The Mooresville Road, North Alabama

The narrative of the South can most clearly be read in its wreckage—the black iron Corinthian capitals atop the stone columns looming over Windsor Plantation outside Port Gibson, Mississippi; Shiloh in 1862; Vicksburg in 1863; Atlanta in 1864; the Gulf Coast after a hurricane in just about any era. In fact, let’s throw it down: What’s good, or pretty, or true about the South that hasn’t been wrecked?

The Mooresville Road, a twenty-six-mile stretch of two-lane county blacktop running due north from Mooresville, Alabama—through the cotton town of Belle Mina to the hill town of Ardmore—offers a lexicon of Southern wreckage. The great antebellum houses along this road are, mostly, intact. What a close reader of country roads will discern, however, are the last surviving shoots of the oldest economy in the South, that of cotton, and how they’ve been decimated in the last 150 years. In the last century Limestone County, one of Alabama’s smallest in area, produced more cotton than any other county in the state. The southernmost ten miles of the Mooresville Road run through the sections close to the Tennessee River that had just the right purple-red dirt to make this happen. In 1960, there were nine cotton gins in Limestone County. Now there’s one cooperative gin left in Belle Mina, eight hundred yards north of Governor Thomas Bibb’s landmark 1829 house.

But the road. It’s best to set out from Mooresville, the southern terminus. The entire town, founded in 1818, is on the National Register of Historic Places. The clapboard post office, half of which once doubled as the tavern, still uses antebellum post boxes for its customers. A mile north of Mooresville, the first major house on the left is the Bibb mansion, with its trademark four-column veranda. The next big house, diagonally across the road from the Bibbs’, is Woodside, vintage 1845, owned by the Frazier family.  Woodside sits elegantly wrapped in cotton fields, a grand dame in a ball gown. Fifty yards north of Woodside’s entrance is Belle Mina proper. Ten of Belle Mina’s buildings, including a collapsing part of the old rail depot, are on the National Register as well.

Two miles north of Belle Mina, Old Highway 20 leads to the right. If it’s near lunch, take this two-mile detour to the Greenbrier Restaurant for Alabama’s best hickory-smoked pork. The Greenbrier gin, across the road from the restaurant, is shut, and for sale.

Returning to the Mooresville Road, take a right and keep north. The crossroads of Peets Corner, formerly a smithy for the horses from the farms, is now a convenience store. Two miles beyond that, at the French’s Mill crossroads at Highway 72, was another big  gin, now closed. North of French’s Mill, the dirt changes from “red” to “gray”—in other words, it becomes inhospitable to cotton—and the country gets hillier. You’ll pass subdivisions brought on by NASA’s housing demand in Huntsville, twenty miles away. These subdivisions are the footprint of the twentieth- and twenty-first-century economies that destroyed the agrarian economy of the nineteenth.

Seven miles north of these houses, deep in the hills, lies the schizophrenic village of Ardmore, split by the state line. Ardmore, Tennessee, was for decades wet, while Ardmore, Alabama, was dry.  This made it a nasty little place that never belonged to either state but that can perhaps best be summed up in the poetry of the name of one of its most infamous cut-n-shoot roadhouses, now, also, sadly shuttered.  The bar was called the Bloody Bucket.

Sam Frazier, Woodside’s lord and the Mooresville Road’s reigning philosopher-king, sits by his fireplace in his study over a dram of smooth Irish whisky.

“I’m thinking,” he says, “that this end of the road, meaning Mooresville and Belle Mina, is heaven. I would argue that Woodside, itself, is heaven, though other people might disagree. At the other end of the road, there’s Ardmore.  That’s hell.  In between the two extremes, I’d say, lie representations of all that man hath wrought.”

What that means is, we should drive the Mooresville Road while the crop dusters still dive-bomb those few cotton fields where there is still some of that old crop to dust.

Credits: Garden & Gun, Southern Roads by Guy Martin; Photo by Chris Granger

I feel comfortable with change.  22 home addresses, 4 high schools, the joy of professionally and er…unprofessionally colored hair. If practice makes perfect, I’m becoming a gypsy.  Two years, and I’m ready to move.  Ready for a different environment.  Ready to meet new people.  There have been two times, though, that I have wanted to throw my intuition to the wind, cement myself to the ground, and have the opportunity to invest myself in something other than the “transition” process.

The first time was high school graduation.  Overcome by the bittersweetness of it all, sentimental Anna cried, hugged, journalled, and then cried some more.  I wanted nothing more than to freeze that sense of belonging.  The same Anna had both actively searched for colleges and taken the ACT and SAT as a sophomore.  I wanted to be everywhere other than where I was.  Until I had to leave.

I had a similar experience at the end of college.  I wanted to freeze the spring semester of my senior year and just bask in it.  For the first time, I went to bar on week nights (Did you know they have Wi-Fi there?), went with friends on aimless walks in the middle of the afternoon, and never said no to, “Do you want to go to dinner?”  Had I wanted to transfer as a junior?  Sure.  Most days, actually.  But forcing myself to engage in the good, bad, and ugly of being in one place for four years generated an irreplaceable bond with this university, this town, and these people.  But apparently, you’re supposed to graduate and leave.

So I did.  I moved to Houston, worked at Komen, did some research, and then…moved home?  Right.  Moved to Fairhope to teach for a two month transition before I moved…to Auburn?  Right again.  Not only was I not going new places, I wasn’t even standing still.  I was going backward.  And that’s what October-present have felt like.  Backward.  I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for my fellowship. Every day, I wake up and can’t believe that it was handed to me.  It’s the reason I’m here.  But I’m not spiraling forward.  I took a step forward and then back and then one diagonally, and now I’m calmly waiting to see if all of that stepping will form a shape.

Truth be told, spiraling is more of my speed.  Waiting has never been strongest suit.  May, I can’t wait to see you.

Thanks to Garden & Gun, I was recently introduced to Taigan, an online market for everything from fine art to dog sweaters. The journey of sifting through the eclectic, yet unwavering high taste level, assemblage of products is a treat in and of itself.  Searchable categories include apparel, art, antiques, sporting life, wine, cigars, how fun, and gourmet food.  It’s full of one of a kind items, ranging in price, and also includes products from family owned vineyards and farms.  Enjoy!

As featured on Taigan, the 2010 Garden & Gun Best of the South, “Pie Shop” in Decatur, GA.

Granted, it’s probably because I’m loyal devotee of GOOP, her blogesque website, comprised of places she loves, people she meets, foods she eats, and things she does.

She is popping up other places, though.  The CMA’s, a new movie about country music, GLEE.  If you’re not already acquainted with her simultaneous superwoman and girl next door persona, check out this week’s Goop article.

That’s Miss McBee, thank you very much.

Next, I experienced the ultimate homecoming as I visited every public school in Fairhope to put my name on the sub lists.  Poked my head in the white picket fence surrounding the kindergarten building; bonded with my sister’s principal at the elementary school; received a hearty welcome from my stepmom’s home away from home, the middle school.  The reminiscing culminated when my high school principal stated, in a crowded room, “My favorite Anna McBee memory is when she dated that jerk who gave her a third degree burn on her face…not one of her finest moments.”  Insert excessive blushing here.  I’m an adult.  I can qualify my actions.  I’m capable of saying all sorts of articulate things.  Why I chose to mutter no such phrases at this moment I will never know.  Instead, “Well…we weren’t technically dating,” were the only words I found.  Not one of her finest moments, indeed.

Flash forward a week later, and I had 3 days of teaching under my belt.  My first day of subbing was for my stepmom, Kim, who has extremely bright and interested students.  Needless to say, I got a bit spoiled.  Next, I found myself as the stand-in for the art teacher.  The art room was a special place, where I found myself putting words together in entirely unprecedented orders.  Sentences like, “Dude, let him out of that cabinet,” and, “No, you can’t stand on the table and strangle him with that pool noodle,” somehow found themselves into daily conversation.  I didn’t exactly learn anything about art, but I learned more than a few things about patience.

I also learned how to confront 13 year olds.  Apparently they are rather creative creatures.  While overseeing lunch detention, I told a student that I didn’t care why he hadn’t realized that he needed his textbook to complete a chapter review and that no, he could not go roam the halls to get it.  When he blankly stared at me and then proceeded to laugh, I told him that he might have better luck with the principal’s understanding and that he was welcome to give her a visit.  He says, “Look lady, the principal is my grandma.”  I quickly retort, “All the better reason to not want to go see her right now.”  Lunch detention ended, and I pulled him aside and gave more encouraging words than he deserved.  (Afterall, lunch detention is where you go to complete unfinished homework, and he neglected to bring his homework.)  When the day ended, I told Kim about him.

The principal is NOT his grandma.

In the midst of such academic wonder, momma cat had kittens!!  If you haven’t met momma, she is the wild cat my dad has been domesticating for a few months.  (She mysteriously began frequenting our back porch…when my dad left cat food on it.)  Once a wirey, skittish cat of the night, she currently resides in our garage with her kittens, and boy are they CUTE.  Meow Meow.

Right after that, I went to Auburn for a fantastic long weekend.  I ran into dear friends in the staircases of the student center, watched gleefully as sweet friends participated in Miss Homecoming campaigns, said hello to my new apartment, and got a glimpse of the assistantship responsible for my return.

January…I. Can’t. Wait.

And if I need another reason to be ecstatic:  Harry Potter is in 8 days.

Until then, teaching, football, and holiday cooking, here I am.

East, though…I’ve been east.  I-10 east for 8 hours takes you to an idealic, coastal Alabama town, and at a very clear point between a pecan orchard and an ironically fitting polo field, you find my home.  It’s not Santa Barbara, but I hear it’s awfully pretty.

Why do I want to drive across the county to see something that bears a striking resemblance to the place I call home?  Who knows.  But I’m happy to report that I’m getting on I-10 midday Friday.  And heading East.

When I was little, I would beg to go golfing with him.  We’d leave the house by 7:30 a.m. for a much anticipated 8 a.m. tee time.  First and second holes…fun.  Third hole…”Dad, I’m doing fine, stop correcting me.”  Fourth hole…”Anna, you’ve been looking at the ball for 10 minutes, go ahead and putt.”  Fifth hole…”Anna, you can’t expect it to go in the hole when you’re not aiming toward it.” 

I wouldn’t trade those Saturdays for anything, but lunch couldn’t come fast enough.

He is compulsive about details, but scatterbrained.  A combination that stresses me out.  I tend to stop listening when I’m angry, a trait he would likely change if he could.

All of that to say that this morning, the same man who so quickly became annoyed on the golf course was as he appears below. 

I woke up this morning with back pain and the nagging discomfort of slept in contacts.  A cup of coffee and bowl of cereal later, I remembered something from Komen that I wanted to finish over the weekend.  So I sat in my new desk chair, looked out the window, turned on some Miles Davis, and typed.  Tedious, careful, specific.  I fine tuned the paragraphs and clicked my mouse over the save icon.

I logged on to gmail to send it to my boss and selected “attach a file.”

SHIT.

I immediately knew what had happened.  Not the first time, but hopefully the last, I had pushed “save” rather than “save as” when working in a document opened from an e-mail. 

I’ve done this approximately twice a year since I was 15, and every single time, I stare at the screen in denial, confident that my efforts can be resurrected. 

“It’s GOT to be on my list of recent documents,” I thought. 

It wasn’t.

I picked up my phone and dialed the number.

“Good morning, sweety,” I heard from the other line.

“Daddy, I have a question.”

The familiar tone in my voice probably told him one of approximately 10 things were about to come out of my mouth.  (At least half of those 10 are technology related)

“Yes, sweetheart.”

(Insert pathetic desparation here)  “When I open something in an e-mail, change it, and save it, where does it go?”

“Did you ‘save as’?”

“No, but I did save it.  I know I did.  So it HAS to be somewhere.”

“It doesn’t HAVE to be somewhere.  It should be saved in the e-mail.  Go look and see if the document attached to the e-mail is different now.”

It was not.

“Dad, it’s not different in the e-mail, but it just HAS to be saved somewhere.  I pushed ‘save,’ so it has to be.  It didn’t just go nowhere.”

“Hunny, it might have gone nowhere if you didn’t press ‘save as,’ because it hasn’t been saved on your hard drive.  I’m really sorry.”

My end of the phone was consumed with utter disappointment.  But something tells me that one the other end, there was a smile.

1. the word “special” has glorious ambiguity
2. According to Meyer’s Briggs, my friend Kelli is 100% extroverted, 88% feeling, and apt to become a nurse, social worker, OR fashion merchandizer.  Ya know, Kelli’s third passion.
3. Contagious disregard for all academic responsibilities.
4. Quixotes, as in the bar, has WIFI.
5. Turning everything into letter form.
6. 5:45 a.m. workouts. WOOF (they’re called graduation pictures, people)
7. Peanut butter crackers can be a perfectly good dinner.
8. It’s normal for 5,000 students to rave in the library.
9. It’s also normal to get a beer following a 2 hour mind-boggling feminist guest lecturer.
10. Getting requests for rush recs. 

Here in Houston, so far, fall feels like summer, and I’m fairly certain the kids don’t keep their fingers crossed during December and January for snow days.  I know, I know, Fairhope is hot.  yeah yeah yeah.  Fairhope is also ideally located between a river, bay, and ocean, so the evening breeze is unmistakable.  I’ll admit, I’m using Houston’s weather as an excuse to a) not wear makeup and b) not blow dry my hair.  So, my skin and hair health are at all time highs.  But, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I wish the morning air was just cool enough for me to know I should blow dry my hair.  And jeans, oh how I miss jeans.  Houston may have a lot, but until an evening stroll requires a sweater, it doesn’t know quite what it’s missing. 

Perhaps they just haven’t met.  Gosh, I can’t believe I forgot my manners.  “Houston, meet fall.  Fall, this is Houston.  I do hope you’ll stay a while.”

I wasn’t an English major because of my story writing gift.  Never one to constantly have a book in my hand, I picked my major for very different reasons.  It’s rare, in fact, that I fall in love with books, with characters.  In middle school, my aunt gave me the first three Harry Potter books one year for Christmas.  It was months before I touched one, but the second I did, I knew I’d discovered something very special.  Soon, my dad and stepmom were reading them, and we entered into a decade and a half long family journey into the wizarding world. 

There was Kim, who was always intrigued by Professor Snape.  Dark, mischevious, but strikingly loyal, Snape was the character she just knew would ultimately prove to be a hero.

And Craig’s boyish glee at the quick-wit and surprising one liners.  He would sit on the couch, reading and laughing out loud, late into the night.

Then there was me.  I felt a connection to Harry that has yet to be surpassed by another character.  I would lie bright eyed in my bed until 3 or 4 a.m., painting vivid pictures in my head of a world I wanted to know.  Wanted to see.

It was few years later that journaling sparked my passion for writing, but introverted Anna would never have dreamed of sharing worlds imagined in her head.  Until senior year of college.

I was in Advanced Composition, to satisfy the upper level writing requirement I had put off as long as possible.  (Afterall, senior year=as long as possible.)  The first week was a bit of joke.  My professor would ramble for 20 minutes or so, before deciding he had nothing else prepared for the day.  The next few weeks were spent reading essays and evaluating writing techniques.  “I can do this,” I thought. 

And then came the writing.

I don’t remember what the first assignment was…something about describing a person doing a task.  The night before it was due, I haphazardly wrote about a girl whose systematic movements in the kitchen perfectly paralleled her clean-cut exterior and seeming lack of emotion.  I was completely shocked that my brain had managed to simultaneously make up a story and transfer it to a word document.  Hmmm.

The next assignment was another brief description, and I was once again pleasantly surprised when I looked at the computer and saw an enchanting Disney World tale staring back at me.

And then there were the next ones.  “The big ones,” my professor stated, when he introduced the longer assignments half way through the semester.

I remember wondering what on earth I would “share” about my life for ten pages.  What was interesting enough that people would want to read, but non-precious enough that I would want to share it?

When I sat at my computer, the latter requirement faded away, as I detailed McKenna’s burn accident, painfully illustrating why she was–is–the most important person in my life.  Finally, for the last paper, I explained the process of telling my parents I had changed my long-term plans.

The class that was supposed to be a joke–the class that was a joke.  The assigments I had left until the nights before they were due.  And yet, all of that last minute writing culminated in four pieces I have sent to editors and publishers.  The act of telling a story–whether it was my own or only one imagined–forced me to write vulnerably. 

Harry Potter’s world used to be my escape.  It was something I pictured in such detail that Lord Voldemort himself was my biggest worry.  Now, the wizarding world is more than an escape for me, more than a treat for my lively imagination–it’s a story, intricately woven so that readers actually feel a sense of belonging.  It’s art. 

So, I’d like to add an appreciation for the art of storytelling to the list of things I owe to “the class that was a joke,” and thank you, Harry, for letting my generation feel like “the boy who lived.”