Count No Man Happy
the eve of Christmas Eve, in Jackson
Writing about Oedipus, Sophocles said, “Count no man happy until his life is complete.” I mention the ancient tragedian because last night we welcomed a fellow thespian into the family circle. Finally, there is a member of my tribe in my family. She’s lovely. I’m blessed.
It’s not yet four a.m., and I’m working. Feist-dog doesn’t call for me until five. I almost never make it until five. Feist-dog is an imaginary character from the radio in Jackson in the sixties and seventies. For me, he represents a lonely boy’s wish to see his absent father. In the mornings, at five, he was all mine for an hour, every day. I only had to share him with an imaginary dog.
Don’t tell Little Bird I’m awake and working. She has to sleep. I’m not kidding, if she doesn’t, I get in trouble. Earlier this week, I had to call her mother and say she was wounded at work. I told my boy Campbell, “Welp, I guess this is how Good Ole Uncle Boyd dies.” I didn’t die, though. I called and spoke in Klingon. “KAPLAH! Scars show honor!” Things were ok after that.
Besides being my sacred charge, Little Bird is one of my best friends and the keeper of my secrets. That’s a very small sorority. It includes Janie Clover Alexander, The Everything Kid, and Little Bird, but before any of them, there was just my baby sister.
Most of Uncle Boyd’s secrets will make you cry. That’s why they’re secret. For fifty-five years, I kept a lot of secrets, even from the golden girl-child of the family, but since I decided not to die, I tell her even the painful bits. Some of them are in my stories.
Never pity me, though. My life has been filled with far more grace and beauty than I deserve. I seek out painful situations because I believe I can mend them. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, it don’t. Either way, I am actually blessed.
Last night, I reminded my sister of one of my favorite stories. When we were fourteen, St. Andrews sent our class on a trip to Washington. A good third of us got food poisoning on the way up and missed the first day.
Little Bird’s mom was one of the ones who didn’t get sick. We stayed at this awful hotel that doubled as a house of prostitution. (Hey, it was affordable.) In the middle of the night, Little Bird’s mom shows up at my hotel room, in her pajamas, with soup, crackers, and Sprite. “Honey, you’re FOURTEEN. How the hell did you get soup and crackers in the middle of Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night?” It turns out that, as often happened, Sara Jones was behind it. She could have sent her own child into the hotel room full of sick boys, but instead she sent the Angel. I’m not saying she was up to something, but she was probably up to something.
I paid particular interest in little Collins. In every way, she is a slightly taller, slightly younger version of her mother. With her brothers, there were a few years before I broke and went into the cave, but I missed everything with Collins. Out of earshot of the rest of the family, I told her mother, “I owe her so much. I know it will take years to make up for my absence in her life and make her trust me. I’m devoted, though. It will happen.”
I intentionally told horror stories to make Taylor, our fresh growth, consider her choice to join Clan Campbell. We’re not as mean as our ancestors, but we do make our own rules. Then we break them.
After the laughs, the gifts, the whiskey, the food, the nights get extremely quiet going into Christmas. In almost an hour, Feist-dog will remind me, it’s Christmas Eve.
Home safe, I texted the Little Bird. She apologized for not joining us as planned. I remind her that we have an agreement, “no apologies, ever—not between us.” Her uncle came to Jackson to visit her mom. I told her there would be other nights to be with my family; she needed to be with hers. A teenager when we were born, I always thought her uncle was the coolest adventure kid.
We ate at Amerigo. Not THE Amerigo, that used to be Mr. Gattis Pizza, but the new one near us. We lost Bill Latham. It seems weird eating at his restaurant without him to say we need to calm down.
I stayed in the cave for almost fifteen years. When I came out, I said, “I’m back!” like people would just accept me putting on the saddle again. My sister did. She was raised like I was. Life is work for your family and your community. The Campbells have always been very specific about defining our community, then putting all hands behind the cart to push.
Martha and I talked a great deal about Millsaps, Jackson, Fondren, the Museum of Art, and the Department of Archives and History. A lot of people don’t get our connection to MDAH. Jim Campbell tried three times to get William Winter elected Governor. When he finally did, Charlotte Capers and Mrs. Winter said, “This is how it is.” And that was the start of the MDAH as we know it today.
Leaving Millsaps College, everybody in Jackson said, “He’s a Campbell, aint he? Put him on some boards!” At twenty-two, they started adding me to KA boards, then the Zoo, then the Ballet, then the Opera, on and on. In retrospect, twenty-two is a fucking child, but Jackson has always needed all the help it could get.
At the Zoo, I met Bob Addams, a fellow board member and rider of elephants. He became my Chiron. A polymath, Bob taught me so many things. The most important were Architecture, Art, and Women. He loved his wife, but he was an expert on the subject.
The only time I ever made an actual plot to impress a girl, it was Little Bird’s mom. Being Uncle Boyd, it was not an ordinary plot. I called Bob. “I get along really well with Marrie.” Marrie was the Auntie in our elephant herd. She was the only one with tusks. Taller than the other two, a lot of people thought she was male. It’s not a good idea to mix male and female elephants. Male elephants go through a hormonal cycle called “Musth,” during which they become very dangerous to be around. You can tell when it starts because body oil and pheromones begin leaking from their foreheads.
Angel said her niece from out of town was coming to Jackson, so I asked if they wanted to see the Jackson Zoo. I called Bob to ask his advice. When I actually reach out for advice on girls, you know I’m desperate. He thought it was kind of a cool idea. “Tell Randy (the keeper) to pull Marrie off to the corner by the keeper door, and she loves you enough to do the rest.”
Knowing that even Bob knew this elephant loved me, I felt blessed. We went through the zoo. All the while, I made secret high signs to the keepers that my plan was afoot. It was like the talking dinnerware in Beauty and the Beast, only with keepers and actual beasts.
Sometimes, the baby niece walked on her own. Sometimes she rode on my shoulders. I got her to say the animal’s name as we went by. Their actual name, not “Giraffe, Zebra, Alligator.” I knew all the animals’ names. Still do, the ones that didn’t die of old age since I left the Zoo, at least.
Saving the elephant for last, Randy had my big girl in her spot. He pretended to rake poo. He had his Mahout staff, just in case, but she almost never needed it.
“Marrie! Trunk up!” The little girl squealed.
“Marrie! Foot!” This was a command so the keepers could inspect her feet and trim the thick pad under them. In the wild, elephants walk miles and miles per day, seeking enough food to keep them alive. In captivity, it has to be filed down.
I think my big girl was in on the plan. She danced from foot to foot and trumpeted. The other two elephants looked over, like, “Why are you making noise?”
The finale was something I’d done many times, but didn’t think all the way through.
“Marrie! Trunk!” She reached for me, and I reached for her. We shook hands, er trunk, however you want to call it, we touched—an enormously gentle touch for an actual giant. She looked at me with her eyes the size of lemons. And made the low elephant love sound.
The part I didn’t think through was that elephants often have discharge from their trunks. If your nose were that big, it would be too. Fortunately, I had brought extra handkerchiefs and hand wipes, but for a moment, I lost all the cool points I gained.
Aint that always the way?
I updated my sister on my books. The first to come out is the one Angel thought of. It’s my Mississippi Camelot stories, plus a few personal ones. Some of the best books in America are collections of stories and essays. I’ve never felt like I was actually “good,” but I’ve received so much love and support. This might just work.
The second book is a single narrative. It’s basically the story of how I went into the cave and why. I explained to her what family secrets are in the book and why. She understood, and she agreed.
I’d told her bits and pieces about what went on with me, the year she and Uncle Joe got married, and Daddy died. Last night was the first time I spelled it out as a timeline. Daddy had a plan to save me. He didn’t want me to leave, but it might have been the only thing to save me. In June, we were going to tell the family our plan on my birthday. In April, he died in his chair, in his office, writing a letter to Rowan, Deaton, Wingate, and Bass, about their next fishing trip. Of all the things my father spent his life worrying about, he died thinking about fishing.
As the dinner wore on, the lady asked about dessert. Uncle Joe got another gut-warmer. Something with salt and fruit, and I suppose rum. Collins ordered tiramisu, and I ordered a brownie, ice cream thing, with seven spoons. Among her peers, Collins is fearless, worse than I was at that age. Among the family, she’s quiet. I aim to mend that.
The family filed out and went their ways. Having Campbell and Taylor alone for a moment, I offered her my sword. An ancient, somewhat silly tradition that I needed to do, since there is no blood bond between us. It’s not just words, though. The strength of my oaths is somewhat famous, especially among those who received them. I believe a thing like that makes gentlemen worth the life invested in them.
In the dark, on the eve of Christmas Eve, I was alone. “Your LYFT Ride will arrive in 17 minutes.” Cellphones are to Uncle Boyd what Tricorders were to Mr. Spock.
On the longest nights of the year, birds flying south roost in Mississippi. The planted landscape trees all around me are alive with the quiet twitter of birds, nestling in for their sleep before striking out for Mexico or wherever they’re going. Some people don’t have to worry about borders.
In the moments where I had no friends, the night was always my friend. I reach out with all my senses and listen to my city settle in for a long winter’s nap.
As much as I tried not to be, I am a Campbell. Like my sister, I am at service to my city, my community, my family, my friends, my Chi Omega girls, and a million others.
During Supper, Martha laughed when she told the story about Frank Neville asking her what Millsaps was to her. “Did you mention we changed your diapers there?” I asked.
There was a time when it looked like baby sister might marry Jack Woodward’s boy. Generally, I was against these things, but I wasn’t against that.
My driver came. He was from Nigeria. We talked about Nigeria. He wasn’t used to old white dudes knowing a thing about Africa. Good ole’ UB can surprise you. Back in my own space, I took off my sweater and texted the Little Bird.
“You’re supposed to be asleep. I love you. Tell your mom, I love her.”
When her mom forgave me for letting her only child get hurt at work, I told her, “You know, I love you more than little baby ducks—and I love little baby ducks a lot.”
In Greek, Sophocles said:
Live where you can Be happy as you can Happier than God has made your father Live where you can Be happy as you can For he may not be here tomorrow
“Happier than God has made your father” resonates with me particularly. I’m doing my best, Daddy, I really am.
Things didn’t go well for Eteocles and Polyneices. Antigone risked her life to bury their bodies.
Baby sister hasn’t had to bury me yet, although it was close.
“Be happy as you can.”
In the darkness, brushing my teeth, crawling into bed, I was happy. Happier than God has made my father.
