Rich: The ghosts of Southerners' past

When our friendship was new and still most interesting, Poet sought to impress me. But when the new wore off, Poet cast me into the ring with his other friends who are familiar and comfortable so there is no longer a need to impress.

This was evident when he arrived at my hotel in Jackson, Miss., to pick me up for dinner. Poet, you will recall, rises up from generations of very old Mississippi Delta dirt and is what he calls, "a gentleman farmer." Cotton, lots of cotton, is the family business for more than 100 years.

He opened the door to a four-wheel drive, dirt covered truck that had once been red. It was as Delta dusty on the inside as the out. A few minutes later, he pulled into the gravel parking lot of a run-down cement block building with a flashing neon sign. It was a fish joint.

I looked at the dismal building and then back to Poet. "You're kidding, right?"

"I am not."

"What happened to the days when you picked me up in a Cadillac and took me to the high rent section for dinner?"

"You love adventure. Here 'tis."

Conway Twitty played on the jukebox in a room cluttered with stuffed fish and faux leather booths.

"When was the last time you heard Conway on the jukebox?" Poet asked.

"When was the last time I heard a jukebox?" I countered.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that these hole-in-the-wall places usually have the best food. That would not be this particular hole-in-the-wall. It was terrible. Poet was feeling bad about his miscalculation. After all, you don't want to feed a friend, even one who is old and familiar, nasty food.

"The evening is still young," he proclaimed as he snapped his dust-covered seat belt. "Let me make this up to you. I shall squire you to a more appropriate place."

Heading up Interstate 55, I saw the sign and I knew where I want

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