State Highway 90 is a major east-west route that traverses the southern sections of the coastal counties of Mississippi. On the south side of 90, stretching from the casino laden strip in Biloxi to the quiet and idyllic village of Pass Christian, is the world's longest man-made beach.
That entire length of coastline was a prominent feature of my growing up years. Edgewater Mall in Biloxi overlooked the water, and I have memories of exploring its cavernous expanse. I caught western-style gunfights at Six Gun Junction, watched dolphins being trained at Marine Life, and spent hot summer afternoons cooling off on the water slides at Slippery Sam's. Dad and I went fishing countless times from the old USM pier, on the rocks in Long Beach harbor, and the breakwater by the Pass Christian Yacht Club. All of these were either on or just a stone's throw from the water.
Of that entire 26 miles of dredged-up sand, a small section no longer than the length of a good cast with a saltwater rod and reel has been a singular source of emotional turmoil. I've written previously about an oak tree that used to stand where Island View Avenue intersects Highway 90. It's by far my most read and actively discussed post, far exceeding any of these rock and roll missives.
One of my most prominent memories of moving to Long Beach was Dad pointing out the oak's distinctive Y-shaped silhouette. It was my guide, a distinctive landmark signaling that I was almost home.
After Dad's death, whenever I was visiting Long Beach, I made it a point to pass by this corner as often as possible. I found it was one of the ways I could remember Dad and deal with the grief of losing him. That massive tree became a touchstone of a memory, of a fleeting conversation with Dad about constancy and coming home.
A few years ago, a buddy texted me the unthinkable. The landmark oak that I'd whimsically taken to calling "My Tree" had been unceremoniously chopped down. Although confirmed by several sources, I wouldn't believe it until I saw for myself. Then, shortly after on my next trip down, I came onto the scene.
As cars whizzed by on 90, where I'd once stood countless times under the shade of its massive canopy, all that remained was a forlorn stump. Just a hundred yards north, past the large, post-Katrina house on stilts, I saw the once imposing trunk laying on its side. Underneath the house, I saw segments of My Tree's larger branches cut up and stacked as firewood.
It felt like a violation. The tears started to flow and I turned away from Andrea because some part of me didn't want my wife to see me shedding tears for a tree. From that day on, I never passed by that corner again.
Over the years, I continued to avoid that corner. It was tedious since that intersection was the most direct route to the house. But I continued to turn off Highway 90 at Lang or Trautman, always a few streets before Island View. Dealing with the detours was easier than reliving the emotions I experienced surveying a vacant corner from a fresh stump. It was a self-imposed exile from a spot that held a lot of personal meaning.
This past summer, I lost one of my closest friends to cancer. Mike's death hit hard, and Andrea, seeing I was struggling with the loss, tried to help me process the grief. She asked if there was a place that was memorable to both Mike and me where I could go and just sit in solitude with this sorrow. The more I contemplated it, I kept coming back to one place.
Mike and I spent a lot of summer days on the beach just south of Island View. Hanging out with seagulls, working on our tans, and even venturing out in the surf up to our necks. Those familiar with the shallowness of the perennially brown waters of the Mississippi sound will realize how far off shore we were. At times, when we didn't feel like getting wet and to satisfy a mischievous urge, we'd illicitly commandeer beached vessels for brief joy rides. On more than one occasion, we waited out thunderstorms (admittedly not smart) underneath branches of My Tree.
We happened to be on the coast when the idea from Andrea's suggestion took hold, so, feeling somewhere between trepidation and grim determination, I got into the car. Pulling onto Island View, the water was just under a mile away. As the distance shrank, I checked in on my headspace. There was, of course, a profound sorrow as the nearing intersection was a cruel Venn diagram of 3 levels of loss - Mike, Dad, and the tree itself. A lingering anger also surfaced. The unmitigated gall of someone deciding to take down a healthy, live oak sitting on a public right of way still makes me salty after all these years.
Suddenly I was there. Ground zero. I could still see the remnants of the stump. The enormous trunk that was lying on the ground was gone. The stacks of wood underneath the house were also noticeably absent, presumably consumed nonchalantly in some campfire.
But I was present. And I was reclaiming what for me had become sacred ground.
The stump was still there. The tree wasn't. But I was. I continued to pass through that intersection the rest of our visit on the coast. Almost home.
