Rumbling down the middle of Main Street was a wagon pulled by an old horse. The reins hung loose along his back and he threaded his way through the traffic at a lazy gait, an ancient straw hat set rakishly on his head.
The negro driver was fast asleep, slumped down in his seat with his mouth wide open. The wagon was loaded with large boxes of nationally advertised food products. What matter if they reached their destination after an hour or so delay? Even time moves slowly in Natchez.
"How would you like to live in Natchez?" Bill asked, laughing, and I said I'd love it.
That was in jest, of course, but after two years here we are.
~ Sue Brown Hays
I ran across this delightful description of Natchez a few days ago when I was handed a letter written by a Mr. Bill Hays of Baton Rouge, who was trying to find a descendant of my uncle Balfour Miller. Sometime in the 1930s, Mr. Hay's father owned and operated a tire store in Natchez for about a year.
I have a feeling I would've liked Mrs. Hays, and hope she had fond memories of the Eola and Natchez.