I really don't remember anything about the meeting except for the guest speaker. I couldn't believe it when I looked at the program and saw her name--Eudora Welty. It made sense that she, a writer, would speak to a group of librarians, but famous people usually don't speak at functions I attend. But there she was reading to us one of her stories. When she opened her mouth, she left no doubt what part of the country she was from. She had a very Southern accent--the kind that smelt of magnolia blossoms, the kind that was as thick as sorghum molasses, the kind you won't hear much now thanks to television.
I was quickly drawn into her story. She was reading about people I could identify with. She was reading about her home, but she was also reading about mine--Mississippi. Her characters were not tragic ones doomed forever because of the past sins of our forefathers. They were, instead, ordinary people going about the business of living whether it was walking to the library to get a book or moving into the post office because of family squabbles. The time period may have been different from mine, but the people weren't. They were my neighbors, my friends, my relations.
I smiled; I laughed; I giggled; I sighed as she read. She even had to pause for a moment to laugh with us. It was an intimate, shared moment between writer/reader and listener. We, the audience, were responding to her writing as she, the writer, had intended. No one had to hit us over the head to see if we had gotten the point.
Listening to her I was reminded of things I had forgotten during the turbulent sixties. That day I fell in love with my state and its people. I never again thought my destiny lay elsewhere. Mississippi was my home. Mississippi, no matter what its past was or what its future held, was where I belonged.
Go To Page: 1 2
