A Northerner heads South

I have been a polarized thinker. in my earlier years, and hopefully less so more recently.  Who knows where this comes from? Social training from many sources, I guess. There was up and down, right and left, good and bad, black and white, summer and winter. Nearly everything was tinged with acceptable behavior, thoughts and words: this is the way to think, this is the way we do it, we never say that.
And somewhere along the way the American south was labeled as "not a place I want to visit." Much of it came from my radical/liberal view of the world which developed in my 20's. Sadly, I missed participation in the Civil Rights Movement as I was deep in family dysfunction and my own spin on dysfunction: drugs, & sex with not much rock and roll. So the South got stuck off in a corner to be ignored but if brought up treated with proper disdain. 
Then read Rita May Brown and listened to Meg Christianson.  I became friends with Julia who grew up in Alabama and started to realize "The South" was far more complex than I could discern from my mostly book learned perspective. I went to Washington DC (though some would debate if that is the south) and to New Orleans - which while clearly in and of the south is a creation of it's own making. 
This trip seemed like the perfect time to visit in the south and with southerners and get a different perspective on things. Today contained a perfect example of my expectations come true and my fantasy of what life might be like in a small southern town.
Renee and I left Rhonda and her extended family about 11am.(more about them in another post. It seems that goodbyes in the south are a bit like those at Renee's family's weddings....extended just like family. 

We headed west across Mississippi. Miles of golden leafed rolling hills and cotton.

In Houston, Miss. we met Steve at his odds and ends shop who said, "When I saw you girls at the stop sign in that rig, I just knew you'd turn around and come back." It was the enameled stove and rusty farm equipment that caught my eye. Steve sat outside at his computer while we rummaged through 3 rooms of odds and ends. Renee found a cast iron cornbread pan with molasses still stuck to the bottom. I nearly bought a milk churn because Rhonda had one of her grandmother's. On the way out of town I saw this fall display and the cast iron figures reminded me of Steve (the overalls)  so I took a picture of this:  

as well as one of the memorial to the Sons of the Confederacy of Chickasaw County. 


Post script. I wonder about the Happy Harvest display.In the moment, I took it as a fun piece in a town surrounded by rural land and work. Most men had overalls on. Now I wonder. It is a caricature. Is it racist? Is it disrespectful? This is exactly the complexity of the south I find myself unsettled by and unsure of. Most of the people we encountered in this town were black. I assumed their assent at the display. Am I naive? (yes, often) I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.










As we traveled south and west the rolling hills gave way to flat land, miles and miles of cotton fields and not much else. We needed eggs for the morning and pulled along a small grocery  store and it just happened to have a smoker going out front. I stopped for eggs of course. But then if there was some barbecue, well that would save heating up the soup for dinner.
So in I went. I was looking around and a young man split off from two others and asked what I needed. "Eggs" I said. he went over to the cold deli case and looked in the egg carton. "I'd sell you my eggs but I only have 2." "That's ok," I said, "Do you have any barbecue?" "Yes, ribs and rib tips." This was said with such and thick accent I didn't understand the reeeb teeeps and asked "Rib tips?" Yes ma'm." "Are they pork?" As these word left my lips I remembered that only crackers (white folk) ate barbecued beef. He nodded. Yes, pork. So then I said, Well, I have never had rib tips, which should I get?" He looked serious and said, "Depends on what you like."  OK then, I think.  Good advice so I stuck with ribs. 
While he cut up my ribs, I looked around. Kinte cloth colors and black power tee shirts, hookahs and small glass pipes lined the shelves over the cash register. Youngsters came in for chips, mountain dew and candy. As he heated the sauce, I asked if it was spicy sauce. "No ma'm it's sweet. Not a bit spicey. " Because I got a half rack, there was a bit of confusion about he price. $8.99 was settled on. I was told to go ahead of the kids with their piles of sweets as they weren't done yet. The camper and our home state was commented on and admired.
As I went to the car, I was happy to my toes. While that little grocery had perhaps not seen the like of us and our camper before, the welcome and polite responses to my bumbling questions took my breath much as the beautiful sunset did later at our campsite.