Illinois Bend

Today I went to Illinois Bend, expecting to see nothing, but saw the opposite. If you’re wondering why I’d go anywhere to see nothing, I should probably explain.

It is commonly supposed that the “disposable” society is a relatively modern phenomenon. Not so. The US is littered with “ghost towns”: towns that once thrived, but are now little more than an uninhabited shell, or even ruins. There are many reasons for a community to die out – the most obvious are:

• If the community was founded on a natural resource, such as gold or coal, then when the resource dries up, so does the community.
• If the community relies on the railroad for its revenue, and the railroad is re-routed, or no longer has a need to stop there, it dies.
• If the community relies on through-traffic for its income, and is subsequently bypassed by “super-highways”, the residents are forced to relocate.

There are other reasons, of course, and many counter-examples – some sufficiently enterprising communities “reinvented” themselves, instead of giving up. I’m sure there are earlier examples of the “disposable” society – all it takes is enough space for man’s natural lethargy to triumph over good sense, and you finish up with the desertification of Africa, the ghost-towns of America, Australia and Canada, and, more recently, crumbling ex-Walmart buildings.

I found on the internet (http://www.ghosttowns.com/states/tx/tx.html) a list of Texas ghost-towns, and fully intend, one day, to visit some of the remoter ones in West Texas. For today, however, I found Illinois Bend, in North Texas – east of the panhandle and just below the Oklahoma border. “Illinois Bend was named by homesick settlers from Illinois - who moved to Texas in 1862. Before their arrival it had been named Wardville after a local landowner, C. M. Ward. The name was changed to Illinois Bend in 1877 when a post office was granted for the community. Illinois Bend had a population of 300 by the mid-1880s.”

To get there, as you’d imagine, you travel into rural North Texas, where I was surprised to see the kind of panoramic view that is more common in the Hill Country than in the northern Plains. It is particularly pretty because, after the wettest June since 1928, the flora is still lush, instead of the more typical scorched appearance of the Texas July.

Illinois Bend Church

The Community Club

The high fences on either side of the road were an obvious sign that I was in deer-ranching country, and Illinois Bend was well signposted – a little odd, I thought, for a ghost town to be signposted just like any of the neighboring towns. In spite of the internet reference to its location (20 miles northwest of Montague) being wrong (it’s northeast), I’d already determined the route, and soon found myself in a town which, while possibly not actually thriving, was certainly not a ghost town! Perhaps somebody should tell the residents to stop building their new Community Center, and terminate the weekly meetings there, although it’s certainly true that the church could use a little work (I think just writing “Revival” on a sign outside the church won’t cut it).

I started to wonder if there could be two Illinois Bends, or if they could have relocated? The answer was to be found at the local cemetery. Such a peaceful place – the sultry air punctuated only by bird-calls, cicadas chirping and the buzzing of flies. It looks to me as though people have been dying round here for quite a while (the earliest recorded death I could read on a headstone was in 1898), so I think that this is the one and only Illinois Bend. Either my internet reference is wrong (surely not? Ed.), or the town has been resurrected. In any case, I wish them luck – it was like discovering an ancient relative, whom you had assumed had long since passed on, to be alive and well.

Here’s an image that you’ll only see twice a year around here: fireworks on sale. By law, fireworks in Texas can only be sold from June 24^th – July 4^th, and December 20^th – January 1^st.

Happy July 4^th!

Boring

Excitement is greatly over-rated. Sometimes it’s nice to spend time relaxing and doing familiar things. Well, alright … so I didn’t do much this weekend.

APHA competitor

Over in Fort Worth, the APHA (American Paint Horse Association) were holding their World Championships (you’re right – their horizons are fairly limited, but, in fairness, a passport does cost $97 these days). Watching the juniors perform, I see prototypical mini-cowgirls, and have formed in my mind a brief stereotype: the skin is smooth and lightly tanned; the hair is usually blonde, tied back tightly in a bun, which is set low, because it can’t obstruct the hat; the outfit in juniors is usually simple, but brightly coloured, and will, in later life, evolve into tight blue jeans and sequined shirts. Don’t misunderstand me – these are “show” outfits. It’s just that the style that is considered “normal” in Texas would be way over the top in England. Their roots are pioneering stock, and they’re proud of it.

The shining!

I did manage to get my boots shined – an art that has disappeared on our side of the pond. Business is apparently slow this year, even for the “Doctor of Shineology”, but nobody knows why.

I came back to the hotel via a slightly different route, and saw a magnificent mural on the side of a carpet store – people here really are that proud of their town. I also saw another mural from the highway (“BRINGING THE WORLD TOGETHER ONE FRIENDSHIP AT A TIME”) that took me quite a while to find once I had pulled off. It was right next to a mission, outside which was a jumble of people, of every ethnicity, presumably waiting for food and somewhere to spend the night. These are the detritus of polite society. The mission is conveniently located on the outskirts of town. “Huddled masses” are all very well, but you don’t want them on your doorstep, do you?

Mural in Fort Worth

Welcome to Fort Worth

Marketing

Look out – here comes Captain Obvious. Thank you, Coors, for coming up with a beer bottle with a label that turns blue when it’s cold. I’ve always had trouble knowing when my beer was cold, and you’ve relieved me of that worry forever. It feels as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Who says progress is not always in the direction commonly referred to as “forward”?

Marketing is a funny business. Leaving aside the fact that it is beyond me how we ever got to the point of paying for clothes that are a blatant advertisement for the manufacturer, no matter how fancy their logo, some of the slogans make we wonder whoever dreamt them up, let alone whoever paid for someone to dream them up. (“We know why you fly” – American Airlines. Oh, really?)

Stella Artois is “Served reassuringly chilled”. Refreshingly, maybe, but reassuringly? I don’t find it reassuring at all, depending, I suppose, on exactly what they’re trying to reassure me about.

Lavazza is “Italy’s favourite coffee”, which is interesting, because countries don’t typically drink coffee – their inhabitants do. Even if this was grammatically correct, I doubt it’s true, but nobody is interested in bringing this minor porkie to their attention.

“A well rounded Portuguese red wine with a blend of grapes resulting is a smooth complex taste.” As Humpty Dumpty said in Alice in Wonderland: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.” Complex is something I leave behind at work – I don’t want to know about it when I’m eating dinner.

“Premium Bitter”. “Exceptional Ale”. “Triple Distilled”. When I was younger, I had a friend who worked in a petrol station. This was in the days of “mods and rockers”, and he told me of the time when a young mod pulled up on the forecourt in his Ford Anglia, jumped out (dressed in the requisite braces, boots and too-short trousers) and asked for “One of the rubbish, cousin”. At least he was honest. I don’t know what premium and exceptional mean any more, because the adjectival currency has been devalued to the extent that I have no frame of reference. If only someone would come up with “Crap Beer” or “Cheap Wine”, so that I had something to compare their exceptional equivalents to.

And don’t even get me started on “Fruit-on-the-Bottom Yoghourt”. How did they ever sell us that one? We never saw it coming, and didn’t get it when it arrived. It means we’ve got to stir it instead of them, thereby saving them money. And this would be better for us how?

They must think we’re complete morons. And they’re probably right.

Dead Blues Guys

Just when I start thinking what a nasty place the world is these days, I meet people who are unbelievably nice, and go out of their way to be helpful. It renews my faith in human nature, though I suspect that you have to leave the city to find these people in the majority. This road trip, to visit the graves of some legendary blues artists in Mississippi, was more of a challenge than I had anticipated, and was only accomplished because of the numerous people that I flagged down in the road, or on whose door I knocked unexpectedly, or whom I disturbed whilst gardening, or interrupted at work. Thank you to all of them.

One of the best views of Dallas is in the rear-view mirror, especially when a weekend of rain is forecast. Starting early Saturday morning, I headed out of Dallas for Memphis, Tennessee. I’d already determined an itinerary, from www.deadbluesguys.com that would take me from Memphis down to Jackson visiting the graves of Memphis Minnie, Mississippi Fred McDowell, Sonny Boy Williamson, Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt. The journey is long (around 7 hours) but easy – Interstate 30 (I-30) to Texarkana, the across Arkansas and onto I-40 to Memphis, Tennessee. I passed an interested billboard on the way that I have no further comment on!

Arriving in Memphis in late afternoon, I checked into the downtown Marriott. The concierge told me that the Temptations were performing at the nearby “Memphis in May” festival, so I went along. Feeling hungry, I tried the “Jamaican-style Polish sausage” (I’m nothing if not adventurous!) – cholesterol in a bun, but it was better than some of the other options. I left before the Temptations came on, because I didn’t feel like sitting through the classical music concert that preceded them. No matter what they think, people don’t come to Memphis for classical music! Besides, Beale Street was beckoning.

In case you didn’t know (perhaps from Marc Cohn’s song: “I’m walking in Memphis, walking with my feet 10 feet off of Beale”), Beale Street is the hub of the blues scene. It used to be a pretty seedy area, but it’s been cleaned up now, and is mostly a tourist venue. For all that, it’s a very exciting atmosphere. The street is blocked off to traffic, crowded, selling 32oz beers and frozen drinks from numerous stalls, and with live blues coming from every restaurant and alleyway. People are dancing in the street, and happy – even though some of that is due to the alcohol, no-one is “nasty drunk”, or even badly drunk. Just happy, and the ambience is electric.

I have to confess to waking up the following day with a slightly sore head, but the experience was worth it. After breakfast of blueberry pancakes, I’m off on my blues trail.

Memphis Minnie

Memphis Minnie is buried in New Hope cemetery, in Walls, Mississippi (MS). I knew only the name of the church, and had no idea where to look when I got there. Walls covers about 60 square miles, but, as luck would have it, I saw two guys outside the Walls Fire Station, and pulled in to ask them. They had never heard of Memphis Minnie, and didn’t know where the church was, but that didn’t deter them. I had a photograph of the headstone, and they instantly recognized it as being local (“That’s delta (Mississippi delta, that is) grass, and that looks like the bluff in the background.”) They took me into the fire-house, and started looking on the internet. When that proved fruitless, they called their dispatcher, who eventually came up with an address. They not only told me how to get there, but pulled up aerial photos of the vicinity so that I’d get a better idea where I was going. This was helpful, because New Hope M.B.C. (Missionary Baptist Church) is in the middle of nowhere, as would be so many of the churches I would be visiting. The Mississippi countryside I was surrounded by was largely agricultural, with corn and wheat standing tall out of the rich yellowish-red soil. One down, four to go.

Fred McDowell

All I knew about Mississippi Fred McDowell’s grave was that it was located in the Hammond Hill M.B.C. cemetery, “between Como and Senatobia”. I was lucky once again in spotting an almost hidden sign to the church as I flashed past a side road. I stopped and backed up (the roads were mostly empty throughout the day). Following the sign led me eventually to the church, where a service was in progress. The cemetery was small, and I had no difficulty locating the grave, where he is buried with his wife, Esta Mae, who died 8 years later. I am amazed that these blues legends have small, mostly unrecognized graves. In some ways it’s sad that they don’t get the recognition they deserve; but, in other ways, they are truly resting in peace.

Sonny Boy Williamson

Heading 60 miles further south, I arrived in Tutwiler – one of the most derelict towns I have ever seen. Even “City Hall” was boarded up. I was almost embarrassed to take photographs, in case someone saw me. But there was no-one on the streets. I went into the gas station to ask how to get to Whitfield M.B.C. The girls behind the counter didn’t know, but a black cop lounging in the corner, no doubt taking advantage of the air-conditioning, offered to show me. One of the girls wanted to go with him, and so I followed his cruiser down a tortuous route into the now familiar “middle of nowhere”. When we reached the cemetery, they both got out of the car. He waved his hand in the general direction of the cemetery. “I’ve been past here hunnerds of times, but I ain’t never stopped to look. I know he’s in there somewhere.” Once again, I knew what the headstone looked like, and was able to point it out, much to their surprise, almost instantly. Both of Sonny Boy Williamson’s sisters are also buried in the same cemetery.

Robert Johnson

Robert Johnson is reputedly buried in Greenwood, MS. When I got there, the town was huge. I thought I’d have to find a police station to ask for directions, but then it occurred to me that the best place to ask for directions to a church is … another church! So I stopped at the North Greenwood Baptist Church, where the musicians were just breaking down their equipment after a service. They directed me to Little Zion M.B.C. without hesitation. This church had a sign outside proclaiming Robert Johnson’s gravesite, and also primitive provision for donations towards its upkeep. Only one more to go!

Mississippi John Hurt

If this had been the first on my list, I think I may well have given up on the rest. This was undoubtedly the most difficult to find. As I entered Avalon, there was another sign stating that the town was the birthplace, and final resting place, of John Hurt. But no directions. Fortunately, a beaten-up old Buick was struggling up the road, and I flagged it down. The old black gentleman inside switched off his engine as I started to ask where the cemetery was. “Follow this road until it turns to gravel, make a left up the dirt-track and it’ll take you right there.” An hour later, after driving up and down single-track dirt and gravel roads, asking for directions from two different people in their gardens, and also at Sherry’s Grocery Store, I was on the point of quitting. As a last ditch attempt, I went up to someone’s house and knocked on the door. The woman who answered looked a little apprehensive at first, but soon relaxed once she could see I was no threat, and gave me directions. I was, in fact, very close, but just needed to look out very carefully, “’cos if you ain’t looking, you’ll miss it.” And as a parting shot, “Oh, and look out for snakes this time of year.” The grave is tucked away in the woods, amid a small collection of a couple of dozen others, and almost completely hidden from the road by undergrowth.

Mississippi is more lush than Texas. You rarely get a good view over large areas of countryside, even though it’s quite flat in some places. The roads are usually flanked by corn (7 or 8 feet high at this time of year), or wheat, or trees draped with lianas that give it an almost tropical feel. There is undoubtedly poverty, but not as much as I had expected. The living accommodations are mostly trailer homes, but are interspersed with brick-built ranch-style houses. The trademark magnolia trees are everywhere, and irrigation is good enough to support a significant rice crop – another big surprise. The radio stations split fairly evenly between blues, country and Christian, and it’s the only place I’ve ever heard Hamburger Helper advertised.

And, I can assure you, the people are wonderful.

Beale Street

Billboard

Mississippi Fred McDowell

Mississippi John Hurt

Mississippi John Hurt

Memphis Minnie

Memphis Minnie

Robert Johnson

Robert Johnson

Sonny Boy Williamson

Mississippi John Hurt

Tutwiler

The Journey Back

After my blues trip took me from Texas through Arkansas to Memphis, Tennessee, and from there down to Jackson, Mississippi, I thought that the journey back would be a bit of an anti-climax, particularly since Interstate-20 accounts for almost all of the 400 miles to Dallas. Interstate highways are great to get you where you want to go quickly, if you don’t mind the boredom of endless driving punctuated only by the occasional truck stop.

Whenever a major highway crosses a state line, there is always a tourist information centre close at hand. So, when I entered Louisiana, I pulled into one. I asked them, as I often do, “If you only had one day in the state, what would be the one place you’d have to visit?” And, again as usual, they were stumped. But I noticed on the huge map on the desk that Route 80 shadowed I-20 all the way across Louisiana, and passed through all the small towns. This held much more promise, and, in spite of a longer journey, I side-stepped onto Rte 80 at the first available opportunity.

Tallulah mural

"Expect the Unexpected"

I have a particular penchant for collecting murals. Every small town seems to have at least one, though sometimes you have to search carefully for them. I found one in the first town I encountered, Tallulah. I also found a very aptly named beauty shop. Rte 80 follows the railroad, which is no great surprise, because this is how these towns came to be here in the first place. And many of the towns are in a state of neglect – I’d never really thought about it before, but I imagine that this is the result of the town being bypassed by the highways. Motels, cafés, shops and gas-stations for whom through-traffic was once the lifeblood have been boarded up one by one until the town is sucked dry, devoid of their livelihood. The coin of progress is definitely two-sided.

Mural in Delhi

From Tallulah, the road took me through Delhi, which, despite its dereliction, sported the quite avant-garde Anding Thompson Plaza, complete with mural, in its centre.

The next town was Rayville, the “White Gold Capital of the South”. White gold is otherwise known as cotton. Here I found an interesting mural that looked almost chalk-like, enticingly labeled “Riddle 97”. Since Riddle seems to be a local name, I think that this refers to the artist, rather than being an invitation to solve some carefully concealed puzzle.

Chalk mural in Rayville

Barber shop in Start

Soon after Rayville, I encountered Start, the home of “Country Music Great Tim McGraw”. Whatever you might think of Tim McGraw (assuming you’ve heard of him) or country music, he has the enviable distinction of being married to another country singer, Faith Hill. However, I don’t think he gets his hair cut locally.

It was near here that I encountered a road-side fruit stand, and stopped to buy a deliciously ripe cantaloupe. $2.50, but I gave them $3 on condition that I could take a photograph (and they were more than happy to oblige).

Fruit stand st the roadside

 Beyond Monroe, the landscape is very much more built up, and not as sparsely populated as the eastern half of the state. At the gambling capital of Shreveport, I crossed back on to I-20 to complete the journey to Dallas.

Small town America is still one of my favourite places to visit, even if I think I might not actually want to live there. With mobile phones, wireless internet, and the onslaught of technology, it may not be around for too much longer.

PS. In case you’re interested, the larger murals are composed of, typically, five or six separate photographs “stitched” together using the free autostich package, available from http://www.photo-freeware.net/autostitch.php.