LOUISIANA AND PARTS NORTH
Bidding
farewell to the wonderful cajun people, I bailed out of
Louisiana, and cruised north into
Mississippi. Ya know what? That is a beautiful place! I kept thinking I was
going to be surrounded by booger-eating morons, but it just didn’t happen. I
really enjoyed it there, and liked the terrain very much.
Just for ducks, I stopped at a little Southern Baptist church way, way out in the sticks. I'd harbored this long-standing notion of attending a church service in the smallest of southern towns, and I wanted to fulfill that. It was mid-week, so a full-blown service wasn't going to happen. Regardless, I wanted to see the world of the "hellfire and damnation" environment of a backwoods congregation, and sample Mississippi evangelism.
Heading down a back road one day, I came to a church that—in my eyes—represented the epitome of that; a tiny building nestled in the trees. I coasted to a stop outside the front door and eyeballed the place. The church was a dilapidated structure, badly in need of repair. The clapboard siding was in sad shape, and the sign proclaiming its association with a Supreme Being was written by hand on a piece of plywood nailed to the side of the church. I felt out of place sitting there; a Northwest boy in the heart of the Bible-thumping south.
The doors were unlocked, so I walked inside. Sweat was dripping in my eyes, and the air was like a heavy weight on my body and in my lungs. I had a bandana on my head to stifle the sweat, but it wasn't cutting it. The bandana and my gray tank top gave me a "biker" look. I didn't know if it was appropriate to enter a place of worship that way, but I did anyway. The place was completely silent, save the sound of an AM radio down at the business end of the church. There was an open door there, so I headed that way. Tentatively poking my head inside, I saw the Pastor sitting there deep in study. I stood there for a very long time not knowing exactly what to say. He didn't notice me, and kept writing furiously on his yellow notepad; the sermon for next Sunday, perhaps. I accidentally made a noise, and he looked up, his "Buddy Holly" glasses reflecting pictures of Jesus on the far wall. "Hello, thea" he said in a deep southern accent. I was embarrassed that he caught me watching on him.
I felt like a complete idiot all of a sudden, and was at a loss for words. I was completely removed from my normal world, and a clear outsider in his. I stammered out something like, "Hi there. My name is Dan, and I live in Washington State. I was driving down the road outside, and saw your church. I'm sorry if I disturbed you, but I wanted to pull in and just say hello". I stared at my feet as they shuffled around; it was like I was asking a girl out to the junior prom. He sat there for a couple of seconds looking at me, his face expressionless. After an uncomfortably long time, his shiny bald head slowly rolled back, and he let out the biggest laugh I've heard in my adult life. It was a warm, genuinely sincere laugh, and I was compelled to laugh along.
He extended his hand--rough and calloused from hard work doing something--and said, "Well Dan, welcome to ma church, an' welcome ta Miss-a-sip'-a". "Thank you sir, it's a pleasure to be here" I said, immediately soothed by his demeanor. "What brings you ta this neck of the woods, son?" he asked. I sat down on the worn, wooden chair next to his desk and tried to figure out an answer. The chair made that squeaky noise that old wooden chairs make. The sound sent me back to Kindergarten when I had to sit on that same chair; I’d pushed another kid into the Elementary school girls bathroom during recess one morning. A trip to the Principals office was the end result of that little prank. I’d sat in that same wooden chair hearing my sentence doled out, and heard the same squeak as I shuffled uncomfortably in the Principals court. The noise was exactly the same now, but I wasn’t in trouble this time. That was a good thing, I reasoned.
After that little sojourn into my past, I mentally popped back into the little church office and continued my visit. I noticed that it smelled different in there. Not bad different, just different. I imagined that the smell was only foreign to me. A regular wouldn't have noticed. They'd have probably noticed me however, and thought I smelled funny. Such is life away from home.
"Well, I don't have any good reason to be here, I just wanted to pop in and see what the inside of a tiny southern Baptist church looked like. I'm a long way from home, and I was just kind of curious" I said. Once again, his head rolled back, and he let out this enormous laugh. "Dan, ole' buddah...the Lord brings us to many places. He brought you here for a reason. Ya'll not from 'roun heah, but by the grace of God ya'll sittin' heah talkin' to me on this wunnaful sunny day, and dey's a reason fo' dat." "I believe you're right, even thought I don't know why" I said.
At that instant, I was very glad I had stopped there, and was grateful that some notion had compelled me to do so. I write this, and I still don't know why I hung out with a rural southern Baptist pastor that spring day. My Mississippi friend will always be a snapshot in the photo gallery of my head however, and I will treasure it. Perhaps years will pass before I know why I went there. Life is funny that way.
I bashed north some more into Kentucky and Tennessee, but the weather slayed me. There were severe thunderstorms and tornado watch boxes all around me. I stayed one night out in the middle of nowhere--Bumpis Mills, I think--in my tent and listened to the scratchy forecasts and weather warnings on my trusty little radio. The warnings are issued by county, but I had no idea what county I was in. I tried to figure out what I’d do if a tornado hit; no civilization close by to run to, no real idea where I was, and only a tent and a Jeep with a vinyl top for protection. I stayed awake all night that night. All I needed was Toto in a wicker basket on my mental bicycle to complete the picture.
I found out the next day that a town near to where I was staying got clobbered by a tornado. One would figure that an approaching funnel cloud--with its insatiable appetite for trashing things--would be evident. I never suspected that all that damage was happening just one map line over. I’d always entertained the fantasy of being a tornado chaser; observing the wrath of Mother Nature from a well instrumented SUV capturing atmospheric data, videotape, and experiences courtesy of ill-tempered storm systems safely distant. With no resources, no relevant meteorological information, and faced with a very real possibility that some nasty crud was heading my way, the romance was lost out there in the middle of nowhere. At that point, I was just alone, scared, and very aware of my vulnerability. That's the stuff that keeps one awake at night.
After that, I pointed the Jeep West for the trip home. I stayed in motels so I could pay attention to where the bad weather and storms were courtesy of "The Weather Channel". Spring weather was being a true beast on the trek home, and I wasn’t intending to hang out in that world if I could help it. I skirted south of the bad weather for the most part, but it followed me; it knew what I was up to. I stayed in Bossier City, Louisiana one night, and the next night they got popped. I'm glad I wasn't there. I'd had enough excitement in that place the night before: Here's what I remember;
I made it a habit of filling up my gas tank as a last task whenever I stopped somewhere for the night. That way, I could just get going in the morning with a full tank. On the night in question I'd pulled into a "CITGO" gas station on the outskirts of town. I swiped my card, started the pump, and walked in to get something to munch on. I was greeted by the hairiest old woman I have ever seen. I don't want to be judgmental or mean-spirited, but whoa...I was truly amazed. She looked like Sasquatch.
Her cohort was a guy in his twenties with no front teeth and a forehead that sloped back at about a 30 degree angle. He had on a "Molly Hatchet" T-shirt and blue jeans that had fresh blood stains on them. Now I'm a pretty scary looking guy; I can frighten small children at a distance of 100 yards. They don't build 'em much dumber and uglier than me. I felt like a model next to this pair though. As I was paying for my "sodey pop", I heard a metallic clanking sound; something hitting the floor behind the counter. Sasquatch looked down, then over at Sloping Head and said "Aw, dammit T-Ray, pick up that gun ya toothless fool!" I almost fell over.
T-Ray obediently bent down and picked up the gun. He held it up, looked at me, and smiled a triumphant, albeit toothless grin. He seemed pretty proud of his accomplishment. I could see the tips of the bullets in the visible part of the gun; the revolver was loaded. It was a real bummer to realize that the mental giant not three feet away was getting a real thrill out of holding that gun, and I was a potential target. The bloodstains on his pants assumed great importance about then.
The theme song to "Deliverance" was playing softly in the background over the mini-mart music system. I took that as a bad thing. I looked at Sasquatch, and she smiled. I figured that was a good thing. One plus, one minus, so I was breaking even. I tried not to look at the little bit of drool running down her lower lip. T-Ray had started softly laughing, and was fixating on the gun; he kept turning it over and over in his hand and quietly talking to it. Have you ever seen how the hapless character "Gomer Pyle" treats his rifle before he blew his brains out in Stanley Kubricks film "Full Metal Jacket"? Welcome to my world that warm spring night.
I've never had any real clear direction in life, and I've never known what my future held. I knew at that instant in time however, that I was never going to live in Bossier City, Louisiana.