Gayle Harper

Photographer ~ Author ~ Traveler

Southern Hospitality and Hoodoo Magic

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To continue…interesting people that I meet in crazy, interesting ways…

Tommy Polk, the singer/songwriter who owns the Big Pink where I stayed in Clarksdale, told me I must try to meet Eden Brent when I get to Greenville.  Eden is a talented jazz and blues singer. (I’m listening to her music right now and she’s great!) I left a message for Eden and although she was on tour in Chicago, she called me back right away.  After we had talked about five minutes and laughed most of that time (she’s a hoot), she said, “You have got to meet my Daddy. I’m going to call him right now.” Less than ten minutes later, I had a call from the hotel desk that there was a visitor waiting for me in the lobby.  Mr. Howard Brent, Eden’s Daddy, had come to meet me and tell me I was invited to a party at Doe’s Eat Place and that he would be back to pick me up in 45 minutes!  Welcome to Greenville!

There are franchised Doe’s Eat Places, including one in my home town, but this is the original. They have been right here since 1941. The man at the grill is “Baby Doe” who replaced his Daddy, “Doe Junior”, who replaced his Daddy, “Big Doe”. It’s in a little frame building in a rough part of town with no parking to speak of, so Doe’s hires a policeman to direct traffic and see that people get safely in and out.  After passing through the kitchen where the walls are covered with photos and postcards and Baby Doe is tending enormous steaks, you squeeze behind the woman making salads. I didn’t get her name but she knew everyone and hugged each as they came by. Then, you pass by the enormous stove covered with skillets and French fries and into the dining room, jam-packed with people at tables covered with an assortment of vinyl tablecloths. It was noisy, friendly and fun. The back room had been reserved for the party which was in honor of a local Doctor. A card table in the corner quickly filled up with an assortment of wine and liquor as people brought bottles in with them. 

I was scooped up, swept in and welcomed warmly. There was not one second of feeling like an outsider. Conversation is an art form in this part of the country and it flows in lively, non-stop waves, swirling from topic to topic and person to person. I just enjoyed the ride.

Mr. Howard (or Cap’n Howard as I heard someone say) and I met the next evening during his cocktail hour at his usual place, so he could tell me a few tales of his life. He’s been a river man all of his life, as was his father and grandfather. The family had a prosperous barge towing company at a time when Greenville was home to 30 such companies. Changes came in the form of government policies and taxes that brought an end to that era, and now only one barge company remains. Greenville has suffered with the loss of those companies, he said.

Mixed in with his stories of Greenville and the Mississippi, came a tidbit of information that impressed me more than anything else he said. He has 3,500 acres of land near here and over the past several years has planted 3,000 of it in trees and signed a pledge that it will remain so for perpetuity. The same will be done this year with the last 500 acres. As I mentioned in the last post, the desire to cultivate as much Delta land as possible has left precious few stands of trees to provide shelter for wildlife, windbreaks or oxygen for us all.  I told him I was proud of him for doing that and thanked him on behalf of all of us!

Many towns I have visited along the river have stories of great floods. Floods are a fact of life near the Mississippi, so I wasn’t immediately drawn to visit the museum here that tells the story of the one in 1927.  But, it was mentioned to me repeatedly, so I decided to visit. I can’t do the story justice in this space, but it was more than a catastrophic flood; it was an event that changed life in Greenville forever.  An excellent film produced by PBS tells a grim story of 40 steamships that came to evacuate homeless African Americans being turned away by planters who were afraid of losing their workforce. It’s a painful tale of disregard for human suffering in an attempt to preserve cotton empires, which ultimately crumbled along with the spirits of those involved.  It’s a dark, sad part of the history of Greenville and I admire them for telling it honestly so current and future generations can learn from the experience.

Highway 61 is the north-south “mother road”.  It may not be quite as well known as Rt. 66, but it is no less significant. It follows the general course of the Mississippi River for 1400 miles from Minnesota to New Orleans and in many places has been designated as the Great River Road. I have kept company with it for many miles during the last 2 ½ months. When Highway 61 reaches the Delta, however, it is the “Blues Highway” and becomes the stuff of legends. It shows up in many songs, from old blues classics to Bob Dylan. Robert Johnson, one of the most influential blues musicians of all time, supposedly sold his soul to the devil to be able to play like that at the intersection of Highways 61 and 49 at Clarksdale.

In Mississippi, I followed Highway 61 to Leland, a scruffy little town that makes you expect to see old men on porches playing the blues.  He wasn’t old or on a porch, but I did meet a blues man.  Pat Thomas was having a smoke by the door to the Highway 61 Blues Museum when I pulled up in front. He hangs out at the small museum on weekends and hopes for visitors who might tip him for playing or be interested in his folk art. 

Since I was the only guest, we spent nearly an hour together. Pat’s father, James “Son” Thomas, was quite a well-known blues musician and Pat learned to play by watching his father’s fingers.  Son Thomas, who passed away in 1993, also taught Pat to sculpt with clay gathered from river banks and to draw using any materials he could find. Pat told me he quit playing for a while after his Dad died, but finally he felt “kinda shamefaced” and decided he had to put his heart into it for his father. Although he has written a few songs of his own, he mostly plays the old songs to sound just like his Dad. He sometimes takes his guitar to the graveyard and it seems to Pat like he wakes his father up while he plays, but then “he gets right back down in that hole of his.”

At first I missed many of Pat’s words, until my ears grew accustomed to his speech. But, I understood his smile and his piercing hazel eyes from the first moment. He’s kind, gentle and easy-going, but perceptive and wise. He sang for me, told me stories about his father and showed me how he likes to draw cats, especially “diamond-eyed cats”. There was an innocent, joyful simplicity about him that was intertwined with something a little mysterious. I recorded him for my slide show and when I left he gave me a drawing of a diamond-eye cat and told me it came with some “hoodoo magic”.

I did a bit of online research about Pat and his father and found an interesting video. A man who has known Pat all of his life describes him as “seeing and feeling things differently than the rest of us”  and especially marvels at a time he watched Pat carry a nest of wasps outside to save them from being killed and was never stung. Click here if you are interested in seeing that. Call it hoodoo or just the straightforward power of innocence; in any case I am pleased to have met Pat Thomas and happy to have his diamond-eyed cat traveling with me.                 See you soon –     Gayle

Faces of the Delta

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The land I came through yesterday is as flat as a table top for hundreds of miles. Perfectly straight rows of cultivated fields pass by hypnotically. This Delta land is rich and productive and is mostly held in huge parcels, many by corporations, so the scene isn’t broken by farm houses, livestock or fences. It feels desolate. Most of the trees were sacrificed long ago and when a small patch does appear, I imagine it packed with desperate wildlife. Many miles passed between small, mostly gritty, towns. In each, there seemed to be a few large, nice homes and many desperately poor ones. There’s a scene burned into my brain that was glimpsed for only a second of a house that literally seemed to be caving in on itself with boards across the windows and a door hanging by one hinge.  A small child in filthy clothes stood in the doorway watching me pass by. Life can be very, very hard. Yet, the human spirit can be inspiringly strong and resilient. Although the odds may be against that child, there are countless stories of people who have grown out of such poverty into very different lives. I pray for comfort, courage, light and love for that little child.

I’ve been asked how I find such interesting, beautiful people who are willing to share their stories with me. The answer, of course, is that I have nothing to do with it. The other answer is that everyone is interesting and beautiful and has a story they want to tell. I just show up and listen. I’ll tell you about a few I’ve been fortunate to spend time with lately.

“Sunshine” Sonny Payne and I met several years ago in a café in Helena, Arkansas. I wrote about his life at the center of the blues world as I was preparing to leave for this journey. Click here to read that post called “The Legend of Helena”.  I caught him this time on a Sunday morning, just after mass and in time for lunch.  Sonny is known by blues fans all over the world as the radio host of The King Biscuit Time blues show on KFFA. His first broadcast was in 1942 and he recently celebrated his 16,000th show. When we walked into the little restaurant together, literally everyone there called out a greeting to him. He tries to be crotchety, but is really too sweet to pull it off.  He grumbled about a few things, but he just can’t squelch that twinkle in his eyes. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s brilliant – like the sun suddenly poking through a hole in the clouds. He’s adorable (that would probably tick him off, but since he doesn’t mess with computers, I may be safe!).

After lunch, Sonny invited me home to see a few pictures. I could listen to his stories for hours. He has a way of slipping in a little joke without missing a beat, just to see if you will catch it. When you do, you are blessed with a little smile. He will be 85 in a few weeks and still works every day – not just in the studio doing the show and taping commercials, but traveling to sell air time as well. He hasn’t thought about retiring yet, because he “wouldn’t want to just sit around”. He has an astounding recall for names, dates and details and his stories hop scotched around in his life, touching on things as a boy, his time in the service, how he met his wife, Josephine, and how he got the job at the radio station “by accident”.  His old friend, B.B. King, was back in Helena for the Blues Fest this year and a film crew taped the two of them riding around in B.B.’s bus, talking about old times.

Sonny touched my heart the first moment I met him, as I’m sure he does many people. He made me promise I would call him when I get home, so he knows I made it safely. I won’t forget. Shine on, Sonny!

If you look at the Lower Mississippi on a map, you see that it swerves back and forth, loops and squiggles its way south. The earth is soft and silty, so the river can change its course without resistance. Often, after creating an oxbow, it will then create a shortcut and leave behind a horseshoe lake, unconnected to the river. Lake Village, Arkansas has situated itself along the graceful arch of such a body of water, Lake Chicot. The waterfront is lined with comfortable homes, not opulent, but homey with docks and gazebos and patios to enjoy the view. The downtown reflects a familiar story of decline, but there is fresh paint and other signs of efforts to rejuvenate.

My lodging here adds a new dimension to the amazing list of places in which I have rested my head – a comfortably refurbished sharecropper’s cabin at the Pecan Grove RV Park.

As I began to gather the story of Lake Village, an interesting history emerged that resulted in diverse cultures living here together. In 1895, a plantation owner named Austin Corbin went to Italy and, with promises of land, houses and abundance, brought 100 Italian families to work on his Sunnyside Plantation. Promises were broken, and the immigrants suffered from diseases and exploitation. Most endured, learned the ways of their new country and became good farmers. Today, many of the leaders of Lake Village come from the large, vibrant and cohesive Italian community.

Brianne Connelly, the enthusiastic Director of the Lake Village Chamber of Commerce, told me that in addition to the Italian community, there is a large African American population with an equally long history.   When she mentioned there is a woman in each community considered “a matriarch”, I knew I would like to meet them.

Mrs. Ella Edwards grew up here, married and raised her family in Lake Village. Her comfortable home has entire walls covered with pictures of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and some great-greats. My head swam with the numbers and she admitted it’s sometimes hard to keep all the names straight. A long table in her dining room could probably seat 15, but many more will be coming home for Thanksgiving. She will cook for a week to prepare for them and enjoy every minute of it. Mrs. Edwards talked honestly about her home town. “It’s a great place to live if you are retired”, she said, “but all the young folks have to go away to get jobs. There just ain’t no jobs here.” She said folks get along pretty well here; that in addition to the African Americans and the Italians, there is a Jewish community, Hispanics and others. Even during the tumultuous 60’s, things stayed fairly peaceful here.   

Mrs. Edwards has raised a grandchild and a great-grandchild in addition to her own children and she thinks they helped keep her young. She talked about teaching young people respect and reminding the not-so-young folks if they need it as well. She stopped a choir practice once at church and asked the Director for a moment to speak. “This is the Lord’s House”, she said, “and you got no business comin’ in here with pants on and lookin’ half undressed. You got to show some respect and come in here dressed for the Lord’s House.” Things changed after that. When you hear “Miss Ella” speak in that tone of voice, there is nothing to say but, “Yes, M’am”, no matter who you are!

Mrs. Libby Borgognoni is a gracious, beautiful lady, whose great-great-grandparents were among that first group of Italian immigrants. In her smooth, slow and precise Southern diction, she described a childhood that was rich in love and traditions, although very poor financially.  She went to school only when she wasn’t needed to pick cotton, but was bright enough to keep up. They grew vegetables, gathered berries and raised hogs.  “We used every part of that pig except his hair”, she said.  She described the process of slitting the pig’s throat, hanging him upside down to drain the blood, then baking that into a blood pie which she described as “divine”!  They were so self-sufficient that they bought only salt, pepper, sugar and flour – and the flour sacks were reused for clothes. Weddings in those days were two or three days of song, dance, music and feasting. “It was a beautiful way to live”, she said.

Mrs. Borgognoni and her husband, Tony, raised five children and worked as a team to gradually acquire 8,000 acres of land where they raised cotton, cattle, hogs, wheat, rice and soy beans. We met at her office, where she handles the finances for the operation, as she always has.

Unfortunately, I missed by one week the 100th annual spaghetti dinner at her church, where all the pasta is still made by hand. But, she gave me a cookbook of authentic recipes compiled by the ladies of the Altar Society. Mrs. Borgognoni is proud of her heritage and does all she can to help preserve it – and she values the diversity of her home town. She was warm, elegant, earthy and authentic – and a great storyteller as well!

Then, back across the river at Greenville, Mississippi, I visited the Winterville Mounds State Park in time for Native American Days. This ancient ceremonial site is one of the largest and best-preserved remnants of the Mississippian culture of mound-building people who lived along the river in the 12th century. In between teaching two busloads of kids from local schools about his culture, Cocoa Cappel found time to visit with me. Cocoa is full-blooded Houma and is a fireman in New Orleans. His colorful regalia was created partly from feathers taken from birds killed on the road. “That is a way of giving them life again”, he said. His name, he said, was given to him by his grandmother who raised him. “Not many people know this story”, he said, “but she had a little dog named Cocoa and when I was very small I would come running to her every time she called the dog, so she named me Cocoa too.”

We talked about New Orleans and how life has changed since Katrina. He talked about how such things bring out the best and the worst in people as he described being shot at while trying to rescue stranded people. Cocoa invited me to call him when I get to New Orleans and said he would show me around a bit. I hope to do that.

If you’ve been traveling with me for a good while, you may remember a time in Minnesota when I talked with a man of the Ojibwe tribe and learned that I should have brought a gift of tobacco or rice to our meeting. I’ve been carrying tobacco in my car ever since then waiting for this day, and I was as pleased to be able to present it to Cocoa as he was to receive it!

There’s much more to tell you about Greenville – I’ll be back soon!   Gayle

In the Presence of Greatness

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I rolled into Clarksdale, Mississippi as a blank slate. All I knew of it was that The Blues thrived there, now and in the past.  Before I left home, there had been a call from Tommy Polk, a talented singer-songwriter whose music has been recorded by artists like Martina McBride and Crystal Gayle. Tommy grew up in the Mississippi Delta, had gotten word of my journey and was calling to invite me to stay in his Big Pink Guest House in Clarksdale. I’ll meet Tommy himself farther downriver in Natchez.

On the surface, Clarksdale looks like another dusty Delta town that has seen its better days. But, don’t be fooled! Look a little deeper and it begins to show itself as a vibrant town full of stories, of masterful storytellers and a wellspring of creativity expressed in every way imaginable.  My first hour in town was spent with Pal (short for Palmer) Foster, who manages the Guest House for Tommy. As he checked me in and showed me the house, he filled my head with story after story of the cast of characters who make his hometown what it is.

When you step into the foyer of the pink brick Victorian house, Elvis sneers down at you from atop a beautiful grandfather clock. He’s there, Pal tells me, because the previous owner of the house, Virginia Anderson (whose colorful life story could be a book unto itself) dated “The King” for about three months.  Then across the interior courtyard, past the fountain complete with wooden ducks and up the spiral staircase to my balconied room, “The Stella”.  Tennessee Williams grew up in Clarksdale and the room is named in homage to Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.

Seriously – Clarksdale must be some kind of vortex of creative energy. It makes one want to drink plenty of tap water or suck in deep breaths of the air or absorb it in whatever way it is done! There are tales of Tennessee Williams, Eudora Welty and John Faulkner hanging out together and trying to drink each other under the table. Then there is the music. I can’t even begin to do justice in this space to the musical history here. If you are a Blues fan, I don’t have to tell you. Even if you’re not very familiar with this rich, smoky, earthy, soul-stirring music that many say was born here, you’ll likely recognize names of those that lived and made music here like John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson and Son House. The renowned Delta Blues Museum is right next door to the Big Pink and I had every intention of going there. As we know, my intentions aren’t worth squat! I was in town over a weekend and on Saturday I was sucked into the quirky, crazy, creative life of Clarksdale and Sunday they were closed. I was invited, and tempted to stay another day, but the raindrop waits for nothing and the next stop deserves its allotted time as well.  If you decide to come, stay more than two days!

One of my very favorite actors, Morgan Freeman, lives near here and is nurturing the current crop of Blues artists at his Blues Club, “Ground Zero”. I loved the story of Freeman’s answer to a question from a talk show host, “You are so successful – why in the world would you choose to live in Mississippi?” Morgan’s answer was, “Because I can.”

Music is everywhere – even at the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market, a group was playing that included a talented young boy on the drums with other, more seasoned artists.

There was also a little guy who demonstrated how talent is allowed to grow here.

He could barely reach the cymbals with his sticks, but he was serious about making some music with them. No one stopped him or pulled him away because he was following his own beat – they smiled at him and kept playing. That’s how it happens.

I could write pages and pages about all the creative people connected to Clarksdale (seriously, for whatever reason, this place just oozes with it!) I’ll tell you about two that I met.

Three or four people said, “You must meet John Ruskey”. So, I wandered into his shop, The Quapaw Canoe Company, to see if that was possible. He was packing gear and canoes preparing to take a group of Boy Scouts on a river adventure on the Mississippi. Still, he found some time to show me around and tell me a little about his work.  John has been paddling the Mississippi for more than 20 years and loves making it possible for others to do that. In addition to leading expeditions, offering classes and workshops, he makes canoes ranging from dugouts to the gorgeous 22’ wooden canoe he was loading up today. Honestly, the wood and the workmanship are so elegant, it looked more like a piece of fine furniture than something you would fill with Boy Scouts and put in the river. Although John didn’t mention it, I learned from others he is also a very talented musician, painter and writer! He even cooks for his guests on the river. I feel a trip back to Clarksdale somewhere in the future!

Finally, in the pure magic of following Serendipity, I was granted an opportunity to meet Marshall Bouldin III. I’m almost hesitant to write about the afternoon with him in a few paragraphs, because the experience deserves much more. But, here goes. Mr. Bouldin is a nationally-known portrait artist whose work hangs in museums and the private collections of presidents, governors and astronauts. It’s an illustrious career that has filled and blessed most of his 87 years, but impressive as that is, it is not what makes the experience of meeting him so potent. My new friend, Pal, has known him all his life and still says it feels like “an audience with the Pope” when he visits him. There is such a strong Presence about him – such a sense of wisdom and goodness, that I immediately wanted only to be quiet and listen. He talked about art – what it is and is not – and he talked about his life filled with art and blessings. He gets up every morning, excited to get to work and see what problems or ideas will appear. He hopes to do something new or better or different, always reaching toward perfection and always knowing it isn’t something that can be grasped. He talked about the act of creating art and how on one level it requires a perfect balance between the right and left side of the brain. But he also talked about how inspiration comes through us. “It ain’t me”, he said, “I’m just here playing, doing what I enjoy, what I think God wants me to do. I’m the most fortunate man in the world.”

When I told him Pal had loaned me the beautiful book about his life and work printed by the Mississippi Museum of Art, he got tears in his eyes as he described the book being created and presented to him as a surprise. I told him how it had inspired me at this point in my journey. After 68 days of what sometimes feels like a marathon, it was a point where I needed to be reminded that my only job is to say thank you for this moment and to keep doing what it seems God wants me to do. I felt blessed, renewed, inspired and honored to have met this great man.

The Not-So-Famous Side of Memphis

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I had a few thoughts of what I might want to cover in Memphis. That’s what I get for thinking I have anything to say about it! Serendipity had other (and of course better) things in mind. There’s a wonderful (I’m told) Mississippi River Museum on Mud Island with an exact scale model of the Lower Mississippi that is 5 blocks long. That was number one on “my list”. It’s also, of course, the home of Elvis Presley, and since I have never been to Graceland, that was number two. Number three was to sample some of the music Memphis is famous for, probably on Beale Street. All of that is well worth doing if you come, and fortunately you can read about them in plenty of other places, because I didn’t do any of that!

Diana Threadgill is the Executive Director of the organization known as the Mississippi River Corridor of Tennessee, helping people to understand and appreciate this priceless natural resource. When she learned of my project, she offered her assistance. Not only was she immensely helpful, but we had a great time doing it all. She even took me to her hairdresser to get my unruly locks trimmed back into shape!

Thanks to the MRCT, I was a guest at the Crowne Plaza in the heart of downtown and was able to get this shot of the city at sunrise.

As Diana showed me “her Memphis”, she shared some of the creative ways the organization is bringing people together and helping them focus their love for the Mississippi in ways that will make a difference. I was impressed by the clear vision and passion I heard.

At the riverfront, we visited the powerful sculptures honoring Tom Lee, who in 1925 single-handedly rescued 32 people from the river in his 28’ skiff after a steamboat capsized. He made five trips to shore and returned to search for more survivors, disregarding the fact that he could not swim himself!  

Then she took me to a place I would almost certainly never have visited on my own, but found fascinating – the National Ornamental Metal Museum.  It’s dedicated to preserving and teaching the skills of beautiful and creative metal working, an art form I admit to knowing zip about.

In the Blacksmith Shop, we found Holly Fisher hard at work. She’s a bright, friendly young woman from Iowa who is currently an Artist-In-Residence at the Institute. She showed us the “bracelet for a giant” she is working on and explained some of the techniques involved, and we had a few laughs in the process.

Then I donned my own eye and ear protection and followed her back into the noisy, gritty, fiery workspace. Hammers clanged, machines thumped, music blared, fires roared and Holly smiled as she let her creative spirit play. Meeting people like her and peeking into their worlds is one of my very favorite things about my job!!

Near the end of the afternoon, Diana said, “Oh! You need to meet my friend Joe Royer! I will call him right now!” Before I could say, “Serendipity”, I had a call from Joe and we had a date to get out on the Mississippi in a sea kayak the following morning.  I have, so far, been on this river in vessels ranging from the huge towboat to a canoe, but meeting it at its own level in a kayak is another experience entirely.  It’s a BIG river and if you want to really feel that, this is the way.

Joe is dedicated to teaching people how to safely recreate on the Mississippi River. “It has a reputation for being dangerous”, he said, “but if you respect it and learn the proper skills it is safe and fun.”  I did feel safe in the 22’ double sea kayak with Joe in the stern, but it would be downright terrifying to try it alone without sufficient training and experience.

When we paddled out of the harbor into the immense open river and I looked across to the opposite shore, roughly ¾ mile away, I thought about our little raindrop and all the changes through which we have followed it. It defies description, but inspires awe – this great river through the heart of our continent. Again, I am filled with gratitude for this opportunity to follow it.

We moved easily through the water, whether going with the current or against it. When a barge appeared, churning up its huge wake, my heart clutched a little, but the effect was really minimal and the sea kayak sliced right through it. It was a serene experience being face to face with the river, at its level, in its midst, feeling its unspeakable power.

Joe has done this many, many times. He kayaks the Mississippi for exercise and fun about 300 days per year. His business, Outdoors, Inc., offers equipment, clothing and instruction for paddling, biking, climbing and other “human-powered” sports.  For 30 years, he has organized a canoe and kayak race on the Mississippi, bringing participants from all over the world. The race is designed to accommodate world-class paddlers as well as providing enough safety and support boats to encourage the less experienced to give it a try. Joe knows what he is doing and he loves this river – he was the absolute perfect person with whom to do this!!  Thank You!!

Unbeknownst to me, Joe had his own camera in back and snapped this picture to share with you.

Deeper and deeper into the South…next stop is Clarksdale, Mississippi!  See ya’ll there!         Gayle

A Sweet River Rat and The Little Tug That Could

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Sorry for the long quiet spell. Following this little raindrop has been a bit like hanging onto a tiger by the tail. Experiences have been coming at me so fast, it has been impossible to find time to be at the computer. So many interesting, creative, beautiful people have been willing to share their homes, their time, their stories and their hearts with me that the time just evaporates.

For example, there was Tommy Groves in Osceola, Arkansas.  A self-described “river rat”, Tommy grew up in a little shotgun house on 6’ stilts, in the floodplain on the river side of the levee.  Every year when the water rose, his Daddy would take Tommy and his sister in a boat to the levee to meet the school bus and fetch them again in the afternoon. Only twice did the water actually get into the little house. I asked him why the family was willing to stay there and deal with the mud and the floods. “The Mississippi was our home and our way of life,” he said with a gentle smile. “We actually looked forward to the water rising. We were poor and when the water came up that meant the rabbits would be easy to get. There were lots of times we would have gone hungry if it weren’t for the rabbits.” 

He felt it was a blessing to grow up there, close to nature, to family and to the river he loves. They were a musically talented family and on Sunday afternoons they would gather in the front yard to sing and play for the neighbors who came to listen. “It was the only entertainment we had,” he said.  He still plays every Saturday night, but now it is in a theater he owns downtown.

Tommy’s Daddy didn’t trust banks. After losing $100 when a bank failed during the depression, he refused to take another chance. So, when he planted his land in soybeans at just the right time for several years and made a big profit, he stashed 300 thousand dollars in fruit jars. Eventually Tommy convinced him to put it in CDs and since that was also timed just right, the family prospered.

Tommy became a realtor and now owns 50 rental houses in Osceola. He’s also an electrician, a plumber and a carpenter and he was a policeman for a time. Plus, he’s a darned good fisherman! He fishes the Mississippi almost every day and has landed a number of 80+ pound catfish. He’s careful with those big ones and usually puts them back because, “They feel like my brothers and sisters.” Only once did he keep one that size, to give to a hungry family with 10 kids.

Tommy is a soft-spoken gentleman whose eyes show the joy he finds in life. When I asked if he had traveled much, he said, “Only for our senior class trip and to take the family to Branson.” He’s thankful for the life he has been blessed with and just couldn’t see anyplace else he would rather be than right here beside this big river. Thank you, Tommy, for your time and your open-heartedness!

Osceola is also the site of Arkansas’ busiest river port, where products like grain and rice are loaded onto barges for shipment downriver. When Eric Golde, of the Osceola Chamber of Commerce asked if I’d like to ride one of the tugboats working the port, I didn’t hesitate. These tugs are somewhat like a smaller sibling of The Phyllis, which I rode for 24 hours back upriver.  The tug we rode, “The Tommy Ross”, has a 1,200 hp engine (compared to 6,000 hp of the towboat).  It’s made to maneuver the barges around in the port and shuttle them to and from the larger tows. It’s another piece of the massive industry that is all but invisible to most of us, shipping millions of tons of products on the river.  After making our way down a steep, muddy incline of loose rocks, we signed in and were welcomed aboard. Deckhand Eddy Smith gave us earplugs for protection, then showed us the engine room. Up several flights of stairs, Captain Tommy Pinion welcomed us to his domain and then chatted casually as he expertly guided the tug into position, putting its squared-off bow flat against the end of a barge.  The two deckhands attached it, and then walked along the narrow ledge of the barge to the front.  It’s dangerous work that requires strength, balance and agility. As I watched them move with relaxed precision, they reminded me of mountain goats.  It happened to be a beautiful, blue sky morning for my ride, but the tugs run 24 hours a day in all seasons and all weather. I can’t imagine walking on those slippery metal surfaces in cold rain or freezing temperatures with the icy river below. 

 It all happened very smoothly and within an hour or so, the empty barge was tied into position near the grain elevator and the heavy metal hatch doors were banged open, ready to be filled with rice. 

The loaded barge was brought back into the “slack water harbor” and attached to the others awaiting their ride to New Orleans. 

Several Captains have told me it is tricky business driving a boat with a squared-off front and this much power without a barge in front. You must move slowly and carefully or the boat will “want to do a nosedive”.  It was easy to see that dynamic as we chugged out to the barges.

It’s fascinating to see how this section of the barge-moving industry fits into the larger picture and with luck, I might see what becomes of these products once they reach the mouth of the Mississippi as well.

This drought-parched land finally received a good, soaking rain in the night. You could almost hear the earth slurping it up! I’m sure the farmers are doing a happy dance!

Around this next bend is Memphis…are you ready??  Meet ya there!

Frog Legs and Eggs??

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The Mississippi River has nurtured and supported a diversity of cultures and lifestyles that is astounding. I am just over 50 miles from the sweet, Southern social life of Charleston, MO and only 88 miles from the sturdy, tidy homes of the German-settled Cape Girardeau.  But, it feels much farther. I’ve crossed back to the eastern side of the Mississippi to the Reelfoot Lake area of northwestern Tennessee and it’s a culture unlike anything I’ve yet experienced on this amazing journey.  The accent has shifted to a much stronger twang that requires me to listen closely and sometimes ask to have things repeated or even spelled. I tried three cafes before I found one that wasn’t smoke filled, and each time I walked in heads turned, conversations stopped and it seemed to be a room full of “you ain’t from here” stares. There was an all-you-can-eat buffet of almost solid brown – nearly every item there was deep fried something or other.

I saved the menu from the restaurant I visited for breakfast, because it was printed on newsprint and because I have never seen one like it. The choices included: Frog Legs and Eggs, Bologna and Eggs, Quail and Eggs, Pork Chop, Rib Eye or Tenderloin and Eggs and Country Ham.  No matter what you order, it comes with a bowl of white gravy. Since my order was a veggie omelet (not on the menu, but they fixed it) and wheat toast, it wasn’t clear to me what one would do with the gravy. While pumping my gas, a loud speaker informed me I should march right in and tell the clerk I wanted to try this particular brand of snuff because I could use it even in places where smoking is banned! I’m honestly not poking fun, just sharing my experiences. It’s a very different culture. I’m thankful for the nature of this journey, because as I said in the previous post, it requires me to look deeper than my surface impressions.

Before the New Madrid earthquake of 1811-12, this area was a vast Cypress swamp with low ridges of hardwood forest. When the land heaved upward and sank down again, it left a depression to be filled with rainwater, creating Reelfoot Lake. The shallow 18,000 acre lake is still rimmed with grand old Cypress trees, some more than 500 years old, poking their sculpted, knobby “knees” above the surface. Although fish, birds and wildlife are far less abundant than a generation ago, it is still a hunter’s and fisherman’s Mecca. I had been warned to watch where I put my feet, because it’s “real snaky” territory and that if I went out on the water I would certainly see Cottonmouth. In fact, at the Visitor’s Center, I picked up a list of 30 species of snakes that are found in the area. It’s also a popular layover for migrating birds and has its own population of Bald Eagles.

Ruben and Tina Rodriquez had invited me to stay at the Reelfoot Lake Inn, just across the road from Reelfoot State Park, and welcomed me warmly. Due to the drought this region has experienced, the lake is at the lowest level anyone has seen in 25 years and is dotted with the exposed tops of trees that were submerged after the earthquake. Ruben told me he was amazed to see how thickly forested the land had once been.

In the early 1900s, the wild and lawless Reelfoot region was taken over by “the Night Riders” a vigilante group who dealt their own justice to anyone infringing on their fishing territory. The Night Riders are gone, but it didn’t take long for it to be made clear to me that there is still strife and strong disagreement over land and water management. The issues are far too complex for a passer-by to thoroughly grasp, but I had been given the name of a man who has been “in the thick of it” for many years, and I was curious to meet with him.  Jim Johnson grew up beside Reelfoot Lake, as did his father and his grandfather. It was their home and their sustenance; they fished, hunted, trapped, gathered and guided. The land and water seemed endlessly abundant. Jim became a biologist and worked for many years with the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency and eventually moved to Washington DC to work with the National Wildlife Federation.  In time, life brought him full circle, back to Reelfoot Lake; but, it was not the healthy, abundant lake he knew as a boy. He felt it was his responsibility to figure out what was happening to his home.

I asked Jim for the “kindergarten version” and he gave it beautifully. Basically it is the same answer we hear for every environmental problem on earth. Nature was perfect and we messed with it. The river used to come and go from Reelfoot Lake, bringing it fresh oxygen and periodically allowing it to get low enough that organic matter on the bottom would be recycled into the natural system. A levee now separates the lake from its nurturing “parent” and that natural give and take is hindered. 

Jim has worked tirelessly for 30 years proposing solutions that mimic nature and working to convince locals and authorities to implement them.  There have been some successes, but its tough going. I admire his perseverance and dedication. “It’s hard to get people to listen”, he said, “and hard to get them to look at the big picture. Greed often gets in the way.”

The problems are complex, created over many years – and the solutions cost money. I can’t say I understand it all, but I do know people. Jim Johnson is a good man who cares deeply about the natural world. Reelfoot Lake is blessed to have someone who has both the scientific knowledge and the natural wisdom that comes from his long and deep connection with this land. I hope they will listen.

Jim wrote a book, “Rivers Under Siege” published by the University of Tennessee Press, about the result of human intervention on the wetlands of West Tennessee. He gave me a copy as I left and later, when I read this inscription inside, I was deeply moved; “To Gayle Harper, who knows the heart of the Mississippi”.  People like Jim Johnson and so many others I have met are the heart of the Mississippi. It is only because they are willing to share themselves with me that I am able to learn anything at all about this great river of ours and the way it flows through all of our hearts. Thank you.

High Cotton and Earthquakes – Or Not

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The Mississippi Delta, which began around Sikeston and continues all the way to the Gulf, is cotton country and ‘tis the season for pickin’ it. It’s everywhere, smooshed into big round bales and waiting in the fields, wrapped in pastel wrappers like giant nougat candy bars.

It’s traveling down the roads in semi trucks, waiting in line at the cotton gin and blowing in white, frothy waves across the highway.

Although most of the fields have now been harvested, I found one still covered with little clouds of white.

Gins like those in New Madrid and Holland, MO, are working 14 or more hours per day to get it processed and shipped to market as quickly as possible.

Mr. Sonny Berry, owner of the L. Berry Cotton Gin at Holland, is a happy man this year. The price of cotton is at an all-time high. The cotton industry suffered when synthetic fabrics were preferred, but that tide has turned, and Delta cotton is the first choice for fine “white goods”.  Like many people I’ve spoken with recently, his family has been working this land for many generations.  “It’s basically the same process as when Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin”, he said, “just faster and easier.” The cotton is separated from the seed and hull, all of which is used for other purposes, then cleaned and compressed into smaller bales. It’s all mechanized and, like farming in general, requires much more equipment and much less manpower than in the past.

If you drive through small communities, it’s clear most people there are not doing so well. The labor force that was once vital to agriculture is no longer needed and the new ways have not brought enough new jobs. There is much poverty and some people have told me they are sure that their town is dying – it’s just a matter of time.

Tourism is a hopeful possibility for some. These river towns are loaded with historic structures and stories and every community has something unique to share. In many cases, it seems it’s just a matter of finding the resources to get the word out. Traveling this Great River Road is nothing like visiting a theme park or Las Vegas. The charms of a community can be subtle at times and require you to slow down and look a little deeper. It’s well worth doing, in my opinion.  Looking beyond the surface of the places and people you encounter can shine a big light on some things hidden deep within you as well.

New Madrid, Missouri, is best known for being the epicenter of one of the strongest earthquakes in history.  Because the area was sparsely populated in 1811 and 1812 when the series of quakes occurred, death tolls were small, but it was felt as far away as Boston and New York City. The ground buckled in great waves, causing the Mississippi River to run backwards for a time, and changing its course drastically. The New Madrid Historical Museum, housed in the former “First and Last Chance Saloon” on the riverfront, can help you comprehend the magnitude of this event. People living around New Madrid are reminded frequently that another quake could happen at any time; tremors are felt regularly and accepted as a fact of life. I found myself wishing for a SMALL tremor to occur, just so I could feel it and tell you about it, but nothing wiggled. My guess is, though, that if New Madrid could find the funds to add an earthquake simulator to their museum, people would come in droves!  

Then there’s the story of the earthquake that didn’t happen. In 1990, Iben Browning, a Texan with degrees in Philosophy, Zoology, Genetics and Bacteriology (but apparently nothing related to Earth Science or Seismology) declared there was a 50/50 chance (seems to me that’s about the same as it would be every other day, but no matter…) of a major earthquake in New Madrid occurring on December 2 or 3. Although most of the scientific community dismissed the prediction, Browning had a past record of several accurate predictions and people started saying, “What if…”   Word spread and things got pretty crazy. This town of 3200 was suddenly trying to accommodate a media circus with nearly 50 network satellite trucks and hundreds of reporters.  There are differing versions of how seriously the townspeople took the whole thing, as I’m sure there were different reactions at the time. The schools closed for two days because no one wanted the responsibility of “having been warned and not listening”.  The National Guard set up a mobile hospital, but said it was for practice and had nothing to do with the prediction. Some residents slept in tents outside (remember it was December!) to be away from structures, while others sold food and supplies to the visitors. Virginia Carlson was the Director of the New Madrid Historical Museum in 1990, as she is today. She chuckled as she waved her hand at the newer section of the Museum and told me, “This was all built with money we made from selling t-shirts and souvenirs at that time.” Nothing happened, of course, and things went back to normal, leaving folks in New Madrid counting their windfall.  It’s a crazy story – and one that would make a great exhibit in the Museum (I found just a little about it there).There are plenty of news clips and photos available – go for it, New Madrid!

I’m hopping across the river next to Reelfoot Lake, Tennessee, where the real earthquake in 1811-12 recreated and reshaped the lake and the land around it.  See you there!      Gayle 

Day 60

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Day 60 – two-thirds of this journey is completed! Someone asked me recently what I have learned. Yikes! There are several hundred answers I could give to that question.

On a practical level….here are some guidelines from riverroadwoman for living as a nomad.

  • Leave most of it at home! You probably need less than 1/3 of that stack of clothes. I end up wearing the same four outfits anyway. You seldom see the same people two days in a row, so no one knows what you wore yesterday! 
  • Put it back in the same place every time. Resist that “I’m in a hurry – just stick it here for now” moment – it brings frustration later.
  • Always do your “idiot check”. When you are sure you have everything packed, look once more – everywhere.  Eventually you will be glad you did.
  • (Here’s a biggie!) Turn in those hotel key cards. Save yourself from this embarrassing scenario – I went to the car for something and when I returned found that the key card wouldn’t work. I took it to the front desk and said, “This seems to have quit working”. The clerk looked at it (didn’t laugh) and handed it back with a polite, “M’am, this isn’t our hotel.”
  • Carry your own night light. When you wake up in the night, you don’t know what state you are in, much less where the bathroom is and what obstacles lay in the path.
  • Keep the little envelope with the room number. There comes a point at the end of a long day when 121 morphs into 112 in your memory.
  • Keep a box stocked with microwave soups, vacuum packed tuna, peanut butter, crackers, granola bars and fruit, napkins and plastic silverware.  Most hotels have microwaves in the room or you can always use the one in the breakfast room. It saves time and money.
  • Hang a couple of removable hooks from the window behind you for jackets. The ones for Christmas decorations have held 3 or 4 jackets without budging.
  • Two purchases from Magellan’s Travel Store that I love –  
  •  A small fold-up travel alarm with a light sensor that comes on when needed. All hotel alarms are different and it’s hard to be sure it is set right and even harder to find the right button to turn the thing off in the morning. The phone ringing with a wake-up call is a cruel and heart-stopping way to wake up!
  •  There are never enough outlets. Magellan’s has a very compact power strip that slips in the computer case.
  • Always leave a little something for the housekeepers – and put it out the night before in case you are rushed in the morning. They work very hard and are always willing to help in any way.
  • Do dawdle on the backroads – it’s the way to experience a slice of life wherever you are. But, pull over frequently. Dawdlers are a big pain in the rear to commuters.
  • Be curious and interested. Be a good listener. Be accepting of whatever is offered, but demand nothing.  
  • Leave your expectations of “how it should be” at home. Instead, be open to what is, without judging it or comparing it to anything else. Let go of the reins. Serendipity would love to be your guide – and she is far better at it than you are!

I’m not much for routines, but consistency helps when living on the road. I keep my glasses on a cord when I am shooting, so I can just drop them to my chest and look through the viewfinder. That is such a habit now that if I don’t have the cord on, I chuck the glasses to the ground. It’s happened more times than I care to say. In this morning’s pre-dawn murkiness, I suddenly realized my glasses must be somewhere on the ground in the 100 yards between me and my car. When I finally found them an hour later, I had apparently stepped on them because one earpiece was about 3” higher than the other. They are resilient, though, and now seem none the worse for the experience.  

It’s not actually harder living and working on the road – just different. For these 90 days, home is wherever I am at the moment. More than a place, it’s a way of being right here, right now, by myself or with someone. It’s being open and receptive to whatever is happening. Living without placing a demand upon the moment allows the constant, quiet Joy that is our true nature to be fully experienced now  – and again now.

Thanks for traveling with me these past 60 days. I hope you are ready to see what these next 30 days have in store! It has meant a great deal to me to know that you are here with me. I love hearing your comments and treasure your feedback and support. It is a shared experience that is much richer for the sharing. It’s an incredible blessing to be able to do this journey of discovery and it could never be accomplished without all the beautiful people who are participating. Thank you.

Love, Gayle

Dust, Southern Charm and Something Ancient

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I’ve visited this area of southeast Missouri known as “The Bootheel” before and made some friends I was happy to see again. Claudia and Randy Arington invited me to stay with them in the country outside of Charleston, MO. When they told me the hill south of Cape Girardeau was the last hill on this side of the river, they weren’t kidding. The land now is flat and low as far as the eye can see.  Before the Little River Drainage Project began in 1907, this was a vast swampland, thickly forested with Tupelo and Cypress trees (like these I shot across the river at Horseshoe Lake) and populated mostly by snakes, frogs, ducks, herons, egrets and a rich assortment of other wildlife. By 1927, the forests were cleared and the swamps almost completely gone, drained by nearly 1,000 miles of ditches and over 300 miles of levees.  What remains is some of the richest farmland in the country. Mile after mile of cultivated and irrigated land now produces soybeans, wheat and corn.

Farming is still a risky business, dependent on factors beyond human control. Remember all that rain I was in up north? Most farmers here say they haven’t seen a good rain since June. A few weeks ago the Mississippi was swollen with that northern rain making its way to the Gulf, but the land alongside is parched. I expected to see vibrant fall colors, but have found crackly, brown leaves instead. Its harvest time and that means long hours in combines in the dusty fields, sometimes well after dark. Often it’s hard to even see the tractor and equipment through the huge cloud of dust it raises. By afternoon, the air is hazy with it. It’s hard to imagine this as a vast swamp less than a century ago.

Missouri’s neighbor across the river now is Kentucky and there are no bridges between the two states. If you want to drive across, the only way is the Dorena-Hickman ferry, which is far more fun anyway!  Claudia and Randy had arranged for Tammi Hutcheson of the Mississippi County Port Authority to meet us at the ferry for its first run of the morning. The river was still misty as we drove aboard and the morning light soft and low.

Captain Ed Floyd invited us to visit him up top and share his lofty view.  The barge, which can hold a dozen cars, is attached to the tugboat by an arm that pivots.  When it reaches the opposite shore, the Captain swings the boat around to face the opposite direction while the deckhand directs traffic off and on again. 

It’s an efficient and valuable service for locals and for travelers, an inexpensive way to get out on the Mississippi.  The confluence with the Ohio River just north of here more than doubled the amount of water the Mississippi River is carrying and crossing it in this way allows an up-close experience of that immensity.  

Charleston is charming at any time, but it’s downright magical in spring. My previous visit here was for the Dogwood-Azalea Festival which takes place every April when the town is a fairyland of white and pink blooms.  In the evening when the sidewalks are filled with people strolling and lined with paper-bag luminaries, it’s like being painted into a Norman Rockwell scene. Click here if you’d like to see some of my shots of Charleston in bloom.

Charleston clearly identifies itself as a Southern town. People are addressed as Miss Claudia and Miss Molly. Most single-syllable words now have three and the standard refreshment is sweet tea (pronounced as one word).  The social calendar also has a Southern touch, including the meeting of the Southeast District of the Federated Garden Clubs of Missouri, which the Charleston ladies in decorated straw hats, hosted. 

There was a flower show and competition and a spoof of Wizard of Oz for entertainment.

The audience swayed with the wind when instructed, laughed heartily and gave a standing ovation at the end.

For the sunset, I met my other friend in the area, Silvey Barker, who took me to a very special place. The Towosahgy State Historic Site is a little-known prehistoric Indian Village near East Prairie, MO.  Between A.D. 1000 and 1400, several thousand people of the mound building Mississippian Culture lived here. What remains today are a large Temple Mound and several smaller mounds. There is really no vantage point to photograph it effectively, but in a way that only adds to its mystique. 

Chris Crabtree, the DNR guide at the site, gave us a tour and told us what is known about the people who lived here. As the sun started to set and the almost-full moon rose, Chris left but Silvey and I were allowed to stay as long as we liked. Silvey has been here many times; she and her husband farm the adjacent land. She said, “I’m going to walk back to the car. I think you should have some time here alone.”

I sat on the broad, flat top of the Temple Mound and watched the gathering dusk, then closed my eyes and meditated. There was a very deep Stillness and a sensation of being anchored to the earth. I cannot say whether the clinking sound I heard was someone on a distant farm, a bird or insect I am unfamiliar with or the ankle bells of some ancient dancers. I cannot offer any explanation for the wall of cold air I walked into and out of again as I left. I can only say I am thankful that this ancient site is now protected and preserved, to honor those who lived here and to allow the rest of us to experience it, each in our own way.

Peace,     Gayle

Slipping Into The South

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I rolled into Cape Girardeau, MO, just in time for a Nemo birthday party! 

The Neumeyer’s had invited me to stay at their B&B and their granddaughter, Erica, was celebrating her second birthday. She managed the candle blowing just fine and then, already knowing that the camera loves her, turned to give me this look of wide-open innocence.

Tom Neumeyer is a photographer himself, and he kindly told me of the best spot to get an evening shot of the graceful Bill Emerson Bridge. I took a sandwich to the river and watched the evening magic happen. 

Cape Girardeau has handled the need for a floodwall at the riverfront by making it a place of art and education.  The “Mississippi River Tales Mural” is a series of 24 paintings on the wall that tell the story of living beside this great river from pre-history to the present.  

Take the time to read the interpretive signs if you come; it’s a great way to understand a little more deeply how important this river is and always has been.

For the sunrise, I headed north to the Trail of Tears State Park.  I had been here once before and knew there might be a sunrise view from an overlook high above the river.  It didn’t disappoint.

It’s a beautiful park established to commemorate the almost unimaginable suffering endured by many thousands of Native Americans forced from their homelands in the 1830s. Although it’s a difficult story to read, I had hoped to learn more about this dark part of our history at the Visitors’ Center, but found that budget cuts had reduced the hours of operation drastically.  

I left Cape Girardeau yesterday morning and although my next stop was in Missouri, I decided to travel down the Illinois side. Have you ever noticed how long the state of Illinois is? The last 570 miles of the Mississippi River have created the western border of Illinois. Its neighbor to the north was Wisconsin and to the south is Kentucky. There are many changes in geography, climate, agriculture, accents, foods, and lifestyle – all within the state of Illinois.  The changes, however, seem to come even more quickly as we leave Illinois behind.

The last town on the southernmost tip of Illinois is Cairo (pronounced CARE-OH, like the syrup). I had passed near Cairo a number of times, but never actually been down Main Street. I can’t imagine driving through for the first time and not wanting to ask someone, “What happened here?” It honestly looks like a war zone. Most of the buildings are boarded up, falling down, burned out. It obviously was prosperous at one time, but it now looks like a movie set for a disaster film. It might have made for some interesting shots, but it didn’t feel like a good idea. The whole place has an energy of hardness and anger. Obviously, that is a surface impression and there must be other, more light-hearted places in Cairo, but that is not the experience of driving through. I made a mental note to ask someone.  

People who grew up in this area known as “The Bootheel” of Missouri, remember Cairo as a thriving city with beautiful homes, great restaurants and well-stocked department stores. It’s demise is a complex story of drama, corruption, racial tensions and fear ending in social and economic ruin. It’s actually a story that begs to be told, but not in a few sentences by someone who knows very little. It is, however, a very sobering experience to see how quickly and thoroughly such destruction can occur.

It seems as if there is an invisible portal somewhere in this area that you slip through without noticing and suddenly find that you have left the Midwest behind and are now in the South. Locals tell me that once you come down off the hill south of Cape Girardeau, which is actually part of a 150-mile long formation known as Crowley’s Ridge, you are in the Mississippi Delta. Everything seems to change right here. The Ohio River meets the Mississippi here, marking the division between the Upper and Lower Mississippi River and more than doubling the amount of water flowing downstream. At Horseshoe Lake, just north of Cairo, I found Bald Cypress trees and at Sikeston, MO, I spotted the first cotton fields of the journey. Speech patterns and accents are decidedly Southern. Gone are the ice cream shops, replaced by hickory smoked bar-b-que.  

Our little raindrop is moving fast now, leading me through all these changes and at the same time, still whispering that nothing really changes at all. The Mississippi is the Mississippi, whether it is a tiny stream through the northern woods of Minnesota or the massive movement of water it has become where I am now. It is all one river.  

Charleston is coming up next – a Missouri town that feels as completely Southern as its bigger sister in South Carolina!                        See you there!               Gayle