Robert McCammon, a true master of suspense, will be inducted into the Alabama Writers Hall of Fame in March 2025. His most recent novel, Leviathan, is the tenth and final book in the popular Matthew Corbett series. I recently reviewed it for Alabama Writers’ Forum:
When American composer George Gershwin died at age 38, novelist John O’Hara wrote, “George Gershwin died on July 11, 1937, but I don’t have to believe it if I don’t want to.” A few days ago, I woke up with those words on my mind. To shamelessly borrow from O’Hara, Donald J. Trump was inaugurated on January 20, 2025, but I don’t have to believe it if I don’t want to.
Actually, unlike Trump in 2020, I acknowledge the results of the 2024 election, so his unlikely win (not a “mandate,” by the way) is shocking. And I’m shocked that those who voted for him appear to have forgotten the events around the January 6, 2021, insurrection. They are rewriting the history, but we watched it live. It seemed like something we could never forget. Obviously, many did.
There are so many despicable, egregious, and absurd things Trump has done in just a few days. He does and says things that would have been unthinkable and inexcusable not that long ago. In the world he is trying to create, the words “diversity, equity, and inclusion” have become objectionable to far too many people. His mental acuity and stability are clearly in a diminished state. And he never seemed that bright to begin with.
I try to remember Garrison Keillor’s suggestion that whenever Trump speaks we should imagine him in a sparkly red gown with dangly earrings. Try it; it helps – especially when he talks about renaming the Gulf of Mexico.
It’s hard to laugh, however, when he pardons almost 1500 of his fellow January 6 insurrectionists. Felons have to look out for each other, I reckon. It’s hard to laugh when the President of the United States uses Israeli hostages and their families as a backdrop prop at one of his Inauguration Day mob scenes as he calls the insurrectionists “hostages.” The January 6 cartoon character known as the “QAnon Shaman” announced that with this pardon he was “gonna buy some motha f—ing guns.” An Alabama insurrectionist, in a locally televised interview, expressed gratitude that his 2nd Amendment rights were being restored. The desire to buy weapons seems to be the priority of newly-pardoned insurrectionists.
Let’s think about that for a moment.
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It seems to me that the opposition to Trump and his MAGA movement decided to tone it down after he won the election, to give him the benefit of the doubt. We were too easy on him, too civil. He needs to be called out for what he is. American citizens need to be reminded, whether they want to hear it or not.
A lesser-known part of my biography is that I have an undergraduate degree in political science, with a concentration in political theory. I say that only to give credence to my belief that Trump has fascist tendencies. I won’t call him a fascist outright since he is not bright or well-read enough to have any specific political ideology. He goes where his whims and the promise of money blow him. But we must keep pointing out the crimes he committed and is being accused of, the crimes he fomented by his words and actions, and the disgrace he continues to bring on our country and its reputation. He is an international laughing stock.
I was very proud of what Rev. Budde said to Trump in support of her Christian faith at the prayer service at the National Cathedral this week. Trump doesn’t sit in a church pew very often, so I think it is incumbent on our spiritual leaders to preach humanity and humility to him when they get the rare chance. It won’t stick, but it’s worth the effort.
Whew. I needed to get that off my chest. I’ll keep trying to find the humor in the situation whenever I can.
As we continue to evaluate and honor the legacy of President Jimmy Carter, a new book of essays has been released that considers the many books Carter authored. The Literary Legacy of Jimmy Carter: Essays on the President’s Books is a comprehensive consideration of the dozens of books that Carter, who never used a ghostwriter, wrote — mostly in the years of his post-Presidency. I reviewed it for Alabama Writers’ Forum:
Hesitant to leave the tranquil environment of the French Quarter Chateau in downtown Fairhope, it was time to move on to the next stop – the Grand Hotel, a few miles down the bay in Point Clear. But there were a few hours to fill prior to check-in and I started at the Warehouse, an eatery I wasn’t aware of until Allison’s enthusiastic recommendation. It’s a big room, crowded and friendly, with a big menu, serving breakfast all day and lunch. I ordered a memorable shrimp and grits, with Conecuh sausage added, that I wanted to reorder as soon as I finished my first serving. It became a new “must-go” on my already crowded list of essential Eastern Shore dining rooms (Warehouse Bakery & Donuts).
Warehouse, Fairhope
There was an urge to stay and sample more of the Warehouse menus, but I had promised myself a drive around Baldwin County before returning to the already familiar Grand. Silverhill is a small town a few miles out of Fairhope; I have enjoyed the short drive to Silverhill past pecan orchards and farmland in the past and pegged it as a good place to start. When I arrived at the main intersection in Silverhill, a woman was standing on a park bench doing what looked like modern interpretive dance. Perhaps it was modern dance – or maybe it was a very Westernized and dramatic version of tai chi. Whatever it was, it was a momentary distraction on a slow chilly morning and the woman looked content.
Moving past Silverhill, I realized that I have not been to the southernmost point of Baldwin County at the Gulf of Mexico in about fourteen years and headed south through towns I have passed through and occasionally stopped at throughout my life. Crossing into Gulf Shores, I headed east toward Gulf State Park and parked near the beach. The deserted beach was a pleasant place for a brief, bracing walk.
After a drive past the dunes, trails, and waterways of the park, it was time to head back toward Fairhope and Point Clear. The back roads took me to Bon Secour, Magnolia Springs, and Weeks Bay – places I have lingered before and will linger again. Along the way, I saw a couple of satsuma trees so loaded with the fruit that the branches were sagging to the ground. It was a good reminder that I had not yet stopped for a bag of satsumas at my regular place, Harrison Farms on Highway 98 (not to be confused with Harrison Fruit Farm in Chilton County – my peach source).
As usual, the Harrisons had the truck parked on the highway with the big SATSUMAS NOW! sign and bags of fruit lining the truck bed. It is on the honor system so I picked my sack of fruit, put money in the box, and went on my way. Because of unusually warm temperatures, the outside was greener than usual, but the fruit inside was as orange, juicy, and tasty as always. Down the road, a stop at B&B Pecan Company and then it was on to the Grand.
As I get older, I am more and more a creature of ritual and tradition. In my first days in Fairhope, I intentionally steered clear of Point Clear where the Grand Hotel Spa and Resort is located. I did not want to spoil the moment of arrival at the Grand’s gates. Finally, satsumas and pecans in tow, it was time to check in. Normally, when I make my December trip to the Grand, it is very quiet. On this arrival, the place was packed as people took in the Christmas decorations on the grounds, the gingerbread village in the lobby, and all the things the Grand has to offer for the holidays. My peace and quiet came when I got to my preferred room (I have been staying in the same room for years) and caught the last color of the recent sunset off to the west from my balcony.
I dressed for a dinner reservation at Southern Roots, the Grand’s more formal dining room. When I got there, there was a course of Murder Point oysters calling my name. My preferences from a year ago had been noted by the attentive manager, Susan Margaretha; this is one of many reasons that I must stay at the Grand every December. When I ordered the grouper dish, the server explained that the sauce had changed from when I had the dish a year ago and that she suspected I would like the change; she was right.
After a sumptuous meal at Southern Roots and a walk through the lagoon gardens back to my room, I sat for a while on the balcony, read for a while in the room, and went to sleep early. This Mobile Bay trip had been designated for pure rest and relaxation. My balconies got a workout.
The next morning was my annual morning massage at the Grand spa with Claudia. She and I tried to figure out how many years this December ritual – a morning warm stone massage with Claudia – has been going on. We settled on fifteen years, at least. I look forward to it all year.
I usually linger in the spa’s Quiet Room after the massage, but this year I had an inspiration. After my eager consumption of Murder Points over the past few years – and singing their praises to anyone who might listen – I should go to the source since it was only about an hour away. So, I scuttled my plan for a quiet day of reading at the Grand, ate the West Indies Salad I had taken out from Southern Roots the night before (perfect lunch after a massage), set the GPS for Murder Point Oysters in Bayou La Batre, and headed across the causeway toward Mobile. 
Over the years I have travelled through Bayou La Batre a couple of times; I have heard of it most of my life, mainly because of the annual Blessing of the Fleet every spring. As a traveler at the Grand reminded me, it was also the home of Bubba Gump Shrimp. When I reached the fishing village about an hour before sunset, the Murder Point Oysters shop was the target. Set just off the bayou, the store is full of oyster and seafood-themed products and you can buy oysters on the half-shell – even just a single one – for a fresh taste. Click this: Murder Point Oyster Company. Now, if that doesn’t inspire you to go out and eat a dozen oysters, I guess you’re not an oyster lover (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
I had hoped to go in search of those oyster beds. Whenever I am dining out at a seafood place, I request Murder Points. It is not just that they are an Alabama family-grown product, but they are quite simply the best-tasting oysters I have ever had – buttery and clean, with a nice pop of salt at the end. But it was getting late in the Bayou and time to head back to Point Clear. The oyster beds will still be there next time.
Bayou La Batre
Back at Point Clear and a mile down the road from the Grand, the Wash House has been a special place for a great dinner since I began this annual pilgrimage. I usually save it for the final night of the trip and have had memorable Wash House meals with friends many times over the years. There were no Murder Point oysters, but a silky she-crab soup was a delicious starter to a final dinner of this edition of my December respite.
Early enough the next morning – after a good sleep and coffee on the balcony, watching groundskeepers at the lagoon, guests heading over for breakfast, and children feeding ducks made it hard to leave. But leave I did, with festive thoughts of another restful getaway to the coast and ready to brave the busy highway north.
A refreshing trip to Mobile Bay. I highly recommend it – even, and maybe especially — in December. 
My annual December respite to Mobile Bay got off to an amazing start as I stayed at a new place above downtown Fairhope’s French Quarter alley of quaint shops and a popular eatery. The French Quarter Chateau is a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a huge balcony overlooking the French Quarter and one of Fairhope’s main streets. The balcony wraps around two sides of the apartment and, due to Fairhope’s mild climate, is comfortable throughout the year. There are multiple places to sit outside and, depending on your selection, you can sit and watch the foot and motor traffic on Section Street or watch people come and go at the French Quarter or both from my favorite nook beside a trickling fountain amid wisteria vines.
The chateau became an instant special place; for me, it is made even more special by its location – in the middle of a bustling small town at Christmas time – and its peace and solitude. The host, Allison, has furnished and equipped the place to charming perfection and I am content just to stay there and read, or people watch, or occasionally doze off. You, too, can be content there: French Quarter Chateau in Lovely Downtown Fairhope – Apartments for Rent in Fairhope, Alabama, United States – Airbnb. 
The location makes it possible to park the car and walk to whatever is needed. Greer’s, a local market, is just across the street; as soon as I arrived, I crossed the street for basics for the refrigerator before dashing down the street for a dinner reservation.
In the morning, after coffee in the apartment, I walk down the spiral staircase through lush greenery for more coffee and beignets at Panini Pete’s in the French Quarter courtyard, beside the fountain among the specialty shops. It was raining, but plastic enclosures shielded the outdoor tables from the soft December trickle.
“Marble,” one of the French Quarter cats, stood outside the kitchen door begging for treats. “Are you waiting for some turkey?” asked a server. “Let’s see what I can find.” Marble patiently took a seat at a nearby table and waited for the treats that another server soon sprinkled in a corner of the patio, eating quietly as other morning diners gathered and rain trailed down clear plastic. Finally, brushing the dusting of powdered sugar off my shirt and pants, I head back up to the apartment, stopping to give Miss Fancy, the dowager of the French Quarter cats, a rub on the head and chin (no stomach rubs, please). Do not mistake Fancy for homeless and take her back to Birmingham as some “well-meaning” tourists did not long ago (it made the news).
As the rain stopped, I headed back down the stairs and casually browsed some of the shops, picking up some Christmas presents along the way. My first stop in downtown Fairhope (after Greer’s) is usually Page and Palette, a bookstore and community gathering place since 1968, with a coffee shop, Latte Da, and Book Cellar bar attached. Just down De La Mare Avenue from Page and Palette is Happy Olive, a go-to place for specialty olive oils and vinegars. Other shops a block over along Fairhope Avenue yield other pleasures and gift ideas.
The pull of the chateau balcony is strong, however, and I spend the bulk of the afternoon out there – reading, finishing a book review, napping. I rouse myself long enough to go out for my first plate of raw oysters of the trip at Sunset Pointe. Of course, it’s Murder Point oysters from across the Bay near Bayou La Batre, a storied fishing village.
With the oyster urge satisfied for a while, it’s back to the apartment. It is my long-time habit to read Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory” sometime during the holiday season, usually somewhere near Alabama’s Eastern Shore. After running across a newspaper article about the filming of the 1966 television version of the short story, I decided to watch the television “special” – my first exposure to the story when I was a boy. It is a wondrous thing. Filmed in Alabama, starring Geraldine Page as “Sook,” directed by Frank Perry, and narrated by Capote himself – the very definition of “bittersweet.” You can watch the full film here: Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory (1966 Emmy Winner) – DVD Color.
One of my favorite casual dining spots in downtown Fairhope was Dragonfly foodbar. I read earlier in the year that Dragonfly had left its downtown location for a spot farther south. Wandering around before the rains moved in on my last full day at the apartment, I happened to pass the old location and was pleased to see that it is now occupied by one of my favorite places up the highway in Daphne. Market by the Bay has just moved into the Dragonfly location and I was pleased to have the opportunity to have one of their unbeatable shrimp po’boys.
That night, I enjoyed dinner at Dragonfly with friends Allison and Richard. Doug Kerr’s creative menu, heavy on tacos and bowls, was as enticing as ever in the expansive and noisy new digs. By the time Allison and Richard dropped me off at the apartment, the rain was getting harder. The rest of the evening was spent on the balcony watching the rain. Distant lightning was visible from the Gulf. Sounds of people chattering and laughing as they left the Book Cellar and hopped puddles to their cars mixed with the sounds of the rain.
It was hard to leave the balcony and go to bed. But tomorrow is moving day and I need to pack and leave my downtown oasis for the bay views of the Grand Hotel down at Point Clear. 
Serendipity happens. As I was traipsing around south Mobile County, Alabama Writers’ Forum posted my latest book review of Mobile and Havana: Sisters across the Gulf. For anyone interested in Mobile, there are so many recent books being written about the area. And this one includes a huge helping of history and architecture and the compelling history of Havana.
Here’s a link to that review:
My Christmas card project began twenty-something years ago when I spotted a little white church off the highway between Montgomery and Tuscaloosa. There were wreaths on the door and I thought it would be a perfect Christmas card image to celebrate where I was in the world – without much snow and seldom a snowman (things that had turned me off of so many cards in the past). I photographed the little church and had cards made the next Christmas. It was not intended to become a years-long project, but after the responses I got, I decided to keep it up.
I’ve explained what I’m looking for before, but I usually seek out older Alabama churches and the photo should be taken in the month of December, whether the building is decorated for the season or not. Since that first card, I have shared images of over twenty churches from all over the state and am always on the lookout for next year’s church. A couple of times, I didn’t have a church picture I wanted to use and substituted images from my annual holiday visit to Baldwin County. I sent an image of a dock on Mobile Bay one time and a photo of a live oak on the grounds of the Grand Hotel on another.
Believe it or not, those non-church images got pushback. One of my favorite former college professors praised the dock image but added that she “much preferred” my church photos; I felt like I had disappointed her with a mediocre class paper.
Last year, on a drive from a ceremony in Tuscaloosa to a theatre performance in Montgomery, I was on the new section of Highway 82 that bypasses the Bibb County town of Centreville. I caught sight of the back of a gleaming white country church off to the west and took the next turn off the highway to check out a building I suspected I’d never seen before. When I got to the building, it was the same church that inspired that first Christmas card project around 2002; it used to be on the main highway before a bypass was built and I had never seen it from the back before. It looked great – freshly painted a vibrant white, new roof, no longer an air-conditioning unit in a front window.
Even though the Sandy Chapel Church (est. 1800) just outside Centreville had been the debut church in my Alabama Christmas card series, I decided it deserved an encore. Last year, on the way back from Point Clear to Birmingham, I detoured onto Highway 82 to get a December shot of the building. It was a perfect, cloudless afternoon and the building shone beautifully atop its hill.
The cards went out on the first of December. This week, I am back in Baldwin County and keeping my eyes open for ideas for my 2025 card. Happy Holidays. And try to keep hope alive for 2025.
I’ve been following Chef Sean Brock’s career for about a decade now. The Pound, Virginia, native first hit my radar because of his roles at Charleston restaurants Husk and McCrady’s and for his devotion to and preservation of Southern foodways and Appalachian cuisine. Brock has since moved his base of operations to Nashville where his restaurants, Audrey and June, and his “hi-fidelity vinyl bar and lounge,” Bar Continental, are drawing enthusiastic responses. Two of my favorite recent cookbooks are Brock’s Heritage (2014) and South (2019) in which he writes succulently and memorably about food and ingredients.
Sharing a laugh with Sean Brock in Florence
I have only had the opportunity to eat a complete Sean Brock dinner on one occasion. He helmed a Friends of the Café dinner in Florence, Alabama, at the Alabama Chanin design factory. From the tomato and okra stew with a grilled pig tail garnish to a shrimp and eggplant purloo, grilled steak with black truffle and sweet potato, and the panna cotta dessert, it was one of the finest of many fine meals I’ve had at that cherished spot.
I have been hoping he would get around to opening a restaurant in Birmingham, “the dinner table of the South” and home to a disproportionate share of James Beard Award winners, finalists, and nominees. My hope has finally come to fruition – although perhaps not quite in the way I expected.
Sean Brock has partnered with Nick Pihakis and the Pihakis Restaurant Group to open a location of Brock’s Joyland family restaurant in Birmingham’s Avondale neighborhood. The Pihakis restaurant portfolio is extensive and its various brands are ubiquitous in the Birmingham area and beyond. I must admit that I seem to be on a first-name basis with the staff at Rodney Scott’s BBQ’s Homewood location. Pihakis began with his father at Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q in Lakewood. From there, the Pihakis group has expanded to restaurants featuring Gulf seafood, Greek, Italian, Mexican, breakfast, donuts, Rodney Scott’s, and now, Joyland – essentially an elevated breakfast and burger joint.
Joyland’s signature Crustburger features a thin hamburger patty, cheese, and onion between a flattened potato bun, skillet-toasted to a crusty crunch and served with a side of joysauce. A more traditional hamburger, fried chicken, Chicago dogs, an impossible burger, and chicken on a stick are also available. Sides include fries and hashbrowns. A breakfast and biscuit menu has a nice selection of options and sides, including a shake menu. An apple hand pie was a joyful completion to the meal. A bar is available as are “boozy shakes.” Everything I tried was good. 
But the real reason I want to talk about Joyland is how committed the place seems to be to its name. From the sunburst mural on the side of the building to the sparkling primary colors throughout the retro interior and spacious courtyard, there is a bright vibe to the place. A disco ball, probably left over from the Rodney Scott’s BBQ that was previously in that location (all of Rodney Scott’s restaurants have a disco ball), dots the entrance area with dancing light and the music kept me moving in my seat. The television screens show cartoons and several children were going between the courtyard and the dining room. The urge to stand up and dance when Talking Heads’ “And She Was” came on was strong. The staff is friendly and even seemed happy to be there.
And the food is tasty and cleverly straightforward.
Joy. What a concept. 
Through an unusually hot and deplorable November amid drought conditions, the activity of the birds at the backyard feeders has provided respite. Trees and plants seem confused and bees, wasps, flies, and mosquitoes are taking advantage of the extended warmth, but butterflies have recently been spotted in the lantana that still bloomed in the raised bed until this week. Every time Lulu, the dog, goes out, a mosquito comes in.
The bird population seems to have thinned out but they still frequent the feeders. Cardinal sightings are more likely in early morning and dusk and the mourning doves still come in groups but they don’t hang out on the fence quite as much. I always leave the hummingbird feeders out longer than necessary; I always think there may be a stray after the rest have left. In fact, the last hummingbird we saw this year was quite late and seemed more frantic than usual to get fed and get gone around the time a hurricane was churning down in the Gulf.
A murder of crows converge on occasion. Lulu loves to dash out the door to chase them away. On first chase, the crows usually just fly up into a nearby pine to wait her out. If we go back out and I clap my hands and she barks, black crows can be seen scattering off in all directions, caw-fussing as they go. Once, I banged some pot lids and Lulu joined in with her happy dance, hopping up and down on her front legs. Neighbors were pleased with the commotion, no doubt.
A frost is forecast for sometime next week. Maybe some rain. I dread cold weather, but the earth sorely needs it. The plants will save up some energy, the leaves that haven’t decided yet will turn. I have tried to let the last grass mowing wait for the leaves to fall but it’s past time to mow the grass and the leaves can just take their time. The bugs will go away. The birds that stay will stay. The birds that go away will go.
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I didn’t realize it until recently, but I have found some peace in watching birds as long as I can remember. Even when they are acting up, they bring me peace. The grace and freedom they seem to represent may be part of the attraction. My grandparents had glass bird figurines on the mantel, in the china cabinet, and around the house, one of which lingers on my mother’s mantel. I have been looking at those cardinals all my life. Mother also has a cabinet full of hummingbird-related items – plates, figurines, ornaments. My one and only piece of Howard Finster art is a white crane sculpture covered with his scribbled preaching. “My entire life is a sacrifice for you,” he writes. 
Margaret Renkl’s book, The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year, is a beautiful book of essays published last year. Renkl knows how to watch and appreciate birds and savor the nature all around us if we just pay attention. A big edition of Audubon’s The Birds of America sits on the coffee table in my living room. I visit it often when I am at home. In admiration for Mr. Audubon’s work, I contribute to the Audubon Society. I support the society’s mission, but I’m not really interested in becoming a “birder.” I can identify the birds that I need to identify by their obvious characteristics, but I don’t identify the ubiquitous small greyish birds that are delightful and plentiful and look too much alike to my untrained eye. I misidentified a nesting bird in this space a year or two ago and got my hands slapped by a reader. So I appreciate them, but I keep their (perhaps mistaken) identity to myself. An organized bird-watching expedition sounds as deadly dull to me as the wine aficionado who can’t enjoy the glass without extemporizing ad nauseum on its qualities (or lack of). It’s kind of like a round of golf; I’m bored with the game but I enjoy the walk in nature.
Rarely am I aware when a bird has died. They come and go and I like to assume that the returnees are the same birds I watched last year and years before. I guess that’s the reason I think Alison Krauss and Gillian Welch’s version of the old hymn “I’ll Fly Away” would be a good selection for my funeral, if I have one.
‘tis the season for pensive posts, I guess. This is what’s on my mind this morning. So savor your birds. Enjoy their songs. Feed them and protect them to the extent possible. Make it a good fall. Despite …
Historian Mike Bunn’s This Southern Metropolis examines the antebellum history and character of Mobile, Alabama, through the eyes of its myriad visitors. It’s an intriguing dive into a unique Southern city. I reviewed it for Alabama Writers’ Forum.
Professional Southerner 