The Writer’s Profession
Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money.
— Jules Renard
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Down at the Crossroads
Leaving the Mississippi Delta, I determined to find the marker on the Blues Trail that honoured Son House. It was supposed to be near Tunica — in town, I thought, probably along Highway 61 somewhere, or in the old downtown area. Couldn’t find it. Someone must know… I pulled in at the angle-parking along the main drag in front of an antiques shop. Antique dealers should know something of a place’s heritage, and probably won’t be too busy to give directions. Seemed like a good bet.
The front door was wide open, and when I stepped inside I heard a light snoring sound from behind the front counter — the proprietor, I presume. I made a noise on the glass counter as I looked around the store. She roused her from her sleep as I picked up a few tourist brochures from the counter. She didn’t know anything about a marker for Son House. I daresay she didn’t know much about the Blues, either. Too bad.