remnants

I've been watching the hurricane coverage for days now. I wasn't particularly interested until I found out that it wasn't going to hit New Orleans as much as it was going to hit Biloxi and Gulfport. I haven't been able to stop watching. This morning, without looking, I took a coffee mug down from the shelf that says "Biloxi Beach," where I lived for several years. I remember being fascinated by the history and beauty of Beauvoir; I remember the houses that lined the same street as Beauvoir - the old Southern mansions that are separated from the ocean by nothing more than 4 lanes of traffic. I remember the large pillars, and the house that had a huge palm tree growing right in the middle of the steps to the front door. I remember the playground where I had my first kiss, which was later graced by our initials written with one of those select-a-color pens. I remember my first two boyfriends. I remember all the drills we went through in school - there was a bell system for each one. A hurricane drill, tornado drill, train derailment drill, and I think the 4th was some sort of nuclear annihilation drill. I remember having to go to a hurricane shelter once. I remember preparing for all the tropical storms and even a tornado warning. I remember our neighbors and the other residents who always insisted that hurricanes were not going to be that bad, who never sought shelter, who were determined to remain in their homes. I remember that it never really was that bad. Some broken windows, some strewn debris.

I think about my old house, and the history of Beauvoir, and that palm tree bursting through the stairs of that mansion, and that playground with my initials, and I wonder how much of it is still standing.