North Graysport, Mississippi… with Pauline, the Monkey Mama

Another campground with nobody in it.  Of the 48 sites, four are occupied by other campers, plus two sites by Camp Hosts, then me.  Jean, one of the Camp Hosts, tells me that they had a lot of cancellations. I’m not surprised.

I raced the storm front most of the day getting here. Arrived about four. Sat up. Took a walk through the darkening sky.  Ate some dinner, then sat in my campsite watching the severe weather cell roll in as the rain came and went.

Not a bird was heard singing in the sunset.

At 7:30 pm, the wind picked up. By 8:00, gusts were so strong they began blowing anything not tied down over.

At 10:00, the thunder rumbling began. Deep voiced, ominous.

At 11:30 pm, lightning cracking continuous blazes of white so bright it lit up the inside of my little trailer, which was rocking with the thunder.

Somewhere around 1:00 am, I heard the roaring whoosh of a tornado through the trees to the north of me. It targeted Coffeeville, 12 miles away.

The rain and hail struck in force around the same time.

At 7:30 this morning, all was still. Soaking wet but quiet. Birds began singing again.

This is me giving thanks for making it through the edges again.

At 10:00 am, work crew arrived to begin clean up. Two hours later, the chain saws and blowers are still going strong. They say the worst of it is over.

I’ve actually had to put on a sweater, the steaming temperature of the past several days has dropped that much.

As I was getting ready to walk down to the lake, a fellow camper stopped by and rolled down her window.

“I just love your little trailer,” she opened. “It’s very noteworthy. I told my husband when you rolled in last night that I saw that trailer down in Alabama. Right?”

“You’re right. I was in Pickensville. Left this morning.”

“Oh, we weren’t in Pickensville, but I know I saw you driving. It’s so distinctive.”

Distinctive Pearl in our North Graysport site. All level and everything.

She was not in a hurry, though she said she was heading home ahead of her husband and grandkids to ready the house.  Instead, she pulled into my space to visit.

Pauline shared that she was born in Gainesville, Florida but has lived here, a few miles from the park, for the past 30 years.  Before that, they were in Tuskalooska.

“We just bought a little used trailer, not as cute as yours, but big enough for the brood of us, and decided to come for a night to try it out. We didn’t know we was going to be getting such a storm.”

“Yeah, that was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?  I sat and watched the clouds rolling in until the rain started up.”

“How’d you hold up in there?”

“I was snug. But I did get rocked around by those blasts of thunder and lightning at 11:30.  And that rain and hail sounded like little bombs going off on the roof for quite awhile.”

She laughs, and at that moment a little blonde Pekinese pops its head up from her lap.

“Oh,” I exclaim, “I grew up with a blonde Pekinese. His name was Cha-Ling but we called him Charley. They still have those guard dog tendencies they were bred for by the Chinese, even though now they’re so small.”

“This one here is Sweetheart.

And she’s a thing.”

She pulls affectionately on the dog’s ear.

“She’s my baby.  That’s why she’s shivering. She’s cold and scared. This is the first time she’s been camping and that lightning just hit her like shit on a pole.”

We discuss dogs, cold and otherwise. No shit on poles.

Then she says something I ask her to repeat,

“Excuse me,” I say, “did you say monkeys?”

She giggles.

“I did. I have to go home to feed my monkeys. I’m a Monkey Mama. They haven’t been all night on their own before. I imagine they might have just gone bananas.”

She laughs heartily.

“What kind of monkeys do you have?”

I ask because it’s clear she wants to talk about them.

“Well, right now, I have two Spider Monkeys. (Spider Monkeys in the wild, where I personally believe they belong)

Both boys. But I’ve had me lots of Spiders, went through a spell with raising MaCaque’s, had some Marmosets and Capuchins.  I really love me my monkeys.”

I’m fascinated.

This woman, who looks to be in her early 60’s, well coiffed, driving a nice car, is into monkeys. And has a Pekinese.

“I think you must be a pretty interesting woman,” I tell her. Meaning it.

“Oh, honey. We’s all interesting, when you get down to it. But I guess I’ve got me some interesting angles.”

I ask more questions about the monkeys.

She shares that she doesn’t believe the government has the right to know everything about us, so she doesn’t register her monkeys anywhere.

“I guess I’m kinda what you might call a black market monkey trader,” she laughs boisterously. “Hell, I’ve met people in campgrounds just like this to sell them a monkey. Only after I determine they’re going to be good monkey parents, though. I mean, it’s a life long commitment. It isn’t like getting a dog. These monkeys live as long as we do,” she tells me.

“Even the little ones?” I ask.

Then, before I can stop myself, add, “How much does a monkey cost?”

She enjoys my curiosity. Shows me a picture of one of her boys.

“How much you think a little guy like that costs?”

“I have no idea.”

And I really don’t, so I hazard a guess. “Maybe a thousand dollars.”

She laughs even harder.

“Oh, Honey!  They go for 18k when they’re babies.”

“Good grief!” I say. “You make 18 thousand dollars selling a monkey?”

“Sweetheart, I sell ’em for 11,000 cash on the spot. That’s a very good deal. That’s why I’m selling in campgrounds and parks.”

She laughs again.

She tells me how she was partners for awhile with another woman, splitting the costs of purchase, but explains she would do the actual raising.

“These Spider babies need lots of cuddling. For the first year, their own mamas wear them on the front. So, I wear them on the front to get them ready.  I diaper ’em and love em.  It’s like having a toddler that never grows up,” she says, emphatically, “They cuddle you, love you, then all of a sudden, they’ll bit you.  Not hard, not the Spiders. But that’s why I give up on the Capuchins. Those sons a bitches bite hard.     (Capuchin Monkey)

I had bites all up and down on my arm. I give it a year, decided uh, huh. Not for me. I give away at a loss the pair I had. Switched to Spiders. But I broke it off with that woman because she didn’t check out her buyers. She wanted me to just give up one of them I’d been raising to some man she only met on the phone. I was like, no. Not a chance. We’s done. I’ll pay you back your half of what we paid but I’m keeping the monkey.”

Pauline keeps cuddling her puppy. It’s clear she loves the animals.

She mentions something about when she had her open heart surgery.

“You had open heart surgery?” I ask, dumfounded.

I’m feeling pretty dumb, alright, with the way I keep repeating things she says.

“I did. Here,” and she throws opens her blouse to show me her scar. She’s not wearing a bra and she doesn’t seem the least bit modest. Just opens her shirt wide for me to see.

Her scar is the white of an older scar. It starts just below her collar bone and descends down below her breast. (Not Pauline, this is a file photo)

“I hear the recovery is hard,” I say.

Then tell her, “I may have to go through something similar. I had two valves fail due to Covid, then they discovered I have an ascending aortic aneurism. It may make sense for them to open me up, they hinted.”

She puts her hand out, touches my arm with compassion.

“Honey, it isn’t all that bad. The hardest part is this: you got to accept that you’re a heart patient. You can’t do the things you think you can the way you used to. It’s a big change. But I tell you this, it’s been ten years and I’m living my life doing what I love. Which is raising my monkeys.  And my niece’s drug affected babies.  That’s the two kids you probably seen last night running around before the storm. We adopted them legal to make sure they get to be with family.”

We discuss drug affected babies, OCD, schooling.  Up to now it’s been a happy conversation. But suddenly, Pauline becomes very serious,

“Now, I’m not a racist. But I do not see why they gotta put my kids in a classroom with all the black kids. They’re the only white kids in there. Just because they don’t learn easy. That just aint right.”

I offer, “Maybe they’ll get a better education this way. You know, kids in multi-cultural classrooms often do better in all kinds of ways.”

“Nah. I’m thinking of home schooling them.  That little girl is going to be 12. I do not want her coming home with some boyfriend from her class. I won’t have it.”

And with that, Pauline, sweet, compassionate, fun Pauline, loses some of her charm.

I choose a more neutral topic.

“I’m heading up to Hot Springs, Arkansas tomorrow if the roads are open. I read that a lot of the highways are closed due to flooding and sink holes. It’s terrible.”

“Well, if you can’t go there, you just come stay with us. We have electricity. We can hook you up. You can meet the monkeys.”

She asks for my phone number, which I give her. There’s no  cell signal at this campground but she tells me she’ll call me  and when I get in range, I’ll know the missed call is her.

Then, somehow, she’s going on about Kamala and Tampon Tim and how glad she is they didn’t win.

“They wouldn’t know how to handle national emergencies like the one we’re facing.”

“I think the system was working pretty good,” I counter.

“Well, all I know is, Trump may be a liar and he may be getting rich off our backs, but he’s good on emergencies and national security. He’s not afraid to stand up to those other countries who’ve been taking advantage of us for so long.”

I see that she’s bought the whole tariff’s are good for us line of b.s..

“You know, Pauline,” I try, “I don’t think those tariffs are going to do anything but hurt people like you and me.  Trump and his whole gang are getting richer and richer with the stuff he’s getting away with.  I don’t know if I could guarantee that Kamala Harris and Tim Walt would have been perfect, but I do believe that they would have been  humane.  And I’m not afraid to say it, Kamala is at least decent.”

She laughs good naturally.

“Honey,” she says, ” All politicians are corrupt.  I don’t think any of ’em are decent.  We need a new system, we sure do.  In the meantime, as long as I feel safe, I’m happy.”

“The sad thing is,” I tell her, “a lot of people in our country don’t feel safe anymore.  And it has nothing to do with foreign countries. This new administration has put targets on the back of a lot of good people, people who may be gay or lesbian, or immigrants to our country. Or people who may identify as Transgender.  Heck, even just because they’re liberal.  I imagine by now you’ve figured out I’m not a Republican?”

She thinks this is hysterical.

“Darling, I could tell you weren’t a Republican when I saw your trailer. Even before you opened your mouth.  But guess what?  I still like you. You’re fun. And you’re still welcome to come stay with us if you can’t get to Arkansas. Even if you’re not a Republican.”

She laughs, continues,  “I mean that. We can argue us some politics over a cold drink. And I don’t mean no sweet tea.”

She pats me on the arm, puts her car in gear, and eases on out of the campground.