The Wrath of Eudora Welty

Goodbye, Mississippi. It’s been a great ride, but it’s time to go now.

Currently in the backseat of one minivan, driven by Chris, and here’s hoping he doesn’t hit another tree and blow out the back window of this one, too (😂), and there are approximately five hours left until we hit Houston. So, in the meantime…

Yesterday already felt like we were going home, because we packed up our stuff and checked out of Tallahatchie Flats in the morning (thank goodness, my last shower in that TINY bathroom!) to head to Jackson, MS, to tour the Medgar Evers and Eudora Welty Houses. I used to have family near Jackson, but I can’t say I’d ever visited the places we went yesterday.

But first, a quick hour in Yazoo City! A place as colorful as its name. I ran around with Sam(uel) and Sam(antha), Kell, Brandon, and Santiago(go) for an hour, and we took pictures and jaywalked to Yazoo Donuts in search of coffee—on which I burned my tongue, and it wasn’t even good enough coffee to be worth that! I guess the donuts and kolaches we picked up were more of an afterthought, plus a Kool-Aid Jammers for Samantha, who had a sentimental moment about how everybody has taken care of her—though, of course, we’ve all taken care of each other this week! Let me tangent to count the ways…

  • I gave Sam ibuprofen yesterday morning
  • She gave me BB cream to cover a zit
  • Ramsha braided my hair
  • Kell offered to steal the vintage typewriter I loved that was in my cabin (don’t worry, I said no)
  • Samuel and Jacob did our dishes after we cooked communal dinner, and they let us use their oven twice
  • Santiago helped us make rice
  • Kell gave me DayQuil this morning for my sore throat
  • Samantha went with Chanelle to pick up coffee and breakfast
  • Brandon gave me a dollar to pay for my donuts, so I gave him the glazed donut I never wanted (I ordered buttermilk, not glazed)
  • I gave Kell a water bottle and bought Samantha chips
  • Cristina took a picture of me with a postcard and sent it to me

…and probably more than that, even! It’s been great to all be in this together, and I think the friendships and bonding are what have made it a great week, and that classes will be different now because of it. I hope so. It will be weird though if Chris and Chanelle want to go back to being Professors Brunt and Benz, but, you know.

I said when I posted on Instagram yesterday that my favorite place to visit was Yazoo City, but that was before we visited the Eudora Welty House in Jackson. That has been my favorite now, hands down. Because she was a writer, and I’m a writer, and while the truth is I’m not particularly familiar with her work, I loved being able to go through her home and see the hundreds and hundreds of books, stacked haphazardly all throughout the house, and see pages of her work left in her own revision process, and see her bedroom upstairs with her desk and her typewriter, and her letters. It was inspiring, and I want to write in my room now, make it more of a sanctuary…though honestly Angleton and Lake Jackson are not as inspiring as Mississippi must have been to her. One day I’ve got to get out of there. Even living in Houston would probably provide more inspiration. I took two photos inside, though I wasn’t supposed to, and then… Well, we had all just gotten back in our vans to head to our next stop, and Chris was backing up our van next to the curb to turn around, and he backed right into the tree that had previously trapped Kell in the front seat, unable to squeeze out—and Chris was only going a few miles per hour so we’re still not sure exactly how it happened, but suddenly the back window of the van just busted, glass flying all over the luggage there, and Samantha, Santiago, and I—the three of us right in the back there—turning around to see oh shit what the hell just happened!


So, what we ended up deciding as we sat on the grass nearby while our professors figured out what to do, is that the wrath of Eudora Welty came down upon us for my two pictures, taken on purpose, and Samantha’s and Santiago’s pictures, taken on accident, when we were not supposed to take any photos inside at all. Still—no regrets.

The accident forced us to cross “former Greyhound bus station” off our itinerary, but we still made it to Fondren, a hip neighborhood in Jackson, where we had dinner and walked around, eventually ending up in a froyo shop. Free samples! 😋 It was a very chill (no pun intended) way to wind down a busy day, and a busy week.

Today, we’re homeward bound, and will return to classes and work Monday, and to work on our creative projects, which this trip provided information and a wealth of material for. I think I have enough pictures for postcards, and a lot of information and quotes, though I need to talk to most of my classmates still. But I’ll be honest now—I hadn’t really wanted to take this trip to begin with. I didn’t know it was a part of the curriculum, when Chris said in class that “if you didn’t know then this probably isn’t the course for you” and I very briefly thought about dropping but of course didn’t because I need this course credit to graduate—but now, and this entire week, I’ve enjoyed myself so much. I would have missed out, and I’m glad I’m still here, because I can appreciate everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve learned, and everything I’ve experienced with my friends. If I could go back, no, I wouldn’t do any of it differently.

Not even to avoid the wrath of Eudora Welty. 😜


Scavenging and Communal Cooking, and More of Emmett Till

Wednesday, 3/15/2017

We visited Clarksdale yesterday, a city significant to the history of blues music, particularly in the Delta, I think. Professors Chris and Chanelle organized a scavenger hunt for us to complete, and I will admit that it’s a neat idea for seeing the city, but I would have preferred not to do it, because it was harder to get acquainted with and enjoy the town while on a time limit. The items on the list?

  • Mississippi Blues Trail markers: WROX Radio Station, Ike Turner, Sam Cooke, The New World neighborhood, and the Riverside Motel
  • Photo of Robert Johnson
  • Recording of someone in your group (cabin) eating and describing a hot tamale
  • A story told by a citizen of Clarksdale
  • A record from Cathead records store
  • A recording of a group member reading our Arthur Flowers book in “the bluesiest place you can find”
  • One of our syllabus books in the Carnegie Public Library
  • A recording of a group member singing the blues next to the Sunflower River

The hardest two were the hot tamale and the Riverside Motel, the latter of which ended up being struck from the list because it was closed. The hot tamale, however, still had to be completed and we were told by somebody at Cathead to go to Larry’s Hot Tamales, which turned out to be the furthest away, and in a part of town that felt rather sketchy, particularly to my group of us four girls, until we caught up with the guys from Palo Alto, and they walked us to and from the tamale shop.

We tallied up the results at dinner, and Palo Alto was the winner, followed by Tush Hog and Nellie—that’s my cabin—tied for second! Woo! (I was sure we were going to lose when each cabin presented their stories and videos.)

Dinner was actually even more interesting, because this was Nellie’s first communal meal to prepare, and as I put it while running around, “Communal dinner became communal cooking!” See, we decided to cook chicken and beef fajitas because it’s simple and can easily feed the 15 or so people, but…let’s see, Sam says she cannot cook rice (so we joked she’s a bad Latina), so we enlisted the help of Santiago, who cooked the delicious rice for our first communal dinner. But, even then, the first batch was burned, so we had to start over, though I managed to salvage most of it, because only the bottom was really bad. Then, we went to bake the chicken, but apparently the oven in our cabin does not work, so Sam and I raced some salted and peppered chicken on a cookie sheet over to Palo Alto’s cabin to use their oven. We set another pot of rice on, and Santiago prepared another in his cabin, and meanwhile Cristina and Ramsha chopped the peppers and onions, Cristina cooked the beef, and while I was inside, I was more or less on dish duty. (Fun fact: I actually do not like doing dishes, and especially not without rubber gloves, but we had a pile in the sink so I just sort of went in there and went to work!) That ended up being where I could help the most, since I don’t know how to really cook much beyond pancakes and spaghetti. Overall, though, our communal fajitas were successful, and were mostly finished at lunch today!

Thursday, 3/16/2017

This morning, after breakfast, we drove the thirty minutes or so from Tallahatchie Flats to the town of Glendora to see the Emmett Till Historic Intrepid Center (E.T.H.I.C.). As I mentioned before, this innocent 14-year-old’s story is what has affected me most this week, and the Center touched on that more than I thought possible, because it gave so much more detail about the case, eyewitness accounts, evidence, and as I walked through the museum and read the signposts describing the story, I loved the amount of detail because as a writer I love a good storytelling, but I hated that the story is true and rooted in a very long history of American hatred. I hate that if I walk down a street alone and I see a black man, I immediately feel wary. Granted, I am a petite white female and a white man can have the same effect on me because of how little I am, but, I think maybe there is still some sense of…not racism, but of difference, and I don’t like how that feels. I don’t like that it’s ingrained into our society, and I know I’m not racist; I have black friends and Asian friends and Indian friends and Muslim friends and more, and they are all wonderful people I would never wish any harm upon. But…why? Why, societally or not, does there have to be any sense of a difference?

It is worth acknowledging that we ended the afternoon on a more positive note. After a lunch of leftover fajitas back at Tallahatchie Flats, we visited the B.B. King Blues Museum in Indianola, and I don’t know a lot about the blues and I know even less about B.B. King, but I liked the experience there. I took a lot of photos. Significantly:


A 5:30 p.m. reading by Michael Knight at TurnRow, and then dinner in Greenwood. Tomorrow, breakfast is on us, and then we pack up and take off to Jackson. We’re spending our last night in Mississippi at the Quality Inn in Jackson; Ramsha and I looked at each other and, at the same time, “I hope they have quality bathrooms!” 😂

Emmett Till, and a Bibliophile’s Mississippi


A happy belated Pi Day to you all! 3.14—get it?

Monday and Tuesday… I can’t even really remember what happened, because our days have been so busy, so very much get up in the morning and hit the ground running, and grab coffee at every opportunity. A week as full as it is fulfilling.

Monday morning was our first in the cabins at Tallahatchie Flats, and I woke up early to shower in the tiny bathroom with no lock—very clean though, and that’s what matters, right? On the itinerary for this morning was “early Walmart run with food captains” but several of us went along in search of warmer clothing, too. “Food captains” because each cabin is in charge of two communal meals this week, one breakfast and one dinner, and in my cabin with my friends, vegan Samantha is more or less in charge, so the groceries we picked up were her ideas, and tonight (Wednesday) is our turn to cook, so we are making chicken and beef fajitas with rice, black beans, and guacamole. Simple, classic. After our return from Walmart Monday morning, we had breakfast in what has been dubbed “the adults’ cabin” where our professors are staying, and as soon as that was done, we…did not do what was next on the itinerary! No, it was too muddy to walk down to the Tallahatchie River behind our cabins and the Little Zion Church about a mile away, so instead, we tried to move some activities around. We did briefly visit the abandoned Bryant Grocery store in Money, MS and the Emmett Till markers there, but as it rained, we made plans to just come back later in the week. But Emmett Till…

Emmett Till. He was 14 and from Chicago, visiting relatives here, when he went into Bryant Grocery to buy candy, and spoke to or perhaps whistled—though multiple sources agree that he often whistled to alleviate a stutter—at 24-year-old white shopkeeper Carolyn Bryant. Four nights later, he was abducted at gunpoint from his great-uncle’s house, beaten and tortured and finally shot, and the body dumped into the Tallahatchie with a 75-pound gin fan tied around the neck with barbed wire. After a couple of days it was recovered, and Roy Bryant and his brother J. W. Milam stood trial for the murder of Emmett Till, and acquitted by an all-white jury, despite evidence I think, after a deliberation that hardly took an hour. After double jeopardy attached, both of them confessed, and the entire event helped spark the Civil Rights Movement. Fourteen years old, innocent, leaving a legacy that shouldn’t have had to happen that way. Particularly not to an innocent child, and particularly not because of the color of his skin.

Nobody really talks about racism that way in this country. A lot of the details are omitted from schoolroom lessons, maybe because most of them are too ugly for children to hear. But they need to know. They need to understand what happened, why, and why it’s not right. Of everything we’ve seen so far this week, Emmett Till’s story is what has resonated most with me, and I think that that’s why.

There were a couple of Monday things that did happen Monday, like TurnRow Book Co. in downtown Greenwood, a quaint little bookstore pictured below which we’ll return to on Thursday for a reading by Michael Knight. (No, I don’t know who that is, but maybe then I’ll find out!)


Then we were able to visit the Back in the Day Museum in Baptist Town, owned and run by a Mr. Sylvester Hoover, who took us on a short walking tour of the block, gave a little history, pointed out a couple of landmarks—one, a street corner where bluesman Robert Johnson played.

Monday night, first communal dinner at the cabin called Tush Hog, hosted by Santiago, whose rice game has been on point this week, Jasmin, Michelle, and Kell. Ribs, rice, baked potatoes, broccoli, and deliciousness.


Up early again Tuesday morning—but let’s be real, every morning this week has been and will be an early one—to drive an hour and a half to the college town of Oxford, home of Ole Miss! Which we didn’t visit until later, anyway, as we first breakfasted at Big Bad Brunch—enormous pancakes, excellent coffee—and then toured Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner. I will admit that I enjoyed that, even though I did not enjoy his As I Lay Dying. We visited too his gravesite in the city cemetery, where he is buried next to his wife (who outlived him and installed an A/C unit in her bedroom the day after his death), and we did read a few chapters of his book for one of my classmates’ projects.

Visiting Square Books and Off Square Books may have been a mistake, but it was on the itinerary so I couldn’t have avoided it even if I wanted to—which I did not, because my mother raised me right. I spent perhaps $70 in less than one hour, on three books. Absolutely no regrets, not a single one.

The last thing of Tuesday was a walking tour of Ole Miss, and it was very short because it was very cold. I took no pictures, and while Ole Miss is iconic and a beautiful, unique university, I was immensely relieved when we returned to the minivans, out of the wind, and headed back to Tallahatchie Flats.

I am enjoying myself but in 100% honesty, I can’t imagine how relieved I’ll feel this Saturday to load up the minivans for the last time and head on home. 😴

Ghost Stories and Ted Bundy on Spring Break


It was probably unreasonable to believe we’d actually be able to leave UH at 9:30 Saturday morning while renting three minivans the morning of and having to coordinate four adults, one baby, and eleven college students—but I feel compelled to point out that each of us students was there on time. Even Samuel, who is notoriously late to class (when he was late for our midterm, Professor Benz put one down on the desk and said, “This is for Sam, whenever he gets here.”) It was the adults who ran late Saturday morning, having gotten held up at Enterprise, and it was closer to 10:45 when we actually shipped out for Natchez, Mississippi. Cue Spring Break!

In Natchez we drove straight to the Museum of African American History and Culture, and it was so nice of the man to still be there, because we were 45 minutes later than we were supposed to have been, and if I remember correctly, the Museum is actually closed Saturdays so it was opened specifically with our group in mind. Very nice of them to do—but, I’ll be honest: the Museum kind of bored me. But, museums tend to be hit or miss with me anyway, and it was very small, rather unimpressive overall, and already it had been a rather long day. After the Museum, dinner at King’s Tavern seemed to be a more promising affair…

It was coooold! We knew it would be, though I think none of us have really felt adequately prepared for that, but I didn’t really realize it on Saturday until we were at King’s Tavern. Fortunately it wasn’t cold inside, but since it is the oldest standing building in Natchez, from 1789, and is rumored to be haunted by the ghost of King’s former mistress, Madeleine—don’t worry, she’s playful—we had to take a look around the property. We went upstairs, and all around the outside. No signs of ghosts…Samantha claims to have seen a sign while taking a photograph of the upstairs room, but no, it’s just the lens flare. The food, chicken pot pie for me, was pretty good. The homemade Sprite was better, and the atmosphere downstairs in that brick-walled cellar room where you dine was very rustic, antique, historic. Very Natchez.

We checked in to a Super 8 for the night, and it was actually my first time in a Super 8 I think, and it was pretty nice! Of course, I think we all knew the cabins would be something of a step down from that, anyway, but hey—few things can beat a roomy bathroom and daily housekeeping service. My roommate for the night was one of my classmates, Ramsha, and I can’t say we didn’t get along, but I can say there wasn’t much interaction anyway because I, tired old lady that I am becoming, pretty much went right to bed.


Sunday did not feel at all like Sunday. My Sundays are fairly structured: get up preferably before 9:00, church at 10:00, then spend the rest of the day in Lake Jackson at Dylan’s. Not this Sunday, nope—in the morning, around 9:00, we checked out of the Super 8 and loaded up the minivans.

We didn’t leave Natchez right away, and for that I’m glad, because if we had then I would have missed out on all the appeal that downtown Natchez offers. A lot of really nice, historic buildings and houses, very picturesque, very scenic, and it’s very pretty to walk along the river. But the first and best was Steampunk Coffee Roasters…

…where I could and should have taken some better shots, but I didn’t want to be obviously snapping photos of the area behind the bar, so I just took this one as discreetly as possible and stopped there. The coffee, Coconut Joe with steamed almond milk for me, was yummy, and the laid-back vibe was even better. I would have been content to just sit inside all day. I talked briefly to one of the baristas, too, for my project, and he had a lot of personality! Got a quote I can use from him, and then Kell, one of my classmates, asked if he had any ghost stories. Apparently Natchez is full of playful ghosts; he told us about an encounter with a little boy one day when he was alone inside Steampunk. The chairs came with metal tags on them, and the tags used to hang all in a row, maybe as some sort of decoration, he made it sound like, and one day, the tags just all shifted one after the other in the same direction, as though somebody had walked alongside with an outstretched hand, running along each tag in passing. Nobody there, but there was a chill in the air, from no place.

I like the idea of Natchez as home to playful ghosts. I like the idea of playful ghosts, period, especially with all the horror movies I watch…

I think, then, naturally, ghosts like to be where the people are—because certainly no evidence of paranormal activity was to be found in Natchez City Cemetery. Too beautiful a place to haunt, perhaps, but certainly the cemetery can be characterized by the evidence of the passage of time. Crumbling rock, rusted wrought-iron fences and some broken gates. A well-kept cemetery though, I think, and very green, but I think the city kind of lets it be, in a way, lets the time pass and the stones crumble, and in that way, speak for themselves. In person I’ve never met a more beautiful cemetery, and if it did haunt me, it would haunt me in a friendlier kind of way. I can’t describe it; I can’t explain it; I just have to remember it.

When we did leave Natchez, we came here, to Tallahatchie Flats, and here we are; this is where I started. We were supposed to have also driven through Rolling Fork yesterday, and visited the ghost town of Rodney, but I don’t believe we really did either. We did have dinner in Greenwood, though, at a place called The Crystal Grill, and I think we bonded over rounds of Two Truths and A Lie.

And then. Then. It was on the way back to our cabins, and in order to return to Tallahatchie from Greenwood, there’s a bridge to drive across. I was in one van with some people, driven by Lynda, and we were behind Chanelle’s van, and Chanelle turned down this short, dark and deserted street to reach the bridge, which was close by and very visible, and we followed. But there was this single man, clean-cut, well-dressed, who wandered around holding a pamphlet or book of some kind in one hand, and Chanelle’s van slowed down a little, as in maybe this man is lost and needs directions, but then she tried to drive around him, while he is walking toward her van. She ends up getting around him. So he turns his attention to our van, and walks toward us—and the thing is, there’s no sign of distress. No clues that he could possibly need any help of any kind, and so he just keeps coming closer, even as Lynda is trying to drive around him, too, and as she steps on the gas, he gets just close enough to reach out and touch our window— …even though he doesn’t, and we make it past, and somebody comments that maybe he just needed directions, but he was too calm, and…well, that’s what Ted Bundy used to do, isn’t it?