Fried green tomatoes at the . . . Cherokee Inn.
I ain’t no more goin’ to Jackson – ah am IN Jackson.
And last night I went down to the Cherokee Inn for fried green tomatoes. WISHING I’d be here Saturday for the Crawfish Boil. Enjoying the checkered tablecloths and live bluegrass over at the front of house.
Rattling north on the afternoon train from New Orleans, through the swamp lands were anythin’ goes, along a railway line running parallel to a road, miles and miles long, that is testimony to a human spirit that sees no obstacles – not even the ocean.
I had my eyes peeled all the way to Mississippi for alligators . . .
As the swamplands eased off leavin’ the damplands of southern Mississippi, I peered through the racing window into more stable forest and felt the sadness of the story of this land.
I fancied I could see shadows, peeling back through the human story over time. I imagined the black folk running through the forest, stolen from their own land and treated worse than most animals, I imagined what we used to call the red folk, the Cherokee if that inn is anything to go by, tiptoeing through the forest as they went about their business.
In New Orleans and on the train, and now I’m in Jackson, people keep askin’ me why I’m goin’ to Jackson – Jackson! they exclaim, their eyes poppin’ outa their heads, what’ya goin’ to Jackson for?
And clear as a bell I’d answer the only answer I had:
Because Johnny Cash and June Carter sang a song about it.
That is why I’m in Jackson.