Deep South Day Seven

 

Here we are on our last day of this trip.  The time always flies so quickly!  Today we’ll be traveling only stopping for rest breaks and refueling.

Martha let us know whenever we passed points of interest.  The Esh Memorial was to our right this time.  And Martha claimed Fort Knox was hidden in an area of green trees and rolling hills on the left.  The largest stash of gold in the world.  I’ll take her word for it since there was nothing to indicate it was there.

Lunch at Arby’s, more rolling down the road, more jokes, music, laughing, and story-telling.  We left home not knowing many of our fellow travelers.  We come home knowing a little something about all of them.  In fact I discovered I’m related to more than a few.  Meeting several more of my cousins reconfirmed to me that I come from good stock.  And how blessed I am!

As we near journey’s end the mic is making its rounds again with everyone sharing whatever last words they want to. We sang a heartfelt rendition of God Be With You Til We Meet Again, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one wondering if we would all meet again, on another trip perhaps. Or maybe not.

And now for the next time. . .

Deep South Day Six

 

Today is going to be mostly a travel day, heading west and northward to Tennessee. This means lots of singing on the bus along with the mic being passed around for storytelling. This in turn leads to much laughter, some teasing, and some serious stuff.

We crossed the Mississippi for the last time and entered the state of the same name early in the day.  The weather was perfect when we stopped at the welcome center for a brief break.  These people I didn’t know when we started out a week ago are now friendly faces I look forward to seeing again. 

After a morning of driving we stopped close to Memphis, TN to visit the Mississippi Culture Museum.  We ate at the restaurant there, with catfish, black-eyed peas, and sweet potato pie all on the menu.  Then we had two hours to wander the grounds at will. 

A small 1900s town with general store, church, school, doctor’s office, newspaper printing press and more were there for our perusal.  I walked around at length, catching a glimpse of life from a century or two ago.  Several cabins had been moved in from other parts and it was fascinating to imagine how people lived such a relatively short time ago.  

Part of me felt like I could have fit into the pioneer lifestyle pretty well.  Neither Paul nor I are afraid of hard work and I could imagine the satisfaction of creating a place of our own through the labor of our hands, the sweat of our brows, and our own ingenuity.  I enjoy problem-solving and there’s very little Paul can’t create when he sets his talents to work, so I think we could have managed a fairly comfortable existence.  Of course I might have been gone in my forties had I lived a century ago.  That’s the age I was when I had a bad case of appendicitis.  Although the first successful appendectomy was done in 1735, if I lived far from a major metropolis, out on the frontier somewhere, and with the shady hygiene practices of the day, chances are I would not have survived it.

We left the museum around 2pm and were making good progress toward our hotel when suddenly traffic slowed to a crawl and we were in a traffic jam that did not look like it was going to end any time soon.  After quite some time at a virtual standstill we entertained ourselves watching a big rig beside us straddling the berm and the right lane to prevent all the cars that were trying to pass everyone and cut in farther up ahead. 

I finally Googled the situation and learned the hold-up was from I-55 being the scene of a multiple tractor trailer and car accident, five hours before.  The interstate was still closed up ahead and we were rerouted on much smaller roads, but at least we were moving again. Being in a slow-down on a bus full of people who enjoy telling jokes, singing songs, and telling stories, isn’t nearly as tedious as being in a car by yourself, or worse yet, in a car with your young children.  And it’s nice the bus has a bathroom too.

An hour or two later than our intended arrival we finally did reach our hotel in Jackson, Tennessee. Ervin and Esther are celebrating their fortieth anniversary today so Martha had drawn a colorful “card” on their section of window.  When we pulled up to the hotel and were scouting out the local fast food places within walking distance,  Martha informed us that the anniversary couple had provided our evening meal which was waiting for us at the hotel.  A stack of pizzas were already in the lobby along with delicious glazed cinnamon sticks and we were all relieved we didn’t have to go forage.

Paul and I were both hungry for ice-cream so I set out on foot to see if I could find anything close, thinking I would buy a couple of gallons to share.  Way off in the distance was a grocery store.  Across a four-lane highway with heavy traffic, too far away for me to lug that much ice-cream, I accepted it was a bad idea.  Especially since it was fast getting dark and I didn’t know what kind of neighborhood I was in.  So I bought a couple of Klondikes from the tiny hotel store and considered myself lucky.  Everyone that saw me chomping away followed suit and I’m sure they sold a record number in the next ten minutes.

Even though we were all really tired, it was our last night together and we wanted to make it last so we gathered to play our evening cards.  Paul and the harmonica players were planning to have another jam session too. The very assertive receptionist told us that we have to keep it quiet and it’s party over at 9:00 pm. That was in twenty minutes. Most hotels we had stayed at quiet time was an hour later.  We promised to be good, though, and we kept our word.  Problem is when you can’t trash talk, scream, laugh, yell, or groan at will the games aren’t nearly as much fun.  And the music was definitely out, thanks to the intimidating woman at the front desk. We were all yawning and fighting sleep anyway so things ended early and we all went to our rooms and to bed.

Deep South Day Five: Plantations

 

Laura Plantation

Today we visited two plantations and we were left with much food for thought. 

The Laura Plantation, located a short distance west of New Orleans and situated close to the banks of the Mississippi River had a typical plantation style house with wrap around porches, an above ground basement, and it was shaded by strategically planted live oaks.  The house was placed and built to take optimal advantage of any available breeze blowing up from the nearby river.  The day was pleasant but sultry; our guide told us the heat is usually oppressive and stifling much of the year.

The family that began this plantation kept their main residence in France, only using their Louisiana property when it was necessary to deal with their sugar cane business which kept the money flowing.  It was also a place to put family members who were out of favor in virtual exile.  The women of the family seemed to be the strong arms, the matriarch Nanette, Laura’s great-grandmother, was business savvy and ruthless, traits she passed on to daughter Elizabeth.  Elizabeth once sold a three-year-old child away from her slave mother, even though it was illegal to do so before the child was ten, and even though her own son tried to dissuade her.  He ended up buying both mother and child to ensure they remained together.

Laura’s grandmother, Elizabeth, was much like her mother, Nanette, before her and just as ruthless.  When Elizabeth’s brother Louis and his French bride, Fanny, had a daughter, Elizabeth’s dreams of inheriting the family business seemed less than likely.  When baby Eliza turned sixteen she developed a bad case of acne.  Louis and Fanny were outgoing people who were active in the social circles of the rich and famous of the day.  When their beautiful girl became not-so-beautiful they were determined to fix the problem.  They returned to France from the plantation to seek the latest treatments available.  The arsenic used to cure the poor teenager ended up killing her.  The belief of the day was that the sicker the treatment made you the better it was working.

Fanny was so devastated at the loss of her beloved girl that she shut herself away in her bedroom, back on the plantation, for the rest of her days. She said her vanity had killed her child and she must pay the price for this great sin.  As we stood in the small unassuming room with its canopied bed in the corner, it wasn’t hard to imagine that Fannie was still hovering in the air, wrapped in her grief and unable to rest in peace.

With the death of Eliza, Elizabeth’s ambitions were back in play.  Louisiana inheritance laws confuse me completely but one thing I did pick up on was that the order of birth was important, not the gender., Elizabeth had two children, a daughter Aimee and a son Emile.  It seemed the ruthlessness followed the female line.  Emile, known as a “sensitive” child (not a compliment back then), was sent to military school overseas at around 10-12 years old and was not permitted to return for 30 years. He eventually did come back to the plantation and was married to his second cousin, a homely woman who had a number of miscarriages, each a cause of celebration for the scheming Elizabeth and Aimee, who both wanted Aimee’s children to inherit.  Finally, though, Emile and Desiree gave birth to their miracle child, Laura, and her aunt and her grandmother’s hopes of inheriting the estate in its entirety were dashed. They actually referred to Laura as the little robber who came to take what they saw as theirs.  Like I said, I couldn’t quite follow our tour guide’s explanations (she talked faster than my brain could follow) on inheritance rules but the gist of it was that Laura would become the sole owner eventually, even after attempts by her grandmother to drive Emile’s share of the estate into bankruptcy.  Laura was the last family member to live at the plantation. She eventually moved with her husband to Missouri and the plantation was sold, with the stipulation that it must remain named Laura Plantation. Many changes occurred during her life; when she was born Abraham Lincoln was president.  When she died, it was JFK.

Cane Sugar Vats

The plantation house was painted in brilliant colors with contrasting trim, fitting into the lush vegetation like an exotic flower.  The inside was less dramatic, the rooms rather small and modest, although luxurious compared to the primitive slave shacks out back.  The kitchen is no longer there but had been a detached building when it still existed.  Due to the extreme heat and the huge fireplace used for cooking the risks of fire were too great to have it be a part of the main house.

Since this plantation’s purpose was to extract every penny possible from the sugar cane trade, it not only grew the cane but processed it.  This was the accepted modus operandi of those days; each plantation needed its own processing operation in order to be successful. Huge cast iron vats, large enough to bathe in, were placed over roaring fires to cook down the sugar cane, with slaves moving the boiling cane to progressively smaller vats until brown sugar resulted.  I cannot imagine the intense heat that these poor people labored in. 

Slave shack for two families of 7 each

The horrifying living conditions of the slaves, forced to give their lives to provide luxury and ease for others who were inferior in every way that matters, is difficult for me to even contemplate.  The life expectancy for female slaves was late twenties and for males, late thirties.  Men often died from kidney failure due to dehydration, working long hours in brutal heat with little to drink. 

Children were expected to work when they could walk, usually by 2 years old.  One of the responsibilities assigned to young children was to take food to the workers in the fields, sometimes 2-3 miles away.  They were forced to whistle as they walked to assure they were not eating any of the food in their wagon. What is even harder to understand than the cruelty perpetrated on these innocent children is that the male slave owners had often fathered them.  How is it possible to treat your own child like an animal?  Or worse than an animal? 

One rationale is that they were believed to be subhuman. Yet this theory embraces self-deception at its most blatant. Since the French and Spanish who initially settled Louisiana were Catholic, the only religion allowed at that time, all slaves had to be baptized and given Catholic burials.  Did they baptize their dogs, cows, and horses?  I think not. Why would they sleep and procreate with something not human? So, obviously they knew deep within their cold, dark souls that they were abusing their fellow men and women.  It is incomprehensible to me, and on a level of evil right up there with Hitler and Nero.  And in some countries, it continues even today.  So what am I doing about it?

We went next to Oak Alley Plantation and the house looked like it was straight out of Gone With The Wind. It was much more luxurious than the Laura Plantation.  Huge pillars and massive wrap-around verandahs, all brilliant white, sheltered the large front and back doors.  Inside, a foyer bigger than some rooms in my house, led to a sweeping staircase and the bedrooms on the second story.  Another set of steps, steeper and less imposing, led to a third floor, I’m guessing to rooms for the house slaves. Or possibly guest rooms. 

A large dining room was to the left of the entry way, an imposing table down the center and a fireplace taller than I am along one wall.  Suspended above the table was a large wooden apparatus, shaped somewhat like two back to back musical staffs with straight boards between them like the lines on sheet music.  About three or four feet high, it was suspended from the ceiling and attached to a rope that led to the corner of the room.  A slave child would pull the rope during mealtime to move the air over the table, helping to cool the diners, and prevent flies from roosting in the food.  The armoires, tables, sideboards and beds were all over-sized and would have been far too large for normal-size rooms.  With fourteen foot ceilings and wide-open spaces these rooms were more than sufficient to the task though and did not look crowded at all.

Oak Alley Plantation

The long lanes in front and behind the house were lined with massive live oaks.  Our guide told us they were about 250 years old.  Since their life expectancy is 500 years they are merely middle-aged.  Their trunks bowed to the ground and where they touched new root systems formed.  I could just picture my grandchildren’s excitement if they had trees like this to climb. 

Out back were a few remaining slave shacks and two small weather-beaten outhouses. The stark contrast in the lives lived by two different people groups in such close proximity, yet worlds apart in their daily experiences, could not have been greater.  The cards they were dealt had nothing to do with their worth, their skill level, nor their genetics, since many of the slaves were also blood relatives of the master of the house.  Rather it was oppression of those who were captured by those who had the money, manpower, and resources to enforce their will upon others.

These plantations are beautiful, yet permeating the very air around them is the oppressive history of malice, greed, cruelty, and suffering that was present every minute of every day during their years of occupation.  As King Solomon said “It’s better to live alone in the corner of an attic than with a quarrelsome wife in a lovely home.” Proverbs 21:9.  This was especially apropos to the Laura Plantation where the matriarchs of the family spread their avarice all around. 

The last of the legitimate heirs are long gone now.  Yet hundreds of people remain from their bloodlines.  A recent reunion organized at Laura Plantation for any persons descended from the family patriarchs and the children they begat with their slave girls yielded close to 200 attendees, from pale-skinned to darkest black, according to our guide. She described it as a very interesting few days, and her tone of voice suggested that old conflicts are still not completely healed.  Much of these privileged slave-owners lives were spent fighting amongst themselves, grasping for everything they could get with little thought about the welfare of others.  Utter misery spreading out from them like ripples in putrid swamp waters.

Like everything in life, not every situation was the same.  There are historical accounts of good people in the south, many of them, and of bad people in the north.  Many of them.  But on these two plantations at least, life was not peaceful for those in charge, nor pleasant for those who labored dawn to dusk.  One could almost feel the long-gone victims of injustice crying out, and the cruelty of their abusors hovering like an invisiable cloud over the beauty of our surroundings.  As our guide said at the end of our tour, “If I see either Nanette or Elizabeth lurking about, I’m out of here!”

Deep South Day Four

Today is a New Orleans day.  I’m trying really hard to learn how to say it. Nawleans is about the best I can do. There’s lots of French going on here.  That’s a language that sounds really cool but I fail to see any correlation between the alphabet and the way the words actually sound.

Our step-on tour guide joined us first thing.  She had many interesting things to share.  Reoccurring themes were the sea level, hurricanes, floods, levees, and the many ways we mortals attempt to fight back the relentless forces of nature, usually with mediocre results.  With the soft breeze, mild temperatures, and blue skies we are enjoying, it’s hard to believe such violence is a familiar part of life to the natives.  The 70% humidity today is nothing, we are told, to the oppressive heat of two weeks ago.

Our first stop was one of the many cemeteries dotting the city.  Majestic and ostentatious tombs lined walkways stretching out in every direction.  The one that creeped me out the most was actually one of the most beautiful.  It cost a million dollars and had matching stained glass windows, marble steps, walls infused with some sort of aromatic material to keep things perfumed, and the saddest story behind it I’ve heard in a long time.  It seems the occupant of this crypt had such a deep dislike for her children that she took all the necessary precautions to assure none of them could ever be interred with her.  So she lies there alone in her cold and silent mausoleum.  Well, actually, her body resides there.  Where she is I could not say and would rather not contemplate.  How terribly tragic to hate your children to such a degree!  Or maybe they hated her.  How deep the wounds must be to carry such rancor even beyond the grave.

Hundreds of Crypts

I asked Sandy, our guide, if the movie Double Jeopardy was filmed anywhere around here.  She told me it was indeed, at another cemetery across the city. That particular cemetery was closed to the public though because so many “fake” tour guides were taking people through for $5.00 per, so the city closed it down.  I’m not sure why this was so terrible; I mean, I don’t think the residents of the graveyard cared.

This place has many more dead people than living I think. There are cemeteries everywhere.  Sandy said that for the past several hundred years the custom, carried on to this day, is to bury people for one year and one day, at which point, due to the heat and humidity, they are completely decomposed.  Their bones are then removed and placed in above ground tombs, along with the bones of lots of other corpses.  For some reason they cannot be removed even one day earlier than the mandatory “year and a day.”  One recent change has been to place the bodies in body bags rather than coffins, in order to preserve the DNA should it be needed in the future.  Wouldn’t that be a job to talk about at parties to liven things up?! 

“So what do you do for a living?”

“Oh, I remove bones from the graves of the decomposed and put them in a crypt with other dead people.”

Since families actually purchase the land on which their tomb is built, it cannot just be given to someone else when the last of the family dies out.  So these tombs gradually deteriorate to ruins when there is no one left to care for them.

New Orleans Super Dome

The only subject that played a bigger role in today’s tour than the deceased was the ever present threat of hurricanes.  Even now there is a one brewing off the coast of Africa and it’s headed this way. We passed the New Orleans Super Dome which housed almost 20,000 displaced people during hurricane Katrina.  The fact that so much of this area is below sea level and protected only by levees has much to do with the Super Dome being known more for being a storm shelter than for the sports that are played there.  I may be exaggerating.  A little.

At several intersections in the city there were white bicycles, sometimes just one, sometimes whole piles, twisted and broken.  These are an indication of bike accidents resulting in death, which are frequent, according to Sandy. From the number of mangled “ghost bikes” along the way, I don’t think she is overstating the dangers.

Ghost Bikes

The French Quarter of New Orleans is the only remaining French Colonial and Spanish settlement in the USA. It has survived since 1718, through hurricanes, wars, epidemics, industrialization and commercialization.  Over 11,000 died in one yellow fever epidemic alone leading to desperate measures to try to get rid of what was believed to be “bad air.”  Cannons were shot in attempts to clear the atmosphere of the deadly disease.  The dead were buried in tombs far away to keep the corpses from continuing to kill. Since yellow fever is a virus spread by mosquitoes, neither of these measures had any effect whatsoever. As we look back and shake our heads at their ignorance it would be good to realize that a hundred years from now our current medical practices will likely seem barbaric.

The architecture is beautiful with colorful houses, some of them mansions, others, very small but just as beautiful.  Many are “shotgun” houses, so called because of their narrow footprint with two or more rooms laid out in a straight line. It’s amazing so many have survived the hurricanes, especially Katrina, the worst in anyone’s memory.

Many buildings are covered with graffiti, much of it quite beautiful.  Streetcars that have been out of commission since COVID reared its ugly head are finally up and running, some of them only in the last week or two.  The city appears to be bustling with activity, commerce back to normal, pedestrians walking their very large dogs, and buses touring everywhere.  I know this because at our last bathroom stop there were such long lines for the facilities some of us didn’t even bother joining the queue. Our bus unloading is enough to send shockwaves through the few lavatories some businesses provide.  Add another bus or two at the same time and it’s like waiting for a roller coaster at Disney World. I try to remember that I vowed during the height of COVID’s isolation never complain to about crowds again.

Double Shotgun House

I appreciated our tour guide’s honesty as she pointed out some of the new art throughout the city, calling it “stupid” in her humble opinion.  It seems she failed her PC class and I’m good with that.  There are plenty of amazing things to admire in this city so the “stupid” things can be called what they are and then ignored.  Those graffiti artists though, their work could be studied at length without seeing all the details.

Tent City, one of many

The homeless are an ongoing challenge.  Some areas of concrete underpasses have been fenced off to prevent the camps that spring up like weeds if left open.  I can’t help but wonder what brings fellow humans to such a state.  The obvious things like drugs, mental illness, and abject poverty certainly play a large role.  Yet there are those who simply choose the lifestyle.  This is what baffles me.  The thought of having no purpose, no mission in life, no goal other than getting through the next twenty-four hours; I simply cannot comprehend it.  It actually fills me with feelings of depression, anxiety, and panic.  I wonder how one can be truly helpful to those who feel like there is no place for them among the “normal” demographic.

Iva, our driver, dropped us off at a mall close to the banks of the Mississippi River in New Orleans.  After eating several of the famous beignets (rhymes with Bengay but tastes a whole lot better) liberally dusted in powdered sugar; they are like funnel cakes on steroids.  After a strong black coffee and two

Beignets

beignets, Paul and I did some shopping and found what we were looking for.

We met our group, as ordered by Martha, back outside at the prearranged time and obediently formed a line, walking the short distance to where the River Boat was docked. A street musician kept us entertained until boarding time.  On board we were seated in air-conditioned comfort and had a delicious lunch of all things Cajun. Gumbo with shrimp, crawfish, rice, and other tasty things, white rice with spicy sausage and rich sauce, black beans and rice, and bread pudding for dessert. 

The huge red paddle wheel chugging away is purported to weigh about 17 tons. We averaged about 12 mph and after meandering down the Mississippi for a spell we stopped at a war memorial commemorating a battle fought in 1815 between the British and a ragtag army thrown together in haste and made up of US regulars, Choctaw Indians, pirates and volunteers of “every race, language, religion, and social class from across Louisiana and the Southeastern United States.” (According to battlefields.org)  They defeated the British army, proving that a righteous cause, high motivation, and the will to achieve something worth the fight can win against trained soldiers.   

Chalmette Battlefield Memorial

Anyone on board who wished to do so could walk around the park grounds and up to the Chalmette Battlefield Memorial, a one-hundred foot high spire setting in sharp contrast to the massive oak trees and beautiful antebellum style house now there. Its massive white pillars lining double two-story verandas front and back were reminiscent of the southern charm of the Gone With The Wind era. The war memorial juts into the air a few hundred yards away, a stark reminder that this peaceful scene was once the site of bloody conflict in a time when our forefathers were risking everything to win their independence from British rule.  Only three of our group opted to do that walk and I’m glad I was one of them.  After our hearty meal it felt good to expend some energy.

Our next adventure was a trip down a typical Louisiana Bayou to look for alligators.  Armed with bags of marshmallows, an alligator delicacy, it seems, we clambered aboard what looked to be similar to a pontoon and we set off into the swamps with our tour guide.  He was a big boy with a low monotone voice and a heavy Creole accent that sounded like the toothless guys on Swamp People. He espoused at length on all things alligator. Water was “wahtah” and he never touched the letter “r” in anything he said.  The authenticity was delightful.  He welcomed questions and told us in detail how to hunt and kill these cold-blooded animals successfully. Someone asked if he had ever “wrestled an alligator?”  He responded, with no discernible change of expression, “Not on purpose.” 

We had barely started out when the first alligator arrived and circled our boat.  I was thankful I was on board and not wading about.  We threw marshmallows and they were quickly swallowed up.  Throughout our cruise we saw many more alligators swimming around us.  It was clear they knew what a boat load of tourists meant because they approached us willingly to snap up their sugary snacks.  Paul said they’ve already been trained to the welfare system of the eat-without-working ethic. They certainly didn’t fear us.  Our guide told us they can lie at the bottom of the murky water, completely submerged “for hours.” And they can live up to 90 years or more but that only about 5 or 6 out of a typical nest of 30 eggs will survive to adulthood.  The tagging/hunting system is rigidly enforced and tracked because not so long ago they had been hunted almost to extinction.

It was an idyllic evening with perfect temperatures and a sun sinking low on the horizon as we floated up the bayou through the thick vegetation covering the banks on both sides of the swamp. 

We drove out of the city as the dusk turned to night, the city lights beautiful in the darkness.  We stopped for a fast food supper when the opportunity presented itself. We picked a Five Guys with several others and ate at a picnic table outside.  A crescent moon with a single star suspended below hung in a clear and dark blue sky. Perfection.

Since it was after nine when we reached our hotel and we had been having one adventure after another all day, no one was up for cards.  Our beds were a welcome sight and we fell into them feeling quite satisfied. 

Deep South Day Three

 

First thing I need to do is make a correction.  In an earlier post I stated we had stopped in Columbia, SC.  This was not true.  It was Columbia, TN.  I knew it was Columbia SOMEWHERE.

I promised to let you know how the “kick back supper” went last night.  It went just fine.  It was quite nice to be able to stay at the hotel rather than venturing out again for the evening.  Supper was buffet style with a nice variety of options. And because we ate in, the card players were able to get to the serious business of competitive sports all the sooner.  The front desk informed us that “quiet time begins at 10:00 PM” and it was probably good we were so informed.  From the raucous revelry coming from the game-players in the corner I gauged the fun to be in full swing.  We asked the players this morning who won and I never did hear an answer.  I’m not sure they know.

A short ride down the road and we arrived at Bellingrath Gardens on the banks of Mobile Bay.  We toured the house built by Walter and Bessie Bellingrath who earned much of their fortune as the first Coca-cola bottlers in Mobile, AL.  Bessie spent her life collecting things that are now priceless.  A chess set once owned by a queen, I can’t remember which one, and an ornate Chinese table carved with mice, squirrels, berries, and leaves, all signifying something or other, were just two of the countless pieces filling the house.  Kept in near perfect condition, every room was filled with history.  A Tiffany lamp, purchased in the 1930s by Bessie for $50.00, was setting on a vanity table looking nice but nothing to suggest the six figures it is now worth, according to our tour guide.

More impressive than the “stuff” in the house were the views out every window.  The house had only four bedrooms, since the owners never had children, but it had five or six dining rooms.  One dining room had a mirrored wall opposite the large windows to ensure that guests had a beautiful view of the river below, no matter which side of the table they were seated.  An enclosed courtyard in the center of the exteriour stone walls provided a perfect place for repose.  Windows were situated to take optimal advantage of any breeze available in the humid southern climate.  I found it interesting that the house was built in such a way to underplay its size from the outside.  It looked more like a cottage than a 10,000 foot mansion holding unimaginable wealth and luxury. Mrs. Bellingrath paid very close attention to detail in every item in her house, from the smallest design on her many sets of china to the massive tables in her dining rooms. One exception was the cheap white pottery rabbit with the tacky easter ribbon around its neck.  I mentioned to our guide that it seemed out of place, surrounded as it was by priceless antiquities.  She told us that someone had sent a pair down from the north saying the bunnies did not like the cold weather.  One of them was broken by a falling tree in a storm.  The other was brought inside and is now dressed for each season, sitting as it was today, like a transplant from the wrong side of the tracks. I can identify with that rabbit more than anything else in the house, I think.

The Bellingraths began with a five-acre fish camp way back when and they gradually acquired more and more until now the estate includes more than a thousand acres. The place is rife with artesian wells and they have been put to good use with all the water features around the place.  Bessie loved to garden so she immediately began planting flowers and now the gardens are so extensive, I actually got lost in them for a bit.  Completely alone I wandered around the boardwalks that crisscross the swamps and marshes, listening to the honking of some unseen creature.  The air was alive with birdsong and insect sounds.  It was an otherworldly feeling to be completely cut off from everyone, and not sure how to get back to civilization.  Paul finally called me to see where I was.  I told him I don’t know.  I did finally find my way back, huffing and puffing in the humidity.  Along the way I encountered a tour guide who wished me well and told me it was nice the weather was cooler this week.  She was glad it was so nice pleasant for us who were visiting.  I made a noise or two of astonished disbelief and told her it was 30 degrees in Ohio last month.  Then she made her own noises of astonishment and I wished her well and left.

Back at the main entrance I joined our group in a cafeteria where our lunch had been prepared. With lots to choose from, no one went hungry.  In fact I saved half my club sandwich for later.

Shrimping in Biloxi, MS came next.  The weather has been perfect just like the tour guide told me.  Humidity is 70% which I guess is pretty good by the local standards, although it did give us northerners some cause to sweat.  We boarded a small tourist shrimp boat anchored in the Gulf of Mexico and our friendly captain gave us a nonstop rundown on all things shrimp.  Bubba Gump could not have done better.  I listened for a bit then took my place along the rail on the upper deck and just soaked in the sun, letting all of winter’s aches and pains get carried out to sea on the warm breeze that blew across the bow.  Okay, so as an Inlander I don’t even know what the bow is but it sounds good.

Our next stop was the Shark’s Head Gift Shop situated directly beside the beach a few miles up the road from the shrimp boats.  It was very large, very well-stocked, and very expensive.  All those hundreds of souvenir items the tourists seem drawn to.  Shark’s teeth, polished stones, shot glasses with Biloxi emblazoned on their sides.  Magnets of bikini bottoms, sea creatures, tops without bikinis, and every other nautical-flavored bit of “art” you can imagine. Key chains with the names of your grandchildren or a picture of your dog. There were also nice things, much pricier.  T-shirts, hats, footwear and the like.  Paul bought his customary hat/shirt combo to wear tomorrow. He prides himself on packing light, then buys things to wear along the way. Dave bought a matching outfit.  Irene and I are keeping fingers crossed they don’t show up looking like the Bobbsey Twins.

Across the parking lot was the beach so of course we had to go stick our feet in the water.  The Gulf of Mexico was warm as bath water and shallow, no more than waist deep for at least a hundred yards or more.  The sand was as fine as Florida sand and just as white.  We finally pulled ourselves away, shook the sand from our feet and boarded our waiting coach.

We pulled into our New Orleans hotel around 5:30.  Wanda, our hostess with the mostest, greeted us on the bus wearing the Amish dress that someone had made for her - per her request.  I will say that Wanda did not look the least bit Amish; in fact with her influence, neither did her dress.  She was most welcoming and had ordered up genuine Louisiana gumbo for our supper.  It was delicious.  After gaining another pound or two, I joined in when the cards came out at the corner table and the games started again in earnest.

Our musicians pulled out the guitar and harmonicas and the hotel lobby is filled with song and merriment as I write this.  I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.

 

 

 

Deep South Day Two

I woke up this morning feeling like I had actually slept.  Between the Nyquil hangover and the crazy dreams I still felt a little comatose but that will pass after a few cups of caffeine.  You know those dreams where you HAVE to be somewhere but can’t get there?  Yep.  I had to deliver someone to an airport somewhere and everything and everyone interfered with me actually going.  Then someone at work kept doing things they shouldn’t be doing and I couldn’t find them to chastise them appropriately.  So waking up was somewhat of a relief.

We boarded the bus at eight o’clock and left the parking lot around 8:15, after a brief devotional by our tour guide, Martha.  Since it is Sunday, Paul had his guitar out and the little hymnbooks that were handed around yesterday were put to good use.  Although Paul and I left the plain life style before we were married in 1976 we remain forever grateful for the Amish heritage that we both have. 

Like anything involving humans there are great Amish groups and deeply flawed Amish groups. Paul grew up in the latter kind and was deeply disenfranchised with the whole culture.  Until he moved to Ohio and met many Amish people living the way it is meant to be lived.  Even with the negatives in his childhood and teenage years, he gleaned good things that have never deserted him.  A strong work ethic is the cornerstone of all Amish communities and in this his birthplace in Canada was no different.  The dictatorial control of the settlement in Aylmer where he spent his first fifteen years was much more extreme than in the old-order Amish districts of Ohio.  We count more than a few among our dear friends.  With integrity and love of fun, they are hard workers, skilled entrepreneurs, unbeatable card-players, and primo cooks with a love for Jesus; these and much more are all hallmarks of the vitality-filled culture emerging today.  Those caught up in legalism and oppressive religious oppression are finding themselves left behind in their conflict-filled stagnation.  We both feel privileged to be part of a heritage we can be proud of.  As it happens, everyone on the bus shares this privilege.  Everyone aboard speaks Dutch which comes in mighty handy since it’s a normal thing to vacillate back and forth between the two.

After an hour or two of hearty hymn singing we stopped at the famous Buc-ees Truck Stop for a bathroom break and to refuel the bus.  Martha instructed us to resist the urge to eat there since we were going to have an early lunch at our next stop.  Paul, who can’t say no to a good brisket had to buy a sample to share with all the other rule breakers on the bus. I must add that the Buc-ees “world famous bathrooms” are the most impressive public restrooms in recent memory.  You can take my word for it or you can check them out for yourselves.

An hour later we were at the Ava Maria Grotto where Brother Joseph Zoettel, a German Catholic monk created miniatures of famous structures throughout the world.  Hundreds of monuments to his skill, from the Coliseum in Rome to the tomb of Jesus in Israel are scattered along a meandering walkway in the wooded landscape surrounding the old monastery.  We contemplated and admired the countless hours of work and the undeniable inspiration involved in creating the world scenes along our path.

 We ate a picnic lunch prepared by Martha, Leroy, and Mary, eating at picnic tables under huge pines and maples. The weather was perfection: not too hot and not too cold.  The food was tasty and plentiful.  The conversation was stimulating.  After lunch several of us walked up a tree-lined pathway to an old cemetery where a hundred or so identical stone crosses, each bearing the names of the person reposing underneath, bore silent testimony to our mortality.  An old, tiny church with unlocked doors waited silent at the path’s end and we ventured in, one or two of us, and breathed in the heavy smell of incense from the lit candles lining the back walls.  Old wooden pews ran up both sides leading to a plain wooden altar with the Virgin Mary holding a dying Jesus upon it. I could almost hear the mournful chanting of long-gone monks; the very dust breathing history and spiritual significance in the oppressive, scented air.

As I walked back to the picnic area I heard music.  Paul on guitar accompanying Sam and Ervin with their harmonicas; a more idyllic setting I couldn’t imagine.  Peace seemed to permeate the whole place.  I looked around at fellow travelers who had endured unimaginable hardships.  Great losses from house fires to handicapped children to the tragic deaths of loved ones. Some recent and some long ago, each leaving their permanent mark upon those whose lives were forever changed.  But here, in this moment, in this time, I felt peace and respite, even if for only a brief moment.  A short break from the reality of the blows life deals us.

Back on the bus naps and low volume conversations took over for the next hour then Martha woke up the sleepers and handed around the microphone with instructions to introduce ourselves.  Interesting and informative, hearing people share their stories.  After the self-introductions were completed Martha handed out a big bag of popcorn (a Sunday afternoon staple in all respectable Amish homes) and the joke-telling started.  Somehow, today’s focus was roosters.

One tale, all of it true, according to the story teller and at least two or three witnesses (which means, according to the Bible, its reliability cannot be questioned) there was a certain rooster that was taken to auction because of its unruly behavior.  Good humored family and friends kept buying the fowl criminal and returning him in the night to the good farm wife’s coop.  After taking him once again to a far distant auction only to find him safely back in the coop in the morning, the bird finally lost its head in an execution.  With much embellishment and details added, the resulting gales of laughter were followed by chicken stories most of which did not end well for the birds. 

And then the harmonicas came back out followed by the guitar and as I write this the bus is once again alive with music and enthusiastic singing up front while muted conversations and laughter are drifting up from the group of women gathered in the back. And there’s yodeling.  Really good yodeling.

We are at our hotel now and preparing for a “kick-back” supper.  Martha says it’s called that because we are supposed to just “kick back and eat at the hotel.”  I’ll let you know how it turns out.  Meanwhile, I feel the peace still seeping in and surrounding all of us on what turned out to be a pretty perfect Sunday.

 

Deep South Day One

Paul and I arrived at the Pioneer office at around 6:45AM this morning.  He was impressed with the weight of my suitcase and I was impressed with his early-bird award.  We had another hour and fifteen minutes until our scheduled departure but at least he had lots of time to lug my luggage tonnage to the bus.  The bus that was still parked inside the garage.

It was raining and chilly for the first several hours until, suddenly, we were in sunshine.  I’ve been so busy these past few weeks I haven’t even had time to anticipate this trip.  But I can feel myself unwinding with every mile south.

This winter has had its challenges.  Paul left for Florida in mid-February and I followed early in March.  But not before breaking and severely spraining my left foot.  Stepping crooked off an invisible step at top speed is not something I’d recommend.  I seem to have a propencity for this since it is the second time I’ve done.  Same foot with similar results. When I finally got to Florida I spent five weeks relaxing, putting puzzles together, playing cards with friends, and gaining weight.

Back home in mid-April it was time to hit the ground running (or in my case, lumbering along as fast as I could limp) trying to accomplish as much as possible in the month leading up to our annual Bus Trip.  A 50^th birthday party for a sister-in-law, a reunion with my nine remaining siblings, the unexpected death of a cousin who was my age, catching up at work, and a whole passel of other things added up to some hectic, fun, bittersweet, sad, memorable, and exhausting few weeks.

So now I’m on the bus and my mind is still racing with the things I feel like I’ve neglected or forgotten to do.

This year’s group is quite a bit different from other years.  For one thing, about half of my fellow travelers are people I don’t know.  Yet.  On previous bus trips I knew most of those riding along.  But, as is inevitable, life brings a lot of changes and things here are no exception.  Since our first trip together to the Canadian Rockies over a decade ago, the dynamic has shifted considerably.  We are missing several who have gone on a much grander journey without us.  Mose, Mary, Elsie, Crist, Cal, and Noah are undoubtedly seeing things right now that we can’t even imagine. Others are facing health challenges that make travel difficult.  Some have scheduling conflicts and family commitments.  So it feels different and I miss all of them but I look forward to making new friends this week.

Our 2021 trip was a post-COVID experience.  Much of the country was getting back to normal but many places were still closed down.  We kept our masks handy for when they were required, we were thankful for every place that let us breathe fresh air, and we washed our hands a lot.  Even so, by the time we got home a number of people were sick and had to face the joys of the plague in the days that followed, vaccination status not-withstanding.  But I guess that would be a subject for a whole other blog. Paul and I both had our bout of the virus in late 2020, each simultaneously experiencing about three weeks of misery so we felt confident we were immune and would not have another round and we were right.  Neither one of us got sick, Thank God.

So now we start out on another journey and who knows what all we will experience along the way?

We were traveling down I-65 when our tour guide, Martha pointed out the Esh Family Memorial beside the highway.  On a grassy knoll it stood, a silent sentinel, reminding us of the tragic accident that took place during Easter week of 2010.  Eleven people died instantly when a tractor trailer, out of control, went left of center and hit the Esh van head-on.  Nine members of the family, a friend traveling along, and the driver of the truck were taken out of this world in the blink of an eye.  It shocked the country, the sheer violence and the inescapability of the fragility of life in the face of such massive colliding forces.  Conversely, two small children survived with barely a scratch.

Today was mostly a travel day.  A quick stop for a fast food lunch and then a late afternoon drive through the majestic Opryland Hotel in Nashville, TN.  They boast 2,888 rooms, 220 suites, and 15 restaurants. Tonight there are only five vacancies.  At over $600.00 per night they are pulling in some nice change.  We discussed taking the five rooms and divvying them up between us but decided to stick with our reservation in Columbia, SC.

We reached today’s destination around 5:30 PM Tennessee time so it was an early evening and I, for one, was glad of it.  I’ve been going full steam ahead for too long and it will take me a few early nights to recover.  And my springtime allergies have sprung into full bloom so I look like I’m weeping half the time. After supper at the restaurant next door I plan to fall into the very inviting bed and pass out til morning.

The nearest eatery was just across the parking lot and Paul and I were both hungry so off we went.  More than a few of us ended up there, sitting with whoever still had room at their table.  We ate with Mel, a single gentleman from our area back home.  The waitress was efficient but we didn’t quite speak the same language.  Even though I am sure both of us were born and raised in this country. I asked what vegetables they have since I was allowed two with my meal.  She just looked at me.  I asked again.  Same look.  Third time. . .I picked up the menu and read through all the side dishes, zeroing in on the vegetables, picking the first on the list, no longer caring what it was but just wanting it to be resolved.  Why is it I always want to burst into hysteria at such times?  But I restrained not wanting my peals of laughter to cause “the look” again.  She was actually quite nice; I think she just didn’t understand what I wanted of her.  After all, “what vegetables do you have?” could mean so many things.

The food came quickly, it was hot and tasty, and the fried green tomatoes were a new experience for Paul and Mel.  The cornbread was not like any I’d ever had.  It was flat like a pancake and fried crispy.  Not my favorite but very edible.  All in all a good experience.

And now for that bed.