Tupelo Honey

“Topelo honey - it’s great for your allergies,” she said so emphatically, it sounded as if it were meant for your soul. As if your sinuses are a path direct to your inner being. Who knows, maybe she’s on to something? Or on something.

He knew Van Morrison sang about it once, but that was his only frame of reference.

A silence followed as the person at the desk gathered her things and headed towards her room, offering a welcome period for intellectual digestion. The entrance felt like any other nondescript lobby, with two-dollar artwork and a slight just-cleaned-the-toilets-too-quickly smell in the air. It was only on his peripheral so he couldn’t quite tell what it contained – off in the corner, there was something that felt out of place. It was a massive, ornate display hutch, very out of place compared to the rest of its cheaper decorative brethren. He was drawn to it, wanted to go investigate, but was interrupted.

“So just drove in, did ya?” Noticing her southern drawl. Not a bad thing, more of an endearing quality. He course-corrected and moved toward the reception desk.

“Yeah, been on the road 6 hours, glad to finally get here.” So many things raced through his mind about what had happened during those 6 hours and the days leading up to now. It felt almost belittling to summarize the journey in such a concise statement; short-selling his own effort. But why Tina, that’s what her name tag said, needed to know all of that was an internal conundrum only he needed to fight.

“Oh yeah, where y’all coming’ from?” He looked behind him for more magically appearing people, then realized maybe she thought more might be coming in from the parking lot to back up the pronoun. I’m sure Tina and the members of this fine seaside community didn’t think too hard about pronouns – especially if y’all was one or not.

Wasn’t there a Tupelo Honey restaurant somewhere?

Tina wasn’t an attractive woman by most people’s standards, but she held an alluring confidence. He thought he was great at noticing people’s better qualities, but maybe that was just superficial, sitting there and mentally judging even when being optimistic.

“Ok, looks like you're prepaid Mr Thompson. Here’s your room, key, and honey. I’m Tina - let me know if there’s anything else I can help with.” She said this in the manner of someone who had said it thousands of times before, which she had.

Although he already knew the Tina part, he engaged further. “Thank you kindly, Tina - wait, what was that on the honey?”

“See the shelves back behind you? We carry several brands of local Tupelo honey produced only in this part of Florida and southern Georgia.” The words came out with the enthusiasm of someone showing off their greatest artwork.

“A bottle is included with your stay.” Saying this as if it were common practice.

“We also have lozenges, try one of these.” He accepted one more easily than he intended. Quickly unwrapping it, placing it in his mouth.

“What makes them so special?”

Tina has something about her that I can’t place. Not attraction, but something that is drawing me in.

“The Cadillac of honey, dear,” Tina said with a glow, switching from reception desk mode to tourist guide.

“There’s a tree called the White Ogeechee Lime used in the harvest of this honey that only exists in these parts. But that’s not all that makes it special. The tree absorbs its surroundings through its roots, and this process manifests in the honey. Because it’s acclimated to the local pollens, dusts, and other factors in the environment, it works as an anti-virus does.” He thought she stated this almost as if she was making a spell in her stick-based den in the middle of a forest. He tried to wipe away the vision of a witch stirring things into a cauldron.

“I’ve been taking a spoonful every morning for most of my life.”

He wasn’t sure what to take away from that comment, so he registered it as a tad obsessive and let it go.

“We’ve met before, a long time ago,” Tina stated, now switching tones from tourist guide to friendly, almost romantic. Maybe she had too much honey today. “You’re Scott, your parents were Murray and Beth Thompson. You lived here about 28 years ago, right?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Scott said, shifting a little nervously. “It was for a short time, though, and I barely met anyone. You have a great memory.”

Tina, being a larger woman, hefted herself up, but once on her feet, glided across the room to the display cases. “That’s ok, let me show you the varieties we have, honey.”

He wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the honey or him. The word had changed inflection quickly.

Tina has beautiful eyes; there’s a sweet sparkle to them.

She unsparingly showed him all the varieties of raw and unfiltered, the glass jars and the teddy-bear-style squeeze bottles. They shimmered in their gold glory as if the sun shone on them no matter the angle. It felt as if he were hearing not just about this sweet nectar, but also about the area's history, people, and culture.

She lit a honey candle and opened a jar, letting the scents fill the room. Scott hung on for her next statement; he didn’t care what happened next. Ten minutes at the front desk of a hotel was becoming a lifetime, but somehow it felt right. Euphoric.

“I cared about you, I loved you,” Tina said softly, but loud enough for him to think he heard what she said. She had, in fact, loved him, but from afar. She had never even talked to him, but she was sure he felt the same. If you felt something this strongly, the other person must feel it too.

“Yes, I think I remember now”. Although he didn’t, he had nothing to recall. Somehow, he was alive with new memories, flush with them – unable to tell his own from these new ones - he felt like passing out. Were they his? He could no longer tell, and didn’t care.

“How much for one of the bear bottles?” was all he could muster to say. Then, uncontrollably, almost spitting it out, “What are you doing tonight, Tina?”

She’s as sweet, she’s as sweet as Tupelo honey.