RRN Online Volume 538

September 23 '06

Volume 538

Felicia Brown By Megan Henry

Megan And Felicia I was six years old, and it was the first day of summer vacation the day I met her. She was a towering, curly-headed fifteen-year old stranger. Of course, I had seen her before. She went to my church, but that had not prepared me for spending eight hours a day with her. She was waiting for me on the couch that first morning. I slowly walked up to her, in my mom's Minnie Mouse nightshirt that was so big that it dropped to my knees. Felicia Brown seemed perfect to me, that morning, and still does, eight years later. She has been my baby-sitter, 'sister', and friend.

Felicia is the type of person anyone can talk to. Even if she doesn't like someone, she'll still talk to them. She loves to talk that much. It is hard to believe that a person could know everyone in Pontotoc County, but trust me, she does. Her bright, bubbly personality matches perfectly with her thick curly head of hair, which has gone from brown to blond in the past couple of years. I have grown taller, so she is now shorter than I am. However, she would never admit it because she is rarely seen without her heels. She holds herself very well, as a lady should. Of course, her posture comes from 'hard core' Miss Mississippi training. Her usual attire is a T-shirt and shorts, but her favorite thing to wear is definitely high heels. I just don't think she would go out somewhere nice ever again if she wasn't sporting stylish heels.

Lying by the pool has always been a great pastime of ours, but she has ventured on a few family vacations, too. I have so many great memories of Felicia from trips she took with us. My family loves to tell, "Felicia stories" from the Cotton Bowl, white-water rafting, the beach, and even a haunted house. The great part is that we can all laugh with her every time we tell these stories.

Felicia just has an air about her that brightens a room. Whether she is mad or ecstatic, her stories are replete with emotion, which always makes a story better. I get phone calls often, making sure everything is going good and to give me a good laugh.

She is very active in church, which has set a great example for me. Felicia never gave in to many of the high school temptations. She told me that I helped her with that by holding her accountable as all kids do to the people they look up to. I've definitely tried to model a great deal of my life to be like hers. For example, she convinced me to participate in our school's beauty pageant not long after she won Miss Pontotoc. To make sure I did my best, she drilled me on how to walk on stage. Trust me, when she really sets her mind on something, it will get done.

"Fe" is always ready to help me when problems arise. Recently, I was studying for a geometry test, and she was in the driver's seat on the way home from Oxford, preaching all she knew about inscribed and circumscribed circles. The only thing I can't get help from her in is sports. Her excuse, "I don't like to sweat." That phrase has been instilled in my head from the first summer we spent together. She is getting better at that, though, I have to admit.

Felicia went to Pontotoc High School, so she has plenty advice that is given continuously. She's told me everything from classes I should take to reminding me to bring a jacket to every class because the high school is freezing.

She is now currently employed as a second grade teacher in Tupelo. Every time I see her now, she has a hilarious story about those twenty children that make her question her career choice. I will have to say, when she first got the job, I was a little jealous of those lucky second graders. It sounds really childish, but then everybody is childish sometimes. I was reminded of how childish this was last week when she heard me get a math problem right while I was studying. Her response, "That’s' my baby! Look at her go!"

Eight years have passed since that first summer day. Birthdays, Christmases, even some of my family get-togethers; she's always been there. I think that is one of the reasons why I look up to her. Felicia has always shown interest in what I do. From being locked out of our house in tears, to singing in the rain, all of our time together was memorable and special because I was always more than just a baby-sitting job to Felicia. It is the love Felicia has always shown me, regardless of our age difference, that makes her so special to me.

Serendipitous Events At Home & On The Road

Every so often, an unexpected surprise comes our way that truly blesses us. There's an unusual word that characterizes such a moment; it is the word 'serendipity.' Serendipity is defined as "the faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident." And, while serendipity has been in our language for more than two and one-half centuries, it' only been a part of my vocabulary for perhaps thirty years. In the past week, two separate and unique happenings seem to qualify as serendipitous moments.

In this newsletter, I have shared these moments in reverse chronological order, and each in a distinct article.

The first serendipitous experience happened on my way back from Memphis last Friday. I played a key role in the first experience, but I merely walked into the second one.

Barbara and I had stopped by to visit Sarah after our nursing home rounds last Sunday afternoon. On the bistro table in the kitchen, I spied a typewritten document and was about to peruse it when Sarah told me it was something Megan Henry had written and given to Felicia.

"She wrote it for a class assignment, something about an essay on a person you admire. It made me cry and Felicia, too," Sarah shared.

I don't know if I laid it back down or if Sarah grabbed it from me, but it ended up in Barbara's hands.

"Want me to read it to you?" she offered.

"Sure."

I sat waiting for what seemed like twenty seconds for Barbara to start reading.

Sarah noticed my agitated state and commented, "Barbara's just doing what good readers do. She's reading it silently before she reads it aloud."

Barbara did well, by the way, with her reading and didn't choke on the emotional parts that would have put a lump in my throat.

I found the article well written and well reasoned. Both Sarah and I noted Megan’s use of "replete," and were pleasantly surprised to see it used by a youthful writer.

I asked Megan for permission to print her tribute to Felicia, which she readily gave. She said she had turned it in but had not received a grade on it. I told her to tell her teacher I gave her an "A."

Megan, a freshman at Pontotoc High School, is the daughter of Brad and Julie Ard Henry. Her maternal grandparents are Bill and Theresa Ard, and her paternal grandparents are Estelle Henry and the late Victor Henry, all of Pontotoc.

Fried Pies Granny's At Potts Camp

Regular readers of this newsletter may recall that the Carters and the Hales, on a recent hunt for a better burger, stopped at Granny's in Potts Camp, MS to inquire about the fried pies served at a local eatery. The pie lady was on vacation, so we didn't get to try the homemade peach and apple pies that day.

Since I travel to Memphis roughly once a month, I was reminded of the fried pies when I skirted past Hickory Flat and was nearing Potts Camp, last week.

"Depending on what time I leave Memphis, I may have time to try a pie on my way back," I thought to myself.

Fortunately, I finished my business early and was back in Mississippi around noon. I was traveling U.S. 78 about seven miles per hour above the speed limit, in something of a hurry, with my mind on a fried pie.

"Trucking it" in the passing lane, I was about to overtake a pickup with a Pontotoc tag, so I slowed slightly to see if I recognized the driver. While I often pass a vehicle with a Pontotoc license plate, it's not often I recognize the occupants.

I'm amazed at the sixth sense drivers have as evidenced in the ability of complete strangers to feel someone is looking at them whenever two vehicles are moving parallel, in the same direction, and at the point the vehicles are virtually side by side. In the pickup, the face that turned to glimpse mine was none other than Ken Hester, pastor of First Baptist Church. I wasn't sure he recognized me with my sunglasses, but I lifted my right hand from the steering wheel to nonchalantly give him a quick wave.

My first thoughts were that my pastor had been to visit someone in a Memphis hospital, but then I remembered that Friday was his normal day off. At the time, we were east of Byhalia, MS. I was about to put some distance between us when I thought about the fried pies and wondered if Ken had time for a snack.

"I won't run off and leave him," I remember thinking. "If he stays on '78, through Holly Springs, I'll flag him down and ask him to join me for a fried pie in Potts Camp."

I slowed as we neared the Lake Centre exit and motioned for him to follow me.

We pulled onto the shoulder of the exit ramp, got out of our respective vehicles, and greeted one another. It turned out Ken had been to a bookstore and had plenty of time to join me for lunch.

"I've got the whole afternoon," he shared when I asked if he had time for a fried pie in Potts Camp.

I led him along old Hwy. 78 and into Potts Camp, stopping at Granny's. The pie lady wasn't working, but they still had some of her pies for sale. They also sold lunches and barbecued items. We each ordered a pork barbecue sandwich and a fried peach pie.

Ken volunteered to bless our meal with prayer, and in his prayer he gave thanks for "this serendipitous moment." Yes, that's why I chose to associate both our encounter and Megan's tribute as serendipitous events for use in this issue.

Later, at suppertime, I tried to engage Barbara and Sara Sue in a game of twenty questions.

I began, "Okay, starting now, y'all get twenty questions to guess which member of First Baptist Church I had lunch with today."

"Ken Hester," Sarah blurted out, instantly, depriving me of any sport with them.

Though the game was over, that didn't stop Barbara from asking, "What did y'all talk about?"

Sarah wanted to know, as well, and judging by her arched eyebrow, I figured she was bracing for the worst.

"Well, I really didn't take any notes, but let me think for a minute," I responded.

"We talked about where each of us had been. We discussed the depressed economy of the Mississippi Delta and how landowners lease yearly hunting rights for tens of thousands of dollars. I gave him an update on Barbara's health conditions. I even warned him of my difficulty in swallowing certain foods, so that if he looked up from eating and missed me he'd know I had left the table to expectorate something."

"We talked about how nobody makes a fried pie better than someone does in our own family, whether that person is a mother, grandmother, or aunt. Made at home just naturally beats store-bought homemade. The only thing we discussed pertaining to the church was the revival. Neither of us could believe the visiting preacher was only forty-nine (I'd have guessed late fifties), but he told his age on at least two occasions, and we figured he should know how old he is."

"Ken asked me about Jim Hess's professional situation in Vicksburg, which would have been a perfect opportunity for me to condemn contemporary worship services, but I didn't. Instead we lamented the fact that churches today, who are seeking pastors and other ministers, generally limit serious consideration to candidates in the thirty-five to forty-five age range."

For about thirty minutes, Ken Hester was my lunch guest. I don't know if he enjoyed our time together as much as I did, but I will long remember our serendipitous moment.

The barbecue was okay, but it wouldn't make my top-ten list. As for the fried pies, they were huge, covering about half a dinner plate. Unfortunately, they didn't have much flavor or taste. But, I won't write off Granny's fried pies until I've tried one of her apple pies, which are my favorite.

Bodock Beau Ghostly Tale

The email address indicated the following tale was sent our way by Carl and Shirley Lowry. I could be wrong, but I don’t think Carl wants his name associated with this one.

This happened about a month ago just outside of Cocodrie, a little town in the bayou country of Louisiana, and while it sounds like an Alfred

Hitchcock tale, it's real.

This out-of-state traveler was on the side of the road, hitchhiking on a real dark night in the middle of a thunderstorm. Time passed slowly, and no cars went by. It was raining so hard he could hardly see his hand in front of his face.

Suddenly he saw a car moving slowly, approaching and appearing ghostlike in the rain. It moved slowly, and silently crept toward him and stopped.

Wanting a ride real bad, he jumped in the car and closed the door; only then did he realize that there was nobody behind the wheel, and no sound of an engine to be heard over the rain.

Again the car crept slowly forward, and the guy was terrified, too scared to think of jumping out and running.

The guy saw that the car was approaching a sharp curve, and still too scared to jump out, he started to pray and begging for his life; he was sure the ghost car would go off the road into the bayou, and he would surely drown!

But, just before the curve a shadowy figure appeared at the window and a hand reached in and turned the steering wheel, guiding the car safely around the bend. Then, just as silently the hand disappeared through the window and the hitchhiker was alone again!

Paralyzed with fear, the guy watched the hand reappear every time they reached a curve. Finally the guy, scared near to death, had all that he could take and jumped out of the car, and ran to town.

Wet and in shock, he went into a bar, and with voice quavering, ordered 2 shots of whiskey, and told everyone about his supernatural experience.

A silence enveloped and everybody got goose bumps as they realized the guy was telling the truth and was not just some drunk.

About half an hour later, two guys walked into the bar, and one says to the other, "Look Boudreaux, ders dat idiot dat rode in our car when we wuz pushin it in da rain."

And finally, received from Carl Wayne Hardeman:

Top Ten Ways To Know You Are A Procrastinator: