Ol' Muddy Miss

The Mississippi River has been creeping into my consciousness, gently nudging itself into my fascinations over many years.  Starting with the fact that to spell it you have to say a poem.  Granted, it's a silly poem, but it's still a poem, in a way.  It's showed up in literature probably more than I remember; I can think of several stories centered around the Mississippi River.  My favorite is probably the story of Huckleberrry Finn and his long journey down the river with Jim.  And the one about the kids who try to smuggle an elephant via steamboat.  Occasionally, I liked to imagine myself on a steamboat traveling down the Mississippi River (or a raft, like Huck!).

I got to see the Mississippi for the first time (I think) when I went to my cousin's wedding last year in Saint Louis.  She wasn't much—the river, I mean—just a wide dark streak through the city.  But still, I was sort of intrigued.  I especially liked looking down at her from the famous arch, trying to follow her with my eyes as she slithered to the horizon and beyond.

Saint Louis is a cool city, from what little I saw.  We breakfasted in a casino, and the darkened room made me think of prohibition days, when a place like that would have been alive with jazz music and flappers and finely dressed gentlemen who were probably pretending to be richer than they were.  And that arch—the gateway to the west—at the same time admirable and extremely vain, simultaneously claustrophobic and sturdily comforting.

Today, as I flew from home to home (from Maryland to Dallas), I had a layover in New Orleans.  As the plane began to descend, I was glued to the window, watching the Ol' Muddy Miss snake through the city.  We flew over bayous with little tributaries like capillaries running through the muck.  The occasional lake/puddle glittered in the sunlight.  And then there was the Mississippi, unmistakable in her usual brown garb, sprawled all over the place, turning this way and that through the city.

New Orleans is a paradox by nature.  Geologically speaking, the southernmost wiggly bit of the Mississippi should have moved by now, but humans have done their best to keep her where she's at.  A lot of the city is in flood plains (hence the miseries of Hurricane Katrina).  And yet the city seems so vibrant, so determined, so alive.  So much music and so much language and so much food and so much art has come from there.  (At the airport, I ate jumbalaya, and now I'm determined to find a good recipe.  If takeout jumbalaya is this good, it must be divine homemade!)

The lady sitting next to me from Baltimore to New Orleans told me it's a horrible place during Mardi Gras, and to stay away from the French Quarters.  The man who sat next to me from New Orleans to Dallas told me he loves the excitement, and that he had just been staying in the French Quarter to really experience the unique culture of New Orleans.

I have spent so much time exploring the world outside the borders, I'm only beginning to appreciate the beauty that the US has to offer.  I think I might travel the Mississippi River someday.

I'll finish this post with a poem written by Tracy Butler.  Enjoy Lackadaisy Dithyramb, some thoughts on the fascinating Old Man River.