Big Country Little Car Tour, Day 7
I had about a half dozen different days in one on Monday, starting off at the National Civil Rights Museum. I’d forgotten Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, and the museum is on the site of the motel where that occurred. Approaching it on a sunny morning, the plaza around it nearly empty, nothing going on but birds, is unsettling; on top of that, having visited Graceland the day before and then, for whatever reason, selecting an oral-history biography of RFK as my bedtime reading the night before, I had alternate realities on my mind — what that world is like in which any or all of these men got to get old.
The museum itself is, put simply, oppressive. It’s laid out well given the sheer volume of material, but then: the sheer volume of material. I got so angry. Just let James Meredith go to fucking school, and if you don’t want to hang out with him, don’t fucking hang out with him! How hard is this? That aspect of racism is just baffling to me — not that I “get” any of the other aspects, but leaving the (im-)morality of going to these harassing lengths aside, don’t racists have anything better to do? TV to watch? Jobs to go to? Card game? Something? I mean, there’s the crappy beliefs themselves, and then there’s living in the room above the dude and bouncing a basketball on the floor for hours at a time so that he can’t concentrate on studying. I don’t mean to make light of it, but: get a life, racists, Jesus H.
I stormed out to the car, exhausted, and the road out of Memphis into Mississippi didn’t help my mood much; for much of the way, it’s flat, straight as a string, with no turn-offs and not much to look at besides casino billboards. After a while, I decided the hell with it — I need coffee, I like blackjack, and my mood needs changing up.
Into Bally’s in Tunica I went, promptly dropping the average age within by about 40 years. Blackjack in Tunica is dealt more informally than in Atlantic City, which took getting used to, and my mood wasn’t the only one in need of an adjustment — our dealer, Dorothy, was Frisbee-ing the cards at us like a sullen Bond girl. She did favor me with a handful of twenty-ones, though, and I left up $45 and made my way to Greenville and the McCormick Book Inn, where the owner offered me coffee, and waited until I’d already purchased a book about the 1927 flood to tell me everything the author had fouled up (he’d spent the bulk of my browsing time on the telephone, chasing down evidence on the same subject). It’s a welcoming store, and the coffee is delish, but while the owner is nice, do not get him started on Rising Tide.
The rest of the afternoon I spent either driving aimlessly around Greenville — a postcard town, at sixes and sevens in some areas, in which pothole repair is not a priority — or reading Shelby Foote’s book about Vicksburg in a sunny parking lot. Three different people stopped to make sure I was all right, which is very sweet, and then couldn’t get their heads around the response, “Just reading a book.”I’ll grant that a lunchbox with pedals containing a big blonde with her feet up, reading a Civil War history, is perhaps not an ordinary sight, but I got the feeling the bafflement proceeded primarily from the reading part. Do any other readers get that from well-meaning strangers, or even acquaintances and friends — confusion at the idea that you read when you don’t have to, when it’s not for school or out of desperation, that they want to ask, “But what the hell would you do that for?” but somehow knowing they shouldn’t?
Then I went to Doe’s Eat Place to meet friends of a friend. That place is awesome (I’ve had apartments smaller than a single shrimp on my plate last night) and so are the friends, who politely weathered the “I haven’t seen anyone I know personally in three days; I will now share some thoughts” gale.
It didn’t feel that late when I got on the road again (…okay, it may have taken some time for me to stuff myself into the car), but going to Monroe, only the moon kept me company. Wait, that’s not true: I did have a nice visit with the entire staff of a McDonald’s in Arkansas. The employee at the first drive-through window, where I paid, tipped everyone at the second window to the incoming motorized M&M, and when I pulled up to grab my coffee, it looked like a phone-booth frat prank in there, all the night-shifters crammed around the window to take a look. “Evening, folks.” “…Awwww!” Into Louisiana, I drank coffee and listened to Bob Dylan’s country album and thought about trips home from Grandma’s as a tiny sprout, when I would sternly tell the moon to stop following our car, and I was glad she hadn’t listened.
Tags: Big Country Little Car Tour Bob Dylan Campbell Doe's Eat Place Elvis Presley friends games James Meredith Martin Luther King Jr. McCormick Book Inn Robert F. Kennedy Shelby Foote tiny + cute = leverage travel untimely demises
When it’s a night my husband isn’t going to be home, I always stop at the same restaurant (awesome sushi at fabulously low prices), whip out my latest book, and have an enjoyable time eating and reading at the bar.
And even though I’ve been there, oh, 100 times in the past year alone, it never fails that at least one of the regulars will make a comment about me being the resident reader. But it is nice in its own way to be greated with “whatcha reading tonight?” from the bartender as soon as I walk in.
The Civil Rights Museum. Yes, the Birmingham bus. Yes, the lunch counter. Indeed, there was information overload, but the experience was gripping. I was at a convention in Memphis and signed up for a bus trip to the museum — without, um, realizing it was housed in the motel where MLK was killed. It wasn’t until I was rushing through the last few rooms of the museum to make it back to the bus tour that I finally realized “where” I was. Oh, look at that. A motel room from the 60’s. Why’d they put that in? I get it, they’ve recreated Dr. King’s room. And…the balcony. Wait. Wait. It was here.
Still processing the realization that I was on the spot where Dr. King was shot, I raced for the bus. The newspaper headline in the stand outside was that James Earl Ray had died in prison — so I know I was there on April 23, 1998.
When I visited in 1998 I was impressed by the focus on the shared struggle for civil rights (with some space devoted to civil rights struggles in other areas of the world). I went back a couple of years ago after the expansion across the street opened. I did find it creepy to walk through the flop-house where Ray stayed, and found the assassination information hard to take, though very extensive and balanced. I live in Dallas and have never visited the JFK assassination museum here because I just don’t want to experience the emotions I’m sure it would evoke.
Re: The street booth across from the Civil Rights Museum: I spent quite a bot of time talking with the woman there when I visited. It is my underdtasnding she used to live in the hotel when it was still functional and provided housing for many very poor persons – mostly African Americans – and empoyment for the same. When it was decided to spend millions of dollars to turn the hotel into a museum the poor persons who lived there were displaced; the workers were laid off – many being forced to the streets. She was one of them and has dedicated her life to making people aware of the fact that the museum was built on the backs of some very poor African Americans; an idea she feels Martin Luther King never would have tolerated. I think the mueum is very well done and informative, but at the same time I do understand what the protesting woman is saying. There’s also some organization – “Keep the Dream Alive” if I remember correctly – that promotes the cause.
I read walking the mile to & from middle school, except those days I stopped at the library on the way home and had so many books to carry that I couldn’t read and walk at the same time. I read in class, and walking between classes, and in the lunch line, where people would come up to me and time how quickly I could read a page to see if the rumors were true. I AM the Girl Who Reads All The Time, who takes herself out to eat alone with a good book, whose favorite mommy times are when we’re all piled on the sofa reading together (oh, the day the littlest one got proficient enough to read on his own!), who chooses audiobooks we’ll all like to listen to on road trips. I listen to books all day at work. My bedside table overfloweth. It’s possible I’m the reason no one in Texas looks at other people reading by choice alone, since they’ve seen me at it for the past 40 years. (Yes, in my crib. Mom had three other little kids to deal with – just stick some books in Melanie’s crib and you could leave her alone for hours.)
If anyone looks at me oddly, apparently I’m too stuck in the text to notice.
@Barbara: simple in design, inexpensive to buy; I couldn’t live without it. I first found them years ago in Barnes & Noble, but they stopped carrying them. Then I tracked the manufacturer down and found I could get it through Highsmith (a library supplier), but they don’t have it anymore either. But lo! I found it again here. (I tend to buy several at once. One for the car in case I’m out and about, one for the bedroom — great for reading in bed — one for the beachbag… you get the idea.)
I used to get that sometimes when I would sit in my car and read during lunch. I think it’s not the reading that confuses people, I think it’s the sitting in the car. But it was nice to know that the people where I worked cared enough to be sure I was OK.
Sars: longtime reader, proud owner of TN pens.
I used the phrase “voting adult” in a job interview. They loved it. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
I’m sure I can’t take credit for that turn of phrase, but congratulations anyway!
I get the book thing from my father-in-law, almost every time I’m “caught” reading, but his attitude is a really weird mix. Like, he gives me a “Reading, huh?” or a “You’ve got a book!?” that’s part surprise, part curiosity, and just a little bit of the judgy “You’re so weird,” stuff, but then he’ll start asking me if I like books (he knows I do), do I want more books, he’s got some books I can read, and I can’t tell if he’s serious, or kind of subtly poking fun at me, or both. I know he reads, or used to, a little – he really likes James Michener – so maybe he wants to have a conversation about it but doesn’t know how. But I can tell he kind of admires me for it, or thinks it’s a neat “quirk,” not a negative one. Like, the way people might look at Sars and her Smart Car – odd-looking, but how cool! – that’s how my father-in-law treats my book habit.
“what that world is like in which any or all of these men got to get old.” Word. Well said.
@Patricia Come on now, that’s a bit unfair- people read in the south!
One of the big promoters of reading in my life was my beloved paternal grandmother, my Dede, a retired teacher who was born, raised, and spent most of her life in Louisiana. Makes sense to me — if it’s hot and humid all the time, let’s hunker down with an iced beverage and a tome and not move too much.
@Patricia While I got that kind of static a lot in school in the dinky town I grew up in, I never get it living in the middle of Atlanta as I do now.
I think you’ve hit on something here, Patricia. I come from Maine, which is way north of the line, and I’ve gotten puzzled looks for reading in public. But not nearly as many in Portland, which is my state’s biggest city*, as in my small hometown.
One final theory: Maybe it’s a subspecies of the directive most women hear at one time or another: “Smile, honey! What do you have to look so serious about?”
* Population 64,000. OK, people from New York, stop laughing.
Sars- please tell me you’ve listened to Patty Griffin’s “Moon’s Gonna Follow Me Home”…or a title really close to that. LOVE.