Bella taking a snooze on the porch of the house where Elvis was born and lived until he was 13.

Three days in Tupelo, Mississippi, and I hate to leave.  Partly, I suppose, because these have been three absolutely perfect summer days.  In October.

Yesterday was an errands/chore day and I bought a couple of carabinners in the Tupelo Hardware where Elvis bought his first guitar for $7.50. (I bought my first guitar in Aberdeen at the same store, in the same era Kurt Cobain bought his.  Unlike the other guys, it was my last guitar.  But I digress….)

Tupelo is pretty darn understated when it comes to Elvis.  The Tupelo Hardware Store has a plaque outside that tells you Elvis actually wanted a rifle, but his mother didn’t want him to have one, so they compromised on a guitar.  Inside, on one obscure wall, there’s a small bulletin board where Elvis impersonators leave their cards and fans leave a few notes, but that’s about it.

It’s the coolest hardware store I’ve ever been in – built in 1926, the walls are 18 feet or so high, lined with shelves full of building/farming/ranching stuff. Looks like the original flooring. I thought people were looking at me because I was the only woman in the place, but then I realized it might because I was unconsciously humming Love Me Tender.  Whoops.

While I was waiting in line to buy carabinners (I’ve discovered you can never have too many carabinners when you’re traveling) the elderly clerk asked his elderly customer:

Been over to the Delta lately?
Yep
Not the same these days, is it?
Nope.
Still got the best food around, though.
Yep.

I was over to the Delta before coming here.  More sunny days. Wandered along the Blues Trail listening to Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson and BB King as I drove.  Stopped in little towns along the way.

I have to confess, I enjoy called “Ma’am.” Everyone talks the ma’am- and-sir way, except for very old women, who are more likely to call you “Hon.”

At this moment, I’m sitting outside at the Tupelo Starbucks, using the Wi-Fi and getting a back-home fix.  After pulling up with my Washington plates, an interested gal wanted to chat.

You’re a long way from home!
Yes, ma’am, I am.
Well, bless your heart!
Thank you, ma’am.

I know I was only marginally polite, because I didn’t pause to talk. I’ve learned that a conversation can start with you’re a long way from home and before long you’re hearing about someone’s middle son who is on the verge of dropping out of high school and we’re worried about him a’course, but what can we do? Normally, I enjoy this very much, but this time Bella was still in the quickly heating car and I couldn’t leave her for more longer than it took to make a tall soy latte, extra hot!

Speaking of worried, oh fretting family members, know that I’m keeping an eye on the weather and staying well clear of Tropical Storm Sandy.

What you’ll find in Harrison, Arkansas:  A tidy town with clean streets and a solid feel to it.  A pleasant bike path along the Buffalo River.  Friendly folks who stop to chat with you, and then honk and wave when they see you elsewhere in town. An awesome historical museum.

What you won’t find in Harrison, Arkansas:  Any black faces. And no reference (not even in said awesome historical museum) as to how this happened in a region where 56% of the population is African American.

Here’s how it happened here:

The documentary “Banished” (which I have been unable to find in its entirety, but have now read much about) apparently tells this story of Harrison and other communities with similar histories. One article mentioned that these towns remain all-white to this day.

To this day?  Surely not.  So I took on the challenge of finding some black faces. I looked in passing cars, in local parks crowded with families.  In shops and banks, the library and the local hardware store. Fast food joints.

I looked in every room of every floor of the Boone County Historical Museum and found the county history, the city history, the Civil War heroes.  Even a room with the history of the local high school.  But not a word about what happened in 1907 and 1909.  And nary a black face in any photo, anywhere.

Finally, I saw a young African America man on the basketball court behind the junior high school. Families with tiny tikes in miniature shin guards were streaming passed him from the nearby soccer field. I had seen of groups boys playing pick-up football in nearby parks, but this guy was shooting hoops alone.

Later, I read that Harrison today has the largest and most active Ku Klux Klan unit in the U.S. I’m not sure what “active” means, but I found myself wondering who might be a member. The firefighter who waved at me as I drove by?  The gentleman who told me this is a nice, safe town?

I’m trying not to pass (too much) judgment here.  As it turns out, my great-great (and maybe one more great) Uncle John House was a slave owner in Missouri, and probably other great-greats were as well.

I just find the demographics and the selective history-telling to be disturbing.

With a major storm upon us, we slept in the car last night.  I oohed and ahhhed over the lightening show, while Bella finally stopped jumping up at every roar of thunder.  It was quite the night – we were rocked at times by the ever-present-but-now-stronger Oklahoma wind.

Unfortunately, I made a minor blunder while rearranging everything in the dark, and one duffle bag got let out in the rain. So this morning, the few RV-ers who passed by on their daily walk cast us nervous glances and gave us a wide berth.

Who could blame them?  A lone, wild-haired woman, clad in pajamas and hiking boots as she sits on the ground on the edge of her dog’s cushion.  Said dog sending them a deep-throated, look-out-she’s-just-on-her-first-cup-of-coffee warning growl. Underwear and shirts draped over anything handy to dry. I probably would not have not approach me either.

After the storm, a lovely morning. Chicken Creek Campground, Ten Killer Lake, Oklahoma.

Once the Rockies are in your rear-view mirror, driving across eastern Denver and western Kansas can get a little . . . . monotonous . . . I entertained myself by aiming my little point-and-shoot camera out the window, using the top of my head or my shoulder to steady it a bit.  (Keeping one hand on the wheel and eyes on the road at almost all times, of course!)

Lots of bug splatters and a fair amount of blur.  But entertaining, none-the-less.  For me, anyhow!

.

I’m in Iola, Kansas, staying with my friends, Susan and Brian.  Susan is the publisher of the Iola Register.  On Friday, she asked me to write a guest column about why I’m doing this trip.  What could I do?  I’m getting luxury accommodations here:  A sink in the guest room!  An office to work in! Good food!  Free medical care (Brian is a doctor) for an obnoxious rash of blisters on my mouth! Tolerance for my dog in a house of two cats!

She had me. The deadline was 4 p.m., so I had a few hours to figure out why I’m doing this trip.  Here’s what I came up with.  The headline is hers.

The last time I drove onto Lowry Air Force base, I told the guard I was there to pick up my cousin, Joe.  He has something to do with bombs, I told the guard.  Munitions, the guard corrected.

It was 1977, and my friend Janice and I were on the First Epic Road Trip. We took Joe to see the Denver opening of Star Wars, which blew us away.  After the movie, we were blown a different way when our truck would not start. Nada. Nothing. Zip.

Finally, I dug up the phone number for the Aunt Doris of a kid back home, who’d given me her number — just in case.

I called Aunt Doris and explained our plight.  I was amazed (and grateful) by her immediate offer of help to someone she’d never met.

Eventually, I married the kid back home and got to see Aunt Doris from time to time.

Friday, as part of the Current Epic Road Trip, I made my second trip to what is now the Lowry neighborhood, an outstanding example of successful urban redevelopment.

Aunt Doris directed me to one of her favorite restaurants and peppered me with questions about the family.

Now 90, she’s still amazing.

“I wake up every morning grateful to be here,” she told me, quite cheerfully. “Why worry about tomorrow?  I may not be here tomorrow, so I just focus on being here today.”