Delta Refuge

By Peter Nugent

In the heart of the Mississippi Delta lies Clarksdale, a small town steeped in the emotional strains of the blues and a history both vibrant and somber. Known as the birthplace of the blues, with legends like Robert Johnson, B. B. King, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker, the region echoes with tales of poverty, civil rights, and the tantalizing allure of tamales and barbecue.

But Clarksdale isn’t just a relic of the past. After facing economic desolation in the mid-20th century due to a declining agricultural sector, the town underwent a renaissance. By the turn of the millennium, the blues’ magnetic pull had transformed it into a global haven for aficionados. Today, its streets buzz year-round with music festivals and venues brimming with live performances, attracting not only music purists but also those yearning for a taste of a distinct lifestyle.

Delta Refuge delves deep into the heartbeats of this unique community, weaving together stories of lifelong residents and those who’ve newly discovered its charm. Yet, when a natural disaster strikes, it tests the bonds of the townsfolk, prompting introspection and a renewed devotion to their shared home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889104483

Peter Nugent

Peter Nugent lives in Massachusetts with his wife, Karen. He is a retired journalist, having worked for several newspapers in Massachusetts, Connecticut, Kansas City, MO, and Portland, OR. He worked for 20 years as a reporter and 11 years as a copyeditor. Mr. Nugent was also a speechwriter for the former Massachusetts Gov. Paul Cellucci in the early 2000s. After retiring from journalism in 2014, Mr. Nugent spent several years writing a political blog called Nugespeak. He switched to writing fiction in 2021.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cindy

The long, hot walk from the Memphis airport baggage claim to the car rental has worn us out. And after nearly an hour of filling out paperwork, the car we get is the brightest cherry-red Dodge Charger you’ve ever seen. Do we really want to be that conspicuous in a small town with its fair share of crime? Please find us something else. Well, next up is an electric blue Mustang—as it turns out, all the rentals this year are muscle cars. We take the Mustang, it’s the coolest of the lot, and what choice do we have? I don’t see any sensible black or gray sedans.

This time around we actually figure out how to get onto Highway 61 South headed for Mississippi, using our GPS from home. Last time, we almost ended up in Nashville. That trip, normally a 90-minute drive, took hours and included darkness, rain, and swarms of bugs hitting the windshield.

Slightly hungry, we decide not to stop at a McDonald’s in South Memphis as we had before. That was a bit dicey. While waiting for our food inside, instead of using the drive-through as we should have, we witnessed a parade of local characters—gangbangers, a male prostitute, and a crackhead in the parking lot, just to mention a few.

This time, I bring enough snacks to get us to the Blue and White Restaurant in Tunica, about 45 minutes from the Mississippi border. The place has gone from a local diner to a popular first stop for faithful blues fans on the way to Mecca, otherwise known as Clarksdale. The place has great fried chicken, okra, fried green tomatoes, and all those other fattening Southern delights. Usually, the customers include a friendly mix of locals, most of whom know the staff, and blues fans who probably never had the pleasure of gobbling up a tasty fried pie or hush puppies dripping with honey.

Shortly after taking that first bite of mashed potatoes and fried chicken (in that order, being of Boston Irish descent) I spot Caroline, the founder of Clarksdale Live, a new live music venture.

Young and full of energy, Caroline, a transplant from California, is headed back to Clarksdale after a Memphis tourism conference. Oddly enough, the two of us have formed a bond in spite of our different backgrounds. I’m an authentic blues fanatic and somewhat of an expert if I do say so myself, having seen all the legends—Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Howlin’ Wolf, and many others in person when I was young. I ran the Boston Blues Society for several years, partied with the bands, but never lived outside of Massachusetts. Moving to Clarksdale, a longtime dream, is kind of scary.

Caroline, on the other hand, has bounced around—Europe, New York City, and beyond as she advanced her education to include a master’s degree in marketing. She recently organized a tourism group—in Boston, no less. The biggest difference between us is that Caroline is not really a blues fan. Her specialty is bringing people together to pursue an off-the-beaten-path interest.

After a warm embrace, Caroline joins us at our table to discuss the latest gossip and the foreboding weather forecast. Storm clouds are moving in.

Chapter 2

Big D

This here Delta ain’t nothing to mess with. I grew up after the levees were built, but we still get some flooding. Course I wasn’t around for the Big Flood in the ‘20s. That’s when everybody had to get to high ground. Most folks had to find other places to live. Nowadays, the main thing to worry about is tornadoes, and with this climate change, they’re gettin’ worse. They scares me.

‘Course everybody make a big deal about the heat. Now, I ain’t saying it don’t get hot down here, but that’s just the way it is, and you gots to make sure you gots plenty of AC. If you live here all your life, like I have, you get used to it. Most of the time when I’m playin’ in a club, the AC isn’t too good, but usually, nobody notices and the music takes over. Be honest with you, I think it sometimes makes it better. The other night I was playing at Ed’s. Now if you know anything about Ed’s, you know it ain’t got much air conditionin’. Well, nobody seemed to mind at all. The band sounded good, the beer was cold, and people were dancin’ and havin’ a good time. That’s what you got to do down here, roll with the punches.

‘Course things down here weren’t always as good as they gettin’ to be these days, now that everybody has discovered Clarksdale and the blues. I remember, not too long ago, most everything in the downtown was closed up. All of the big acts like Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf had moved away, to Chicago, Detroit, other big cities in the north. It’s what they called the Great Migration. Peoples had to escape those Jim Crow laws. Then that famous actor, who grew up here, came to town and opened the Epicenter blues club, and soon all sorts of people started showin’ up, wanting to experience the Delta blues close up. Those boys over to the Carney plantation opened a hotel using old sharecropper shacks, and the place just kind of took off. Nowadays, there’s live music playin’ somewhere in town almost every day of the week. All kinds of clubs and hotels are openin’ up. We must have about a dozen blues festivals every year. It’s really something. During some of those festivals you can hardly find a place to park. It suits me just fine though.

I’m doin’ pretty good, getting gigs just about any time I want.

Oh man, listen to that thunder. I’d better quit wasting time and get my shit together before the storm hits. Gots to get to the Save a Lot before people clean the place out. Gonna need some beer and wine, too. No tellin’ how long we’ll be holed up. Good thing I just got my car fixed. I wouldn’t want to be doin’ all this on foot. Oh man, look at those clouds. Hey, there’s Big Z. I’ll see if he needs a lift.

Big Z man. Where y’all goin’?

I’m headin’ to the store.

Hop in man, I’m going there too.

Big Z, as I live and breathe, I haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been? On one of your big tours?

Yeah. Rodney and I just got back from Spain. Man, it was crazy over there. They loved the music. I ain’t lyin’!

Big Z, also known as Zack, is one of the best guitar players around. Almost as good as me. Rodney, the owner of Blues Central downtown, has taken Big Z under his wing and organized several world tours for my man. It’s really given Big Z a lift.

We pull into the parkin’ lot of the Save a Lot and head into the store. As we walk in, I can tell right away there ain’t much on the shelves. We both grab what we can and get back to the car.

Where you headed now, Z?

Can you drop me off at my girlfriend’s house? She scared of the storm and want me to stay with her.

Sure man. This weather can be some scary shit.

After I drop off Zack, I head home. My house ain’t much, but I own it and almost have it paid off. When I walk in the door, my wife, Shameeka, starts in immediately about all the things I gots to do to get ready for the storm. I go outside, grab the chairs on the porch and toss ’em into the garage. I push my smoker up close to the house as if that will do any good. Next, I get all the essentials—phones, money, food, beer, cooler filled with ice, radio, flashlight—and take ’em down to the basement.

When I come upstairs, Shameeka has the TV on and looks at me with fear in her eyes. Dwayne, this don’t look good.

Ahhh. Don’t worry, Big D will take care of everything.

Ah huh.

The weather guy on TV is babblin’ away about heavy rain, trees down, lightning. He say a tornado been seen about 10 miles south of Clarksdale and it’s headed right for us. He say we should get ready to take shelter soon.

Oh man, what the fuck. I had a feeling sumpin’ like this might happen. Don’t worry babe. We’ll be OK. I got everything set up in the basement, if necessary.

Ah huh.

Really babe. It’ll be OK, I say with something less than confidence. Just then the power goes out. Damn, OK, maybe we should head downstairs.

Our basement ain’t the greatest place to spend the afternoon, but we have a couple of chairs down there and we settle in, ready to ride out the storm. I turn on the radio, but all I get is static. We both check our phones and are able to pull up info from the weather service. The radar shows the worst of the storm is headin’ straight for us. Outside the small basement windows, we can see the sky has turned dark and the wind has picked up. Suddenly, we hear a loud noise. People always say a tornado up close sound like a freight train comin’ at you. That’s what we heard.

OK babe, this is it, I say to Shameeka. Maybe we should move over under the stairs.

As we’re moving, Shameeka says, I can’t believe this is happenin’.

Just then the windows blow in, and we cover our heads ’cause glass is flying all around. We get under the stairs and both begin to pray. Oh Lord, please don’t let us die.

Chapter 3

Dean

Cindy and I pull into town just as the storm is picking up steam. We’d been hearing reports on the radio of a tornado headed in our direction, so we drive as quickly as we can to our condo in the old Walgreen’s building on Yazoo. The remodeled building is solid and we’re on the second floor, but as soon as we enter the apartment and look out the large ceiling-to-floor windows, we see that things have gone from bad to worse. The sky is black and the wind is pushing against the windows.

We better get out of here. I don’t know if those windows are going to hold, I say.

Let’s go into the rear stairwell, Cindy says. There’s no windows there, and if we stay on the stairs, we’ll be surrounded by cinder-block walls.

We hustle down the long corridor and into the stairwell. A few other tenants have the same idea and are already there.

Well, well, isn’t this fun, I say to the two other couples, who look up nervously from their seats on the stairs.

I can’t fuckin’ believe this, says a disheveled-looking older man with long gray hair and a beard. How’s it look out there, bad?

Yeah, I say. We just barely made it here in time.

The winds suddenly begin to howl, and a few more frazzled people come dashing into the stairwell. One of them is Dan, a banjo player from California who we met recently during a show at Sam’s Place’s, a local juke joint.

Hey, Dan. Fancy meeting you here, I say.

I thought I might see you guys. I know you live here. Boy, I can’t believe it out there. I think the tornado is headed down Third Street. I saw a lot of debris thrown up into the air in that direction. Too close for comfort.

You can say that again, Cindy says. That’s only a couple of streets away. Which direction was it headed? I didn’t know it had touched down.

I think it’s headed west, across the river, Dan says.

Oh those poor people over there. Let’s hope it doesn’t stay on the ground too long.

In the distance, we can hear a muffled roar. I check my phone, which by some miracle is still working, and see a weather service bulletin. Sure enough, the twister has touched down in the middle of town.

I guess we’ll be OK here, the old hippy says.

Everyone nods in agreement. Suddenly we hear a loud bang, like something big just hit the building.

Oh, man. I hope that wasn’t our car, I say. We had parked in front of the building and now I was wondering if we should have pulled into the alley.

The winds quickly begin to die down and things start to lighten up outside. It appears the worst is over and we have survived. Hallelujah! someone shouts.

We all head down the stairs and look out the window onto Second Street. The scene that greets us is mind-blowing. The street is filled with debris and all the trees that had been planted near the building have blown down. Most of the windows across the street have been smashed. Fortunately, the door and windows at the bottom of the stairs in our building have held.

Some of us venture outside. Looking west I spot what I think is the funnel cloud, surrounded by swirling debris. Cindy, Dan, and I walk around to the front of the building, and the situation on Yazoo isn’t any better. The street’s covered with tree limbs, damaged signs, and parts of buildings. Many windows are broken. The roof over Shack’s furniture store across the street from the Delta Cafe has been torn off.

Cindy and I go back into our building to check on the condo. Fortunately, the windows held and there’s no visible damage. We go back out to the street to see what’s going on and if we can help anyone.

Dan’s still out there, so we all cross the street to look at Shack’s, which is a mess. Some other people are already inside the store, calling out for Lloyd Shack, who has owned the store for more than 60 years. Lloyd is a fixture on the street and could always be found sitting behind the counter in the back of the store. Today, he is nowhere to be found. We look under some of the wreckage and fortunately, find nothing. A couple of people venture into the basement and look around with flashlights, again calling out his name. No sign of Lloyd.

Cindy and I walk over to Delta Cafe, where workers are trying to clean up some of the mess. The front window has been shattered and there’s glass everywhere. Some of the tables inside are overturned and what used to be the buffet is now scattered around the floor. The employees