Flew to Memphis just before Christmas.

The plan was for Cindy and me to spend a day there and then, on Christmas
Day, head south. A tour of the Mississippi Delta.

They say that the Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel
in Memphis and ends on Catfish Row in Vicksburg. That’s just over 200 miles
down famous Highway 61. We were gonna drive slow, poke around and see
what would happen.

De-icing in Detroit

Baggage label, Memphis

Somehow or other we ended up setting out towards a Christmas Day of desolation.
Call it an experiment. Call it foolhardy. Call me craaaazy. I was looking, I think, to
find myself in a place where the outward manifestation would reflect what I feel on
the inside, Christmas Day. A place not exactly hopeless or void of form, but certainly
forlorn. Cindy, I’m pretty sure, just wanted a holiday.

You see, I’ve never really been a fan of Christmas. It kind of reminds me of premature
ejaculation. All that build up and, whoops, it’s over. Or, at least, it’s all over but the
crying. Right?

Anyway, Christmas Day we drove from Memphis to West Memphis, Arkansas.
West Memphis is a trap, man. There are off ramps on the highway to there
where you can get off but you can’t get back on. You get stuck. Lost. You’re
nowhere.

Christmas Day, West Memphis, Arkansas

After a while we made it back to Mississippi and drove south along Highway
61 to Powell. There we crossed the bridge to Helena, Arkansas, as blown away
a town as I’ve ever seen. Vacant.

Waiting, Christmas Day, Helena, Arkansas

Main Street, Christmas Day, Helena, Arkansas

The point that day, though, was to get to Clarksdale, Mississippi, famous
for being the place where legendary blues musician Robert Johnson sold
his soul to the Devil.

Robert Johnson was a young black man, living in rural Mississippi, with a
burning desire to become a great blues musician. He was instructed to go
to the crossroads, where Highway 61 intersects Highway 49, at midnight.
There he met and made a deal with the Devil; Johnson traded his soul to
become the greatest blues musician anyone had ever heard. He recorded
a total of 30 songs in his short (27 year) life. You don’t last long when the
Devil owns your soul.

Back in the early 1930’s, when all this was taking place, these Crossroads
would have been in the country, on the edge of town. These days Clarksdale
is a bit bigger, with a weird commercial strip there. Or, at least, a small-
Mississippi-town kind of strip. A tire store, donut shop, vacant buildings, a
car wash and so on. But, if you try, you can still feel it, feel the past.

The Crossroads, Christmas Day, Clarksdale, Mississippi

I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above, have mercy now
Save poor Bob if you please.

Robert Johnson, 1934

We rolled into Clarksdale Christmas Night. The sun was setting,
everything was looking blue. I went down to the Crossroads, fell
down on my knees. Nothing. Nothing is what I wanted. Nothing is
what I expected. Nothing is what I got. This Christmas Day.

Detail, The Crossroads, Christmas Day, Clarksdale, Mississippi