Mobile, Alabama: My Tornado Alcove

 

Building staircase. Mobile, Alabama. August 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

I moved into my Mobile apartment in the midst of the hurricane season. 

I'm on the fifth floor of a building that does, actually, have a basement, but it's the kind of basement that most certainly houses the undead, always on the ready for their close-up, Mr. DeMille, in addition to all sorts of electrical and gaseous and plumbing apparati that I would not want to be near if the shit really did hit the fan. 

For awhile there in the fall, the gods really told us how mad they were at Mobile, and I skedaddled down to the first floor on several occasions. I took my camp chair, laptop, and phone with me. My spot was under the building's main staircase. 

I prepared both a sheepish shrug and grin in case a neighbor walked down the corridor and saw me.

 

Related posts or pics

2012: On the Road to Alamogordo, Day #1: Faith and Fury [in Joplin, Missouri]. Caution: Two disturbing events referenced: the recent burning of a mosque and of a devastating tornado the year before. The video of people sheltering from the tornado in a c-store storage room is terrifying (and I don't use that word lightly), so beware.

After the May 2007 tornado in Greensburg, Kansas. October 2007. Credit: Mzuriana.

Fifteen years later, here's an update on the 2007 tornado in Greensburg, Kansas. 

 

After the May 2007 tornado in Greensburg, Kansas. October 2007. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Mobile, Alabama: It's Baaaaaack

 

Banksy rat. Source: Infrogmation via Openverse via Creative Commons

 

Eek? 

Back here, I had a likely critter in my kitchen, as circumstantially-evidenced by slashed bags and spilled spoils. Took defensive measures with my inelegant elegant solution. 

A few weeks later, I learned that another resident had an, erm, visitor. All of a sudden, it seems. 

I commiserated with her, of course, all while being grateful that it was now SEP. 

Until a recent night.

I was at my 'desk,' facing the kitchen. The louver doors to the kitchen were open, the kitchen light on. Suddenly I saw a critter move sprightly across the kitchen floor. And, no, it was not a cute little mouse, like that one in El Paso. No, it was a rat. Not as large as one imagines in major metropolises. But bigger than a mouse. A longer tail than a mouse. 

And when I yelled out, "Hey!" it didn't scamper away as fast and as appropriately respectfully as a mouse would have. I'm pretty sure it almost paused. Took a moment to consider whether it would comply with my implied command to exit. 

On one hand, I'm glad to have closure on the open case of the nefarious goings-on in my kitchen. 

On the other hand, this is yet another example of how ignorance really can be best. Typically, I keep my kitchen doors closed and the light off. It happened that on this night, the doors were open and the light on. I'm sure the rat's been poking around every night all along and I simply didn't know. 

Couldn't it have waited til I left in just a few weeks?

 

Note: For anyone without the cultural reference for "It's Baaaaack," I take you back in time to 1986. Poltergeist II:

Portable: Personal Archeology

 

Personal archeology. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana

In my preparation for moving at the end of August, as per my tradition, I have been consuming consumables so I can lighten my relocation load. 

I had two scented candles. One was small, and I luxuriated in its fragrance for the three or so days of profligate use. 

The next candle was rather large. Honey nectar. An intoxicating perfume that filled my space. To burn it, I sought a suitable surface. 

Ah, I have two pieces of black slate, painted with a flower design. I selected one to place under the candle. 

Now I needed something to put the candle and slate on, which would be out of the breezeways of my ubiquitous fans or open windows. 

Ah, I have my djembe drum. 

I placed the candle on top of the painted slate on top of the djembe drum, on the floor. 

After I did that, and after I lit the candle's two wicks, and after I breathed in the delectable scent, I saw something. 

Each of these items represent past lives. 

The drum I received from a long-time love. I played this drum at the drum circles in El Paso.

The slate I received from one of my two best high school friends, which she had received from a best friend in her old home town; the original gift-giver is who painted the flowers on that slate, and a second one that I also have. Years ago, I gave these two slates to my mother so she could use them on her living room end tables, for people to place their drinks upon. After my mom died, the slates returned to me.

The candle I'd bought to add to the ambience for a nice little interlude with someone just prior to my Lost Summer of 2021. 

When I saw that tower of memories, it prompted me to add another item. A pair of yellow finches I'd embroidered, for which my husband-at-the-time made the frame, and which I'd also given to my parents at some point, decades ago. I retrieved this, too, after my mother died.

 

Personal archeology. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana

The year I embroidered the birds was the Year of Massive Domesticity. I learned how to bake bread (before there were bread-making machines), both white and whole wheat (the former a tremendous success; the latter a flat, uber-dense brick, but still tasty). I taught myself how to crochet. I made at least six full-size afghans, each of a different stitch pattern, knot size, and color palette and design. These were all gifts to siblings and parents one Christmas. 

It may come as no surprise that this was also the year I incubated, produced, and fed a baby human. 

That's a lotta history packed into a small space for this minimalist.

Mobile, Alabama: Salt-Clumping Season

 

 

COVID salt. Tucson, Arizona. March 2020. Credit: Mzuriana.

Yes, it arrived about three weeks ago, I reckon. Salt-clumping season. Which some might call the rainy season or the impending hurricane season.

When the salt crystals in my shaker decide to organize into a unified group against their customary freefall onto my waiting dish, upsetting the proper order of things.

When I must introduce a union buster to show 'em who's the boss. A cracker. Some rice grains.

Other seasons

2011: On Mangoes: The Mango Season is Here (original source in Cock and Bull Stories by Ngishili here from the Wayback Machine)

2012: Caucasus, Georgia: The Tutebi Are Here

2013: The Seven Seasons of New Mexico

2013: New Mexico: The Windy Season

2014: Lafayette, Louisiana: The Mardi Gras Season Begins

2016: Antigua, Guatemala: Ant Season is Coming

 

Mobile, Alabama: Living Rooms Present and Past

 

My living room, office, bedroom. Mobile, Alabama. Credit: Mzuriana.

My living room in Mobile is also my bedroom, office, and exercise space. What comes in through my living space windows is my art. Soothing light washes the walls and floor in the mornings and evenings.  When the afternoon sun gets belligerent, I taper the shades to gentle its attitude. I'm at eye level, so to speak, with the live oak; its arms almost touch my windows, and in histrionic storms, they tap on the glass. A mansion is my neighbor. Vivid sunsets. Theatrical clouds presage storms. Curtains of rain.

Over the 10 years of my rootlessness, the minimalism of my furnishings has maximalized. It used to be that when I landed in a new place, one of the first items on my to-do list was to visit the local thrift store. There, I'd pick out a comfy living room chair, an office chair, a floor lamp, a bedside table and a side table for the living room. Back at the very beginning, I bought a bed (even two!). 

At the end of my yearly tenure, I'd advertise the bulky items for resale or I'd donate them to Goodwill.

However, it occurred to me - in Tucson, I think - that I could get double duty from my camping gear, and that's what I did, beginning in Birmingham last year. 

• Living room chairs: Two* backpacking canvas sling chairs
• Side table: Compact, molded plastic folding table
• Bedside table: Stretched-fabric, collapsible camp table 
• Office chair: Molded plastic folding chair
• Ottoman: Camp kitchen storage bin
• Laundry basket: Repurposed styrofoam cooler
• Kitchen wastebasket with a lid that snaps firmly shut: My Luggable Loo

 

My living room, office, bedroom. Mobile, Alabama. Credit: Mzuriana.

Demanding dual duty from furniture saves me shopping time upon arrival, money, and off-loading time (selling or donating the furnishings) at departure. 

 Some past living spaces

In my rooted house circa 2005

My living room in my rooted house. Missouri, 2005. Credit: Mzuriana.

My living room in my rooted house. Missouri, 2005. Credit: Mzuriana.

In Opelousas, Louisiana in 2015

My living room in Opelousas, Louisiana. 2015. Credit: Mzuriana.

My very, very Spartan living room in Birmingham

My living room in Birmingham, Alabama. 2020. Credit: Mzuriana.

The above picture of my Birmingham living room made me laugh. That was utilitarian, indeed. But my ottoman-slash-camp kitchen bin did its job just fine! 

My office was behind me when I took the picture. Same set-up as always, from Alamogordo, New Mexico, in 2012, through today in Mobile, Alabama in 2022.

So, let's look at my El Paso living space as the final retrospective

My living space in El Paso, Texas. 2016. Credit: Mzuriana.

In revisiting the El Paso space, I see items I've released since then: 

• The good-looking hat that gave me headaches. Literally. Practicality finally overcame vanity and sentimentality. 
• The apple green bendy table lamp. 
• The tabletop radio and CD player

 

**I've had one of these chairs for quite some years. This year, one of the legs split, so for now, I just use it as an ottoman, as it can't bear the weight of an entire human. When I leave Mobile, I'll harvest the canvas sling and the velcro strap, and toss the frame.

Mobile, Alabama: Bathrooms Present and Past

 My bathroom in Mobile: 

Mobile bathroom. Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

I remember how joyous I felt about the light and space of my bathroom in Ferguson after a year in El Paso's coffinesque shower and converted-hall bathroom. 

 

My shower in Ferguson, Missouri. November 2017. Credit: Mzuriana.

My bathroom in Birmingham had the charm of a 1980s small-town medical clinic. No toilet paper holder. It did offer the dubious benefit of a window, street level, smack at breast-level in the shower, with the view of the boarded-up building across the street (before it was demolished), then the plowed earth after the violence of demolition, and, in time, a rather pleasant rolling green.

My Birmingham bathroom. Alabama. July 2020. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

My Birmingham bathroom. Alabama. June 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

As my bathrooms have gone over the years, my Mobile bathroom falls in the Land of Not. Meaning, it's:

1. Not unpleasant, with the light that comes in from the west-facing window, and with the old-school, recessed wooden medicine cabinet and shelf above the sink
   
2. Not too small
3. Not surprising to have a clunky hose-and-shower-wand retro-fit kind of set-up because the building is a centenarian and showers weren't a thing back then
4. Not surprising that the new shower wand holder, affixed to the wall at a height appropriate for most tenants, fell off in short order because Mobile is the rainiest city in the entire continental U.S., and the adhesive used for said affixation was not up to the job, which meant I slid the shower wand into the former shower wand holder, which had been thoughtfully kept installed (because it was screwed into the wall), which was lower on the wall, which was 90% not terrible, because I am rather short, although the loss of the new holder left a wound on the wall where the new holder had been, resulting in rather an esthetic insult. 
5. Also not surprising that when it rains or when the humidity is high, there are moist blotches on the bathroom walls
6. Not expected at all that I have not even once had to employ the toilet plunger I bought in Birmingham, to which I granted precious real estate in my Prius during relocation, and which is a testament either to the good design of the Mobile toilet or the pipes or to the mystical power of the mere presence of the plunger in the space
7. Not pleasing that I need to flush out the iron water for a few seconds from the tub spigot before taking a shower
   

Mobile bathroom. Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Related posts

2019: A wilderpee and a big bug: Tucson, Arizona: Humane Borders Water Run: July

2018: Mexico City: Toilets I Have Known, Including This One

2014: "The need to empty one's bladder can lead to unexpected encounters." In Louisiana: Broussard's Happenin' Goodwill

2012: Dubai: Eating a Camel and Sleeping on a Table

2012: An attempted wilderpee: Kazbegi, Caucasus Georgia

Mobile, Alabama: I Want to Eat Them

 

I look at them in the wild. I look at my pictures of them. 

I crave them. I want very, very much to bite into them. 

Seductive mushroom. Mobile, Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

I fantasize about their texture, their flavor. Surely the taste would be a limb-melting union of a warmed English muffin, buttery. Soft like the fluffiest of pancakes and yet with a bit of resistance to my teeth. The lightest feathered dusting of cornflour up top, and porous pockets within.

Seductive mushroom. Mobile, Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Seductive mushroom. Mobile, Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Seductive mushroom. Mobile, Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Alas, I have yet to discover their name, and maybe they could kill me. 

 

My cumulative collection of mushrooms here: 

 

Mobile, Alabama: A Curiosity

 

 

A hanging fox tail. Mobile, Alabama. July 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

It wasn't there the day before.

It was there the next day.

A fox tail, it seems.

Real? 

I didn't touch it. 

Why hanging? 

Why hanging there? 

Related fox posts

2016: On the Way to Colorado: Snapshots

2017: Big Bend National Park, Texas: Poop and Circumstance

2018: Backyard Fox

 

Mobile, Alabama: Clothes in the Wild

 

 

Street clothes. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Regretfully, insecurely housed or homeless people in my temporary towns are not unusual.  

But it's in Mobile that I've noticed the assortment of clothing released to the wild by the daily wanderers. 

On one hand, the shedding of no-longer-wanted clothes is just litter, adding to the existing detritus of discarded water bottles, soda cups and straws, beer cans, liquor bottles, sandwich wrappers, cigarette boxes, and the beaded remains of Mardi Gras' past.  

On the other hand, the shedding of the clothes seems organic. A natural molting of a skin. An undershirt's penultimate life stage that began from a cotton seed in a field somewhere close or far, fashioned into an undershirt, bought new, then perhaps donated to a thrift store - once or twice or even three times - passing through a different person's arms and over the shoulders - until the last person, who wore it until it no longer served, thus returned the undershirt to the earth, laid to rest in a place close or far from whence its threads sprouted. 

The final disposition of the clothing? Perhaps eaten and then excreted, in part, by insects. Said excrement to be consumed by another category of insects.

Insects that eat clothing. Source: The Spruce

Here is the debut of a cumulative collection of clothing released to the wild: 

Related posts

2019: Tucson, Arizona: Casa Alitas: "My Name is Elenita"

2016: Toronto: Seeing the Homeless

2015: Opelousas, Louisiana: Stories in a Cemetery

2011: Silver City, New Mexico: Averting an Implosion

Mobile, Alabama: My Doors

 

Doors. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Normally, I wouldn't think about the quantity of doors in my living space, with the exception of security issues that I've got to be mindful of. You know: minding the perimeter. 

In my Mobile apartment, despite its petite size, I have seven doors!

 

Doors. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Golly, I remember the time in my Birmingham apartment when I suddenly saw the doorknob of my front door turning. I called out assertively, "Hey!!!" And the person on the other side mumble-said, "Oh, sorry, wrong door." 

No, I did not buy that. It wasn't a confident turn of the knob, the kind of turn where the person knew they had rights of entry. Nope, it was a slowish turn, a quiet-like turn. He did the same to my neighbors. 

But being in Mobile over this hot and humid summer, with only a window a/c unit, doors are my best friends. 

I can cool my small sleeping/living space efficiently by closing the doors to the kitchen and to the alcove and bathroom. 

Doors. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The "alcove" is what I call the squarish not-quite-a-room and not-quite-a-corridor piece of real estate between the foyer and the bathroom. It's the space I hunkered in over the winter when scary tornado-alert storms blew through, when I didn't bounce down the five floors to the building's street level to squat in a corner behind the staircase landing.

My kitchen temp will climb into the 90s, while my living space can get down to about 83 with the a/c on. When I have the a/c on, I close the louvre doors between the kitchen and living space so I can corral the coolness close to me.

Doors. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

When I don't need the a/c on, I can open the solid front door to reveal a louvre door that faces the hallway outside my apartment. It may only be my imagination, but it seems that I can draw the hall's cooler air into my apartment, especially if I place my little desk fan just so, in order to invite the air in. 

The ol' open concept is over-rated, is my thought. I like my doors.

A couple of doors of my past

Lizard at the front door. Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020. Credit: Mzuriana.

Door to my flat in Dubai, UAE. January 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

Mobile, Alabama: USS Drum, the World War II Submarine

 

USS Drum submarine, USS Alabama Battleship Memorial Park. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

The name

 I didn't have any feelings about the name of this World War II submarine - Drum - until I consulted with my submarine-expert friend, Drake, while I was in the Drum's belly.

I wondered - why would a military force give a weapon of war such an ignominious name as Herring (which was etched on an outdoor stone tablet for another vessel)? I mean, herring? You eat herring. And that's when he told me that the Navy bestowed its submarines with names of non-sexy fish precisely because they can move under the radar, both figuratively and literally. 

When he said this, I thought, oh, that's clever. 

That's also when the name of the USS Drum struck me. Ohhhhh, drum, like that boring fish that is so opposite of sexy from trout or catfish or stingray or shark. 

Even so, Drake's explanation is likely apocryphal, as it's more likely that there were more Navy vessels than there are fish with common names, so you can see that once all of the sexy fish names were taken, the Navy was left with the more mundane. Like herring and drum. 

Another variable, as described by the guy whose job it was to propose vessel names, Captain William K. Calkins, USNR: 

"Captain Calkins described the many difficulties involved in choosing a name for any vessel. The names could not be similar to another ship's name currently in the fleet and it had to be appropriate, i.e. not something that would easily be made fun of. In addition: 'Spelling and pronunciation both had to be reasonably simple. The average enlisted man (and his girl friend) must be able to say the name comfortably. If his best girl couldn't spell it, he might not get her letters.'"

Source: A Fish Story, Smithsonian Institute Archives

Anyhoo.

Slide show here and below: 

 

Everything about a submarine fascinates. The requisite compactness of everything - even the officers' quarters - the intrinsic danger of living for long chunks of time underwater - not just under water, but under all of that pressure of water from above - the engineering required even to flush a toilet safely - living in small spaces for long periods with other humans.  

The smells of fellow humans, the sounds that human bodies make, the petty annoyances that can't help but accumulate and flood one's brains at times.

Some engrossing videos about the USS Drum:

• USS Drum oral history by veterans who served on the Drum

 

 Take the tour virtually here, courtesy of the History Traveler: USS Drum

 

 U-1206 Toilet Disaster

• A bit on the two people who oversaw USS Drum rehab - the man, Tom Bowser, served on a nuclear sub - he was also the guide in the History Traveler video. Here is his book on the rehab.
  

Stuff that stood out for me

72 men served on the Drum and only two toilets and two showers! 

Of course, I'm thinking each man had his favorite bottle with a screw-on lid on it for quick fixes, saving the toilets for the Big Jobs.

Mobile skyline from USS Drum submarine. USS Alabama Battleship Memorial Park. Mobile, Alabama. June 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Mobile, Alabama: Kitchens Present and Past

 

My kitchen. Mobile, Alabama. December 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

My kitchen in Mobile is at the corner of sunrise and sunset.

It pleases me to push up my blinds each morning to beckon the sunlight through the south-facing window. 

When the wind blows strong, a live oak branch taps on my west-facing window. 

 

My kitchen. Mobile, Alabama. December 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

My kitchen. Mobile, Alabama. December 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

 

 

My kitchen. Mobile, Alabama. December 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Some kitchens past

Oddly, I can't seem to find photos of my kitchens in Lafayette or my pre-rootless house. Maybe I'll come across them later.  

 

My kitchen in Birmingham, Alabama. July 2020.

 

My kitchen in Tucson. May 2019.

 

Shared salt in communal kitchen, Mexico City, Mexico. November 2018. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

 

My kitchen. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

 

 

My El Paso kitchen. September 2016.

 

 

 

My kitchen in Alamogordo, New Mexico. October 2012.

 

Kitchen in Old Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. September 2011.

 

 

Kitchen in New Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. July 2011.

My kitchen in Playa del Carmen, Quintano Roo, Mexico. November 2010.