Waking up Thursday Morning Beside the Mississippi River

I've always considered the Mississippi River Bridge the halfway marker between my original home (Georgia) and my present home.  This bridge carries a great deal of cargo and memories--historically and in other ways.  When we first crossed it to make our home in San Antonio in '67, it was a rickety bridge and we could hear the clacking through the open-windows of our un-airconditioned car.

Carlene and I are having such a relaxing trip--great food and lodging and meeting good people along the way.  Her friends say Carlene can talk to a brick wall, and she can.  Whenever the subject of age comes up, the person looks at her with disbelief, which she justifiably enjoys!  "Ninety!" they all say.  "I hope I'll be like you when I'M ninety!"

This was our view of the Mississippi Bridge Wednesday night--from the deck of the Comfort Suites in Vidalia, Louisiana.  Across the bridge is Natchez, Mississippi--where we had a delicious dinner and returned Thursday morning to explore.

Carlene loves bread pudding

 Natchez is a city full of history and antebellum houses, some of which stand unfinished.  We learned that the boll weevil had more impact on the South economically than did the Depression and the Civil War.  Mississippi is the poorest state in the country.

The drive to Natchez was beautiful on Highway 61 from Oxford.  Lush farm land and miles of soybean, corn, rice, and cotton remind me of where so many of our foods and fabrics come from.  The towns we dipped into between Oxford and Natchez were economically depressed, and it was sobering to see them.  Most small towns--including Clarksdale, home of the Blues--had blocks of boarded up store fronts.

The main commerce in the small towns is utilitarian: Dollar Stores, tractor and farm equipment companies, and fast food.  With few exceptions, the schools and playgrounds and dwellings are shabby and sad.

The Shack-Up Inn in Clarksdale is a collective of share-cropper cabins where travelers and music-lovers can stay--including two small cabins built out of silos.  It's easy to see why this impoverished region of Mississippi is home of so much blues music.

The Shack Up Inn

Silo Houses

From a wall of names--B B King, Muddy Waters,
Etta James, Lead Belly, and so many others

Share-cropper cabins

In Clarksdale, we talked to a woman named Charlotte who worked in the only real store in town. When we walked into the store, she was selling seeds to farmers and dispensing veterinary advice to customers who had a sick dog.  She told us the sad story of finding her husband dead of suicide eight months ago.  "We'd been married 51 years, we was all each other knew," she said.

Her husband had decided to take his life after a cancer diagnosis (he didn't want to experience what his sister had just gone through), and so many people Charlotte knew had had  cancer.  I couldn't help wondering if there's a connection between the seemingly high rate of cancer in this area and the ever-present chemicals of crop dusting.

As the sun came up over Natchez, I thought of both the beauty and poverty that make up the South.  With the constant news coverage of taking down the Confederate flag after the Charlestown tragedies, I'm thinking a great deal of the history of the South and the huge differences between the prosperous and the poor.   I'm feeling a renewed interest in re-reading Southern writers--Faulkner and Welty and O'Connor and more contemporary ones.

Natchitoches is the oldest town in Louisiana, older than New Orleans. In the parish of Natchitoches we saw more tractors and more small churches than I've ever seen on any stretch of land.  We walked yesterday on the hot brick streets of Natchitoches (built along the Cane River) and ate the famous Cajun meat and crawfish pies.  History vibrates in the very air of the South, and you can taste it in the layers of flavors in the food.