8/23 Goodbye City of Soul

I'm sitting in the Jackson airport on a overcast afternoon, waiting to board my plane. Joe Biden was just announced this weekend as Obama's VP pick and the 2008 Summer Olympics will conclude soon.

In my backpack is JoAnne's book, "Barefootin'," photos of her and Willie I'm using for a magazine article, and a camera filled with images of wonderful friends whom I already miss dearly and moments that I've ingrained in my memory forever...

Looking out on Memphis at night. Eating in Oxford's square. Skateboarding at 3a.m. in a church parking lot. Playing Air Guitar. Visiting Willie's grave in Yazoo City. Dancing at 930 Blues Cafe. Congregating at JoAnne's for one wonderful after party. Getting my nose pierced.

Now in the airport, instead of feeling sticky and hot, I'm actually chilly and wishing I had a sweater.

It seems like just yesterday I got here, meandered around to the Enterprise desk and was pleasantly surprised to pick up my hot red Ford Focus.

After a tearful drive from JoAnne's, I relinquished that sweet little vehicle and got in return a receipt for a big bill.

More saddening was saying goodbye to so many lovely people: The JFP staff and interns, the associates, neighbors, Bryan, Janine, Shannon, and of course, my housemates, Alex and JoAnne.

As Dad said on the phone on my way to the airport, "Knowing my daughter, you're probably an emotional, sentimental wreck right now. It's OK. We love you and look forward to seeing you!"

I look forward to seeing them too and spending a couple of weeks at 1240 Tenth Ave in our white cottage next to the park I've played at since I was a baby. Home is where the heart is, but my heart isn't just parked in the Willamette Valley––it's all over the country and world.

I am incredibly honored and blessed to have spent this summer this summer so well. It's been both transforming and adventuresome. During the past nine weeks, I have learned more about journalism, the South and life than I could have hoped or imagined.

I am proud to call myself an honorary summer Mississippian. I am proud that I listened to my heart, that I followed this whim, that I threw myself in and didn't stop seizing opportunities up until the last moment. I am proud that I've let loose and opened myself up to a future filled with possibilities.

I am forever changed because of Mississippi and its people, and a better person for it.

I will be writing about this summer for a long time, but this will be my last post from Mississippi.

RIP LeRoi Moore

I lost my breath when I scanned the New York Times news updates and saw that LeRoi Moore had died.

A founding member of Dave Matthews Band who wowed my group of friends and me two years ago with his saxophone performance at the Gorge, LeRoi, 46, died of complications caused by an ATV accident in June.

Dave Matthews Band still performed yesterday and announced to their fans in Los Angeles their tremendous loss.

Saxophonist Jeff Coffin, who has played with Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, has filled in for LeRoi this summer and will continue to do so.

I'll never forget LeRoi's signature look: dark glasses and shoulder length dreds.

In just over a week, Kelly, Renee, Nicole, Kim, and I will return to the Gorge for DMB '08. As I look out on the rolling hills that give way to the stage, beneath the golden sunset that illuminates the amphitheater, I will think of LeRoi and imagine his jazzy, soul-filled playing.

A Team

Donna wrote a wonderful editor's note last week about the Jackson Free Press interns called "Smells Like Team Spirit." Like the rest of synergistic JFP staff, we editorial and [FLY] interns bonded well and worked hard together on our summer projects. I'll miss the summer '08 crew!

The "Assigned Summer Reading"

At the beginning of my summer in the South, Donna and JoAnne joked about my "assigned summer reading." Books filled the little makeshift shelf in my room and I accumulated more (mostly from the Willie room/library) along with magazines and newspapers. Living with a literature lover, I'm exposed to all sorts of good reads, especially by Southern authors or endorsed by local independent bookstores like Lemuria.

These below are the books that have kept me up late into the night or have piled up in my room as I naively imagine I'll make it through them all. I wish I had the attention span to read an entire weekend or the free time to read more voraciously. I've decided that the fastest way to fall into my graces is to either write me a love letter or show me you can wordsmith with proper grammar and eloquent, dynamic style.


Barefootin' by Unita Blackwell with JoAnne Prichard Morris

Greater Jackson: Welcome Home with essay by JoAnne Prichard Morris

North Toward Home by Willie Morris

My Mississippi by David and Willie Morris

New York Days by Willie Morris

Younger Than That Now by Jeff Durstewitz and Ruth Williams

Sweet Potato Queen series by Jill Conner Browne

Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty

One Writer's Beginnings by Eudora Welty

Eyes on Mississippi by Bill Minor

Queen of the Turtle Derby and Other Southern Phenomena by Julia Reed

Rested Souls: A Guided History of the Civil Rights Movement by Townsend Davis

Requiem Mass by John Dufresne

In the Time of the Butterflies by Isabel Allende



•This seems to be an ever-expanding list :) •

Adventures with Technology

At the beginning of my internship with Jackson Free Press, I excitedly signed up to learn video and podcasting. There was a reason behind my eagerness: I’m horribly clumsy and inept with technology. Even after taking crash courses in multimedia from my more tech-savvy friends, I have the worst luck with the littlest tasks, like sending story attachments over I-Chat.

The video and podcasting didn’t work out for this summer but I still managed to become more efficient with technology.

The following anecdotes chronicle my embarrassing but character-building moments at the JFP with audio recorders, the staff camera and microfilm spools at the Department of Archives.

• I’ve twice panicked Maggie when I told her I couldn’t find my interview files on the voice recorder, one of which was my at least an hour-and-a-half interview with a Freedom Rider, Helen Singleton. Relieved after I found them buried behind other recordings, I spent way too much time trying to figure out how to get them downloaded to my Powerbook than should have been necessary. Instead, I plugged in my headphones to the recorder and transcribed directly.

• For my first photo assignment, I failed to check if the card was inserted in the Canon Rebel before I left the office and was dumbfounded when I tried to take a photo of Paola Conner and saw “CF card missing” blinking on the screen. Several weeks later, I thought I had learned my lesson but hadn’t. I took the camera, headed for Clinton, and once there, realized that within the less than 15 minutes I’d checked for the card and run to the bathroom, someone had removed it to download photos. I now check the camera twice before I leave the office.

• About a month ago, I accompanied my fellow interns, Sophie and Ward, to the Department of Archives. I’ve spent my share of time with microfilms at home, but I struggled with my film reel for some time before a kind assistant took pity upon me and showed me that I needed to flip it around to fit for the specific reel. I think the Media Literacy Project associates picked up the microfilms faster than I the first time they used them at the Eudora Welty Library. -Thanks to Sophie for creating the interns an archives “how-to”-

• Twice in phone interviews, I’ve accidentally hit a button on the phone with the side of my face, muting the interviewees’ voices temporarily––for about 30 or so seconds. Luckily I quickly found the button to unmute the phone and was able to gracefully transition to my next question without chopping up the interviews too much.

Oh, and I've learned Guitar Hero on the side.

A Winding Road

Two months ago today, I looped around the Belhaven neighborhood of Jackson, Miss. listening to Bonnie Somerville's "Winding Road" on my I-pod. I nearly cried as I meandered because I instantly missed the familiarity of home, of school, of loved ones, and of Oregon.

"What the hell was I thinking coming here?" I kept asking myself, questioning my sanity for working an unpaid internship in the sweltering hot summer of the South. But I knew, I knew deep within me that I would have a transformative summer if I opened myself up to the possibility. Just like the summer before in Mexico, just like all the times before in which I'd taken risks and emerged a better person, proud of myself for following my heart.

After spending that first day with Cat Woman JoAnne who immediately intrigued me and made me feel at home, I met some of the finest Southerners around over the course of eight weeks and immersed myself in the Jackson Free Press' incredible community.

Today I wept walking the same loop along Belhaven's rugged streets and beautiful college pond that I've walked since I arrived, stopping to swing on a magical play ground with a tire dragon that you just do see anywhere in America these days.

In less than one week, I'll drive alone to the airport, return my bright red Focus and board my plane. I'll leave the familiarity of this beloved place that once seemed foreign and its beautiful people whom I had never imagined I'd find so much in common with.

I'll head north toward home, to mom, dad and Anna, to the house I've lived in my whole life (minus college), to my home state that I'm not as attached to as I once was.

The nights begin earlier now and the rains have come pounding. Fall is well on its way, meaning it's time for me to return for my college grand finale. I'm vexed, wanting to stay longer, but knowing too the stinging sadness I feel shall pass.

As Medgar Evers said, "I don't know if I'm going to heaven or hell, but I'm going from Jackson."

I don't know what will come next for me after my senior year, but I know that this summer in Jackson has brought me in touch with the woman I want to be. Wherever I end up, I'll credit this transformative experience and go from Jackson in the direction of my dreams.

Winding Road
by Bonnie Somerville

Well, the rain keeps on coming down
It feels like a flood in my head
And that road keeps on calling me
Screaming to everything lying ahead

And it's a winding road
I've been walking for a long time
I still don't know
Where it goes
And it's a long way home
I've been searching for a long time
I still have hope
I'm gonna find my way home

A Sad Day

August 17, 2003. I collapsed to the floor of our church when I my mom pulled me aside, sobbing, to tell me that my fun-loving older cousin Drake had been killed in a car accident early that morning.

My dad had called to wish Aunt Linda a wonderful 55th at 8:30a.m. “Hello, sissy! Happy Birthday to yo––” he began, cheerfully. “STOP! Linda screamed. “Drake’s dead.” His girlfriend, Julie, was the driver. Police officials said the car was going 90MPH and "catching wind."

Drake and I weren't particularly close, but tragedy had never hit home like that before. I’d been to funerals and mourned the losses of older church friends and family members, but nothing prepared me for seeing my handsome, charming and mischievous older cousin’s lifeless body in a mahogany casket.

I wanted to run up the chapel aisle and wake Drake up––he was only sleeping, right?–– but he couldn’t be woken. “Think about his spirit,” my mom said, comforting me. I had never touched a dead body but on that sunny August day in Novato, CA, I held Drake’s cold hand. I thanked him for childhood memories, forgave him for swatting me with a broom after I’d poured Beano into his ice cream once in 1998, and sobbed inconsolably, clinging to my stuffed polar bear, Snuffy.

I grew up a lot after that experience. I learned to hold forgiveness in my heart, like my aunt Linda who instead of sending Julie to jail, asked her to speak to high school classes about Drake and the dangers of speeding. I learned to say I love you to those I care about whenever possible. I learned that as a young person, I am not invincible and neither are my peers. I learned that, indeed, the good sometimes die young. It’s not fair, but it’s not a perfect world. Through this realization, I learned to honor the memory of loved ones, which has helped me to cope with subsequent losses of young people–– my high school crush who committed suicide, my lovable classmate Kory who was killed in Iraq with his dog Cooper.

It's been five years since we meandered about our house at 1240 10th Ave. in a painful daze. Five years since we booked immediate flights to San Francisco for the funeral. Five years since I got out my art pencils and drew a portrait of Drake as my tears spilled onto the thick cream-colored paper. Time heals, but not completely.

I still cry every August 17th. I still play songs from Drake's funeral and look at pictures of him every couple of months so that I don't forget what he looked like or how he acted.

Today, I celebrate the life of my older cuz who left us far too young at age 19. I also celebrate my Aunt Linda who turned 60 today. She has demonstrated the power of forgiveness and the spirit to persevere with her teaching career at San Marin High School. I celebrate Morgan, Drake's sister, who was just about to head to her freshman year of college when Drake died. She made it through her undergrad in an impressive four years and now as a gorgeous, poised and well-loved 22-year-old, works in the hospitality industry.



Here's to you, Drake the Snake:

Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven
I must be strong, and carry on
Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven

Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven
Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven
I'll find my way, through night and day
Cause I know I just can't stay
Here in heaven

Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knee
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please

(instrumental)

Beyond the door
There's peace I'm sure.
And I know there'll be no more...
Tears in heaven

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven
I must be strong, and carry on
Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven

Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven

Helen Singleton: Resolute in her Spirit

PUBLISHED in the JFP July 30, 2008
by Lisa Anderson



Helen Singleton tried to rest on the cold cement as a rat scurried around her and ran up a pipe. She grabbed a handful of trash from the filthy cell floor and stuffed the pipe’s opening. Squeaking and squealing, the rat wanted to break through the barrier. Singleton had already spent one night in city jail, and that second night in county jail, she dozed off merely because she felt exhausted and tried not to dwell on what would come next.

It was Aug. 1, 1961, and Singleton, 28, wore a gray, striped prison skirt in Parchman Penitentiary. Her cell looked out on a 4-foot-deep corridor and a steel-doored room with a strapped chair. This was death row where Singleton was jailed during a summer when the prisons overflowed. “I can stand about anything here, but I think if they march somebody past me to the gas chamber, I’m gonna flip out,” she thought.

Separated because of her race and gender from the rest of her group, Singleton sat behind bars alone with resolute spirit. “This must be done,” she said. Singleton knew that she and her fellow riders were helping to revolutionize civil rights for black people, that they were testing the U.S. Supreme Court ruling that interstate travel must not be segregated.

Racism had a minimal impact on Singleton in Philadelphia, Pa., where she grew up, and in Southern California where she and her husband Bob moved for college in 1958, but she witnessed the realities of segregation when she visited her grandmother Hazel in Virginia during the summers. Her mother, Victoria, would have to cook chicken and vegetables the night before to make the trip to Virginia without stopping for food.

“We couldn’t even stop at restaurants to use the restrooms,” Singleton recalled. Once, her mother made cornbread that Singleton and her sister took to a white lady as a gift. The woman slammed the door in their faces and told them: “Don’t you know any better? Go to the back door!”

In 1954, Singleton watched the Brown vs. Board of Education ruling on TV. “My goodness! They don’t even go to school together down there?” she remembers asking herself. She and Bob participated in sympathy marches in California to support the sit-ins occurring across the country and boycotted the Woolworth’s national chain for not serving black people.

Bob, UCLA’s NAACP president, became the leader of the Los Angeles Freedom Rider group but didn’t want Singleton to go on the July 30 Freedom Ride. “It’s not fair for him to ask others to go and have me stay because it’s too dangerous,” Singleton thought. “I’m going.”

Before the Singletons got on a plane for New Orleans with one change of clothes, they called their parents. Bob’s mother cried. Singleton’s parents were upset. On previous Freedom Rides, segregationists had bombed and burned buses and brutally beat riders.

The riders filed onto the train in New Orleans July 30, 1961, and sat quietly on the more than three-hour trip, knowing they would encounter some sort of a mob and FBI officers in Jackson.

No one in their group was physically injured, but they knew the possibility was real and they had trained in nonviolent civil disobedience before they left.

The group had brought minimal belongings, knowing whatever they had with them would be taken away. They knew they would be stripped, searched and given prison garments. Mississippi officials arrested Singleton and the 14 other Freedom Riders from Los Angeles as they walked into the “whites only” waiting room of the train station. The fact that whites and blacks were traveling together on a train from New Orleans to Jackson was reason enough for local police to warrant their arrests.

Singleton, on her first night in her single cell in the city jail, saw three other black women literally thrown into jail. One woman said that she had been arrested for driving without a license even though she was a passenger. And that is what helped motivate Singleton as she sat in jail for a month with the Freedom Riders.

The Riders sang peaceful songs, such as “We Shall Overcome,” in prison. Singleton enjoyed the songs, but as a deadline-oriented person, she didn’t want to sing about achieving goals “someday.” She wanted set timelines for change. Riders also led hour-long lectures about the topics they knew best, speaking loudly into the corridor to reach one another. Singleton discussed art and anthropology.

Singleton wasn’t Jewish, but asked to see the rabbi, anyway. The sheriff agreed, saying, “Your soul needs to be saved.”
The rabbi wasn’t supposed to bring news to the Freedom Riders–only spiritual talk–but turned to the deputy and said, “What, I can’t tell them Roger Maris just hit another home run?”

Singleton left prison early because she had painful swelling around a tooth. After she discovered that she had an abscess, Singleton had to seek medical attention outside prison with the aid of an NAACP attorney. Bob remained in prison.

Just when she thought she’d have a break from the South, Singleton’s family prepared for another trip to Virginia, her mother preparing chicken and vegetables once again.

When Singleton’s family spoke about her Freedom Ride during the visit, her extended relatives–mostly professionals–disapproved. They said their businesses suffered, and black teachers struggled to get hired because of integration.

“These things will have to change,” Singleton told them.

Finally, there came a year when Singleton’s mother no longer had to cook the night before trips to the South. The Singletons had helped to make a step for black people, and her mother was thrilled. As she visited in later years with her family before she passed away in 2005, Singleton’s mother had no problems getting service at restaurants and stores.

Singleton, now 75, is the mother of three grown sons and a retired art consultant living in Inglewood, Calif. She returned with Bob to Jackson in 2001 for a Freedom Riders reunion where they saw the black chief of police wearing the same uniform she had seen on Capt. J. L. Ray, a white chief, in July 1961. Singleton got chills.

The mayor ceremoniously gave the group keys to the city, and they drove up to take a tour of Parchman.

“It’s changed institutionally,” Singleton thought, yet there is much more change she wishes to see in this country, like having Barack Obama become the first black president.

When Singleton and the Freedom Riders made their trip in 1961, headlines about sit-ins, boycotts, bus burnings and other activist activities pervaded the newspapers and TV. People around the world heard about the Civil Rights Movement. She challenges the next generation to reach the same level of activism.

“Young people today need to be aware that even though we were fighting for the freedom in our day, what’s going on now is that the liberties are abridged in the form of laws,” Singleton says.

“They need to be vigilant about their civil liberties. I don’t tell them what to do–I leave that for them to decide.”

Oxford/Memphis:"The cautious never live at all"

On an idyllic Friday evening in early August, we jam- packed my bright red car with bedding, packs and granola bars, heading out for a weekend adventure. Alex, his friend Sam and I rolled down all of the windows and opened the sun roof, letting our hair fly wildly in the wind. We listened to various remakes of MIA's Paper Planes, which as a result has become one of my new favorite songs, and wound along the interstate, looking out on rice crop while the sun set.

Just before we had left, Sam, who was severely injured after being hit on his bicycle by a drunk driver in April 2007, had another accident, this time caused by his car. Sam had recently gotten his license back after more than a year of physical and speech therapy that gave him greater mobility and drove an adapted car that made it easier for him to use his left side instead of right. We were all relieved he was OK but angered with whomever and whatever screwed up his car, causing his accelerator to stick, engine to smoke, and car to donut.


The more than two hour drive passed quickly. I felt refreshed to take a break from Jackson and see Northern Mississippi for a change of pace and scenery. Once we made it to Oxford, we traipsed along a seemingly rural path to Sam's new house where he'll reside while he attends Ole Miss this year. It feels like you're out in the country, but really it sits just a few blocks from a main street and McDonald's.

I think Sam will thoroughly enjoy his last year of school in Oxford. His cute house has a decent-sized yard for his dog(s), lovely wood floors, and spacious bedrooms. He plans to add a porch swing and modify the entrance way for easier accessibility.

For dinner, we drove into downtown Oxford–– "the square"–– and ate at a popular joint called Ajax. Colorful twinkle lights line the ceiling and a slew of young people give the soul foodish diner a definite college town vibe.

I ate the chicken and dumplings with side greens and a "reb beer" that tasted delicious together. So much for vegetarianism. Chicken is too delicious for me to not indulge, especially in a place that prepares it in such hard-to-resist, fatty and fried ways. Sam ordered us all some fried pickles, which I have come to love during my time in the South, but unfortunately the eatery was out of its famous jalapeno cornbread.



At our cozy leather-seated booth, I looked around and envisioned Bryan sitting at a table during his college years with a cold beer, reviewing articles as the Daily Mississippian's editor-in-chief. Who knows if he did this, but I got an image in my mind and went with it. I thought of Lauren, JoAnne and Scott Barrus, my buddy from Mexico, all of whom have attended Ole' Miss and, for the most part, loved it.

In 1962, James Meredith became the first black person to attend Ole Miss. Riots ensued and two people were killed. The Army National Guard remained on campus during that year, JoAnne's freshmen year.

From Ajax, we sat outside awhile––Alex and Sam smoking, me getting ADD tendencies and looking every which way at expensive, designer clothes through windows. I admired the square with its numerous boutiques and balconies. The place looks like my dream college strip and I had to pinch myself to remind myself I wasn't imagining the scene before me.

Why didn't I think to come to school in Mississippi?

We paid a wasted $15 cover fee at Proud Larry's for a pathetic excuse of a band that the collar-popped frat boys dug. I enjoyed sitting high atop the balcony for a while, escaping from the huge crowd and soaking up a nice view onto the streets bustling with all kinds of people and lights. For a moment, I felt deja vu from Mexico. Many of the bars and restaurants there included lovely landings.

Why is it that when thunderstorms strike and balconies avail themselves, I'm never with a love or crush? Both are two of the most romantic things I can think of–– being exposed to the elements, being up high, looking out on city sites––but I never seem to get the timing coordinated of getting a person in the right place at the right time. Last summer thunderstorms frequented Querétáro and this summer they've frequented Jackson. I've been on more balconies and stoops during the past two summers than I ever am. No love, no crush.

One day, I'll be sitting on a balcony with a Mexican man named Josewho can sing to me in Spanish and a storm will rage above us. He'll move us to a umbrella-ed table and ask me to dance with him under it, letting the rain paw at us. He'll pull me out into the rain and the bar's band will start playing a cover of "Dancing in the Moonlight." Magically, I'll transform into a good dancer and Jose and I will dance about the balconey.

Until then, I'll just enjoy my solitude in the storms and on the balconies.

At Lucky Larry's, I began to realize what a well-known person Sam is throughout Oxford–– hell throughout Mississippi. From the first time I met him at 930 Blues, I knew he was gregarious and humorous–– good-spirited and strong in soul despite a huge set-back just more than a year ago––but here random people on the streets would call out "Hey Sam!" everywhere we went.

Sam introduced Alex and me to some free spirit characters whom Alex summed up well when he referenced Jack Keroac's "On the Road." Coco, a Vietnamese spitfire with bleach blonde pixie hair and hipster clothing (short short Carhartts and a low buttoned top with red slip-ons), welcomed us to her hometown and within half an hour of meeting us at Larry's, asked "Hey, this is kind of lame. Do you want to go to my house, smoke some pot, and make some art?"

It made me feel at home. Eugene hosts its share of hippie free spirits.

After exiting Proud Larry's, the four of us, along with a guy dressed in tight jeans and a red headband named Taylor Webb, proceeded in a swanky, expensive car to the house Coco was "staying in." Taylor followed on bicycle, lost control when his chain came loose from the cruiser, and spilled into some bushes down the sloping street.

From Coco's eccentric house filled with half-finished art projects and lots of clothes and mess everywhere, we ended up at a hipster party. Slightly uncomfortable, I remembered that I had vowed to completely let go of my inhibitions and fears in Mississippi. This was another good way to do so. There, at the small cottage, I saw Bryan's other boss dressed in short shorts and an athletic top, celebrating the opening Olympic Ceremonies and talking about phalluses. I refrained from letting out any snide remarks or referencing my women's and gender studies editorializations.

I felt like a voyeur, mesmerized and alluded by this conglomeration of young folks going wild. I felt kind of wild myself with my tangly long hair swaying about and my prominent nose ring. Every once and awhile, it feels good to totally cut loose with people you trust. Friday night, we decidedly cut loose, returning to Sam's at 5a.m. after I had "called Jesus" for Alex and we picked up early morning snacks––sunflower seeds–– at a service station.

Once Alex and Sam woke up and we all showered and dressed, somewhat rejuvenated and definitely hungry, we met Coco at Big Bad Breakfast for brunch. John Currence, the American Seafood King 2008, whom I interviewed the following Monday, opened the joint in May 2008 to complement his other two popular eateries, Boure and City Grocery. It's menu features namesake dishes of Oxford authors. One brunch option is Willie's "Good Ole' Boy."

I loved my "Secret" veggie omelet and whole wheat toast. Orange juice and coffee hadn't tasted so good together. Coco offered us some of her self-created honey butter on the most fluffy, sweetly buttered biscuit I've laid my lips on.

After breakfast, we stopped in the Depot, a vintage flea market shop. Sam bought his parents a bottle tree and Alex picked up some books. I love consignment and vintage shops. They offer items with so much more personality and character than high-end chains. We found what Alex termed a "pimp's sink"––marbled gold, fur coats, funky buttons, wooden children's games, and a slew of other random things. Back downtown, we stopped into Square Books, a funky, local bookstore that celebrates it's literary scene well with signed photos and books.

We took Sam back to his house and greeted Sam Sr., who was moving Sam's belongings in, before heading to William Faulkner's Rowan Oak home and local legend Ray Shapiro's "Main Squeeze" juice bar. In the short time I spent around him, Sam left a resounding impression on me and I wish him all of the best in Oxford. He stands as a testimony to the goodness in the world––profound forgiveness, unwavering determination, the utmost positivity.

When I sent my mom an article I found online about him, she was moved to tears, across the country. In honor of Sam, I vow to never bike without my metallic silver skater's helmet again. Even if we're the best bikers around, we cannot escape drunken idiots who chose to drive and put other's lives in danger.

Juice was a good choice. Sarabeth, a girl we had met the night prior at Coco's greeted Alex and me at the Main Squeeze. We were both a bit foggy and glad to take a more than hour long stop to sip on healthy, fruity smoothies and enjoy Sara's care-free, "new age" spirit.

She sat with us on the funky Squeeze's porch in high-rised bright green pants and black belly top, smoking cigarettes and running her fingers through her silky blonde hair. We talked about her broadcast journalism degree, her relaxed boss Ray, and couch surfing. I wondered if perhaps she was hung-over or stoned because she had such a peaceful, loopy aura about her, but now that I reflect, I think she was just a chilled-out hippie girl who wasn't afraid to open up and connect with two wandering travelers from Jacktown. She even took down our last names, just in case fate caught us together again.

Driving onward to Memphis, I felt so excited to see another new Southern city. Bruce Springsteen's "Walking in Memphis" played through my head, as cheesy as that is to admit. After a slight detour, Alex and I arrived at his family friend Liz's elegant brick home in a fancy neighborhood not too far from Beale Street. I am a firm believer in making connections in every possible city you can to keep travels inexpensive and have city experts to refer to.

We dumped our bags in lovely rooms that I'd usually be too afraid to touch they looked so polished and sophisticated with high-rested beds and perfectly angled picture frames adorning expensive antique furniture. But, by looking at the photos of Liz, her beautiful daughters Betsy and Sally and her late husband, Charlie, hamming it up and looking full of spirit, I realized she probably wasn't an up-tight, crazy clean woman. Alex had explained before that she was quite the opposite.

Liz, who was out when we arrived, left us a note, inviting us to eat some snacks and drinks. We took her up on her invitation and brought Cheez-its, Fritos, pimento cheese, and wine out to the glass patio table. Those minutes spent out in a beautifully landscaped backyard with summery snack foods reminded me of sitting in my parents' backyard with the fabulous Albany crew.

Out there, a creeper-sounding man called me and asked when I wanted to go on a date. "Leeeeza," he said in a drawn out seductive voice. "When we gonna get together?" I realized it was a man I had met at a recycling center who had wanted my phone number. I had given it to him somewhat reluctantly. Based on his voice over the phone, I thought the better of my initial sizing up and decided not to do the date.

Shannon met up with Alex and me at Liz's house dressed up. Alex and I followed suite and snazzed up our outfits for an evening on Beale Street. He even ironed.

Once parked downtown, we looked out, mesmerized, on the street's lights from the top floor of the garage until an attendant asked us politely to meander on. We continued to a delicious barbecue joint where I ate fried chicken for the second night in a row. The restaurant, adorned with Elvis memorabilia, bustled with customers while blues music played in the background and excitement grew surrounding the Olympic's opening ceremonies.

Slightly dragging as we left dinner with full bellies, we ordered energy drinks to go and stopped in some funky shops. At the Voodoo one, Alex tried on a pair of breast pillows and Shannon grabbed them for a photo op. We all tried on animal hats,–– my a crocodile––oversized sunglasses, and other silly accessories.

There's an intensity to Beale Street, especially when you see it literally filled with people. It's a party in the street and offers excellent people watching. Men cleared a small path to do flips down, like those you see cheerleaders do. We stopped in at Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero blues club a few blocks up, which was a lot bigger and less intimate than 930 Blues. Toward the front, patrons signed large banners in Sharpies to wish Freeman a quick recovery after his serious car accident the Sunday prior.

We met up with Liz's niece, Melissa, and wandered more on Beale. A petite, energetic Asian man named Phat photographed our randomly conjoined group with his Nikon and pulled me aside for some portrait shots. I have to say, I've never modeled this much before––between the JFP's fashion shoots (for [FLY] and interns–– and this one. I don't think I'm vain, but I do enjoy being in front of the camera and don't feel bashful anymore about striking poses.

Our group decided to relocate from Beale Street once our little nook quieted down and its band finished playing. Many of us went to a "dive bar" called Earnestine & Hazel's that several people had recommended earlier in the weekend. The corridors were really dark and it was quiet enough that I became drowsy.

Sunday I woke up with a terrible stomach ache and pounding head. Three hours later, at 11a.m. I felt a little better but was comatose the rest of the day, at brunch eating french toast and a bloody Mary and especially when Liz's family, Alex and I drove to Tunica, a casino haven. To me, casinos are the worst places in the world. I feel depressed and overwhelmed whenever I even think about Las Vegas. But, I promised myself I would do everything this summer that I was invited to do, and that I have. And did.

We hit the road south around 6:30p.m. and it seemed to take a lot longer going back than coming. I got sad, as I always do on Sunday nights, going into another work-filled week and realizing it'd be a whole five days until another bout of freedom, but thankful for a wonderful, adventuresome weekend. Anna and I talked at length tonight and she left me with a quote that I think sums up my newly found life philosophy that I hope I'll abide by at age 75. "The brave may not live forever, but the cautious never live at all."

"Hey Mom... you know how you were talking about piercings?"

"I gotta level with you and you are going to kill me," I told the rock of my foundation as a woman and one of my greatest heroines.

"And what, exactly, is that, Lis?" my mom replied with heightened curiosity and an underlying skepticism of what was to come.

I can be the queen of BS when I want to be.

"Well, I got your e-mail about Anna getting pierced, but you reached me a little bit late."

I planned out a speech in my head: "You see, I wanted to expand my horizons by experiencing a piercing parlor... good writing material, right?" But, I thought the better of it.

"Oh God, you didn't get a tattoo, did you? Please!"

"No... I... I... I got two new piercings in my ears..." I admitted before legitimizing the third.

"I can deal with that," she offered.

"And... well... um... I also... maybe... kind of... pierced my nose."

It felt like I'd just relieved myself of a great burden, thrown the garbage out, offered a sacrifice.

"YOUR NOSE?!" she asked, bewildered. I could read the disappointment in her voice but she still listened to me spewing a stream of conscious speech.

"Well, yeah, I did. It will be a cute little diamond stud, promise. I'm not sending any pictures right now–– it's a big ole' ring because it's safer and cleaner that way. I wanted to go to the best place in town. If you absolutely hate it, I will take it out. It was really cheap. I love you. I have to be honest with you."

I paused to take a deep breath and let my mom respond.

[She laughs]

"Oh boy. You really are having an adventurous summer. Keep them clean–– no infections, especially while you are on our health insurance!"

"And I won't get jewelry that makes me look like I have a zit on my nose."

And so went our conversation with mom opening up to my less-than-ideal choices in her book in good spirits and me admitting the pride I felt for going out on a whim and sticking needles through my ears and nose.

Things I miss about Oregon in the Summer

In no particular order:

• The scent of my mom's strawberry rhubarb crisp wafting through the kitchen after dinner.

• Sleeping outside on the deck with mounds of blankets and waking up to the soft buzz of the sprinklers that makes you realize you have to go in the house and pee.

• Running off the Albany Tennis Club diving board under a clear summer sky as the last one in the water before closing.

• Feeling the burn in my legs from biking the Bryant Loop and Simpson Park Trail.

• Laying out in the backyard on an 80 degree day in a swimsuit with a good book, iced tea and lemon juice bleaching out my hair.

• Hiking across the Willamette River for gelatto and covering my feet in dust or mud on the Takena boat landing.

• Dressing up in ridiculous outfits with Anna, Heidi, Nicole, Julia, and Christie and proceeding to local eateries to make fools of ourselves and catch it on video. Sometimes, frequenting zealous Christian music festivals or Fred Meyers in our garb.

• Skinny dipping in the middle of lakes on camping trips with the girls and feeling totally one with the water and freed from the confinement of clothing.

• Preparing Italian dressed, cheese smothered zucchini and huge pots of mac and cheese.

• Inner-tubing down the ice-cold river hand and hand with a special someone, hammocking side by side, and laying by an open-pit fire to warm up.

• My friends laughing at me for devouring handful after handful of blackberries on the side of the road or by cemeteries, smearing purplish juice around my mouth.

• Playing capture the flag and sardines at Takena Park.

• Window shopping in Salem and eating chocolate cake from Jerry Frank's.

• Eating salt water taffy and a bowl of Mo's clam chowder in Newport after flying a kite and wading in the Pacific Ocean.

• Attending lots of weddings–– dancing, catered food, free drinks, yummy cake, dress-up, and (generally) bliss.

• Family vacations. There's never a dull moment with the folks. 'Nuff said.

• Driving to Junction City for Scandinavian Festival and feeling in tune with my inner Swed and Norway roots.

• Not feeling guilty for driving a car and instead, biking everywhere.

• Rollerblading with my metallic silver skater helmet.

• Making money–– not necessarily a lot, but enough that I'm not constantly draining my accounts.

• Not feeling like an inactive, lard-ass bump on the log.

• Going to church pretty frequently and being in touch with my spirituality.

• My dad barbecuing chicken on his grill and accidently burning off a part.

A Place in the Clouds, a Foundation of Stone

"Wide Open Spaces"
by the Dixie Chicks


Who doesn't know what I'm talking about
Who's never left home, who's never struck out
To find a dream and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone

Many precede and many will follow
A young girl's dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed

[Chorus:]
She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes

She traveled this road as a child
Wide eyed and grinning, she never tired
But now she won't be coming back with the rest
If these are life's lessons, she'll take this test

[Repeat Chorus]
She knows the high stakes

As her folks drive away, her dad yells, "Check the oil!"
Mom stares out the window and says, "I'm leaving my girl"
She said, "It didn't seem like that long ago"
When she stood there and let her own folks know

[Repeat Chorus]
She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes

Lard ass learns a lesson

Mississippi is the fattest state in the union.

I am reminded of this every time I go to button up my now snug jeans and struggle to zip up my blue and white polka dot dress. I promised myself I wouldn't gain weight down here. Eight weeks later when I step on the scale, the red arrow wavers ten little lines further than usual.

Barbecue, Fried pickles, beer, and a severe lack of exercise due to the intense heat have contributed to my waistline demise in the South.

Bring on the biking, Rollerblading, hiking, and dancing. I'm ready to kiss this lard ass goodbye!

Glenn le gusta español

?Hablas mucho español? ?Cuanto años ha sido?" JoAnne's middle-aged neighbor, Glenn, called to me with the hint of a Southern accent from across McDade's parking lot.

I almost dropped my filled-to-the-brim reusable shopping bag as I turned to see him resting his arms on his bike handles, his silver helmet fastened over a baseball cap. "Am I hallucinating?" I asked myself. "Hearing things?"

"¡Si! Ha sido como... tres años, más o menos," I replied after a couple of moments. I was thrilled to be speaking Spanish, the romantic, beautiful language that I've craved.

Glenn had seen my biography in Jackson Free Press. It reads: "Lisa Anderson studies journalism at the University of Oregon and love her Northwest, hippie college town. She enjoys speaking Spanish, painting, Rollerblading, and going on spontaneous adventures."

"We need to get some Mexican beer and practice at my place sometime," he said before explaining to me that he had picked up Spanish later in life and kept up with grammar through online exercises.

"Absolutely."

I'm always eager to drink a few coronas and exercise my easy-to-loose language abilities. And, speaking with an eccentric older bicyclist man, I'm sure some great writing material will abound.

To Feel the Rain

The rain pattered gently on the deck outside my bedroom window, waking me from a sweet slumber Friday morning. I rose from my bed and groggily meandered in my sweats and T-shirt to the front porch, disheveled with wild, tangly hair, achy ankles and the scent of sweat mixed with cigarette smoke permeating from my body. I thrust open the red door, relieved to feel a cool, calming breeze, ran out into the rain barefoot, and dug my feet into a muddy patch in the front yard.

The thunder boomed and brilliant strikes of lightening illuminated the ominous sky. Tears quickly filled my eyes and streamed down my checks, stinging my dry skin and awakening me from my 930 Blues Cafe stupor.

"Someone told me long ago, there's a calm before the storm, I know; its been comin for some time. When it's over, so they say, it'll rain a sunny day."

I let myself soak in the refreshing wetness until my hair was drenched and my clothes clung to me like clay. I threw up my arms and waved them in graceful circles, making up my own sort of hippie- rain dance. I bowed to the greater spirit–– to the divine universe–– and asked for guidance in the next juncture of my life, being utterly vulnerable and honest with myself.

Then I moved to JoAnne's bright blue porch swing, sprawled out on my back and swayed back and forth as I read the morning paper, not really absorbing the headlines, but trying to. My focus instead turned to the pitter pattering that reminded me so much of Oregon and moved me into a thought-provoking trance.

Jackson's overcast, stormy weather came at just the right time. The thunderstorms and rain showers have comforted me this past week and helped me to cleanse my overloaded mind.

Tuesday I broke up with Keith, my best friend and boyfriend of more than two-and-a-half years whom I met speed dating during freshmen year.

I may have just made the biggest mistake or prepared myself for the biggest opportunity- adventure of my life. For that, I hope I am forgiven by those who may not understand my momentary need to walk alone, who may question me and take frustration in my long distance decision to part ways with such a wonderful, handsome and brilliant guy. It is a heavy, scary load for me to carry and contemplate and I've become an insomniac, overanalyzing my actions, trying to figure myself out, and realizing how my choices affect others, especially Keith and our dear mutual friends.

I need to be pushed from my comfort zone and shaken with something bold and new. I need to feel that flirty, raw energy and have my heart race again. I need to open myself to the possibility of applying for Peace Corps and AmeriCorps without becoming too quickly settled. Most of all, though, I just need a break to fall in synch with the Lisa I'm becoming.

I inaugurated my poignant plunge into being single after nearly 30 months with an unintentionally long drive in the pouring rain. "Maggie, "I can't separate my emotions right now," I told my assistant editor, embarrassed, at 1:30p.m. Wednesday. "I'm so sorry I'm a mess."

"Oh, Lisa," she said sweetly. "I'm sorry. Go take care of yourself––leave!"

And so, I hopped in my Focus and set out aimlessly in the pounding rain before I decided to do what I've wanted to for a long time. I spent at least an hour driving about the slick roads in frustration, trying to find the parlor with my incorrect MapQuest directions until I finally saw the huge yellow and black sign: Squench's.

Once there, I vowed not to leave until I had paid my $70 and come out with three "rings." As I sat nervously on a turquoise marbled table, a plump, bald man with glasses named Chad marked me with a blue pen and told me, like I'm sure he's told a plethora of women, "I hate making pretty girls cry."

With that, Chad stuck a thick needle through my right nostril, causing me to clench my jaw in a moment of agony that sent tears rolling out of my right eye. He proceeded to put bulky silver rings through my new nose hole and double ear holes and quickly cleaned me up, sending me out to reveal my "new badass look."

It's been four days since I came home with my slightly dramatic piercings, greeted by JoAnne's warm smile, acceptance and giggling. Several people have joked that I "let loose and got wild in Mississippi." I needed to, in some way or another.

Is feels instead like weeks have passed since Wednesday, like everything's moving forward and I'm stuck in one spot––Tuesday's break-up––terribly unfocused and confused. I wonder if we'll ever be friends or lovers again. I wonder so much about what the next year will bring to the point that I obsess over it. Despite these complicated moments, though, I feel an inner strength in myself, unlike any sense of confidence I've known before.

Being in Mississippi has made me realize that I needed time to stand on my own two feet, alone, and feel whole. I needed my cup to overflow without being attached to another's cup. I want to stand taller, and not slump my shoulders. I want to come home to Eugene and incorporate sides of my soul that have come out to play in Jackson. JoAnne and other Mississippians have taught me how to live and liberated me from the parts of myself that I couldn't seem to let go of back home.

Last year, my mom made me a beautiful calligraphy piece with my favorite quote. Mary Williamson's words speak more to me now than ever as I embrace my evolving 21-year-old self and find the courage to move forward after separating from my college sweetheart.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”