Op-Ed Columns

"Home of 300 good friendly folks and a few old soreheads."

During the first week of July, roughly 15 percent of the population of Puckett, Miss., descended on an unsuspecting Gulf Coast village.

They were mothers and fathers (with lots of kids), folks with jobs and responsibilities who just wanted to get away to swim a little, sun a little, drink a little and put a dent in the crustacean population before returning home to respectability and the County Line Baptist Church.

Though they can get a tad rowdy, Puckett people are the most honest, trusting, open and generous folks on God's green earth — when you treat them the same. But cross 'em and they become tribal in defense of each other and what they believe is right.

And tribal was what they were when a pack of them came in conflict with beach-code enforcers who were out in the early morning hours enforcing codes in ways that Puckidites found unfair.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

Once arrived, Puckett folks flocked to the water, carrying toys and floats and chairs and umbrellas and tents and coolers and other things to enhance the enjoyment of nature and its wonders. In their rush, they paused only long enough to read a sign at the foot of the stairs: "NOTICE: Any article left on a public beach or access will be discarded."

Beneath that, in big, red letters, it said, "NO EXCEPTIONS."

Not wanting to lug their "articles" all the way up the stairs, across the road and to their houses at the end of the day, but not wanting them confiscated, either, Puckett people weighed their options.

Since there were no signs telling them whether the beach was public or not, they assumed it was and that they had better not leave their "articles" there.

And they could not pile their "articles" on the stairs because they had used them, and you can't get more public than a Puckidite.

So the visitors from Mississippi, literate and logical, read the sign again and noted that it did not say anything about leaving "articles" under the "public access."

Which is what they did. (Getting their big inflatable boat to fit was tricky, but they wedged it in.)

Then they went back to their houses, had supper, sat around and talked, then went to bed secure in the knowledge that they had followed the rules just like good citizens are supposed to.

The next morning, I was down on the beach early with my son, my cousin Benny (you remember Benny) and LeAnna, Benny's daughter, who will be a Mississippi State cheerleader next year.

Along came the code enforcers in their code-enforcer truck, and in it was the Puckidites' big, inflatable boat.

I hailed the truck only to discover that the boat sat atop all of the other stuff the Puckett people had innocently put under the steps.

"Please," I said in my most respectful and respectable voice, "those 'articles' belong to some friends. Let me rescue them."

"Nope," I was told, "we are just doing our job, and these things were where they weren't supposed to be."

Dejected, I walked back to the others.

Then LeAnna tried. Went over. Pled the case.

And they gave her the boat. But they kept the rest.

Now, it may have been her big eyes, her pouty lips, or her long tan legs that melted their hard hearts (or her Confederate flag navel stud), but whatever it was, at least she got the boat. Which we later returned to the people from Puckett.

The livid people from Puckett.

One of them got on the phone — a lady who works for the Mississippi Department of Education and is well experienced with bureaucracy. Her first call led to a second call that led to a third call that finally got her to the "Complaint Department," where the guy who was supposed to convince complainers to drop their complaints discovered he was talking to a Mississippi woman with experience, education and an attitude.

She 'splained to him that the Puckett people had done what the sign told them to do.

He 'splained to her that everything they were supposed to do was not on the sign.

She pointed out that the problem was with the sign (and the sign makers) and not with the citizens from Puckett. Then she asked him what he was going to do about the $300 worth of "articles" that had gone missing.

He said that wasn't his responsibility.

She asked whose responsibility it was.

He said that he was as far up the complaint ladder she could go.

She asked, "who signs your check?"

He wouldn't tell her.

So the next morning, when the code enforcers came around to pick up "articles" left on the beach, the stairway was covered with Puckett people — sending a message.

A few days later, they went home.

And considering the way they felt as they drove away, next year 15 percent of the Puckett population won't be back.

Unless it is for revenge.