Dear Gulf Coast,

You think you're not appreciated because when the migrating songbirds come back each spring to your welcoming arms, there is less and less habitat for them. They love the shady banks of the sandy creeks, the early horse sugar blooms that bring out the insects, even the pine pollen that gently blankets everything until it washes off as the cool rain filters into groundwater.

You are sad as you see the bulldozed areas fill with cogon grass and tallow trees. You don't know what "business development" is, but you would rather have the bottomland hardwood forests and the pine savannahs, the pitcher plant bogs and the wetlands.

You bless the winter fires that clean the piney woods for summer's bounty of dewberries, blackberries, partridge pea, beautyberry, pokeweed, huckleberry, elderberry—and persimmons and muscadines in the fall. You admire the wild azalea, meadow beauty, black-eyed susan, gerardia and fall asters.

You are thrilled by the swooping pelicans and the screaming gulls. You want crabs instead of boat propellers to fiddle with the marsh grass. You love to see the dolphins rolling gleefully in clean waves, not tar balls and dead turtles.

You and I know there is so much more, but we lose some every day. Help us to stop and respect you.

Your friend,

Julia

Dear Gulf Coast,

I thought about sending a card, but the standard "Get Well" sorts I looked through at the drug store seemed too trite considering all you've endured lately. For instance, you were only beginning to recover from that unimaginable thrashing from Hurricane Katrina, when you were hit by the nasty economic epidemic that followed. Then just last year, you suffered from a debilitating oil spill that further sapped your energy and spirit. And now, record flooding on the Mississippi River threatens to upset the fragile balance of your gulf waters.

It's all more than a grand dame like you should have to bear. To be honest, many of us who love you have sometimes wondered if you'd give up the ghost. Yet, despite the hardships, you've endured. You've been tested by the worst that both nature and man could throw at you, emerging from the maelstrom with your head held high and a spark in your eye.

That's not to say that you haven't been altered by the onslaught of challenges, but many of the changes are positive. While rebuilding after Katrina, you utilized new technology to harden yourself against future storms. The leaders of your distinctive communities have a fresh understanding of regional cooperation. Your people have remembered that in crisis, diversity becomes an asset to survival instead of a detriment. They've proven that even in catastrophe, dignity can reign.

But one thing about you will never change: your spunk. I've heard you answer those sassy nay-sayers who believe we should all abandon you and find another less hazardous place to live. Always a lady, you don't lose your temper and you speak with gentle authority. You point out that no place on this planet is completely secure, although we will always wish for that. You remind them that the most important things in life are those invisible ties between people. You offer them a taste of belonging, that sweet magical potion, more bracing than the finest mint julep. Your secret ingredients are a strong sense of place, blended with a liberal amount of community connections. Belonging like that can slip up on the unaware, yet always leaves them wanting more.

So please accept this note and the gardenia bouquet with my best wishes. I have no doubt of your full recovery. I'll drop by next week and we'll sit on your veranda together, watching the full moon rise over the Mississippi Sound.

Fondly,
Ellis Anderson

June 8, 2011

Dear Gulf Coast,

I want to send this letter to you and let you know what a wonderful time I had in your glowing city of Biloxi this weekend! Although I was only in town overnight, the warm, welcoming feeling emitted from your sandy beach, your eatery, and your hotel, made me feel like I was home, instead of just a visitor. Never did I feel out of place!

I know you've been through difficult times, first with the hurricane years ago, then the oil spill. Tourists turned their backs on the open arms of your beaches and left them empty. Fishing and shrimping livelihoods became lost. Families scattered with the winds as your heart cried out for help and no help came. Yet, your soul is strong and withstood adversity, just as other southerners did one hundred and fifty years ago.

In conjunction with our Confederate fathers', brothers', and sons' long journey home to start anew, I share in the joy you must feel in triumph. I wonder, could your ancestors have imagined how your life has turned out now? I hope so. I am sure they would be proud of you since Southern graciousness and manners still flow through your streets, your towns, your waterways, and your people, despite hard times. You were knocked down just as our southern men were, and you courageously stood up and showed the nation and the world your grit. Just like the roots of a century-old live oak which twists and contorts in hurricanes but never becomes uprooted, your roots run deep and are strong enough to withstand any tragedy: natural or man-made.

Please accept my humble thanks for hosting my family. Your hospitality is the epitome of the South since you are full of smiling faces which always beam from friendly places.

I look forward to visiting again soon. It is with warmest wishes I remain,

Your long-lost daughter,

Sherry Perkins
Louisiana Resident

Dear Bay St. Louis,

The first time we met in 1957, I thought that I had entered a blissful dream. As my Father drove our canary-yellow Buick convertible onto North Beach Boulevard, I noticed you from a distance. Driving along the road that straddled your white sandy beach provoked my sense of urgency to know you. Sitting in the back of the car with a glistering sun beaming on my boyish shoulders, my eyes scanned the shoreline in hopes of another glimpse. Turning onto the road that led to my family's summer cottage, I felt mesmerized by your natural beauty. At that moment in time, my mind's eye took a snapshot and stored it deep within my heart.

But as I aged and for reasons I do not understand, we seemed to grow apart. While you were only ninety miles from where I would eventually settle, for years I made no contact. It was my choice, not yours. You always remained available to me. At times, you would even beckon for me to visit. Perhaps it was the responsibilities that I had assumed as an adult that kept me away. Perhaps I only sought to store away those early summers of my life, as you would do with precious heirlooms from another era. Perhaps I wanted to remember our early life together as if it was a print by Kincade or a symphony by Mozart. Perhaps.

It was not until the fall of 2005, eight weeks after Katrina's frenzied visit, that I found myself once again cuddled within your bosom. I met you at the cottage where I spent those early summers of my past. With my body sprawled across a brass bed, I once again felt captivated by your ageless beauty and soft caress. You brought me to the edge then shadowed me as I quivered and slowly regained my presence. As a cool and crisp October breeze swept through the screen porch and flowed into the bedroom where I lay, you reminded me that although we count our lives in years, we measure them in seasons. You assured me that while you were still frail and weak from the force of the storm, your flowers of spring, white sandy beaches and the presence of families sharing a warm summer sun would always reflect your essence. Although Katrina had left you lame, I could still hear the beat of your heart on Main Street. As you and I discreetly shared another moment, you softly whispered that you would never leave and would always remain my secret love.

Michael

Ah, my sweet Gulf Coast, scrubbed too hard by the hurricane, beyond the skin to the very bones, you left your bewildered residents staring at empty slabs and piles of lumber. There were those of us who despaired of ever recovering our lives; our homes, our jobs, our joy.

Yet you continued to supply what we needed, dear Gulf Coast. Your fishermen brought in the shrimp and oysters and bass. Your builders built anew, tall strong condos, replacement beach homes on stilts, and new employments. And the charities, and the parties, and the good feelings of your people came back doubly strong.

The joy we feel in living here comes from your many natural offerings. An early morning walk on the beach brings warm sand kissing our toes and the glorious red sunrise delighting our eyes. A big pot of boiled crawfish from your bountiful seas brings friends and family together. We drive at a leisured pace along your open beach road, enjoying watching the jet skiers and sun bathers; our vehicles traveling way below the speed limit, because no one has anywhere in particular they need to be.

Katrina knocked us down, and the oil spill and the fallow economy made us suck in our breaths, stand up against the blows, and, drawing on the spirit of Mississippians, rebuild our lives in the glory of what you, our dear Gulf Coast, offers. Across the country, around the world, there are places of other life styles; big cities that rock all night, mountains with deep vistas, roiling rivers whose white foam whip the skies. Yet for me, the gentle pace of my dear Gulf Coast provides all the peace and sustenance I need.

Sincerely,
Philip Levine

Dear Gulf Coast,

I am so very excited to live here and proud of the way that you handled the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Although it has been almost six years since that storm took our home and thousands of others, and many lives, you have come through it with vigor and hope. Your cities have rebuilt and your infrastructures reinforced. (Our thanks and prayers go out to all of those volunteers who came from all over the country to help out in our time of need.)

While insurance has been a problem for individuals and small businesses, many of us have rebuilt onsite or relocated to allow the "greening" of the beach areas. While it hasn't happened yet, some of us beach dwellers are hoping for a buyout to leave the beach areas as buffer zones to protect inland structures. Your beaches are clean (even after the wicked oil spill of 2010) and tourists are coming back.

Some churches are back on the beach; some are not. But, wherever we choose to worship, we know that the spirit of community binds us all together. Although we miss the lovely (and varied) restaurants we enjoyed along Highway 90, we haven't neglected those built inland. The casinos helped you regroup, and for that we are grateful.

You are like no other place; an ethnic and religious "gumbo" of people. There are those who (like me) were born in Mississippi and lived through the tumultuous years of racial strife and have come out of it on the side of harmony. Others have come from other parts of the country and have adopted our slower, "warmer" way of Gulf Coast life and have adapted to our blending of seasons, joyfully playing golf or wearing shorts and flip-flops most of the year! There are many who come to visit just during the winter months and return "up north" during our scorching summers. We welcome them, too!

Gulf Coast, I hope to continue watching you grow and change, as change is a part of life. I relish the opportunities that new people and new ideas bring. Go Gulf!

Brenda Brown Finnegan
Ocean Springs, MS
June 7, 2011

Dear Mississippi Gulf Coast:

You are a difficult case. I do not mean difficult in the way of a headstrong toddler. I do not mean difficult as in the ways of a crook, or of a gangster, or of someone wanting a power grab. What you are, my dear Mississippi, is a teenager. It is a Saturday night, and you are driving around and smashing mailboxes.

I say this because you're so random. You present no rhyme, nor reason. You don't seek to gain, or to harm, or to get the upper hand. I guess you're just inexplicably angry, pure and simple.

You gave us Katrina, a disaster of epic proportions, a random baseball bat to the boxes we call our homes. When you were done there, you gave us an oil spill. You stood there, arbitrary, Mississippi as perpetual adolescent--bored, a face oiled up and in need of Clearasil. You don't understand repercussions; you don't care; nature has made you deaf and unable to take responsibility. We don't know why you do these things. We all wish someone had reared you better. We wish your frontal lobe were more developed.

And we know, because we adults are realists, that you will never grow up. You'll always be capricious. It is not your fault; these are the circumstances of your birth. You face the sound, defiant yet vulnerable; your protective barrier islands are now merely shadows. Standing exposed, you seem to be a repository for some kind of deep rooted, testosterone fueled fury.

Most of us practice tough-love. We don't bend; we don't allow you to have your way. We try to make you sit at the table until you've been excused. We support your local business. We try to elect good government, in order to correct two-hundred years of disobedience. We use your public schools--we even try to make them better. We defend your immature rants, your deficiencies, and your naturally stubborn disposition. We bear your angry winds. We bail you out of juvenile hall.

Maybe we won't be able to do this forever. At some point, tough love needs to come to fruition, where you will be left to your own devices. But until that time comes--until you have smashed one box or one car or one job or one life or one ocean too many--you are family.

Awaiting your response,

Kara Bachman