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DOWN IN THE DELTA

OPEN SPACES AND SOUTHERN CHARM | March 27th 2008

David Sifry/Flickr

Anna Morrison takes an early morning drive through the Mississippi Delta on Highway 61, passing turn-offs for Sledge, Bourbon and Alligator on her way. The trip ends with a visit to Miss Molly's, a coffee shop where everybody knows your name ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

Driving down Route 61 into the Mississippi Delta I notice the expanse of cotton and soyabeans unfolding all around me. Thousands of years of flooding across this alluvial plain has flattened the land to an unbelievable degree. It's hard to describe just how powerful the effect is: low-lying fields seem to stretch for miles in every direction. Growing up in the Midwest, I am accustomed to this sort of openness. But I am still at a loss for words to describe the Delta's sweeping vistas.

A morning drive through the Delta is beautiful. The colours of both dawn and dusk are somehow amplified when spread across this wide-open sky. Alongside Route 61, Deer Creek winds its way south, romantically meandering through groves of cypress trees. The soyabeans are already glowing green this time of year, and a gorgeous mist gently blankets the landscape. On occasion, I catch the swooping arcs of a cropduster as it sweeps heart-stoppingly close to the power lines.

For all its loveliness, the Delta is entrenched in deep poverty. The region has little in the way of industry to offer its inhabitants now that agriculture is mechanised. Residents often struggle with unemployment and uncertain futures. The biggest employers are now the regional hospital and the local school districts. Alongside the road, the empty shells of crumbling cotton gins rise out of the mist. They are of no use these days, except to the occasional scavenger of scrap metal.

The gins aren't the only signs of decay. The whole region seems to be frozen in time--wind-weathered barns slump crookedly, vines and disrepair overtake empty houses. Even the inhabited homes look decrepit, balancing precariously on cinder blocks installed to prevent flooding. Most yards are strewn with garbage, rusting cars, children's toys.

The towns, with their quaint names and 50s style slogans, also feel stuck in the past. Hollandale, population 3,000, proclaims itself: "A small town with a BIG welcome!" Continuing my drive through the Delta, I happen upon similarly faded signs for Sledge, Bourbon and Alligator, Mississippi--all which don't quite qualify as "one stoplight towns" because there aren't 500 residents, let alone a stoplight. Hand-painted advertisements implore drivers to turn off; "We buy, sell crack, pecans" says one, clearly unaware of its amusing punctuation error.

Although many of these old Delta towns boast only a few boarded up shops and an empty cotton gin or two, a few contain relics of a more glamorous time. Indianola, "The Birthplace of the Blues", lives up to its motto--local legends still play their signature music at the hole-in-the-wall blues bar, Club Ebony.

Almost every single Delta town has at least one serious mouth-watering, finger-licking restaurant, ensuring that fans of Southern food--think barbecue ribs, fried chicken, and collard greens--will never go hungry in these parts. Just south of Cleveland (here the slogan reads "Crossroads of Culture") is Fat Baby's Catfish House, a typical plate-lunch locale where the speciality, predictably enough, is fried catfish. Catfish farms are one of the few viable industries in the area, and catfish are offered as a homegrown speciality on almost every menu. The all-you-can-eat meal at Fat Baby's is served without frills or flourish; the fish is wheeled in on metal carts, and each table has a roll of paper towels in lieu of napkins. Patrons don't seem to mind--the place is packed elbow to elbow every weekend.

My drive this morning ends in Leland ("The Birthplace of Jim Henson", if you're wondering). There I find a parade of colourful characters making their way through Miss Molly's coffee shop for a hot cup of joe, served by Miss Molly herself. Once again, I feel as though the Delta has lost itself somewhere in the past, a time when life moves a little slower. "Morning, Roy!" A chorus of voices call as the door opens. Roy spends a long moment exchanging hellos before heading to the counter. "You're late today!" Molly calls out as she gets up from the couch to take his order. Here, "Southern charm" is not just a turn of phrase.

As I sit down with my coffee I hear a group of grey-haired men, one toting an oxygen tank, cracking jokes in the corner: "Hey don't call me Mister, you have to have at least a hundred dollars in the bank to be a Mister!". They'll laugh and swap stories all morning long, and probably be back again for a coffee break in the afternoon.

A local with a molasses-thick Southern drawl invites everyone out to see a deer in the back of his truck, while a group of ladies from the church down the street excitedly plan a wedding. Everyone in here seems to know one another, and if they don't, they will aim to by the time they leave Miss Molly's. There are no strangers in small-town Mississippi.

By the time I leave, the morning has long slipped away, the fog lifted, and the fields are now bustling with the shiny equipment of modern, large-scale agriculture. Although the giant tractors loom alongside the road, one driver pauses to give a wave in my direction.

(Anna Morrison is a member of the Mississippi Teacher Corps.)

Image by Michele Sabatier