Bill and Fannie Lee Howard

Billy and Margaret Howard

Jim and Nellie Howard Tiller

Sam and Lee Howard Tiller

Kevin and Sarah Howard Ade

Larkin Ade McMillan, Lee Ade Stout, Mary Howard Ade

Barrett and Charlie Stout

Sarah Mitchell, Taylor and William McMillan

As so it Began

As so it began, following Aunt Nellie’s historical account of the origin of our spot on Boggy Branch, the Howard family started writing their pages , collectively and individually of the times on Boggy Branch and the surrounding area. Families grew. The fourth generation became part of the landscape and making their foot prints known.  Time passed, and the fifth generation is now doing the same.

Dreams continue to be dreamed. Memories continue to be made. Traditions find their rightful place and new creations weave their way into the tapestry of the family portrait.

Shall that our family portrait always hang over our spot on Boggy Branch, steady and sure, unwavering and committed and being an eternal pathway to the future  and a foreshadowing for generations to come.

Sarah Howard Ade

The Messenger of Fall

The Messenger of Fall

Sarah Howard Ade

     For many years during the days of early September, from the banks of the Bon Secour River, I would detect the first signs of a waning Summer bowing its way to Fall.  It was this time of year when the desiccated, thirsty surroundings would silently slip past that first September weekend, and if one was not aware of this time, one would find themselves well into the new season, and therefore unaware of Summer becoming so far removed.

     While growing up in Alabama, the changing of August into September often meant spending the Labor Day weekend on the Alabama coast.  As a child, this time of year offered one last caper with Summer, one long weekend of early dawn rising, so as to spend the fullest of days on the water.  As a young adult, yet still personified by the carefree spirit of youth, it would mean the merging of a Summer of romanticism into an invigorating anticipation of the college year ahead.  It was not to long ago though, upon returning to the Alabama coast, that I was taken by surprise with this inversion of season, for it quietly crept upon me, and spoke to my unawareness.

     Bon Secour River was showing the consequences of a typically hot, humid coastal summer.  As I pushed open the splintered screen door of the bleached cabin, I paused to inhale the bayou smell of the muddy river banks.  My head afferently filled with a  sense of the steaming, sultry shoreline.  Closing my eyes I paused to embrace this feel and smell of late summer.  As the screen door's slamming echoed across the water, I wandered towards the river's edge.

     My mind began rushing with quick recollections of the June and July days it then began stumbling over responsibilities and the routines ahead of me.  As I was mentally outlining the task that lay ahead, a fortuitous different breeze touched my beaded brow causing me to stop, and for the moment, take note of this mystical transition of season.

     The Gulf breeze that turned my face to the tree tops was blowing with a  new intention and sensitiveness.  As the breeze matured into a September song, I observed how differently it moved the trees.  With a growing confidence the wind took control of the leaves.  It had become the "Messenger of Fall." I could sense its pride as it no longer blew only to peacefully rock and cool the day, or to simply dance among the summer waves.  I could see it singing in sporadic phrases, beckoning me to hear its stanzas, while offering a foreshadow of songs to come.

     I noticed that the sky was displaying a deeper graduation of blue.  The yellowed clouds were meandering out to sea as if being tormented away by September's orange sunset, or by October's first frost.  The wind, now whipping here and there, made ripples on the water.  The river's abysmal and mossy green body mirrored the flight of a lone winged crane.  My eyes moved with Bon Secour's quiet motion.  The tide was changing, as was the season.

     With the river strong beckoning I quickly untied the nearby fishing boat.  Following the tide's retreat from the river into the neighboring Bay, I anxiously guided my wooden, weathered vessel around each familiar turn.  At the point where Bon Secour Bay meets Oyster Bay, I set anchor and settled back to watch the harmonious and beautiful movement of the Alabama Coast.

     The gray waves on the Bay were developing into misty white caps.  The curious seagulls dipped and glided behind a churning shrimp boat.  The shore's slender marshes rhythmically bowed in the wind, while the salt and pepper sandy shallows disappeared, then reappeared with the rushing and receding of the waves.  The heavy salt air felt warm again my face.  It was good to be here encircled by my favorite summer spot so deep in Alabama.

     While gazing out across Bon Secour Bay, I began to entertain the melancholies of Summer's decline and the reflective mood of September.  It seems September can be a teasing friend, granting you a glimpse into the past, then challenging you to follow her as she glides around the future's bend.  She will share with you just enough of a memory to bring a smile, then she will remind you of the day ahead, just enough to make you mellow.  She will let you wander through moods and feelings of days, times, and ages gone by.  Then unexpectedly her enchanting wind will blow a soft chill against your cheek directing you back into the present.

     The startling squeak of a lonely seagull caused me to awake from my collective thoughts.  Noticing the descending rays of the golden sun, I began to pilot the boat homeward.  As my craft glided inland there remained with me a lingering desidevation of youth and a pensive personality created by the season's transition.  The "Messenger of Fall" blew cool against my back, yet I remained warm from thoughts of Bon Secour's drifting clouds in summer.

To the Bay

To the Bay

As I sit here after a good evening in an inland state of mine, I notice that the moon is faint through the window and the air is so still in the spring time movement of the evening hours.  I stop to think of the changes going on in the little cabin that we call home, "The Cabin in the Pines."

And I think to myself, what is the one thing that resonates in our minds and souls, separately and collectively? It is the Bay's ever drawing pull, the pull that takes us away from the movement of routine and forward thinking, the pull transcends over all else for the moment.  "Let's go to the Bay!" Those words, that wish is timeless and forever us.

We have to see the Bay, the horizon, the sun dancing on the water, the barges moving about, the big boats taking charge, their wakes ripping the shoreline.  The Bay, the one thing drawing us all, souls, mind and heart, spirts holding hands for the comfort, the reunion, the connection of something we all hold separately yet united in the heart and in the mind and the view. It is a momentary cleansing and it stays with us when we depart, calling us back to the Bay, to see and accept the need.

End of Summer

End of Summer

The days pass, the seasons go around the sun, and I look up to the clouds moving above the water and see the distant flow, clouds full of summer's heat and heat lighting.  They make their way to the horizon.  They are the last clouds of summer and they are strong and hovering, massive clouds full of greys, white and yellow taking over the sky and making a ceiling of cover or concern.

The shore line's reeds mark the rise and fall of the waning summer's tide and the muddy banks are full of sultry smells of mud and sand and a summer's washing.  I see the banks as I pass them, they are the same, but they are new on this afternoon.  The view from my boat passing the shoreline, the wind in one's face and the sound of the waves on the bow, the warm air that has a hint of Fall and the sun setting in the distant stare all come together to join the familiar, granting a glimpse into the past of so sweet, and offering a sense of wholeness in the joining.

Some of my most memorable days have been spent watching this shoreline as I passed by, I watched it today, and I felt the days wash in and out of me, like a diary of my life and yet, it all remains the same.

It's summer's end, but the clouds above, the shoreline with each turn in the river's bend are the pull that makes time stand still, all the whole, joining its' ages, so deep into summer's passage and they show me a framed movie of days gone by, watching or wading, playing on the same shoreline or watching it as I passed by on a cruiser, cruising in at day's dusk or out at dawn with each frame of my life watching the same and caught up in the wonderment and the mystery of the shoreline and it's calling.

It remains the same in my view and like no where else, and all in one spot.  The tall grasses, the drift wood, the channel markers, the houses and their docks, the boat houses, all connecting the days from long ago to the present.

The Last Beach Towel

The Last Beach Towel

In all the years of spending family time on the Alabama coast and in the cabin overlooking Boggy Branch, the washing and folding of beach towels has always been and always will be on the bottom of the list of chores.  Possibly the task represents a time of closure and signifies that our time spent together in the Summer time on the Alabama coast has come to a close. When all is said and done with the goal of departure and as the cabin takes on a melancholy blanket of silence and when all have departed, waved good bye through open car windows, I postpone the washing and drying of all those multicolored beach towels.  I suppose those beach towels mark and mirror the movement of the week.

The rooms can be cleaned, the boats scrubbed and buttoned up, the fishing tackled hosed down, but the pile of wet and sandy, mildewed beach towels stay put and stare at me.  The pile is high and it calls to me but I tiptoe past it, dreading the conquering.

I move throughout the cabin organizing the spaces once filled with busy and happy motion and by the close of the day, I fold and roll up the last beach towel, clean, warm, smelling fresh. The week is over, the family has departed and our time shared on the Alabama coast has come to an end. The last beach towel is in place and so are the memories.

Last Day of Hurricane Season

Last Day of Hurricane Season

It is November 30th, the last day of hurricane season, and it is a warm night.  I wander down towards the water's edge, being pulled by the opportunity, being pulled by the good bye, I see the lights from across water's way, but, they are full timers, and I am a part timer, they have no need to grasp the waning of the full moon or the stillness of the night sky and the quietness of the air, for, they can come out tomorrow night, and I can not.

I pause to listen to the river's movement and I close my eyes on the listening of the sensory gift of a lone fish jumping.  I watch the clouds joining their merger of a blanket of cotton candy all hued with gray and white.  I look about at the frozen motion of the water, so strange, so still, so warm for this time of year, or maybe not, maybe it is stunning to me for I have never been here before on the eve of December and the ending of hurricane season, I have been elsewhere, bustling and busy with nothing that is so dramatic and necessary as this evening here.

I mark my footsteps and my passing of age to age with the seasons on this shore line, here are the seasons of my life and my growth and my thoughts, and my parents and grandparents, my pain and my happiness, my reflections and all else are on this shore line.  I think how one man or woman can be so drawn to a certain place, be it sky scrapers and pent houses, be it towering majestic mountains covered with snowy peaks,  be it vast and desert like tumble weeks that go farther than the eye can see, be it noise and exhaust but the thrill of a place that never sleeps...but, oh, the wonderful lucky star.

And for me, and if no one else knows the lucky star, it is sufficient in itself for me.  I want to wander again, against my judgement for the night is deep into time of slumber, but the pull comes again, calling me, telling me, you can hug the river now, and listen to its voice, and again at day's break, but as if the first time and the last time, I shall say goodbye in the morn's sunrise.

A path was designed and I did notice at the time, I was destined and in twined by those before me, and I stood as a child in the shadow mirroring the one standing before me.  I was floating out there like a crab trap in the Bay, unclaimed but waiting, and destiny would find me my home and set my anchor and tie my ropes and pull me in, wrapping me up with the salty air and spray and leading me back to the river's edge to claim my destiny and my key to feeling the heavens above with their sailors sky and the waves beneath my barefoot steps of knowing a piece of life that is sufficient in itself, however simple and undescribed by most or never understood but to only a few.