Coast Lines
Editor's Notes, December 2014
This month - Hanging snowflakes with Jerry Ortiz illuminates the holidays in Bay St. Louis.
- story and photos by Ellis Anderson
- story and photos by Ellis Anderson
Jerry Ortiz and Corey Richardson
In Bay St. Louis, snowfall is about as common as a total eclipse of the sun - except during the holidays, when giant snowflake lights hang alongside the Spanish moss in Old Town's goliath oak trees. The display's a little unexpected and universally adored.
Although a lot of people serve on the team that makes Snowflakes in the Bay a beloved part of the holiday season, it wouldn’t come off without Jerry Ortiz. Jerry works for the city and each year, he checks out the lights, rewires them if necessary, and then operates the lift to hang them - rising to the tree tops on his mission to bring a little North Pole to Bay St. Louis.
The lift is surely a sturdy piece of machinery, but from a distance, it looks something like a big milk crate attached to the top of a few drinking straws bent in accordion fashion. The whole contraption is made of steel, but when I climb into the milk crate and shut the gate behind me, that thought is not very comforting. My mission is to capture footage to use for a video I'm making about Old Town holiday decorations.
Jerry's at the controls in the center of the box. He smiles at me with a warmth that’s so authentic, I relax a bit and check my camera settings. He makes sure the gate is fastened securely so I don’t fall out. He speaks to me in a manner that’s a little solicitous but respectful, like I’m an older aunt: in fact, he reminds me of one of my grown nephews. I feel safer already.
The lift begins to rise above the grounds of the historic depot. I don't feel safe anymore. It doesn’t go straight up. Jerry finesses the controls to avoid power lines and weave between the overlapping branches of two oak trees. Every time our basket changes direction, it lurches, which would be even more startling if Jerry wasn’t giving me warnings beforehand.
“Alright, it’s going to bump a little now, you ready?” he asks.
Hanging out in the treetops may be Jerry’s job this time of year but unlike most people (like me), he seems to feel right at home in the air. He explains that as child, he and his brother used to play a game where they would shinny up to tops of young pines. Each boy would use his body weight to make the tree bend toward another pine. Then they’d jump over to the new tree and repeat the process. The two boys competed to see which one could travel the furthest through the woods without touching the ground.
“Your mama didn’t know about that game, did she?” I ask.
Jerry just smiles. “We’re almost there,” he says. I hope this means we're not going any higher.
Seeing things through the lens of a camera creates a certain distance from reality, so when I lower my mine to grab onto the rail, I gasp a little. I can clearly see over the tops of the trees to the beachfront, about a quarter mile away. Jerry guesses we’re “only” about thirty-five feet up. He tells me that the lift can go much higher if I want to “see forever.” I peer down at Corey Richardson, Jerry’s assistant on the ground. He looks like a toy action figure. I politely decline Jerry’s offer.
Once we’re “parked” near the branch of Jerry’s choice, he starts fiddling with the wires hanging from the white plastic snowflake that we've brought along. It looks to be about three feet across, with light bulbs outlining the form. He’s been performing the same task for the past five or six years, so he’s got the routine down.
But hanging snowflakes is just one small part of Jerry's job with public works. He started working for the city of Bay St. Louis nearly 23 years ago, when he was only twenty. He’ll actually be retirement age in a few years, even though there's not a gray hair on his head. If he leaves then, it will be a loss according to other city employees who appreciate his skills, his "willingness to take on any project" and his indomitable good spirit.
Add initiative to that list. This is a man concerned with how each snowflake will look when seen from the ground and how the tree will appear as a whole. Since he’s limited in the places he can actually hang them, this part of the job presents a challenge. He tries to hide the wires too, so they’re not obvious to a viewer on the ground. No one tells Jerry to consider these factors, nor does he seem to think his concern is evidence of any artistic inclinations. He simply wants to do the best job possible.
When he’s satisfied that the snowflake is secure and positioned exactly how it will look best, he fastens it in place and connects the wires to provide electricity. Each snowflake has to be individually wired. One tree that he’s finished hanging on the other side of the depot grounds contains forty-six of them. Over two hundred and fifty are spread around town and Jerry hangs each one. When asked about the hardest part of the job, he shrugs off the high wind days when the lift becomes more of a surfboard. He finally acknowledges working on the lift is brutal during cold weather with biting winds numbing his hands. I instantly become more appreciative of the balmy November afternoon.
As we begin our decent (at last!), we talk about how the snowflakes have become a favorite town tradition over the past ten years. Describing them, locals and visitors alike use words like “inspiring,” “uplifting,” and “magical.” When he’s asked what it feels like to bring delight to so many, Jerry immediately begins crediting other people for their roles in the project. “I couldn’t do it alone.” He remembers those from past years too, and reels off names, including Ronny Vanney, Mr. Wilson, R.J. Pierce, Steve Forstall and Cory Richardson. He even mentions people from his youth who served as mentors, like Kenny Ladner and Dr. Dotson.
Eventually, he comes back around to his own feelings about the job.
“I feel privileged that I’m allowed to do these decorations for the citizens of Bay St. Louis,” he says. “They’re some of the best people in Mississippi. They’re outgoing and thoughtful and fun to be around. I take a lot of pride in my job and the joy it brings those folks during the holidays.”
We’re back on solid ground now and Jerry opens the milk carton gate for me. I step out onto the lawn and thank him. He believes I’m referring to the ride in the lift, but my appreciation goes much deeper. While I’m grateful for the experience, I’m coming away illuminated by this man's commitment and his kindness. It's the sort of light that will last long after the snowflakes have been taken down and packed away.
Although a lot of people serve on the team that makes Snowflakes in the Bay a beloved part of the holiday season, it wouldn’t come off without Jerry Ortiz. Jerry works for the city and each year, he checks out the lights, rewires them if necessary, and then operates the lift to hang them - rising to the tree tops on his mission to bring a little North Pole to Bay St. Louis.
The lift is surely a sturdy piece of machinery, but from a distance, it looks something like a big milk crate attached to the top of a few drinking straws bent in accordion fashion. The whole contraption is made of steel, but when I climb into the milk crate and shut the gate behind me, that thought is not very comforting. My mission is to capture footage to use for a video I'm making about Old Town holiday decorations.
Jerry's at the controls in the center of the box. He smiles at me with a warmth that’s so authentic, I relax a bit and check my camera settings. He makes sure the gate is fastened securely so I don’t fall out. He speaks to me in a manner that’s a little solicitous but respectful, like I’m an older aunt: in fact, he reminds me of one of my grown nephews. I feel safer already.
The lift begins to rise above the grounds of the historic depot. I don't feel safe anymore. It doesn’t go straight up. Jerry finesses the controls to avoid power lines and weave between the overlapping branches of two oak trees. Every time our basket changes direction, it lurches, which would be even more startling if Jerry wasn’t giving me warnings beforehand.
“Alright, it’s going to bump a little now, you ready?” he asks.
Hanging out in the treetops may be Jerry’s job this time of year but unlike most people (like me), he seems to feel right at home in the air. He explains that as child, he and his brother used to play a game where they would shinny up to tops of young pines. Each boy would use his body weight to make the tree bend toward another pine. Then they’d jump over to the new tree and repeat the process. The two boys competed to see which one could travel the furthest through the woods without touching the ground.
“Your mama didn’t know about that game, did she?” I ask.
Jerry just smiles. “We’re almost there,” he says. I hope this means we're not going any higher.
Seeing things through the lens of a camera creates a certain distance from reality, so when I lower my mine to grab onto the rail, I gasp a little. I can clearly see over the tops of the trees to the beachfront, about a quarter mile away. Jerry guesses we’re “only” about thirty-five feet up. He tells me that the lift can go much higher if I want to “see forever.” I peer down at Corey Richardson, Jerry’s assistant on the ground. He looks like a toy action figure. I politely decline Jerry’s offer.
Once we’re “parked” near the branch of Jerry’s choice, he starts fiddling with the wires hanging from the white plastic snowflake that we've brought along. It looks to be about three feet across, with light bulbs outlining the form. He’s been performing the same task for the past five or six years, so he’s got the routine down.
But hanging snowflakes is just one small part of Jerry's job with public works. He started working for the city of Bay St. Louis nearly 23 years ago, when he was only twenty. He’ll actually be retirement age in a few years, even though there's not a gray hair on his head. If he leaves then, it will be a loss according to other city employees who appreciate his skills, his "willingness to take on any project" and his indomitable good spirit.
Add initiative to that list. This is a man concerned with how each snowflake will look when seen from the ground and how the tree will appear as a whole. Since he’s limited in the places he can actually hang them, this part of the job presents a challenge. He tries to hide the wires too, so they’re not obvious to a viewer on the ground. No one tells Jerry to consider these factors, nor does he seem to think his concern is evidence of any artistic inclinations. He simply wants to do the best job possible.
When he’s satisfied that the snowflake is secure and positioned exactly how it will look best, he fastens it in place and connects the wires to provide electricity. Each snowflake has to be individually wired. One tree that he’s finished hanging on the other side of the depot grounds contains forty-six of them. Over two hundred and fifty are spread around town and Jerry hangs each one. When asked about the hardest part of the job, he shrugs off the high wind days when the lift becomes more of a surfboard. He finally acknowledges working on the lift is brutal during cold weather with biting winds numbing his hands. I instantly become more appreciative of the balmy November afternoon.
As we begin our decent (at last!), we talk about how the snowflakes have become a favorite town tradition over the past ten years. Describing them, locals and visitors alike use words like “inspiring,” “uplifting,” and “magical.” When he’s asked what it feels like to bring delight to so many, Jerry immediately begins crediting other people for their roles in the project. “I couldn’t do it alone.” He remembers those from past years too, and reels off names, including Ronny Vanney, Mr. Wilson, R.J. Pierce, Steve Forstall and Cory Richardson. He even mentions people from his youth who served as mentors, like Kenny Ladner and Dr. Dotson.
Eventually, he comes back around to his own feelings about the job.
“I feel privileged that I’m allowed to do these decorations for the citizens of Bay St. Louis,” he says. “They’re some of the best people in Mississippi. They’re outgoing and thoughtful and fun to be around. I take a lot of pride in my job and the joy it brings those folks during the holidays.”
We’re back on solid ground now and Jerry opens the milk carton gate for me. I step out onto the lawn and thank him. He believes I’m referring to the ride in the lift, but my appreciation goes much deeper. While I’m grateful for the experience, I’m coming away illuminated by this man's commitment and his kindness. It's the sort of light that will last long after the snowflakes have been taken down and packed away.
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