THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT  

              Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.



DATE: Sunday, July 14, 1996                 TAG: 9607140041

SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B1   EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA 

SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH

                                            LENGTH:   54 lines

THE THINGS THAT REALLY DO MATTER ARE FEW, SIMPLE

Being Americans, most of us have a lot of stuff. Stereos, VCRs, camcorders, Ginsu knives. You name it, we have it.

But last week, as an unwanted guest named Bertha decided to barge into our coast like an obnoxious relative, stuff didn't seem that important.

I found that out last year, as Felix churned off the Outer Banks and it looked for all the world as if we were going to get slammed, and hard.

Felix was this Alabama boy's first hurricane, and in anticipation of leaving my Manteo home, I decided to pack a bag.

One bag. No more. No less.

Packing with the prospect that your life as you know it may be blasted into oblivion brings a change in perspective. I looked at all my stuff and asked myself:

``Out of all these things, what cannot be replaced?''

Walking through the apartment, with that single question in mind, the choices became simple.

I packed my grandmother's family Bible that had been passed down through generations. Year after year, its ivory-colored pages provided words of comfort when the storms of hard life on an Alabama farm beat at my ancestors' door.

I gently placed my grandfather's gold pocket watch inside, the one he wore as he toiled for 40 years as a fireman for the Frisco Railroad. When I was a small boy, he would take me on his knee. From the front pocket of his blue, denim overalls, he would remove the watch. I would hold it close to my ear, and listen to the tick, tick, tick.

``This will be yours, someday,'' he would say.

As Felix threatened, I knew the watch would remind me of hard work, and of gentle promises.

I packed a family portrait, taken the last year my father was alive. I stowed away old family photos, black and white portraits, some nearly a century old. My great-grandparents' wedding portrait, taken in 1906, was in the collection. Those faces, with warm but piercing eyes, emphasized the importance of remembering.

If Felix blew the world away, I thought, that would come in handy.

And in the blue music box in which it came, I packed a cherished letter. It reminded me of love.

I packed a baseball, signed by Jim ``Catfish'' Hunter, a reminder of the simple pleasures of childhood, like the pop of a mitt, or a Sunday afternoon double-header. The ball put those things in the bag.

Along with a few clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream, it was all I needed, all that mattered.

Because when all is said and done, when the wind gusts, the rain falls hard and the seas churn dangerously high, we don't really need many material things.

All that matters is that our friends and loved ones are safe and secure, our faith is strong, our memories are vivid, and we are loved.

Who needs anything else? by CNB