TUNICA
We drive down the highway of the blues, surrounded by white. Charlotte drives the vast, endless, and painfully flat road while I play tourist and take photos of cotton bails from the car. I insisted on wearing my overalls. It's not hard to feel the infectious curiosity and joy that Charlotte feels down the in the South. She had never seen a cotton plant in real life before, and now it's showered on the highway in front of us, the edge of the road covered in pure, fluffy white.
I can't say that there isn't a hint of doubt in the air. Only two nights previously, I was about 3/4 the way through an entire bottle of wine while Trump led in the electoral votes. I receive a text from my future travel companion: "I can't go to the Deep South if Trump wins. It's too soon." I shrug off her hesitation and take another drink. He can't win, there's no possible way...Right? Charlotte will have to suck it up. It'll be fine... Right?
Unfortunately, the night ended in tears. Tears of uncertainty in the fear of the unknown.
Yet, here we are, nursing a two day hangover. We pull into a visitor's center in Tunica. We're greeted with a hearty "Welcome to the delta" from two ladies as we enter while blues music blared from the stereo outside. I browse as Charlotte strikes up a conversation. I hear roaring laughter and briefly come into the conversation. I'm not sure of the details, but it has something to do with a cotton field and a shotgun.
The ladies offer up a selfie and a drink invitation before we depart. If we weren't in a rush to get to Clarksdale, we might've spent our entire trip there. We leave more elated than we came, and maybe the darkness of the unknown isn't so bad after all.
THE SHACK UP INN
The Shack Up Inn is right off Highway 61. Even if it were 50 miles off of 61, you could probably still see it. A village of small, dilapidating buildings, all huddled together into one boutique hotel plopped into the insipid lands of the delta. We're greeted into the Calremont shack; graffiti of past residents litter the walls while a crooked air conditioner hums in the background. The sun is fading fast with light bouncing off rusted tin and abandoned trailers. There is a sprinkling of Southern charm in the air and I can't help but feel like this is a place that can only exist in Mississippi.
RED'S
It's a chilly night, but I sit outside before the music starts. Red's is a small club, set among a sleepy street downtown. A man clad in a black fedora and crocodile-skin boots greets me. "Hello," I respond. "Where are you from, missy?" "Nashville." A side smile flashes on his face. "Ahh, Nashville. Music City. Well, welcome." He holds open the door for an older gentlemen who quickly glances in my direction. "Hello there sweetie, welcome to Clarksdale."
I come back inside and Charlotte leans to me and says, "I hope this level of patriotism never fades away." And it's true. We talk about politics and pot brownies and beer with a slew of people from all backgrounds from all over the country. We learn each other's stories through conversation and old blues tunes. Red himself yells for me to talk about music. "Hey Nashville!" he calls from across the bar. "You ever hear of so-and-so? I think he's outta Tennessee..."
Tonight, we transcend race, gender, generation, and religion. And while the small, dingy music club was a corner of the country I hadn't yet explored, it is quintessentially American. The man in the crocodile-skin boots takes ahold of our hands and we dance and spin among the hazy red glow. The weight of the election is -at least temporarily- lifted .The smile on my face numbs my cheeks and as we clap away the blues, I can't imagine being anywhere else.
VICKSBURG
It's Veteran's Day. I let Charlotte play with Snapchat while we drive further south to Vicksburg. I tell her it's the quickest route to New Orleans, but it's a cover because the only reason I'm heading to Vicksburg is to see Doug.
I had gone to a writing workshop a couple of weeks prior. It focused on travel writing, although it had little to do with writing. There's not a lot to mention about it except for my little rage rant on the definition of wanderlust. "Any cursory search for that word and all you see is some dumb Tolkien quote written on a picture of people scuba diving in Thailand. Why is that word synonymous with that image? Why can't my wanderlust be defined by visiting a grave of a confederate camel?!"
I can't recall how I came across the story of Old Douglas, but basically here's the gist: Secretary of War, Jefferson Davis, decided it was a good idea to import a bunch of camels from the Middle East, thinking they would fare better in the expansion into Texas and Arizona than horses. Well, as it turns out, the men didn't really like the camels and they were uncomfortable to ride, so the only thing to do was to set them all free. No one knows how Douglas got to Mississippi, but he stuck around and the men grew to love him.
Douglas fought in the Civil War, as part of Company A of the Forty-third Mississippi Infantry. Unfortunately, during the Siege of Vicksburg, Douglas was shot and killed by a Union soldier. And what's worse, they ate him too. Enraged by the camel's death, Col. Bevier sent out 6 of his best snipers to find the Union bastard who killed Douglas. The camel was soon avenged and he was given a proper solider's burial in Cedar Hill Cemetery.
So here's to Doug, and the many idiosyncratic stories that this country has to offer.