In Mississippi, Along the Way to Aransas Pass, Texas...

Arriving at Haas-Cienda "Ranch", where the Poplarville flag flies with the stars and stripes, at half-mast for Tucson.

Mostly permanent tenants around a huge grassy common

I travel to town. Camellia, Home Health & Hospice.

The road back to the Ranch

Home. Good neighbors.

Taking a walk.

This grass fascinates me.

We drive from I-59 to 12, just above Slidell. So near to New Orleans. But we pass by.

In Poplarville, I talked for awhile with the woman who owned the used bookstore. She was born in Lafayette, LA, and her accent was rich round and rolling. She had to open the bookstore when her husband, who had worked in the oil business, became paralyzed from the chest down by a rare disease. He has good days and bad, and as a veteran receives health care from the VA. He was unable to get the power chair he needs, and yearly seems to be downgraded to a level where he qualifies for less care although his needs increase.

She told me we should go to New Orleans. In the daytime only. Then she began to tell how her family—aunts, uncles, cousins—were affected by Katrina. They had lived in a neighborhood forever. Their barbeque was in front of their home, and the neighbors would come by and put their meat on, and they'd all hang out. True community. Before Katrina, that kind of story was already rare in any part of the country. But they were living it and then it was gone. Her elderly relatives want to go back to the same neighborhood, but everything is gone. They left with the shirts on their backs. And they all scattered, so they can't even get in touch because they don't know where everyone went. That kind of story is familiar. Talking to Aloha brought it close.

Because of the oil spill, businesses have failed in Poplarville, too. People are trying to hang on. So many people, like Aloha's husband, were employed by the oil industry. We touched on the irony of an industry sustaining life and destroying it. When I felt I had to leave her shop, we hugged, then kept talking and embraced again. Her warmth, and sharing her story gave me a memorable connection to the town that had drawn me when I read the booklet about it as we overnighted at the Mississippi Welcome Center. As I sat at the table in the motor home, looking over the magazine, seeing ads and homecoming queens, Chamber of Commerce business members and maps, I knew that I'd never see the town, or its neighbor, Picayune.

But fate changed our trajectory, and we ended up in Poplarville, at the Ranch, with two relaxing days there, where I got to shop, interact—and taste homemade beignets, a sugared fried dough I'd heard about as a New Orleans temptation.

I have to admit that New Orleans had been growing to mythical proportions in my mind, the fear factor relative in size to LA. Yet I wanted to see it for myself. The old touristy New Orleans, attractive and intimidating enough. And the disappeared and ravaged New Orleans area. I was most afraid to see that. I wanted to see that. I didn't.