Hint: A trip to Back to 1975 would be nice this Valentine's Day

Back to 1975
When I was a freshman at the University of Mississippi, I lived in New Dorm, at that time the largest dormitory on campus.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Ole Miss, it is rife with fraternities and sororities that have a chokehold on social life at school. I was a Delta Gamma pledge that first year, sans boyfriend. Even though I was in a sorority, though, I never felt like part of the crowd. I always felt a bit like an outsider.

I'll never forget stepping off the elevator on the lounge floor that morning and having the scent of literally THOUSANDS of flowers hitting my senses. Every girl in that damned dorm must've gotten a bouquet of flowers...except, of course, for me.

All day girls would rush up to the desk that ran the width of the front of the dorm between the two sets of double doors out front, squealing with delight that their boyfriend had sent them flowers for Valentine's. It was a depressing cap on an already depressing day.

When I got back from my first class to find even more flowers and more screaming, ridiculous girls, I'd had it. I went up to my room and pulled out my new American Express card -- the one I'd gotten only for emergencies. Well, this was an emergency, wasn't it? I dialed the florist:

"I'd like to order some flowers, please."

"How much would you like to spend?"

"Hm...let's see. How about fifty....no. Make it seventy-five bucks."

In 1975 you could get a hell of a bouquet for $75.

"What would you like on the card?"

"To my darling, sweet beautiful Elodie from your secret admirer."

I left that stupid bouquet down in the lobby for two days and fielded all kinds of questions from my sorority sisters whose bouquets couldn't hold a candle to mine. It was glorious. Well, almost. I still hadn't really gotten anything from anyone.

It wasn't long before I realized that the reason I felt like such an outsider was because I wasn't the kind of girl who squeals out loud when some kid sends her flowers because it's Valentine's day and he's supposed to walk the walk. I wasn't the kind of girl who enjoys spending hours discussing what color material we're going to choose for our rush outfits the next year.

So I turned in my little anchor pin, put on a peasant skirt and joined the counterculture in Oxford, Mississippi, working at The Gin and The Hoka Theater, and enjoying it immensely.

If I had it to do over, I'd not have joined that sorority, but I gotta admit, I really did think it was a stroke of genius to buy those flowers and watch while those women chewed on the mystery of my secret admirer.

I Wouldn't Treat a Dog This Way

As I drove out the gravel drive on my way to town this afternoon, I saw a deer carcass in the field. I have no idea how the deer died, as it was too far from the road for someone to have shot it. As I passed, I saw one of the dogs lying next to the carcass. I thought it was the hound I affectionately refer to as Prince Valiant.

The dog saw the car and hopped up and ran towards me. It was then that I realized he was hurt, favoring one paw. For a moment I was confused. The paw just didn't make sense. Then I realized with horror that this wasn't Prince Valiant at all, but the whisper of a dog that had been starved nearly to death with a mangled paw. That deer was probably the only meal he'd had in weeks.

This was as bad as anything I've ever seen on Animal Cops. The dog's ears had huge chunks torn out of them. His one good foot looked as though it had some broken toes; his tail hung at an odd angle and appeared to be broken; you could see every bone in his pathetic body. Even so, he showed me no fear and climbed right up into my car when I opened the door. I noticed later the clear indentation where he'd worn a collar that had rubbed the skin raw. Someone had had this dog like this for a long time and neither sought veterinary care for him or fed him. He'd probably been dumped at our driveway sometime this morning, for he hadn't been there an hour before when my father walked down to the gate to get the paper.

I plan to send these photos to the local paper and ask for information on who owns this dog. If I find out, I'll do everything in my power to see that the bastard who treated a fellow living creature this way gets the full force of the law thrown at them. I'm not a violent person, but I make no promises if I find you. Bastard.

My favorite room

My favorite room was a room in my house in California. It had large picture window with a southwestern exposure and was bathed in an incredible light during the afternoon. We had a birch tree in the yard with willow-like branches through which the light filtered, making patterns dance along the wall in the evening light.



One day, I set a vase of tulips on the table, and each one filled with light, like a fine, bone-china cup filled with sunshine spilling out onto the table. On another day, an arrangement of calla lilies caught a rainbow that moved around the bloom like a genie coming out of a bottle.



The room was beautiful, too. We had a baby grand piano in there, and there always seemed to be an amber cast to the light.



I liked to open that picture window and lie on the sofa a read and doze listening to the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking, of cars passing on the street in a gentle rain -- the sounds of life. I'd open the French doors in back, as well, and listen to the water fall in the spillways in the pool and the parakeets' joyful, raucous arguments with pigeons that ate their spillings outside the cage.



The palms sighed, "Hush," on a gentle breeze, afraid they might wake the Santa Anas, and the sun boiled down behind the hills, angling her light in a silver spray.



I don't miss California, but I miss my room -- my sanctuary. It was the most peaceful place on earth.

Blast from the Past - The Hoka Theater

For anyone who was in Oxford, Mississippi in the late 1970's, you'll love this documentary about The Hoka Theater.

Last spring while on an impromptu driving trip, I went to Oxford and looked for the Hoka. I was there when the Hoka got its start and many of my fondest memories are of hanging out with friends and occasionally running the old film projector.

It was gone, torn down a couple of years ago to make room for some new development. It made me sad. But I had lunch with Ron Shapiro, who gave me a copy of this film. I was delighted to find it online today and share it gleefully with any and all who would like to see.

Enjoy.

Sorry We're Open from Joe York on Vimeo.

Preserving Folk Art at Mississippi Cultural Crossroads

I"ve got a new article in Country Roads Magazine this month. Mississippi Cultural Crossroads in Port Gibson, Mississippi is raising money so they can continue to to promote the educational, cultural, and economic development of the citizens of Claiborne County by providing and supporting programs in the arts and humanities which will develop talents, provide outlets for personal expression, and create opportunities for persons of diverse cultural backgrounds to celebrate their heritages and gain respect for other cultures.

*Photo - Jessica's String by Jessica Crosby