Fragments From Floyd

Her parents built it and gradually moved full time to their modest bayfront house in the late fifties. I first saw the place and roamed the bayou woods there in 1968. It was a biology student's dream. The pine woods were full of strange plants--pitcher plants, sundew, bog buttons--and animals. I half expected to see an Ivory Bill there, but had to be satisfied with hognose snakes, nutria, flying squirrels and water birds too numerous to mention.

By the spring of '69, we were engaged. There were several awful weeks in August that year when I didn't know if Ann and her family were dead or alive. The cause was named Camille. The water rose to the foundation of the house, but it stood firm and her family all fared about as well as you can expect for those who stay in their homes during a Class 5 hurricane. By 1970, Biloxi had recovered enough (though it was never the same) that we were able to have our wedding ceremony in the Presbyterian Church on the beachfront on hiway 90.

We went back every break during college as young newlyweds. We'd bring back a freezer full of flounder, speckled trout and shrimp we'd catch off their patchwork pier and live off of it for months. Later, both our children grew fond memories of visits to Grammaw and Grampaw's place across the bay from Keesler where we'd watch the constant flow of planes come and go from the air force base. Frequently, all the siblings and their clans would meet there, and somewhere, there must be a chestful of old peel-off polaroids of one family or another waving goodbye as they left for home in other states.

While her father moved to live with relatives far from the coast several years ago, there are still family there. We've heard from some. We heard last night that the homeplace is gone, but for the foundation. Memories and sense of place, gone with the wind. Our prayers are with those who lost so much more than memories.