Under The Microscope: Wits End...
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by Glynn Wilson
GATOR LAKE, GULF STATE PARK, Ala., Oct. 15 - It is not always easy to find the right first word to begin any composition. When you are hammering out words like nails as a daily newspaper reporter, it sometimes hardly matters. You can start with "The…" and go from there.
The mayor was convicted of taking bribes to allow a developer to flip land and build over some wetlands, you might say, and then go on to give out his name and party affiliation, maybe take the trouble to list his campaign contributions. There's one in Orange Beach worth checking right now, even since the mayor and the city attorney there went down. Too bad it wouldn't matter that much to the faithful in the Bible Belt, or the one's sporting W's on the rear window of their SUVs along the Redneck Riviera.
That's actually pretty easy to do, starting with "the" and just going with it - when you can find a publisher willing to print it who is not in on the deal himself.
Sitting here on the other side of Gator Lake by the public picnic area across from the state-owned hotel and convention center due soon to be torn down - two years after Ivan crashed through most of it, making it uninhabitable - perhaps the first word should take the name of a house on a suspect sliver of terrain known as West Beach in Gulf Shores. To wit: "Wits End."
 | Photo by Glynn Wilson |
| My old house at 1109 Lagoon Avenue is now painted pink and is called "Dog Heaven." Many wonderful trips had there, in the hammock listening to the waves crash relentlessly on the sand... |
Revisiting the beach I used to call home 15 years ago, the precariousness of the place is so obvious it is still a mystery to me why every time I've ever ridden down this seven-mile long spit of land there is at least one pair of snow birds stopping in the bike lane to write down the phone number of another beach house for sale or rent. That is, the few houses with the guts still in them and the decks and stairs obviously rebuilt just recently.
They come with names like "Wits End" or "Satisfaction," "Labor of Love" or "Sand Trap" or "Come Lucky." But the beach sand pumped artificially on the beach side travels steadily, surely north across the road like snow blowing over a mountain trail. You can build all the dune fences and save all the beach mice from extinction, maybe, but the sand will still travel north, like the never ending march of time itself, even faster in between houses close together and faster still in between condo high rises stacked side by side.
The planet is warming and the sea levels are rising and all the millions wasted on "beach replenishment" will only stem the tide for a little while, long enough for the developers to cash in until the next big hurricane hits dead on. Then they will go in and build it again, and again, and someone will get rich every time, especially the friends of the governor and the titans of big oil and construction and automobile sales.
That is the American way, after all, since Manifest Destiney drove these crazy escapees from Europe across the plains and the mountains to California and Oregon. They will plow any forest and build anywhere the pathetically weak governments will let them . . .
Excuse me for a minute. I need to shift gears. A great blue heron just flew across the lake in front of me. Not close enough for a photograph. As I was driving over here a few minutes ago, I stopped the van on the side of the road myself. Not to look at a beach house.
Two hawks, followed by two great egrets, flew right in front of me. I got a few shots as they flew away.
Anyway, back to what I was saying. Even the Bible says only a fool builds his house on shifting sand. Find rock, like the houses of Roebuck east of Birmingham where they build their houses not only on rock, but out of rocks.
No, counting on a house staying in the family for generations on this beach is not sensible gambling, unless you just love to lose.
 | Photo by Glynn Wilson |
| No, that's not a garage under an apartment. There were rooms on the bottom floor, beach level at the Gulf State Park Hotel and Convention Center. First Ivan's wind swept them clean, then the water surge finished them off... |
Now, no, not now. Not with this wind whipping in here like it starts to do this time of year, when the skies go grey and the bars get lonely and the only thing there is to do is read, write or drink.
Today is the turning of the tide from the immaculate fall to the not too dreaded winter, where you don't have to worry about the Gulf freezing over - except maybe every 100 years or so. I saw ice in the Gulf in 1990, when that 100-year storm came down from Canada into Dallas and then turned left and froze the Gulf Coast all the way to Panama City for seven solid days.
Three years later, back in Birmingham hanging out on the Southside, I went through the 100-year snow in those hills. Those were the last of the cool years, my friends. They are gone now, unless the Yellow Stone volcano comes to life and spews a dark cloud around the planet and cools things down a bit.
The mercury is rising, they used to say. Now they mean it when they say it, even on the rocking chairs in front of the Cracker Barrel.
It is about time to head north again, since the skies are turning grey and the money's running low. Time to get ready for another winter in Birmingham. There will still be a few late migrant birds coming through there. Maybe the dry summer didn't kill all the fall color and it will be something of a show in Blount and St. Clair counties.
Hang on. It's that great blue again, coming back to the edge of the point. . .
Got a few shots of him flying off, nothing worth printing.
Wits end. That's what I was saying. Homo sapiens are capable of finding that outer limit, that "Island Escape" house or the one called "SOS."
It is a cry for help. A cry for someone to cancel the insurance and raise the interest rates and make it unaffordable, like gasoline will be soon. Then Bush and Riley's economy will be revealed as the frauds they are, fudged numbers as cooked as Health South's books under the now Reverand Scrushy.
But no sir, I am not at wit's end. Not altogether at satisfaction either, if you know what I mean. You know what Mick said about that. You get what you need.
Some people just don't believe that. They like to step over the rest of us and get more than their fair share. Not sure why they think they deserve it, but like the commissioner said in All The King's Men, they get in the courthouse and "gets biggity."
Anyone who thinks they can live on this land forever is "getting' biggity" on the planet. What they may not realize is, the planet will get them, sooner or later, and there ain't no angel from heaven going to come down to earth to save them.
We are all doomed anyway, ultimately, no doubt about it. Dust to dust and all that. So why not live a little? Get out in nature and do something, anything, while there is some nature to get out into. The planet is not at wits end just yet...
End Note: There is high speed wireless on West Beach, at the Gulf Shores Surf and Racket Club. But the yankee bitch there said it was for registered guests only. The old codgers I saw sitting in the lobby would not know how to turn on a computer, and would benefit from the conversation like the Morgan City crowd did in All The King's Men. But no! I missed the closing time at the Dizzy Bean by 11 minutes, so I'm filing from the Gulf Shores McDonald's. Talk about rednecks. The manager did manage to get the connection working, after moving it out from under the food wrappers on his desk : )
 | Photo by Glynn Wilson |
| We are not sure if this is an egret and a heron or what fishing along the road in Gulf State Park between the main office and the picnic area on the beachside of the lake. All we know is they were both very large and white and hanging out with what appeared to be two Cooper's hawks. I couldn't get close enough for a picture. Could it be great white herons? Bob Sargent thinks it might be a cattle egret and a great blue heron, but you can't really tell from the photograph. |