Author Archives: averyellk

Flying High©Averyell A. KesslerI was six when I walked through the gates of the Mississippi State Fair for the first time. It was late afternoon, close to sunset, and the October air was still warm enough raise a sweat. Mama held my hand in a death grip as we entered a sawdust covered, make-believe world of whirling colors and startling sounds. Delectable aromas filled the air, hamburgers sizzling on the Moose Lodge’s massive grills, roasting peanuts, candied apples, and the sugar sweet smell of spinning cotton candy. Pink, for me. My first pick was Taffy. Mama and I tried making taffy at home and produced a slimy, tasteless mess. But here it was, the real thing, fluffy and shiny white being stretched and pulled on revolving mechanical arms. I had a loose tooth, maybe two, but I’d mastered the art of chewing selectively. We bought a bagful from a man behind the counter who promised “Can’t get it anywhere else!”I didn’t notice that the carnival tents were worn and faded, or that everything was covered with dust. Yes, the man running the “pick up ducks” booth was missing a few teeth, and the woman beckoning me to toss rings over a flock of coke bottles looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I didn’t care. This was wonderland, and I was dancing in the middle of it. Mama and I walked the length of the fairgrounds, listening to people scream as the tilt-a-whirl spun them into stomach churning dizziness. We watched an enormous Ferris wheel turn loop after loop, saw a throng of bumper cars honk and spin, and led each other through a glasshouse maze. We bought pronto pups, slathered them with mustard and nibbled away as we wandered through the canning exhibit, inspected a display of homemade quilts, and looked at baby lambs nuzzling their mothers. The motorcycle racetrack was a frightening tower of howling engines, strangling smoke and a screaming announcer. Mama squeezed my fingers as we stepped around it.After spending too much money on a miniature firetruck ride and a jaw rattling children’s roller coaster, Mama made a command decision.“We’ve been here for hours and it’s starting to get dark,” she said. “Time to go home.”“Noooo,” I whined. “I don’t want to go home yet.” I was bone tired. Pronto Pup nausea bubbled in my stomach, but I didn’t tell. “You said I could ride the merry go round.”“Ok,” she said, But it’s last thing. We’ll go home after the merry go round. Agreed?” She was an expert in the art of little kid diplomacy.“Yes.” It was an easy promise. “Grown-ups can ride too.” I said.“Sometimes,” she answered.As the sun slipped below the horizon, we abandoned the kiddie rides and strolled deep into the middle of the fairgrounds. Long shadows inched over the walkways as the sky darkened and day became night. In an instant, hundreds of colored lights blinked on, banishing the tattered canvas tents, tawdry game booths, and chasing the dust away. I felt as if I was standing inside a Christmas tree, and King Carousel was just ahead. We kept walking.I heard the merry go round before I saw it. I felt it too. A raucous melody blasted from a steam powered calliope, along with the rhythmic crash of cymbals and the brrrrrrrrr of snare drums. There it was, right in front of me, a bejeweled carousel crowned with a blaze of lights and herd of painted horses. Mama stepped up to the ticket booth and opened her purse. When she turned, I saw that she had a ticket for each of us.“You’re going too?” I asked. I was breathless.“Yes,” she replied. “Why not.”We selected two magnificent white horses and climbed on. Each had a flowing mane, brightly painted saddle, and a feathery plume mounted on its bridle. Golden tassels dangled from the reins. I could almost hear them nicker, as if they were just waiting for us. When the music started, we began to move, slowly at first, then faster as my horse galloped up and down on a shiny brass pole. Soon, I was flying, soaring in mid-air, climbing to the sky. Mama waved and I waved back. Somehow our horses were able to lift all four hooves off the ground at once, as we raced to Egypt, China, and Neverland. I was riding the wind, going nowhere and everywhere, crossing the Mississippi, then passing the big rock candy mountain and turning north to Santa’s domain. Faster, faster. Snare drums buzzed and the bass drum boomed. Faces in the crowd were a blur, the shining lights melted into streaks of color. I held on tight, hoping the ride would last forever. But it did not.In a flash, my splendid carousel ground to a halt, the drums slowed, and the calliope wheezed into silence. My wooden Pegasus folded his wings, and the magic brass pole stopped the rhythm of its rise and fall. Watchful carneys swarmed on board like a colony of busy ants and shooed us back into the crowd. My balloon popped; the sky fell. It was over.The night was seriously dark now. When Mama looked at her watch, I knew my days were numbered. Nothing to look forward to but a foaming bathtub, clean pajamas and a fateful meeting with a hair dryer.“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, as we walked away.“Yes,” I answered. “It was fun.”“I haven’t ridden a merry go round since I was your age,” Mama said. Suddenly she stopped and looked at her watch again.“Let’s do it again,” she said turning around. “I forgot how wonderful it was.”

Flying High©Averyell A. KesslerI was six when I walked through the gates of the Mississippi State Fair for the first time. It was late afternoon, close to sunset, and the October air was still warm enough raise a sweat. Mama held my hand in a death grip as we entered a sawdust covered, make-believe world of whirling colors and startling sounds. Delectable aromas filled the air, hamburgers sizzling on the Moose Lodge’s massive grills, roasting peanuts, candied apples, and the sugar sweet smell of spinning cotton candy. Pink, for me. My first pick was Taffy. Mama and I tried making taffy at home and produced a slimy, tasteless mess. But here it was, the real thing, fluffy and shiny white being stretched and pulled on revolving mechanical arms. I had a loose tooth, maybe two, but I’d mastered the art of chewing selectively. We bought a bagful from a man behind the counter who promised “Can’t get it anywhere else!”I didn’t notice that the carnival tents were worn and faded, or that everything was covered with dust. Yes, the man running the “pick up ducks” booth was missing a few teeth, and the woman beckoning me to toss rings over a flock of coke bottles looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I didn’t care. This was wonderland, and I was dancing in the middle of it. Mama and I walked the length of the fairgrounds, listening to people scream as the tilt-a-whirl spun them into stomach churning dizziness. We watched an enormous Ferris wheel turn loop after loop, saw a throng of bumper cars honk and spin, and led each other through a glasshouse maze. We bought pronto pups, slathered them with mustard and nibbled away as we wandered through the canning exhibit, inspected a display of homemade quilts, and looked at baby lambs nuzzling their mothers. The motorcycle racetrack was a frightening tower of howling engines, strangling smoke and a screaming announcer. Mama squeezed my fingers as we stepped around it.After spending too much money on a miniature firetruck ride and a jaw rattling children’s roller coaster, Mama made a command decision.“We’ve been here for hours and it’s starting to get dark,” she said. “Time to go home.”“Noooo,” I whined. “I don’t want to go home yet.” I was bone tired. Pronto Pup nausea bubbled in my stomach, but I didn’t tell. “You said I could ride the merry go round.”“Ok,” she said, But it’s last thing. We’ll go home after the merry go round. Agreed?” She was an expert in the art of little kid diplomacy.“Yes.” It was an easy promise. “Grown-ups can ride too.” I said.“Sometimes,” she answered.As the sun slipped below the horizon, we abandoned the kiddie rides and strolled deep into the middle of the fairgrounds. Long shadows inched over the walkways as the sky darkened and day became night. In an instant, hundreds of colored lights blinked on, banishing the tattered canvas tents, tawdry game booths, and chasing the dust away. I felt as if I was standing inside a Christmas tree, and King Carousel was just ahead. We kept walking.I heard the merry go round before I saw it. I felt it too. A raucous melody blasted from a steam powered calliope, along with the rhythmic crash of cymbals and the brrrrrrrrr of snare drums. There it was, right in front of me, a bejeweled carousel crowned with a blaze of lights and herd of painted horses. Mama stepped up to the ticket booth and opened her purse. When she turned, I saw that she had a ticket for each of us.“You’re going too?” I asked. I was breathless.“Yes,” she replied. “Why not.”We selected two magnificent white horses and climbed on. Each had a flowing mane, brightly painted saddle, and a feathery plume mounted on its bridle. Golden tassels dangled from the reins. I could almost hear them nicker, as if they were just waiting for us. When the music started, we began to move, slowly at first, then faster as my horse galloped up and down on a shiny brass pole. Soon, I was flying, soaring in mid-air, climbing to the sky. Mama waved and I waved back. Somehow our horses were able to lift all four hooves off the ground at once, as we raced to Egypt, China, and Neverland. I was riding the wind, going nowhere and everywhere, crossing the Mississippi, then passing the big rock candy mountain and turning north to Santa’s domain. Faster, faster. Snare drums buzzed and the bass drum boomed. Faces in the crowd were a blur, the shining lights melted into streaks of color. I held on tight, hoping the ride would last forever. But it did not.In a flash, my splendid carousel ground to a halt, the drums slowed, and the calliope wheezed into silence. My wooden Pegasus folded his wings, and the magic brass pole stopped the rhythm of its rise and fall. Watchful carneys swarmed on board like a colony of busy ants and shooed us back into the crowd. My balloon popped; the sky fell. It was over.The night was seriously dark now. When Mama looked at her watch, I knew my days were numbered. Nothing to look forward to but a foaming bathtub, clean pajamas and a fateful meeting with a hair dryer.“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, as we walked away.“Yes,” I answered. “It was fun.”“I haven’t ridden a merry go round since I was your age,” Mama said. Suddenly she stopped and looked at her watch again.“Let’s do it again,” she said turning around. “I forgot how wonderful it was.”

Flying High©Averyell A. KesslerI was six when I walked through the gates of the Mississippi State Fair for the first time. It was late afternoon, close to sunset, and the October air was still warm enough raise a sweat. Mama held my hand in a death grip as we entered a sawdust covered, make-believe world of whirling colors and startling sounds. Delectable aromas filled the air, hamburgers sizzling on the Moose Lodge’s massive grills, roasting peanuts, candied apples, and the sugar sweet smell of spinning cotton candy. Pink, for me. My first pick was Taffy. Mama and I tried making taffy at home and produced a slimy, tasteless mess. But here it was, the real thing, fluffy and shiny white being stretched and pulled on revolving mechanical arms. I had a loose tooth, maybe two, but I’d mastered the art of chewing selectively. We bought a bagful from a man behind the counter who promised “Can’t get it anywhere else!”I didn’t notice that the carnival tents were worn and faded, or that everything was covered with dust. Yes, the man running the “pick up ducks” booth was missing a few teeth, and the woman beckoning me to toss rings over a flock of coke bottles looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I didn’t care. This was wonderland, and I was dancing in the middle of it. Mama and I walked the length of the fairgrounds, listening to people scream as the tilt-a-whirl spun them into stomach churning dizziness. We watched an enormous Ferris wheel turn loop after loop, saw a throng of bumper cars honk and spin, and led each other through a glasshouse maze. We bought pronto pups, slathered them with mustard and nibbled away as we wandered through the canning exhibit, inspected a display of homemade quilts, and looked at baby lambs nuzzling their mothers. The motorcycle racetrack was a frightening tower of howling engines, strangling smoke and a screaming announcer. Mama squeezed my fingers as we stepped around it.After spending too much money on a miniature firetruck ride and a jaw rattling children’s roller coaster, Mama made a command decision.“We’ve been here for hours and it’s starting to get dark,” she said. “Time to go home.”“Noooo,” I whined. “I don’t want to go home yet.” I was bone tired. Pronto Pup nausea bubbled in my stomach, but I didn’t tell. “You said I could ride the merry go round.”“Ok,” she said, But it’s last thing. We’ll go home after the merry go round. Agreed?” She was an expert in the art of little kid diplomacy.“Yes.” It was an easy promise. “Grown-ups can ride too.” I said.“Sometimes,” she answered.As the sun slipped below the horizon, we abandoned the kiddie rides and strolled deep into the middle of the fairgrounds. Long shadows inched over the walkways as the sky darkened and day became night. In an instant, hundreds of colored lights blinked on, banishing the tattered canvas tents, tawdry game booths, and chasing the dust away. I felt as if I was standing inside a Christmas tree, and King Carousel was just ahead. We kept walking.I heard the merry go round before I saw it. I felt it too. A raucous melody blasted from a steam powered calliope, along with the rhythmic crash of cymbals and the brrrrrrrrr of snare drums. There it was, right in front of me, a bejeweled carousel crowned with a blaze of lights and herd of painted horses. Mama stepped up to the ticket booth and opened her purse. When she turned, I saw that she had a ticket for each of us.“You’re going too?” I asked. I was breathless.“Yes,” she replied. “Why not.”We selected two magnificent white horses and climbed on. Each had a flowing mane, brightly painted saddle, and a feathery plume mounted on its bridle. Golden tassels dangled from the reins. I could almost hear them nicker, as if they were just waiting for us. When the music started, we began to move, slowly at first, then faster as my horse galloped up and down on a shiny brass pole. Soon, I was flying, soaring in mid-air, climbing to the sky. Mama waved and I waved back. Somehow our horses were able to lift all four hooves off the ground at once, as we raced to Egypt, China, and Neverland. I was riding the wind, going nowhere and everywhere, crossing the Mississippi, then passing the big rock candy mountain and turning north to Santa’s domain. Faster, faster. Snare drums buzzed and the bass drum boomed. Faces in the crowd were a blur, the shining lights melted into streaks of color. I held on tight, hoping the ride would last forever. But it did not.In a flash, my splendid carousel ground to a halt, the drums slowed, and the calliope wheezed into silence. My wooden Pegasus folded his wings, and the magic brass pole stopped the rhythm of its rise and fall. Watchful carneys swarmed on board like a colony of busy ants and shooed us back into the crowd. My balloon popped; the sky fell. It was over.The night was seriously dark now. When Mama looked at her watch, I knew my days were numbered. Nothing to look forward to but a foaming bathtub, clean pajamas and a fateful meeting with a hair dryer.“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, as we walked away.“Yes,” I answered. “It was fun.”“I haven’t ridden a merry go round since I was your age,” Mama said. Suddenly she stopped and looked at her watch again.“Let’s do it again,” she said turning around. “I forgot how wonderful it was.”

Flying High©Averyell A. KesslerI was six when I walked through the gates of the Mississippi State Fair for the first time. It was late afternoon, close to sunset, and the October air was still warm enough raise a sweat. Mama held my hand in a death grip as we entered a sawdust covered, make-believe world of whirling colors and startling sounds. Delectable aromas filled the air, hamburgers sizzling on the Moose Lodge’s massive grills, roasting peanuts, candied apples, and the sugar sweet smell of spinning cotton candy. Pink, for me. My first pick was Taffy. Mama and I tried making taffy at home and produced a slimy, tasteless mess. But here it was, the real thing, fluffy and shiny white being stretched and pulled on revolving mechanical arms. I had a loose tooth, maybe two, but I’d mastered the art of chewing selectively. We bought a bagful from a man behind the counter who promised “Can’t get it anywhere else!”I didn’t notice that the carnival tents were worn and faded, or that everything was covered with dust. Yes, the man running the “pick up ducks” booth was missing a few teeth, and the woman beckoning me to toss rings over a flock of coke bottles looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I didn’t care. This was wonderland, and I was dancing in the middle of it. Mama and I walked the length of the fairgrounds, listening to people scream as the tilt-a-whirl spun them into stomach churning dizziness. We watched an enormous Ferris wheel turn loop after loop, saw a throng of bumper cars honk and spin, and led each other through a glasshouse maze. We bought pronto pups, slathered them with mustard and nibbled away as we wandered through the canning exhibit, inspected a display of homemade quilts, and looked at baby lambs nuzzling their mothers. The motorcycle racetrack was a frightening tower of howling engines, strangling smoke and a screaming announcer. Mama squeezed my fingers as we stepped around it.After spending too much money on a miniature firetruck ride and a jaw rattling children’s roller coaster, Mama made a command decision.“We’ve been here for hours and it’s starting to get dark,” she said. “Time to go home.”“Noooo,” I whined. “I don’t want to go home yet.” I was bone tired. Pronto Pup nausea bubbled in my stomach, but I didn’t tell. “You said I could ride the merry go round.”“Ok,” she said, But it’s last thing. We’ll go home after the merry go round. Agreed?” She was an expert in the art of little kid diplomacy.“Yes.” It was an easy promise. “Grown-ups can ride too.” I said.“Sometimes,” she answered.As the sun slipped below the horizon, we abandoned the kiddie rides and strolled deep into the middle of the fairgrounds. Long shadows inched over the walkways as the sky darkened and day became night. In an instant, hundreds of colored lights blinked on, banishing the tattered canvas tents, tawdry game booths, and chasing the dust away. I felt as if I was standing inside a Christmas tree, and King Carousel was just ahead. We kept walking.I heard the merry go round before I saw it. I felt it too. A raucous melody blasted from a steam powered calliope, along with the rhythmic crash of cymbals and the brrrrrrrrr of snare drums. There it was, right in front of me, a bejeweled carousel crowned with a blaze of lights and herd of painted horses. Mama stepped up to the ticket booth and opened her purse. When she turned, I saw that she had a ticket for each of us.“You’re going too?” I asked. I was breathless.“Yes,” she replied. “Why not.”We selected two magnificent white horses and climbed on. Each had a flowing mane, brightly painted saddle, and a feathery plume mounted on its bridle. Golden tassels dangled from the reins. I could almost hear them nicker, as if they were just waiting for us. When the music started, we began to move, slowly at first, then faster as my horse galloped up and down on a shiny brass pole. Soon, I was flying, soaring in mid-air, climbing to the sky. Mama waved and I waved back. Somehow our horses were able to lift all four hooves off the ground at once, as we raced to Egypt, China, and Neverland. I was riding the wind, going nowhere and everywhere, crossing the Mississippi, then passing the big rock candy mountain and turning north to Santa’s domain. Faster, faster. Snare drums buzzed and the bass drum boomed. Faces in the crowd were a blur, the shining lights melted into streaks of color. I held on tight, hoping the ride would last forever. But it did not.In a flash, my splendid carousel ground to a halt, the drums slowed, and the calliope wheezed into silence. My wooden Pegasus folded his wings, and the magic brass pole stopped the rhythm of its rise and fall. Watchful carneys swarmed on board like a colony of busy ants and shooed us back into the crowd. My balloon popped; the sky fell. It was over.The night was seriously dark now. When Mama looked at her watch, I knew my days were numbered. Nothing to look forward to but a foaming bathtub, clean pajamas and a fateful meeting with a hair dryer.“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, as we walked away.“Yes,” I answered. “It was fun.”“I haven’t ridden a merry go round since I was your age,” Mama said. Suddenly she stopped and looked at her watch again.“Let’s do it again,” she said turning around. “I forgot how wonderful it was.”

Shake, Rattle and Roll©Averyell A. KesslerThe sky was still December dark when my alarm clock rattled loud enough to shake teeth out of a corpse. Daylight was a long way off but I had an early class in Allen Hall, an ancient building facing the quadrangle at LSU. I rolled out of bed, stepping quietly to avoid waking my roommate and padded downstairs to the kitchen of my sorority house searching for coffee. When I entered the kitchen, our cook, Alma, was crying. She was an interesting lady and music lover who’d won a skinny legs contest at a Jimmy Hendrix/ Joe Tex concert.“What’s wrong,” I asked.“The king is dead,” Alma sniveled, dabbling her eyes with a tissue.“Elvis?”“Otis Redding,” she answered. “Plane crash last night.”“Oh, no,” I said. “His music is great.” We spent thirty minutes drinking coffee and talking about These Arms of Mine and Try a Little Tenderness.I remembered Otis this week when a strange item popped up on my laptop. It read “Wondering why young people are so angry these days? It’s because their music is $%#%!” Many folks don’t agree, but old time rock and roll still soothes my soul. Our music magic began with a revolution organized by Elvis and Buddy Holly, blessed by the doo-wop guys, and honed to a fine art by Mick Jagger, The Beach Boys, and James Brown. If you want to talk country music, I’ll toss in Charlie Pride’s Kiss an Angel Good Morning and Patsy Cline Walkin’ after Midnight.My music addiction started early when I realized something new was bubbling on the horizon. Big band swing and The Hit Parade were fading because no one cared what was behind The Green Door, or how much That Doggy in the Window cost. Daddy had already refused to listen the Rock Around the Clock, and snapped off Elvis singing Hound Dog on The Ed Sullivan Show. Even though Ed had only shown the upper half of Elvis’ body, rumors of his undulating hips caused community outrage. Suddenly, Joey Dee and the Starlighters burst into view with the Peppermint Twist. Anyone who’d hula hooped in childhood intuitively knew how to twist. Chubby Checker had a hand in it too – Come on baby, let’s do the twist. This was the ideal ice breaker for young teenagers wading into the frightening waters of a boy/girl parties. It was a perfect sing-along, required no body contact, and wore us out in short order – a chaperone’s dream come true. I made a short -lived effort to teach my mother the twist, but she was accustomed to Glen Miller’s big band and never got the hang of it.Then Murrah High School – a joyous mix of blossoming hormones, semi adulthood, the prom, and a sweaty cheek slow dance. We were lulled into romance by Ray Charles, I Can’t Stop Loving You, Percy Sledge crooning When a Man Loves Woman, and the ultimate snuggle up song, Nat King Coles’ When I fall in Love. Whew! If things got too intense, Hey You Get Off My Cloud or Wooly Bully took over. Somehow, we survived.I attended college in South Carolina for one desperate year, just long enough to hear the mellow sound of The Platters, learn to dance the shag, and sing With This Ring in the shower. Although I Can’t Get No Satisfaction was not popular at a women’s college, the Everly Brothers’ When will I Be Loved was well received. The only high point was our Christmas concert and dance when the scheduled performer canceled and the college was forced to hire an unknown substitute. Her name was Dionne Warwick.The next year I arrived at LSU. Party time! I discovered several college hangouts within 5 minutes of campus, all spotlight attractions making it hard to study for exams, compose term papers or arrive bright eyed for a 7:30 AM Botany class on Saturday morning. I learned that fancy heels don’t work well with Soul Man and that cutoff overalls (we called them hog washers) were far more fun. Anything by the Supremes was an instant dance event even if I was in my pajamas at midnight. I tried hard to figure out the mystery lyrics to Louie, Louie, but when that failed, I’d tune my radio to a station featuring Brown Eyed Girl and Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher. Somehow, I survived those years too.With little prodding, I’ll say that the music of my generation was terrific. My folks will not be listening to somnolent elevator music in a senior residence or popping Geritol laced Champagne bubbles with Lawrence Welk. We won’t be singing along with Mitch either. We’ll be moving to Honky Tonk Women, Mustang Sally, and listening to Aretha with the volume set to earthquake level. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me. Maybe I’ll work in a little Elton John too because I really like Honky Cat. I know that it is possible to hum Proud Mary, as well as Mr. Redding’s greatest Dock on the Bay. I can still dance The Shag, but I’m a little rusty with the Watusi. Perhaps I’ll summon up Sixty Minute Man and see if I’ve still got it.My story is not unique. Most folks can summon up a list of favorites from their growing up years. But we all know when Billy Joe McAllister met the grim reaper, and how to open up our hearts and Let the Sunshine In. So, I’m making plans. Maybe I’ll borrow a T-Bird, blast the radio and cruise to the Hamburger stand. Perhaps Maybelline will drive up in her Coupe de Ville and take me for a ride. Maybe aliens will land at Graceland and return Elvis. One thing’s for sure, while we live, let us live. Sock it to me and shama lama ding doing.

Jeremiah’s Song©Averyell A. KesslerI wrote this several years ago, mainly to see if people would enjoy reading my words. Thanks to those of you who responded to my first post.It started with a tree frog. He was a little fellow with orange toes, bright red eyes, and a tight grip on a wide hydrangea leaf in my son’s backyard. I remembered a favorite song from college and said, “Hello, Jeremiah.” Yes, I know he wasn’t a bullfrog, but he was an instant friend of mine. Although I never understood a single word he said, I’m sure he had a bottle of mighty fine wine hidden in the bushes. I posted these thoughts on FB and began receiving replies from friends, as well as some from folks I didn’t know. They asked for more. The next week I posted The Mimosa Tree, a short, simple story about my childhood delight in climbing a tree in my friend’s front yard. More replies. I was off to the races.This week, I noticed that these first posts have something in common. It’s joy. Jeremiah said it quite clearly, even to the fishes in the deep blue sea. As for the mimosa tree, where else can a child reach out to touch the clouds, pretend to be aboard a pirate ship, or travel to the moon and be home in time for supper.There’s not a lot of joy around these days. The pandemic years have been a bee sting on the tip of my nose, a simmering pot of boiled kale and Brussel Sprouts, and an invisible splinter working its way deep into my index finger. For some, it’s been a dagger in the heart. But joy’s still out there somewhere. I remember it well.Joy was Mama tip toeing into my bedroom before sun-up and whispering, “Wake up, it’s snowing!”It was the rush of relief when I clapped like my hands were on fire and Tinkerbell sprang back to life,Also, Seale Lily’s Purple People eater sundae, as well as a long row of revolving stools, crunchy cones, and the tantalizing aroma of melting chocolate.I remember a smiley faced substitute teacher who canceled the spelling test and replaced it with bingo and a discussion of the latest episode of Spin and Marty.Joy was finding a dime under my pillow instead of a missing front tooth, Riverside pool opening for the summer, fresh salty wind whipping through my hair as the Ship Island Ferry plowed deep into the Gulf’s murky waves.I loved to plunk coins into the drink box at Shady Nook gas station and pull out an icy Orange Crush and a frozen Pay Day.Joy was returning to my Power School classroom with sore arms after holding off aggressive attackers during a game of red rover. And hopping out of the way as a dodge ball whizzed by.Later it was screaming in the stands as the Murrah Mustangs won a close game with fierce delta rival, jumping on the Heidelberg Hotel’s bouncing floor at the prom, and the arrival of my class ring. (Still have it) Staying up all night at a giggly spend the night party. Clutching my diploma on graduation day when the future stepped up, shook my hand, and said, “Come on. Let’s go!”It was a dozen Krystals hot off the griddle, nibbling Shoney’s hot fudge cake while circling the parking lot to see who else was there. A homecoming bonfire on a frosty October night, and listening to Coach Carlisle give a rah-rah speech as cheers echoed across the parking lot.A pineapple soft serve cone at the state fair, a postcard view of sparkling lights from the top bucket of a double Ferris wheel, flying high and fast on a beribboned merry-go-round horse.In college, it was singing “Baby Love” with my Phi Mu soroity sisters, and waving our hands in unison, playing a zinc king washboard in a washtub band, and squeezing into Tiger Stadium on Saturday night. Learning how to peel crawfish, eat a dozen raw, and crack open boiled crabs with a knife handle before polishing off a 64 oz mug of Budweiser. (It took several hours and multiple trips to the bathroom, but I did it) Also, dancing more than I walked.Joy is simpler now, especially as horrible virus years shambles toward a merciful close and disappears into the quicksand of history.For me, it’s summoning up old stories, remembering the ones I’ve forgotten, and discovering a cache of overlooked photographs.It’s baby giggles, receiving a grandchild’s homemade birthday card, and blowing out candles with a 7-year-old. Maybe the dog too.Shirley Horne creamy voice singing Duke Ellington’s best, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, Etta James’ At Last, and cranking up The Mississippi Mass Choir until the floor shakes.A rare and widely spaced lunch with friends, an unexpected message from buddies in Lake Charles telling me they’re safe after a hurricane, a good friend receiving an encouraging diagnosis. Somebody calling just to hear my voice. And always, posts from my readers saying I made them laugh. Or sometimes, cry.So little frog friend, thinking about you brings me joy. Thanks to your bright red eyes, I write all the time now and enjoy every minute. You encouraged me to be a high life flyer and a rainbow rider. I’ll never reach the status of straight-shootin’ son-of-a gun, but who cares? Peace is the inseparable partner of joy. I hope both return soon. When raucous voices fade, quiet takes control and anger vanishes like fog at sunrise, we’ll sing again.Joy to the world,All the boys and girls,Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea,Joy to you and me.Joy to the World, Three Dog Night

The Fourth Down©Averyell A. Kessler

It’s finally football season and time to fess up. I am an addicted, sports page reading, ESPN watching, college football dependent, who lives for Saturday kickoffs, Corso’s headgear pick, and late-night re-caps. I can describe a spread option, dissect the AP and Coaches polls with my sons, as well as the guys in the groceryContinue reading “The Fourth Down©Averyell A. Kessler”

September Song©Averyell A. KesslerAccording to a beautiful old song, September is a time when “the days dwindle down to a precious few.” I think about it every year as August trudges to a steamy close and fall stretches above the horizon. In my day, we returned to school in September, usually on the Monday after Labor Day. The heat was vicious, and we had no AC. Nevertheless, the doors of every JPS school swung open for the beginning of an exciting, angst laden and sweat drenched new school year. For me, it was the equivalent of New Year’s Eve, and I still feel it.At my Laurel Street house, things got serious after the fourth of July. I considered it the halfway mark of summer. Boredom was creeping in. Poison ivy, mosquito bites, and sunburn were taking a toll, but I refused to give up the joy of no school, sleeping late, swimming pool days, as well as the absence of unintelligible math problems, spelling words, and the ever-present threat of a pop test. I would no longer watch the antics of Heckle and Jeckle during the school week, and I’d miss Alfalfa and Darla flirting on sunrise tv. Also, I wondered what horrors the cafeteria folks were dreaming up instead of a bowl of mama’s yummy chicken noodle soup. I had already survived the great liver and gravy debacle, as well as heaps of slimy green spinach, but who knows what evil lurked in the heart of the lunchroom manager!“How many more days?” I asked my mother. It was a repeat question.“It’s not September yet” she’d say. ” You have plenty of time.”But the days were dwindling and I knew it. Endless summer was almost gone, and precious few days remained. Soon we’d be shopping for school supplies, new shoes, and a fluffy petticoat that would keep its shape. My swimsuit would be packed away, also my sandals, shorts, and our blow-up swimming pool. I’d walk into Power school on a blistering Monday morning, still not knowing if I’d spend the year under the tutelage of Miss Cartwright or Miss Parnell or who else would be in my classroom. Thanks to Mori’s on Capitol Street, I had a new leatherette three ring notebook (turquoise) with my name stamped on the cover in bright gold letters. Also, rumors spread that a cute new boy had moved into Belhaven, and we were all waiting to see if he had a crew cut.Down deep in my childhood thoughts, I knew another year had passed and I wouldn’t be going back to Miss William’s class. I didn’t mind, not yet, but things were moving along faster than I’d anticipated. Soon I’d leave Power School for Bailey on the hill. Murrah High School had not yet entered my imagination. My age consisted of two numerals, instead of one, my baby dolls had been folded and put in storage. The clamp-on roller skates I adored didn’t fit anymore, even though I’d probably logged over 100 miles of scrabbling across the sidewalk behind our house. I could read anything I wanted, except Lolita, an enticing book I found hidden beneath my mother’s nightstand. Oh, well.Now, as a grown-up child, I can’t forget the potent words of lovely, mournful September Song. “The days dwindle down to a precious few.” It was one of my grandfather WG’s favorites and I still hear him singing in his scratchy, monotone voice. Somehow, those precious few days pass more quickly than shuffling cards or a blazing fastball in the ninth inning. They are ice melting on a hot griddle, the brief life of a butterfly, a graceful lily blooming for a single day.Still there is good news. September Song is not solemn requiem for the passage of time; it’s an anthem to life. The lyrics include a never fail remedy for dwindling days; a simple mending that I often overlook. “One hasn’t got time for the waiting game.”So true. Waiting is a game I don’t have time to play. None of us do. So, I won’t. I’ll have a second glass of wine at supper and buy a large Snickers bar at the grocery store. I’ll watch my grands perform in an emerging lower school band even if it’s a bit off key and I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. I’ll take a good look at my life and embroider the things I want to remember then toss the bad things into a raging trash barrel. I’ll spend less time trying to figure everything out because life is not a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle, and nothing fits together perfectly. Never will. I’ll stop listening to people who say they know best (politicians? television gurus?)) and listen to my heart instead. I’ll pray more often, write more often, and reread The Great Gatsby again as well as the latest novel du jour. I’ll not overlook the sudden appearance of a rainbow or ignore a golden pink sunset, because both disappear in an instant. That goes for you too, cardinals fluttering in my backyard birdbath. I’ll remind myself of who loves me, as well as who I love and tell them so. Finally, there’s a turquoise leatherette notebook out there somewhere and I intend to find it.*Willie Nelson has a beautiful version of September Song, as well as a youthful Frank Sinatra and the honey-voiced Ella Fitzgerald.

Deep Roots ©Averyell A. KesslerRalph Waldo Emmerson said, “Earth laughs in flowers.” What an interesting thought. Especially now when laughter is rare, but flowers are not. Spring brings them on, as she always does, chasing winter away and filling her arms with daffodils, roses, and four o’clocks with bright faces. She smiles and waves as azaleas open and a clematis vine winds its way around a fence post. When May arrives there’s no holding back. Three ancient magnolias in my front yard will bud and bloom, then show off their velvet petals and send out the sweetest perfume this side of the Mississippi. On my patio, a tiny begonia I considered a goner is returning to life, and insistent green shoots are emerging from a left-for-dead poinsettia. They survived because of deep roots.I grew up in a world overflowing with plants and flowers. That’s not unusual in the south. My father was a happy gardener, if not a skilled one. Every year he tended a small triangular plot of Dutch iris by the side of our Belhaven house, blessing them with Vigoro until lovely purple blossoms appeared. He also planted a row of red floribunda roses but removed them when I tripped over a jump rope, fell into a cluster of thorns, and howled like a hyena. His grape vine experiment went well for a while, until he realized that it was close kin to Godzilla and overtook Mama’s clothesline. Not a single grape appeared, so he stuck to big boy tomatoes for the next few years. Finally, he decided he’d limit his gardening activities to raking leaves and mowing the grass. A good decision.My grandfather WG was also a flower guy. As soon as he was able, he purchased thirty acres of raw land on County Line Road and trucked up a load of azaleas and camelias from the Gulf Coast. He fashioned a loosely organized garden, no landscapers allowed. Later he dug a well and laid down pipes to draw water from his ponds. Fertilizer came from a highly suspicious source and smelled worse than rotten eggs. One rule prevailed. Never, under any circumstances, cut down a tree. Especially his prized sycamore which made a mess every spring by dropping spikey brown balls. To him, each tree was sacrosanct as well as his best friend. The house he built in Avery Gardens was constructed without sacrificing a single tree. Mine, on the far side of the pond, caused the loss of only two. He viewed their sacrifice as a necessary tragedy.“What’s wrong with cutting down a tree,” I asked him.“There’s no life without trees,” he answered. “No oxygen. No rain either.” Tenth grade biology was still miles away and I was amazed by this news. “Trees are meant to last,” he continued. “It’s almost impossible to dig one up because they have deep roots.”I’ve been thinking about deep roots lately, especially since we’re living in a tumultuous world. During the last few years, the south has been overtaken by floods, unrelenting rain pocked with deadly tornadoes and straight-line winds strong enough to topple whatever stands in the way. Hurricane season is closing in, and no one knows what that will bring. Now economic turmoil, rampant crime, and the shadowy specter of disease have inched their way into everyday life, spreading their boney fingers and gobbling up any semblance of normality.Television commentators and various government officials have assured us that we’re going to get through this. That somehow, we’ll stumble along , adapt to this new normal and survive our fate. I disagree. We will do more than survive. In my small, conundrum of a state, we may be down, but we’re never out. We may be scared, but we’re strong. If we fall on our knees, it’s for prayer, not begging. We’ll win out in the end because of grit and determination. Grace, courage and fortitude have been hiding for a long time. I believe they’ll emerge with flags flying and a big brass band. Quite simply, we want life back, our life. That’s a demand, not a request. A cadre of scientists have beaten polio, smallpox and measles, as well as whooping cough, tetanus, mumps and rubella. They will beat the virus too. That’s a statement, not a guess. Like the ancient magnolias growing outside my windows, our roots are deep. They are wide, permanent and secure enough to anchor us to the earth and to each other. They are strong enough to bind up hurt and turn trouble back on its heels. We will succeed because of our roots are deep, as is our faith and family. We are meant to last. So, summer, bless us with an abundance of flowers. We need them right now.

The Mississippi Book Festival is almost here. If you’ve never enjoyed Mississippi’s literary lawn party, here’s your chance. August 20, 2022, State Capitol Building and grounds. Here’s my experience at this wonderful event.

The Mississippi Book Festival: A Review -©-Averyell A. KesslerI was halfway through the Southern Hospitality panel at the Mississippi Book Festival when I realized what was really happening. Sheree Rose Kelly, CEO of Belle Meade Winery and biscuit maker extraordinaire, explained that she learned the baker’s art standing behind her grandmother’s apron strings. How true,Continue reading “The Mississippi Book Festival is almost here. If you’ve never enjoyed Mississippi’s literary lawn party, here’s your chance. August 20, 2022, State Capitol Building and grounds. Here’s my experience at this wonderful event.”