PASS CHRISTIAN, Miss. – I tap along the brick floors that sold me on this old house, so opposite of the spongy ones in my North Mississippi hollow home, these never subject to rot, maintenance-free. My shoe soles have each captured a shell from the driveway and make a nice rhythmic sound as I walk.

I wish I could tap dance, yet another thing to try in old age.

The weather is hotter every day, and the sunbathers have arrived on the sand and Sound a few blocks away. Time to return to the hollow, which I’ve considered most like home the past 30 years.

I’m ready, and I’m not, the way it always is. I will miss the openness of the people here, who don’t care that your great-grandmother is not a native and that you’re not wearing makeup. I will miss the music and the fresh seafood and the salt air.

I will miss people like Kat Fitzpatrick, who just this morning served me pistachio cake and coffee on her new freestanding screened porch, and pointed out a woodpecker that merrily drills on metal roofs, then let me rummage through her art studio.

I left with two of her encaustic paintings – she uses pigmented beeswax in the process, which is what the fancy word means – one of which I’ve been lusting for since she did an art show with paintings that featured her musical heroes.

I already had her Hank Willliams; it hangs in a prominent spot in a room here. But I also had seen her painting of Mahalia Jackson as a young woman and thought it amazing. By the time I got around to asking, Mahalia was hanging in a Tupelo gallery.

But Mahalia came home to Bay St. Louis. My timing was good. Right now, Mahalia, who could outsing an angel on speed, is sitting atop an old upright piano a man sold me for $1.

The other art from the morning excursion is a portrait of Blind Riley Puckett, the first recorded yodeler. Kat, who has a fine singing voice, said she’s been trying to perfect a yodel for years.

Blind Riley will be headed to Florida, where a former editor of mine lives. George is forever sending me obscure roots-music recordings, and I suspect the gift of Blind Riley will be right up his alley.

I live an enchanted life, richer than I deserve. I’ve never made a lot of money and spend what I make as soon as I get it. I don’t care about clothes and cars, but I’m a spendthrift when it comes to art and music and books. And, I know interesting people.

I look around at this little A-frame that four years ago was a for-sale-by-owner bargain. I had planned to keep it open, airy and clutter-free, mostly for the practicality of clearing out in case of another Katrina.

But slowly, or not so, it has filled with treasures, mostly art and pottery from an abundant local supply. This seashore is a regular jubilee of creativity, and I’m lucky enough to have become acquainted with many of the inspired.

As I pack for the drive to a cooler clime, back to my beloved hollow, I can’t help but contort a prayer from childhood: If I should die before I wake, I pray the niece my art will take.

Rheta Grimsley Johnson’s most recent book is “Hank Hung the Moon … And Warmed Our Cold, Cold Hearts.” Comments are welcomed at rhetagrimsley@aol.com.