Shacking Up in the Delta

The last time I came to the Delta was at the end of January. Hubby dear is on sabbatical in St. Louis, and there are 3 Scandinavian men at the university doing math, and two of them have significant others. So, I led 4 of the 5 on a “Freaks of the South” tour, and let me tell you, Mississippi and New Orleans PERFORMED. Clarksdale, MS, was phenomenal. We stayed at a lovely little place called The Shack Up Inn , and the pictures you see don’t even begin to capture the allure. When we drove up to “check in,” the Vikings thought I was simply turning around in an abandoned dump. They were quite speechless, but then they fell in love. My kids thought it was the best hotel I had ever taken them to, except those with waffle makers. On my roof was a bicycle tire. On my front porch was a ratty old sofa more commonly found in a frat house. I had a beer bottle collection and a piano in my shack. The dog, Pete, ran around barking and peeing on everything, and I knew there was absolutely no way he could harm anything.

The Shack Up Inn is part of a larger property called Hopson Plantation. Hopson Plantation used to be one of the biggest farms in the North Delta, and it was the site of the first mechanized cotton picking in Mississippi. The large plantation commissary has been converted to a bar that is quite the hopping spot for local blues, but on the night we were there, we were the only guests. The inside is fantastic and worth a visit in itself for all its blues memorabilia.

Anyway, we were met by James, one of the actual owners of the SUI, and his loyal customer/friend, whose name was, naturally, Harlan. Harlan told us he was a greeter at Wal-Mart. My BS radar started dinging since he was awfully well-dressed for a Wal-Mart employee, but the Vikings began asking him what exactly that entailed, and he started telling them he had won all these awards for being the best greeter in the district and how Wal-Mart was great for him. Finally, he said, “I am really not a Wal-Mart greeter. I am actually in the chicken manure collection and distribution business.” As the beer dribbles out my nose, Elin sweetly asks, “What is manure?”

Then we get THE CARD:. Harlan’s business card reads:

USED CARS LAND WHISKEY MANURE NAILS
FLY SWATTERS RACING FORMS BONGOS
Harlan ******* (can’t be sure I can tell this)
WARS FOUGHT WOMEN SEDUCED REVOLUTIONS STARTED
TIGERS TAMED ASSASSINATIONS PLOTTED BARS EMPTIED
GOVERNMENTS RUN LAMPS LIT UPRISINGS QUELLED
ORGIES ORGANIZED GLASSWARE BROKEN QUEERS QUERIED

And that would seem to sum up the night, except I had left my children back at the “shack” watching a movie. It was not even 100 yards away, and I told them where I was going, and I would be back in EXACTLY 30 minutes. I left them the phone and the dog and a movie rolling on the DVD. Apparently, the big ones decided they needed me, but when Bunny came looking for me, she was unable to find me. So, being the reasonable ten-year-old she is, she called her father. I believe the conversation went something like this, “Hi, Papa. We are fine. Mama left us in the cabin while she went to the bar, and now we can’t find her.”

The next day continued the surreal Mississippi life. At breakfast, the owner of the restaurant came and popped open his barcolounger right behind us, opened his mouth really wide, and went to sleep. The woman at the cute gift shop offered to host a Barbeque for the Vikings if they could stay for just one more day since all her friends just loved new people.

When we finally left for Greenville to pick up my Mama, it was very late and almost nowhere except fast food was open. For anyone who has ever been to Mississippi, particularly the Delta, you quickly realize how little integration has happened, especially when it comes to eating establishments. You can either eat in a white restaurant or a black one, but there really isn’t much mixing at the table away from Burger King. I have been away from MS for many years now, and I had kind of forgotten this. So, when I saw the ex-gas station with the beautiful word “tamales” painted on its side, I didn’t think twice about going in. However, I am pretty sure we were the first white people in there perhaps ever, and, if not, the first batch with people that were non-English speakers. We were conversation stoppers, but the lovely woman in the kitchen made a dozen tamales really fast JUST FOR ME. In addition to what may have been the best tamales ever, our reconfigured gas staion came with Peach, Strawberry and Grape Nehi Soda, a pool table with authentic local characters wearing old-fashioned hats, blow-up malt liquor bottles, and a toilet with no seat. It was the closest I have been to a perfect meal in ages.

Mississippi can be such a beautiful place.