Some memories are a story just waiting to be told. And memories of family make some of the best stories. Some of my favorite memories revolve around travel, those family outings where we hit the not so dusty trails of Dixie. Actually, many modern highways were the byways, the pioneer trails of yesteryear. Our travel often included extended family, with lively conversation and stops to see the scenery and history as we passed through the countryside.
One particular route was well worn by our family, and by ‘family’ I mean aunts, uncles, grandparents and close friends. We bought a cabin on Pickwick Lake, one of those great lakes of the South created by the TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority) by building dams on the Tennessee River. We were in a holler in the northeast corner of Mississippi. Our cabin was on Eastport Branch, off Bear Creek, near its confluence with the Tennessee River. Water recreation was the order of the day, primarily fishing. Though there were plenty of fish in the channel and wide-open portions of the lake, you often found some big ones in the coves, or hollers. Union Holler, Airplane Holler, Fishtrap Holler, and Chalk Mine Holler- the watershed of many smaller creeks fed the larger creeks and finally swelled the Tennessee.
After working hard all week, getting to the cabin was the immediate goal. It was 120 miles from Memphis to our cabin. Trying to make it there on Friday in time to do a little fishing Friday night was an incentive to not dally but get on the road after a hard week’s work. The one possible stop on the way was to buy BBQ for a quick meal on Friday night.
Being on the lake, or even fishing from our dock or boathouse, put you in another world. Coming around the point into the holler at twilight, charcoal smoke cast an inviting ‘fog’ over the water. One could hardly wait to dock his boat and get to the table. Hearty meals were necessary for the hard ‘work’ of fishin.’ Most often burgers, hot dogs, and ham, always accompanied by copious amounts of tomatoes, cucumbers, coleslaw, fries and corn on the cob, fit the bill. And good food always led to those talks of old times, those family stories where the culture of the South is on full display. Stories of the one that got away, stories of simpler times, olden times…family times. So if the destination was hills and hollers, the road was paved through hills and hollers.
North Mississippi is a series of hills and hollers. Wolf River, Hatchie River, Tuscumbia River and Yellow Creek are nestled in hollers between sizable hills. Trucks sometimes struggled to mount those hills, then breezed down the other side. (Yellow Creek, though just a wide ditch then, had a sign indicating it was the future site of the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway. The Tenn-Tom is a canal connecting natural waterways to create a short-cut to Mobile and the Gulf of Mexico. It is also another example of cost running higher than expected while benefits turn out to be less than predicted. But when you are young you do not think of the federal government the same way as when you are older with more experience in the ways of the world.)
That trip, just over two hours, seemed so much longer for kids waiting for a fun weekend. What could break up the trip better than ice cream (to be specific, frozen custard)? And what better place than a little concrete block building in Walnut, conveniently located about halfway to the cabin. Coming down the hill into Walnut, we’d strain to see if there was a line in front of the ice cream ‘shop.’ Pulling into the gravel parking lot, a kid could hardly wait for the tasty treat that was in store. So is it any wonder that a common question a kid would ask was, “How far is it?” Adults, probably a little frustrated by the umteenth time they heard that question, often answered, “Just another hill and a holler.” I just assumed this must have been a standard measurement in olden days.
I don’t think the fish are as big or as plentiful, the feel of the breeze as fresh and invigorating or the conversation as thoughtful and sweet. The food is definitely not as tasty. This is not all fond reminiscing. Times are coarser, people less neighborly, the pleasures in life not as easily found.
They have widened the highway, rerouted parts. Not always the same hills, nor the same hollers… definitely not the same ice cream! Getting older seems to lead to comparisons between then and now. It’s cliche, but things just aren’t the same. Still, how many hills and hollers to the next ice cream stop?
“Still, how many hills and hollers to the next ice cream stop?”
Not so many, I hope.
“Still, how many hills and hollers to the next ice cream stop?”
Not so many, I hope
When I was a kid, cold drinks ( I will never again call them by their corporate name as the company has gone woke and hates White people) were a treat…we never got one of our own…always shared with brothers and sisters who didn’t quite master backwash prevention…if you ever shuddered at handing a lightly-taxed, nearly pristine cold drink to a sibling who was still trying to choke down a peanut-butter cracker…well…you’ve been there.
A couple of weeks ago, I attended a child’s birthday party…probably a dozen RCcolas had been abandoned by the children…half-full…they are wealthy beyond all of my childhood imagination…and fatter…much fatter…they will be perfect candidates for pigpharma’s Wegravy or other anti-fat drugs.