Stacey Howell, Donna Hill and Jane Fagen hosted a party for Tim, to welcome him to Fairhope. They invited the folks from the Fairhope Center for the Writing Arts, along with the Jubilee groupees.

Miz Betty Jo declared Tim was everything I said he was and more. Here is the guest of honor with Miz Betty Jo, Matt & Jenna Walcott, & Winston Groom.

"Tim is adorable," declared Jane. Jane's husband, Frank, has been to Wallowa County, Oregon, Tim's stomping grounds. Jane joins Keefer Wilson, Leon Hill and Skip Jones.

Donna Hill holds court. She earned the right. Donna made the best blueberry pie I've ever tasted. Everyone was raving over the food -- turkey lasagna (heart healthy), bread from the French quarter, with garlic butter, salad with feta cheese, and shrimp appetizer, and Donna's blueberry pie.

Our friends Mike & Janet Morehouse from Opelika, Alabama, drove down and joined us in welcoming Tim. Here they are with John Howell.

The bowl holding the salad is one that John Howell made. The Howells are a creative bunch.  Stacey paints (those are her paintings on the walls) and John turns wood.

Ann Clinton Groom and I joined Tim, John, Frank and Sonny Brewer on the porch for supper. The sunset was beautiful and the Howell's home looks out on the Fairhope pier. It was really a lovely evening. Here I am with Ann & Winston.

Thank you, Stacey & John, Donna & Leon, Jane & Frank. Tim had such a wonderful time. Thank you to each of you for making him feel so welcome. He didn't want to get up the next morning and leave for Williamsburg.

 

 

David Speights welcomed us to his beautiful home in the French Quarter, NOLA. David is very involved with the Faulkner Society in NO. And works tirelessly on behalf of the French Quarter. He gave us a personal tour of Jackson Square and the river, etc. He makes a dry Martini, too, if that's your pleasure.

Tim joins John B. and Stacey Howell, and their brother-in-law, David, in the lush gardens of David's courtyard. David's beautiful wife, Marti, passed away a few months ago. Marti was an avid reader and collector of charming hats. Their home is full of books and art. The courtyard is the perfect retreat for reading or writing.

David suggested we try Irene's for supper. There aren't many eateries open in the Quarter on Monday nights, so Irene's was packed. David said Irene's is popular among the local crowd. We know why. Tim had the softshell crab and I had the Amandine -- a Pompano fish with almonds. Good, good food, and great, engaging company. I've been to New Orleans on several different trips but I always wished Tim could see the city. It's full of such history. I knew he would enjoy it, and he did.

It was early Tuesday when Tim and I ran down to Cafe Du Monde for Cafe Au Lait and beignets. We took a walk through Jackson Square and watched the boats on the Mississippi.

Dr. John had to be back in Mobile for surgery so we said our goodbyes and thanked our fabulous host, Mr. David. Yep. That's my car with the Oregon tags in the back ground.

Sonny Brewer is the whole reason I'm here in Fairhope. I met Sonny when Jack Pendarvis introduced us at the Southern Literary Festival in Nashville. Jack then passed along a piece I wrote in the aftermath of Katrina called When Jesus Lost his Head. Sonny published it in Blue Moon Anthology, a collection of writing. And then he invited me to come to Fairhope to the Southern Writers Reading, a gathering for writers and readers each November that was born of Sonny's love of all things stories, authors and readers.

Sonny is the author of the Poet of Tolstoy Park, Carmac, A Sound like Thunder and a host of other stories. Like many I was captivated by Henry Stuart's life, the Nampa man who came to Fairhope to die, and didn't. Well, not for a long, long time. Henry built the house that Tim and Sonny are standing in front of. Sonny wrote much of his novel inside the hut that Henry built. If you've not read the book, go to this link and get yourself a copy:  http://www.overthetransom.com/poet.htm

Sonny gives Tim the history lesson on Henry inside the stone-and-mortar hut. Tim declared Sonny a fine storyteller. "He's an interesting fellow," Tim declared. "I could listen to his stories for hours."

We finished our evening by joining Frank and Jane and Leon and Donna Hill for a sunset chat on the pier. I'd show you the photo of the sunset but I forgot my camera. Bummer, dude.

Most of the time I can't remember a thing about what happened last week much less six years ago. But today I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. Twenty-six years ago today, Tim and I were flying down the Banfield Expressway in Portland, me up on all fours, and Tim in a panic in 8 a.m. traffic with a wife laboring with twins.

Happy Birthday Ashley and Shelby! As you can see, Dad and I are much more relaxed than we were the morning you two were born. But as much as we enjoy this time together, none of this compares to the excitement and joy of that day. 

We  could not rouse Aunt Linda from her slumber no matter how hard we banged on the door or how many times we called on the phone. We finally calledl your aunt Gloria to please come get Stephan so we could get to the hospital.

 "Tim, my water broke! Better get up!" I said soon as I got up that morning.

Sure, he said, rolling over and putting the pillow over his head.

Thankfully, after a few more urgent pleas and a couple of cuss words, your daddy realized I was not joking and your Aunt Gloria was more than eager to take a day off work to be with her favorite nephew and await the birth of the family twins.

You two were like heirlooms to us all. A connection to Granny Ruth, who'd had twins but lost one in childbirth. Grandma Shelby was so worried I would lose one of you that she and Uncle Greg took off for the river early that morning and didn't return until after you two had arrived. Fishing has its priorities, Uncle Greg would likely say.

Beautiful, the peditrician declared. "I see babies all the time but these girls really are beautiful."

He meant it, too.

And if could only see you now. Twenty-six years later. So, so beautiful. Inside as well as out.

As Grandma Shelby always said, "Pretty is as Pretty does."

You girls are about the Prettiest Thangs  I've ever done in my life. I love you. I miss you. Happy, Happy Birthday!!!

(p.s. Daddy just woke up, stumbled into the kitchen and said, first thing, "Did you call our girls and wish them Happy Birthday?"

 

Scot McKnight continues the discussion about the rift between Obama and Dobson over at jesuscreed.org/

Go check it out.

Then check out this Jesus for President link at CCN. Did you see this already?  I love this fella's hair. It looks good on Anne Lamott, too. I fear if I did this I'd look like the gal who left her comb back at the trailer park in 1968.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/06/29/evangelical.campaign/index.html

I'm off to New Orleans today. Tim is flying in! YAHOO!!! PARTEE-TIME!!!

Poor Poe. He's in the kennel, wondering why we all went off and left him there with the big dawgs.

That'll teach him to tear up the irrigation system!

 

 

I was 20 minutes into my workout the other day when I overheard the following banter between two men on the stationary bikes:

"Are you watching Martha Stewart again? Or are you waiting on Dr. Phil?"

"I don't watch Dr. Phil. He can't teach me how to make brownies the way Martha does."

Then the fellow on the stair-climber next to me, turns and said,  "How can you read on this thng?"

"Keeps me from getting bored," I replied.

"I heard that multi-tasking weakens one's brain," he said.

"Really?" I said. "And all this time I was blaming everything on menopause."

I don't do word puzzles because I have never understood the relationship between numbers and letters. Besides I don't want to get in the routine of counting the number of letters in the words i use. It would just be another obsessive thing that would likely distract me from really writing.

So, instead, I read books. All sorts of books. Right now on my bedside table are several books I'm reading:

Land O' Goshen by Charles McNair, an imaginative tale with southern gothic roots. There's Jesus, guns, abusurdity, and more than one memorable character. But you can't buy this book. I found mine at the local library. They've become collector items.

The Ragmuffin Gospel  by Brennan Manning. He won't tell you how to make brownies either but Brennan speaks plainly about God.

The Shack. Number one of the NYT Bestseller List for weeks now,  The Shack is a terrfic example of the power of readers. This book was rejected numerous times  by reputable publishers -- and rightly so. The writing has lowly beginnings. The strength of The Shack isn't in the writing, but in the story itself and its capacity to reveal some universal truths  -- chiefly,  our linear misconceptions about God and the world in which we live. People passing this book to their friends and loved ones has propelled it to the NYT list.

In Constant Prayer by Robert Benson. Now Benson is a writer who probably spends his spare time working the NYTimes word puzzles. He's bright, articulate and I've found this book -- about the role of liturgy in prayer and worship -- a fascinating read. 

What about you? What's on your bedside table? When do you read? Or are you downstairs making Martha Stewart's brownies?

You can find out more about Matt and his dancing on his website.

 

Scot McKnight has a terrific discussion going on over at Jesus Creed about the Dobson/Obama scuffle. Pop by and add your two cents.

http://www.jesuscreed.org/?p=4008

Question for you. Gas prices hit $4 a gallon here in the Gulf Coast today, Is it just me or could it be price-gouging due to the 4th of July? Do you think there is anything Bush could do or should have done to prevent this, or do you thing the Democratic Congress is at fault? Or is this truly just the result of escalating demand? How are the increases affecting you?

 

 

 

 I want you to use your hushed voice when you read this. That quiet voice you use when whispering to your spouse in church, or during a wedding.  I want you to lean in real close, like you can barely hear me, because I’m writing this in the still quiet of morning.

That’s when most Jubilees happen.

That’s when this Jubilee happened.

The call came at 5:45 a.m.

“Karen, Jubilee,” the voice whispered.

I popped out of bed like my water had just broke.

It had been a week to the day since I first learned of a Jubilee.  An artist told me about it over dinner at The Colony House.

“Nobody knows when they’ll happen or even why they happen,” she said. “But some of the old seers know when they are going to happen. They say the air turns silky. And it blows from the east.”

Or the north, others claim.

“Promise you’ll call me,” I said. “If you see one.”

I made everyone promise me that. The artist. The ladies at book club. The writers group that meets here on Tuesdays.

“Have you ever seen a Jubilee?” I asked the woman at Wal-Mart.

“Only once,” she said.

“What was it like?” I asked.

“It was 3 a.m. My husband called me. I went down to the bay. Shrimp were jumping  so high they were slapping me in the face.”

“Have you seen a Jubilee?” I asked the writer.

“Lived here 15 years and I’ve never seen one,” he said.

“And you?” I asked the Librarian. “Have you seen one?”

“No,” she said. “You have to be on the call list.”

“How do I get on the call list?”  I asked my friend Joe. 

“Well, you have to know someone who lives along the bay and they have to be willing to call. There are people who’ve lived here all their lives and never seen one.”

“I have to see one,” I said. “I have to get on the call list.”

“Who is this?” I said, searching for my contact case.

“It’s Donna, from book club,” she replied. “Hurry and get on down here. It’s a Jubilee.”

 Joe had told me they only last an hour or two. Donna had waited nearly an hour already, unsure as to whether she ought to wake the writer-in-resident or not.  I’ve been woken at 2 a.m. for fires, for murders, for car wrecks, and for babies puking.  Please. If you know of one of God’s great mysteries is unfolding at 2 a.m., please, please call.

 I wrote her address on the palm of my hand. Put the contacts in, shorts on, grabbed a ball cap and ran out the door.  I called Tim on my way. It was 4 a.m. his time.

“Tim, there’s a Jubilee,” I whispered.

“Oh, wow!” he whispered back.

I burst into tears, and ran the red light, afraid I’d miss it. This phenomenon of nature.

 Donna was waiting for me at the front door.  She offered me a cup of coffee, slipped on her shoes, and off we went. Her husband, Leon, had been up an hour, gigging for Flounder.

 There are only two places in the world that Jubilees happen – Mobile Bay, which the Spaniards named The Bay of the Holy Spirit, and Tokyo Bay.   Only you can’t eat the fish out of Tokyo Bay because of the mercury levels.

It used to be that the community would ring the bells whenever there was a Jubilee. People would come with their buckets and coolers, gigs and nets, and gather more fish than they ever imagined.  Leon took in 50 Flounder during one Jubilee but decided that was just too much for one man to clean. He stopped at 30 this time round.

Scientist have figured out the mechanics of the Jubilee.  The oxygen levels in the bay drop, so all the bottom fish rise to the surface seeking air. They are literally being suffocated to death.  Flounder. Shrimp. Crab. Eel.   They head for shallow waters, or beach themselves desperate for air.  What the experts haven’t figured out is what causes the oxygen levels to drop and why sometimes the only fish to surface are shrimp or sometimes only flounder or sometimes only crab.

 Jane and Frank had crab traps out at Point Clear. They’d planned to shell the crabs on Thursday, in anticipation of company over the weekend. But when they got to the traps on the Jubilee morning all the crabs were dead.  Dozens and dozens of crustaceans all lifeless, like sailors in a submarine that failed and sunk to the airless deep.  

 Frank had his net out, and was trying to scoop up what shrimp he could.  But this was a Flounder Jubilee. “Get your gig,” Donna said. “Leon and Mr. Pate are catching them down there.” She pointed to shallow waters three piers down.

I understand it now. Why the elders of the Umatilla Tribes always thank the Salmon for its sacrifice. Why they always speak of the fish in a voice of reverence and respect.

Do not repeat this story without knowing that what when you get the honor of being part of a Jubilee, you also carry the burden of respecting the sacrifice.

 

Swirls of Fish seeking air

Heading for Shallow water

The fish lay on their sides, trying to get air into their gills

 

Frank gigs a big 'un

The eel swam between my legs, the flounder make a flapping noise

We ate the flounder  at a feast for friends on Friday night.

 

 

Waving her white bra in defense of men, nationally syndicated columnist Kathleen Parker claims in her latest book, Save the Males, that maleness and fatherhood are under siege in America. But, as we soon learn, this provocative, sassy, and laugh-out-loud book is, at least in part, a loving tribute to Parker’s own father.

 

Listen in as Kathleen Parker discusses Save the Males with Karen Spears Zacharias, author of the forthcoming Where’s Your Jesus Now? 

Q: When we think of voiceless victims, the male gender doesn't usually come to mind, unless he's under the age of 8. Why would an accomplished, articulate woman like yourself want to write a book defending males? 

 

A: First of all, thank you for that generous description. It’s very simple. I was raised by my single father after my mother died and I’ve helped raise three boys. That experience caused me to see things from the male perspective and it’s not looking so good out there. Save the Males is an attempt to shine a light on a constellation of dots, which, once connected, reveal a cultural mosaic that is anti-male. If trends continue on their present trajectory, it seems to me that the American family – the rock upon which this nation was built – will be irreparably damaged.

 

I agree with the great journalist Midge Decter, who once said that families don't make you happy; they make you human. They are necessary, not only for raising children with character and purpose, but also for the continued strength of our country. A nation of fractured families is nation in trouble, vulnerable not only to external forces but also to increased government control as family autonomy is surrendered incrementally to “helpful” agents of the state.

 

Q:You speak of a new feminism. What do you mean by that? What's wrong with the old one?

 

A: We’re now in the third wave of feminism. Distilled, the first wave gave us the vote; the second gave us divorce and jobs; the third is helping us become porn stars. Look, I’m a feminist; you’re a feminist. But the feminism we grew up with that aimed to make the world a more female-friendly place has morphed in a movement that is decidedly hostile toward males and manhood.

 

It’s time for a fourth wave that recognizes the important work feminism still has to do in the larger world where women have no rights, but also acknowledges the contributions men have made toward our own freedoms. Women do have enemies in the world, but they are not men of the West.

 

Q: What do you think are the three greatest misconceptions about males that we liberated woman are passing along to our daughters?

 

A:        1. That men are to blame for all that’s wrong with the world;

            2. That men are essentially violent, dumb and irresponsible;

            3. That we can live without them.

 

Q:  Didn't you grow up in that generation of southern women that were reading Marabella Morgan's  Total Woman? You're not suggesting we ought to meet our men at the door wrapped in cellophane are you?

 

 A: Ha, now there’s a scary thought. I did grow up in the olden days when women were attentive to men in traditional ways. They didn’t have their own stripper pole in the living room, but they might have had dinner ready in the kitchen. I witnessed multiple variations on the domestic front as my father was a serial husband  - married four times after my mother died at age 31. What can I say? He was a dazzler – nectar to women – but also a gentleman. Apparently, he thought you had to marry a woman with whom you were familiar. I’m making some assumptions here.

 

But here’s the thing. Despite all those marriages, only two of which took place while I was officially a child, my father mostly raised me and he groomed me to be a feminist. That is, independent and self-sufficient – and in no way subservient to a man. My only conclusion about how women ought to treat men is with respect and the occasional unsolicited kindness. Here’s what I’ve discovered living mostly among men my entire life: Men are human. They like to be appreciated, loved, and greeted not necessarily in cellophane, but with a smile. How hard is that? For some reason, women have come to believe that if they fix a man a sandwich or sew on a button, they’ve surrendered a piece of their autonomy. For whatever reason, Southern women seem not to mind as much.

 

Q: Tell us about your father and the way in which he's shaped your attitude toward men.

 

Let me answer by painting you a picture with a little more texture. As I hinted before, my father was handsome, brilliant and hilarious. This isn’t just an adoring daughter talking. There’s a pretty significant consensus on those points. That also doesn’t mean he was perfect - five wives suggests some flaws – but he was a splendid father whose sacrifices I didn’t begin to appreciate until I became a parent.

 

He became a single parent at age 31, ten years after his marriage to my mother on his 21^st birthday while he was a pilot in the Army Air Corps. She died of heart failure as a consequence of having had rheumatic fever before the discovery of Penicillin – and left  him with a three-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy. In a devastating instant, this young man became both mother and father. I forgave him all his marital mistakes because it comforted me to think that he simply couldn’t replace my mother. A motherless girl needs to believe that.

 

From the time I was 12 until I left for college, it was just us two except for a brief, one-year marriage. Each day after school, I joined him at his law office where I did my homework until he finished up. Once home, we convened in the kitchen where he cooked while I perched on a wooden stool peeling potatoes. We talked.

 

In that ritualized communion, I learned many useful lessons about the opposite sex. I learned that men like to talk while doing something else. I learned that good men do hard things without asking for anything return. I learned that men have big hearts that are often hurt and broken. That they’re smart and wise and can even understand the pressing concerns of teenaged girls. I learned that fathers adore their children and will sacrifice anything to help them succeed. I learned that fathers will lay their lives down for their children. I learned that men are capable of honor, valor, compassion and courage and that they are essential to instilling those virtues in their sons and daughters. 

 

Q: Can men become overly domesticated? If so, in what ways do you see that happening?

 

A: The current culture essentially wants to make men more like women, while pushing women to be more like men. I can’t really figure out why this is desirable, though apparently the drive toward these ends is attached to radical feminism’s idea of equality. The thinking seems to be that if we can get enough men wearing aprons – and enough women in combat – then equality will have been accomplished. What we fail to take into account is that human nature is only so malleable. These experiments ultimately will fail, but we may have to sit through a few generations of absurdity. This is good for columnists, but bad for kids.

 

Q:  I just read a book that's on the NYT Bestseller list that portrays God as a woman. I really like that notion, that God is beyond gender, but there were several references in that book suggesting that if women ran the world, we'd all be a lot better off. What does an egalitarian society look like to you?

 

A: I guess it looks like my home, where my husband and I are co-god and –goddess, equal partners in every respect. That doesn’t mean we each perform equal portions of a given “chore” because that’s never going to happen. We’re different. We have different gifts and talents. I leave the money to him because he’s got a business mind. (He’s a finance/banking attorney who helps businesses get started.) I do the cooking because I’m good at it and enjoy it.

 

This is not a plot to keep women in the kitchen and men in charge of the purse strings. It’s about doing what makes sense. I guess we’re implementarians. When it comes to who wins and who loses, we generally skip the argument and let the one who cares most take the day. Of course, we’ve been practicing marriage for a long time (20 years). You learn to pick your battles.

 

In the larger world, an egalitarian society would recognize – and celebrate – the differences between the sexes and not reduce all transactions to a zero sum game. Equal opportunity and equal protection under the law, but no assumption of interchangeability.

 

Q: In defense of fathers, you challenge the family court system. Do you think the courts are archaic in their belief that children are almost always better off with mothers?

 

I challenge the family court notion that children don’t need fathers more than 50 days a year, which is the average number of days the child of divorced parents sees his/her non-custodial parent, usually the father. That’s insane. How is it that a man and woman who loved each other enough to marry and have children should now hate each other enough to deny a child half of his/her identity?

 

I’ve been divorced, have first-hand experience with single parenthood, and have been a stepparent, so I’m not casting aspersions here. I know how hard all of this is. But to me, the most compelling issue - more important than adult feelings - is that children know they’re loved by both of their parents and that they have equal access to both, assuming there are no compelling reasons for them not to.

 

That said, I also think that parents need to work these things out between themselves, if possible. Clearly, a baby needs to be close to Mom in the tender years, not to the exclusion of Dad but within sensible boundaries. We know this absolutely when we’re all under the same roof. Needs don’t change with address labels. At other ages, little boys need more time with Dad than with Mom. You can’t create absolute formulas that will work for every child and every couple, which is why courts can’t ever solve this problem. Parents have to be grown-ups and do the right thing for the kids they both love. I have ultimate faith in reasonable people behaving reasonably, but we may have to eliminate lawyers and judges from the equation.

 

I was talking to a friend who lives near her ex-husband so that their children can easily go from one house to the other. Their shared parenting isn’t the result of a court decree or a cultural manifesto; it’s common sense based on a shared, if separated, love. This arrangement also isn’t the adults’ fondest dream come true, you can be sure. But as my friend said, whenever she puts the children’s interests first, she always makes the right decision.

 

Q:  Quoting Walker Percy, you've said that we need to repent from labels. What do you mean by that?

 

A: I mean that when we label each other and ourselves – we’re either liberal or conservative, feminist or whatever – we tend to get locked into prescribed ways of thinking and responding. Real communication breaks down. I’d rather we ditch our –isms and –ologies and focus on our humanness.

 

Q: You've taken a lot of heat for coming to the defense of males, haven't you? Why do you think there is so much anger toward men in America?

 

A: Taking heat is part of the job description when you’re a columnist. I’ve been defending the male of our species ever since I gave birth to a boy. Until then, I had been a fire-breathing feminist and bought everything I had been taught and told. God has an eye for certitude and turned the kliegs on mine. Becoming mother to a boy was a revelation of sorts and I began to see the world through guy eyes. It never looked the same after that and I couldn’t countenance a world that was so hostile toward my boy. It’s pretty easy to take heat when your righteousness is based in ancient wisdom and fueled by love for another.

 

What’s the source of so much anger toward men?  

Two things: history and our tendency to universalize our own experience. Men have ruled the world since the dawn of time and women are ticked off about some of man’s less admirable accomplishments. On balance, I think we can see that the good outweighs the bad. On a less global scale, women who have been hurt in bad marriages find company among others who share their belief that their experience is a microcosm of the larger human experiment. One man isn’t bad; all men are. Soon the specific is generalized and a movement grows around shared anger.

 

The anger is understandable in some cases, but the globalization of that anger is mostly fashionable. The culture applauds both the anger and the hostility it breeds to the detriment of the next generation of boys, who, like my own, were born innocent - and the girls who in their true hearts really do like boys.

 

Q:  You're married, right? Did he give you any input on the book? Did you take his advice?

 

A: My husband is a prince, totally supportive of everything I do and patient with my sometimes tightly wound personality. He is my absolute best friend, the guy I never tire of talking to, and the grown up I know I can count on. As I tell our boys, I always know he’ll do the right thing. That’s the definition of manliness in my book. He mostly influenced the book by constantly reinforcing my firm belief that men are essentially good.