I've mentioned before in this space how I spent many summers racing up and down the beaches of the Gulf Coast, barefoot, laughing with my cousins, exploring the barrier islands, each shell, silvery fish, and piece of driftwood seemed to be our secret treasures. These are some of my happiest memories, and to this day, the family still heads out to explore the barrier islands, Dauphin, Petit Bois, Sand, and yes, Horn Island. These days there is less running and a lot more lounging, but it's every bit as enjoyable as it always was.

My mother and grandmother would tell me stories about this brave, iconic artist named Walter Anderson (and I swear, there's not a family on the Gulf that that doesn't claim Walter Anderson launching his boat from their dock.) They'd quibble and argue and henpeck with the fervor of co-eds fighting for Mardi Gras beads. All "claims to the great one" aside, the idea that one man could get on a tiny boat, alone, and make his way to the island I could see (just barely) on a clear day from the pier near my grandmother's home in Pascagoula, fascinated me.

I became obsessed.

Then I did what kids are so famous for: being stupid.

I remember sneaking through the kitchen in the still-dark morning hours, tiptoeing around as I packed my rations for what would surely be my most exciting excursion yet. A (crusts removed) PB & J, a peach, some pecans gathered from a neighbors yard, and, some Neapolitan ice cream (like I said, I was a kid. Kids don't think things like melting ice cream through). I glided in bare feet across the hardwoods, carefully avoiding the squeaky third board by the front door, and headed a block away for the seawall.

Today was my day to channel my inner Anderson. If it could be done, then why couldn't it be done by me? My dad's gift to me for that trip was a kiddie-sized canoe, and I loved it. It took me almost two hours to blow it up to the firmness I thought would surely get me across the great Gulf to Horn Island, which I would have all to myself that day. Queen of the Island

I carefully put the plastic canoe in the water, then gingerly waded in, tucking my goody bag of treats and my favorite Laura Ingalls Wilder book with me in case I got bored on the trip.

Oh, this was going to be the greatest day ever!

MARY HELEN RANDALL WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?

Uh-oh. That was the sound of my mother, who, along with the rest of the family, had had their morning coffee, hooting and hollering on the front porch a block back as they watched me almost pass out blowing up my craft. Of course they knew what I was doing. Of course I wasn't going to get away with it. (That woman never missed a thing. I truly believed for years that she had eyes in the back of her head.)

I'd almost made my great escape. To this day, I wonder what would've happened had I successfully launched and tried to make my way to the island with no way to paddle. Probably best that I not think about it.

Even still, my interest with the life and work of Walter Anderson became almost an obsession. I felt like I knew him, though he'd died a decade before I was born. I would spend hours staring at his drawings, books, whatever I could get my hands on. It seemed that every home on the Coast had some piece of Anderson's work in their collection. The man was prolific.

I was thrilled to be able to include a visit to the Walter Anderson Museum in this issue's Gulf Coast guide. If we hadn't been on a such a tight schedule, I probably would have spent all day there, staring in awe at his faded green rowboat, his rusty bicycle, and colorful murals, with nary a white space to be found.

Though he was known for his art, Anderson was also a poet, author, and critic. I leave you with his words this month, and then some of my own: Get to know more about Anderson. The next time you head south for the beach, take a side trip to the museum that houses much of this incredible man's work. You won't be sorry.

All movement is to invisible music

although few people hear it.

It comes from the sun and the wind

and the movement of water and

a running rabbit and a crowing cock,

And together it is part of a great symphony.

-WIA

Thank you Walter, for everything. See you on the islands.