A Whirlwind in the Delta

“They’re the drinkingest people I ever saw.” My table companions, two mixed marriages of Delta-born husbands and “foreign” brides (from Montgomery and central Mississippi), were discussing the various distinctive traits of the Delta’s people. “But why are Delta people so wild?” one of the women asked. “Why are y’all so boring?” her husband replied. 

This interaction encapsulated the Delta I’d been trying to figure out—a land of big personalities and minimal terrain, that cranks out writers and musicians with the regularity and precision of the industry it lacks, and, most immediately relevant, a land where people say, “Oh, there really isn’t much to do around here” and then rattle off a list of museums, restaurants, and other destinations that makes you start rooting around for a pen. The Delta loves to write, sing, holler, eat, drink, and talk about itself, and since we have most of those in common I decided to just dive in, let the Delta wash over me for thirty-six hours, and see what I made of these ultra-mythic grounds.

The next morning, I hopped out of bed in my B & B in Benoit, Mississippi (about twenty miles north of Greenville), and drove hell-for-leather for Clarksdale, a little over an hour up toward Tennessee. Clarksdale’s most fantastic claim to fame is as the site of the crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil for the blues. I had decided in the car that I wasn’t going to go to any museums on my whirlwind Delta day—I love to learn, especially in a relatively quiet climate-controlled environment, so ordinarily I’m a museum fiend (if such a thing exists), but I figured the hours I would spend in museums would be better spent frantically exploring. 

[Looking for another musically minded getaway? Read "The Shoals"]

I parked in downtown Clarksdale to look around. The Delta, with its love of the past and apparent reluctance to tear anything down, has emerged as a treasury of beautiful vintage fonts on buildings, which I relished as I wandered around downtown looking for breakfast. I found myself at the Bluesberry Café, which at 9:30 or so in the morning already had live music going in the form of Mick Kolassas, a guitarist and singer who alternated covers and originals with winning patter on each song. Nothing is harder than performing for a small audience, but Kolassas gave the approximately eight of us diner-listeners a casually stellar performance to remember. (The pork chop breakfast special I worked my way through as he sang was no slouch, either.) Note that it’s cash-only here; I had to go down the block and walk through a credit union drive-thru to pay.

Having fed body and soul, my final priority in Clarksdale was to see the famous Devil’s Crossroads, where Johnson made his unearthly bargain—I’m well past the fateful age of 27 and reasonably good at what I do, so I was curious what offers I might get. The crossroads, at the old junction of Highways 49 and 61, is now within Clarksdale (even Old Scratch has to handle zoning changes) is… just a crossroads, but it’s worth stopping and taking a picture of the marker. (An older sign beneath it, from the ‘30s, includes this charming description of Clarksdale: “…justly proud of its libraries.”) The crossroads also features Abe’s Barbecue; I’m told their barbecue is good, but I was there to have my first Delta hot tamales. It was a struggle to fit them in after my breakfast, but I managed. They were twins in texture to the Mexican tamales I’d eaten growing up, but richer in flavor—a finger-lickin’ blasphemy, but there it is.

The Delta loves to write, sing, holler, eat, drink, and talk about itself, and since we have most of those in common I decided to just dive in, let the Delta wash over me for thirty-six hours, and see what I made of these ultra-mythic grounds.

After Clarksdale, it was down the road to Merigold, home of the much-recommended McCarty’s Pottery. I almost turned right around and got back on the highway when I got to the little town, because it’s dotted with signs that say “This town is under surveillance by the mayor and aldermen of Merigold” and are about as welcoming as an armed guard, but I’m glad I pressed on. The studio, opened by a husband and wife in the early 1950s, focuses on simple, elegant ceramics in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, including small tumblers labeled as “gin and tonic glasses.” (I believe you can drink a gin and tonic out of anything, but it’s good branding.) Behind the studio is a cozy yet surprisingly expansive garden, which even given the heat was a lovely place to stretch my road-weary legs, take a few deep breaths, and admire flitting dragonflies before hitting the road again. 

My next stop was the Winterville Mounds. This Native American site is the focus of new conservation, restoration, and interpretive efforts, but even with those not yet completed, the mounds are staggering, with the largest of the dozen surviving mounds within the site reaching over five stories—all of this apparently built by people simply carrying baskets of earth and packing it down with their feet. (They must have gotten bored, but the result is extremely impressive.) A museum tells visitors what’s known of the people who used this site as a ceremonial center; they were probably predecessors of the Natchez, but as is so often the case, we cannot be sure.

And then I was off to Arkansas. One of my tablemates the previous night had told me that in Lake Village, just across the river from Greenville along Mississippi’s Lake Chicot, a lady sold handmade pasta. That sounded right up my alley, so I was off across the river to Regina’s Pasta Shop, where I scooped up a pair of small bags of angelhair, one pesto-flavored and one spicy. I was warned that the spicy one was hot, but that “even women come in and buy it.” Gorgeous views of the lake from the nearby Arkansas Welcome Center were an extra treat.  The village is somewhat of a tourist spot in its own right, offering outdoor adventures on clear, pretty Lake Chicot.

By the time I got back to Greenville, it was almost time for dinner, so I treated myself to an ice cream cone from Downtown Butcher and Mercantile before briefly attempting to take a walk around downtown Greenville. I melted even faster than the ice cream in the July heat, so I retreated to Delta Brewing Supply for a pre-dinner drink. This homebrew supply store offers a handful of local brews on tap and an attractive selection of canned and bottled beers, many of which are available as loosies or ingredients in a build-your-own-six-pack. I asked for a recommendation and was given the porter by local brewers Mighty Miss. Malty but not heavy, it cooled me right off, and as I nursed it I listened to the conversations around me; it quickly became apparent that most of the eight or so people in there with me had gone to high school together, so I have some good gossip about people I’m unlikely to meet.

I hit the Downtown Grille for dinner, a newish upscale spot. The house punch comes in two “flavors,” light and dark—I tried both, in the interest of journalistic integrity, and can recommend either with a clear—nay, enthusiastic conscience. I made a satisfying meal of the fried green tomatoes with remoulade appetizer, then took a valiant stab at the delicious bread pudding, rich but not heavy and wonderfully saucy. I lied and said I’d have the leftovers for breakfast, but of course, they did not make it through the night.

[On your way, see what there is to do when "Goin' to Jackson"]

I was excited to get back to my room, one of two refurbished sharecropper cabins rented out to guests behind the Baby Doll House, so named for the Tennessee Williams shockeroo filmed there (the movie, an on-brand exploration of sexual obsession and bad real estate decisions, spurred the popularity of the baby-doll nightgown). The house has been refurbished by Eustace Winn, a descendant of early owners, and his wife Claire, and is now a popular venue for weddings. The cottage I stayed in came complete with animal heads on the wall (courtesy of Winn’s hunting prowess) and a record player with a stack of vinyl, and was so cozy I wished I’d had an entire day to loaf in it. I spent a relaxed evening listening to some blues, reading Charles Frazier’s new novel Varina about Mississippi gal and Confederate First Lady Varina Davis (look for a review next month!), and, sooner rather than later, getting into my leftover bread pudding. I needed to build up strength for the long drive tomorrow.

If you go: The Delta is very decentralized, so a car is a must. It took me five not-terribly-intense hours to get to Benoit from New Orleans; leaving from Baton Rouge will take about the same time or a bit less. It’s very easy to make Jackson or Vicksburg on the way, and it’s not much of a stretch to push on to Memphis, so you could certainly incorporate some Delta hijinks into a broader adventure.

The major towns in the Delta (Greenville, Cleveland, Clarksdale) all have hotel and motel options, as well as a small smattering of B&Bs and boutique hotels. There are also a handful of riverfront casinos along the way with attached hotels.