Delta Debut

Yesterday I used a firearm for the first time in my life!

My summer roomy, Zed, drove me down this weekend to meet his wife and see his house in Leland, which is about 30 miles south of Cleveland. Actually it was not really very clear to me beforehand for some reason, but the other purpose for my presence on this trip apparently was to help Zed & wifey move. I primarily agreed in order to get out of Oxford and see the Delta for the first time. Another classmate, JD, also came along with us, largely in order to go house hunting. He and I got into a heated debate over Mexican immigration on the way down, which was rudely interrupted (haha!) every now and then by Zed pointing out and explaining the various cotton gins and other agricultural curiosities we passed along the way.

Anyway, after a number of large pieces of furniture had been carried by the ex-offensive lineman and I from the old house to the slightly nicer house with central air next door—not to mention JD had edged out another classmate (unbeknownst to her) for the house across the street—Zed cracked his huge goofy smile and asked if we were ready to go shooting. He quickly gave us a 5-minute crash-course on how to load and unload the shotguns, how to aim, and (most importantly) how to set the safety on or off. Then off we go in his (rather pimpin' it must be said) '87 Chevy Caprice. Just before leaving, Zed casually mentioned, "I hope no one calls the sheriff on us." So of course, that gets me thinking, "Oh, @&*#! What have I gotten myself into?" But we are practically already cruising down the road at this point, so I just keep quiet and hope for the best. We take a turn off the main highway, and drive for perhaps a mile, until we come to a bridge over a large, brown, turgid creek. Pretty much just your typical bridge on your typical country road in the smack middle of your typical cotton-growing South. Zed stops the car, and I dutifully pile boxes in my arms containing orange skeet targets and shot gun ammo.

The first report was shockingly loud. After that and after the first couple cars drove by, returning Zed’s friendly wave, my nervousness subsided a bit and I even ventured to try one shot at a branch sticking out of the water. Then it was JD’s turn, and even Zed, who has a deer skull named Stanley peering morbidly over his living room, advised him not to shoot the turtle he was aiming at--which to be fair did look a lot like a small piece of wood floating down the creek. I was still a little bit nervous at this point, and I felt a strong urge to stand about 20 yards behind the person who held the gun. This created an interesting sensation when another car would pass by every now and then, because of course I had to stand even with the shooter in order to stand aside for the car. After I started to get the hang of flinging clay targets over the water with a plastic throwing arm, I finally decided to take a shot at the moving targets. After about 3 or 4 attempts, I finally got the hang of holding the gun against my raised shoulder and looking down the sights so that the little red light sat right between the two little green lights. I said “Pull!” and somehow managed to follow the arching orange disk with my sight and pull the trigger appropriately. The orange round thing shattered into a very satisfying shower of very much littler orange things, and Zed, feeling very proud of having taught me to be a real Southern man, congratulated me with a big high-five. It was a very thrilling moment, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I was done for the day. A few empty shells later, JD had also hit his first target, and we packed it up.

Today, after the others got back from church and we were sufficiently nourished with hamburgers and Cokes, we drove out a short way to a tiny town(?) called Holly Ridge for a free blues jam. As soon as we got there, I knew I had really arrived in THE Mississippi Delta. At a quiet crossroads, an ancient grocery store with one ancient gas pump was the center of attention. A small crowd of surprisingly mixed race and age were standing around and seated across the road from the store, in front of which a casually seated old black man called “Model T” Ford would occasionally take a break from his blues guitar jamming for “Jack Daniels time.” Not long after we got ourselves comfortable with cans of Budweiser under a tree for shade, a large group of black middle-aged motorcyclists thundered up and rumbled slowly, ostentatiously past us before parking in echelon across the way. The music was pretty good. The scene was priceless. Old women danced suggestively around the drummer while white folks with a New Jersey Devils hat ate boiled crawfish and motorcyclists with black leather vests and bare brown bellies stood around with their arms folded, smiling. It was the smack middle of a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in rural Mississippi, and it seemed impossible not to feel happy.