Chapter 30 Welcome to Mississippi, a Jerk, A Gentleman Farmer

I planned to cross the bridge to Mississippi the evening before but decided to wait until a quiet Sunday morning the next day.  It was one of those old long narrow ones that had no bike lane. It was a good strategy, traffic was light and the crossing went smoothly.  The first thing you see in Mississippi are the large casinos strategically placed to lured in residents of casino free Arkansas.  I had eaten sparingly the day before due to the overpriced festival food.  Fifteen bucks got me into the casino brunch buffet.  I started with a slice of pecan pie, moved on to a 3 egg omelette, a slab of ham, working my way through nearly every offering and finished with bread pudding.  It was a money losing proposition for the casino. Despite my late start, I was refueled and ready to go.  Today was indeed a rare alignment of several factors that led to the highest mileage day of the trip thus far.  A long awaited north wind had finally vanquished the 90 degree days.  It was to my back pushing me along, this has happened only 3 days since I started. The road was flat as a table and straight to the horizon. A nice wide shoulder and little Sunday traffic free of giant cotton hauling trucks. I clocked over 52 miles before sunset. About half way into my sprint, I have my first encounter that was less than cordial on this trip.  I had just fought off some guy's mongrel dog in a small town along the highway.  I was blocks down the road when his pick up comes roaring out of the driveway and pulls alongside me clearly upset that I had not allowed his dog to attach himself to my leg.  He was pretty much a human version of his scrawny mongrel himself except he had somehow taught himself to drive a pick up truck. While frothing at the mouth, he claimed I injured his dog (false), damaged his truck  (never saw it till now), that he was going to call the sheriff, that he was taking me  to court, that he had a witness etc.  He was going to "follow my ass" I guess all the way to the courthouse.   I ignored him and switched to the other shoulder forcing him to drive in the lane of oncoming traffic to keep up his tirade. He kept having to swerve out of the way.  After about 3 blocks he turned around and I never saw him again.  Welcome to Mississippi.

A house in Friars point had the ultimate lawn ornament:
A Mark 5 Stuart tank. Early WWII.  The german tanks were
 vastly superior and the Stuart was replaced by the more familiar
Sherman Tank.

Cotton is king in the Delta

The country side I am now traveling through is indeed flat. It is truly the flood plain of the Mississippi Delta. The road is slightly higher than the dirt fields on each side.  The harvest here is finished and the ground turned over.  I can see across the fields to a line of trees 2 or 3 miles off on one side and the levee off the other side.  The trees along the Mississippi peek above beyond.  I admit its pretty boring here but the cycling is easy.  I stopped in a little town called Friar's Point.  It's claim to fame is as the birthplace of Conway Twitty.  I read all the plaques to fill in my blank slate on his life. 

  Hours after the mongrel episode exactly the opposite happened.   I was trying to get to Rosedale, MS a town big enough to scratch up something to eat before dark.  About 3 miles out of town a silver town car pulls alongside and the driver yells out to me if I am heading for Rosedale. I sure am.           " Where are you staying?"  I haven't got a clue.  "Hey, I am one of those 'warm baths' guys."  He gives me directions and 20 minutes later meets me at the edge of town to escort me to his house. Will Guerly is a gregarious, larger than life kind of guy.  His home is a comfortable brick rambler with a trio of noisy barking dogs that provide security.  The same kind I have to fend off each day.  Murphy is clearly uneasy about his new pack but Will keeps a lid on them and they leave him be after a thorough smell down.  I am soon set up in my own bedroom and start a most interesting evening of activities.  Will is determined to educate me about southern ways and life as he sees it.  We start with cold beer (Bud light what else) then he moves on to large ice filled glasses of bourbon.  Several.  Enough to lay me out had I joined him. He gets louder and more expressive with each glass.  Tonight happens to be the second presidential debate.  I am not surprised to learn he is a die hard Trump supporter.  Nearly everyone in the rural south is. Everytime Donald opens his mouth Will cheers and hollers his approval.  I am pretty sure he has no problem with the groping business and Trump could had landed a punch on Hillary's nose to his approval. 
Strangely, he quickly loses interest and we are off to find some chicken dinners.  It's dark and we pile into his car to drive to a thankfully close chicken outlet.  I figured we had an even chance of returning with chicken as ending up in the ditch.  He later tells me his wife left him 36 years ago.  I guess its no mystery why.  We spend the rest of the evening listening to his blues music collection while he sings along. I am suddenly exhausted and suggest an early bedtime for me.  Later that night I hear some seriously loud crashes and bumps.  I am wondering what I will find in the morning.


Will Guerly at home in his office

The next day he is bright and chipper and a different person.  We enjoy the morning together and he fills me in on local history and his personal travels and family.  He is a successful soybean farmer, owns 2000 acres and rents 500 more.  I asked him what he would do today.  He told me he was going to pay off his one million dollar crop planting loan from the sale of his harvested beans. That is a pretty sizable annual gamble.  He was expecting to reap a $200,000 profit.  Enough to last him a year. 

David and Juana

He calls his Mexican housekeeper, Juana in the morning who comes over and rustles up a fine breakfast to send me off.   I am probably 7 miles out of town when Will roars up in his white pick up.  He hands me some locally produced peanuts, he has a cooler of ice cold beer and peels off 4 for the road.  He gives me a final run down of what to look for in the next 30 miles. A memorable guy I won't soon forget.

Nearly all The small towns in Mississippi I pass are really
struggling to stay alive.  A more apt slogan might have been
"Hanging on by a thread" but that may have been too pessimistic.

The Gunnison elementary School.

The Gunnison Gas Station.