Side Trips on the Blues Highway -- The Mississippi Delta

 

After the mandatory six-month waiting period, the date my divorce was to be finalized was fast approaching. I'd been fielding calls from the ex who'd suddenly decided he didn't want a divorce and wanted to "talk." His calls were so frantic, I decided to disappear until after the divorce was final. 

So I got into my car and drove, wandering through parts of the country by myself that I've always wanted to see, stopping along the way to take photos and see places I remembered from my youth. I found this one street off a cotton field with a couple of old storefronts, all crumbling and abandoned. One had the remnants of a bar with broken pottery still sitting on the counter top. The other was just the shell of a building, open to the sky with trees and vines growing up the floor and walls. 

I stepped inside the door to get a better shot when it sounded like the building was falling down on top of me. I ducked as a huge owl swooped down out of the rafters over my head and into the tree behind the building. 

When I checked into the B&B, the fellow who checked me in said, "I understand no one is to know you're here. Don't worry; your secret's safe with me." 

I thanked him profusely and checked into a charming little room in a garage behind a big old house once owned by a man who owned a 20,000-acre plantation and killed almost every bear in the state. It's a beautiful house, reminiscent of an English country cottage, right in the middle of town. They've got 12 acres surrounded by Days Inn, Burger King and other tacky establishments. A little piece of heaven in the middle of town. There were three other couples staying at the house. Very nice folks from Kentucky, off on a road trip of their own. They had the whole main house to themselves, while I took the room in the garage. 

That night I went to a liquor store to buy some wine. The security was so tight, I had to pass the money through a slot in the wall, and they passed the wine through a bigger slot. 

"Are you here for the Blues thing?" the lady behind the bulletproof glass asked me. 

"I don't know anything about it," I replied. "What's going on?" 

 "There's a big blues singer -- a woman -- in town. Women from all over the country are here to hear her. Figured you were here for the show."

"Thanks. I think I'll check it out." 

That evening I went to dinner in town. I saw the other couples from the B&B there, and went over and introduced myself. 

"What are you doing in town?" one of the husbands asked me. 

 "Oh, I'm just here for a little quiet time," I said. "I want to do some writing and take some pictures." 

They were very cordial and invited me for breakfast next morning. 

Then I went to see the Blues lady. Definitely a hit with the menopausal crowd, of which I realize I'm a member. It was so odd, being in this Blues dive with a bunch of old yuppies with lines around their eyes, wearing their dainty PTA clothes and grinding to the lyrics: "Baby, you got somethin' in your toolbox that I aine' got in mine, Maybe you could use it to show me a good time." 

While I was there, the other couples came in. They'd driven all the way from Kentucky just to hear this woman sing. I was standing at the bar when one of the women came up to get a drink. I smiled and said hello. 

"So, I hear you're getting a divorce," she said. 

 I had to laugh. I remembered Pal (the guy who checked me in)telling me, "We don't care what you've done. We just want to talk about it." 

 I felt kind of sheepish after my suave dodge of the husband's question earlier. I had a couple of margaritas and watched the crowd, and went home early (around 11 p.m.) The other couples staying at the B&B stayed out 'til about 1 a.m., and looked a little raggedy this morning. But they were nice folks, asking me about my book business and getting all excited when I showed them the book I found at Goodwill by Captain Kangaroo that was signed. 

"Oh, my God! I LOVED him!" 

I did, too. Was it so very long ago? Well, I guess maybe it was. 

That day, I moved over to another B&B that is a little bigger and has more atmosphere. I woke up the next morning to the mournful sound of a train whistle on the tracks. I love that sound, even while it makes me kind of sad. It makes me feel like a child again, all tucked safely into bed and hearing that whistle, feeling secure in the bosom of my home and wondering about the lonely souls out there riding on the rails. 

Later that morning I was talking to Dave, the fellow who keeps everything neat and tidy at the B&B. 

"I heard the train this morning," I said, explaining how it makes me feel. 

 "Trains don't run on these tracks anymore," he replied. 

 "But I heard it! I swear I did." 

 "Oh, that was just (can't remember the name). He likes trains. He's got some money, so he bought himself an engine. He drives it about a mile down the tracks and back every day, blowing the whistle." 

God, I love small towns. 

That morning I walked across the parking lot to have breakfast at this little dive that serves the best scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and toast in town. While I was there, I saw a wizened old Black man with loaded dice play tricks on a couple of tourists, and brag about all the places he's been. 

While I ate my food a cat jumped up on the counter and started eying my plate. "You better watch him real close," said the waiter behind the bar. "He sneaky."  

I wondered if the health department knew about Catty Can (his name). Pretty soon, Catty Can tried to make a move and I swatted at him, saying, "Nope! Not today, partner." He gave me a wicked, disgusted look and lay down on the counter, waiting for another opportunity until the waiter snuck up behind him and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him on the floor. 

The days passed. I drove all over the state, enjoying my solitude and my newfound sense of freedom, feeling powerful and introspective. I think every woman should take a road trip by herself at least once in her lifetime. It's a trip.