The Mississippi and Me...

It’s the River of Twain, Huck Finn and a raft, paddleboats, and more. It’s been a theme in a million songs and at least one style of music, Mississippi Delta blues, has emerged from her fertile basin south of where I stand today. “The Mississippi delta …shining like National guitar….said Paul Simon. Yesterday the river itself was shining, more like a burning bush than a guitar, but Ill take it.
The sun was beginning to drop as I ended my run through the gauntlet that was Poplar Avenue in Memphis. Perhaps I shouldn’t listen to everything that everyone says, but in this case I pretty much had, and enough people had warned me of the violence in Memphis that I basically had worked myself into a tizzy about it and I even pondered catching a ride out of thee over to West Memphis, Arkansas. I did not, though, and am better for it. Some things need to be experienced. And all things are relative. I found Poplar Street, and Memphis, to be a mix of the erudite and the plain. Rich neighborhoods turned into poor ones with no warning and then back to rich again, with only the quality of the roads and sidewalks as a guide. Bill McKenzie had mentioned the Union Street Mission where a room and a bed could be had, and I set it as a goal, to stay a night in a mission with truly homeless people, not to necessarily write about it but to see what it was like. So many of us take a bed and meal for granted, and I’ve been lucky to never have had to experience either for more than a meal, or a day at most. I was actually almost looking forward to staying there, but when I arrived the man at the window told me that I could not bring my cart in with me. Now, in my cart are things that I can live without if need be, extra clothing, some books, and so on, and that would be like gold to someone who was really homeless, but the cart itself has no way to be secured, and I need, the cart, so I had to opt out of staying at the mission.
Above I mentioned that all things are relative. Having lived in New York, and Hartford, violent places at times, the threat level felt very ,very low as I walked through Memphis. Im not naïve, and know it’s a rough place, at night probably almost unbearable in spots, but in the light of day, with a nice breeze and a lot of springtime things going on, ballgames, parties and barbecues, it looked, sounded and smelled like a beautiful day, and it was.
After realizing that the mission was not an option, I decided to get out of Memphis. I was going to wait til morning to cross the big river, but with the bridge less than a half mile away, and the sun still up a bit, I decided to bid Memphis, and Tennessee, adieu.
At the entrance to the bridge there is a full scale pyramid, made of glass and metal. It’s purpose: to show the connection between Memphis, Egypt and Memphis, Tennessee. I did not know this. While walking along with my cart, towards the ramp onto the bridge, with the pyramid in my left eye’s sight the whole time, I asked a woman who was walking my way, “There is a pyramid here why?” She lowered her head, looked at me over the top of her DIOR glasses, clutched her 500 dollar handbag a little closer, and informed the stupid homeless guy of the Egypt/Tennessee connection. And she never missed a step in her 300 dollar heels. Thanks, lady! Hope I didn’t inconvenience you.
On the bridge, a busy and noisy span that is around one and a half miles across (The bridges across the Hudson River seem longer to me, and to be honest, the Hudson seems much more majestic than this muddy old stream here) I was blown around and shaken by trucks that just blasted past. The surface of the road is not macadam, but a concrete mix with lines running left to right for water drain off, I guess, and the combination makes any tire rolling on it seem ten times louder than it usually is on a macadam road. I walked tightly to the right side where there is a three foot shoulder of sorts and took pictures as I went. For as long as I can remember seeing the Mississippi in all its glory has been a dream of mine, and now I was walking over it, and at a time when the huge floods in the area have given the river a bad name of sorts, with its levels higher than any time in the past 500 years. It really did feel special, and despite the noise, and the thousands of cars and trucks zooming by, I felt alone in the wind and noise.
Until…an Arkansas State trooper pulled up behind me, a mere two hundred or so feet from the end of the bridge in Arkansas. He pulled me over, so to speak, and with no humor at all in his voice asked me for ID. I gave it to him as he informed me that there were signs posted telling me that no walking on the bridge was permitted. I had not seen any signs, truly, but they might have been there. I was too busy taking photos and being amazed at the Mississippi River to notice any little manmade signs.
The trooper, who could have passed for Cee Lo Greens thinner twin brother, told me to continue walking to the end of the bridge while he ran my ID. I did so, and he slowly followed me to the safer area a couple hundred feet away. With reassurance that I was not wanted for any crimes, he let me go on my way with a warning to not walk on the bridge again. I thanked him and said goodbye, offering my hand for a handshake, mano a mano. He declined, saying,and I quote “I don’t shake hands.,If someone sees it they might think Im taking a bribe.” This got a big laugh out of me, but the humorless bastard was not joking.
He left and pulled into a weigh station just ahead. There he disappeared into a building alongside the highway. I walked on, and as I passed the building a loudspeaker came on that was incredibly loud, louder than the trucks. “C’MON, WALK FASTER. YOU GOTTA WALK FASTER IF YOURE GONNA GET TO CALIFORNIA. COME ON HUP TWO THREE FOUR HUP TWO THREE FOUR!”
Turns out that the humorless bastard wasn’t so humorless after all. I had made it across the Mississippi river of my dreams. Welcome to Arkansas.
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