Mississippians Are Resilient People

My azaleas in Mississippi
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2004

As a resident of Mississippi for thirty years, I learned that living in the tornado alley close to Tupelo meant that downpours, high winds, and spun-seemingly-out-of-nowhere tornadoes were a weekly occurrence during hurricane season.

The first tornado I experienced took down part of the only mall in Tupelo and caused severe damage in its vicinity. The hit sometimes looked like a surgical strike and other times it downed an entire patch of forest on Natchez Trace, skipping and jumping to other locations for miles. We had straight line winds that often caused more damage than some tornadoes did.

During my tenure at the local university, most of the old trees, including a beautiful and venerable magnolia were uprooted. Several buildings, including dorms, were so severely damaged that they had to be torn down and rebuilt. Students were missed in their beds by mere inches by flying lamp poles or huge tree branches, and cars were smashed by falling trees.

I will never forget looking out of the window at the menacing clouds in the distance, watching my neighbors’ son get out of his car and, before he entered his parents’ house, one of the very old trees lining the street fell with a loud grown on top of his car, flattening it into a pancake.

Spotted tornado alarms would go off every week and people had to seek shelter in the bathtub or, as in our case, in the tornado shelter built inside the garage. The former owner, a doctor, thought that it was a good idea to place the water heater in it as well. I know he planned it because I found the architect’s drawings in the hall closet.

Living in the country for a while, I witnessed tornadoes do a lot of damage to trees and at times unlucky cows were struck by lightning or picked up by the wind cone – sometimes they were dropped nearby, sometimes we never knew where they went until other neighbors would find them dead or alive.

Living in trailers in the south was an entirely novel experience for a European like me – I’ve never seen one before.  During high winds and tornadoes, the tin can on wheels, although anchored well, rattled and lifted up as if trying to fly like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz. During sun-shiny weather bees, mice, and other critters found their buzzing and stomping grounds inside the thin metal shell and thin insulation.

We survived Katrina simply because we lived on higher ground and many hours inland but the wind damage was tremendous. Our sturdy house was built in 1960 when construction was a serious business, and homes were not built of spit and toothpicks.

We lived for three weeks without electricity and covered in 60-year old pine trees that fell around our home and into the street. The loneliness and despair stemming from the devastation around us was overpowering.

An entire town in the southern part of Mississippi was razed from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. Only concrete slab foundations and pipes jutting out of the ground remained. The media did not cover that disaster much because the attention was entirely focused on New Orleans and the people self-trapped in the stadium.

Mississippians, churches around the state, and the Salvation Army, sprang into action and started sheltering people, feeding them, providing water, cleaning up the incredible mess, and rebuilding quietly and efficiently in the same manner they’ve been fighting the force of nature for ages.

My next door neighbor shot himself in his bedroom. He had mental issues and the damage from the storm and the loneliness was too much to bear. Someone bought his house for pennies on the dollar because nobody wanted to live in a house where such tragedy occurred.

Mother Nature with its spun tornadoes did not care that it was a really hot or a really cold season, it left us without water and electricity for days and weeks. We stayed in hotels, showered at the gym, and helped other people do the same.

We lost refrigerators and freezers full of food many times over. I can’t remember how many times I’ve owned microwaves and TVs struck by intense lightning; one microwave I was attempting to buy from Sears cost me one penny – they could not find the price, it had been written off the inventory for disposal, so they sold it to me for a penny.  I’ve replaced HVAC systems flattened by fallen old pines twice and the roof three times in the twenty years I’ve owned the house. Yet my fig tree survived. To this day it gives an abundant crop of figs to the family who bought our home.

When the street was impassable due to fallen trees, our Mennonite neighbors from Brooksville showed up with chain saws and cleared it in less than a day and hauled off the timber. They dragged the roots to the dump and filled the huge holes left behind with fresh soil. Other flying debris which landed in the yard was also carefully cleared.

One of the pleasures of living in Virginia, aside from its natural and unmatched beauty, is that I do not have to hear the tornado sirens every week, telling us to seek shelter. We’ve had high winds that have caused some tree damage and a few tiles stripped off the roof, but nothing compared to the Mississippi tornado alley we had to live through almost every week when torrential rains came out of nowhere.

We’ve had highly powerful and intense hurricanes and tornadoes in the last two centuries but the population density was much lower and the infrastructure less developed. Billions of dollars fly out the window with the fury of wind and water, depending on the value of the homes and businesses in its wrathful path.

In the South Mother Nature unleashes its fury periodically and people learn to cope with such intensity because they are resilient and selflessly helpful to each other in the face of disaster.

 

Inese's Story of Pain and Triumph

Inese before the fire

Our paths have crossed in 1998. I was looking for an elegant but inexpensive dress in Parisians, a department store in the newly opened mall in the neighboring town. The stylishly dressed blonde, blue-eyed associate seemed out of place; she certainly did not look southern, did not dress southern, she belonged in a chic boutique in Europe.

With her foreign accent and impeccable professionalism, she offered to search off the show floor for a classy dress. After about ten minutes she returned with a beautiful black dress with tiny white polka dots, perfect for a teacher like me. I bought the dress and, while chatting with Inese, I found out that she was from Latvia and had recently gotten married to a local man named Mike, thus explaining her American last name.

This chance encounter was meant for a reason but I did not know why at the time. I had returned many times afterwards and we spent time eating out, socializing, and talking about the past and the future. We invited her into our home and she visited a few times with her young daughters. We built a friendship based on the common experiences of having lived in Eastern Europe under the communist boot, and the life of a foreign transplant married to an American.

Trying to fit into the southern culture was challenging because acceptance was based on how many generations of one’s ancestors lived in those parts. A college education or the willingness to assimilate and contribute to society in a positive way was far less significant. Seven generations of southern residence, we were told, was the passport to societal acceptance. Little did they know that, instead of legal immigrants like us, in two decades Americans would be forced by their own governments to accept illegal immigrants and dangerous refugees from far more threatening locales and backgrounds.

Inese was born and raised in Riga, Latvia, and speaks fluent Russian and Latvian. Her love of tea changed her life forever on a fateful day in May 1974. She was eight years old and home alone. As she turned on the gas stove, a slow leak which had built up gas in the small room blew up in her face and ignited her flannel nightgown. Not knowing what to do, she crouched down and hid her face inside her knees, a move that saved her face but burned her entire torso. By the time the fire was put out, she had third degree burns on 60 percent of her body. A neighbor pulled off what remained of her thick gown which had exacerbated her severe burns.

The same neighbor called an ambulance and the day care where her father was picking up her three-year old brother. He dropped everything and rushed home.  The ambulance was already there and Inese was being whisked away on a stretcher, to the children’s wing of the Riga hospital.  Her mom was so distraught that she had to be admitted as well for a nervous breakdown. For two weeks she was cared for in the same hospital in which her daughter was struggling between life and death. Doctors did not expect Inese to survive and had told her dad to prepare for the worst.

But miraculously, she did wake up from her coma and told her doctor that she had seen a long and narrow tunnel with a bright light at the end. A booming voice had told her, it was not her time, she had to go back. That’s when she opened her eyes for the first time to such excruciating pain that she still remembers it vividly today, more than four decades later.

Inese endured three months of agonizing and unimaginable pain; her dad watched over her with devotion and fervent prayer. He sold most valuables and emptied his savings in order to bribe doctors and medical personnel with walk-around cash in envelopes, as it was the case in every socialist/communist country, to give extra medical attention to his little girl. One doctor, who was to care for her for many years, refused any money.

Once a week, Inese was taken to a special bath where she was soaked in a purple solution that would help nurses cut away, peel off, and remove the bandages that would stick to her burned flesh. The purple dye was an antiseptic to prevent infection. When morphine wore off, the eight-year old little girl would suffer merciless pain.

At the end of three months of torturous care, she was released just in time to start second grade. Her dancing days as an aspiring ballerina were over. Physical therapy did not help her much – the wounds were too fresh and she needed more grafts and many plastic surgeries for years. That is how her eight-year trek to St. Petersburg, then part of the USSR, began, every spring and summer vacation, for much needed reconstructions.

She and her mom traveled by train from Riga, Latvia, to St. Petersburg from 9:00 p.m. to 9 a.m., a 12-hour overnight ride. A caring friend would put her mom up in her small apartment for the duration. Remarkably, the courageous Inese remained an honor roll student through her entire ordeal. By the time she finished all possible plastic reconstructions, high school was almost over.

After college, Inese met, fell in love with, and married a Russian officer in 1987, at the age of 22, and settled into a difficult life on his assigned base in Irkutsk, Siberia, in the former USSR. To visit her mom and dad, Inese would fly for nine hours to Riga, Latvia, and back, even when she became pregnant. Despite all her pain and suffering, Inese gave birth to two beautiful girls in 1988 and 1989. The difficult marriage, drowning in infidelity and alcohol, ended five years later and it seemed that she was going to remain a single mom in Riga until God brought Mike into her life.

It was hard for most men to accept the responsibility of raising someone else’s little girls but Mike had a deep faith in God and a rare generosity. His kindness, determination, and love convinced her to marry him even though it meant that she had to uproot again and move to another foreign country. They were married in 1998, the year I met her in Tupelo.

A young grandmother, Inese is living today the peaceful life full of grace she always yearned for, even though one of her daughters is estranged from the family. Church, prayer, family, and God are very important parts of her life. She confessed to me recently that all the pain she endured during the eight years of constant physical therapy, skin grafts from her legs, and plastic surgeries, even the botched one in the U.S., do not even compare with the pain of not having the love and respect of her estranged daughter.

Yet Inese feels blessed and remains happy, positive, and hopeful, centered on her Christian faith, a true inspiration for other burn victims. During her life’s struggles, she had crossed the globe; she emerged from the difficult times of communist tyranny in USSR and landed in our vast country, where she built a better life for herself and for her family.

Flying South for Spring

From the moment I left the house, I did not know what I was going to find on my journey. This time I left at 3 a.m. and I discovered that, even at such an early hour on Easter Sunday, the roads were not exactly clear in the suburbs of Virginia, the capital of congestion and perennially clogged highways and interstates.

On my way south, my airline ticket offered a convoluted route via the windy city. Once aboard the plane, having escaped the unnecessary frisking of the TSA, I started perusing the in-flight magazine – they’ve never disappointed me, bursting with colorful ads, magnificent stories of faraway romantic places that look so much more fascinating in glossy photographs than in reality, and the usual environmental propaganda. This time it was all about “green” coffee, sustainability, community gardens, and U.S. Airways’ one world alliance (part of the merger with American Airlines) that is supposed to compete with Delta Sky Team’s. The name “one world alliance,” meant to help “international travelers better connect with their world locations,“ gave me shivers.

An elderly gentleman seated next to me, a physician, was bemoaning the state of medicine today and how it was Mitt Romney’s fault (he said it at least three times during our incipient conversation) and how people in Chuck Grassley’s office wrote the Affordable Care Act. Not one time did he call the bill Obamacare or blamed those who passed it in the middle of the night. I was irritated and ready to do verbal battle. I don’t know how, but I am always finding myself seated on airplanes next to liberals. I can tell by the way they dress, they behave, the way they hog the arm rest, and how they invade the floor space with their bulky carry-ons and computers. Normally there is no conversation with such people but he started it.

He confirmed my suspicion that he was a Democrat. He told me that he had to stop accepting diabetic patients with Medicare because the reimbursement was under $9,000 per year and he felt like a criminal having to justify to Medicare every penny spent on diabetic supplies. As much as he wanted to help patients, he was fed up with Medicare. And of course, it was Mitt Romney’s fault.

I explained to his seemingly deaf ears that Medicare was stripped of $619 billion over a ten year period precisely to fund Obamacare. He was appalled that insurance plans were so expensive now, could not understand why, but thank God for subsidies, and was hoping that we will soon have a one payer system just like in the UK because it works so well there. He had no problem with the rest of the working country subsidizing insurance for those on welfare, illegal aliens, and Muslims or other religious groups that find insurance abhorrent but demand free healthcare.

I was listening perplexed - I did not want to insult this person I just met. I chose my words carefully, I had to bite my tongue several times, and it was very hard to listen to his outrageously ignorant claims. He became increasingly uncomfortable and, had the plane not been full, he would have changed seats gladly to get away from my logical descriptions and explanations of the disastrous Affordable Care Act that is going to destroy our stellar healthcare. We parted ways hurriedly, and I barely had enough time to hop on the next flight, the last leg of my journey.

After bumping my head because I am taller than the overhead bins on a Canada jet, I happily deplaned on the tarmac of my beloved South, crossing my fingers that my luggage had made it as well. It was a gorgeous morning, cool and not humid, early enough to have breakfast and grits.

I accepted the strange car that the rental agency had reserved for me and whispered under my breath that I hoped it won’t fall apart at the seams. Our secretary had bought a Kia years ago and it had been a lemon from day one. This one was a stylish silver grey and had Soul written all over the black interior. Peripheral visibility was poor and it had lots of blind spots. I clutched my cross and said a silent prayer before I drove off. The roads were not crowded at all, nothing like the congested roads in Virginia with the motto – Welcome to northern Virginia, there will be delays. At times, the highways were almost empty for miles. My eyes were filled with the lush green vegetation, the colorful symphony of wild spring flowers, the hilly landscape, and flocks of animals grazing peacefully in fenced pastures.

The sky was liquid sunshine blue, crisscrossed by what appeared to be airplane vapor trails that did not dissipate for hours. It was so strange, I took a few pictures. I would not have noticed them except the small airplanes making these trails were quite noisy overhead. I don’t understand why some trails dissipate immediately and others take hours.

I stopped in my former hometown to visit the house I owned for 24 years. The street was lush with blooming fuchsia and white azaleas, bathed in sunshine and happy bees. The back of my former home looked like a solid green jungle with vines completely covering the brick steps and strangling the remaining trees. Renters never take good care of someone else’s property. I could no longer see Tiger’s grave; it looked entombed in tons of overgrown weeds, unpruned bushes, and kudzu. The azaleas and rose bushes, narcissus bulbs, tulips, and daffodils had long been obstructed and covered by a green mass.

A weak meow brought a furry surprise from a bush, the black and white kitty I had rescued years  ago and named Princess. She followed me down the driveway, into the street, trying to hop inside my car as I was getting ready to leave.  My neighbor promised to take care of her six years ago when we moved, and he had kept his promise. She remembered me and allowed me to pick her up and shower her with hugs.

The old high school building was empty and up for sale. The local furniture store that has been in business for 50 years was closing its doors. The street I took to work every day for 20 years was the same. It took me five minutes to get to the university. The expertly-manicured lawns were green already and the old trees bursting with flowers. The giant magnolia remained untouched by violent storms. Everything was deserted, save for the gate guard. Even the cafeteria was closed. I was disappointed that I would not get to see Mama Dee, every student’s cafeteria confidant and advisor. She greeted them for breakfast and lunch every day with the same words, “How you doing boo?.” Chef Fidel’s miniature garden had been replaced by bushes and flowers.

The Tombigbee waters seemed placid. I wondered if the resident gators were still hiding in the fishing holes along the banks.

Driving to Tupelo, Elvis’ birthplace, was like putting my mind on cruise control – I knew every road, pasture, home, farm, and gas station along the way. Nothing seemed changed, time stood still. Towns lost mom and pop businesses, national chains moved in, some homes were abandoned and shuttered, but churches were full on this glorious Easter Sunday. I was back in God’s country - everything was closed except for the chain bookstore. Liberals need their place to drink coffee and read free magazines.

Okolona seemed deserted. A few cars drove by slowly. Life seemed so calm and gentle, a welcome simplicity punctuated by the buzzing of bees. I almost expected to see the roads rolled up for the day.

The Turners welcomed me into their home with open arms and hugs – I had not seen them in a year. Lois had prepared her wonderful Easter meal. Life has not slowed her down much. She is just as lively as I remember her the first day we met in 1978. Harold, our WWII hero and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge is 92 years young. He stands tall, moves with purpose and energy, and still drives his truck to the store. He helps with occasional repairs at the flower shop, getting down on his knees better than most young people.

Harold delighted us with one of his war stories. His troops were returning exhausted from overseas and stopped for the night in the Civil War Cemetery in Fredericksburg where they rolled mats and slept on the ground between graves. As a treat for dinner, Harold had prepared them five sweet potato pies with potatoes he had bought from a local farmer. Some of the soldiers were not familiar with the tasty southern dessert but enjoyed it nevertheless. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drive to Fredericksburg without thinking of Harold’s soldiers bunking for the night in the cemetery.

Time flew by and I had to say good-bye once more. I don’t see my adopted family often anymore but they are always in my heart and prayers. Without their advice, guidance, and loving acceptance, I would have never been able to adapt to this country when I first arrived. With their loving encouragement, I became a proud American by choice.

I stopped in Tupelo for a fill-up at the same gas station on top of the hill, not far from Baskin Robbins. A young man with a toothless grin said, “You ain’t from around here.” Yes and no but I miss it dearly. It is the free and patriotic America I discovered and loved when I first arrived. It has not changed that much in this charming southern town. I did not want to tell this smiling and welcoming man that I live in a place where America has changed irreversibly - nobody speaks English that much among the tower of Babel of unassimilated immigrants. People speak a language that admires primitive third world cultures and promote Spanish and global citizenship in schools. Children learn at an early age to hate themselves for being Americans. This man would not understand why progressive Americans speak the language of socialism and communism. This world I see every day is so far removed from the South, it is an alien and anti-American world ruled by crony capitalists and progressives.

The sun was setting behind me in glorious pink, purple, and orange hues. As I drove east, I took in the landscape with the eyes of a child who discovers something cherished and I breathed the fresh air of temporary freedom before returning to the stifling and suffocating alien world of the northeast that crushes the American spirit for financial gain, power, and glory.