Found: a cure for the blues…
It is getting harder and harder to plan family vacations. It’s getting too dad gum expensive. A recent trip to Indiana was enough to convince me that the expense of traveling is at the threshold of unattainable.
It is sad, really. Some of life’s greatest memories are found on road trips.
My very first stay in a motel was during a family trip to South Florida to visit my oldest sister, Rebecca. I must have been about 9 years old. Me, Mama, Daddy, and my middle sister, Rosey, began the trip late in the afternoon so we decided to spend the night in a motel rather than arrive late. We were driving a beautiful, black and sliver, 1960 Chevrolet. Boy, I loved that car.
US 27 South was the major artery feeding central Florida since I-10 and I-75 were under construction. As part of the old Dixie Highway, it dissected the state and was littered with fruit stands, alligator farms, souvenir shops, and family owned motels. The route began in Michigan and funneled tourist from all over the mid-west into the state. Many west and central Florida cities were nurtured by the highway since it was the fastest route into the belly of the state.
Today, when you drive US 27 through Perry, Florida, there is plenty of evidence of the highway’s former fame by the faded and deserted motels along its path.
It was getting dark when we reached Leesburg, Florida and began looking for a place to stay. We were all very excited about staying in a motel. It was a brand new adventure for me and my sister. We traveled into the city from red light to red light looking for the perfect, and most affordable, place to spend the night. Then, as if by Grace, we passed the Big Bass Motel.
“Look there Willie Mae, that’s the place for us,” my Daddy exclaimed, as he swung the car around and headed back toward the motel.
There it stood, the Big Bass Motel, with a blown-out neon “B”. It was funny. Real funny. The kind of funny that can make a kid have an accident. You just had to laugh. My Daddy was laughing, my sister was laughing, I was laughing and even my Mama was laughing while secretly hoping the sister’s at the First Assembly of God Church in Millville, Florida didn’t see us. It was kind of like cussing, after all.
There was no way my Dad was going to pass this motel without stopping. It might have been the funniest thing he ever did. So, in we pulled. One room, two vibrating beds.
I have thought about the motel a lot through the years and have often wondered how many times the owners had to fix that sign. I am sure it was a major source of delight for Leesburg’s juvenile delinquents.
I googled the “Big Bass Motel” to see if it is still around. Yep, it’s a one star motel. I am sure back then it was at least a two.
After a particularly stressful week several years ago, I woke up one Saturday morning and told my wife I was depressed and was going in search of the blues. She didn’t take me seriously even though she knew I was prone to ramble and possessed legendary impatience.
After convincing her I was going to leave without her if she didn’t get moving, she complained that she didn’t have anything packed and didn’t understand what I meant about searching for the blues.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I will figure it out on when we get on the road. And don’t worry about packing anything, I have a credit card so we can stop and buy what ever you need.”
Those were magic words because she beat me to the front seat of my truck. In fact, I think that was the fastest I had ever seen her move. I know it was the only time I had ever seen her run.
In just a matter of minutes, we were heading north on US 231.
I decided I wanted to see Hank Williams grave. I knew he was buried in Montgomery, Alabama but wasn’t sure where. As if by instinct, I drove to the state capital and near it was a very large cemetery. I saw two motor homes and decided to drive over. Sure enough, it was Hank and Audrey’s grave. As I got out of my truck, the motor homes were driving away. My wife sat in the truck and I stood there talking to ole Hank like we were best friends. I don’t know why, but it just felt right. I can’t tell you what we talked about. It was a private conversation.
As I left Montgomery, I decided to head to Memphis. A theme was starting to develop. It was Graceland or bust. We made it to Columbus, Mississippi and tried to find a room. That is when it occurred to me that it was the Forth of July weekend. I went from motel to motel until finally, a very kind and gracious motel clerk called and found a room across town.
The room was on the worst side of town and in a sad state of disrepair. We checked in and were shocked to find sand in between the sheets. There was this smell, a mixture of stale cigarette smoke, dirty socks, and cocker spaniel. The clerk brought us clean sheets but it was too late. My wife was disgusted and, at this point, as depressed as I was. At least we were now on the same page.
This single event is why (as I mentioned in a previous blog) I never leave home without an itinerary. I have since become excessively and obsessively organized about travel and insist that all rooms are pre-booked and the trip runs like clock work. But this cruise for the blues was back in my young, foolish, and unpredictable days.
We left Columbus very early and headed down the back roads to Memphis. It was 10:00 Sunday morning when we arrived and I was astonished at how many Elvis fans were already there. We did not tour the mansion, but spent a couple of hours reading comments from adoring fans written on the walls outside Graceland.
From there, we headed south down Highway One through the heart of blues country. It was easy to see how the blues grew out of the oppressive heat along the Mississippi River and miles and miles of cotton and soybean fields.
At almost every river crossing, there was a casino. Losing money in every single one of them did not help my blues. Broke, we headed on to Greenville, Mississippi, and spent the night. This time, we had no trouble finding a room.
Some of America’s best writers called Greenville home. You could feel the infusion of history and richness of culture. More than a hundred published writers live or have lived in Greenville, including Shelby Foote (one of my favorites) and Alexander Percy. Foote once said that Greenville was perfect for writing because there was “nothing else to do.” Now that I have been there, he will get no argument from me.
The next day we traveled through Yazoo City, then on to Meridian, where the famous “Father of Country Music” Jimmy Rogers was born and buried. I drove to his museum but did not go inside. It was good enough just to see the statute adorning downtown Meridian. It was Monday, July 4th and time to go home.
I searched for the blues and found a way to cure them. That road trip did more for me than any bottle of pills or 50 dollar office visits and it painted a great portrait for me to remember. Such trips always do. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it, even the sandy sheets or the hungry slots.
Of all the memories of my father, one of my favorite is a long road trip to Waco, Texas, to a funeral. Had we not taken that trip, I would have never learned all the secrets of his childhood. It is amazing how people communicate when placed in the cabin of a vehicle for long periods. It is communication in its purest form.
I hope the high cost of fuel doesn’t steal this great American experience from future generations. Planes, trains, and buses will get you where you want to go, but it is no substitute for a great road adventure and an overnight stay at the Motel 8.
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About Me
The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director
All My Entries:
- Nashville Bluegrass at IBMA
- Marty Raybon and Georgia Bluegrass
- Curse of the Acoustic Guitar
- A Millville Hero
- Bluegrass at BAMA JAM a hit!
- Bird watching not a bore
- No Poet Laureate
- Let the Bluegrass begin
- Hurry Spring
- Alabama’s Highway 52
- Cell Phone Interuptus
- Bellying up to the bar
- Resolutions are Doomed to Failure
- Bah-dad-gum-Humbug
- A hunting we will go!
- Hot Stuff!
- My new camo hat… A bargain at $34
- The Road Trip
- “If you don’t want to make the news, just don’t do it.”
- Hostage
- Not a Cat Person
- Hollywood - Here I don’t come…
- Found: a cure for the blues…
- It won’t be long…
- Not Enough Historical Markers, I say…
- Evolution takes many forms
- Revisiting Vernon
- All I know is that it’s hot…
- I Love Slocomb
- The Not-So-Casual Traveler
- The Casual Historian
Other News13 Blogs:
- The Casual Historian - Larche Hardy
- Derby Girl - Enocha Van Lierop
- The Newby - Jessi Chapin
- Gainesville, Georgia's All American Girl - Tuquyen Mach
