Becoming Part of the Community

I think I now truly belong here...

I moved to Columbus in May 2016. It is now August 2019—just a little over three years living here. But I believe I've finally become part of this city of 23,000 people. It's bigger than my hometown; it's smaller than Las Cruces, where I lived off and on for many, many years. Probably more years there than anywhere else.

But now I belong in Columbus, MS. I say this because I feel comfortable here, I know people, I am involved in their lives and traditions. One of those friends died recently, and I attended her funeral today, and it got me thinking that nothing makes a person part of a community more than celebrating others in the town and mourning the passing of those whom we know and love. Being part of the community also means that you know people on the street, in the stores, coffee shops, and other places. They recognize you and call you by name. I don't think a big city would be as easy to integrate oneself into. You just remain a shadow in their eyes.

Cliff had to move back to Las Cruces. He did so April 26, 2019. He has now been gone almost four months, and so I'm back to living alone and depending on the town and the people for companionship, for inspiration, and for sharing their lives and they mine. One can't foresee the future, but if I keep doing what I'm doing, I'll end up living here until I die, and be buried here or have my ashes scattered...Cliff has my last will and testament, and he will know what to do. This is not morbid, just a fact that one begins to acknowledge when there are more yesterdays than tomorrows. If  I'm buried, he know what goes on my tombstone:
Here I Lie Dead to the World.

* * *

I got my car fixed, finally, through the generosity of a friend in Manhattan. He gave me a fig leaf by creating "a job" for me to do for him, rather than calling it a loan, so that I could "earn" the money I needed to fix my car, or when the time came to rent a car to visit Cliff back in New Mexico. But getting my own car repaired enabled me to get out of town and continue exploring as Cliff and I were doing before he left—Thank you, Johnny! So it was a much better use of that income and had a more permanent solution.

I finally got to go to Greenwood, MS, to visit Turnrow Books. I did not meet the owner and the place was not very busy when I was there, but it was exactly what I expected—a well curated collection of books, along with an art gallery and lunch cafe. And they have events of music and book signings and author visitations there all the time. If I were to create a bookstore here in Columbus it would echo some of the elements of Turnrow books—mainly the curated books about Mississippi, Southern writers, book signings, and community involvement. After browsing and eating a delicious panninni pesto/turkey sandwich, I left the bookstore and just down the street discovered the recently opened Mo Joe Coffee Company, and I must say aside from their great selection of coffees they also offered sumptuous pastries, pies, cakes. I wish them luck in staying in business. Greenwood is a Delta town, situated on the easternmost side of the the Delta, and the drive from Columbus was almost exactly 100 miles.

I also stopped in a town on the way to Greenwood called Eupora. The thing is, Mississippi is a rural and small-town state with over three million people, and you can virtually drive through half a dozen small towns within a fifty-mile radius, and each of them has a history, many of which ended with their destruction by Sherman during the last days of the Civil War, and then their rebirth, some holding onto their past afterwards. King cotton dominated before the civil war and afterwards, but now the majority of catfish farms make up a good slice of Mississippi's "agriculture." The Delta is a land unto itself, and it is no doubt what people who do not know Mississippi associate most strongly with the state. It is the poorest part of the state but also has the richest history in the home of the blues, and the people of Mississippi rightly pride themselves on their long rich history.

And yes, I've become a part of Mississippi, as well. After all, my maternal grandmother was born in Jackson, Mississippi, even though she grew up in East Texas and lived most of her life in Waco, Texas. In fact, we called her "Grandma Waco" which sounds very old West to some people. And she was a pioneer in that vein; she could outshoot any of her three sons, too. So, Grandma Waco, I'm home!