A boy's perspective before Katrina

Pass Christian the summer before Katrina, a 15 year old boy’s perspective from his diary as I imagine being back there.

Inside the Wisterias

I’m inside this spray of oleanders, sweet smelling tall row of bushes right up the side of the drive from the ocean to the house. They feel soft against my cheek, they sway with the smooth ocean breeze My radio is playing “ give me the free boys and free my soul I want to legit lost in your rock and roll and drift away. The oleanders are taller than me and I feel I could step inside and hide there inside this grassy green purple curtain. Oh the oleander buds dip past my cheek. I can’t imagine what would happen if a hurricane came down the road. Would the water and wind just rip up these bushes out the road?

My radio switches to “lets twist again like we did last summer,” I turn it down. I don’t want to be here in Mississippi. Oh up ahead there’s the chauffeur.

“What ju doing boy standing down here by the highway. Don’t you know those men’s drive down that road like they plum crazy.”?

“I feel nice here.”

Music plays round and round we go again.

“You want to walk along the road and talk a bit. You here by yourself this summer?”

I don’t answer. Let the salty breeze run past my eyes. See a heron dip ahead through an oak tree. I like it here by the beach, seeing the New Orleanians racing down the highway with their red convertibles, or Porsche roadsters.

I turn up the radio, “Did I tell you I need you every single day of my life plays.” Clifford nudges me and we cross the highway to the hot sandy beach. He takes off his shiny shoes, removes his socks, rolls up his pants.  Will Grandma get mad if she thinks he is resting too long? He looks at me.

“I’m telling your Grandma I’ll check the crab traps. You wanna cut some of the Oleanders there back there for the table?

“No.”

“I thought you like them flowers. Your Mama used to cut them off and wear them in her hair. I think they were her favorite flower. You hear from her anymore.”

We walk along the sandy beach, the thick sand sticking to my toes and I see the foam.

“What’s that?”

“Pollution from the oil rigs.”

“I don’t see any rigs.”

“They way out there. Come out here with binoculars. You see them.”

“Will this bubbly stuff go away?”

“Hope so. Come on you want to help me check the crab traps?

“No. I’m going back in.”

I leave my radio playing to give him an idea I mean business. The hot air whips by my cheeks and he goes and pulls a cord attached to a buoy alongside the beach.

In the distance, someone whistles. A sailboat along the horizon dips in the wind.  I can’t see any oil rigs. But gosh this goey stuff looks awful on the beach and it seems like the water is grayish yellow. I don’t remember that before.

I turn up the music “I can see clearly now the rain is gone. Going to be a bright bright sunshiny day.

Gosh I hope I can meet someone my age here.

“going to be a bright bright bright sun shiny day. Look all around there is nothing but blue skies.”

Clifford is back with a big empty crab trap.

“Nothing doing here,” he says. He sings along with the music, “I can see clearly now the rain is gone.”

Then a seagull swoops overhead and comes by the crab trap looking.

Clifford adjusts the bait tied to the center of the trap. “You got a girl friend?” He says.

“No,” I say.

“You want to get one?”

“Sure.”  Salty wind slips past my cheek. I turn away embarrassed. I can’t sleep now for the excitement of waking up in the middle of the night with these pulsations and sweats and

And the music plays, ”it’s a lover’s question I’d like to know. I’d like to kno-w, I-d like to kno-wwww”

Clifford checks another trap. “Your grandma want you to find a rich girl now.”

I breathe deep, look at the grey yellow water, and the whipping waves sloshing to shore.

“I don’t intend to stay here this summer,” I scream at Clifford. “I got friends I could stay with in New Orleans. When you going back?”

Clifford laughs. “When you want to go back to the city? What you want to do there.”

Suddenly lightening strikes through the sky. And way back from the house, I hear the gong of a dinner bell. It’s Grandma on the porch.

“I done heard from your Mama,” Clifford said. “ She told me to take special care of you this summer.”

Did she write you? Can I see the letter? Is she coming back?”

Clifford looks away. “No. She done called me.”

“You lying. When! Tell me.”

Clifford opens a third crab trap. “This one got just one puny soft shell crab. Now it wrong to eat that.” Clifford went and threw the crab back.”

“This weather some strange. Can’t seem to catch us any good crabs.” Clifford goes off after another crab trap.

My music plays,” Talk to me. Talk to me. In your own special way.”

Thing that’s great about music is that it says all the things you feel down deep but can’t say. You wonder what people went through to come up with those lines. “Talk to me. Talk to me. Hold me close. Whisper low.”

Clifford is back and he is laughing because he has found a flounder in the crab trap.

“Now how that got in here. I’m telling you Bunky. Things ain’t right on the coast. I think the big one’s coming.”

“The big what. Hurricane.”

“I keep the Cadillac full of gas and I’m ready you know. To go back to the city whenever the Mrs. Say to.

“Oh Clifford, the first sign of a storm, let’s pretend something bad is coming. I got to get back to the city. There are no girls here.”

“Your grandma say she getting you sailing lessons.”

“I’m not going to be on a boat with girls and make a fool out of myself. I only want to be—“

“You wants to look good. I see. Well when your Mama get back from Paris, you’re going back to New Orleans and everything will be fine.”

I put the oleander branch I have in my hand against my cheek and I feel the sweet smell of the soft pedals, and the slightly sharp bite of the leaves. And the music plays “Cause you’re got personality…course you got a great big smile.”

Clifford is right. Mama will be home soon. She just can’t tell Grandma for fear Grandma would punish her in some way with the knowing. 

The fifth crab trap has a “Well lookke here 2 pregnant crabs.”

That’s what those big half oranges are on the backside?” I say.

“Yep,” Clifford says. “Ocean can’t be that bad off if crabs is still getting pregnant.”

And my music plays. “There’s a thrill upon the hill. Lets go. Lets go. Lets go.”

We both start singing to the music. “There’s a thrill upon the hill.” I can hear grandma’s cowbell ringing loud from the parapet of the mansion in the distance. She keeps the loudest bell and rings from a spot designed to carry noises out to sea.

“There’s a thrill upon the hill.”

“I had my first girl friend at 15,” Clifford said. “Jumped the broom at 16. That’s what they used to call it for getting married.  I know what you feeling Bunky.

The heat is dripping down my back. And the music on the recorder seems louder. Clifford goes and throws the pregnant crabs back. “You be careful,” now,” he says.

“And you best talk to your Dad about all that.”

And the music plays “Get ready because here I come.”   A young couple walk past us on the beach and their music plays “Little Darling, to try to love  you too?” Is all the music all over the beach blending to bring people closer together or to keep them apart?