The Coffee Table

My husband and I had a lovely property in Waveland, Mississippi, where we spent summer vacations and Christmas holidays. We planned to retire there. It was my dream come true; just yards from the beach, where I could walk for miles with my toes in the foam any time of day or night. We bought a couple of kayaks and would wheel them down to the shore on sturdy little carts and paddle over to Da Beach House in Bay St. Louis for coffee, while dolphins frolicked along beside us.  

But in 2005, Hurricane Katrina changed our retirement plan. The storm steam-rolled Waveland with a tidal surge of nearly 30 feet. Our tranquil coastland was totaled. 

Now, from time to time I’d heard about some community wiped out by a tornado or cyclone and I thought, “Oh, gee—those poor people,” and then went about my business. After all, what could I do? But when I walked around Waveland in the aftermath of Katrina, I had my very first inkling of what a war zone might look and feel like. The devastation was something I could not have comprehended without seeing it in person. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. Mountains of water-logged belongings blocked passage. Symbols crudely painted on the remains of houses indicated properties had been searched and how many dead were found.  

Volunteers set up a tent hospital in the grocery store parking lot. Another temporary structure supplied basic necessities to locals: Toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, wash clothes, sanitary napkins. There were two tents in town that served meals to anyone who was hungry and did their best to provide “entertainment”—an acoustic musician, a library of salvaged books and toys.

I had my Thanksgiving dinner in Waveland that year, turkey and all the trimmings, cooked by volunteers, and eaten at folding tables in an empty lot. Everyone partaking had lost a great deal to Katrina. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have understood. Couldn’t have understood.

Many times, when friends or co-workers have lost loved ones, I have sent a card with a couple of awkward sentences about my “thoughts” and “sympathies.” Or just as often, I’ve done nothing, except say to myself “Oh, gee, those poor people.” I figured they were in the care of family or had more important things on their minds than hearing a stilted message from me.

But now I’ve been on the receiving end of such loss, and I see what I could not comprehend prior to my husband’s death. Any contact at all is a great comfort. Just to know there are people out there that think of me is sweet. They tell me about their animals. Or their funny trip to the grocery. And sometimes I laugh out loud.  Oh, what a present that is!  

Doubtless, some suffering souls don’t want to be bothered. But there’s the beauty of the written word. The recipient isn’t required to read it—or respond to it. A printed message can be pulled out just when you need it or disregarded when it is intrusive. I want to thank all the people who have carried on email conversations with me over the last five weeks. It has steadied me as I moved from shock to acceptance. 

Now, I get it. But it occurs to me—why wait for grief to inspire contact? So, if you receive a gawky e-mail from a supremely introverted old lady, take it with a grain of salt—or a tincture of honey.