I was driving back to the Mississippi Coast from a book-signing and speech in Auburn, Alabama, when my cellphone rang. Remember life before cellphones, when trouble couldn’t track you down like a Parchman hound?

I fancy I can tell from the ring when there’s a disaster on the line. There’s a certain shrillness to the silly ditty that plays, a Willie Nelson kind of down-beat, at least in my head.

On the other end this time were my two friends who run the new art gallery we started up in North Mississippi. We opened it in December, hoping it might give those of us who love creative pursuits a place to gather and work in this winter of our discontent. There’s nothing wrong with dreaming.

Partner Bobbie, a retired nurse who is unflappable – or doesn’t flap easily – said by way of preamble, “Now I don’t want you to panic.”

She was calling to report that my new old building had sprung not one, but several leaks and that all the art and photos were coming down. A Persian rug had caught the brunt. It was raining on my windshield as we spoke.

I suddenly could envision the Technicolor landscapes on commission by Colorado artist Laura Reilly drenched and ruined. I could see Jenny Branston’s sunflowers in oil in a muddy puddle on the floor. I imagined Marc Lamkin’s quirky Southern photos drenched and ruined. Bobbie’s wonderful pillows were floating out the door into a Venice-style canal.

I was convinced that my one-and-only business venture was over before it gained traction. Truth be known, this is not my first business venture. Not if you count the Girl Scout cookies and Christmas cards of my youth. I personally ate every cookie I ever sold, and the Christmas card kit was packed up and returned after nobody wanted any.

Then there was the weekly newspaper on a Georgia island, first rattle out of the box after journalism. It failed after 26 weeks because none of us starry-eyed reporters could sell advertising. Driving home defeated in a Pinto with delinquent payments was not a happy event.

There definitely is more to being good at business than having lofty intentions. From what I’ve seen lately, maybe being good at business requires a lack of lofty intentions.

So I panicked. I never could follow orders.

Early the next day, I set out for Iuka from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, a seven-hour trip if you’re not worried about your retirement investment floating merrily away down the alley between the former site of Charlie’s barber shop and the Baptist church. I made it in five hours.

By the time I got to the gallery, my friend Lenny Johnson was up on the roof patching a seam between old tin and galvanized roofing. Lenny can do anything. I climbed his ladder to look at the problem and saw it.

He had it fixed within hours. We spent the next day rearranging the art and watching the weather channel. Others had problems that made ours seem minor. Tornadoes had taken lives.

What a relief to sit at our lovely space and stare at places faraway, where artists are revered and children grow up knowing the value of aesthetics. I felt defeatism take wings. Often, I believe, the most important beauty is in trying.

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.