PASS CHRISTIAN — This is Christmas week. And as Irving Berlin wrote: The orange and the palm trees sway.
Cat Island looks so close across the sparkling Mississippi Sound, I could touch it with a feather duster. Live oaks remain green and disguise the season.
My dear, most-forgiving friend Betty is flying in from cold Virginia to spend the holidays with us on the warm Mississippi Coast. For 40 years she’s listened to my daffiest dreams and encouraged them.
Oysters are on the half shell. Nog is on ice. All’s right with the world.
I feel grateful this year, simply grateful. I have made it to a rather sensible age, old enough in the new year to receive Social Security, or what my funny friend Jett Williams calls “mailbox money.”
But I have made it this far without getting too sensible, without losing that part of my soul that remains unrepentantly romantic, wears sheer dresses on cool nights, cheers for the underdog and burns candles in the window. And that romantic, Peter Pan part of me still wants to be near the sea.
I have been trying for years to spend more time on this, the most underrated of coastlines. People here, for the most part, get along. They are a diverse lot and have no desire to pass easy judgment. Creativity drips from the skies like Spanish moss from the trees.
All throughout this town are imperfect artists, and I mean that in a good way. There are writers with unpublished books, poets struggling with meter, potters with flawed pots. There are a few famous citizens — one novelist won the National Book Award — but most of us are still hungry creators, one sentence, one stroke, shy of celebrity.
There are people here, too, who still make their living from the land and the sea, seine the ocean’s bottom at night while we sleep, or tong for oysters at the nearby reef. Computers don’t figure into it. Honest labor is etched in their faces, and they have no trouble with job description. They know what they do, what they have always done.
I am grateful to be part of this scene this Christmas, a barnacle on the bottom of the Good Ship Mississippi, a wanderer who has found a friendly port. The red and green harbor lights seem designed for the season, and I pretend they burn for me. As any sailor knows, it’s Red Right Returning.
I am grateful for you if you are reading this. It seems to me that though fewer and fewer people believe they need newspapers. But the ones who do are a special, even obstinate breed. They savor words written in ink on pages that turn.
I often hear from faithful readers, which keeps me typing. They send words of cheer when I need them. They send cards and letters and seasonal wishes. They share their stories.
And so we have a bond, one I think about whenever I travel or write or try to convey a scene I find moving. I owe my readers my livelihood, my inspiration, even my sanity.
I owe you a deep and heartfelt thanks, readers who have followed my byline for four decades. And as Melanie Hamilton said to Belle Watling, I am proud to be in your debt. I wish you the merriest of holidays, a new year full of impractical and fun choices, a life with love.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 41 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.