later years of my youth.  Just as it is in my house now, if you lived in Edgewater Estates at 325 Eastview Drive, you used humor to deal with any and all of life’s situations.  Though on the exterior, my dad was perceived to be a quiet and reserved, tough man who was all business; the truth about my father is much to the contrary.  He was extremely bright, generous and was one of the most humorous people one would ever encounter.  He had a dry wit, more honed than that of a headlining comedian and with the patience of a big-game hunter; he would drop in a line at the most inopportune time for his quarry, and render the room speechless.  My mother, on the other hand, was inwardly and outwardly a gregarious, sharp-witted person who was always a ball to be around. Back in those years, people went to visit at other people’s homes.  I remember there was no exception to that at our house.  We had a formal living room with the coolest of 70’s décor, which opened right off a modest dining room.  A white sofa, dotted with a few throw pillows in earth tones on each armrest, faced the east where gold draperies hung behind a pair of green and gold striped straight-back chairs that sat on either side of the window.  A round occasional table from Merchiston Hall in Biloxi, decorated with nick-knacks from M&L Gifts in Edgewater Mall, sat between the chairs and was illuminated by a swag lamp that hung from the eight-foot tall ceiling on a gold chain. 

These rooms were mainly used when out of town family or guests came for meals or the holidays.  Sometimes, Mom would entertain there, but that was reserved for occasions like the Garden Club, Junior Auxiliary, or special parties she was asked to host.  Before Dad added on to our house in 1977, there was a small den that opened onto the back patio with a sliding glass door (yuk!) to the west and an eat-in kitchen to the north.  The 70’s theme of earth tones and dark paneling were ever present in this small but homey room.  “Mom’s chair” was an orange clothed wingback recliner, in which I can guarantee my mother never reclined.  “Dad’s chair” was an oversized-for–the-time, trendy brown Naugahyde armchair complete with matching ottoman.  Greens, golds, beiges and orange were present throughout the décor; as pillows, draperies, pictures and carpet were a testament to the style and color palette of the decade.  As Dad was a smoker until December 17, 1984, as were many men and women in the 70’s, ornate ashtrays of either colored glass or heavy brass were resident on each end and coffee table in the room.  This was the room where we spent most of our time as a family and also the room where the close friends would come to be entertained by the linguistic antics of my mom and her friends and the dry witted, deep commentary of my father and the other husbands. 

On most weekdays in the afternoons, people would come to our house for coffee and conversation.  In the early years, most times it was married couples with kids that lived in the neighborhood; Ralph and Marilyn Story, Bobby and Joann O’Barr, Pat and Virginia Thompson or Gerald and Brenda Stewart.   These couples were all about the same age as my parents and though my parents were older when they had children, many of these couples had younger kids that were roughly the same ages as my brother Charles and me.  While all of these people were considered to be in the upper middle class, none of the people in this crowd shared the same profession.  Of these five couples, including my parents, only the husbands worked.  Most of the men either owned businesses or worked for themselves; the only exception was Gerald Stewart.  He was a banking executive, originally from Magee, MS, with Hancock Bank in downtown Gulfport.  Mr. O’barr was an attorney in Biloxi and was a partner in a law firm on Howard Avenue.  Mr. Thompson was a real estate broker and developed many of the neighborhoods in West Biloxi.  Mr. Story and my father were both entrepreneurs who owned a few small businesses and worked just as hard on being doting husbands and fathers.  Not that these other men were not, but in their off time, my father and Mr. Story were always accompanied by their wives and many times in the case of my father, at least one child.  After the addition to our home, Dad closed in the front garage on our house and made a much bigger, much brighter den. 

At about this same time, as some of the original coffee crowd had moved out of the neighborhood or circumstances in family dynamics had changed, new people had moved into the neighborhood and into the menagerie of people who would come to visit.  One of these couples was Ron and Sue Durbin, whose son Todd and I had been friends since attending St. Paul’s kindergarten in Ocean Springs.   Ron, from Ocean Springs, owned Durbin’s TV and appliances in Gulfport.  It was on the north side of Pass Road, about a half-mile from Courthouse Road. Even though Todd was my same age, Ron and Sue, who I had always known as Ms. Carol, were younger than my parents and I remember Dad and Mom both commenting on how young and beautiful Ms. Durbin was.  One of the most entertaining and colorful couples that were neighbors and friends of my parents, were Ed and Betty McCormick.  They had moved in about this time from Texas, as I remember it.  Ed was from Alabama originally and Betty was from California.  I remember Ed being one of the funniest people I had ever met.  He spun hysterical yarns and told tales of his exploits that were the stuff of legends.  He was an entrepreneur, investor and a gambler.  His wife Betty was reminiscent of how you expected women of Hollywood lore to be in real life.  She was always fashionably dressed in the finest of clothes and jewelry and had a very unassuming and sweet demeanor.  She always drove a two-door Cadillac and her children, a daughter Toni and her son Darrin, were much of the focus where Mrs. McCormick spent her time.

The afternoon visits by these magnificent people to my childhood home were routine and Charles and I would often get to hear juicy bits of the grown-up conversation as we skulked about the front of the house.  As we were the products of over protective parents, we grew up during those years because many of the items we gathered from their conversations at the time, which nowadays are considered as commonplace as breathing air, were at that time considered scandalous.  We found out about the orthopedic surgeons wife who came home early and found her husband at home with his nurse; then proceeded to redecorate the headboard and canopy of the bed with an electric chainsaw.  We learned of the family whose father was involved in organized crime and was responsible for tons of pot being brought in to the coast on shrimp boats.  We even found out that two of the most uptight and religious women in our neighborhood, unbeknownst to their husbands, were secretly having an affair with one another and used being Sunday school teachers as a cover for their tryst.  Now all of the conversation wasn’t nearly as tawdry and revealing as this; in fact it was quite tame.  But back in the 1970’s, in a little neighborhood on a golf course off Pass Road in West Biloxi, along with comical stories about these intriguing characters who came to our house and the adventures of their families; the tales of gaming, bootlegging, and other illegal activities that became public headlines in the news of the 1980’s and 1990’s, had been quietly circulating about in conversations over coffee, in a three bedroom house on Monday’s thru Friday’s, at about 4:00 in the afternoon, for years.

A Shameful Confession

I find myself writing this as if I were scribing it freehand in the black, softback leather journal my eldest daughter gave to me as a gift of inspiration.   I treasure this as it was given from the heart and it shows me the love and clear understanding that my daughter has of her father.  But as this will serve as my confession more so than a journalistic piece of my work, the content of this prose flows freely from my mind, directly to the screen of my MacBook, as I don’t feel it pertinent to draw it up by hand and then type it into the computer.  I have meditated on writing about this topic, or affliction, as it will soon come to be known, for several days.  I have contacted several friends of mine in the clergy to help me try to understand why I have allowed this weakness to influence my better judgment and ability to think clearly.  As I am a practitioner of the Christian faith, I believe we are given the choice of free will, but we also have a responsibility to do the right thing.  I believe that we will never reach our full potential unless we have made peace with those things that are not the right choices in our lives.  So without any further fanfare or the fear of shame from those of you who read this, I must declare my transgressions in print; right here, right now, so I may move on to bigger and better things in my life.  It is at this time I must profess my love for another and freely admit she has a tremendous hold on me.

The grip she has on me is so tight; I find that I cannot go to sleep at night without inviting her into my bed for that sweet time that I have grown so accustomed to having on a nightly basis.  The passion is so strong, I find myself reaching for her the first thing in the morning and then again sometimes, even when I break for lunch or go for coffee in the afternoon.  While going for coffee is just an excuse to have her again, I often actually do get coffee, but I take her with me or pick her up on the way there.  I know that my feelings for her are much stronger and more real for me, as she has no feeling for me whatsoever.  To her it is just a physical act of selfish consumption and if it weren’t me, it would be some other poor oaf who has succumbed to his temptation.  Even the scent of her brings me to that happy place in my mind; that place where better judgment looses out to giving into to mortal desires of the flesh.  As I am a rather large man, I am a sucker for a little girth and I appreciate what the essence that is held inside this girth tends to bring.  It was so hard to control myself over the holidays, seeing her festooned in the colorful whites, reds, and greens of the seasonal colors.  Stripes really get my attention and its as if she knows that I’m about to lose my mind when I see them on her. 

My family knows of this affliction and sadly I have drawn my daughters into this, often even smiling when she is around.  My daughters are loving children and have no harsh judgment of me as I have gone down this path.  They even joined us for coffee when they were out of school for the holidays.  Again, confessing the truth, she is very cheap and could be likened to a dime store floosy.  There will probably never be a day that we share a fine meal together, as she would look out of place at any of the better establishments.  But I would rather have her alone and to myself anyway.  The reason I have chosen to disclose this misdeed out loud and at this particular time in my life, is to try and rid her from my being as I am starting a new job next week and do not want to carry any excess baggage or bad habits with me.  My new employer was direct in telling me that they were good people and anything that was not specifically good for us, was considered by them to be explicitly bad for us.  And they will not sit back and let an employee’s bad habits affect their business in any way, shape or form.   So as I try and shake this out of our lives, I ask for you to be supportive of me as I am trying to fix myself, so please do not judge me.  I know that even though I have slipped several times before, I can and will beat her this time.

For the sake of full disclosure and just to sate those of you who are dying to know the name of this incarnate wickedness that has such a hold on me, I will divulge the innocent sounding name that has grown to mean so much to me, while at the same time causing me great harm.  Most of you know her by name and recognize her the minute you see her; her name is Little Debbie and I Nolon Saucier, feel that they never put enough snack cakes in the box.