A bittersweet farewell: I’m a New Yorker, but Mississippi has my heart

It took moving out for me to finally get to know my neighbors. It was the beginning of a long hot summer in the Mississippi Delta, and I was selling my belongings before heading back home to New York. Much of my furniture was already lined up on the porch. I waited outside in a folding chair with a cash box in my lap and my phone opened to Facebook Marketplace.

Earlier that day, I had found a home for my toaster and microwave. A café owner whom I finally got a chance to engage in long conversation with gladly took them off my hands for a discounted rate. She moved here from a city, too, she confessed. But she settled down with a mutt and met a man, building a radically different life. I always pegged her for a local in hunting gear and boots. But she was just like me.

Now, sitting on a roofed porch with a tea and a fan, I waited for more customers. Maybe I’d glean some last bits of wisdom from a spot I’d soon put in the rear view.

A direct message online came before the sound of the truck, its carburetor sluggish and off-kilter. I got up to greet the couple coming to fetch my futon and ice-maker. The tailgate was loaded up with plenty of furniture already, some of it worn and taped up. I anticipated a haggle. I also anticipated trouble after struggling to pin down an ETA with the couple all morning.

I was frustrated. They were supposed to pick up the items yesterday. There were plenty of bad-faith actors on the site trying to take advantage of sellers. So by the time they finally parked and the older man helped his wife from the passenger seat, I was scowling.

“We’re coming far. Sorry about it. From Rolling Fork,” the wife said. The two of them had clear, bright eyes in spite of their tired faces.
She strode forward in jean shorts and a rock T-shirt, a “Delta strong” pin clipped to the front. The pair’s home had been destroyed in the recent tornadoes in the South Delta. I let go of my reservations and helped out the pair with the sofa, sliding it into the back of their truck with a smile.

“How are y’all holding up?” I asked after the ice-maker had been placed behind the driver’s seat.

They had been together for nearly 30 years. Their wedding photographs and his football trophies were lost in the rubble. The wife told me about an outlook down by the river where they used to picnic on dates. He shared with me a restaurant that his sister still manages in the nearby town. At least they still had those places. And “all this,” she said smiling, gesturing to the big sky that superimposes itself on the flat Delta land like a lesser deity.

After I collected the cash, I waved goodbye as they pulled out of my driveway. I wished I could offer something in the way of a recommendation. I didn’t have the nerve to tell them where I was heading. That I was giving up on this way of life for the big city. At least my old treasures would stick around even if I wasn’t – pieces of me left behind.

Next, a young guy in a big SUV pulled up. His kid’s toys toppled out of the back when the trunk door lifted. He was here for my headboard. Colorful balls continued to fall like plastic bubbles onto the country road. I rushed to pick them up and greet the new dad.

“Wife and I are looking for a bigger place,” he said as if to explain the mess.

“Have you tried here? I don’t think anyone’s moving in to mine right now,” I replied.

I gave him my landlord’s number. He smiled and checked the back seat on instinct before pulling away. I was happy I could help. With each sale, I was finding another missed connection, another reason to stick around.

Next would be the hardest goodbye: my car. Styx had taken me over levees, across county and state lines, and in one case, through a monsoon. Its new owner was an expectant mother in need of more stable transportation after her last vehicle went kaput. It was a bittersweet moment to see Styx off.

“I work over at M.S. Palmer High. They have a farmers market, you know,” she said as I handed over the keys and registration.

I let her know I’d stop by before I left town. Her husband shook my hand and I walked toward my rental: a pickup. They pulled away in Styx, and I watched my silver Corolla chase a familiar sunset down through the cotton field with a new set of hands adjusting the gears.

Families, both young and old, went down that same dirt road with stuff that ceased to be mine. But they gave me something valuable in return – their stories. I was happy to have played a small part in their own, adding a few more faces to this chapter of my life.

That a nondescript futon could help a couple stranded after a disastrous tornado, or a safe ride could ease the burden of a young couple on the brink of starting a family, felt a greater gift than the cash I received in return.

In my rental, I put in the directions for the lookout point, but not before I checked out the nearby restaurant in town, calling to make sure they knew who sent me. Before I boarded my flight the next day, I made sure to check out the school farmers market, too. My house may have been emptied, but my last day’s itinerary was full.

With a heart warmed by the parting gift of my neighbors, I pledged to bring a bit of that community feel up North to my new neighbors.

I don’t want to wait till my next move to get to know them.