By Robert Johnson
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.
Asked the Lord above for mercy, "Save me if you please."
I went down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.
I went down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.
Nobody seemed to know me, everybody passed me by.
I'm going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.
I'm going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.
You can still barrelhouse, baby, on the riverside.
Last week, we were in the Delta of Mississippi. My Father-in-Law had suffered a small stroke; we headed up to check on him and to help make some modifications to my In-Law’s house in preparation for his return home.
My wife grew up in a small town that Robert Johnson made famous in his song “The Crossroads.” Eric Clapton first recorded this song with Cream back in the 60’s and he has revisited this tune on many occasions, most recently on his album, “Me and Mr. Johnson”.
The legend goes that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil at the Crossroads in the Delta in exchange for fame and fortune. The Crossroads are actually near Clarksdale and Highway 61. Clarksdale is also the Home of the Delta Blues Museum. When I first visited in 1997, the Blues Museum was barely a ‘blip’ on the radar and was mostly kept a float by the financial backing of Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top fame. More recently, a native son of Mississippi has moved back to the Clarksdale and the Museum has flourished under Morgan Freeman’s stewardship.
Trying to describe the Delta is next to peace in the Middle East, the best you can do is give it your best shot. I have seen heat in my life, the Delta redefines that.
Forget “hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk”; here, you could fry the entire chicken. As we drive south on Highway 61, the heat gives the illusion of water covering the road. It seems to be a mist that rises from the asphalt and wraps everything around IT sees. As we pass the turn-off for Alligator, crop dusters buzz the highway and fill the air with a chemical mist that only adds to the feeling of an alien landscape.
There is poverty here on a scale you can only imagine in a Third World country. The checkered past of racism, sharecroppers and a defined economic separation only adds to the elements that make up the Deep South. And yet, it fills you with wonder and you see why this is the Home of the Blues.
This is not about any given song; it is clearly more about the truth in the lyrics and the day-to-day lives that created an entire genre of our musical history.
A trip to the Delta is never complete without a visit to see Miss Katherine. A day with her is far too short and I imagine a month would barely scratch the surface of the wisdom and humor that this angel is willing to share.
Miss Katherine will be 97 next month, unless she can find someway to get to Holland, where assisted suicide is legal. She wonders at why God doesn’t allow her to pass on. She sees no purpose to her longevity. She scoffs at my insistence that she is a treasure and her stories make any drive to the Delta worthwhile.
When Miss Katherine was in her 40’s, her husband passed away…leaving her to farm 140 acres on her own. And farm it; she did for 25 more years. She tells you about knowing every cotton plant and every furrow she had plowed. She bemoans the corporate farms that now ‘control’ the Delta.
I could write a series of books about her and maybe someday I will. This is not a person you ever forget. She has been in my wife’s life since the first hour my wife was born. She has always been there. When my new bride took me to the Delta for the first time in 1997 she told me we were going to go visit an old friend. She explained that Miss Katherine had no TV and no air conditioning. I said I would bring a book to read while they visited.
I never opened the book. It was explained that Miss Katherine played the organ for the local Baptist church in Rosedale. I assumed she must be a strict Baptist and so on. When I asked her in our first visit, how long she had been a Baptist; she responded with a laugh that she wasn’t a Baptist. Seeing the questioning look on my face, she stated “Hell, Sweetheart… I’m no Baptist, but they sure pay better than the Methodists.” We bonded on the spot.
She gardened and mowed the lawn till she was 95. Her ‘74 Ford LTD sits in the carport, covered with moss; she stopped driving when she turned 75. She says she wasn’t too concerned if she got killed in a car accident; but, thought it unfair to the general public, if she took a few of them out with her.
Miss Katherine recently got out of the hospital. When she woke from the surgery, she looked around and declared, “If I’m not dead, I’m going to be pissed.” She is down to 85 lbs. and she is going blind. She uses the broom that she sweeps her home for as much for balance as she does for cleaning. Yet, her blue eyes light up when she sees you and her hugs are as strong as ever.
She wants to go to a nursing home now. She wants this for the wrong reason. Two weeks ago, two punks did something that time and the ravishes of life have not been able to do.
They scared her. In the middle of the night, they cut open a screen and ransacked her home. She slept while they went from room to room, looking for things to steal. She does chuckle that they stole her electric razor, but forgot the power cord. They did not harm her physically, but they stole something more precious, they took her safe haven from the world.
I would like to meet these two and take them for a ride into the swamps of the Delta.