Branding Mississippi
Mississippi · satire · Southern Humor

Branding Mississippi

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I was standing in line at a gas station off Highway 15 the other day, behind a farmer buying coffee and a contractor buying chewing tobacco, when I realized nobody in America has a regular job anymore.

The farmer looked like he’d been awake since the Truman administration. The contractor looked like he’d lost an argument with a chainsaw. Both of them had dirt on their boots and neither one had posted about their morning routine on social media.

The guy who owns a lawn service isn’t mowing grass anymore. According to Facebook, he’s “cultivating outdoor experiences.”Buddy, you’re cutting Bermuda grass behind the Dollar General. Let’s not get carried away.

I saw another fellow recently who described himself online as a “serial entrepreneur.”That sounded impressive until I discovered he owned two vending machines, a pressure washer, and owed his mama forty dollars.

Im certainly glad the Morris brothers never referred to their scrapyard as Automotive Retirement Planner or End of Life Vehicle Transition Coordinator.

When I was growing up in North Mississippi, introductions were a whole lot simpler.

“That’s Mr. Basil. He owned the parts store. He was no retail solutions executive. Just the fellow who sold you a head lamp and knew your daddy.

“That’s Coach Thomas.” Coach Thomas taught driver’s education, coached boys basketball, girls basketball, baseball, softball, and probably would’ve coached synchronized swimming if the school board had asked. He drove a bus route, mowed the baseball field, chaperoned the prom, and spent half his life telling teenage boys to pull their pants up. Nobody called him an educational consultant. They called him Coach.

Then there was Willard at the beauty shop. Willard knew more about Union County than the sheriff, the tax assessor, and the FBI combined. If somebody’s cousin’s nephew got arrested in Tupelo at 2 a.m., Willard knew by 2:15. And she didn’t need an app.

My daddy’s generation never worried about personal branding. They worried about rain. A man might spend twenty years at the furniture factory in New Albany, forty years farming soybeans outside Myrtle, or his entire life turning wrenches in a garage in Pontotoc. Nobody called themselves a thought leader.

They just thought.

And most of the time they kept those thoughts to themselves, which honestly improved the quality of public discourse considerably.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Maybe spending too much time around farmers, nurses, mechanics, preachers, and schoolteachers has ruined me. But I’ve noticed the people doing the most useful work in Mississippi rarely spend much time talking about themselves.

The farmer growing soybeans doesn’t call himself an agricultural influencer. The third-grade teacher isn’t an educational architect. The lineman restoring power after a tornado isn’t posting inspirational quotes about overcoming adversity while hanging eighty feet in the air.

They’re too busy actually overcoming adversity. They just go to work.

Which, now that I think about it, is probably the strongest personal brand in Mississippi.

Though if somebody can figure out how to put “owns two vending machines and a pressure washer” on a business card, we’re all in trouble.

death · Parenthood · personal life · satire · Southern Humor
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These Accolades of the Deceased Need to Cease

My grandmother used to say everybody puts their britches on one leg at a time. Had she lived long enough to witness modern obituaries, she probably would have added that eventually somebody else puts them on you. Whether you’re a fourth-generation sorority pledge or the fourth generation living in the same single-wide trailer, everybody’s septic tank smells about the same. Death has a way of leveling things out. Take your town philanthropist and your town drunk. Put them side by side in matching caskets, both barely cold and headed toward the same patch of dirt, and suddenly they hold equal rank on what I can only assume is God’s Sub-Level Advisory Board.

I write pre-planned obituaries from time to time. It started after my daddy died. Some people find that morbid. I don’t. There is a sweetness in sitting with someone during the final stretch of life and listening to them talk about the years behind them. Most people aren’t nearly as interested in discussing death as the rest of us imagine. Death is unfamiliar territory. Life is what they know. Life is where the stories are. Life is where they find comfort.

I usually ask about favorite memories, proud moments, old friends, embarrassing mistakes, and the people they loved most. One of my favorite interviews was with a gentleman who had been married over fifty years. I asked him the best day of his life. He thought for a minute and said, “Well, this side of salvation, my wife, and my children, it’d probably be the day I hit a hole-in-one.” As it turns out, none of his children knew he’d ever played golf. Forty years earlier he’d been on a business trip to Florida, borrowed a set of clubs, and somehow managed to hit a hole-in-one. He talked about that golf shot with more enthusiasm than some men discuss the birth of their children. After his family read the obituary draft, they spent the rest of the evening listening to the story for the first time. A few months later they sent me a Christmas card. That’s why I do it.

So no, I don’t think obituary writing is morbid. What may be slightly morbid is the fact that I sit around reading obituaries for entertainment.

Which brings me to the obituary that still has my panties in a wad.

Now before anybody drags me behind the woodshed, let me say this gentleman appears to have been a remarkable man. He was successful in business, active in his church, devoted to his family, respected in his profession, and by every available account a good citizen. The issue isn’t the man. The issue is that somewhere around paragraph twelve I forgot he was dead.

The obituary started innocently enough. He graduated high school. Then college. Then another program. Then another leadership forum. Then came the boards, committees, advisory councils, professional associations, honorary societies, alumni organizations, and enough civic appointments to occupy three reasonably ambitious people. He was president of this, chairman of that, vice president of something else, and chairman emeritus of another thing I’d never heard of but assume required at least two luncheons per month and a nametag.

By the middle of the obituary I wasn’t reading about a deceased gentleman. I was reading the annual report of a regional bank.

Then came the awards. Lord have mercy, the awards. This man had received so many plaques that I began wondering if his family needed a separate storage building. He was businessman of the year, alumnus of the year, recipient of distinguished service awards, industry awards, leadership awards, and what appeared to be awards for previously receiving awards. Somewhere in heaven Saint Peter was probably looking through the file thinking, “Good grief, did we miss one?”

The travel section nearly finished me off. Europe. Australia. New Zealand. Russia. China. South America. The Caribbean. Disney World. Lake houses. Country clubs. Hunting clubs. Golf clubs. By that point I wasn’t sure if I was reading an obituary or applying for a travel rewards credit card.

When I finally reached the end, I realized something. The only part I truly remembered was a brief sentence saying he loved his wife, his children, and his grandchildren.

That’s the part that mattered.

Nobody stands around a graveside talking about who chaired the Interstate Regional Strategic Planning Committee. Nobody wipes away tears remembering a man’s service on the Advisory Council for the Advisory Council. We remember who showed up. Who loved well. Who laughed loudly. Who bought breakfast. Who taught us to fish. Who sat beside us when life got hard.

I have no doubt this gentleman lived an extraordinary life. I have no doubt his family misses him deeply. I simply wonder if we’ve forgotten what an obituary is supposed to be. It isn’t a résumé. It isn’t a trophy case. It isn’t a LinkedIn profile with a funeral attached. It’s the final story we tell about a human being.

And eventually every one of us, whether we spent our lives running corporations or running from bill collectors, winds up occupying the same amount of real estate. Rich or poor, famous or forgotten, chairman or town drunk, we all become sub-level.

When that day comes, I hope somebody remembers more than my accomplishments. I hope they remember I loved my people. Everything else is just committee work.

Parenthood

Good People

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They are “Good People”. That phrase always did bother me, maybe “perplexed” is a better term.  

It was a phrase my daddy sure did use a lot. Never flippantly, but a lot. 

I can count on half a hand the individuals my daddy referred to as good people. 

Two of those individuals tag team the term. They have been married nearly 60 years.  Every time daddy referred to them, it either started with or ended with “They sure are good people”. 

For those of you who don’t know, Larry and Lou McQuary were once my mother and father-in-law.   Truth be told they were such good people I made them my mother and father-in-law twice (mine and Scott’s first divorce was short lived). 

I have spent a quarter century witnessing the life of Larry and Lou McQuary. It is through that time that I now know the true meaning of “good people”.   

It is with assurance I now say Good People look a lot like this: 

Good people not only go to church, but are the hands and feet of Christ.  

They are the first ones to arrive in time of crisis. 

They not only teach Sunday School and serve as part of the deacon body, they live a life of service. They serve with joy.  

“Good People” are the first ones to show up at your doorstep with a crockpot full of homemade vegetable soup, a stack of bowls, and all the plastic wear necessary to prevent you having to exert any energy in the kitchen. 

Good People are never imposing. They simply remain at the threshold and ask what needs to be done next.  They will then go home and add you to their prayer list, and when the soup has had time to run out. They will show back up with barbecue— again, with all the fixins’.

Their character is such you could have a month’s pay in your wallet, leave it with them and know the keeping is safer than any FDIC. 

It took years for me to understand that good people are the kind that have boundaries you don’t cross but will come to aid no matter how wide of a boundary they have to cross.  

Good people remain in the shadows (which is why I may get in trouble for this post). They don’t seek recognition.  

Good people don’t simply care, they act.  

They are gracious in all their goodness. 

They are faithful to a fault. If they agree to something, we can all agree it will be seen through to the end. 

They deny a perfect life but have graciously gone about life.  

Good people aren’t born with a prestigious or prominent name, they make one. 

Good people offer more than a second chance every chance they get.  

Good people not only set expectations and meet them. They will help you meet yours as well.   

Good people put Christ first, their family second, and watch everything else fall in place.  

They love to take pride in their children and are silly over their Grandchildren. 

For 25 years I studied this term “Good People” that my daddy ever so selectively used.   

My first recollection came the morning Scott crawled out the window. Not my window, his own window. Out of respect for living under my mother and father’s roof, I could have sworn I covered my bases by letting my mother know I would not be home on that particular Saturday night. I had concocted some story about going to Sardis with a group of friends and spending the night. Apparently, concocting was as far as I got, because she never got the memo.  

Midnight came, no Mandi. 1AM, she was calling my girlfriends, all of which were *afraid to answer. By 3AM she finally found one willing to catapult me right under the bus, saying “Mrs Mary, I am pretty sure she is at Scott McQuary’s house”.   

My mother had heard of Scott McQuary one time when I casually made the mistake of showing her where he lived. Scott was 9 years older than me and lived on his own.

 By 4am she was knocking on Scott’s side door.   Meanwhile, Scott was well on his way out the back window.  Any mama that would show up at a grown man’s house to reclaim her daughter, was a mama worth running from.  

Mother’s only words that morning were “ Get in your car your daddy hasn’t gone to work yet.” My daddy worked third shift and at this point was already 3 hours late.  

I walked in the door. My daddy was in the kitchen. He walked past me on his way out the door and said, “I am glad he comes from good people”. 

Perplexed is how he left me when he went to work that day. 

It wasn’t many weeks later (enough time for the stick to clearly read positive), I told my daddy that Scott would be asking for my hand in marriage. I implored that he please be nice to Scott, we were merely trying to do the right thing.  

We finished our steaks that night and Scott asked daddy if he could marry me. To which my Daddy never asked a question and replied, “Scott, you oughta know how to take care of her. You come from some mighty Good People”.  

Scott was relieved. I was perplexed. 

When I told Daddy about mine and Scott’s first divorce, again he asked no questions. He simply stated, “You remember, he comes from good people”.  

I remember thinking, “Ugh, I’m not married to Scott’s parents.”

When I told Daddy of our second divorce, he still had no questions.  However, this time he added to his response “Well, you might be divorcing him, but I ain’t divorcing anybody. He comes from good people”. 

So it was, I had moved away from that 80 acres and Scott built right on it for the SECOND time.

My daddy thought a lot of Scott. Scott was a pallbearer at daddy’s funeral and was visibly just as upset as my brother and I.   Those two had a special relationship.  

I am certain it has been some form of coping mechanism for me. But I have replayed the reunion of my daddy and Scott countless times. I feel confident it went something like this: My daddy having been there a while and knowing the eternal value of not having to ask questions, he simply put his gentle hands on Scott’s tired shoulders and said, “Now aren’t you glad you come from such good people”.   

Good people don’t go to heaven for being good. Good people can’t get anyone else to heaven, but it’s hard to be around them and not be turned in that direction.  Can you imagine where many of us would be if it weren’t for such “Good People”? 

What a legacy.  

Mr Larry, Mrs Lou we sure do love and appreciate you.  Y’all sure are some mighty good people.

Ephesians 2:8-9 “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” 

NO AMOUNT OF GOOD CAN SUBSTITUTE THE BLOOD JESUS, BUT IT SURE CAN HELP LEAD A FELLA TO IT.

“I Don’t Want Anyone Forget My Stacie”
death · Murder · Parenthood

“I Don’t Want Anyone Forget My Stacie”

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You see, it wasn’t until I met Mrs. Judy at a local cemetery to begin refinishing her and her husband’s bronze headstone that I realized I had just met one of the strongest, kindest, most loving women in the world. 

Her husband lost his battle with brain cancer in 1991. Mrs Judy boasted of his service in Vietnam and told me how she had a veteran plaque ordered. At any rate, the stone had been placed more than enough time for a bronze marker to be tattered and worn. Henceforth, I had been brought in to refinish it.

Mrs. Judy then pointed and asked me to do the same for the single stone situated just to the west side of theirs. The stone read, Stacie Pannell, and the death date was 1985. 

Before I thought (naturally), I spoke. “Oh, Mrs. Judy, your daughter, she was murdered.”. 

When I began my first-year student semester at Northeast, it had been 13 years since the insanely senseless murder of an incredibly beautiful and highly intelligent Tiger Band member in the Murphy Hall dormitory. However, the story of the tragedy was something every student who has ever been issued an ID at Community College knew well. 

No sick pediatric patient or dying geriatric patient has ever tugged at my heart like a grieving mother. The death of a child is something I can’t comprehend. Nor is it an empathy I can shake. Standing beside me was a precious soul who had lived with immense grief for what would be 40 years next year. 

As we stood over the stone, Mrs. Judy said, “Yes. Stacie was murdered. Stacie was beautiful. She had just started her freshman-year student year at Northeast. She was happy. She was so smart and loved the band.” 

Mrs. Judy stopped there, and with her head still low, she began to walk back to her car. Not one time did she mention Stephanie Alexander. 

After Mrs Judy’s taillights were out of site, I quickly pulled out my phone and looked at “Who killed Stacie Pannell?” I was looking for an inmate number. 

However, as I stood over the now tarnished overgrown marker, an overwhelming feeling of hurt and anguish came over me for Stacie’s family. 

Stephanie was found guilty of Stacie’s murder, and, thanks to a massive system failure for the Pannel family, Stephanie spent a mere nine years behind bars for what I consider the most brutal of crimes. 

Not only did Stephanie confess, she gave details of how many times she physically rared back and plowed the first thing she could find as a weapon into Stacie’s skull. Unfortunately, that something was the stock of Stacie’s drill team rifle. 

The very thing Stacie loved was the thing that used to end her life. 

Stacie had not a single defense wound on her body. As for the number of times she hit Stacie in the head, Stephanie recounted four, but she didn’t stop until she realized Stacie was no longer breathing. 

Seriously, could there be a worse criminal roaming free in society? Stephanie has now been out of jail twice as long as Stacie was alive. 

Stephanie (now Louden) boasts of being a loving mother to her son and wife to her husband. The happy family lives just down the road in Olive Branch, Mississippi.

At 59, Stephanie is a music lover, and, best I can tell, the number 69 is the number of donors she has accumulated money from on not one but two Go Fund Me pages she has created. Both within the last 5 years. 

Who knew such programs were open to convicted felons? Nor did I realize we, the citizens forever pay for the healthcare of convicted felons.

Funny, the Discovery Network mentioned none of that when they did a fantastic job producing the “On the Case with Paula Zahn” episode regarding Stacie Pannells’ murder. Granted, it aired prior to Stephanie’s plea to the online world for financial assistance.

However, Discovery, just like every other media outlet, did nothing but give Stephanie Alexander a voice. A platform. A chance to lie and speak of an appeal. So I will stop there for fear of giving her any incredibly undeserved scaffolding. 

I’m writing this because of Mrs. Judy. 

You see, I stopped her on the way back to her car that day. “Mrs. Judy,” I said. “Do you mind if I write about and post a picture of Stacie’s headstone on my website?” Her response echoed in my heart and brought tears to my eyes. It was the exact same one I’ve heard time after time from grieving mothers. “Please do. I don’t want anybody to forget my Stacie.”

If you are a reader who had the opportunity to know Stacie Pannell, attended Ripley High School, or attended Northeast Community College in the mid-80s, I’d greatly appreciate your comments highlighting the beauty of Stacie Pannell’s life. 

My intentions are to place it in PDF form and give it to Miss Judy. I would like for her to know Stacie has not been forgotten. By all means, share this post.

parenting

Little Blue Dinosaur

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The Little Blue Dinosaur

St Louis was a good six hour drive from Myrtle. Gatlinburg, a good seven.

Both were further than my daddy cared to be from our little 80 acre patch in Myrtle, Mississippi.

I was about three years old when my daddy’s job took him out of town. Mama said he had gone to St Louis. I don’t recollect. But it soon became a trip none of us would forget.

The sun was just starting to show through the orange and brown plaid curtains of the motel room. Which meant nothing to my daddy since the street lights had beamed through them all night (we didn’t do street lights in Hargrove Holler). It was now his first day at this particular job site and had already been a long night.

Daddy got out of bed, got around, smoked a cigarette, had several cups of coffee, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, put on his clothes, grabbed his work coat, and reached for his empty lunch box. Mother wasn’t there to pack his lunch. So naturally the last thing daddy did right before walking out the door, was slip into his old work boots.

Daddy put his boots on. Sat back down on the bed and called mama. “Mary I am coming home”.

My mother has always had a high demand for explanations. She waited for his belated response. And as usual it drug out like molasses in January.

“I got up, got around, smoked a cigarette, had my coffee, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put my clothes on, grabbed my coat, reached for my lunchbox but you weren’t here to pack it. Then, naturally right before I walked out the door, I went to put on my old work boots. There in the toe of my boot sat Mandi’s little blue dinosaur. I reckon she put it in there while you were packing my clothes. I reckon she thought I’d forget her. I reckon I’m not gonna let that happen anymore”.

Most of those lucky enough to know my daddy, know it wouldn’t have taken much to get him back home. Daddy shed a whole new light on the phrase “light traveler”. But according to him, Mandi Lee and that little blue dinosaur were certainly to blame.

Daddy was home before dark that day. He put the little blue dinosaur on top of his bedroom dresser, and forever, that’s where it stayed.

Nearly twenty years passed, and I had made the decision, bought the dress, and reserved a venue.

A venue for two none the less. Out of shame I wanted no friends or family in attendance. I was 19, terrified, and away from home for the first time (okay so at three months pregnant I had obviously been out of the house).

In a cabin, on some hill (with street lights) in Gatlinburg I woke up to prepare for my wedding.

I got up, got around, had my cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, put on make up, hot rolled my hair, slipped into my wedding dress, and grabbed my Sunday coat off the hanger. It was March 13th and all of East Tennessee looked like a winter wonder land.

Thirty minutes before our ceremony and Scott was outside deicing the truck. I was inside putting on earrings, and getting his wedding ring out the box. Naturally the last thing I did before walking out the door was step into my shoes.

There in the toe of that ivory heel, sat that little blue dinosaur.

Daddy wasn’t telling me to come home. In his own special way (which was sweeter than any jar of molasses) he was telling me, no matter the circumstances I would always be that same little girl he found worth coming home for.

My Daddy was simply saying he was proud of me.

I sure do miss him