First things first. I am a Yankee. At least I was born a Yankee in Philadelphia. My parents were pure bred Yankees having grown up, educated and married in New England. It was not until I went to college that I had any association with the south. There, I met, dated and married a true Southern belle. Some would argue that she was not a “true southerner” having grown up in West Virginia, but she possessed all the qualities of a southern lady. She was gorgeous, a little flirtatious, and immaculately coiffed. I know she was a southerner because my family had a difficult time understanding her accent.
Let’s agree that the “South” is a very broad term. There are those states that hug the Mason-Dixon line, those states that are “tweeners” (below the Mason Dixon line and above the southern most states, the deep (some say real) south, and then there’s Mississippi, the epicenter of the Deep South.
A little background may help in understanding my transformation from a Yankee to a Mississippian. Upon graduation, my college sweetheart and I got married and began our 28-year journey with the Army. Like all soldiers, we moved frequently, and by the time we got here we had moved 20 times. Twenty apartments/trailers/houses/post quarters in states from all over the country, plus seven years in Germany. We had a pretty good look at America, and the people who live there. Each location was unique.
Toward the end of my Army career my ex-boss and mentor, a recently retired Major General, called me and offered a chance for us to work together again...in Mississippi. I remember to this day the exact words I said to him: “You were the best boss I ever had...but you weren’t that good.” I had no intention of being that rude (or crude) to my friend who was offering me a job...it just came out of my mouth. It was said out of ignorance and unfortunately, the perception born of the fact that Mississippi is either first or last in almost any way you want to measure goodness or badness. We simply don’t look good on paper.
When I told my wife that we had an “opportunity” for me to interview for a job in Mississippi she was elated. I shared my misgivings, but she kicked me in the keister, as she was prone to do, and wisely responded that the worst thing that could happen is that we would get to spend a couple of days with friends. That woman was so wise.
Off we went to Mississippi. I remember vividly the first evening when we had dinner at the old Parker House with the company president, my mentor, and their wives. It was the eve of Mother’s Day. We were exchanging small talk when our waitress blurted out “Guess what happened to me today?” I was sort of shell-shocked, but on she went with her story and soon I knew more about her than I know about some of my friends. She disappeared toward the end of dinner and was tag-teamed with her waiter fiancée who took over. Soon she reappeared and gave a few roses to each of our ladies. She said she had such a good time with us that she wanted to honor the mothers. WOW! Let me assure you, this would not have happened in Yankee land.
Two years after moving here I received an offer from another friend, (and another retired Major General), to come work in St. Louis. I reported this to Cathy and asked what she thought of the idea. She said it would be fine, which shocked me to death. She continued that we could talk on the phone every night and I could fly home on weekends. She wasn’t going anywhere, and after that remark, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere either.
So, here I am, 29 years later. I have lived in Mississippi longer than I was in the Army, and far longer than even the place I grew up. Assumption would be that I grew up in Neshoba County.
So why am I still in Mississippi? The very last place we lived before moving here was Williamsburg, Virginia. Aesthetically, it was the most beautiful town and neighborhood I had ever lived. We lived on a quiet cul-de-sac in a neighborhood of beautiful colonial homes, and in the two years we lived there, not a single neighbor came to welcome us or introduce themselves. Imagine that in Mississippi.
I could almost say the same was true here, but only because there was only one other neighbor when we moved into our brand-new development, and of course they came by with food and friendship as soon as we landed.
Soon, through work and community involvement, we began to meet and befriend so many fantastic people. People of faith, people of service, people who would literally give you the proverbial shirt off their backs. And that to me is what makes Mississippi stand apart and alone from all the other places we have lived.
When my wife died unexpectedly last year, this community of friends came together and reached out more than I could have ever imagined. I really don’t think I could have gotten through this tough time without them. And now, six months later, they are still there, ever present in my life. Thank you all dear friends.
I wasn’t born in Mississippi, I wasn’t raised in Mississippi, but I will die in Mississippi, because Mississippi is my home.
Tom Johnson is a Northsider.
