WHAT IS IT ABOUT MISSISSIPPI?

Mississippi, Day 1: I am, as those of you who regularly read this are well aware of by now, not a particularly – or even any, really – spiritual or mystical sort of person. Yet there are places in the world where for no reason that I can quite fully put my finger on I simply feel at home, at peace, comfortable, engaged. Mississippi – to be specific the Delta and the Hill Country – is one of them. (Indonesia is one of the others, but I’ve already blathered about that earlier this year.)

Mississippi rolled into my mind over the years. My first association, as a child, was with the name. Thanks to the river, thanks to Mark Twain I’ve always unconsciously associated the place with travel and flow and adventure.

Then, as with so many of us who grew up in the 1960s the associations turned terrible – the scene of some of the most brutal battles of the Civil Rights Movement, a place that seemed alien and scary, primitive.

But at about the same time that was happening, I discovered the blues; music born of the struggles and torment, the strength and humor and intellect of the place and time it came from. Music that muscles its way out of the blood and sweat stained soil of this place, filling the air with ghosts and history and a culture that somehow comes across as triumphant in spite of the wretchedness and misery that created it, that made it somehow possible. And a culture that has informed and transformed much of all the other culture that I’ve been deeply affected by throughout my life. The blues, or something a whole lot like them – at least their sensibility - is part of nearly every book, song, movie, artwork, etc. that has reached far inside me and made me feel deeply.

And the people I meet have been almost universally friendly, welcoming, pleased to have someone visiting their state, their town, their farm who is in return friendly and genuinely interested.

Then there’s the light. Literally. Throughout the day, but most dramatically during the long evenings, the light here is palpable. It gives dimension to what could be a flat, nearly barren landscape. It is a photographer’s dream.

So I’m going to shut up right now and post some pictures from yesterday. I won’t even tell you what they are other than that they are roughly in the order I shot them, from the Hill Country around Holly Springs (lunch at Phillip's Grocery and an interesting conversation with a man selling the Nation of Islam's newspaper) to Greenville in the Delta and my favorite steak place in the world for dinner. There will be more today.

NOT FROM THE HOSPITAL - NOW A HOTEL - WHERE BESSIE SMITH DIED

Clarksdale, Mississippi: And hopefully not from the hospital where I died, either. But that's where I am. It's a very nice hospital, as these things go, too. (The hospital where Bessie Smith died is now a hotel here in Clarksdale - room 2, you can stay in it.)

Two days ago my left leg seemed swollen. I ignored it, as one does, and very happily went about my business of touring the Delta. Yesterday morning it seemed somewhat more swollen, but I figured I'd deal with it later. As one does.

After a day of touring I went to Cathead - a truly fantastic store for blues, folk art, books, everything relating to the Delta - and also the place to go for local information. Roger, who runs the place and who makes some excellent documentary films and has written one of the better general introductory books to the blues, suggested a local clinic if I wanted someone to look at my leg.

I did. The very attentive and concerned nurse practitioner sent me to the hospital. I checked in last night and this morning they confirmed deep vein thrombosis - a blood clot, the sort that can break apart and kill you if you don't catch it and take care of it.

I almost didn't go. Last night was the night I was going to go to Po Monkey's - the only remaining rural juke joint anywhere and a place I have wanted to go ever since I first heard about it. I considered the fact that it would probably be a better place to keel over dead than most, but then good sense got the better of me. Tonight T Model Ford is playing at the best juke joint here - Red's Lounge; tomorrow night it's Robert Balfour - two of my very favorite, old and not going to be around all that much longer blues players. But I won't be sneaking out to see them either, no doubt.

Shit. I've got a good bottle of scotch in my luggage here in the hospital room. I wonder what the doctor would think of me having a drink or two?

Anyhow, this is all by way of explanation as to why you aren't going to get much more in the way of posts from the road, at least for a while. (They want me in the hospital for about five days.) Luckily, before this came to pass I did get around some. Here's some pictures and some explanations:

Robert Johnson, the blues singer and guitar player who you know even if you don't think you do - most of his songs have been covered by rock and roll bands and lines from his songs and guitar riffs are impossible to avoid - is reputedly buried in three places. Not because they chopped him up, but because there was some controversy over which was the real spot. I visited all three. The last one of the three is the one that has the best claim to being the real burial place. But visiting all three is a good way to see the area.


After visiting the likeliest real grave, I went for lunch to Hoover's Grocery & Launderette which is in Baptist Town - part of Greenwood - just down the street from the corner where Robert Johnson often played and where he died. Sylvester Hoover runs the place and he was sorry that they don't usually do hot lunches anymore, not since the grocery burned down and they had to move both businesses into the laundry. But, well, he did have some ribs. Do I like ribs? Yes I do.

These were not just ribs. These were a whole new order of ribs, something else altogether. Inside they were dark rich red like the best country ham and they tasted kind of like that and so smoky it was almost too much but it was perfect. Outside they were somehow crisp and crunchy with the right amount of char and rub. There was sauce on the side but it was superfluous. Here's the place and here's Mr. Hoover, and there's the corner where Robert Johnson played and died:


In the course of all this grave visiting I drove around and looked at stuff and took some pictures like usual. Here they are:

ACROSS AMERICA ONE HOUR AT A TIME - DAY THREE

Midwest City, Oklahoma to Amarillo, Texas: A relatively short, four hour, day of driving. With a wee bit of fudging on the one hour rule, we only stopped twice. (Not to worry, I keep my legs flexing and moving while sitting in the car.)

Katie, waitress at T.C.'s Country Kitchen, Clinton, OK.

Shamrock, TX at classic Route 66 Conoco Station.

FOUR CRANKY, CONTENTIOUS GRIPES ABOUT BASEBALL

I now interrupt my regularly scheduled blog to indulge this morning’s bout of grumpery.

The post-season is underway and I’m rooting, in order, for the St. Louis Cardinals, then in ascending order for the teams with the lowest payrolls, until you get to the Phillies and the Yankees – the highest payroll teams – who can kiss my ass. I respect teams that develop their winning ways, not buy them.

As always, the post-season makes me think of things that I like and don’t like about baseball. Here’s four things I’m cranky about:

Pete Rose – Put him in the Hall of Fame, un-ban him. So what if he got caught gambling. The only difference between him and the no doubt hundreds, if not thousands, of other players who undoubtedly bet on baseball is that he got caught. The Hall of Fame is filled with unsavory characters – Ty Cobb anyone? Stop this nonsense now and let Pete Rose in.

Saves – What’s the big fucking deal with saves? They’re bullshit. It’s all pumped up faux-drama to increase ticket sales. Sooner or later someone in SABR is going to crunch all the numbers and come up with the statistical probability of a team losing or winning a game that they lead by three runs in the ninth inning. My guess is that pretty much any big league quality pitcher could come in fresh for the ninth with a three run lead and the majority of the time – unless they were backed up by a team of little league players – their team would win the game.

Roger Maris – He’s the current single season home run record holder in my book. No one who hasn’t been juiced on steroids has beat him. People moaned about him doing it in 162 games, while Babe Ruth did it in 154. The more important statistic is that he did it in fewer at bats than Ruth did. Split the category – home run record on steroids / home run record not on steroids. And while we’re at it, Hank Aaron is still the career leader in home runs, at least until maybe Albert Pujols breaks that record. And while we’re still at it, toss Barry Bonds in jail, at least for a week or two, just on general principle.

Designated Hitter – Do I even have to argue this one? National League games are more fun to watch. There’s more drama, more managing to be done. Isn’t it about time baseball admitted the error of its ways?

I now return you to my regularly scheduled blog. Next – the continuation of Across America One Hour at a Time.

ACROSS AMERICA ONE HOUR AT A TIME

Wagon trains averaged about two miles an hour across the country. We're averaging something just under 70. That should pick up across Texas, New Mexico and Arizona where the speed limit is 75.

It doesn't mean it's fast though, not as fast as I'd planned. I'd figured on three days of hell bent driving to get back home to Los Angeles. It's going to take six. One of the things about having a blood clot is that you have to be careful to move your leg around - at least once things are stabilized enough to risk that. So, we are sticking to no more than six hours a day on the road, with stops every hour along the way to get out and walk around for a few minutes.

Day one, Clarksdale to Little Rock, Arkansas

We left the hospital around 11am. This is where I'd spent the past seven days and 15 hours:
First stop was at Hertz at the Memphis Airport so that Eva could return her rental car. It was actually about an hour and 15 minutes. (There was also no person for me to take a picture of. I'm going to try and take a picture of a person, or people, at each stop hereafter.)Palestine, Arkansas - Man with his father's 1959 Ford FairlaneWe spent the night in Little Rock where there is a very pretty riverfront park and the Clinton Library and Center.


Day 2, Little Rock, AR to Midwest City, Oklahoma

Russellville, Arkansas. Bikers at a gas station.Dora, Arkansas. Squash Blossom Natural Grocery.Lake Eufaula State Park, Oklahoma.Robertson's Ham, Bacon & Sausage, Seminole exit off I-40, Oklahoma.We had dinner with some old pals, writers Meredith and Win Blevins.The owner of the restaurant where we had dinner - Chile Mercado Mexican Grill.Tomorrow it's on to Amarillo, Texas.

ACROSS AMERICA ONE HOUR AT A TIME - DAY FIVE

Gallup, New Mexico to Kingman, Arizona: By now, if you've been paying attention, you should realize that we are taking, essentially, Route 66 across the country. Well, we're on Interstate 40 but for most of its way it either parallels what is left of Route 66 or runs right over it. Some towns, like Seligman, Arizona, seem to survive entirely off nostalgia for the old highway.

Here's some of the people I encountered today on my hourly stops.

Ofelia's Knife City, AZ. I asked Ofelia - at least I'm pretty sure she was Ofelia - if she would pose with her favorite knife. She said, "They are all my favorites. They make me money." So I posed her at the cash register instead.
Winslow, AZ. Stopped for lunch at La Posada Hotel, one of the great quirky hotels anywhere. Run in part by , a painter with a twisted sense of humor. Here's a woman in front of a painting of Nancy Reagan, part of the First Ladies series.
Seligman, AZ. Inside the Route 66 souvenir shop pictured above. A group of tourists from Quebec, Canada were shopping for t-shirts. They were a little concerned when I wanted to take their picture, they'd just finished a three day hike into a nearby canyon and hadn't had a shower yet.

ACROSS AMERICA ONE HOUR AT A TIME - DAY FOUR

ACROSS AMERICA ONE HOUR AT A TIME - DAY FOUR

Amarillo, Texas to Gallup, New Mexico: A late start due to needing to get a blood test and the results. I first went to one clinic that refused to release results to anyone other than a doctor. I think that's illegal - the patient is entitled to the results. I tried arguing with them but failed. So I then went to a nearby hospital and threw myself upon their mercy. They were merciful. This trip being almost entirely about transportation, rather than recreation, the only highlight of the day was a stop at Tito & Mary's in Albuquerque for enchiladas Christmas style. Yum. Here's the people I met at my hourly stops.

Tucumcari, NM, this man and his dog were driving the truck with his motorcycle and most of his family's belongings in it. His wife and the kids were following in another car. He was laid off in Indiana and is moving the family to Phoenix where he'll go to Harley Davidson mechanics school. We chatted a bit about the 1930s, which seemed far too apropos a topic.
Milagro (Miracle), NM didn't seem all that miraculous. This couple ran a rather beat up old gas station and convenience store without much on the shelves.
Albuquerque, NM, the waitress at Tito & Mary's brings a chile relleno and a plate of enchiladas.
Grants, NM, long-haired clerk at the RediMart.