Burglars in a Mobile Museum
The Louvre may have had its precious gems snatched in broad daylight, but could such a heist happen here in Mobile, Alabama? Should we post guards beside the Civil War cannons or keep an extra eye on the old, worn shoes that once dodged horse-and-buggies along the cobblestone streets in the Port City?
Should the Mobile Carnival Museum install laser-beam security around the sparkly rhinestone tiara collection?
The strange-but-true jewel heist at the Louvre is far more entertaining if you hum the Pink Panther theme while watching the news coverage. Henry Mancini’s sneaky little “da-dum, da-dum, da-dum da-dum daa-duuumm” makes it all the more fascinating for those of us who grew up scampering toward Saturday morning cartoons rather than soccer games.
The robbery of world-class jewels in the middle of the brunch hour, at one of the most famous museums in the world, is beyond fiction. Hollywood would be laughed under the rug for producing such a blatantly unbelievable script. But could it happen here?
The comforting truth is, Southern museums can’t be cracked because our treasures aren’t built on monetary worth. The value lies in something far more precious than rubies, amethysts, or diamonds. Our riches are securely lodged in our un-snatchable stories.
Thank goodness social media hasn’t completely killed tale-tellin’ in the South. We still have parents and grandparents who pass along stories of Sunday visits to Grandma’s house and quick anecdotes that begin with a melody from a favorite song and end with the revelation that Grandad’s sister was the first female crop duster in the county.
Our museums do the same. They spark stories of houses and businesses long gone—of firehouses and soldiers, baseball players, weddings, and parades. Like a good Southern storyteller, our museums captivate our imaginations and connect us to who we were and who we’ve become.
The cannons, statues, and rusty coins may not fetch much on the underground market where masked thieves tiptoe past Inspector Clouseau, but to us, they’re priceless. They’re the tangible illustrations and keepers of our descriptive and shared pasts.
Bless the heart of the poor soul who tries to rob a Mobile museum. They’d never get away with it—not with a crowd of friendly onlookers ready to talk them into surrender.
“Hey, whatcha doin’?” “What’s that you’ve got there?” “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” “What kind of ladder is that?” “Who are your people?”
No, they’d fail miserably. Because our real treasures aren’t enclosed within glass cases—they are in our people, our history we share as friends and neighbors, and you can’t steal that or even begin to put a price on it.
