The good people of Meridian, Mississippi are duly proud of their native son, Jimmie Rodgers, but they don't exploit him. They do, however, honor him with a yearly music festival that boasts top-name country acts. I managed to hit town just as the '92 edition was beginning but, unfortunately, I didn't get to hear any music. The timing just wasn't right, but they did have a pretty impressive roster of talent lined up: Sawyer Brown, Aaron Tippen, Vern Gosdin, Travis Tritt, Tanya Tucker and Hank Williams, Jr. I know Tanya a little; I've met her a few times in NYC. I tried to track her down to say hello at the fishing derby held today, but by the time I got there, she was already on Lake Eddins, south of Meridian, in a fishing boat.

I did make it to the Jimmie Rodgers Museum, however; what a delightful place it is. The affection the town feels for the Singing Brakeman is quite apparent here and various artifacts from his short life are on display, including the guitar he used for performing and recording (with his name set in pearl on the frets!), a Levi's jacket he used to wear, a tuxedo he wore once fame had come to him, and many more items from his brief life. One item that I found especially charming may require a little background information for those of you who are not familiar with his life.

Jimmie worked as a brakeman for the railroad for years until his health (he suffered from TB) prevented him from continuing. At that point, he began to pursue as a career what had been just a hobby: singing and songwriting. He became a huge star, selling out many live shows and moving a lot of 78's. He was one of the first white artists to incorporate the blues into his music, combining the Delta sounds of his home state with southern folk music and a signature yodel, years before Slim Whitman came on the scene. In fact, his other nickname was the Blues Yodeler. He wrote many of his own tunes, some with lyrics written by his sister-in-law. His music truly was one of the precursors of what we know today as Country music, thus earning him the title, Father of Country Music. Some of his hits were In the Jailhouse Now, T for Texas,Frankie and Johnnie and my favorite, Peach-Pickin' Time in Georgia. His tunes have been covered by countless artists over the years, including Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, John Fogerty and Leon Redbone. The LP, Trio, which featured Dolly, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt and was a big hit a few years ago, also contained a Rodgers tune, Hobo's Meditation.

Which brings me back to my original subject, an artifact at the museum that especially appealed to me. Rodgers retained his love of railroads his whole life; many of his songs dealt with the traveling life and the homeless of those days, hobos. Already a success, Jimmie once ran across a man he had known in his railroad days and gave him one of his business cards and, on the back, asked the Houston police to be nice to him if they picked him up as a vagrant (which they did). Imagine a homeless person today being hasseled by the cops and pulling out a note handwritten and signed by Bruce Springsteen vouching for his good character and asking the police to go lightly on him! This very card was on display at the museum; it certainly reflects well on Rodgers' character that, while he was a big enough star for his name to carry some weight with the law enforcement agents, he still remembered his roots enough to help out an old friend. Jimmie Rodgers died at the age of 36 in 1933. The TB worsened during the last years of his life and rather than take it easy, he worked extra hard, fearful that he'd leave his wife and children behind with no means of support. His last recordings were done from a cot in a NYC recording studio. It's said that he'd record a song from a prone position, then collapse for a few hours until he'd recovered sufficient energy to do another. He died shortly thereafter in a Manhattan hotel room.

I highly recommend the Jimmie Rodgers Museum to you; it certainly qualifies as a BRETTnews Highlight Attraction.

It was time to head for the Crescent City and I decided, as I drew near, to take the 24-mile bridge that crosses Lake Ponchartrain into New Orleans. This was not a decision easily reached. I find it just a little scary to cross long bridges when I'm driving, especially high ones. But I decided I couldn't pass up the opportunity to motor across such a long span. Everything turned out fine; in fact, I really enjoyed the drive. The bridge is low and wide; one doesn't really get that sense that the car could careen over the side at any moment, resulting in a watery demise for all those strapped within. It was a hazy day and towards the center of the span, I couldn't see any shore line at all; it seemed almost as if I was driving across the ocean.

I found my way to the youth hostel, a pretty impressive establishment, in the early evening and was planning to enjoy my evening's repast in the Quarter. In the first hour I was there, however, four people warned me about the crime problem. The clerk who checked me in at the hostel told me, in rather ominous tones, not to leave anything in my car. I told him that I'd brought in all my valuables; the car now held only clothes, books, and other assorteds. "They'll break your window for a Coke!" he replied. Then, as I walked out into the night to grab the St. Charles streetcar to the Quarter, an older man, who resided near the hostel, regaled me with horror stories of the things that had occurred on that block in recent years, each tale replete with a bit of racism - for that personal touch. Another hostel resident added his voice to the din, warning me that I'd be lucky to still have any clothes if I left them in my car for two days. And finally, when I reached Poydras Ave. and asked for directions to my intended dinner spot, an otherwise helpful man told me of the two muggings he'd witnessed just up the street two nights before.

Needless to say, I was a little jumpy by now. Would I survive the night? I live in New York, for Pete's sake; I'm somewhat accustomed to dealing with the spectre of crime in day-to-day living, but these people had me a bit spooked. I refused to give in to my fears, however, and plowed right ahead. I had dinner that night at an old spot called Mother's; it's been there a long time and the menu features traditional New Orleans fare: gumbo, jambalaya, etouffe, and such. I economized with an order of red beans and rice, quite filling and mighty tasty. Then, it was a streetcar named Fear and Dread back to the Garden District and the safety of the hostel.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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