Mississippi Artists - Jane Rule Burdine

Jane Rule Burdine is an artist and photographer in Taylor, Mississippi.  Her photographs of the people and places in our fair state are wonderful windows on the soul of the South.  Jane Rule's book, Delta Deep Down, is an amazing collection of many of her photographs with a personal introduction by Indianola, Mississippi- born novelist Steve Yarbrough.  I found the following clip on You Tube from Mississippi Public Broadcasting's Southern Expressions with host Ron Brown.

A Delta Blues Epiphany by Courtney Taylor

The following article appeared in Country Roads Magazine in May, 2009.  

Photos by Elodie Pritchartt


The transformative power of a music genre, and the road that leads to it.

Quick, think of a small delta town, hot as hell in the summer and within walking distance of cotton fields with juke joints, river traffic, gambling, drinking, dancing—a place where the music of its poor became the music of the world.   If that sounds like Clarksdale, home of the blues in the Mississippi Delta, it also describes Ferriday in southeast Louisiana.

Like Clarksdale, Ferriday is not a very big place, just about four thousand people. Like Clarksdale, Ferriday is a river town, full of fun-loving characters—a few who like to take a walk on the wild side; the birthplace of entertainers Jerry Lee Lewis, Mickey Gilley, and evangelist, Jimmy Swaggart. Like Clarksdale, Mississippi; Ferriday, Louisiana had a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.

No wonder, my friend Tommy Polk, decided to start our tour of Highway 61 at the Delta Music Museum in Ferriday. Rosemary, a petite African-American lady, greeted us inside the museum and led us through a maze of displays of cousins Lewis, Gilley and Swaggart and memorabilia from dozens of other area musicians. She told of the infamous juke joint, Haney’s Big House and trombonist, Leon “Pee Wee” Whittaker.

“He used to hold Jerry Lee up to the window so that he could see the performers like Fats Domino at Haney’s—and they had a thing worked out where Pee Wee would leave the back door open there for little Jerry Lee.”

That, as legend has it, was where “The Killer” developed his taste for boogie woogie and rhythm and blues. Throughout the rest of the tour, Rosemary gave sordid and lofty details of various artists’ lives like a gossipy but loving auntie, once again proving that the best guides are true locals.

On a Jerry Lee kick, we rushed around the block to see another tribute to The Killer, the Lewis Family Museum. Forewarned with words like bizarre, freaky, surreal, too real, I thought I was prepared. But nothing could have prepared me for the mind of Frankie Jean, Jerry Lee’s sister. I say the mind, because the museum is her temple to her family—a packrat’s unapologetic display of the family’s demons and accomplishments with a disturbed sense of décor.

Utilizing every surface for expression or collection, there are broken-mirror abstracts on doors, Chagall-like paintings of graves and ghosts on the kitchen carpet and bedroom lamp shades, a long brick planter stuffed with Easter grass and badly painted oil lanterns, a collection of whiskey bottles on the piano, a shellacked loaf of bread on the kitchen counter. It is both painful and hilarious. It is a must see.   After the tour, you might find yourself hankering for a drink—unfortunately the drive-through liquor store attached to the house was closed.

Still reeling from Graceland-Gone-Twilight Zone, Tommy; his sweetheart Elodie, a poet and photographer; and I stopped at a fast-food restaurant before leaving the Louisiana Delta for the Mississippi Delta. My traveling companions swing easily in my life from old high-school friends to professional colleagues, and without revealing too much of our shared histories, I knew I was in for a good time. Writers all, we settled in for a three-hour ride and an opportunity for uninterrupted storytelling.

About the time we crested the bridge over the Yazoo River, the entrance into the Mississippi Delta, Elodie and I decided it was Tommy’s turn to talk. He told of the day when he was just a boy and he accompanied his father, the Parish coroner, to a shack on the edge of the levee road in Vidalia, Louisiana. They climbed the weathered front steps, crossed the porch, and entered a small dark room where an old man lay dying as his family crowded around him.

The stifling death scene drove Tommy back out onto the porch. Facing the road, he exhaled, listened to the undulating hum of insects match his own steady breathing, and waited for his father’s voice, an official pronouncement of the dying man’s last breath.

“Out of the shack came a long wail,” he recalled.

As he stood there looking down the front porch steps, a couple of neighbors stopped in front of the house.

“They both let out wails. Then more people gathered and they all started this wailing—mourning the old man.”

Like the call and response of a church service the wails from inside led the wails outside.

“It was like they were all looking up at me and wailing,” he explained. “I was frightened, until gradually, the wailing turned to singing. Then they were swaying and I could hear harmony, then they’d start wailing again, and then it would become singing again.”

That, award-winning songwriter Tommy Polk says, was his first real music moment, a heartfelt eyewitness account of how music transforms and transcends.

Tommy grew up a few minutes’ ride from that levee and from Ferriday. Poor eyes but excellent ears, led him to pursue the guitar instead of sports. Later, he found that a song garnered as much attention from girls as a touchdown. With both deep and shallow reasons for loving music, Tommy took his talent for guitar, piano and poetry to Nashville and during a long climb to the top has won ASCAP and BMI citations for chart-topping, internationally popular songs recorded by artists such as Martina McBride, Crystal Gayle, Irma Thomas and many others.

In the midst of Nashville success, Tommy yearned for a retreat where he could hear himself think.

“Cousins in Clarkdale offered a spot on the edge of a Delta cotton field where I could put a shack. I fixed it up and called it the Cadillac Shack.”

Soon other shacks were added, a commissary became a nightclub/dayclub/jam-session venue and a new style of overnight accommodation that puts the “fun” in funky was born. Nowadays, you’ll find similarly funky guesthouses throughout the Mississippi Delta.

“Look, a dust devil.”

“No, don’t stop and take a picture.”

“Look at that barn.”

“Girlfriend, I said no more pictures.”

“Look, I love that old house.”

“You can take a picture on the way back.”

The miles slid by and then we were in Leland, Mississippi; population about five thousand, which bears a striking resemblance to, you guessed it, Ferriday.

“We’re here to visit Eric Fowler at his brand-new recording studio, Studio 61,” says Tommy, as we park in front of a row of downtown stores. If you’re thinking, “What’s to see, three padded walls and a big pane of glass,” think again.

“The thing we’re most proud of is our live-venue recording abilities—five cameras can capture a live performance either in the studio or in front of a live audience in the studio.”

That explains the room large enough for an audience behind the console. A quick Coke in a nearby coffeeshop and we were on that flat stretch of asphalt again.

Next stop: The Delta Music Institute at Delta State University in Cleveland, Mississippi.

“Oh my God!” Tommy yelled—an octave higher than usual, as we entered the multimillion dollar facility. “I want to go back to college!” he screamed as we entered the gymnasium-size recording studio on the same par as the famed Abbey Road in London.

A tour by the executive director of the program, Grammy Award-winning songwriter Tricia Walker and world-class bass player Barry Bays, confirmed that we all three wanted to go back to college.  For anyone with any interest in music, DMI is a fascinating place to visit. For someone with a kid interested in the musical arts or music business, this is the place to send them.

We arrive at last in Clarksdale, and are greeted like favorite cousins.

A quick beer and tour of the Cadillac shack and the shack complex now known as the Shack-Up Inn, reveals that Clarksdale knows how to make the most of its funky blues-based tourism. Tommy was instrumental in the development of the concept and with characteristic creative energy has moved on to open three new guesthouses. Two are smack dab in the middle of downtown Clarksdale—Big Pink and Mississippi Music Hall. Honey Hill is quiet, elegant retreat on the Sunflower River.

Big Pink and Mississippi Music Hall are conveniently across the street from the Delta Blues Museum and the main music stage used for blues festivals. Big Pink, an ice-cream parlor turned New Orleans-style townhouse (by ambitious owners in 1960s) is the pretty side of funk, with large guestrooms, a graceful downstairs foyer, dining room, parlor, and a fake indoor courtyard in the back (the courtyard alone is worth the drive to Clarksdale).

Mississippi Music Hall is a turn-of-the-century plantation commissary that Tommy moved in and placed next to Big Pink. A central room with blue windowpanes, comfy stuffed chairs, old rugs and a big screen offers guests a retreat and gathering place during music festivals. The hall also has two guestrooms, one of which we settled into, before walking across the street to Ground Zero blues club for an evening of cold beer and a killer jam session. Believe it or not we behaved ourselves well enough to rise early the next morning and explore Clarksdale.

It looks to me as if Clarksdale has become a Mecca for transplants who have tossed aside conventional lives for unique businesses either based on the blues or because of their love for the blues. A young man from New Jersey owns Cat Head Delta Blues and Folk Art; a retired trust lawyer from The Netherlands opened the Rock’n Roll Blues Heritage Museum, showcasing his vast collection of music memorabilia from the twenties through the seventies; a musician and painter from Florida opened Hambone Art Gallery where you can buy a painting as well as a ham sandwich, and an outdoorsman and artist from Colorado makes artful dugout canoes, paints watercolors and leads canoeing and kayaking expeditions from Cairo, Illinois, to the Gulf of Mexico—to name a few. And the renovation and migration continues. A day in Clarksdale will make you wish that you could spend a month there—or maybe the rest of your life.

After too short a time, we headed for Indianola, Mississippi to the B. B. King Museum, the polar opposite of the Lewis Family Museum. State-of-the-art exhibits housed in a gorgeous facility stimulate visitors through a totally interactive environment. It is a fitting tribute to the legend of guitar blues, and a shining example of modern museums. Elodie and I particularly enjoyed the digital guitars that allow you to play like B.B.—or at least feel like you are.

Exhausted from our whirlwind tour of Highway 61, we buckle up for the drive home. I ask Tommy what’s next on his agenda.

“I want to bring music back to Ferriday, and I’d love to see Ferriday become the next Clarksdale. I’d also like to take people on music and heritage tours from Nashville to New Orleans.”

I believe he can do just that. In Clarksdale, he started with one shack. Across the river from Ferriday in Natchez, Mississippi, he has now has Shanty Bellum, a five minute walk from the best view of the Mississippi River anywhere, a blend of old Natchez charm with Clarksdale fun.

It’s one shack. The beginning.

Immersion

Like teabags poised

over the roiling water,

we dangled, by turns,

from a rope.

Pushed off the roof

of the boat,

swung out and dropped

into the muddy mug

of the Mississippi

only to emerge

laughing

surprised

at having survived

the fall.

Little mud mustaches

etched the sepia

memories of

that river

that day

that summer

that childhood

into our skin.

Now the sandbars

whose soft embrace

showed us the way

rarely surface --

the channel and our veins

silted

with the detritus

of forty years.

We have reunions,

make note

of those not there.

Search name tags

for faces

we no longer

recognize.

We bury

parents

friends

and fears

of the undertow

as the bank sloughs

each spring

rechannels

our expectations

and we emerge

laughing

surprised

at having survived

at all.

~~ Elodie Pritchartt

August 18, 2010 

Summertime

Lake St. John, Louisiana - July 18, 2010                                                   Photo by Elodie Pritchartt

Happy 4th of July, 2010

Photos by Elodie Pritchartt

The Shanty Cats

Music, Munchies, Merriment and Monkey Business

It was all music, munchies and monkey business at the first annual Soul Survivor's Festival in Ferriday this weekend. The festival celebrated the history of blues music and the contributions of African American musicians to the legacy of Ferriday, Louisiana.

The festival started out with the unveiling of a Mississippi Blues Marker on the lawn of the Delta Music Museum. The Mississippi Blues Trail markers tell stories through words and images of bluesmen and women and how the places where they lived and the times in which they existed–and continue to exist–influenced their music.

The Mississippi Blues Trail is an ongoing project of the Mississippi Blues Commission, and is funded by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, National Endowment for the Humanities, Misssissippi Department of Transportation, the Federal Highway Administration, AT&T, and the Delta Center for Culture and Learning at Delta State University plus additional support from the Mississippi Development Authority Tourism Division.

Ferriday's is one of only a handful of markers placed outside of Mississippi, and was included because of Haney's Big House, one of the many clubs on the old Chitlin' Circuit, which was frequented by great artists like B B King and Fats Domino. In addition, Haney's also played host to local musicians like Ferriday's Leon "Pee Wee" Whittaker and Natchez's Hezekiah Early and Y.Z. Ealey. Jerry Lee Lewis also frequented the club as a youngster, soaking up the sounds he heard there, and incorporating them into his own distinctive style when he started his own music career.

Gathered in the shade of Rockabilly Plaza, festivalgoers enjoyed barbeque, cold drinks and music by Hezekiah Early and Lil Poochie, Osgood and Blaque, and the YZ Ealey Band with Jimmy Anderson sitting in on harmonica.  We even had a guest visiting all the way from London, England -- Paromita Saha, a freelance writer with a special love for music, the blues, in particular.  She'll be doing a writeup soon.  We'll be sure to let you know about it.

"This is brilliant," said Paromita, who couldn't get over the fact that she was sitting in a little town in Louisiana listening to longtime, authentic blues legends playing the music they shaped in the place it was created.

The highlight of the afternoon for the kids, especially, was an appearance by Tim Lepard and Team Ghostriders. Tim travels the rodeo circuit with his team of border collies ridden by white-throated capuchin monkeys, who make quick work of corralling a group of goats and sending them on their way in the back -- wait; scratch that -- on the roof of a pickup truck.

Also a hit with the kids were the train rides given courtesy of the Concordia Parish Sheriff's Department.

For a sampling of some of the day's music and events, check out the three videos below.

We're looking forward to many more Soul Survivors Festivals in years to come. For more info, go to: www.ferridaysongfest.com

A special thanks to Cristen Craven Barnard, who created the poster for this year's event, which is available for purchase for $25.  If you'd like to purchase a poster, please contact Tommy Polk at tommypolk@hotmail.com. All proceeds go to the Friends of the Delta Music Museum, a 501c3 nonprofit organization, and will go toward future live music events in Ferriday.

We would like to thank the following for sponsoring the Ferriday Soul Survivors Festival, without whom this event would not have been possible:


LouisianaTravel.com

Entergy
Delta Bank
Fashion Nail Salon
Town of Ferriday
Bryant Hammett & Associates, LLC
The Ferriday Markets
Strozier's U-Pak
Marsala Beverage
Concordia Bank & Trust

Story, photos and videos by Elodie Pritchartt

Calling All Soul Survivors

This weekend marks Ferriday's first Soul Survivors Blues Festival.  The Mississippi Blues Trail will be putting up a marker in Ferriday, too.

Read all about the Festival in this article in the News Star from Monroe, LA.

The Night the Music Died in Natchez

On this the 70th anniversary of the infamous Rhythm Club Fire, Chicago Public Radio has a story about the tragedy that brings it to life with music from the band that was playing that night and recollections of people who were there. More than 200 people perished in the fire, which changed state and federal laws pertaining to fire codes that are still in force today.

You can listen to it here:

http://www.chicagopublicradio.org/Content.aspx?audioID=41626

I've also discovered a video on You Tube with a song about the burning by blues artist Gene Gilmore, featuring several photographs of the tragedy.  You can watch it here:

Anne Vidal's Wild Ride

"What do you mean we're out of gas?"

Anne Vidal's beehive wig smacked against the roof of the bus as she jumped up to take a look at the gas gauge.

"We just left a gas station!"

After coughing its last, the engine in the short bus ticked as it cooled. We were somewhere between Woodville and Natchez, and out of gas.  At 2 a.m.

The sequins in Anne Vidal's banana clip winked remorselessly, conspiring with her eye shadow, her nail polish and 1960's polyester pantsuit to ensure the birthday girl was the Queen of Cool.  There are only a handful of women who could pull it off.  Think Judy Jetson.  Think Carol Brady.  Think Cyndi Lauper, Tracey Ullman, and an early incarnation of Madonna all rolled into one.   Damn.  I wish I could dress like that.

 But even the Queen of Cool was beginning to lose hers.  She looked around at the rest of us.

"What are we gonna do?"

"Do we have any Scotch left?" I asked.

I'm nothing if not practical.  I pictured Tracey Ullman in her terrycloth bathrobe saying, "Go home!  Just go home!" 

Not a chance.

It had been a long and glorious night, and our little band of reprobates was feeling the effects of their age.  It was time to go to bed.  We COULDN'T be stuck in the middle of nowhere in a short bus that advertised itself as prison transport.   Could we?

"How could you not know we were out of gas?"

Anne Vidal looked at our driver, Johnny, his facial expression hidden by the little black fedora he'd worn all night.

"Gas gauge don't work," he replied his voice a quiet, studied calm.

We looked at each other.

Rut-roh, George.

____________________________


It had all started out  innocently enough.  It was Wednesday, and Tommy was out of town. I was in charge of feeding the cats at Shantybellum. Reaching out to unlock the door, I spied an envelope tucked into the doorjamb. Addressed to Tommy and Elodie, I opened it and pulled out a card:

"She was nobody's doormat and had the tattoos to prove it."

It was a party -- a ride  to Teddy's Juke Joint in Zachary, Louisiana, on Saturday night in a bus with other adventurous souls to listen to Li'l Jimmy Reed do his blues thang.  It was Anne Vidal's birthday and she wanted to do it up right.

Eighty miles down the Blues Highway 61, toward Baton Rouge, Teddy's is the real deal in juke jointery (Is that a word?).   Teddy, the proprietor, was born in the little shotgun house where -- dressed to the nines -- he spins his favorite tunes between sets of live music.

It's a fun, funky atmosphere with an eclectic clientele who leave their differences at the door and enjoy the music, each other and themselves amid a collection of Blues memorabilia, Christmas lights, disco balls and chaos.

Hmm....this was an offer we couldn't refuse.

Ten of us met up at Anne Vidal's little eatery -- The Pig Out Inn BBQ -- where she had the short bus prepared and waiting.  Painted a kind of nondescript brownish/gray/green, it had "Angola Bound" painted on one side and "Prison Transport" on the other.

We stepped inside and back into the 70's where three old sofas covered in scarves and tassels sat on a red Persian rug.  The smell of incense wafted  the air.  Sandwiches from Pig Out and Clara Nell's deviled duck eggs awaited us alongside an impressive collection of libations, which included coffee for Johnny, our faithful driver.

Like Anne Vidal, my dear cousin Roberta had come dressed for the occasion in a black tutu with a pillbox hat.  Her date Mitchell, sported a fancy black cowboy shirt with an upside down guitar in white piping, matching his leonine mane of striking white hair.  Anne Vidal's boyfriend, Steve, had on the pointiest pair of cowboy boots I've ever laid eyes on.  How come I never think of these things?

"What's the story on the bullet holes?" I asked, noticing the all-too-real set of bullet holes in the back window.  "What's the story on the bus, in general?"

"I bought it from somebody who had a hunting camp," said Anne Vidal.  "Somebody shot it."

"Everybody ready?  Let's go."

"We don't have no turn signals on here," said Johnny.  "And we only got one brakelight."

"Well, we've got one, anyway," said Anne Vidal.  "We'll make do.  Let's go."

We realized soon thereafter that we didn't have any inside lights either.  Fortunately, Tommy had a flashlight.  We could still find the food.  We were having a grand old time, eating those duck aigs and telling stories.  We'd passed the new prison down in Woodville, when Johnny said, "We're losing oil pressure."

We pulled into the nearest gas station and treated the engine to some oil.  Satisfied we were still roadworthy, we continued on our way, arriving at Teddy's with plenty of time to partay.

Our friend Doretta met us at Teddy's.  She'd driven up from New Orleans and looked great.  I don't think I'd seen her or Kim (who took all these pictures) since high school.

We decided to call it quits around midnight and piled back into the bus to head home.  We stopped again at the same little gas station to grab a coke and a bathroom break, then continued on our way.



About 20 miles outside of Woodville, we chugged to a stop and found ourselves in the aforementioned predicament.

"I can't believe we just left a gas station and didn't get gas," said Vidal, Anne Vidal's brother.  "Unbelievable."

"But I just filled it up," protested Anne Vidal.

"Yeah, but we took it out the other day," said Johnny.  "We drove a lot that day.  Remember?"

I was beginning to think Johnny wished he'd never agreed to this trip.

"Well, I guess it's my fault, then," said Anne Vidal.  "I should've remembered." 

I felt bad for her.  I think we all did.

"Aw, it's an adventure," I said and laughed, a bit hysterically.

I remembered a TV show on The Learning Channel I used to watch back in the 90s called Stories of Survival where people in everyday situations suddenly find themselves fighting for their lives.  I looked at Tommy.

"Did you bring your insulin?"

"Oh, God."

I don't know who said that.  More hysterical giggles.

"How can the gas gauge be broken, too?" asked brother Vidal.  "Do you even have an inspection sticker on this thing?"

"Yeah.  I peeled it off my car this morning and stuck it on the bus."

I knew Anne Vidal was smart.  I'd have forgotten to do that.

"Who can we call?"

"We could call Doretta." 

"She's halfway back to New Orleans by now,"

Somebody suggested the highway patrol.

"Nope.  Can't do that," I said, sipping on my scotch  (one for the road, you might say).  "We've been drinking."  

"But we've got a designated driver," said Roberta.

Have these people been adults so long they've forgotten how to get into trouble?

"Open container," I said.  "We'd get busted for sure."

"We could spend the night here," someone else said.

"I want to go home!" cried Clara Nell.  "I don't want to sleep on the bus.  I want to sleep in my bed!"

Her Tempurpedic bed, no less.  It's hard to feel sorry for someone who can afford a Tempurpedic mattress.  We all looked at her.

Silence.

"I'll call a tow company," said Mitchell, whipping out his phone.  Kim, ever calm, snapped photos for posterity.

"Hello?  I need you to bring us some gas right away," he said, adding, "I don't care what it costs.  We've got to get out of here.  Now!"

"Don't tell them that," Tommy protested.  "They'll think it's true!"

He could see dollar bills flying away down the highway.

"We need to get off this shoulder," he said.  "And we need some tail lights so cars won't hit us." 

"Nope.   Actually, it's better that we don't have them," I said.  "Drunks tend to aim at them, thinking they're following the car ahead of them."

"I've got a friend in Natchez I can call," said Vidal.

And he did.

"It'll be 30 minutes."

The men climbed out to stretch their legs.

"I knew I should've used the bathroom back there," said Roberta.  "I've got to pee."

I went around the front of the bus with her to make sure I could shield her should anyone drive past, memories of driving to Gulf Shores with my parents for summer vacation replaying in my head.  We climbed back in to wait for help.


A few minutes later the bus filled with light as a vehicle pulled in behind us.  I could discern some kind of lights across the top.

"Uh, oh.  I think it might be the highway patrol," I said.

The idea of trying to hide the booze was laughable.

"You sure?" asked Vidal.

He stood outside the bus, peering into the light like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

"Nope," said Vidal.  "It's a truck."

Then another truck pulled in behind it.

Mitchell and Johnny went around to the back of the bus.  Both trucks stayed where they were, their engines idling as their drivers took in the scene from about 50 yards back.

They looked at Mitchell and his upside down guitar, his white hair.  They looked at Johnny, still unreadable under his little black fedora.  They took in the bullet holes in the rear window, "Prison Transport" written on the side.

They peeled out like the hounds of the Baskervilles were after them.

I don't know for certain, but I'd bet they were thanking their maker for delivering them from a horrible fate.  A fate worse than running out of gas on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere, Mississippi.

Shew!  That was a close one, all right.

Inside the short bus, Roberta stretched across the seat and put her head in my lap.  "I'm going to sleep," she said.  "Wake me up when we get home."

We swapped stories, the atmosphere punctuated by Berta's soft snoring.  An hour went by.  Then another 30 minutes.

"I don't think anybody's coming," said Clara Nell, panic starting to rise again.

Just then Tommy pointed across the road.

"Isn't that a tow truck?"

We watched as its tail lights crested the hill and disappeared into the darkness.

"You think that was him?  He didn't see us.  Vidal!  Call him back."

He got him on the phone and told him to turn around.

He came back and brought us our gasoline and emptied it into the short bus.

"Man, I went all the way to Buffalo looking for you guys," he said, the smell of gasoline settling inside the bus.

"Buffalo,"  said Tanna, puzzled.  "Where's that?"

"New York," Tommy answered, which got a big laugh.   Well, okay.  It was funny, but I'm still funnier than he is.

With gasoline fumes thick in the air, we headed toward home.  As we turned onto Canal Street for the final leg home, we all breathed a sigh of relief, joking about what a great story it would be.  Then we ran out of gas.

Again.

Right by by the visitor's center.

"Johnny, don't stop!  We're going downhill.  See how far it'll coast."

We all leaned forward as though that would help it coast a little further as the short bus whispered hopefully, "I think I can.  I think I can.  I think I can."

We made it all the way to Rosalie and cheered as we turned into the Isle of Capri parking lot.

It was 4:15 a.m. as our hapless little crew tumbled out of the bus and onto Natchez soil.  Tommy knelt down to kiss the earth.  Oh, scratch that.  He tripped and fell.

"Ow!  Gimme the ice chest and that flashlight."

We patted Johnny on the back, thanked him profusely and tipped him well.  Call it combat pay.  We started down the final stretch to The Pig Out Inn BBQ, a block and half away.

"What's that awful smell?"  Miss Tempurpedic was not amused.

"This is where the Carriages wait to take tours."

"Ew!  I just stepped in horse pee."

As we all stumbled down the street hoping not to see any cops, an old owl in the oak tree at Rosalie watched, our voices fading into the night.

"Watch out for that pile of poop."

"Oh, lovely.  That's just great."

"Quit complaining."

"Is there any scotch left?"

"Just point me toward a bed."

"I told you you should've brought a jacket."

"Shut up."

___________________________________________

Photos by Kim Kaiser