“My daddy knew T. J. hooker”, Justin Vassel told me. “Daddy said he couldn’t play and never did figure out why he became famous”. Justin also built the small restaurant/house where he lived. “I used to work in a box factory. Little by little I took the scrap home, learned about electricity and plumbing, and build my home” Now this is America!

Finally, fertile farms. Harvested corn fields dot the country side as I trot still west along highway 8. At lunch, I divert toward Greenwood, a bigger town. It was worth it. I got The Blues Trail Map, a historic treasure for blues fans like me.

The rain came down hard before the sun came up. The wind did not help either. The temperature was about 38 degrees. I waited drinking Waffle House coffee until the rain stopped a little. Bravely I headed out into the cold. The nastiness continued for the morning. Afternoon brought sun and the narrowness once again of Highway 8. On I pushed.

As I walk along Grenada Lake heading into the town many recreationists clog the road. A group of fifty motorcyclists in The Cristian Motorcycle Association assemble at the foot of the dam for a bike meet. They are accompanied by flashing police motorcycles. Fisherman dot the spillway hoping for a bite. Large RV campers fill every available spot adjacent to the lake. The more elite buzz by in flashy pickup trucks towing high speed water craft. Then there are the dogs!
I tried to determine what was inside the narrow stainless steel carriers fastened on top of pickups and flatbeds. From the adjoining woods men and women dressed in camouflage fatigues paraded toward the containers. Inside were retriever dogs. “We train them to get a rating to show their proficiency in duck hunting” a trainer named Clint told me. I sold Mo last year to an insurance salesman he used him last season. Now I have Mo to continue the training.” Clint was an aircraft fireman at the local Navy air training base.
Recreation is big in the south. People live a different life style from the hustle of the north east.

I am in big fishing country. Pickup trucks towing swift boats for fishing dominate the narrow roads. There is a tournament at the large Lake Grenada. I find my way on a parallel road, old highway 8. Apparently the Corps of Engineers after completing the Granada Dam blew up the bridges on this road to help prevent vehicle access. The tactic does not deter four wheelers which race by on the rough surface burying me in dust.

Northern Mississippi is a land of contrasts. Starkville at its heart is a thriving university town. But, walk just five miles north and the image changes. Many abandoned farm barns and homes dominate the landscape. The soil here is poor. Agriculture seems to be nonexistent. As I walk I reflect on the rich growing lands of the mid-west U.S. and how fortunate a people can be is they are simply blessed with the rich dark, mineral laden, thing we refer to as dirt and, of course, plenty of clean flowing water.

I am back in the Deep South in the city of Starkville. This is the home of Mississippi State University and believe me the fans are rabid. Seniors too wear the state sweatshirts, jackets and of course hats. When last I was here in 2012I finished my walk 6 mile east of town on highway 182. Now at the town center I am heading north, up highway 389, then hopefully west into Arkansas. Well, that is 140 miles away. Nothing to do but Keep on Truckin through Dixie.