Stay tuned. She’s moving to New York. T-R-O-U-B-L-E

Sunset over Lake Pontchartrain (A really easy word to spell because New Orleans is famous for phonetic pronunciations)

As most of you are aware, things have not been so winter wonderful in the Northeast over the holidays. It’s not because fish have been dying and birds have been falling from the sky (ahem, Arkansas). It’s because nature either hates us all and wants to see us suffer or because someone up there felt like it was important we all spend a little more time with our families this holiday season.

As New York City airports are continually ranked among the worst in the nation (world?), we tend to remember this when making travel arrangements. For instance, we know that sucking it up and getting to the airport in the morning is one’s best bet for leaving on time. We know what’s best to order at Fox Sports Grill in the Delta terminal at LaGuardia (the “Fox Sampler,” duh). We also know that waiting a few days to return on a day that’s off-peak is almost ALWAYS worth it.

Which is exactly what I tried to do this year.

Many of my friends met me with much jubilation in New Orleans (particularly my Creole queen, literary muse and demonic cat owner, Rebecca Thomason; long-time friend and artist, Will Erickson; architect extraordinaire, Corbett Scott; and visiting Dallas event planner, Little Debbie snack cake connoisseur and long time muse, Melanie Lott). So, since my brother recently moved to New Orleans after wrapping filming on the upcoming adaptation of Kathryn Stockett’s best-selling novel The Help, it seemed natural to take a few days to visit down there and let the air traffic clear up here.

I would not consider myself a stranger to New Orleans. We spent a lot of time down there as kids. I distinctly remember my mother placing her hands on either side of my temples as if I were a horse that needed blinders so as to not be distracted/spooked by traffic – and by traffic, I mean Bourbon Street hookers.

Little did I know, as I was swilling martinis back at Galatoire’s in 60 degree weather, it was thunder-snowing over Manhattan. From what I hear, it was like some John-Lithgow-Crazy-Monster-On-The-Airplane-Wing crazy business.

But no, I continued to eat drink and be merry; lunching on oyster and bacon sandwiches at Cochon, getting my palm read in the Quarter and playing in Studio Amanda Talley. That is, until my flight was canceled.

Meanwhile, poor Brooks had been visiting his brother in St. Louis. When his flight was canceled, he was left in snowy, suburban St. Louis, alone for five days with no one around.

After my flight was canceled, I was able to book another flight departing a few days later but not before being invited to dinner with friends Michael Harold and Quinn Peeper at their magnificent home.

It would be hard to reduce New Orleans to simply one post. However, I can safely say my five days there last week went by far too quickly. Thank goodness Jet Blue flies there directly so I can make another visit soon (perhaps looking further in advance to avoid inclement weather).

A few other highlights:

A New Orleans institution

Shutting down the restaurant decked for the season. We even ran into Mrs. Stockett herself while there. The South truly is a small world.

While known primarily for her whimsical swirling paintings, Miss Amanda Stone Talley is also quite versed in the art of creating "party panties." Above is the pair she gave me when I arrived.

While note consuming alcohol or food, I attempted to consume some culture. These gigantic glass Mardi Gras beads hang in the sculpture garden at the New Orleans Museum of Art.

A last minute grab in the airport. Not a tourist. I swear.

Welcome home.

After a short flight from New Orleans to Tampa (Tampa! Of course!) to Philadelphia and two train rides through Philadelphia onward to Penn Station, I was greeted by no taxis and a splash of street sludge that narrowly missed my face.

Concrete jungle where dreams are made! Indeed!

PS – Goodness, I know I left a lot of mentions off in this brief entry. Feel free to punish me in the comments. I could do a whole “Travel Guide” and “People to Meet” entry off of this trip.

I know. Right?

So, the way I feel about that statement is similar to the way I feel when I ask someone “What are you reading?” and they don’t have an answer. I mean, I’m not trying to be smug here. I used to hate to read. But isn’t reading one of those inevitable activities you take up as you get older? You know? Like, crossword puzzles? Squeezing vegetables in Whole Foods to determine ripeness? Pretending to have a discerning palette when the sommelier pours you a taste of wine, when in reality you’d drink battery acid if it got you tanked?

Yeah, so now I love to read. Here’s what’s on my nightstand. I try to focus on just one book but, it never fails, I’m always toggling between four or five books at once in their various formats. Also, suggestions are welcome for what to read next. My amazon wish list is nothing but coffee table books (Go figure).

1. Dead End Gene Pool by Wendy Burden

Man, rich people are just really screwed up. I don’t mean people with money. I mean, the people you can actually call rich without sounding like you think anyone who can afford a new Z71 with leather seats is “rich.” Burden is an heir to the Vanderbilt fortune and had one of the most entertaining and often hard to believe childhoods bouncing around her grandparents’ (Momsie and Popsie’s) various properties. I listened to it on tape in the car but I highly recommend reading if you need to feel better about any dysfunction in your life.

2. Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modern Bestiary by David Sedaris

It’s not news I’m a Sedaris fan. This latest by the author explores the idiosyncratic nature of humans…by casting them as furry woodland creatures! Admittedly, I just purchased this but I’ve sneaked a chapter or two. It’s got adorable illustrations and it’s the same voice of Sedaris, just spoken by animals.

3. The Beautiful Fall: Fashion, Genius, and Glorious Excess in 1970s Paris by Alicia Drake

I mean, did you read the title? What could possibly suck about this book? I was told long ago that I needed to read this but have been putting it off. So, when it was my turn to choose the book for my book club (more on that later – my nonfiction class is now a book club), I went for it. First we read The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi. It was about serial killer who roamed the hills of Florence and the quest to discover his real identity. Heavy stuff. Leave it to me to force everyone to read about YSL, Lagerfeld and coke-fueled fashion parties in a time when no one knew any better.

4. True Prep: It’s a Whole New Old World by Lisa Birnbach and Chip Kidd

Years ago, my friend Catherine Coker gave me a copy of The Official Preppy Handbook. I loved it so much I was excited when one of the original authors set out to create this, the sequel (Anyone notice a theme of vapidness in my “scholarly pursuits” yet? Geez. I hope I’m not embarrassing myself). Anyway, this is much less a read and more a reference. It’s a farcical look at the world today of people who consider themselves “preppy.” Highly entertaining and highly evolved – well, for a book with more pictures than words.

5. The Real Housewives of DC Recaps by Richard Lawson

Gawker.com is easily one of my favorite websites. It’s sort of like Saturday Night Live. When the cast is good, it’s really good. Richard Lawson regularly writes these very, very long recaps of this terrible, terrible show. I don’t watch the show but I don’t smite its existence because then we wouldn’t have these updates. He’s the kind of writer whose work I read and suddenly get very jealous that someone is so imaginative. Seriously, I know it’s not a “book” but you must read them. It’s imperative.

I don’t know what I’d do without my friends to inspire me. I know it’s been a while (God, am I always saying this?) but it’s time to break the silence. So, here’s the latest from the City (and the Country) with a bit of a twist.

I shall preface with homage to my past. I always wanted to be an architect – that is, until I was actually standing in the architecture studio my Freshman year and was scared senseless. I don’t know why, though. Looking back, I probably should have just done it, but I was all afraid my “social life” would suffer. Plus I’m completely indecisive (It just took me 30 minutes to order lunch). And, well, what 17 year old has a clue what they want to do with their life?

Anyway, the point is I spent a lot of my life building. My dad, ever the handyman, loved to build anything. It wasn’t unusual to wake up on a Saturday and have him say, “Let’s build a waterslide.”

The waterslide project, I must admit, was one of my favorites. I don’t think my mother loved it as much as we did, though. Aside from being an eyesore, Lex nearly killed himself on it.

The way we built it was quite genius, actually. Our home sat on a slope. We had a wooden deck that ran the length of the back of our house. So, one side was only a few steps off of the ground. The other was a good ten feet off of the ground. So, from the top railing on that deck, we build a slide. It consisted of a frame of 2x4s wide and long enough to accommodate three lengths of pressed plywood. in the middle of the plywood, we created a bowed effect by nailing the plywood to the frame. Then we covered the plywood in very slippery irrigation plastic. The “pool” below consisted of another frame of 2x4s lined with a cotton tarp to create a 3 foot deep, 8 foot long wading pool. In fear of one of the nails inching it’s way up to slash a sliding child, we brought out boogie boards we kept in the attic down and road them down the slide and glided across the pool.

I promise you cannot even imagine how “trailer park” this looked, hence my mother’s demand of the eventual demise of the structure. It was fun while it lasted.

I can rattle off several projects like this: the four drum Tom Sawyer raft for traveling up and down the bayou, our cedar shake playhouse, the treehouse with the wooden pallet elevator.

As time passed, I became quite resourceful myself. Some projects were selfish:

“Daaaaaad, I don’t understand whey we can’t build a red clay tennis court in the Poindexter’s yard. We can build it and share it.”

Some were impressively civic-minded. For instance, our neighbor, Bill Lang, was the mayor of Inverness. It wasn’t unusual for me to stop by, unannounced, to chat with his wife Cornelia about my ideas:

“So, Ne Ne, I was thinking, in that vacant lot by the church, we should do something everyone in the neighborhood would like. [removing a sheet of loose leaf notebook paper] I propose we build a roller-skating rink. The details are all here. We’d have to make sure it’s the smooth carport concrete though, for safety reasons.” Fortunately, my dreams were never dashed. Instead, she’d smile and say, “Wardoo, I’ll talk to Bill about it tonight when he gets home.”

Admittedly, since moving to New York, I’ve done very little craft work/home improvement. I painted a bathroom and hung some photography. Okay, fine. I paid someone to paint a bathroom. But the color I picked out.

So, I am excited to say that this is all changing. Brooks and I have purchased a house, a weekend/summer retreat near the water on eastern Long Island. It’s modest but just the right size for us. It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath saltbox contemporary. It also features a luxurious above-ground hot tub! Which brings me to the visual part of this post. We have had the honor of meeting the previous owners, a well-intentioned couple with…. well… different tastes than ours. (I don’t know why I’m being nice. I don’t even know their names. That shit is T-A-C-K-Y).

Anyway, we’re slowly adding things to the house, filling it with furniture and making some structural improvements. We’ve found the things we each like doing. I draw inspiration from my summer pool cleaning business from 1995 and take pride in cleaning the filters and adding chemicals. Brooks has nearly lost several digits with gardening sheers. Additionally, he’s bought the largest legal bird feeder allowed in Suffolk County, NY. He monitors it closely and when a squirrel tries to steal the food, he runs after it with whatever item he can find while clapping and loudly yelling “HEY! TS TS TSTTSTSTST!” This action can be so abrupt, I’m afraid our neighbors might think he has Tourette’s or Autism. But, I digress. Where was I?

Oh, tacky! Yes. Yes.

Special thanks to my boy Carlos for holding this up. We tried to give it to him but he wasn't interested.

So, when the house went on the market, the realtor essentially mandated the owners replace the front door. After it was installed the realtor returned to find this door. Face to palm. He never was actually able to tell them though. When we bough the house, we knew the door has to go. Our solution:

We can't talk about the fact that the fixture is for the wrong side and the lever must turn upward to open. It's too upsetting.

It’s a simple, single pane, modern, clean door. Victory! On to the fireplace:

I almost ripped those glass doors down when we closed.

This faux terra cotta situation needed to be remedied. FAST. The problem with this room is that it’s vast and two floors tall. This little fireplace is literally a hole in the wall. So, I got to sketchin’….

So much better.

And VOILA! Built-ins to hide cords and stuff, tall enough to minimize the space while narrowing the focus on a grey slate hearth. Note: It’s kind of a mess and still a work in progress but the difference is night and day. I should also give credit to Richard, our Kiwi contractor for helping my feeble sketch come to life.

I’m thrilled to have a yard again and, well, space in general. I think my father would be proud. I’ve already installed our mailbox. It’s crooked. But, hey, I’ve been out of commission for a while. I’m actually itching to get in the car for a long weekend in the house. I’m not sure what task I’ll take on this weekend.

Let’s just say, it’s not entirely out of the question I dig up some old plans for a homemade waterslide.

I went searching for information and inspiration this afternoon. I didn’t realize my chat application was opened and, wham, there went an hour. I’d like to think it’s not for naught though. My mollusk loving, internet-sweepstakes-entering friend and former colleague, Makena Cahill, has some things she needed to say:

Makena: Have you seen this video?

Me: I’m obsessed with this video.
Makena: It’s pretty amazing.
Makena: Are you devastated that we didn’t win the Marc Jacobs bags in that Twitter contest?
Me: Totally. I mean honestly, do I love free stuff so much that I would carry around a purse? Made by a man who owns a Birkin in every color?
Makena: Maybe?
Makena: I sure as hell want a Stam bag
Makena: I wouldn’t care if it said, “I won this for free on Twitter” on the side.
Me: That actually would be so ironically chic.
Me: Kind of like that graffiti bag he designed for Louis Vuitton.
Makena: Exactly!
Makena: I should suggest it.
Me: I am not a plastic bag? Please, “I won this luxury shit FREE on twitter, bitch.”
Makena: HAHA
Makena: Are you going to any exciting Fashion’s Night Out stuff?
Makena: I’m perusing the calendar of events.
Makena: I’m excited and a little bit scared that they’re all in my hood.
Me: Yeah, I’ll be around. I’ll probably go to Bergdorfs.
Makena: Yeah I figured you’d go to the big Bergdorf’s thing, naturally.
Makena: My one fashion friend is out of town.
Makena: I’m like, am I going to go to this stuff if I have to wait in line with the plebes?
Me: They’re not just plebes. They’re legit insane, rabid people who live and die for fashion.
Makena: Right.
Makena: Who won’t eat for 6 months so they can have Chanel.
Me: Yeah – and who worship Tavi. Who is 13.
Makena: Wait, what’s a Tavi?
Me: Hang on…
Makena: I’m scared.
Me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tavi_Gevinson
Me: I mean, is fashion blogging so fickle a 13 year-old can become an influencer? At least in order to be a copywriter you need to have completed school to the point where you can competently use a semicolon.
Makena: Wait.
Makeana: I need to absorb this more.
Makena: I’m totally uncomfortable with a 13 year old writing the word “kinderwhore.”
Makena: It makes me feel dirty just reading it.
Makena: You shouldn’t know what that means at 13.
Me: I don’t know what that means and I’m 28. Anyway, she sits front row at fashion shows.
Makena: She’s also a terrible dresser.
Makena: She just looks like a homeless person.
ME: Since I have actually laughed out loud in this conversation, I feel the need to put it on the record. Do you mind appearing on the blog?
Makena: Not in the least.
Makena: For the sake of fashion…
Makena: I’m willing to lift the veil
Makena: Like take this for example:
Makena: http://www.flickr.com/photos/28552145@N05/4723659186/
Makena: Kids got beat up for wearing shit like that when I was in middle school.
Me: People who wore that kind of thing were home schooled and thusly not properly socialized. Then, they went to MIT.
Makena: Now they own the companies we work for.
Me: But they don’t have “fun, creative” lives where they get to stand in line to see the Olsens make cosmos at a luxury event.
Makena: I thought the Olsens were judging karaoke that night?
Makena: Because frankly I have a version of “Me and Bobby McGee” that I’m pretty sure Mary Kate would flip for.
Me: I want to do Stephanie Tanner’s “Motown Philly” and see if they become tearfully nostalgic.
Makena: Haha – no because clearly they had their memories from the early 90s Eternal-Sunshine-of-the-Spotless-Mind’ed [translation: erased]
Makena: …to block out all of those bad movies they did with burgeoning  teen heartthrobs.
Me: “To Grandmother’s House We Go” was great, though.
Makena: I liked the one where they went to the bahamas.
Makena: I think it was called “Romance on a Waterslide.”
Makena: semicolon
Makena: ..”how to trick a guy into liking you by pretending you’re the same person as your twin,” or other some such tomfoolery.
Me: Speaking of, remember “My Father the Hero?” How good was Gerard Depardieu on that piano? And although I feel strongly against Katherine Heigl, she did a pretty good job too.
Makena: I can’t say I’m familiar with that work.
Makena: …beyond the fact that I’m amenable to anything starring Gerard Depardieu.
Me: Oh, Makena – this is punishable. How could you, a pop culture consuming, side-pony wearing, Boys 2 Men loving child of the 90s NOT have seen this movie? Ask Barrie.
Makena: She’s also clueless.
Me: You’re KILLING me:
Makena: Heigl looks great in her youth!
Me: They’re staying at an inclusive resort and everyone thinks she’s his lover so they’re all mean to him. The part where he gets up and sings “Thank Heavens for Little Girls” on the piano in the resort’s dining room still gets a hearty chortle from me. However, you must realize you’re taking cinematic advice from someone who, to this day, can quote “Clueless” flawlessly from any part of the movie you choose.
Makena: Which is one of the many reasons I like you.
Me: My mom is so not going to think this post is funny.

Makena: There goes 20% of your readership. Zing!

To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.

-William Faulkner

My gracious hosts for the weekend, Liz and Hall Edwards, are renovating their new home. This was the light switch in my bedroom from the previous owner. Liz says she's having a really hard time parting with it. It's pretty obvious why.

People from Mississippi love this quote. It’s one of those truths (?) that despite the negative things we can say about our state, makes us appear endlessly enigmatic, other-worldly, not totally understood and just really f’ing special.

I also find that that quote really annoys other people – particularly other Southerners. Whatever, guys. Our state is fat and highly illiterate. At least give us some literary cred. We’ve earned it.

So, I’ve recently returned from Oxford, Mississippi where I attended one of my oldest and dearest friend’s wedding. Aside from discovering this cat. I found a lot of good food, caught up with friends I miss dearly, and drank and ate way too much.

I made it back to New York alive – barely – but here’s a brief account of how it went down.

When I got in on Friday afternoon, dinner was all planned thanks to my friend Ferriday Mansel McClatchy, with whom I have spent more time at countless debutante balls throughout the South than, I think, we’ve spent in actual everyday life – whether we were in those balls or not. As an ex-New Yorker and Vanity Fair alum, she’s since moved home to launch Fete et Cie, an event planning business. She’s no stranger to enjoying a party; and having recently finished up a Masters in Southern Studies at Ole Miss, I’d trust her any time for an authentically Southern and thoughtfully extraordinary get together.

Which in this case was dinner.

She didn’t disappoint by gathering up great friends and merriment, arriving in a chic jacquard get-up by up and coming Southern designers, Hunter Dixon. What can I say? The girl hasn’t lost her touch.

After dinner, I met up with the wedding party and my brother also took some time off from working on the set of “the Help” to come hang out with his big brother for the weekend.

We darkened the door of our old watering hole, “the Library.” It’s exactly as I remember from college. I ran into exactly the people I expected to see. And like clock-work, someone in my group fell down – not a floor you want to land on. I didn’t actually go to Ole Miss but I was there enough for some people to think I did.

Fun fact: “The Library” used to appear as “The Library” on credit card statements. Many parents never figured out why their kids were spending so much money at the school library.

Waking up Saturday, everyone was busy prepping for the wedding. Since I wasn’t actually in this wedding, I enlisted the help of my own private photographer and Oxford Visitor’s Bureau Extraordinaire, Mary Allyn Roulhac, and, um, Ellen to take me on an adventure. We packed up numerous bottles of water and empty milk bottles and set off to explore the environs – namely Brown Family Dairy and Faulkner’s home: Rowan Oak.

Before diving into the slideshow, it’s worth noting I wasn’t the first from New York to find my way to this unique dairy. The NY Times wrote an amazing article a few months ago heralding the success of the farm and dairy while, again, celebrating a rich literary heritage. (They also wrote a supremely satisfying pun-tastic headline – one which I find magical).

So, come along and see what Ellen, Mary Allyn and I got into…

That night, we danced into the wee hours. There really is nothing like a Southern wedding.

Morning came way too soon. Fortunately for me and anyone who visits Oxford, Chef John Currence exists. I was dying to eat at City Grocery on Friday night but they were closed for some reason. Instead, I got to experience Big Bad Breakfast. Woo-Lord – any place that has more than four types of gravies to choose from has my heart forever. It was so amazing that, upon completion of my anything-but-ordinary cheese grits and sausage, my friend Erica persuaded me to purchase a t-shirt that features a stick of butter on the front with a message that reads “Lard have mercy.”

Indeed. I wear that one to the gym.

On Sunday, I narrowly caught my flight from MEM > LGA and was safe in my apartment by that afternoon. But, I certainly want to thank Kati for giving me a reason to reacquaint myself with such an amazing town.

It’s been far too long.

As I prepare to head down to Yoknapatawpha County Oxford next weekend for a wedding, I think I’ll need to make a stop at Rowan Oak for a tromp around the grounds to stir up some much-needed inspiration.

Mammy Callie? Is that you calling my name? Lawdamercy.

State friends, we can all be adults here. Please don’t hold it against me if I do a post on Oxford before I get around to Starkville. Just saying.  Go Dogs.

I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’m not totally sure (yet) that I’d do it all over again.

However, along my journey, I can say the nonfiction class I took at NYU was a highlight. Out of it came not only great friends but great instruction and deadlines which forced me to be more prolific than my self-discipline typically forces me to be.

So, what in the hell have I been working on? Well, here’s a sneak peak at one of the short stories I am working on. It’s only an excerpt but I decided it may behoove me to give readers a taste of what I’m doing.

WARNING: It’s actual WRITING so there are no pictures. It may take you a while. Fix yourself a drink. Sit. Relax. Enjoy.

“Hot is an understatement. I might have moved up North now but I’ll never forget how we coordinated our efforts to lower the bus windows so each of us could catch a breeze in the stagnant Delta air. It was near the end of our Junior year, when the homework began to dry up and a few final exams stood in between us and our summer plans. Being the studious type, I was already set for exemption from all of my tests due to my high semester averages. So I had little to worry about on this late spring day when my class at Indianola Academy, set off for a tour of our local maximum security prison.

Back then, what I knew about this particular prison was that it was a menacing structure we had to pass if we were taking the back way to Memphis. I never thought that much about it. However, I knew it wasn’t a place anyone on that bus ever thought they’d end up, let alone myself.

By the time I was in high school, I had been to numerous zoos; exhibits on Napoleon, the Titanic, and the Palaces of St. Petersburg; Civil War battlegrounds; mansions in Natchez; even once to the Frito Lay factory in Jackson where we got to sample corn chips from the conveyor belt. With a track record like that, why wouldn’t I love field trips?

This would all change in Parchman, Mississippi.

Located approximately 40 miles north of our school was the Mississippi State Penitentiary in the town of Parchman. “Parchman Farm,” as it was historically called, consisted of 20,000 acres of land which were further broken down into fifteen work camps. This model mimicked pre-Civil War plantation work camps and because it was a prison and not exactly a democracy, this model remained intact even 100 years after the War was over. Not until the 1970s were the black and white inmates integrated and the work camp models disintegrated. This came about after four inmates sued and won in the federal court case Gates v. Collier. The inmates claimed that even in prison being chained to one another and forced to pick cotton for 18 hours each day was a violation of their civil rights.

Needless to say, Parchman was not a friendly place. Tales abounded of what happened there. There were horrible accounts from within its gates – beatings and electric chairs and a gas chamber. Since it was an actual closed-off place full of people convicted of gruesome unspeakable crimes, one couldn’t be sure what was actually true. There were no reporters there to state the facts. Maggie Wade from WLBT in Jackson wasn’t there to say, “T-Bone Thomas claimed he did not indeed shank Mr. Hambone Bennett in the shower in a futile attempt to steal his prison bitch. Mr. Bennett and his bitch were unavailable for comment.”

I guess this is the problem with any prison. While one may consider life within the confines of a prison to be anarchy, it isn’t exactly. There is a system to how things work and Parchman was no exception. Parchman had, and still does, a reputation for being essentially the last place on the planet anyone would ever want to end up. Research reveals you may have a worse stay at places like San Quentin, Sing Sing, Rikers Island or Angola in Louisiana; but, in my somewhat limited experience, once you’re in maximum-security prison, many of the distinguishing factors become moot.

So, there we were: a bus full of 30 white, upper-middle class teenagers set out to tour Parchman. Many of our older siblings had taken the same field trip, as it was once a mandatory one. I remember my sister telling my parents how horrible it was, but that was at least eight years earlier and therefore unimportant.

Weeks prior, our government teacher, a fun lady named Mrs. Baird who was more interested in being our friend than a strict teacher, asked us if we wanted to go. Of course we did. Corn chips from a conveyor belt while wearing a shower cap?  Prison? What could go wrong?

After getting there and before we were seated, a woman, approximately five feet tall, silenced us with her surprisingly loud trajectory.

“Do y’all know Shirley Thomas?” she shouted.

Startled, my entire class stopped and looked at one another.

“I SAID, do y’all know Shirley Thomas!” she shouted again, this time forcing us to step back into rows of metal folding chairs.

There was an uncomfortably long pause as she became impatient, “I’m gonna ask you one more time. DO Y’ALL KNOW SHIRLEY THOMAS?!!” she demanded.

Not knowing what to say, a few of us managed to mumble a, “No Ma’am.” under our breaths.

“Well, I know Shirley Thomas. And she’s a BITCH.” She lowered her voice and placed a gravely emphasis on the word “bitch” that only a lifetime’s worth of smoking full-flavored Dorals could produce.

This woman with the frosted white hair let that statement linger for a second. She clearly knew you could command the attention of a room full of 15-year-old kids with profanity.

Then her lips curled up in each corner and her eyes became small slits as she grinned, satisfied, “I’m Shirley Thomas.” Then she belted out a hearty laugh and gurgled as if she was hearing her own joke for the first time.

I can’t speak for the rest of the class, but that was the moment my stomach first churned that day.

She was dressed, despite the 100-degree temperatures outside, in a blue and red nylon tracksuit featuring the Colonel Reb, the University of Mississippi’s mascot, embroidered on the chest.

After her own laughter from her opening performance died down, she looked over us as we sat in silence on our metal folding chairs, wide-eyed and confused at the same time.

“Not a lot of people get to come to Parchman. Not a lot of people get to leave.” she proclaimed still being quite theatrical – which at this point, I thought was beginning to come across as a little condescending.

“Welcome to Parchman,” she said. Then she went into a rehearsed horror tale of statistics about what a terrible place it was. This wasn’t just prison but the baddest goddamn prison on the planet as far as Shirley Thomas was concerned. Behind these bars sat murderers, rapists, sodomizers, child molesters and Democrats.

Through her diatribe she began to describe how one becomes a different person in prison. People are forced to adapt. People are forced to change. Well, yeah, I thought. Then she leaned over and through that same droll smile, she said, “And I mean really change.”

“You over there! Stand up, boy. What’s your name?” she barked at my friend Ben.

Ben stood up, lanky and still awkward from growing a foot in two years. “Ben,” he quietly but calmly responded.

“Not in here, it ain’t.” she said. “Your name is Regina? Nah. Lucille? Nah, Regina,” she settled. “You’re just the kind of boy they look for over in there,” gesturing to the gates we had yet to even breach. “Tall, skinny, quiet. Mmmhmmm. Boy, you wouldn’t last a second.”

Everyone, including myself, shifted uncomfortably in our seats. More baffling than her arbitrary choice of female names which were completely unrelated to the name “Ben” was her face as she eyed Ben top to bottom. I began to think Shirley Thomas was actually an inmate herself.

After Ben took his seat, Shirley wrapped up her little speech. I started to wonder if we had been confused with the appointment after ours with a school for juvenile delinquents. However, as Shirley pointed out, no one was safe, “Just a few drinks of Old Charter or whatever whiskey you kids are drinking these days and if you get behind the wheel of your 4×4 truck and hit and kill someone, I’m gonna be here to welcome you to your new home.”

We were encouraged by Shirley to look around the room once the talk was over and before the actual foot tour began. She went out of her way to gesture to a glass case in the back corner which held most of the shanks she took up in her time as a guard as well as some really unsettling apparatuses that even an inquisitive student like myself didn’t care to learn anything else about.

The room was full of old black and white photographs with captions. Many of the pictures were of chain gangs. There were also a few autographed pictures of different movie stars like Tom Hanks, Gene Hackman, and George Clooney (several movies had been set at Parchman). Once we were finished rifling through the “Welcome Center,” Shirley introduced us to a prison guard who’d take us on the rest of our tour.

We left the building where we had been sitting with Shirley and walked out onto the prison grounds. The grounds themselves were nice. There were huge pecan trees and old buildings leading up to the main gate. Once through the gate, we could see the prison was comprised of several buildings. At first, I was confused. I didn’t know why some were closer and more secure than others and why others were distant black dots on the horizon. The guard explained: the closer the building to the front gate, the safer it was to outsiders. He then began pointing out different clusters of buildings which sat in birds’ nests of razor wire. They were each under the watchful eyes of four towers. In the watchtowers, we were assured there were snipers who sat there all day waiting to kill an escapee. Our “tour guide” proudly pointed out who was being held in each set of buildings: two serial killers in that one, the school shooter in that one, etc. Despite our rocky start and the gruesome subject matter, it was not unlike walking in a zoo – or one of those drive through safaris. He could have been pointing out rare tropical birds in an aviary.

Our pleasant walk ended when we were led into a depressing cinder block building painted white. The white, I suppose, was intended to make it airier. This was where we’d have our first encounter with an inmate. His name was “Ace” and he was enormous. We sat at picnic tables in the windowless room accompanied by three prison guards. Ace had quite a long speech prepared. I recall sitting in the sweltering room for what felt like hours. For the first ten minutes of his speech, Ace held a baseball bat by its throat in his right hand. He would gently and rhythmically lift and drop the bat into his left hand as he spoke.  He told us his story – how he ended up in prison. He told us how on his first day, he walked to his cell and other inmates were “hootin’ and hollerin’” at him. And then, lifting the bat above his head with both hands, he slammed it onto the table between my friends Dave and Melanie. The bat narrowly missed both of their elbows which were propped on the table so they could each fan themselves with sheets of paper in the heat. As the sound echoed throughout the tiny room, he looked up wildly, kind of like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and informed us, “That’s when my real fight to stay alive began.”

Scared out of our minds at the time, I look back and think, “Fight to stay alive” is such a big statement. It could mean anything from a struggle to pay credit card bills or child support to grappling with a shark or a handbag thief. But we didn’t have those points of reference. So, for the next 45 minutes, Ace elucidated by telling us what it meant to stay alive in Parchman. We learned about gangs. We learned about a barter system where a stick of beef jerky could mean you might sleep that night AND wake up the next morning. We learned how inmates on death row daily tossed human waste at guards. We learned all about the biggest event of the year, the prison rodeo. Ace seemed particularly enthusiastic when describing the prison rodeo cheerleaders – a group of 15 or so men who eventually began to believe they were women and stood alongside the bull-riders cheering them on with original chants. They even performed difficult stunts such as triple-tiered pyramids. I was endlessly amused by this and for a moment wanted to ask Ace if we could see them perform but given the way the tour was going, I decided to keep that to myself. Ace went on to explain how the most favorable job in the entire prison was to work in the kitchen of the cafeteria. He vividly explained what little care the kitchen workers exercised when preparing meals for the other inmates – often including surprises ranging anywhere from rodents to press-on acrylic nails, from a cheerleader, I imagined. Finally, Ace explained to us in very graphic detail what it was like to be prison raped.

I can’t speak for the rest of my class but after an hour of Ace’s speech, I was feeling weak. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the poop talk, maybe it was the rape, but I was in dire need of air – even if it was the same air dangerous convicted murderers were breathing not very far away….”

Some friends of mine brought A Frightened Writer to the attention of the kind folks over at Viking and this is what I found today on my Twitter feed.

Nothing makes you feel more encouraged to keep doing what you’re doing (in my case, writing) than when people show gratitude – even when it’s for a tiny little blog like mine.

Now, about making my kitchen an official “show kitchen….”

This does conjure the image of a cigarette butt in a birthday cake.

My dad was a man of very few vices save for his love of scaring the shit out of people.

He did, however, occasionally smoke a pipe. I think he bought it at a store in New Orleans and held onto it for as long as I could remember. It was one of those great curved pipes you might smoke while walking your property in the English countryside wearing a Barbour and Hunter Wellies.

I can honestly say I hadn’t thought about that pipe in FOREVER until last Sunday.

Since my father passed away nearly 10 years ago, Father’s Day is kind of a weird holiday. I usually busy myself and try not to think about it, but I couldn’t this year.

I was rooting around in Brooks’ briefcase and saw he’d picked up this Tom Ford fragrance at Bergdorfs. I took the cap off of it and I was paralyzed by the presence of my father.

You see, we used to have to go to a special store in Jackson where Daddy would buy his tobacco. He had a very distinct kind he only smoked (and by “smoked,” I mean “puffed and didn’t inhale”). It had the slightest hint of vanilla and came in this giant Ziploc bag with enough to last until our next trip to Jackson.

It’s crazy how just one whiff of this fragrance conjured scarily vivid memories. I guess kind of like the smell of Polo Sport might make you think about a Junior High Dance. Or the smell of Right Guard instantly transports me to the basketball locker room. Or the smell of Elizabeth Arden Red Door makes me think about Carrie Smith who wears that fragrance every day.

Among those memories, I remember my favorite:

Quite often he’d invite me along to check on the crop. So, in this way, an Englishman walking his property isn’t totally different than my father driving around and checking on his land, I suppose.

I’d crawl in and we’d drive around. Each parcel of the farm land was divided into areas with distinct names. There was “the Pratt Place” which was named after the Pratt family. There was “Centralia” where we owned a small lake with a dock where we fished in the summer and where I once sat behind a tree with Uncle Richard while he blew up a beaver damn with dynamite (I was 7). There was “Hoppy Hollow.” I have no idea where the name came from, but I’m sure there’s a hell of a story there. Looking back, I imagine a map of these domains might look like one of Middle Earth – just replace elves and orcs with soybeans, cotton and the occasional Indian mound.

While we’d ride around, he’d point out what was doing well and what wasn’t. He’d tell me that he’d have to get the workers to move the giant crawling irrigatior the another field because that cotton looked over-watered. We’d ride up and down what felt like hundreds of “turn rows” (this basically means “dirt road in between fields where cotton pickers and tractors turn around without damaging the crop”). In between assessing the crops he’d tell me stories about my (often insane) relatives or he’d fuss over plummeting cotton prices and newly mandated EPA practices.

During our rides, he’d smoke the pipe and it’s a fragrance I grew to identify as distinctly him.

I’ve taken to wearing this fragrance. I’m generally not a fragrance guy but I get to be more of one as I get older. My go-to was Creed Himalaya. It’s fresh and smells clean. Since then, I’ve delved into Italian Cypress and Grey Vetiver, both by Tom Ford. They have earthier notes and, as the day wears on, the scent mutates and fades a little so you only wear a subtle hint.

As I write this, my mother is on the way to the City for a long weekend. I’m curious to see if she’ll have the same dramatic reaction I did when she smells it.

It may seem odd to wear a fragrance because it doesn’t smell like it is technically “cologne” or “perfume” (or because it reminds you of your deceased father???), but I don’t think it’s about appearing gussied up. As they say, your scent should neither reach someone before you nor linger once you’ve left. I think scent is a statement – kind of an Eau de You (yeah I just made that terrible pun).

Anyway, that’s my rambling revelation/nostalgic moment. I should probably prepare for Mother (meaning, uncork the wine).

BUT – As a bonus, Dad used to always say his biggest and most bountiful crop was harvested in 1982. Perhaps not so coincidentally, that was year Charles Edward Williams, Jr. was born – right before that year’s crop was picked. He also said, the worst, rainiest, muddiest year he had was 1984. That was the year my brother, Robert Alexander Williams was born. Just saying.

It’s okay though. I think if this photo is any indication, we quickly bounced back after.