By nature, I’m a planner. My calendar tells me what I’m going to be doing—usually.
But if an overly organized and crowded calendar keeps me from having fun, well, I’m too busy. So here’s my premise: “Some of the very best things are spur-of-the-moment or happen at the very last minute.” That’s why I popped into our younger son’s office. “Eric,” I asked, “how would you like to go to a blues harmonica camp in Clarksdale, Miss.?”
As if he were about to salute Old Glory, he jumped to his feet and barked, “Yes, sir!” “Great.” I said. “Check out this website. See if they have any openings. If so, sign us up.” Minutes later, he reported, “We got the last two slots.”
Luckily, his bride and the mother of their two small children is a Memphis belle who loves music, too. Her grandparents live in Clarksdale. Better yet, she endorsed what became a week of memories that Eric and I will relive as long as we have energy and air to make our harmonicas wail.
Eric has musical gifts. I am challenged, but I wanted to see if there was a harmonica player hiding within me. I’ll tell you what I found—another time.
As I cranked my truck, we voted to make our adventure a barbecue-and-blues pilgrimage. Fox Brothers Bar-B-Q, just east of Atlanta’s Gold Dome, was our first stop. The pulled pork and smoked brisket were so good that we could have gone home happy.
But then I couldn’t tell you about Clarksdale. That’s where legend says Robert Leroy Johnson (1911-1938) learned to play the blues, after selling his soul to the devil. Eric and I sampled Abe’s barbecue, at the crossroads of Highways 61 and 49, where Johnson supposedly made his pact.
