Fairhope is a Pharmaceutical Companies Nightmare!

Good Morning from Fairhope, Alabama!

Well, this is my second to last Sunday here in Fairhope. I'm already sad to be leaving. But, a bit surprisingly, I'll be happy to return home. Not to Pennsylvania, per se, but to see my family. And also to be home, where every object has its designated place, meaning my brain has more space to allow room for writing.

One lesson I've learned on this 7 week journey…my brain still works! Mostly. Traveling days — going to unknown places, unpacking for a week, sightseeing, trying to write, chatting to strangers, parallel parking (of which I'm horrible at, but oddly, have gotten pretty good at down South), having anxiety whenever I have to use a roundabout (also, have gotten pretty good at down here), repacking only to do it all over again…causes my brain to feel like a circuit breaker tripped from overload, leaving me dang well exhausted.

Since landing in town in Fairhope, not a morning walk goes by without meeting people who are only happy to offer advice on things to do, places to eat, and events to attend.

I've met Chad and Amy, Jim Waters and Gus, and Dr. Izzy.

I stopped off at the Tiki Bar at the American Legion so I could watch the sunset from their beach, and I was going to put my Diet Coke on my credit card, when a lady behind me told the bartender to put it on her tab. I believe her name was Courtney, but I may be wrong (like I said, my brain is crowded right now!) but I do know she is a great karaoke singer, as is the bartender at the tiki bar, because they were lauding each other's excellent singing chops.

And then, of course, the awesome women (and men!) from the yoga studio immediately invited me out for coffee and gave me more advice: "Get a massage from Kristen Kelly at the Lotus" (and so I did, and it was the most relaxed I've been since…I can't remember!).

I also think I've lost about 10 pounds with all the walking (and let's be honest, sweating (or, as they call it in the South, glistening!)) and all the clothes I brought with me are baggy and far too roomy.

Oh, I also met Chris. It's his 77th birthday today! I was taking photos of the lovely yellow flowers decorating his mailbox, and he came out to talk to me. Which led to an invite to sit on his porch, where he told me all about the Jubilee here in Fairhope (more on that later!) and how he became a respiratory therapist, and how his company sent him to Fairhope (he had requested Alaska!) but he's so glad it worked out the way it did, since Fairhope is…well, Fairhope!

And that's the thing about Fairhope. I go out for a walk, and it becomes a Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The People You Meet!"

I suppose if more places were like Fairhope, the pharmaceutical companies would be out of business. My sleep is better. My mental health hasn't felt this good since…honestly can't remember! It's community. It's nature. It's exercise. It's the pelicans. It's the flowers. It's the kindness. It's the bay and the beach. It's the jumping fish (mullets).

I'm so sad to be leaving, but I'll be taking the lessons about small town living with me. If I can't be in Fairhope, I can bring the spirit of Fairhope with me wherever I go.

Flourishing in Fairhope, Alabama!

The "Advice" Booth!

It is a humid hot Sunday morning here in Fairhope, Alabama, where I landed last Monday, not even a week and yet it feels like a lifetime.

This morning I woke up with an epiphany. The final piece of information I didn’t know or understand that I needed in order to complete Sorry Bob!

I started the book in 2013-2014 when I thought I was dying and was reflecting on how I just kept screwing up my life, and basically, the screwups happened firstly because I was heavily influenced by the books/movies/tv and the culture I was immersed in at the time. 

Which led to pregnancy and marriage at 18, followed shortly by divorce and custody battles and once I was behind financially, it was always a struggle. So when, in 2013/14 doctors agreed something was wrong (blood work, tests were off) they just didn’t know what. And each doctor had a different medicine which usually sent me to the ER which is what led to my frustration with myself and life itself and I started feeling…hopeless.

How did I end up here, I wondered at the time.  Every road I’d taken seemed a mistake. Even worse,  I had deeply failed to give my children any sort of life I had envisioned when I was young and thought of family: stability, love, a home base they could thrive from.

So I did what I do best: I started researching where I might have went wrong and often, I  thought I’d found the answers, but, it just never felt…complete. Something was always missing.

What was missing was figuring out who I really was, because there was so much noise, so much distraction. Trying to fit in and belong and be loved and accepted. Because, don’t we all want that? Even if we think we don’t want to belong to “the popular group” – we still want to belong somewhere. Even if it’s only a group of five people. Even if it’s only one other person (you and me against the world, kid!).

But when I woke up this morning, 20 days into the day I left Pennsylvania to tour the South, places I’ve

read about and dreamed about for so long…and it’s been everything I hoped it would be and yet, so much more! It has not been an easy journey, but if I could hug each place I landed, I would.

And the past few days I’ve been confused…so many people (especially in Fairhope) have been put in my path on my journey and I’ve wondered, “What does it mean? What is the lesson here? WHY?”

And I put off working on the book. It’s overwhelming. So many different versions, chapters, “best bits” “keep this” “trash this.” It’s never ending and always evolving. 

I started out writing fiction all those years ago (honestly a writer ever since I was about eight simply because I was so bored – we are talking 1970’s – 1980’s – kids who say they are bored now just have NO IDEA!) and my teachers always encouraged that path for me. But, I am adventurous and an extrovert. I fully believe we are born with certain traits. An examination of my life proves that. My children also prove that, they were born with their personalities from day one!

But as important and fulfilling as writing could be, I also needed approval and validation ( ironically, I am also a person who will speak up and say unpopular things and tell the truth…which has also cost me along with the personal mistakes I’ve made).

My fiction always had a thread of personal transformation and what appears to be magic, but the magic was only a talisman, the real magic, in the end, was belief in yourself.

And then, 2013-2014 when my health started to take a nosedive (I’m thinking now, it was perhaps my body reacting to living a life not by my design, struggling to be content and happy and making choices based on security and comfort and conforming when that is the opposite of what my soul and spirit have always been), I realized that my life had never really been my own, because I was so deeply influenced by culture. I wanted to help other people realize and understand these “happiness hijackers” as I called them. My first iteration of the book was titled: “Something That May Change Your Life!”

And agents, well, they were interested, but they told me I had to pick a lane. Fiction or this self help book. I’m thankful now that I couldn’t pick a lane and they ended up not picking me (well, am I thankful? I’d have loved to have made an early career being a writer, it certainly would have helped financially and emotionally, but maybe I never would have landed on the self awareness or the information I discovered that I feel will absolutely resonate and help other people!). Or I might have figured it out sooner too. Let’s be honest. I’m just trying to convince myself the struggles all had meaning. The fact is…who knows? But I am thankful that this morning, I woke up and that final piece I’d been searching for found me before the sun had the coffee brewing.

During this journey, I found myself in the most beautiful church in Charleston that should have been closed but was open. I only knew this because two people slipped in and I followed. It as so stunning with the stained glass and the high ceilings. The reverence. I sobbed. 

Then I was moved to tears by another church in Savannah. I promise you I’m not usually so emotional. I could feel the history in Charleston and Beaufort. A transcendence I can’t even name. It felt like home. So many people and places have been put on my path and I will be writing about them all, they all deserve their own chapters. 

When I arrived in Fairhope, I met Lila, 94 years young who promptly invited me to her cottage to sell
me her book. And then Sandy, as a result of an obstacle (that I’m grateful for because I never would have met Sandy) who is steeped in her faith. I was so moved by her stories, again, I became emotional and tearful. Am I being called to religion? Me? The girl that went to Catholic School and got an F in religion for “asking too many questions.” It’s not so much that I  have resistance to organized religion, it’s more that they have resistance to me. Because it is in my nature to question. 

I’d love, love, to “give it over to God” and many times, I do “give it over to God” but for me, God is in nature, in the universe. Stories are what make religion real. Stories are how we connect. But I also love the philosophy of Aristotle. Virtues. Flourishing. Just as I’m drawn to the South, I am drawn to the philosophy of Aristotle.  

I, like so many of you, want to know the answers to life…or maybe not so much to life, it’s really too big for me to wrap my little brain about, but how do I fit in to this life is more of a question that I might be able to figure out. 

How do I walk thru it in such a way that when the storms happen, I can help myself and those around me to survive? How do I become my best self? And what I landed on this morning, this question haunting me, is that I was moved by the churches because they were so beautiful. A respite. A reminder of the beauty and art that is possible in life. Of people joining together because they want to be better! They want to be the best versions of themselves!  

And it’s about getting thru the suffering in life, the storms that are caused by nature and sadly, by people, because we are flawed. And many of our flaws have taken hold of us because we’ve been influenced and distracted, especially by things, ideas, that seem like they are trying to help, but… It’s also about belonging. 

Belonging…this is the crux of it all. It’s what I deeply long for, but this morning, I woke up and realized no matter how I frame this book, or my work, I’m never going to be loved by everyone. I’m never going to fit in everywhere. I might never find “my tribe” and that’s okay. I like. It’s not okay. It makes me sad, but this is what I have to accept because I have tried my whole life to fit in. With disastrous results! Hopefully someday I  will find a place to land where my optimism and creativity and the kaleidoscope lens I view life in will at least be respected, if not ever embraced.

And the South is funny that way. They are steeped in tradition. But also, the places I’ve travelled  are also steeped in friendliness and manners. They are welcoming. They are story tellers. I am a story teller. No one has time for my stories in Pennsylvania! It is rush rush rush! Stop chitchatting lady, you’re holding up the line! And if you don’t have a masters degree and a drive an Audi with a coexist bumper sticker, well, here’s some crayons for you to doodle with in the corner (okay, not everyone is like that in Pa, but the area I lived in…was not very welcoming to colorful free thinkers). 

Also, Pennsylvania  is cold. I loathe the cold and always have. I left Rapid City SD at age 18, weeks after high school graduation. I hated the small area. I hated the scenery. I left a note for my parents (oh, I was a WILD child and wild because my parents did not give me the tools I needed to understand how culture was influencing and distracting me – because my parents grew up in a different culture, they just didn’t know, I love them and am not blaming them!). I hopped a Greyhound (that’s a bus line for those uppity people in Pa who might not realize it’s a busline, not an animal) and went to my grandmothers apartment (my grandmother, also very entrenched in the Catholic religion) and the plan was live in Pa for a year, gain residency, so I could go to Penn State and be a lawyer (I know, right?!) and pay instate tuition. Then my rotten exboyfriend followed me out there, vowed to change his abusive ways, I got pregnant, he didn’t change, and then, circumstances and security and wanting to be part of my children's life kept me tethered to Pennsylvania. But I always dreamed about the South.

This is not to say I didn’t have a good life. I became a paramedic. I had a very interesting life, but it was never, ever, of my own making. It was more…well, I’m stuck, how do I pivot? I also made really bad choices in men. Some were just horrible, and some were good men, just not my soul mate. In fact, maybe I’m not built for partnership. I enjoy being on my own. Listening to my music. Not being judged or made fun of or tolerated. I am probably hard to love not because I’m mean or unloveable, but because I’m curious and optimistic and also, cynical. I do not follow blindly. Not a sports team, not my family, hell, not even myself.

If you made it this far into my writing of the day,  thank you! I’m excited and grateful that the missing piece arrived. For once, waking up at 3:30 was a blessing, not a curse.   

I’m still going to write about all the wonderful people, the kismet, the serendipity, the experiences, on this trip. But, I’m so grateful, and so thankful, that on this 26th day of July, twenty days into my Southern journey, here in Fairhope, Alabama, the last place I had mapped out, the place everyone on the East coast from PA to GA, asked, “Why are you going to Fairhope?” I had no idea really. I’d read about the Pages and Palette bookstore and it seemed like a very cool place (it is!) and Alabama, well, it is the true South. And Southern Living magazine would mention it’s one of the best small towns in the South. Artistic, bohemian, and full of charm. The wonderful people of Fairhope would like me to remind you, if you do come down/over, you are welcome, but please bring your manners! 

Would I have landed on my last and final puzzle piece somewhere else? Maybe? But I think it’s a collection of people and places I’ve met along the way…and constantly asking, “but what does it mean?” and the universe woke me up this morning and said, “Girl, get your fingers tapping, because this is the answer to the question you’ve been asking.”

In Fairhope!

How fitting.

 

Bewfort, Not Beaufort: Finding My Sandy Feet in the Lowcountry

Here is the fastest way I know to explain the difference between Charleston and Beaufort: in Charleston, everyone called me Ma'am, like I was a lady of some consequence passing through. I liked that just fine. But when I landed in Beaufort and sat down at the Magnolia Café for a pecan-crusted chicken salad — strawberries, blueberries, feta, a lemon dressing I would've licked off the plate if there hadn't been witnesses — the waitress called me Honey. "Here you go, Honey." "How you doing, Honey?"

I did not take a photo of that salad, by the way. A woman has to draw the line somewhere, and mine is not looking like the tourist who photographs her lunch in a town of four thousand people who've seen every kind of fool come through.

Now, back home, I know women who'd draw themselves up to their full height if a stranger called them Honey. They'd tell you all about it later, too, at length, with their arms crossed.

Me, I could've wept a little. It's warm. It's unhurried. Nobody in Beaufort is in any rush to prove anything to you, and Lord, isn't that a relief.

My Airbnb has a screened-in porch, which is the entire reason I chose it — I did not come all this way to sit indoors like a woman with something to hide. And it's a good thing I have it, because it's been raining like the sky owes somebody money. My first night here, a thunderstorm came through that shook the windows in their frames, lightning going off like a photographer with no manners, and then — once it passed — the whole animal kingdom seemed to clear its throat at once. Cicadas. Crickets. Frogs holding a committee meeting somewhere in the dark. Some kind of fowl that sounded personally offended. I got it all on video, over on Instagram, @BirdieJaneLane, if you'd like to hear the Lowcountry argue with itself.

The next morning I walked into the historic district — fifteen minutes past white churches with steeples like they're reaching for something, old graveyards being minded, patiently, by live oaks so big and twisted they look like they've been standing guard since the Flood, Spanish moss hanging off every limb like gray lace some grandmother forgot to take off after the funeral. The sun didn't show itself, so I didn't get my good morning from my usual warm friend, but I had the whole town to myself at seven a.m., and there is something to be said for having a place all to yourself before it wakes up and puts its face on.

I found a coffee shop and nearly did a little dance. Then I got close enough to read the sign: Open at 8. Well, all right then. This may be a sleepy town, but I haven't slept until eight in the morning since I was sixteen years old and it was summer and nobody needed me for anything.

But that's the thing about Beaufort. It's slow on purpose. It's gentle on purpose. It's not an accident, and I don't think it's for sale, either — you either fall into that rhythm or you don't belong there, and I fell in without even trying.

On the walk in, I passed the blue bottle trees and porch ceilings painted that same soft blue — a Gullah tradition, meant to keep out the haints, the evil spirits, who are said to mistake the color for sky or water and can't find a way across it. I like a town that paints its ceilings against ghosts and doesn't think twice about it.

Then I went to Publix — everyone in there was so nice, and everything in there cost more than it does back in Montgomery/ Bucks County, which I did not expect from a town this unbothered. Not everything. Most things. I've decided it's a small toll for living somewhere this pretty, and I paid it without complaint.

Even the fast food places here look like seaside restaurants. Pastel colors, striped awnings — like McDonald’s got confused

and thought it was in the Bahamas!

By noon, the church bells were announcing the hour like they had news, so I went back into town and took a historic golfcart tour with four other people and our guide, Chance. I called him Chase twice. He did not seem like a Chance to me — he seemed like a Chase (actually, I’m just at that age I forget things). My apologies to Chance, should he ever read this!

That tour was worth every dollar (it was only 36 bucks, and look, I saved money on not buying coffee from the closed coffee shop!). Two things I have not stopped thinking about since:

The "morality stairs." Some of the old homes split their staircases in two, rising separately before meeting again at the top, so a lady in a hoop skirt could climb one side and a gentleman the other, so the male wouldn’t so much as catch a glimpse of a naked ankle! I don't know who thought up architecture as a chaperone, but I respect the commitment.

The crooked front doors. A handful of the historic doors are set just slightly off — not quite square in their frames. The story goes that spirits can only travel in a straight line, so a door with a little crook in it is a door a haint can't find its way through. I don't know if that's true. I know that someone, generations back, built a small piece of protection into every doorway on purpose, and that's stayed with me longer than most facts do.

It was also on this tour that I learned mispronouncing Beaufort is a quiet sin around here. It is not "Beau" like "Bo" — that's Beaufort, North Carolina, and nobody here is interested in being confused with it. Here, it's Bewfort, South Carolina — second oldest town in the state, with Charleston holding the title of first, and don't let anybody in either town tell you different.

I'm reading Pat Conroy's A Low Country Heart while I'm here, which feels like the only correct choice. He's practically the patron saint of this place. We passed the house where he and his wife lived, and it was every bit as lovely as a house is supposed to be when a man like that loved it.

I keep getting this feeling of déjà vu here — like I've walked these streets before, in another life, or at least another Monday. Then I remember: it's because I've read so many of Conroy's books, and so many others besides, all set in exactly these places. I read about the moss and the live oaks and the humidity and the kind, odd, particular people long before I ever stood among them.

And now here I am, walking around inside somebody else's beautifully written story.

I understand, finally and completely, why the South keeps producing writers the way it produces peaches — like it can't help itself. This place is romantic and brutal in the same breath, kind and a little haunted, and there's something in the salt air I keep trying to name and never quite manage to catch.

It is charming. It really, truly is. And I am not even a little bit sorry to have fallen for it.

Chasing Southern Charm: Day One of Birdie's Southern Book Tour!

 Guys! I did it! I’m currently at my first stop on “Birdie’s Southern Book Tour” (this name may change. If you have any ideas, please email me!” 

I left Bucks County Pa, to start my Southern Spirit (Southern Soul? Southern Romance (like, I’m in love with the Southern culture – I think I’m in love with the culture – the slower way of life, the manners, the food, the stories. But maybe, once I’ve been immersed in it, maybe I will find I fell under the influence of books like “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” and “South of Broad.” And Michael Lee West (wherever you are, I hope you are ok).)

But I feel like I’m going to love it. 

As soon as I left Pennsylvania, the traffic thinned out. There were a few stretches of road where I was the only car! As someone that loathes traffic (I mean, we all do, right?) this was thrilling. Some people might be thrilled going to a Morgan Wallen concert; I’m thrilled when all drivers keep at least three car lengths away from each other!

I almost backed out. Four a.m. this morning, I woke up, the house was still. It was that time of morning when all inside and all outside the house are quiet. It was the hour where questions of sanity push all confidence aside. The mean girl voice: WHAT IF YOU DIE. WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED? WHAT IF YOU GET LOST AND CANT FIND YOUR WAY BACK. 

I texted my daughter who was working. She texted back: You’re going. And that’s that!

And so I said, “Yes, that’s that. I’m going.” 

Also, I spent two days packing, unpacking (Chanel’s advice – but traveling wise: pack what you think you’ll need, then, subtract a few things.) and the thought of unpacking it all, trying to reschedule this bucket list/life is short/book tour was more dreadful then heading into the bad weather that the radar was taunting me with. 

I’m here in Harrisonburg. It’s just a quick stop. So no bookstores today. 

But I did stop at a Hardees in Virgina! I grew up with Hardees, and there hasn’t been one in our area for at least 15 years. 

I started out around 7:45 – hit some rain, some fog, some traffic, and then the sky turned blue and I had the windows down because the air just feels…more energetic, more…pure? 

As soon as I arrived at the cutest Airbnb- a big clap of thunder shook the sky. 

Which reminds me, the trip started off on a rocky note. My cooler tipped over and leaked all over everything. I had to pull off the road and ended up throwing the whole thing out because the water had collected in the fabric holder of the cooler. Note to self: only hard coolers while traveling! 

The second incident: I got off an exit for gas. Only, the exit I got off at was under construction and I went at least 8 miles in a slow moving narrow cattle shoot. I will admit to not being a Southern Lady at all with the foul language that was captured on my car camera. (Which has since been erased!). 

All the streets were closed off, and Google kept saying “rerouting” “rerouting” “rerouting” and then Apple wanted me to keep driving for 21 miles (21 miles! Are you HIGH right now Apple?)

So, I used common sense (which I doubt all the time when it comes to travel because my sense of direction is like a five year old chasing fireflies) and made the first left I could, then I reckoned I should stop for gas since it was right there, and the kind gray haired man with the racing t-shirt told me how to get back to 81 South. And then, he did the sweetest thing, he waited for me to top of my car, and I followed him out. When the split came to get onto 81 South, he stuck his arm out the window and pointed to the right, to make sure I found my way. I really appreciated this. And, this is exactly what I mean about the South and manners and a kinder way of life!

Anyway, I’m going to be stopping into bookstores and libraries along the way, as well as doing some touristy things! 

Day 1 is in the books. 

See you tomorrow!