If Martha Stewart were in charge of heaven, it might look something like Ocean Springs, Miss., on Peter Anderson Festival days. Traffic is blocked on the main downtown streets, the smell of boudin and barbecue is in the air, clever people hold sway.
And that’s a good thing.
I get here early because, besides me, 149,999 other people are expected. If you arrive when vendors are setting up beneath their white tents, and leave before lunch, it’s not quite as claustrophobic a scene as it gets to be in the afternoon.
Turns out, there are a lot of creative, do-it-yourself types in this world, and all have goods to sell. And, there are even more of us who can’t make a thing but come prepared to buy handmade.
I know originality when I see it, at least. So every fall, I try to save a few dollars and make the trek to this town of 18,000, which on the first weekend in November swells to small city size.
The trick is to pace yourself. Else you end up maneuvering through the thicket of crafts with a large bird house made from cypress logs, or a pointy-tipped Bo Peep plant hanger. It’s how you spot the virgin festival-goers. They are a walking menace.
I start my purchases with something light, a T-shirt, to get that over with.
This year, I spy a Gulfport man’s shirts advertising Scuba Steve’s Clothing Company. I don’t dive, but on the back of a soft violet shirt is a beautiful white heron, and I just have to have it. I tuck it in my shopping bag and march onward, admiring my own common sense and restraint.
Next I see (caution, Christmas spoiler alert!) a reindeer made from wrenches, a brace, drawer pulls and other antique tools. I recognize it as a perfect holiday gift for my old friend Edwin “Whiskey” Gray. He has a menagerie of toolbox animals. They stand shoulder to shoulder in his Tennessee driveway, a phalanx of stiff critters that keeps fools from driving into parts of the yard where Edwin doesn’t want them.
Being no fool myself, I pay for Rudolph but temporarily leave him with the genius who made it and trudge on toward the sea. I’ve not crawled five paces down a street named for George Washington before beautiful glass stops me. The artist in charge sees me pause and, in response to my sweatshirt, yells “War Eagle!” I know I’ve met my “big ticket” purchase.
Once you are bear-hugging a fragile stained glass window made by a former Auburn football player who remembers Shug Jordan, the game is over. You no longer have a free hand to hold a drink or a hotdog or another single purchase. The goal becomes making it back to Rudolph and the car.
The best part of this kind of holiday shopping is the guilt-free aspect. You know you’re keeping the money at home, or at least at a neighbor’s home. Vendors hail from all over the South, all over the nation. There’s less smog in China on Peterson Anderson days, I’m pretty sure.
It’s a refreshing break from wandering through a mall of machine-made, assembly-line goods. Here you meet the Nashville seamstress, the New Orleans potter, the Ocean Springs carpenter whose work you take home. You shop directly from the source, helping the local economy and those whose art comes from the heart.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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