TENTH WEEK

My time in Clarksdale has come to an end but not before I got to experience my first Thanksgiving.

Taken to a friend’s family hunting cabin on the banks of a tranquil oxbow behind the mighty Mississippi, we feasted on deliciousness and drank happily in the crisp Autumn afternoon.  Deer nibbled placidly from the feeders scattered around, prancing gracefully out of sight when approached too closely.  The walls of the cabin were lined with the stuffed heads and polished skulls of those deer who did not prance away – one deer can feed the family for almost a year and they use it in everything.

NINTH WEEK

He sits outside the shoe store every day, this thickset man approaching his middle years.  To his back, the faded cursive letters proclaiming ‘shoes mended, soles repaired’ and on his face the last warmth of the sun before Winter turns the brightness cold and damp.  In the shop window is a mismatched pair of heels, poked haphazardly through a dusty old trellis – like you’d grow a rose bush on.  The shoes have not grown; the leather has faded pale blue but has been dusted so heavily with time that the upturned heels seem black with accumulated grit.  The man wears a tracksuit and is slow to smile.  It was his father’s shop before him and perhaps he was called back from happier climes to honour the wish of a dying patriarch.  Sometimes, he goes inside.  The little bell on the door chimes wearily as it closes behind him.  The sound of cobblers’ hammers industriously beating new life into worn and loved leather can be imagined, though no sound at all comes from the dim little room.

EIGHTH WEEK

It was the middle of a freezing cold night; rain was lashing down in great sheets.  The giant, un-illuminated golden arches of a McDonalds were being buffeted by the wind in the darkness, along with all the other giant signs on the highway.  All the little glowing road markers were blurred by the squelching windscreen wipers as my housemate drove me slowly but surely out to the hospital on the edge of town.  A couple of days earlier I’d strained my neck somehow and by now the entire right side of my head was an agonising wreck, and as I sat - unable to lie down - in my bed I began to wonder whether it wasn’t something worse (those of you who know me will find that amusing).  Hence this drive.

SEVENTH WEEK

My father has returned to Oz, his brief time here (this trip) neatly bookended by lunch at Abe’s Bar-Be-Que.  Out on the highway, faded signs scattered around the gravel parking lot warn those not eating at Abe’s that they will be towed.  Porcine statues mill about outside the entrance and an ancient non-illuminated neon proclaims the place has been here since 1924.  The delicious scent of slow-cooked pork hangs thick in the air and inside a buzzing crowd hungrily devour what has come to be called ‘the come-back sauce’.  And with good reason.  We sit at one of the little brown plastic booths, hemmed-in by more pork-based interior design than one can comprehend.  Our server is a large woman worked off her feet by the clamouring crowd, weaving her way between the closely-packed tables in a classic American server’s apron.  She’s been putting herself through night-school.  Her weary face breaks into a wonderful grin when she sees John – he’s been coming back here for years now – all the way from Downunder for this world famous barbeque.  And we have a feast.  And boy, that’s good.  But then my father and I part ways.

SIXTH WEEK

We went to Memphis – a city!  As the car purred into town my blood quickened to be surrounded by tall buildings and strangers again, pedestrians and neon – so much neon!  Art Deco towers soaring into the blue sky;  enormous, gracious Belle Epoch hotels whispering of glories past.  Countless windows burning bright long-after the sun had set.  I was back in my natural habitat.

FIFTH WEEK

My dad is visiting.  He has a car.  Suddenly the wide, flat dinner table of the Delta is ours to explore – I am temporarily an equal citizen of this Highway Kingdom.

FOURTH WEEK

The end of a long, hot day; bands have been playing in the streets and a few sun-reddened spectators linger in the dust.  I’m helping to dismantle the barriers, re-opening the road.  We lift the long beams and hurl them to the sidewalk where they clack loudly in the heavy  silence.  The security guard from the local library walks past, his starched para-military uniform exchanged for a well-worn chequered shirt, he smiles warmly and joins us in the work.  Soon we have all the roughly stencilled ‘City of Clarksdale’ planks stacked away, their chipped white paint tired under the bright blue afternoon sky.

THIRD WEEK

We were struck by a huge storm earlier this week, the clouds sat low and heavy in the sky – such monstrously dark things, almost purple, writhing in the muggy air, threatening.  Then, all at once they burst, a torrential downpouring of sweet, refreshing water.  The sky lit up with lightning and the streets were quickly submerged.  Obviously, I had to go for a walk.  The only looney bastard struggling down the gushing pavements, clutching his little umbrella tight against the angry wind, grinning maniacally at the novelty of it all.  

Clarksdale - Second Week

Walking home in the sticky heat of the end of another day, crossing the long bridge over the sluggish green waters of the Sunflower, the sun a fiery red glare in my eyes.  The pavements are all cracked and broken, like someone’s attacked them with a sledgehammer, grass and weeds grow up in all the countless cracks.  The lawns are all perfectly manicured and most blocks sport little ‘for rent or sale’ signs, the numbers to call all long since washed away by time and rain.  Big old trees line much of the street, providing sweet dappled relief from the sun.  Two young girls play on one of the lawns, spinning and laughing, their tightly braided hair shining.  They stop as I pass, point with eyes wide, ‘Momma, momma!  That’s a white man!  A white man!’ and from the porch behind them, a deep and tired voice says ‘Yea, but he also a man.’  And I laugh and continue walking.

Clarskdale - First Week

The plane trip was like any other trans-Pacific flight – long, boring and left me with a neck that felt like it had been put through a wringer and then driven over by a car.

The uniformed gruffness of the customs officials, all para-military machismo in their crisp blue uniforms, but smiling warmly when told by the gangly Aussie that he’s off to Graceland.

Beers at LAX – quaint, faux-bar bars with grid iron on countless flatscreens so that you can’t but watch the heavily armoured men dashing back and forth on the neatly measured green fields.  Talking to a few friendly American commuters, learning their life stories over just a few pints and having the minutae of NFL rules and strategy served up in a concise and enthusiastic manner.  The college team from New Orleans has golden helmets, what a sight!