Well past midnight and the moon is near full. As we cross the Mississippi River from Arkansas on Highway 49 the fog is rising off the river and will soon envelop the entire area, I suppose. The cotton fields look eerily snow covered, the bright moonlight reflecting off the fluffy balls awaiting harvest. The fields appear to need some rest, just as I do.
Twenty or so miles to go to an awaiting bed in Clarksdale. Trying to stay awake now. B.B. King’s Bluesville blaring on the radio reminding me I am entering hallowed ground, the birthplace of the Blues and much of American music. Many come, as I have, to trace the roots of America’s music and follow the Blues Trail through the Mississippi Delta and beyond.
What’s that up ahead on the right? A wide spot in the road, a place to pull over and stretch. Yes! Out of the mist appears Ligon’s Store, replete with dozens of nostalgic soda pop signs, quite a contrast to the nearby glitz and glitter of the casinos, an unfortunate blight along the river. The parking lot is empty, the place deserted, the BBQ smoker out front, now cool. I stretch and walk around Ligon’s for a few minutes, then move on.
I am happy; my day is about over. The pigs are happy; they’ve avoided becoming pulled pork for another day.
When I was in the country and I was trying to play, nobody seemed to pay too much attention to me. People used to say, ‘That’s just that ole blues singer.’
___B. B. King